spencers-love
spencers-love
Spencer's-love
620 posts
MDNI, 18+ blog. 23 year old they/them
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spencers-love · 13 days ago
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Heads up, UK friends.
Discord has implemented the age verification requirement system per the upcoming law going into affect later this week early, so prepare yourself for other sites, which may include Tumblr given the intent is to target adult content which may affect here because of how it still does get posted here, even if the intended targets are the actual site for it.
As of writing, the official petition to have the Online Safety Act repealed is close to 30,000 signatures, but it's barely enough to garner much attention to where it may be dismissed by Parliament, or may get discussed but not getting to where it'll be repealed to actually figure a system that doesn't carry the risk of private information getting leaked.
So again, please help spread and sign the official petition here.
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spencers-love · 18 days ago
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sorry if i'm gonna be quiet for a while. my country recently introduced laws that make it so that in order to use social media to the fullest (not being able to view ns/fw content and in a few cases, not even having access to dms), i HAVE to give the sites my id/face scan.
it goes into effect july 25th. it'll probably effect here too, since this place allows mature content (tho not full on ns/fw)
i'm very distressed about it bc i might end up not even being able to talk to my internet friends. i don't really have any irl ones
if i have to disappear on most socials by then, you know why.
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spencers-love · 2 months ago
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ONLY ONCE, ALWAYS FOREVER || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'
Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader
Summary — Stiles Stilinski’s world shatters when you’re gone, leaving him to grapple with grief that consumes him like a storm. In the silence that follows your death, he clings to the fragments of you he can still hold: a letter, a box of forgotten notes, the remnants of your presence scattered throughout your room. As Stiles digs through the past, he uncovers the depth of your love and the unspoken moments that meant everything to you. But no matter how much he holds onto, it never feels like enough. Years pass, and he struggles with the weight of his loss, torn between the desperate desire to keep you alive in his memory and the painful truth that holding on to everything only keeps him tethered to a grief that never heals(it never will).
Memo — I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I was sobbing while writing this and while editing it.
Word Count — 6505
Warnings — Death, Main Character Death, Grief, Depression, Mental Health Issues, Loss of a Loved One, Heavy Angst, Heartbreak, Suicide (Mentioned/Thoughts), Emotional/Physical Exhaustion, Self-destructive Thoughts (Implied), Crying, Sadness, Abandonment, Isolation, Bittersweet, Haunting, Painful, Emotional Overload, Heavy on the Heart, Soul Crushing, Deep Emotional Impact, Heart-wrenching, Unresolved Grief, Longing, Unbearable Love. Unhealed Wounds, Haunted by the Past, Echoes of a Lost Love, Lingering Heartache, Enduring Love, Eternal Love, Fleeting Moments, Unrelenting Grief, Post-Death Romance, Memory of Loved One, Longing for Lost Love, Stream of Consciousness, Nonlinear Narrative, Angsty Flashbacks, Stiles' Inner Thoughts, Heavy Focus on Emotions Over Plot, Memory Loss (for the fear of forgetting), Unresolved Trauma, Obsessive Grief, Emotional Paralysis, Living in the Past, Silent Struggle, Internal Conflict.
Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures
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The room was quiet, save for the sound of your unsteady breathing and the occasional rustling of fabric as you shifted under the sheets. The air was thick, heavy with something neither of you dared to name aloud. The dim glow of the streetlights filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the walls, painting the moment in the kind of stillness that only comes when the world is preparing to shatter.
Stiles sat beside you, his back against the headboard, his fingers twisting the hem of his hoodie—nervous habit, always has been. But his eyes never left yours. They were darker than usual, wide and wet, the way they got when he was trying too hard not to cry. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, to make this lighter, to pretend it wasn’t what it was, but no words came.
Because what could he even say? What could fix this?
You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, blinking up at him. The weight of reality pressed down on your chest, suffocating in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness eating you from the inside out.
"I'm sure," you whispered before he could ask. Before he could try to convince you otherwise, before he could remind you that maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
Because you knew Stiles. Knew how he overthought, how his mind ran a million miles an hour even when he just needed to feel. But there was no more time for second-guessing. No more time for pretending this wasn’t what you both wanted—what you needed.
And Stiles must have known it too, because his breath hitched in his throat, and then—then—he was kissing you.
It wasn’t perfect.
His lips crashed against yours too fast, noses bumping, teeth grazing, his hands trembling as they cupped your jaw. But none of that mattered. Not when his lips were warm and desperate against yours, not when he was kissing you like you were slipping through his fingers—like maybe, if he held on tight enough, he could keep you here, keep you his.
His hands moved to your shoulders, to your arms, to your sides—like he was memorizing the shape of you, tracing every inch like a cartographer afraid of losing his only map. Like if he let go, even for a second, he’d forget the way you fit against him, the way your body felt beneath his touch.
It was messy, clumsy even, both of you fumbling in the half-dark, driven by something deeper than desire. This wasn’t about lust—it never had been. It was about this, about being here, about carving each other into your skin, into your bones, into the very fabric of existence before the universe could rip you apart.
Stiles pressed his forehead against yours, panting, his fingers tangling in your hair as if to ground himself. “I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t want this to be the only time.”
You closed your eyes, letting his words settle into your ribs, feeling the ache of them. Because you didn’t either. God, you didn’t.
But it would be.
Because you were dying.
You both knew it, but neither of you said it.
Instead, you reached for him, pulling him closer, hands slipping beneath the fabric of his hoodie, fingers brushing against warm, trembling skin. Stiles shuddered beneath your touch, but he didn’t stop you. He wanted this. Wanted you.
“I love you,” he whispered, and it sounded like a confession and a plea all at once.
You exhaled shakily. “I love you too.”
And for a little while, there was nothing but the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet sighs, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either. It was desperate, needed, something inevitable that had always been meant to happen but never had—until now.
He held you like you were something precious, like you were something fragile. You held him like he was your only lifeline, your last tether to a world that was slipping away too quickly.
And when it was over, when you were tangled together in the sheets, your chest rising and falling in time with his, he didn’t let go. Didn’t move.
Stiles just held you, arms locked around your waist, his face buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His grip was tight—too tight, like he was trying to keep you here through sheer willpower alone.
Neither of you spoke.
There was nothing left to say.
So you just lay there, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, letting it lull you into something close to peace. And for now—for this moment—you let yourself believe that forever was real.
Even if forever was only tonight.
The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the two of you like a heavy, unshakable fog. Stiles' arms remained locked around you, his fingers tangled in your hair, his body curled into yours as if he could shield you from something neither of you had the power to stop. And maybe he really thought he could. Maybe he believed that if he just held on tightly enough, if he just loved you hard enough, he could rewrite fate.
But fate had never been kind.
Your fingers ghosted over his spine, slow and featherlight, tracing each vertebra like you were etching him into memory. As if remembering the shape of him, the feel of his breath against your skin, the way his heart still beat so stubbornly beneath his ribs—so alive—would be enough to keep you tethered here. But you both knew it wouldn’t.
Nothing would.
"You have to let go," you whispered, your voice as fragile as glass, sharp with the kind of grief that dug into the marrow of your bones.
His entire body tensed. "No."
"Stiles."
"I said no," he snapped, and this time his voice cracked like something shattering apart, like a dam breaking under too much pressure. His hands curled around your waist, clutching, fingers digging into your skin, as if he was afraid you'd vanish right in front of him.
You swallowed hard. "I don’t want to go either."
"Then don’t," he pleaded, and the way his voice trembled made something inside you ache so violently it nearly stole your breath.
You turned your head slightly, pressing your lips against his temple, tasting the salt of his skin, the warmth of him, the life that you’d never get to have. "You know I don’t have a choice."
His whole body shook. He let out a breathy, choked laugh, one that held no humour—only bitterness, only the kind of grief that burned from the inside out. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I know."
He didn’t loosen his grip. Not yet. He just held on, pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in like he could keep you if he just remembered every detail—your scent, your warmth, the way your fingers trembled against his back.
But you both knew memory wasn’t enough.
Slowly, painfully, you pulled back, just far enough to see his face. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, filled with the kind of pain that left scars in its wake.
And he was crying.
Stiles never cried in front of you.
Something inside you fractured, your own pain unravelling like a loose thread in the seams of your already fragile heart. You reached up, cupping his face, brushing away the tears that slipped down his cheeks. He let you. Didn’t flinch, didn’t turn away. He just let you.
"I don’t know how to do this without you," he admitted, voice so quiet it was nearly lost beneath the sound of your breathing. "I don’t—I don’t want to."
Your chest tightened like a vice, your own breath shuddering out in uneven, broken exhales. "You have to."
He shook his head fiercely, his fingers trembling where they gripped you. "No. I don’t have to do anything."
But you both knew that was a lie.
So instead of answering, instead of arguing, you leaned in and kissed him.
It was different this time. Slow. Lingering. A goodbye in the form of lips pressed to lips, a silent promise of love that couldn’t outlast time, no matter how much you both wished it could. And the moment he realized it, the moment he felt it, Stiles broke.
A soft, choked sound escaped him as he kissed you back, but this time, he wasn’t trying to hold you here. This time, he was letting you go.
When you pulled away, his hands remained on your face, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones, as if he was memorizing the way you felt beneath his fingertips.
"I should take you back," he whispered, but his hands weren’t moving, his body wasn’t shifting away from you. He wasn’t ready.
Neither were you.
But time didn’t wait for love.
You nodded, even though it felt like signing your own death sentence. "Okay."
The car ride was quiet. Not peaceful—never peaceful—just heavy. The kind of silence that crushed rather than comforted, that dug into the spaces between your ribs and made it hard to breathe.
Stiles gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, like if he let go for even a second, everything would fall apart. His jaw was set, his lips pressed into a thin, unsteady line. He didn’t look at you. Not once. Because if he did, he might not be able to go through with this.
When he pulled up in front of the hospital, he didn’t move. Neither did you.
For a long moment, you just sat there, staring at your hands in your lap, fingers trembling, body exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with your illness.
You didn’t want to open the door.
Didn’t want to leave.
But you had to.
You turned to him, studying the sharp lines of his profile, the way the streetlights cast golden shadows across his skin. You committed everything to memory—the messy strands of his hair, the freckles dotting his nose, the way his lips parted just slightly, like he was about to say something but couldn’t quite force the words out.
"Hey," you whispered.
He swallowed hard but finally, finally, turned to face you.
You forced a smile, even though it hurt. "I’ll see you later, okay?"
His throat bobbed as he tried to speak, but no sound came out. His fingers flexed against the steering wheel, his breathing shaky and uneven. And then, after a long pause, he nodded.
A lie.
You both knew it.
You leaned over, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before reaching for the door handle. The night air hit you like a slap, cold and empty, wrapping around you like a cruel whisper of everything you were leaving behind.
You hesitated at the door, looking back one last time.
Stiles still hadn’t moved. His grip on the wheel was so tight his hands were shaking, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, like if he didn’t look at you, maybe you wouldn’t really be gone.
Maybe this wouldn’t really be goodbye.
But it was.
And by the time he worked up the courage to turn his head, to reach for you—
You were already gone.
~
Stiles still dreams about that night.
It never changes.
It always starts the same way—the weight of your warmth lingering in his arms, the ghost of your lips still pressed against his, the distant hum of the streetlights buzzing overhead. His hands on the wheel, gripping it so hard his bones might snap, his breath uneven, his pulse a drumbeat of don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
And you.
Opening the door, stepping into the cold, leaving behind nothing but the scent of hospital antiseptic and something uniquely you, something he can never quite describe but will chase for the rest of his life.
He watches you walk away, because he has to. Because if he so much as twitches, if he so much as breathes in the wrong direction, he knows he’ll run after you.
And then, just when his chest cracks open from the weight of it all, when his lungs burn and his mind screams what the hell are you doing?—
He finally turns his head.
He reaches for you.
He opens his mouth to call your name—
But you’re already gone.
And that’s when he wakes up.
Every single time.
~
Stiles hates himself.
Not in the way most people do, not in the passing, self-deprecating, ugh, I’m the worst kind of way. Not in the way he used to joke about before his world caved in on itself and took you with it.
No—this is deeper. This is rotting.
This is self-loathing carved into his ribs, splintered beneath his skin like shrapnel from a war he lost long before he even realized he was fighting.
He hates himself for not looking back soon enough.
For letting you walk away.
For letting you go back to that sterile, colourless, too-bright place alone, knowing full well you’d never step outside again.
He could have been there.
Should have been there.
Should have driven you back, held your hand all the way to your room, sat in that uncomfortable plastic chair beside your bed and stayed. Should have let the weight of sleep take him with his fingers still intertwined with yours, waiting—hoping—that maybe, just maybe, there’d be another tomorrow.
But he didn’t.
Because he was hurting too.
Because he didn’t know how to sit at your bedside, knowing he’d never see you open your eyes again.
Because he was selfish.
So he let you go.
And you never came back.
~
The call came in the morning.
His dad had woken him up—soft, careful, like he already knew. And maybe he did. Maybe it was written all over Stiles’ face, in the dark circles beneath his eyes, in the way his hands had been shaking for months, in the way he had been coming undone ever since you told him the truth.
"It happened in the middle of the night," they said. "Unexpected."
Unexpected.
The word made him want to laugh, made him want to scream, made him want to put his fist through a wall just so he could feel something else.
How could it have been unexpected?
You had been dying from the moment they diagnosed you.
From the moment you whispered it to him in the dark, your voice thin and fragile like the last leaf clinging to an autumn branch before the wind finally took it.
From the moment he kissed you like you were something eternal, knowing damn well eternity wasn’t something either of you could have.
But still.
He should have been there.
Should have stayed.
Should have whispered all the things he still had inside of him, still needed to say.
But he hadn’t.
Because he couldn’t.
Because he had left you to die alone.
~
Some nights, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, going over every single second of that night, the way one wrong decision had led him here, to this absence of you that he can’t ever escape.
What if he had stayed?
What if he had just asked you—begged you—to stay with him a little longer?
What if he had been braver?
Would you have lasted another day? Another hour?
Would he have at least had the chance to say goodbye properly?
He’ll never know.
And that’s the worst part.
The not knowing.
The endless loop of what ifs carving themselves into his ribs like tally marks, like a prison sentence that will never end.
~
Your funeral is unbearable.
The sky is gray, bloated with clouds, thick with the scent of rain that never quite comes. The kind of sky that feels like it’s waiting for something.
The flowers are all wrong. Too bright, too vibrant, too full of life for something so empty. The murmured condolences, the hushed voices, the weight of all the people who didn’t know you like he did—it’s suffocating.
But worst of all is the silence.
The heavy, crushing kind. The kind that presses against his skull, fills his lungs like water, drowns him in the reality of it all.
You're gone.
You’re not coming back.
And this—this cold hole in the earth, this casket covered in roses that don’t belong to you—this is all that’s left.
Stiles doesn’t cry.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
But because if he starts, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stop.
So instead, he just stands there. Hands clenched into fists. Teeth sinking into his tongue. Watching as they lower you into the ground, as they cover you in dirt, as they take the last piece of you he had left.
He thinks about how wrong this is.
How you should have had more time.
How this shouldn’t have been the first and last time you ever got to love each other like that.
How he should have been there.
How he should have held your hand.
Should have whispered to you that you weren’t alone.
Should have told you that he loved you one last time.
But he didn’t.
And now all he has left is regret.
Regret, and the unbearable weight of knowing that for the rest of his life—
You will always be the greatest thing he ever had, and the greatest thing he ever lost.
Stiles doesn’t remember driving to your place.
One second, he’s staring at the ceiling of his room, feeling like his body is just an empty shell, like he’s been hollowed out from the inside. And the next, he’s standing in your doorway, blinking against the sharp sting in his eyes, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
Your room looks exactly the same.
The bed is still unmade, the blankets rumpled from the last time you slept in them, as if you might come back at any moment and crawl beneath them again. Your clothes are still scattered across the floor, half-folded laundry left forgotten on your desk. There’s a mug on your nightstand, long since gone cold, a book flipped open to the last page you read.
It’s like stepping into a moment frozen in time.
Except you’re not here.
You’ll never be here again.
The realization slams into him like a freight train, stealing the air from his lungs, making his legs buckle. He collapses onto your bed, his fingers clutching at the sheets, his body curling in on itself as a sob wrenches free from his throat.
And then he breaks.
He cries like he hasn’t let himself cry before.
Not at the funeral, not when he got the call, not even when he sat in his car gripping the steering wheel so tightly his hands went numb.
But here, surrounded by you, by the pieces of your life you left behind, by the scent of you still clinging to the pillows—he can’t hold it in anymore.
He sobs until his chest aches, until his throat is raw, until he’s gasping between shuddering breaths, curled into your blankets like they might somehow hold you, like if he just stays here long enough, you’ll come back.
But you won’t.
And the silence that follows is deafening.
~
It’s on the third day that he finds it.
He hasn’t left your bed in nearly seventy-two hours. The room is dim, the blinds still half-drawn, the world outside moving forward even though his own has come to a screeching halt. His eyes are swollen, his body drained, exhaustion pressing heavy against him like a weight he can’t shake.
He doesn’t know why he finally moves. Maybe it’s desperation. Maybe it’s some last-ditch effort to find you in something, somewhere.
Or maybe it’s just fate.
His fingers tremble as he pulls open the top drawer of your desk, sifting through old papers, notebooks, half-written letters you never sent.
And then he sees it.
A folded envelope with his name written across the front in your handwriting, slightly smudged, like you’d hesitated before sealing it.
For a moment, he just stares at it.
It’s not possible.
You’re gone. You can’t have left something for him. You can’t have known.
But you did.
His breath catches as he slowly picks it up, his fingers shaking so hard he nearly drops it. The paper is slightly crinkled, the ink slightly faded, but it’s real. It’s you.
And it was meant for him.
He swallows, throat tight, chest aching as he carefully peels it open. The letter inside is short. Simple. But it’s everything.
Stiles,
I don’t know when you’ll read this. I don’t even know if you ever will. But if you are—then I guess I didn’t get the chance to say everything I wanted to.
I wanted to thank you. For being my best friend. For loving me, even when I wasn’t always easy to love. For making me laugh when everything felt too heavy. For just being you.
I’m sorry.
I know this is going to hurt. And I wish I could make it easier. I wish I could promise you that it won’t always feel like this, that one day you’ll wake up and it won’t feel like the world is missing a piece. But I don’t know if that’s true.
All I know is that I love you. I loved you then. I love you now. And if there’s anything after this—anything at all—I’ll still love you there, too.
Always.
P.S. Please don’t let this destroy you. I need to believe that you’ll keep going. That you’ll be happy. Even without me.
Because you deserve that, Stiles. You always did.
The letter slips from his fingers, landing softly in his lap.
And Stiles—who thought he had no tears left, who thought he had already cried every last sob, who thought the pain couldn’t possibly get worse—feels something inside him shatter.
Because even in death, you’re still trying to take care of him.
Even when you were the one who was leaving, the one who had to be scared, the one who had to say goodbye—you were still thinking about him.
And now, all he has left of you are these words.
And they’re not enough.
They’ll never be enough.
Stiles tears through your room like a man drowning, grasping at anything that might keep him afloat.
He’s desperate—desperate in a way that turns his hands frantic, his breath short, his mind racing with the unbearable certainty that he’s already lost too much, and if he doesn’t find something—one more piece of you, one more sliver of your existence that he hasn’t seen before—then he might just break apart completely.
It feels like losing you all over again.
Because everything in this room is a reminder of what’s gone.
Your scent still lingers on the pillows, faint but there, like an echo of your presence, teasing him with the cruel illusion that if he just closes his eyes, he might feel you beside him again. Your desk is still cluttered with half-finished things—books left open to pages you’ll never turn, a coffee cup with your fingerprints still smudged against the ceramic, a sweater draped over your chair that you’ll never pull over your head again.
It’s like you just stepped out for a moment. Like you might walk back in, laughing at the mess he’s making, rolling your eyes and calling him a disaster.
But you won’t.
And he knows that.
But knowing doesn’t make it easier.
So he keeps searching.
Tearing open drawers, flipping through notebooks, pulling clothes from hangers, his fingers shaking so hard he can barely grip anything. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. All he knows is that he needs more.
Because that one letter—those few words on crinkled paper, that final goodbye you left him—can’t be the last thing of yours that he gets to hold in his hands.
It’s not enough.
It will never be enough.
His breath is uneven, his throat raw from crying, but he doesn’t stop. He ransacks every inch of your room like a thief in the night, desperate and reckless, searching for some hidden part of you that you left behind, something that can tether him to you just a little longer.
And then—
Then he finds it.
A box.
Small. Worn around the edges.
Tucked away at the back of your closet, half-hidden beneath old sweaters and forgotten belongings, as if it had been placed there with the quiet hope that one day—someday—he would find it.
His hands shake as he pulls it out.
The lid is slightly dusty, the weight of it heavier than it should be, as if it’s carrying something more than just paper and ink. As if it’s holding pieces of a heart that once beat just for him.
He lifts the lid.
And his breath catches.
Letters.
Stacks of them.
Folded notes, torn pages from journals, crumpled receipts with tiny scribbles in the margins, napkins covered in half-finished thoughts, post-it notes stuck together in clumps. Some are neatly written, carefully folded with the kind of deliberate care that spoke of meaning. Others are rushed, hurried, like you’d needed to get the words down before they slipped away.
And they’re all for him.
Every single one.
~
The first letter is dated years ago. Before you were even friends. Before he even knew you existed the way you knew him.
His hands tremble as he unfolds it.
Stiles,
I don’t even know why I’m writing this. You barely know I exist. But I see you. Every day. And I think you might be the best person I’ve ever met, even if you don’t know it.
You’re loud. You never shut up. You ramble about everything, and I don’t think your brain has an ‘off’ switch. And somehow, it’s my favorite thing about you.
I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could say any of this out loud. But for now, I’ll just keep writing it down.
The ink is slightly smudged, as if you had hesitated before finishing, as if the weight of your own feelings had been too much even then.
His chest aches as he reaches for another.
This one, from months later.
Stiles,
You talked to me today. Do you remember? Probably not. It was just one small conversation, nothing important, nothing that will stick in your memory. But it meant something to me.
You asked if I had a pencil. I gave you one. It was my favorite one, actually. But I didn’t care. Because for those few seconds, I had your attention.
God, I sound pathetic.
But I think I might already love you.
His breath shudders out of him.
The words blur on the page, his vision swimming, but he keeps reading.
Letter after letter.
Your first impressions of him. The first time you realized you had feelings for him. The first time he made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe. Tiny moments that were probably insignificant to him at the time but monumental to you.
And then—later.
When you were together.
Stiles,
Sometimes I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re mine.
I don’t know how I got so lucky. I don’t know how the universe decided to give me you.
But I’m so, so grateful.
(Even if you do steal all the blankets. You menace.)
He laughs. A broken, choked sound that barely escapes his lips.
But then—
Then the letters change.
The handwriting is the same. But the words feel different.
The tone shifts.
There’s still love. But there’s something else, too. Something raw. Something terrified.
Stiles,
I don’t know how to do this.
I don’t know how to leave you.
I don’t want to.
God, I don’t want to.
But if I have to—if this is how it ends—I just need you to know that you were the best thing that ever happened to me.
And I wish we had more time.
His chest aches.
His fingers tighten around the paper, his heart shattering into pieces so small he doesn’t know how he’ll ever put them back together.
Because this—this is everything you never got the chance to say out loud.
This is proof of how much you loved him. How much you always had.
Even when you were scared. Even when you knew your time was running out.
And now—
Now, these letters are all he has left of you.
These crumpled pages, these ink-stained words, these scattered thoughts you never said out loud.
This is you.
And it will never be enough.
But he will hold onto them anyway.
Because they are the only pieces of you he has left.
And he can’t bear to let you go.
Stiles grows older.
Not in the way some people do, where time gently dulls the edges of grief like waves smoothing out jagged stone. No, Stiles ages like an open wound—slowly, painfully, never truly healing, just scabbing over in thin, fragile layers that break open at the slightest touch.
Because grief isn’t something he moves through. It’s something he lives in.
It settles into his bones like an old, unwelcome tenant, curling in the spaces between his ribs, winding its fingers around his lungs until every breath feels just a little too tight. He carries it with him like a phantom limb, a part of him that no one else can see but that he feels constantly.
And he carries you with him, too. Always.
At first, it was everything. Every single thing of yours he could get his hands on. He became ravenous for it, desperate, like a drowning man clawing at driftwood—because if he could just hold onto you, in any way, maybe he wouldn’t sink.
He wanted your hoodies, the ones that smelled like you, the ones you used to drown in, sleeves pulled over your hands, your laughter spilling out from inside them. He wanted your notebooks, the ones filled with your scribbled thoughts, your ideas, the stupid doodles in the corners of the pages, the pieces of you that still existed in ink and paper.
He wanted the CDs you left in his car, the ones you insisted were better than his music taste, the ones that still skipped in the exact same places where you'd played them too many times. He wanted the little things, the stray bobby pins, the broken headphones, the receipts you shoved into his glovebox without thinking.
Anything.
Everything.
And when your parents started packing up your room, started folding up your life into boxes marked for donation, he begged them.
No, he fought for you.
Spent entire nights outside your house, screaming through the door, pleading, please, please don’t throw him away.
They didn’t understand. They thought holding onto your things would keep them stuck in grief. But for Stiles, holding on was the only way he knew how to survive.
So he begged.
Sobbed in the driveway, his body shaking, his voice hoarse, his dad gripping his arms and dragging him away because he wouldn’t leave on his own. Because he couldn’t.
And even after all that, he still lost most of you.
Because they couldn’t stand the reminders.
Because they needed to let go.
But Stiles—Stiles couldn’t.
So he took what little he could get.
And he kept it.
Every hoodie. Every dog-eared book with your handwriting in the margins. Every crumpled note you ever left him, even the ones that just said be back in five or you left your jacket at my place.
Because if he let go of those things, if he let you slip away again, he might not have it in him to stay from you any longer.
~
Years pass.
And he knows it’s stupid.
Knows he should have moved on. Should have stitched himself back together, let the wound scar over, learned how to exist without feeling like something is missing every time he takes a breath.
But this is Stiles.
Overthinking, ever-loving, never-letting-go Stiles.
He doesn’t know how to let go of you.
Doesn’t want to.
Because if he does, who else will remember?
Your parents stopped saying your name out loud years ago.
Your friends moved on. Got married. Had kids. Kept living.
And the world—God, the world—kept spinning like it didn’t even notice you were gone.
Stiles is terrified that if he stops holding on, if he loosens his grip for even a second, you’ll disappear for real.
Not just in the way that means your body is buried in the ground.
But in the way that means you’ll fade from memory.
That the exact shape of your laughter will become a sound he has to guess at. That the color of your eyes will blur at the edges, shifting into something almost right but not quite.
That your voice—God, your voice—will slip away like sand through his fingers.
And if that happens—
If he loses the last pieces of you—
What reason will he have to stay?
Stiles keeps getting older.
But it doesn’t feel like growth. It doesn’t feel like time is sweeping him forward, gently shepherding him toward healing, toward new memories, toward a future that doesn’t have your absence carved into every second.
It feels like drifting.
Like being stuck in the deep end of a pool, treading water until his muscles give out. Like watching the world move past him through the wrong end of a telescope, everything getting further and further away while he stays exactly where you left him.
Everyone else has moved on.
Scott, Lydia, Malia—they found a way to keep living. They built new lives, new loves, futures with meaning, with laughter, with purpose. They smile in the kind of way that reaches their eyes. They talk about you sometimes, in hushed voices or wistful sighs, but for them, you are a beautiful, bittersweet memory.
For Stiles, you are every breath he takes.
You are in every shadow that stretches too long, in every song that catches him off guard, in every quiet, stolen moment where the world slows just enough to remind him of what’s missing.
And he’s so, so tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, because this exhaustion isn’t in his muscles—it’s in his bones, in his heart, in the marrow of him. It’s an ache, a dull and endless weight, a fog that never quite lifts.
He wakes up every day into a world that doesn’t have you in it.
And that’s the part that never gets easier.
~
He still has your things.
They sit in a box at the back of his closet, old and worn and untouched but never forgotten.
He never could bring himself to get rid of them. Not even the smallest things—the half-empty bottle of your favourite chapstick, the keychain you left in his car, the pen you used to chew on absently while thinking, the stupid movie ticket stubs from that night you both thought the world would keep spinning for the two of you.
Sometimes, he stands in front of that closet with his hand on the door, breathing heavy, heart pounding, thinking, maybe today is the day I finally let go.
And then his fingers tighten. And his stomach knots. And his lungs forget how to take in air.
And he walks away.
Because letting go doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like erasure.
Like wiping away the last evidence that you were here at all.
Like losing you all over again.
And he can’t.
Because if he does—if he lets you slip away, if there’s nothing left of you in this world except his memories—then what’s keeping him here?
~
The worst part is how easy it would be.
He’s thought about it.
More times than he’ll ever admit.
And it’s not that he wants to die. Not exactly. Not in the way that makes people leave notes, makes people plan things out, makes people whisper about them in hushed voices when they’re gone.
It’s just that living without you is exhausting.
It’s like walking through a world that’s missing all its color, like moving through a life that isn’t really his anymore, like everything that once felt solid has turned to smoke in his hands.
And sometimes, the idea of just stopping—of letting go, of slipping under, of not having to fight anymore—sounds so, so tempting.
But he doesn’t.
Because he knows what it feels like to be the one left behind.
Knows what it’s like to sit in a room filled with ghosts, with memories so thick they choke you. Knows what it’s like to wake up in a world that feels permanently less, to sit in the aftermath of someone else’s absence and wonder how you’re supposed to keep breathing when they’re gone.
And he can’t do that to the people who love him.
Can’t make his dad get that phone call.
Can’t make Scott sit through another funeral.
Can’t make Lydia stand in the cold, watching another casket go into the ground.
So he stays.
Not because he wants to.
But because he has to.
Because even though you were his reason for staying once, and that reason is gone, he refuses to let his absence be someone else’s grief.
~
Life keeps moving.
Whether he wants it to or not.
The years stack up like old books in a forgotten library, collecting dust, their stories unread. He gets older. Watches his friends get married, have kids, build lives for themselves. He pretends it doesn’t hurt.
Pretends he doesn’t still feel eighteen, still frozen in that moment, still gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, watching you walk away and not knowing it was the last time.
Pretends he doesn’t think about you every single day.
Eventually, people stop asking if he’s okay.
Eventually, he stops pretending that he is.
And he just… exists.
Not happy. Not really sad, either. Just… there.
Like a ghost that never got the chance to haunt the person they lost.
Like a shadow of someone who used to be whole.
And maybe, in the end, that’s all grief really is.
Not something you get over.
Not something you heal from.
Not something you don't carry.
Even when it makes your knees buckle.
Even when it makes your hands shake.
Even when it turns your whole world into a before and after.
Even when the only thing you can do is wake up every morning and keep going.
Even when you don’t know why.
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spencers-love · 3 months ago
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thank you Canada 🇨🇦
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spencers-love · 4 months ago
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it’s me strang3lov3 :(
My blog was fucking terminated! uhhh but it is me, strang3lov3. pervert extraordinaire and writer of dark daddy!joel and stepdaddy!roman. I don’t know what the fuck to do. I’m trying not to panic but I am fucking crushed.
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spencers-love · 4 months ago
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it fucking sucks being a disabled person who can't work and having to see these fuckass posts where someone's like "ahaha jobless people have no life and that's why everyone shitty online has No Job" and everyone and their mother reblogs it joyfully onto my dash for me to see. yes unemployed and unemployable people are truly without exception dogshit people with no hobbies and no redeeming qualities. you're so right. anyway if you'll excuse me i have to start my shift at the I'll Never Be Employed Because Of Permanent Disability And I Love Knowing How You Really See Me store
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spencers-love · 5 months ago
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ain't you my baby?
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word count: 4k ish pairing: din djarin x reader a/n: [old timey radio voice] interrupting your regular schedule of bat boy to bring you [does jazz hands] yet another man that could kill u! i will apologise for not updating wtssf and instead giving this but i do not control the brain worms <3 hopefully this is still tasty for sum of y'all ! title from NFWMB by hozier
synopsis: Din gives you an unexpected gift. A dagger crafted with beskar, a fine weapon, a courting gift. You misunderstand. It doesn't take long for you to catch back on. inspired by a convo with my beloved @djarinova
By now, the constant hum and rattle of the Razor Crest around you was nearly unnoticeable.
You travel enough light-years with one stubborn screw in your cot, almost always returning to the spacecraft with one injury or another, and eventually the low lull becomes something more familiar.
Almost, if you'd let yourself admit it, a comfort.
Sleep is funny on the Crest. You'd been a light sleeper for most your life and it had saved your skin more time than you cared to count. Yet, it was the simple knowledge that a Mandalorian roamed in the cockpit above that allowed sleep to drag you deeper than usual.
It had taken months to let your guard down, to realise there wasn't going to be blade buried in your gut as you slumbered defencelessly. In the safety of his company, for the first time in decades, you dream when you sleep.
He hates having to wake you, only doing so if it's absolutely necessary. It's always with the lightest of touches, the leather of his gloves pressing softly against your shoulder, your name murmured and diluted through the modulator of his helmet.
Despite his gentleness, it never stops you from jarring awake.
You shudder awake with a violent twitch, pressing up on your elbow in a split second, prepared to move. You're stopped from moving further by Din's hand on your shoulder. He's knelt beside your cot, visor fixed on you.
You're on a new planet. The foreign atmosphere gives that away in an instant, the chalky taste in your mouth and the swarming heat on your skin. Your jack-rabbiting heart calms a bit.
"Din?"
You know he's only waking you because he must. The momentary calm banishes again as you push yourself up again. Din lets you this time, his gloved hand retreating to his side.
"It's not an emergency." He says, knowing your train of thought already. He tilts his head slightly, gesturing towards the ramp door. "I need to leave the ship. I didn't want you to wake and..."
Your trailing gaze darts back to his visor quickly, swallowing as you fill in the end of his sentence. Din doesn't finish it, but his shoulders readjust in a minuscule motion.
"I'm getting supplies. Watch the kid. Please."
You're nodding before he's finished his sentence. The sleep in your system is already dissipated and you push up, shifting onto your feet and trapping your pained hiss behind gritted teeth as Din rises to his full height.
There's a beep from his valance as he punches a button then a soft hiss as the pressure changes, the ramp door beginning to lower.
It's habit to watch the sliver of the outside grow, the new terrain stretching out before you as the mouth of the ship opens. As expected, a seemingly endless spread of sand greets you. You wrinkle your nose.
Din hadn't indulged the reason or destination of this particular trip. You hadn't asked. A deep slice in your thigh courtesy of a vibroblade and a mouthy Twi'lek had kept you off your feet and eager to rest.
The slice had been by pure luck—or so you thought.
But Din's silence following the patch up in the ship, his quietness suddenly uncanny, left you beginning to wonder if he was questioning your ability to fight. Weighing up your ability to defend.
And if those things were up for debate, certainly so was your position on his ship.
It had just been passed 3 years, almost six cycles if you counted how time passed on your home planet, since you had joined his crusade. Your job had one very simple, very crucial objective.
An objective that was now babbling at your feet, tiny claws reaching out for you.
"Hey, you," You say, reaching down to scoop Grogu up into your arms. He reaches his arms up as he does, making a happy gurgle as you tuck him against your hip.
His round, dark eyes peer up at you, his big ears twitching mischievously and you couldn't help but smile. You turn so he could see the stretch of desert and are surprised to find Din still in the mouth of the ship. He's turned back, his dark visor giving away nothing of his expression.
It's then you get the feeling once more; you're being evaluated. Your usefulness being weighed up. You shift beneath the weight of his gaze, unmoving but still not speaking.
"Did you forget something?" You ask, just to break the silence.
Din finally shifts, his helmet giving a small shake in answer. He doesn't speak, just stares another moment, before he's turning, his cape catching the wind as he strolls down the ramp.
You watch him go, heart in your throat, pondering with an ache of melancholy if your time on the Crest was coming to a close.
Another burbling noise from the little green monster in your arm tugs your attention away. You look down, smile already pulling at your mouth at his clawed hand reaching for you.
"At least I know you still like me," You murmur, letting his cling to one of your fingers. "You wouldn't fire me, would you?"
Grogu makes a noise of agreement, gripping your finger tight. Then he opens his little mouth and tries to direct your finger into it, the clearest declaration of his hunger he can give.
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the ship, mentally tallying up your list of things to do.
By the time of Din's return, the sun has dipped low in the sky and the dunes glow a scorching orange in its rays.
You see him coming in the horizon, the only figure out on the desolate landscape. You wonder, for not the first time, if he's burning up beneath all his armour. He never seems to use the fresher to cool off like you do.
It's as he reaches the ship, his footsteps heavier than usual and betraying his tiredness, do you realise he's returned with a bag. Your eyes glue to in instinctively but you bite your tongue and swallow the burning question of what the contents of the bag is.
"Get what you need?" You ask instead, hands laying flat on your knees, avoiding the bandage on your thigh.
You're knelt besides the ship wall, sitting on your feet, one of the panels hanging haphazardly by a single screw and a box of tools beside you.
There's a function for cooler air on the Crest but it's been busted since a gnarly shoot up leaving the atmosphere of Coruscant months ago. You've been trying to fix it for weeks, each time with no avail.
Today is no different.
“You haven’t fixed it.” Din says candidly, instead of answering your question.
That suddenly familiar worry of your usefulness shirks up within you.
“Yet.” you counter, aiming for optimistic. It’s impossible to tell what the immovable expression of Din’s helmet means. “It’s not the same problem as I started with, at least.”
After a moment, he gives a short nod as if he understands — which is mean because there isn’t a single thing you can think of that Din Djarin is bad at. Besides talking to Jawas, of course.
He passes you and you force yourself to keep facing forward, even as you long to trail his broad figure. You squint at the tangle of wires within the panel and sigh. It’s feeling pretty fruitless. You were hardly a mechanic to begin with and—
A loud clatter beside you makes you startle, something heavy dropping into your toolbox.
You jump back and after a quick second, realise that it’s Din who had dropped something purposefully. Trying to calm your racing pulse, you lean forward and peer in.
“This might help.” He says.
You blink down at the new tool he’s given you. It’s the one spanner size that’s missing from your toolbox.
The last one had been lost when you lobbed it at an intruder’s head in a blind panic. Not your proudest moment— even if it did distract the guy enough for Din to put him down.
You swallow your heart in your throat. “Thank you.”
You don’t hear him retreat but the part of you that fizzles like a freshly born star when he’s near dims, a giveaway to his movements. You curl your fingers the new tool and try to tell if this a good sign or not.
Behind you, Din clears his throat.
You peer over your shoulder, your brows knitting together — it’s not often he calls your attention so forwardly, much preferring to stand and wait, staring long enough til you notice and flush.
He’s still standing in the hull, one hand curled around and holding the bag he returned with. You twist fully, letting him know he’s got your attention.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. You stare, waiting patiently and try not to let your eyes roam—especially after the last comment he made when he absolutely caught you staring at the broadness of his shoulders, eyes drinking in the cut of his figure.
You’d be a terrible criminal, cyra’rika.
What’s that supposed to mean? You had retorted, flustering just a bit.
He had turned and fixed you with a tilt of his helmet that meant he was likely smirking underneath it.
You have shifty eyes.
Your face had glowed fiercely at the reminder that just because you couldn’t see his eyes, that didn’t mean he couldn’t see yours.
Across from you in the Crest now, Din coughs awkwardly.
“I,” He starts. One of his hands clenches, the leather crinkling as he does. “I have something. For you.”
Surprise piques up inside you, fiery and delighted. It warms your stomach and there’s no fighting the smile that pulls at your mouth even if you wanted to.
Gifts from a bounty hunter are few and far between and he’d already replaced the spanner. Your bounty hunter in particular doesn't like to spend his credits unwisely.
Even less commonly does he acknowledge that something is a gift—but you've learned to love the quiet hum he gives you when you thank him for something.
"Oh?"
He shifts his weight ever so slightly, the most obvious indication that he's nervous.
You sit up a little straighter. The anxiety from earlier pools in quickly.
He gives a tiny, almost inaudible huff and then, instead of reaching into the bag, he pushes back his cape and reaches back. His skilled hand unclips something sheathed at his waist. He drops the bag and steps forward, his hand outstretched.
You hold your breath without realising.
It's... a dagger, you realise.
A very beautiful blade by all standards. As you press up to your knees, rising to get a closer look, the details of its intricacy begin to call out to you.
The hilt is twined in a delicate, leathery fabric, not yet moulded to any hand. The pommel holds a promise of a shimmer as though it's embedded with a mineral. And the blade itself... A darker metal curls through the lighter one that encases it, like smoke on a sunlit sky.
It's expert craftsmanship, with a precise balance of two metals — and if you stare a moment too long, you swear the darker one matches the hue of Din's armour. His beskar armour.
"Will you accept it?"
It's with the gravel of Din's voice do you realise you haven't moved. You haven't reached out for it, haven't even blinked since he offered it out to you. You exhale, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded.
It's elegant beyond words. It's too much.
Too much for you, too much as a... a... What was it?
A gift? A reminder of your sole duty on the Crest? Of what you nearly failed at during your last mission together? The wound on your thigh seems to throb painfully as if in response.
He's never got you a gift that's anything less than helpful.
"I," You breath, finally tearing your eyes off the dagger and looking up at the visor fixed on you. "Din, I—"
Your gaze drops back to the blade in his hands. This time, you're certain it's beskar twined within the steel.
"It's very beautiful but..." I'm not worthy of beskar. "I couldn't, it's— it's too much. I can't accept it, Din."
The words come out clumsily and you wonder if in your attempt at being polite, you've gone too far in the other direction and offended him. You wring your hand against your thigh, pressing your knuckles into your wound. The pain dances along your nerves, a welcome distraction as you force yourself to meet his gaze.
The hum of the ship fills the space between you and like almost always, you have no idea how to read his silence.
"I understand."
And then he's stepping back, resheathing the blade into its holster in one fluid motion. He does it so quickly you don't see the tremble in his wrist, his hand just a touch unsteady. Above you both, there's a beep in the cockpit.
This time, you do manage to clock his body language, well aware of the way his guard has suddenly been wrenched up and the anxiety in your veins quickens with a sinister twist. Oh stars. You've definitely made it worse. You should've just accepted the dagger.
He turns and wordlessly heads towards the ladder to the cockpit and you watch him desperately, a dozen words caught in your mouth and none of them the right ones to say aloud.
"I—"
Din pauses, one gloved hand on the rung of the ladder, facing forward. He gives you a moment to speak. Your mouth dries.
When it's clear you aren't going to, you catch the slight sigh he gives, his shoulders dropping an inch.
"Grogu will miss you."
What?
You don't even get a moment to consider what he’s said or to digest the implications before he’s climbing the ladder, deft and quick. By the time you’re on your feet, the swish of his cape is disappearing into the hatch on the ceiling.
You stare at it a moment, all your unsaid words suddenly transforming into confusion. Your mouth opens then closes, your hands held out in front of you in evident bewilderment.
“What—” You begin as you take the rungs twice as fast, following Din’s path up to the cockpit. “—is that supposed to mean?”
You’re halfway up when The Crest suddenly lurches to the side with a rumble, the powering of engines thrumming beneath your feet and you stumble to catch your balance. Below you, you hear the familiar hiss of the ramp closing.
Stars, what is he doing? He hasn’t been this eager to leave a planet since a bounty back on Hoth.
“Where are we going?” You ask, forgoing your unanswered question. You shift forward as the Crest continues to rise with a powerful whirling sound.
Casting an eye at the passenger seat, you’re relieved to find it already occupied by your favourite green friend. Grogu coos in your direction at the sight of you and despite the situation, you can’t help but smile.
“I can take you wherever you wish to go.” Din’s flat response has your smile fading, your head whipping around to face him.
But he doesn’t take his focus off the control in front of him for a moment, stoic and silent as he continues to initiate takeoff. The Crest rises higher, the sandy ground of the planet out the window growing smaller and smaller.
Wherever you wish to go?
Does he— does he think you want to leave?
Your head spins in a tizzy as you try to clue together how the hell he had come to that conclusion. The Crest rocks as it breaks through the atmosphere and you stumble again, struggling to keep your balance.
For whatever reason he’s thinking it, he’s wrong.
Action finally possesses you. You surge forward and slam your hand onto the console, killing the power to the thrusters.
The ship stalls with a loud droning noise, coming to a shuddering stop before it begins to float in the darkness of space. The only light is the glowing orange of the planet and stars beyond the glass.
“Why do you think I want to leave all of a sudden?” You demand hotly.
For a moment, you think Din will continue the silent treatment that he’s all but mastered. His helmet, visor gazing out through the windshield, doesn’t move — until he tilts his head toward you slightly. He sighs quietly.
“I don’t imagine after…” He waves a hand idly and you scan his figure intensely, searching for what he could possibly be referring to.
After…?
It suddenly seems quite obvious.
Even if you had no idea what it had meant to Din, clearly this has to do to you turning down his gift.
“Din,” you say very quietly.
His helmet turns another inch, his chin tilted up to show he’s listening.
You swallow and it feels like your heart in is your throat, burning and bursting all at once. But you have to ask.
“What did the dagger mean?”
Now he averts his gaze, his helmet dipping as he mumbles something, nothing, his voice almost too low for his modulator pick up, a gift, but in the gravel of his murmuring, you hear one unmissable word: courting.
Oh.
Oh.
It was a… courting gift.
A dagger blended with beskar, given as a courting gift from a Mandalorian. It meant you- and him — the hope you had been harvesting, the hope of something more blooming between you two, it had not been unrequited.
Your mind casts back to the exact phrasing as you turned what you believed to simply be a gift too prized for you— it’s too much, I can’t accept.
Maker. No wonder he thought you wanted to leave.
Whatever is crossing your face must be the opposite of subtle because as you grapple to find a response to that, Din’s head tilts back up.
“You didn’t know.”
There's a tiny wobble of relief in his voice.
“No,” You breathe. Blinking hard, suddenly you feel a bit wild because Din all but proposes to you but doesn’t even think to check if you knew the depth of what he was offering? Of the real question behind his gift?
You shake your head. “No, I didn’t know, Din.”
Silence lulls between you, charged and heavy. Even without seeing his face, you know Din must be squirming beneath his helmet — his intentions, his feelings, out in the open and you still staring at him speechless.
You manage to find your voice.
“May I see it once more?”
The request comes out softer than you intend, your courage suddenly quivering in your chest. You will it to rise, to embolden you. Din had been brave — now it's your turn.
Without a word, he shifts and reaches back to release it from its sheathe on his waist. For a split second you see it, the hesitation in his hand.
Then he's holding it out, balancing in his open and trusting palm, held out for you. The thickness in your throat grows.
You swallow tightly and grip your courage, searching within you for that warm, safe feeling that beats like a drum, Din, Din, Din. You seize it tightly.
Eyes fixed on the blade, you ask quietly, "Would you... offer it to me again?"
It's impossible to draw your eyes up, too nervous to see yourself reflected in the darkness of his visor.
"Yes."
Your heart becomes a supernova.
"Will you?" You whisper, finally daring to look up at him.
Your protector, your partner, the man who showed you the softness of his heart and asked for nothing in return. "Will you offer it to me again?"
The subtle motions of Din are something you've come to learn with the years you've spent at his side. Now, staring up at you, the inclination of his armour gives away his surprise.
Then he's rising to his feet only to step before you and sink down, brought to his knees before you. His hand remains steady, the offering held out, and this time the meaning of it cannot be misconstrued in any way.
"Cyare," He murmurs — and it's beloved, it's please, it's don't part from my side for as long as you'll have me.
Something within you trembles and your bottom lip quivers in emotion and then you're moving without thinking, sagging until you're on your knees too.
Equal heights, each of you in a position of devotion, facing toward each other.
Hand reaching out, you clasp your fingers around the hilt of the dagger and say thickly, "I accept."
There's a ragged exhale through the modulator of Din's helmet. He shifts, moving to strip the gloves from his hands and the sight of so much skin from him is enough to make you falter. But there's barely time to recover your stolen breath before his bare hand curls around yours, far larger, the dagger gripped in both of your hands.
His skin pressed against yours burns like starlight. You stutter out a breath, your smile coming so easily at the sight of your joined hands.
Din's other hand raises up and pauses momentarily, halting as if he's unsure if he's allowed before it settles gently on your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his skin and hear another sharp inhale through the modulator.
"I—" He begins, quickly cutting himself off. His thumb on your cheeks begins to wander, soothing over your skin lightly. He urges you forward and you bow your head, forehead pressing to the cool beskar of his armour.
"Thank you."
"You're thanking me?" You chuckle wetly, emotion clinging to your words. His thumb on your face traces another soft circle and you shudder beneath the loving touch, eyes fluttering closed.
“You could have been clearer." You chastise lightly, though your evident joy means your words don't have any real bite.
“I offered you beskar, cyra’ika,” He murmurs, voice warm and full of love. His thumbs draws another delicate circle. “How much clearer could I be?”
His point makes you laugh, eyes opening and seeing your own reflection in his visor. "I don't know," You say, averting your eyes down to your still intertwined hands. You squeeze your hand and feel him echo the motion. Your heart sings.
"Use your words?" You suggest with a cheeky smile, well aware that words were not a strong suit of your Mandalorian.
Din sighs, a faux long suffering one, and the mere familiarity of it makes your heart ache in the best way.
The worries of earlier bubble up within you, the reminder of why you had been so sure the dagger had some other meaning.
“I,” You begin, pulling back lightly and casting your gaze towards Grogu, who had been suspiciously silent as if knowing the significance of the moment before him. “I wasn’t thinking about the beskar, I was being stupid.”
With your free hand, you cover Din’s hand with yours, hiding your face away, which suddenly feels a little warmer. The nudge of your hand against his does nothing to alleviate the glow.
“I thought it was, like,” You mutter quietly, embarrassed. “You were saying I wasn’t doing my job well enough or— or something and I started worrying you were gonna…”
You can’t even finish the sentence with how foolish you feel.
“You thought I wanted you to leave?” Din asks, his voice dubious and warm. Like the mere thought of that is so far from believable that it’s amusing to him.
“Shut up,” you groan, eyes closing as if it can save your from your further flustering.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.” You murmur.
His hand in yours tightens, the other on your face coaxing you out of hiding with the gentlest of nudges.
"Never. As long as you want it, I want you with me." He says and in his voice you hear nothing but utter devotion. "Close your eyes."
You follow his command without hesitation, darkness cloaking your vision and you feel his hands retract from yours. The dagger remains in your palm, still cradled in your fingers. Then, there's the tell-tale hiss of his helmet and you inhale sharply.
"Cyare," He says and this time, it's with all the richness and roughness of his natural voice.
The timbre of his voice is like gunpowder sprinkled across your soul and when his hand finds the curve of your cheek once more, it's set alight.
"May I?" He asks. You can feel the soft heat of his breath fan across your lips and feel your heart quiver in response, bursting forward, as if trying to reach him. His thumb soothes across your cheek, full of wanting.
Your nod would be imperceptible if it was anyone other than Din — if his gaze wasn't trained on your face, drinking the details like a starved man, finally with uncloaked eyes.
He moves forward, presses his mouth against yours, and finds home.
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spencers-love · 6 months ago
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Service Dog Johnny (18+) - Ghost/Fem Reader/Soap
Part 1 - Simon convinces you to fuck Johnny
Part 2 - Your first time with Johnny
Part 3 - Simon gets you ready to fuck Johnny
Part 4 - Johnny fucks you in Simon’s bed
Part 5 - You rescue Johnny
Part 6 - Meet Cute
Part 7 - Sack of Flour
Part 8 - Johnny for dinner
Part 9 - Ghost in the bedroom
Part 10 - Soap bends you over
Part 11 - You spit in Soap's mouth
Part 12 - Ghost cleans you up
Part 13 - Fuck off, Johnny
Part 14 - Ghost holds you under
Part 15 - Ghost lets you help
Part 16 - Johnny runs away
Part 17 - You kill Ghost
Part 18 - Ghost is not a good man
Part 19 - You say goodbye to Soap
Part 20 - Soap warms you up
Part 21
Part 22
Final Part
Status of updates ✍🏻
I don’t do tag lists, but users can Subscribe on AO3 for updates as soon as they drop!
Service Dog Johnny Headcanons and Bonus Scenes
Throuplegate and Johnnygate tags if you’re messy.
Chronological scenes
Fan Stuff:
“That wasn’t a small thing, mate.” By @peachjellypackets
Sex/romance Pentagram
Treasure trove of SDJ art by @farahfriday
SDJ deep dive by @madstronaut
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Concept for this series by Rowarn
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⬅️ Back to COD main page
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spencers-love · 6 months ago
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spencers-love · 6 months ago
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The person I reblogged this from deserves to be happy
I tried to scroll past this. I really did
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spencers-love · 6 months ago
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A Crash Course to Kendrick's Super Bowl Performance, from a Black Woman
Note: this does NOT go in depth into all of the song's lyrics. I don't have time to recount two decades of his discography. This is just a summary of the performance itself.
Let's start with the first visual we get:
UNCLE SAM - most notably recognized from WWII American wartime propaganda, Uncle Sam is the personification of American patriotism and freedom. The term "uncle" is also evocative of Uncle Tom from Uncle Tom's Cabin, an abolitionist book that aided in inciting the Civil War. Uncle is also a very common term (both endearment and derogatory) towards Black men (eg. "unc"). Samuel L Jackson was fantastic.
Uncle Sam also resembles a circus ringleader, notable for my next point:
THE GREAT AMERICAN GAME - no, not Super Bowl. The GAG is us the people being pitted against each other: through late-stage capitalism, through the culture war, through class warfare, through being built of the backs of slaves. We are all players in the GAG because none of us on this site were the oligarchs seated at the inauguration.
This is also seen as Kendrick's stage was a Play Station controller. Not only did it remind of circus rings visually, but it was a game battle stage. The Great American Game is a battle royale of the commoners for the amusement of the rich whites.
Remember the foods / Them color was tin and brown / But now they 100 and blue - For this I'll just say, look what the last election said about lowering the price of eggs... and look at the prices now.
The revolution about to be televised / You picked the right time / But the wrong guy - Election 2024 once more.
THE FLAG DANCERS - yes, the dancers formed the US flag... off of the backs of Black people. Not a single white person in sight, and that's true of the cotton pickers in the fields. Plantations are part of how the US came to economic prominence after being a "backwater" colony. Remember tobacco? Cotton? Our bloodlines do.
The red and blue dancers are also notable for representing the Crips and Bloods, two infamous street gangs. The dance in Not Like Us is the Crip Walk. I recommend researching more on your own time about them, but just know they are a large part of the stereotype of Black people being "ghetto."
TOO LOUD, TOO RECKLESS, TOO GHETTO. Do you really know how to play the game? - This is exactly what Black people, especially Black men, get told all the time. It's why we change our names on resumes if they sound "too Black." It's why we codeswitch in non-Black company. This is especially rich considering how non-Black people love our culture and love to make money off of us, as the latter part of the quote points to. And it's even more profound during the Super Bowl-- the NFL is majority Black players.
STREET LIGHT A CAPELLA -- "thug" stereotype dancers to counteract the a capella connotations, with Uncle Sam then saying that Kendrick figured out "bringing other street guys around being a culture cheat code." Yes, this is a direct hit at Drake (listen to "Not Like Us") but also politically. Look up "model minority". Notably I would point to Candace Owens, or the Miami Venezuelan political group that's been in the news recently, especially as this directly led to Kendrick being surrounded by...
DANCERS IN WHITE -- it's white America. That's... that's the allegory.
NOT LIKE US TEASER -- Kendrick says "Not Like Us" is "their favorite song." -> he means white people specifically here. It comes after he's surrounded by all white dancers, the women around him who are his call and response are also in white (my opinion, they represent the industry). He's saying "Not Like Us" is the favorite of yts because it is about BLACK MEN FIGHTING. This again is reflected in the video game stage and ringleader Uncle Sam.
SZA -- instead of giving what they want, we see SZA. She's one of Drake's exes and Kendrick has always supported her.
ALL THE STARS -- This was in the first Black Panther movie, which I recommend you watch. Rest in Power Chadwick. Notably, this movie was incredibly mainstream as a major Marvel movie, and then we have Uncle Sam say...
"THAT'S WHAT AMERICA WANTS: NICE AND CALM. DON'T MESS THIS UP" -- translation: Marvel (the industry, America, etc.) wanted a safe, semi-pop song because white American likes safe pop songs, not Kendrick's usual heavy rap style about his life as a Black man! Don't mess up what you've got going mainstream for having this "Black rap feud" with Drake, who is an R&B model minority to white people because he's safe.
So what does Kendrick say?
IT'S A CULTURAL DIVIDE / IMMA GET IT ON THE FLOOR -- He was warned not to be political or apologetically Black for this Super Bowl performance, but he is using this big stage opportunity to speak out.
40 ACRES AND A MULE / THIS IS BIGGER THAN THE MUSIC -- 40 acres and a mule are what the freed slaves were promised. Instead, this land went to white sharecroppers. Research Jim Crow laws.
THEY TRIED TO RIG THE GAME / BUT YOU CAN'T FAKE INFLUENCE -- rig the election, rig the industry like with model minority Drake, rig the Great American Game with culture war to distract from active class warfare.
NOT LIKE US -- the only thing I'll mention because it made me holler is Serena Williams crip walking on Drake's metaphorical grave. She's another one of his exes.
TURN THE TV OFF -- exactly like he said! The TV is a distraction, the Super Bowl is a distraction, the mainstream news is often a distraction. Turn it off and get with your people!
GAME OVER — could not see this on my stream but at the end of the performance, the lights in the stadium spelled this out. The world is watching, America…
In conclusion, Kendrick Lamar is a visionary and thank you for coming to my TED Talk.
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spencers-love · 6 months ago
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something i genuinely love about making kink art for people is there's an honesty about them. like someone contacting me to say "can you draw my fursona being pampered and fattened by toriel from undertale" and i say "yeah gimmie like a week to get a wip ready." like its so mundane. but think for a moment that person is confiding with me a deep fantasy they have. something they might not tell a lot of other people about. definitely not family or coworkers or non-furry friends. but they're coming to me, fully exposed. their soul laid bare. naked. about something they feel deep within. and for me it is tuesday. i dunno i feel like i live in a world where a lot of creative works have to focus more and more on keeping up appearances. Marketing themselves, being advertiser friendly, obeying whatever trend or algorithm demands it. A lot of it feels disconnected from people. So having someone come to me personally and request: "draw the avatar of myself being loved exactly the way i want to be loved" or "draw this person who represents my ideal partner" or "draw me loving my body" or hell even "draw me being a nasty bitch" it's honest. it's brave. it's intimate and trusting. i think its beautiful. Hell yeah i'll draw it. Your dream deserves to be given life and i really hope i succeed.
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spencers-love · 6 months ago
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I want you to remember:
The fascists hate you too and they just will pretend otherwise until after they've killed the rest of us, before they turn on you.
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spencers-love · 6 months ago
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size difference kink but in the “i grew up being made fun of for being chubby so now the idea of a giant of a man being able to toss me around and tower over me without making my weight a problem makes me really horny” way, you get what im saying?
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spencers-love · 7 months ago
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do you believe me now?
in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader navigate all of her firsts
↳ this series is 18+. mdni. please see warnings to each individual part.
♡ part one
♥︎ part two
♡ part three
♥︎ part 3.5 (bonus chapter)
♡ part four
♥︎ part five
♡ part 5.5 (bonus chapter)
♥︎ part six
♡ part seven
♥︎ part eight
♡ part nine
♥︎ part ten
there is no tag list for this series
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spencers-love · 7 months ago
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americans. listen to me. you did this before, you can do it again. i don't doubt for a single second that'll be tough going and you're going to see the most damning diabolical shit from that orange man from day zero but don't let him win. fight for whatever you believe in and push back as much as possible. as samwise gamgee would say 'there is some good in this world, mr frodo, and it's worth fighting for"
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spencers-love · 7 months ago
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well 🧍‍♀️ as a reminder this blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters but it IS a safe place for women, queers, trans ppl, people of color, undocumented people, and any marginalized group.
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