#and that's woven into it so deeply! you miss and lose so much when you remove that!

[aroaceleovaldez]

Fun fact! The reason the demigod camp colors are orange and purple specifically is because those are the ADHD awareness colors!

notice the specific shades? those are our t-shirt colors!

Orange is more common for adhd awareness ribbons (thus why it’s used for CHB, the camp we’re first introduced to), but purple is also sometimes used as well (thus why it’s the color of the second camp introduced)! There are even some ADHD pride flag designs that utilize one or both colors.

I’ve also rarely seen ribbons that combine both colors, with one half being orange and the other half being purple.

[lewdmommie]

🕷️Caught in your web🕷️

Miguel O’haraxspiderwoman!reader

Warning:18+NSFW,Breeding,Praise,language,violence, blood play, rough sex, Bondage, size kink etc

Summary: Spider y/n falls through a portal and ends up in the year 2099

Comment if you’d like part 2🎀

Word count: 5.k

The cuffs around your wrist squeeze tighter the more you struggle against them. That weird electric prickly feeling begins to set in before you decide to conserve your energy. It was useless with your web supply cut off, A burning sears across your cheek as the guard delivers another blow. A metallic taste of blood pools in your mouth,you spit resentfully at his army green boots.

“If that’s all you got we’re gonna be here all day.” You sneer. The guard raises his hand pulling back with more momentum than before, striking you again. Your head hangs with exhaustion, sweat dripping onto the concrete floor. “The serum. I want it.” The sound of calculated clicks fill the space as a voice makes its way closer and closer. The footsteps get louder before stopping completely, Your spidey senses are off the charts. A calloused finger taps the underside of your chin putting your bloodied face on display. “Fascinating…your wounds have already started repairing themselves” your head whips away from his touch,repulsed. He continues “That serum is the missing link to a suit that could withstand the molecular pressure of traveling through the multiverse. The human body is far too fragile to have its cells ripped apart and woven back together, trust me we’ve tested that theory.” The blind fold is snatched away from your eyes. You squint at the sudden change in lighting, the room is fuzzy before coming into focus. You’re in what seems to be a warehouse… a huge warehouse. This building had to be connected to something bigger and judging by the advanced technology, Array of computers, and Enormous Hexagonal machine at the center of the room, it was most likely a laboratory of some kind. A man in a midnight suit towers over you with an unhinged look in his eye. “You’re my missing link.” He practically drools. A feeling of dread stabs you, this wasn't looking good.

“You’ll have to kill me. Oh wait you can’t… because… your missing link…it’s in my head.” You smile giving a small labored laugh.

“Oh Doctor Y/LN who needs your mind when I have your body. These powers you have…I assume you weren’t born this way. This isn’t some comic book fairytale. People aren’t born special. We make ourselves special…and that’s exactly what you did, isn't it doctor?” He crouches glaring deeply into your eyes.

“I am going to wring every last drop of serum from your body, you will be nothing but a husk when I am done with you.” He grins before shooting back to his feet.

“Activate the machine and get her hooked up to the destabilizer. I want this thing up and running by tonight” He places a cigarette between his lips, striking it with a gold plated lighter, smoke swirls in the air.

“Kill her nice and slow for wasting so much of my time.” He Flicks the still burning cigarette in your direction,the red hot cherry barely missing your skin.

Two guards force you to your feet, dragging you to a chair riddled with tubes and wires.

Shit.shit.shit. You think, going limp and using your body weight to slow them down. They unlock your handcuffs in order to strap you into the machine, without thinking you shoot two webs in random directions grabbing whatever they land on and yank them towards the guards. A desk and filing shelf come flying at the men knocking them unconscious. You attempt to shoot a web at the guard who stood at the entrance but they unfortunately got away, you hear them call for backup on their radio.

I’m outnumbered… your mind races

A red button in the middle of the control center catches your eye.

That’s my way out, you conclude flipping over the unconscious men and landing gracefully on top of the command center.

Big scary red button…what can go wrong? With nothing to lose you slam the button. The machine activates with an obnoxious roar, lights begin to flicker from the insane power output. You walk up the stairs leading to the device, it seems to be made up of millions of tiny pixels, each spec representing a possible reality or dimension. Colors you didn’t even know existed vibrated within this portal.

“Don’t you dare! This is my life’s work!” A guttural scream shreds the air.

“Well I guess…better luck next life?” You give a cheeky salute before falling into the unknown.

~

“ay dios mío, I don’t need a spidey sense to see she’s wearing a suit.” The voice sounds distant but close enough for you to make out their conversation. “Yes I am sure, I checked, there are web shooters…right, she hasn’t woken up yet…Okay.” he sighs. Your eyes flutter open and you’re greeted by a blue sky and fluffy white clouds. A Dark shadow cast over your view before you can fully appreciate it. Another me?… you think to yourself unsure if you’re seeing things right or if it’s a hallucination from the interdimensional travel.

“Where am I?” You push off the ground with a grunt.

“Nueva York” He states with an annoyed tone.

“Nueva York? You mean New York City? How did I end up in New York City…” You ramble frantically.

“Idiota, Nueva York, have you been living under a rock for the last century?” He kneels down edging forward evaluating your features. With a curious hand, he brushes your hair back. You wince as his finger accidentally glides over the fresh slash on your cheek. For a split second his eyes go wide with concern before resting back to judgemental slits.

“What happened here?” His hand hovers over your wound, keeping a good distance to avoid hurting you any further. Miguel didn’t have many moral compasses but one of his top three rules was to always protect women and children. Any villains who dared make the mistake of harming either were given no mercy. Killing was never his first option, but it wasn’t completely off the table if needed. His blood boils at the sight of you, his instinct is to destroy whoever would do something so vile. His teeth bare down, the tips of his fangs prick the smooth skin of his inner lip, a subtle hint of blood hits his tongue.

“Who did this to you?” He asks again, more aggressive than before.

“The Director.” You mutter. Running from a fight wasn’t in your nature but The Director’s forces were too much to handle. You needed to get away, regroup, and being shackled to a cold slab of metal wasn’t the best place to do that.

“Director, most likely a new wannabe villain…leave this to me. You’ve had enough fun playing dress up for one day.” He says as he gets back up. His eyebrow perks inquisitively for a second before turning around. “Cool toy by the way.” He waves off. Impulsively you shoot a web that whips around his ankles holding him in place. Knees bending Miguel centers himself, stabilizing his balance.

“How’s that for a toy?” You push off the ground, palms flat, landing a forward front flip straight onto your feet.

You approach cautiously, nearly walking on the tips of your toes, he doesn’t budge or even speak. He looks dangerous, measuring in at 6'9, his chiseled physique, red eyes that seemed to see right through you, and fangs didn’t help much with looking friendly. Standing at arm's length. You speak slowly.

“I’m not here to fight-”

“Wouldn’t be much of a fight.” he growls, baring his claws.

“It’s my turn for questioning.” You say.

“You must have stolen that device. I will have to detain you.” He lunges at you stumbling clumsily.

“What’s your name?” You question. Miguel stays silent for a while pondering if he should give out such sensitive information to an imposter.

“Isn’t it obvious,Spider-Man.” He states finally looking down at the red spider symbol on his suit.

“This can’t be real. It couldn’t have actually worked. I thought I’d get sent to a McDonald’s a few blocks away or something…I’m really in a different universe” you grumble to yourself, pacing back and forth.

“Are you on something right now?” His brow scrunches accentuating the lines in his forehead.

“W-what do you mean by that! Are you asking if I’m on drugs?” You’re snatched away from your personal monologue by his ludicrous accusation.

“It’s alright I'm used to super fans, just tell me where you live and I can get you back home safely.”

“Super fans? Do you think I’m supposed to be dressed up as you? My suit is way better than yours; if anything you’re cosplaying me!” You wince, doubling over, the adrenaline has started wearing off.

“You need a hospital. Libérame(set me free), I can help you.” He struggles against your webs once more,failing to break free.

“I am fine I just need to rest for…a…minute-“ your words trail off.

Miguel breaks into action, the webs resist before shredding apart as he surges forward catching you in his solid arms.

“Joder(fuck),she’s out cold” he supports your body. His web shoots, sticking to the opposite building. A strong arm locks you in place as he jumps swinging through the maze of businesses and skyscrapers.

~

shooting up in a cold sweat, your chest heaves heavily struggling for breath.

“Just a dream” you exhale relieved holding the blanket to your bare chest.

“Oh great,You’re awake.” At the corner of the room Spider-Man leans against the wall,smirking.

Your hands scramble for more blanket to shield your nude body.

“Where are my clothes?!” A hot blush creeps on your cheeks.

“I haven’t quite figured that out myself, some time after you passed out your…suit somehow submerged itself into your flesh. Disintegrating right in front of my eyes” He looks down stroking his chin.

“The suit deactivated because of my low brain activity, it thought I was transforming back. Oh god did you see anything?” You ask curling into yourself.

“Wasn’t much to see.” He shrugs.

You scoff before noticing a fresh set of clothes sprawled in the chair beside the bed.

“I came to let you know where the bathroom is, I’m sure you want to get cleaned up after everything that’s happened.”

“Why did you bring me here…and where is here exactly?”

“This is my place. I couldn’t just leave a fellow spider person unconscious on a rooftop. It doesn’t really help the brand. Whatever you have inside you is way too powerful to let a villian get lucky and stumble upon.” He explains. So it’s about my powers huh? Typical. You think holding eye contact with the spider jerk. The color of his eyes stand out to you, their vibrant red hue shines in the dim light. The more you observe him the more intense his features become, he’s extremely handsome under that constant grimace. You find your eyes lingering on his spandex clad body, tracing how the fabric molds to the shape of each muscle. So tight you could see even the slightest twitch or flex. He folds his arms awaiting your reply, This movement forces you to look down at the sheets,flustered.

“Y-yeah that’s true, thanks, I’ll uh go take that shower now.”

“The bathrooms down the hall to the left, I have towels folded on the sink along with toiletries. Have a nice bath…you need it.” He holds his nostrils closed exiting the room dramatically.

Lifting your arm you take a quick sniff. Your nose scrunches at the smell of battle. Interdimensional travel is quite the workout. Your toes wiggle on the cool hardwood floor seeing if it’d crumble underneath your feet. To your surprise it doesn’t, meaning this place is actually real life and not just some simulation. Peeking your head from behind the security of the door frame, you scan the area before scurrying down the hall. Miguel stands in the living area mumbling something under his breath.

“So her picture is nowhere in the police database?…no, ugh Tan molesto(so annoying), check again lyla.” He commands.

He really thinks I’m a crazy stalker fan you think in disbelief, you sneak down the hall stepping through the open bathroom door, you close it behind yourself . The bathroom had dark simplistic themes with splashes of red that popped. The sink and bathtub are made with the same charcoal colored marble, the sink is neatly decorated with necessities such as a toothbrush, electric razor, hair brush, cologne and deodorant. To the left of the sink are expertly folded black towels, one for washing and one for drying. The mirror is larger than average and sits rectangular at the same length as the sink.Turning around a glimpse of your back stops you in your tracks. The wounds have closed but the scars and bruises remain. A reminder of your goal…to take down the director. Your fingers trail the scar on your cheek and anger

bubbles from a place deep within . He’d taken everything from you and he had a debt to pay for those atrocities. You wanted his life as payment. Pulling back the scarlet shower curtain you twist the handle all the way to hot, nothing was better than a steaming hot shower to wash away a day. Grabbing the small washcloth you unroll it and step into the tub, holding it under the water before lathering with the body wash propped at the edge of the bathtub. It smelled strongly of musk and deep woody undertones befitting for an attractive egotistical Superhero. The scent of him causes your thighs to squeeze shut as the throbbing sets in. You close your eyes, gliding the towel slowly over your skin imagining his touch. Your head falls back as the towel travels up your neck, the muscles in your throat contract as you swallow back a moan imagining his large hands gripping you there. Washing your chest the fibers of the towel cause a gentle friction over your now stiff nipples earning a small yelp from you. Everything is feeling too good. The bathroom is steamy, the scent of him floating all around you. Absent-mindedly your fingers slide down the length of your stomach trailing a line to your pulsating heat. The hot shower stream collides with your sensitive flesh. The water sprays firmly on your chest stimulating your taut pearls. It’s too much to handle, behind your eye lids you can see him stepping into this shower and fucking you ruthlessly against the shower wall. That rebellious finger teases the slick line of your womanhood, just barely pushing past the soft folds. The tip of your finger slides over your slippery bud, a soft moan falls from your lips. Miguel notices you’ve been in the shower for some time now and begins to worry for your well-being. Just as his fist hovers over the door to knock, he is stopped in his tracks at the sound of desperate whimpers and groans. She isn’t…she couldn’t be. He shakes away the notion concluding you may just be sick from today's events. Regardless he didn’t want to disturb you unless you called for him. For some reason he couldn’t seem to walk away from the door, on the contrary he takes a step closer, curiosity getting the better of him. His heart rate skyrockets as he listens intently.

“Uhn p-please touch me…please.” You beg.

The tips of his ears are warm with blush. The crotch of his suit tightens, suffocating the raging hard on he desperately tries to suppress. His forehead rests on the door as he tries to slow his heavy breathing. Blood rushes through his veins enhancing his already heightened senses. It’s almost as if he could feel you through the wall, the only thing separating him was the door,which he could break down with ease. His lips part exposing sharp ivory fangs, his breath is labored and his body shaking with need. He needed to release these feelings deep inside you. breaking down that door and completely having his way with you on the bathroom floor was the only way to tame the fire burning deep inside him. Every muscle in his body tensed and quivered as he became solid with arousal. I need her. I need to be inside her now. A voice growls in his mind. Suddenly the water cuts off. He steps away from the door chest heaving up and down. Biting his lip he walks away, going into his bedroom to find a change of clothes that will allow his throbbing erection to feel a bit more comfortable. You grab the dry off towel and secure it around your frame.

The clothes. You think realizing they were left in the bedroom.

With a quick peek outside, the coast is clear the spider jerk is nowhere in sight so you B line it to the bedroom. An audible gasp escapes as you cover your mouth in shock. There he stood half naked wearing only a pair of navy blue briefs. His body could have been sculpted by gods, never had you seen someone so beautiful. He turns around glaring at you through his curly hair, eyes gleaming like ruby’s.

“I-I left my clothes, I’m sorry I didn’t know you were in here.” You quickly look away, the image still fresh in your mind.

“It’s fine. I was just changing.” He slips on his white tee shirt, closing the drawer.

“Right of course this is your room, in your house, and your clothes…” you ramble.

“Yeah. Sure. Hurry and get dressed, we need to talk.” He says with an unamused tone.

“O-kay!” He bumps your shoulder as he exits the room.

“Ouch.” You exclaim, holding your arm.

Grumbling angrily under your breath, you pick up the oversized tee and shorts combo. The clothes swallow you naturally considering his massive size. You make your way to the living room. your hands work tying your hair back as you sit on the opposite side of the couch watching him closely.

“I was thinking about your suit.” He starts.

“Please don’t bring up how I was naked earlier.” You plead hiding your face.

“W- no I’m not talking about…that.” His voice becomes deeper as he rubs the back of his neck reminiscing on how hard the sound of your voice made him just minutes ago.

“I’m talking about the technology. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen…something that hasn’t been explored, Ever. Something almost otherworldly.” He scratches his head in confusion.

“Okay so now do you believe I’m not some psycho fangirl?”

“It isn’t completely off the table. But if you are really a spider person…prove it. Prove it isn’t some kind of illusion.” He leans back, arms stretched across the back of the couch, his legs parted comfortably. You can’t help your eyes wandering to the visible bulge that tented between his thighs.

“What was the question again?” Your eyes are glossy and cheeks flustered. Miguel follows your line of vision seeing the lustful gaze consume you. His cock twitches, making him shoot up, using his arms to cover the evidence.

“Prove you have powers!” He raises his voice slightly.

“Okay okay no need to yell.” You stand taking a few steps away from the couch.

His eyes follow you curiously as you stop about three feet in front of him. In mere seconds his hands are forced together by a string of abnormally strong webbing. Wrapping the loose string Around your palm,you pull yanking him to his feet.

“The more you struggle the tighter it becomes.” You inform him. His eyes are low and his lips have a rosy hot blush. You advance forward using the remaining web to bind his wrist tighter. With one final pull it is secured firmly in place.

“ Te deseo tanto(I want you so much)” Miguel moans before quickly regaining his composure.

“Huh what does that mean?” You inquire unsure if you heard him correctly.

“N-nothing it doesn’t mean anything. Where are the webs coming from?”

“Here.” You point to your wrist.

“Then why do you have a web shooter? Sounds like a trick to me.” He says through clenched teeth.

“The shooter strengthens the quality of my webs. It wouldn't be fun swinging fifty feet in the air and having a web break on you.”

“That’s true. You seem to have some experience with this lifestyle. I can assume you’ve been this way for a long time.”

“Yeah…a few years actually.” You sound far away.

“I can’t believe another spider person has gone undetected for so long.” He looks deep in thought.

“I'm not from here exactly.”

“Did you move from a different state? A lot of things have changed after the Heroic age so it would make sense you were in hiding-“ he speaks matter-a factly.

“What year is it?” You interrupt.

“Year? I think you might have hit your head pretty hard. It's the year 2099 don’t you remember?” The world starts spinning around you.

“20…99.You’re Spider-Man from the year 2099? This isn’t right, I shouldn't be here!” Tears stream down your face as you realize just how far away from home you really are.

Without thinking he lifts his bound hands over your head pulling you flush against his rock solid chest.

His chin nestles in your hair, you can feel his warm breath on your cheek. With each sob he pulls you closer,deeper into him.

“Eres demasiado bonita para llorar.” He whispers in your ear. The sudden change in language catches your attention, halting the flow of tears.

“W-what does that mean?” Your head leans back, staring up at him with blurry eyes.

“You’re too pretty to cry.” He breathes.

Giving into the temptation his arms lock around your waist hoisting you to his eye level. You nod, wanting to listen to the only thing that made sense in that moment ,the only thing that felt real…your body. He exhales a sigh of relief at your nod of consent taking advantage of your position he closes the distance with his lips. You hadn’t even recognized the amount of tension in your body until completely relaxing in his arms. The kiss is hungry as you two struggle for power, he clearly wants to take control but you wouldn’t make it that easy. You snake your arms out of his grasp, tangling your hands in his chestnut curls. Your feet are dangling off the ground, taking advantage of this you wrap your legs around his waist. His tongue sneakily slips past your lips petting the inside of your mouth, tasting you for the very first time.

“Tan deliciosa(so delicious)” he mumbles into your mouth.

His warm wet appendage entangles with your eager tongue dancing together in a tango of passion. With a pained groan he forces his wrist apart breaking through the barrier of your webs, desperate to touch you.

“Need…more” he is no longer able to articulate full sentences. The lust drowns him and he pulls you down with him. His now free hands roam your body leaving no place undiscovered. His giant hand grips the back of your neck pulling you deeper into the kiss. He holds you still as he finds solace in your lips, there is no place he’d rather be in this moment than Buried hilt deep inside your walls. His other hand grips your ass kneading the soft skin. As you begin to slip, he bounces you with one arm, holding you even tighter. He blindly sits down on the couch, a bit of a bumpy ride but you land gently straddling his hips. He pulls away to stare fervently at you with rose colored eyes. Without bothering to remove your shirt in a humane way, he slashed a talon between your breasts, roughly splitting the fabric.

“So fucking beautiful” he runs his tongue up the length of your torso all the way to your neck. You tremble beneath his touch. He plants warm kisses up your throat, sucking and nipping the smooth flesh. His fang pokes dangerously close with each lap, threatening to sink in at any moment. He softly bares down breaking just the surface of your skin, a small trickle of blood pools at both sides of the bite. You gasp at the sudden pain but quickly melt as he licks it away. The fact you’re both spider people his venom doesn’t work the same way it would on a human. It is not poisonous or toxic. Your body processes it by turning it into dopamine intensifying your bodily sensitivity. The effects take action immediately; electricity vibrates every cell in your body.

“W-wait i don’t even know your name…your real name.” You huff trying to catch your breath.

“Miguel. Yours?” He smiles, the lines in his face stand out making him look even more charming.

“Y/n” your eyes move side to side as he leans in again this time lower.

“Nice to meet you, Now por favor fóllame(please fuck me)

“Oh god…ah…please” you plead as he sucks your erect peaks. He sucks and teases your nipples, he moans as you grab his hair for support.

“Uhn…mamita harder, pull harder” he groans, flicking his tongue over your hard pearls. You obey, pulling with a little more force than before. A shiver runs down his spine, his eyes flutter as they roll back.

In an instant he turns around flipping you onto your back, he kneels between your legs on the living room floor. He ejects a web plastering your ankles together. Your back is flat on the couch cushion and your lower half hangs being supported only by his firm grip on your ankles. Just as before he doesn’t bother with removing your bottoms. He lifts your legs up, creating tension in the fabric and slicing at the resistance point splitting the shorts in two exposing your eager slit.

“Oh dios te necesito ahora(oh god I need you right now)” he pants.

Using the hand grasping your ankles, he pushes your legs back putting your plush entrance on display. He salivates at the sight of you so vulnerable and open before him, the muscles in your legs tremble as he bends down splaying soft kisses on your inner thighs. You can feel his warm breath on your wet folds. A growl rumbles in his throat as he traces the line of your flower with his tongue, savoring your nectar .

“f-fuck…s-so good” you moan, biting back a scream of pleasure. Utilizing his free hand, he teases your slick canal with two thick digits before easing them inside. His tongue and fingers work in unison petting your inner and outer sweet spots. Never had he felt someone so tight and inviting, his cock twitches as your walls squeeze his fingers. Pumping his fingers in and out he simultaneously licks your clit, sucking and lapping at the bundle of nerves. Your hips buck and hands find his hair grinding deeper into his touch. He picks up the pace as your pussy quivers. his head moves rhythmically as he absolutely devours you. His chin is slick with your juices as he licks and sucks every inch of your inner labia. Your legs twitch and shake as the climax edges near, maintaining the same speed he pushes you past your breaking point.

“Can’t take anymore…i-its too much.” You sob gripping him tighter.

“It’s okay estás haciendo un buen trabajo(You’re doing such a good job) don’t give up on me…that’s it…good girl.” He praises finger fucking you through your orgasm. With a final yelp the gates open and you cum harder than you’ve came before, coating his fingers in your delicious cream. Slow and gently he slips his fingers from your spent cunt leaving you shivering and incoherent. Instinctively he puts those same fingers in his mouth sucking away the mess you made. Before you can even think of catching your breath, he sits up removing the barrier of his shirt and shorts. The elastic waistband of his shorts slides down exposing the defined V lines on his hips. His throbbing manhood burst free, the veins pulsing visibly with frustration. His head hangs hiding his red hot blush and low set eyelids, this feeling could only be described as animalistic. Using his fangs he shreds the webbing holding your ankles in place, setting you free. Your knees fall in exhaustion at either side of you giving him full access to your cunt once again. He towers over you, hands on the back of the couch to support his massive weight. You feel his cock fall thick and heavy on your glistening lips. He breathes deeply, rubbing his member along your split, his mouth opens slightly a pained expression pulls to his face.

“Me vuelves loca(you drive me crazy) I can’t wait anymore.” He growls lining his tip with your slick hole. He plunges deep and desperately inside you, his claws slice the back of the couch as he ruts into you. Those piercing red eyes bore into yours as he pistons into your pillowy heat. Your pussy clenches sucking him in further, the tip of his cock slams your g spot with each stroke. The grooves of your inner walls massage all eight inches of his thick rod.

“Me encanta tu cuerpo(I love your body)…te sientes muy bien(you feel so good)…No puedo resistirme a ti(I can’t resist you)” he groans low in your ear. He places his calloused hand under your knee pushing it back and opening you wider. He pumps in and out at a fervent pace, suddenly he switches the position of his hands to rest on your hips. With his Cock buried deep inside you, he stands hoisting you by your waist. Naturally your legs hang around his hips leaving you at his mercy. You’re a frightening 6’9 inches from the ground being fucked like a rag doll. His hands grip your ass as he rocks you back and forth on his dick. Your toes curl as he rails you slamming up while forcing you down on his cock. It’s hard and needy. He can’t control himself, his talons prick your flesh as he grips you tightly. His manhood throbs begging for release,head falling back as he forces you up and down on his shaft.

“Need to cum…can’t hold it f-fuck.” With a final thrust he slams deep within exploding and spraying your walls with hot cum. He holds you close as his body trembles, a thin layer of sweat glistens on his body. His cock twitches still hard inside you.

“Another round,hermosa(beautiful)?” He pants.

“Yes please.” You breathe.

[btsrunmylife]

24. Explanations

summary: You and Yoongi have never exactly gotten along. Truthfully, this wouldn’t be such an issue if you didn’t work together. But there have been far too many times when his sarcastic comments have rubbed you the wrong way.

His most recent shenanigan might just be the icing on the cake, especially because you know absolutely nothing about it until it’s too late. What’s worse is he’s gotten his friend involved, a friend you happen to get along with rather well — maybe too well.

Yoongi’s intentions really weren’t to drive you away. His curiosity merely got the best of him. But now…he’s woven an intricate mess he can’t get out of. And he can’t help but wonder, will this be the thing that finally pushes you over the edge?

pairing: yoongi x f!reader, jimin x f!reader

rating: pg13

genre: social media au, comedy, romance, fluff, slight angst?

chapter word count: 1.5k

chapter warnings: some swearing

permanent tag list (open): @yoongiofmine @xianav @lilacdreams-00 @emmmui @vantxx95 @cursedblood707​ @hqtetsurou @geauxslu79 @lyra0cassiopeia @halesandy @lunaoceanchild @annoyingtimemachinee @babycoffeefire

series tag list (open): @darlinggod-sweetvillain @namsope32 @90s-belladonna @moon-write @secretlycrazyhummingbird @ysljoon @ams02 @electricari @somelazysundays @deleteidentity @robsdrope

back | masterlist

Yoongi doesn’t leave early, but he does leave right on time, before you’ve even begun packing up your stuff. You make some excuse about needing to freshen up before you leave and Yoongi’s not surprised considering you think you’re going to be seeing Jimin. His heart does ache though, knowing what you’ll be walking into.

Jimin will be there, of course, getting things ready for the night, but he’s going to let Yoongi do the talking. Yoongi can’t decide if he’s grateful for it or a little resentful. Obviously he knows it’s his story to tell, his responsibility to own up to everything, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

When he walks through the door of Serendipity, he’s a little surprised (but also not) to find your cohort of friends waiting for him. They stand with their backs against the bar, arms crossed tightly over their chests. At the sight of Nabi’s scowl, Yoongi can’t help but wince. She knows now too, he takes it.

He eyes both Namjoon and Seokjin, knowing he shouldn’t be surprised they told her, but really wishing they hadn’t. Too many people know already and, when the door pushes open behind him, he can’t keep himself from groaning.

“Is everyone coming to watch this?” Yoongi sighs, running a hand over his face.

Jungkook pauses next to Taehyung, who shrugs out of his jacket with the scrunch of his nose. Hoseok stands behind them, hands tucked deeply into his pockets.

“What? And miss out on free entertainment?” Taehyung quips, much to the chagrin of your friends, who glare in his direction.

“This isn’t some game,” Nabi snaps, fierce gaze flicking to Yoongi. “These are Mayhem’s feelings you messed with.”

Yoongi glances toward his feet, unable to meet her gaze, and nods. “I know.”

Nabi returns her glare to Taehyung and his eyes widen, hands flying up at his sides. “Yes, understood.”

Jungkook, still a little starry eyed in the face of Nabi, clears his throat and guides Taehyung forward, away from the door.

Yoongi stares at it apprehensively, then glances at his phone. It’s getting close to 5:30, so he knows you’ll be here any minute. Knowing you, you’ll probably be a few minutes late and, despite the circumstances, he can’t help the surge of fondness that fact conjures.

He tries to squash the feeling. After this, you’ll probably never want to speak to him again. He can’t say he’d blame you, has already fully come to terms with you hating him after this. With him losing you before he even has a chance.

He can’t blame anyone but himself, he knows. He did this to himself.

The minutes tick by and Yoongi is so caught up in self-admonishment he doesn’t notice you approaching the door until it’s being pulled open. The movement startles him, making him jolt so hard he nearly drops his phone. Catching it in time, he shoves it in his pocket with trembling fingers and pushes his fringe from his eyes.

He really needs a haircut, but he can’t think about that right now.

When you walk through the door, you look understandably confused, if not a little overwhelmed, as you look around the club. With Jimin nowhere in sight, your gaze settles on Yoongi, your eyebrows drawing together.

“Hey,” you greet apprehensively, glancing around the room. “What’s everyone doing here? Where’s Jimin?”

Cold, hard fear weighs like lead in Yoongi’s stomach and he has to swallow back the bile that rises in his throat. God, he’s nervous. So fucking nervous. But he has to do this.

“A-actually,” he stutters, clearing his throat. “You’re here to see me.”

Your face scrunches, blinking slowly. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

“He means,” Jimin says, entering the room from the back, a crate of liquor in his arms. “I’m not the one that sent you that message.”

Your eyes widen, moving between the two of them. “I’m confused? Why would you — if this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny.”

Your eyes flit around the room, everyone doing their best to avoid your gaze. It’s their expressions that make your hands start to shake, that set your nerves on edge. You refocus your attention on Yoongi. “What’s going on?”

Yoongi clears his throat, glancing toward Jimin, who goes about arranging the bottles behind the bar, pointedly pretending not to listen. Yoongi licks his lips. “Okay…before I explain, please know that I’m sorry. That I —“ He shifts uncomfortably. “That I never meant to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” you squeak. “How would you hurt me? What the hell is going on?”

Yoongi grimaces, scratching at the back of his neck. He wants desperately to look to his friends for help, but he knows they won’t help him. Knows they can’t. This is on him. It should come from him.

“I’m the one you’ve been talking to on the dating app,” Yoongi admits, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands when he hears your sharp intake of breath. He swallows. “I’ve been pretending to be Jimin.”

You flounder, stuttering out a response before your words finally take form. “Wait, what? But you have your own account!”

“I do…but…” He averts his gaze. “I don’t really use it? I knew you’d never match with me, so I just…kept using Jimin’s.”

You stare at him for a long moment, eyes glazing over, before you shake your head with a disbelieving laugh. The sound is anything but pleasant and it tears at something in Yoongi’s chest. “I’d never match with -- you’re an idiot! You’re a real fucking idiot!”

Exasperatedly, you pull up the app on your phone and quickly spin it around.

What Yoongi sees has his heart seizing in his chest, fear and shock and disappointment swooshing through his veins. “We…you swiped right?”

You make an aggravated sound in the back of your throat, whirling around to point a finger at Jimin. “You! Did I ever really talk to you at all?”

Jimin smiles wanly, clearing his throat as he grimaces. “Once? After our date. Yoon didn’t — he figured you’d want to talk to the real me after that.”

“I wanted to talk to the real you the entire time!” you say shrilly. “I wouldn’t have matched with you otherwise!”

Jimin holds up his hands, wide eyes moving from you to Yoongi. “Okay, but…can I just point out I’m not the one who Catfished you? And I didn’t actually know he was talking to you from my account at first?”

“And that’s another thing!” you whirl back around and jab your finger in Yoongi’s direction. “You seriously thought setting me up on a date with the person you were Catfishing as was a good idea?! As if I wouldn’t notice something was off?!”

Yoongi’s lips form a thin line, eyes flickering to Jimin only a moment before returning to you. “I told him to be careful about what he said.”

You let out a screech, hands running through your hair. “These fucking idiots.”

Jungkook snorts. “We told him it’d blow up in his face.”

You turn on him next. “You knew?!”

You look around the room at all the people avoiding eye contact. Taehyung, Hoseok, Seokjin, and Namjoon. “You all knew?!”

Nabi shakes her head, eyes glinting with sadness. “I only just found out.”

Namjoon lifts a hand. “To be fair, I would have told you a lot sooner if I’d known. I only found out through Seokjin—“

Seokjin raises his hand next. “And I only knew after I heard Yoongi and Jimin talking after your date. I would have told you sooner, but I wanted to get the story straight first. I didn’t want to give you false information, princess.”

“Don’t princess me,” you huff with a scowl. You cross your arms over your chest and turn to Yoongi. “What the fuck, Min? You knew…” You pause, some of the fight draining from you as the disappointment starts to unfurl. “You knew how excited I was about Jimin. You had so many chances to tell me the truth.”

Yoongi’s face crumples with regret, eyes downcast as he nods. “I know. I — I really wasn’t trying to mess with you. Mayhem, I—“

“I don’t really care why you did it.” You shake your head. “What matters now is that it’s over, I guess.”

His eyebrows dip and he takes a step forward. “Wait, May—“

You shake your head, more firmly this time. “I have to go.”

Without a look in anyone’s direction, you turn tail and shove your way through the club. The place is eerily silent and the few patrons that have trickled in part for you as you squeeze by.

On your way out the door, you think you hear Jimin whistle and mutter, “You really fucked up, Yoon.”

In response to this, Hoseok scoffs and snaps, “You’re just as much at fault, Jimin.”

You don’t listen to what anyone says next, although the raised voices suggest a lot of people have something to say on the matter. You squeeze out the door, into the night, trying not to think about it.

You’ll think about it tonight when you get home. You’ll think about it in the safety of your bed, underneath your covers and curled up into your pillows.

For now, you’ll make your way home. And who’s to stop you if you stop at a bar on your way? After all that’s been revealed to you tonight, you think you deserve a drink.

next

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

perfect now - a close reading

only pure and true love for this one. it’s soft and sweet because the one he wrote it for is and needs cheesy uncool romcom soundtrack-worthy affirmations and it’s the most wonderful thing oh my the flurries 

some album booklet art for your viewing pleasure

((just a warning for below: while the lyric analysis was kept fairly neutral and close to the words and their meaning, more and more parallels did ensure me larrying out by the time the analysis kicked off so if you’re not into that, you can skip this one!))

⟼ check out @bluewinnerangel​ ‘s magnificent post with all the parallels to 1d/h&l bc it’s exhaustive and was a source for mine <3 thank you again for your service <3 bc this song really is a fanpiece of every song that has been important to them throughout their career so far, whether they wrote it or not, and it’s honestly kinda impressive

SUMMARY

you’re sad and i love you so much i will do anything to make that undone but while you’re sad know that i sill very much love you and you’re also strong enough to conquer all of this on your own but i’ll be by your side anyway

lyric breakdown ft. the many parallels, incl. little things, through the dark and wmyb

what this says about louis, his partner and the relationship he is in

never gonna dance again frenzy

identity 

louis is a marvellous majestic sonofabitch basically <3

walls, track 10

～ little things “you still have to squeeze into your jeans, but you’re perfect to me”

You don’t feel pretty and it’s hard to miss

You don’t feel pretty and it’s hard to miss

later lyric: “like a neon sign” - i see through you trying to hide away your insecurities

I wish that you could see my point of view As someone staring back at you

“you” is also staring at him, but perhaps is too insecure to realise how mutual the adoration is

i wish i could get you out of your own negative spiral and give you a look at yourself from my perspective

～ wmyb “everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but you” 

～ wmyb “right now i’m looking at you and i can’t believe you don’t know you’re beautiful”

～ little things “you never love yourself half as much as I love you, and you’ll never treat yourself right darling but I want you to. If I let you know, I’m here for you, maybe you’ll love yourself like I love you”

On Friday night when we’re all out I turn to you and you’re looking down And you don’t wanna dance I know you love to dance You never stop given half the chance

heavy echoes of kmm again, but the opposite: the “nightmare on the dance floor” doesn’t want to dance

when “you” is confident rlly not being subtle with who i think that is, they love to dance <-> tpwk “feeling good in my skin, i just keep on dancing”

“i know you love to dance” = i know what you love bc i love you

“given half the chance” 

～ tpwk “giving/given second chances”

given a chance tattoo, making another appearance (see below for more tattoo meltdowns)

Just keep your head up, love, keep your head up

term of endearment <3 

～ dlibyh

this album is full of encouragement to keep going and as much as it gives me life it ruins me 

Don’t hide away, don’t ever change

“be happy, proud”

～ “just hold on”

“pick someone who’s supportive”

Keep your head up, love, keep your head up Don’t look away, don’t look away

don’t look away from me

～ through the dark “and I can see your head is held in shame”

Cause everybody’s looking at you now, my, oh my

they have the stage to themselves / new career paths they’re doing on their own

could also mean ppl they’re going out with are looking at them, which “you” interprets as sth negative, which makes them self-conscious, while they’re actually admiring them bc they steal the scene

～ wmyb “you’re turning heads when you walk through the door”

I guess some queens don’t need a crown And I know why Even when your tears are falling down Still, somehow, you’re perfect now

“you” is royalty to louis, to put it simply 

they don’t need something on their head to make it known to everyone else - they’re a queen and everyone knows it

gendered: female - also used in drag contexts - the only time L has used any gendered word to identify his partner on the entire album (more on this below)

～ steal my girl "she's been my queen since we were sixteen" can't believe i forgot this one thank you @mortalenemiestolovers for reminding me!!!

～ falling

～ through the dark “you tell me that your tears are here to stay”

You never do, but if you asked me to I’ll tell the truth lying next to you

“you” never asks for affirmations directly, but by saying shit like their pants are too tight make it clear enough to L that they do need to hear once in a while that it’s not true

Cause you’re the only one when it’s said and done You make me feel like being someone 

Good to you even at your worst

～ always you

i love you so much you are a force of life to me, and even when you hate me i want more

～ drag me down “If I didn’t have you there would be nothing left, the shell of a man who could never be his best. If I didn’t have you, I’d never see the sun. You taught me how to be someone” (sung by louis first, harry second) 

～ through the dark “even if you scream and shout, it’ll come back to you and I’ll be here for you

You steal the scene and it’s unrehearsed

reference to working on a stage - their natural presence wins everyone over - that charisma is never manufactured

Don’t you wanna dance? Just a little dance I’ll never stop given half the chance

L keeps encouraging them, will also not pass by any chance to dance with them

Every insecurity, like a neon sign, as bright as day If you knew what you were to me You would never try to hide away

“it’s hard to miss”

L sees through them trying to hide their insecurities, pretend to be strong

～ through the dark “but I know you were only hiding”

SYNTHESIS

Perfect Now is not a fan favorite and I am so not here for that discourse, so please do not pester me with negativity about this chocolate drop of a song. 

As others have pointed out, the parallels with other songs written by Louis, Harry or for One Direction are extremely present. Especially Little Things is echoed loudly, but there’s so much more to be read, as you’ve seen. These are songs that are clearly near and dear to Louis, bc he wrote them or bc performing them was special, like with Little Things and What Makes You Beautiful. A lot of the same emotions come back in Louis’s writing, so much so that you can’t help but see the larger story behind it all. Throughout Walls you can hear him singing about not giving up and holding your head high despite hardships, and if you look back at his earlier writing, it’s always been there. Through the Dark is an early and striking example of this style of Louis song: you’re sad and i love you so much i will do anything to make that undone but while you’re sad know that i sill very much love you and you’re also strong enough to conquer all of this on your own but i’ll be by your side anyway 

basically through the dark’s chorus:

Oh, I will carry you over Fire and water for your love And I will hold you closer Hope your heart is strong enough When the night is coming down on you We will find a way Through the dark

It is very clear that Louis is faced with a partner - I can freely say it’s Harry now right? are the antis gone by now? i think so - that struggles with his body, with his identity, with how he wants to present himself vs how opinions on that might push him down and dampen his spirit. Louis, always the supportive boyfriend, then tries his best to make him see the light, while keeping that space for his sadness, his struggles, or their joint struggles. Accept the sadness but don’t lose your heart to it.

I’ve linked @bluewinnerangel​ ‘s post at the start of this post, but I need to stress how good it is once more as I also shamelessly insert a screenshot from it here bc it makes me feel a lot and summarizes perfectly just how deeply Perfect Now is woven into the history of their lives, relationship and especially “you”s/Harry’s personal struggle with their identity/body/confidence...

Because yes, i absolutely think these tattoos are being echoed in the song. “Never gonna dance again” as a lyric and then as a tattoo on Harry’s legs like shackles around his ankles represents the sensation of shame, of being stuck, bc of your desires, bc of your sexuality. Obviously we can never know why Harry got the tattoo, as in what experience pushed him to choose those lyrics or what exactly he recognizes in himself, but it’s safe to say it’s about the struggles of being queer and navigating relationships with that identity and with others.

Most importantly, the sense of shamelessly dancing, dancing like no one’s watching, dancing together with your lover, as a celebration of self, life, love, is the key here. Harry got that tattoo ages ago, at a time when he undoubtedly felt way more stuck. When he couldn’t dance freely the way he wanted to and with whom he wanted to. Perfect Now is a reminder to him, an encouragement to still dance if he wants to, no matter what people say or think. Significantly, then, Harry’s own Treat People With Kindness heavily features that same sentiment, but in an extremely positive light: i have found a place (in life and in myself) where i feel like i have given and was given second chances and now i dance bc i finally feel good in my skin.

Louis has obviously been there from the start, or at least from when or before Harry properly started experimenting with/questioning how he likes to present and how he identifies as. Before he ever dared to consider pulling on a pair of women’s skinny jeans, never mind a ball gown. Louis has seen him limit himself as well as being limited by others ofc and has always seemed to have been there, with a secure hand on Harry’s back, to encourage him. Even at a time when boys wearing nail polish or skirts was unthinkable. Just remember how much encouragement Harry needed when growing out his hair; Louis literally joined him. yes this might make me cry okay i need to stop bc i’m going off track and this is just becoming a larry breakdown while i was trying to hype up this beautiful song. 

What I’m trying to say is: Louis has always seen all of Harry. He’s always had his back, no matter what. He’s loved every part of him. And now, on a completely gender neutral album, in the sweetest, softest song off of the entire thing, Louis puts in the word “queen”, and that is so very deliberate it makes me want to scream. It’s Louis confirming his love again and again while affirming the multitudes contained by Harry, including everything involving his gender journey. brb crying

It’s a raw Louis, an honest, sweet, kind, loving partner, and both of them are fucking lucky to have each other, and I also wish that all of us end up in a caring and wholesome relationship like that. I truly do.

[yinses]

nanami kento ft. f! reader + lots of praise + soft dom nana + fingering + semi clothed sex + domestic au

rating: 18+ wc: 2.2k a/n: inspired by this fanart that sister yulia blessed me with. nanami supremacy for all. 

you take notice in the shift the moment he crosses the threshold. hair tousled and tie askew is nothing new to expect from your husband after a long day at work. he takes his job seriously and his goal to provide even more so, often sacrificing extra hours just to provide for more than what you ask.

he strived for a life of comfort, he’d told you before marriage. it was something he worked hard for prior to you and only doubled his efforts to ensure that future after putting a ring on your finger.

it wore down on him, adding maturity lines earlier than they should present themselves and taking away years he needed to give back to himself. but nanami kento was a man of consistency, even when those boundaries started to fracture.

you could feel the splinters echoing beyond the slam of the door closing shut from the kick of his heel. it rattles straight to your core as you stand there, held hostage by the stormy pools of blue staring down at you. his day had likely been another one of agitation piled on top of another. surely a cup of tea before dinner would help soothe the cracks of frustration.

though neither your lips could form the words nor could your feet cross the distance it took to move in any direction.

this plight was not a fault of your husband who stepped confidently in your direction, a single finger coming up to remove his tie all together.

“is dinner on the stove?”

your mind blanked at the question, frazzled at the sight of him handling his cuffs with practiced care as he set one gifted metal piece aside one after the other. you had a plan set in motion from the moment he kissed your forehead in departure that morning, but everything beyond that suddenly felt trapped.

lips stumbled over answers and your cheeks warmed at the foolish display. what had swept into your household to shift the mood so?

nanami appeared otherwise unaffected as he finished rolling up the last sleeve. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, capturing your fraying attention as he looks around you towards the kitchen. you think you see his nose twitch once before his gaze falls back down.

“i don’t smell anything burning.” his intentions are becoming increasingly clear as his hand comes up to cup your cheek, a single thumb swiping at the fullness of your lips before pressing against the corner. without a second thought, you part them.

it provides a catalyst that gets you pressed against the nearest wall with one wrist pinned near the frame displaying your wedding day.

when his lips lower, you crane your neck in response only to have them stop just short of a whisper. his breath ghosts a trail down the exposed column of your throat, nose edge the line of your jaw. you swear you feel him smile against the shiver of anticipation rattling your form.

“i would like to fuck you in this hallway, if that’s alright, darling?” the thumb still trapped between your teeth, presses down against your tongue as if to prompt an answer yet he doesn’t pause for one.

“i’ve already put in a request for the cleaners to come and groom the rug tomorrow so you’ll need not to worry about that.”

your toes curl against the fine woven carpet at your feet, nerves tingling at the premeditated situation that you’ve found yourself in. your husband, who was now suckling soft blooms under your chin, had taken time out of his day to schedule a clean up for the mess he planned to make out of you. the idea made your knees go weak.

nanami chuckled knowingly as he caught your descent with the sharp line of his hips. “i imagine that’s agreeable with you, wife?”

the hasty nod of your head dislodges his finger, but he’s quick to replace it with his lips. the kiss is all consuming as his tongue slips between the seam, allowing you to taste the moan from his lips.

you may as well have had the script, dressed perfectly for the role as his knee nudges between your thigh and ride up the edge of your summer dress. he tells you all the time that you don’t need to try, that you look pretty in anything. but you like to go the extra mile. painting your lips a nice shade at home just to smear it in the passion of his kisses.

you know he appreciates it too. an inviting contrast to the mundane office view at work.

the same hand falls from the cut of your jaw to drag the hem of your dress up the ascent of your thigh. you’re more proud than embarrassed when his fingers tap against the tacky wet spot at the front of your panties.

his tongue clicks against the top of his mouth, “played with yourself while i was away again?” a firm swipe up followed by a press inward has you keening. “or did you just miss me this much?”

“yes.”

it’s both an answer and a cry for attention. a meaningless wail that meets no need of a man who would fracture the world to build you one better.

“my pretty little angel, it must be so hard when i’m away.”

he follows the panty line, teasing the sensitive skin there. the rumbling laugh you receive when your hips jerk in response makes your heart flutter. you’re still riding the tremors of your excitement when he nudges aside the lace of your panties to push a finger inside.

the intrusion meets minimal resistance as he slides from the first knuckle to the next. he still takes it as slow as your initial night, pumping in and out with care before adding a second. all the while, he peppers your face with kisses and words of adoration. nanami moves his thumb to flick over your nub before pressing down hard until you cry out.

pretty, beautiful, gorgeous, mine, are all formations of adoration that he mutters against your skin while he unravels you thread by thread.

“take it, darling, i’ll give you another.”

he utters a low curse at the sharp keening sound, enthralled by how your body trembled as he worked his fingers deeper. nanami lowered his head back to the junction of your shoulder, where he flicked his tongue against the feverish skin. your high whines and small gasps encouraged him to pick up the pace, hips rocking against yours with the precipice of something more, yet he ignored the growing discomfort in his pants to focus all the different ways your mouth formed his name.

his teeth mark your skin, where they tenderly nipped and sucked, leaving fresh marks while you twisted in his hold. you emit a shuddering cry, nails raking over his skin as your body pulls tight as a bow string. the shaky breath lining your lips forms a mantra of his name, over and over until the tremors ebb away. what remains are shaky legs that nearly slump over, caught by your husband as he follows you to the ground.

still floating down from your high, you could vaguely make out the sounds of nanami sucking off his fingers, removing them with lasciviously loud pops. when your gaze eventually focuses, you find him waiting with an eager, seductive smirk.

“ready for me then?”

swallowing a sharp inhale, you nod.

hands heading down to the zipper of his pants, nanami pulled it down and shrugged the material away to free his cock. one hand grabbing himself and the other reached for your left leg which he threw over his shoulder. you immediately try to grind down, slippery lips colliding with warm flesh.

“thought about you all day while i was at work.” nanami purrs breathily with half-lidded eyes, taking in the sight before he would take you to heaven. “thinking about how you would feel around me and mad with pleasure.”

his hand reaches for yours, capturing the digits and bringing them to his lips. he takes his time, allowing his tongue to glide up and down your fingers before kissing your palm, murmuring heated words against them; “thought about our wedding night… those twisted sheets wrung dry”

you feel his hips roll once, probing slightly, before he jerks forward and grunts at the overflowing heat engulfing him. still reeling from your first, your body was pliant and gracious while he chased his. your chest heaved up and down as you tried to calm your breathing while lips continued to release indecent moans.

his grip slides down to your wrists, pressing them above your head into the rug as he adjusted over you. there was an unmistakable provocative outline in his lust-darkened blue eyes. the blonde’s lips meshed intricate patterns against your cheeks, moving downward to capture your lips in a tight needy kiss that made nanami twitch even further.

it made his last strand of self-restraint snap before he met you stroke for stroke, grounding down on you deeply. your lips broke apart with a loud cry that milked with a following angled push as he snatched at your other leg to wrap around his waist. his movements were perfectly concise, designed to make you lose control with the potent effect of his affections.

picking up the pace when your high whines turned into full-blown moans, he inhaled sharply and choked out as coherently as he could,”together, darling, meet me there. i know you can.”

then he shifted on his knees slightly, that brought on a new change in the angle as he continued thrusting deeper, watching how your head thrashed from side to side and you repeatedly arched against him, trying to meet his every move. the delectable bead of sweat that ran down your throat was promptly licked up by the blonde as he sucked on your pulse.

his hands were ever so helpful in guiding your hips as he slowed down his speed to a torturous beat, rolling his hips in deeply to tease the edge. he knew where the peak was, hovering just at the horizon as he marched gradually up the hill. nanami was practiced in the art of getting you there, watching as your spine arched to accommodate is languid yet deep drives.

“ ‘m there, kenny-please”

it was silenced with on of his brain-numbing kisses again as he captured your lips. you could feel the slight curve of his mouth as he pulled out almost fully, making you slutter in the middle of your kiss.

“that’s it, “ he hissed, loving how you pant his name with each of his thrust, trying to manage coherency past how tightly you clenched around him. “we’re there baby. take me with you.”

nanami could feel himself losing control with your begging, fitfully aware you were going to tumble over the edge with him right behind. he abruptly accelerated his thrusts once more, bringing you to meet him sharply. each time he struck, he made sure that he prodded that spot that would drive you frenzied and wild, gazing in satisfaction as you squirmed harder under his skilled touches.

“c-come now, love.” he grunted, phishing past all bounds as he rammed into you repeatedly, losing himself to the sensation crawling up his skin. “do it. be good for me, princess.”

your head twisted and turned as your mouth hung open. vision getting lost in the blinding white. body growing weaker. as if determined to break you entirely, his hand traveled down your navel to come between your joined bodies. expert fingers quickly found you clit as he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, coaxing you to let go of everything as he whispered lewd thoughts into your ear.

“k-kenny!”

that was all the warning he had when your toes curled and he could feel your walls spasm around him. the flow of sensations ignited his nerves, left to surrender as you became impossible tighter around him, jerking him into his own release as well. a hiss was all he could manage as he slammed into you, shuddering through his climax.

the world exploded into a disarray of hues as he slumped forward, bracing a single arm above your figure while he panted heavily through euphoria.

“bad day at work?” you manage to get out.

he grunts at first, a small sound of misunderstanding before the mutual foggy haze lifts to prompt clarity. a breathy chuckle leaves him.

“never a bad day with you in my life. just missed you is all.” his words are slightly slurred, much unlike your husband but very a keen to a man on the verge of undeniable sleep.

dinner could wait.

“why don’t we take an early evening nap and have dinner in bed later?”

who could deny that?

you get a slow kiss of affirmation in return.

[ashes-in-a-jar]

A Bit of Cleansing

Hi, hello it me. I wrote a little post-episode 197 scene based on a prompt by @dathen. The idea gave me the Feels and I wanted to play it out :)

The idea: an (nonsexual) intimate scene where Jon helps Martin clean off all the spiderwebs from being tied up. Enjoy

Cw: nonsexual intimacy, descriptions of spider webs

"Let’s get out of here. After that… we’ll see."

The sounds of Anabelle's scuttling were still growing smaller in the distance as they began to pick their way through the giant web in the direction from which they arrived.

The sky, dark and watchful once again, took up most of the horizon as they slowly approached what would be the edge of 105 Hilltop Road's domain.

As they moved silently and cautiously, contemplating the incredibly paramount information they were given and its full implications, Jon began feeling the effect of the pull down the chasm growing weaker, making it easier for him to walk.

He glanced at Martin walking next to him. Martin would not look at him, silently concentrating on his feet, making his way on the thin but densely woven, sturdy strands that separated between them and the infinite abyss. They both knew what was lying in wait for them when they left this place. The choices that were made, the words that were said that they now must face. Jon shook his head and looked down once more, trying to distract himself from that impending confrontation.

A sudden movement and a gasp drove him into action before he could even think. He reached out his arm to catch Martin who tripped forward, nearly falling. Martin grasped at him and steadied himself, stopping to regain his lost breath.

Jon did not let go, instead he looked at Martin more closely. This wasn't the first time he had stumbled on the uneven surface. Anabelle might have released him but there were still strands of wispy web in his hair, on his shirt and legs. Some of them were tangled near his feet and must have prompted his occasional slip-ups.

"Jon?" Martin asked, tilting his head quizzically.

"Oh, sorry. I-it's just that you're still full of that web." Jon let go and stepped back to survey the damage. "You look like you attended a tacky birthday party." He wrinkled his nose.

Martin snorted. "Well, forgive me for not choosing a proper, straightforward rope to be bound in." He countered with a crooked smile. He began picking at the strands, making very little headway. "They're just so... damn sticky." He muttered in frustration.

Jon stepped forward with arms outstretched. "Here, allow me? I can try to help with most of it I think."

"What are you going to do, smite them off of me?" Martin was treated with a dry look for that one. "Yeah sorry. I'm just... I-"

"We'll talk about it later, once we're out of this literal hell-hole." Jon cut him off. "For now, you can't very well move forward when these strings are constantly tripping you up. I'll untangle some of them for you. Here."

Jon crouched and began to work on the ones near Martin's shoes.

From slightly ahead they both heard Basira call out "What's going on? You alright?"

"We're fine." Martin called back. "Just taking care of some of the webs so I'll finally stop falling and slowing us down."

"All right. Don't take too long. I'll wait here." She said from the distance, sounding impatient.

"It's not like the apocalypse is going anywhere." Jon muttered to himself, moving up to Martin's pant leg, picking off the sticky white fibers wrapped around it.

Martin chuckles wryly again. "True." He said, working on the webs on his arms.

It was the first time since Martin has been... away, that Jon finally felt that he wasn't in a time crunch. That they could once again resume the calmer pace they had before this whole mess. His heart rate was just starting to slow down, adrenaline draining away. Finally Martin was close once again and now, being so near him for the first time since parting, alive and well, he felt himself settle, becoming more grounded. He never wants to lose this again. Helping Martin clean the leftover mess was an excuse to close the physical gap their argument and Martin's willing departure have left in their wake.

Jon gently picked away at the strings, working his way up. He met Martin's hands on the front of his shirt and instinctively grabbed them, holding them in his for just a moment, feeling their sorely missed warmth. He heard Martin's breath hitch and looked up into his eyes, trying to convey his relief at getting back together rather than the anger at being apart. Martin must have gotten the message because his tense demeanor and nervous gaze relaxed a bit, allowing his shoulders to sag and his thumbs to sweep over Jon's scarred knuckles.

"Jon, I-" He stopped. A brief moment passed in silence, allowing both of them to just. Be close.

Then Jon cleared his throat. "Turn around, Martin. I'll get your back."

Martin sighed, letting go and turning slowly. The adhesive string was doing a number on his jumper in a few areas and Jon took his time pulling out what he could, freeing Martin of the most problematic of them. He swept his hands a few times across his back, more than was strictly necessary, landing them on Martin's hips and, once again instinctively, stepping forward to wrap his arms around him, just to feel him close again. To confirm his presence. That he's safe with Jon. Martin caught his arms in front and squeezed them, allowing another small moment of reprieve. Jon buried his face in Martin's jumper, breathed in his familiar scent and revelled at how he could do this when only a short while back he wasn't sure it would ever happen again.

"Martin. There's some of it left in your hair as well." He mumbled.

"Yeah." Martin sighed, released him again, turning back around.

They faced each other.

Jon whispered "Look down for me please."

Martin tilted his head forward, allowing his dense locks to bob down in front of him. Jon gently placed his hands in the soft curls, fingers lacing through the auburn hair. He missed this so much.

Slowly, he extracted what webs he found, letting his hands linger, occasionally lightly scratching Martin's scalp. As Jon worked, Martin's breath gradually became slow and even. When Jon was done and placed his hands on Martin's face to pull him back up, he found his eyes were closed and his lips parted.

Jon leaned forward and allowed their foreheads to meet. He closed his eyes as well and breathed deeply, hands squeezing his boyfriend's lovely cheeks ever so slightly.

"I'm glad we were able to find you. That-that you're safe again." He murmured.

"Me too, Jon." his breath ghosted on Jon's eyelids as he spoke. They were so close.

And then they were kissing. It was soft and chaste but it was enough for what they both needed. An affirmation of each other's presence. Of being safely back together. It was warm and grounding and Jon could feel himself relax into it, into Martin's tight embrace.

Moments later they parted and Jon breathed out a laugh, their faces still close "I uh, I think I'm done. You're good for now."

Martin smiled "Great. Let's not keep Basira waiting any longer, hm?"

Jon glanced in her direction. Her restless demeanor told him enough and he reluctantly pulled away. He held out his hand to Martin, refusing to completely let go.

"Okay. Come on."

Martin took his hand and together, feeling a little better than before, they joined Basira on the way out towards the uncertainty of many words and choices that awaited them.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Whump you say? Geralt gets Hanahaki

I’ve been waiting for you, Anon. I’ve been waiting for this prompt specifically and boy when I tell you I might have cried writing it...

2k ish (a little less) words long. Idk why y’all were worried, it’s me. It’s gonna have a happy ending.

tw: Hanahaki, blood mention, illness, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending ---

It had started up just before they parted ways for the winter; Geralt had quietly coughed a handful of rose petals into the corner of his cloak and hidden them from sight as Jaskier gave him their yearly parting embrace. “See you in the spring, Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

You might not ever see me again, actually, the Witcher thought. He tried not to let anything show on his face; not his fear and certainly not his longing, but he ached to tell Jaskier that he loved him and that he’d miss the bard’s presence through the long and dreary cold of the winter months. Geralt also knew that if he told Jaskier the truth about his feelings that he may never set eyes on the bard again anyway, regardless of how the disease currently wracking his body developed over their time apart. He was sure that Vesemir could identify whatever the strange illness was; the old swordmaster might even have a cure ready to go in the old storeroom. If not, they could send for Triss. 

“Safe travels.”

“And you as well,” Geralt nodded curtly. He mounted Roach with all his usual grace and ease, biting back another cough and tasting the sickly sweet floral note of rose rising up his throat to coat his tongue again. 

---

“Fuck,” Vesemir sighed. “It’s Hanahaki disease, Geralt. It’s not going to be easy to cure now that the pass is full of snow.”

“What’s Hanahaki disease?”

“It’s-” the eldest Wolf Witcher scrubbed his hand over his bearded face and took a moment to compose himself. He’d seen it happen before. He’d seen human bodies buried in the ground with entire root systems crawling from their chest cavities. He’d watched young men and women alike cough entire violet or rose or daisy buds from their mouths while they shivered with fever and seemingly unending pain, but a Witcher? Vesemir hadn’t even thought it was possible for a Witcher to contract such a frivolously deadly illness. “I don’t know exactly how to explain this to you, Geralt.”

“I won’t go screaming into the hills, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” his middle-child joked, “I can’t run very far anymore without a coughing fit.”

“I can’t send for Triss or Yennefer, either. They won’t be able to do anything,” Vesemir spoke calmly and evenly. Geralt, propped against some pillows on adoptive-father-enforced bed rest raised an eyebrow. “It’s a disease that eats at you from the inside out. It latches on to, uhm, romantic feelings and grows with them until it overtakes its host completely. Or until the host, uh… confronts those feelings head on and admits them to the object of their affection.”

“So this is…” Geralt’s eyes were wide and terrified. The eldest Wolf had never seen the stoic boy look quite so scared before, and he’d seen him go through the Trials. “This is going to kill me, is what you’re saying.”

“Who are you in love with, you stubborn oaf!?” Lambert cried, marching into the room from where he’d been lurking in the hall. He startled the other two Wolves and Geralt coughed out another handful of petals. The blood that came with them was surprisingly new. 

“What do you mean!?”

“He means,” Vesemir said, as slowly as possible (so that even the great Geralt of Rivia would understand his situation), “That until you tell this person how you feel, the flowers inside you will continue to grow and dig their roots in and, if you never tell them how you feel at all, you will eventually die.”

“Then I guess my fate is sealed,” Geralt smiled sadly, settling himself back against the pillows. “My time as a Witcher is up. Coughing up flowers isn’t the worst way to go, all things considered.”

Lambert growled angrily. “I’m not ready to lose my brother yet, Geralt, so just tell us who you’re pining after and we’ll go fetch her back!”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?!”

Geralt, growing increasingly more feverish and already exhausted from everything that had happened that afternoon, closed his eyes. “Because he deserves better than me, Lambert. He deserves so much more than I could ever give him and I’m not about to steal him away like a selfish ass and force my feelings onto him for my own sake. I’d rather die.”

“Self-sacrificing bastard,” the youngest of the Wolf Witchers snarled, storming from the room. “Ass! Cock! Fool!”

Vesemir could only nod his agreement and follow silently after.

---

Jaskier read the letter once.

Then he read it again.

After a third time through he was sure that he hadn’t misunderstood the contents.

Dear Jaskier (aka Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Prof. of the Seven Liberal Arts at Oxenfurt),

I am Eskel, brother to Geralt of the Wolf Witcher School at Kaer Morhen. I write to you now to ask for your presence at the keep. Geralt has fallen gravely ill and will not likely make it through the season. He does not know that I have written to you, but as his best friend and companion on the Path, I thought it my duty to invite you to see him one last time before he’s gone for good. He’s loathe to admit it, but he misses you and fears for your safety come springtime.

Sincerely,

Eskel of the Wolf School

Somewhere beneath the bright embroidery of his doublet and the hand-woven muslin of his chemise, Jaskier’s flighty, deeply-loving heart shattered into a million pieces. 

He grabbed his heaviest woolen cloak from its peg near the door and made for the stables at once.

---

“Geralt!”

The White Wolf opened his eyes a sliver to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating again; ah yes. What a lovely last dream to have before I die. Standing in the middle of his bedroom at Kaer Morhen, covered with still-melting snow, was Jaskier. The bard’s blue eyes were brimming with tears and his bottom lip was wobbling violently as he gazed upon the Witcher’s withering form.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Your father and brothers sort of explained it to me but I’m still not sure what’s happening. You’re dying?”

“Don’t worry, bard,” Geralt smiled. A loud, sudden cough wracked his body and he bent over double, spitting a blood-spattered but fully-bloomed rose out into his cupped palm. He laughed joylessly and tossed the bloom onto his bedside table. “I’ll be out of your hair, soon. Won’t this be a last ballad to write, a wolf dying as he’s eaten by flowers?”

“I don-”

“Hush,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier dropped his cloak to the ground uncaringly and rushed to his Witcher’s side. He sat on the edge of the mattress and took Geralt’s closest hand in his, grasping the appendage to his chest and sobbing into the sword-calloused skin like his tears might save his best friend’s life. “Don’t be sad, Jaskier.”

“I am sad, Geralt! I’m absolutely fucking terrified and heartbroken and crushed! Vesemir said you could heal this at any time but you just… you just won’t because you’re stubborn and an idiot and the sweetest goddamn man I’ve ever met in my life! How dare you tell me goodbye when you are perfectly capable of fixing this problem yourself! How could you promise to see me in the spring and then break your word by dying well before the grass turns green again?! You bastard!”

“You won’t miss me after another year passes,” Geralt reassured him, flexing the hand still held tight in Jaskier’s grip. “You won’t even remember me by the time the first daisies spring up.”

“How dare you,” the bard cried again. He pressed a nervous kiss to the tip of the Witcher’s pointer finger before letting go completely and dropping his head into his own hands. “How dare you say those things to me when you know full well that I love you with all my stupid, fragile mortal heart. You asshole.”

“Wh...what?” 

“I love you, Geralt!” The Witcher stared up at his friend with nothing but confusion written across his handsome features. Jaskier reached out, wiping a smear of blood away from the corner of Geralt’s mouth as tenderly as any maiden in any of the bard’s favorite romance novels. “I love you and I’ll never forgive you for letting yourself die on me like this.”

Geralt blushed. He stammered. He coughed up two or three more bloody roses and Jaskier tossed them all into the fire with rage blazing in his cornflower irises. 

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything on this gods-forsaken Continent and now you’re going to take yourself away because you’re, what, scared of something? Is it Yennefer? If she’s refusing to help you then I’ll ride all the way to Vengerberg by daybreak and then I’ll break all her fucking fi-”

“I love you, too.”

“What?” Jaskier asked, stopped mid-rant and mid-thought by the Witcher’s sudden admission. “What did you just say to me, Geralt? If I didn’t misunderstand, you said you loved me too.”

“I did. I do! I have loved you for a rather long time, actually.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve settled that,” Vesemir said from the doorway. He turned on his heel and disappeared. “See you both for breakfast tomorrow, I’m sure. Well... maybe breakfast is being a bit optimistic. I’ll see you for lunch.”

“What did he mean?” the bard asked. His eyes flitted between the empty doorway and Geralt’s guilty grimace. “What the fuck did Vesemir mean when he said he’d see us at lunch?! You’re still clearly dying and I-”

Geralt felt his fever receding and coughed experimentally. There were only a few brown, half-dried petals that fell from his lips. No blooms. He coughed again and nothing came out of his mouth at all. He grinned and laughed, tugging Jaskier up onto the bed and against his broad chest. “Vesemir was right!”

“What the fuck is going on?!” the bard begged. His hands twisted into the neckline of Geralt’s shirt, holding him still and steady. Blue bore into gold with such heated intensity that the Witcher thought he might pass out regardless of his recently healed disease, “What just happened!?”

“I- I told you I loved you and it cured the Hanahaki!”

“You had fucking Hanahaki and I was the cause of it? Oh Geralt, I’m so sorry! I should have noticed sooner! I should hav- Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I didn’t think you loved me back.”

“You didn- Geralt, have you been paying any sort of attention for the past seven or so years? I follow you everywhere, I bandage your wounds, I put food on your plate and a pillow under your head whenever we get the chance. I bathe you and mend your clothes when your fingers are too stiff from practicing your forms to do it yourself… you utter fool. You buffoon. You great, dumb, goofy, idioti-”

He was cut off by Geralt bringing their mouths together with such gentle but insistent pressure that all Jaskier could do was melt against him. His hands unwound from the shirt and stabilized against the Witcher’s pectorals instead. He sighed into Geralt’s mouth, swallowing down the happy sounds his dearest Witcher made in return. When they were finished pouring out their affections they sat, breathless, curled against the pillows of Geralt’s enormous bed. 

A large pointer finger slipped beneath Jaskier’s chin and tilted his face up, locking their gazes, “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet my family or see Kaer Morhen for the first time, but I’m glad you came. I know the journey through the snow couldn’t have been easy, even though I’m sure there was some magical assistance.”

“For you, my love, I’d travel the pass barefoot.”

“You’d die of exposure.”

“Not if your life was on the line,” the bard murmured against those flower-chapped lips. “For you, Geralt, I could survive anything. Just as you must swear from this moment on to survive whatever you can to make it back to me.”

“Will you go back to the academy until spring?”

“I’m never leaving your side again, Geralt of Rivia. Come flora or fauna, you’re stuck with me for good.”

“Hmm. Good.”

“Just… Just don’t bring me flowers any time soon.”

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Insomniac Reviews: The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wecker

First of all, I want to say this probably one of the most beautiful books I now own. The cover is stunning!

Rating: 3/5 stars

Summary: A story of a Golem who is brought to the “New World” as a clay wife. And a Jinni who ends up there after his copper flask-prison is broken. Set in 1899 New York City it is a historical urban fantasy tale of two creatures who struggle with their humanity and place in a changed world. A book that incorporates folk mythology with a sprawling city and many characters. The Good: The setting itself was a delight! I have a special place in my heart for urban fantasy and seeing the different neighborhoods and lives woven together around the realities of a quiet kind of magic was quite interesting. The rooftop encounters were some of my favorite places because it just sounded so rich and vivid. This author obviously did her research and put some real life into the places the characters visited and interacted with. The characters also had flares that kept me going and invested. Chava in particular was a very compelling heroine and Ahmad made a good foil for her. Ahmad also had a deeply engaging character arc, but it tip-toed between making him utterly unlikable at points too-- and not in a fun way. The setting and magic of the story were probably the best parts. The Bad: I wondered if I was having trouble reading the book because of the literary bent of it, but when they were still just walking around the city about half-way through I knew there was a pacing problem. The story languished in the middle and lacked a fire in it��s step to keep the plot and characters moving. The main characters are constantly bored and wandering what to do with themselves-- and as a reader I felt the exact same way. Bored and unable to care about where this was going. There were some outlines of compelling characters, the author knew how to create a varied cast, but she didn’t know how to bring it home. She had the sparks of fantastic characters, but couldn’t bring them fully to life by delving deeper into them and their relationships with each other. I wanted more from almost all of the side characters instead of all these loose ends and feelings of unfulfillment with their depth. Like being offered a candy and finding it hollow. The biggest missed opportunity was hands-down Arbeely. I had a general sense the author had a better grasp of the character of the Jewish neighborhood than Little Syria. However Arbeely in particular felt like a huge gap. This was the Jinni’s partner and could have been the thing that spiced up the story and pushed it over the top! Instead, Arbeely feels like a dull place-holder for where a more compelling character could be. Not all characters need to be in your face and bursting with “life,” but they have to at least feel rich with something else. Arbeely wants for very little and is content, which is a foil to Ahmad’s discontent, but they never truly connect, reconcile or interact in an interesting way. What a missed opportunity!

The Ugly: Finally, I noticed this ongoing trend of female sexual desire being met with horrible ends. I mean, this isn’t a new trope in books by any means but I was hoping a modern book wouldn’t lean into it so much. Sophia wants to sleep with Ahmad and gets a horrible chill after they spend a night together making her tremble and be cold all the time. Fadwa loses her senses and dies horribly after feeling desire for the Jinni and having him enter her dreams. Anna ends up pregnant and suffering without any happy ending in sight by the end of the book. Only Chava, good and chaste, has a decent life after that with no horrible repercussions. I have a feeling the author meant something else by all this and was trying to make some other point, but it just read like a tired and boring moralizing Victorian novel. Overall, this was a story with a great premise but disappointing execution of the characters and pacing.

Books up next: You Should See Me in a Crown by Leah Johnson (a Sapphic YA romcom) and A Desolation Called Peace by Arkady Martine (a Sapphic sci-fi, sequel to the absolutely amazing A Memory Called Empire); send me any recs you think I might like!

My Goodreads 🌸 My Book 🌸 My Stories

[gffa]

Hi!  Yeah, I’ve talked about this a few times, but I’m always willing to talk about it more! I think saying “he wasn’t welcome in the Order” is something of an uncharitable take on their reactions to him--they are actually very neutral in the way they treat Anakin, they simply say, no, they’re not going to train him, he’s too old.  There is nothing in there that’s a value judgement, only that they feel Anakin wouldn’t be a good fit/they wouldn’t be a good fit for Anakin. And here’s why they say that--this is the scene where they decide in The Phantom Menace: Yoda:  Afraid are you? Anakin:  No, sir. Yoda:  See through you we can. Mace:  Be mindful of your feelings. Ki-Adi:  Your thoughts dwell on your mother. Anakin:  I miss her. Yoda:  Afraid to lose her, I think, mmm? Anakin:  What has that got to do with anything? Yoda:  Everything. Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. I sense much fear in you. Important context for this is Yoda’s way of describing how the Force works is almost literally WORD FOR WORD how George Lucas describes the Force working: “Once you become afraid that somebody’s going to take it away from you or you’re gonna lose it, then you start to become angry, especially if you’re losing it, and that anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering.” --George Lucas Yoda’s words have a lot of narrative reliability because they are explicitly correct about how the dark side works, which means he’s saying this for a reason to Anakin--because there’s a huge, huge emphasis the Jedi place on facing the fear within themselves and acknowledging it and letting it go.

It’s even taught to the Jedi at a young age in the creche:

--Master & Apprentice Which, again, echoes how George Lucas describes the dark side: “Only way to overcome the dark side is through discipline. The dark side is pleasure, biological and temporary and easy to achieve. The light side is joy, everlasting and difficult to achieve. A great challenge. Must overcome laziness, give up quick pleasures, and overcome fear which leads to hate.”  --George Lucas So, keep in mind that the foundation of where the Jedi are coming from is that you must be at least willing to acknowledge that those fears are within you.  The Jedi have never said that you’re not allowed these feelings--in fact, their entire sacred ceremony on Ilum is specifically designed to have those younglings face their fears. In fact, Yoda’s words echo another thing George Lucas has said: “All of my movies are about one thing.  Which is the fact that the only prison you’re in is the prison of your mind.  And if you decide to open the door and get out, you can.  There’s nothing stopping you.“ –George Lucas (American Voices, 2015)

It’s also specifically how the Lothal Temple was devised and what Yoda’s advice to Kanan is there, to be aware of what he’s actually feeling, that he has to be honest.  Even when Ahsoka, no longer a Jedi, but she once was, gets a vision from the Lothal Temple that is all about how she hasn’t been facing the fear and hurt within her heart, that she couldn’t admit that Anakin was Darth Vader.  The Jedi Temple said to her, “No, you gotta face that shit.” So, the Jedi are meant to be reliable narrators when it comes to what they’re saying about how the Force works--so, with that context, what does that say about the conversation The Phantom Menace and why they decided against training Anakin: Because he couldn’t admit that he was afraid, despite that they could see right through him.  No one says his feelings are bad, Mace says to be mindful of his feelings. mind·ful·ness/ˈmīn(d)f(ə)lnəs/ a mental state achieved by focusing one's awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one's feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations, used as a therapeutic technique. They’re saying, “Be aware of what these feelings mean.” and Anakin’s response is, “What’s that got to do with anything!?” and they can see that his thought patterns have been woven deeply into these patterns, that he doesn’t want to ever let them go, he’s determined not to. Because here’s what George Lucas says about Anakin: “The fact that everything must change and that things come and go through his life and that he can’t hold onto things, which is a basic Jedi philosophy that he isn’t willing to accept emotionally and the reason that is because he was raised by his mother rather than the Jedi. If he’d have been taken in his first year and started to study to be a Jedi, he wouldn’t have this particular connection as strong as it is and he’d have been trained to love people but not to become attached to them.” --George Lucas, Attack of the Clones commentary Anakin isn’t emotionally willing to accept that things come and go through his life, that he can’t hold onto things, that things must change.  Had he been found earlier, he would have been trained to love people without attachment (and attachment is consistently, consistently tied to unhealthy relationships, possessive, obsessive relationships whenever George Lucas talks about it), but the way he is now, while not bad (seriously, no one ever says that he’s bad!) he’s not a good fit for them and, given George Lucas’ commentary, they’re right. You can argue that maybe they should have been softer with him, but a) we’re given nothing to think they know of Anakin’s past as a slave or that that might have been a source of trauma for him, because we never see Qui-Gon tell anyone, not even Obi-Wan, or that they don’t believe he has a biological family to go back to (since his thoughts are dwelling on his mother) and b) I would counter argue that they’re being neutral and direct, they’re being honest instead of trying to coddle him.  They’re not cruel, they don’t say he’s bad, they just say no they don’t want to train him.  I mean, it’s a pretty bog standard staple of many, many stories that have someone needing to prove that they’re serious about wanting to be trained, like, I have watched/read a million anime and manga stories with that EXACT PREMISE, LOL.

[starlightshadowsworld]

YGO Protagonists

Atem:

*Oldest brother... Literal dad

*Is very protective over the rest of them

*Seriously don't touch a hair on their heads because you will lose your soul.

*He totally has Kaiba on Speed dial and calls him over the dumbest things to get a rise out of him (but they are friendly?( Seto would also murder you dead if you hurt these munchkins he just won't admit it... (I will not apologise for this)

*Does not understand memes (mee mee's?) but tells dad puns for days.

*Always gives compliments and gives great life/dueling advice to the rest (puts a hand on their shoulders with that knowing and proud look).

*Will spend hours bragging about how far Judai's come, how smart and talented Yusei and Yusaku, how Yuya and Yuga created original dualing rules, how Yugi is awesome. He will tell anyone and everyone (they all secretly love it)

Yugi Mouto:

*Younger older brother? (identical twins but younger of the two)

*Super optimistic, always there to lend a hand and is very pacifistic... but will throw hands if the situation requires and without hesitation.

*Has Kaibaman in his deck to spite Kaiba (it works every time)

*HE SHARPENS HIS HAIR!

*Yes it can pierce a wall... It was for science.

*Usually the one to help escalate the chaos, and than pretends to have no idea why the house is upside down... And on fire... And the fire is green.

*Is the only one other than Atem to get Yusei to go to sleep.

*He loves puzzles, telling riddles and leaving little clues around the house for the others to solve (and they always get a present even if they get it wrong because they tried.)

*Doesn't see anything wrong with his fashion sense.

Judai Yuki:

*Problem child 1, needs a hug

*Memelord, will constantly troll Atem with movie references, and anything he can think of. (Yes he does quote the star wars prequels during duals.)

*Yubel makes sure he's looking after himself and has woven their way into the family. They and Astral have fun conversations. (Pharaoh the cat gets on very well with Atem... Werid.)

*Either he's happy, outgoing and herding the younger kids into various pranks. Rounding up Yuya, Yuma, Yuga and Yugi into his antics, (we don't speak of the Eggwitch incident). Sometimes he manages to drag Yusaku in to join them, giving them all a part to play and praising their efforts (they haven't been caught)

*OR he's depressed, haunted and full of guilt. He finds comfort by spending time with the others, hating being on his own. Everyone even those fairly reserved pick up on his mood and direct him to different tasks. Especially with Yuya, both of them can talk for hours about what ifs, shoulds and shouldn'ts.

*Favourite non dualing activity is helping Yusei to bake, he has burned many a cookie but he loves icing cakes.

*Very protective, will tap into the power of the Supreme King and Yubels abilities sometimes as unconsciously when one of the others are upset, or he's pushed into a corner.

Yusei Fudo:

*Oldest after the twins, literal mum

*Can't take care of himself to save his life but cares deeply for the others. Packing them lunches, helping them with school work etc.

*Takes Yusaku under his wing as soon as he sees his tech skills, both of them stay up for hours working on projects until Yugi scolds them at 4 am.

*Always half asleep, covered in oil and holding a cup of coffee (no he doesn't have a problem.) He mumbles codes and always seems to fall asleep holding a wrench.

*Usually he's accompanied by Yuga or Yusaku, either sitting and asking questions about their projects or working on a shared on/Yusaku's own stuff. He doesn't like working alone so it works out.

*Can do the "Mum look" and it has stopped the Supreme King, Dark Zexal and Zarc in their tracks.

*Card games on Motorcycles...having his bike borrowed by the little ones who want to play a card game on a bike but aren't old enough or know how to drive.

*Likes to bake, learned from Martha to give the others birthday treats and finds it fun.

*Claims he can never get sick... Liar.

Yusaku Fujiki

*Problem child 2 (all problem children need hugs and therapy, Kaiba get your wallet)

*Tried to stay closed off from the others but finds he enjoys their company and their antics.

*He has a Metapod hoodie that Yuya won at a carnival and gifted him. He wears it all the time, its cosy.

*Pretty Awkward, very cold sometimes without meaning it but somehow there all able to understand what he means without getting upset or offended.

*He spends hours working on projects with Yusei, neither talk much and it's a comfortable silence. Yuga often accompanies them, full of questions and joy and he enjoys sharing his work.

*Prefers to watch the others dual than to dual himself, absorbing the strategies and while he doesn't quite understand their motives... He finds himself smiling at Yuya's shows, wondering what he means with his smiling routine.

*Offhandedly told Kaiba that he fixed some holes in his security system. Kaiba went on a firing spree (yes with his firing people coat) and his was promptly hired. He actually enjoys it, and is now Kaiba's favourite brat.

*Also... The missing persons list is growing after Yusaku finally opened up about his past.... Werid.

Yuya Sakaki

*Problem child 3 (see above)

*Smiles go for miles

*Finds a lot of comfort from the others. The first time he let slip about Zarc, Judai was right there with his glowing green/orange eyes and they bonded instantly.

*He tries to only dual for entertainment and fun but that can't always be the case, though it really rattles him up afterwards. Do not make him mad in a dual if you value your life.

*Plays a lot with Yuma and Yuga, as the oldest of the trio he tries to set an example... He never said it was a good one....hes part of Zarc.

*He always has a game, an idea and the others will always be his faithful audience. He's made real solid dualing into an art, Atem and Judai have made his monsters real at times without the need for the tech (it was beautiful)

*Starts the appreciate Dragons Fanclub with Yusei and Kaiba.

*Yes to capes (Sorry Edna)

*Fusion dimension isn't available at the moment... Or the forceable future.

Yuma Tsukumo

*Second youngest, space boy

*Atem gives him advice and praises every one of his duals even he loses, teaching him that every one can be used as a step towards success.

*Astral befriends Yubel, and often makes remarks at the Zarc fragments, he and Yuuri get on the others nerve.

*He spends most of his time with Yuya and Yuga, either dualing, watching Yuya dualtain or pranking. He started their lengendary prank war against Judai and Yugi...(Yusei was out of the house for a week and Atem gave up). It was a battle for the ages.

*He does worry at times that he's so behind the others skill's levels but as he gets closer to them it matters less. He cheers on every one of them, bragging about how cool they are.

*He takes up other hobbies, baking, cooking, and dragging everyone into family game nights. Which all end fine and do not result in a pissed of Zarc threathing Wario before kicking his switch out of a window... Nope absolutely not.

*Has a constellation book.

*Likes using big words he doesn't know the meaning off. And than trying and failing to convince everyone he knows exactly what he just said without googling it... While Astral facepalms, definitely picked it up from Yusei.

Yuga Ohda

*Tiny baby

*Yugi picked him up once and everyone starting to sing "it's the circle of life."

*He loves watching Yusei and Yasuke work, because they answer his questions properly and look at his inventions with respect and a critical but kind eye. They slowly teach him his to improve and it shows in his work.

*All of them were interested in his Rush duals and listen to him explain, finding it interesting and another new way to play.

*Yuya teaches him how to dualtain, both of them putting on hippo-tastic shows for their friends and loved ones. Fulfilling their goals to have fun.

*He steals everyone's hoodies and jackets, doesn't care how big they are he will steal them and wear them. And look adorable despite his argument that he isn't.

*Everyone is the most protective of him as he's the youngest and while he's touched, he's super protective over them and offers himself as a cuddle buddy whenever anyone has nightmares.

And there all one big crazy family

[smellycinnamonthundahfudge]

fuck it. have the five page essay-ish thing i wrote on hoax.

it's so underrated and contains so many references to taylor's one great true love... that she lost.

(but there's also a bit about what the album cover means since i just think it adds to the evidence of something)

Let me take you on a journey, more specifically, the journey taylor’s music brought me to.

But fine for irl context, and disclaimer as well, I’m a new swiftie.

Yes, folklore was the one that really really pulled me in.

I’ve always loved her music, those that I knew of anyways, and she’s always held a special place in my heart and some part of me always knew that I was always going to explore her discography someday… and those days and months of exploring aforementioned music finally arrived.

So, for context, I’ll say that I mostly loved her bops. I always knew and loved her as that teenage girl feeling of wanderlust, and just wonder, and sweetness, and love…

That was what taylor was to me, the feeling of love.

It’s only when I very quite recently really really grew up and at the same time, taylor’s most popular music at the time, folklore, also happened to be really grown up, is when I realized and found out that taylor always had this depth to her.

So, for me, debut to speak now and half of red will always have that child-like wanderstruck look of awe and love vibe and feeling to me, cause nostalgia, it’s what I spent my life thinking of it and her as.

Also it’s been some time since I fully listened to those albums, so the journey/throughline narrative that I see from taylor’s discography is

Debut – young kid figuring it all out, emotional but sweet

Fearless – growth, ambition, dreams, complexity of wanting someone you know you’re not supposed to

Speak now – cinematic movie like quality of storytelling, these are fantasies, epics, novels all on their own, legend

Red – reckless abandon, intense extreme adult love, and also growth

1989 – true love, actual adulthood, scandal, gossip, hiding, protecting what’s important, dwindling mercurial highs

Rep - …

One thing that I started to notice only on 1989 and then it looked to be the case for the ff albums too, is that the latter half of one album oft bleeds onto the next one

So like the sound of I know places and even kinda wonderland to some extent, is very similar to reputation’s sound.

Then idk, new year’s day being a really sweet love song transitioning into lover

And then it’s nice to have a friend’s simple acoustic nostalgia & daylight’s nature imagery transitioning into folklore

And theeenn I’m betting the lakes as a positive song is a foreshadowing for the more softer positive outlook evermore is going to have, compared to folklore at least

But I honestly believe that if you look at the albums themselves, debut to speak now and red all seem to be about fleeting romances that pass and go

But 1989, that’s when things start to get real, and I believe, that’s when taylor really starts to get her muse…

Cause if you look at from 1989 to folklore evermore heck even to the rerelease of fearless and red…

These songs seem to be stemming from one relationship

A relationship that’s secret, that’s fragile and delicate, and complicated and complex

And correct me if I’m wrong, but…

Is king of my heart the first time taylor ever used the term, the one???

The one real thing you’ve ever known?? All too well

One touch you are in love??? One step one night

Point is, I think starting from 1989, most of the songs taylor wrote and sung about could all be attributed to just one person.

A tumultuous complex but nevertheless real and true love.

And I bring up the one connection because the one clearly parallels king of my heart

And all at once, YOU ARE THE ONE I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR

why would taylor write about losing someone that she thought she was the one if the person you think it’s about is still supposedly with her when she wrote it?

And finally, in taylor’s announcement of folklore, she wrote about an exiled man walking the bluffs of a land that isn’t his own, wondering how it all went so terribly, terribly wrong.

And in its music video, you get the same imagery?

…

…

…

You know where, … you… also… get… the same… exact… imagery…?

The folklore album cover.

Where it’s taylor, walking, in the middle, so small in the grand vast bluffs of a land that wasn’t her own.

In every single music video for every folklore song, the only ONE, THE ONLY ONE, where you get the same imagery, the same color palette as the album cover, is exile.

Which is about someone, a man walking the bluffs of a land that isn’t his own.

So if taylor is the man, then she’s

I can see you standing, honey

With his arms around your body

Guess who she has a close relationship with, who betrayed her, who got married to someone else?

*regina george anger screaming*

Me is a breakup song.

Taylor rereleasing red second has so much more weight to it now.

“In the land of heartbreak, moments of strength, independence, and devil-may-care rebellion are intricately woven together with grief, paralyzing vulnerability and hopelessness.”

moments of strength, independence, and devil-may-care rebellion – me, I PROMISE THAT YOU’LL NEVER FIND ANOTHER LIKE ME.

WATCH MISS AMERICANA AND I DARE YOU TO NOT SEE ME AS A SPITEFUL/VINDICTIVE/REBELLIOUS BREAK UP SONG

grief, paralyzing vulnerability and hopelessness – FOLKLORE.

Then I guess, fine… we’ll get to why hoax is so fucking meaningful yet you don’t understand why it is.

Yes, my only one.

Smoking gun.

I saw someone call this a reference to the fire and ash in mtr, but I also think of this as someone being your one weakness…

Think about it like this, in reputation

And what if the one person who kept you alive through all that

Betrayed you too.

Taylor talks so deeply and passionately over how much this person matters, they were her smoking gun.

Because they were what kept her going through the death of her reputation.

When no one trusted her that one person did.

They were her smoking gun.

My eclipsed sun.

Lover ended with daylight.

Taylor called reputation as night time.

And now what once was daylight has now been eclipsed over, by betrayal grief sadness desolation.

(darling this was just as hard as when they pulled me apart, folklore is as dark as rep)

Winless fight – ma & thp, fight that someday we’re gonna win.

They or she didn’t.

Frozen ground brings me back to holy ground and to doht, my love had been frozen

The imagery of hoax’s lv, is of a cliffside overlooking an ocean

Which brings me back to gorgeous, of OCEAN blue eyes looking in mine, I feel like I might sink and drown and die

Screaming, similar to mtr’s I still talk to you when I’m screaming at the sky

(sidenote might not related to taylor references, but that line gives me hopelessness give me a reason to live vibes, and what with gorgeous’ line of sink and drown and die and this is me trying’s Pulled the car off the road to the lookout Could've followed my fears all the way down…

Anw… the sidenote is cause that feeling of hopelessness just really resonates with me personally, kind of the type screaming at the universe, at whatever’s out there why… sigh…)

Faithless love – false god

Hoax – illicit afairs

Blue… rep (delicate)

Best laid plan – dbatc, paper cut stings from our paper thin plans

Sleight of hand???

Five whole minutes pack us up leave me with it???

Could barren land also be bluffs of a land that isn’t his own?? Idk… *shruggie*

Ash from your fire mtr

New york, DBATC, 1989, false god, cornelia street

Hero died, remember when I said I’d die for you? False god

What’s the movie for, exile, I think I’ve seen this film before

You knew it still hurts underneath my scars from when they pulled me apart

Like I said, reputation… who was her saving grace/smoking gun from all that

THEY WERE THE ONE, THE ONLY ONE, TAYLOR HAD WHEN SHE WAS PULLED APART

SO THEY KNEW, THEY KNEW HOW MUCH IT HURT HER

BUT THEY BETRAYED HER ANYWAYS.

Password let you in the door, I knew you’d come back to me, front porch light cardigan

What you did was just as dark, just as hard

Why wouldn’t it be?

They were the one she had throughout all that turmoil… yet they betrayed her too…

Kingdom come undone – komh, we rule the kingdome inside my room

Beaten my heart – KOMH, dbatc

The feeling of thinking you found the one, the one you’re going to spend the rest of your life with… the one you would throw away all of this for…

Don’t want no other shade of blue but you, no other sadness in the world would do

You don’t want anyone else but them if they were the one you were going to throw it all away for…

You don’t wanna say goodbye…

You just wanna keep feeling the pain, the love, the conflict that you had with them…

You don’t wanna say goodbye

[cal-kestis]

You Come Around And The Armor Falls | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

(Part II of The Aftermath of Losing Everything)

moodboard/sketch/gifs made by me, please don’t repost :)

Summary: You and Din continue your travels across the galaxy. A trip to Tython reveals your path and a stay in Sorgan breaks down Din's barriers. But red-stained visions will lead you both on a dangerous journey you can only hope to survive. (Set after S2) Rating: M (for reasons that will happen eventually)     Word Count: 7105 Warnings/Tags: Soft!Din, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, no use of ‘Y/N’, cuddles, Din tells you more stories about Grogu and gives you a new nickname A/N: This chapter is very soft :’) 

[PART I] // [Read on AO3] // [Series Masterlist]

v.

Tython is a mountainous terrain, a landscape of rocky slopes and bumpy hillsides. 

From the viewport of the cockpit, you see a small mountain with six protruding pillars arranged in a circle on top. That must be the place. 

The Mandalorian — Din — makes a joke about traveling the last stretch with the windows down as he circles around it, chuckling to himself at some secret memory before landing the ship far from the ancient-looking pillars. 

When you exit the ship, he turns to you with his arms outstretched. And when he tells you to grab on, you back away immediately, finally understanding his joke. 

“We can definitely walk,” you argue, shaking your head and strutting past him.

“That’ll take too long,” he sighs, gently taking hold of your wrist until you stop in your tracks. “It would be dark by the time we got there.”

“I don’t give two bantha ticks. There’s no way in Malachor that I’m letting you dangle me through the air like a kriffing womp rat.”

“You say the strangest things when you’re angry,” Din chuckles.

“Don’t you have another jetpack?” You demand, ignoring his comment.

“Even if I did, you haven’t been trained in the Rising Phoenix.”

“The what?”

“Just hold on,” he mutters and you imagine his eyes rolling, a grin on his lips. He pulls your hands toward him, wrapping them around his neck. One of his arms rests on your lower back and the other scoops you up behind your knees, cradling you against his chest. Flames burst from his jetpack, launching the pair of you off the ground ungracefully as he adjusts to carrying another person. Your grip tightens around him for dear life and he can’t fight the smile on his lips when he feels you bury your face into his neck as he flies high above the mountains toward the pillars.

“We are never doing that again,” you say once your feet finally touch the ground.

“Come on. It’s not that bad,” he says, holding your shoulders as you regain your balance. “The kid loved it.”

You scoff, taking in the scene around you. The pillars look much taller up close, towering above you from all sides and pointing to the middle of the round platform where a smooth mound lies dead center. It’s covered in dirt save for the few shrubs that managed to blossom from the dry ground.

“It’s a rock,” you say, unimpressed as you circle the half sphere.

“Seeing Stone,” he corrects.

“Fine. It’s a stone and I’m seeing it,” you say, turning your gaze on him with your hands on your hips.

It's strangely fitting to look at him and see yourself reflected in the beskar, warped and wavy from the curves of his armor. His hands fall to his hips, mirroring your posture.

“So, what happens next?”

“I don’t know… exactly,” he admits with a long sigh. “There aren’t any controls. I just sat Grogu on the stone and something… happened. Ahsoka said if he reached out through the Force, someone might hear him. So, sit and reach,” he commands, gently nudging you toward the stone.

“Nonsense Jedi bantha crap,” you grumble under your breath, ripping another short chuckle from his chest. You smile, sitting cross-legged on the stone.

“Focus,” he says, hands on either of your shoulders before he backs away, remembering how last time, the energy field had knocked him back more times than he’d care to admit.

You close your eyes, concentrating on something you don’t quite understand. Your eyes screw shut tightly, wrinkling the skin between your brows, and you frown.

“Nothing happened.”

A leather-clad thumb trails a gentle line down the furrow between your brows, smoothing the wrinkles by your eyes with a gentleness that tugs your heart so fiercely, you almost fall off the stone.

“It will,” he says softly — confidently.

You open one eye to peek at him, watching as he steps away again and nods, fingers itching to pull his hands back to your face. A blue butterfly appears in front of your nose out of nowhere, another landing on your knee. You watch as they flutter around you in silent encouragement, take a deep breath, and softly close your eyes once more. One clammy palm presses into the stone beneath and you refocus your thoughts, reaching out for one thing: Din.

Din Djarin, a kind, gracious man hidden beneath impenetrable armor. How can someone who never shows his face be the most beautiful person you’ve ever known? You’ve never seen his smile, but you hear it in the baritone of his laughter and teasing. You’ve never seen his eyes but can feel them — concerned, curious, observant, warm — underneath a tinted visor. He gives you pieces of himself in ways that can’t be seen, but in moments that spread heat to your cheeks and flutters to your belly. And he takes little pieces of your heart in exchange. After years of surviving on your own, you never imagined you could care so deeply for another person.

Suddenly, a beam of energy encircles you in blue transparent waves and Din takes a few extra steps back just in case, a triumphant smile on his face as he whispers under his breath, “Good girl.”

He paces back and forth as you sit atop the Seeing Stone for nearly an hour, your eyes gently twitching, fingers brushing together, locked in a deep trance.

“Then, Grogu may choose his path.” Ahsoka’s words echo in his memory.

He wonders what your path is, if it will continue to weave with his or if it leads you far away. He doesn’t let himself hope, doesn’t let himself imagine — knowing full well how it broke his heart the last time.

Finally, he feels the powerful energy wane, your body collapsing over the stone, and he bolts to your side.

“I’m fine,” you assure him with a hand on the side of his helmet. “Just took a lot out of me.”

He nods, keeping silent despite his eagerness to hear what you found.

“Din,” you whisper, his name sounding like the lullabies of his childhood on your smiling lips. “I heard him.”

Din imagines a hooded figure leading you by your hand, leaving him behind.

“I heard Grogu,” you clarify and Din’s helmet whips toward you so violently, the way it slices through the wind is practically audible.

“You heard… Grogu?” He stutters quietly.

“Yes!” You squeak excitedly, standing on your feet, your hands holding tight onto his arms for balance. “He had quite a lot to say,” you laugh, and Din lets out a half-sob, half-chuckle, remembering the time his boy babbled nonsense the entire way from Nevarro to Corvus.

“How is he?” Din whispers so quietly he’s not sure if he spoke at all.

“His master says he’s getting stronger each day.” You wish you could see the pride in Din’s eyes. You know it’s there. “And he misses you, a lot.”

Din holds his breath, visibly fighting back tears.

“But he said he’ll see you again soon, just like you promised.”

You leave out the answer you gave to an invitation to join his master. And you leave out Grogu’s parting request: “Please take care of my father. He shouldn’t be alone.” But you tell Din everything else.

Tears drip down his cheeks and you see the wet drops slip out of his helmet and land on his cowl.

“Did you tell him that I—”

“Yes,” you say, a hand on the side of his helmet. “I told him.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his rapidly beating chest — similar to the way you’d done when he'd allowed you onto his ship.

“Thank you,” he says, helmet pressing against the top of your head, his gratitude rumbling through beskar into your skin.

—

vi.

He doesn’t ask you when you plan to leave him.

You don't give any inclination that you plan to stop traveling the galaxy at his side.

So, you find yourselves together on Sorgan, deciding to lay low for a while.

Sorgan is a swampy, humble planet. Nothing like Tatooine. To you, that makes it all the more beautiful.

Din brings you to a small krill farming village, which only adds to the planet’s enchanting charm. Children run through the fields as their laughter wafts in the air, enveloping you in a soothing balm. Men and women kneel over rivers with woven baskets full of the bouncing blue krill, soft smiles etched into their faces as they work.

When the Mandalorian saunters through the village, the children come bounding up to him in hoards, eager grins and grabby fingers boxing him in until he can’t walk any further. You can’t help but laugh as he visibly sighs before kneeling to greet them, accepting a small pink flower from one of the little girls.

Before you had landed, he’d mentioned visiting this village once or twice before. But it’s clear that he hadn’t just passed through. He’d made an impression. You half expect to find a statue of him in the center of the village after seeing the way the children looked up at him with stars in their eyes.

When the children finally leave to play, you follow several steps behind Din, watching his interactions with curious eyes. A beautiful woman with long, raven hair stops him with a gentle smile, her eyes softening with vast yet familiar constellations reflecting in her irises. It seems like there’s a history between Din and the raven-haired woman — something he’d failed to mention, but you try not to dwell on the uncomfortable way the idea squeezes at your heart.

Whatever Din says to the woman is too quiet to hear from this distance, so you settle for reading his body language. Although he speaks to you far more often now, you find you can understand him even without words.

The woman tilts her chin, a soft smile unwavering on her lips until Din shakes his head, the setting sun reflecting off his helmet as it moves right and left. His shoulders slump and the woman’s smile slips off her face as she reaches a sun-kissed hand toward his elbow and squeezes gently. The woman says something, confidence in her eyes, and Din nods.

Finally, Din glances in your direction and you gravitate toward him without instruction.

“This is Omera,” Din tells you.

The woman — Omera — smiles once again. “Hello. We’re happy to have you both as our guests. I’ll prepare your lodging,” she says, turning on her heel to leave the two of you alone.

“Thank you,” Din says. 

When Omera is out of earshot, you can’t keep the tinge of jealousy out of your voice when you say, “She seems nice.”

“She and this village were very kind to us when Grogu and I came here before. We can trust her.”

You nod, more curious to know what he’d just said to the woman.

“Did you tell her about Grogu?” You ask, wondering if you made accurate observations.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

You see his shoulders slump again. Reliving the goodbye is never easy for him.

“It’ll be dark soon,” he says, changing the subject and wordlessly handing you the pink flower one of the children had given him earlier. When you don't take it immediately, he decides to tuck it behind your ear as you do with your pencil, sending a wave of heat down your neck. (Later, when you’re alone, you press the flower between the pages of your drawing pad for safekeeping.) 

“Looks like they’re pitching a fire. Hope you like krill.”

Dinner moves at a slow, peaceful pace, accompanied by friendly voices of storytelling strangers. They regale you with the fantastical tale of the legendary Mandalorian and the fearless former Rebel shock trooper who saved them from a band of pirates and a destructive Walker that stood tall above the trees — the two heroes who not only restored harmony but showed this village how to be brave and how to fight for themselves. You feel at ease sipping on spotchka, listening to stories honoring your friends.

But as the thought passes through your mind, ‘friend’ suddenly becomes the strangest word. It fits Cara Dune, the courageous marshal who you’d met several times on Nevarro, the woman you’d shared drinks and laughs with at cantinas, the warrior you’d trust with your life and Din’s life. But Din, your ‘friend’? The word seems to fall short.

After dinner, the villagers retire to their beds one after the other — leaving you and Din at the fire.

Din looks around at all the families, watching as one father carries his son on his back and a mother cradles a swaddled infant in her arms. He sees Omera and her daughter, Winta, in the distance — their hands joined and swinging between them as the little girl skips toward their humble home.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, the leather gloves silently screeching as the material sticks and peels away from itself again and again. His brows pinch together as he stares down at empty hands — empty hands that had foolishly allowed themselves to get used to holding someone else.

An image pierces his memory: three tiny green claws wrapped around his yellow-tipped thumb.

He blinks, blurry vision refocusing on his hands. Empty. 

You watch him intently, feeling sadness roll off of him in waves, drawing you in until you’re submerged just as deep, crestfallen on his ocean floor.

When the heart breaks, no amount of bacta can heal it. You can’t cauterize the lacerations carved inside of him or stitch the pieces together. But you can let your scarred heart bleed and beat next to his, until the heavy thud, thud, thud, thud evolves into the resilient rhythm of a somber symphony only the two of you know.

He exhales. It’s a weary, crackling sound behind his helmet.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I made the right choice,” he admits quietly like he’s ashamed.

“For him? For Grogu?” You ask.

He nods, the motion almost imperceptible if not for the glint of firelight that flashes off beskar.

“I know you did. Grogu is doing well. He told me himself,” you whisper, opening his clenched fist and molding your fingers between his. “You’re a good man.”

For a moment, the moons and stars disappear at the same time, enveloping you both in inky darkness save for the angry red flames that reflect against his armor. He decides not to speak, not right away, allowing a shivering silence to shroud him as he weighs his next words. The late evening decrescendos into a soft lull of the crackling fire, wind-bristled branches, and a familiar thud, thud, thud, thud.

“Sometimes,” his modulated voice finally rumbles. The dark window of his visor anchors itself on the way your hand completely fills one of his. Then he looks away, beyond the trees, beyond you. “I wonder if that’s true.”

You try to piece the words together yourself, try to make sense of him — how he can’t see what you can see as clearly as the roaring fire.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I was scared to take you to Tython,” he admits.

“Because of what happened with Grogu the last time? You defeated Gideon. The Dark Troopers are gone, nothing was going to happen—”

“Not because of that,” he interrupts, taking a breath. “Because I… don’t want you to leave. And I feel selfish because you should be able to go — to train.”

Your heart beats faster at his admission, your mind mulling over his words to make sure you heard them right. A shaking hand reaches for his helmet, pulling his visor to face you.

“Di— Mando,” you whisper, taking a quick glance at the empty village. “I already chose my path at the Seeing Stone. I’m not leaving,” you reveal to him for the first time. You do everything you can to make him believe your words, squeezing his hand tighter, attempting to send your feelings through your skin into him.

“It isn’t right. You should train. You’re so powerful,” he says, almost to himself.

“No, I’m staying with you. And I know it’s right,” you declare, staring into the T-shaped visor where his eyes are. “You said Grogu knew where he was meant to be when he was young. He trained even before he met you. Letting him continue was the right thing to do for him. You did the right thing,” you argue. “But I didn’t go to some fancy Jedi temple. When I was a kid, all I wanted was... to not be alone anymore. And now, I’m not. This is where I’m meant to be.”

You watch as flames dance across his helmet, his body still as he stays silent. Then, suddenly, your body feels warmer than the crackling fire, encircled in his tight embrace. You stay wrapped together like that for several minutes, limbs wound around each other like vines. You almost fall asleep on his shoulder from the peaceful sound of his breath so close to your ear.

“Come on,” he says, the crown of his helmet now resting against your forehead. He gently detaches you from his body as he stands, extending his hand for you to take once again. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

With your hands joined, gently swinging between your bodies, the two of you walk side by side to your shared lodging.

The hut is small and quaint, sparse in decoration but plentiful in necessity. A bed for two sits nestled in the corner of the single room, the soft orange glow of a lamplight casting hazy, billowing shadows against the wall. Din stands on the threshold, shifting his weight between his feet as you explore the room, your fingers gliding across the soft fabric on the bed.

“All clear, Mando. The bed doesn’t bite,” you tease him, his head shaking — probably rolling his eyes — as he closes the door behind him.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, removing his cape and laying it on the ground.

“That’s ridiculous,” you argue, rolling your eyes this time. “We came to Sorgan to relax. You can’t sleep on the floor.”

“I’ve done worse,” he shrugs. You don’t doubt it.

“I don’t care. There’s plenty of space for both of us. If you don’t sleep on the bed, neither will I,” you resolve, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Who’s being ridiculous now?” He says, a hand on his hip as he stares you down. When you don’t relent, he sighs. “Fine.”

You practically bounce with delight, removing your socks and dusting off your clothes before diving under the plush covers. A breathy moan escapes your lips as your body sinks into the mattress and it freezes him in place on the other side of the room.

“Oh, stars. This is heaven,” you hum.

Din approaches the bed like it’s a rancor crouching in wait to devour him whole. His knee hardly touches the top of the mattress before you’re sitting up with another accusatory glare.

“You’re going to sleep in your armor?” You question incredulously.

He doesn’t want to argue in circles with you again, worried the other villagers may be able to hear, so he sits on the edge of the bed and removes each plate of beskar one by one, save for his helmet. He’s left in a long-sleeved top, dark pants, and woolen socks — his hands the only skin on display after removing his gloves.

He turns on the mattress, his feet resting beside yours as he lays his helmet down on a squishy pillow, facing your curious gaze once more.

“When was the last time someone saw your face?” You whisper.

“Not long ago,” he answers truthfully. “The child.”

“And your Creed?”

“He meant more.”

You nod, understanding full well that the love for another being can easily outweigh any rule or law or virtue or doctrine or belief or obligation.

You tuck your hand beneath your pillow, squinting your eyes as if trying to see through the panes of his helmet. You wonder, not for the first time, what he looks like when he rolls his eyes or laughs or smirks. You wonder if his eyes soften when he looks at you the way you know your eyes do whenever he’s near... if a dimple appears in his cheek just for you. Your knees bend slightly, touching his legs. 

“What happens if you take off your helmet?”

He doesn’t respond right away, as if looking for the correct answer.

“I used to think I could never put it back on,” he says, pain in his voice as the word ‘traitor’ echoes in his mind. “But now, I’m not so sure.”

You hum in acknowledgment, submerging the room into a long gap of silence, your eyes flitting across his covered face, your own features reflected in the silver steel. He watches as you close your eyes and wonders for a moment if you’ve decided to finally sleep. But then, your hand reaches in the direction of the open flame across the room, and with a flick of your wrist, the lamplight extinguishes, enveloping the room in complete darkness.

“You’re good at that,” he comments, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“It comes in handy,” you say, the fabric beneath your shoulder rustling as you shrug.

The room is quiet again, the steady sound of soft breathing filling the small space between your bodies.

“Din?” You whisper.

His eyes close at the sound of his name spoken so delicately by your lips. “Hmm.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he answers, not missing a beat.

“I won’t look, I promise. I can’t even see. I just,” you pant as if speaking alone has made you breathless. “I can’t imagine sleeping with a helmet on is all that comfortable. You can take it off. You can trust me.”

Your hand trembles as it blindly reaches for the side of his helmet but his hand immediately traps you there against the beskar. You fear you’ve taken it too far when he pushes your hand back toward your side of the bed.

But then you hear it, the sound of air releasing, a puff of unrestrained breath, metal gently hitting the floor. And then his hand is holding yours again and placing it on his cheek, touching his skin for the first time. His eyelashes flutter against the side of your fingers, closing shut as your other hand tentatively explores the rest of his face.

He’s warm. Soft and rough at the same time. His entire weight leans into your palm and you think, this must be what it feels like to hold the entire universe.

“I never thought—” he suddenly whispers, a jagged inhale, a shaky exhale, his breath touching your lips. “After I lost the kid,” he continues, his thumb caressing your hand on his cheek. “I never thought I’d feel this again.”

You wonder what he means by ‘this.’ Touch? Tenderness? Warmth? Care? Or something much, much deeper?

You desperately wish you could see how he looks in this moment, feeling another person’s skin against his own after depriving himself for so long. Your fingers run across wrinkles and scars and you wonder, not for the first time, how long he’s had to carry these marks and stories all on his own. Your thumb finds the bridge of his nose, trailing down the strong curve until below it, a dense smattering of hair scratches at your skin.

“A mustache?” You ask, amused.

You hear his smile widen when he chuckles. “My father had one.”

It makes your heart ache, remembering the story he told you about his home planet, how his parents had sacrificed their lives to keep him safe. How the siege built his distrust of droids and redirected his faith to the Mandalorians who lifted him out of devastating danger. As you trace his mustache with reverence, you wonder what parts of his mother he wears like armor.

Below that, your thumb drags along the plush outline of his lower lip, from one corner to the other. You swear they’re lifted — at least just slightly. As you move your fingers across his cheeks, you find the shallow dip of a dimple and you smile so big he must be able to see it. His jaw is sharp and prickly, freshly shaved probably the day before. 

As he leans heavily into your hand, you think to yourself how much you want to help carry this weight for him.

“Can you say something?” You ask quietly, your hands still touching his skin, careful not to disturb the bubble you’re in.

“What do you want me to say?” He whispers.

“Hmm,” you respond, enjoying the feeling of his voice rumbling through your hand. “Anything. I just like the way you sound.”

For a second, you think you feel his lips press against your palm.

“Cuyan,” he says, the foreign word tickling your skin.

“What language is that?”

“It’s the tongue of my people: Mando’a,” he explains, his cheek stretching upward under your hand. “It’s not spoken much anymore.”

“It sounds beautiful. What does ‘cuyan’ mean?”

His hand falls into your hair, brushing the strands with his fingers. “It means survivor.”

“Like you,” you smile.

“And you.” 

You smile wider.

“Stars, please keep talking,” you plead, despite the peaceful yawn slipping from your lips. Your hand on his face wraps around his back instead, holding him like a pillow. Nestling your head over his heart, you feel the strong thud, thud, thud, thud against your ear — your own heartbeat starting to synchronize with his. His hand continues combing through your hair, his chest rumbling with a gentle chuckle.

“Kotep means brave,” he whispers, his voice weaving through the hairs at the crown of your head. “I remember the time I introduced you to Cara Dune. We were in a rush but she was taking her time pummeling someone into the dirt. And you rolled your eyes, took the blaster from her belt, set it to stun, and shot him. Then, you smiled, shook Cara’s hand, and said ‘Nice to meet you.’”

“Kotep,” you mumble, half-awake. “Maybe more stupid than kotep.”

“Sometimes, they’re one and the same,” he chuckles, making your entangled bodies shake. “Mirdala means clever. Like when you snuck onto my ship and convinced me to let you join my crew even though I wasn't looking for one. Or when you rewired the jammers so that our ship could scramble Imperial and New Republic codes.”

“Kotyc means strong. When you saved me from that rancor, I was terrified,” he whispers. He tilts his head down, his lips pressing against your hair as he listens to your slow breathing. You’re fast asleep, arms still wound loosely around him, cheek pressed against his chest. But he keeps talking. “Not of the rancor or even of you. You’re so strong, so powerful, just like the kid. I was terrified I’d have to let you go too. Then, you said you want to stay. And I felt so guilty because I was so relieved. But I want you to stay too, truly, for as long as you want, ner kar’ta. Ner kar’ta means my heart.”

He places a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

“Before I met the kid... before I met you, ner kar’ta… I never thought I’d get to have this, whatever this is,” he whispers into your skin. “That was a past life. This is heaven.”

—

vii.

The few nights you stay in Sorgan give you ample time to study his features in the dark, etching them into your mind the way you would on paper.

Every night after the first, he whispers words like cuyan, kotep, mirdala, and kotyc as you fall asleep — some you remember and some you don’t.

When you leave Sorgan, you notice he wears his helmet less. Not outside of the safety of darkness and certainly not outside of the ship. But in quiet, shadowy moments and dim corners of your metal home — he feels comfortable enough to be without it.

He’s giving you a portion of what he knows he can’t fully give to you... not yet. But it’s like he’s inviting you, waiting for your hand to find its place on his cheek once again.

When you retire to your quarters each night, he powers off the lights and whispers, “Good night, ner kar’ta,” faint enough to make you wonder if he means for you to hear it. Ner kar’ta. It’s a beautiful phrase, one from his people’s language. He’d shared it with you that first night he let you know him, feel his skin with its scars and soft expanses. But for the life of you, you can’t remember if he taught you what ner kar’ta means. (You curse that comfortable bed and his warm arms for tempting you to sleep so easily.) The way he says ner kar’ta each time is like a sanctified prayer and you desperately want to know what Divinity has that he wants. 

Sleep had never come easy to you before. Not in your years of lonely nights surrounded by danger on Tatooine. Before you met Din, nightmares had been enemies you kept close like friends. Not by your own will, of course.

But nightmares quickly became scarce foes. Living with Din made you feel safe. He’s a protector, but more than that — he shows you the strength you have inside you like a mirror, his bravery reflected in your eyes. Kotep means brave. You remember that.

But as you feel yourself growing more connected to your powers, the Force, your dreams seem more vivid, more rooted in reality, peculiar prophecies. And nightmares feel like omens.

You have a recurring horror story that plays in your mind in fragmented flashes, pieces you’re too scared to dwell on in the clear light of day for fear they may form a mosaic of your own image, cast away in the vast expanse of space. Alone. Again. 

Tonight, the nightmare visits you and bathes your thoughts in red. You don't recognize the dreamscape from your travels with your Mandalorian, you only see the way it paints everything in a bloody tint and sets your skin on fire. Then, you see Din — hear him yell in agony under the attack of an invisible enemy. But you’re rooted to the ground, your limbs morphing into distorted vines and branches, dry screams ripping through your throat until you can’t make a sound.

“Din!” You gasp, waking up in a cold sweat in your darkened quarters, the desperate sound of your voice echoing through the ship.

“What’s wrong?” Din sprints in, panting as he skids to a stop. He turns on the lights to reveal himself in only his underclothes and helmet, head snapping back and forth as he examines the scene. When nothing seems out of place, his shoulders relax. “Are you okay?”

Your chest heaves as you attempt to steady your breath, not realizing tears are rolling down your face until he comes forward to wipe one from your cheek.

“It was just a dream,” you say, not fully believing your words. “But it felt so real.”

The edge of your thin mattress sinks at the same time you feel his bare hand brush a sweat-slicked strand of hair out of your face. His fingers comb through your hair and settle at the base of your head before he pulls your face into his soft chest. The steady beating of his heart under your cheek immediately helps yours slow down.

“I’m here. You’re safe,” he says, and all you can do is fist your hand in his shirt and hold onto him, anchor yourself in his solid body because it’s not you that you worry about. Not this time. But you don't tell him about the nightmare or the fragments that have been haunting you the past few days. You just listen to the way he breathes in through his nose and sighs through his lips.

“Scoot over,” he whispers, untangling himself from your arms. You sniffle and do as he asks, giving him room to settle under your covers and wrap his arm around your back so you can use his chest as a pillow. “Do you mind getting the lights?”

You chuckle, closing your eyes and levitating the pencil on your drawing pad until it hits the controls for the lights and blankets the room in darkness. Almost immediately, you hear the hiss of Din’s helmet and the light thud of it hitting the floor before you feel his soft hair touching the top of your head.

He holds you, his thumb stroking the skin on your arm, his breaths coming out as warm puffs against your hair. And like those nights in Sorgan, you let your fingers draw smooth shapes into his skin and rest over his heart.

“Do you want to hear about the time I took Grogu to school?” He asks quietly, indulging you with the deep rumble of his rich voice.

You tilt your face upward and try to see his smile in the pitch black, nodding your head so his shirt beneath your cheek rubs against his chest. You want to hear every story about his past as long as he says it with his voice and his hands on your skin.

“I was on Nevarro, just passing through for repairs. And of course, I ended up on a mission at an Imperial base,” he chuckles, sending vibrations through you.

“Of course,” you laugh with him.

“I couldn’t take the kid with me. Karga and Dune brought me to a school, so I left him there for a while.” Your hand raises to his cheek so you can feel that pull of his smile under your fingers. “Mid-mission, I have to bolt from the base, grab my ship, and pick up the kid on the way. I’m in a rush and the educator droid tries to keep me, saying my son stole some poor boy’s snacks. I don’t have any time for the droid to explain more and just mumble sorry and grab the kid. He’s got little blue crumbs all over his cloak and a silver packet of cookies. He ate so much he got sick on the ship when I flew back to help the others near the base.”

You feel Din shake his head, laughing at the memory.

“I had to let him wear one of my tunics while I washed up his clothes. I even tried sewing up the bottom so it would protect his feet better,” he snickers. “Not the best stitching job I’ve done.”

You don't think your heart has ever felt so full and large and ready to burst. You love listening to him talk about Grogu, the fondness in his voice tugging you impossibly closer to him until the two of you blend into one.

“He whined for hours when he finished those cookies.” He muses, lifting one of your hands and drawing lines on your palm with the tip of his finger. “Such a little womp rat.”

“Wonder where he got it from,” you tease, your voice still scratchy from tears but laughing in genuine amusement.

He scoffs, the mirth never leaving his honeyed voice. “I only ever taught him strength, honor, and loyalty.”

“Oh, I’m sure. This is the Way,” you say, attempting to imitate his deep baritone.

“You really like to give me a hard time, don’t you?” He teases.

“Ah,” you grin. “The Jawa calls the Ewok short.”

He stills before bursting into a full-bodied laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before,” he gasps between wheezes.

You laugh with him, your shaking bodies gradually calming into a slow vibration of charged energy. You can’t see it but you feel his eyes looking into yours when his breaths settle down, his thumb now tracing over the slope of your lip.

“Sleep, ner kar’ta,” he says, stroking his fingers over your hair once more. And you desperately want to ask what it means, why he calls you this beautiful phrase. But soon enough, your eyes are closed and he kisses your head before letting sleep take him as well.

When he wakes in the early hours of the morning, your quarters still mostly covered in the ship’s shadows, he gently slides himself out of your hold and tucks you deeper under the covers, before putting his helmet back on and walking to the fresher.

On his way out of your room, he notices a sliver of light peeking through the doorway and a splash of pink catches his eyes. He looks down to find your open drawing pad sitting on your dresser, the pink flower he gave you on Sorgan pressed and dried onto one page.

And on the page beside it is a rough charcoal portrait of a man that looks vaguely like him. The sketched face shares the hooked curve of his nose, a mustache below it covering his lips, and wavy locks atop his head. But the other features are empty, blanks waiting patiently to be filled in once you fully grasp the picture.

Beside the off-white space where his eyes should be, he sees a note in your scribbled handwriting that reads: 

Eye color?

He takes the pencil lying between the stitched binding of the booklet and gives you another piece of himself, writing below your question:

Brown.

— 

viii.

When you wake, you half expect to find your cheek still pressed to a warm, beating chest, strong arms wrapped around your body, perhaps even a charming snore blowing the hair at the top of your head. Instead, when you open your eyes, the space beside you is cold and empty, and you wonder if it had all been a fantasy you’d conjured to erase the nightmare that had plagued you moments before.

But when you slip out of bed and pad over to your door, you spot your drawing pad which you’d left open. And below the question you’d scrawled across the page, you find his answer and can finally put a color to his eyes — a rich, warm, melting hue that fits his gaze so perfectly you think there must be a Maker putting these pieces into motion.

You grab the pencil from the booklet, place it behind your ear, and go to find him.

Leaving your quarters, the ship feels unusually frigid and you hold your arms tightly to retain the residual warmth from the bed covers.

When you walk into the cockpit, you half expect to find Din in his plainclothes again, giving you a chance to wrap your arms around his waist and whisper “good morning” into the soft planes of his chest without his beskar blocking the way. Instead, you find him fully-armored, crouched over with his elbows on his knees, helmet hung low and held between gloved hands. In front of him, a holoprojector loops a message from a pale, uniformed woman.

“Din Djarin,” the grave voice addresses him by his full name, sending shivers down your spine. “Yes, I know exactly who you are. If you don’t want the entire galaxy to put a name to your face, you will help me devise a plan to release Moff Gideon from the New Republic detainment facility. We will send you coordinates to an Imperial base shortly.”

The blue projection vanishes briefly before starting again in a haunting cycle.

“Din,” you whisper, startling him out of his stupor, his helmet whipping around as if ready to take aim and fire. You walk toward him slowly, kneel in front of him with a gentle hand on his knee, and face the holoprojector. “Who is that? How do they know your name?”

He sighs, his helmet falling into his hands once more.

“When Gideon took the kid, I had to make a choice,” he says, voice rough and ragged despite the hours of restful sleep he got the night before. “I snuck into an Imperial rhydonium refinery on Morak to get Gideon’s coordinates from a data terminal. But the terminal required a facial scan.”

“They have your face in Imperial data archives,” you gasp, the understanding poisoning your veins and causing your heart to drop into your stomach.

“They have everything in the archives,” he corrects, his modulated voice distant and detached. “And they’re about to take it all away.”

“No,” you whisper. Standing up suddenly, anger washes over you at his quick defeat. “No! I won’t let them. There must be something we can do.”

“I won’t free Gideon,” Din says, stern and almost frightening in his resolve.

“I’m not saying we break him out,” you respond, hands up in defense. “But there’s always more than one way to skin a womp rat.”

Your heavy footsteps echo in the small space of the cockpit as you pace back and forth. Din’s helmet follows you slowly as you walk in circles and he sees the gears turning in your mind. You pull the pencil behind your ear towards your lips and gnaw at it with your teeth, an action he quickly learned meant not to talk to you lest your brewing idea slips from your skull. The holoprojector repeats its threat over and over, the voice grating against the metal walls until it begins to sound like an endless shriek. And with a roar of frustration, your clenched fist comes flying down onto the holoprojector until the image fizzles away.

“I’ve got it.”

The plan goes as follows: Send the Mandalorian to the Imperial base under the guise of full cooperation and stall the holoprojector Imp for as long as possible. This will give you enough time to sneak in through an air vent (“Or… something.” “Or something?” “Yes, Mando. Whatever’s convenient at that moment!”), find a terminal, and hack the system, wiping every Imperial archive of Din Djarin.

“That’s a horrible plan,” he says.

“It’s not ‘horrible,’” you argue.

“It’s dangerous.”

“You got something better?” You challenge.

His long sigh is enough of an answer.

“So, we’re doing it then,” you say, suddenly a million times more nervous than when you’d laid out your blueprint for him. “Punch in those coordinates. Let’s go pay a visit to some Imps.” [READ PART III]

End Notes: Please support this story with a reblog or comment in the replies! I’d love to know what you think of it so far. :) (Also, I know the Seeing Stone is more of a beacon but let's just say you can talk to other force-sensitives if you meditate deep enough.) Btw, zoom into the moodboard to see the sketch of Din. Should I upload the full size? Mando’a Glossary: Cuyan = survivor [koo-YAHN] Kotep = brave [KOH-tehp] Mirdala = clever [MEER-dah-lah] Kotyc = strong [koh-TEESH] Ner kar’ta = My heart (kar’ta = heart [kah-ROH-ta]; ner = my [nair]) Star Wars slang: The Jawa calls the Ewok short = When somebody comments on or accuses someone else of a fault which the accuser shares.

[mooncaps]

The parallels between Catra and Glimmer keep sticking in my mind. They don't quite mirror each other exactly, visually or thematically, but there's a lot of overlap. They're similar in so many ways, but the inverse of each other in certain ways as well. Their natures are so alike that if their circumstances had been swapped, they'd probably just become each other.

So, I guess I’m picking up my shovel and digging into this. I wanna examine the ways they’re alike, the key ways they differ, what shapes each of them, and why their intersecting journeys are significant. There’s a lot to unpack and this is gonna be a long post, but if the subject matter sounds interesting to you, then read on.

Their parallels are most evident in Season 4, but are also woven throughout the show. I'm thinking back to 1x07 when Adora explains to Bow and Glimmer what being raised by Shadow Weaver was like and Glimmer, without missing a beat, says: "Okay, sure, Mom stuff." Completely nonchalant, with a casual shrug, as if nothing sounded out of place. All of these characters are impacted by being embattled in a militaristic conflict, of course, but Catra and Glimmer are both getting particular parental experiences from their mother-figures, the only parent in either of their lives. Notably, they don't have the same experience. Angella's a much better mother to Glimmer than Shadow Weaver is to Catra. Shadow Weaver is abusive, manipulative, power-hungry, and especially cruel to Catra above all others. Even when Angella is harsh, she's constructive and supportive.

But both of these children end up with a strong desire to prove themselves on the battlefield. Both want their mothers to be proud of them, to recognize them as worthy. Catra spends the early part of her life suppressing the urge to prove herself, pretending not to care about it while secretly being deeply upset when she finds herself overshadowed by Adora. Glimmer, on the other hand, openly thirsts for opportunities to be a great commander and earn recognition for her accomplishments. They both have somewhat of an inferiority complex as well. Catra comes to decide she doesn't want to be the sidekick. Glimmer is insecure about being the princess who has to recharge.

In 1x08, Glimmer's jealousy toward Bow and Perfuma is essentially a microcosm of a key dimension of Catra's arc for the show. But Glimmer is much quicker to learn the lessons and grow. Due to her experiences, Catra's walls are much harder to break down. I'll swing back around to that point later.

As Season 1 draws to its close, Glimmer and Catra both gain a little more independence, though they do it in very different ways. Catra does what Glimmer wanted to do at the beginning of Season 1. She presents valuable tech and a valuable ally to her commanding officer. Glimmer gets closer to her mother and they both start to understand each other better. Catra defeats her mother-figure in combat. Glimmer and Catra both gain favor in their respective armies and get the much-desired chance to prove themselves in the Battle of Bright Moon.

In 2x02, Glimmer and Bow take Catra hostage and the ways in which these two characters differ are really highlighted. Glimmer is tempted more than once to be as ruthless with Catra as Catra would be with her, but Bow talks her down when push comes to shove. "We're not them." Catra doesn't have a person in her life who talks her down. Not anymore. Catra sees the reliance on friendship among the Rebellion as a weakness. "It's why you're never going to win."

With the environment she grew up in, Catra's understanding of concepts like friendship and love are primarily in relation to power and manipulation. She's quick to seize upon the closeness between Glimmer and Bow as a way to force Glimmer to use up her magic. Catra's own love for Adora is, in the early days, selfish. She doesn't want to share Adora, whether with friends in the Horde or friends in the Rebellion. And it's why she believes that Adora doesn't feel the same way. If Adora wouldn’t take things to the same selfish extremes, then she must not feel what Catra’s feeling. This is what Catra believes because her experiences have given her this very specific, and flawed, understanding of love.

Glimmer's relationship to love is different. She comes from a more supportive environment and even in the rare instance when she does trend toward selfish love, she's more able to accept and understand the flaws of it.

But focusing on 2x02: Glimmer and Catra push each other's buttons. Each of them instinctively knows how to hurt the other one, though Catra is more willing to inflict that hurt. They’re both paying attention and learning each other’s vulnerabilities. The one moment where Glimmer touches a nerve with Catra is: "How did Adora take years of this? She didn't run away from the Horde. She ran away from you." And Catra immediately pushes back: "You think she's not going to leave you behind too, Sparkles?"

It's somewhat telling that Catra sees Glimmer as having taken her place in Adora's life. Again, similar, but not the same. The relationship between Adora and Glimmer is different to the relationship between Adora and Catra, but Catra, with her limited and warped understanding of love, can't tell the difference anymore than she could when Adora first befriended Lonnie. Catra sees Glimmer as having the same place in Adora's life that Catra used to have. And as much as Catra wants, at this point, to tell herself she's over Adora, she's still angry.

So we’re kind of flipping between parallels and inversions, but a key factor starts to become clear at this point. What Catra and Glimmer hate in each other is what they fear in themselves. Glimmer hates that Catra took her as a hostage, but she's also frustrated that she can't be just as cruel when she has Catra as a hostage. She wants to be cruel, and yet she hates herself for wanting it. Catra hates seeing Glimmer step into the role of Adora's sidekick and she mocks the Rebellion for "the power of friendship" because she hates how vulnerable she felt after opening her heart to Adora. She wants a loving relationship, and yet she hates herself for wanting it. Catra and Glimmer see their own perceived flaws, weaknesses, and shortcomings in each other, which is why there's so much friction between them. It's really an interesting concept that develops further as the show goes on.

The next minor point of interest is 2x04. Glimmer sees the primary conflict as being between herself and Catra. It’s not much, just a little look into how Glimmer is thinking about things.

Seasons 2 and 3 are paired together in terms of themes in a way that other seasons aren’t. At the end of Season 2, or midway through the story threads, Catra loses her mother-figure. At the end of Season 3, Glimmer loses her mother. Once again, the circumstances differ. Angella is truly gone, but Shadow Weaver has simply switched sides. Glimmer’s arc going forward is very much driven by Angella’s absence, whereas Catra’s arc is driven by Shadow Weaver’s presence...as an enemy combatant.

And Shadow Weaver doesn’t just join the Rebellion, she starts working her way into Glimmer’s life. Her opening pitch that gets Glimmer to free her plays on a familial connection - the fact that she taught Glimmer’s father. They go to the Fright Zone together and of course they run into Catra, who discovers Shadow Weaver quite literally taking Glimmer by the hand.

All of this sets the stage for Season 4, where the Catra and Glimmer parallels are at their strongest. The two of them become much more similar to each other in this season. Glimmer is now receiving guidance and familial connection from the very person who shaped Catra into the person she is.

Both Catra and Glimmer effectively take control of their respective armies. Glimmer literally becomes queen and, in the very same episode, Catra seats herself on Hordak’s throne. Glimmer is reluctant to take the throne, Catra is eager to. At the end of the episode Catra says to Hordak, “I think you and I are going to do great things together.” This line echoes what Shadow Weaver said to young Micah and baby Adora. And of course Glimmer is also stepping into her mother’s role.

From there, the two of them find themselves on similar paths. In 4x02 they both have the same idea to recover Mara’s ship. In 4x04 Glimmer wants to think like Catra and asks Shadow Weaver to teach her. Glimmer ends up in a fight with Catra and Catra marvels at Glimmer’s tactical decision to use Adora as a decoy. Where Glimmer was previously unwilling to be like Catra, now she’s determined to do anything for victory. And of course the idea to use Adora as a distraction came from Shadow Weaver and Catra’s recognizing this change in Glimmer’s tactics without quite realizing why it should feel familiar.

Some things happen at different times for these two, but there’s so much overlap. Glimmer starts the season dealing with boring meetings and itching to be out in the field, jealous of her friends. For Catra, she starts the season in the field, but as her plans advance she finds herself stuck in the Fright Zone while Hordak does the field work.

Both of them are focused on success, no matter the cost. They both become so stubbornly obsessed with winning the war that it fractures their friendships. They reject all counsel and push away the people who care for them. In spite of being hurt by losing the trust of their friends, they both double down on trying to win, expecting total victory to be the thing that brings them peace of mind, the thing that makes everything worth the cost.

There’s a push and pull between the two of them throughout the season. Neither can succeed in their chosen path without destroying the other. And yet they can’t seem to destroy each other without losing themselves. Metaphorically, destroying each other would mean destroying their own shortcomings, and both of them want those weaknesses and doubts erased, but neither of them can manage to strike the final blow.

Catra gains the upper hand in the war by having Double Trouble work the cracks in Glimmer’s friendships. Glimmer gains the upper hand by having Double Trouble drive a decisive wedge between Catra and Hordak. Double Trouble’s duplicitous allegiances and feigning of friendships are key developments on both sides of the battlefield and their services are weaponized by both Catra and Glimmer to target each other. Double Trouble essentially acts as a messenger, sent from both of these two characters to tear the other one down. Catra and Glimmer personify to each other what they fear in themselves and Double Trouble gives voice to the doubts of both characters, acting on behalf of each of them in turn.

Double Trouble gets to Glimmer by suggesting that Adora is undermining the queen’s authority. They work from an understanding of Glimmer’s genuine desire to be a great queen. However, and this is a key point, when Double Trouble confronts Catra, the tactic is completely flipped. “You try so hard to play the big bad villain, but your heart’s never been in it, has it?” They work from the understanding that Catra’s apparent desire to lead the Horde to victory is not genuine. As opposed to Glimmer, whose heart has always been in it; her heart’s so in it that she becomes blind to the risks of her plans.

Part of Double Trouble’s speech to Catra can apply to Glimmer’s insecurities as well. “They didn’t believe in you, didn’t trust you, didn’t need you, left you. But did you ever stop to think, maybe they’re not the problem? It’s you. You drive them away, Wildcat.” Obviously it applies to Catra, but it also describes what Glimmer has just been through with Bow and Adora. Glimmer and Catra have so many overlapping fears and this messenger sent by Glimmer to throw Catra off balance ends up making this statement that labels Glimmer’s recent mistakes just as accurately as it does Catra’s.

The key difference between the two of them comes down to their hearts being in it. For all the similarities between Catra and Glimmer in Season 4, this climactic moment emphasizes that, for Catra, a lot of it is an affectation, a costume.

Which brings me to an element of the visual storytelling. I recently read an interesting post about the thematic significance of Catra’s mask. I also made my own post about the change to her hair in Season 4. The visual storytelling has many facets in this show. This post is about parallels though, so what I’m focusing on now is the fact that Catra and Glimmer both change their costumes in Season 4. The first scene of 4x01 features the reveal of Glimmer’s new look and the last scene of 4x01 features the reveal of Catra’s.

One of the first things I noticed about Catra’s outfit is that her new black sleeve and shoulder armor are covering the area that was damaged in the portal reality. At a guess, I’d say she wants to guard against feeling whatever that felt like again. Again though, my focus is on parallels. Let’s have a look at their outfits side by side.

Glimmer’s is essentially an evolution. She’s growing more into herself. She now has both shoulders covered. Hard to say if these shoulder pads are decorative or could serve a protective function. They kind of look metallic. Her legs are newly covered; her neck and chest are newly exposed. There are a few changes to Glimmer’s outfit, but not a lot that’s truly new to her.

For Catra, there are a few new elements in her outfit. The single sleeve, the fingerless gloves, and at the shoulders she seems to have upgraded from fabric to something that looks more like it could be armor. Her legs are more covered than they were in her previous outfit, but there are still small exposed gaps. Her feet were never covered before, but now there’s a partial covering. And there’s also what fandom has dubbed the “boob window,” though this show isn’t one that gives focus to things like cleavage. The new elements for Catra bring her outfit a little bit closer to Glimmer’s.

I’ll be interpreting exposed skin as representing vulnerabilities. Of particular interest to me is the fact that they both wear single sleeves now, one white, one black, and they cover opposite arms. Glimmer has no mask on her face; Catra has no cape covering her back. Glimmer’s boots seem especially enforced at the heel and toe. Catra’s heels and toes are exposed. You know how I’ve been saying that they see their own shortcomings in each other? Now Catra is visibly vulnerable where Glimmer is guarded and vice-versa. The particular asymmetry of the sleeves brings to mind ideas of imbalance, both internally and between them.

Catra’s sleeve looks durable; Glimmer’s sleeve looks decorative. Glimmer’s sleeve leaves a gap of skin exposed below the shoulder pad; Catra’s sleeve covers the full length of her arm. On Glimmer’s unsleeved arm, the glove barely covers her hand; Catra’s glove covers a portion of her forearm. Remember 1x08, that point I said I’d come back to? Glimmer’s quicker to learn the lessons. Catra’s walls are harder to break down. Now it’s visually represented in their outfits.

I’ll reference the visuals as I go on, but let’s get back to thematic analysis. As the Season 4 finale draws to a close, Catra and Glimmer end up together and both have been brought low. Double Trouble has just seen through all of Catra’s walls and read her for absolute filth. Glimmer has to reckon with the fact that her own hubris nearly got everyone she’s been fighting for destroyed. Both have come closer to total victory and closer to total defeat than they’ve ever been. Coming off a string of mistakes and pushing away the people who care about them, they end up together.

Glimmer has the chance to attack a willingly defenseless Catra, but spares her. Moments later, Glimmer is threatened by Horde Prime, but Catra’s intervention saves her. It’s a layered action from Catra, certainly not altruistic, but it saves Glimmer nonetheless. I think something in each of them feels hesitant to see this person, in whom they see their own flaws reflected back at them, destroyed.

And now they’re stuck with each other, quite literally cut off from everyone else. They’re each wrestling with the weight of their own failures and shortcomings, so of course they’re both trapped with the metaphorical representation of everything they never wanted to face in themselves.

They’re together, and yet they’re separated. A barrier stands between them. Catra is at liberty to move about the ship, but there’s nowhere to go and no escaping the watchful gaze of Horde Prime. She’s frustrated by this illusory liberty: “If I’m a prisoner, you might as well make it official.” Glimmer, on the other hand, is in a cell and she wants out, even though there’s nowhere to go. For a brief moment, the barrier is taken down when Catra and Glimmer are invited to dine with Horde Prime. One very effective way to bring people together is to give them a common enemy. They’re only physically together when they’re united in defending themselves against him.

Horde Prime understands the similarities between the two of them and breaks through both of their walls at the same time with the same tactic. “You Etherians are all alike. Such strong connections to one another. It’s what makes you weak.” It’s the unguarded vulnerabilities in Glimmer that poke holes in Catra’s plan of “parsing out information like a bargaining chip.” Though Catra and Glimmer have a common enemy now, they’re not yet coordinated and working with each other.

So we return now to the scene from 5x03 at the top of this post. Even the way it’s framed is significant. The scene could presumably have been presented from the other side, but seeing it from this angle allows me to infer some things about what’s being communicated.

They start out facing each other and we see their sleeved arms. Neither is quite ready to trust the other, so their walls are up. When they stand face-to-face with what they fear in themselves, they put their guards up. They’re both more-or-less equally guarded and equally vulnerable, but the guarded side is what the show’s creators are showing the audience, as well as what Catra and Glimmer are showing to each other in this moment.

The scenery around the two of them shows a stark contrast. Glimmer’s cell is brightly lit with simple architecture. Much of the space around Catra is dark and complicated.

As they open up to each other emotionally, they turn back-to-back and we’re shown their unsleeved arms. When they look away from what they fear in themselves, they let their guards down. Both of them lay a hand on their unsleeved arms, almost as if they’re subconsciously worried that they might need their walls at any moment to defend these vulnerabilities.

Their body language relaxes, though only fractionally in Catra’s case. Glimmer is a little more at ease, but Catra won’t let herself be quite as open and unguarded. Her fingers remain on that unsleeved arm, alert and ready to defend at a moment’s notice.

I’ve talked a bit about walls and defensiveness, but the way these two came to construct their walls is also important. Glimmer and Catra have both experienced hardships in their lives. Both of them grew up with only one close friend. They both felt pressure and a desire to prove themselves and they’ve both endured great tragedy in their young lives. Glimmer has developed more of the emotional tools to work through her pain and begin to heal. Catra is only at the beginning of the healing process and her pain comes from a very different source.

Glimmer spent the majority of her young life believing her father had been killed and then she lost her mother as well. Catra was either given up or orphaned and then taken in by an abusive family. Both experiences were surely traumatic. Catra’s walls are tougher for a reason though. A few reasons. The primary reason is that the source of her fear and pain was also her mother-figure.

Being traumatized by someone who should be on your side is different than other sources of trauma. And because Shadow Weaver is her parent, Catra also bonds with her and wants her approval. This is emotionally confusing and compounds Catra’s issues. Wanting love from Shadow Weaver is one of the reasons Catra hates herself for wanting love at all.

Not only is Catra traumatized by her parent, she also lacks any other parental guidance to help her process her trauma. Glimmer, even after losing her father, still had her mother. It’s after losing her mother that Glimmer really starts to lose balance emotionally. Though Catra had Adora, that kind of comfort is not the same as having the calming influence of a supportive parent to help a child cope with their trauma and assure the child that things will be okay. Further to that are the wedges that Shadow Weaver (and later Light Hope) employed to ensure that Catra and Adora would doubt each other. Then finally, Adora left the Horde and whatever comfort Catra had received from her turned poisonous. This was the thing that threw Catra’s sense of safety into chaos and unraveled any semblance of emotional balance. For much of the show, wanting love from Adora is one of the reasons Catra hates herself for wanting love at all.

This is all a roundabout way of explaining why Catra’s walls are so much thicker than Glimmer’s and why everything around her is dark and complicated. Glimmer has her own walls and coping mechanisms, but they’re constructed differently. Catra is largely driven by defensive panic responses. Glimmer is reactive and even reckless at times, especially after losing Angella, but she’s generally more able to slow down and sort through her feelings. Glimmer’s walls are constructed in such a way that they don’t impede her ability to grow and heal. Glimmer’s walls don’t keep as many things away, but her capacity to let the right people in is the trait that serves her best. The contrast between these two characters speaks volumes.

Season 5 is where Catra and Glimmer begin to learn from each other. They get past the initial reaction of simply being disgusted by seeing what they fear in themselves. They both make some appeals to each other for information and help. The barrier between them comes down again and Catra enters Glimmer’s space.

The audience is shown both sleeved arms. Walls are up. Catra uses both hands and takes Glimmer by the sleeved arm. The cake is in her unsleeved hand; it was an appeal to her vulnerable side. The full appeal from Catra that acknowledges Glimmer’s walls is the one that actually reaches her and gets Catra the information she wanted. It’s an appeal so strong that it can reach Glimmer through her walls, not just some simple ploy to prey on her softer side.

“You can’t tell him.” Glimmer uses both hands and takes Catra by the unsleeved arm. This is an appeal to Catra’s vulnerable side. And it echoes something that has previously frustrated Catra. “It’s always the same with you, Adora. I have to do this. Oh-oh, we have to do that.” This appeal to her softer side isn’t enough.

“Do one good thing in your life.” Glimmer uses both hands and takes Catra by the sleeved arm. The audience is shown both of their unsleeved arms. They’re both vulnerable here. It’s this appeal, which acknowledges Catra’s walls, that reaches her. Catra still reacts in fear, a response pattern that runs deep with her, but the message reaches her through her walls.

After processing some of her emotions, Catra returns, offering Glimmer her unsleeved arm. This is a vulnerable action from Catra.

Glimmer takes Catra’s hand with her sleeved arm.

This is the turning point. They represent each other’s insecurities, each vulnerable where the other defends. Glimmer has the tools to balance out Catra’s vulnerabilities. Glimmer’s sleeved arm meeting Catra’s unsleeved arm is like saying: “I’ve got your back.” If they’re confrontational to each other, or if they ignore each other, they’re both equally defended and equally vulnerable. But if they stand side by side...

...they can compensate for each other’s vulnerabilities. They embrace and understand the insecurities they were afraid of and together they have the tools to present a balanced front that can protect them both. Neither one of them was going to be able to succeed alone, but together they can accomplish more.

Catra knew where the teleporter was and could have escaped on her own, but that would not be success. As Glimmer pointed out, even if Catra runs away it won’t matter when Horde Prime destroys the universe. As Catra pointed out, Adora would still come to rescue Glimmer. It’s their combined knowledge that leads to the solution.

Getting Glimmer out is the key, but Glimmer is unable to do this alone. Catra has the knowledge of the teleporter, Catra has the knowledge as well as the physical combat skills necessary to overpower the clones, and Catra has to be the one to take down the barrier that divides the two of them. Only Catra is in a position to achieve this. In terms of emotional metaphors, Glimmer is ready to let Catra in, but that fact alone isn’t enough. Catra has to be willing as well.

And the plan succeeds. It’s Catra’s most vulnerable action yet and she stands willing to sacrifice herself. Catra sends Glimmer, this metaphorical representation of her own insecurities, to Adora. This action is the very thing that ultimately saves Catra. She’s stuck with Horde Prime and her defenses are all ripped away, but it’s this show of vulnerability that affords Adora and company the opportunity to come in prepared and save this defenseless cat. Glimmer’s willingness to forgive Catra is significant for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that Catra is the party most responsible for the conditions that led to Angella’s sacrifice, and Glimmer cites Catra sacrificing herself on Horde Prime’s ship as the reason she’s willing to help Adora go back and save Catra.

And once she’s saved, when Catra next gets the liberty to determine her own outfit, as she treads a path of vulnerability and learning to follow her heart...

...the sleeve and fingerless gloves are gone. The costume she put on when she took her seat on Hordak’s throne has fallen away. That’s not who she wants to be anymore. Now she’s ready to start on the path of growing more into herself.

The push and pull contentious relationship between Catra and Glimmer has reached its conclusion, but there are still a few moments of interest. In 5x08, there are several instances where Catra questions what seem to be tactically unsound decisions from the Rebellion and they shrug off the concerns. Near the end of the episode, it’s Glimmer who questions the tactics and Catra who shrugs it off. This shows that they’re both getting more comfortable with each other and also both getting more comfortable with the parts in themselves that make them similar to each other.

In 5x10, when Catra finds herself in trouble, trapped and confronted with rising water, she calls Glimmer, knowing now that Glimmer is someone she can trust when she comes up against the limits of her own vulnerabilities.

In 5x12, Catra goes to Bow and Glimmer, looking for Adora. Glimmer informs Catra that Adora left them behind. Catra says: “Of course she’s gone. That’s what she does, isn’t it?” Glimmer was caught off guard by this, but Catra has recognized this vulnerability in Glimmer since Season 2. “You think she’s not going to leave you behind too, Sparkles.” This time Catra’s not just here criticize; she’s here to help. She warns Bow and Glimmer about Horde Prime’s plans and volunteers herself to take over helping Adora. Glimmer comes up against the limit of her vulnerabilities, but she can tag in Catra to help her now.

In the literal sense, this shows the value of letting other people in. In the metaphorical sense, it shows the value of accepting oneself. Learning from others, finding the common ground, gives us a fuller understanding than we can achieve on our own. No one can do everything alone, but working with people who are skilled where we come up short, guarded where we are vulnerable, and open where we are closed off is what unlocks the potential to accomplish things that would have otherwise been impossible.

I love that message, but I also love the metaphorical message. Glimmer and Catra have repeatedly seen in each other the things they were afraid of in themselves. Hating each other is tantamount to hating themselves and their acceptance of each other is tantamount to accepting themselves, which makes both of them more well-rounded and helps them to move forward.

And those lessons, to me, are among the most significant things about their intersecting journeys. They accept the differences in each other, they recognize the similarities in each other, and they come together to build each other up. It’s at once a journey of learning to accept others and a journey of learning to accept themselves. They learn that greeting their shortcomings with anger is ultimately self-destructive, ignoring these vulnerabilities is perilous, and it’s only through acceptance that they can begin to understand themselves, compensate for their limitations, and better themselves.

They each look into a mirror, see their own insecurities staring back at them, then decide to give that person a hug and say: “I’ve got your back.”

[paisley-print]

3:00am : George Strait Sang It Better.

About:  The two of you make your way home from the bar... 

Rating: SFW

Word count: 1635

Characters: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Warnings: HEAVY ANGST I AM SO SORRY (no I’m not hehehe), Curse words, fluff, mentions of death, grief, mentions of alcohol, mentions of vom*t ,implied age gap. 

NOTE: Not me making myself cry....not that. Also I love country music y'all can square up on me if you like. I find it funny how I am turning this satire of a character into a Nicholas sparks protagonist. Wild.

MIDNIGHT MASTER LIST

3:00am : George Strait Sang It Better

“I’m not drunk.” 

Jack had you slung over his shoulder “I don’t believe that’s a correct statement.”

“Are you proud of me for beating all those guys at pool?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I am sugar, you know…. I think the whole bar was lookin’ to take you home after that.”

Jack had spent most of the night sitting back and watching you interact with the other patrons. How you flitted about like a little fairy; all giddy and flushed from the alcohol.  He enjoyed seeing men and women ogle over you. The looks on their faces when he scooped you up to leave was priceless. 

“Wha?! No! Only you can take me home!”

He smirked “that is right babygirl- only me.”

You giggled and whispered to him, “Jack?”

He whispered back to you “what?”

“May I smack your ass please?”

You heard him chuckle “only cuz you asked so nicely.”

You gave his ass a light tap “boop”

“Excuse me mam I said smack not a boop. My ass is too incredible to have it booped.”

“Well, I booped you- watcha gonna do about it?”

“Might not help you take off your makeup when we get home.”

You gasped dramatically, “you wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me honey,” he shot back. 

You cleared your throat, “wait, put me down.”

His brows knit together, “you gotta throw up?” 

You hummed in response.

He took you by the waist and placed you down, keeping his hands there to make sure you didn’t take a header into the brick wall.

Before he could react you flashed him a bright grin, broke from his touch and proceeded to skip down the street. It took him a second to realize he had been conned; he had to jog a little to keep up with you. “Girl, where in the hell do you think you’re goin’?....... y/n?”

“Do you hear that?” You asked, rounding the corner onto a totally empty side street. This side of town was mostly strip malls and county buildings.  A record store was playing music from inside...it floated through the street and echoed lazily into the humid June night. “My father used to sing this song to me.”

The song was a cover of ‘Cross My Heart’ written by George Strait but sung by Dierks Bentley. “God I haven’t heard this song in years” you breathed, making your way into the street and laying down under the streetlamp.  You sang along, “I cross my heart And promise to, Give all I’ve got to give, To make all your dreams come true.”

Jack stood off to the side, getting more and more frustrated. “I’m not gonna scrape you off the sidewalk if you get hit.”

You laughed, unable to see that he was upset…. “hit by what? All the cars?” The street was completely deserted, most everybody was home in bed. “You will always be the miracle, That makes my life complete, And as long as there’s a breath in me, I’ll make yours just as sweet.” 

Jack shook his head, shifting uneasily on his feet. 

It was an absolutely beautiful night- full moon, warm, not a single cloud obstructing the sky. You gasped and sat up “Jack please dance with me!”

“I’m tired, put your shoes on- let’s go-”

You gave him the puppy dog eyes “but it’s perfect! The song is almost over anyway-” 

He snapped, losing his temper and shouting at you. “What part of I’m fucking tired do you not understand? Come get your shoes and stop acting like a goddamn child!”

You stared at him wide eyed while the music played on.  The two of you had little spats in the past….but you had never seen him do anything close to that.  Sobriety struck you in an instant. You held tears back and pulled yourself from the asphalt.  Silently, you took your shoes from him and placed them on your feet.

His tone was still a little harsh but not nearly as bad as before, “you want me to carry you?”

“No” you said quickly “I can walk - thank you.”

-

Jack pulled the car to a stop at an empty intersection and waited for the light to turn green.

You were the first one to speak “sometimes I get too excited and act stupid... I apologize for not listening to you when you said you wanted to go. I’ll listen better next time.”

He sighed and hesitated, “I’m sorry I didn’t dance with you.”

You shrugged, “it’s okay, you were tired...plus George Strait sang it better anyway.”

“No, it’s not that-” 

You could tell that he was fighting something, but you didn’t know what. His lack of verbal communication frustrated you at times, however it was something you had been learning to accept. Each day you noticed his tells and from those you would peace together how he was feeling. He would get boisterous when he was nervous, silent when he was focused, chatty when content...so on and so forth.

Although you would rather him tell you these things, you understood that he was a man raised in a way that forbade overly emotional declarations. He was getting better the safer he felt with you and it was okay that he wasn’t perfect with it just yet. Jack had spent years shutting people out, it was going to take time for him to break the habit.

“-that was my wedding song,” he confessed.

You nodded slowly, showing him that you were listening.

“You looked so fuckin’ beautiful and just - happy…….” he sighed again. “It’s uh- do you know that the two of you share the same birthday? I didn’t realize it until the other day when you mentioned yours …...three hundred and sixty five days in a year, what are the fuckin’ odds?” 

The light turned but he didn’t move, he was staring transfixed at the road - his mind somewhere far. You watched him remember her and a life that no longer existed. He always had a certain look about him when he was thinking of her. You couldn't really put it into words; he just seemed so at peace with the world….like the burden of loss wasn't weighing him down.

His hands gripped the wheel tighter “the birthday you have coming up will make you one year older than she ever got to be…. It’s like one day I woke up and twenty-four years have come and gone overnight.”

He started to choke up a little, but fought against it. “ I don’t know why it just hit me all of a sudden. I can go weeks, months, without feeling upset. Then one little thing just sets it off and everything comes rushing back at once…. and it hurts the same way it did then.”

His breathing hitched in his chest,  you could tell that he was probably on the verge of a panic attack.

You placed a hand on his leg “hey-”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you. That wasn’t right….. I’m not that person-”

“It’s alright-”

“No it’s not. I’m sorry if I scared you and I’m sorry that I’m talkin’ about this. I know you probably don’t want to hear it-”

“Jack” you spoke softly in an attempt to stop his spiraling. “I always want to hear about what you’re going through. No matter what it is…..your wife, she sounds amazing.”

He reached down to take your hand, squeezing it gently. 

You brushed your thumb across his knuckles. “If you ever need to talk about her you can, I hope you know that. And what you said about it all rushing back….grief is not linear. It's not something that has a start and end...instead it’s like a box with a little ball inside. Every time the ball hits the side of the box you feel upset. Like tonight-”

Your other hand reached up to tuck a little strand of hair behind his ear, while you went on… “At first the box is tiny and the ball hits the sides of it often. However as time goes on the box gets bigger. Meaning that the ball has much more space to travel until it hits the sides.”

You paused for a moment to let him follow along. “You grew up with her; she is literally woven into the fabric of your soul. You are allowed to miss her and miss her deeply. Even after all this time. It is okay.  In the same breath though, you are also allowed to be happy. I know you carry around guilt - I see it in you constantly…….  but there was nothing you could have done Jack.”

You placed a finger under his chin and turned his head to face you, “and you didn’t scare me. You just caught me off guard is all.”

“I wish I danced with you,” he said softly. 

“We’ll have plenty of time to dance, Jack.”

He looked so utterly exhausted; you dropped your hand to let him focus back on the road. “Yeah” he agreed, then lifted his foot off the break to continue on.

The open windows let wind rush through the cabin. He kept a tight hold on your hand, it was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

An idea surfaced in your mind….  “I think we should include her this year. We can pick up some flowers - maybe a little toy for the baby, and have a picnic. I’ll make cupcakes and we can blow out a candle for her as well ….would that be something you want to do?”

He rubbed his eyes and nodded. 

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Thank you.”

You smiled softly “you don’t have to thank me Jack.”

[lannister-slings-and-arrows]

Laugh With Me a Little- Frederick Chilton fanfic

(Gif by @humanveil )

Hey look! It’s been a few months! And I come back bearing gifts! This is another piece in a series that @pascalispretty and I have been slowly but surely working on, and here I now present it to you for your reading pleasure. This is technically an AU I suppose. We have made the executive decision to pretend that Jack Crawford can at least fake being a competent law enforcement officer and holster his gun properly while not in active pursuit of a suspect. You know, so Miriam Lass can’t just pluck it off his belt and shoot my darling anxious grumpy lonely loser weenie husband in the face. 

Part Two of the series A Sign That Someone Loves Me Part One: Sleep Therapy 

Warnings: oral sex (cunnilingus), smut, sex, past violence, mild reference to gore, Fred is a thicc boy and we love it, I suppose a bit of an AU lol Rating:  Explicit. There’s sex folks Word Count: 5929 not sorry at all Summary: You and Fred have only had bad days and worse nights since his release from FBI custody. Stuck under guard in a hotel, a bad joke, a good laugh and a well-timed trademark application might just help you and Fred start to connect again.

For the first time in weeks, you wake up slowly, naturally. There are no imagined monsters looming over the foot of your bed; there is no frantic husband shaking you awake to make sure you’re still alive, that you haven’t been taken from him in the night.

Instead, Fred sleeps soundly on as you stir awake. He’s flat on his back, one arm flung out towards you over the sheets. When you realize that he’s still asleep, you almost hold your breath for fear that even the slightest movement will wake him.

Even before Hannibal had broken into your home and strewn mutilated corpses about the place, Fred had been sleeping terribly. There had been nights when you had woken to find him simply staring at you, something unreadable written in those sharp green eyes.

By the time he had been released from prison and ushered into protective custody in the hotel suite the two of you still occupied, he was barely sleeping at all.

There were nights when he would shake you awake, convinced that Hannibal had somehow snuck in during the night, killed you, and then tucked you back into bed for Fred to find in the morning. Other nights, you would wake up to find him shaking and thrashing, transported back to Gideon’s makeshift operating table, or to your bloodied kitchen with disemboweled agents on display.

Yet this morning, he’s still and quiet, lips parted ever so slightly as he breathes evenly and deeply. After everything —being eviscerated by Gideon, framed by Hannibal, almost shot in the head by Miriam —lying beside him and listening to him breathe is better than music. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, being able to feel the warmth radiating off him, all the signs of life and vitality that you thought you’d never see again, is more than enough to content you as you lie beside him.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, just watching him sleep. It’s like a spell has been woven over the two of you, an aura of comfort and warmth enveloping you both. It almost saddens you when Fred starts to stir against the pillows. To your surprise, instead of waking up startled or panicked, he has a hint of a smile on his face.

“Hannibal the cannibal,” he whispers to himself, eyes still closed.

“What?” Your brow wrinkles in confusion, wondering what on earth about that moniker Fred could possibly find worth smiling about.

“It rhymes,” he murmurs, before turning his head to meet your worried gaze. “It —it fucking rhymes.” The smile on his face widens, and before you entirely know what’s happening, he’s laughing. It’s a sound that you’ve gone so long without hearing that it takes you entirely by surprise, leaving you in stunned silence as he carries on chuckling to himself.

His laughter is infectious, and soon the two of you have tears streaming from your eyes as you laugh together, sides sore and cheeks aching. Fred gathers you close and drops a kiss on the top of your head, a casual gesture that’s so reminiscent of times untainted by fear or desperation that it almost makes you want to cry.

Fred kicks away the sheets, and scrambles for his laptop where he had left it on the hotel desk.

“What’re you doing?”

“You think I’m going to pass up the chance to trademark ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’? I’m scared, not stupid.” 

********

The two of you have a really good day. 

You convince him to leave the hotel and do a little shopping, have lunch at an actual restaurant, after which you take a nap on the couch in your room with his head in your lap, face buried in your stomach. 

After dinner he sits down on the bed with you and just stares into your eyes, lacing your fingers together. And you lean over and kiss him. Really kiss him. Easily. Not the desperate kiss of him being released from prison, or a terrified kiss after a nightmare, or the reassuring kisses he needs sometimes when he thinks you’re being followed or he loses track of you for a minute. A real kiss, just because you want to and he’s handsome and there in front of you.

It doesn't take long for him to pull you closer, tugging you up onto his lap so he can hold you tightly to him. All the room service food has been good to him; he'd lost weight while he was being detained, so you can't help but grin at how broad and squeezable he once again feels. He hasn't shaved in a day or two, and his stubble scratches like the old days at your face.

Both of his hands cradle your face close to his, tilting it to the perfect angle so he can lick into your mouth ever so gently. You love the scratch on your cheeks, the burn on your skin from his whiskers, savoring the pain because you know you won’t be able to convince him to keep it much longer. 

You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him before bringing a hand back around to slip under his sweater and rub gently at his growing belly — but over his shirt because he still gets skittish about his scar being touched. You feel him start to harden under you and you smile wider into the kiss.

“Hello there, Fred,” you sigh.

It feels like it's been an age since you last felt like this, just indulging in one another. Before his arrest, the two of you had been too angry with one another to even consider it and afterwards you'd both been a little too on edge. 

"Hi there," he murmurs back, one of his hands sliding down your side to tug at your hip, pulling you even closer to him. It feels so achingly familiar, like you're right back in your bedroom at the old house helping him tug his sweater over his head, not here in the hotel. The movement messes up his hair, and you can't help but run your fingers through it, letting your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, just how you know he likes it.

His eyes flutter closed, you feel his cock twitch under you, and he moans quietly, hands clutching convulsively at you. Your insides burn at the noise, your whole body warming at the feel of him around you and under you again. The smell of his shampoo is intoxicating, the feel of his long fingers burrowing under your shirt to pet lightly at your bare skin shoots lightning bolts of pure sensation from their point of origin and into your brain and your toes, lighting every nerve in between on fire. 

He opens his soft green eyes and you start to drown in them; but drown slowly because there’s no need to rush this time. You’re safe, he’s safe, and no one is going to take him away from you again. You lean forward to kiss him, your fingers still tangled in his now hopelessly mussed hair.

You could lose yourself in his kiss alone, your every sense completely overwhelmed by him. His long fingers start to tug at your shirt, and you whine when you have to break your kiss and lean back so he can pull it over your head. You're not sure how long the two of you stay like this, his hands at your waist and your fingers in his hair, making out like teenagers. 

For the first time in weeks, you're utterly present with one another; there are no monsters hiding under the bed distracting you. You practically purr when Fred shifts, pushing you down so you're on your back and he's lying between your legs. The feeling of his warm, broad bulk pressing you into the mattress only makes you wetter, rocking your hips ever so slightly upwards against him.

He presses down harder into you, allowing almost all of his weight to settle on top of you and he stops kissing you. He pulls back and stares at you, smiling when you frown and try and chase his lips. 

“Patience, darling, patience.” You huff and then moan when he shifts his own hips and drives the seam on your pants tighter against you. He rests his forehead against yours and sighs, hips stilling, eyes closed, cock hard against your center. His arms are bracketing your head as he bumps his nose against yours. 

“I missed you,” he admits softly.

"I missed you too," you tell him, brushing his hair carefully back from his forehead. "This feels so nice." You let your eyelids flutter shut, relishing the cosiness and warmth and intimacy. Fred hums in agreement, mouthing his way across your jaw and down to your neck. 

His weight on you is so comforting, such a solid reminder that he's here, safe and with you, and you find yourself tugging at his shoulders trying to pull him closer still. The kisses he's trailing down your neck make you shiver, every press of his lips only adding to the heat pooling in your core.

He’s subtly rocking against you, with little flicks of his hips that serve only to tease you, not to provide any real relief. You whine in the back of your throat as you feel him drag his teeth softly against your neck on a more forceful thrust. His belly expands against yours, you can feel every breath he takes and it’s glorious, having warm, heavy proof of his vitality. You clutch at him as he goes to sit up. 

“No, Fred, wait—.” He bends down again and kisses your nose and then each eyelid and then finally your lips, hands going to the bottom of his shirt and pulling it off, leaving himself bare and exposed above you. You take in the sight of so much smooth skin, marked only by the still pink scar that Abel Gideon left, and you start to tear up.

It's such a vivid reminder of the last time you almost lost him, of the frantic phone call summoning you to the hospital while they tried to replace your husband's innards as best they could. Fred knows you well enough to know that your reaction isn't one of disgust (though it had taken weeks to convince him his scars didn't affect your attraction to him in the slightest). He knows it reminds you of how close you came to losing him all over again, and a few tears break free and slide down your face. 

"I'm right here," he murmurs soothingly, kissing away your tears with the lightest brush of his lips. "I'm not going anywhere." One of his hands comes up to cup your face gently, his green eyes boring into yours as your foreheads touch again.

You wrap your arms around his neck and hang off of him like a ragdoll, clinging more tightly than can possibly be comfortable for him. He doesn't say a word, he just shifts his weight, leaning more heavily on his elbows so he doesn’t fall onto you. Fred stares at you, hands on your face, your tears running over his fingers. You try to focus on the feeling of his warm skin pressed so deliciously against yours and you breathe deeply, finally letting go of him with one arm to reach down and tug on his belt buckle. He flicks his eyes briefly away from your teary ones to your hand resting on his waistband and looks back up at you. 

“Are you sure?” he asks quietly, tracking a few more tears as they make their way down your face. “We can just stay like this tonight.” You shake your head and smile at him, stretching your neck up to capture his lips again while you tug insistently on his belt. He moans when you card the fingers of your free hand through the thick hair on the back of his head and yank, and he swipes away the tear tracks on your cheekbones with his thumbs before sitting up again.

For a long moment, he just looks at you. His fingers trace absent patterns along your sides, and the gentle touch only makes you want more from him.

 "Take this off for me?" he asks rather than orders you, his long fingers brushing against the bottom of your bra. You're eager to comply, sitting up just enough to allow you to unclasp it and throw it somewhere to the side. Instead of trying to touch your breasts, Fred's fingers go to the waistband of your pants. "Can I?" He waits for you to nod eagerly before he tugs them and your underwear down. With you laid out bare before him, he kneels between your legs and savours the sight of you, the intensity of his gaze making your skin feel hot without him even having to touch you.

“Fred, come on, please,” you beg him, smiling up at your husband. “You’re a little overdressed.” He smirks back at you and stretches out on the bed, his shoulders shoving your legs further apart. 

“I’ll get to that eventually,” he assures you, turning his head to place a series of kisses on the inside of one knee and then the other. He looks up at you from his place between your legs, his face so close to where you want it, where it hasn’t been in what feels like forever, and tells you, “I’ve been dreaming about this since we started fighting. I want to eat you out until you can’t even remember my name to scream.” Your breath hitches and you pet your fingers through his hair. “Is that okay with you, darling?”

"God, yes," you gasp out, knowing full well that you've been dreaming of much the same lately. His breath is warm against your thigh as he lets out a soft chuckle, and you try to let yourself relax as he kisses his way up the sensitive skin. 

At the first touch of his velvet tongue against your cunt, you throw your head back against the pillows and sigh. It's been far too long; you're so sensitive that your body feels like one long exposed nerve ending. You tug at Fred's hair, and nearly weep at the sensation of him moaning against you. "Oh, fuck, that feels so good. Missed you," you manage between heaving breaths.

His tongue flicks across your clit hard, fast, and you whine, high and long in the back of your throat, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Fred –Fred, god, Fred that feels—” His hair is so soft and fine between your fingers, his mouth so warm and wet between your legs. Your face is flushed and you feel an orgasm building in the center of you already, a hot, burning bloom spreading in waves through you, and your fingers clench in his hair. He’s about to shove you over that ledge and— 

He leans back and rests his stubbly cheek on your thigh, looking up at you with eyes swirling with mischief, a smile lighting up his whole face and slick glistening on his chin. You blink stupidly at him, chest heaving, orgasm receding. 

“What-—?” 

He brings his fingers around to ghost over your slit gently, eyes flicking from yours to your cunt, and he licks his lips, rubbing his cheek against the inside of your knee.

"I did tell you to be patient." He smirks, pressing lazy kisses along your skin. "What's your rush, darling?" he asks in a tone of voice that makes you want to kick him. 

"You were the one that wanted to make me scream," you huff sulkily, which only makes him smirk more. He carries on trailing kisses up your thighs, and after what feels like an eternity, licks a firm line along your cunt. Your fingers tighten in his hair, desperate to keep him exactly where he is as he languidly mouths over you, in no hurry at all to get you off. 

He's always been attentive when it comes to making sure you finish; you've teased him more than once that he enjoys you praising him while he makes you come almost as much as he likes getting to come himself. "So good at this, Fred," you sigh happily, petting his hair.

He mumbles something against you, you don’t know what, but it feels fantastic and your nails drag against his scalp. He moans and you look down your body to see his hips rutting gently against the mattress. 

“Jesus, Fred. Fuck this feels amaz—” you break off to keen sharply, one knee jerking up against the side of his head as he sucks hard on your clit, letting go to briefly nibble and then returning to fucking you with his tongue. You throw your head back as all of your muscles clench and your body tries to curl in on itself. He holds your legs open when they try to close around his head and he goes back to sucking on your clit and you feel your legs start to twitch and shake. 

“Fred, Fred, fuck, yes, just like that,” you whine at him, his hair tangled in your fingers. He suddenly presses two fingers inside of you, lips still wrapped around your clit, and you can’t breathe except in short, sharp gasps and when he curls his fingers up just like that to drag against your top wall you come. You feel like you’ve been electrocuted and you whine, “Fred, oh, fuck, yes!”

He doesn't stop or check his pace at all; he simply uses his free hand to keep your hips still as he carries on, dragging out your orgasm. You can barely get enough air into your lungs to breathe, especially when he starts to suck lightly on your clit again. 

"Oh, God, Fred—," you whimper, clutching weakly at his hair as you let yourself give into the overwhelming pleasure. He crooks his fingers just so inside of you, pressing against that spot that makes your toes curl and your vision whiten. It doesn't take him long at all to push you over the edge again, more tears creeping from beneath your lashes at the exquisite feeling.

You’re a whimpering teary-eyed mess as he starts to finally slow the pace of his fingers and ceases sucking on your clit. Your breath is coming in sharp inhales and even shorter exhales, your vision a little grey around the edges as he gently cleans you up of everything he’s been able to wring out of you with long, slow licks of his tongue. 

Tears are still quietly making their way down your cheeks and onto the pillow beneath you and every single muscle in your body twitches when he bumps against your clit. The groan that fights its way out of your chest when he eventually pulls his fingers out of your cunt is truly impressive and immediately echoed by one of his own. 

“Fred,” you sigh quietly, unable to keep a bit of a sob out of your voice. He looks up at you from where he’s watching your cunt clench around nothing as he licks his hand clean and frowns, adorable furrows appearing on his brow, lips starting to purse. 

“Darling, hey, don’t cry, no.” He stretches out on top of you, all of his weight crushing you into the mattress again and wraps his arms around you. 

“That was so good Fred,” you tell him, burying your face in his neck and hanging on to him tightly, nails digging into his back just hard enough to leave a few marks till the morning. "So good to me," you murmur against his neck, soothed by the feeling of his warm bulk pressing you into the bed, and his stubble scratching against your face. 

"Are you alright? Was it too much?" Fred asks, petting at your hair as best as he can while you cling to him. He sounds apologetic, and you shake your head adamantly. 

"No. I just— I really have missed you." You press your knees more tightly to his sides and tilt your hips upwards to drive your point home. "Missed how good you are at making me come. Missed how hot it is to watch you fuck me from behind in the mirror. I’ve missed it all." You carry on rocking your hips up, gratified when he starts to move with you. "God, and I've missed the way you feel inside me. Don't you miss it? Miss those little naps we used to take with your cock buried inside me, keeping me nice and full?"

His cock twitches and he groans into your hair, his fingers tangling in the long strands and tugging in time with the roll of your hips. 

“Ye— yes,” he hisses, bare chest starting to heave against yours, his skin warm and smooth and soft, a little slick with sweat in places. “I missed—” One of his hands strokes down your side to grab your leg and hoist it higher against his hips, this new angle opening you up further to him. “I missed how warm you are, how tight around my cock, how you seem to fit me exactly. Like you were made to surround me forever.” His chin digs into your head and you whimper at the feeling of the front of his slacks dragging across your exposed and still over-sensitive clit. 

“Fred, Fred, oh, god, fill me up again, I don’t want to go any longer without—” He squeezes your knee and nods, still moving his hips against yours. 

“I missed you so much, you’re all I thought about in there, your—” You both moan and you bite into his neck, whining as another orgasm, almost painful this time, begins to burn through your body, starting at your cunt and rolling its way to your fingers, gaining momentum and searing his name across every nerve in your body. “How good you felt, your fingers in my hair,” Fred continues to speak but all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears. 

“Fuck, Fred, yes, don’t stop, please, please, like that,” you wail.

A loud sob escapes you as you’re dragged over the edge of your third climax of the night, every muscle in your body taut as pleasure races through your veins once more. A few more tears fight their way free, the overstimulation on your clit starting to make you sore, but you’re not done yet. 

Before you’ve even really finished coming down from your orgasm, you push your hands between your body and Fred’s, trying to undo his pants with clumsy fingers. He grunts against your hair and bats your hands away, sitting up only for as long as it takes to free himself of his remaining clothes. 

You only get the briefest of glimpses of him finally naked before he falls back onto you, pressing kisses along your neck, all thoughts of patience long abandoned. You wrap one of your hands around his cock and guide him into you, crying out loudly as he buries himself to the hilt inside of you. His arms wrap tightly around you, holding you to him as he grinds himself as deeply as he can into your cunt.

He stills, nestled deep inside of you, not moving for whole seconds, an interminably long time, and you both breathe harshly, staring at each other, heads pressed together, warm air fanning across your cheeks in sharp pants. His cock twitches inside of you and you clamp down on it, whining when he grinds his pelvis harder against yours in response. 

“Can’t—” he huffs. “Stop moving— just, stay here,” Fred orders, breathless and red-faced. You nod and savor the feeling of him inside you again, of being full and covered and smothered. Of struggling to take a breath because of his weight on top of you and him sitting inside of you. Both of your legs are wrapped high around his waist and you grip his forearms that are bracketing your head. His eyes are practically glowing as you pant, 

“God, Fred, fuck, you— I feel so full, this feels so good—” He twitches again and you feel like the oxygen has suddenly been snatched from the entire hotel. “You feel so fucking good, Jesus just, fuck me, please!” You’re begging him now and you can’t find it in you to care.

He gives a short, sharp thrust that makes you both moan, and he buries his nose into your hair. 

"Won't last," he murmurs, almost apologetically. "Been too long." Your nails scrabble along his back, trying to get him to move again. As much as you want to prolong the feeling of him inside you, the feeling of being so utterly encompassed and full, you can't bear him being still right now. 

"I don't care, Fred, please—" You almost sob when he groans into your hair and starts to move. He tries to start off slow, but it's been far too long for that kind of pace to last. Instead, he goes faster than he normally prefers, chasing his first orgasm in weeks. You can't get enough of him; even though you're starting to feel sore, you never want him to stop making those quiet, pleased little sounds right against your ear.

He groans quietly every time he fills you, stretches you, punches the air right out of your lungs with sharp thrusts of his hips. His cock drags against your walls and you gasp. 

“Jesus, Fred.” He huffs a quiet moan in your ear and grabs your thigh, pushing your leg higher and thrusting harder, deeper. “Fred!” you practically shriek, nails digging into his sides, as the head of his cock hits something that makes your toes curl and your calves jerk. Fred lets go of one of your legs to slip his fingers between you and rub tight circles over your clit, panting, 

“Come on, darling, one more, you can do it.” You sob and shake your head, hanging on to his shoulder and the hair at the back of his head. 

“Fred, Fred, please, please, this feels so good come on, just come.” He grunts and presses harder. 

“You can, one more, I know you can.”

“‘S too much,” you whine, even as you buck your hips up into his touch. Every brush of his fingers or press of his hips sends a wave of heat burning through your veins and down to your core, but every touch is tinged with the barest hint of pain. Fred moves his mouth over your neck, dragging his teeth over your sensitive skin in a way that only sends you higher. 

“So good for me, darling. Just one more, I want to feel you come around me.” How could you refuse him that? You scratch at his back, his shoulders, his sides, trying to anchor yourself to something as the overwhelming pleasure starts to make you boneless and lightheaded. You sob something that might have been his name, or a curse, or anything in between as you finally come, bearing down hard on his cock and burying your face against his neck. Four isn’t even your record, but you’ve gotten out of practice of late. You get a glimpse of Fred’s hair sticking up in fifteen different directions as he leans back up to kiss you.

You whimper into his mouth as he keeps rocking his hips into you at a brutal pace, his cock moving against sensitive walls and sending shocks against your clit with every thrust. It’s too much, it hurts, it burns, and it feels so good; your thighs try to clutch him even closer but his shoulders keep pressing them apart and close to your chest. He releases your lips and just rests his face next to yours, panting, 

“God, close, close.” 

You cling to him, trying to pull him as tight against you as possible, to feel every inch of his bare skin sliding against yours— you never want to leave this moment right here, this moment where it’s finally just the two of you again, no Gideon, no Hannibal, no FBI, no one but him and his heartbeat against your chest, his breath across your face. 

“Inside, come inside me, please, Fred, it feels—” you plead, a couple more tears leaking out as his cock continues to grind into you, hitting every delicious already overstimulated spot. “Feels so good, you feel so good, please, please.”

Fred chokes out a gasp, your name, and helps you in your quest for closeness. He grips you tightly to him and his cock pulses inside of you, you feel him flood your cunt and his hips stutter to a halt. He rests heavily on top of you and deep inside you; it doesn’t seem to you like he wants to let you go any more than you want him to be more than a centimeter away from you.

The two of you lie like that for a long while, even after Fred has softened inside you. Neither of you wants to be the first to move, to break the spell of quiet intimacy that has settled over you both. If you close your eyes, you could be right back in your bed in Baltimore, instead of some anonymous hotel room in DC under assumed names. The world has shrunk to the size of the two of you, and you bury your head into the crook of his neck to keep it that way for just a little longer. 

Yet despite your wishes, you can’t stay like that forever. Already a deep ache is making itself known in your core and your thighs; you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to keep your legs pressed so tightly against Fred’s torso. You have to bite your lip to stop yourself whimpering at the burn in your muscles when you eventually shift your legs lower, but Fred notices your discomfort anyway. 

“What’s wrong, darling?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back so he can stroke your face. 

“Sore,” you manage pathetically, a sharp little cry forcing its way out of your throat at the sensation of him pulling out of you. 

“How sore?” His tone changes in an instant, and he tries to sit up to get a better look at you. You don’t let him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck to keep him close. 

“Nothing a hot bath won’t fix, don’t worry. I’m just out of practice,” you say lightly, trying to keep him from worrying. It doesn’t entirely work; he carefully shifts to move his weight off of you until he’s on his back and your head is resting on his chest. You can hear the steady thud of his heartbeat like your own personal lullaby, and you can feel your eyelids getting heavier. 

He lets you rest for a moment, silent and steady under you, before heaving a sigh and kissing the top of your head. 

“You’re going to have to let me up if you want that bath, sweetheart,” he informs you cheekily. You groan, clutching him around his waist tighter before releasing him with a sigh. He slips out from under you and stands, turning slightly to stare at you with a soft smile stretching his chubby cheeks for a few extra seconds before padding quietly to the bathroom. You smile and shamelessly ogle his ass as he walks away from you. 

Fred comes back a few minutes later, still buck naked and on display for you, and grins back when he catches you checking him out. 

“See something you like?” he asks, stopping by the side of the bed and extending a hand to help you sit up. You grasp his long, warm fingers and barely suppress an eye roll. You missed your cocky husband, you have to remind yourself. And it's not like he doesn’t have anything to be cocky about. 

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you tell him, sitting up with a wince. He notices. “It’s unbecoming of a man of your stature.” Fred moves to take your arm and he gently tugs you out of bed, handsome face still pulled into a worried frown.

The two of you make your way slowly to the bath, Fred walking by your side and insisting on maintaining a pace more suitable for an invlid, but you do eventually make it and settle into water hot enough to cook a lobster— just the way you like it.

“Mmmm,” you groan, resting back against Fred’s chest and tugging his arms around you securely. “This is wonderful.” 

“You know what would make this even better?” you ask him.

“Better?” he responds with fake offense, a little bit of his old barely-restrained snobbery huffing back into his tone, and to hear it again makes you warmer than any bubble bath. “What else can I do for you this evening, my darling girl?”

“Some bubbly to go with these bubbles would be wonderful.”

He huffs a laugh and you feel him relax further still against the tub wall behind you, his lassitude pulling you back with him, a tide you’re more than happy to be swept away by.

“It’s a shame there isn’t an FBI agent we can’t call up to deliver that,” you muse, really carried away now by the idea of having some champagne.

“Really it would be the very least they could do,” Fred says.

“But you probably would criticize their choice of vintage.”

“Naturally. We don’t pay taxes to provide culture to Quantico.”

You smile and lean against him, playing with the bubbles rising in irregular, sudsy mountains around you. Fred has gone quiet, and you tune yourself to feel any of that old skittishness, any unease, worried that bringing up the FBI had conjured malevolent spirits into the suite. His fingers are moving mindlessly, no pensively, under the water, crawling against your thigh in contemplation.

“What is it?” you ask, voice easy.

“It’s not as easy to rhyme,” he says.

You have no idea what he is talking about but it feels as if you should. “What isn’t?” you ask.

“This ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’ trademark, that’s just the first step. Why not a brand? Champagne for a Rampage, no, that’s not right…”

You sit up and turn around.

“Frederick. Are you…. Are you thinking up names for a Hannibal branded champagne?”

“‘Brut fit for a brute’ is too wordy, don’t you think?”

“Fred!” You’re horrified, but he’s so serious you’re in danger of thinking this might be a good idea.

“Is this too niche? For a Rosé, ‘This is my d'assemblage.”

You look at each other and you have no idea what to say. The only thing you can do is laugh.

He grins at you, relieved you find the humor in this. “This has potential,” he tells you.

“You’re mad,” you say, but you can’t stop smiling.

“Why shouldn’t we profit from this?” he asks.

“Whatever you want, Fred,” you say and you mean it, because you want to give him everything, everything he wants, wants him to enjoy it all and be there to witness it. You lean in and kiss him. “Whatever you want.”

[jaysworlds]

When Gerard Keay is seven years old his dad buys him a pair of scarlet welly boots. They are an early birthday present, and his mother does not approve, but he wears them anyway. They are bright and comfortable and they enable him to jump into puddles without soaking his feet.

He is not supposed to jump into puddles, but his dad takes him down country trails and through muddy fields and he treasures the time. It is not often that he is allowed to just be.

He loses them a year later in a puddle that was just a little too deep, and he is distraught. His dad carries him home and promises him a new pair, just as soon as they get the chance to go shopping.

It never happens. There is a storm a week later, and in the jagged white light that splits the sky Gerry finds his dad’s body and his mother standing over it with a knife.

Some part of Gerry cannot help but blame himself. Perhaps if he had kept his boots safe they could have gone out, that night. Perhaps his dad would have lived.

It is a ridiculous notion, of course, but he cannot shake it. It stays with him as he grows, and he can never bring himself to buy a replacement. Not even when his mother is dead and he is finally free of her.

Free, but alone.

He tries to be kind. Kindness was what his dad taught him, and he keeps that close to his heart, as if the man is there in every kind word or deed. He does not want to turn out like his mother.

He does not mean to find work at his dad’s old workplace, but it somehow feels fitting. He had known the man had left, but he had not known why.

Gertrude Robinson does not like him, and he does not like her either, but she is all he has, and so he has no choice but to work with her. He goes against her over and over again and yet she never throws him out, and perhaps he likes that. She does not love him, but he is not afraid of losing her.

She keeps a picture of his parents in her office, and he steals it, when he finds it, tears his mother out of it and keeps what is left hidden in his breast pocket. He does not look at it very often, but it is enough to know it’s there.

He fights and drinks and burns his way through the world, thunder rumbling in his chest, but to others he is always kind. He does not know how to be anything else.

He is so angry when he finally learns the story of why his dad left the institute. Angry with his father for not trying to stick it out, for blinding himself and leaving himself at the mercy of a woman who had none, but more than that he is angry with himself for going back. He feels like he betrayed his dad by returning, by working with Gertrude.

But he does not quit, though it does not have quite enough hold on him to keep him there. He could leave if he wished, but he does not.

And he is so alone. The loneliness grows too much, some nights, but there is nothing he can do. For all his kindness, he has no friends, no family.

He has nothing. Nothing but a memory of a man who told him to be kind.

He hopes his dad would be proud of him. Of everything he’s done and tried to do.

Once, just once, he dreams of the man.

He is standing alone in a muddy field that stretches out as far as the eye can see, and he is wearing scarlet boots. He does not see his dad but somehow he knows the man is there, and he calls out. He asks are you proud of me and why couldn’t you stay and I can’t do this alone.

For a moment there is no reply, just the wind whipping through his hair, but the wind carries whispers and he closes his eyes to listen.

You were always strong the wind tells him, speaking in his dad’s voice. I’m so proud of you, and I know you’re strong enough to do this on your own.

No, Gerry tries to say, tries to call out, but the wind has died down.

The last thing he hears is a soft whisper of I love you, and then he is awake.

He does not believe in an afterlife, but for a single moment he allows himself to imagine that it was truly his dad, speaking to him from the great unknown.

It is nothing but a lie, of course, but a gentle one.

It helps, a little. He is less afraid to be alone, and on his worst nights he imagines his dad watching over him.

Meeting the Distortion is nothing but a happy accident. Gertrude had not wanted him to meet it, and it does not take him long to find out why. He cannot find it in himself to be angry with her, but he no longer trusts her.

And then he has nobody at all.

The Distortion calls itself Michael, and it will not leave him alone. It is curious about him, he thinks, but he does not know for certain. All he knows is that it is there more often than it is not.

It’s odd, but he is not afraid of it. He should be, perhaps, but he does not think it will harm him. It speaks to him, sometimes, and it is not human but he still tries to be kind.

He does not think anyone has tried to be kind to it before.

It stays and he continues to be kind, and it never hurts him. It seems perhaps a little bashful around him, shy and skittish, and it will not touch him for very long, though he imagines it pulls away with some reluctance. It is an enigma wrapped up in pastel colours and curly blond hair, but he is inexplicably all too fond of it.

He wishes that he could speak to his dad about it, that he could ask for advice. He does not know how to act around it and he has never been in love before but he thinks that he is now.

He has no one to ask, but he holds the dream of his dad close to his heart. I know you’re strong enough to do this on your own.

He is, in the end. Michael, or that which calls itself Michael, is remarkably gentle to him and when he kisses it he finds hands woven into his hair and almost-human lips against his, and everything seems to be alright.

And then he isn’t alone anymore.

Time passes, and it does not leave him. The fear that it will slowly begins to ebb until it is barely there at all.

He loves it, as much as he can love anything, and he trusts that it loves him too, though it has odd ways of showing it. It does not often tell him outright.

It does not need to sleep, but some nights it seems to, and on one of those rare nights a storm breaks, right over their heads.

Gerry does not like storms, but Michael is sleeping deeply, or perhaps pretending to. It does not stir as he slips out of bed and down the stairs, padding on silent feet out of the door and into the garden. Rain is pounding on the roof and he is soaked in seconds, his thin shirt doing nothing to keep away the chill.

Thunder cracks above his head and lighting splits the sky, and he thinks of finding his dad dead, blood staining the thick carpet.

It has been years since then and he still misses the man so much it aches, deep in his chest, and he finds that the rain is not the only water on his face.

I miss you, he calls, up into the clouds, and the only reply is another crack of thunder that he feels to his core.

There will never be a reply. His dad is gone, and never coming back.

He turns to head back inside, to the comfort of Michael, of their bed, and for a moment he pauses.

He is alone, of course, in a cold, empty garden, but perched on the step is a pair of bright scarlet welly boots.