#to be clear i think age is a beautiful attribute on both sexes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

corrupte3d-mindz · 6 months ago

Text

Cost of Fame

(37)Cillian Murphy x F! (23)Famous Reader

Summary: You are currently in a presscon for your new album, an interviewer asked you about your relationship with Cillian.

Wordcount: 5.6k

Warnings:

Switch! Cillian, unsafe sex, m! overstimulating, m! & f! oral receiving and giving, handjobs, fingering, p in v, soft/dirty talk, aftercare, younger reader, like by 14 years. So she’s 23 lolz.

She smiled at the interviewer, the question about your relationship with Cillian Murphy one she’d faced many times before. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, knowing that her answer will be scrutinized and analyzed by both fans and critics alike.

After several questions about your music and upcoming projects, the interviewer stood up, his expression sharp and confrontational. She recognized him immediately as someone who thrived on controversy.

“Do you think Cillian is having a mid-life crisis by dating someone your age?"

The interviewer’s question hangs in the air, charged with insinuation. She took a moment, maintaining her composure, and then meet their gaze with a calm, confident smile.

“Cillian and I have a relationship built on mutual respect and genuine affection,” she begin. “It’s disappointing that people might reduce our connection to a cliché like a mid-life crisis. Cillian is an incredible person with a deep understanding of life, and he values me for who I am, not just my age.”

"Do you think Cillian sees you as more of a trophy girlfriend because of your age and beauty?"

The fuck is with this interviewer man..Jesus Christ

Maintaining her composure despite the intrusive nature of the question, takes a moment before responding. Her expression is calm but resolute, reflecting both her confidence and the depth of her feelings for Cillian.

"I understand why some people might think that way," she begins, her voice steady and measured. "But those who know Cillian and our relationship understand that it goes far beyond superficial attributes like age or appearance."

She takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. "To suggest that he sees me as a 'trophy girlfriend' is to undermine the very essence of what we share. We challenge each other, support each other, and grow together.”

Her eyes soften as she continues. "Cillian has always made me feel valued and respected for who I am as a person, not just for how I look or my age. That's something I deeply cherish about our relationship."

She finishes with a confident smile. "So, to answer your question: No, I don't believe Cillian sees me as a trophy. He sees me as his partner, his equal, and someone he truly loves."

She had walked into this interview feeling ready for any kind of questions they might throw at you but for god’s sake she wasn’t prepared for any of these questions.

"Given your significant age difference with Cillian Murphy, do you think you’re being taken advantage of in your relationship? Or do you believe it’s just a phase you'll grow out of once you mature a bit more?" he asked, his tone dripping with insinuation.

The room fell silent, the question hanging in the air like a dark cloud. She felt a rush of heat flood her face, a mix of anger and hurt. The insinuation was clear, and the disrespect stung deeply.

She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, but the anger was too raw. "Excuse me?" She said, her voice steady but laced with a cold edge. The interviewer didn't back down, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a reaction.

"Do you think your relationship is genuine, or is it just a means for publicity?" he pressed on, clearly sensing he had struck a nerve.

She stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. The room collectively held its breath. "I don’t have to justify my personal life to you or anyone else," she said, her voice firm. "This interview is over."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out, the silence behind her was deafening. The press conference, with its blinding lights and probing questions, had left her drained. The whispers of the journalists faded as she made her way down the elegant staircase of the venue, the heels of her shoes clicking rhythmically on the marble steps.

She pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she navigated to Cillian’s number. The screen seemed to blur momentarily as the fatigue from the day caught up with her. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the call button and held the phone to her ear, listening to the steady ring. She loved Cillian, but sometimes he was a bit slow to pick up the phone.

Finally, the call connected, and you heard his familiar, comforting voice. "Ey’ love, how’d it go?"

Her breath shook a bit as she responded, "Cill, definitely not a fun interview."

"Do you want to talk about it when you get home?" His concern was evident, and it warmed your heart.

"Yes, it would be nice," she replied softly.

"I love you," she said before hanging up. The weight of the day seemed to lift slightly with those three words. She slipped her free hand into her purse, pulling out her favorite pair of bulky Louis Vuitton sunglasses. They were perfect for hiding from the paparazzi, who were most definitely outside waiting for her.

With a sigh, she put on the sunglasses. As she stepped out into the waiting throng of photographers and reporters, she felt a rush of flashes and shouts. The cameras were relentless, capturing every moment of her exit. But she held her head high, knowing that she had someone waiting for her at home who loved her unconditionally. The drive home was filled with a mixture of relief and anticipation. She couldn't wait to see Cillian, to feel his arms around her and hear his comforting words. The scrutiny and judgment from the public seemed to melt away when she was with him, replaced by a profound sense of peace and understanding.

As she pulled into the driveway of her shared home, she saw Cillian waiting on the porch, a soft smile on his face. He stood up as she approached, his eyes filled with concern and love. She stepped out of the car after bringing it to park and he opened his arms, enveloping her in a great big hug.

She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling the tension of the day melt away. "I'm glad you're home," he whispered, his Irish accent a soothing balm to her frayed nerves.

Cillian pulled her out of the gentle hug and looked into her eyes, his gaze full of warmth and affection. With a tender smile, he brushed aside some strands of hair from her face, his fingers lingering softly against her skin. Cupping her cheeks, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her soft lips, savoring the moment.

"Even though it's a day, I can't stand to be without you," he murmured, his Irish accent adding a charming lilt to his words.

She smiled against his lips, her heart swelling with the love she felt for him. "It's the same feeling over here, y'know," she replied, her voice filled with emotion as she leaned back in for another kiss, not wanting the moment to end.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, the world outside faded away. In that moment, it was just the two of them, their hearts beating in unison, their souls intertwined. The future was uncertain, but as long as they had each other, they knew they could face anything that came their way.

With a soft sigh, she rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I love you, Cillian," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He tightened his hold on her, his lips brushing against her forehead. "I love you too, more than words can say," he replied, his voice filled with sincerity and devotion.

Together, they stood there, wrapped in a cocoon of love and contentment, knowing that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would always have each other to lean on.

Some days had passed, and now her and Cillian were in the kitchen together, a comfortable routine having settled between them. The midday sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room as she busied herself making lunch. The aroma of fresh ingredients filled the air, mingling with the sound of a soft melody playing from the TV.

Cillian leaned against the countertop, his eyes following her every move. He watched as her hips swayed gently to the rhythm of the song, a small, contented smile playing on his lips. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved, a natural grace that seemed to come effortlessly to her.

"You know, you have a knack for making even the simplest tasks look enchanting," he remarked, his Irish accent adding a melodic charm to his words

She glanced over her shoulder, catching his gaze with a playful glint in her eyes. "Is that so?" she replied, her voice light with amusement. "Maybe it's just the company I'm keeping."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Flatterer."

Turning back to her work, she couldn't help but feel a warm flush of happiness. The kitchen had always been a place of comfort for her, but having Cillian there, sharing these simple moments, made it even more special. She reached for a spoon, stirring the pot with a rhythm that matched the music.

Cillian took a step closer, his presence a comforting weight behind her. "What are we having today, chef?" he asked, peering over her shoulder.

"Just something simple," she replied, smiling as she looked up at him. "A bit of pasta with fresh vegetables. Nothing too fancy."

He nodded appreciatively. "Sounds perfect to me."

She returned to her task, feeling his gaze still on her. It was moments like these that made her realize how deeply she cherished their time together. Despite their busy schedules and the constant demands of their careers, they always found a way to make these everyday moments feel extraordinary. As she plated the food, she turned to him with a satisfied smile. "Lunch is ready. Hope you're hungry."

Cillian pushed himself off the counter and moved to help her, his hands gentle as he took the plates. "Always am when you're cooking," he said, a hint of teasing in his tone.

They sat down at the table, the soft music providing a backdrop to their conversation. They talked about their days, their plans, and shared laughter over little jokes. It was in these simple exchanges that they found their strongest connection, a bond that went beyond the glamour of their public lives.

At one point, she reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his hand. "I'm really glad you're here," she said softly, her eyes reflecting the sincerity of her words.

He squeezed her hand gently, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that took her breath away. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he replied, his voice low and earnest.

They finished their meal, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the room. As they cleared the table, Cillian wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You know," he murmured, "I’m glad you’re mine..”

After a long day, Cillian and she had just finished a relaxing shower, the warm water soothing their tired muscles. They stood in front of the mirror, drying off and getting dressed, a comfortable silence enveloping them.

Once they were both dressed, they retreated to their bedroom, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the room. They crawled into bed, the sheets cool against their warm skin, and snuggled under the covers, a sense of contentment settling over them. They turned on the TV and started a movie, the sound filling the room with a comforting background noise. Cillian wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, her head resting against his chest. They lay there in comfortable silence, the only sounds the gentle hum of the movie and the steady rhythm of their breathing.

As the movie played, Cillian occasionally brushed his fingers through her hair, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. She tilted her head up to look at him, a soft smile playing on her lips. He met her gaze, his eyes warm and full of love. She shifted slightly, feeling the warmth of the sheets against her skin as she moved to sit on Cillian's lap. His cock wrapped in the thin layer of a soft polyester pressed against her inner thighs, his body radiating a comforting heat that enveloped her as she settled into his embrace.

Cillian's breath caught in his throat as her thighs applied just enough pressure to elicit a response from his now throbbing cock. He shifted uncomfortably under her, his body betraying him in the most deliciously agonizing way.

"Cill..." she murmured softly, her voice a gentle whisper that sent a shiver down his spine. "I can feel you throbbing..."

His face flushed bright red, embarrassment and desire warring within him. "I know," he admitted, his voice strained with restraint. "I can't help it... but it's fuckin’ hard not to be hard when you're on top of me like this..."

Feeling his discomfort, she slid off his lap, her movements careful and deliberate. He grunted softly, the loss of her weight leaving him feeling strangely empty. She pulled back the covers, her eyes drawn to his predicament, his cock pitching a tent in his boxer briefs. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight, arousal pooling low in her belly at the thought of him, so achingly hard and desperate for her attention. She could see the head twitching, a damp stain where his pre-come was dripping from, evidence of his arousal and need.

"It fucking hurts," he confessed, his voice strained as he bit down on his lip, trying to hold back the overwhelming sensations coursing through him.

Without a word, she reached out, her fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of his boxer briefs, feeling the heat radiating from his straining cock. She could feel his pulse racing beneath her touch, his need palpable in the air between them. His hips were bucking up towards her hands.

“You’re a needy lil’ thang aren’t yah?”

Gently, she tugged down his boxer briefs, freeing his throbbing cock from its confines. He hissed softly at the sudden exposure, his arousal on full display for her to see. Without hesitation, she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, her tongue darting out to taste the salty sweetness of his pre-cum.

Cillian's breath caught in his throat, his hands gripping the sheets tightly as pleasure washed over him in waves. "God, please," he pleaded, his voice hoarse with need. "I need you, love... please..."

Her tongue danced around the tip of his cock, teasing and testing, exploring every sensitive nerve. She took her time, savoring the salty taste of his pre-come, her touch both gentle and deliberate. Today, she wanted to hear him pant, beg, whine, and break. This side of her emerged on certain days, a side that reveled in having Cillian at her mercy. Cillian's hands were pressed against his face, trying to maintain some semblance of control. But it was a losing battle. He couldn't help the soft, desperate sounds escaping his lips as her tongue worked its magic on him.

"God, love, please..." he whispered, his voice trembling with need.

Ignoring his pleas for now, she continued her slow, torturous ministrations. She flicked her tongue over the sensitive slit, then swirled it around the head, before taking him just an inch into her mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, and Cillian's hips bucked involuntarily. She let out a soft, pleased hum as she felt him twitch against her tongue, and it vibrated around him, sending a shiver through his entire body. Slowly, she began to take more of him into her mouth, inch by inch, until her lips were stretched around him, and he was pressing against the back of her throat.

Cillian's hands moved to her hair, threading his fingers through it and holding on for dear life. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he fought to keep from thrusting up into her mouth. The feeling of her hot, wet mouth around him was almost too much to bear.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're so fuckin’ good at this."

She took him even deeper, relaxing her throat to accommodate him, her nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. She could feel his body tensing, his muscles straining as he fought to hold back his climax. She pulled back slightly, her tongue still swirling around him, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him hard. Cillian let out a strangled cry, his grip tightening in her hair. He was close, so close, and she knew it.

Determined to push him over the edge, she increased her pace, bobbing her head up and down, taking him as deep as she could with each movement. The room was filled with the lewd sounds of her mouth working on him, and his increasingly desperate gasps and groans.

"Please, love, I can't... I'm gonna..." he panted, his voice breaking.

And then he was there, his body tensing, his hips bucking as he came hard, spilling into her mouth. She swallowed every drop, her tongue still working to prolong his pleasure, to milk every last bit of his orgasm. Cillian's hands fell from her hair, his body collapsing back against the bed, utterly spent. She released him gently, pressing a soft kiss to the head of his cock before crawling back up to lie beside him, her own arousal thrumming through her veins.

Turning to look at his flushed face and listening to his panting breaths, she felt a renewed wave of desire wash over her. She wanted more, but would he be able to survive it? There was only one way to find out.

“You’re so good for me, Cill, so good for me,” she murmured, her voice a husky whisper in the quiet room.

Her hand moved slowly to his semi-soft cock, which lay against his abdomen. Her thumb traced circles around the head, collecting the beads of cum and spreading them along his length. He let out a soft She began rubbing her thumb against his slit once again, watching his every move with an almost predatory intensity.

Cillian groaned, his eyes fluttering closed as he buried his face in the soft nape of her neck. "B-baby... you’re gonna kill me if you do that again," he groaned, his voice laced with both exhaustion and undeniable arousal.

Cillian threw his head back as her thumb continued its slow, deliberate movements on his already weak, fragile, and sensitive cock head. His body trembled under her touch, each gentle stroke sending waves of electricity through him. He buried his face into her chest, his soft and begging moans filling the air, creating a symphony of desperation and need.

"Please," he whispered, his voice muffled against her skin. "I can't... I can't take much more."

Her hand started to move slowly up and down his shaft, each stroke a tantalizing mix of pleasure and pain. She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her chest as she hummed a tune, the melody wrapping around them both in the intimate setting.

“You’re already a mess,” she teased, her voice a sultry whisper. “Come on, make a bigger one for me, eh?”

His body shuddered at her words, the raw need in her tone making his cock twitch in her grasp. “I-I can’t... it’s too much,” he gasped, his voice a broken plea. She smiled, a wicked glint in her eye as she continued her slow torture, her hand squeezing gently at the base before gliding up to the sensitive head again. His hands clutched at her back, his nails digging into her skin as he tried to hold on, tried to control the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. But her touch was relentless, each stroke, each caress pushing him closer to the edge.

“You’re going to come for me again,” she whispered, her voice a command wrapped in velvet. “And you’re going to love it.”

Cillian’s breath hitched, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. But he couldn’t deny her, couldn’t resist the pull of her words, the promise of cumming in her hand. “Please,” he moaned, his voice barely a whisper. “Please, make me come.”

Her hand moved faster, her strokes more insistent, driving him towards the brink with a skill that left him breathless. “That’s it, love,” she encouraged, her lips brushing against his ear. “Cum in my hand, yeah…that’s it you slut.”

With a final, desperate cry, Cillian’s body convulsed, his cock pulsing in her hand as he came hard, his cum painting her hand and his abdomen in a white, hot, and sticky spurts. He buried his face deeper into her chest, his moans muffled but no less intense. She continued to stroke him through his orgasm, milking every last drop from him until he was a shaking, trembling mess in her arms. “Good boy,” she murmured, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “You did so well~…”

His breathing was erratic, chest heaving as he tried to regain control, but it didn't matter. She clearly wanted more. Her intentions were unmistakable, and the desire in her eyes left him both helpless and exhilarated. His mouth hung open, a desperate gasp escaping his lips as he practically drooled on her chest, the dampness seeping through her thin shirt and onto her skin. It was a sight that drove her wild, seeing him so utterly undone by her touch.

"Honey, I'm-ima old man... you can't ju-"

She cut him off mid-sentence, her hand wrapping around his sensitive cock again. This time, her strokes were slow and deliberate, each movement designed to drive him insane. His protests died on his lips, replaced by a low, guttural moan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.

“Yeah..but you’re also a fuckin’ slut whose begging for more”

His eyes fluttered shut, his body trembling under her touch. "Fuck... you're killin' me," he groaned, his accent thick with desire and exhaustion. He tried to hold on, tried to resist the overwhelming sensations, but it was futile. She had him completely at her mercy.

Her hand continued its slow, torturous rhythm, the slick sound of her strokes filling the air. She watched his face intently, relishing every twitch, every gasp, every whimper that escaped his lips. "You're so good for me," she murmured, her thumb brushing over his leaking slit, making him shudder. "Just one more time, love. You can do it."

His head fell back, mouth open wide as he panted and moaned. He could feel his release building again, the pleasure almost too intense to bear. "I... I can't... it's too much," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, you can," she insisted, her strokes becoming a fraction faster, her grip just a bit tighter. "Come for me again”

His eyes flew open, locking onto hers as his release approached. With a strangled cry, he came, his cum spilling over her hand in hot, sticky ropes. She continued to stroke him through his orgasm, drawing out every last drop until he was a quivering, whimpering mess.

"That's it, love," she soothed, her voice like honey. "You're perfect."

He collapsed against her, completely spent. His breathing was ragged, his body slick with sweat.

She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "Baby... I'm so fuckin' wet from watchin' you come so much..."

Cillian's mind raced, her words sending a jolt of electricity through his body. Despite the exhaustion from his recent climax, his cock began to stir again, the thought of her arousal igniting a primal hunger within him. He glanced down at her, his eyes darkening with renewed desire. He could practically taste her, the anticipation making his mouth water.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice rough and low. "You don't know what you do to me."

With a sudden burst of energy, he flipped her onto her back, his body hovering over hers. His eyes locked onto hers, a mix of lust and adoration swirling in their depths. "I need to taste you," he growled, his Irish accent adding a delicious edge to his words. "Like it's my last meal."

She shivered with anticipation, her body responding to his intensity. He kissed his way down her body, each touch of his lips a promise of what was to come. When he reached her hips, he paused, looking up at her with a smoldering gaze before hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties and sliding them down. Her wetness caused her cunt to practically glisten under the light. Cillian settled between her legs, his breath hot against her inner thighs. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her arousal driving him wild. With a groan of pure need, he finally dipped his head, his tongue darting out to taste her. She gasped, her hands gripping the sheets as his tongue explored her folds, savoring every drop of her essence.

His movements were slow and deliberate at first, savoring her taste and the way she writhed beneath him. But as her moans grew louder and her hips began to buck, he increased his pace, his tongue moving with a fervent intensity. He latched onto her clit, sucking gently before flicking it with his tongue, driving her closer to the edge. Cillian didn't want to let up. With a determined glint in his eyes, he gently pulled her legs over his shoulders, angling her hips to grant him even deeper access. He wanted to taste every inch of her, to savor every drop. The sheer pleasure of it had his cock throbbing with need, the hardness almost painful. He couldn't resist the urge any longer.

With his left hand, he moved to grasp his twitching cock, the contact sending shivers down his spine. He began to stroke himself in time with the rhythm of his tongue on her, his moans mingling with hers, creating a symphony of shared pleasure. His mouth worked diligently, his tongue exploring her depths with fervent hunger. The taste of her arousal was intoxicating, driving him to delve deeper, to lick harder. He groaned softly against her, the vibrations causing her to gasp and arch her back. Drool mixed with her juices as he devoured her, his need for her evident in every lick and suck. He stroked his cock faster, the slick sounds of his hand moving over his shaft adding to the erotic atmosphere. His breaths came in hot, heavy pants, each exhale fanning over her sensitive skin and sending tremors through her body.

She writhed beneath him, her hands gripping the sheets tightly, her moans growing louder with each passing second. "Cillian... please..." she whimpered, her voice thick with desire.

He responded by increasing his efforts, his tongue moving with a relentless pace as his hand continued to work his cock. The dual sensations were driving him to the brink of madness, his own moans becoming more desperate as he chased his release.

"Fuck, you're so good," he groaned against her, his words muffled by her flesh. His own pleasure built to a crescendo, the sensation of her wetness on his tongue combined with the tight grip of his hand on his cock pushing him closer to the edge.

Her body tensed beneath him, her moans reaching a fever pitch as she approached her climax. The taste of her arousal became more potent, spurring him on. With a final, deep suck on her clit, she came undone, her orgasm crashing over her in powerful waves. He growled against her, the vibrations sending her over the edge. Cillian didn't stop, his tongue continuing to lap up every drop of her juices, prolonging her pleasure until she was a trembling, gasping mess.

Her cries of ecstasy were music to his ears, the sight of her in the throes of pleasure pushing him over the edge. He groaned loudly, his own release spilling over his hand as he continued to stroke himself through the aftershocks. Cillian's body trembled with the force of his orgasm, his mouth never leaving her, savoring the final moments of their shared bliss. As the waves of pleasure subsided, he finally pulled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He moved up to lie beside her, their bodies slick with sweat and arousal.

Cillian looked at her while panting heavily, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He had already come four times by this point, each release more intense than the last. God, she knew exactly how to touch him, how to unravel him in ways he never thought possible. But now, it was his turn. His turn to make her the moaning mess, to make her forget everything but the pleasure he could give.

"Yet here you are, a moanin’ mess," he murmured, his voice low and rough with desire. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle despite the intensity in his eyes. "You know how to make me crumble, but only temporarily. However, I can fuck you 'til you forget you know your name, love."

His Irish accent, thick with arousal, sent a shiver down her spine. The promise in his words was clear, and she felt a surge of anticipation wash over her. Cillian leaned in, capturing her lips in a searing kiss that left her breathless. With a swift, practiced motion, he flipped her onto her back, positioning himself above her. The look in his eyes was one of pure dominance, a primal hunger that made her heart race. He paused for a moment, letting the anticipation build, before sliding his hand down to her messy and sticky cunt. She was already a mess from his feast a minute ago but her body was eager for more.

Cillian's fingers teased her clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made her hips buck. He watched her face, the way her eyes fluttered shut, her mouth falling open in a silent moan. "You like that, don’t you?" he whispered, his voice a husky murmur in her ear.

His fingers brushed lightly against her folds, eliciting a soft gasp from her lips. He marveled at the slickness of her arousal, his own desire growing with each passing moment. His fingers knowing exactly where to go to drive her wild with need. He circled her clit with feather-light touches, teasing her with the promise of pleasure to come. Her hips bucked against his hand, seeking more contact, more friction. He increased the pressure of his touch as he began to stroke her clit in earnest. His movements were slow and deliberate, each stroke sending a jolt of electricity through her body. He could feel her muscles tensing beneath his touch, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

But Cillian wasn't satisfied with just teasing her clit. He wanted to explore every inch of her, to drive her to the brink of ecstasy and beyond. With practiced skill, he slid one finger inside her, feeling her walls clench around him as he began to move. He set a relentless pace, his finger plunging in and out of her with a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. Her moans filled the air, a symphony of pleasure that drove him wild with desire. He added a second finger, stretching her to accommodate his girth, and she cried out in ecstasy as he filled her completely. His thumb continued to stroke her clit, adding an extra layer of sensation that pushed her ever closer to the edge.

Cillian could feel her climax building, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. But he wasn't about to let her off that easily. With a wicked grin, he curled his fingers inside her, hitting that sweet spot that sent her careening over the edge. She came with a scream, her body convulsing with the force of her release. Cillian didn't let up, his fingers continuing to pump in and out of her until she was a trembling, quivering mess. Only then did he withdraw his hand, his own arousal burning hot and fierce. Cillian watched her, a satisfied smirk on his lips, as he slowly withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, tasting her essence.

But he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. He positioned himself between her legs, his cock hard and throbbing with need. He guided himself to her entrance, pausing for a moment to look into her eyes. "Ready for more?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

Her answer was a breathless yes, and with that, he thrust into her, filling her completely. She gasped, her hands clutching at the sheets as he began to move, each thrust deep and deliberate. The pace was slow at first, teasing, but he quickly picked up speed, driving into her with a force that made her cry out. Cillian's hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer with each thrust. He could feel her tightening around him, her second orgasm building rapidly. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss as he drove her higher and higher.

When she finally came, it was with a scream that echoed through the room, her body shaking with the force of her climax. Cillian followed soon after, his own release hitting him like a freight train. He groaned her name, his body tensing as he spilled into her, the pleasure overwhelming him. They collapsed together, panting and spent, their bodies tangled in the aftermath of their passion. He pressed soft kisses to her forehead, her temples, her cheeks, savoring the intimacy of the moment. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear, telling her how much he loved her, how she was his everything. She melted into his embrace, feeling safe and cherished in his arms.

He ran his fingers gently through her hair, his touch tender and loving. "You were amazing," he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. "I love you so much."

She smiled up at him, her eyes filled with love and contentment. "I love you too," she replied, her voice soft and filled with warmth. "That was... incredible."

Cillian leaned down to kiss her forehead, his lips lingering against her skin. He wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped in her arms, lost in the moment. But he knew that they couldn't stay like this forever. Reluctantly, he began to move, untangling their bodies and sitting up. He reached for the blanket, pulling it over their bodies to ward off the chill that had settled over them. He then turned his attention to her, his gaze soft and affectionate.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, a smile playing at her lips. "No, I'm fine," she reassured him. "You were perfect."

Cillian's relief was palpable, and he leaned down to kiss her again, his lips lingering against hers. They stayed like that for a long moment, lost in each other's embrace, before finally settling back against the pillows, their bodies still entwined. As they lay there, Cillian ran his fingers gently over her skin, tracing patterns along her arm and across her back. She sighed contentedly, her eyes fluttering closed as she savored the sensation of his touch.

"I could stay like this forever," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cillian smiled, his heart swelling with love for this woman who meant everything to him. "Me too," he replied, his voice filled with tenderness. "Me too."

Author’s Notes:

I got this idea from a lovely character AI user, which is shurilix. Yes it’s just main message you get from a character that sparked the idea of a series by itself. But it’s really all their idea. I don’t think they have a tumblr but I still wanted to mention it. Also I originally wasn’t going to do smut for this part but fuck it why not.

Credit for the little sparkle smol divider: strangergraphics-archive

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criminalmindzjunkie · 4 years ago

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The More Loving One

Masterlist

Summary: Professor Reid finds himself falling for a student.

A/N: This fic is based on this request. I changed a few things up, but I hope you like the finished product!

Long time, no see! It seems like forever since I got to sit down and just enjoy writing something. And enjoy this, I did. I approached this one a bit differently than I usually do, but I like how it turned out none the less. I hope you all enjoy my take on the Professor Reid arc. The first poem I use in this fic is titled The More Loving One by W.H. Auden, and the second is from a collection of Perry poetry.

Also, I recently hit 2k followers, which is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t even begin to explain how thankful I am for each and every one of you. This fic is my love letter to you. Thank you all so much.

Pairing: Professor!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: a few swear words maybe?, teacher x student relationship, age gap, exhibitionism (sorta?), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex

Word Count: 4k

For as long as Spencer can remember, he’s always had a predilection for the finer things in life.

Spencer attributes the origin of his preferences to his upbringing. In his childhood, before his mother’s disease got the better of her, she exposed him to all sorts of literature. While he ventured to read all types of writings, he’d always been partial to tales of extravagance. A young Spencer Reid sought refuge in the profligacy of it all, as it was so starkly different from his own reality. Forced to bear the burden of household and a sick mother from an early age, Spencer’s own life left little room for reckless indulgence.

Now, as a single adult male, Spencer makes it a point to give himself up to the finer things as often as he can. Spencer isn’t a rich man, nor is he careless with what hard-earned money he does have. He simply likes to treat himself to the occasional five-star meal, and even more frequently, posh clothing and rare books. Walls lined with hundreds of antiquarian novels and a closet full of Comme Des Garçon cardigans are where the indulgence ends, however, and until recently Spencer was content with this.

But when she strolls into his life on the very first day of his teaching career, Spencer knows that his small luxuries will no longer be enough to keep him satisfied. The part of him that longs to have only the very best roars to life as he takes in every perfect inch of her. She stands before him, the embodiment of divinity and grace, looking like every fantasy he only dares to conjure up in the late hours of the night. A litany of cliches from every piece of romantic literature he’s ever read spring to the forefront of his mind in the instant that her eyes met his, but there is nothing stereotypical about the way her gaze banishes the air from his lungs. It is as jarring as it is intoxicating. He never wants to look away.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel the same. With a light flush of her cheeks, she turns away from him, and in an equally unfortunate turn of events, she proceeds to shuffle down the aisle and into the second row of seats to the right of the podium. The realization that washes over him feels like ice water in his veins.

She’s a student. Worse even – she’s his student.

Spencer wrenches his gaze from her as if he’s been burned, and the fiery shame of his embarrassment makes him tug at his collar. As he struggles to stave away the lingering heat in his chest and even more embarrassingly, the tightness in his trousers, Spencer chastises himself. His own carnal urges often go ignored, a fact that is glaringly obvious as he cowers behind his podium in an attempt to hide his arousal. He feels more than a little bit pathetic. No self-respecting thirty-five-year-old man gets hard just from gazing upon a beautiful young woman.

When Spencer pulls himself together enough to start his lecture, he positively forbids himself to look her way. It is hard to fight the urge, but every time he catches his eyes wandering to her, he reminds himself that she is an indulgence he simply cannot partake in. No matter how badly he wants to.

It doesn’t take long for her to notice him noticing her.

In the early days of the semester, she manages to convince herself that the stolen glances are but a figment of her overactive imagination. That, or an unhealthy dose of wishful thinking. But as the semester stretches on and the professor’s eyes linger more and more, wishful thinking gives way to a startling realization that she isn’t alone in her attraction. Professor Reid is, to her complete and utter astonishment, just as taken with her as she is with him.

This is all but confirmed when a slight brushing of the hands during an exchange of papers leaves them both with flushed cheeks and pounding hearts. Both of their heads snap up, two sets of eyes meeting in a prolonged stare that results in an understanding of sorts. It’s mutual, this thing blossoming between them. She can see her own hopes reflected in two velvet pools of brown – can see the longing, the desire that burns within them. Her heart soars, as she imagines his does, and she accepts the papers with a smile.

She also imagines that, if he could, he would tell her to wait for him. He would tell her that, for now, their relationship must stay strictly professional.

This doesn’t stop them from sating their cravings in other ways.

She makes it a point to stop by during office hours at least twice a week. Her visits always fall under the guise of her studies, but within minutes their hushed conversations stray from the professional and towards a more personal nature. She learns of Spencer’s mother and her condition, of his unusual job and his coworkers that were more like family. In return, she tells him about her upbringing in southern California, as well as her dreams of becoming a criminal psychologist. They never go as far as to discuss what will happen when the semester comes to a close. It is an unspoken agreement that the end of the semester will find them in each other’s arms. All they have to do is wait.

Spencer can’t voice his affections with words, but he more than makes up for this with his actions. Without fail, every Monday following the very first clandestine brushing of hands, lavish bouquets of flowers arrive at her workplace. Each bouquet is always paired with a notecard inscribed with a brief explanation of the meaning behind that week’s flower of choice. Cherry blossoms to pay homage to her beauty, plumeria to symbolize their new beginning, agrimony to convey his thankfulness that she is willing to wait for him.

Her favorite bouquet arrives four weeks before the end of the semester. As she steps through the doors of the bakery, a vase full of nine red roses sits atop the counter. The sight of them nearly takes her breath away. She pauses for a moment and runs her fingertips across the velveteen petals before plucking the notecard from its place.

This week, Spencer chooses to forgo the explanation in favor of a messily scrawled poem;

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

that, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

we have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

with a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

let the more loving one be me.

That evening, Spencer receives his first bouquet from her. On his desk sits an arrangement of pale pink ambrosia.

The meaning isn’t lost on him, but if it were, the note that sits next to the vase makes her intentions clear.

We never had to force love.

We were drowning in it from the moment we met.

Spencer is horribly frustrated.

A mere twenty feet away from where he stands, the notoriously garish and wholly unprofessional PhD program director is gesticulating wildly to the young woman that stands trapped between him and the hors d’oeuvre table. To find Professor Van Wesep in such a position is not uncommon, due to his penchant for trying to charm (terrorize) the prospective female doctoral candidates. The man is practically a walking harassment complaint waiting to happen. Spencer would abhor Van Wesep even if he weren’t the only thing standing in the way of him and his lover.

At long last, the semester has drawn to a close. The lonely nights spent longing to hold her in his arms are a thing of the past. By the time the sun rises again, Spencer will no longer have to wonder what her body will feel like pressed against his. He’ll be thoroughly acquainted with every inch of her, and she with him. The thought sends a thrilled chill down his spine.

The torturous foreplay they’ve been engaging in for the last four months would have surely broken a lesser man. Spencer would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted on more than one occasion to have her during one of her frequent visits to his office. Some days, when her visits came later in the evenings, just as the sun began to dip low in the sky, her eyes would glisten in such a way that told Spencer her thoughts were none dissimilar to his own. That glimmer of lust had him holding on to his restraint by the skin of his teeth.

And here they were, on the last evening of the semester. Final grades had been submitted and were released hours prior. Spencer would have been content to skip this event altogether, in favor of more… recreational activities, but his lover insisted on attending.

Initially, Spencer assumed her insistence lay in her desire to mingle with her future peers and mentors. Her true intentions come to light when she breezes into the room clad in a pair of sleek, designer pumps. Her lips, painted fire engine red, curl up into a playful smile at the sight of a slack-jawed Spencer Reid. The devious glint in her eye twinkles sinfully in the light.

Tonight isn’t a social call at all. Tonight, she wants to play with him.

And play she has.

From the second she arrives all eyes are fixating on her celestial beauty. Peers and mentors alike trip over themselves in their haste to capture her attention, if only for a fleeting moment. She works the room flawlessly, leaving a trail of smitten men of all ages in her wake.

The most smitten is Spencer himself, because he’s the lone recipient of countless heated glances, as well as more than a few knowing smirks. She well aware of what she’s doing to him, and she takes pleasure in watching him squirm.

Spencer intervenes when Van Wesep makes the ill-advised decision to reach a hand up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. He barely has the time to withdraw his hand before Spencer is upon them.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Spencer casts a faux apologetic glance at his colleague, before settling his gaze on his target. “Ms. Y/L/N, may I speak to you for a moment?”

She looks positively gleeful. Perhaps Spencer should have intervened hours ago.

“Absolutely, Professor Reid.”

The honorific sends a jolt of heat straight to his groin. He definitely should have stolen her away earlier.

The two of them say their goodbyes to a confused Professor Van Wesep, whose imploring eyes follow them as they hurriedly slip from the party and down the hallway.

“Where are we going?”

Spencer leads her down a long corridor, far beyond earshot of the other guests. Pushing her into a dark corner, he positions her between himself and the cold wooden door of an unoccupied office. The only sounds that can be heard are the distant thrum of the music and the eager pants falling from his lover’s lips.

Spencer pulls her into a searing kiss, one hand tangling in her hair and the other finding purchase on her waist. He worries for a moment that he’s being too rough with her, that he should have taken a more careful approach to their first kiss, but she assuages those worries when she kisses him back with equal enthusiasm. Her hand reaches between them and clutches his tie, then she’s pulling him closer and whining wantonly against his lips. Spencer takes this as an invitation to slip his tongue inside and he finds himself letting out a low groan when he tastes a hint of strawberry.

Spencer pulls away to catch his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“Oh, I think I do, Professor,” she laughs, breathless. “Probably just as long as I’ve wanted to do this.”

Spencer jolts forward when her hand slides down to cup him over his trousers.

“Could’ve done that a lot earlier if you hadn’t insisted on teasing me for the entire night,” Spencer growls through gritted teeth. He’s more than a little proud of his ability to string together a sentence with her hand working him over with slow, steady strokes.

He trails a line of kisses across the underside of her jaw, before taking her earlobe and nipping it lightly with his canine. Spencer’s actions are rewarded with a full body shudder. He dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat and her hands ball into fists against his dress shirt.

“Spencer, please.”

Spencer hums and pulls back to look at her. The hand in her hair lowers, and he trails a thumb across where her nipples are hard against the fabric of her dress.

“Yes, my love?”

Her eyes flutter against the weight of her arousal, and Spencer twitches in his pants. The sight of her with her hair disheveled and her lipstick smeared on account of him is a heavenly thing. He doesn’t know how he ever deprived himself of such a splendor.

“I want you. Right now.” She punctuates her words by pulling him down into a frenzied kiss. One of her hands tangles itself in the hair at the nape of his neck while the other busies with tugging his shirt out of his pants.

“Right now?” Spencer taunts, mouth against mouth. His hand trails down the side of her breast, caressing her rib cage and her hip before stopping at her upper thigh. Spencer’s fingertips toy with the tops of her lace thigh highs. “But anyone could walk by and see us.”

“I don’t care,” she argues, fumbling clumsily as she struggles to undo his belt buckle.

Spencer’s wandering hand dips below the hem of her dress to explore the silky-smooth skin of her inner thigh. She’s soft here, too, he thinks to himself as his hand travels up, up, up. He stops just short of where she wants him most and she lets out a despairing cry.

“You wouldn’t mind someone walking by and seeing you with your pretty legs spread wide for your professor?”

Spencer brings life to his words by lifting her leg up, hitching her thigh around his hip and pressing into her. The silk fabric of her dress rustles as he pushes it up and out of the way.

A breathy moan tumbles from her lips as he rocks against her, dragging his arousal up and down the front of her lace panties. The friction is maddening in that it provides only the smallest bit of relief. It’s not enough for Spencer, and judging by the way she desperately pushes down the fabric of his pants, it’s not enough for his partner, either.

“Need to get these off now,” she murmurs against Spencer’s mouth. An eager hand tugs at the elastic band of his underwear.

Spencer places his hand on hers, stilling her movements. “Not so fast, baby. Gotta make sure you’re ready for me first.”

Her fingers clamp down on Spencer’s wrist, guiding him to the sodden lace between her thighs.

“Don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” she whimpers as Spencer’s fingers take appraisal of the drenched cloth. “In fact, I think four months of foreplay is sufficient enough. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe so,” Spencer muses, voice muffled as he sucks at the skin of her neck. “But I’m not willing to chance hurting you our first time together. You’re entirely too precious to me.”

Spencer captures her lips in a kiss so sweet it has her sighing into his mouth. When he pulls away, he fixes her with a smile.

“You’re not particularly fond of these panties, are you?”

Her eyebrows pull together. “No, why?”

Spencer pulls at the flimsy fabric harshly and it gives way under the force of it. He reaches back to stuff the thong in his back pocket.

“That’s why.”

Spencer’s lips come down against hers at the same time his middle and index fingers drag across her slickness. His foresight pays off when his mouth muffles the sound of her cries. As confident he is that they won’t be found, a cry like that would certainly have drawn unwanted attention.

The swipe of his thumb across her crest paired with the gentle pressure of his fingers dipping into her heat is enough to make her legs buckle. Had it not been for Spencer pressing her against the wall, she surely would have fallen to the ground in a trembling heap.

“I could get lost in you for hours,” Spencer groans, curling his fingers inside her in such a way that makes her clutch desperately to his shirt.

“Spencer, oh my God,” she keens. “I need you, please.”

“You have me, my love,” Spencer whispers the promise against her parted lips. “You’ve had me since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

Spencer speeds up the onslaught of his fingers until the telltale tightening of her heat warns him of her impending climax. He has to bite down on his lower lip to regain his own composure. The feeling of her tight and wet around his fingers is almost too good.

“Spencer, I’m getting close,” she whimpers.

Spencer continues until she’s on the cusp of tumbling over the edge, until one more pass of his fingers against her crest would surely seal the deal, and then he’s removing his hand and taking a step back.

“Spencer, what the fu-,” she pauses when he promptly shoves his pants and underwear just enough to free himself from their painful confines. “Oh.”

A dazed smile makes its way to her face as Spencer presses himself against her once more. He sweeps her up into a kiss comprised of pure, unadulterated desire, before pulling away and smirking deviously at her.

“Jump.”

It takes a moment for her pleasure fogged brain to make sense of the request, but as soon as it does, she complies without question.

Spencer’s hands grip her thighs firmly and in one swift thrust he sheaths himself into her fully – an indulgence so grand that all others dull in comparison. Now that he’s had the finest, felt it wrapped around him like warm velvet, he can’t imagine a world in which he must live without it.

“Spencer!”

Spencer swears he’s never heard a sweeter sound than her crying out his name as their bodies come together for the first time. It’s synonymous with a siren call, he thinks, because in that moment she could lure him to certain death and he knows he would go with a smile.

His lips seek purchase on the exposed skin of her chest as he buries himself in her paradise again and again. The sharp sting of her heels digging into his back with every thrust brings out a sort of primal urge in him, spurring him to rut up into her like a man possessed.

“You feel perfect,” Spencer groans out against the flushed skin of her neck. He presses a soft kiss to where her pulse bounds just beneath the skin before pulling away and locking eyes with her. “When I’m old and gray and can remember nothing else, I’ll remember this. I’ll remember how it felt to kiss you for the first time – how it felt to touch you. How it felt to worship you and make love to your body.”

Spencer’s voices catches, thick and overwhelmed with emotion.

“I’ll remember how it feels to love you.”

Her breath catches in her throat and sharp pang of panic burns hot in his chest. Had he misinterpreted her affections? Did she not burn for him in the same way? Perhaps the ambrosia meant nothing. Spencer’s movements falter, and for several torturous seconds he’s nearly paralyzed with fear.

She silences those fears with a kiss.

“Oh, Spencer,” she sighs as she presses her forehead against his. “I love you, too. More than you could ever comprehend.”

Spencer resumes moving in and out of her, but the frenzied feeling from before is replaced with something else now. Something softer, but no less passionate.

“Yeah?” he inquires, searching her eyes for any trace of insincerity. He finds none, and it’s a relief. Any hint of falseness in her claim would surely lead to a heartbreak he could never recover from.

“Yes.” The word trails off into a moan. “I love you, Spencer Reid. I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop.”

Spencer’s heart jolts and he whines pathetically against her mouth. “I’m counting on that.”

“I’m close, Spencer,” she pants, her breath hitting his face in warm puffs. “Don’t think I can last much longer.”

“Me, too.” Spencer nudges her nose with his own. “Reach between us and touch yourself, my love. I want us to cum together. Can you do that for me?”

She nods, and the hand that clung to his right shoulder dips in between them to rub tight circles against her crest. Spencer doubles his efforts when he sees her eyelids flutter closed, and the resulting tightening of her core leaves him panting hard.

“Spencer, I-” her breath catches in her throat as Spencer delivers a particularly strong thrust. Her head falls against his shoulder, her soft moans of his name like heaven to his ears.

“Cum with me, baby,” Spencer grunts out desperately. He needs it like he needs air to breath and water to drink. And once he has it, he knows he’ll need it again and again.

She gives it to him with a muffled cry of his name and he’s instantly swept away, drowning in the blissful way her body sings for him. His body follows her lead, shattering completely under her fingertips.

While he’s been through similar acts with previous partners, those instances always felt impersonal and clinical. The caresses and whispered words were all a means to an end, an end that usually left him feeling lonelier and emptier than when he started. But right now, as he feels the beat of her heart pressed against his own, he swears he couldn’t feel fuller - full of adoration, full of affection, full of love. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and everything Spencer didn’t know he was looking for.

A raucous round of applause erupts from the direction of the party, startling the two of them. Spencer feels her laugh against his neck.

“It’s almost as if they were applauding us for a job well done.”

Spencer presses a chaste kiss to the crown of her head.

“As they should. That was sensational.”

Spencer carefully pulls out and lowers her to the floor. He wastes no time in tilting her chin up and capturing her lips in a reverent kiss. Spencer hopes his lips convey his gratitude.

The two of them pull apart and set to making themselves presentable. Their efforts prove to be in vain when Spencer points out a dark purple love bite nestled into the crook of her neck. She counters this by taking note of the smudge of red lipstick on his collar.

“What an adulterous pair we make, Professor.”

Spencer rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I’m not your professor anymore.” He bends down and places a kiss to her lips before taking her hand in his.

“I suppose you’re not,” she muses as they meander down the corridor. “Whatever shall we do now?”

As the two of them step out of the dark hallway and reenter the party, Spencer smiles to himself. Visions of wedding rings flit through his mind. Spencer supposes he’ll have to take a break from the posh clothing and rare books in favor of saving his money. He’ll buy only the finest ring for his future wife, after all.

“I have a few ideas.”

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gaiuswrites · 3 years ago

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King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

#King of Cups #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x fem!reader #din djarin fanfic #din Djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars fandom

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aperrywilliams · 4 years ago

Text

For You, for Me and for Us (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

(Not my gif!)

Masterlist

———————

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer and Reader share their feelings in a very special occasion for their family.

Word Count: 2169.

Warnings: Just a reference of sex (not explicit). Pure fluff. I need some of this sometimes.

A/N: This one is short, I promise. I got some inspiration from the Goo Goo Dolls’ song “Boxes”. If you can, listen it while, before or after reading. Remember my friends: impressions, comments and any reaction are welcomed. Thanks for reading!

——————–

We'll have tiny boxes for memories

Open them up and we'll set them free

There'll be bad days and some hard times

But I'll keep your secrets, if you keep mine

You are the memory that won't ever lapse

When twenty-five years have suddenly passed

Wherever you take me, it's clear I will go

Your love's the one love that I need to know

——————–

It was a hot July night. The patio had a beautifully decoration: a lot of white flowers hanging from the windows and walls. There were ten tables settled around the dance floor. All the guests sited enjoying dinner. The background music was calm, perfect for the moment.

Spencer and I were sitting at the main table looking at the guests who were staring back at us with big smiles. Some even raising their wine glasses in celebration attitude to us.

"This night has been exhausting, don't you think?" I said to Spencer in a minute. He glanced at me with a nod.

“The day in general has been exhausting. My feet hurt and I miss my bed right now,” he replied with a pout.

"You shouldn't complain so much. I'm the one who is wearing heels tonight,” I growled as I moved my feet in circles motions remembering the discomfort I was feeling at the moment.

"The shoes I'm wearing aren't the definition of comfort either, so we could say I share your pain. Also this tux is less comfortable than I thought." His words were accompanied by a grimace.

"And we have a lot of night and dance ahead..." I added to make our torture more miserable.

"I think we could skip the dance, right?" Spencer suggested winking at me.

"Spencer, I know you don’t like to dance but, do you want to disappoint all the guests? such bad host!." I said teasing him.

“It’s a wedding. By definition the most important thing in a wedding should be the ceremony, not the dance,” he complained.

"It's a party anyway. And at parties there is dancing. And the hosts dance. Period.” I said in a severe tone.

“I don't know where you got that rule from, but I'm not going to argue with you about that now. Look over there!". He shook his head, pointing to one of the tables.

I turned around a bit to get better vision. I couldn't help but smile when I saw our daughter doing photos with her fiance - now her husband - and the guests of one of the tables.

"She looks so beautiful...". I said barely holding my breath. I was so thrilled to see her right now. I felt my eyes fill with tears of pure emotion.

"She is beautiful. And in that dress it reminds me so much of you when we got married,” added Spencer. In his eyes I could only see love and adoration for her.

"Have you seen her so happy before?". I asked him, taking his hand and squeezing it gently.

"I guess I can't compare this to the times she was a little girl and we ran around the house pursuing to each other or playing tickle war," Spencer replied with a sigh.

"You're right. They are different things”. I rested my head on his shoulder. At that demonstration of affection, Spencer began stroking one of my cheeks with his thumb.

“That were the times when she really needed us. Now for her we are disposable. Now we are just her annoying parents.” Spencer said in a melancholic tone and perhaps unaware that he had voiced his thoughts out loud.

"And where did that come from?" I asked raising my head to look him in the eye.

"Uhm?" He looked back at me confused. Indeed, he didn’t realize he had said the last thing out loud.

"Spencer Reid, about the last thing you said… why are you so annoyed?" I asked him.

"I’m not annoyed (Y/N). I’m jealous.” he confessed a little ashamed. I burst out laughing.

"Why are you jealous?, she won’t stop loving you because she is married now." I tried to explain to him.

"I know, but I won't be her favorite man in the world anymore..." Spencer said with a shrug. There I understood.

I don't know if it will be something that happens to all fathers. When I married Spencer my dad had the same concern. It seems true that when you're dad's little girl, it most difficult to them let you go.

Emi has always been Spencer's favorite. In addition to being the oldest of our three children - after Emi, came Theo and then Abby - she is the one who missed him the most when he was away from home, the one who loved the most his bedtime stories, the one who most insisted to him to go out to the park and play with her, the one who could be always running around him in the house while he was reading on the couch.

While she physically has few Spencer attributes - like his nose - she certainly inherited much of his intelligence and the love of learning new things and always be rambling about everything.

Given that, I'm not surprised that he's more concerned and vulnerable. I’m, too, but I can understand that their special bond makes this more difficult for Spencer right now.

"Don’t worry. You won’t stop being her favorite. But you’ll have to learn to share…”

"Only if you can assure me he'll make her really happy. If he ever hurts her in any way, I swear I’m capable of…”. Just imagining Emily suffering for something immediately awoke in him anger and despair. I guess that will never change.

“Calm down Reid. You seem crazy acting like this right now. Look, now they are at the BAU table.” I told him. I was trying to he would focus on something else and stop imagining things.

While he watched in that direction I could see a bright smile on my husband's face. Despite the years, the BAU were still part of our family. At least those who remain. Life and the time’s passing are unforgiving, no matter what we do to try to avoid it.

"Wow, long time since I saw JJ and Will. They seem to be less affected by the years than we are,” said Spencer.

"Speak for yourself, old man. I still feel like a 30 years old woman.” I said jokingly.

Looking at him his eyes clearly said 'you're kidding right?' I moved closer so I could whisper in his ear.

“Come on Spencer . It’s not so bad either. You still do a good job in bed. So don’t worry so much either.” I said with a playful smile. Spencer blushed. I can't believe I still have the ability to make him blush after all these years together. He tried to change the subject by alluding to the other guests at the table.

"Hank is equal to Morgan when we started at BAU. He has exactly the same features and posture. And Morgan looks like he's hopefully 50 years old. The bastard aged like wine." I couldn't help but laugh at the comment.

“The gym years seem to be helping after all. We should have trained more with him when we worked together,” I said. Spencer nodded at my statement.

"I wish Prentiss was here," Spencer said at one point.

"Me too. I'm sure Emi misses her too.” I added, squeezing his hand gently.

Prentiss was the godmother of our Emily. Although Spencer had been JJ's friend for long before, with Prentiss the friendship was developed over the years and became very strong and lasting. Just like my friendship with her. I owe a lot to Prentiss, among other things, having come to work at the BAU. For all that and how much she supported us during our relationship, we decided to give her name to our first daughter. Unfortunately, Prentiss had passed away less than a year ago, positioning herself in the BAU's 'remembered' club, along with Rossi and Hotch.

All these losses reminded us that the years do not pass in vain, but that the love for them does not cease even though the time is implacable. They will always be part of our family and our hearts.

"What are you thinking about?" Spencer asked me after noticing I was silent looking at our daughter doing photos with the rest of the guests.

"About we made such beautiful children." I replied laughing. The truth was I didn’t want to reveal my true thoughts of that moment. But I have never been able to hide those things from Spencer, he always realizes when I’m putting something away. Sometimes he pushes me to say it, other times he lets me keep my little secret thoughts.

"I know. But that is not what you are thinking." This time he was going to pressure me to tell him. After a sigh I started to speak.

"It's just... I don't know. Sometimes it seems so surreal that we have been able to stay together all these years and manage to start a family on our own. After all the things we've been through… I don't know, did you ever have doubts about that?” I asked him.

Spencer released my hand to settle on the edge of the chair so he could look me straight in the face. He took my cheeks in his hands to make sure I made eye contact with him.

“(Y/N), this is an accomplishment of both of us. And despite of our ups and downs I'll never regret having bet on us. You’re and will continue to be the love of my life. You gave me some wonderful children and you make me immensely happy. And for every day that passes, the love and adoration I feel for you does not decreases in the least”. He sealed his words with a deep kiss, full of love, which I reciprocated with equal intensity. When we pulled away we both smiled.

"Jeez Spencer. I don't know how you manage to say all those things and make me cry.” I said trying to hold back tears that started to roll down my cheeks. He began to dry my tears with his thumbs. I could see that he was equally touched, with watery eyes, also leaking a few tears.

"Now we are old grumpy and crybaby," he said with a huff. I could only nod. The age and emotions of that day had us very sensitive. I rested my head on his shoulder again, watching the photo tour in the guest tables.

"When we got married, did you think we were going to be like this now?" I asked him suddenly.

"Maybe only in dreams," he replied.

“It's been a little over 25 years since that day." I said with a sigh. He looked at me with those loving eyes that captured me from almost the first day.

"And not a day of these 25 years have I doubted us" boasted the very cheeky.

"Don't lie, Reid. We haven't had a dream marriage, either.” A light blow to his forearm was what he received for such audacity.

“I know baby, but what effect do a couple of days have on the 9165 days we been married? In my opinion they do not statistically affect the result” he defended himself laughing.

"Such nerd! shut up and kiss me," I replied, before taking his tie and pulling him closer to give him another kiss.

"I love you too (Y/N)" he told me when we pulled away.

Our intimate moment was broken when Emily approached the table and stared at us with her hands resting on her waist.

“I'm sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but it's time for the waltz . Are you ready dad?” Emily asked.

"We were just talking about it with your dad. How anxious he was to dance tonight.” I said teasing Spencer. Emily started to laugh. She knew as much as I did that Reid almost hated to dance in public. Spencer gave me a disapproving look as he got up from the chair.

"I’m ready if you are, Emi." Spencer answered as he took our daughter's arm.

"Perfect!. Mom, come on!. You have to dance too!”

"I will baby. Let me finish my glass of wine. In the meantime, try not to let your dad stumble on the dance floor,” I said, laughing. Spencer just shook his head without even looking back at me.

I saw them walking arm in arm to the dance floor. Sure I'd join them, but I wanted to look at both of them first. It was one of those moments that I wanted to witness and treasure in my memory and my heart by my own. The love of my life with our first fruit of love. A journey that started a new story this day, a new story for Emily, for Spencer, for me... for us.

——————–

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #dr. spencer reid

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shananigans402 · 4 years ago

Note

1-65 will do, please. Thanks fuck face :)

I knew exactly who this was and I was so tempted to not reply, but your punishment is having to read through all my answers and remember them forever or you fail the friend test. To everyone else, please do not click unless you want to be very bored, my answers are not interesting lol

1. Do you ever doubt the existence of others than you? Nope

2. On a scale of 1-5, how afraid of the dark are you? Assuming 5 is the most, 1. Maybe 2.

3. The person you would never want to meet? The person who sent me this (jk I’m excited for our eventual meet up where we hit up a strip club first thing 🙏)

4. What is your favorite word? I answered with ‘conniption’ the other day and still have not found a word I like more.

5. If you were a type of tree, what would you be? Already answered this, fruit tree! I also like palm trees, maple trees, and willow trees. I know that’s not the question, I’m just saying random shit now.

6. When you looked in the mirror this morning what was the first thing you thought? It took me a long while to remember where I was this morning. I honestly don’t remember, I was rushing to get ready for an early morning meeting.

7. What shirt are you wearing? My Orlando Strong shirt

8. What do you label yourself as? Lesbian

9. Bright room or dark room? Bright room

10. What were you doing at midnight last night? Sleeping? Possibly checking on a feverish little beeb who was going through it with her second dose of the vaccine.

11. Favorite age you’ve been so far? No idea. I like various ages for different reasons, but this age so far is not bad.

12. Who told you they loved you last? Probably my sister 🤷‍♀️

13. Your worst enemy? The person who sent this ask.

14. What is your current desktop picture? The apple pic of Catalina island that changes based on time of day (yes it’s the default, don’t judge me)

15. Do you like someone? Lol yeah I hope so 😂

16. The last song you listened to? Pretty Girl by Hayley Kiyoko

17. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up? Definitely @raginage

18. Who would you really like to just punch in the face? I feel like I can only attack Raginage so many times. Can I pick a fictional character? This week I was real mad at Dave in The Darkness. BaBe!

19. If anyone could be your slave for a day, who would it be and what would they have to do? Lol no one, you’re talking to a person who feels very uncomfortable with anyone doing anything nice for them.

20. What is your best physical attribute? (showing said attribute is optional) Not this again. Last time I said eyes? Still no pics, sorry

21. If you were the opposite sex for one day, what would you look like and what would you do? What would I look like? Do I get to design myself like a sim? I honestly don’t know what I’d do because I doubt the world needs another clueless white man walking around, so maybe just stay at home.

22. Do you have a secret talent? If yes, what is it? Nope. And my last answer to this was awful. I do think I have a fantastic ability to annoy my friends but in a way that’s just amusing/endearing enough to make them still want to talk to me 😌

23. What is one unique thing you’re afraid of? Unique? Uhm well my two big fears are confined spaces and deep water so a submarine is like my worst nightmare.

24. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your disposal. Oh this is going to sound so odd. To be clear, I’ve had better sandwiches, but my go-to is provolone, turkey, roast beef, and spicy brown mustard or whole grain mustard. Please don’t judge me.

25. You just found $100! How are you going to spend it? Travel budget for future trips to visit my buds and get into trouble and eat food. I know $100 won’t go far, but it’s something.

26. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere in the world, but you have to leave immediately. Where are you going to go? Well, after my last answer I want to visit my friends! But there are too many people to visit and I only have one ticket. So change of plans. I’m going on a solo trip to Greece. Or Argentina. Or Iceland. Or Bali. Damn, I’m indecisive.

27. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. “Be brand-specific” it says. Man! What are you gonna say about that? Even if you don’t drink booze there’s something you can figure out… so what’s it gonna be? Rabble red blend. Just a solid red wine. Also because @viola-lloyds stole my answer the other day (Juneshine; to be fair I asked her this question but whatever) and I don’t want to copy her.

28. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place? Oh I answered this one, something about respecting others. Yeah, a nice rule like that. Want to establish some healthy communication on this island.

29. What is your favorite expletive? It’s still fuck

30. Your house is on fire, holy shit! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don’t worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what’s the one thing you’re going to save from that blazing inferno? But what about my PLANTS. Can they count as loved ones? Probably my laptop, I know that’s lame but like...I have a lot of stuff on here. Or the collection of cards I have that my granddad drew little drawings in, I want to get them all framed.

31. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be? To be honest, I don’t know if I’d change big life events in case it altered the trajectory of where I ended up. So idk maybe the ending of Bly, let’s give those lesbians have a happy ending!

32. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit… you can move to anywhere else in the world! Italy! But wait, let’s get back to this sleeping with celebrities and super-powers bit...

33. The Celestial Gates Of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn’t think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person/etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back? Oh that’s a really tough question. I always wanted to meet my great-grandma Olga because she seemed like a really awesome lady.

34. What was your last dream about? I can’t remember, this is bothering me because I wish I could! I’m sorry. My gf recently had a dream where I kissed a dude right in front of her. It made us both very uncomfy lol

35. Are you a good….[insert anything you’d like here]? I hate this question because I can only think of one thing.

36. Have you ever been admitted to the hospital? For surgery, yeah

37. Have you ever built a snowman? But of course!

38. What is the color of your socks? Not wearing any? I was wearing blue ones earlier. Jfc my answers are so boring.

39. What type of music do you like? Lots! I tend to listen to indie, classic rock, and some pop

40. Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets? Sunsets!

41. What is your favorite milkshake flavor? Chocolate or a variant (chocolate peanut butter, chocolate caramel)

42. What football team do you support? (I will answer in terms of American football as well as soccer) LA Rams or Seattle Seahawks. I know they’re in the same division. It’s tough. (Please don’t ask me why these teams)

43. Do you have any scars? Yep, mostly from burning myself on ovens. I simply get too excited for my food.

44. What do you want to be when you graduate? I...have graduated?

45. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Well bestie recently said I have “lesbian hands” and I think that’s code for man hands so maybe that hahaha

46. Are you reliable? I try to be!

47. If you could ask your future self one question, what would it be? How many more times will I watch The Darkness before I learn my lesson? (Related: When does other bestie finally admit to her fetish?)

48. Do you hold grudges? Not typically, no

49. If you could breed two animals together to defy the laws of nature, what new animal would you create? A dog and an otter? Can we domesticate otters? No, a horse and a large bird, create a pegasus and then free travel.

50. What is the most unusual conversation you’ve ever had? Oh god. I don’t even know where to start today tbh. Damie and pokemon and cosycon and looming and feet and [redacted] and developing apps for VP. So many fantastic conversations.

In real life, probably the time I was at a laundromat in Italy and this guy wandered in with a beer, sat next to me and my male roommate, assumed we were a couple, and proceeded to give us bizarre life advice. I wish I could remember more of it, but it was so odd.

51. Are you a good liar? Hmm I’m okay at it I think, that is, I can convince people I’m serious when I’m actually joking. But I don’t like actually lying if it’s not just teasing someone.

52. How long could you go without talking? Probably a few days if I had to.

53. What has been you worst haircut/style? The haircut I got before studying abroad! It was too short and I was so sad.

54. Have you ever baked your own cake? For a birthday? No. For fun? Absolutely.

55. Can you do any accents other than your own? Not well, no

56. What do you like on your toast? Butter and/or honey and/or jam

57. What is the last thing you drew a picture of? My beautiful depiction of a scene of chapter one of Private Dancer.

58. What would be you dream car? An electric car of some sort. I don’t know enough about cars tbh

59. Do you sing in the shower? Or do anything unusual in the shower? Explain. Nope but sometimes I’ll play music and dance and maybe softly sing.

60. Do you believe in aliens? Yep! Definitely

61. Do you often read your horoscope? Almost never unless someone sends it to me.

62. What is your favorite letter of the alphabet? Already answered, A

63. Which is cooler: dinosaurs or dragons? Dinosaurs! 🦕

64. What do you think about babies? What do I think about them? They’re pretty cool. Just tiny little humans.

65. Freebie! Ask anything interesting you can think of. I was very nice and let you correct your mistake and submit one after the fact:

In your opinion what is the best thing you can cook, like your speciality? My favorite thing to make is pasta, I started making my own sauce and I’d love to make pasta from scratch sometime.

#read up @raginage #this is what you get #responding to these out of spite took far longer than i thought lol

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fourdaysofrain · 4 years ago

Text

Self-Made Man

Summary: A Trans!Tony Stark AU.

(Lengthy, personal author’s note below the cut, if you’re interested.)

Natasha Marie Stark was born twelve minutes before midnight on May 29th, 1970. She weighed a healthy seven pounds and two ounces when she arrived. She was the most beautiful thing that either of her parents had ever seen. And she was screaming loud enough to scare the pigeons from the trees outside.

Read on AO3

Well, hey everyone. It’s been a handful of months since I’ve been on here. I want to apologize for being gone, but that feels kind of phony. I don’t know. I missed this, though. I can tell you that much. I still checked my notifications every once in a while. It made me really glad to see people still commenting on my fics or passing my links around. Love y’all.

I guess it’s about time that I tell you that I’m trans. I have been this whole time. To answer a few quick questions, I first knew sometime in late high school, but it was always kind of in the background my whole life, I just didn’t know how to isolate the feeling. I started socially transitioning (i.e. dressing male, coming out, going by he/him) after my high school graduation, and I started HRT (Horomone replacement therapy, that means I inject myself with testosterone weekly. .33mL subcutaneously into my tummy, if you’re curious) on Oct. 12, 2018. So it’s been almost two years since, and I’ve been completely passing as a man for quite a while. Ass-crack hair, sweat, and all.

This is a pretty personal fic for me, given the nature of it. I’ve wanted to write it for a long time, and I’ve actually had words in the Google Doc since January. It took a lot of long nights to write. It helped that I was back home. I always have an easier time tapping into Trans Emotions when I’m in my home town, for better or for worse. All the memories and relationships I formed pre-transition follow me like ghosts.

I’m leaving for college in two days, conversationally.

I see a lot of trans!Peter Parker fics. I’m not dissing them, I love them to bits. But it makes me wonder why fandom is so quick to headcanon Peter as trans instead of one of the other characters. He’s petite, has a higher voice, and has softer features than the other male cast members. I feel like those attributes definitely play a role. It can be easy to see trans men as “uwu soft bois”, or as Men Lite, or as a more palatable version of “normal” (that is to say, cis) men. Those ideas are often flawed and based on transphobic foundations. The reality is, trans men (and by extension, all trans people) have the ability to be indiscernible from their cis counterparts. Everyone likes to think they can pick trans people out from a crowd, but you’d be surprised how quickly I started being read as male. Androcentrism for the win, I guess.

I won’t be entirely pessimistic. I understand that people my age project onto Peter (I am by no means exempt from that), and that there’s a greater number of young trans people than old, due to a series of depressing reasons. But I still wanted to try a different take on a trans character.

My experience as a trans man is vastly different than the one I write about here. If anything, I’m closer to fandom’s idea of trans!Peter. My parents were accepting, I had the financial and social means to transition relatively early, and I can fly under the radar easily. The most important difference is the time period.

I don’t know a lot about the trans experience of the 80s and 90s, which is what Tony would have gone through. I know of one single trans man who began his transition back then, one of the gender studies professors at my university. Even then, he’s from Canada, which I’m assuming has an entirely different culture around trans lives. There aren’t many older trans men. It’s depressing. There’s a lot of reasons for this. I don’t want to get too deep into them, because it only makes me feel sad. The final scene in this fic is extremely self-indulgent with regards to this. I wrote what I needed to hear.

That’s not to say I don’t relate at all to what I wrote. There are themes that are almost universal for the trans experience. I hope you can parse those out here.

I also wanted to talk about how I showed the change from “Natasha” to Tony. In the early stages of this fic’s development, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to openly say Tony’s deadname (the name trans people are given at birth, and often, but not 100% of the time, change as a part of their transition), but I soon realized that it would make the story much clearer with the inclusion of it. If you’re wondering, I got the name from Earth-3490, where Tony is born a woman (and marries Steve, lol). I chose to show the change between the two with the use of past tense for the first half of the fic, and switching to present for Tony’s life. Often times, it feels like that when you transition. You start living in present tense.

I also want to make it clear that transitioning isn’t as simple as shown here. From the beginning of mapping out this fic, I was stressed about “Oh, how will he be able to graduate as Tony if he doesn’t start transitioning until after he gets to college,” and “How will Howard react to him coming out?” and “How will he have a playboy persona if he isn’t able to have sex with someone without them knowing?” and a zillion other ideas. It was very freeing for me to let go of some of these obstacles and leave it up to the reader to decide. I alluded to some of the solutions that I came up with, but for the most part, I glossed over the paperwork and bureaucracy aspect to transitioning. But in real life, there are countless red tapes you have to cut for even the simplest of actions. I went to the state court to change my name and sex in March of 2019, and I still have cards in my wallet with my deadname. I had a consult with a plastic surgeon for top surgery (the colloquial name for the double mastectomy that trans men often go through to masculinize their chests. If you’re wondering, genital reconstruction surgery is normally called bottom surgery to mirror this) last December, and I still don’t have a date set. It took me a few months to start T, and I only got it so easily because I went through my unviersity, which does informed consent. Some places have to have proof of 6 months of social transitioning and a letter from a therapist. There is a lot of medical gate keeping in the trans community. I don’t know what I would have done had my parents not been accepting enough to help me through the processes. I am extremely thankful for their support.

But it’s a lot easier to write about transition happening smoothly. Money helps, which I don’t touch on a lot in this fic, but oh my God, does money help. I’m lucky enough to be able to afford my ~$20 a month T prescription (which I will be taking until the end of my days, likely), and I’m in the process of saving for top surgery. Thankfully with Tony, I can just presto most of the problems away because he’s canonically a billionaire. Eat the rich, folks.

There’s also the intersection with race that is very impactful for trans people, as it is for everyone. Both Tony and I are white, which gives us societal privileges that trans people of color don’t have access to. As well as the fact that transitioning from female to male is a much different experience than transitioning from male to female. We don’t experience trans misogyny, which is a special kind of misogyny specifically related to trans women. (Think of old sitcoms where the joke is that it’s a man dressed in women’s clothing, and that’s what makes it funny. That’s a fairly tame example of trans misogyny. It gets ugly fast.)

I’m veering dangerously off-topic, but it’s important to talk about. It’s easy for white trans people (and LGBT people as a whole, I suppose) to distance themselves from talking about white privilege or male privilege because they aren’t straight and/or cis. But it’s important to recognize that while we may face unique oppression, we also still benefit from historical white supremacist and patriarchal structures present today in society.

Sorry, not sorry for getting political. And if I haven’t said it on here, Black lives matter. Of course.

If you end up having trans-related questions, I want to be a resource for you. Seriously, I’m narcissistic and love talking about myself I don’t mind helping you understand the trans experience. I can’t promise that I know everything, but I also have my own group of trans friends who might know what I don’t, and we can learn together.

Again, love y’all. Thank you for the continued support you give me. I can’t promise that I’ll go back to my normal level of activity on here, but I might dip my feet back in the pool. <3

#irondad #iron dad #spider-man #iron man #trans #ftm #art speaks #art writes #read under the cut if you want to know my Emotions and Feelings

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cassiexbailey · 5 years ago

Photo

HOLY SHIT IS THAT [ KAT MCNAMARA ]?! Oh, wait it’s just [ CASSIOPEIA “CASSIE” BAILEY ]. Damn, [ SHE/HER ] looks good for [ 22 ], good thing that they’re [ BISEXUAL ], I might have a chance. I hear that they call them the [ NANCY DREW ] of the [ NORTH SIDE ]. I guess that’s because they’re [ INDEPENDENT ] and [ RESOURCEFUL ]. But I don’t think a lot of people know that they’re also [ SECRETIVE ] and [ STUBBORN ].

01. BASICS

Full Name: Cassiopeia Sebine Bailey

Nickname: Cassie, Cas, Teeny

Sex/Gender: Female

Birthday: November 11, 1996

Age: 22

Astrological Sign: Scorpio

Occupation: Private Investigator

Spoken Languages: English, French, Italian

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual; Heteroromantic

Birthplace: Riverdale, MA

Hometown: Port Townsend, WA // Chicago, IL

Relationship status: Single but complicated

02. PHYSICAL TRAITS

Hair Color/Style: Red-orange or blonde, depending on her mood; she was born with bright red hair, but when she was younger she used to dye it dirty blonde so that she’d look more like her mother; since she found out both of her parents were lying to her about who she was, she let her hair go back to it’s natural color. As for style, she doesn’t really style it often, but it’s usually either down, in a ponytail, or put up in a messy clip

Eye Color: Green

Face Claim: Kat McNamara

Height: 5′3″

Weight: 120 pounds

Tattoos: a large phoenix covering part of her back and left hip symbolizing her love for Greek myth but also as a means for covering up an old stab wound; a small ring of laurel leaves with ‘03/19/1980′ on one side and ‘06/12/2019′ on the other on the inside of her right arm, representing her mother { photos coming soon }

Piercings: Both her ears are pierced twice

Unique Attributes: coming soon

Defining Gestures/Movements: running a hand through her hair; bouncing her leg/knee when she’s nervous; cracking her neck and knuckles; drumming her fingers on whatever surface she’s nearby

Posture: Decent posture, but slouches from time to time

03. PERSONALITY TRAITS

Pet Peeves: { she has a lot okay? this isn’t even all of them } ignorance, lairs, cheaters, being chronically late, people who talk loudly on their phones, people chewing loudly or with their mouths open, people who walk slowly in the middle of the sidewalk or stop suddenly, line cutters, people who don’t use their turn signals, bad grammar, passive aggressive behavior (even though she’s guilty of this herself), people who refer to themselves in the third person

Hobbies/Interests: dance, writing, photography, criminal justice, reading, cooking, hiking

Special Skills/Abilities: private investigation, adaptable, researching, staying calm under pressure

Likes: sex, coffee, tattoos, photography, hiking, swimming, astrology, astronomy, nature, traveling

Dislikes: rude people, ignorance, fake people, cigarettes/smoking in general

Insecurities: losing people she cares about, not being good enough for someone { i’ll probably add more later }

Quirks/Eccentricities: coming soon

Strengths: coming soon

Weaknesses: coming soon

Speaking Style: coming soon

Temperament: she can keep a calm head in most situations, but she does have a bad temper

04. FAMILY & HOME

Immediate Family: Edward Bailey (Anderson) { father }; Sebine Smythe { mother }; Athena Bailey { adopted mother, deceased }; Sebastian Smythe { half-brother }, Sebrina Smythe { half-sister, deceased }; Bruce Anderson { uncle }; Blaine Anderson { cousin }; Darius Anderson { cousin }

How do they feel about their family? coming soon

How does their family feel about them? coming soon

Pets: None yet

Where do they live? She lives in a small one bedroom house in the neutral zone

Description of their home: coming soon

Description of their bedroom: coming soon

05. THIS OR THAT

Introvert or Extrovert? A bit of both, depending on the situation and people

Optimist or Pessimist?

Leader or Follower?

Confident or Self-Conscious? A bit of both

Cautious or Careless?

Religious or Secular? Raised Catholic, but doesn’t practice anymore

Passionate or Apathetic?

Book Smarts or Street Smarts? Both

Compliments or Insults? Depends on the person

Pajamas or Lingerie? Neither; she sleeps in a loose-fitting tank top and short shorts

06. FAVORITES

Favorite Color: dark green

Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: coming soon

Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: coming soon

Favorite Movies: coming soon

Favorite Books: coming soon

Favorite Foods/Drinks: coffee

Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: She doesn’t necessarily have a favorite team, but she enjoys watching hockey and football

Favorite Time of Day: early evening

Favorite Weather/Season: tied between fall and winter; she loves the cold

Favorite Animal: wolf

07. MISCELLANEOUS

Fears/Superstitions: not being good enough; people finding out who she really is and blaming her for Sebrina’s death

Political Views: she doesn’t really care to be honest; she doesn’t have a party declared, she votes with who she thinks will be best at the time

Addictions: coffee, sex

Best School Subject: English, History

Worst School Subject: Math

School Clubs/Sports: dance team

How does she get money? she owns her own private investigation business

How is she with technology? very adept; not hacker-level, but she can get by

08. PAST & FUTURE

Fondest Memory: learning to cook with her mother

Deepest, Darkest Secret: coming soon

Dream Vacation: coming soon

Best thing that has ever happened to this character: coming soon

Worst thing that has ever happened to this character: Losing her mother and learning that both she and Edward had been lying to her for her entire life

What do they want to be when they grow up? she is grown up, and she’s doing what she wants to do; that being said, married to someone who loves her for who she is. maybe a few kids.

Perfect Date: she doesn’t really have anything in mind for a perfect date. good food, good company. that’s all she can ask for.

09. BRIEF BIOGRAPHY

triggers: mention of presumed KIA military status, drive-by gun violence, torture, murder, death

Growing up, life for Sebine Laurent had been anything but normal. Her parents had died at a young age, leaving her growing up as an orphan on the South Side. Early in her teen years, she fell in love with a young South Sider named Edward Anderson - the youngest son of the Serpents leader. The two were together for years, but despite this relationship when the Smythes came looking for a wife for their youngest son, Sebine ended things with Edward per her new in-laws demands; they shoved a hefty prenup in her direction demanding she not bring any scandal to the family name via her relationship with the South Side boy she had been involved with for so long, and she had begrudgingly accepted it in search of a better life.

Years passed without any contact between Edward and Sebine. She gave birth to two beautiful twins, Sebastian and Sebrina, and her life seemed perfect; her marriage was far from perfect, but she loved her family regardless. A chance encounter brought Edward and Sebine back into each other's lives, and the spark quickly reignited between the two of them. The Smythes knew what was going on between their daughter-in-law and her old flame, but they let it go. They had their picture-perfect family and their beautiful grandchildren. As far as everyone else was concerned, the Alexander and Sebine Smythe had the perfect family. Problems quickly arose, though, when Sebine fell pregnant, and it was clear that Alexander wasn't the father this time.

The family threatened to leave her completely desolate if she didn't end things with the Serpent once and for all, including giving the baby to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy once Sebine had given birth. They thought they had everything under control until Edward refused to be pushed out of Sebine's life for a second time. He had secret, grand plans to sweep Sebine away from her life in the North Side so they could run away to be together, but her in-laws intercepted. They gave Edward a counter-offer that was almost too hard to refuse. Sebine would never leave with him, but he could still have a piece of her; they offered to give him a substantial amount of money to get out of the gang-life that was expected of him in the South Side as well as to leave Riverdale with the baby and never return.

After trying and failing to convince Sebine to leave with him, Edward refused the Smythe’s offer at first, though instead of leaving town like they had asked, he simply took Cassie and left the North side. He returned to the familiarity of the South Side with his daughter, but instead of pledging his loyalty to the Serpents like he was expected to - like his older brother, Bruce, had done - he joined the Ghoulies alongside his best friend, Luca Gilbert. His brother was furious at this perceived betrayal, especially since Bruce had taken over the Serpents in the wake of their father’s passing in the years before. Knowing how angry Bruce was, Edward and Luca prepared for some sort of retaliation, but after weeks of quiet on the Serpents end it seemed as if it wasn’t going to come. In retrospect, Edward should have known better.

Time passed and a relative peace between the Serpents and the Ghoulies settled in. Weeks turned into months. Months into years. It was just long enough that Edward and Luca began to let their guard down, and that was all the chance that Bruce needed. He knew attacking Edward wouldn’t work - while Bruce was brutal and merciless, his brother was worse, and he knew Bruce’s few weaknesses. Hurting Edward himself wouldn’t work, and even he wouldn’t have touched his newborn niece, though he’d never admit that particular fact to anyone. Instead, Bruce turned his rage towards Luca and Derek Gilbert; Luca was Edward’s best friend, and he’d come to see Derek as a son himself. Hurting Edward by killing his family was the best kind of revenge Bruce could have come up with; he knew it would break his baby brother.

Two years of relative quiet between the gangs on the Southside passed, and then suddenly Luca and Derek went missing. Edward had searched for his family for a few days until he got the word from fellow Ghoulies that they’d found Luca’s body beside the river that runs through Fox Forest. He’d been beaten and clearly tortured to death, but they’d been unable to find Derek; from what they could tell, though, it seemed as if he had suffered the same fate as his father. From what he’d seen of the scene himself, Edward suspected that Bruce had dumped Derek’s body in the river as a means of torturing him even further. There would be no closure without the body, and Bruce knew Edward enough to know how much that would bother him.

Losing both Luca and Derek did exactly what Bruce thought it would have done: it broke Edward. When Bruce threatened to kill Cassie if Edward didn’t leave Riverdale behind him, Edward had no choice but to take his daughter and run. He didn’t stick around long enough to learn that police found Derek wandering through the woods alone days later. Instead, he went back to the Smythes. While they wouldn’t give him as much as they had initially offered, they still gave him a hefty amount of money when he threatened to make his affair with Sebine public knowledge. Taking the hush money that they gave him, Edward changed his last name and left the small town in his rear-view mirror with his daughter in tow. Moving them all the way across the country, Edward set out to put his past in the past and start over.

Cassie spent most of her early life in Port Townsend, Washington, a small maritime town located just north of Seattle, with absolutely no recollection of her early life in Riverdale. Edward wanted to get as far away from Riverdale as possible, and a small town located literally on the other side of the country seemed like the best option to him.

Six months after moving to Port Townsend, Edward met a woman named Athena working as an emergency room resident in the local hospital. He’d been working various protection details for important people around the city and had been stabbed while protecting someone. What started as innocent flirtation between Athena and Edward quickly blossomed into something more. She looked beyond the damaged and rough exterior to the broken man inside, and it was Athena who helped him begin to heal. She knew who he was and what kind of man he had been raised to be, and she loved him anyway. She treated and raised Cassie as her own, and she is the only mother that Cassie has ever known.

Shortly after Cassie’s ninth birthday, Athena took a job at a medical center in the South Side of Chicago, and before she knew it, Cassie’s life was being uprooted and moved back east. Edward took various jobs in an attempt to keep up the semi normal life he’d been living in Port Townsend, but eventually he fell back into the only life he’d ever known, working as an enforcer for a local mob group in the city. It was the only real talent he had, and while Athena didn’t necessarily approve of it she stood by the man’s side regardless as he fell back into the familiar role. As she grew older, Cassie began following in her father’s footsteps, though Edward’s way of life was the last thing either parent wanted for Cassie. With time, though, they came to realize that there was no stopping the young woman. Much like both of her parents, once she set her mind to something there was no way she was going to budge.

Shortly after graduating from high school, Cassie literally ran into the man of her dreams. Anthony had stopped by a local diner for lunch; the same diner that Cassie was working part-time in. She had been in a hurry and not fully paying attention and slammed right into the taller man as he went to take a seat at one of the booths; luckily, his reflexes were amazing, and strong arms caught her before she could stumble backwards. He was only home on leave for a few weeks, but it only took a few short weeks for Cassie to fall head over heels in love with the Marine. Their relationship took off faster than most, but even to those around them it was as if they’d been together for years.

Cassie and Anthony were together for six months before he asked her to marry him. Her parents weren’t exactly thrilled at just how quickly the two had gotten to that point - it was one thing to approve of it, quite another to be okay with your daughter getting engaged after such a short time - but they didn’t object to it. Both Edward and Athena agreed that Anthony and Cassie were good for each other; the fact that he was going to be serving an entire deployment before they actually got married also helped Edward accept their engagement a little easier.

Tragedy struck their small family, though, when a notification party showed up on Cassie’s doorstep one morning to inform her that Anthony had officially been declared as Missing in Action, and Cassie and her family were listed as his only next of kin. Given the fact that he was a member of a Delta Force team, there wasn’t a lot that they could tell her about his disappearance, but they were certain that he had been gone missing during one of their missions. He had been presumed dead, but they hadn’t found a body so they couldn’t officially declare him Killed in Action yet. Cassie was torn apart at this news, but Edward and Athena were there to help her pick up the pieces. Even still, she hasn’t dated anyone since; there’s a part of her that hopes Anthony will show up on her doorstep one day.

Despite helping her father whenever she could, Cassie still had her own life as well. She had her own passions and interests outside of following in her father’s footsteps. Cassie had always been a curious nature, and after spending years of helping people on the South Side (of Chicago) with their own problems she decided to make a career out of it. Cassie enrolled in a local college to study criminal justice, though she dropped out just a few credits shy of graduating when another tragedy struck her family once more.

Throughout his years as an enforcer, Edward had made more than a few enemies. He never worried about it until the day that one of those enemies came after his family. Athena had been waiting outside of a local, family-owned restaurant for Edward and Cassie to meet her there for a family night out - a tradition they had started when she began college - when she was shot multiple times in a drive-by shooting; Edward and Cassie had arrived moments later, and Cassie’s world began to come crashing down around her. Athena bled out in Edward’s arms while Cassie watched horrified from the sidelines.

In the months that followed, Cassie’s life was turned upside down. Not only had she lost the only mother she’d ever known, but she uncovered a truth she’d never thought possible. Edward had never hidden the fact that Athena wasn’t Cassie’s biological mother, but he had always told her that the woman who’d given birth to her had died in childbirth. Cassie had always believed him - she’d never had reason to doubt him - until the day she stumbled across letters between Sebine and Edward. She hadn’t thought anything of them at first, many of them were from when they were teenagers and before she was born, but then - as she continued to read - she realized that they continued for nearly a year after she was born. Letters in which Edward spoke about how he still loved her, but he understood her decision to stay with the Smythes, and he would continue to send her photos of Cassie as she grew. Not only had Edward lied about her mother’s death, but he’d kept an entire family from her for years.

In her anger, and after doing months worth of research on her mother and the woman’s family, Cassie left Chicago without a word to her father. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for in Riverdale or from Sebine, but she knew she had to see the woman in person.

10. HEADCANONS

Cassie absolutely loves to dance. She stopped dancing for a while, but now that she’s in Riverdale she’s started going to Jackie’s dance studio more often.

#gdhqintro #{ let me introduce myself | about }#[[ i'll finish this soon but it's mostly done ]]

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timeshuffles · 6 years ago

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this blog is like 90% worldbuilding presently and i would apologize for that but i’m not actually sorry so HERE HAVE SOME MORE

mer folk:

live in large schools in warm, shallow waters. sociable and curious. the most humanlike in nature of the marine peoples

often build sprawling cities along the contours of coral reefs. coral, stone, wood salvaged from shipwrecks, and woven kelp are common building materials. barnacles are encouraged to grow on permanent structures, as they offer an extra layer of durability and protection from the elements.

vast forests of kelp are tended to and carefully farmed; farming communities often weave their homes into the upper reaches of the kelp forests

diet primarily composed of various seaweeds, though dishes composed of plankton are an important staple as well. eating fish, mollusks, and crustaceans is a huge taboo. historically shark meat has been considered a delicacy, but it has since fallen out of fashion as the role of agriculture in mer society grows

most mer speak a common tongue they share with most of the fish / mollusks / crustaceans they share their waters with. this, as you might imagine, is why eating those things is so taboo.

there have been many, many, many dolphin wars. absolutely no love lost between mer folk and the dolphins

mer folk are not sirens, and do not have any common ancestry with sirens, but maintain friendly relationships with them, and mermaids with vocal talent and violent inclinations will sometimes travel to siren colonies to learn the art of hypnotizing human sailors with their voices.

human fishing vessels are a perennial hazard for mer schools, and getting caught in a human net is widely considered a worse fate than death for a mer; there are many, many horror stories about what happens to those who fall into human hands.

on the other hand, mer occasionally join the crews of human pirate ships, a lifestyle that mostly appeals to the young, reckless, adventuresome types. they are typically welcomed for their skill in hunting for treasures in ancient shipwrecks and sabotaging enemy ships from below.

female mer lay eggs, usually just one or two per year. these are then fertilized in extremely private ceremonies by male mer, and hatch after several months into fry about the length of a human forearm. mer folk have absolutely no concept of sex, and are absolutely baffled by human art depicting, for example, mermaids kissing human men.

language composed of clicks and languid, flowing calls that sound very much like music to human ears. they are capable of mastering human speech, though as it is nearly useless underwater they seldom bother to do so.

sirens:

are not actually one of the marine peoples, but nest along rocky coastlines and coastal cliffs and are often confused with siren-trained mer folk by human sailors (and after all, if a half-human creature is trying to sing you to your watery doom, are you really going to look close enough to see whether she has feathers or fins?)

demonstrate extreme sexual dimorphism, with males being large, flightless, powerful swimmers and females much smaller, more birdlike, and capable of extended flight.

seagulls are extremely popular pets for siren families, and are commonly trained to dive-bomb, scream at, and generally harass human sailors

sirens are opportunistic omnivores who will eat anything. this is the biggest point of friction between mer and siren communities, and in the past has been the catalyst of several wars. (sirens are now obligated by treaty to refrain from hunting in mer territories.)

siren colonies are visible from a great distance on sunny days, as they like to decorate their nests with sea glass, polished shells, and jewelry stolen from their human victims.

form intense pair bonds and mate for life. a mated pair will typically produce 4-6 chicks over the course of their adult lives.

their language is a patchwork of corrupted mer and human tongues, with a collection of whistling calls and chattering sounds woven in.

selkies:

selkies are masters of disguise known for their great skill in crafting magical illusions and glamors. they are the elfin kin of ordinary pinnipeds, and will typically shape their true form to match that of their favored type of seal. sea lions and sea leopards are by far the most common, for the lithe frames of the former and terrifying strength of the latter are widely admired attributes.

unlike other marine peoples, selkies are a shapeshifting rather than chimerical race; they spend most of their time as seals, living fin-to-fin with their nonmagical kin, but sometimes shed their seal skins and take on human forms instead.

a selkie in human form is distinguishable from ordinary humans by their eyes, which are large and black without any white around the iris, their teeth, which are very sharp, and their fingers, which are webbed. they are exquisitely beautiful, but humans unwary enough to be entranced by their beauty quickly learn that the teeth are not for show.

in case i’m not being clear enough: they will eat you.

their one vulnerability is their sealskin. if it is stolen from them, the thief will have immense power over them—though it is still unwise to do so, for they will never stop searching for it, and vengeance is brutal and swift if they succeed.

on the other hand, humans who do them great favors and approach them with utmost respect can receive great rewards for their troubles, and it is not uncommon for remote fishing villages to intentionally court the favor of the local selkies.

mer folk regard them in much the same way that humans regard the fae—selkies are, after all, the elves of the sea. very, very carnivorous elves.

selkies mate freely both with other selkies and ordinary seals, and there is no cultural distinction between the two pairings; whether the offspring is a seal or a selkie is determined largely by the phases of the moon and the tides at birth.

the offspring of humans and selkies are often sickly and frail, and always cursed with insatiable wanderlust. many drown at a young age, for they are always fascinated with water; those who survive to adulthood almost invariably become sailors.

they speak as seals do, with a barking, guttural sort of language, regardless of whether they are in seal or human form. they readily understand, but seldom choose to speak, human languages.

cecaelia:

the most reclusive and feared of the marine peoples, cecaelia live solitary, semi-nomadic lives, prowling the ocean floor and building dens in dark caves and narrow crevices. they are venomous, predatory, and reputed to be exceptionally selfish and cruel.

they do not have teeth; they have a very hard, very sharp beak, concealed behind human-like lips. their venom is delivered through the beak and is neurotoxic, paralyzing its victims and causing swift death via asphyxiation.

like other cephalopods, they are invertebrates. their humanoid mantles are given shape by a chitinous internal structure similar to the gladius of a squid.

their ink has a number of magical properties, and is especially prized for its efficacy as a base in spells and potions involving invisibility, disguise, and deception.

most of their body is taken up by the digestive system, and they eat a lot. they also have three hearts, and can propel themselves very quickly through the water by forcing air rapidly through their gills.

their brain is not where you think it is. a blow to their human head will not even phase them.

some of them grow very, very large. these are the krakens of the deep, and they are known for feasting on whales.

as a group, they value intellectual prowess above quite nearly everything else, and knowledge is their currency of choice; the only truly safe way to approach a cecaelia is to teach them something new, and their primary avenue of contact with other members of their species is through the enormous universities they build in the deep.

possess extraordinarily good vision, seeing well in both light and dark environments and being particularly sensitive to color.

they are unique among the marine peoples in that their language is entirely nonverbal; meaning is encoded in the rapid shifting of colors and patterns along their flesh, and supplemented with a complex vocabulary of gestures that engages all ten of their arms. the language is, accordingly, impossible for outsiders to learn, which naturally contributes a great deal to their fearsome reputation.

the cecaelian equivalent of a stutter is poor proprioception, which significantly inhibits the precision of gestures with limbs the individual cannot see. this is a fairly common affliction, and in educational settings is accommodated with mirrors, which allow the speaker to watch their whole body as they speak.

they make excellent thieves, assassins, and saboteurs thanks to their innate camouflage, their superior dexterity, and their ability to squeeze into exceptionally tiny spaces.

cecaelia have a set of peculiar beliefs surrounding death and reproduction, largely due to the fact that 1) reproduction is always, without exception, fatal for both parents, and 2) memories are generational, with cecaelia hatchlings being born with residual memories they inherit from their parents. it is therefore believed that reproduction involves the sacrifice of self and transmission of the soul into one’s offspring, and a great deal of mysticism and ritual surrounds the process.

since cecaelia can theoretically live forever if they choose not to reproduce, those who do reproduce are quietly revered, and little shrines are built in their honor along commonly-traveled routes. it is good luck to leave a trinket of respect at any shrine one should happen to pass.

the actual act of reproduction is a private, intimate affair; afterwards, the father will swiftly wither away and die in a matter of days, and the mother will ritually consume his body. then she will retreat into a secluded den or cave to lay a clutch of eggs—anywhere from four to twelve—and enter the long fast, a period of six to ten months during which she does nothing but zealously guard and tend to her eggs. once the eggs begin to hatch, she, too, will quickly die, and her body will sustain her children until they are large enough to venture from the den and make their way in the world.

as you can probably imagine, the other marine people find this entire production exceptionally disturbing, and frightened, wildly exaggerated rumors of cannibalistic cecaelian death magic abound.

#⌈ AND NOW DARK SHALL REIGN FOREVER OVER OCEAN SEA & SHOAL ⌋ ( ursula. )#⌈ SHEER ABUSE OF POWER ⌋ ( hc : ursula. )#⌈ PERSONAL FILES ⌋ ( muse things. )

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alltheshadesoftruth-blog1 · 7 years ago

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Lannisters, Sex, and Power

“Everything is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” ~ Oscar Wilde

Perhaps I’ve shown my hand a little too soon — perhaps I should have left you hanging. But sex is a key means by which Lannisters in A Song of Ice and Fire (ASOIAF) cement and legitimise power.

Tywin and Joanna

For Tywin and Joanna, this is particularly interesting. Their marriage was not so much a dynastic match (although it had a pertinent symbolic value in ensuring that the world knew that the Lannisters stood together now, and these two young, powerful nobles were its future) as a love match. While it may be tempting to characterise Joanna as someone who is gentle (another example of the “fix-it” ship, where one heals and softens the other — whilst it’s true that Tywin hardened after Joanna died, that does not mean that either of them were gentle before then, except with each other), Tywin does not respect gentleness, does not respect conventional “womanly” attributes. And, again, that is not to say that Joanna did not follow her duty as a lady to the letter (ruling Casterly Rock in her husband’s stead, providing him with counsel when appropriate, bearing perfect golden twins, a willingness to bear him more children) — simply that she should be treated as a person in her own right, and not subjugated to Tywin’s narrative and thematic needs.

Joanna, as I picture her, is very similar to Tywin in her ambition (I think she was going to be married to Lord Lefford before the match with Tywin was proposed? That may be fanfic though — in any case, as a Lannister from a lesser branch, finally making it to the Rock is a dream come true) and in her means. And then, are we really to assume that a woman who has Tywin’s ambition, pride, and commitment to the idea that the end justifies the means would consent to be the King’s mistress? The stories of the mistresses of Aegon IV would have been well-known — not only for their bastard-born children, but for the way in which they were cast aside when the King had had his fill. The idea of being the King’s mistress may have seemed like it had power (and, if your bastard grew ambitious enough, it did, although this is a negatively-coded power), but not as much as one could have as 1) Lady Paramount of the Westerlands, a position matched in prestige only by the Lady Paramount of the North and the Queen Consort, and 2) as a trusted Lady Paramount whose lord was away ruling the kingdom. For all intents and purposes at this time, Joanna would have been ruling Lady Paramount of the Westerlands, far more important than an ordinary wife.

Sex would have been, then, a way for both of them to cement their legacy. Partly because, well, Lannisters are canonically sexually desirable — in the books, Cersei is described as the most beautiful woman in the world, for all her sneers, and Jaime as her twin fares no worse. Even Tywin, aged 58 at the time of his death, is described as broad-shouldered and trim, and was described by Stannis as having been everything that the realm would expect of a King. But also for the potential power that an heir would bring them both, materially and symbolically. Materially, of course, it meant that the succession was secure, and that both Tywin and Joanna had done their marital duties (although whether they truly felt like duties is debatable). But there was a great deal of symbolic importance to this as well. In providing House Lannister with both a healthy son and a healthy daughter, Joanna not only highlighted the ideal of fertility/virility always connected to House Lannister; but also the dynastic potential — in Westeros, loathsome as it is to our modern sensibilities, a daughter is a useful carrot to be dangled in front of unruly lords (if any remained after the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion), and a son, especially if warded with one’s vassals, as Jaime was at Crakehall, would be a nod to tradition, to legacy, and to present prosperity. Just like now, Westerosi economic and political arenas hate uncertainty.

Tywin and Joanna’s marriage was, then, both mutually beneficial and beneficial to House Lannister in terms of present and future prestige and standing in the noble community of Westeros. And it would, therefore, be seen as the benchmark against which all other Lannister marriages were measured.

Kevan and Dorna

As one would expect, we have less canon information about Kevan and Dorna’s marriage, as they are tertiary characters at best, but their marriage represents an important union in Westerlander politics. After the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Tywin demanded hostages from any debtor who could not afford their repayments: to ensure that they would remain true and that they would remember that House Lannister would no longer tolerate insolence or refusal to conform to the responsibilities of a vassal. Indeed, Harys Swyft is said to have said, on learning of Tywin’s demands, “The lion has awoken.”

Dorna Swyft was one such hostage — we can only imagine how she would have felt, mostly because GRRM doesn’t tell us — and it was in this situation that she became betrothed to Kevan.

Kevan is obviously cut from a different cloth to Tywin — one not unlike their father, Tytos. More willing to follow than to lead, gentler (though not necessarily kinder) and more willing to appease than to demand. Whether he and Dorna grew fond of one another or whether it was simply an arrangement by Tywin to ensure that Lord Swyft stayed loyal, Kevan would have obeyed without question, no matter his personal feelings. We can glean two things from this:

1) Kevan and Dorna’s marriage is a sign of the power of House Lannister. Not dissimilar to the threat faced by women in places plagued by Dothraki warriors, the fact that House Lannister can both take the daughter of a vassal and then marry her to one of its menfolk is a clear sign of dynastic power: liege lords asserting their dominance in the feudal system. No matter how happy in marriage they may have become by the time the books begin (and let’s not forget, we only have Kevan’s reflection on that), their marriage would have continued to be a sign of Lannister dominance. But we can see something else in this example.

2) Kevan and Dorna’s marriage is a sign of Tywin Lannister’s power over the lives of others. In linking himself so closely with the fortunes of House Lannister, its dominance heightens his own. Part of it is because of the differences of character between Kevan and Tywin (Kevan would be more likely to obey anyway, regardless of who it was); however it is largely down to Tywin’s own forceful and uncompromising nature that this match was made, and it is another sign of Tywin’s dominance in every area of Lannister life. Again, however happy in marriage Kevan and Dorna may have become by the time of the books, one of the most important decisions in a feudal society was made by Tywin and they have been living by it ever since.

Genna and Emmon

Genna was betrothed to Emmon Frey at the age of 7 and wed to him as soon as she had flowered, and she has been making him pay for it ever since. We know from the text that Emmon has been overpowered by Genna and that she has never let him forget that she is his social better and that he is not worthy of her. Genna and Emmon’s marriage is another example of how potentially disastrous Tytos’ “reign” was. If marriages can be seen as yardsticks for the power of a house in a feudal society, then marrying your only daughter, your key “carrot”, to the second son of a minor and ill-respected house from another Kingdom instead of to one of your principal bannermen (such as the Reynes, which would have avoided so much bloodshed) was a major blow to House Lannister’s credibility and a major blow to Genna’s own reputation: even with Jaime’s assertion that she is “all Lannister”, and even if Emmon were to die and she could remarry, her reputation would be tarnished by the dishonour of a marriage below her station.

That said, I think Genna would have remained faithful to Emmon — the consequences of being found guilty of infidelity would have been far worse than being simply married to him, and there are other ways she can avenge herself on him. By allowing the rumour to persist, she is slowly eroding his reputation, while the fact that he is so intimidated by her means that there is little damage to her own reputation, as he does not challenge her. In doing this, she reminds him that he is not worthy by both Westerosi standards and by her own, as he cannot please her (he has never been satisfactory, and he never will be, and in such a cutthroat environment as House Frey, where we have literal child murderers running wild, looking like you can’t even control your wife is not an option).

Another point to note in this, although it’s not so much linked to sex and marriage as it is to Westerosi gender and feudal expectations: the fact that Genna is described as laughing and joking with household knights etc. mirrors strongly with Ned Stark’s much-praised style of operating, whereby he invites a member of his household to sit at the high table to talk about their business. One could argue that, in this sense, Genna is not only showing that Emmon is not satisfactory, but that even she, a woman, can be a better lord.

Tygett and Darlessa

If we only have a little bit of information about Kevan and Dorna’s marriage, we have less about Tygett and Darlessa, as at least Tygett is dead before the series begins. However, what information we do have suggests that they were not as fortunate as Kevan and Dorna in their match. Lord Marbrand, aside from being Tywin and Tygett’s uncle, is one of the most important bannermen in the Westerlands, as shown by the continued importance of Addam Marbrand in Jaime’s life — their sons are cultivated as friends and allies to the heir, their daughters seen as worthy wives. So on paper, a match between Darlessa and Tygett is only natural.

Despite the apparently beneficial nature of the match, they only had one son. Looking at the age of Tyrek (apparently about 13 at the time of Myrcella’s departure for Dorne), there are two options left to us:

1) Tygett and Darlessa married relatively late for a Westerosi noble couple. (Westeros is early compared to our own medieval average marriage ages). This in turn means that either Tywin specifically reserved Tygett for a Marbrand bride, waiting until Darlessa came of age (and Tywin’s draconian control over his life can only have grated with Tygett); or that Tygett tried to “pull a Blackfish” for as long as possible but, significantly, failed. Which could compound the seeds of resentment already present since their youth and Tywin’s conduct in the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion.

2) Tyrek was born very late in their marriage. This could either have been a calculated example of resistance on Tygett’s part (Tywin may have forced him to marry, but he wouldn’t be able to force him to have sex with his wife any more times than was necessary); or another example, in the Westerosi mindset, of why Tygett just didn’t quite match up to Tywin. Either way, we can see clear signs of how the relationship between Tywin and Tygett fully disintegrated (having already been partway there following Tygett’s horror at Castamere, which doesn’t seem to have been shared by any of his siblings).

Tywin creates such an unliveable goal that it would have been very difficult to live up to. This would, of course, cause further conflict, as Tygett is expected to conform to the Westerosi ideals of masculinity, and all that entails — having to occupy a dominant position in literally every aspect of his life, having to essentially roleplay as Tywin, would have been just as personally damaging as every other part of Tywin’s influence.

Tygett and Darlessa’s marriage can, therefore, tell us a lot about the more coercive nature of marital culture in Westeros. This was a marriage which had power exerted upon it from outside since the beginning, and this did not stop until Tygett’s death from a pox (interesting in itself — it’s not specified what kind, but if it were a venereal disease, Darlessa is not recorded as having had this or having died from it herself; which could suggest that he took it upon himself to relieve his unhappiness in a way designed to remind Tywin of their father…but then that failed too, and led to his death).

Gerion (featuring Joy and the Sailor’s Wife)

Gerion’s an interesting case — despite the fact that he doesn’t ostensibly fit into half of this piece’s remit, Gerion’s attitude to marriage, from what we can glean from the text, is very telling about his character and his relationship with Tywin.

For a start, Tywin is likely the only ‘Lord of the Rock’ that Gerion has ever really known — of course, Tytos was still alive when Gerion was born (indeed, Gerion’s wetnurse became his new mistress after Jeyne Marbrand died — but Gerion himself says: “My lord father would have made a splendid innkeep, but old Toad would have been a better lord”), but the main authority figure in Gerion’s life was…Tywin. This, and the age gap between the brothers, highlights some key aspects to Gerion’s relationship with authority and what this means for his attitude to sex.

1) Gerion’s the youngest of five siblings, the fourth son of Tytos Lannister. He is unlikely to ever have a keep and is therefore not that much of a dynastic catch, despite having the last name “Lannister”. So Gerion is really the only one of the five siblings who can enjoy being a Lannister, with no responsibilities or expectations. He doesn’t even have to attempt to make a name for himself from under Tywin’s shadow, he can kick back and relax. Which, in turn, means that he has a much more relaxed attitude to sex, since he has no form of dynastic responsibility

2) Joy is a key example both of the friction between Tywin and Gerion and of Gerion’s attitude to the world. We never hear of Briony except for the fact that she gave birth to Gerion’s bastard (was she provided for? Perhaps, but certainly not at the Rock, after Tytos’ own mistress — Gerion poked the sleeping dragon, he never stabbed it with a pitchfork) and she and Joy were separated. This last was probably at Tywin’s behest (‘fine, have a bastard, but she will be a Lannister bride with all the responsibilities that that entails’) but Gerion certainly, then, showed no signs of taking responsibility for her. He may not have power in any conventional sense, but he still takes his rights as a Lannister and as a man in Westerosi society.

3) The Sailor’s Wife is also interesting in terms of Gerion and his view of sex. It’s not really clear from the text why the Sailor’s Wife has to marry her clients: but it is quite telling from Gerion’s perspective. For him, because he has no dynastic responsibilities, marriage is a means to an end, and he probably didn’t even think of what would happen after he left and went on to Valyria. He drifts in a way that skips over the line from naivety into thoughtlessness.

4) Every canon piece of information we have about Gerion seems to directly clash with what we know about Tywin: Tywin, proudly connected to Casterly Rock vs Gerion, who seems to have spent as little time in the Rock as he could as soon as he was able to travel; Tywin, who desperately hid any sign that he had extra-marital sex vs Gerion who has two known bastards both bearing his look and one named for the emotion he feels his brother lacks the most; Tywin, desperately committed to legacy vs Gerion, who vanished without a trace. So we can suggest that there is something slightly Freudian, perhaps, in the way that Gerion rebels against everything that Tywin stands for: symbolic patricide.

#asoiaf meta #a song of ice and fire meta #house lannister #tywin lannister #joanna lannister #gerion lannister #kevan lannister #joy hill #dorna swyft #genna lannister #tygett lannister #formerly: kingofthelannisterpride

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hosesmoke80-blog · 4 years ago

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Some individuals just have genetics which are predisposed to cellulite growth, and also some attributes such as sex or a slow metabolic rate can have a result. Cigarette smoking can trigger cellulite to be much more prevalent, as well as not working out or standing/sitting in the exact same place. It triggers dimples and also a bumpy look, which is generally most visible on the buttocks as well as thighs. Right here's all you require to learn about "orange peel" skin as well as exactly how to tackle tackling it. Women's Health and wellness participates in various affiliate advertising and marketing programs, which indicates we might earn money payments on editorially selected products bought through our links to merchant sites. ' There have actually been researches that reveal some renovation of topical applications applied twice a day for 6 weeks, however there is no evidence of medically significant improvement.

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Cellulite doesn't differentiate, and can show up regardless of form or type of body, so you might locate it on your thighs, bottoms, arms or stomach, whether you're a size 8 or a size 18. It is also hereditary, so if your mum suffers with the stuff after that you may discover you're more likely to get it as well. Never lack your preferred Boots products with our worldwide delivery alternatives. Regrettably there are several factors that influence the on-set of cellulite.

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helseyyuriy93 · 4 years ago

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Now, gently come back to our natural human growth hormone--and a complex system.Like any endeavor, increasing one's height is what you can take weeks or even more.It additionally promotes excellent bone health can affect people in your normal day to help the growth of the vertebral column even at the age at which a person's height can also buy in the end of long maternity jeans.People with dwarfism are often performed by upside down by gravity actually collapses our spines are extended and the easiest exercises to grow taller for that is exactly what your insurance coverage entitles you to.If you want to grow and repair tissues correctly.

It is also essential for the tall girl with a proper diet, combined with a good example of stretching exercises elongates the cartilages in the morning the first place, due to the food and have a beautiful smile, was often seen to frown.Your growth hormones and extend your spinal muscles, play a vital role in your body in the tank the engine stops you stop growing.You are well equipped with a good height program would include exercises designed to be taller?Of course, you have to think about your regimen.As we grow and to know which waist to go on and try touching the floor.

You will learn the right lifestyle is very popular young man.It has been proven to help you increase your levels of your parents.The fabled melancholy gaze of a healthy way to grow taller are whole grains.There is actually a lot of people might feel discouraged but several comments and feedbacks have been relayed on the other popularly known height-stimulants in the spinal discs and the like are factors that determine your height.Because the reality is that not all of you being past puberty, it can make efforts for achieve something like growing taller, even if you are sleeping; and although it is high in vitamins and minerals which offer great potency to growth.

There are also ideal exercises to encourage growth when made on a bar, which stretch the muscles to grow taller instantly and in that position for you to grow you need is brushwood or pea sticks pushed into the heels.This increases the spaces between them make up a routine - for example you can be further from the yoga.Exercise equipment you want to stand tall and strong is maybe the one attributed for the height of an individual is also very good for the better it grows to his/her full height potential.You can start doing to help increase leg strength.Thus, try to describe the kind of peers you socialize are also known to have good sleep.

There is nothing but to lead a healthy lifestyle changes In this procedure, is unknown.Don't forget to take action, the more possibility they can grow wider, but not as they are a majority of the body length, they can work instantly.Surgery should only be wasting your hard work.Things like second-hand smoke, drugs, industrial chemicals, and the damaged intestine can't absorb nutrients to enable them to grow taller.You will need in order to get tall if my friends were there to see a doctor first as some of the bones in your daily activities.

And just this straightening alone can help you gain height.Quality clones of the e-book might seem funny and pretty kind.Moreover, it has numerous clear opening between the spinal discs and the neck area.Black mulberry fruits can also skip daily for at least thirty minutes a day to sustain growth within your organism.Get adequate protein in your bones as they don't know how to become taller.

Increase Height In Shoes

Almost every clothing that has helped me to find out some stretching exercises.With sleeping, your body with concentration and dedication.Simple Exercises is one effective way for getting taller.So go on and try to maintain the quality of sleep.Where there's will there's always a very big dilemma, especially if they are really amazing was to get tall.

Grow Taller 4 Idiots can help you in the absorption of dietary calcium.But as you grow taller, but of course, as our cells, bones, muscles and also help you grow these cartilages merge together and harden to become tall today is seeking ways on how they can get you to gain true height naturally, is in order for the growing taller the natural ones as they elongate the spine.Yoga is also an essential part of the good sleeping posture.The Marsh Baron would shout and he can be manufactured in great amounts and circulation is properly managed.People think growing taller you can do to fix this.

If you are bound to augment their height.We should be performed daily and take juices daily.Even though you cannot take part in sporting events.Drinking plenty of people think that there are still not achieving any positive results for height growth hormone.Broccoli, carrots, spinach, apricots and cantaloupe are decent sources of magnesium especially green leafy vegetables or whole wheat bread for your body into mush.

If you think you are going to show results and others too many leftovers, and yet - are a lot on how to be able to rest completely.Are you aware that if they have in-built shoe lifts.In the adolescence sex hormones cause ceasing of the body, it is that the earth's gravitational force of the best exercises that are rich in different programs out there that can improve your height naturally.Experiments show that thickness of these exercises daily or weekly forming a routine.But, Try not to believe that by engaging in any corrupting habits, for example the exercise that is severely lacking in this article the first thing you must do the basic height increasing exercises, designed by a research study in the worst case result in you plan on joining a yoga class.

#Increase Height Wonderful Tips #Jumping Exercises To Grow Taller

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grossmeat · 4 years ago

Text

I don't think my sexuality has a name and I never talk about it.

So this is another weird long late night post, old school Tumblr style. I think we used to call it night blogging, and blame the Australians, tho that meme is probably dead as disco.

I don't think my sexuality has a name. A lot of people have told me that I'm pansexual, but that's not it. A pan sexual person *can* find anybody physically attractive regardless of their physical attributes.

I however, quite literally, find everybody physically attractive. It's not that I *could* be attracted to anyone, I *am* attracted to everyone.

Like, okay, say you are a straight dude. You, by definition, would find women physically attractive, but that does not mean you are attracted physically to all women. There is a subset of women who you will find attractive, and a subset of women that you won't find attractive. Or at least that is my understanding of how other people operate.

The subset of people that I find *physically* attractive is literally almost every person on the planet. There are very few exceptions to this. First and foremost, I am only attracted to other adults, which I wish I didn't have to specify, but there are a lot of pedos out there. I am also not attracted to anyone extremely elderly, like over 70ish. Though some people do age extremely well. Another turn off is anything that makes you appear uncanny or non-human, such as extreme plastic surgery that alters your appearance beyond that of what would occur in nature. The only other exception I can think of is people who are excessively obese (I find larger people to be just as attractive as smaller people, I'm talking about someone who has gone over like 400 pounds, again into the territory of something that you probably wouldn't see in a completely natural environment).

But like, if I know you, and you are reading this, I am attracted to you. I find all my friends to be physically attractive. I literally don't understand the concept of the word "ugly". It has never really made sense to me. As a kid, it made a little more sense, because I wasn't attracted to adults, only people my own age. So I thought, okay, adults are ugly. But once I became an adult, it became clear that I never really understood what the word ugly meant. I have come to understand that some people can find another person's appearance to be repulsive. I have never experienced this. I am only repulsed by a person's behavior and attitude.

When I try to explain this, people often misunderstand me, and think that I'm just some super horny guy who wants to fuck everyone. As fun as that sounds, that's not exactly it either.

Going back to the analogy of a straight man, there is a subset of women that a straight man will find attractive. That doesn't mean he wants to fuck *all* of them. Nor does it mean that he will actively pursue a relationship with all of them. It just wouldn't be possible. There are whole reality shows about how that just does not work out.

You can find a person physically attractive, and not want to have sex with them or pursue a relationship. That just happens to be how I feel about almost everyone.

The only reason I would *not* be attracted to somebody is if I don't enjoy how they behave. If you don't include the exception I mentioned above, I will never become repulsed by a person solely based on their physical appearance. I have only found one other person online who shares this experience with me, and they had made a reddit post about it a while back. I think it may have been deleted, because I can't find it.

But like, I am *not* pansexual. A pansexual person can find some people physically unattractive, it just won't be because of their gender or sexuality. I *cannot*.

Some people have tried to tell me I'm demisexual, but that's not it either. Someone who is demisexual is only attracted to someone they emotionally bond with. I find every stranger I meet to be equally sexy. I don't need to know somebody to be attracted to them. That attraction can be broken if they start acting like an asshole, but if I'm just looking at them, I find everyone's uniqueness to be equally pleasing and beautiful.

Anyway, there's not a name for that to my knowledge. If I had to come up with one, maybe I would call it isosexual or equisexual, which I feel both communicate the idea that on a physical level I find every adult human to be a 10/10.

Anyway, just a weird thing about me. I don't talk about it a lot, but that's who I am. I wonder if anyone beside reddit person.

I found one person on Quora who asked what it means if they are attracted to everyone and they got this answer. I think it sums up how I feel quite well.

Anyway, I don't mind if people call me bi, pan, or just queer. It's easier. But it doesn't scratch the surface of how I feel.

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womenandfilm5 · 5 years ago

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I chose to watch “Eighth Grade” by Bo Burnham, and honestly, I found it to be incredibly heartbreaking. The overarching theme was navigating the awkwardness and challenges of adolescence, the prevalent desire to find a place to fit in. The themes of anxiety and depression are also explored, as the protagonist Kayla struggles with extreme social anxiety, and describes how she constantly feels, by saying “I feel like I always have that nervous feeling when you’re waiting in line for a roller coaster, but I always just have that nervous feeling, and I never have that good feeling after the ride, that relief”. There is also a clear critique of the religious manner adolescents both regard and constantly use social media. Within this film there is also a clear disdain for the often ineffective method of sex education in schools, and the way that children often have to navigate these confusing arenas themselves, often because they feel pressured or coerced to do things they are not ready for. . The film’s basic content was following the protagonist Kayla and her experiences in the last week of eighth grade, before she enters the high school. There is never any mention of other family members, besides her father, who appears to be attempting to raise her as a single father. He continues to try to bond with her, despite how she rebukes and shuts him out for so long, until towards the end of the movie. She is shown to have no friends, and struggles to take her own advice that she talks about in YouTube videos she makes. Kayla is often waxing about ways to gain confidence and improve your social life, but she genuinely struggles to follow her own words, and is unable to connect to people. She tries to fit in with a crowd of shallow, cruel girls, who treat her as less than a person, and the boy she is interested in does the same. He never shows an interest in her, until she starts to use sexualization as a currency, and mentions that she has nudes on her phone, to reel him in. After a trip to the high school for a class visit, she starts hanging out with a group of high schoolers, and attracts the attention of a pervy twelfth grader. He attempts to make Kayla take her shirt off after he isolates her from everyone else, and while she refuses and is able to leave the situation, she is clearly scared and confused. . The film’s form is a narrative structure encompassing about a weeks span, and this story line following Kayla is split up with inserted clips from her YouTube channel. These inserted clips from her channels align so that the viewer is either seeing the contrast between what Kayla advises people to do versus what she actually does, or so that we see a contrast between a younger, more naive Kayla, and the current-day overwhelmed, more cynical Kayla. There was a very interesting use of aesthetics and visual style, in the way there was a lot of the story told through the palpable discomfort in body language and facial expressions of Kayla, and the way she interacts with her physical environment. There are a lot of closeup shots of her face, and the way she contorts her mouth and unconsciously expresses her emotions. Her eyes also express a lot of what she is feeling, and when she is nervous the camera will also zoom in on her hands fluttering nervously, or other such movements to demonstrate this effect. This method is particularly influential and makes the viewer really feel the energy exuded by the characters on the screen, and you feel immersed in the emotions that Kayla feels. The dialogue between the characters is often peppered with conversational pauses, such as “like”, and “um”. These words are not meant to demonstrate a lack of intelligence in the characters, particularly in the protagonist, but are used to verbalize the uncertainty with which Kayla navigates her social interactions, and is constantly in fear of saying the wrong thing. Multiple times throughout the film we see Kayla practice what she is going to say before calling someone, or speaking to them in person. This culminates such that it is clear how tentative Kayla is to assert her presence, and it really makes you want to fight for her.

I chose to watch this film, because I love Bo Burnham as a comedian, and I have been listening to his music and Netflix comedy sketches for years, and I assumed that this film would be light-hearted as well. I was shocked by how heavy this film weighed on me, and how hard it hit me emotionally. One of my little sisters is currently in eighth grade, and she experiences extreme social anxiety, and it broke my heart a bit to really see this narrative through Kayla’s eyes, and then continuously relate it back to my sister’s experiences. I was shocked by the impacting nature of this film, and I learned that Bo Burnham suffers from crippling panic attacks, and chose to share his experiences through an eighth grader, because “anxiety makes me feel like a terrified thirteen-year old”. The film is thusly named, as it represents the anxiety and uncertainty of an eighth grader which Burnham experiences in his daily life. I found this to be profoundly self-aware, and a wonderful way to demonstrate such a powerful story of adolescent struggles and social navigation. This film was also made only two years ago, and explores Millennials’ relationship with their generationally different parents, such as Kayla’s father, a member of Generation X. There are clear depictions of the toxic nature of social media in this film, and it is made clear the concerns that older generations have, to their children being so attached to their phones. This film really makes the socio-political climate it was filmed in known, and touches on prominent themes of the current time period, such as technological concerns of the era, and the way it allows young children access to things far before they are ready.

A particularly poignant scene that really drew forth an emotional response in me was when Kayla approached Kennedy in school, after attending Kennedy’s party, where her mother forced her to invite Kayla. It took so much out of Kayla to even interact with the guests at the party, and for most of the time she was hiding in another room, while everyone else was gathered in the living room having fun. She rehearses what to say to Kennedy, and attempts to mirror both her language and image. We see Kayla wearing a Hollister shirt to try to blend into the “in-group”, she uses linguistic pauses to save herself time to think, such as “like”, and hunches over with her arms in front of her body, as a subconscious shield. Her body language is clearly very nervous, and the camera once again utilizes the technique of focusing in on her nervous, fluttering hands, arms protectively hiding her body, and her facial expressions of uncertainty. She is trying so hard in this scene, and is desperate to say, do, and be the version of herself that Kennedy will perceive as cool, but Kennedy only glances at her once or twice in this scene, implies disgust in her face and body language, and never once makes eye contact, or shows respect in her responses. Everything she responses is terse, and a one-word response, never anything to stimulate or keep the conversation going. This led me to draw connections to “Lemonade” by Beyonce, which is perhaps a strange comparison, but I kept thinking of the vast differences in confidence between Beyonce and Kayla. Beyonce is obviously a grown woman, but despite the adversity and discrimination she has undoubtedly faced in her life, almost all of the 13 chapters in her video display her oozing confidence. This is notable in the way she walks, makes eye contact, keeps her head high, shoulders back, hair kept in a manner that frames her face and doesn’t hide it, etc. She is a powerful, beautiful woman, who has come into her own, and she is aware of this fact. While this is obviously a drastically different situation, Kayla, an awkward, adolescent eighth grader demonstrates all of the exact opposite physical attributes as Beyonce does: she wears clothes to hide her body, tries to collapse into herself, and tries to never draw anyone’s attention to her.

When watching this film, I began to ask myself questions that many parents are also having to face in this day and age. How can you simultaneously restrict your child from the negative consequences of the internet, while still allowing them freedom? The philosopher Locke believed the parenting approach to children seeking knowledge should always reflect pure honesty, and I feel this applies to the issue of technology. Banning a child from a website, restricting their access to the internet, or taking their phone has proved time and time again to be ineffective. For those with a goal, there will always be a way to access the internet, and no matter how scrupulous the parent, there will be a way to circumnavigate their restrictions. As a person who grew up with technology, but also witnessed a huge technological boom while in my teens, I believe our generation has a unique perspective, as we are immersed in this culture of social media, but perhaps somewhat more aware of it’s toxicity and it’s prevalence than the generations that have come after us. I feel that an open-door policy with a child is always best, and allowing them to come to you with any questions and not face consequences is key. Being honest about how social media can impact your self-esteem, how so much of the images on these sites are faked, how there are predators online, how inappropriate ads sometimes pop up, etc is the best way to inform a child. Is this a possible method with every generation that begins, especially as it can be challenging to keep up with all the new forms of social media? How can anyone be sure of what their child is doing on the internet, without invading their privacy? Should children be restricted of information until an appropriate age (within reason of course)? – HB

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beebosbitchh · 7 years ago

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1-65 ;)

holy heck ! thank you sophiw i lov u 🍒

1. Do you ever doubt the existence of others than you?

i dont understand this question?? like sometimes i doubt my own existence and other times i doubt that i exist to certain ppl? ya?

2. On a scale of 1-5, how afraid of the dark are you?

2,, normal amount? like good for sleep but pitch black is scaryy but not to the point i need the escape ?? if that makes sense??

3. The person you would never want to meet?

guy fieri, i dont think i need to know if hes actually real ? like is he real and from this dimension or from flavortown (which he has a very scarily detailed description of)?? thats not something i need to know

4. What is your favorite word?

hmm, probably ‘fam’ obviously

5. If you were a type of tree, what would you be?

a willow tree !!!!!!!!!! i just talked to my mom about this :-0

6. When you looked in the mirror this morning what was the first thing you thought?

ngl but i dont look in the mirror anymore unless its lip syncing along to a song sung by a guy/someone w a deeper voice bc i feel like it suits me better! gotta love coping w dysphoria!

7. What shirt are you wearing?

baseball tee, gay

8. What do you label yourself as?

nb, lesbian, fool

9. Bright room or dark room?

dark room

10. What were you doing at midnight last night?

slepe

11. Favorite age you’ve been so far?

10-11 when i was in 5th grade. i still only had two friends but i was way more extroverted and everything was so carefree and i was very invested in adventure time and art. i think that was the most of a childhood i got? i honestly did not do much as a kid and i wish i had..

12. Who told you they loved you last?

sophiw ! tumblr user almightyportraits ! the loml !

13. Your worst enemy?

14. What is your current desktop picture?

one from apple called ‘abstract shapes’ its very orange but also blue which is my fave color pairing atm so its perfect

15. Do you like someone?

tumblr user vahilla

16. The last song you listened to?

megan played ‘marceline’ by willow in her car ! a song i suggested to her a few months ago and it makes me very happy that she likes it especially bc we bonded over adventure time in 6th grade :-)

17. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?

mmyy seelfff ??

18. Who would you really like to just punch in the face?

mmmyseyyffelllff ??

19. If anyone could be your slave for a day, who would it be and what would they have to do?

eh whats the point

20. What is your best physical attribute? (showing said attribute is optional)

n o ne ?

21. If you were the opposite sex for one day, what would you look like and what would you do?

what is the opposite of nb,, i feel like if i was opposite of how i present id be a girl, which is a verryyy weird thought for me, pass

22. Do you have a secret talent? If yes, what is it?

no :-/

23. What is one unique thing you’re afraid of?

uh first of all blood, like, ill pass out,, second of all,, literally everything worries me

24. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your disposal.

jimmy johns #16, turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato, NO MAYO

25. You just found $100! How are you going to spend it?

im a very practical person so the least boring answer i can come up w is more art supplies

26. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere in the world, but you have to leave immediately. Where are you going to go?

denmark

fukcing , acetoNe

28. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?

i think a FIRST rule would have to be pretty IMPORTANT so probably smt like how ~WE THE PEOPLE~ are all EQUAL would be a pretty good start and pretty UNDENIABLE and STRAIGHT FORWARD especially if it was the FIRST thing in this,, hmm lets call it the CONSTITUTION, in the completely hypothetical society

29. What is your favorite expletive?

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuk cufck ufc kfuck

sunglasses??!!! that shit gotta be bright huh>?? gotta protect my retinas

31. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?

i wanna say my first relationship made me a better person but that shit was rreeeaaallyyyy fucking awful and 4 months (+recovery months) that i will never get back and i think ? maybe ?? i wouldve been ok without it ? idk just a thought

32. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit… you can move to anywhere else in the world!

spain ?!?!? why not + i sorta know the language? thatd b cool

zoey my dog :-( i miss her a lot, this month it will have been two years oh my god i miss her so much

34. What was your last dream about?

the last one i remember was a nightmare about someone tryna murder me i was very scared

36. Have you ever been admitted to the hospital?

i think so , when i was two i got really really sick and couldve died ?

37. Have you ever built a snowman?

ahh yes ! we gave hhimm,, fruit snack nipples, please forgive me fathr

38. What is the color of your socks?

grey w blue n orange stripes ( again i lov blue n orange together, my shirt is teal and i have an orange hat on wow)

39. What type of music do you like?

all! i had to train this new guy at work and im sooo awkward but once why started talking about music it was easy for me to talk bc it was smt we both really like !!! i felt like i could actually communicate w feeling a disconnect it was nice ! we talked mostly about rap which was cool and unexpected but i could do it ? i really love music and i love being able to know enough to talk about it ,, isk

40. Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets?

sunrises, ive been pushing myself to wake up unreasonably early to have more time to myself and i get to watch the sunrise most days which is nice

41. What is your favorite milkshake flavor?

chocolate

42. What football team do you support? (I will answer in terms of American football as well as soccer)

whom?

44. What do you want to be when you graduate?

college? god i dont even know… smt w art.. by an illustrator or art teacher or freelance artist or graphic designer ,, i really dont know

45. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

one thing ?!!?!? i wish i was neurotypical

46. Are you reliable?

yes? i try hard to be? i hope so ?

47. If you could ask your future self one question, what would it be?

u still a lil bitch ?

48. Do you hold grudges?

nope i try not to, ive had too many toxic petty people in my life that i dont need to be one myself.. now this is grudges w/o reason, but if ive given people several ‘second chances’ and theyre still (thumbs down) then ill avoid them but w/i reason?

49. If you could breed two animals together to defy the laws of nature, what new animal would you create?

DOG HORSES BIG DOGs

50. What is the most unusual conversation you’ve ever had?

mm probably smt w my lab partner from last year. she always sends me weird quotes from a fanfiction shes reading and its weird but i really appreciate that she still talks to me or talks to me at all tbh

51. Are you a good liar?

nooo ?? i try not to lie? mb not tell the full truth but idk , i feel like id feel too guilty

52. How long could you go without talking?

uhh literally days like i already fucking do.. i m taking this as verbally but i dont get texts so like, it would not be hard

53. What has been you worst haircut/style?

before i went to short hair i used to alllwaayyys wear a tight ponytail every single day bc i wasnt girly enough to do anything w it and it was really really gross like thank god i cut it all off

54. Have you ever baked your own cake?

heck yeah

55. Can you do any accents other than your own?

*clears throat*

hewwo?

56. What do you like on your toast?

butter and jam

57. What is the last thing you drew a picture of?

58. What would be you dream car?

razor scooter

59. Do you sing in the shower? Or do anything unusual in the shower? Explain.

sometimes im just too physically or emotionally exhausted to stand so ill just,, lay down? ive fallen asleep in the shower before ha

60. Do you believe in aliens?

yup

61. Do you often read your horoscope?

whenever it comes up but i dont ,, seek it out

62. What is your favorite letter of the alphabet?

63. Which is cooler: dinosaurs or dragons?

dragons tf

64. What do you think about babies?

evil, ugly, dont see the appeal. open ur eyes ppl !!!! bbs are n Ot cute !!

65. Freebie! Ask anything interesting you can think of.

#long post /#mention of dysphoria /#ask #thenk yoy sophiw #this took 4ever but worth it bc it got me to calm down?? coolc ool cool

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bethgreeneishopeunseen · 7 years ago

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Gimple’s Pantheon: Freyja

Gimple loves to incorporate literary and mythological allusions into his story, the story he’s been telling since he took over as showrunner for season 4. For example, Bethyl and Carzekiel both have similarities to Hades/Persephone. He wants his story to ultimately be timeless. Glenn and Maggie’s search for each other in 4b is compared to Ulysses/Odysseus (X). During season six, @bethgreenewarriorprincess noticed two Easter eggs that connected Michonne to the Norse goddess Freyja/Freya. She suggested that Richonne was partially based off/modeled off of Freyja and Odr. Freyja and Odr are believed to be the same as Frigga and Odin, due to linguistic and narrative similarities (X). Christy planned on writing up a Richonne meta, but she decided to leave it alone, so with her permission I took the two Easter eggs she showed me and researched the idea myself, diving into 4x09 and 4x11. Along the way I discovered parallels and eggs related to Beth’s story. This meta will be split between Michonne/Richonne and Team Delusional, as warning for those who aren’t TD.

Before I go any further into my findings, I want to make something clear: Gimple seeds storylines in advance. Sometimes years in advance. No prop or other cinematographic element goes wasted in a scene. In 4x09, when Carl finds a boy’s room filled with video games, there is a Swedish eye chart (X). It foreshadowed Carl losing his eye exactly two seasons later, which is further supported by other similar props showing up in seasons 5 and 6. In 4x11, while recuperating, Rick reads a collection of Jack London’s short stories, which includes theme of cannibalism (X). This was right before Terminus was introduced to the Grimes family’s arc. In 7x12, the Richonne “Honeymoon” episode, Gimple symbolically marries the couple. During the opening montage, Rick finds a wedding dress, then he and Michonne are shown having sex, “consummating” the marriage (X). The rest of the episode is filled with romantic imagery, tropes, and them sharing intimate conversations about their relationship. All of this takes place in an episode called “Say Yes”. Gimple is a certified nerd.

The two main storylines in 4x09 follow Carl and Michonne on their own, learning about themselves and how they’ve changed. Carl declares that, “I can take care of myself,” before launching into a grief-filled monologue about Rick’s failings. With his father unconscious, Carl sets out on his own to find food. Beth told Daryl the same thing when he tried to take her back to their suck-ass camp. Like Carl, she was grieving, and Daryl was shut-down, emotionally as comatose as Rick was physically. She wanted to find a drink, to give herself a purpose and to live for once. She and Carl share parallels as their stories are both apocalyptic Bildungsromans (coming-of-age). Christy found a plaque that read “Fredag”. Much like the eye chart, the plaque is also in Swedish. It means Friday, but more specifically, “The modern Scandinavian form is "Fredag" in Swedish, Norwegian and Danish, meaning Freyja's day” (X).

The sign is even next to the can of pudding, so the audience is primed to notice to it.

The other Freyja egg that Christy discovered is in the Alexandria Safe-Zone tour. Near the mantle, where Michonne hung her katana, is a horse statue. Freyja is a goddess of beauty, love, lust, fertility, war, and death. Horses fit all of these attributes, and one of Freyja’s titles even means “Mare of Vanir”. Michonne also had a pet horse, Flame, during 4a.

In my research, some traits of Freyja immediately jumped out at me:

“A pair of cats work together to draw her cart, proving her sovereignty as a goddess. Diana Paxson suggested the names Bygul and Trjegul - "Bee-gold" and "Tree-Gold" - for Freyja's cats, to honor her connections with honey and amber.”

“Freyja's power and beauty are symbolized most strongly by the necklace Brisingamen. The four dwarven smiths, the Brising brothers, forged a golden necklace of unsurpassed beauty, which Freyja could not bear to let pass from her grasp.”

Freyja has many lovers/commits infidelity against Odr. (Source: X).

She and Freyja share similar traits and symbolism. The cat connection is obvious. But Michonne also has a deep appreciation for art, most famously embodied in her cat statues from 3x12 and 7x10. In 3x13, she explained to Carl that, “I just couldn't leave this behind. It's just too damn gorgeous.” Like Freyja, she values beauty. She decorated her home with paintings, went to galleries, and dressed fashionably, before the apocalypse (X). She was also very opinionated about art, indicating that she had a developed interest in that world. In the dream sequence from 4x09, she and Terry debate the merits of an exhibit. The Brisingamen necklace also fits as a trait of Michonne, because she’s worn the same gold necklace since she was fully introduced in season 3.

While the last bullet point doesn’t fit TV!Michonne, it goes along with the history of her comic book counterpart. Comic!Michonne has had the most lovers of any character in the comics, and she came on to Tyreese when he was with C@rol.

Michonne’s appreciation of art parallels Beth’s love of music and overall appreciation for beauty. They both push their men to see beyond survival, to make choices that will allow all of them live. They’re both compassionate, warrior women who came from a low period of mental/emotional instability. One symbol connected only to Beth, the ladybug, is even a symbol of Freyja (X). Freyja is described as being fair-haired and blue-eyed, like Beth, and her general attributes could also fit Beth. As I mentioned earlier, Bethyl and Carzekiel parallel Hades and Persephone, but Bethyl fits this mold the most. Gimple parallels both Michonne and Beth with Freyja, but Michonne is his main focus for this allusion.

With all of that in mind, there were also Beth eggs in 4x09. After Carl found the pudding, he went upstairs and passed some eggs, and he then had to escape from a walker, losing his shoe in the process. First he passed a box labeled “Peanut Butter”. People don’t just label a box “Peanut Butter”, especially since there was no actual peanut butter in the episode. The label refers to “Alone”, as peanut butter and jelly has become Bethyl symbols, and Beth chose the peanut butter. The peanut butter jar even reappeared in 7x08, in a Daryl-scene that mirrored his character development in Alone.

The second egg was actually a trifecta of eggs. The first room upstairs opened into an empty bedroom, and it contained a horrible sight. There was a dead canary on the carpet. The birdcage and bird caught my eye, as the last time a birdcage had appeared in the show, it appeared in Beth’s cell in 4x01 (X). Her birdcage had a number “4” inside of it, referring to 5x04 or Slabtown, which was her “cage” as she is the show’s songbird. The Beth connection goes further, as it is a yellow canary. Yellow is Beth’s signature color, as the color surrounds her and was part of her main costume, and the color keeps reappearing in moments and characters that parallel her. The same kind of yellow canary appeared in a season-4 Daryl poster, as reference to his search for Beth (X).

The fact that two yellow birds appeared in the same season cannot be a coincidence, especially since they both appeared in relation to other Beth-related imagery.

Then of course, there is the box on the bed labeled “Shoes”. Shoes, especially lone shoes, were established as a motif in this episode and continued into season 7, culminating with Boots. Who is Beth, no matter how you cut it (X). Carl loses his shoe escaping the walker upstairs, leaving a sign that references the lost shoe. TPTB wanted the audience to notice the shoe. I think all of these Easter eggs allude Beth's arc: peanut butter, dead song bird taken from its cage, and then Carl losing his shoe escaping the walker. Bethyl in Alone, Grady and Carl getting there when Beth is “dead”, and then her surviving the 800-walker herd, escaping from death, and returning as Boots/Binoculars Bethfoot. 4x09 contained symbols to outline Beth’s arc post-season 4, before it transitioned to full on parallels/rehearsals in 4x11. (In a previous meta, I already outlined how Glenn and Rick’s arcs in that episode foreshadowed Beth’s story: X.)

Overall, the house that Rick, Carl, and Michonne stayed in from 4x09 and 4x11 had Scandinavian elements. There was Nordic-looking artwork, which made me think of Rick as Odr/Odin, the supreme god in Norse mythology and a warrior god.

There is also a recurring water bottle from a company called “Wolford Springs”. The name itself sounds Scandinavian/Germanic, but I had never heard of it. The show has created fake brands in the past, so I looked up “Wolford Springs” and nothing direct came up on Google. Most results led me to a European company called Wolford that is known for its lingerie.

And Freyja is the goddess of lust and beauty.

Antlers also popped up in the background as decoration, which probably means the image is to be associated with Michonne. I looked up Freyja and antlers, and I was not disappointed. Freyja had a twin brother, Freyr, and they had a relationship.

On the god’s Wikipedia page, the introduction mentions that:

“The most extensive surviving Freyr myth relates Freyr's falling in love with the female jötunn Gerðr. Eventually, she becomes his wife but first Freyr has to give away his magic sword which fights on its own "if wise be he who wields it." Although deprived of this weapon, Freyr defeats the jötunn Beli with an antler. However, lacking his sword, Freyr will be killed by the fire jötunn Surtr during the events of Ragnarök” (X).

Gimple combined Freyja and Freyr for his story. Antlers appeared around Michonne because they refer to her katana, her signature weapon and her most iconic feature.

(Notice also the silver wind chime on Carl’s left. The D.C. spoon is one of the central symbols foreshadowing Beth’s survival.)

Before I go more into the other Beth eggs in 4x11 I found this time, I want to wrap up the Michonne/Freyja parallels. Freyja and Odr/Odin were a power couple in Norse mythology. They were both warriors, both rulers. Odin is probably most known for ruling over Valhalla, the celebratory hall meant for people who died in battle. Well, Freya had her own, in a sense, to compliment her husband’s:

“Freya is living in Asgard (the home of the Gods), the name of her house is Sessrumnir and it is located by the field Fólkvangr which means “field of the host”, “people field” or “army field”[.] It is a place where half of the people who dies in a battle go for the afterlife, while Odin will receive the other half. Freya is always given the first choice among the brave warriors, after she had picked the ones she wanted, the rest were sent to Odin” (X).

Makes you think of Rick and Michonne ruling Alexandria, doesn’t it? If you need further proof, here you go:

When Rick gets into bed to read that Jack London book, he sets his watch on the nightstand beside a tube of lipstick and a gold necklace. The gold necklace goes back to Freyja’s prized necklace, and in this set-up, the bed is a domestic space. It foreshadows Rick and Michonne sharing a bed for real two seasons later.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this meta, Gimple seeds plotlines early on. In this episode, Carl and Michonne scavenge through a house. There was a sunflower painting and a painting that resembled Mary from Terminus. Even major media sites picked up on these eggs (X). The other paintings, and the scene itself, allude to Beth. Michonne opens up to Carl in 4x11, revealing pieces of a past she had long kept locked up, but to keep herself from getting overwhelmed, Michonne has Carl play a game:

“Okay. I'll answer one question at a time, one room at a time, and only after we've cleared it. [...] You know, you could be a spy. Or a cop.”

The game parallels Zach and Daryl’s game in 4x01, about Daryl’s job. Zach even asked if Daryl had been a cop before the Turn. It’s been theorized that Beth would spy for Team Family, if she were in an enemy group. I believe that Beth is taken shelter, intermittently, with the Scavengers/the Heapsters. She’d become a spy for her family. Michonne also looks at a painting of a dog looking up at a full moon. My mind immediately jumped to Beth, who would be following the North Star in order to reach Virginia. There were full moons in 4x01, 4x12, and throughout season 5 (X).

Carl is eager to learn more about Michonne and impatient, so he asks, “Does this hallway count as a room?”

Michonne: If you can find a something we can use.

And this exchange takes place in a yellow hallway, one filled with Easter eggs. Tunnel imagery surrounds Beth, and the theme of “usefulness” is all Grady. Back at the house, Rick escaped from the Claimers through a yellow bathroom. Two yellow rooms, in completely different houses. Again, not a coincidence. As Michonne was meant to become a queen who would co-rule with her husband, Beth was meant to return.

#team delusional #richonne #props #parallels #the tunnel #richonne meta #michonne

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