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creativesnek · 2 years ago

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Going Against the Current: Chapter 2

I want you to make me a dress.

The words rattled in Luigi’s mind. His jaw dropped. He stared in utter shock at Bowser, almost believing he misheard him.

Bowser.

His incredibly tall, handsome, and buff fire breathing Koopa of a boyfriend.

Wanted a dress.

Not just any dress. But one designed and made by his own hands. Luigi never foresaw this coming. Bowser had a rather masculine disposition. He was a gym rat and car enthusiast. He was boisterous and proud; the top of the relationship! Bowser doesn’t let anyone get in the way of his goals. Sure, he had a soft side, especially towards him and his kids, but that was it. A king with an infamous reputation, a leader of a powerful military. Yet here he was asking for something delicate. To say this was uncharacteristic was the understatement of the century.

Luigi blinked once. Twice. Standing completely frozen on the spot. Bowser, worried about his boyfriend and anxiously waiting for his response, snorted and nudged him with his head. “L? You good?”

“...”

The king gently cupped his face with his hand, an easy feat due to their size difference. Luigi’s face reddened at the gesture, shyly looking at the scaled hand holding him before gazing into the ruby-red eyes that were staring at them. Swallowing saliva, he said “Excuse me?” in a squeaky voice.

Bowser put a hand on his hip. “I want to commission a dress from you,” he repeated.

Luigi’s lip quivered. “W-Why?”

The king shrugged. “I’m curious.”

“Curious about wearing a dress?”

The royal chuckled and released his hold. Luigi’s face reddened further; he was unsure of how to react. There’s certainly more to this than Bowser was letting on. He crossed his arms. “Well, you indulge in my hobbies sometimes, so I thought it would be fair to do the same for you,” he replied.

Luigi tapped his chin, “T-that’s true… B-but you don’t have to!”

“I want to. It makes you happy and I’m curious of what it’s like,” replied the king with a wink. “You know I do whatever I want.”

Luigi could not resist the laugh that escaped from him. It was true that Bowser did what he wanted when he wanted. In a way, that’s what he finds alluring of the beast before him. He was unafraid of taking initiative; it made him a great king and military leader, as well as a good father. While some people may disagree with this, seeing it more as a villainous trait, they fail to see the bigger picture. Without such a strong sense of charge, the Darklands may have crumbled. In such a harsh environment as this kingdom, one has to be quick on their feet and of sharp mind; Bowser had both qualities.

Still… His shock was more than warranted. Luigi has done commissions for all kinds of people, but he’s never done one for someone like Bowser. It would certainly be challenging, considering how customized this dress would need to be; he doesn’t want it to rip when Bowser’s taking a deep breath. Plus, his brain was currently imploding at the thought of him wearing such a thing. Bowser in a suit? He can handle that… Kind of. But a dress? A-all those chiseled muscles b-being held back by d-delicate fabric-

“Already ‘planning’ what I’ll look like?~”

Luigi elbowed him and pulled his cap over his eyes. Bowser crept behind him and twirled his mustache with his claw, “I don’t blame ya, I am irresistible~” he growled. The flustered human made a choked squeaking sound and pushed his giant boyfriend away.

“Not the stache! I just groomed it!”

The Koopa King let out a belly laugh. Distancing himself, Luigi ran his fingers through his facial hair, shaping it to its iconic state. Bastard, he thought. But he's my bastard, so I’ll allow it. Having laughed himself silly, Bowser wiped a tear away and gathered himself. He crossed his arms, “So, whadda ya say, babe? Up for the challenge?” he asked with a cheeky smile.

Luigi nervously scratched his face. “I guess it could be fun… Yeah sure.”

Bowser smiled. Luigi was taken aback by his reaction but swiftly found it heart-warming. It reminded him of the time he revealed his cross-dressing hobbies to him. One day he was trying on his newest creation, a navy and lime green dress with puffy off-sleeves. He had been so engrossed with his reflection, he didn’t notice Bowser had walked in until he heard him chirp. When Luigi looked at him, the koopa’s eyes were fully dilated and his tail was nothing but a blur. At first, he had been terrified, fearing Bowser would lose interest in someone like him; however, he could not be farther from the truth. He swiftly commented on his appearance and praised his handiwork; heck, the next day, Bowser had this sewing room made just for him.

As the drive grew within him, Luigi quickly collected his measurement tape and other miscellaneous tools. He looked at Bowser with a smile; his lover responded with a toothy grin.

It has been a few weeks since the king's unique request, and the mustached human sure was determined to deliver. After taking the mighty ruler's measurements (ignoring Bowser's flirts), Luigi set out to work. Luckily, Bowser’s request was not too dramatic; in fact, he pretty much left it up to Luigi.

Surprise me, he seemed to say.

Luigi felt giddy as he worked. He adored the feeling of fabric between his fingers and imagining his boyfriend’s reaction was excellent motivation. Knowing Bowser, he would like something flashy yet practical with dark colors to match his sharp accessories. So, he designed the darkest fabric he had and started on his task.

Designing and making something like this for someone so big was challenging; Luigi even pulled a few all-nighters to get it done. He spent hours sewing and stitching, carefully crafting every detail of the dress. During his forced breaks, all he could think about was his special project. One time, when he got home from the Darklands and went to sleep, Mario said he had gone to check on him and it looked like Luigi was sewing in his sleep! And after those long weeks passed, Luigi’s handiwork stood before him, standing in all its glory on a custom-made mannequin.

The little man in green straightened the fabric, admiring the ripped pattern of the skirt. The gothic dress was as dark as night with lace off-shoulder sleeves, perfectly polished crimson diamonds decorating the waistline. He was particularly fond of the “tattered” appearance, almost as if the wearer had just returned from battle. A very Bowser thing to do. Luigi fanned his hands, stimming by the excitement, then he rushed out of the room. He traversed the lava-lit hallways of his castle, feverishly looking for his royal boyfriend. Oh, Luigi just couldn’t wait to see his face! He wants to see how it looks on him!

WHERE TF IS HE?

Luigi checked the throne room, the kitchens, the piano’s den, but found no one. He has some of the staff and they all directed him to Junior’s room. Luigi sprinted through the halls, giggling to himself as he took turn after turn, practically tripping over his feet. He slowed down once he saw a large wooden door with an orange insignia, Junior’s face grinning mischievously back at him. As quietly as he could, Luigi pulled the door open and peeked inside, smiling at the sight before him.

Junior was on his father’s head, mashing the buttons of his Joy-Con; meanwhile, Bowser tapped on the delicate buttons, skillfully performing combo after combo with a triumphant smirk on his face. The characters on the large screen on the wall were thrown back and forth across the arena; by Junior’s growls and snorts of smoke, it didn’t take much for one to know he was losing.

GAME!

The little prince groaned and rolled off his father’s head, landing in his hands. Bowser nuzzled him and laughed. Junior shook his tiny fists, “Cheater! You rigged the game!” he shouted.

“Now, now, Junior. Don’t be a sore loser.”

“*grr* You only won because Mama taught you to play,” Junior grumbled.

Luigi guffawed at his reaction. The two royal koopas turned to him. Junior jumped away from Bowser’s grip and sprinted towards him, trapping his legs in a tight hug. The human male ruffled his hair, earning a few pleased clicks in return. Luigi looked up at Bowser, eyes twinkling. The king walked over to them and rubbed his face against Luigi’s, making a deep bellowing noise. Junior jumped and made grabby hands at them. The parents lifted him up and hugged him. Becoming Junior’s parent was one of the greatest presents life has given him. He loved the rambunctious bambino; Junior never fails to make him smile. None of the koopalings do. They all have such unique personalities and outlooks on life that it was refreshing.

After a few moments, the trio split apart. Junior gently tugged on his pant leg, “Mama, can we play a game?” he asked.

“Later, piccolino. I need to borrow your dad for a moment,” he replied.

Bowser patted his hand “I think the others are having a race, why don’t you go join them? I’ll see you later, lil’ man.” he said.

The young prince gave his parents one final hug before sprinting down the hall, giggling impishly. Luigi watched him go before suddenly being pulled by a hand on his waist. Bowser kissed his cheek, “Now what’s got you all fired up?” he asked. Luigi did not bother answering; the Italian climbed up his arm and sat on his shoulder. Bowser froze. “What’re you doing?” he asked with a chuckle.

Luigi playfully tugged on his horns, “I did it! I finished the dress!” he exclaimed.

“Really? Then let’s go then!”

The duo headed back to the sewing room. Once they arrived, Bowser reached for the doorknob but Luigi stopped him by covering his eyes. The king laughed, the movement almost shaking Luigi off his shoulders. After blindly opening the door, he carefully walked inside. He sniffed around, surprised by the new smell of fabric; L must have imported some materials from the neighboring kingdom, for they lacked the ashy, volcanic smell of Darklandian fabric. Luigi urged him forward; the beast took a few steps before stopping. “All right, you can get off now,” he said.

“Don’t open them yet!”

“Okay, okay. I won’t!”

Luigi jumped off his shoulder and took his hand, moving him forward. Then, he moved away.

“Okay, now open them!”

His boyfriend slowly opened his eyes, the nictitating membrane pulling away to reveal those mesmerizing red eyes. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at. Luigi bounced on the balls of his feet, watching with wide eyes as Bowser circled around the mannequin, sniffing it every now and then and softly feeling the fabric between his fingers. His eyes glittered with all sorts of emotion: curiosity, amazement, pride. Luigi’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. Moments of praise and appreciation were greatly cherished by him, having lived on the sidelines for a great portion of his life. These moments were even more special considering they were coming from his boyfriend.

A heavy thud pulled him away from his thoughts.

Bowser has removed his shell, casting it to the side. He started taking off his spiky bracelets but stopped and looked at Luigi. “...I’m gonna need help putting this on,” he said with a blush. Luigi smiled at him, then rolled his sleeves up.

With his sharp jewelry and armor gone, the two undertook the daunting task of putting the gown on. Bowser, so unfamiliar with the dress feeling, would flail a little, nearly knocking Luigi over with his tail; the sight looked comical, it was like dressing up a massive doll. Nevertheless, he did it. And the king looked absolutely dashing.

The gown’s skirt billowed out at the waist, falling down in layers of black material. Light reflected off the gemstones stitched to the waist, as well as Bowser’s scales, giving him an almost ethereal glow. It suited him very well, accentuating his immaculate physique. Luigi tugged on Bowser’s hand, “Down, please.” After gathering his skirts, the king obliged and kneeled before him. The human ran his fingers through his fiery hair, pulling some tufts over his eyes and sweeping the rest to his shoulder.

“H-hey! Watch the mane!”

Luigi hushed him and continued styling his hair. Then he moved away and uncovered a nearby mirror, “Take a look!”

Bowser stepped forward, a cooing noise escaping his face. He stood there in awe for a second, taking in his reflection. He couldn't believe how magnificent he looked. Here he stood in a gown made of the finest materials, with intricate embroidery and sparkling jewels adorning it made by the person he loved with all his heart and soul. Bowser had never felt so elegant and powerful before. The colors, the ripped style… It all felt like him. Despite being a man in a dress, he still exudes that powerful, ominous aura.

I’m ready to take down an entire army, and I’ll sure as hell look good doing it.

He turned to his consort, who stared at him in amazement.

"Behold!" Luigi declared, spreading his arms wide. "All hail Bowser! The most beautiful warrior king to ever live!”

Luigi whistled and clapped. Bowser basked in his adoration, feeling more confident than ever. He felt unstoppable (more than usual) with his awesome new look. He suddenly felt a pair of tiny arms wrap around his waist, realizing it was Luigi hugging him. Without hesitation, Bowser picked him up. The human squealed with glee, having grown accustomed to his boyfriend’s habit. The Koopa King peppered his face with kisses and kitten licks, purring incessantly and his tail thumping against the stone floor.

Suddenly a beeping disrupted their wholesome moment. Bowser snarled, having half a mind in pulverizing the device responsible. Luigi murmured an apology before reaching into his pocket. The Koopa King reluctantly put him down so he could tend to his Dual Scream. He tapped on the tiny device, then sighed.

“It’s E. Gadd. He needs help with some ghosts giving him grief,” he said.

Bowser quirked an eyebrow and gave him a look that said Really? Luigi nervously rubbed the back of his head. He sighed, then pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, “All right, fine. I guess I can share your attention, but just this once.” he said.

Luigi looked up from between his pecs, “Hmm. How thoughtful,” he quipped.

“Don’t sass me, green bean!”

Luigi playfully rolled his eyes and tried pushing him away, but Bowser’s grip remained. He rubbed his face against Luigi’s, “Just be careful and give those annoying ass boos hell,” he whispered.

With a nod and a kiss, Luigi climbed off his arms and moved away from his arms. He looked up at him, “You need help getting out of this?” he asked.

“I got it, babe. Now go make sure Boo doesn’t get loose or something!”

Luigi jumped up and gave him another kiss on the lips before racing out of the room. Bowser touched his muzzle and sighed sadly. Oh well, that’s what he signed up for when dating a hero. He lifted the skirt, giggling impishly before he exited the room too.

As the beautifully dressed traveled through the halls, his minions stopped in their tracks, dropping anything in their hands. Bowser paid them no mind as he had more pressing matters to attend to; there has been a change of plans regarding his wedding attire.

#super mario movie #luigi x bowser #bowuigi #super luigi #bowser #fanfic #writerscommunity #the movie is out pls help I'm going feral #no spoliers please #gay #bowser in a dress

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peqchsoup · 2 years ago

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Taunting prompt 66 with Tangerine x Reader please? 👀

Thank you so much for this lovely, it was such a good way to get back into writing!

Tangerine x fem!Reader

CW: violence (the entire thing is a fight), slight non-con

Rated M: sexual nature but not graphic

You’re not fighting like you used to, what happened?

How you managed to run into the twins, you didn't know.

It was supposed to be a grab and run. That was it.

So when you turned up in an evening gown to New York's finest auction, you were surprised to see Idiot 1 and Idiot 2, better known as Lemon and Tangerine, dressed in tuxedos on the other side of the room.

Somehow, you felt like they were after the same diamond necklace as you. The diamond necklace worth over 200 million dollars. Which is why it wasn't a surprise when you reached the fire exit of the warehouse to leave, necklace tucked into your clutch, that Tangerine's hand pushed the door closed over your shoulder.

You closed your eyes and released a heavy sigh, turning round to be face to face with Porn Stache himself.

"Tangerine" You feigned excitement, "fancy seeing you here!"

With his hand still on the door that was now behind you, Tangerine leaned down until his face was only an inch away from yours. "Enough with the act, love. Where is it?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Were his eyes always this blue?

"I know you 've got the diamond, so just hand it over and we won’t have all this carry-on, eh?" He did that smile where he squints and looks mildly uncomfortable.

You leaned forward, warm breath hitting his ear, "give me your worst."

You could've sworn you heard his breath hitch in his throat. There always seemed to be some kind of tension between you. The last time you saw him, you were on a train in Japan with some Russian girl known as The Prince as your target. You had seen Lemon through the carriage doors but thought it too coincidental for it to be him so brushed it off. That was until you ran into Tangerine in front of the bathroom and he started bagging on about some briefcase.

The two of you started fighting, Tangerine clearly on some kind of rampage and you trying to defend yourself. You wound up inside the bathroom, Tangerine pressing you against the sink with one of his hands holding your jaw, his other gripping the sink and both panting in each other's faces. You watched him as he licked his lips, looking down to yours and then back up. If his phone hadn't started ringing, you had a feeling you knew where it was heading. While a heavily-accented man spoke to Tangerine, you took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and hop off the train that was coming to a stop.

You were glad you had already taken down your target so you could find a hotel and take a cold shower, leaving Tangerine on the train.

But now, you were back in that same situation. Tangerine looking down at your lips again. You took a deep breath and brought your elbow up to his chin to catch him while he was off guard. You quickly ran to the opposite end of the room, reaching the door that would take you back to the auction hall. Giving it a hard pull, you realised it was locked.

"Did you actually think I was gonna make it that easy to get away? Soon as I came in, Lemon blocked the door, so only one of us is leaving with that diamond." He sauntered over to you, one hand in his pocket and the other gliding over his already slicked back hair.

You knew his hand in his pocket could only mean one thing: he was shuffling on his knuckle duster.

As soon as he threw that punch at you, you ducked and swept your leg out to hit him at the back of the knees. He lost his balance but didn't quite fall, so you didn't have enough time to reach around him and grab him from behind properly. Instead, your grip was loose and he grabbed your wrists, spinning round to push you back into a bookcase.

You groaned in pain and Tangerine's pants suddenly felt a lot tighter. But he carried on and he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with enough force that you dropped your clutch, the necklace clinking inside.

Tangerine smirked, "think I've found what I'm looking for."

"Come on, that was too easy."

You chuckled as Tangerine's smirk fell and was replaced by confusion. In seconds, you kicked him in the groin, which distracted him enough for you to pull your switchblade out from your boot. After a few swipes and Tangerine defending himself, he was lying on his back with you straddling his hips, knife mere centimetres away from his face.

"You're not fighting like you used to, Tangerine. What happened?" You pouted as you taunted the man lying beneath you.

But you got too carried away and in seconds, your knife was across the room. Tangerine's hands found their way to your waist and ground you down on top of his hardening bulge. The moan that came from your throat was practically pornographic. You hadn't expected this at all. Your hands were suddenly on Tangerine's thighs as you were grinding down more, his hands still guiding your hips. You were totally at his mercy. And it was a big mistake.

In the blink of an eye you were on your back with splitting pain in your head, having hit the concrete floor on the way down.

Through blurred vision, you could make out Tangerine pulling the necklace out of your clutch and throwing said bag on the ground again.

Tangerine grabbed your chin between his thumb and forefinger, "This was nice but, my brother's waiting. See you round, sweetheart."

He winked at you, and the next second, he was gone.

A/N: THAT WAS MY FIRST FIC IN SO LONG My requests are open, please send them to me, I have a prompts list on my blog and will be reblogging more :')

#bullet train #lemon and tangerine #bullet train tangerine #tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine x you

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sweetsbfreex · 4 years ago

Text

my baby, my baby

brought to u by me watching IW for the millionth time

Summary: You ask Steve for one thing before the fight against Thanos (IW), but for the first time in however long he denies you of fulfilling this wish.

Warnings: language?

Pairing: Nomad, Bf!Steve x thanos daughter!reader

He was manning the quinjet, not all the way true. Sam was flying the jet to Wakanda, Steve slumped in his seat beside Sam, in deep thought. His chin is set into his palm, his arm sitting up on the armrest, and his palm covering half of his mouth. Looking further down his leg was jittering steadily.

What would happen next was a pretty big deal, none of you on the jet knew what could go wrong. So obviously tensions were at an all time high in this cooped up jet.

You rise up from your seat between Wanda and Nat. Walking yourself behind Steve’s chair. Your pointer finger taps his embellished shoulder, separating him from his apprehensive thoughts. He looks up at you and the creases that were once prominent in his forehead evaporated.

You don’t utter anything, only nudging your head behind you.

Follow me to the back.

Is what’s reciprocated when he too gets up from his seat, letting Sam know he’ll be up front in a second. Once you turn, he follows you down the small aisle to the side “room” away from all the prying ears.

Finally.

You step into the room first. You weren't going to lie, your heart was beating with so much force and it only grew as he walked past you into the room. You close the door behind you, turning, so you're facing Steve's attentive figure.

You only smile at him to some extent, prompted to show there were no ill intentions to asking him back here. When you see how nervous he looks, as you take his hand seating the both of you to a bench against the wall.

Your knees tenderly touch. He clears his throat coercing you to go on, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“You alright doll?” he asks you, in a gentle manner. Taking the already linked palms shifting it from your lap to his. His other hand blanketing your combined hands.

“I’m okay. Are you?” you ask the question hesitantly, raising your spare hand to move aside the hair that fell over and veiled his eyes. You desperately wanted to make sure you got a good look at his face. You loved his face.

His cheeks go plump in a charming smile, and his hand squeezes yours back.

His hair was long. Longer than you would’ve ever imagined Steve would let it be. Either way you loved every inch of the gold locks. Yet, everytime you told him how much you loved it, despite his insecurity and slight annoyance with it. He'd always fall into a rampage down memory lane. Telling you how his late mother would've hounded him about the upkeep of his hair.

You adored that about him too. Loved, that he loved so hard and so full. He’d never forget the ones he loved no matter what.

“I’m swell, you don’t need to worry about me” he tells you.

You didn’t believe him one bit and you weren’t going to push him about it. You knew how he was...stubborn as ever. But, it was also ,by and large, your job to worry about him–– after loving him of course. Contrary to what he would say (Which was vice-versa.)

“We’re gonna be okay...okay? But I have something to ask you. And you can’t get mad.”

“I’m not promising that, but we won’t shout. We’ll talk it out–– whatever it is”

It was the best you were going to get from him and time was closing in on you guys being able to be like this, anway.

“I know how you are, but this is a really critical thing we're fighting for here. So, unless I'm in some type of grave danger. I don’t want you worrying about me on the field. No matter what...Make sure he doesn’t get that stone.” Your voice lets you down towards the end, starting to get scratchy and low.

He stands up in no time. His hands going to his belt, then to his hips, he finally raises one hand to run against his beard.

His facial hair, another thing in the endless things you loved about Steve Rogers.

When the stubble he usually shaves away kept growing into a full beard, it surprised you both. You in a hot kind of way, he became more adoring by day when decided to stop shaving.

You walked in on him one day. He was facing the scratched up mirror in a bathroom in a dingy hotel room. Running his fingers against his face, the other clutching onto the edge of the counter. Tilting his head back and to, eyes shifting as he looked over his face. It was another part of the effect of the serum he didn’t expect would happen.

Telling you a story as he wandered down memory lane again. How he had problems growing stubble as a sickly kid–– so behind on puberty. He even watched Bucky grow his first “stache” at sixteen, but that came to an abrupt stop when Bucky’s mother made him shave it off.

Steve thought It was weird to think that he could now also.

You were still sitting on the bench. Swiveling your body so you were facing your boyfriend, looking up at his fidgeting build with care.

Feeling like a child waiting for their parents to dispute whatever impending punishment they would grant.

“Why would you ask me that?” he finally, finally disrupts his silence. Scoffing at the offensive question.

He doesn’t look at you with anything negative, only confusion.

“Because. I don’t want you jumping in front of whatever it is in front of me...I know him, he’s my dad. He’ll do anything to get what he wants, even if it means I die.”

When Steve told you that it was actually Bruce calling and told you what he said. He looked at you baffled when the shirt you were about to put on dropped from your grasp.

Once you told him you had knowledge of Thanos and how you knew him, there was a pregnant silence in the air.

If anything it filled the rage towards Thanos in Steve even more, by the time you finished.

“Are you listening to yourself?” he questions you in disbelief, lips stuck in a sneer.

“Please. Just please, angel.” you maintain.

You don’t answer either of his questions and he truly hates that. He stays silent for a bit watching your seated figure, looking up at him with the saddest eyes you’ve ever given him. His puzzled eyes shift down to your bobbing leg and your hands wringing together with so much speed and anguish.

He could probably throw up right now.

And when he shifts his eyes up again, you keep that same look on your face waiting for him to say anything.

He sighs dejectedly, dropping his hands to his side, and walking himself back over to you. He sits closer to you than before. Extending a gloved hand to caress your cheek before fixing the flyaways from your sleek ponytail.

“I can’t. You’ll always be my priority, and I won’t promise something like that sweetheart” he tells you this languidly. His thumb starts to rub circles against your cheekbone, to calm you down, when he catches the way your eyes widen at his admission.

“Steve!” your voice breaks. So shocked, you can’t hold back the tears that build up and fall slowly over your face.

You couldn’t believe this. He’s supposed to love you. Time and time again he’d always remind you how much he loves you and how he’d do anything for you–– too hard to say no to you, his words. Thinking this over you pull your face away from his hold, looking down at your taut hands. This wasn’t a silly death wish. You had to make sure your father didn’t get what he desired, no matter what.

He hates having to watch you cry, but he doesn’t have much of a choice now. He needs to stand his ground, there was no way he would be arguing about this. And he does this, grabbing your face with a light hand, so you were face to face again.

"I love you so much. And if I have to choose between letting you die and Thanos losing. Or you living and watching the universe crumble, you know exactly what I'm gonna choose. I'm not losing you, not if I have anything to do with it"

Albeit how dumb it sounded, there is no notable instance in his life where’d let you perish over him.

“You’re not thinking this through” you hiccup.

“It’s you, isn’t it? There’s not much to think about” he smiles at you and as you look at him you can see his eyes glazing over.

His statement only causes you to cry more. You feel nothing but the pain in your heart and the repositioning of your body. It takes you a moment to realize you’re settled on his thighs sideways. His well built arm warmly wraps around your shoulder, your temple rests against his shoulder, and his lips are placing light kisses to the crown of your head.

You incline your head, “I love you too much” you say in an awed whisper, raising a hand to twirl in the strands at the back of his collar. Following that, you let your hand spread across the back of his neck pulling him down for a kiss.

“After this we’re done okay? We have our pardon and are going to buy whatever house you want to get. I’m gonna buy you the prettiest engagement ring money can buy, Gonna get whatever animals you want,” you chuckle at that part.

If there was one thing Steve learned while living incognito with you is that you’d save any animal if you were able to. Always stopping whenever you passed by any animal in need in the drary streets. Looking up at Steve, who’d always have to remind you that neither of you could give it the life it deserves right now. Opting to only go to the nearest convenience store to buy whatever safe animal food in sight.

His hand immediately clutches your face to wipe away the tears that fell without pattern. His smile grows fonder when you do the same. “‘Can paint the house whatever we decide...maybe even get a house big enough to fit the kids we’ll have?” he tells you the last part in such a timid manner, bearing one of his hands to clutch yours. His thumb running over your knuckles at full tilt.

The only thing you were able to give him was a stunned look. So shocked you were unable to react like a normal person.

You squeeze his hand tight only being able to stutter a “really?”

“Of course. I want to have a bunch of small Rogers with you, wreaking havoc around our house” he admits this to you, carrying out such strong eye contact. If his hand didn’t slither down your back, supporting you up and grounding you, you’d jump in glee.

Fuck. Neither of you had talked about this, but you were glad that you both were on the same page about his. You felt terrified but in a good way, wanting to wholly get this over with and start this dream life with Steve.

“And this is all gonna happen, because everything is going to go well. We’re gonna win, I don’t want you thinking like that or asking me something like that ever again. Thanos will never be on our list of priorities ever again.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I can’t wait to start that life with you” you respond, winding your arms around his neck, crashing your lips to his with force.

He pulls away without notice to place hasty kisses to your cheek, loving the giggles you emitted. Even so, the energy in the room shifts too soon when Sam knocks on the door. Steve allows him entrance.

“Sorry to interrupt, but we’re about to land Cap”

Steve responds by nodding his head once, stiffly. Letting him know he’d be out in a second.

You get off of his thighs, so the both of you were standing chest to chest. He claps your worried face. Pulling you into him with little force, so his lips could fall to your forehead, nose, and lips.

“Remember what I said and be safe, I love you”

“I love you” you recite, bringing his hand down to kiss his covered palm.

With that he envelops you in his arm, his cheek resting against the top of your head. Both of you breathing each other in. Your shoulders relaxing at his loving touch.

He’d do whatever needed to keep you safe and if it ended in his death, then so be it. You’d do the same for him in a heartbeat, there was no point in either of you arguing this one out.

––––

Everyone was tired, it seemed like this fight only dragged on with the never-ending monsters. But, with the help of Thor (of course) it seemed like things were only getting positive from there. With the way he rendered lightning, destroying things into dust, you were ready to end this once and for all.

And when a cloud of grey smoke appeared out of thin air, and a large titanian appeared. You knew this would either be the ending or the beginning of all these troubles.

“That’s him” you falter, turning to Steve. You give him a quick once over, nothing the way he eyed your father. A menacing, scary look on his face and the furrow of his eyebrows only grow.

“We have eyes on Thanos” he says into the intercom.

It’s like time stands still for a few seconds, no one moves a muscle. You haven't seen this man in years. You feel as if he doesn't recognize who you are as he glances over everyone, like they're roaches in his kitchen.

Yet, in a blur, everyone takes their chance on Thanos. Trying their hardest to somehow, someway take this Titanian down. Bruce gets thrown with a shout, Branches entwine Nat, and Sam drops from the air smoothly.

At some point you hear the grunt of Steve, who somehow gets some punches in, his hands clutching the gauntlet. He shouts from the hefty weight and in a swift motion is stock-still on the ground from the punch he endures.

“Steve!”

Without a choice you run towards Thanos, your adrenaline kicking in. Kicking in punching only to use your hands to grasp around the metal. You knew towards the end; you were no match for him.

“Please! Please don’t do this. Dad please I’m begging you” you plead profusely, but he only looks down at you emotionless. “Please, please, please” you cry, your head hangs low for a bit before you raise it up again. “This won’t fix anything! You–– you…JUST TAKE IT OFF” you scream, knuckles colliding with the gold.

You try so hard to think of anything to turn his mind, but he only looks at you like a stranger. Not the little girl he recruited and used to look at with some kind of affection. His type of affection, if you could even title it that, affection.

Sure, he raised you to be a ruthless killer and thief, but you’d do anything in this key moment to change his crooked mind.

“You don’t get to call me that again. You chose your path...I always knew you’d be the one to let me down the most” he says all this with so much venom.

You cry as you're lifted in the air, by his gauntlet hand, and thrown against the bark of a tree.

You're in a daze. The only things securing you back is the hand against your cheek and a booming, choked up "no". Hearing it a distance away.

You open your eyes to see Steve in front of you, your name on his lips almost incessantly. But when you open them, your eyes quickly move to Thor. Who’s a few feet away from the two of you, shocked and angry. The remnant of smoke in the air. You knew he did it.

“We lost?” you ask Steve, tears already forming in your eyes, as he carefully lifts you to his feet.

He doesn’t get the chance to answer you, though.

“Steve…?” It’s Bucky, You both look towards him to see him fall slowly, disappearing into a brown dust.

You both look on, shocked all while Steve tries to drag himself and your weak body to Bucky. But it’s already too late.

“Buck?!” Steve calls out, but there’s no answer.

You watch on in disorder, stomach plummeting with every second that pasts. Your eyes catch Wanda looking onto Vision's body in sorrow and as you do, she turns into brown dust. It was frightening and you were speechless. So much happening around you, you weren’t sure where to look. You weren’t who was going away.

The hand against your spine, holding you up, starts to feel faint and a headache you had suffered from earlier comes back, but ten times stronger.

“My head hurts” you tell him, your words come out slowly as your mouth starts to feel numb. You drop your head to his shoulder. “Stevie...I can’t feel your hands” you blubber, chest heaving as your breathing picks up. Everything was happening so, so fast.

He lifts your head, “Hey, you’re alright sweetheart, you took a hard hit. Just a bit banged up, gotta stay awake in case it’s a concussion” he reassures you.

You don’t believe him and when you look down at your right hand to see it crumbling away little by little. You lift your wrist up, hand gone. You look down to see the brown dust below your view.

You didn’t want to go. You had merely planned your dream future with him. It wasn’t fair your father would be the one to rip that away from you.

“No. No, you’re alright, stop that” he condemns, bringing your other hand to his bruised lips imperatively. Watching as it climbs up and up, half of your shoulder already gone.

“I’m scared. I love you so much Steve”

“I love you so much doll, feel like we’ve been saying it all day” he tries to joke, eyes roaming all over your face. He had to make sure he had your face recognized to a t, even if it was in a manner of pain.

And you do the same. You weren’t sure where you were going. Were you even dying?! You couldn’t tell, all you knew was Steve and some of your friends wouldn’t be where you were going.

You laugh despondently, low, and mirthlessly knowing how much he needed that laugh at the moment.

“No. I’m gonna––” you start, but never get to finish, because at that moment. In a flash, he’s left with the sight of the soot falling in a sway, like leaves tumbling to the ground. Staring at him gloved palms to see nothing of you there any longer.

He does nothing but stand there for a few minutes, recollecting the exchange. Not only was his best friend gone, but so was his best girl.

He had one fucking job. Keep you safe at all times. Not only did he let the whole universe down, he let you down. You were gone. He can only think about the moment you both had on the jet, telling you, you had nothing to worry about. Because you guys were going to win and now she is gone. He let you down in the worst possible way imaginable. You were gone…

He repeats this to himself, losing hope each time that you would be back in just a second.

He turns around to see his friends observing him and once he notices that Sam is no longer among the group it only increases his agony.

“Cap?” Nat mumbles.

“FUCK!” he breaks. Ripping the gloves off his hand before he sets himself against the ground–– his body feeling heavy. His head is in his hand, body heaving roughly as he cries quietly.

Everyone is stunned and takes a step back to give his face, not remembering the last time they’ve seen him this broken or the last he’s had an outburst resulting in a curse word.

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to live with this guilt or without you by his side. In spite of that, there was no way in hell he wasn’t going to try and find a way to bring you back.

– – – –

realized while writing thing i am not creative...this (beginning) was literally a scene

if you enjoyed pls don’t forget to reblog or give feedback if ur up to it <3

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #avengers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x fem!reader #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers angst #steve rogers x you #chris evans x reader #marvel fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america #captain america fanfiction #steve rogers oneshot #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x avenger reader

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tewwor-aaa · 2 years ago

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🌙 S𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬.

1. What does your muse smell like?

… Irish Springs whenever he’s on Earth.

I really wish I was joking, but every time Clarence summersaults his ass back down he always gravitates towards that overpowering bar soap. Maybe it’s because it’s cheap to get. Maybe it’s because the smell of it is still linked to the early days of his childhood when everything was normal ( when that’s the smell he frequently links to his father & that one time he accidentally went to get a bar with wet hands and the thing shot out, off the shower wall, and right back at his eye ).

Who’s to say? :)

There are other scents that constantly carry along with this planet hopping bozo, though. Fresh from Chips the ship there’s a metallic hint from all the gear — sort of like the fumes from welding. Alongside it, there’s an odd mix of burnt gunpowder, bitter almonds, petrol, even a bit antiseptic, and of course — petrichor.

In the off chance Clarence bothers to put cologne on ( which is extremely rare ), he usually goes for something light and pleasant — whatever reminds him of a nice, sunny day.

2. What do your muse’s hands feel like?

It varies! By default I would say they’re rough as hell. Sometimes he’s guilty of not using gloves when he needs to ( someone yell at him whenever he’s fixing engines or even.. welding ), but if any trauma happens to his hands… well, his body regenerates the damaged bits back to perfect condition.

And given Clarence’s track for unfortunate circumstances / clumsiness… there have definitely been times where he’s had to regrow his hands.

3. What does your muse usually eat in a day?

What the hell doesn’t he eat? Rationing between planets is uber important ( thank goodness he knows this ), but if he’s off ship and frolicking around? God knows what that man ingests in a day.

Clarence is a notoriously unfussy eater so he’ll hoover anything edible. But I will say, he does try to have at least 1 or 2 fruits a day. Oranges / orange equivalents or pears if he can find them. Other than that? It’s a food roulette babey.

4. Does your muse have a good singing voice?

Good? Debatable, but he can harmonize surprisingly well. There might not be an amazing amount of vibrato or other outstanding qualities, but he can carry a tune — even sight-read a little bit. Bonus: his voice range falls between tenor 2 and baritone.

5. Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks?

.. christ… where do i even start?

nervous ticks — leg jiggling and fidgety hands for starters ( main reason why he started to make his own little puzzles so he can keep his hands busy whenever ). rushed speech, although it’s a toss up between being anxious and excited. touching his face, particularly the chin and sides of his face.

bad habits — gnawing on things like a gerbil, usually sticks to ice but he’s definitely damaged some teeth from being real nervous a few times; recently been switching to gum so he won’t crack or break anymore teeth ( they grow back of course ), but has definitely choked and swallowed several.

6. What does your muse usually look like / wear?

doesn’t matter if he’s in space or on a planet where he can breathe without a helmet — clarence dresses painfully simple.

his gear is bright orange, has numerous mended areas from snagging on a ton of things, and a medium sized ‘be back in 15′ patch on the chest for all the times he dies because usually… it only takes 15 minutes for his body to regenerate ( well, depending on how much damage there is of course ).

on earth? this man rocks a simple short sleeve crew neck, khakis, crew socks, and sandals.

aside that, his general appearance is low effort. mussed / bird nest hair, some stubble ( never a full beard or stache though ), and a.. can-do attitude.

7. Is your muse affectionate? How much? How so?

one might say… overly so. while he tries to be mindful of personal space ( it’s always a work in progress ), he cannot help how verbally affectionate he can be. compliments are always bountiful and he loves to give gifts. if he comes by anything that reminds him of a friends or loved one, you can bet your ass he’s getting it. even if that means there’s some peril along the way to obtain said present, but it’s the effort and thought that counts, right?

8. What position does your muse sleep in?

face down, ass up— no but seriously, this man either sleeps on his face or like the chalk outline of a crime victim. blankets are optional since he runs pretty warm by default, but there has to be at least 2 pillows. one with good support for his neck and another to cling to.

9. Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room?

absolutely. if he’s not talking up a storm that the entire neighborhood can hear, then there’s the stupid sound of his sandals thwapping with each step. even when he’s out to snag some artifact that’s secured to the teeth, he’s still loud as hell.

✨ TAGGED BY: my other blog xoxo goirl

✨ TAGGING: @mythvoiced @wrrnth @42piece @motherednature @6billion @vulpesse @natterghast @killedarlings @villxinoux + @lapinecide @riverspat you!!

#⁺˚*･༓☾　clarence luc watts ➟ headcanon　☽༓･*˚#// my sweet dumb idiot dude

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kingofkingdom-archive · 4 years ago

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1979

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Fem!Reader

Part ONE (Read part 2 HERE)

Rating: T (Teen) - part 2 will be E

Summary: The year is 1979. You need a ride to anywhere that’s far away from where you are. When a handsome stranger in a rustbucket pickup gives you that ride, neither of you could predict any of the events that follow.

Warnings: Smoking (and lots of it), mild violence (a punch is thrown), brief harassment of reader, food, mention of a gun (one is encountered but not used), mention of homelessness, brief mention/description of war (Vietnam), child abandonment, mention of abusive/dangerous father figure, passing mention of serial killers, vague description of non-specific events leading up to reader resorting to hitchhiking, very meta mention of a certain beloved space opera

Word count: 5.7k

A/N: Whew! This one has been in the shop for a LONG while. Originally I meant for this to be a single work, but I’ve hit a bit of a slump with the last bit. I decided to post this to see how y’all feel about it! The second part will be much longer :) Also: I know there has been some discourse recently about Din’s characterization in certain fics, so I hope this does him justice for you! I’m always open to comments, and like I said I’m very interested in hearing what you think! As per usual, no use of Y/N and please heed the tags/warnings.

8:47

You lean against the streetlight, glancing down at your watch and then back up to the motel across the street. You told yourself you'd wait until 8:30 and then you'd go back and reserve a room for another night. As you watch the second hand wind its way around the small, plain face of your 2-dollar timepiece, you've convinced yourself that maybe staying out until 9 is the ticket.

Your ticket, out of this shithole town.

The summer air is hot and thick around you. It's especially unbearable both between your legs and at the band of your bra, the elastic stretched around your middle doing its best to make you feel as sweaty and uncomfortable as possible. At least you're wearing your cutoffs, giving your legs the chance to breathe. You've also got a loose tank on, which flutters in the sticky wind as cars pass you by.

8:51

Your thumb has been stuck out for passerby to see for the past three days. No one has picked you up. You suppose you should be more wary of taking lifts from complete strangers with all the murder and kidnapping that's been in the news recently, but you're more than a little headstrong with a dash of stupid to go along. That's what your mother always told you, anyway.

Some Cadillac speeds past you, blaring what you think is a Donna Summer song, and you watch as the music and taillights fade into the night.

You shouldn't be surprised, you figure, as the minutes continue to tick on by. There's a gas shortage, you reason with yourself as you bend down to pick up your bag, thumb still stuck out, elbow resting on your waist. People don't do this anymore. Afraid of getting picked up by a pervert or a killer. Afraid of picking one up, and then a streetlight just like the one you're under is the last thing they see.

8:58

You sigh, ready to head in for the night. Marvin, dude who sits at the motel's front desk, is sure to give you shit about it again.

You're preparing to cross the street when you hear the low growl of a pickup truck approach. Not looking to get creamed by some fuckin' rusted-out GMC, you step back onto the curb where you'd been posted.

Except the truck slows up, and the window rolls down as it crawls to a stop in front of you.

Your heart races. Finally.

You walk up to the passenger side window and look in, expecting some fat old putz looking to get some tail in exchange for a ride.

That's not what you see.

"Need a lift, young lady?"

The truck's driver is older than you, sure, but you were wrong about pretty much everything else. He's got short dark hair and a 'stache, with some stubble across his chin. He's wearing a leather jacket over a plain gray tee, with a pair of sunglasses hung on the collar. One hand is on the wheel while the other is laid across the back of the bench seat, a cigarette perched in between his first two fingers.

You lean forward on your tiptoes as best you can, forearms resting on the door's open window. Pretending to survey the interior, you look around and take the opportunity to check the man out. God, you think. I wouldn't mind giving him whatever he wants in exchange for this ride. Maybe another kinda ride. Ha!

"As it turns out, I do. You offering?"

You rest your chin on your arms and give him the sweetest smile you can muster. The man eyes you up and takes a drag from his cigarette. You watch with rapt attention as he inhales deeply and then exhales the smoke out through his nose.

This guy's got you all hot and bothered and you haven't even gotten in the truck.

He gestures with his hand. "Come on, kid. I gotta make the state line by midnight."

You definitely like the sound of that. Eager and supremely stoked to finally have a way out of this dump, you pull on the handle, jump in, and swing the door closed behind you. Your backpack finds its place between your feet, and the stranger starts driving again as you pull your seatbelt across your shoulders.

"Where're you headed?" the man asks, glancing over to you and then looking back at the road. The asphalt seems to stretch into infinity, flanked by trees and fields and the occasional watering hole.

"Away from here," you chuckle as you fidget with your fingers. Black nail polish decorates your trimmed nails. It's chipped and uneven in some spots; you never were great at painting your nails, especially your right hand.

"I got that," the man drawls, voice deep and smooth like honey. "Any particular destination in mind?"

You shrug. To be honest, you hadn't exactly thought that far ahead. Your first and only priority was a way out, and anything after that was a problem to be handled when it came to it.

"Nope. Just as far as you're willing to take me."

The guy nods and takes a drag. The smell of cigarettes never bothered you like it does some other people; you find it relaxing, calming, especially when it's fresh and all-consuming like it is in this guy's truck. The vehicle itself is old, maybe 10 or 15 years, and a glance into the bed behind you tells you he's traveling with a couple boxes and nothing more.

It's certainly not state-of-the-art, but that's all the better for staying under the radar.

The silence looms over you like a cloud. The stranger seems content to just listen to the engine and the tires on the road, but you're prone to fill silences unprompted.

"What's your name?" you ask, and look over at him. He glances at you and raises a brow.

He clears his throat, eyes moving back to the road. "You can call me Mando."

"Mando?" you retort before you can stop yourself. "What kinda bogus name is that? Like, what... you got a thing for mandolins or some shit?"

The man huffs. "It is what is, kid. Get used to it."

You sigh, crossing your arms. "Alright, alright... Mando."

He doesn't try to continue the conversation, so you don't either. Minutes pass, and then hours, and you find yourself drifting off not too long after the clock reads 10:00. You shake yourself awake, wanting to stave off sleep until he pulls over to rest for the night.

But the engine is like a lullaby, the soft swaying of the truck a gentle rocking motion, and your eyes fall closed despite your best efforts.

When you wake up again, the truck is no longer moving, and the clock reads 12:30.

You must have been woken up by Mando putting the truck into park. The darkness outside does not give any clues as to where you are, but as your eyes adjust you can just make out some picnic tables, garbage cans, and signs.

A rest area. Makes sense.

Mando is fumbling with something beside you. It's a map, you realize when you look over.

"Where are we?" you ask with a yawn.

"Just over the border. Made it a bit later than I would've liked, but that's not a big deal. You can sleep here in the cab. I'll take the bed, since I sleep there anyway."

You nod, though you find it odd the way he's... not asking you for anything. He hasn't mentioned payment, monetary or otherwise. You watch as he folds the map back up, and catch his gaze as he stashes it in the glove box.

"I gotta repay you somehow, mister," you mutter. "For how nice you're bein' to me. 'Specially since I made fun of your name and all."

At your words, Mando gives you a stern look from under one of his furrowed brows. "No, you don't. Blanket's under the seat. Get some rest."

He turns away, grabs the keys, and is out the door before you can reply.

It's just so unusual for a guy to pick up a girl like you and refuse payment, much less not ask for or take it outright. It's a shame, really. Any other guy, you'd give him what he wanted sure, but with less than enthusiastic participation. The one man to whom you'd gladly deliver anything he asked... and he seems not to want it.

You suppose you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Better a prude than a murderer, that's for sure.

As you reach under the seat for the blanket, your hand brushes against some sort of canvas bag, long and zippered. You lean over to look in at it upside-down, hair brushing against the dusty floor mats.

It's a rifle bag. You reach in to feel at where the barrel would be, and sure enough, there's something distinctly rifle-shaped inside.

Huh. It's not a surprise that a guy like him's traveling armed, but it makes you wonder. A hunter, maybe? Probably. There's a lot of those around.

You spot the blanket and pull it out. It's gray, scratchy wool, but as you pull it over yourself, you find it keeps the nighttime chill away quite well.

You wake up to Mando swatting at your feet.

"Time to get up, sunshine. Gotta get going."

His deep voice pierces through the fog of sleep still hanging thick over your mind. You groan and push yourself up onto your elbows, drawing your feet in to give him space to slide into the drivers' seat.

It's still dark out. You see a hint of light on the horizon, the beginning of the sunrise peeking over hills and fields.

"What time is it?" you ask, rubbing at your eyes. You're a chronic over-sleeper, so seeing the sunrise is a rarity. It seems Mando has no such problem.

"A bit after six. We'll stop at a diner for something to eat in about an hour. You're welcome to go back to sleep until then." He turns the key in the ignition and the truck rumbles to life, a blast of lukewarm air hitting you in the face.

"No, no. I'm up," you assure him, shrugging the blanket off your shoulders. As you fold it, you look over at the man beside you. He's wearing the same faded jeans and leather jacket as yesterday, but the shirt underneath has changed. The sunglasses are still hung on the collar, but now it's some faded band tee from like 8 years ago.

You set the folded-up blanket on the seat between you and him, watching as he puts the truck into drive and starts off. Before you know it, you're watching the early-morning world pass by outside your window. You kick off your sandals and tuck your feet up under yourself, sitting crosslegged on the seat.

About 15 minutes later, you've grown tired of watching farmhouses and cornfields fly by in the dark.

"So, uh..." you start, not really knowing where you intend to finish your sentence, "you like music?"

Stupid. That was stupid.

Mando chuckles. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" you reply, hopeful that he might have more to say.

"Yes. I do like music."

You roll your eyes. "What kind of music? Jazz? Opera? Country-western? Who's your favorite artist? Got any favorite records?"

He glances over at you, a hint of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "You sure do ask a lot of questions."

"Well, I figure if I'm gonna be traveling with you for a good while, I might as well know a bit about you. And vice versa."

Mando just hums.

"I'll tell you mine, then," you inform him, grinning widely now. "My favorite record right now is Parallel Lines. By Blondie, you know? I really like them. This time last year I woulda told you my favorite album was something by Wire or the Sex Pistols - I was real into punk, if you know anything about it. Now I'm more into poppy stuff. I just think it's fun, to be honest."

You continue to ramble to Mando well into the drive. The sky grows lighter and the road grows more crowded, but he does not stop you. At the end of a tangent about Bowie, you turn to look at him, and he's sitting there like you haven't just talked his ear off for the past twenty minutes.

"Sorry. I jus-"

"Don't apologize. It's... I don't mind," he interrupts, not taking his eyes off the road.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, looking at the sandal-shaped marks on the tops of your feet. "Don't you have any particular songs you like?"

Mando's quiet for a minute. You wait, looking up out the window. The sky is a pale pink and blue, with a hint of orange off to the east. A field of cows comes up on your left - your eyes track them as they pass by, wondering what it's like to pet one.

You bet they're soft. Soft and cuddly and so dumb they're cute.

"You have to promise not to laugh."

The words come as a surprise. You look over to Mando, eyes wide and interested.

"Never. Favorite music is sacred."

He sighs. His grip tightens on the wheel, like sharing even a small part of himself causes him distress.

"Tapestry. Carole King," he says, though the words are quiet and guarded.

That wasn't the answer you were expecting. "Really?" you ask, smiling brightly.

He just nods, though he spares a glance towards you, like he's gauging your reaction. You lean back against the seat, turning towards him more fully.

"I wouldn't have guessed. Color me surprised, Mando. You have good taste." It's true. The album's a classic, though more so with girls your age, not guys who pick up hitchhikers and keep rifles in their trucks. "What do you like about it?"

Mando shifts, bringing his left arm up to rest on the door, elbow propped so his head can rest on his hand. "Not sure. She writes a good song, that's all I know."

You're not satisfied with that answer. You'll get to know Mando, even if it's like pulling teeth. "Bull-shit. Pink Floyd writes a good song. Paul Simon writes a good song. Why her? Why that record? It came out like ten years ago, there's gotta be a reason - a real reason - you still like it."

The drone of the engine and the road is like a soundtrack in itself to the silences that loom heavy before every sentence he speaks. You wonder when the last time he really got to talk to someone was - talk like this, not small conversation with the waiter or grocer.

You're no psychiatrist, but it doesn't take a genius to spot someone who's been alone for a while.

Mando hums. "I guess I relate to her songs... in a way I didn't expect to when I first heard her music."

You smile at that, pleased as punch that he trusts you with that information. It's like cupping cool water in your hands on a hot summer's day, fleeting and precious. "What's your favorite song on the record?"

He turns his gaze to your for a moment, dark brown eyes staring at your dirty feet and day-old shirt and messy hair. You're not sure what exactly he sees as he takes you in, but you sit there and allow it regardless.

Mando looks back to the road, watching the small town approaching slowly on the horizon. "I Feel the Earth Move."

You nod. "A classic."

He just hums in response, and you expect the truck to fill with silence once again.

Except it doesn't.

Mando reaches out and presses the button to turn on the radio. Blondie's Heart of Glass flows out through the speakers - and you laugh.

The glowing neon sign advertising Lindy's Diner, with her promise of pancakes and eggs and bacon and coffee, gets you more excited than you care to admit. Mando pulls into a parking spot along the street, and you're out the door before the wheels have stopped turning.

Admittedly, you do also have to pee.

You rush into the diner to take care of your business, also using the provided sinks to brush your teeth and the mirror to comb through your hair with your fingers.

It's not much, but you do feel better. Hopefully tonight you can stay in a motel at least, maybe take a shower.

You exit the restroom and look around the diner. Mando's sitting in a booth, smoking a cigarette and looking out the window. You head over, tossing your backpack into your side first and sliding in after it.

"I'll be right back," he says, and leaves. You watch him walk over to the men's restroom, the door swinging shut behind him.

Whatever. Kinda rude. Not like you care, anyway.

You lean back in the booth and take a menu from the stand at the end of the table. The classic breakfast platter is looking particularly tempting, with its hash browns and bacon and eggs-however-you-like. You're contemplating scrambled versus over-easy when you hear a pair of footsteps walk up to your table.

Two strange men stand over you, looking at you like they know exactly how homeless you really are.

"You here alone, baby?" the shorter one asks, putting a grimy hand on the back of your booth, right behind your head. You open your mouth to say no, in fact, I am not, but the other guy speaks for you.

"It looks like you are, honey. Just our luck, a girl like you all on her -"

"Is there a problem?"

Mando's deep voice cuts through whatever it was the creep was planning to say. The low timbre of his voice, normally soft and kind, is uniquely dark - almost menacing - when it hides a threat.

You slowly cross your legs, hoping no one notices the movement under the table.

The two guys turn, and behind them you see Mando, looking extremely pissed. He puts a hand on the back of the taller man's neck, cig still perched between his fingers, and yanks him away from where he'd been standing in front of Mando's side of the booth.

"Jesus, man! We didn't know you were -"

Mando puts his hands on his hips, eyeing them up like a lion might size up its prey. "What? You didn't know what?"

The guy gulps. "Uh..."

"Come on," Mando taunts, something dark glinting in his eyes. "Don't get nervous on me, now."

"We didn't know you were with her, man. Sorry."

Mando shakes his head. "No. Don't say that to me. Say it to her." He nods hid head towards you, subtly positioning his body in between yours and theirs.

You're frozen in your seat, torn between fear and arousal.

The tall guy glances at you. "Sorry," he mutters. The shorter one's still looking at you funny, though.

Your companion jerks his head towards the door. "It's best you both leave, now."

You realize the diner's gone quiet, customers and employees alike watching the exchange with bated breath. The taller guy glances around and turns, heading straight for the door. His buddy hesitates, gaze shifting from Mando to you and back again. Eventually he also turns to leave, following the other one out.

Mando slides into his seat, though he won't quite meet your gaze when you look at him. Noise picks up in the diner once again and you let out a shaky breath.

You're about to say something when the two guys pass by the window. The shorter one peers in, works his jaw, and spits on the ground on the other side of the window from you. You see him mouth the word 'bitch!'.

Rolling your eyes, you turn to Mando to try and joke about it, attempting to brush off the uncomfortable encounter. But he's not there, and you realize belatedly that he's now storming outside.

Mouth agape, you watch as Mando stalks up to the short guy. Jesus, you think, if looks could kill...

The creep whirls around, throwing a fist at Mando before he even gets a good look at him. Mando dodges it easily with a step back, looking simultaneously murderous and annoyed. He winds his arm back and sends his fist flying at the creep's face. The guy stumbles and falls, clutching at what is now a bloody and broken nose, landing on his back on the sidewalk. His friend has long run off.

Mando puts a boot on the guy's sternum, pressing down so he can't get up no matter how much he struggles.

You see him lean down, elbow on his knee, and say something. The guy's eyes widen and he nods frantically. Mando then removes his foot and, without sparing the guy a second glance, re-enters the diner.

He slides into the booth again and takes the menu from you. There's blood on the knuckles of his right hand, but he makes no move to wipe it off. He flips through the pages as if nothing happened. You stare at him.

"You didn't have to do that," you mutter, voice soft and wavering.

Without looking from the menu, he responds. "Yes, I did."

"But, you coulda just... just let him go..."

"I could have," he replies, and turns a page. "But I didn't."

"But -"

For the first time since you both entered the diner, he looks up at you, and you're taken aback the intensity of his eyes. "He deserved worse, kid. Far worse."

He sounds so sure of it that you can't bring yourself to say otherwise. You sigh and clasp your hands together on the table, unsure of where to go from here.

Just then, the waitress comes up to your table, notepad and pen in hand.

"You two know what ya want?" she asks as Mando puts the menu back in its place.

He gestures for you to go first.

"Uh, yeah. I'll have the classic platter with scrambled eggs and white toast. And black coffee, please."

The woman nods, writing your order on her pad. "And you, sir?"

"I'll have the blueberry flapjacks, please. And coffee, black, for me as well."

The waitress nods and turns away. As you watch her push through the silver kitchen door, you realize that maybe you should be grateful for the way things went. That they didn't get uglier.

That Mando was there at all.

"Thank you," you say softly, doing your best to convey your sincerity to the man sitting across from you.

He simply nods, observing you with a look you can't quite place.

After breakfast, the two of you set off down the highway again. Fleetwood Mac flows out through the speakers and you don't expect to stop until after noon, when Mando will have to refuel (both the truck and your stomachs). Until then you kick off your shoes and put your feet up on the dash, window cracked about an inch so the summer wind can flow through your hair.

Despite the rocky start to the morning, the hours pass by easily, weightlessly. Sometimes you talk with Mando, other times you simply sit and watch the world pass by. You don't think you've ever seen this much land in one go, and it thrills you. The idea that there's so much more.

The topics vary from your time in school to movies to the truck. You're surprised to find out that Mando's never seen Star Wars, a fact nearly unheard of to you. You promise yourself that you'll make him watch it sometime, somehow.

Lunch passes without incident; you insist on paying for your ham and cheese sandwich, because Mando had covered breakfast before you could protest. It hits the spot, along with your ice-cold Coke from the little market's freezer. There's a line to get gas, as there is everywhere, but luckily it isn't too long, since you're in the middle of nowhere. Mando won't be able to fill the truck up again for a few days, meaning you'll have to stop for the night earlier tonight than you did yesterday.

You do find something interesting at the market and you decide to shell out the money for it because it intrigues you. A new style of Kodamatic camera, complete with a pack of instant film - 12 potential photos.

In your mind you see pictures of mountains, and the truck, and Mando, and you stuff the camera in your bag before your mind can wander any further down that road.

You have to admit - traveling with someone who you know can protect you if the need arises is comforting in a way that almost makes you nervous. You keep telling yourself not to get used to it, that this is just a temporary situation for as long as he sees fit to keep you around. After he decides he's had enough, he'll leave you, and you'll be on your own again. You can't get too dependent on him.

Nighttime arrives much too quickly. The sun has just dipped below the horizon when you drive into another small town, not much more than a stoplight and a few bars. You get lucky, though, because the unmistakable neon of a motel glows just ahead.

"Thank god," you groan as Mando pulls into the parking lot. "I need a shower so goddamned bad."

Mando chuckles. His arm rests with his hand out the window, flicking the ash at the end of his cigarette out onto the pavement. The orange glow at the end of it brightens as he takes a drag, and you tear your eyes away from his lips before he can catch you staring.

That's another problem. He's every inch as attractive to you now as he was before, except now you know he's nice. The mustache and the dark curls and the broad expanse of his chest are all only made hotter by the knowledge that he likes Carole King and Elton John (he knew all the words to Tiny Dancer) and blueberry pancakes.

Plus there was that whole punching a guy to defend your honor business.

The guy at the motel's front desk reminds you of Marvin. Greasy blond hair and acne on a kid not much younger than you. You give him a disgusted look when he eyes you up, but he cuts it out when Mando walks in behind you. It gives you a small sense of satisfaction to see him so meek before your companion.

"We need a double for the night," Mando drawls, counting cash on the counter, cig perched between his lips. The sign advertised a night's stay for $22. You'd tried to pay Mando your share, but he'd refused your money.

The kid shakes his head. "Only got singles available."

Mando raises his brows. "Really."

The kid, whose name is Matt according to his name tag, nods. It takes Mando a moment to think on it, and then he looks to you.

You shrug. "I'm fine with it if you are, Mando."

He nods once and pays for the room. 12. You take the key and head over to get a head start on your shower while Mando parks the truck and gets his stuff.

The hot water feels divine. Even the towel feels great, because as threadbare and shitty as it is, it's clean and warm from sitting under the vent. You finish up in the bathroom and emerge in a pair of old track shorts and a loose-fitting tee.

Mando's sitting on the bed, back against the headboard. His jacket's draped across the table and he's kicked off his boots, so he sits with the remote in hand, barefoot. It's the most casual you've seen him thus far, and it makes your heart race.

"Shower's all yours," you tell him.

Mando looks at you from the corner of his eye. It's hard to tell what he's thinking at any given moment, so you fidget with the hem of your shirt as he looks at you.

A thought blooms unbidden in your chest. I wish I could kiss him.

You blink, taken aback at the sudden, intense nature of your desire to feel his lips against your own. Not knowing what else to do, you cross your arms and turn to the TV. Bonanza is on.

"Seen this episode before?" you ask. It's an old show, but you still like it.

Mando nods, humming. "Used to watch these every week, right when they came out. Only the first few seasons, though."

"Why'd you stop?"

He turns to sit on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the ground. He gives you a small smile, though his eyes hide something pained.

"I got drafted."

Oh. "Oh. I didn't mean -"

"It's fine," he says and gets up, brushing past you to enter the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him.

You walk over to sit on the other side of the bed from where he was. Drafted. Jesus. You feel bad for bringing it up, even if it was unintentional. The TV plays though you aren't watching, mind wandering to thoughts of Mando in Vietnam. You picture him in the jungle or in a helicopter, the deafening noise of artillery and gunfire filling the air around him.

Maybe that's where he got the nickname. It certainly explains the rifle.

You reach over for the remote and shut off the TV. The clock on the wall reads about 8:00, still early for you, but you tuck yourself under the sheets and blanket regardless. You face the door, away from where Mando will sleep.

Just as you're drifting off, the lamp on the bedside table clicks off. You feel the weight of Mando crawling in beside you, and he too curls up on his side, back turned.

You fall asleep hoping he's not too upset with you.

The next thing you know, you're awake, though the world is still dark outside. Behind you, Mando snores softly, warm breath fanning out across your neck.

Wait.

You blink a few times and realize the two of you must have shifted in the night. Mando's body is pressed right against yours, chest to your back, arm draped over your middle and hand tucked under your chin. Your legs are intertwined and against the back of your thigh you feel -

You feel him.

Sleep is a powerful drug, however, and the realization is not enough to make you move. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you think maybe this isn't so bad. Your tired brain convinces you to revel in it, to enjoy this position you've found yourself in. Before you can second guess that reasoning, you drift off.

And then you're awake again.

This time it's thanks to a rush of cold wind in your face. You reach back to feel for Mando, but the warm pillow tells you he's not there. You open your eyes to see him standing in the doorway, looking down at something. It's still dark out, but the lights of the motel parking lot put him in silhouette before you.

"What is it?" You lean up on your elbow to get a better look. The nighttime air is cool on your face, smelling faintly of gasoline and rain.

He bends down and picks up whatever it is that's in front of him. You watch as he turns to look left, then right, seemingly in search of something. He turns around and you see what he's holding.

It's a baby's carrycot.

You immediately sit up, heart racing. "Is it -?" you whisper.

Mando nods, closing the door behind him. You get out of bed and rush over to stand next to him, peering into the carrier.

Sure enough, there's a baby asleep inside. It looks to be a boy, about a year old. You bring a hand up to your mouth.

"Why - who would - what?"

Mando shakes his head, staring at the little guy. "I don't know. I heard a knock at the door and there he was - no sign of anyone else."

"We should - what do we do, Mando?"

He brings the carrier over to rest on the table beside his jacket. The boy is out cold - his little hands grip the blue knitted blanket and his mouth is just barely open. He's got dark hair, wispy and soft atop his head. As you observe the sleeping child, you notice the corner of a small piece of paper tucked in between the blanket and the cradle. You reach out and grasp it between your thumb and forefinger, unfolding it carefully.

"What does it say?" Mando whispers. Your voices are low so as to not disturb the child.

"Grogu. Please take him far from here," you read, and feel your blood run cold as the note goes on. "Not safe in this area. His father is dangerous."

It's scrawled in blue ink on half a sheet of lined notebook paper, the fringe from being torn still attached. Your hands shake as it hits you - there's some mother out there so scared for her son that she left him in the care of strangers. That there's a man out there who legitimately threatens this boy's life.

Tears form at the corners of your eyes, rage and sadness simmering in your chest.

"We have to, Mando." Your words are shaky but certain. The man beside you rests a hand on the carrycot, still looking at the sleeping child within.

You turn your eyes to him. He nods, solemn.

"Let's let him rest. We'll leave in the morning, get as far west as we can. Might even be able to make Texas if we leave early enough. We can figure it out from there."

His other hand brushes against your back, and then he's drawing you into his chest. The embrace is soft, unhurried, and you lean your head against his shoulder, hands tucked against his chest. Letting your eyes slip closed, you think back on the previous day, how you never could have predicted this turn of events. How you've never felt so uncertain of things, even when you'd lost everything.

Together you return to bed, but neither of you gets much sleep.

#din djarin x reader #mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian fanfiction #fanfic #din djarin fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x female reader #mando x fem!reader #female reader #fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

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astranva · 4 years ago

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Mustache Dare

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Absolutely none if you can handle how Harry looks with the stache, or a little strong language (F word).

Category: Fluff!

Summary: Y/N loves a good challenge, French toast is involved and so is Harry’s facial hair.

The one where Harry and Y/N are too competitive over French toast and Y/N shaves Harry’s facial hair…except for one place.

Harry and Y/N’s relationship was one their friends enjoyed to watch and be present around. The couple could go from babying everyone around them, to being the lives of every party, to being the couple who’d take care of you when you’re all messed up, to being a couple who were just simply entertaining to watch.

They had met some years ago through mutual friends and instantly hit it off, Harry later swearing up and down that “the chemistry was unreal” whenever he talked about his girlfriend with anyone, telling them that he knew from the moment he met her that they were in it for a ride – together.

She supported him through everything; the One Direction hiatus, family deaths, road to being a solo artist, his experimenting with everything, and all his music and thoughts. Y/N was the whole package for him; a girlfriend, a best friend and his number one fan.

Don’t get them wrong, Harry supported her through thick and thin, too. He supported her during her confusion, the insecurity, the doubting moments, and even every single time she questioned if she chose the right major. He could be in Japan and be one call away from taking the earliest flight back home if she even implied that she wanted him back there.

But the couple didn’t only kiss and lull each other into peaceful sleep at night, they loved a good banter and challenge, too.

Y/N was used to giving her all to win or to at least face a dignified loss ever since she was a child. She had far too many photographs of her engaging in mind-tickling challenges ever since she was 3, and Harry’s personal favorite – which he keeps in his wallet – is a picture of an 8-year-old Y/N sitting in front of a chess board with her gandpa, eyes squinted in concentration and finger on the corner of her mouth.

Harry admired that they both had the same characteristic. He loved how competitive they both were and loved, even more, how they always turned that into fun banter which always made them laugh the hardest.

Harry had been leaving his facial hair grow, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it when Y/N would mindlessly poke at it or run her knuckles gently down his cheeks and chin.

“Remember when you couldn’t grow that out?” She said one night, a small smug smile on her face that told him that she was sleepy after a tiring day with work.

He had her seated on the kitchen stool as he made her instant noodles, which she was waiting for to cool. He rolled his eyes with a smile, approaching her to wrap his arms around her waist, “Took me far too long, huh?”

She smiled wider, “Can’t even remember. It’s like I forgot all about that time because of how much I’m getting used to this.” She said as she patted his cheeks.

That night, she ate her noodles and had to stop herself from choking on the soup from laughing at some of the weirdest jokes Harry was reading her off of the internet.

The following morning was when it happened. It was finally the weekend and they both slept in before waking up at 3PM to a dark room – Harry was an angel and had shut the blinds the previous night because he knew they needed to sleep in – and the chirping of birds.

“Can we stay here for the rest of the day?” Y/N asked, cheek pressed against Harry’s chest, not finding it in her to open her eyes for long the moment Harry’s fingers started playing with her hair.

Harry chuckled softly, “We can, but we’re going to need to eat.”

She hummed against his chest, “How do we feel about French toast?”

“I can make that.”

Y/N pulled back, raising an eyebrow at him, “You burn them, baby.”

And while butterflies erupted in Harry’s stomach at the pet name he loved when it fell from his girlfriend’s lips, he still chose to feign shock and look back at her. “I never do.”

She sat up with a jolt as she laughed, “That’s a lie and you know it. You always burn the toasts.”

“I make them extra crunchy!” Harry reasoned, opening his arms, “I never burn them.”

“Bullshit,” she smirked, “How about you prove it?”

He knew where this was going, already feeling the excitement bubble inside him at the slight appearance of his girlfriend’s competitive side. “And then what?”

She thought for a few seconds before pointing at him, “If you don’t burn them, and I mean they’re 100% edible with no big black spots, you get to do whatever you want with me, and vice versa.”

“Like, I can have you work out with me?” Harry edged, watching her cringe before giving him a reluctant nod, “Deal.” Harry sat up, ruffling up his hair as he stared at her, “Get ready to lose.”

Y/N laughed sarcastically as she followed him, linking arms with him as they both walked out their bedroom, “In your dreams, Styles.”

They reached their kitchen and Harry decided to hold her and prop her on the counter, smiling cheekily at her before puckering his lips and pressing them against hers, “for good luck” he said.

Harry liked being in the kitchen, but he loved it when she was around, propped up on the counter with her hands beneath her thighs, swaying softly and gently side to side while humming a song that she had been listening to all damn week.

She was a dream, even when she teased him about losing.

So, he cracked the eggs, added the ingredients, switched the stove on for the pan that had a cube of better ready to melt in, and dipped the toast in the mixture before adding the toast in the pan.

When Y/N said Harry was used to burning toast – especially French toast and she had no idea why – she knew what she was saying, and for proof, the high heat he had set acted as one.

He walked towards her, putting his hands on her knees before spreading her legs, opening the drawer she kept hidden and taking a spatula out before stepping closer to her after closing the drawer. “Think I’ll dress you up for a week.”

She leaned down to have her face closer to his, a smile on her face that made Harry weak in the knees, “You think you’ll win?”

He stood his ground, wrapping his arms around her waist before tilting his head slightly to the side, “You think I won’t?”

Y/N pursed her lips as to stifle her laughter before limply putting her arms around his shoulder, “Harry,” she began before pecking his lips, “The toast is burning.”

Harry’s eyes widened, turning around frantically and groaning loudly at the smoking toast as he quickly turned off the stove before flipping the two toasts – the two charcoal black toasts.

With a bashful smile and a scrunched nose, he slowly turned to look at his girlfriend who had her hands clasped over her mouth to quiet the giggles. She jumped off the counter and walked towards him, eyes a little tearful from how hard she was containing in her laughter and looked at the toast, “Baby, I can’t believe I’m saying this but,” she looked up at him, few giggles escaping as he looked down at her with a fake aggravated face and both arms crossed across his chest, “You’re toast.”

And it was as if she cracked the funniest joke and it was the last straw, she leaned back as she burst out laughing.

“oh, fuck off!” Harry laughed, wrapping both arms around her and playfully and gently biting her cheek as she squealed.

Accepting defeat, Harry and Y/N agreed on eating cereal before Y/N surprised him with what task she chose for him.

She was excited for what she chose for him, trying to visualize it but failing to do so without laughing and imagining Billy Hargrove from Stranger Things.

“Harry Edward Styles, are you intentionally being slow?” She squinted her eyes at him, taking notice of how she finished her breakfast nearly 15 minutes ago but Harry was yet to finish, only milk remaining in his bowl which he slowly sipped on with his spoon.

The childlike smile told him that she was correct, which made her gasp and laugh, “You!”

He laughed along before setting his bowl aside and raising his hands up, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You can’t blame me; you have the worst dares!”

“Oh, you have no idea.” She rubbed her hands together jokingly, “Come on, get up. Let’s get to it.”

“We have to wash the bo-“

“After we’re done.” She held his hand and dragged him off the couch and up to their room.

“Baby, is that all you wanted? You wanted to-Awe, baby, you know you can just ask.” He teased, knowing that even though he can only see her back, that she was rolling her eyes at him.

What had him confused was when she dragged him to the bathroom, put down the toilet seat before telling him to sit.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Hush, Styles. You agreed on anything.” Was all she said with a smirk before walking back to their room and going back to him with her panda designed eyepatch, putting it on him.

“Oh God, what did I agree on?” He rhetorically asked, hearing her rummage through stuff.

But then he heard it. The buzzing sound of his shaver.

“Don’t move, yeah? We don’t want a cut.” She said with giggles.

“What the- Y/N!” He laughed, feeling her step between his legs.

Through giggles and careful work, she worked on shaving his beard.

It wasn’t the first time she shaved or trimmed his facial hair, or even just hair. Y/N loved shaving Harry’s facial hair for him and ever since the pandemic, he trusted her enough to learn how to trim his hair and had given him slight hair trimming.

Harry felt it. She went everywhere with the shaver but not his mustache but he tried to deny that she was done working, that was until she turned off the shaver and took off the eyepatch that covered his eyes so that he could see her face; staring at him in pure amusement and pride, as if she was staring at her best work of art.

She brought her fingers together and up to her lips, blowing a chef’s kiss, “Handsome.”

Harry held her waist, standing up and walking around her to stand in front of the mirror. There he stood, with only a mustache on his upper lips and unruly hair. He brought his face closer to the mirror, running his hand over his facial hairless chin and jaw, then over the mustache before turning to look at his girlfriend. “Do I turn you on like that?”

“Why yes, partner!” She exclaimed in a southern accent, wrapping her arms around his waist from the back and laughing against his back.

“I swear, if I wasn’t so fucking in love with you, woman.”

1,093,214 likes

yninstagram: I regret doing this because now this lunatic has been telling me he “mustache me a question” but he’ll “shave it for later”🤦‍♀️

#wellbeafinelime #wellbeafinelime masterlist #harry styles mustache #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles fluff imagine #harry styles fluff one shot #fluff one shot #fluff imagine

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tewwor-a · 3 years ago

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🌙 S𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬.

1. What does your muse smell like?

… Irish Springs whenever he’s on Earth.

Who’s to say? :)

In the off chance Clarence bothers to put cologne on ( which is extremely rare ), he usually goes for something light and pleasant — whatever reminds him of a nice, sunny day.

2. What do your muse’s hands feel like?

And given Clarence’s track for unfortunate circumstances / clumsiness… there have definitely been times where he’s had to regrow his hands.

3. What does your muse usually eat in a day?

What the hell doesn’t he eat? Rationing between planets is uber important ( thank goodness he knows this ), but if he’s off ship and frolicking around? God knows what that man ingests in a day.

4. Does your muse have a good singing voice?

5. Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks?

.. christ… where do i even start?

6. What does your muse usually look like / wear?

doesn’t matter if he’s in space or on a planet where he can breathe without a helmet — clarence dresses painfully simple.

on earth? this man rocks a simple short sleeve crew neck, khakis, crew socks, and sandals.

aside that, his general appearance is low effort. mussed / bird nest hair, some stubble ( never a full beard or stache though ), and a.. can-do attitude.

7. Is your muse affectionate? How much? How so?

8. What position does your muse sleep in?

9. Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room?

✨ TAGGED BY: @romancemoon ( history.... is bound to repeat itself.. ilu )

✨ TAGGING: @yulyecng @onlyoddities ( give me rue or florence ) @oddisms @temporalobjects @megaerans @debtwon @hnjwn @amaarok @blatantvirucide @prtcts @guttersniper @calstrare @jeoseungsaja @consigleire @theirtragedies @villxinoux + you!!

#⁺˚*･༓☾　clarence luc watts ➟ headcanon　☽༓･*˚#// babes wake up #// the worst planet hopping idiot's back

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canary3d-obsessed · 4 years ago

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Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 17 second part

(Masterpost) (Previous Post) (Pinboard)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!!

Breaking Good

Wen Qing comes to visit Wen Ning in their backyard meth lab, and tells him that he fucked up a recipe, merely by taking a whiff of the concoction. She uses the approved "wave fumes toward self" way of smelling that you learn in high school science if you live in a country that believes in teaching science, which OP does not.

Wen Ning wants to know if they are going to have a feud, and she tells him there already is one. She tells explains to him that they're good Wens, not evil Wens, and that Jiang Cheng is fucked, and they should send the Jiangs away in the morning before Wen Chao comes around.

Wen Ning whines at her about all of this, shifting into little-brother persona and acting like he didn't just take down 40 of Wen Chao's soldiers in a single night. He does this same persona shifting in his later unlife, with Wei Wuxian. When there is trouble, he's extremely effective, and can even tail WWX and Lan Wangji without getting caught, but then he is hopeless when dealing with turnips or children.

Here, it seems like a version of Wei Wuxian's own little-brother persona, in which he pretends to be helpless so that his sister can take care of him.

#studyblr

Wei Wuxian comes into Wen Qing's head shop to ask her for medical books. He loves his brother so much he's volunteering for a research project. We've seen him be clever before; we've seen circumstantial evidence that he's a good student, but now we're going to see him actually buckling down and doing intellectual work.

Wen Qing thinks its hopeless and wants Wei Wuxian to get some rest. But he gives her puppydog eyes, so she sets him up in her library.

Wei Wuxian reads a huge pile of medical books and learns interesting things about the human body.

(more after the cut)

Hopefully he does not splotch ink all over them while he holds this wet brush directly over the page. Why does he even have a brush in his hand? Is he taking notes in the margin?

Wen Qing eventually tells him to take a break and go see Jiang Yanli.

Segmentation fault (core dumped)

Jiang Yanli is tending to Jiang Cheng, gently telling him to suck it up by citing their father, which is probably not the greatest idea.

Yanli's wearing dark blue with white and looks awesome. It's not Gusu Lan blue, but the blue and white is an interesting choice for the excruciating heart to heart they're about to have.

Wei Wuxian shows up looking terrible, or the Xiao Zhan version of terrible, i.e. handsome and a little scruffy. But also worn out, unhappy, and fragile.

Jiang Yanli wants him to rest, but he wants to find a way to repair Jiang Cheng's core, and his mind races, trying to think of where he can get books and who can help him. His thoughts instantly go to Cloud Recesses and Lan Wangji. His face lights up at the thought that Lan Wangji will help him, and he hops up, ready to dash off and find him.

The first time I watched this I was like, dude yes you’re in love, but you can’t just dash off to find Lan Wangji, not when there’s a war on. This time I was like, actually wow things would turn out a whole lot better if you got Lan Wangji to help you, instead of coming up with your own plan.

Mother Mother Can You Tell Me

Jiang Yanli tells him to slow his roll. He's pushing himself too hard and she's afraid he will collapse. Then Wei Wuxian comes out and says what's driving him: maybe all these disasters are his fault.

It's telling, I think, that he cites Madame Yu, not Jiang Cheng, in this moment, even though Jiang Cheng has blamed him much more thoroughly and consistently. He's talking about one mother figure, to another mother figure, and looking for absolution.

He super does not get what he's looking for.

Jiang Yanli slowly lets go of him and goes the fuck off. She asks, rhetorically, what he's to blame for, and then lists off all of the shit that's happened. She finishes up by saying, look at our situation; blaming won't help anything.

It's unclear, because language/translation, if her answer is "it doesn't matter who's to blame" I.E. "yes, it's your fault, but I'm letting it go" or if she is saying "how does blaming yourself help anything?" I.E. "it's not your fault, stop being a drama llama."

Her body language, though, seems pretty blameful - she lets go of him, yells at him, sits down and turns away from him. And his reaction is not one of shared grief, or of someone who is trying to get over himself; he's totally crushed, and he literally never unburdens himself to her again. Even when he asks her, much later, about love, he immediately backs out of the conversation.

There is no violence in this moment and her reaction is understandable, but this is kind of similar to that one time when his brother choked him in a beautiful field of grass, in order to make himself feel better.

Then she kind of relents and takes his hand, telling him that she needs him and reminding him that he promised that they will go back to Lotus Pier. I don't remember him promising this, but okay.

He puts his head on her lap and he cries, she cries, comatose Jiang Cheng cries; FUCK this episode.

Jiang Cheng manages to cry only one tear and does it on the side of his face that his siblings can't see because he's not going to give them the satisfaction of sharing this moment with him, I guess.

When Wei Wuxian puts his head on Jiang Yanli's lap, it's part of a ritual for them, that they both are comforted by; he does it again much later, after they return to Lotus Pier. But this ritual does not actually do anything to relieve his burdens. As a male adult, and the only Jiang Clan disciple with any abilities, it falls to him to save the clan, whatever it takes, and he is heavily aware of it.

Wen Qing comes along and sees the sweet part of this complicated Shijie-Shidi dynamic, and decides to help with Wei Wuxian's research project. When the trio had just lost their parents, gotten sick, been pursued by enemies, & had one of Yanli's little brothers horribly wounded, Wen Qing was like, eh, I'll do the doctor stuff but that's it. But lap-crying is another level.

Wen Qing: Nooo don't put your head on her knees I failed my saving throw

Group Project

Wen Qing goes and cleans up the mess in the library, putting everything in order and settling in to read systematically. Wen Qing probably has the prettiest bullet journal. (OP looks proudly at the 100 loose slips of paper and piles of random stuff on her own desk)

Wei Wuxian has shaved and rested and comes in with a tray of food for Wen Qing, and then goes to his table in the back to start working. He claims he made "porridge" for her and that she has to eat to gain strength, and she gives him an intrigued expression. This moment is just blatant het baiting.

In fact the food he brings her is clearly not porridge, which might just be a translation error, but also he totally can't cook, so it's not clear if he's joking and Yanli or Wen Ning made the food, or if this is just inedible.

The Things We Do For Love

Yanli is working in the meth lab and coughing a lot. Yanli's chronic illness is a sign of what's to come for Wei Wuxian, because strong cultivators don't get sick. Yet Yanli, as a physically vulnerable person, who has either a weak golden core, or none, is still intrinsically valuable. Her presence in this scene is a reminder that Jiang Cheng's life is not, actually, over; he just feels like it is.

While Yanli cooks the meth, Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing have a study montage that is the equivalent of a training montage, except without "Eye of the Tiger" on the soundtrack.

Jiang Cheng remains unconscious. Apparently if you stick nails in the top of someone's head, you make them sleep, and in the back of their head, you turn them into part of your zombie army. Fortunately Wen Qing's aim is good. Jiang Cheng is looking devastatingly handsome as usual the TV version of unwell, and has grown a perfect Dorito-chip of stubble on his chin to go with his new 'stache.

Eventually Wei Wuxian changes back into his non-vampire robe and he finds the answer in an old scroll book. The Ikea instruction picture shows arrows going from the guy on the left to the guy on the right. Clearly it's not a great procedure for the guy on the left.

Wei Wuxian's face shows us exactly how not great.

Like walking in the rain and the snow and there’s no place to go and you’re feeling like a part of you is dying

He goes outside and gazes up at the trees and the sky as he contemplates the sacrifice that circumstance is forcing on him. He's not even making a choice at this point; his choice was made the moment he found the procedure. But it's going to be a tremendous loss for him. He values sword cultivation at least as much as Jiang Cheng does; he even fell in love with a boy over crossed swords. So he sits and just kind of comes to terms with this new understanding of his future. (Big gifs here)

Wen Qing finds him sitting, stunned, on the porch. She doesn't know what's up so she just sits quietly with him until he's ready to tell her.

She doesn't love the plan.

Thunder, Th-th-thunder

Wen Ning is bringing food up when he sees them arguing, and he is startled by situationally appropriate thunder and lightning. Having recently watched The Lost Tomb Reboot I've come to expect thunder and lighting to appear on cue in any possible situation, so the fact that this mini-storm clears right up again doesn't bother me.

What About You?

Wen Ning dashes inside to see what Mom and Dad are fighting about. They're having a polite shouting match because Wen Qing refuses to yank out Wei Wuxian's core.

Wen Qing: I hate the idea of harming you Wei Wuxian: I don’t even understand that sentence

Wei Wuxian doesn’t, of course, feel that he is important in any way, and ignores her concerned and appalled expressions in favor of telling her to just do it anyway. Amazingly, this does not convince her.

OP’s 177cm-tall son keeps telling her this

Then Wei Wuxian plays the "you know Jiang Cheng" card, which...I guess she does? Maybe he was chatting her up more than we saw in Cloud Recesses? He hasn't given her the comb or anything yet. Wei Wuxian explains that Jiang Cheng cares about gain and loss, and cultivation is his life. If he can only be ordinary the rest of his life will be ruined.

Wen Qing asks the question that nobody ever asks him: What about you?

Wei Wuxian has literally nothing to say to that, possibly because the question is so new to him.

Wen Ning doesn't know what's going on but comes squarely in on team Wei, of course, and begs his sister to Do The Thing. How fucking horrified is Wen Ning going to be when he learns what The Thing is? What he is personally going to help do to his beloved friend? Yikes.

Wen Qing caves, warning them that the chance of success is only 50 percent. Wei Wuxian is happy to take those odds.

Lan Wangji, projecting his voice from Episode 46: fifty percent, are you fucking kidding me?

Soundtrack: 1. Mother Mother by Tracy Bonham 2. The Things We Do For Love by 10cc 3. Thunder by Imagine Dragons

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #the untamed gifs #wen qing #wen ning #restless rewatch the untamed #canary3d-original #my gifs #episode 17 #OMG this episode #god I miss lan wangji #warning: psychic pain

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rcppled-a · 3 years ago

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🌙 s𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬.

1. What does your muse smell like?

... Irish Springs whenever he’s on Earth.

Who’s to say? :)

In the off chance Clarence bothers to put cologne on ( which is extremely rare ), he usually goes for something light and pleasant — whatever reminds him of a nice, sunny day.

2. What do your muse’s hands feel like?

It varies! By default I would say they’re rough as hell. Sometimes he’s guilty of not using gloves when he needs to ( someone yell at him whenever he’s fixing engines or even.. welding ), but if any trauma happens to his hands... well, his body regenerates the damaged bits back to perfect condition.

And given Clarence’s track for unfortunate circumstances / clumsiness... there have definitely been times where he’s had to regrow his hands.

3. What does your muse usually eat in a day?

What the hell doesn’t he eat? Rationing between planets is uber important ( thank goodness he knows this ), but if he’s off ship and frolicking around? God knows what that man ingests in a day.

4. Does your muse have a good singing voice?

5. Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks?

.. christ... where do i even start?

6. What does your muse usually look like / wear?

doesn’t matter if he’s in space or on a planet where he can breathe without a helmet — clarence dresses painfully simple.

his gear is bright orange, has numerous mended areas from snagging on a ton of things, and a medium sized ‘be back in 15′ patch on the chest for all the times he dies because usually... it only takes 15 minutes for his body to regenerate ( well, depending on how much damage there is of course ).

on earth? this man rocks a simple short sleeve crew neck, khakis, crew socks, and sandals.

aside that, his general appearance is low effort. mussed / bird nest hair, some stubble ( never a full beard or stache though ), and a.. can-do attitude.

7. Is your muse affectionate? How much? How so?

one might say... overly so. while he tries to be mindful of personal space ( it’s always a work in progress ), he cannot help how verbally affectionate he can be. compliments are always bountiful and he loves to give gifts. if he comes by anything that reminds him of a friends or loved one, you can bet your ass he’s getting it. even if that means there’s some peril along the way to obtain said gift, but it’s the effort and thought that counts, right?

8. What position does your muse sleep in?

9. Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room?

✨ TAGGED BY: @weirdmoon ( thank you!!! )

✨ TAGGING: you!!

#* & clarence — headcanon .#// gave me grey hair writing this #// he stresses me out sm

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neon-junkie · 4 years ago

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Sinners Prayer

Summary: Dutch has asked you and Micah to tag along for the evening at the Mayor's party, but the catch is that you two have to go as a pretend married couple.

Pairing: Micah Bell x f!Reader

Word Count: 6557

Rating: SFW

Tags: Friends to lovers, Strangers to lovers, Fake relationship/marriage, Saint Denis, Shady Belle, Party, Dress up, Formalwear, Slow burn, First kiss, Flirting.

Notes: God I LOVED writing this, which is why it's sooooo long. I've had this fic idea lingering in my head for months now as I'm a sucker for the whole fake couple/marriage trope, but it feels so good to finally write this<3

Obsessed is a strong word to use, especially when it's relating to a stranger. But maybe it was the right word because you found yourself swooning over this man over and over, despite barely ever speaking to him. You were in the same camp, sure, but that didn't mean much apart from sometimes riding by his side during a mission, or sitting on the same log as him at the campfire. You'd exchanged few words and you somewhat hoped it'd stay that way, knowing exactly the kind of man he was.

Was this secret obsession something to do with past trauma? your previous encounter with a toxic man that you thought you'd gotten over? or was Micah really just meant to be yours?

But seriously... Micah. Micah Bell. Micah Bell the third, in fact, because somehow his shitty family had managed to breed more than once.

You want to feel sick every time you see him, you really do, just like everybody else in existence does, but you find yourself gazing at him from the other side of camp every single day, so drawn to various little bits of him.

There's the scar on his chin, the one that starts at his split lip, and you're curious as to how he got it, but not as curious as to if you'd be able to feel it when you press your lips against his. You try to tell yourself that his facial hair is stupid, but he always keeps it so neat and clean, and you can't help but wonder what that 'stache would feel like brushing over your thighs as he kissed along them. And his hair, his scraggy shoulder-length hair, the dirty blonde locks that you just want to run your fingers along and grip onto if you had the chance to ride him.

You're doing it again.

You give your head a little shake as you snap out of your daydream, straightening your back and taking a swig of your drink. It's late, and you're enjoying a beer before bed after finishing your shift on guard duty. Micah's sat at his usual space by the campfire in your line of view, and thankfully you haven't zoned out staring at him else, well, that'd be embarrassing.

Micah also seems zoned out, staring at the fire with his hands dangling freely down his sides, one ankle crossed over the other. He lets out a sigh and rolls his head back, staring up at the stars before looking over at you.

Oh shit.

You quickly look away, taking another sip from your drink. You can feel Micah's gaze still on you, but when you do finally peek over, he's back to staring at the fire.

You've accidentally met his gaze a few times before, a mix of you meeting his, and him meeting yours. At least it wasn't always you staring at him, he seems to have an interest in you too, though the two of you rarely ever interacted. Micah had, for some reason, kept his distance from you, despite his blatant and poor attempts of flirting with other women of the camp. Maybe you just weren't his type? But then why would he always stare at you?

Your beer is finally finished and you turn in for the night, following your nightly routine and climbing under your blankets, only to stare at the tent walls and think about Micah.

Ugh. That man, if you can even call him one.

You're a sinner, just like the rest of this crazy bunch that you run with, but it seems whatever Gods float about in the sky continue to ignore your prayers, despite them being desperate.

Please, please can they just stop this attraction to him? Please. There were so many better men out there, a handful of which you run with, but you find yourself worryingly obsessed with this foul man, yet you can't seem to stop it.

You roll onto your side, letting your eyes fall shut and as always, drift to sleep with the hopes that you won't be obsessed when morning comes.

Morning does come, and oh boy, does it hit you hard.

Dutch was quick to call you upstairs to the balcony by his room, telling you to finish your breakfast first, but hurry up as soon as possible.

"It's a party," Dutch tells you. "The mayors' party," Dutch smirks, raising his hands as if he was waiting for you to jump with joy.

"And...?" you question.

"Well. I've picked a fine bunch to tag alongside me, but I'm asking you specifically to help with a special task. Myself, Hosea, Arthur, and Bill will be mingling as singles, but we need a couple to go. We need a couple to weave their way in there with all the others and see what they can find. Maybe get invited to some fancy private getaway or... whatever it is those upper-class city folk do in their free time," Dutch explains, speaking with his hands as always.

"Dutch," you laugh. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm unfortunately single," you tell him as you shake your head.

"I know, just like the rest of camp, but I'll make suitable arrangements for you, my dear," Dutch replies.

"What about John and Abigail?" you ask, the only couple that springs to mind.

"I wouldn't dare ask them, not after that whole fiasco that happened with our dear boy Jack," Dutch says as he shakes his head. "You can say no if you want to, but I could really do with this."

You let out a sigh but then ask "what arrangements are you thinking?"

"Well..." Dutch begins. "I wanted you to be a part of this job to begin with, I knew that as a fact. You've got a good charm and I've seen you gussy up folks before. You know exactly what you're doing, and I need that strength right now," Dutch compliments, though his tone of voice and the way his eyes begin to avoid yours makes you fear for the worst.

"Trelawny's going to take you into the city to pick out a dress for you, the women have already said they'll help get you ready for the party-"

"Dutch. Who am I going with?" you cut him off, noticing the way he's avoiding the elephant in the room.

"I put a lot of thought into this, ___. I really have. I've gone through all the members of the camp-"

"Dutch," you sigh as you cut him off again. "Just tell me."

"Micah," Dutch says as his eyes meet yours. "Like I said, you can say no if you'd like. I just know the two of you would be able to make this work, and I could really do with this," he explains.

"Have you already asked him?" you question.

"I have, and he said he's happy with it if you're happy with it," Dutch tells you as he watches your expressions and body language, though you surprise him as you show no signs of discomfort.

"Alright, I'll do it," you shrug.

"Thank you, my dear," Dutch grins as he places a hand on your shoulder. "It's this evening. Trelawny will be waiting for you outside the tailors in Saint Denis, and make sure you're ready a little early. I want time to run through the plan before we set off."

The Gods were definitely mocking you at this point, sat up there on their high horses, laughing and pointing down at you as they continued to worsen your situation. Really? A party with posh folk? And you have to pretend to be a couple with Micah? You barely know him for starters. What if you two really weren't meant to get along? The last thing you wanted to do was cause a scene after Dutch had asked you so kindly to go in there and fish out information for him.

Trelawny seemed in his usual cheery mood when you met him, helping you pick out something nice. Honestly, the dress is gorgeous, and you feel beautiful wearing it. You have no problem playing dress up, sometimes secretly looking forward to it as you rarely get an occasion to wear something other than your usual attire.

The women shower you with compliments as they help do your makeup, picking out some nice matching jewelry that compliments your facial features, along with a pretty necklace that seemed to draw even more attention to your cleavage. You haven't worn a corset in a while, and the sight of your boobs bulging up against your chest was clearly meant to be a distraction to try and lore out some weaker men. Maybe Micah would end up dragging them off to the side, only to knock their lights out and loot them for "looking at my woman!"

Ugh. Your stomach hadn't stopped turning like a stormy sea the second Dutch had told you who you were going with. You hadn't seen Micah around the camp all afternoon, probably mentally preparing himself for whatever shit-show that was about to happen.

Well, you were ready.

Mary-Beth was quick to run out of the house and draw everybody's attention, attempting to give you some kind of grand reveal, as if the camp had never seen you in a dress before. They have, but this was the fanciest you'd ever worn; with your hair up in a do that took all afternoon to keep in place, and jewels that perfectly matched the shade of your makeup.

"She's ready!" Mary-Beth squealed, attracting the attention of Dutch and Arthur as they lingered over, the rest of the camp perking up their ears and eyes. "Now, you better all flatter her 'cause she seems a little shy, and we spent all afternoon helpin' get her ready, but-"

"Mary-Beth, please," you sigh as you exit the house, not wanting the grand entrance that she would want. There's still a mix of oo's and aah's throughout the camp, and Susan is quick to rush over and take your hands in hers, looking like she's about to cry.

"My dear, you look so wonderful," Susan tells you.

"Thank you, Miss Grimshaw," you reply as you give her hand a little squeeze.

"She's right, ___. Trelawny and our women have excellent taste. Thank you, all of you," Dutch tells them as he speaks to the camp, then turning back to you. "Are you ready, dear?" he asks.

"Physically, yes. Mentally, no," you joke, though you're serious.

"Well, it'll have to do," Dutch nods.

"My my," a dreaded voice calls out. Micah's approaching, stopping just beside Dutch as he speaks to you. "Ain't no way you can go the party like that, sweetheart. You're gonna knock 'em all dead with them pretty looks of yours," Micah compliments.

Your stomach begins to turn again, though you begin to question if you should curse the gods or thank them, because the sight of Micah in a tux is one you could get used to. He's dressed like the other men, a smart black tux with a white shirt and bowtie. He's clearly had a bath, as his hair looks the cleanest you've ever seen it, nearly bunched into a low ponytail with a few loose strands shaping his face. Micah always keeps his facial hair clean, but it's freshly trimmed and perfectly shaped just underneath his jaw.

You notice Arthur already glaring at him in the corner of your eye. Why Dutch didn't ask Arthur to go with you was beyond your knowledge, but something tells you he has a deeper reason behind picking the two of you to go together.

"Thank you, Mister Bell," you softly reply as your eyes meet his.

"Guess that makes you Mrs. Bell for this evening," Micah smiles. "Don't it, Dutch?" he asks as his eyes quickly turn to Dutch's.

"It does! Now, let's all get going before we're even later than we already are. I'll go over the plan on the way there," Dutch huffs as he waves his gloved hands about, hurrying everybody along to the stagecoach that was waiting.

You're about to walk off, but Micah's sudden movement catches your eye. He offers you his hand. "Gotta look the part, darlin'," he tells you.

"Oh! I just remembered!" Micah says as he suddenly moves his hand away, reaching into his pocket to fish out a pair of gold wedding rings that he no doubt had stolen recently, specifically for this event.

"May I?" Micah asks, holding out his hand again. You take it, your soft palms gently settling in rough ones. He flashes you another smile, then flicks his eyes down to focus sliding the wedding ring onto your finger. The sight of that alone is enough to make your knees go weak, but you try your hardest not to pass out, and thankfully Micah doesn't seem to notice how lovesick you're feeling.

The ring is only slightly too big, and hopefully, you'll notice it if it gets close to slipping off. He quickly slips the other one onto his own finger, and takes your hand again, his eyes finally moving away from yours as he leads you over to the stagecoach, following behind the others.

The ride there isn't too bad, and the plan seems simple enough. Steal nothing, only information. Only your 'husband' was most definitely not going to do that, even if he doesn't tell Dutch about it.

He helps you out the coach, gently tucking your hand around his arm as he walks with you into the party. Surprisingly, Micah didn't bring his guns with him, making a comment to you under his breath about how he doesn't trust anybody with them. That's understandable.

Dutch and Arthur head upstairs to do whatever it is they were going to do, speak to Jack's surrogate father or whatever, leaving you and the others to wait on the balcony.

You rest your hands on the railing, looking down at the mishmash of strangers below. Micah removes his hand from yours, resting it on the small of your back as he turns to speak to you.

"You nervous?" Micah asks.

"I'm sure I won't be after a couple of drinks," you joke, turning your gaze to meet his. You've never seen his expression so soft before, and have his eyes always been that blue? They're an icy shade, maybe a warning sign about his cold heart, but he's making yours burn up with his stupidly sweet smile and that stupid cute little ponytail that he just had to tuck his hair into.

"So now I gotta take care of my drunk wife whilst also lookin' for leads?" Micah jokes back, though there's something about him calling you his 'wife' that makes your stomach turn faster than it ever has before.

"I ain't gonna get drunk!" you laugh. "Your wife can handle herself, thank you very much," you raise your nose jokingly.

"You sure? Cause if I remember rightly, the last time you got drunk you tripped over and almost fell in the campfire," Micah chuckles, watching your expression drop. How did he remember that? That happened months ago!

"I'm a changed woman," you reply, "for tonight," you add.

"Sure you are, Mrs. Bell," Micah grins as he moves a few loose strands off your face. "Then after tonight, you can go back to fallin' into campfires."

"And would my dear husband not save me if he saw me falling into one?" you question.

"I ain't really your husband, sweetheart. Not unless you wanna keep that ring on and keep playin' dress up with me," Micah replies, trying to make it sound like a joke, but you both know that if you said yes, Micah would happily continue your fake marriage.

It's a good thing Dutch arrived when he did, cutting you off as you opened your mouth to speak, but you were thankful as you hadn't even thought of a reply.

Dutch gave you all another pep talk before shooing everybody off on their way, and you were thankful a server passed you as you reached the bottom of the stairs, taking a glass of champagne for yourself and thanking them, Micah grabbing one for himself also.

Your hand finds Micahs arm and he walks with you a while, eyeing up any obvious leads as you pass through the strangers. You come to a stop at the back of the party, pulling Micah to one side as he rests his hand around your waist. God. You could get used to Micah having his hands on you at all times.

"You see anything obvious yet?" you ask Micah before taking a sip of your champagne. At least it was decent, not having that awful cheesy flavour that cheap bottles had.

"I ain't been lookin'," Micah replies, making you snap your eyes over to his with a little scowl on your face.

"What?" you ask.

"Hard to focus on a bunch of snobby strangers when I got this pretty woman clinging onto me," Micah grins. You realize that your hand had come to rest on his forearm as his hand had found your waist, clinging onto him a little too tightly, your body practically pressed up against his. At least the two of you looked like a couple.

You go to take a step back, but Micah is quick to pull you against him more, holding you firmly in place. "I'm jokin', sweetheart," he tells you. "I've spotted a few here 'n' there."

"You better not be lyin'," you tut.

"You not trust your own husband?" Micah smirks, chuckling even whilst he has a sip of his drink. "Besides, we ain't even planned our story yet. How we gonna mingle with other couples when we don't even know how we met? Or when we got married?" Micah asks.

He's right, the two of you had no time to prepare your story, but you're far from earshot of these strangers, so now would be a good time to get your stories straight.

"Well, what have you got planned then? Seeing as you brought this up?" you question.

"Nothin'," Micah shrugs. "I figured I'd ask my lady, seeing as you women tend to fantasize about these situations." You can't deny that, because little does Micah know, you've had a few fantasies about the two of you getting together for quite some time now.

"Do I look like the type for romances, Micah?" you ask.

"Do I?" Micah replies. Good point.

"Well..." you sigh, trying to think of a few ideas. "You plan how we met, and I'll plan our wedding?"

"Sure, darlin'," Micah nods as he finishes off his drink.

"Wait here. I'll go get us a refill," you say as you take Micahs empty glass, finishing off your own, and wandering off back into the party to find your next round of booze.

Micah watches you leave, tucking his hand into his pockets to fish out a cigarette to enjoy whilst he waits and ponders.

Finding a server wasn't hard, and you thanked them as you swapped your glasses over. On your walk back you overheard another couple talking about how they met, saying she was a server on one of the ferries and he was there to gamble, only he ended up spending the night distracting her from her job.

You find your way back to Micah, who's just finished his cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his polished black shoes. "I picked you up at a bar," Micah tells you as you hand him his drink.

"What? No," you scoff, scrunching your face up at the generic and boring backstory.

"What else you got then, sweetheart?" Micah asks before taking a sip from his drink.

"I just overheard a couple say that they met on one of those gambling ferries. She was a waitress and he spent the whole night chattin' her up."

"You wanna steal their backstory?" Micah tuts. "Dutch said we shouldn't be stealin," he says as he shakes his head jokingly.

"We'll just change it a little... I was a bartender and you spent the night chatting me up," you suggest.

"A woman bartender?" Micah questions your suggestion.

"Times are changing, Micah. It's believable," you reply, getting a little defensive.

"I didn't mean it like that," Micah says as he raises his hand. "I like it. And we met 4 years back, got married in April last year. How's that sound?" he asks.

"Good," you nod, realizing that you'd done each other's jobs rather than the ones you assigned. "You ready to mingle?" you ask him.

"Fine," Micah sighs.

Neither of you wants to do this, both forcing a fake smile and kind accents as you speak to the strangers. After an hour, you haven't found much, a few mentions of summer homes and private boats, but nothing within the area.

You're a few more glasses in, beginning to feel ever so slightly tipsy, but you needed that buzz to help you get through the smugness of these strangers.

"You want another?" you ask Micah who has barely sipped on his current one. He's only drunk a glass less than you have, but he doesn't seem affected, though his tolerance is probably higher than yours.

"I'm alright, my love. I'll wait here for you," Micah tells you as he moves his hand off your waist, letting you wander off into the crowd.

You're still not used to the pet names, but you hope they continue to roll out of Micahs mouth, seeing as you no longer had that sickly feeling in your stomach. It seems your nerves had finally calmed down, being replaced by a warm and gentle buzz instead, though that's probably the alcohol in your system.

You thank the waiter as you take another glass and turn to leave, but overhear the most hideous voice you've ever heard call out to the same man you just thanked. You attempt to walk away, but quickly stop and look over your shoulder, face scrunching up at the sight of quite possibly the rudest woman you've ever seen, if you can even call her a woman.

She drones on and on, insulting this poor stranger that was only trying to do his job. God. The way she spoke to him made you sick, and before that little voice in the back of your head can stop you, you've already approached her and cut her off, attempting to speak to her sweetly.

"Are you an entertainer?" you ask.

"What on earth are you yapping about?" She questions as she looks you up and down in disgust.

"Well, it's a very good act you've got going on here. Playing the stereotypical obnoxious upper-class woman, though I wouldn't recommend performing it when you're not on stage," you respond, acting as if you genuinely thought she was a man in drag.

"Well, I never!" She squeals. "You've got some lip on you, little girl. Do you now know who I am?"

"Oh, I do apologize, madam. What's your act called? Maybe I'll drop by to hear you squeal on stage next time I pass the theatre."

You can't hold back the grin creeping across your face as the stranger's face turns red, her huffing and puffing attracting a handful of eyes nearby. Thankfully, the poor served had managed to sneak off, so at least she wouldn't take it out on him any more than she already had.

She goes to open her mouth again but is quickly cut off when Micah appears by your side.

"Oh, I do apologize for my wife's behaviour," Micah says with a wave of his hand. "Sweetheart!" he says as he turns to you, putting his arm around your waist and beginning to walk you away. "What have I told you about feeding the animals?" he says in clear earshot of the woman.

The both of you don't get to see the woman explode as you rush off, but your grins are as wicked as each others as you lead Micah to the back of the party, giggling devilishly.

You can still hear the woman protesting as she's asked to leave, and is eventually dragged out, which was more than satisfying to watch. The party returns to how it formerly was, the strangers barely looking your way as it seems you'd done everybody a favour.

Your eyes meet Micahs, his arm still wrapped around your waist as your hand rests on his shoulder, your body pressed against his. Both of your grins remain there as the two of you look at each other, suddenly realizing just how pressed up you were against your 'husbands' body.

"I ain't seen that fire in you before, sweetheart," Micah tells you.

"There's a lot of me you ain't seen, Micah," you reply.

"Ooooh," Micah sighs as he chuckles. His head dips down slightly, speaking more directly into your ear but far enough that he can still see your reaction. "Well if you'd be so kind as to show me," he flirts.

Your knees feel like giving up on you, and you're thankful that Micah's grip is tight enough around your waist to hold you upright. You go to open your mouth and invite him to find out, but you're cut off before you can even make a sound.

"Mister and Mrs. Bell?" A familiar voice asks. Both of your smiles fade as you turn to see Dutch standing there, his brows slightly furrowed. "What the hell was that?" he whispers through gritted teeth.

"She deserved it," Micah shrugs, his voice returning to his usual tone as he softens his grip on you.

"What happened?" he whispers.

"Dutch, trust me, anybody would have done the same. It seems I did everyone here a favour," you reassure him.

"I don't care if she deserved it or not. Just stop drawing attention to yourselves, please!" Dutch hisses.

Micah raises his hand innocently, "sure, boss," he says.

"We'll keep quiet," you add on.

"Thank you, now go and mingle," Dutch attempts to force a smile, waving his hands about as he encourages you to head back into the crowd.

He doesn't walk away, so you're forced to drag Micah back into the handful of strangers and continue where you left off, doing whatever you can to find at least a little something to take back to the camp.

Thanks for ruining the moment, Dutch.

The whole time you're speaking to these strangers, all you can think about is the flirtatious glisten Micah had in his eyes when he said that line. His hand is around your waist once more, only you're well aware of the way his hand is slowly trailing down you, eventually resting on your tailbone, a little too close to your ass, though you wish he'd move his hand a little lower.

A stranger quickly thanks you for having that woman kicked out of the party, and your bitching session about her is cut short from the loud bang coming from the sky. You almost drop your drink, surprised to hear what sounds like gunshots, only to turn and see the sky glowing an array of colours.

They're fireworks. You've heard about them before but never seen them, and despite how pretty they are, you wish they were a little quieter. Sure, you're a gunslinger, but loud noises still make you jump, despite being somewhat used to them.

Micah stands almost directly behind you, moving his hand to your hip as he pressed his body against yours. You relax against him, your back pressed against his chest and shoulder. Micah places his empty glass on a tray that trails past him, using that same hand to brush a few strands of hair from your face, catching your attention as you move your gaze off the fireworks.

"You think we're doing a good job, sweetheart?" Micah asks.

"A good job of what, exactly?" you reply.

"You know exactly what I'm on about," he chuckles. His gaze was soft on you to begin with, but it softens out even more as you make him laugh.

"I think we're doing well, but we can always do better," you flirt.

"Oh?" Micah smirks, picking up on your hints. "And how are we gonna do that, my love?"

Micah boldly places a gentle kiss to your temple, your heart fluttering as his 'stache brushes against your skin, a lot softer than you thought it'd be.

"Well, for a start, you could kiss my lips rather than my temple," you reply, just as boldly as his move.

"That so?" he smiles.

"It is so, darling," you reply.

"Just you wait," Miah grins, kissing your temple again. "I ain't gonna let that happen in the middle of these folk," he explains.

"That's alright, Mister Bell. I can wait," you reply as you rest your head against the crook of his neck, angling upwards so you can continue to watch the fireworks.

Micah places another kiss to your temple before wrapping his arms around your waist, enjoying the way your hand rests on top of his, the other one still holding your glass. He continues to place gentle kisses against you every so often, holding your back firmly against his chest.

Little do you know that Micah's heart is also racing just as fast as yours, his stomach feeling just as sick and his knees feeling just as weak. All those times he'd accidentally met your gaze from across the camp were times when he'd been admiring you, watching you from afar as he tries to figure out a non-creepy and non-cheesy way to talk to you.

When it comes to one night stands and quick hook-ups, Micah will blurt a few stereotypical pickup lines out and hope for the best, but he's been lovesick the second he saw you, and his feelings continued to grow the more he saw your personality come out within the camp. He felt a little jealous at first, finding a woman who's just as good with a gun and knife as he is, but the thought of "but what if she was mine?" struck his mind, and he then decided that he just had to have you.

Micah struggles to talk to women, he's barely interacted with them, and it's even worse growing up without a female role model in his life. But the camp continued to move and hunt for money, and when Micah found out that Dutch was invited to the mayors' party, he finally saw his chance. Despite trying to recommend taking another set of hands along, without Micah making it obvious that he wanted an excuse to talk to you, Dutch quickly picked up on what was going on and decided to stir the pot even more.

Originally, Micah just thought Dutch could do with his help and maybe take one of the ladies, but Dutch is smart and picks up on little things like the two of you admiring each other from afar. Dutch grinned as he thanked Micah for his suggestion, and then said he could do with a fake couple there so they had all their options open. Micah was quick to dip his hat over his face and blurt out "sure boss, I'll leave it to you," scurrying off when he realized that he'd dug this hole a lot deeper than it was meant to go, but he swallowed his fear and went along with it.

And here the two of you are, Micah leading you over to the gazebo at the back of the mayors' house to have a "little talk about the leads we've found." There's another couple stood on one side, but the gazebo is big enough so if the two of you stand on the other side and speak under your breaths then they won't hear you.

"Well, what you think?" Micah asks as he gently removes your hand from around his arm, holding it lightly in both of his hands as he leans back against the railing, crossing one ankle over the other.

"We got a few bit here 'n' there. It ain't been easy," you shrug. It seems that despite every single person here being an obnoxious prick, they had their guards up around strangers, not letting things slip out too easily.

"But have you had fun?" Micah chuckles.

"I've had fun playing dress-up with you, Micah," you grin, noting the way Micah's fidgeting with the ring on your finger, probably slightly nervous.

"We can always do it again some time," he flirts. "Maybe go to one of them fancy poker games they host at the saloon here," Micah suggests.

"Oh, I bet you'd enjoy that," you giggle. "Gambling, liquor, and me sittin' on your lap."

"How could I not enjoy that?" Micah asks as he stands upright. "But is it a sin if I do enjoy it?" Micah asks, his tone turning slightly stern as he looks into your eyes.

"Do you want it to be?" you ask, watching as Micah moves your hand from his to rest on his shoulder, his hands finding your waist.

"I ain't really bothered, sweetheart," Micah tells you with a little shrug. "Sin or not, I'll have you on my lap, so I'll be happy," he adds.

"You know, we ain't gotta play dress up again just for you to have me sit on your lap," you flirt as your other hand comes to rest on his shoulder, slowly wrapping around his neck.

"Don't say that, darlin'. Cause we both know that you'll get tired of me constantly takin' up that offer," Micah jokes.

"You think I'm gonna get tired of you, Mister Bell?"

"You might," Micah says with a shrug. He moves one hand off your waist to gently cup your chin, making sure your eyes are on his. "Mrs. Bell," he says with a grin, noticing the way your heart flutters at the sound of it.

"I bet you I won't," you smile.

"We'll just have to see about that, won't we?"

"We will, Mister Bell."

Micah gently moves his hand from your chin, gently brushing it along your jawline as he cups it, his thumb rubbing slowly over your cheek. You melt into his touch, and the sight of that is enough to pop Micah's patience.

He finally dips his head down, gently pressing his lips against yours, though he's not surprised when you begin to kiss back, deepening the kiss. Micah's hand moves from your cheek, joining the other one around your waist as he holds onto you, pulling your body against his.

Despite how firmly his lips are pressed against yours, his moustache is a lot softer than you imagined, running against your upper lip, lightly tickling you. There's the strong taste of champagne on his lips, and a faint taste of tobacco on his tongue as he slides it against yours. It's a good thing Micah has your body pressed up against his, holding you firmly, as you can feel your knees getting weaker by the second.

Micah lets out a soft sigh as he moves one hand to gently cup the back of your head. Your fingertips brush against his low ponytail, a style that you hoped to see him wear again. Maybe he'll keep it for this upper-class poker date that you'd both just planned, and even though neither of you said it was a date, the way you were gazing at each other says otherwise.

There's a sudden cough, and that's when you realize that someones been coughing to get your attention a few times now. You were far too engulfed in locking lips with your 'husband' that you didn't notice poor Arthur standing a few feet away, trying to get both of your attention.

Micah momentarily breaks the kiss to mumble "go away, Morgan," before bringing your lips back to his, continuing where you left off.

"We're leavin', Micah," Arthur tells him in a stern voice.

Micah ignores him, and although you feel bad for Arthur being there, you're not willing to break this kiss for anything. You've waited far too long for this.

"You two, come on," Arthur sighs, and Micah finally breaks away from you.

"Fine," Micah frowns as his gaze meets Arthurs. Arthur ignores his attitude and walks off, heading through the slowly-dispersing crowd to find the others.

Micah doesn't say anything but flashes you a cheeky smile as he offers his arm once more. You take it, and he leads you through the party, meeting the others who are already climbing into the stagecoach when you arrive.

Micah does most of the talking on the way back, telling the others about the few leads the two of you had found. His hand rests on your knee the whole journey back, and Dutch seems to notice it, smiling to himself.

When you arrive back at camp, Micah offers you his hand as he helps you down from the stagecoach, and despite being back, his hand still lingers in yours whilst you say goodnight to everyone.

"You want me to walk you home, Mrs. Bell?" Micah jokes.

"Oh, you're so kind, offering to walk me ten steps," you giggle.

Micah does it anyway, stopping outside your tent.

"I err..." Micah gulps, his eyes flicking around the camp, then back to you. "I had fun tonight. Now I know we didn't get many leads, but I still enjoyed myself."

"I did too. Maybe we'll make up for our losses when we go on that upper-class poker mission," you smile. Micah's eyes widen a little.

"You were serious about that?" he asks, a tint of doubt to his voice.

"I was. But I understand if you're tired of pretending to be my husband already," you jokingly sigh, bringing a smile back to Micah's face.

"I ain't ever gonna get tired of it. But if you're up for it, then well, I guess I better start lookin' for a way to make it happen," Micah replies.

"You let me know as soon as you find it."

"Anyway, I ain't gonna keep you up. You get to bed, sweetheart," Micah says as he takes hold of your hand, placing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.

"You still ain't learned where my lips are, have you?" you flirt, watching Micah's eyes light up at your comment.

"I guess you better show me then, Mrs. Bell," Micah grins, his face dipping down to meet yours as you lean up to kiss him, your arms wrapping around his neck once more.

Micah doesn't keep you up for too long, softly kissing you goodnight and finally letting you turn in. You hear him walk away as you close your tent flaps, taking your time to get undressed and get ready for bed. The whole time you're changing, your stomach is still turning with butterflies, in shock at tonight's turn of events, even though you adored all of them.

In some ways, the Gods finally did answer your prayers, giving you the sinner you fawned over rather than taking your feelings away. Either outcome would have been fine, but you definitely preferred this one, especially now you had a date lined up.

Maybe those romances that Mary-Beth reads aren't so silly after all.

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bunnys-beetlejuice-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Part two of my AU! You should start with But What If, Instead, or you may be a little confused. Or just dive in, that's cool too. Be a sexy rebel. It's what BJ would want.

He’s sixteen when green starts to grow on his face. He’s been dealing with the hair for years, now, and it’s mostly stable. Sure, he gets overwhelmed, and sure, it can still change quickly, but it’s not like when he was twelve and threw fits all the time that resulted in fire engine red. He wouldn’t say he’s the best at handling anger, for sure, for sure, for sure. That award will probably always go to his mother, Emily. But he’s gotten better at treating everything like a joke, which totally helps. Can’t get mad at what you don’t take seriously, right? It’s a philosophy that seems to frustrate his dad, who, in Betelgeuse’s opinion, takes everything way too seriously. Chuckster is lucky he’s got Emily to balance him out, or that case of stick in ass might have become terminal. So, yeah, alright, the green. He’s been growing facial hair lately, a thin pathetic little pencil mustache that nine year old Lydia calls his “creepo-stache,” and he’d be the first to admit, it’s pretty John Waters-esque, but it’s what he’s got, for now. That hair, of course, grows in green, and mixed with the corpse purple untertones he still hasn’t quite learned to glamour away convincingly, the effect is that he perpetually looks like he’s ready to put on a zombie remake of a 70’s porno. Metaphors sure are fun. At least the upper lip is starting to fill out, and the chin scruff has been on the rise, too, though he’s a far cry away from Charles’ majestic beard. He’s staring in his bathroom mirror after a shower, admiring his chubby, totally sexy self, when he notices a splotch of green on the left side of his nose. He smooshes his nose down a little with one hand, leans in closer, and squints. Must be somethin’ he ate? On his nose? For some reason? But then he notices there’s the same slight green color at his temples, too. He settles on scrubbing his face until his skin hurts a little, and when he’s done, he’s so flushed he can’t see the color, and assumes the matter is settled. And then a few days later, it’s darker. He’s sitting at dinner with the whole family, chewing with his mouth open to annoy Lydia, who gives him a swift kick to the shin under the table. “Now, if you ever hit me, and I find out about it,” he starts to tease, until he feels his mom flick his ear, and he turns to her. “You got some schmutz on your face, Bug. Come here.” Emily blots her napkin to her tongue, and then wipes at his nose, much to his chagrin. “Ew, seriously? Maaaaa,” he whines, but everyone at that table knows he’s soaking up the attention like a sponge. “I for sure feel so much cleaner with your spit smeared around my face, thank you so much, Emily Deetz.” Emily shooshes him and continues rubbing, but her napkin comes away clean. “Huh,” she glances down at it, and then back to the spot on the side of his nose, and squints. Lydia and Charles are leaning in too, now, and his sister grins. “There’s some on his forehead, mama, get him there,” and she’s successful in weaponizing their mother against him, because he hardly has time for a “Damn you-” before Emily is rubbing at the green stains on his temples, near his hairline. “What the heck is this, ink?” “I dunnoooo!” he winges, wiggling just enough to let her know he’s unhappy but not enough to flail and hurt her. When she finally relents and lets him go, a third hand sprouts from his back to pull the “hood” part of his black and white striped hoodie over his head, and he tightens the draw strings. “No more smearing spit on BJ, now, that part of dinner is done,” he says defensively, and Emily has the sense to look a little sheepish. “Sorry, Bug,” she pats his head, and he hisses in response, but no one, not even him, takes that seriously anymore. It’s a few more days until there’s a break in the case. He’s standing upside down on his bedroom ceiling, concentrating on a certain riff on his ukelele, and Lydia is flopped on his bed, passively watching Coraline on the beat up vintage TV he and Charles spent last summer fixing up. “I can’t get this to sound right,” he complains to her, and in response,

she turns the movie up louder. “Oh, haha, my sister, the fuckin’ comedianne, she’ll be here all week, everybody,” and he flops on the mattress next to her, which makes her bounce a bit before they both settle. He’s laying on his back, ukulele on his chest, mumbling and strumming, and she’s on her stomach, watching that kinda horny scene where the nude old lady with the huge honkers unzips her fuckin’ skin, when she glances over at him. “Your face spots are fuzzy, now,” she comments. “It’s called a beard, short stack. Dad’s had one since you were five, you’d think-” “Shut up, dummy, I meant the schmaltz.” “You mean the schmutz. Different words mean different things.” “Whatever. Your nose is growing hair, like grandpa. It’s barforiffic.” He frowns, and sets the ukulele down besides his bed, and conjures himself a little hand mirror from his pocket dimension. Lydia’s breath hitches, because no matter how many years it’s been, she still loves that trick, the way it’s like he’s pulling something out of nothing. He stares at the splotches in his hand mirror, beholding his face in mock horror like that episode of the Twilight Zone, the one with the pig faced people. All other details aside, she’s right, the splotches are growing hair, sort of. It doesn’t feel exactly like hair, when he reaches an experimental finger to poke at it, it’s sort of.. He can’t describe it. Grassy? Not really hair, more like a short, fuzzy… “It’s moss,” he realizes, positioning the mirror to check his forehead, where the vegetation is growing softly there, too. “Gross. How often do you shower, you neanderthal?” Lydia scrunches up her nose at him. “Careful, or you’re getting a face full of demon pits when you’re tryna sleep tonight,” he bites back at her. “I shower a normal amount. Maybe..” sharp teeth worry his bottom lip as he thinks. “I’m showering too much?” “That can’t possibly be your take away from this.” “Well I don’t know, Ly-dee-uhh,” he drags out her name. “It’s not like I’ve got a handy dandy guide to being an undead demon thing tucked away that explains all the rules that come with bein’ me, okay? I’m just thinkin’, I could count as dead cause, ya know. No heartbeat. Dead people probably.. I mean plants might grow on em, right? Like if one was left murdered and unburied in th’ world, like in a damp forest, and surrounded by nature, maybe somethin’ would grow on their putrid, rotting corpse flesh?” Lydia sits up, and leans over him, pushing the hand mirror out of the way. “I’m picking this off of you so I don’t have to hear about it anymore,” she says, simply, and then uses her surprisingly strong kid strength to dig into the runny splotch on his left temple. She runs a nail up his skin, scraping at him, and he purrs in response, tongue flicking out of his mouth, snake like. “Big scary demon dead guy, and all it takes to tame him is a little bit of attention,” she teases, and he gives another half hearted hiss. “You’re like a cat, BJ.” When she’s finished, she cleans under her nails and looks pleased. “I think I got it,” she nods, and he checks in his hand mirror. They both watch in silence as the moss seems to instantly grow back. “Moooooom!” he whines, sitting up and tossing the hand mirror over his shoulder, where it disappears into nothing without touching the ground, tucked back safe in his pocket dimension. Emily pokes her head in a moment later. “Yeah, what’s up, Beej?” She’s got her long blonde hair all done in a neat bun, and there’s the slight tone of exasperation to her voice. “You kids aren’t fighting, right?” she asks, stepping into the room. “I am literally just sitting here,” Lydia motions to the tv, still displaying the stop motion exploits of her current idol and role model. “The green crap on my face, it’s moss!” Betelgeuse whines to her, outright ignoring her question to begin with. “I’m growing moss on my face, and Lyds scraped it off but it instantly grew back!” “It was kinda cool,” Lydia admits, not giving her older brother the satisfaction of looking at him when she says it. Emily,

meanwhile, puts a finger on her chin, and scrunches up her nose in thought. “Maybe.. Some weed killer might get rid of it?” she suggests, clearly unsure. “So you want me to drink POISON,” Betelgeuse instantly flops back on the bed, left hand thrown over his forehead, all dramatic. “Lured me into the family just to try and murder me years later, huh? You fooled me! With love!” He opens his eyes in time to see both Emily and Lydia rolling theirs. “You can’t just magic it away?” Lydia pokes the moss on his nose. “The way you did your last report card?” “Judas,” he hisses, dropping the glamour enough to glare at her with his snake slit amber eyes. “You did what?” ``````````````````````````````````````````````````````` He’s back at school on Monday with a bandaid fix, which is literally a couple band aids across the spots, one plastered on his nose, the other one a large patch bandage on the spot on his temples where the green was growing in the most clearly. The bandages noticeably don’t blend in with his skin tone, despite touting themselves as flesh colored, because he’s got skin like a guy who never left his basement, and also is freshly fuckin’ dead. For extra cover, he’s wearing his “Guide” hat, a ratty gray policeman’s cap with a metal plate spelling out the word. Charles had bought for him from a Goodwill his first year up top. It does enough to hide the streaks of green, as long as he pulls it down a bit, and he’s not exactly known at school for being a style icon, so nobody thinks twice to see him wearing it, as he slips from the front seat of Charles’ car that morning. “Have a good day, son. Call me if.. If you need me,” Charles reminds him, and Lydia pipes up from the backseat. “Later, Bug beverage. Good luck.” She’s still feeling a bit guilty about snitching, apparently, because she blows him a kiss, which is super uncool and she clearly wants to take it back the second she’s done it, but he grins and pretends to catch it. “Later, family,” he closes the car door, and turns to face his day. School, he had learned a few years ago, is a uniquely breather torture experience thought up by the old to make the young loose out on their precious youths, there by getting back at them for being young and fun. That was his working theory all through his miserable first year of middle school, and high school is not disproving that theory in the least. He’s vaguely aware of the cliques that the breathers his age form, and there’s probably gossip about him, but for the most part, he’s just too weird for most of the humans his age to engage with him. He’s kind of got an aura, an indefinable something he can’t switch off, and it’s getting stronger the older he gets. Breathers are naturally more wary of him than they used to be. So yeah, he is the weird chubby kid in the striped hoodie and matching tripp pants, and under normal circumstances, he has to believe that would lead to bullying, but whatever ancient animal instinct these kids have, it tells them to steer clear of him. So school is, to put it frankly, lonely. It’s probably better to be mostly ignored than hated, he supposes, but that doesn’t make eating lunch in the quad by himself every day any less pathetic. He’s zoning out in first period, relaxing in his slacker seat in the back of the class, when things actually get interesting. Their teacher is a sort of slim, nervous looking man who teaches history, but right at that moment he’s announcing a new student. And it’s someone Betelgeuse recognizes, though he can’t place from where. The new boy, Kevin something Loh, apparently, is directed to take the only empty seat in the class, the seat right in front of Betelgeuse. As Kevin is walking down the aisle towards him, Betelgeuse is wracking his brain, trying to recall. Kevin is Asian, with high cheekbones and short black hair, carefully and deliberately styled. He’s also staring right at Betelgeuse. “You?” he whispers, sounding horrified. “Me,” Betelgeuse responds, propping his history book up on his desk and slumping down behind it, deciding he’s

fully content with napping this period away, and leaving this mystery unsolved. But Kevin is apparently worse at reading social cues than BJ is, because he’s still standing there, looming over Betelgeuse. “What are you doing here?” he hisses, sounding angry now, and Betelgeuse peaks up at him, amber eyes shining a faint amount from under the brim of his cap. “I am literally just sitting here.” “Mr. Loh, is there a problem?” their teacher askes, and the new kid whips around. “I refuse to sit next to this thing.” He points at Betelgeuse, who straightens up, a scowl playing across his features. “You wanna rephrase that?” the demon askes, gravely voice particularly dangerous sounding, because he’s NOT a thing. The humans all take note of the changing vibes in the room, growing uncomfortable. “Does someone want to switch with Mr. Loh, and sit in front of Mr. Deetz instead?” their teacher tries. The answer is silence. No one is giving up their seat next to friends to sit in front of the loner who smells like freshly dug grave dirt. “Well, then. Sit down, Mr. Loh. Mr. Deetz does not bite.” “But-” “Yeah, sit down, Kev, you’re interrupting my mid morning nap,” Betelgeuse scowls, fingers on his right hand twitching, and Kevin falls into his seat with a less than macho sounding yelp. From the glare he gets in return, he’s got a feeling Kevin’s not gonna be his new bff. When lunch rolls around, Betelgeuse finds his usual place in the quad, under the shade of a tree, and he’s about to summon forth his lunch from his little pocket dimension, when he hears a breather approaching from behind him. He’s sitting on the side that faces away from the main area, and all the happy friend groups enjoying their lunches and gossip, and towards the track field, cause if he’s gonna be sitting alone, at least he’s gonna get to watch boys and girls his age work up a sexy sweat. From a quick smell test he can tell the person approaching is Kevin. The guy reeks of some overly applied body spray mess, and it nearly puts him off his lunch. “What,” he groans, annoyed, not even looking back to address the other boy, and Kevin seems to freeze. He’d apparently thought he was being pretty sneaky. “Why are you following me?” is the first thing out of the new kid’s mouth, and that does actually cause Betelgeuse to turn and look at him, staring like Kev’s just proposed the earth is only round because Atlus keeps reinflating it to use like a blow up doll. “I,” Betelgeuse gestures very dramatically to himself. “Don’t knoooow,” he continues slowly. “Who you are.” Kevin, for some reason, seems to wilt a bit. “You really don’t remember me?” “I really don’t. Should I? You do somethin’ interestin’? Besides, single handedly keep Axe body spray in business?” “It’s not Axe!” Kevin stomps over to stand in front of him, offended. “Then axe it, my man, cause that scent is not workin’ for you,” Betelgeuse replies easily, leaning back against the tree to resume his track practice spying. “You juggled your head!” Kevin accuses him. Betelgeuse cocks an eyebrow, and his eyes flit back to Kevin. So he’s someone who had seen him use his powers, at some point? Yeesh. “You brought a field of pumpkins to life and nearly murdered me!” Ohhhh. “Yeah, well, you pushed me down,” Betelgeuse says, suddenly remembering. “So I guess we both suffered that day, didn’t we, Kev?” “So you admit it!” Kevin says tenselely, before sitting in the grass across from him. Betelgeuse watches him quietly. The breather seems confused. “Why are you here?” he asks, and Betelgeuse nods over at the bouncing, glistening track team. “The view.” Kevin glances in that direction and rolls his eyes. “Jackass, I meant at school,” he dead pans. Betelgeuse grins. “Well, th’ way my dad explained it, I have to be in government mandated kid jail, or else he goes to adult jail.” “So you’re a monster who has to go to school?” “Demon, but. Yeah.” Kevin’s eyes widen, and he whispers the word. “Demon.” There’s a beat as he ponders over that. “Those people, who were with you at the store.. Are they demons

too?” “What? Th’ Deetzs? Nah. They’re human as they come.” “And you live with them?” “Yup,” he pops the “p,” quickly growing annoyed with this line of questioning. “And they-” “Listen, man,” Betelgeuse apparates his lunch from nothing, which causes Kevin to flinch, before realizing it's just food. “Can we skip all this? It’s a life changing revelation for you, I’m sure, but forget bored stiff, this is giving me rigor mortis. Yes, I’m a demon. I go to school here cause I’m th’ Deetz’s son, and no, there’s nothing wrong with them.” He grimaces. “Just me. I’m not following you around to torment you, you’re not that special. And yes,” he holds up the sandwich from his lunch. “This is a turkey club on a croissant. My human dad packed it for me, because he loves me.” There’s a small moment of silence. Kevin opens his mouth, and Betelgeuse, own mouth now full of food, groans. “Why do you have bandages all over your face?” “Because I murdered a pedophile four years ago and his vengeful, freak ass ghost won’t let it go.” “Really?” “No. That’s not even how ghosts work. God, breathers are so gullible.” “You’re such a dick,” Kevin replies, but there’s a faint hint of a smile, there. Betelgeuse feels it tugging at his own lips, too. “I’m growing moss on my face,” he admits after a moment. “Wasn’t sure how else to keep it hidden, so. Bandages. Not that I really care what people think-” “I can tell from the tripp pants, yeah,” Kev interjects, and Betelgeuse flips him off before continuing. “I’m not trying to get a bunch of attention for being weird.” “Didn’t seem to bother you before,” Kevin comments, picking lazily at the grass around him, and Betelgeuse shrugs. “I was twelve. I’ve gotten a bit smarter, even if I was dragged kickin’ an’ screamin’ th’ whole damn way,” and this time, Kevin actually does smile. He mimics the other boy. He offers Kevin half his sandwich, and for the first time ever, he doesn’t eat lunch alone. They wait after school together, watching as their peers are picked up or loaded onto buses. “I used to have nightmares about you,” Kevin tells him, and Betelgeuse smiles flirtatiously. “So you’ve been dreamin’ of me. That’s hot.” He receives a punch in the arm for that. When his mom pulls up, with Lydia in tow in the backseat, he throws open the front passenger side door of the car. “Hey, ma, hey Lyds,” but Emily is looking past him. “BJ, is that a friend of yours?” She sounds thrilled. He turns and looks at Kevin, then back to her, and shrugs, but he’s smiling. “I dunno. He’s new, so we hung out at lunch, an’ talked. Maybe. I dunno.” “You should invite him over!” Emily grins, eyes shining. “Now?” “Now! We’re having take out for dinner, we could order more for him, easy! And he’s new, he probably doesn’t have any plans, and-” “Alright, alright, hold on,” he gripes, then waives Kevin over. The breather approaches the car, cautious. “Hey, so my mom, she says you can come over for dinner, if you want,” and God/Satan, he’s never felt more like an awkward, pimply faced teen than he does at that exact moment. If he sounds like a total loser, at least Kevin doesn’t seem to mind, cause he perks up. “Let me call my dad!” he whips out his cell phone so fast, Betelgeuse feels flattered. He actually wants to come over. He wants to spend some time together. Emily’s smile widens until she looks like a slasher on happy pills, and he climbs into the car front seat and nudges her. “Play it cool, ma,” he all but begs, and she looks to him. “I’m super cool, BJ. I’m a cool mom. Right, Lyds?” Lydia gives her best noncommittal shrug, the one Betelgeuse taught her, actually. “He said yes!” Kevin comes jogging back over to the car a minute later. “If that’s really okay, Mrs. Deetz?” “For sure! The more, the merrier!” They moved out of the apartment a little over a year ago. The new place had been a nightmare when they’d moved in, a Tudor style house with a lot of character, a lot of leftover trash, and a lot of bugs. He’d set about fixing that instantly, hunting down the tasty snacks, and Emily had stood in the middle of

the mess, chewing her bottom lip, and thinking. “I know, I know, it’s rough,” Charles had stood there, suddenly looking older than his age in a way Betelgeuse did not like. “But it’s a beautiful old house, with good bones, and room to grow, and.. It’s going to be a lot of work.” Lydia, precocious and eight, shuffled between her parents, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s a dump,” she declared, and both the adults looked down at her. “It’s not a dump,” Emily said. “It’s The Great Pacific Garbage Patch.” “Em!” Seemingly ignoring her husband, she turned and went back to the car, and didn’t return until she had her record player and a sample of her collection of vinyl with her. “BJ! Come give this a shock, please? The power’s not on yet.” Betelgeuse apparated at her side, a new trick he’d been practicing, and Emily, ever Emily, didn’t even flinch. She just patted his head, as he grabbed the cord and gave it a shock of green static. She placed a record in the player, and adjusted the needle. The familiar sounds of Calypso began to fill the house. “Let’s clean up,” Emily smiled, and, singing along and dancing and laughing, the family had begun their first of many clean ups. It’s a nice memory, one he looks back on often. They’re pulling up to the house, Kevin in tow, and despite the unease he feels at having a new person in his space, at least their house, full of love, is a comforting energy to be wrapped in.

They lead Kevin in, and he follows Betelgeuse up to his bedroom.

“So, we got your common bedroom items,” he gestures grandly as they enter his space. “Dead rat, TV, dresser, mirror for inter dimensional travel, severed head for juggling,” he acknowledges that moment in their shared history. “Old trunk full of demon secrets,” he gives the antique steamer trunk by the foot of his bed a kick. It pops open to reveal very normal looking magazines. “All that good stuff.” The wall paper he chose for his room is a black and white pinstripe that dad had called “busy,” and mom had called “him,” and Kevin blinks a bit in surprise. “You, uh, really are dedicated to the stripes, huh? I prefer a simple black myself.. Black is always a statement.” Betelgeuse snorts. “It’s my pattern,” he says, and Kevin sort of nods, clearly not getting it. He tries again. “It’s, you know, important?” Kevin glances at him, and nods again, but seemingly more hesitant. “It’s a demon thing,” Betelgeuse says finally, tired of even his own clunky attempts at subtly. “My animal is a snake,” he explains. “And my colors are black and white.” Kevin looks mystified. “So, what does that… mean?”

“Means it’s my aspect. It’s important.. Demon stuff.”

The teens look at each other. Kevin squints. “You don’t know what it means.” “I got no fuckin’ clue,” Betelgeuse admits, flopping on his back in the air and hanging there, reclining on nothing. “It’s somethin’, somethin’, dominion over th’ beasts that crawl on their bellies, foul an’ tainted, I think was th’ phrase. But I don’t usually get many chances to be around snakes, so it’s not a talent I get to practice much.” Kevin looks insanely jealous of the way he’s floating there, weightless, which was exactly the point Betelgeuse had in mind when he struck the floating pose to begin with. “Point bein’, I’m drawn to black an’ white.”

“Same way you’re drawn to sweaty track stars?” Kevin smirks, and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Fuckin’ exactly,” Betelgeuse grins at him, a smile Kevin matches. He might be out of his mind, but he feels something here. Kevin’s a good looking guy, and Betelgeuse isn’t exactly “picky.” He’s known for a long time his exact type is “someone who will give Betelgeuse attention and affection,” without worrying what exactly that means in the long run. “Gross,” rings a female voice, and the prolonged eye contact between the teens is broken by his nine year old sister, leaning against the door frame. She takes in the scene before her, him floating there, and Kevin.. Kevin seemingly looking a little flustered on the bed. He’s not sure if she gets what that’s about, hell, he hardly does, though he likes it. But she’s a bit young to pick up on romantic vibes, he thinks. Hopefully. “You’re not even trying to hide the whole, being a demon thing, are you?” she scowls. “Whatever, he already knew. He recognized me from the pumpkin patch. You probably don’t remember, you were five, but-” “I remember.” She squints, and then looks at Kevin, who gives a little waive. “What exactly are your intentions with my demon brother?” she asks, crossing her arms. Kevin actually blushes, a reaction Betelgeuse can both see and smell. Smells like blood and hormones, and it’s cute… he’s cute. “He’s just… weird. I’m, you know.. I just wanna know more. About him, and demons, and this otherworldly, supernatural business.” Ah. A little disappointing. He tries not to look let down, but he knows Lydia catches the look on his face. God/Satan, she’s a clever kid. “BJ isn’t your personal encyclopedia of paranormal bullshit. Besides, he hardly knows anything.” “Fuckin’ rude.” “Well!” she throws her hands up, a gesture he recognizes that she’s picked up from Emily. “I’m just saying, you don’t know enough to be that interesting.” He drops to his feet and puts a hand out, and she glares at him as an invisible force gently pushes her towards the door. “That’s enough, I think you’ve fulfilled your annoying little sibling requirements for today,” he grates at her, and she’s about out the door when Charles’ voice booms from downstairs. “Dinner!” Dinner is from Charles’ favorite Thai place, and the amount of food ordered seems to throw Kevin off guard. There’s a tall stack of delicious smelling styrofoam boxes, all of which are systematically set on the kitchen counter in a line, and the Deetz family goes through with plates, and helps themselves. It becomes clear pretty quickly that the amount ordered has more to do with who is eating, and not what they’re eating. Betelgeuse simply picks up two or three boxes instead of a plate, and settles at the table. His excuse for being a glutton has always been that his powers require a lot of energy for upkeep, but he’s not actually sure if that’s true. Also, it’s an excuse he’s never actually had to use, at least not in this house, because despite being somewhat akin to a garbage disposal in terms of food, his parents never give him any crap for eating. When he’d shown up, a skinny feral bitey little fuck, they’d been very encouraging of him stuffing his face. Now he’s older, obviously, and maybe he’s a bit chubby for his age, but it seems the entire family figures it’s better than looking starved, like he did before. He doesn’t think he’ll die if he doesn’t eat, but it feels good to have a full stomach, and he likes the way food tastes, so yes, he eats a lot. The way he sees it, it just means more B-Man to go around. Kevin, meanwhile, takes a polite amount and sits down next to him. “So, Kevin! Today was your first day?” Emily smiles brightly to the teen, who nods. “Yeah, I’m living with my dad now, so... new school,” he explains. Betelgeuse has the urge to pick up one of his boxes of food and take a cartoonish bite, like it’s a sandwich, but he doesn’t think that gag will play, right at this moment. “BJ has never brought a friend over before,” Charles says, unhelpfully. “Have too!” Betelgeuse protests, because he’s not trying to look like a total freak ass loser in front of the one person who seems

interested in talking to him.

Charles furrows his brow. “Who..? Oh, well…” he pauses. “I don’t know if.. If Sam counts…” “Sam was cool,” Lydia interjects, staring at Kevin, the unfinished half of her sentence being, “unlike you.” He’s got no clue why she’s gunning for Kev the way she is, but it’s kinda funny to watch a nine year old intimidate a teen. “He came over, didn’t he? Sure, it was uninvited, through a mirror, but I’m counting it anyways.” “BJ,” Charles starts, but Betelgeuse just shrugs. “It’s fine, dad. He knows. He was at the pumpkin patch.” It takes Charles and Emily a moment, but they both suddenly look nervous. “BJ is a good kid!” Emily blurts immediately, sounding defensive and looking at Kev, who sort of gives a nod. “It’s cool, I… threw tantrums when I was little, too. I mean, mine weren’t like. Cool vegetation apocalypses, but, you know.” He gives an easy shrug, before looking at Betelgeuse. “Who is Sam? Another demon?” “A better demon,” Lydia mutters, and at this point, he’s a second away from teleporting her into the neighbor’s pool. “He’s like Santa for Halloween, if Santa enforced Christmas time cheer with extreme violence.” “He’s Halloween Krampus,” Emily supplies helpfully, and he nods. “He’s the spirit of Halloween, and he’s cool. He’s only around one night, and he’s usually busy workin’, but when he gets a moment he pops in and we hang out. You’d probably-” like him isn’t exactly the right words. Humans don’t tend to feel easy in Sam’s presence. “- get along?” he finishes, but that also doesn’t seem likely. Sam isn’t outright cruel… usually. But his aura is clearly threatening, and he doesn’t play nice. The only reason Betelgeuse isn’t worried about his humans is because Sam has very clear, very structured rules. Rules that Emily had already been following, regardless of demonic threat. Also, last Halloween, Lydia had gone as Sam, orange jumpsuit, burlap sack and button eyes and everything, and Sam, ever a being of few words, had said, Flattered. He figures that probably earned the Deetz family at least one get out of murder free card. “This is all so cool,” Kevin twirls his fork around his pad phak. “It’s like, something from a movie. I can’t believe demons are.. Real. And I know about them.” There is, for a moment, a shine in his eyes that makes Betelgeuse uncomfortable, but it passes so quickly, he starts to assume he imagined it. He gives in, picks up a styrofoam box full of spicy chicken, and takes a bite out of the whole thing. His dad groans. After they’re done eating, they play video games, and whatever that moment was at dinner, he forces himself to forget it. Kevin is cute, and Kevin wants to talk to him, and that’s about as much as he cares to think about, right now. When Mr. Loh comes to pick him up, Kevin gives Betelgeuse’s hand a squeeze. It’s just the two of them, on the front porch, under the stars only he can see, because light pollution makes them invisible to the human eyes. Still, the setting feels intimate, and that hand holding cements it, at least at that moment. He’s not imagining it. “See you tomorrow?” Kevin smiles, and Betelgeuse knows his face flushes a little more purple at that. “Uh, yeah, for sure,” he says, and Kevin steps off the front porch and hurries to his dad’s car, their moment broken, but he stands there a while anyways, even after the car disappears down the street. He takes his own hand in hand, and gives it a squeeze, trying to imitate what Kevin had done flawlessly. He wanders inside after a while, but just stands with his back to the front door, replaying that simple moment over and over, until Charles, passing him on his way up to bed, pauses. “BJ? Your hair is… pink.”

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice fanfiction #lydia deetz #emily deetz #otho beetlejuice

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aggresivelyfriendly · 4 years ago

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Hi! So, this is just smut, I’ve been in a mood. It’s not even the same POV, but I decided halfway through my fantasy about shaving Harry’s face so I could see the curl of his lips, it would fit in this universe. Or not, but I don’t think you all will mind, 😉!! Enjoy!

Day ?: The One With The Mustache

"Is there a reason you are wearing so many clothes?" He asked from the French doors separating our bathroom from the bedchamber.

It's not a ton of clothes, not really, a thigh high robe and some strategic silk rigging beneath. It is, however, way more coverage than every other greeting Harry has gotten from me since we moved in together if he's been away more than a night.

There is a plan though. I have an agenda to carry out this evening. Things have gotten out of hand. I love my boyfriend, even have an affection for the dirtbag college kid on a worldwide backpacking adventure thing he has going on. Some affection, but I miss the way his lips move when they are unobstructed, when he speaks and when they touch my body.

He's been scruffy off and on since we met. Quarantine has gone on a lot longer than we expected,honestly, and everything is overgrown. My hair is super long and my brows are a bit unkempt, I know, but Im going to need the facial scruff he grew out of laziness and kept out of relish, to go. I kinda like the dimple peeking beneath the 70's porn stache sometimes. I can at least see the camp value and the era reference he revers, but I really miss his mouth.

The structure of his jaw and strength of his chin, the smooth, perfect skin under my hand. I have a plan to get him to shave it. A good one, I think?

"Would we call this a lot of clothing?" I pretend to be confused and run a finger beneath the lace and silk to pull it out so a shadow of full breast is on display.

Harry groans. The smile playing at the corners of my lips is suppressed, I gape my eyes and tilt my head in faux confusion.

"Not a lot, but way more than you usually favor me with when I've been away." His eyes have zeroed in on my cleavage.

"Ahh, well, maybe I want you to take it off me."

He's already moving. "I can do that!" His fingers are also at the top button of the peasant shirt he is wearing.

I'm laughing, "looks like you've got yourself taken care of!"

"Now you!" His hands are on my shoulders, trying to push the robe off.

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" I chide.

"What, why?" He looks bewildered, and I suppose we always move at a hasty pace, except the first time, so slow down or wait aren't words he hears on my lips often.

"I have a plan for you, a surprise." His eyebrows raise and he's smirking.

"Yeah!" That expression solidifies my plan. I can't see the glory of it for his facial hair friend. I do need one more go with it though, for posterity's sake.

"Yeah! So, you keep doing what you were doing." His hands are already popping the button on his classic fit jeans. "Good boy." I slither by him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, and my breasts to his chest. I'm even more obvious when I bend down to the bath, and light the cinnamon candle he keeps there. I make sure he can see the bottom of my ass cheeks beneath my silk drawers. "Was the drive miserable?"

"The drive?" Ah, attention diverted. I smile over my shoulder and his eyes glance up to my face. "No, no, actually it was lovely. Just missing you."

"You look like you've had a long couple days. Hop in the tub,"

"Are you gently saying I look dirty?" He's joking, but spot on.

I sit at the back of the tub on the stool I've placed there, pulling up my robe so my knickers flash. "I'm going to wash you up." I give him the grin I know he loves. "Then i have another plan of how we can get dirty again."

His pants hit the floor and he's going right along with me. I chuckle when he splashes some water over the claw foot rim. "Ok!" He looks up at me.

"Get wet." I tell him.

"You too."

"Already taken care of." He groans and turns his whole body around to bury his head between my thighs. "Hold on!" I delay. "Let me pamper you."

"Then let me smell you." he looks up at me and it's like seeing his devastating eyes, squared. The water is just below his chin, so he has a handsome, wet haired twin. He looks so enticing, his eyes so magnetic I nearly forget my plan."

"I wanted to wash you up." I lean forward so he has a good view of my chest again.

Harry pushes me back and drifts his hand low. "Let me get dirtier first." He's edging my panties aside and leaning in. I can hear the audible inhale and I'm convinced. "Ill even leave your clothes on, play by the rules!" His nose glances up the gatherings of my clitoral hood and hits my center while he gives me a textured kiss on my opening.

I guess I'm having my mustache ride now. "Yeah." And my head gets soft on my neck. "Let me stand up, you'll hurt your back." He nods and comes to his knees at the edge of the tub. The stool clatters behind me as I step up to his mouth. I push back my robe and he pulls the scrap of silk bunched over one labia all the way to one side.

His grip on my ass cheek alone could still me in the moment, but the thumb he hooks inside me, with unerring accuracy on my spongy spot, anchors me to this act, this moment, his face. The bristles of his mustache prickle at my swelling lips and I sigh. He smiles and swipes his face over the angles where my hips meet my torso. He looks proud, and it does feel nice. I may as well enjoy it while It lasts.

It's past the stage where it scratched the tender pink skin of my pussy, it's softer and textured and smells of me when he kisses me after he's given me head.

Maybe I won't shave it?

Or, I can just let it grow back to enjoy all the stages again.

Like this one, where it tickles and smoothes over me top to tail when he gives me the long broad stroke of his tongue, just the way I like. It does blunt the pressure a bit, so that's another point for team shave. The gentle wet glide up and over me over and over has my hips going.

His thumb is providing pressure from the inside as I ride his tongue where his mouth has latched onto my clit. "Oh fuck, Harry!" My neck has gone completely soft, and when I see his other hand working over his thick cock, I'm not sure how my knees hold up.

I'm afraid to put so much pressure on his jaw, But then the electricity gathering in my veins snaps and the seize rolls up my spine and my muscles relax. The choice is out in my hands and all my weight comes down on him. His busy hand stops to wrap around my waist while he gentles his tongue over my leavings and nuzzles his mustache over my trimmed mound and caresses me softly from the inside out.

"Mmmmm." He nips my thigh and licks me once more. I push his head away and collapse backward nearly tripping over the stool.

"Damn." Is the only word I can find.

"Ready to take off the robe and get in with me?" His slim eyebrow is high and his dimple is dented deeply.

"No," I giggle in my boneless state and lean forward to kiss his messy mouth. The mustache captures more of my flavor and I can smell myself while I taste his tongue covered in my release. "You're really very dirty, still." We both chuckle. I stare in his eyes and take out the clip holding his curls back. They bounce over my forehead. "Let me wash your hair now you've taken such good care of me."

He pecks my lips, it tickles. "Alright baby." He settles into the water and dips below, the tan of his skin and black or his tattoos blurring around the edges. He looks like something out of a surrealist movie; I ache over it. I trace a bird as he surfaces before focusing on his hair. I run my hands through the lush whirls and make sure it's wet before putting a dollop of shampoo into my hand and onto his head. I rub it in and get a good lather before scratching his scalp and massaging behind his ears. He's moaning and his dick is back to full mast from the attention.

"Who knew your scalp was an errogeneous zone?" I whisper into his ear.

"You make my whole body alive." He says and kisses me before in playfully submerge him and work out the lather with my fingers.

The conditioner is slick through his tresses and I let it sit while I massage his shoulders.

"Are you going to do this every time I come home? Might make leaving worth it." He looks back. "Almost."

"No," I lean in again. "I'm buttering you up."

"Whatever you want, it's yours." He moans over a tight knot in working out. "Consider me buttered."

"I want." I kiss his cheek. The corner of his mouth, slick my tongue quickly at the curl of his top lip I love so. He's turned into me and his breath pants over my mouth. "To shave you." He narrows his eyes before I complete the almost kiss we've been breathing.

"Shave what?" Oh, I forgot I shaved his balls that one time. He palms his jewels. "I've been keeping that up."

"No, not there." I kiss him, and the mustache interferes with the lip bite I try for. So I chew it a little. I hope ha catches my drift as I confirm it has to go for myself.

"My mustache?" He pulls back to look. "You seemed to like it a moment ago.

"I do, and you could always grow it back. But, I miss your face, and the way your smooth jaw feels on my neck, my thighs. Your lips, I need unfettered access to them." I'm saying all this a hairsbreath from his mouth.

"I like it." He harrumphs.

"I like it too. But not as much as I like you clean shaven." I finally kiss him. "I'll reward you! Shave and a haircut for my bits?" I let my robe Hit the ground then.

"You want me to cut my hair?" He's smirking. He knows how I like his long hair. I confessed it was my favorite.

"No, but my deal wasn't as cute without it."

"Alright love, so long as I can grow it back."

"It's not gonna take you 26 years again. You can grow a mustache now Harry! Triumph completed." We are both laughing as I grab a towel and he's stepped out while I dry him from the bottom up. I move the stool and pull out the kit I readied. "Have a seat."

"When does your top come off." He gives his cock a lazy pull and it's still chubbed. It's distracting; I'm impatient to get to that later.

"Well, since you're starting to look like you actually bathe," I roll my eyes. "I'll give you a little now."

"How does this work? One nip for half of my mustache? What do I get for the beard?"

I slide a bra strap down to the crook of my elbow and know my nipple presses up and out of it. I straddle a thigh too and grab the towel I soaked in hot, hot water and wrung out. "Close your eyes."

"Then I miss your nipple." He pulls the fabric down farther, and once again his mustache tickles over my body, his tongue on the peak of my breast and the hard suck make up for it.

"Good things come to those who wait."I remind him and buss his wet lips. I'll see more of their see pink color with out his facial hair as wel. "Lean your head back and close your eyes."

I wrap the towel around his tipped back face and he sighs. The bra is gone before the 30 seconds are over. His eyes naturally come open when I take off the towel, but before he can give some cheeky comment to accompany his widened eyes, I turn on the trimmer.

"That sound usually means something different?" I'd blush if he didn't like using my vibe on me so much.

"Does it?" I step closer and my thigh grazes his shaft.

"I guess not."

"Tighten your lip?" He makes a face but complies and shrugs as if to ask if he's got it.

"Perfect!" I kiss his forehead and trim his mustache down to stubble, continuing on to his cheeks. I sigh. "Hi handsome!"

"I've been here." He says.

"I just haven't been able to see your pretty face." I pucker his lips and kiss them and he raspberries a breath out.

"Alright, I get it, you don't like it!"

"Not really, but I like you!" I straddle his lap to spread the shaving cream.

"You didn't even like it between your thighs?" He cups my ass and his fingers linger at my entrance. I suck in a breath.

"This would be sexier if you didn't look like Harry Claus." I giggle.

"It would be sexier with my beard." He pouts. "You really didn't like it." I slowly smooth the razor over his cheek, he moves with me like a dance. We rock and he rolls just the way I need him to, flexing and tightening his jaw to make the skin taut so I don't nick him.

Once his face and chin are clean, I stand back and slide off my panties before stepping in and gesturing for him to tighten his lip. I wick one side free of hair, and wipe the area to kiss it. "I did like when you ate my pussy with it, especially today, before the stubble kinda scratched me sometimes. But the full mustache felt nice, if it didn't tickle." I take off the other side of his mustache as well, wipe his face and sit full across him with his weeping shaft between us. I languidly kiss him, the way he loves, and he may not have known the mustache impeded. "I don't like anything getting between me and this mouth!" My hand slides between us and I grip him tight. "Or this cock." And I slide my bare skin over him hoping he catches the other surprise I have for him.

I'm pressed back on the vanity top with my toes clutching the lip and my hair mussed against the mirror with my beautiful man between my thighs a moment later

"Nothing between us?" His tip is resting impatiently at my opening.

"IUD is in. Play through- ahhhh!" The words aren't over my lips before he's balls deep inside me.

It's rough, my head bounces on the mirror and the slaps of our skin fill the air.

It's perfect. The hour long foreplay means I'm dripping onto his neatly trimmed bush already, only an easy give at his considerable intrusion.

"Fuck, Harry!" I say after aso close already.

"You about to tap out?" He looks amused. "I'm just home."

"What can I say?" I moan over a deep stroke, and my fingers find my clit to help myself along. "I just needed some firm," my other hand sweeps over his jaw, "smooth," I wick my thumb over his upper lip. "Strokes!" And then My blood is fizzing through my veins and my hand loses its rhythm.

Harry fucks me through the denouement, and then I'm flipped onto my belly, my toes leaving the floor occasionally with his powerful thrusts.

Hours later, he's looking at himself in the mirror where he's shaved again. Against the grain, so no stubble troubles my thighs. "You really won't miss it, at all?"

"You can grow it back." I shrug, "At some point, I'm sure I'll miss my mustache rides."

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #the one where harry styles sneezed on me #day ?#the one with the mustache

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haddonfieldproject · 3 years ago

Text

<<PREVIOUS⏺<<CONTENTS>>

1.3.3 November 1st, ‪8:17 AM‬

Haddonfield, Illinois

“Mr. Mayor?”

Bob Dodge stirred.

“Mr. Mayor?”

Bob rolled over and wiped the drool from his chin. As he went to put his hand down, it landed on a mesh of soft frizzy hair. He peeked open an eye and saw his reflection.

Mirror on the ceiling.

He hadn't noticed it last night.

Of course there was a mirror on the ceiling in Lou Martini's spare bedroom.

He saw himself, shirtless, on top of the covers, in a pair of silk black boxer shorts. Asia lay on her belly on one side of him. She lay under the giant black ostrich feather comforter, atop the satin purple sheets. Her mocha colored naked back gleamed in the sunlight peaking through the zebra striped curtains. Dodge didn't remember the mirrors on the ceiling, but he remembered she was naked under that blanket.

On the other side of him was another woman. She was a pale white, with a butterfly tattoo on her naked shoulder. She also lay on her belly. Her hair was long and black, the covers down near her waist. She was naked as well. Bob Dodge didn't recognize her at all.

Who is that? Amy? Lacy?

“Mr. Mayor?!”

Bob grunted and touched his chin to his chest, looking toward the foot of the bed. His brain started to swim into consciousness.

Somebody is calling me.

A figure stood in the doorway. He was tall, skinny, wearing a bowling style shirt and cargo jeans. He wore a porn-stache, rose tinted glasses, and a gawdy gold necklace with a pendant with some sort of Egyptian heiroglyph on it.

That's Lou's right hand man? What's his name? Henry? Huey?

“Mr. Mayor, are you awake?”

Bob sat up on his elbow and looked over Asia at the bedside table. There, beside the silver tray bearing the remnants of Dodge's cocaine, as well as the straw and razor blade that went with it, and the half-empty pack of Asia's Camel cigarettes, was a pink and white alarm clock. It read ‪8:37‬. He had been asleep for around four hours.

“What?” Bob croaked.

Asia stirred. The brunette snored.

I think it's Lacy, Bob thought.

“Someone's here to see you.” The man in the doorway said.

Howard. The fog was lifting. Howard Boggs.

“Tell em to go the fuck away!” Bob waved his hand.

The brunette stirred this time.

Pretty sure it's Lacy.

“I think you need to come downstairs,” Howard said.

Bob didn't like his tone.

🔪

Three minutes later, Bob descended the mahogany staircase, wrapped in a fuzzy black robe. Lou Martini stood behind a marble-topped bar, cooking scrambled eggs on a giant stainless steel stove. The smell made Bob's stomach flop.

Howard stood on one side of the bar, looking at Dodge with an expression-less stare, a cigarette between two ringed fingers on his right hand. He was bent over the bar with his hands on the top of the counter, as one pulled over by the police would have their hands on the hood of a police car.

Standing beside Howard and blocking Dodge's view of Lou in the kitchen was a gentleman Bob knew well and never had any desire to see. He was a tall, thin, old man, with hair as white as cotton, and a small thin mustache around his wrinkled mouth. His eyes were icy blue, his head covered in liver spots, his gait that of a skeleton who had forgotten to shed it's skin long ago. He wore a ridiculous white shirt with a blue pattern on the breast, jeans too tight for even Lacy or whatever the hell her name was to wear, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat and one of those belt buckles bigger than his head. It almost made Bob Dodge laugh to see him. He'd known this man his whole life, and he knew this old geezer had never been to the Wild West. He'd never ever left Warren County Illinois.

“Well well well,” the old man said behind his icy glare. “Sleeping beauty awakes.”

Lou looked up from his eggs as Bob padded across the bear skinned rug toward the kitchen area. The living room was decorated in green wallpaper, and adorned with a great many wild animal heads. The killer of most of these animals, Lou Martini, was wearing a plush purple robe, his hair was that ridiculous shiny black and his skin still bore a faint green palor left over from the previous night's make-up where he had been Frankenstein’s Monster.

Bob yawned before asking the older man in the cowboy hat, “What are you doing here Ron?”

The older man scoffed. “I wonder whatever happened to that fat little kid still in grade school who used to serve me curly fries at the Drive-In and say, 'Good evening Sherriff Barstow' or pass me in the Rite Aid and say, 'Good morning Mr. Mayor.' What happened to that kid Robert? Huh.”

Lou looked up with another smirk as he pushed the scrambled eggs off the pan and onto a plate with a spatula.

Bob burped, “That kid grew up Sherriff” He said with a smile.

“Yeah...grew up to be an asshole,” Ron Barstow spat.

“Still sore from losing that election a few years ago?” Bob said as he reached the bar. He sat atop a barstool and put his elbows on the counter.

“Please,” Barstow laughed with no amusement.

Lou put the plate of eggs in front of Bob.

“Oh I don't want that,” Bob said, making a face at the plate.

Lou was about to say something but Ron Barstow cut him off. “Oh you're gonna want to eat today Mr. Mayor, you're gonna be in for a long day.”

Bob cocked his head in confusion.

“You want coffee?” Lou asked. “I have juice too.”

“Coffee...please.” Bob replied.

“Cream and sugar?” Lou asked.

“Oh I think he needs it black from the smell of him. Black and strong.” Ron looked Bob Dodge up and down with disgust.

“What the hell are you doing here? Just what do you want?” Bob asked.

“What am I doing here?” Ron scoffed again, “I should ask you the same thing. Why aren't you at home with Leigh Ann, Christ knows she deserves better than you. And what about Leighton Bob? How do you think your little girl feels about her father, the mayor of the town, sneaking in the early morning. She's getting older now, you think she doesn't know what you're up to?”

Lou put the coffee down in front of Bob. Bob grabbed his wrist. “What the fuck Lou? You let this asshole in to ream me this morning? What gives?”

Again, Lou was about to say something and Ron cut him off.

“Do you have any idea what is going on in this little town of yours this morning?” Ron asked.

Bob let go of Lou's hand, “What are you talking about?” He turned to Lou, “What is he talking about?!” He barked.

“I don't know,” Lou said, he turned to Ron, “What the hell are you talking about Sherriff?”

“Turn on the god damned news!” Ron barked.

NEXT>>

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7-wonders · 5 years ago

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a one shot where the reader and xavier have been crushing on each other for a while then they express their feelings and make out while sitting out on the dock over the lake at camp redwood?

Word count: 1.4k

“Montana, truth or dare?” Trevor asks dramatically, taking a swig of his beer as he cocks an eyebrow at the blonde bombshell.

“Uh, truth.” The counselors of Camp Redwood are gathered around in the boys’ cabin, playing a rather juvenile game of Truth or Dare to celebrate the night before the campers arrive.

“What…what’s the riskiest place you’ve ever had sex?” You roll your eyes, having figured that the man whose one glowing achievement is getting kicked out of a Jane Fonda workout video because of his huge dick would ask a sexual question.

“In the locker room, right after one of my aerobics classes,” she smirks at the awed noises that come from her fellow counselors, knowing that this would cause an uproar.

“Shit, with who?” Ray can’t help but to be curious, asking the question you’ve all been thinking.

“I never kiss and tell,” Montana says airily. “But it wasn’t anybody here, that’s for sure.”

“Alright, it’s your turn to ask, Tana,” Brooke says quietly, knees tucked to her chest as she nervously watches Chet and Montana pass a joint back and forth.

“Hmm, okay.” She sucks her teeth, looking around the room with narrowed eyes. “Xavier! Truth or dare.”

“Dare,” he says in that cool voice that makes goosebumps prick at your skin, “because I’m not a pussy like some people in this room.”

Montana rolls her eyes. “Whatever, you’re just jealous that it wasn’t you I fucked in the locker room.” It’s a well-known fact that the two had quite the messy relationship and breakup, the effects of that still seeping into their friendship. “I dare you to play Seven Minutes In Heaven.”

“Really? Are we in middle school?”

“Says the guy willingly playing Truth or Dare.”

“Fine!” Xavier sighs, looking around. “You want me to go stand in the closet, then?”

“No, let’s spice it up. Go and wait out on the dock.” Xavier stands up, waving mockingly at the group before sauntering out of the cabin. Montana waits until the screen door clatters shut behind him before turning back to the circle excitedly. “Alright, let’s take a vote! Who should be Xavier’s mystery girl?”

“Can I nominate Chef Bertie?” you joke, referencing Bertie’s clear rebuff of Xavier’s sarcastic advances earlier in the day.

“No, but I want to nominate you.” Immediately, your heart drops into your stomach.

“Montana, no! That’s not fair!”

“Why’s it not fair? I thought Montana was the one who dated Xavier,” Trevor asks.

“I did. But, sweet (Y/N) here has a crush on our Xavier, who happens to feel the same way,” Montana chuckles.

“Nah, Xavier’s whipped for (Y/N), he’s got it bad,” Ray chimes in.

“No, he doesn’t! Ever since I told Montana when we were drunk, all you guys have done is take pity on me. There’s no way in hell he likes me like that,” you insist.

“Well, now’s your chance to find out!” Montana counters.

“And what if I don’t go?”

“Please, (Y/N)?” Montana asks, smiling and batting her eyelashes at you as she grabs your arm. “Do it for me. You’ve said that you want this summer to be life-changing; start with this!”

“Fine,” you say after a pause. “But I’m not going to guarantee anything will happen.”

“That’s alright, just face your fears and go do something that makes your heart race.” Mallory stands with you, keeping a hold on you as you walk to the door to make sure that you actually do make it out the door. She nearly pushes you out of the cabin, waving at you as the door shuts behind you. “Have fun!”

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you start to walk quickly in the direction of the lake. Logically, you know that Mr. Jingles isn’t lurking out in these woods, 14 years after he killed every camper and counselor at this very camp. The campfire story from earlier, however, is hard to get out of your mind as your ears strain to hear any sort of jingling keys from behind a tree.

Xavier’s standing at the edge of the dock, biting his nail (a nervous habit only you and Montana know he has) and looking out at the water. When your footsteps sound on the wood of the dock, he turns around.

“Oh good, it’s you!” Your heart flutters momentarily. “Was worried it was gonna be Jingles instead.” Hiding the disappointment, you shrug and walk closer.

“What, your own scary story freak you out?”

“Hey, you never know what’s lurking in the woods.” You sit down on the edge of the dock, letting your feet dangle above the water as Xavier sits next to you. “So, you drew the short straw?”

“It was either me or Trevor, and I figured you’d rather talk with me instead of staring at that furry ‘stache of his for seven minutes.” Xavier laughs, the sound of it making you smile before you both fall silent.

“So…” Xavier says awkwardly.

“So…”

“Oh, are you cold?” You look down, not realizing that you still had your arms wrapped around yourself. “Here, take my jacket.”

Before you can protest, Xavier’s large purple jacket is draped over your shoulders. You pull it tighter around you as your face heats up, smelling Xavier’s cologne wafting off of the fabric.

“Aren’t you gonna be cold?”

Xavier shrugs, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“Well…thanks.”

“Y’know,” Xavier says, leaning back on his hands and cocking his head towards you, “I am really glad that it’s you who got picked, and not because you’re not a murderer or anything like that.”

“Really? Thought you would have wanted it to be Brooke or Montana.”

“Montana would end up drowning me in the lake if I gave her the chance, and Brooke isn’t my type.”

“I would have thought she was your next conquest, with the way you were all over her earlier.” You punctuate the sentence with a friendly nudge against his shoulder and a wink, not wanting to sound like you’re jealous.

“No, that was just…she reminds me of my little sister, y’know? I felt bad for scaring her, and wanted to remind her that it was okay and I was just telling a story.”

“You have a little sister?”

“Yeah, she’s gonna be a junior in high school.” Xavier smiles wistfully, and your heart clenches painfully at the softness he’s displaying.

“So why are you happy it was me then?” Even in the dim light of the moon, you can see Xavier’s cheekbones become dusted with pink.

“Besides the fact that you’re pretty bitchin’? I’ve…kind of had a thing for you for a couple of months now.”

“A ‘thing?’“ you squeak, nearly in disbelief that this is actually happening.

“A crush, I guess, since apparently we’re middle schoolers now.” His blue eyes flick over to you, laughing nervously when he sees how wide your eyes are. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything. Chet’s been telling me to go for it for, like, a month, but I’ve been too chicken to do anything, and now I’ve probably fucked everything up.”

“Xavier!” you put your hand on his leg to stop his rambling. “I like you too. Montana planned all of this, she must have known that we were both too scared to do anything.”

“Shut up,” he says with a smile, “there’s no way a girl like you is into me.”

“There’s no way a guy like you is into me.”

“Let me prove it to you?” Xavier asks, his eyes flickering to your lips before he looks back at your eyes.

Speechless, all you can do is nod as Xavier starts to lean in, tilting you chin with his hand as his lips meet yours. They’re just as soft as you thought they would be, and you can feel him smirking against you as you eagerly reciprocate the kiss. Your lips work against his, and you’re almost shocked at how slow and sweet he’s taking things. From what Montana had told you about their whirlwind relationship, everything about him was rough and fast.

“Time’s up!” Montana’s voice shouts from back at the cabin, breaking you and Xavier apart.

You both smile shyly at each other, Xavier standing up and pulling you up with him. You note with pride that he doesn’t let go of your hand until you get back to the cabin, and then only to open the door, but the sight of his jacket keeping you warm is more than enough to send the room into a delighted uproar. You couldn’t care less about their reactions, lost in a hazy glow as Xavier sits next to you, refusing to let you out of arms’ reach.

#xavier plympton #xavier plympton imagine #xavier plympton x reader #ahs imagine #AHS #ahs imagines #ahs 1984 #ahs 1984 imagine

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