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no-droids · 4 years

Text

Just the Translator

Part Ten of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7.6K

Warnings: There is rough sex in this. THERE IS ROUGH SEX IN THIS. Do NOT read if that offends you. There is also more anal stuff—NO FUCKING (not yet). Uh, canon-typical violence, grumpy Din Djarin, some fluffy moments, Baby Yoda being a little troublemaker, bit of a cliffhanger ending BUT NOT TO WORRY PALS I ALREADY GOT QUITE A BIT OF THE NEXT PART WRITTEN

A/N: ***Please take a second to visit this googledoc, in it are useful links regarding the BLM protests and what we can do to help. Here is a separate link to where I originally addressed this and shared more thoughts***

***

Whelp. At least you’re in a good mood.

In contrast, Din and the kid have been causing problems all morning, the both of them. Like two… two annoying, middle-aged children competing to see which one is less mature.

The smaller of the two, and older (most likely) is bouncing with energy. Acting a complete fool. Ready and willing to launch out of his restricting little sphere at any second, a bright green bundle of energy that slept way too well last night and is just rubbing it in at this point. He was fine earlier—checking out of the inn, picking up some food at a local market, riding in the Crest as it navigated towards the most isolated sector on this planet—but the hike to this field has been like pulling teeth.

In fact, Din is currently wearing a singular gauntlet on his left hand for that very reason—so this child’s hyper ass could be contained within the hovering, reflective prison. He’s restless, though, continuing to act out. At one point you suggest just letting him walk to let some energy out like yesterday, even if he slows the group down with his tiny little legs. Once you let the little menace out on parole though, he just continues to veer off in his own direction and irritate his dad even further.

And, oh stars—his dad.

Din has barely said a word, only answering with short responses when directly prompted and spending most of his energy just silently stewing inside his own little grumpy teapot on his head. The helmet is the only other piece of armor he’s donning besides the lone vambrace, and you’re surprised steam hasn’t started whistling through the top of it with how frustrated he is, how many times you’ve seen him curl his hands with impatience. At first it was amusing, though you know better than to tease him about it right now. You keep your mouth shut and try your best to wrangle the kid, doing everything you can to be helpful while also steering clear of unintentionally exacerbating his silent irritation, knowing Din isn’t in the mood for jokes after being interrupted at a very crucial moment last night. The sun shines directly on the front of his helmet and blinds you with every single annoyed step, so you follow just far enough behind him and try to use his enormous refrigerator of a body to shield your eyes.

At first it was amusing. But then the baby catches sight of a gorgeously patterned butterfly floating through the field that he probably wants to snack on for breakfast, and he breaks off from your entourage once more with a quiet little coo that should strike pure terror into the hearts of small animals everywhere.

Immediately you’re turning to go get him—but then a large hand quickly snatches the front of your shirt before you can take a single step, pulling until you’re colliding with an unarmored chest with an oof.

A bare hand catches your jaw and tightens until you’re staring deep into the thin blade of his visor, before Din whispers rough through the modulator, “As soon as he falls asleep.”

That’s all he says. And then he’s releasing you and letting you stumble back towards his wayward son a whole lot less amused than you were before, and a whole lot more achy. The baby shenanigans are far less amusing too.

“You’re killing me here, kiddo,” you breathe after quickly catching up with him, having to bend in half to lead him back towards his impatient dad.

His hot, moody… incredibly well endowed dad, thick arms crossed tight over his chest as he waits for your return.

The monster’s hand lifts high above him as his three fingers cling to just one of yours, the baggy brown sack exposing his pudgy little green elbow as he follows next to you with a waddle. It’s slow going, but at some point he decides to pull himself up onto your wrist and you catch him, cradling him in your arms before quickly hurrying back to Din.

Thankfully he begins to calm down a little after that. As you three eventually find a spot in the endlessly breezy field to settle into, the kid clamors back into his shield while Din carelessly drops the dark bag of supplies he carried from the Crest into the tall grass. You twist your back to let some of the stiffness out, rotating your arms to encourage more movement as he approaches.

“Same thing as yesterday,” he gruffs when he’s in reach, patting his chest again with a bare hand. “Hard as you can.”

“My… My hands hurt,” you eventually admit, not wanting to frustrate him even more and hoping you would be able to work on blocking today instead, but Din just nods while you gently brush your thumb along your sore knuckles.

“That’ll happen until it doesn’t,” he tells you quietly, reaching out to touch your elbow in a quick, awkward gesture of comfort and then dropping his arm to his side. Short, but not unkind. “Push through. You can do it.”

You nod, knowing that’s probably the very best motivation you’ll get from him. His beliefs, condensed down to quick, stunted sentences, presented with such unwavering surety that they must be truths. Weirdly, it works wonders for you. Maybe it’s just the person it’s coming from.

You drop into stance and then slam your fist into his chest before he’s ready, and Din steps back on impact with a small grunt while you bite your lip to silence your own noise from the pain reverberating up your arm.

“Good,” he huffs nonetheless, rubbing the spot on his chest he’s historically designated as target practice. “Good. You’re… hitting harder than yesterday. That’s… fuck. Good.”

“Good?” You ask lowly, chancing a quick look over at the kid. Who blinks directly back at you, wide-eyed and staring purposefully from his crib. You deflate just a little bit at the sight of him still wide awake, and Din’s fists are clenched by his sides when you turn back to him.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the pent up tightness in his body as you spend the next couple hours throwing more hits at him, different types. Left hooks, right hooks, crosses, jabs, elbow strikes, palm heels. He was absolutely right though—the more you make contact with him, the less you begin to feel the pain, until it eventually feels like nothing at all to you.

But then, at one point, you pull your hardened fist back, aimed and focused directly on that same spot on his chest once more—when suddenly his hand flashes up and he flicks his finger against the lower part of your open ribcage.

He barely puts any strength into it at all—it’s the pressure you’d use to tap someone on the shoulder if you were trying to get their attention, but for some reason the incredibly well-placed reminder throws you. A little fucking touch like that shouldn’t hurt nearly as much as it does, but you nearly tip sideways and have to catch your footing with how dizzy it makes you.

“That’s what’s called a liver shot,” Din tells you calmly, watching you wrap your hand around your ribcage and wince at the lingering pain through gritted teeth. “Keep your arm down like I told you. That’ll happen every time you wanna get lazy with me, little chicken wing.”

You hiss and shake your head a little bit, trying to clear the fog, and then purposefully tuck both arms tight to your sides. But then—

His hand flashes up again and taps the side of your face this time—not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you flinch on instinct and take a step back. “That arm stays up.”

Your quick huff of air is suppressed. Somewhat censored—it doesn’t duly portray the sharp flare of annoyance you experience. You do exactly what he says, however, and keep your arms in position in front of you.

But then you jerk back and sputter angrily when the tips of his fingers lightly connect with your cheek once more. “Stop that! My hands are up!”

“Then why’d you let me do it?” He asks, stepping up as you retreat to poke you square in your chest. “Stop letting me do it.”

He goes to tap your face again, but this time your forearm comes up to swat his away before he can make contact, and he seems pleased for the moment. Din steps back and hits his chest again. “Come on.”

He lets you get in just a few more blows before coming at you again. You smack his hand away and then go to throw another punch, but he’s quick. He cheats—goes for you twice in a row when you’re not expecting it, and taps the vulnerable spot on your side for the second time today. It hits you like a bullet and takes you a second to snap out of the abrupt shot of pain.

“Come on,” Din taunts once more, curling his mismatched fingers at you—one hand leathered and the other tan and bare. He sounds like he’s grinning under the helmet, starting to enjoy this way too fucking much. It makes your blood boil, makes you just stand there like an idiot for a few seconds and fume at his audacity.

Apparently you take too long getting pissed off at him. He comes at you first, going for your side again, but you shove his arm out of the way with a growl. Except his other arm flashes and you react instantly, ducking under the wide, careful swipe aimed for your cheek and then zeroing in on the same exact spot below his ribs he’s been torturing you with all day, the one left wide open while his arm misses its mark.

Except—yours isn’t a tap, or a flick. It’s a hard uppercut.

Air rushes through the modulator as he groans and stumbles sideways, gasping and trying to steady himself. Triumph surges through your veins as you watch him, shaking your hand out at your side to quickly encourage the numbness away, your knuckles not yet used to hitting bone. He clutches his side and shakes the helmet violently in an effort to regain himself, breathing hard through the filter and—

The visor instantly jerks to you and you’re already taking a step back on instinct, adrenaline roaring. He snaps upright as you continue to retreat—until you trip over yourself and plunge to the grass.

A reflection catches in your peripheral, and you whip your head to the side to see the kid completely passed out in his metallic cradle, eyes closed and mouth drooping a bit. The sight shoots pure exhilaration through you, but it’s nothing compared to the thrill of only seeing him there for a split second before chrome shields instantly slide shut over his head.

You look back to Din just in time to see him dropping his gloved hand back down to his side and taking quick steps towards you—and you react without thinking. You scramble over on your hands and knees and then launch forwards before you’re even halfway off the ground, finding your feet as you stumble into a run and hearing footsteps pick up behind you.

Maker, it’s been ages since you’ve run like this. You don’t even know why you’re running—you just do, it just feels like you should. Your body barrels through tall grass and your heart thunders faster than the sound of your pumping legs, louder than the wind whipping through your ears. You don’t know if he purposefully allows you to get this far or if you’re genuinely quick—

—nope. Nope, you’re not quick, because he suddenly bursts into a sprint behind you and gains way too much ground way too quickly. You try to break left as soon as you realize what’s happening, but he’s too fast and hooks an arm around your stomach just before you’re out of reach. Din yanks you back to his chest as he twists around and takes you both to the ground, his shoulder blades slamming down first and softening your landing with his whole body and a grunt, skidding you both to a halt in the endlessly wavy field.

The wind is knocked out of you regardless. You try and struggle off of him but the positioning makes it almost impossible—your abdominal muscles are no match for the strength of his arms wrapped around your stomach, keeping your body pinned tight to his as you wrestle to lift against him in the grass.

“Fight harder,” Din growls raggedly in your ear, and your pussy seizes with need when you feel how rock hard he is against your ass. It encourages you—you make a rough sound towards the sky and then lift against him with all your strength, and your elbow comes down hard into his ribcage. Air whooshes out of him and his arms loosen just slightly. You’re able to wiggle off him and start crawling away, but then he heaves over and snatches at your pant leg—

Which means you pull them down yourself as you keep clawing yourself forward by your arms, raw excitement coursing through your veins, the fabric pulling tight over your ass and then bunching around your thighs. You squeal and flounder and kick at him—but Din just grabs at your ankle and then pins your leg to the ground, pushing up and using your calves to clamor on top of you with brute strength, catching your underwear and ripping them down too. Your heart pounds and your pussy just about floods itself hearing him dig in his pants to pull his cock out, his breath coming heavy through the helmet.

Maker, you’re so fucking ready for it. You keep struggling just because your body is telling you to, but nothing close to the word ‘stop’ ever leaves your mouth, never even comes to mind. You feel wetness slicking your inner thighs as Din grunts and plants an arm next to your head, his bare hand shooting out to hover in front of your face. You flinch—but he keeps it there, palm open in front of your lips in silent expectation.

“Wet or dry,” he snarls when you don’t immediately react. “I don’t give a shit.”

Still, his hand stays right in front of your face long enough to let you make up your mind.

And… not lick it.

After a moment, Din makes a sound that drops another wave of white hot arousal down through your stomach—a furious, growly noise that resembles distorted static passing through the filter. He angles his cock against your opening and when you hear him muttering angrily, you think he’s scolding you for it. Calling you dirty under his breath, promising you you’ll regret saying that in a second. But no—he’s—

“Perfect. Perfect little girl, fucking perfect,” Din hisses darkly, pushing into your soaking entrance without anything but your slick to ease his way. “H-How are you—s-so fuck—ing—”

Oh Maker, you turn your head into the grass and cry out through the delicious, blissful intrusion, pushing your hips back against his—and Din curses as he quickly bottoms out, making sure he lurches fully into you before his hands find out exactly where they want to be. They land on your lower back and he mounts up, pinning your body hard to the ground with almost his full weight. It means you can rip out as much grass with your useless arms as you want—he doesn’t even give you a single moment now that he’s successfully rooted you to the crushed greenery. You bloom for him all the same, as soon as Din pulls out with a wet sound and then starts fucking you strong and steady.

It’s sharp. Biting. Even the pleasure has a hard edge to it, completely paralyzing you even if you could struggle in this position. His hands are pushing down so hard that the ground digs into your tummy and makes his cock angle and slam right into your g-spot each and every time. You want to moan out your ecstasy but he’s wringing the air from your lungs with every shattering swing of his hips back and forth, quickly speeding up as he goes and taking out a full night’s worth of deprivation on you.

“Ngh. Take. Cock. So. Fucking. Good—” Din grits with every mean thrust, the staccato growls of praise getting lost in the echoing, rhythmic clap of his hips. You can’t fucking breathe—the pleasure is too overwhelming, your face is pressed into the grass, he’s got almost all his weight on you. You’re helpless to do anything besides close your eyes, furrow your brows, drop your jaw, and just let him own your body in the middle of this beautiful oasis. The heavy, wild thrusts steal every sense away from you, any ability to think beyond the fractured piece of heaven he’s striking inside you over and over. You don’t even feel him grabbing your asscheeks and spreading them—

Somebody makes a pitiful, breathless whine—it’s you, you realize. You make that sound, because worn leather lands right on the entrance he was denied last night and shamelessly breaches it before anything else can interrupt him.

“Tight,” he hisses, slowly sinking his thumb all the way down to the knuckle while you clench your eyes shut and choke out his name, “—f-fucking tight—”

His cock pulses inside you and you bear down as hard as you can on it in return, trying to get accustomed to being penetrated in two places at once. He doesn’t move his thumb after that—he just keeps it there, deep inside you while he continues wrecking you with the brutal hammering of his hips from behind.

Still—the impropriety of it starts to burn you up, how… dirty it is. Getting the life fucked out of you in broad daylight, in the middle of a wide open field, the thickest finger he has buried deep in your ass, helpless to do anything else besides lay here and let him—you feel yourself start to clamp down, steadily getting tighter and tighter around the intrusions while he grits out hard curses and keeps giving it to you through the rapid build.

His name—you start repeating it into the ground like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known. The word scrapes from your throat over and over, and you try to pull at the grass but your hands are clenched into fists and you can’t seem to remember which muscles to use to open them.

“You like this?” You’re able to hear him grit from above you. “Like when I—fuck—when I fuck you l-like this? When I just. H-Hold you down and take—” he chokes, “—take what I w-want—”

You can’t respond, but fuck yes, you do. The kindling spark inside you suddenly flares up and starts to spread through your body like wildfire, tightening, tightening, tightening, but then—

He’s so pent up—Din cums.

Devastatingly early.

The savage thrusts suddenly stutter to a halt and the gasp he takes in sounds like it physically hurts him. Like the orgasm is just ripped out of him. His hold turns to steel on you, as if he thinks you can somehow get away right now, and Din cums deep inside your spasming cunt with a shuddering, desperate groan of your name.

It’s like it drains everything from him—he slumps, just conscious enough to slowly ease his thumb out of your tight asshole, and then he collapses in the grass next to you. You stay there for just a second and shake next to him, muscles feeling like they’re creaking even while just laying on the ground like this, completely motionless.

“Shit—was that—” Din pants, turning and scooting over to you to brush your hair out of your face with his bare hand, “was that… okay? Do you… do you need…?”

You’re still so submissive, still so high on the overwhelming rush of pleasure, your mouth opens and croaks out a response without your permission. “It was good.”

“Yeah?” He huffs, dropping back on the grass and trying to catch his breath. “Good.”

And… it’s true. It was good, it was absolutely fucking amazing. So overpowering, such a hard fuck that you almost don’t think about the fact that you didn’t actually cum from it. The thought doesn’t really even register with you fully, not yet.

Eventually you both push yourselves up, each of you equally lacking in energy, just in different ways. Din looks like he’s drunk—unbalanced and dizzy while he removes his glove and stuffs it into one of his pockets, before carefully tucking his spent cock back in his trousers. In contrast, you’re nothing more than another trembling blade of grass in an enormous landscape of them, flimsy and yielding to the powerful, rippling wind as you attempt to adjust your clothing.

It’s fine, you tell yourself on the slow, quiet walk back. Sex doesn’t always need to end in a fiery orgasm. Sometimes a rough pounding hits the spot, scratches that itch. You feel like you’re a newborn blurg trying to balance your oddly proportioned weight on two noodle legs as Din’s hand patiently guides you from your lower back, and a bright flare of arousal arcs through you feeling how gentle his hold is compared to the way his cum is steadily leaking from your throbbing, aching cunt.

You don’t need to cum every single time he fucks you. It’s fine.

***

Upon returning to the sight of the unbothered, napping kid, you both decide to walk a bit more, and you learn your lesson this time. The sun glints bright against Din’s left side while traveling in this direction, so you stick purposefully to his right the entire time.

In the meantime, you share easy conversation and attempt to regain some semblance of control over your still slightly… restless body. Slowly but surely, your feverish arousal for him dims and fades to the backburner, replaced instead by… softer, quieter feelings. There’s not a solid word for it, not really. If you were mixing on a palette, you’d start out with a base of gentle contentment and then add a big dollop of affection, diluted with silence until it’s a swirling, pastel… color you don’t have a name for, but cherish all the same.

The baby wakes up about halfway through the afternoon hike, and he’s better now too. Eventually your ragtag party finds a place to settle for the night—a small clearing in the field at the edge of a thick forest. There’s a sizable log and boulder situated relatively close together, with a wide open space to make a fire in the center.

Din disappears for a bit to go get some firewood from the looming forest while you entertain the kid; the log is tilted perfectly to allow you both to watch the sunset, and you easily converse with the riveting baby talk as if he’s an absolute genius.

“I’m not so sure about that, honestly,” you tell him diplomatically, receiving nothing but unintelligible babbles in response as he climbs all over you. “Well, no actually, because there’s two major schools of thought concerning that, the first being—”

He pops up in front of your face to interrupt you heatedly and you scoff, rolling your eyes over the loud gibberish. “Look, I’d appreciate it if we could tone down the passive-aggressiveness, okay? If we can’t have a respectful discussi—”

Three green fingers settle over your lips and you gasp at the nerve of him, forced to let him continue to ramble on your lap about absolutely nothing at all, the size of his ego soon growing to match the size of his ears.

“Hear that, shiny?” You turn your head and ask his father upon his eventual return, and Din grunts distractedly as he dumps the firewood down and rummages around in the bag for a lighter. Tilting your head back towards the kid, you prompt him with a raised brow. “Tell him what you just told me.”

The baby bursts into more nonsense, encouraged by your attention, and Din crouches down to set the wood into position in the dusky twilight glow while saying nothing at all, and it somehow manages to pass as listening intently.

It continues to go on like that far longer than you expected it would, the baby apparently having quite the bone to pick about something that’s been on his mind, and one point you have to rest your hand over his mouth so he finally stops babbling. “Hey, that’s not very nice,” you scold him quietly. “I’m sure his face is perfectly normal under there.”

The helmet turns just slightly towards you, unamused while you snort at your own joke for a little bit.

“I didn’t say it,” you remind him after far too long of just celebrating your own hilarity, clearing your throat through the stifled chuckles. “I’m just translating.”

“Oh yeah?” He eventually murmurs, beginning to ignite some of the crumpled twigs at the center of the pile, and if you worked at it, you could probably convince yourself he’s sharing your gentle smile. More muted than yours perhaps, but beautiful and easy on his face, fitting him simply and perfectly. “What did… What did he say I look like?”

You would’ve shot something ridiculous back at him, something snarky and facetious, but you stop short. You catch it—underneath his voice, it sounds… timid, almost. Uncertain. It makes you take just a second in responding.

“Brown eyes,” you tell him after a moment, and Din doesn’t visibly react, just continues to slowly add small branches to kindle the flame. It’s so quiet out here, but it’s different from hyperspace quiet. This quiet is… natural. Warm, and. Free. Fleeting, allowed to roam. In a way that hyperspace just feels compact, stifling. “He said you have… brown eyes. And a… a strong bone structure, striking features. A sharp, chiseled jaw, dark facial hair. And, uh. He also said…”

Din keeps silently feeding the fire until it’s crackling and bright, and then he settles back on his butt next to it, both elbows resting on his knees, not moving the visor towards you but waiting for you to finish regardless.

The stunning backdrop gives way to a stunning surge of bravery.

“He said you make a bunch of faces under there that nobody ever sees,” you say softly, blinking at Din in the fading twilight while the kid sits silently in your lap. “That you’re an open book. Behind a metal wall. And you have a really nice smile, I bet—he bets… he bets you probably do it more often than anyone realizes. And your… your hair starts to curl when you let it grow long, and. And you’re almost guaranteed to be drop dead gorgeous under there, and it’s a real fucking shame that you’ve probably never had anyone tell you it.”

Din tilts his helmet at you, looks at you for a long time—long enough for blood to rush to your cheeks and for you to get fidgety. But when he finally does respond, his voice is gentle through the modulator. “He said that.”

You mhm at him quickly, nodding your head and turning away as casually as you can, heart beating incredibly fast for some reason. “Just the translator.”

A lovely silence soon blankets the both of you, a warmth permeating through to your bones that has nothing to do with the steadily growing fire.

***

A little while later, the kid has retired to his reflective cradle and the dancing flames are the only source of light besides the bright moon hanging directly overhead. Din sits with his back to the large boulder and digs through the bag, pulling out all sorts of food you picked up before leaving the village this morning and handing them to you. Something red and unfocused flashes oddly against the curve of his helmet when he reaches his hand back in, but it’s only for a second—he’s already pushing more food at you and filling your arms with bags of dried meats, fresh fruit, and loaves of bread.

“Stars,” you whisper under your breath, examining the feast in the flickering firelight. “Here, take—take some of this, it’s too much.”

“There’s more in here,” he counters lowly, zipping the bag and dropping it somewhere on the other side of his body. “The kid hasn’t eaten all day. Might crawl away and catch himself a Gungan later if you don’t feed him soon.”

“No, I mean—” you let all the food drop into your lap and start sorting the items, “—you need to eat. What do you want? There’s plenty.”

“I’m not hungry,” he answers, far too quickly to have actually taken a moment to check. “Just give me whatever you two don’t eat when you’re finished, I’ll put it back in the bag.”

Okay, if he’s gonna play it like this, you’ll just have to choose for him. You’ve already dedicated at least two bags of dried meat to the kid, which takes care of him. So, you take an extended moment to methodically find the ripest fruit in the bunch, the one with the most squish to it, and then search for the softest loaf of bread, not caring that Din is silently watching you. You gather both of them in your arms and then pluck three bags of meat from the pile, before depositing all of them back into his lap.

“Eat,” you urge quietly, grabbing another portion of food for yourself, heavy on the fruit. “Don’t inhale it. Please.”

With that, you grab the kid’s food and then scoop the little guy up from his shield with your free arm, standing and walking to the other side of the fire. You carefully plop yourself down with your back purposefully to Din, the kid happily finding a place on your lap with his back to you and reaching six little fingers out for the food.

You start eating, and after a moment, you smile around the large bites of fruit at the sound of metal clinking against stone. The baby, of course, refuses to even open the bag of dried meat you set in front of him, so you roll your eyes and do it yourself, hoping he’ll at least eat like an adult and give you some time to feed yourself. But no—the fifty year old creep demands to be hand fed, and any other day, you wouldn’t have let him get away with it.

Today, you’re just really fucking. Happy.

You’re unbelievably happy. Having spent a few days on this gorgeous planet, your two favorite people in the galaxy with you. It fills your heart with air.

You start out quiet, praying you aren’t bothering Din as he (hopefully) continues to relax and enjoy his food behind you. You begin humming your favorite melody under the sound of the crackling flames, the source of heat burning pleasantly against the curve of your lower back, setting another piece of dried meat into the kid’s cute little mouth and only just slightly annoyed that he refuses to do this himself. Admittedly though, you do love babying him, especially when he shows you his adorable little chompers.

One bite for him, two bites for you. That’s the deal, even though you’re hungry and you deserve way more than double his food intake rate. You try to be quiet enough that your gentle humming will get lost with the fire between you and Din, and he never says anything or tells you to cut it out, so you just continue to let your cheerful mood provide a quiet soundtrack to the moonlit evening.

Even better, you and the kid actually finish snacking before he does, and you’re more than willing to wait for him, thrilled that this is actually happening. It’s so simple, such a throwaway thing, but. Knowing he used to eat his meals as quick as he can and now he’s comfortable enough to just take a second and enjoy it… you don’t know, there’s something inherently meaningful about it, something that you specifically notice. Something about this, about sitting around a fire and sharing a meal together for the first time—even with your back turned to him, it just feels… familial. In a way. More than it’s ever felt before.

You have a little moment. It’s nice. You drop your head back and gaze up at the night sky, in awe of how different the stars look from this side of the galaxy and remembering how far you’ve come. The kid follows suit, leaning back against your tummy and blinking silently at the universe, the star-speckled sky reflecting in his gigantic dark eyes.

He starts to doze after awhile, listening to you hum softly to yourself, but the noise of a helmet finally lifting from the boulder and most likely fitting itself back in its rightful place snaps him awake just enough. The kid pushes off you and waddles over to his dad, and you scoot yourself back over to your little log while he unceremoniously clamors up onto Din’s thighs.

Admittedly, it’s really fucking cute. The visor moves just enough to watch him plop his little green butt down and find a comfy position on his lap, not helping but not preventing the movement either. A heartwarming, silent kind of tolerance hardened men have for innocent little creatures that makes you bite your lip to hide your smile. What a softie.

You sit there in companionable quiet, staring deep into the dancing firelight and losing track of time just a bit. They’re hypnotic, the flames. Crackling and popping, warming just the forward-facing parts of you and nearly burning your cheeks, but you love it. Breathing in the woodsy campfire air, hearing the gentle breeze float through the field surrounding you, the quiet forest waving dark and deep in the distance. The midnight sky stretches long above you and the stars seem… brighter than they were on Arvala-7. They probably aren’t—that planet is practically abandoned and has almost no light pollution whatsoever compared to Naboo, but… maybe it’s because now they feel… in reach. Something you can touch. Interact with. Something you can cover your eyes, blindly point at, and then say—that one. That’s where we should go next.

After awhile—you have no idea how long—you blink your gaze over to Din and startle to find the helmet facing you directly, shamelessly, the kid completely passed out on his lap as the flames reflect in the visor.

Without intending to, you’re already thinking back to earlier today. How quickly he bolted after you, how strong he was bringing you to the ground, pinning you under him and taking what was so rudely denied to him last night.

You didn’t actually finish, and you can still feel it simmering down low. Din’s cum has been steadily leaking from you all day, and while you eventually became successful at blocking out the sensation, it suddenly slams to the forefront of your mind again. The visor pierces deep into you while you start to squirm just a bit against the rough log pressed into your back. You can still feel him when you flex your lower muscles, and you bite your lip and do it repeatedly while blinking at him, waiting, squeezing your thighs together and loving the reminder.

He still hasn’t said anything to you, and you start to get antsy under his stare. Your body works itself up even more, fueled by the flames reflecting in his helmet. After a few more moments of silent tension, you’ve finally had enough.

“Din,” you whisper, trying not to make it sound like a whine and his head quickly lifts when you didn’t even realize it was slightly tipped forward. The helmet rolls back in a drowsy little circle, as if his neck is suddenly remembering the weight burdening it. Embarrassment instantly floods you. “Oh. Shit. I’m so stupid. I’m sor—”

Only he’s already pushing himself up with his free arm, lethargic and drunk with exhaustion, not saying a single word as he sets the conked out kid in the cradle and closes the shield over his sleepy little head with the push of a button.

You bite your lip as he drags himself over to you, swinging a leg behind you and then dropping down without any ceremony, firmly inserting himself between the uncomfortable log and your back. Your butt is shoved forward from the sudden displacement but he’s not done. Din wraps both his arms around you and pulls, dragging you up onto his long torso while his legs close under you and you’re off the ground completely.

Oh Maker, he’s already thousands of times more comfortable than sleeping up against the log would be. He makes the best bed in the galaxy, big and warm and firm under you, letting you stretch out long on him. You lounge on his lap and drop your head to his shoulder, resting your arms on top of his as they drape heavy across your belly.

“Sorry,” he gruffs, voice low and rough through the modulator. The filter rings sharp through your ear when it’s pressed up against his helmet like this. “Just need a few hours. Didn’t… didn't sleep great last night.”

You close your eyes and internally scold yourself, now taking responsibility for his lack of rest for the past two days. Shit. You don’t actively respond, feeling slightly put out, but your body is of another mind altogether. It still continues trundling down the steep slope you shoved it towards earlier, when you stupidly thought he was giving you eyes under the helmet instead of him being passed out cold. You wiggle against him just slightly under the guise of finding a comfortable position, but it has unintentional consequences.

You breathe out a soft sigh when your hips move over his cock, biting your lip at the sensation but trying so hard to stop it in its tracks. He’s exhausted, and he already fucked the life out of you today, there’s no way he’ll want to go again this soon. Except—then he shifts and mmms low in his throat.

“And you,” Din murmurs quietly, reaching a hand down to slowly push under your pants, “need to start being more honest with me.”

“What are you t—oh, stars,” you whisper, your body shuddering as one of his thick fingers slowly dips into your slit.

“Shit, you’re wet,” he groans, sinking his hand down lower to feel remnants of himself still easing its way out of you. Your lashes flutter as your jaw drops, and his cock gets hard against your spine almost immediately. “You’re fucking… soaked. I—I asked if you came and you said yeah,” he whispers low to you, but you shake your head. “Why’d you lie to me abo—”

“No, no—” you protest breathlessly, “—you asked if it was okay, and then I said—”

“You said it was good. It’s not good if you didn’t cum,” he grunts quietly, and the tip of his finger now drawing tight circles over your clit makes it damn near impossible to argue. “I didn’t fuck you right if you didn’t cum. You should be fucked right.”

“Maker, you fuck me exactly how I need to be fucked,” you whimper, tilting your head until your lips are pressed against the curve of his helmet while his hand steadily works under your pants. “And—oh, fuck, that’s… h-however you need to fuck me.”

“Fuck—obedient little thing…” he huffs, starting to rub harder over your clit. “What I need is for you to cum. From now on, you’ll tell me. Say yes.”

“Yes,” you moan into the beskar, your eyes fluttering back at the slowly building pressure.

“Say, ‘yes, Din,’” he breathes.

“Yes, Din,” you dutifully repeat, lifting your hips up against his hand, and he groans softly through the modulator.

“Say, ‘Din, I need something to cum on’,” he whispers.

You’re delirious, you don’t even catch it before most of it is already out of your mouth. “Din, I need something to c—” you cut off but he’s already reaching down between your bodies to ease his cock out, before yanking your pants down your ass just enough to position himself up against your entrance.

He rocks his hips up and he slides in easier than ever before, and you… don’t know what you’re expecting, but he surprises you nonetheless. He doesn’t start thrusting into you at all. Even though he’s rock hard inside you, thick and pulsing and breaking you open, he doesn’t move a single inch. He just keeps himself there, continuing to rub circles around your clit and giving you exactly what he prompted you to ask for.

Something to cum on.

Your body tenses and squeezes him, and Din shushes you before you realize you were making noise. His free hand comes up to settle tight over your mouth and guide you turn your head away from his helmet. At first you think it’s because your heavy breathing was probably fogging the visor up, but no—his fingers leave your pussy for a split second and you hear him maneuver himself out of it. The hollow noise it makes thunking to the ground is beginning to become your favorite sound in this universe.

But then of course, Din buries his face into your neck and starts talking again, whispering low praises behind your ear with that bassy, dark chocolate rasp, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. His fingers return to your cunt to slowly rub your clit and his cock throbs hotter than sin inside you, building your pleasure into a strong, slow crescendo.

You start to whimper unintentionally, but his hand is wrapped tight around your mouth, muting and confining the desperate sounds to your throat. His finger presses down harder on your clit and his cock flexes inside you.

“That’s it, sw—sweet girl,” Din mutters, his voice interrupted by his own staccato breaths and tight gasps the longer he talks you through it, the longer he keeps himself perfectly still while engulfed in your drenched, fluttering cunt. “That’s—that’s it, I can feel it c-coming. Fuck—make it good for me, give me a good one—”

His words shove you right over a cliff you didn’t even realize was there until you were dangling over the steep drop for an extended moment like a cartoon. Everything squeezes around him unbearably tight—your hands dig into his forearms, your back arches up against him, your pussy constricts his thick cock until you feel like you’re hurting the both of you with it, and Din’s breath catches next to your ear while you’re both suspended in thin air for a split second—

—before you’re convulsing in pure bliss, flooding his cock with cum while he rasps out, “good girl,” into the crook of your neck and rocks his hips up into yours. The few heavenly inches of movement hits something jaw-dropping inside you and nearly makes you scream against his palm, launching your body even higher into mind-bending rapture. Fucking Maker, you cum hard for him, on him, around him. You downright drown his cock in your pleasure, suffocate it and work out the aching tightness in your pussy all over him until you feel like you can’t breathe anymore.

“Mmm…” Din murmurs quietly, continuing to circle your swollen clit hard through the shattering aftershocks. His voice is deep and sinful and vibrates your whole back with its frequency, but something underneath it also sounds as if he’s considering, before he seems to land on an answer to a wordless question he just asked himself. “…One more.”

And, like the fucking Maker himself commanded it, another blazing hot wave of fire suddenly rips you apart and sends you spasming rhythmically around the throbbing cock buried inside you once again. This one wrings you completely dry, robbing you of every sense. The ragged whine you make behind his hand must be too loud—his fingers quickly tighten around your jaw and lock down, keeping you as still as possible while you give him everything you have to give.

Eventually the sparks die out and you’re left a shell of what you once were, clamping down hard on him and shuddering your bliss at the night sky. He lays there silently under you, holding you as you fall back down to reality. Your breathing is a mess and so is everything below your waist, and your whole body jerks when Din carefully slides his hand from your pussy and rubs gently over your thighs, your tummy, your chest.

“That was…” you croak out, trying to remember how to speak, “ … g-good.”

“Go to sleep,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses against the side of your neck. You can hear the gentle grin he’s hiding from you, knowing he completely incapacitated you.

“But what about—” you start to protest, when Din’s teeth sink into your flesh and your pussy seizes up tight around him, making him choke a hoarse little groan into your skin.

After a moment, he eases his throbbing cock out of you, and he resets your clothing while you whimper in distress. “Go to sleep,” Din murmurs, before softly kissing your neck once more, and your eyes slowly droop against your will. Fuck, his body beats a king size mattress any day of the week. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

***

He…

He isn’t.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #smut #reader insert #fanfic #star wars

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insideabunker · 6 years

Text

The Games: Chapter 2

"I don't care how good she is, Mike, there's just no reason to take her. There are more than enough good tall guys out there, and it would be a strict disadvantage to put someone so small behind the net."

In a cradle of loose netting behind the crossbar, a tiny transistor radio crackled to life, filling the frozen air with the staticky voices of commentators. The sound echoed through the empty rink, followed by the sharp metal ding of a puck as it ricocheted off the goal post.

"We gonna listen to that thing the whole fucking time?"

"It motivates me."

"To what, have an aneurysm?"

The crack of a slap shot rang out like a bullet from a gun, followed immediately by the hard thud of vulcanized rubber hitting leather at 80 miles an hour.

"Are you throwing softballs?"

Lincoln eyed the goalie skeptically. "Why am I even shooting from the line? You should be working on close up stuff. The teams you're going to be playing will be focusing on dekes, tips, and wrists more than they will slap shots. You need to work on reading the body."

"Pussy."

Another crack filled the area, another hollow thud as the puck was stopped mid-flight.

"That's more like it."

Lincoln scowled. As irritating as she could be, there was no denying his friend's talent. The problem was that Lexa would be the first one to the point that out, and it made the goaltender hard to bear, and on rare occasions, pretty tough to like.

The radio crackled to life again, the static fragmenting the voices as they droned on.

"Oh, come on! Remember Enroth? He was five foot eleven, and the fans up in Buffalo didn't seem to mind him."

"Enroth? Enroth!? Mike, if you're going to use someone as an example at least pick someone who still plays in the NHL. The last time I checked Enroth was sent packing to a KHL team in Belarus or some such place. Meanwhile, Halak and Khudobin, the only goalies in the league I can think of that are under six feet tall, haven't started more than half the games in a season."

"Keith, I played with Gerry Cheevers, who is arguably one of the greatest goaltenders in history. He had to have been no taller than five foot eleven, and a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet. Now, Woods is only one inch and five pounds smaller than that. You cannot tell me that she can't compete at a professional level."

"Ok Mike, thousands of years ago, when you played, it wasn't uncommon to see a guy five foot ten or five foot eleven between the pipes. And for the record, I'm not arguing that she can't play. She's good. I've seen her play. I know she's good. She might even be better than good. My point is there's just no reason to take her in an era of giant goaltenders. Right now, the average goalie in the NHL is six foot two, two hundred and ten pounds. And that's just the average. Ben Bishop is six foot seven, two hundred and sixteen pounds. Why on earth would you bother taking this girl when there are guys like that out there? Does she have the chops for the NHL? Sure. Fine. But, why sign a small, average quality NHL prospect, when you've got guys playing at the same level who can also fill up the net like they're the Rock of Gibraltar?"

"Well, either way, her selection to the Canadian national team should make this Olympics an interesting one."

"One thing is for sure. If this girl wants a shot at being selected to a professional team, there had better be a shiny, gold medal hanging around her neck at the end of the games. I doubt any NHL team is going to sustain interest if she can't bring home gold when she's just playing against other women."

“Can we please turn that crap off,” Lincoln pleaded with her, his arms dangling at his sides as he kicked a puck into position for another shot."

“I don’t want to.” Lexa adjusting her footing as she waited for him to snap the puck.

“Dante's gonna be pissed when he hears you've been binge-listening to this crap again.”

“He won't,” she crouched low in the net, superstitious that the mere mention of the surly, wizened goalie coach might summon him to appear before her.

“It's gonna get into your head.”

“It won't,” she crouching lower still, dismissing the momentary sting of guilt at her dishonesty.

“Whatever you say.”

Lincoln wound back, his body twisting forward violently as he slapped the puck in her direction, full force.

Most people would have believed Lexa when she told them that the detractors and skeptics didn’t get to her, but not Lincoln. He had known her too intimately for far too long. Lincoln knew when Lexa was lying to herself. When they were children, it had been easier to recognize, easier to see the hurt hidden behind the brave face. Now though, the cracks around the edges were almost imperceptible, and when the naysaying was at its worst, Lexa only doubled down on her cocksure bravado. It was an act that had become so calculated, so much a part of her, that he doubted she could tell the difference between the facade and the emotional truth behind it.

On the rare occasions that Lexa's emotions did break the surface, they always came out convoluted, manifesting themselves as anger and aggression rather than hurt and disappointment. There were times when Lincoln wanted to do more, say more to help her, but his oldest friend lived in abject fear of losing her competitive edge. Frustratingly, Lexa believed that it was her fury, rather than her natural talent alone, that continued to propel her forward. Lincoln knew that his words would fall on deaf ears.

“So you want me to bring it in close?”

“Nope.”

Lincoln sighed, kicking at a puck.

“Lex, the teams at the Olympics...”

“I'm not training to play the teams at the Olympics, Lincoln."

"Lexa..."

They're women, Lincoln! I've been playing in the damn OHL for three years now. Men's professional hockey is my reality. The Olympic games are a distraction at best, and when they're over, I need to be playing at a level that's going to get me drafted out of here. Training for the women's game isn't going to help me with that."

"And training like you're about to play Zdeno Chara is going to lose you the gold!"

Lincoln sent a puck flying towards the stands in frustration. It barely missed the glass, making a terrible rattling sound as it shook the board.

"Lexa, just listen to me for once! You're minimizing how good these players are."

The hulking former defenseman skated over to his friend, pulling off his helmet and discarding it gently on ice as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"You're not wrong. The women's game is different, but different doesn't mean worse, it doesn't mean unskilled. These women play a different style of hockey, and all of them are extremely good at it. Some of them are unbelievably good at it. More importantly, because you've spent your entire career playing in all-male leagues, their style of hockey isn't one you've played before. If you underestimate how hard it's going to be for you to adjust to that, you do so at your own peril."

Lexa sighed, pulling her goalie mask off. “I swear Lincoln; coaching women has gotten you soft.”

She winked, smirking at her already exacerbated friend. After a two year stint in the NHL, a catastrophic injury had realigned Lincoln's stars, setting him on a new path as the assistant coach of a collegiate women's team in Wisconsin. His transition from rising playboy all-star to a champion of Title IX and female athletes was a sensitive matter, though he remained a good sport when it came to teasing. She expected him to roll his eyes, groan, or perhaps playfully punch her in the arm. Instead, he made Lexa jump as he threw his stick onto the ice, furious.

“Lexa! Can you just drop your fucking attitude for once?”

He skated away from her, his hands resting behind his head as he took a moment to cool off.

"You know… I get it. I grew up with you. I was there when you and those other girls petitioned to play in the boy’s league. I saw how you were the only one left standing after years of harassment and abuse. I've been with you every step of the way, so I understand how you ended up with the mindset you have, but you've got to get over this toxic masculinity shit! Somewhere, deep down inside of you, you still believe that you've gotten this far in spite of being a woman. That belief is wrong, Lexa. That thinking is your Achille's heel."

He turned back to her, rubbing his temples to soothe the headache form an afternoon of clenching his jaw.

"Those girls don't think that way. I know you believe that if they were as good as you, they'd be playing in the men's leagues too, but you're wrong. They didn't grow up where we did; they didn't have to walk that path. They grew up playing in women's leagues, where nobody ever told them they weren't good enough. They're not playing to prove anything to anyone."

He eyed her knowingly, an unspoken truth passing between them."

"If you shove it in their face that you think you're better than them because you play with men, they're going to use that attitude to humiliate you."

Lexa's face was red, her eyes fixed and furious. She threw her goalie stick in Lincoln's general direction and tossed her glove and blocker down in disgust.

“I didn't even want to compete with these women! Playing for the stupid Olympic team was your idea; you and Dante! I don't understand why the hell I'm supposed to learn some whole new style of play for something that's going to last all of three weeks!"

"Because it's a damn honor!"

Lincoln and Lexa both froze as the gravelly voice of Dante Wallace rumbled at them from across the ice.

"And would either of you care to tell me what you're doing here on a day that I specifically told you to take off?"

For a second, Lexa just watched her coach approaching, frozen in shock as though she were an eight-year-old who'd just been caught goofing off in practice. She was accustomed to her coach's frequent irritability, but this was a different mood altogether. The old salt was raging, his anger fueled by the audacity of his protege's defiance. Dante was the kind of man who refused to take insubordination lightly, and as he stomped towards them, fisherman's cap pulled low on his brow, unlit cigarette gripped between his gritted teeth, unshaven jaw clenched, Lexa knew she was about to catch hell.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!"

"Dante, I..."

Dante held up his hand, pointing directly at Lincoln as he continued to stare Lexa down.

"Don't you even start!"

He thrust his index finger in Lexa's direction.

"You want to practice? Fine, let's practice. Suicides, go!"

Lexa remained frozen for a moment, trying in vain to process an excuse.

"Now!" He pointed at Lincoln. "You too, blockhead!"

The pair finally sprung into action, dashing off towards the closest line and hustling back towards the goal.

Dante watched his unfortunate trainees sprint towards center ice, already panting. He muttered, pulling up the zipper on the ancient Red Wings Starter jacket he was never without. He stood there, letting a full five minutes pass until the suffering athletes had begun to turn red and pour sweat before he launched into his lecture.

"You're a damn fool, Woods! Only a fool would underestimate their opponent to service their individual, selfish pride."

He chewed on the end of the unlit cigarette, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other.

"You've been granted the privilege of representing your country because you're the best it has to offer, a paragon of true Olympic prowess, and like a jackass, you choose to squander that opportunity. Why? Because you don't like the stipulations?!"

He spat his cigarette out on the ice, finally blowing the whistle around his neck to give the go-ahead for Lexa and Lincoln to stop. The two dropped to the ice, gasping for breath.

"Woods, you're one of the best goalies I've ever coached, you might even be the best. Right now, however, you could fit the number of people that believe that into a pee-wee locker room. This season is the last one you'll be eligible to play Major Junior, and if you're betting on those NHL scouts suddenly coming to their senses, you've got another thing coming."

Dante walked over to where the players were slumped over on the ice, still trying to catch their breaths. He crouched directly in front of Lexa's face, staring her dead in the eye.

"Kid, you've spent the last three years playing for the worst team in Northern Ontario. Nobody gives a rat's ass how good you are if they don't see you play. You're invisible up here, and as long as you're invisible, the NHL can ignore you all they like. Play net at the Olympics and you get to show the whole world what you can do. Nobody will be able to ignore you after that. That's why I insisted you play for the women's national team."

Dante stood, brushing the wrinkles out of his pants, and popping another cigarette into his mouth.

"Now get off my ice and go clean yourselves up.” He paused looking over the pathetic, exhausted skaters with disdain. "You two look like a damn soup sandwich."

With that, he trudged off, the scent of bay rum and stale Camel Straights lingering in his wake.

Next Chapter ->

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#the100 fanfiction #the100au #the100 #clexa #clexa fanfic #clexa au #clexahockeyfic #clexahockeyau #lexa #lexa woods #clarke griffin #thegames

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thesickpanda · 5 years

Text

Panda’s Little List of Horrors

This is just a general whinge post. I got lots to whinge about. Better to whinge it out than let it consume me.

Lyrica Update: I have survived the first 10 days of dropping my dose of Lyrica. I've had some very uncomfortable withdrawal effects including derealisation, anxiety, feeling feverish, flulike symptoms, wild mood swings and impressively restless legs. I did not get nearly as suicidal as the first time I tried this. All the same, my partner hid all the kitchen knives from me. In fact, he took them to work with him. Still it’s a small victory to make it this far. I credit the CBD oil and being better prepared. All the same, I'm still dreading dropping from 100 mg to 25. My next attempt will be at the end of April.

I told a handful of friends about this process. A couple of them set the text messages or Tumblr messages to check up on me. It was nice to know that they were rooting for me. There were other people my life who should've cared, should have checked up on me, but who didn't. But what's new? People have been letting me down for a very long time and so I just don't expect anything anymore.

Other Stuff: Apart from withdrawal symptoms, I've also been dealing with a number of other issues. Now, I'm used to dealing with the general aches and pains and array of symptoms that come with Fibromyalgia, Irritable bowel Syndrome and anxiety. I'm a pro at this. That doesn't mean it's easy to live with; far from it. It's just that I know what to do and what to expect with Fibro. I like knowing things.

The other issues that are getting me down are as follows:

1.That Misbehaving Knee Cap:

That wandering patella in my right leg is not getting better. It is not getting better because I am still favouring it because I am limping. I cannot go anywhere without wearing a brace.

2. Inflamed Bursae:

I am limping because I have a severe case of bursitis in my left foot. I mean, I know that with Fibromyalgia you tend to feel pain more acutely that the average person. However, both the radiologist and my podiatrist were horrified at the state of my foot. I have bursitis in four of my toes. This is unusual. There is so much bursitis in my foot, the radiologist couldn't tell if there is also another neuroma growing in there. I have since tried orthotics, icing it, resting it, pacing it, physiotherapy, Voltaren and Nurofen. Nothing has worked.

3. Medical Gaslighting and Trying to Find a New GP:

I have had a few shitty experiences with my doctor in a row, prompting me to ask my local fibromyalgia support group if there are any nearby doctors who actually know how the hell to treat this illness. There was one recommendation; however, they are private and charge $120 a session. Here in Australia, I'm fortunate in that I can go and see a bulk billing doctor who doesn't cost a thing. The problem is trying to find a bulk billing doctor who also understands fibromyalgia. It has been my experience that the best doctors who seem to know anything about this syndrome are also private. Most of the people in my local support group are over the age of 50 and, many years ago, applied ort and were granted the disability pension and accompanying concession card that would allow them to see a private doctor at a heavily discounted rate. In the last decade, however, the Australian government has reduced the disability pension as well as who is eligible for it. I am not considered disabled enough to qualify. So even though I have a chronic illness which means that I need to see specialists and doctors on a regular basis, I do not get a disability support card or any kind of concession because I'm not seen as disabled. And so I now have to go on the joyous merry-go-round of bulk billing doctors until I find one who knows what the hell they are talking about. As I'm not legally allowed to drive whilst taking medicinal cannabis (congrats on being so fucking inefficient and arse-backwards, Australia!), my partner has to take me everywhere. Trying to find a bulk billing doctor who understands Fibromyalgia, irritable bowel, anxiety AND Myofascial Pain Syndrome is going to be a challenge and a half.

4. Something’s Gone Wrong with my Right Wrist:

I have also been coping with bad wrist pain for the past several weeks. In periods of high stress in my life, I have developed the fantastic habit of curling up in the fetal position in my sleep. This wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that I bend and contort my wrists and shove them under my very heavy head during the night. It's like having a bowling ball resting on my delicate wrists all night long. This nightly behaviour has caused me considerable pain, to the point that I cannot use my dominant hand to lift a full kettle, or a laundry basket, the roller door for the garage, or anything remotely heavy without exacerbating things. My partner and I ordered a very expensive night brace for my wrist which is going to take three weeks to arrive. In the meantime, I have been using a regular bandage to try to stop me from bending it in my sleep. This seemed to be helping for a couple of days, and then I absentmindedly try to shimmy back in a very uncomfortable cinema seat using my hands to leverage my body. I felt a snapping, electrical pain shooting through my right hand. It was like fireworks going off inside it. For the first half of the film I was flexing and moving my hand around, trying to get it back to normal. Well, it's now worse than ever. Guess who has a doctor's appointment this afternoon? Because my bulk billing doctor is only in my local area on Fridays, I now have to see a private doctor who I can actually access in my own town. So that's going to cost money. I mean, it's fucking February and we have already spent so much money on mobility aids, medicine and doctors, it's ridiculous.

5. Dealing with Vengeful In-Laws:

On the weekend, I was having lunch with my partner's family. They don't approve of me and never have, nor do they think the Fibro is nearly as disabling as it actually, factually fucking IS. Instead, they think that I am just leeching off their son. They (mostly) politely tolerate me, because my partner has told them that if they don't he's walking out of their lives. However, just when I think that I'm getting along with them okay, out come the long knives. While I was just tucking into my microwave lasagna (I often have to bring my own food because no one could be bothered to make something I can actually eat) his mother starts given me the 3rd degree, asking about how I'm paying for all my medicines. Even though my partner and I have been together for a decade, because we are not married, she does not see me as legitimate in her eyes. She thinks I should be carrying my own weight and paying all my own bills with that job I should but don’t have. That has not been a reality for a very long time. I'm completely supported by my partner. And here's the irony: the government that refuses to recognise Fibromyalgia as a legitimate disability deserving of concession cards and a centrelink income, also works with independent disability work agencies; one of these disability employment agencies have ruled me as too sick to work. Even when I protested. They said I would not be reliable as a worker because I had too many things wrong with me. I mean, they are not incorrect, but I still gave it my fucking best shot for two years. So no, I do not have an income and yes, I am relying on their son to keep me alive. And they hate this. And so she probed and probed, seemingly spoiling for a fight. Fortunately, my partner has reached a boiling point with his family when it comes to this and managed to deftly and diplomatically move the conversation away from that topic. But I felt extremely hurt and angry and frustrated and miserable at the end of it. He has promised me he is going to have a word with his mother. Sure, why not? It doesn't matter though. I will never be accepted by his family. I will always be seen as a burden to him, a liar, a faker, and lazy ass bitch who just wants to mooch off him and by proxy their family. I will always be the one who stole him away from them, manipulated him into spending his money on me, and is living the high life kicking my feet up watching him wait on me hand and foot. That is how they perceive me. And no, I'm not guessing this. I have been directly told this.

6. Here Comes the Mortality Reminder!

Last night I felt really overwhelmed by my shrinking mobility. I'm doing everything with my left hand now and I know how my body is. It is only a matter of time before I develop tendinitis or something else if that extremity. I'm also developing ankle pains in my right leg from all the limping because of the bursitis in my left leg. Of course, my regular GP said I would be over that within six weeks, because she knows fuck all. I'm so tired of being told that I will get over acute issues that normal people get over really quickly. That is not how chronic illness works. Of course I'm not really sick in this country's eyes and so I don't get believed nor do I get treated appropriately, so issues are left to linger until they create other problems. All this has created a freaking hailstorm in my mind. To cope, I worked extremely hard last week on my not-for-profit. I overdid it. But I felt like working away the computer was the only thing worth making my pain worse for, because society’s ableism has made me feel like I have to do something useful or I’m not worth the oxygen I breathe... But is hurts. Everything hurts. I cannot hold a pen without pain. I cannot hold a book without pain. I cannot craft without pain. I cannot clean without pain. I cannot go for my bushwalks without pain. I cannot ride my bike anymore without pain. I cannot walk to the shops or train station without pain. Aaand I'm not legally allowed to drive. I mean, I can physically do these things, but it will only make matters so much worse for me. But I look fine so….

7. Cue the Dread-Somnia:

Last night I had a hard time getting to sleep. I was having one of those spoonie moments of being completely overwhelmed by my malfunctioning body and all of the things that were happening to me and the walls closing in around me. At 32 I feel so fucking tired and old and hopeless. I see my horizons shrinking and opportunities falling away. I see the grey in my hair and now. I see the way my skin is beginning to sag. The best years of my life are nearly over and they been so God damn hard. I feel like I have aged decades beyond my actual age.

It takes me two hours to get to sleep last night and at one point I wake up screaming. The dream I am having is actually about own reality. I dream about being told that I cannot do all the things I love anymore because they will make me worse. For some reason, in the dream, I'm able to scream in a way that I just don't let myself in my waking reality. But the scream wakes me up and my partner and he holds me as I rock, eyes wide with terror, staring into the dark.

And Now Today:

And then in the morning a stroppy message from a family member, demanding my attention. A family member who has caused me more stress, grief, anxiety and psychological trauma than I could possibly begin to explain in a blog post. And even though I have kept a distance from this person, she always seems to know when I am at my weakest, and sends me a truly provocative message just to incense me and get my attention. I am so enraged and upset my partner offers to stay home. (All my symptoms are flaring, and he’s worried.) But I’ll be damned if my fucking family madness costs him a day at work. I insist and he leaves. I have the silence to talk to, now.

It's Monday. Already medical appointments loom. Already the prospect of getting 4 interdigital cortisone injections into my bursae is making me literally tremble with fear. (I know how painful those injections are, as I had them only last year for another issue). Already I see the next few weeks as being really fucking hard. I barely survived last year. I feel like the universe is asking me just a bit too much to continue in the same vein. I need a goddamn break. But there are no breaks in chronic. Just endless, endless, endless until death.

#so over it #so over chronic illness #spoonie #chronic illness #chronic pain #Fibromyalgia #people's judgement #bad medicine #bad doctors #medical sexism #that suffering be endless tho #feeling low

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