#we all know i'm incapable of writing short things anymore

[sapphire-weapon]

As someone who ships leon and ashley and enjoys reading/consuming taboo topics and relationships in fiction including incestuous ones, it's so funny to me that I don't see eagleone that way at ALL. theyre one of the relationships i purely enjoy for being a cute wholesome romance and who i want to see thriving and happy (albeit i enjoy the tragic love angle too--) and yet they have a sizable age difference and a "power dynamic" (??????) so it's a "proship"... honestly outside of them both having a daddy kink i really dont want to see that with them!!! Its just not what I'm here for. Im here for that in OTHER ships and this was supposed to be my one good one and this is what happens. Lol.

As such I try to just not care when people accuse eagleone shippers of being weird because Im like... well I suppose I AM...... but it is really unfair for the majority of vanilla ones. Honestly I don't think the antis are secret shippers or secret incestuous shippers (...okay maybe like one or two--) I think they just have a "NOTP" or are scared of how much they relate to ashley as you say and are just making excuses for why they hate seeing fanart of them and blocking people who ship them. I notice this in other fandoms where people will say two characters are "sibling coded" and its just their way of saying they don't ship them. It's really weird frankly and they're basically ignoring canon to write worse fanfiction but that's just how it is these days.

personally, it actually blows me away that people think of Leon and Ashley as being "age gap" at all.

in modern day 2023, Leon is 46. Ashley is 39.

that feels really fucking normal to me in terms of ages for a couple LMAO if any of these dumbasses met a couple like that irl out in the wild today, no one would bat an eye. but that would require these people actually leaving the house, so.

the whole "power imbalance" thing is completely disingenuous, too, because people only look at it in the context of the events of the actual game and then pretend like that's going to be the norm for them forever and not, you know, a very unique, atypical, and extreme situation they're in.

but if anyone were to think about it a little bit as opposed to not at all, they'd realize that their power dynamic would shift once they got home, and then shift again once Ashley's dad is out of office -- and when the power dynamic is constantly changing, that's not exactly imbalanced, is it?

Leon has all of the power during the events of RE4make, and Ashley is wholly dependent on him. yes. that's true.

but once they're out of that combat situation and they're back home in DC, Ashley has literally all of the power in the world over him. she outranks him socially, and she theoretically has the power to make his life complete hell in terms of his career if she were to whisper in her dad's ear the right way.

but the title of "president" is a very temporary one, and once those very short few years are over...? neither Ashley nor Leon are in a position to hold any power over each other at all anymore. they just become two regular-ass people trying to fit into each other's lives.

the whole idea behind "Ashley is completely dependent on Leon in RE4make, which means she will always be completely dependent on him" isn't just based on a faulty premise -- it's also really sexist and gross and reduces Ashley to something less than human, because it assumes that she's incapable of autonomous thought.

and it's really funny how it's only the people who hate the ship that actually are problematic in their thought process. they project their internalized misogyny and sexual insecurities onto us.

I am pretty much as deep in the middle of eagleone fandom as a person can possibly be, and I have never known a single one of you fuckers to ship this ship because you have an age gap kink or because you get off on the power dynamics. the only time power dynamics get brought up is when we make knight/queen comparisons -- which actually gives Ashley the greater portion of power.

I mean, yeah, there is the whole thing where a lot of the fandom also is of a mind that there are some daddy issue kinks at play in the ship, but --

I don't wanna hear shit from people about us enjoying daddy kink between Leon and Ashley when literally the entire fucking RE fandom is out here posting pics of shirtless Leon mods and writing the word "DADDY" in giant fucking text at the bottom of the post. goddamn hypocrites.

[valeffelees]

📷 🎵 🌸 🎤

📷 What’s set as your phone’s lockscreen?

i think i have it set to this snowbaz fanart, but i dunno for sure. my mobile has been dead for over a week... er, actually. i think it might be coming up on two or three weeks now. i don't even know where it is at the moment. might be in my pillowcase, but sometimes it falls under the bed and just stays there for a while lmfao

🎵 Last song you listened to?

physically incapable of listening to anything but this and ruthlessness at the moment. i have a friend that's really into this musical right now so i said i would listen to it, 'cause what else are friends for if not enthusiastically indulging your interests, and now my brain is glitched

🌸 Best compliment you ever received?

ok, so. when i was in 8th grade i had this awesome teacher. she was new at our school, but she was the teacher you wanted to have, y'kno? and she was insanely supportive of my writing whenever we did creative-type writing assignments, she would always read mine out in front of the class, and there was even one time when i wrote a short story and printed it out for her and she read it in her spare time and told me what she thought about it. and it wasn't like i was fucking busted at writing when i was 13 or something lmao i think she could just see how passionate i was about it and wanted to encourage me but here's the bit: i can't remember anymore if it was 2018 or 2019, but i'm like 18 or 19 years old at this point and haven't seen this woman in years, but i'm the oldest of three, right, and so my sister comes home from school one day and she tells me she ran into my old 8th grade teacher, who recognised my sister and asked her about me. she wanted to know if i was still writing. she told my sister to pass along that i was one of the best young writers she ever taught and that she hoped i was doing well, and i still think about it all the time

🎤 Is there a song you know all the lyrics to?

i know all the lyrics to most songs i really enjoy. i have a shit memory, but lyrics have always come easy for me for some reason, especially musicals

come ask me things!

[druckkugelschreiber]

Find the words

Tagged by the incomparable (did I write that right?!) @mxkelsifer . This is actually the reason it took so long to answer because I need my pc to properly find the words lol. Anyway thanks for the tag, I love these!

The words: flame, mischief, sun, and alone.

I'm sideeying alone so hard already. That one's going to hurt if I find the right oneshot.

Also once more incapable of being short about anything. Sorry not sorry.

Flame

I wanted Andy to believe me. “It’s the hobbit prinzip.” “Das Hobbit Prinzip?”  I hummed in agreement. “It’s the little good things make the big good things. Who makes the world normal? The majority of people. They do the little good things, helping out a neighbour, carrying bags for an old woman, finding a lost pet. That’s the little things that bring the good intot he world. Killing takes bad out of the world, but it doesn’t bring good into it. Now taking the bad out of the world is necessary sometimes, but it doesn’t rebuild the world. So, if you feel like you have to do something. You do the little things. You go out there and plant a community garden and see how much things change around you. How the community begins smiling, or you rescue children from bad situations and teach them to read, build schools whatever. You made yourself. Imagine 7000 years ago you said ‘we’re going to teach everyone to read and educate them. We’re going to be explorers and scientists and not fighters, what then?” Andy took a sharp breath. “You made us. You decided we were fighters, but that doesn’t mean all of us have to fight forever. Every war has to end sometimes.” “And if I hate people and don’t want to help them anymore?” Andy asked almost pouty. I held back a laugh. “Well, I have a lovely cabin up in the norwegian mountains, not a soul around for two hours. Chickens, dogs, cows, whatever your heart might desire.” “That sounds peaceful.” “It’s really nice. I spend an entire year there in 2009.” Andy nodded and I could see some of her cracks mending. “So… you wouldn’t… you don’t think it’s a bad idea?” “I think it’s the greatest idea you had recently”, I said honestly and squeezed her hand. Andy made a disbelieving sound. “I don’t think I would even know what to do with myself.” “Come with me”, I said, keeping my voice light to take the pressure out of the suggestion. Just a friendly suggestion. “As I said, I think Africa would be great for you.” “I don’t think killing poachers is what I’m looking for.” “Well you can always shovel elephan shit, fix fences, learn about vet med on the fly”, I smiled at her. “And if you don’t like it we can still go to that cabin or do other humanitarian work. The world might be on fire, but there are a lot of places we can douse the flames a little.” 

Okay this was longer than expected but I love The Hobbit Prinzip and I love this whole thing.

Mischief

“By the way”, I asked when got out of the jeep after our shopping trip, “can you braid hair?” “Yes, why?” Nile asked, a shopping bag in her hand while I carried another one. “Could you braid my hair for the midsummer festival?” Nile stopped on the porch, mischief lighting her face, “you’re going to dress up really fine aren’t you?” “I’m going to show Andy all she threw away.” Nile laughed and held the front door open for me, “in that I’m all yours.” We put the bags down by the stairs and walked into the kitchen. Andy and Seb were facing each other on opposite sites of the table. Nicky and Joe were also there. The tension was thick enough to cut. Boromir lurked at the edges, keeping an eye on everything, though Sam and Nico were nowhere to be seen. “Please tell me you weren’t arguing”, I said, crossing my arms and stepping up next to Seb, who was closest to the door. Nile took a more neutral position between the two warring parties. “No”, Andy said with an expression that was barely contained murder. If looks could kill. “We just cleared up some things.” I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to glare at her or check on Seb. Considering I wasn’t sure if Andy had been mean or not, I focused on Seb. His entire face was closed off. “Hey”, I brushed his cheek with the tips of my fingers, causing him to finally look down to me, “are you okay?”

I need to revisit this story. It's so much fun. Also no one's feeling very mischievous in my stories, geez I wonder why

Sun

The words didn’t help this time around. “Why is she really here, Riko?”  “I was telling the truth. She really got into an argument with the team. Andy isn’t good at being alone, so I took her with me.” “Just like that?” what happened to ‘Andy abandoned me?’ to ‘it’s her fault’ and all that hate that had burned in Noriko’s eyes when the nightmares haunted her. Noriko’s eyes flew to Andy and I could see it. The very valid reason for my fear. The god damn ocean of love she held for the other woman. It was heartbreaking and beautiful to witness at the same time. I could feel even the anxiety dying because that right there. How the sun looked at the moon, that I could never live up to. I was just… well quite frankly I was just autistic old me. I was weird. I was exhausted. I was anxious. I was nothing like the stories she had told me about Andy and what I had seen of her in the dreams. Always confident. Never stopping. Never afraid. And beautiful. I sighed and went numb. “What do you want me to do, Riko?” I asked and I knew the numbness, the exhaustion lingered but I had stopped hiding, masking with her a long time ago and I couldn’t put it back on again.

I really thought this would be a happy one. I mean I could have chosen a happy one but this is so deliciously angsty I couldn't help myself.

Alone

I sat at the edge of the pool, arms wrapped around my knees with my head resting on them. My back leaned against the big tree guarding one half of the pool. It was a pain in the ass to have the tree so close to the pool with all the leaves ending up in it, but I didn’t have to clean the pool, so I didn’t complain.  Andy appeared in the doorway to the garden. Her eyes locked onto me and she walked around the pool to sit down next to me.  Here we go.  “Are you okay, Bran? I mean really?” I looked at her. The way her sable hair shimmered in the sun, the way her eyes were bluer than the tiles of the pool. Andromache the scythian was stunning and sad and always carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. And she wanted to add my weight to it as well and thought it was her duty. I had never met a person who had been more selfless than Andromache.  “Yeah”, I said. “Really. I’m fine.” “You’ve been withdrawn.” “Because all of you treat me like I’m about to break.” I wasn’t. I didn’t break. I never did. I bent but never broke and that was the problem that had haunted me all my life.  “Listen, I get it if you don’t want to talk about it”- “Do you though?” I asked and couldn’t help the sharp tone in my voice. “Why poke and prod if you get it?” “I want you to know I’m here”, Andy didn’t take my anger personally, she never did and I was never actually angry at her. I didn’t think I could. The honesty on her face was disarming. “I’m really here. It’s not just something I say. I’m here whenever you need.” I sighed and had to look away. I knew my ruminating thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone and Andy… she was old enough to actually give me a good answer on this. I had a good inkling on what Nicky and Joe would say. And I didn’t need Booker’s opinion in this. The man was an expert in wallowing in self pity. “Do you think killing a person makes you a monster?”  Andy stiffened. “You’re not a monster, Bran.” “That’s not what I asked”, I shot her a glare.  Andy frowned. “No, I don’t think killing someone makes you a monster. It depends on why you killed them.” My eyes flew over her face. “Do you still feel something when you kill a person?” “No.” And that single word was filled with so much pain. Pain about what she had done, what she had lost, what she thought was a terrible flaw about herself.  I huffed and looked at the soft waves in the pool. “You think you’re a monster.” “I have entire centuries where the only thing I can remember is blood. I’m not sure monster applies anymore”, I was pretty sure the tone of Andy’s voice at this point was the definiton of haunted. Literal armies of ghosts lingered in between the words.  Great. Now I felt bad for making her relieve everything terrible. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” I shook my head. Unsure if I still wanted to voice my next words.  “It’s okay to feel bad about this, Bran”, Andy said softly. “To feel it all.” The anger bubbled in my chest again. “That’s the problem Andy”, I looked back at her, “I didn’t feel anything. I still don’t feel anything. All my life people told me it’s terrible if you take a life. Every book I read, movies I watched, everyone talked about the weight of taking a life. Of what it can do to you, survivors guilt and all that and here I am and I don’t feel anything.  In the moment I killed him, I felt only rage. I don’t feel guilty for ending this man's life. There was nothing special about it. It was just there and gone.” There was no horror on her face. No judgement.  “I killed someone and I feel more pretentious guilt about not feeling guilty than feeling guilty or bad about it. I feel… I think.. I don’t know”, I kept my eyes on her face. “Still think I’m not a monster?”

Bran and Andy always give me so many feels. Another story I should really revisit. Also not the oneshot I was thinking about when I thought of alone, but I adore it!

If you read all of this I'm very impressed. Also I'm not talking about how this is all about Andy (and all the characters are women just to mention it (Andy wlw supremacy)

[amyisherenowitsokay]

*stares very aggressively , I’m foaming from the mouth.*

Howdy-hey! I’m here to pester you abt your works! So I reread “From your memory” and I was like wowza and then I wondered…

What was your inspiration? That concept was just entirely new to me and in the good old year of 2011 I was practically ascending bc I was so invested in the story and it was actually the first fic I ever read from you. (and I fell in love teehee) So what made you write that or inspired yo to do so? Did you have an original storyline that was scrapped, and or changed ?

You don’t have to answer any of this if you don’t want to btw :)

I answer all my asks (eventually lmao) fish! Especially yours!

Long answer under the cut because I'm incapable of giving a short answer. Information about my own fics are constantly on the tip of my tongue ready to be spilled out at their first opportunity, and I'm incapable of resisting.

From Your Memory was actually genuinely inspired by the song mention in the A/N of the first chapter, which is Paramore's Ignorance. This is also where the title comes from.

"I'm not the same kid from your memory Well now I can fend for myself"

I listened to the original and acoustic version on loop. Basically what happened in teenage me's brain did was have an animatic in my head about how this song could figuratively apply to a fanfiction, developed the premise, and went from there.

This is gonna be really funny to explain because there's like legitimate scenes developed around individual lyrics in this song.

Ignorance sounds and sounded a lot to me like a dialogue. It sounded, to me, like one person was saying some parts, and one person was replying in a sort of escalating argument, but at least one party was 'ignorant' (huehuehuehue) of all the details about why they were even fighting in the first place. Based on that premise, the song will (hopefully) make more sense. I'm going to write the lyrics 'assigning' lyrics between two people, and tag them (1) or (2), depending on who I am is talking/replying, with 1 being Zim, and 2 being Gaz. I vividly imagined two people interrupting one another while fighting, hence a lot of the weird breaks.

This is gonna be so convoluted and I'm sorry ahead of time lmao.

Lyric Breakdown

(1) If I'm a bad person— (2) You don't like me (1) Well, I guess I'll make my own way (1) It's a circle, a mean cycle (1) I can't excite you anymore

Just on that dialogue, it's basically like. Zim starts off the story blaming himself for not being there when Gaz was injured, and wars between doing the easiest thing for Gaz, which is to shut up and pretend not to know her, or what he wants, which is to tell her the truth and re-involve himself in her life. Gaz is meanwhile obviously oblivious to his turmoil and is like "why are you even talking to me, you hate me." Zim of course originally chooses to aid her from the sidelines, but he's not happy about it. He essentially is "not allowed" to involve himself in her life anymore.

(1) Where's your gavel? Your jury? (2) What's my offense this time? (1) You're not a judge, but if you're gonna judge me (1) Well, sentence me to another life

Zim's resentment about the situation continues, especially with Dib being irritated about Zim choosing to keep secrets and forcing him to go along with it. Gaz is still like "dude what the fuck is your problem??" while Zim continues to be extra pissy, wishing things were different.

(1) Don't wanna hear your sad songs (1) I don't wanna feel your pain (1) When you swear it's all my fault (1) 'Cause you know we're not the same (no) (2) We're not the same (no) (2) Oh, we're not the same (1) Yeah, the friends who stuck together (1) We wrote our names in blood (1) But I guess you can't accept that the change is good (hey) (2) It's good (hey), it's good

At this point, Zim's dealing with being incapable of helping, desperately wanting to help Gaz, but not actually able to do so. He's just constantly watching her suffer without ever being able to help ease her pain.

Mentally, this was also just more arguing, but with Zim being forced to swallow the fact the meaningful friendship and borderline-relationship he and Gaz had developed is gone, and she's not interested in developing a new one the way he is. Things are different now. They simply aren't friends. He's done nothing for weeks but try to save her life, has had her literal blood on his hands, and now it doesn't even matter. He's got to move on, and he's got to continue to convince Dib that their situation has changed, and his idea is for the better. Lacking context, Gaz meanwhile is like dude take your angst and fuck off. She's also trying to convince herself that whatever is clearly happening behind the scenes, it doesn't matter, and she's better off keeping her head down.

(1) Well, you treat me just like another stranger (1) Well, it's nice to meet you, sir (1) I guess I'll go (1) I'd best be on my way out (2) You treat me just like another stranger (2) Well, it's nice to meet you, sir (2) I guess I'll go (2) I'd best be on my way out

(1) Ignorance is your new best friend (x2)

This is also another parallel back and forth, with Zim still coming to terms with Gaz genuinely not knowing their formerly intense, meaningful relationship. It's more resentment about what he lost. It's meant really sarcastically and snidely. Gaz, for her part, means it really literally. She doesn't have any relationship with Zim aside from 'that guy my brother hates,' and blows him off.

And of course, "ignorance is your new best friend" is pretty straightforward in its meaning. Gaz isn't Zim's best friend anymore, and all she has to keep her company is her new amnesia.

For this next part, queue Membrane (3). The really fun part is after this analysis, if you wanna go back and listen to this song nearly entirely from a Gaz vs Membrane perspective, it also can fit! From a Membrane-centric perspective, if you think of Membrane as he sees himself (aka not in the wrong), needing praise from the public, shrugging off criticism since it's "for the greater good," etc with Gaz (and Dib) shoving back at his preconceptions, it's easy to hear the dialogue. But continuing on, this part was mentally Membrane for me:

(3) This is the best thing that could have happened (3) Any longer and I wouldn't have made it (3) It's not a war, no, it's not a rapture (2) I'm just a person, but you can't take it (2) The same tricks that, that once fooled me (2) They won't get you anywhere (2) I'm not the same kid from your memory (2) Well, now I can fend for myself

This was more later in the story and/or right before Gaz lost her memory during her confrontation with Membrane, where Gaz knows what's going on, and Membrane's trying to convince her to cooperate anyways. Membrane is convinced this isn't something that needs to be difficult, while Gaz is warning him that she's dangerous now, has backup, and isn't going just hand over her independence at his whim.

Further Development

From that context, you can see that the story just kind of happened from there. I filled in the gaps. Why was Zim so mad at Gaz, and why wouldn't she know why he was mad at her? Originally, I wasn't sure who the (3)rd person in the lyrics was that Gaz was fighting with, but to me, it sounded like an authority figure. There's not a lot of those in the IZ universe, let alone one that Gaz would legitimately be threatened by, and eventually, it started to sound like an argument with someone gloating, and then someone who didn't even notice their gloating was actually cruel. They'd also have to be someone who Gaz knew since she was little. Someone she was invested in. Someone exactly like Professor Membrane. But then what would Gaz be arguing with dumb, well-meaning Professor Membrane about?

And thus, a metamorphosis occurred:

This is a meme I made awhile ago for my Discord friends when we discussing From Your Memory. It also makes me laugh every time I see it because it's really spot on to the vibes.

I started to consider the angle that Membrane was actually the bad guy, which, when you consider how many times 'evil mad scientist who think they're in the right' was fed to kids as a trope (and still is, tbh), it was an easy jump. And THAT was when the story really started kicking in.

This was around the time I started to hear the 'Dib is a clone' theories. If Dib was a clone, why couldn't Gaz be? If you were a scientist whose entire life was dedicated to advancement for the betterment of mankind, why would that just be relegated to advancement in technology? Why wouldn't someone just a liiiiiiittle off find themselves stumbling right into advancing the evolution of mankind as a species, too?

So then Gaz and Dib became experiments. And if you were going to make a boy and a girl, you could argue it'd just be the typical white picket fence dream of having a son and a daughter. But if you're me, and grew up in a religious environment, the creation of a man and woman as a pair sound less like siblings and more like Adam and Eve. And that's where the whole 'Gaz is an angel with wings' things came from.

The origin of evil!Professor Membrane was mostly that I thought that no one would ever see that twist coming, but reading back through it, I can definitely see small-me taking digs at my own super-scientist parent lmao.

Evil Membrane is also so incredibly fun just in and of itself. Professor Membrane is the guy above all guys in Invader Zim. He's respected, well-loved, commanding, imperial in so many ways.

I simultaneously started formulating this idea that Gaz had amnesia to keep her from being too OP and dunking on everyone. So the story pretty much fell into place after that. Obviously, the amnesia had to be caused by Membrane, to reset his 'experiment.' Dib and Gaz, as his own form of Adam and Eve, were abominations. Abominations tend to be malformed in some way, meaning they were imperfect creations. Dib was first, and therefore more of a prototype. It'd explain why he lacked Gaz's powers, why she tended to be smarter, stronger, etc in the show.

I also deeply loved the idea of Zim being in love with Gaz, while Gaz is completely indifferent in a way that was atypical than usual ZAGR stories (including MHNY). Zim wasn't fantasizing for a relationship that could be, but pining for a relationship that had been. It made their will-they-won't-they dynamic painful instead of lovey-dovey-ooey-gooey-sentimental, and ya bitch is always down to mix a good dollop of pain into my stories lmao.

Changes Down the Line

This one I'm gonna preface with to anyone reading this: don't go digging through my reviews. I'm too old and my bones are too tired to stir up shit, or incite drama.

I lost focus/desire to finish this story somewhere around I think when Gaz got kidnapped the first time (ch 19ish). I had a whole (now lost to time/deleted) chapter of her being in a warehouse, losing her shit, and breaking free via her powers.

ORIGINALLY, in a world where that version of the story happened instead of what's published, this was going to lead to Gaz being an actual, active threat to humanity incapable of controlling her powers. There was going to be a scene where Dib has to really debate on killing his own sister, or let her destroy the world in a fit of grief. Zim and Dib turned against one another because of it, with Zim fully willing to let her destroy as much of the Earth as he needs to as long as she stays alive.

It was undecided whether or not I was going to make Gaz kill Membrane, or just get really close. Most of the end of From Your Memory was me winging it and losing steam, so I was going back and forth on it.

However, I did know Dib would eventually manage to get close enough for the 'moment of truth,' so to speak, but find himself unable to actually kill his little sister. That moment of humanity would snap her back to cognizance. She'd realize just how much both Zim and Dib care for her in their individual ways, and sort of collapse. They'd eventually disappear, and the rest of story would play out pretty similarly to the published ending (assuming Membrane didn't die).

This all was scrapped legitimately because of one singular review.

Someone, and I genuinely do not remember who but I vaguely remember getting into it in my A/N's with them a few times, wrote this really rude review about how predictable the story was getting, and wrote out basically that it was obvious that Gaz was about to have a power freakout, how played out that was, blah blah blah. In 2011/2012 however, I was like 15, so instead of rolling my eyes and/or patting myself on the back for leaving enough narrative hints that the entirety of my story could be devised from what was already published, I got really mad lmao.

So in an effort to not be 'predictable' and prove that person 'wrong,' I deleted the entire chapter and rewrote it to what's now ch 20. That whole storyline was gone just cause one review really rubbed me the wrong way on the right day lmao. I think there's even an A/N even at the end of 20 that mentions offhand the scrapped rewrite.

As a reminder, this fic was finished over 10 years ago. I am not interested and would in fact be really irritated by anyone digging up the review to go harass someone who probably isn't even active on fanfiction anymore (I mean god, is anyone? Lmao). But that is what happened, and it is relevant to the question, so there.

Additionally, I was debating on writing out a few prequel chapters and inserting them somewhere in the story. Maybe 1 - 3(?) chapters written out, with a beginning, middle, and end of how Zim and Gaz's relationship developed. Like a lot of small, detailed flashbacks of when Zim first started treating Gaz, some middle bits when they stared falling for one another and really began to allow themselves to lean on one another, and then the final kiss scene, just before Gaz lost her memories.

I don't know quite remember where I intended to put that. I had vague ideas of Gaz being knocked out, those 1 - 3 chapters of flashback, and then her 'waking up' right after she slips into a coma, back in the present. These chapters were never written, partially because I couldn't figure out where to put them, and then by the time I got to scenes that could work for that kind of transition, I was really burning out with the story and just wanted to be done with it.

.

I think that's everything! Hopefully somewhere in this mess was a cohesive answer that answered your question! If I missed anything specific you were looking for, please let me know, and I'll be happy to answer! <3

[filliteapot]

How does one learn to be fine by themselves again? I used to be fine with being alone but few years ago I befriended two different people and now both of them have left me behind and prefer to hang out with other people. I sincerely don't know what I have done, especially since things were fine last year and I even helped one of them to clean their apartment when no else wouldn't and now I have not seen this person for almost 9 months despite suggesting meeting multiple times. She has time and money to go to concerts and spa to other friends but not time or money to meet me at our local library or visitm me (we live a road across from each other). I know I need to move on, I know I have to move on but it hurts. And I feel like I have failed cause I'm alone and they are being happy with other people, why am I missing people who didn't cherish our friendship enough to at least tell me that they don't want to be friends with anymore, why can't move on. I used to write stories with one of them and now writing hurts too, I have lost the joy of writing. I feel like I have lost myself.

Hello, I got your previous asks on this subject as well, just had no time to answer - so answering now.

I guess the key thing here is to start getting to know yourself first, asking yourself questions and trying to be honest with it. Like, what do you like, you personally, unrelated to other people? Are you really interested in writing or any other activity, or you're doing it for the company, thinking that this thing could make you and some person you care about closer friends? What are you even looking for in a friend? What traits are crucial? What things you cannot tolerate in communication even if you try? Do you do things for friends because you just can't do otherwise no matter what the reaction is or you expect them to do the same in return? Are you sure you see people as they are and not your idealized version of them they cannot live up to?

I don't wanna sound like I'm all knowing person who gives 100% working advices but this is what I did when several people I cherished decided to leave me out in the cold. Like, I don't know you, and there is no universal way to clear things up with people. In my experience, in one case the friendship was shattered by big things we both could do nothing about, and I'm still hurt by my hopelessness and the other person's refusal to try making things more bearable. In another case with another friend our relationship got sour and there was nothing left to save, even though we had many good memories and worked on a project together -- but I decided to move on and never regretted it. In another case, after a series of broken promises and last minute cancelled plans I got really mad and told my friend all that I didn't like in our situation, and wow - it worked and our relationship improved and we are still close. There was also my childhood friend who cared for me but kinda showed it only when her other friends were out of reach -- when our ways parted I took is as an obligatory step in life and a breeze of fresh air.

Of course all these situations made me pretty much upset. I felt frustrated and betrayed and neglected, ashamed of my own fear to speak sincerely and hoping things would fix themselves, while losing people out of fear to "hurt" them as I speak up. I also realized that sometimes people (that I belived were clever and better at communication) are clearly incapable to deal with problems our friendship faced as they are in too deep in their personal matters -- I even felt bad I hoped to get help from them. In the end I decided that I can take these feelings and use them as material for my comic - rethinking and reinterpreting everything, of course, but these negative emotions and broken heart and hopes could be good as fuel - in the end, they are just "experience".

In short, I suggest you look for something you actually enjoy doing alone, that would give you some good emotions without false promise of making you attractive to someone. All I understood from my struggles is that common interests mean pretty much nothing if you and your friends are standing on different ground and don't respect the other person's privacy and their life outside of your relationship. Also, the decision to let people free of myself and never chase those who left me did me much good. After losing some precious friendship or communication you can feel like it's the end of the world and you will always be alone, will never find someone as precious and will never like/read/write/share anything anymore, but believe me or not, the hurt subsides, new possibilities and people come to you. And sometimes you're more than grateful you don't have to spend your time on those people from the past.

[myopicry]

Reading your responses like a morning newspaper teehee

Tysm for all of the praise/compliments aaaaaa! >\\\< I'm incapable of explaining things in a short and concise way so I'm really glad that you see so much value in the way I explain things and just generally the points I bring up! Thank you, myo!! Also, you should cut yourself some slack, I may not know you personally but you seem like a chill person. I radblr and the general tumblr website tbh you're quite nuanced, patient and someone who overall tries to sympathise with others compared to many users from what I've seen. And your writing isn't that bad, I understand it at least. Or maybe it's 2 rambly people understanding each other bc we are alike idk :p (clown to clown communication)

Definetely take me up on my offer! I won't judge you for whatever you choose to share nor how, and I'd be very happy to help even just a little bit :]

I like how you explained things BTW! It made me think about once again how I went from finding the tra (is that the term to use here?) label of lesbian/sapphic more inclusive and progressive and poetic and yada yada to now just going "uuuuuuh I'm just into female bodies I dunno mate lol". A majority of my friends are trans or cis but very trans positive (I think I mentioned this in the past??) so I think ever since my views have shifted slightly I avoid talking about my orientation. I don't think they'll dog pile me for using the wrong words or whatever, they're not like that and I'm sure they wouldn't care much, but it does feel alienating to basically have different definitions for something so important(?)

They're also a lot (and I mean A LOT) more into the "lgbt culture" stuff (online inside jokes pretty much I suppose) meanwhile I've distanced myself from that so it adds to another level of discomfort despite us finding a lot of solidarity in each other as a bunch of queer people. Also, I'm someone who LOVES talking about these sorts of things and am a big fan of debating (guilty pleasures 😔) so my little heart is sad to have such restrictions. Womp womp

This also made me think of my younger sister, she's still a kid and doesn't know much about queer things but she has some basics down I suppose. Once my parents and I were joking about match making me with a lesbian non binary (afab) friend and my sister protested that I couldn't possibly be attracted to them because I'm into girls and they're not one. For the first time I didn't know what to tell her. I guess normally I would've explained to her that "lesbians can like enbies bc they're not men" but I also don't believe in gender anymore an things working that way. But I couldn't tell her "I don't think gender exists and that that factors into my attraction rlly" bc then I'd have to explain a perspective very different form what she knows so far and would then have to explain to my parents why my views changed and it's exhausting just to write about LMAO.

All of this more anecdotal and less "proper discussion about social stuff and politics" talk to say labels are indeed silly these days and I'm kind of resenting how my change in views makes me happier about multiple aspects of my life but subsequently isolates me and puts me in difficult positions at times. Makes me a bit worried about my prospects in terms of romantic partners lol, though I'd imagine once you go out actually looking for people, they're a lot more chill and willing to disagree on things but also understand your intentions and let it be that and won't call you a bigot TwT (I hope I'm not coming off as trying to call myself a martyr LMAO)

I guess that segways into the fact that I'm therefore happy to have found your blog where I feel like I can barf out my thoughts and hit send on the inbox and get a valuable response and pleasant conversation from someone on here lol

AAAAAA THIS IS TOO MUCH WORD VOMIT I will now eclipse myself and hope for the best! Bai!!!

~🪼

thank you for all the nice words :0 my ego has never been fed so well !! I am a bit too harsh on myself but I consider it part of the job of what I do on this blog...using social media in a non-self aggrandizing way is always my goal, and I also find translating the impulse to self-deprecate into small bits of snarky reflection in my writing a much better alternative to saying it out loud in real life and making everyone around me uncomfortable lolol

but enough about me! I really just wanted to highlight a part of your message, the part about how some of your new changes in view makes you happier in some aspects of life but it makes a lot of new problems. that's literally so real. in a way, it's like I've been able to see the world in a clearer, less filtered view once I let go of held biases and focused more on reality, but it really really is tough trying to talk to people who still have those mental filters (for better or for worse).

hence, the existence of this blog for me lmao. it really is just the consequence of my desire to air out my observations that people in talk to in real life simply wouldn't understand, and I feel like I say this a lot, but I am truly so delighted that literally any other person can even get something valuable out of this for themselves! it proves that I guess we're really not alone out here in this kinda fucked up world, which is so relieving to know after coming to revelations how you're essentially the minority of a minority and every new complex thought you have propelling you towards actualization is also quickly shrinking the pool of other people who you can truly trust or those who will actually understand you. it is genuinely very nice to know that there's even at least just one person who can relate to a shared experience! one of the nicest benefits of the internet (among a sea of downsides lmao)

the dating thing also hits home a little too hard lolol, even though I swear I won't get into a relationship until I can actually be a decent partner, it sure is lonely sometimes and i can't help but think about it anyways, and man oh man does the dating pool (in my area) get smaller and smaller as I think about it...

but as you say, most people are understanding and honestly, even when you come at something from a different perspective, I find most people who value progress and kindness and understanding do fundamentally agree to some extent with what I also believe. in a way, because some notions about the world (specifically in feminism too) are just undeniable, and a lot of experiences (especially shared within afab people) just sort of make people subconsciously aware of certain truths. so, hopefully, wishing well-read, feminist, nuanced, and compassionately curious girlfriends for the both of us lolol !!

[tawmlinsun]

🌈 !!!!!

send me a 🌈 for 100 words of elu fluff!!

Lucas pulls his robes tighter around him as he starts the long walk up from the Slytherin common room. The cloak is a little too big on him, a secondhand find his mama managed to track down in Diagon Alley, and it’s a bit roomy up top, too much space for his 11-year-old shoulders to fill. She’d tried to tailor it to Lucas more, but there’s only so much a needle and thread could do without being aided by magic.

He glances down at his schedule to check his classes again and make sure Charms is still in that first slot. He doesn’t think anyone would’ve jinxed the parchment overnight, but Imane had heard from her brother who had heard from some Hufflepuff who had heard from another friend who had overheard some third-years whispering about playing a prank on the first-years today.

And Lucas doesn’t need a prank right now, really. He’s got enough going on this morning already. He’d slept in late and missed breakfast in the Great Hall, and when he woke up, Imane had already left and she had promised him that they could walk to class together. She said her brother, Idriss, had made her a map with all of the classrooms so that she wouldn’t get lost on the first day, and Lucas was kind of counting on the map to guide them for at least the first week. Lucas needs that map!

He makes he way out of the dungeons to find the hallways just a little too empty. He glances down to check his watch: he’s nearly late!

Lucas starts running, robe fluttering out behind him and bag bouncing against his back as he dashes around corners and pushes past older students walking leisurely, and the confidence in their movements is envy-inducing.

By some miracle, Lucas makes it to the Grand Staircase and dashes up the first flight he sees, trusting that it’ll get him where he needs to go. Imane said Charms was on the third floor, right?

He takes the steps two at a time, nearly tripping over his robe as he goes. He’s on his final staircase, the door to the third floor in sight, when all of a sudden he gets thrown to the side, sending him stumbling into the handrail. Ouch. Falling against the stone, Lucas looks up and sees the world turning on its axis.

“Are you okay?” someone asks, and Lucas stares with panic-stricken eyes at the boy who has somehow appeared in front of him. He’s got sandy hair and robes accented with blue, and Lucas may be a little slouched over but he can tell this boy is tall.

“What’s happening?” he asks, clutching the stone behind him as the staircase jerks.

The boy furrows his brow. “The stairs are moving, of course.”

The stairs move? The prefect from last night hadn’t mentioned that! Bloody hell, how’s he supposed to get to class now?

“Merlin’s beard,” Lucas whispers, slumping against the stairs as they continue on their new path.

The boy chuckles and holds out a hand to Lucas, which he promptly takes and lets himself be pulled up to his feet. (The boy is even taller than Lucas had thought he was. Definitely older, maybe a third-year? And hopefully not one of the ones playing pranks, because now he’s seeing Lucas’ ill-fitting robes and messy hair and Lucas has never felt more like a target.)

“Where are you headed?” the boy asks, keeping a hand on Lucas’ shoulder to steady him as the staircase slams into place.

“Ch-Charms.”

“Room 2E?” Lucas nods. “Oh, this worked in your favor, then. You were headed to the old Forbidden Wing, actually. 2E will be the second door on your left,” he notes, nodding to the door at the end of the staircase. “You’ll be in class in no time.”

“Really?” The boy nods, and a weight lifts itself off his shoulders. He won’t be late after all!

“Thank you,” he mutters, shooting the boy a grateful smile before hefting his backpack over one shoulder and dashing up the stairs.

“Hey, wait!” Lucas turns to find the boy on the same stair he was before, staring at him expectantly. “What’s your name?”

“Lucas.” The boy’s eyes sparkle when Lucas says it, picking up on the soft vowel, the slight accent underneath.

“Are you French?” he asks, and it builds a smile along his lips that sends heat across Lucas’ cheeks.

“Yeah,” he answers. “But my family lives in London.”

“Me, too!” The boy’s excitement shines, and he bounces up on his toes with the force of it. A rush of...something...sends Lucas’ heart beating fast. “Or, er, moi aussi, I guess.”

Lucas beams. Merlin, it feels good to hear French again. “And you are?” he asks, going down a step to get just a little closer again.

“Eliott. I’m a second-year.”

So he is older. “Oh, I’m a —”

“First year,” Eliott finishes with a laugh. “I figured.”

Lucas bites his lip, embarrassed, and nods over to the third floor corridor behind him. “Well, I’d better get to class.”

“O-Oh, uh, yeah, me, too.”

There’s a moment where they just stare at each other, identical smiles on their faces, and another weird thrill of that something clasps his heart.

“À bientôt, Lucas,” Eliott says, waving once as he turns to find his new staircase.

“À bientôt,” Lucas whispers after him.

Lucas thinks he’s really going to like Hogwarts.

[multiship-brainrot]

The Owl House Fic WIPs

Seeing as I will never emotionally recover from kings tide and I'm still angry as hell at DIsney for cutting The Owl House short, I'll be writing fics like it's something that will genuinely help me with my emotional baggage :)

I kind of fell out of shipping but still love ships like Lumity & Raeda that are cannon, I just don't think my fanfics will be romance-centred anymore, Like we got to miss out on so many significant character dynamics and unresolved/ambivalent feelings. So here's a list of some fics I have planned! (These are my fanon interpretations of what could've went down)

Also, feel free to suggest any prompts to me!

*NOT SHIPPING/ROMANCE FICS

Fic Idea #1: Amity & Lilith; Set somewhere within season 2A, the Hexgang finally visits the Owl House for the first time since the petrification ceremony in YBOS. Like Amity has to see one of the people who she looked up to the most just give the praise and attention she worked most of her life for so freely to Luz. And she happy for them, she really is, but it hurts a little.

Fic Idea #2: Hunter & Lilith; Set in season 2B, Going by the way Lilith talked about him in Separate Tides, She is openly resentful towards him which tells me they probably didn't have a good relationship in the EC. She was probably cold and dismissive of him and then he sees this woman he's known of his whole life give Luz what he probably thought Lilith was incapable of giving and just has a breakdown: She ALWAYS had the capacity to be kind and caring towards him but just chose not to be, or something by the lines of: he thinks Luz was worth change and he was not.

Fic Idea #3: Belos & Eda; Before the 2B finale (post Hollow Mind for sure), what if there's a Belos and Eda confrontation. Belos is doing what he does best and saying things like:

"Luz is not like you monsters and she never will be"

"Do you really think once she goes back she'll stay with you? The selfish-lonely witch who brought her here and made her go through all this"

"You know she will be better off without you"

"She's so much like me when I first came here"

"You know she doesn't belong here" "She's not like you!"

Fic Idea #4: Kikimora & Luz; Since Follies at the Coven Day Parade Kiki has warmed up to Luz and begins her redemption

Fic Idea #5: Belos & Luz and the Hexsquad + Eda; The others can see how Belos interacts with Luz and witness what an absolute fucking creep he is towards her and idk I really wanna write a fic about these two and their very particular dynamic/bond/relationship I'm open to suggestions and different ideas, I wanna do a few fics mainly about them (like AUs or 'what-ifs?')

[avyssoseleison]

Hi! Please could you write a short hurt/comfort for destiel? I'm in an angsty mood and I'm not sure why

Woops, I hope you consider 2.2k ‘short’. And I hope you’ll feel better soon! ♥

“You feeling any better, Cas?” Dean asked into the dimness of the room, only illuminated by the hall lights behind him. From his vantage point, he could only vaguely make out the shape of Castiel on top of his comforter, spread out like a starfish and eerily still. The weird position probably would have made Dean laugh any other day, but he didn’t feel like laughing in that moment -- the images of the last hunt were still burned too freshly in his mind. Of himself being struck down by one of the harpies and almost torn from limb to limb, had Castiel not arrived in the nick of time, deftly striking them down with the wrath of God, and looking so fucking lost and shell-shocked right after.

Though, ‘wrath of God’ was probably the wrong phrasing, seeing as Castiel had completely lost his grace not so long ago, and was just as human, even if a bit more awkward, as the rest of them. 

Dean guessed that was also the reason for his dramatic position, and his withdrawal from all of them once they had finished the hunt. Down in the dirt with them all, it must have sucked to have had such close calls, whereas before, he could have smote them with so much as a glance.

“Go away, Dean,” Castiel said, and his deadpan delivery actually made Dean laugh.

“Alright, princess, but only if you tell me what’s wrong.”

Dean could see Castiel turning his face towards him, the light from the hallway briefly catching in his eyes. 

“Because you always tell me what’s wrong whenever you are suffering.”

“Alright, alright, alright,” Dean grumbled, feeling himself flush for some inexplicable reason. “Have it your way. I actually just came here to ask you if you wanted to come for dinner, but I’m guessing that Mr. Mopey Pants probably wants to eat about as much as he wants to talk.”

“That’s correct, Dean,” Castiel confirmed.

“Jesus,” Dean sighed to himself, regretting all of his life choices (as usually). Instead of doing the sensible thing and just walking away to let Castiel sulk by himself, he stepped into Castiel’s room and shut the door behind himself, extinguishing almost all of the outside light. Without bothering to turn on the ceiling light in return, he drew closer to the bed, stumbling in the darkness. Although he could not see with his eyes unadjusted to the lack of light, he knew the layout of the room well enough not to bump into anything -- besides, all he had to do was follow the always palpable existence of another human being in the room. Without so much as hitting his foot, his knees sank into the soft give of the mattress.

He wanted to sit down at the edge of the bed and have a calm and collected conversation with his best friend, as any normal person would do. What he wound up doing instead was not to stop there, for whatever reason: once his knees hit the bed, he suddenly found himself climbing on top of it, and since Castiel was all spread out on it, there was nowhere for Dean to go but on top of him. Not on top-on top of him, of course -- he did not press his body up against his, like some sexual fiend. No, all he did was try to lie down next to Castiel, and lied down on his arm and part of his thigh instead, though he tried to minimize the contact. However, he was apparently the only one interested in doing so because, despite their awkward positioning, Castiel made no move to withdraw from him and instead stayed rooted where he was, all spread out. 

As Dean adjusted his body, he thought he heard Castiel’s breath catch in the darkness, just so. For his own sanity, he decided to discard it.

“Cas, listen,” Dean began, “I know I’m not exactly the poster child for talking out your issues, but, uhm, I’m trying to do better. And encourage myself and other people to say when they got a problem. Be more open and all that. It’s a bit weird at first, I get it, but it does help.” That flush again, heating his skin. “Me, at least. It makes me feel better. Less alone, I guess. Less responsible for,” he made a throwaway gesture that could only be heard in the room, not seen, “everything, I guess.”

Castiel remained silent for a while, probaby mulling over Dean’s words. Then, he made a quiet sound of assent. “You do,” he agreed evenly, “feel responsible for everything.”

Dean could not help but groan. “Yeah, thanks, man. That wasn’t my point, though.”

“Yes,” Castiel said easily, “your point was that I should talk about whatever bothers me.”

Dean felt like rolling his eyes again. “If you got it, spare me your jokes.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, his arm twitching under Dean’s weight. He sounded surprised that Dean had gotten that his flat assessment had been an attempt at a joke and maybe a deflection -- as if Dean hadn’t known him long enough to be able to recognize his weird sense of humor that others often misunderstood as him being socially awkward.

“Yeah,” Dean huffed out, but there was no heat behind it. Just feeling Castiel’s arm and thigh under him was enough to keep him calm and somewhat endeared to the former angel, strangely enough. Maybe he needed to go out more.

“But,” Castiel began, pausing for yet another moment before commencing again, “but what if whatever bothers me is lying on top of me and trying to get me to talk about what bothers me?”

It took Dean a minute before he got what Castiel was driving at with his weird wording, and then he felt his body stiffening up. “You calling me a bother?” 

Right, he hadn’t come there to hear that kind of crap. If Cas wanted to be alone, then so be it.

Just as inelegantly as he had climbed onto the bed, he attempted to roll off of it. But before he could quite get up and leave the moody angel behind, there were hands grappling at his shoulder and hips, pulling him right back.

Dean grunted as he fell back against Castiel, who only tightened his grip to keep Dean in a weird kind of embrace. 

Suddenly finding himself winded, Dean could do nothing but stay where he was, Castiel’s arms around his chest and his face burrowed in his neck.

Cas smells so good, Dean thought in a moment of stupidity, incapable of not enjoying their unexpected proximity, Castiel’s hands and breath on his body. He wished they could stay like that forever, close and under cover of darkness, nothing but the two of them.

“Dean,” Castiel sighed, the warmth of the spoken name not just in Dean’s heart but also on his skin. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to see you like that?”

Dean, dumbly drunk as he was on Castiel, was far from understanding whatever Castiel was hinting at. “Wha--?”

“See you almost ripped asunder from those harpies, crying out and yelling my name--,” Castiel faltered, swallowing. 

Dean didn’t even remember calling out for Castiel specifically. He thought all he had done was scream and curse and hoping for either Cas or Sam to come and help him.

“And had they succeeded, there would have been nothing I could’ve done for you. I could not have healed you, put your body back together the way it belongs. The way it is right now.” 

With any other guy and under any other circumstances, the way one of Castiel’s hands suddenly roamed his body while the other held Dean tightly against his own body probably would have felt like someone trying to cop a feel against Dean’s will. Especially since Castiel did not exactly hold back, but panted as though holding back a sob while he touched any part of Dean’s body he could reach. As it was, Dean knew it wasn’t Cas’ intention to molest him or make him uncomfortable: it was self-reassurance, pure and simple. Something Dean understood instinctively, had needed more than enough times himself. Which was why he didn’t shy away or tell Castiel to stop. No, instead, he relaxed himself into his hold, and nuzzled back against his head.

“This what all of this is about, Cas?” Dean asked in a hoarse whisper. “You feel bad about not being able to mojo it all better anymore?” He could have probably been more precise in his words by asking if he felt bad about not being an angel anymore, but as much would have been understood; he did not mean to hurt Castiel any more than he already was hurting.

“I feel bad about seeing you like that,” Castiel deflected. Then, “I was scared when seeing you like that. Scared of losing you. And of being helpless to prevent it.”

There was a sudden lump in Dean’s throat. “You didn’t lose me, though. And you did prevent it.”

“Had I arrived even one moment later, Dean,” Castiel objected, pain thickening his voice, “then you would’ve lost an arm or two, or even your life. And I could not have healed you, restored your body. You might’ve died, Dean, and there would’ve been nothing I--”

That was about as far as he got because with a press of his lips, Dean cut him right off. Despite the shocked little noise that Castiel let out, he kissed back right away, his hand returning to angle Dean’s head to kiss him deeper, taste him wholly. 

It was Dean’s turn to be surprised when he felt Castiel’s tongue and lips immediately claim him that way, without any hesitation.

By the time they broke apart, both panting and staring at each other in the dimness, Dean had ended up with his back on the bed, Castiel hovering over him. 

“Don’t--,” Dean pressed out through heavy breaths, “don’t be a child, Cas. You didn’t come late -- in fact, you came at the exact right time to fucking save me. And you saved me with what you can do now, as a human, not as an angel. Without you, things might’ve gone downhill. Or they might’ve not. Who knows, maybe Sammy would’ve saved me.”

He could practically feel the frown above him.

“What I’m trying to say is: on a hunt, anything can happen. Might go good, and yeah, might go bad. It’s what we’re used to -- known all our lives. All we can do is give our best and hope it all pans out. And work with what we got. Same as you. Yeah, you can’t magically mojo all my injuries away, but you can kill any bitch with a blade like it’s nobody’s business. You’re quick and precise, and a damn asset to our hunts, if you ask me. And that’s what you should be focusing on. Thinking about the shoulda woulda coulda doesn’t help in any way -- think of what’s right in front of you, not what’s in the past or in the future. Ain’t nothing we can do anything about anyway. Well, not much, at least.”

Dean was proud of his little joke by the end there, but Castiel did not laugh. Did not even chuckle, that bastard. Instead, he made a contemplative noise as he listened and thought Dean’s words over again. 

“What’s right in front of me, huh?” Castiel reiterated thoughtfully, one of his thumbs tracing the line of Dean’s jaw and his lips.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the urge to kiss that teasing finger. “Not exactly what I meant, but yeah.”

“To me, that’s exactly what you meant,” Castiel said, with unprecedented lightness. “To not dwell on how badly you could’ve been hurt and how you screamed my name, but on how whole you are right now, how alive, thanks to me, and how much pleasure you could still receive.”

Dean was glad that Castiel could not possibly see how flaming his cheeks must have been. “That an offer, Cas?” His voice came out much lower than he had been going for, which however seemed well enough.“‘Cause lemme tell you, if it is, I wouldn’t mind showing my savior how thankful I am. How fucking alive.”

“It could be,” Castiel replied, his voice dipping in kind.

Which was an unexpected turn of events, if Dean had ever experienced one, and he had actually experienced many. But, true to his own words, he should focus on what was in front of him. What had, in fact, been in front of him for a whole damn while now, he had just been too chickenshit to reach out for it. 

Not anymore, though. Instead of drawing back and laughing it all off, diminishing the heat and warmth he felt for the weirdo on top of him, he laid a hand on Castiel’s cheek, let out a sigh, and pulled him back into another kiss.

[himilce-persephoniea]

❛ enemies make the best lovers, you know. ❜👀

So, some days ago I received my first asks. I was so pleased TT_TT

It's this post (if you want more, don't hesitate).

This is the mini fic that instantaneously prompted in my head when I read this sentence (because I'm incapable of writing something short T.T). So good! I've enjoyed writing it. Thanks for asking.

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

Obi-Wan tried to hide his annoyance. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to spend five days in a cruiser protecting a Senator from an assassin. He should be doing other more important things. But of course, the Council and the Chancellor had decided that the security of a single Senator was worthy of a week of his time. And of course, the Senator thought it was important to go on a cruiser just when more in danger he was. He wanted to scream!

At least he wasn’t alone. The chief of security thought the same as him. 

“This is the most idiotic thing he could have done.” He was complaining next to him

“Agree.”

“A cruiser!”

“Agree”

“And now we have to deal with the security problems that came with a masquerade! I want to strangle him!”

“Be my guest, Captain. I’d not stop you, and any tribunal would fall in your favour.”

“You know what’s worse?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, “The best position to protect him is in the middle of the dancefloor where he’s doing nonsensical things. But we are stuck here.”

“Lucky for you, Captain, I know how to dance.” The captain smiled thankfully at him. “I’m going to find one of your men and we are going to move in the middle to be sure nothing happens to the Senator.”

“Thank you.”

However, Obi-Wan would never have time to find one of the Captain’s men. Suddenly, he felt someone gripping his waist and a low voice whispered in his ear.

“Hello, Bunny-Wan.”

All his senses flared up. He knew that voice!

“Vader! What are you doing here?”

He turned and ended up completely in the Sith’s arms. The man smiled satisfied under his loth-cat mask that only covered his eyes.

“Catching a delicious little bunny, as far as I can see.” 

Yes, he was wearing the mask of a bunny, but because he hadn't anticipated the masquerade and he had to buy the first thing he saw in the cruiser shop.

“I have other things to do than entertain you.” He tried to move from his arms. “Now, if you are not going to let yourself be arrested, I have to find someone to dance with and do my job as a Jedi.”

The Sith came very close to him and smiled.

“Oh, we can dance if you want.”

He took his arms and brought him to the centre of the dancefloor. Obi-Wan couldn't protest without everyone looking at him. The problem was that Vader was a very good dancer. Kriff! He knew exactly how to follow the rhythm, how to move with the people around, where to put his hands, and how to let Obi-Wan do his job. He was annoying.

“Everything alright?” He could hear his smirk. “Can’t hear you complaining, and this is weird.”

“I’m watching the room. There is an assassin here, and it’s not you!”

“Oh,” his voice lowered some tones. It became low, grave. Something in Obi-Wan's gut moved in a way he didn’t know if he liked or not. “I should find them then.” He came to his ear. “I should be the only dangerous thing in this room. The reason you are here.” He pressed his body against Obi-Wan’s. “Be the only reason you are somewhere.”

Obi-Wan let escape a gasp, imprisoning in his throat the moan that wanted to escape.

“Obi-Wan,” Vader whispered, not moving anymore, just caressing his lower back. “Enemies make the best lovers, you know?” He raised the Jedi’s chin with one of his gloved hands. Obi-Wan was completely under his spell. “Why don’t we escape this boring party and I prove that to you?”

Obi-Wan tried to reunite all the Jedi strength that was left in his system –not much– to resist him.

“I can’t… I… I have duties.”

“Not tonight, love. Not anymore…” His golden eyes shone with conviction. The conviction of who knew he had won. 

Sadly for Vader –and Obi-Wan– suddenly, the lights went out. All senses came back to the Jedi. He knew something was about to happen to the Senator.

“I’m sorry, Lord Vader.” He was all confident again. He heard the Sith puffing in disappointment. “We will have to resume this meeting at another time. Duty calls.”

Then, he felt him come even closer and his lips touched his own. The sensation was dazzling. He felt all over again like an innocent Padawan discovering kissing. Vader invaded his mouth with his tongue, not asking for permission. Obi-Wan let him, he was too marvellous to protest.

The kiss ended far too soon for Obi-Wan’s liking.

“I’m staying on this cruiser. Room 219. Come to me.”

It was a command the Jedi wasn’t sure he didn't want to obey. His body just screamed to follow the warmth that Vader left behind. But he had other things to think about, right now. He had to protect the Senator. Even in this darkness he went to him and took him by the arm.

“Senator, I’m Knight Kenobi. Don’t be afraid. We need to move.”

Luckily, he was too afraid to protest. Obi-Wan took him to his room. He had memorized the route in cases like that. Two hours later, the Captain came back, puffed like a dog out of the bath.

“I have good news and bad news. Good news: the assassin is under arrest!”

Great! He could come back to the Temple with the assassin and go back to his normal life.

“Bad news: he sabotaged all the ships. We are blocked here until we arrive at our destination. I’m sorry.”

Obi-Wan wanted to scream again. He didn't finish the assassins’ job because he was a Jedi.

“It's not your fault, Captain.” He said after breathing out his anger. “I’ll inform the Jedi Council and remain in my cabin if you need me for security-related reasons.”

The Council wasn't thrilled to lose him for so many days, but they advised him to rest, a difficult mission was waiting for him when he came back. He sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Then a wicked smile appeared on his mind… Oh, Karking Sith’s Hell, why not?

He left his communicator on his table and left for room 219. Being in room 212, he was barely a few doors away. Before rethinking what he was doing he knocked on the door. What opened almost made his brain transform into mush. Vader was wearing an open shirt and loose pyjama pants. He had a broad smile.

“Hello there.” He saluted to avoid doing any embarrassing sound.

“Hello there, indeed.” The Sith leaned on the door crossing his powerful arms on his chest. Gosh! He didn't have a brain after that vision. “I thought I should have to kidnap you in the night.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.

“If you want, I can go back to my room and pretend I never come here…”

“Absolutely not!”

He took him by the waist and brought him inside the room. With one hand he put a “Do not disturb sign” on the door, and with one foot he closed the door.

“How much time do I have to convince you that enemies make the best lovers?” He said dropping kisses all along his neck. 

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, smiling. He felt how some hands were opening his belt. He didn’t find any reason to complain about this fact.

“Five days.” He tried to not smile. “I left my comlink in my room.”

Vader’s eyes shone in melted gold.

“As I would have let you use it.” They landed on the bed. “After five days you are going to run away with me on my ship.”

“Hardly. The assassin sabotaged all the ships present in the cruiser.”

Anger flared in Vader’s face for a moment.

“You know that low lifeform is dead, don’t you? No one touches my ship.”

Obi-Wan smiled at the absurd love of the Sith for his ship. 

“Vader, shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Sith kissed him with such intensity that Obi-Wan could only moan. He was going to enjoy those five days. He was going to enjoy them very much!

[aelaer]

Suicide TW!!! I live for the Nick/Stephen frenemy relationship, so: AU where Stephen is severely depressed and, instead of crashing his car, he parks in a pull-over and attempts suicide (drugs, alcohol, cutting, up to you) only to then be hit by an oncoming car. As a result, he ends up in hospital to realise that not only is he still alive, but Nick knows what he did. He can't stand the shame and humiliation, until he hears the words "I'm sorry" out of nowhere.

Okay nonny, so a couple things:

By relationship I presume you meant “platonic relationship” as my list of (serious) romance-focused stories in the MCU is a big fat zero and will remain that way probably for some time. If not all time. But I never say never.

I altered the scenario a bit and decided not to use a car crash, but the main elements (depression/suicide, Nick and Stephen interaction, Nick Knowing) remain. This also sort of allows it to potentially be in the “realm of canon” with enough stretching, should one decide to want the headcanon. Though IMO this is an AU-verse.

So I hope that’s all okay and you still find it fulfilling. I’ve never actually written Nick before (though I dabbled with the idea of all the events of Doctor Strange from Nick’s POV like, back when the film first came out) so that was also fun. I really dislike fics that make him look like an idiot (or worse, a pervert for some weird ass reason) so it’s great to get my own view out.

And I also didn’t want to write a book because I’ve got too many WIPs that are books that need to get finished first, so I was going for “short and sweet”. In a manner of speaking. I mean it seems I’m still incapable of doing something under 2000 words but it’s shorter than the last prompt so you know, I’m getting there. 

As the prompt suggests, this fic will go into detail about very serious subjects around mental health, including depression and suicide. Please proceed with caution if these are sensitive subjects for you. 

Please also note that the symptoms and actions taken within the story are not a guide or diagnosis tool and should be interpreted as strictly fictional. Please refer to official literature such as those offered by the National Suicide Prevention Hotline (US) and other verified sources for what you should do if you believe someone you know is suffering from suicidal thoughts.

Written for @stephenstrangebingo square, “It’s Not About You”.

—————–

Every employee at Metro-General took the confidentiality of their patients’ conditions seriously. There was no doctor or nurse on staff that could be bribed to leak any celebrity’s medical information; they were known for having some of the best doctors for a reason. Many of the elite of New York went to that hospital in the middle of Midtown for that famous discretion.

There was, however, one glaring exception to this rule that every nurse and doctor learned early on: if one of their co-workers had something very serious happen to them, their status would eventually leak out to the rest of the staff. There was never anything particularly hostile about the whispers, and while curiosity was the biggest fuel to the information train, news tended to spread out from concern rather than scorn. This trend even applied to staff members that were generally seen as assholes.

Doctor Nicodemus West learned this during his next shift. A couple minutes after entering his office, just as he was getting into his email inbox, a quick knock at the open door broke his concentration. He looked up and smiled. “Morning, Alyssa.”

The nurse offered a brief smile in greeting, but stepped inside and closed the door before speaking. “Did you hear the news?” she asked softly; her smile was gone.

His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, news?”

“Doctor Strange was admitted to the ER last night.”

His mind came to a screeching halt. “What? Seriously?” He generally avoided the man if he could, though from what was going around the gossip circles the last couple weeks, Strange was still a raging asshole, but in good health. “What happened?”

Alyssa shook her head. “I don’t know all the details, but he had to get his stomach pumped.”

Nick winced in sympathy; that was not a pleasant experience. “Jeez,” he muttered. “Is he doing okay?”

“Last I heard, he’s stable,” she answered. “Apparently Doctor Palmer’s still his emergency contact, though.”

“She would be anyone’s emergency contact; she’s too good of a person,” he replied in return. “Thanks for letting me know, though; I suspect others in the department may need to take some of his patients that can’t wait for him.”

Alyssa nodded. “The administration is already looking through his cases, though I expect he’ll be up and back at work as soon as he can. Doctor Strange is never really one for breaks.”

“I suppose not,” said Nick. The conversation turned to other topics and the neurosurgeon put the matter with Strange in the back of his mind, left as generally unimportant in the grand scheme of his life.

————— 

Strange got back to work and things got back to normal in the neurology department.

Only thing was, Nick started noticing things.

While Doctor West was no prodigy like Doctor Strange, he would not have the ability to become a neurosurgeon without the ability to notice details. It was the details in life— in the human body in particular— that fascinated him and turned him towards medicine in the first place. No, he wasn’t a prodigy, but he was still damn good at his job.

So when Strange came back to the office a few days after his visit to the ER, Nick decided to break his usual policy of avoiding Strange as much as humanly possible and went to his office to welcome him back. It was good for department morale to act mostly cordial to each other, even if most of the effort was on his part.

The door was open and Strange was still in his outer coat, back to him, when Nick knocked on the doorway. The doctor turned to face him and Nick raised a hand in greeting. “Hey. Just wanted to say welcome back.”

Strange’s brow furrowed and he made a rather weird expression. “Oh… uh, thanks.” He turned to the coat rack in the corner of the room and began to remove his outerwear.

“How’re you…” Nick started, but paused as the coat was fully removed, revealing Strange’s dress shirt underneath. It hung rather loosely on his figure; apparently the man had lost some weight recently. Due to Christine Palmer’s honeymoon phase about two years ago, Nick was more aware than he would prefer to be about how ‘fit’ Doctor Stephen Strange was (which really was unfair).

It seemed that wasn’t the case anymore. When had that happened?

Strange didn’t seem to notice his trailing off. “I’m fine. Perfectly alright, thank you. I hope you didn’t botch any of my surgeries while I was gone.”

And there was the asshole he remembered. Nick pressed his lips together. “All your patients are recovering without setback. You can even see them for yourself.” He did his best to cut back the bite of sarcasm in his last sentence.

If Strange heard it, he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll let the nurses handle it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have a lot of emails to catch up on. Close the door behind you, if you would.”

Nick rolled his eyes and shut the door as he left the office, but the detail seen settled in the back of his mind to remain quiet, but not forgotten.

And with that one thing noticed, he started to notice more things as the weeks passed on.

According to Alyssa, Strange was rarely seen in the hospital cafeteria anymore— one of the cafeteria staff  members who had an open crush on the doctor was complaining about it, apparently.

Strange was having bouts of insomnia, according to gossiping security personnel. There were times that doctors did not go home for the night, but his were becoming more consistent occurrences.

As Nick ate with members from both his usual surgical team and Strange’s surgical team one lunch time a few weeks after Strange came back to work, the topic somehow went to Strange and his uncanny recollection for music, no matter the genre or decade it was released. It was well known that he liked to have the others on his team try and challenge him with their song choices while he was performing his operations.

“Not anymore,” said Billy, and Alyssa frowned at him.

“What? But that’s his gig! He’s been doing that for years.”

Billy shrugged. “He hasn’t been doing it for a few months now. He’s told us he doesn’t care what we want to play, but he doesn’t guess at songs anymore. Doesn’t give any recommendations, either. It sort of sucks; my music library has barely expanded this year.”

“Maybe you need to find something really challenging, a song so obscure that he’ll be drawn into it again,” she said. “I wonder how well he knows Jamaican music.”

“We tried British and Australian Top Hits of the ‘80s last year, but we haven’t done Jamaica. Do Jamaicans generally speak English? He hasn’t memorized songs from every language in the world.”

She rolled her eyes, and as Alyssa started explaining the history of Jamaica and Jamaican Creole, Nick stored this new bit of information away in the section of his brain that, somehow, had become dedicated to collecting all these tidbits.

And Nick noticed that every time he bumped into the other neurosurgeon in the hall, he appeared exhausted. Nick did not know if anyone else noticed the clear loss of weight and the dark bags around his eyes, but they were blindingly obvious to him. 

Usually Strange moved with an endless amount of energy when off to surgery, and with some of the more challenging surgeries the energy stayed with him no matter how long the procedure took. It was an exuberance that even he admired, though it was never something he planned to admit to Strange. But now the energy was missing. He was still snarky and aloof, but the spark of genuine joy that was once clear to everyone in the department was gone.

If Strange was a friend, he would have acted weeks ago. If Strange was a colleague he got along with, he would have waited no longer than a month, just to make sure. But two months after his short medical hiatus and Nick remained uncertain, because this was Stephen Strange. Surely no one as big-headed and arrogant as he could ever actually be— yes, there were some signs, but it just seemed too far-fetched. Surely not.

A couple weeks later and some of the doctors from neurosurgery, some from cardiology, and some from the ER were having a rare lunch together. Somehow Christine Palmer had managed to drag Strange out of his office to see his coworkers. And somehow he ended up sitting next to Strange, though the man was mostly quiet as he took the occasional bite from his salad. That in itself was very unusual, as Nick was used to Strange enjoying all the attention of the room.

The conversation turned to a sudden, inexplicable death that happened just yesterday that the hospital was still trying to solve. As theories went around the table, Nick heard Strange mutter under his breath, “Maybe she just realized life wasn’t worth living.” None of the others heard it. Nick pretended he didn’t, either.

But the comment resonated in his head for the rest of the day.

———— 

This was not going to be comfortable. This was not going to be easy. Nick hated that he, of all people, had noticed. Had no one else seen it?

It only took another day to push his discomfort aside. “It’s not about you,” he mumbled to himself in the mirror in the early morning. “Strange needs help.” And he was a doctor, first and foremost. And doctors helped people in need.

He wanted to speak with Strange outside the hospital, in a neutral place for them both. The only problem was that he never saw the man outside of work and he had no idea how to approach him.

The opportunity came a few days later when Nick was already performing surgery while on call. Another emergency craniotomy was required and Strange stepped in at Christine’s request while Nick was unavailable. It was as good a reason as any.

“Thank you for taking that patient yesterday,” he said in greeting the next morning.

Strange looked up from his computer, surprise crossing his features. He looked tired. “No surgeon can be in two surgeries at once,” he said with a shrug.

“Still, I appreciate it,” Nick said. “I know you’re not fond of the ER.”

“A butcher shop.”

He ignored the comment. “So I’d like to thank you. You free after work? Dinner’s on me.”

The other man stared at him. “You want to have dinner,” he said flatly.

“As colleagues,” he added, hopefully unnecessarily, because really? “I’m trying to be nice and show my appreciation, Strange. Don’t be an ass about it and just say yes.”

Strange lifted his brows high, but the fuel to his ego did the trick. “Yeah, sure. Got any place in mind?”

Nick shrugged. “There’s a good Italian place three blocks south of us.”

“Italian’s fine.”

“Cool. See you later.” He ignored the expression on Strange’s face and took his leave.

—————

The walk from the hospital to the restaurant was a bit of an uncomfortable one, but Nick wasn’t certain if it was mostly one-sided or not; Strange was more or less expressionless. He only tried to instigate conversation once throughout the walk, but it trailed off to silence before they reached the second block, so Nick decided then to save all attempts at conversation for dinner.

It was going to be hard enough then.

After they arrived and were seated, he also decided to wait until they had finished eating before approaching the topic. Maybe the food would relax the nerves in his gut.

So in the meantime he talked shop. It had been some time since either of them had discussed their cases with each other, so he figured that it was a safe enough conversation topic until the end of the meal.

Unfortunately Strange, bastard that he was, threw him off his planned course. It was just after they ordered food; both had a glass of wine and their waiter had already set down a basket of bread and a saucer of olive oil for dipping. Strange caught Nick as the latter was ripping off a piece of bread to smother in the dipping oil.

“What is this really about?” he asked.

Nick paused mid-dip. “What?”

“All this.” He waved an arm to gesture to the restaurant. “I’ve helped in the ER several times when your hands were full. What is this actually about?”

He set his bread on his plate, frowning. “You can’t wait until after we eat?”

Strange raised a brow. “Consider yourself fortunate I said yes to this at all. I only came because, admittedly, I’m curious; I cannot begin to guess what you could possibly want to talk to me about outside of work.”

“Fine, fine.” Nick sighed and set his elbows on the table. He pressed his lips against his closed fists as he figured out how to start. All the while, Strange stared at him with an odd mix of exasperation and puzzlement. “You…” he started slowly. He trailed off.

“Me,” said Strange.

Fuck it. “You’ve been off lately.”

His brows shot up. “Off?”

“Yeah, off. Not yourself. Different.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly that. You’re acting differently lately. For a while, apparently.”

He bristled in clear irritation. “If you’re just going to waste my time—”

“You don’t enjoy your work anymore.”

That shut him up. Nick continued in the silence. “You used to always enter and exit your operations with this excitement that echoed down the halls. That’s completely gone.”

Strange recovered his voice. “If you’re implying that my work has suffered—”

“No, no,” he interrupted. “Not at all. This isn’t about the quality of your work; this is about you.” Strange didn’t have an immediate retort to that, so Nick continued, “Or maybe it’s not about you but about this man that’s taken over you the last several months. That man is clearly not eating and sleeping well, barely comes out of his office, hasn’t bragged about his newest studies and speeches in months, and mutters about life not being worth living at lunchtime.”

His colleague’s mouth hung slightly open as if he wanted to say something but had forgotten how to speak. Nick couldn’t quite read the emotion in his eyes, either. Before he completely lost his nerve, he said one last observation. “And that man,” he muttered, “had his stomach pumped two months ago, and those circumstances combined with the rest paint a picture of a man who… might be a bit lost.”

Something raw flashed through Strange’s eyes that made him appear more vulnerable than Nick’s ever seen him before. That brought on a strange and discomforting feeling that joined the rest of the jumbled nerves in his stomach.

Quickly he continued, “You don’t need to tell me anything. I’m not demanding anything from you. I just wanted to say that— no matter what differences we have— that if you do need someone for— for anything— that I’m here. Even if it’s just to listen.”

He fell silent, and still Strange didn’t say anything immediately, which was unusual in itself. Nick wasn’t sure if he should continue looking at him or if he should look away, or what.

And thank God, dinner arrived and gave him the perfect reason to look away and leave Strange to his thoughts.

The silence sat for the remainder of the meal. Strange didn’t eat much (though he couldn’t blame him) but also didn’t leave. Nick didn’t know what that meant, or if it meant anything at all.

Still, he had one last thing to say.

After he paid the bill, he pulled a card from his wallet as he stood up. “She came with high recommendations,” he said as he put down the card of a therapist that most certainly did not work at Metro-General. “Think about it.” With that, he took his leave, allowing Strange time alone to dwell on what he said.

————

When they next saw each other at work, neither of them made any indication to each other that they had dinner last night. Their last conversation never crossed the threshold of the hospital. Strange never called him, and Nick never inquired about his well being more than he did any other coworker.

But a few months later, when he got word that Strange was starting his music challenge games in his operations once more, Nick allowed himself a small smile at the news.

[angelharahel]

I was tagged by @coffeebucko :((

Are you named after anyone?

Yes. Since my brother was a sad little cutiepie about not having a baby brother, my dad decided to let him choose my name... Turns out I am named after his best-friend and first crush, Roxanne.

When was the last time you cried?

Last night whilst hugging Australia, my koala teddy bear (i am such a child djdjdjdkneoak). Apparently I love to bring pain upon myself so much that I watch videos about the fires and cry rivers as if it helped in anyway🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️.

(Please do donate, share links to help if you can)

Do you have any kids?

Nah and I don't know if I'll have any that are from my belly since I want to adopt older children from the orphanages we have in our country. I find it unfair for the older ones to never be chosen just because they are not babies anymore; I want them to have a chance of having a family even if they are teenagers.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Y E S. It is a coping mechanism that I developped and I am incapable of letting go of it. I don't know when to stop either so I come off as mean or bitchy for some people. Mehhh🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

What's the first thing you notice about people?

Their eyes. Cliché as it is, I just love to find the uniqueness of someone's eyes. Otherwise, I just try to look at someone and figure out what is it that makes them attractive to me.

What's your eye colour?

Green even though people think it brown.

Scary movie or happy endings?

I am a pussy so I can't watch a scary movie without having to pull an all-nighter... so no other choice than to pick happy endings.

Any special talent?

Is pissing off people considered as one?

Where were you born?

In a town I absolutely hate, but I grew up nearby in a village I absolutely love. It is reclused somewhere in the Quebec province.

What are your hobbies?

READING, writing, drawing, painting, Neflix, videogaming and I can't think of anything else but there probably is.

Do you have any pets?

Yes, i have two cats, Roxy and Bella.

What sport do you play/have played?

I did Figure skating when I was younger. Then, I danced until I started college. I did ballet, contemporary and hip hop.

How tall are you?

5 foot 3 so I'm a short lil goblin.

Dream job?

Archeologist, because I love Ancient History related to the Antiquity.

Favorite subjects in school?

History in general, Paralitterature, Criminogenesis and English class where I teach myself stuff without the opinion of my teachers 😂.

Eum and I know no one here so please, do tag yourself😂😂😂

[salome-c]

I think this is one of my favorite Mando fics I have ever read. I always thought that making Din as a sex worker was hard and a challenge because of how different that profession is in comparison with his personality or just his job. But the way you managed to take this and write this masterpiece is incredible. I am truly obsessed with all of this. And of course I am leaving a readmore here because I am incapable to write short comments😂

It’s ridiculous how much better this life is—there’s no contest between being run ragged from hunting and this. He doesn’t chase credits anymore; clients come to him. And for him because he is excellent at this job. His endurance and attention to detail easily transferred between occupations.

As I said before, I absolutely adore how you wrote Mando in this profession. I love that you make him being so good at it. It's like you took his best abilities in his job as a bounty hunter and you adapted those for this new job. And I think that is fantastic. But I think what I love the most is that he enjoys it. He finds the good things about it and he likes it. I love that.

You can’t believe you’re actually here…about to blow half your savings on a night with a Mandalorian.

I'd do the same, girl. I have never felt more seen😂

Oh, right. That is a rule.

Look, the fact that he, the Mandalorian, the Din Djarin, forget about the rules. And even the rules that he made is just amazing. And I think is not just that, he kinda doesn't care about the rules. And that is even more amazing.

His thoughts slow, and he sees in you what he sees in himself: you’re looking for intimacy, for closeness. What surprises him is that the barrier of his beskar doesn’t seem to be preventing you from looking for that—for finding that—with him.

Also I adore that you added this soft spot for Din. The need for closeness. Like he changes his entire lifestyle but he is still lacking that.

It’s partially selfish—this desire he has to take his time with you. Some part of him feels a little guilty because he wants to take care of you because it feels good for him. It’s both, though. He wants it for you, and he wants it for himself too.

I don't know how you do it but you write these sweet things but at the same time drives me absolutely crazy. I love it.

For the first time, Din thinks he might be in over his head.

Of course he is and we love it!!

Din’s control is slipping, and he knows it: that carefully constructed wall he keeps between himself and his clients seems to be ineffective with you. Or maybe, he’s tearing it down himself.

Yesssss. I think it's a little bit of both but I'm glad. We love a Mando breaking down those walls.

It says what must be his real name, Din, and underneath, the digits of his personal com.

YES!! This ending was absolutely perfect. The perfect ending for a perfect fic. This was absolutely amazing (as always)!! I'm so glad to being able to read your stories.

Mutual

Pairing: Sex worker!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 7.2k Warnings: smut, sex work, first time p-in-v for reader, first kiss for Mando, fingering, unprotected p-in-v Summary: You pay a visit to the Mandalorian for your first time. Notes: Written for an anon request. The perspective shifts back and forth between Din and the reader.

Thank you so much to @thefact0rygirl and @fisforfulcrum for reading this over for me! xx

perfect gif by@bestintheparsec

DIN

In the beginning, Din is conflicted.

It’s such an appealing idea, though, that he can’t shake it once it occurs to him. There’s no question that he’d make more money and make it faster. He’d even be able to stay in one place—fuck, the absurd luxury of that simple prospect—and that would mean fewer credits spent on overpriced fuel and less time wasted in hyperspace.

Still, he feels hesitant. There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s been to brothels before, with no shame whatsoever. But there is no denying the fact that sex work would be a nontraditional choice for a Mandalorian, and that’s putting it lightly.

I could stop at any time.

Then, he realizes how readily the clients line up—and how much they’re willing to pay—and Din finally appreciates the nuanced effect his armor and mystique have on people. He’d always thought it was pure intimidation. He thought of himself as scary—as too menacing—and he did what he could to mitigate that in friendly company. He kept his hands in everyone’s line of sight. He moved slowly and carefully. He announced his intentions. He unclipped his Amban rifle and propped it against the table. He spoke softly, politely.

But now? He knows that in some cases, there is a healthy dose of attraction mixed into that fear. The staring, the stuttering, the lingering glances that trail down his metal-clad body, the inability to meet the severe gaze of his visor?

It turns out, for many, fear and lust share a blurred edge, and Din can make thousands of credits playing in that murky in-between space.

So he settles into it.

His average client is wealthy and adventurous. They’re senators and merchants and sometimes even royalty. A thousand credits an hour mean nothing to them. They want novelty. They want danger—or, really, the illusion of danger. Some want hunter/bounty role-play, some want restraints, some want gun or knife play. He’s open to it all.

His Creed remains intact: the helmet always stays on. Most clients insist that all of his armor stay on, in fact. They want the full experience. So he pleasures them with his fingers and his cock, and no one ever complains. He knows the reason for that is twofold: how can they be upset when they’ve cum six times? And who’s going to complain to a fully armored Mandalorian?

So now, Din spends his days in high-end hotel rooms on plush feather beds. He’s well-rested and well-fed all the time. He sends an obscene amount of money back to the covert.

It’s ridiculous how much better this life is—there’s no contest between being run ragged from hunting and this. He doesn’t chase credits anymore; clients come to him. And for him because he is excellent at this job. His endurance and attention to detail easily transferred between occupations.

The one disappointing constant though, the one thing about hunting he hasn’t been able to shake, is the loneliness. There’s little companionship in being a companion, he’s found.

*** YOU

This is a great idea.

This is a terrible idea.

You pace back and forth in front of the hotel room door, eyes fixed on the sleek metal floor under your feet, trying to control your frantic breathing.

You can’t believe you’re actually here…about to blow half your savings on a night with a Mandalorian.

You heard about him through your wealthy clients at work. They rave about him—about his attention, his hands, his shoulders… his armor, his cuffs, his voice. His cock. They whisper—loudly, purposefully—about their multiple orgasms.

You’ve been hearing about him for months. Getting hornier by the fucking minute.

Just do it.

You’ve already paid, credits wired over this morning, so you might as well get your money’s worth. I’m ready. You’re completely sure of that.

You stop in front of the silver door and reach out to swipe the key card across the scanner when another wave of embarrassment hits you—not because you’re here but because you’re going to have little to no idea what you’re doing.

And he’ll know.

That’s too much to take. You turn on your heel and stride away, but you’ve only taken two steps when the door slides open behind you.

“Hi.”

Fuck.

You whip around, your face set in a guilty smile. “Hi.”

He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his elbow propped over his head, the other leather-clad hand tucked into his belt…casually, as if he hasn’t just stepped directly out of your filthiest daydream. He’s tall, broad… the black t of his visor fixed on your face, head slightly cocked, his silver armor glinting in the dim light. You can’t decide if you’re more intimidated or more turned on. He trails his gaze down your body, and you decide it’s definitely the latter.

“Are you here to see me?”

Shit, they were right: his voice is fucking sexy.

You take a steadying breath and say, “Yes.”

He steps back, gesturing you inside with a gloved hand. And that’s enough to make up your mind for you.

There was no way you were leaving once you saw him anyways.

*** DIN

The first thing he notices is that you’re just his type. If he met you anywhere else, he’d pursue you. That’s irrelevant though.

The second thing Din realizes is that you’re not his average client.

You look... normal? You’re not some heiress or politician. And you seem nervous in a very different way than he’s used to. Usually, his clients are excited, often a little apprehensive and awkward at first. You, on the other hand, look legitimately worried.

You immediately make your way to the bed and sit on the edge, looking anywhere but at him, your hands fussing together in your lap. He stands, watching you for a moment, his thumbs tucked into his belt.

He hasn’t encountered a you yet, but he knows what to do.

He turns and takes a seat on the couch across from the bed, a low coffee table between you, pointedly giving you plenty of space. He studies you for a moment, and raptorial interest stirs in his chest as he moves his eyes over your body—your parted lips, your gorgeous tits. Din tamps that down and focuses on the job, on getting you comfortable.

“What’s your name?”

You look up quickly and tell him, then ask, “What’s yours? They just called you The Mandalorian—”

“Mando is fine.”

“Right.”

He rests his arm on the back of the couch and lets the silence simmer for a moment. Then he gets the most important thing out of the way: “My helmet always stays on. No exceptions, no touching it.” You nod solemnly, and he continues, his voice low and smooth: “Tell me about you, what you like.”

“What I like?”

“Mhmm.”

“I don’t—uh—I don’t have anything in particular in mind,” you say, still not looking at him. “Just…” you trail off, gesturing vaguely at yourself and then at him as if that will explain. “I’m just—I’m not sure—well, okay so...here’s the thing—”

He can’t help but smile behind his helmet. You’re cute when you’re flustered.

“I meant in general, not just sexually.”

“Oh…right.”

You seem surprised but relieved to start somewhere easy. To his immense satisfaction, Din watches the tension leave your shoulders as you walk him through your job and your hobbies. He asks follow up questions throughout, and soon enough, you’re actually looking at him, eyes trained directly on his visor.

“What about you?”

“Me?” He’s not expecting you to turn it around on him.

“Yeah,” you prod, “tell me about you.”

So he tells you some general things about how he used to be a bounty hunter, and you listen with warm attention, leaning back to brace yourself on your palms. Every time he thinks you’re going to be ready to move on, you prompt him with another question.

You like his voice. He can tell.

That’s not uncommon, but usually clients don’t want to spend their valuable time listening to him make small talk. He indulges you though, enjoying the way you seem to be defrosting, relaxing. Soon, you’ve slipped back to rest on your elbows, your shoes kicked off and feet hanging off the edge of the bed.

Finally, you let the conversation dwindle, and you seem comfortable enough that Din decides to move forward.

“Tell me about why you’re here.”

You sit up a bit, some of the discomfort returning to your posture. You consider his request for a moment then blurt: “I’ve never had sex.”

The words hit Din like cold water, and everything makes sense—everything except why you chose him for this. People come to him to add spice to their sex lives not to begin their sex lives. Who chooses a Mandalorian warrior for that?

“This is your first time,” he states bluntly, trying to process.

“Yeah...it is.” You shift around on the bed and meet his visor again. “I mean, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been with men, just not…all the way. Is that okay?”

Din isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s never had to make this decision. He doesn’t know if it’s okay, doesn’t know if he wants this responsibility.

What he does know is that every time you look vulnerable, his hands itch to soothe you.

“Are you sure you want it to be with me?”

You look him dead in the eyes, even through the barrier of shadowed glass, and say, “Yes. I’m sure.”

For someone who came into the room so tentatively, with quiet steps and wringing hands, you look completely self-assured now. Your shoulders are squared and eyes clear. Din’s own uncertainty dissipates, and his gaze lingers on your slightly parted lips. Something primal nudges at his hindbrain, and a realization drips down his spine like warm honey: he decides he’s going to like the privilege of being your first time. He’s sure of that.

He nods.

That seems to embolden you because you stand then and cross the small space to sit next to him on the couch. Close. Almost touching.

You look up at him with bright eyes and ask, “Can I touch you?”

He chuckles quietly at the unexpected question. “Yes, you can touch me.”

You smile wryly at him, and he ignores the urge to brush his thumb over your bottom lip. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and places it on his knee in an effort to break the ice, but you don’t leave it there. You bring it up and trace the severe curve at the side of his helmet with a feather-light touch, your eyes fixed on his visor.

It catches him off guard, and Din stops breathing. He feels unnerved by your direct gaze—pinned and laid bare—like you can somehow see his eyes even though he knows it’s impossible through the dark tint of the glass.

His thoughts slow, and he sees in you what he sees in himself: you’re looking for intimacy, for closeness. What surprises him is that the barrier of his beskar doesn’t seem to be preventing you from looking for that—for finding that—with him.

You run your finger back up the arched line of metal, and somewhere vague in the back of his mind, he knows he should reach up and catch your hand in his, like he always does when someone tries to touch his helmet. Instead, he abides. He couldn’t tell you why if you asked. Maybe it’s because he feels sure you’re not going to try to remove it. Your expression is open, curious—reverent, even.

“Oh, fuck,” you curse suddenly, pulling your hand back like you’ve been burned by the cold metal. “I’m not supposed to touch your helmet. That’s your main rule—I’m sorry, I just—I got caught up. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

Oh, right. That is a rule.

He nods, catching your hand and holding it between his. He wants to say it’s okay, to reassure you, but he knows he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be okay.

He brushes one hand over your cheek, and your guilty expression gives way to a smile. You scoot closer, your knee nudging his thigh. You’re quiet, your face serious, as you run your hands over the lines of his armor. Din watches your face, his helmet cocked as he studies you.

“Can I take this off?” you ask, looking up at his visor as you trail your fingers idly down his chestplate.

“Yeah, I can—” he reaches up to start the long process of undressing himself.

“No,” you say, stopping him with a hand. “Can I do it?”

“Yeah,” he says, “sure,” and shows you the complicated releases for his armor.

In general, if a client wants him naked—and they usually don’t because the armor is a large part of his appeal—they wait expectantly and impatiently for him to undress, knowing their time is ticking away as he removes each piece of beskar. So, undressing is typically a harried process of Din stripping as fast as he can while a client waits, tapping their fingers restlessly.

With you, the process is slow and intimate. You take your time to remove each plate and set them neatly in a row on the coffee table before moving on to his bandolier, his belt, his cape, his cowl. The last things to come off are his gloves, and when you spend a long time admiring his rough hands, he doesn’t know what to do or say. He lets you continue.

When you’ve stripped him down to his duraweave, you surprise him again by climbing directly onto his lap—asking, “Is this okay?” as you go—and settling in with your back against the armrest of the couch, your legs laid over his thighs, when he nods. He reacts on instinct, slipping an arm around your waist to hold you close.

You’re soft, your weight reassuring, and for some weird reason, his throat feels a little tight when you slide your arm around his shoulders and rest your head in the crook of his neck. He sets one hand on your thigh, the other rubbing reassuring lines up and down your back.

You stay like that for a long time, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. Din is not acutely aware of the passage of time like he usually is when he’s with his clients.

“Okay,” you proclaim unexpectedly, extracting yourself from his embrace and getting to your feet to stand in front of him. “I’m ready now.”

To your credit, you do look about a hundred times more relaxed.

But he likes this languid pace; he wants to maintain it. So he reaches out to catch your wrist and guide you back onto his lap, this time facing him on your knees, straddling his thighs.

“We have all night, sweetheart. There’s no rush.”

Din already knows you like his voice, but he watches the word sweetheart wash over you and realizes how much you like it. Your gaze softens, and your pupils dilate: some heady mixture of affection and lust shivers down your spine.

Din feels his own answering interest pulse through his veins. His vision narrows, and all he can focus on is your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to swipe across your lower lip. He’s grateful you’re perched over him, so you can’t see the very immediate effect you’re having on his lap.

It’s partially selfish—this desire he has to take his time with you. Some part of him feels a little guilty because he wants to take care of you because it feels good for him. It’s both, though. He wants it for you, and he wants it for himself too.

He cups your face, and you melt into his touch.

“Will you let me take care of you? Let me take my time with you?”

You close your eyes and nuzzle against his palm like a pleased cat, going supple and yielding in his hands. “Mmmm, yes.”

For the first time, Din thinks he might be in over his head.

*** YOU

The anxiety dissipates. You forget to be nervous. The acute feeling of cortisol singing through your veins is replaced by a pleasant haze, by a low thrum of pleasure, and you’re keyed into every place Mando is touching you. The sensations are overwhelming. They swallow you whole: his large, warm hand sliding up the back of your shirt, his cold helmet leaned against your temple, the pads of his fingers skating down your spine, the press of his muscular thighs against the insides of your legs.

You want more.

“Can you take your shirt off?”

Mando nods and reaches up to undo the short set of buttons at the top of his shirt, then pulls it up and over his helmet, tossing it somewhere on the floor.

Yes, this.

You splay your hands wide over his pecs and scooch backward on his lap to get a better view of the expanse of skin underneath you. He’s so warm and real, so human under all that metal, and all at once, you’re desperate to feel his skin against yours. You reach for the hem of your shirt, but before you can pull it off, his hand stops you. You look up at him, and he quirks his helmet.

“Can I?”

You nod.

You keep expecting to get acclimated to his voice—for it to stop thundering through your nervous system like a cloudburst of warm rain every time he says something in that low, rolling bass—but apparently that’s not going to happen.

He undresses you with careful hands, easing your shirt over your head. He urges you to stand, and he unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips, your hands resting on his bare shoulders.

Something about his concentration and care makes you even more needy—even more ready. When he has you down to your underwear and bra, he pulls you back onto his lap, and you melt against his solid chest, your lips finding his neck. You place a tentative kiss there, and he wraps his long arms around you and holds you close. Emboldened by the quiet hitch in his breathing through the modulator, you work your mouth over his neck while your hands wander, trailing over the thick, corded muscles of his arms, down the dark hair dusting his sternum, across his soft stomach.

The anxiety returns, hitting you like the wide side of a bantha, when your hand pauses between his legs. Shit. You pray that he’s fully hard because if he’s not…there’s no way anything bigger than this is fitting inside you.

The want running through your veins, however, is much louder than the fear.

*** DIN

Din feels it the moment your uncertainty returns, and he covers your hand where it’s sitting in his lap with one of his.

“We’re only going to do what feels good for you,” he reminds you gently. “Whatever you want.”

You nod against his neck then pull away to look into his visor, your fingers tightening around his cock. “I want this.”

He hums deep in his chest, his eyelids drooping closed for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your hand on his aching cock. He can’t help it—he wants you to want his cock. He knows he can make it feel good for you. He gives your hand an encouraging squeeze where it’s wrapped around him.

“I can make it feel good for you. I promise.”

You press your face back into his neck and make a sound of enthusiastic agreement—something between a hum and a whine that makes his cock throb.

Din’s control is slipping, and he knows it: that carefully constructed wall he keeps between himself and his clients seems to be ineffective with you. Or maybe, he’s tearing it down himself.

“Have you cum before?”

You tense a little under his hands. “Yes.”

He hums again, his mind flashing to a vision of you with your hand between your legs, panting and arching. His mouth waters. “Good. Are you ready for me to make you cum now?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He pats your thigh. “Let’s move to the bed.”

*** YOU

You lay out on the big bed, Mando kneeling beside you. He eases off your last layer, blindly tossing your bra and underwear over his shoulder, his helmet glued to your bare body. That black t rakes over you, raising goosebumps in its wake—down and back up—and stops on your face.

He watches your expression to gauge your comfort level as one large hand cups your breast, the other trailing down your body. You gasp—in relief and pleasure—when his palm rides the curve of your mound and he dips his fingers into you with a groan.

“Already wet?” he asks with a cocky little jaunt of his helmet.

You’re gearing up to reply with something sassy when he puts a sudden pressure on your clit—not moving his finger, just keeping it still and steady—to silence you.

The words die on your tongue. You drop your head back on the pillow and close your eyes. He waits a moment then circles his finger firmly, and your eyes snap back open, your mouth falling open in a soundless exhale.

He continues like that until you’re writhing and whining—pleading with gasped words and wide eyes—and he slips one… and then two thick fingers inside your slick cunt.

He takes you apart—once, twice—with expert precision, with care.

You watch his hands as he does. You can’t help but fixate on them when they’re wringing so much pleasure from your body. One works relentlessly between your legs, the other providing a grounding weight over your sprinting heart.

The hand splayed on your sternum rises and falls in tandem with your rapid breaths, the obscene spread displaying the range, the reach of him. His hands are big, wide—you study the meandering blue veins that fork like rivers between the mountains of his knuckles. His fingers are long and thick, his nails blunt and well kept. Utilitarian.

He presses up against something inside you that radiates pure bliss. You arch for him; you keen.

And you’re so caught up in the intimacy that your imagination runs wild: you can envision his hands doing other things—his palm smoothing over your fevered temple, brushing away a bead of sweat with aching care, just as much as you can see his knuckles split and bloody from the pure lust of possession. You want that. You want him to possess you, to leave someone else black and blue for coveting what is undeniably his.

The weight of his warm palm leaves your chest, and he glosses his knuckles over your bottom lip, dragging it slightly, opening your panting mouth a little more so your humid breath fans over his skin. The black void of his visor is fixed there, and you can feel the want in that gesture—the need. And for a moment, you can see past the helmet with perfect clarity.

He wishes he could be touching your lips with more than his hand.

You feel completely sure of that.

He shifts and leans into you, collapsing onto his side to spread out along your body, pressing his cold helmet into the space between your ear and your shoulder. You gasp and flinch back at the initial shock of contact but bring a hand up to keep him in place when he tries to move away.

You want him close—like having him here in your space as you cum around his thick fingers for the second time—but you can’t help but wish—

“Fuck, I want to kiss you,” you breathe against the curve of beskar.

As soon as the words are floating out there, though, you realize that’s a shitty thing to say to him when there’s nothing he can do about it.

He goes completely still and grunts through the modulator, and for the first time, you have no idea where you stand. You realize he’s been keeping you tethered this whole time—with his calm demeanor, his directness—because suddenly you’re adrift.

“Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know it’s—”

Before the words of your apology are out of your mouth, though, he’s pulling away from you, sliding off the bed and striding to the other side of the room. Panic surges through you. He’s been so good to you, given you everything you need, and still you asked for more.

You scramble to the end of the bed, perched on your knees. “I’m sorry, I won’t say it again, I promise—”

You hesitate when he stops in front of the small, square control panel on the wall by the door, punching several buttons. Before you can wonder what he’s doing, every light is extinguished, and the blackout curtains on the other side of the room close with a swish. You whip your head around at the sound, watching as the last sliver of the blinking city lights is doused.

You look back to where he’s still standing. “What are you—?”

His silhouette is imposing in the dark. The mattress dips when he sits beside you, and he reaches up, slipping his thumb under the lip of his helmet. There’s an unfamiliar hiss, and you watch in astonishment as he eases the black shadow off his head and tosses it carelessly on the bed.

Your heart stops.

You’re shocked into silence, staring at Mando’s dark outline.

You’re not sure who’s more surprised by this turn of events—you or him. You can tell he has stunned himself by the stiff way he’s sitting, completely frozen, all his ease and confidence gone. You feel a surge of affection at how human and vulnerable he suddenly seems. You can see the outline of his tousled helmet-hair, and you’re desperate to soothe him, to hold his hand and guide him through this softly.

Just as he was doing for you.

*** DIN

Suddenly, the roles are reversed. Din’s breath is shallow and shaky, and it feels like the basic control of his body has shifted from autopilot to manual without his permission. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. They’re sitting uselessly in his lap, and his arms feel unwieldy and long.

He’s lost.

And what’s even worse? He knows that you can tell he’s lost, even in the complete darkness.

Is this how you’ve been feeling all night? He’s struck in that moment by how brave you are for staying because after feeling this way—this untethered and unarmored—for about thirty seconds, he is on the verge of vaporizing.

He’d ripped off his helmet in a fog of overwhelming desire—of reckless, desperate passion. You’d whispered that you wanted to kiss him, and it felt like a sign. He had been fixated—possessed by—the same thing, and the tight space inside his helmet became unbearably thick and suffocating. Years of denying himself suddenly weighed too heavy on his shoulders, so heavy that his resolve splintered…but now reality is crashing down on him.

He’s supposed to be the professional here. You paid him for this, and his job is to know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s supposed to be making sure your first time is good for you, and he just let his own needs—his own wants—take the driver’s seat.

You slide closer to him on the bed, one of your palms settling reassuringly on his chest, and Din is acutely aware of how obviously his heart is pounding.

“It’s okay,” you say, your hand sliding upwards over his pec. “Can I—can I touch your face?”

He should say no. That’s too dangerous, too familiar. It’s not worth the risk. His heart hammers irregularly under your fingertips.

“Yes,” he says, and your soft hand cups his cheek. He shudders, leaning into your touch. It’s overwhelming. It’s electric—the sensation is so good and acute that it burns. He wants you to touch all of him, to kiss every plane of his face, to sear away the pain until all that’s left is pleasure.

Right on cue, you lean forward, and Din remains completely still, paralyzed by this unfamiliar feeling of being totally out of his depth. Some panicked part of him is convinced that if he doesn’t move at all, at least he won’t have done anything wrong.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable,” you whisper against his stubbly cheek. “I’m totally fine with just—”

The only thing he’s sure about is that he wants this.

He covers the hand on his chest with his own, his other large palm cradling the back of your neck, keeping you in place, and he can feel you smile against his cheek. He wants to tell you I want this—please kiss me, but he knows if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll hate the waver in his voice.

“Let me take care of you,” you say, reflecting his words back to him, and the ice in Din’s chest thaws. You’re sweet and soft, and he knows that even if he fucks this up, you’ll still be kind to him. In a way, he thinks he might be giving you exactly what you want. What’s more intimate than vulnerability?

It feels safe to move again. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, and holding you gently in place, he tilts his head and fits his lips against yours.

He starts slow—gentle and tentative. You’re patient with him: you let him acclimate to the sensation, grounding him with the steady presence of your hand over his stuttering heart, the other framing his jaw. You press a few light kisses to his lips and start to lean away, to give him some air, but he doesn’t want air—he wants this. He wants the vacuum of space, asphyxia.

Din curls his fingers firmly around the nape of your neck to lock you in place. He leans in and kisses you harder, pressing his mouth to yours until your front teeth click together. He huffs out his embarrassment and adjusts, but you’re unfazed. You venture further, parting your lips to deepen the kiss, sliding your tongue against his when he does the same, and Din is immediately addicted to your mouth.

He wants it everywhere.

He wants your tongue teasing his nipples, your spit dripping down the length of his cock, your teeth set against his neck, your lips mouthing over his balls.

He wants.

*** YOU

Mando moans against your lips, and you feel like you’re being given a gift with the raw sound of his unmodulated voice.

The kiss goes from sweet to needy, and you both feel it. All at once, you’re pulling him on top of you while he’s pushing you back on the bed. Awkwardly, without interrupting the kiss, you scramble backward together, feeling your way through the darkness until your head hits the pillow. He’s braced over you, a muscled thigh situated between your legs, his newly bold tongue in your mouth.

He pants against your lips, forcing the words out between kisses and labored breaths: “Are you ready for me, baby?”

Something inside you turns to liquid when he calls you baby.

“Fuck—yes, please—”

You can hear him working at the fastenings on his pants, freeing himself. Despite how wet you are and the fact that you’ve already cum on his fingers twice, you're braced for some amount of pain. You’ve heard it hurts. And his cock is massive—he shucks off his pants, and it’s resting heavy and thick and long against your inner thigh—so you’re convinced it’s going to hurt even more than you anticipated. You’re trying to stay calm, trying to focus on how good it feels when he kisses you, but you’re sure he can feel you tensing beneath him.

You’re desperate for him to fill the empty ache inside you, and you’re also scared.

The pad of his thumb smooths over your furrowed brow, and he pulls away: “Relax,” he purrs. “I promised to take care of you, remember? I’ll make this good for you.”

You nod in the darkness.

He presses his lips to yours again, and your entire body unclenches. Approval rumbles through his chest, and he kisses you deeply as two of his thick fingers sink easily inside you again. He pumps them languidly before easing a third in alongside them.

It’s so good and not enough.

“I think you’re ready for me.”

“Yes,” you breathe against his lips, “I’m ready.”

“I’ll go slow. Tell me if you want me to stop, if it hurts.”

You nod again, and he swipes his cock through your folds before he fits the blunt head against you. You cling to him, one hand around his neck, fingers tangled in his messy hair, the other flat on his back. He eases his hips forward, pushing just the tip inside, and you know he’s going agonizingly slow for your benefit.

Oh yeah, it’s fucking tight.

He murmurs brokenly against your parted lips as he slips inside: “That’s it. Tell me if it’s too much. Ngghh—you’re doing so good for me.”

It doesn’t hurt though. There is no pain. It’s uncomfortable for a minute. The stretch is new, and the pressure feels foreign, and then he’s all the way inside you, his hips flush against yours, and oh fuck—

He lets out a deep, desperate groan, and you whine loudly against his ear, but you’re so overcome with the feeling, with the sheer fullness that you aren’t even embarrassed by how needy you sound, rendered wordless by pleasure.

His voice is strained when he asks, “How does it feel? Are you okay?”

“Yes—you feel so good—so big—please fuck me,” you slur, and you can feel him smile as he huffs against your cheek.

He holds you close to his chest—to his beating heart—while he fucks you slowly, deeply, and the end of each one of his strokes touches something inside you that aches in the best way. He takes his time with you, just like he promised. You pant in the dark together—for minutes? Hours? Days?

“Tell me,” he prompts again, his voice a hoarse whisper, “tell me how it feels.”

You wish you had the right words for him, wish you could string together the requisite poetry. Instead, he gets a mumbled, “Fuck—mmm—Mando it’s so good—yes, like that—”

The way he sets his teeth at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and moans makes you think he gets it anyway.

When the pleasure gets so acute that it requires remedy—when it’s so good it’s almost unbearable—you start to meet each of his thrusts, canting your hips up to chase the sensation, the fullness. He grunts lowly and responds to you: he pulls back to reach between your bodies, trailing a hand down your stomach, to start rubbing attentive circles over your clit.

“Knew you could take me—now you’re gonna cum on my cock.”

He starts to fuck you faster, and you do; he coaxes it out of you.

You pulse and tighten around him, and it’s different than what you know— a widespread pleasure, bone-deep and all-encompassing. You arch your back, nails digging into the skin of his neck, and let the heat roll through your body while he gives you his cock, again and again.

When it starts to fade, you melt into the blissful haze, muscles going warm and slack. You drop your hands over your head, and Mando reaches up to pin your crossed wrists with one huge hand, his elbow braced on the pillow beside your ear, as he follows close behind you.

After a few more punches of his hips, he rips himself away and cums across your stomach—warmth spattering across your skin—pumping himself with a broken groan.

You’re flattened, sweaty and panting, lost in the afterglow of the best orgasm of your life. He disappears into the ensuite refresher and returns with a warm washcloth, carefully cleaning you off as you catch your breath. When he returns again, he braces himself over you to kiss you deeply—and the press of your bodies, of your lips doesn’t feel new anymore. It feels familiar, comforting: like warmth and intimacy cultivated over time.

He rolls onto his back, slumping beside you on the pillow, your breathing a quiet chorus in the darkness.

You hear the muted rustle when he turns his head to look at you, so you do the same, admiring his dark silhouette.

“...are you hungry?”

“Starving,” you breathe.

And you both laugh, a long breathless laugh that has very little to do with the fact that you’re both hungry and everything to do with how easily your hands find each other in the dark.

Before you can ask what you should do about this conundrum, he’s rolling out of bed and sliding his helmet back on. You try to ignore your answering surge of disappointment. Of course it makes sense that he’d put his helmet back on.

He clicks one of the dim lamps on, and for the first time, you’re treated to the full view of him.

Your jaw drops shamelessly.

“What?” he asks, frozen.

The words are out before you can really consider them: “Stars, you’re pretty.”

He scoffs, shaking his head—the warm, golden lamplight skating over the mirrored surface of his helmet—as if you’re kidding. You’re not.

He extracts a datapad from the drawer of the bedside table, and the bed dips when he lays out beside you. He clicks it on and navigates around the interface, asking you what you want. While you decide what to order together—selecting enough food to easily feed four people—you admire the long spread of him, his wide shoulders, the hard lines of his hip bones, and the soft curve of his belly in this slightly hunched position. And all you can think about is how much you want to taste all of him.

When the food is ordered, he clicks the datapad off.

“How long will the food take?” you ask.

“Not long, probably half an hour—”

“Perfect,” you reply, a wicked smile on your lips, as you sit up and throw a leg over him to straddle his thighs. “Plenty of time.”

He tosses the datapad somewhere on the bed and pulls you down on his lap. “Oh yeah?” You can hear the smile in his voice. “For what exactly?”

“I’ll show you,” you purr. You lean forward and suck a hard kiss under his jaw, and he runs his hands up your back.

The long, low sound that emanates from his chest makes you think he likes this just as much as you do.

“Oh, I probably shouldn’t give you a hickey,” you laugh, sitting back on your heels to look into his visor.

“Mmm, I don’t mind,” he says, lazily tipping his helmet to the side and guiding you back in with a hand on the nape of your neck.

“Oh well, in that case…”

*** DIN

He shouldn’t let things go any further, shouldn’t let them spiral. It’s already gotten out of hand. Din knows he should leave his helmet on for the rest of the night and focus on the fact that this is a job.

…but he’s hungry. And he’s already taken it off once in your presence. Would a second time make it worse?

No, he decides, not worse.

And so he lets things bleed a little further into a muddy, unprofessional territory. Control slips a little further out of his hands, unspools.

Even though he should, he doesn’t really mind that feeling anymore. What felt like a loss of control is starting to taste like…joy?

You sit back-to-back on the bed, lights low and his helmet staring blindly next to his thigh, and chat while you eat. An hour passes easily like that, maybe two. He finds himself telling you about his life—his real life—when you ask. And you tell him about yours—about your past relationships, how you’d found companions and potential lovers but no intimacy, so you’d left each one and searched on.

That hits him somewhere deep in his chest.

When you’re done eating, you offer to close your eyes so he can turn the lights off again, to keep his helmet off. He should say no, thank you and put his helmet back on. He should leave it there—in its rightful place—for the rest of the night.

But he can’t take back what’s already happened—he doesn’t want to.

So he lets the line go a little more slack. And it feels good.

He agrees and shuts all the lights off, climbing back into bed with you and pulling you to his side. You don’t even have sex again. It doesn’t come up. You just lie together, close, always touching, and talk. You kiss, taking turns initiating long stints of making out, of mapping each other with your lips, but the rest of the night is largely not even sexual. Just… intimate.

His arm slung around your shoulders, your face settled in the crook of his neck. His head resting in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair.

For the first time in a long time, Din doesn’t feel alone.

It’s a night of firsts, apparently, for both of you. In addition to his first kiss, it’s the first time he falls asleep in the presence of a client. It feels natural though: his eyes drift closed late into the night, your head on his chest, your fingers laced through his.

*** YOU

When you wake in the morning, Mando is gone, the bed cold. You knew he would leave when the time you paid for was up, but the hopeful, sensitive part of you—the part that thought maybe, just maybe, he’d also felt something for you—still feels stung.

You stretch, and your body is the tiniest bit sore, but mostly you just feel just fucked-out and relaxed, warm and lazy. Some part of you wonders if it was a bad idea to have him be your first. You’re pretty certain it’s not ever going to be better than that.

Too late now.

You sigh and sit up, looking around for your clothes. You know you left them strewn all over the room, but now, you find that everything is folded in a stack on the dresser.

You slide to the edge of the bed, and that’s when you notice a note written in neat, squared-off letters on the bedside table.

It says what must be his real name, Din, and underneath, the digits of his personal com.

[venting-my-life-to-strangers]

Things that have been bothering me

My parents keep getting worse.. The more I get to know them as people because of quaretine I realize I try to be the "good" child so problems will stop happening and crap will stop.. They started comparing me with one of my tías they deem as "incapable".... She just has anxiety and possibly autism... They keep saying "don't be like tía ***** you can do things" and my dad doesn't realize how fucked that is to say ablelist piece of shit you don't care about anything or anyone unless they're useful to your agenda fucking pig.. I'm not incapable and my tía isn't either we both just deal with things in different ways than you.. And the fact that if I ask help you compare me to her saying "don't become like tía *****" is fucking awful you little bitch.. You treat me like I don't understand anything fuck you.

- father moved the garbage bin into the wrong spot after using the same spot for years I put trash into the wrong spot because I am used to it being in the spot the recycle was in and was jn a rush. But now you come to lecture me and tell me I'm not like my tía /shouldn't be like her that I need to think and he'll put it in the right spot so I no longer have to think.. Fuck you.. I didn't do it on purpose fuck you..

-I tried to explain last night that you were being so racist and you write it off as liberal propoganda from my school. We live in Texas there is no "liberal propoganda" in our schools. Writing off my words as "stupid, uneducated, libtard, mush for brains, etc" fuck you.. You raised me republican and I was for a short period of time but now I see how awful that was because I see both sides.. Not every republican is bad but every one I have met has been the uneducated ones or their just racist, homophobic, and or sexist. Fuck you I can't say anything to you I'll just be called a stupid worthless piece of shit...

- I started this diary and now I need to keep it so I can remember everything.. I've found I've forgotten so much of the shit you've done but I still get anxious about it so there's definitely a problem. I will not forget I'm not going to leave a blind eye I will remember this bullshit you pull and how it makes me feel. You wonder why I don't come talk to you instead of my therapist and idk if I should even tell my therapist about this shit it doesn't get better and you both say you're here for me but stop lying you aren't and never have.

- You don't respect me never have and you never will.. You are a homophobic, racist, sexist pig.. I will not forget I refuse to...

My bf and I have been going well but his phone has been messing up again so we haven't really been able to call I cried about that last night for way too long. I miss him and I just want to be held. I'm scared he's going to get annoyed with me because I really want his attention but he can't give it while his phone doesn't work. He does care about me and tells me all the time when he can but I get so scared he's just going to decide he doesn't like me anymore.. Almost all of my past relationships that's how it's gone one day we're happy the next they don't like me anymore.. I'm scared he doesn't like me and is lying it doesn't seem like lies but I've been lied too way too many times.. I have a hard time letting go completely in front of him but he does help and i feel generally calm around him. I miss him.