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targaryen-dynasty · 10 months

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WHAT NOURISHES ME, DESTROYS ME.

Maegor I Targaryen x little sister!Reader

You and Maegor have always been a good team, but when he sits on Iron Throne after your older brother‘s death and doesn't allow you to come to war with him, you have to remind Maegor that he wouldn‘t be where he is without your help.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT–MINORS DNI; DUB/NON CON, spit kink, humiliating, size kink, size difference, power imbalance, hate sex, canon typical incest/targcest, fighting, violence

WORDS: 2.6 K

NOTES: This was written for @fairysluna and @borikenlove and is based on the scene in Vikings season 1 episode 2 where Lagertha fights Ragnar.

Maegor was only half dressed as you stepped into his chambers. The stool he sat in looked ridiculously small underneath his bulky presence, just like the castle’s barber did. His head was tilted back, allowing the much smaller man to attend to the grooming of his neat beard, and despite his eyes being closed, the smug smirk on his lips gave away he knew it was you barging into his quarters.

“Why must mother inform me that I cannot come to the Blackwater with you, brother?” You all but spat the words out, hands formed to fists at your sides with your knuckles already blanching.

“It is Your Grace for you,” Maegor’s voice drawled as he did not move, voice uncharacteristically soft but still determined to put you back in your place.

Your level of anger did not allow you to pay any attention to it, not caring enough to respect the courtesies. It was surprising that Maegor managed to keep his temper at bay, considering he was far more quarrelsome than you were.

“This was going to be the most exciting battle of my life,” you hissed. “To fly upon Dreamfyre’s back, alongside Balerion.”

“I do not want you to come,” he said, still in the same position as before, though you could hear just a hint of irritation in his tone. “I need to leave the castle in the hands of someone I trust, and there is no one else besides you and mother.” It was a poor attempt of him to lessen your anger, but caused quite the opposite.

Having brooded over it ever since you broke fast, your patience ran thin, and in moments like this, you felt the Blood of the Dragon coursing through your veins.

With quick strides, you headed over to where Maegor sat and snatched the sharp knife out of the barber’s hand, pressing it to your brother’s throat. That seemed to stir him enough to open his eyes, and the familiar purple quickly flickered up to meet your matching pair. You could feel his pulse quickening through the blade, yet you did not apply enough pressure to draw some blood.

“I have dreamt of this many times, and in my dreams, Dreamfyre and Balerion were always together. We were always together,” you tried to reason.

Maegor had your wrist in a painfully tight grip within seconds without giving you any chance to react. The tight impact caused you to sharply draw in some air, before you found yourself being pulled into his lap with an equally tight grip capturing your throat.

There it was. He had snapped.

The sharp blade clattered to the ground as you clawed at his large hand with both of yours, panic settling in your bones. “You would do well to follow your King’s orders,” his hot breath fanned across your face when he brought yours closer to his.

In the distance, you faintly heard the door to Maegor’s chambers fall shut, indicating that the barber had left without a word.

A lightheaded feeling spread throughout your mind with you choking for air, not getting better when his lips captured yours in a kiss that was shy of gentleness and chasity.

When your teeth harshly bit down on his bottom lip, he released you in surprise, seizing the chance to bring some space between your bodies. Upon a closer look, you spotted a few droplets of blood on his pale skin, and your panic was replaced by pride, even if it only lasted for a few seconds.

As his bull-like body rose from its seat and proweld towards you, your head craned upwards to meet his purple eyes. It was a good thing he was not able to see how your heartbeat quickened at his movements, and though he was your brother and twin, Maegor still was unpredictable and always in control.

For a split second, you thought he would actually do something, however, it had merely been an intimidation tactic, a clear warning. He stopped just a few inches shy of you, crossing his rippled arms in front of his chest.

You grabbed a hold of the closest item you could grasp–a candlestick in this case–and proceeded to try to swing it at him, but someone as skilled as Maegor had an easy game ducking and grabbing something to block your attack.

It was obvious that he held back, because otherwise you would’ve been flung through his chambers by now. What you did not notice was that he slowly but surely backed you up against the bed, stalking closer towards you with each step, practically herding you.

“Am I not good enough for you anymore?” You asked, swinging the candlestick at him once again. This time around, Maegor did not try to lessen your blows and just ducked. “Am I not strong enough for you?” When there did not come any objection or reaction from him, you moved to kick him with your foot, which didn’t do more than barely pushing him back. It was clear you did not have anywhere near the physical strength required to move someone of his caliber, more without his compliance.

“Don’t you remember?” You asked–no spat. “I fought with you in the Stepstones. I saved your life.”

By the look on Maegor’s face, he seemed to find a certain liking in your outburst, not because he had not seen you like that before, but because he always enjoyed putting you back in your place after. In that moment you truly were your mother’s daughter, and Maegor loved your mother just as dearly as you. A smirk that dripped with malice was etched onto his features, sending shivers down your spine once you noticed it.

The realization was short lived, because your next blow was seized by him getting the candlestick from you by twisting it, recklessly throwing it aside and demolishing some vessels standing on a chest of drawers. “Without me, you would not sit on the Iron Throne!” A harsh kick of him pushed you down to the bed behind you with him following shortly after and settling between your parted legs, immobilizing you. You grunted at the impact, but where quickly shushed by his proximity.

He had your throat captured once again, but not as tight as before, and allowed you to actually breathe. “How could I forget!” His deep voice rang out, resembling more an animalistic growl than an actual human’s voice. “You keep reminding me,” each word was emphasized with a tight squeeze to your throat, inevitably pushing you deeper into the mattress beneath.

His bulky frame was looming over your much smaller one, the entirety of your neck covered by his hand though he hadn't even splayed out his fingers. Your hand clasped around his wrist with your nails digging into his skin, but he did not hiss at the pain, effortlessly keeping you pinned beneath him.

“I am so angry with you.”

Maegor made it no secret that the whole act aroused him, and shamelessly pressed his bulge against your womanhood, causing you to take in a sharp breath, as you felt your own arousal coating the inside of your smallclothes.

Upon seeing the smug grin that adorned his features, you had never longed more for Dreamfyre to unleash her flames, because Maegor knew you could never say no to him - regardless of how angry or sad you were.

Your eyelids lowered as you looked up and down his stern face, trying to observe his darkened eyes. They met yours, trying to guess your next move.

“Are you sure?” Came as a reply, and within seconds, his large hands had grasped your waist and flipped you over onto your stomach. One of his hands applied a good bit of pressure to the back of your neck, while the other pushed the skirts of your dress up and pulled down your smallclothes in one motion.

As his calloused fingers dragged through your mound, you refrained from bucking your hips into his touch and opted to try to wiggle out of his grasp. Maegor just chuckled dryly at that, and when two of his digits eased into your core, every sense of restraint left your body.

Your face was pushed into the bedcovers, though the moan you released still was perfectly audible to him.

“That’s what I thought,” your twin replied smugly. “You would not be so wet if you really were angry with me, Y/N.”

While you felt ashamed he had noticed your body’s reaction to him, you could not deny that the silence between you was thick with tension, both of you obviously longing for more. And with Maegor being a bit blunter than you were, he had no shame wording his desires.

“Must I fuck some sense into you, sister? Must I treat and fuck you like a common whore to remember you of your place again?”

Even with your head barely turned to the side, you could see the way his bulky frame was looming over your much smaller one, covering its entirety in a mere display of dominance. That alone almost was enough to put you into submission, but a few threads inside of you still clung to the initial hurt of him not wanting you to join him in battle, hence you tried your best not to give in to him.

But still, his condescending words put a bright blush to your cheeks, the color even running down your neck and spreading along his large hand clasping the back of it. “There-There is no-no need for that, brother,” you stuttered, voice not louder than a whisper.

You should’ve seen it coming, but his fingers quickly were replaced by his hard cock. When the bulbous tip of it prodded against your entrance, you already tried to prepare yourself for it, but to no avail.

Being as rough as always, Maegor practically forced himself into your tightness, causing you to cry out - but not in pain or dismay. The daunting size of his cock always rendered you speechless, though it was very much in proportion with his large body.

The pace he set up was reckless and harsh from the very beginning, and whenever the tip of his member brushed the sensitive spot within your core, the breaths hitched in your throat, hiccuping and trying to fill your lungs the short moments he used to draw his hips back.

Instead of being propped up on your hands and knees, you just laid on the bed, unable to move even in the slightest. Maegor seemed to relish in the dominance he held over you, and your body seemed to keen at the realization, too.

Your bodies were an interesting contrast, despite you being twins. His broad and powerful form, even larger than your father Aegon The Conqueror, was towering over, driving into and domineering your delicate body in every possible way.

You fisted the silken bed covers as if your life was depending on it, knuckles blanching from the force in an attempt to keep your body grounded and strong for his reckless assault. “G-Gods… be… good,” you whined through particularly harsh thrusts, your voice increasing in volume.

The sounds of his heavy stones slapping against your slick core and the creaking of the bed probably could be heard by anyone that passed by the King’s chambers and even further down the corridor, but neither of you cared. Maegor and you were dragons, true blood Targaryens that were determined to rule the Realm together. If it was up to him, he’d take you in the Throne Room atop the Iron Throne and have everyone of court watch–or at least hear–the pair of you.

“I am your King, and I expect you to treat me as such,” Maegor growled through gritted teeth, emphasizing the meaning of his words with harsh thrusts of his hips and a tight squeeze of his hands on yours. “Am I understood?”

“Y-Yes, Your Gr-Grace,” you stuttered out, clearly cock drunk.

“Good.”

You were so lost in the bliss your twin granted you, that you had not even noticed your eyes squeezed shut with tears brimming in the corners–until his calloused fingers dug into your cheeks and turned your head to force you to look at him from over your shoulder.

“Not so bold anymore, mh?” Maegor asked, though it was obvious the question was outright sarcastic, not expecting an answer from you. “Where is your confidence now, silly girl?”

As your lips parted in an attempt to hiccup something in return, Maegor seized the chance and spat a thick puddle of his saliva straight to the corner of your pouty lips. A bit of it dripped into your mouth, whereas the rest stayed exactly where he had spat it to.

The second your tongue darted out to gather the rest of his saliva, he pushed his hips into yours harshly and immediately stopped in his tracks while buried to the hilt inside of you, a loud tsking echoing through the chambers followed by a “No.” You stopped–of course you did–and only gasped once you noticed the fullness within you and the warmth of his saliva spreading all over you flushed cheeks with his thumb smearing it.

Shame rose within your body, fighting with the despair you felt at him not moving anymore. You figured it was time to take your pleasure into your own hands, and started to rock your hips against his, though your movements were far slower and much more sensual. Maegor chuckled dryly at that, and released your face in order to serve a stinging slap to your arse.

You squealed and inevitably clenched down around him, resulting in the bull behind you drawing in a sharp breath. “Just as desperate for my cock as any of the common whores in the Street of Silk, I see,” he remarked snakily, the smirk on his chiseled features perfectly audible.

“But I will be no cruel man,” with that, he proceeded to impale you on his hard cock, snapping his hips into yours over and over again, until the familiar coil in your belly seemed to tighten.

There was no one else that knew your body better as your twin, and as if he was spurred on by the reaction of your body to his ministrations, he snaked his large hand flatly underneath your lower body and started to circle his deft fingers around the sensitive bud at the apex of your legs, amplifying your pleasure and your following peak.

Your core was clenching around him so tightly with whines and moans spilling past your lips like prayers, that Maegor barely was able to declare his own approaching peak, only noticing he reached it once his warm seed filled your body and added to the overall fullness you felt.

Without another word and not even the repercussions of his peak fully subsiding, Maegor pulled out and laced the front of his breeches back up. Picking the knife of the barber up from the ground, he trimmed the rest of his beard himself, only sparing you a scarce glance through the mirror.

You rearranged your smallclothes and dress, despite his seed oozing out of your core, and slowly stalked towards him like a hunter. The emotions within your body had calmed, clearing your mind again.

“So, I assume I am allowed to join Your Grace on his flight to the Blackwater?” You asked in the sweetest voice you could muster and even paid attention to the damned courtesies, determined to get exactly what you wanted.

But without even turning to look at you, Maegor retorted a stern “No,” before placing the knife down as he was finished. “You are dismissed now–I have to sit on Dragonback in an hour.”

#maegor x reader #maegor targaryen #maegor the cruel #hotd smut #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon smut #maegor i targaryen

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tommysversion · 11 months

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Beastly: Raider Era Joel Miller x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: you live in a small commune protected by a strong force of raiders. Every season, your people pay tribute for their protection. After lapsing in payment, your abusive father offers you as a human sacrifice. What you don't expect is for the leader of the gang, Joel, to not be as much of a beastly man as first thought.

A Raider Era Joel fic, loosely inspired by Beauty & The Beast.

CWs: references to abuse (physical), implied fear of SA, canon typical violence, implied age gap, sexual references, coarse language, smut for later chapters. (List will update with chapters)

Chapter Word Count: 3k

Thanks to @gab-thelamb-onthemoon & @joelsgirl for being beta readers & allowing me to infodump about this idea, ILY

Index: Part 2

It’s amazing, how long it took society to peak, in comparison to how easily it fell apart. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it sure burned in one. In a short fifteen years, since Cordyceps first spread globally, society has all but collapsed.

Oh, sure, there are the QZs, where FEDRA rules with an iron fist. There are smaller settlements where people try to strive for a semblance of ‘normality’.

But mostly? The world outside the military strict QZs has become lawless. It’s kill or be killed, serve or rule, protect or intimidate.

Whereas some people have banded together for the greater good of humanity, for the continued survival of the species? Others have taken advantage of the new order of things, are only out for themselves and those they hold dear.

Joel Miller falls into the latter category.

Maybe once, before the outbreak, he had been a good man. Had had a strong moral compass, a good ethic. He’d been a family man, loved his daughter and his brother more than anything or anyone in the world.

Then the world had gone to hell, taken his daughter from him, and something inside him had broken. It was as though a light had gone out inside him, turning his humanity off.

Gone was the man who had made jokes and smiled easily. In his place was a man scarred and traumatised, who was capable of enormous acts of violence and brutality, who would survive at any and all cost, not for his sake, not really, but for his brother. The only family he had left.

Joel had always been a natural leader, if somewhat reluctant. It had come easily to him, before the outbreak. He was always the damn union rep on site. Always the one people came to for advice, looked to for leadership. Not just Tommy, or colleagues he’d known for years either. He always ended up with an apprentice following him round like a chained puppy, asking questions, looking for guidance.

Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise at all that he had ended up the leader of this band of people, either. Some were misfits, those who were too anxious to try and venture to the nearest QZ and survive under FEDRA. Some were miscreants who preferred the more lawless lifestyle, who needed a leader so they didn’t venture into abject cruelty. Then there were those like him, who just wanted to survive. Keep going for whatever or whoever they had left.

Joel didn’t necessarily want to live, but he was fucking good at it.

Without his humanity, it made him a damn good leader. His group protected several small settlements, in exchange for supplies. Weapons. Whatever the fuck they wanted.

It was a good deal… for his people. The infected didn’t venture this far out anymore, but the good people in those settlements didn’t need to know that, did they? Their living in fear was his bonus. It kept them in line, and it kept his people alive.

Recently, one of the settlements fell to disease. Leaving just the one small community under his group’s thumb. The occupants aren’t particularly tough, or particularly smart, just ordinary people who have had the luck to survive behind moderately well constructed walls, the wits to bow to those stronger than them for protection.

Only, their resources are running out, spread thin with the approaching winter…

Which is where you come in.

You’re old enough to remember the world before. Maybe you hadn’t been an adult, so you hadn’t had to deal with things the older folks in your community grumble on occasion about missing - work, taxes (mostly something called a tax return), good liquor, supermarkets…

But you do remember.

You remember the world changing overnight. Remember years of struggling, clawing for survival, until this commune had finally put its walls up and hoped for the best.

Then the infected had come, and you’d lost half your numbers. The raiders had taken advantage of the weakness in your people, taken out the infected… for a price.

Now each quarter, your people paid ‘tribute’ to the group of men and women who kept the infected at bay. Really, it was a bribe to keep them from taking over your settlement. Every three months the same half dozen men would show up, fill their truck with supplies and weapons your people had gathered, desperately needed, and promise another three months protection for it.

Nobody’s been attacked since the deal was struck. You guess that’s a good thing. Or there’s something they aren’t telling you.

Your father is the closest thing to a mayor your community has. There aren’t enough of you to need a proper governing body beyond a handful of people, but somehow the task of leadership has fallen to him. Perhaps because nobody else wants to be labeled as the one who bows to the raiders. Or maybe it’s because the last mayor your town had was beaten to death by said raiders for non-compliance, and your father was the only one brave (stupid) enough to volunteer for the job after.

You aren’t stupid. You know a bribe for what it is. Only this quarter, you aren’t sure what the plan is.

The crop yield has been relatively scarce this season. With winter approaching, the settlement doesn’t have much to offer. You’re not stupid, but you know it won’t be enough.

Usually, you stay home when the raiders come for their tribute. Stay inside with the few children of the commune.

This time is different. Your father is lacing his boots, throwing on his threadbare coat, when he springs it on you.

“You’re coming too, this time. We need to show our numbers.”

It doesn’t occur to you until you’re halfway to what passes as the town square that that’s the precise opposite of what your father usually says. That a show of strength is what got his predecessor killed. But you know better than to question him; he won’t shout at you, he’ll just be condescending, or more likely, won’t answer you at all.

You suppose your curiosity will have to wait, and hope he doesn’t get you all killed.

Joel usually sends half a dozen of his people to collect the tribute from the settlement they ‘protect’. It’s a thinly veiled intimidation, closer to extortion than anything else, but it keeps his people fed and lets them bully others, which some of his people need.

But the last two seasons, their offerings have been slim at best, pissing the most restless of his people off. Joel has no issue with violence. No issue with killing people, or intimidation. But he also knows that starting a bloodbath in their supply settlement is a stupid idea, even if some of his men don’t.

Which has led him to here. Two men sit in the truck, shoulder to shoulder. One sits in the tray, gripping the roof bar with one hand, a rifle dangling lazily from the other.

Two others ride beside him, a little behind, in an arrow formation. It didn’t bother Owen to stay behind with the rest of the group. There’s better things he could be doing. If anyone was surprised at Joel deciding to go with them on this run? He hasn’t heard a word of it.

If anything, they probably think it means he’s planning some sort of punishment for their friends in the settlement. Hell, if they don’t pay up? He’s not against it.

It never ceases to amaze him just how pathetic these people are. He hasn’t visited the settlement personally in a year or so, but the occupants are still just as miserable. Just as downtrodden and fearful, hiding behind their shitty tin walls and the hope that his folks will protect them. It’s that fear that keeps his people fed, keeps these townspeople in line.

They don’t need to know that there are so few infected out here now, that Joel and his group are probably the biggest - if not only – threat remaining to them. Fear keeps them in line, and if they step out of line? Well, he and his gang aren’t above beating a reminder into them. It’s happened before.

The truck rolls to a stop behind him as they make their way to the centre of the settlement. He dismounts his horse, steps forward to greet the leader of the place. He’s met this man once before, the season after he took out the old mayor for trying to defy him. Beating a man to death isn’t pleasant to witness, but Joel had no problem with committing the act.

His replacement is a small, round man who always wears the same threadbare overcoat, the same twitchy air of nervousness around him, the same oily obedience.

How a man like that became what passes for mayor, Joel has no idea. He’s just as spineless as the rest, just as cowardly, eager to snivel and beg for protection, offering up whatever it takes to save his own skin. It’s a way to live, Joel supposes, but he would never stoop so low.

“Morris.” Joel greets the other man with a cold nod of his head, reaches out a gloved hand for him to shake. All formality. All pleasantries. As if the six men he’s brought with him aren’t capable of gunning down this entire settlement, if he so chooses. Hell, he could probably do it by himself.

“I’m surprised to see you.” Morris admits as he steps forward from the small group of townsfolk. Joel’s gaze sweeps over them all; a few new faces, his eyes boring into each unfamiliar one. One bears a resemblance to the mayor. Interesting.

His gaze leaves the crowd, returns to the man in front of him.

“We need to have a little chat.”

“You don’t say a word. Nobody will benefit from your attempts at being a diplomat.” Your father cautions you as you reach the centre of town. It’s not a long walk. The settlement is barely big enough to call a commune, but still.

You don’t dignify him with an answer, just nod. There’s no point in trying to argue with him, try and prove that you’re an asset. He’s too set in his ways, too firm in the belief that women – especially young ones- should be seen and not heard.

So instead you keep your mouth shut, take your place. Watch the convoy come in. It’s different, being out on the street rather than peeking out a window when they roll in.

The usual truck, two men in the cab, one in the tray, slapping the roof to signal to stop. You’re not familiar enough with their faces, but you assume they’re the same men who come every quarter. Two men on horses, flanking a third.

It’s the third man who interests you, only slightly. Mostly because of the way your father tenses, the way some of the others shift nervously. You vaguely recognise this man; the leader of the group of raiders. The one who had no problem with violence, with getting rid of the old mayor when he didn’t want to play ball.

He’s older, maybe late forties, broad shouldered and has a sort of deadened glint to his dark eyes. Vaguely, you catch yourself wondering what he did, or what happened to him, to put that look in his gaze.

Those cold dark eyes take stock of the place, sweep across each member of your community. His gaze pauses on you, very briefly, flickers to your father then back, recognition. Then he looks away, back to your father.

“We need to have a little chat,” the unknown man says, “your quota has been low, Morris.”

Even in the cold, you can see your father start to sweat. He’s no great hero; his leadership perches precariously on his willingness to bow to whatever this gang of raiders wants. There’s no way of fighting them, and quite frankly? There are worse things out there.

“We’ve had a hard few seasons… Maybe we can make it up in spring?” Your father suggests, trying to sound complacent, apologetic. Mostly, it just sounds desperate.

You wonder if the leader of the gang thinks so, too.

“Now, Morris, you’re already short. Have been for the last two seasons. Maybe if we’d had this little chat earlier, I’d be more inclined to accept the request, but, well… winter’s on its way. It’s hard out there, and these walls you have are so flimsy… anything could happen.”

Your father’s face blanches, clearly aware he’s stepping on toes that shouldn’t be stepped on.

“We have… some supplies in reserve. You can take from there.”

It shouldn’t even surprise you, that he offers up the town’s emergency stockpile to save his own skin, probably thinking of his predecessor. It bothers you, though, makes your skin crawl to see the men from the gang open the barn where the supplies are kept, start hauling them into the back of the truck. Those supplies are for emergencies. For the children, the elderly, the sick. Maybe that’s why you open your mouth.

“Those supplies are for our elderly. Our children.”

The look your father gives you is piercing, promising violence, a sharp retribution later, but you don’t care.

“Excuse my daughter, Joel. She doesn’t understand the way things work, likes to talk when the men are talking.”

You expect the gang leader – Joel – to agree, to ignore you. Instead, he turns that depthless gaze onto you.

“What would you have me do, hm? We have a deal, you know that.” It’s unspoken what he’s implying – he has people relying on him, too.

You’re smart enough to know that it’s a rhetorical question.

“Besides.” Joel turns his attention to the truck, shakes his head. “Even with your stockpile, you’re short. Considerably so. Maybe we should stick around. See why your productivity is so low.”

The threat is implicit. Maybe it’s the threat. Maybe it’s anger at you for speaking out. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that your father is a piece of shit. Still, you don’t expect what happens next.

Joel doesn’t want to stick around this small town, with its cowed population and snivelling misogynist of a mayor. He’d rather take what they are owed and go, but they’re up short once again. Not by much, but it’s the principle of the matter. Of making sure Morris knows his place, knows that he and Joel are in no way equals.

He projects the very image of an alpha male, broad and cocky, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. Casually threatening, and he knows Morris is thinking of the idiot before him. Maybe he should just shoot him, see whether someone smarter replaces him. Smarter and less irritating.

Maybe the other man can see how easily he’s contemplating his death.

“Wait. Wait. I have another offer.”

Joel raises an eyebrow.

“And what could you possibly have, Morris? As you’ve said, you’ve had a difficult harvest, you’ve had to break into your emergency supplies. What do you possibly have to trade to save your own skin?” He makes zero effort to hide his disgust.

“Her.” Morris jerks a shaky thumb to the younger woman beside him, the one who’s clearly his daughter, the one who spoke up.

Joel is so startled by the suggestion that he almost outright refuses.

“What?” It comes out blunter than he planned, as if he’s misheard. Because there’s no way that this idiot is offering up his own daughter as some sort of human sacrifice.

“Take her. I don’t care what you do with her, she’s a complete disappointment. Maybe you can teach her some manners, beat her into submission, God knows I’ve tried. Take her and give us immunity until next fall. Let us rebuild our crops.”

Joel looks past Morris to you, small and nondescript. Then again, everyone is small to him. You look like someone’s just pulled the ground out from under you. Shocked. Horrified. He knows then what you’re thinking, what you’re assuming will happen to you. But he also knows now what happens to you if he leaves you here.

Joel Miller may have lost his humanity, but he was a father once. And he can’t imagine ever, ever offering his own child up as a human sacrifice to save his own skin.

And suddenly, it doesn’t matter about making a quota. What matters is getting you as far away from this place as possible. Away from sharp words and balled fists. Because somewhere, somewhere, buried deep down, a portion of the man he once was is stirring.

“The end of next fall. A year.” Joel agrees, tries not to watch the way Morris shoves you forward to what could well be your doom.

You’re shaking. Can’t even form a protest, for all the good it would do.

Sacrifice. Tribute. Offering. As if you’re no more than another object to be traded. Your father doesn’t even flinch as Joel seizes your wrist, pulls you towards his horse.

“Get on.” His voice is low, but not menacing. If anything he sounds almost sorry. It has to be some sort of trap; you’re certain that when you’re back at their base camp, he’ll have no problem with cruelty, with putting his hands on you. Forcing you, if the mood takes him. Maybe it’s better to just do as he demands.

Shakily, you climb up onto the horse, sit awkward and uncomfortable, tensing when he swings himself up behind you, broad arms keeping you in place as he seizes the reins, gives a nod to his men, who finish loading up and pile back into the truck, onto their own horses.

He throws a final derisive look to your father. The man who sold you.

“One year, Morris. Better get your shit together.” Then he nudges the horse, and rides you both out of the only home you’ve known for years.

#my writing #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #raider joel #rue beastly

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kevinfeiges · 17 days

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Sacha Dhawan as Davos IRON FIST SEASON 1 (2017), created by Scott Buck

#marveledit #marvel tv #tvedit #ironfistedit #MCU #Iron Fist #Sacha Dhawan #Davos #marvelcharacter8 #**

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indigovigilance · 7 months

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Why Crowley Rescues Aziraphale

Okay, yes: it's flirtatious, it's cute, it's Anthony J. "Acts of Service" Crowley showing love in the only way he knows how because God forbid he use his words.

But what if there's more to it than that? What if there is a much darker explanation that portends major events in S3?

Allow me to convince you below the cut:

Evidence of Repetition Compulsion

But before we talk about the rescue motif, let's examine a more transparent aspect of Crowley's behavior that will provide a scaffold for the discussion of his Princess Peach obsession.

The Plants

Sure, Crowley is a hobby horticulturalist, but he doesn't do it because he loves plants. He does it because the plants are a representation of himself, and how he treats the plants tells us how he feels about himself. Importantly, how he treats the plants changes over time.

Season 1

He puts the fear of Crowley into them, destroying any specimen with a blemish and making an example out of it to threaten those that remain.

You know, just like God did to him.

This scene is jam-packed with symbolism, and we can simmer on whether his punishment of the plants is simply externalized self-flagellation, or reflects internalized standards of perfectionism, or if he feels so powerless that he creates a new relationship in which he is the one that has the power... We could simmer, but that's not the point of this meta, so let's keep going.

Season 2

In 2023, Crowley is no longer a domineering monarch, ruling over his houseplants with an iron fist; of all the memorabilia he has in his flat (the statue from the church, the original Mona Lisa), the only things he brings with him are his plants.

And for someone living in his car, he's taking pretty good care of them:

Someone else even noted that one of the plants appears to have spots, and clearly he hasn't thrown it in the garbage disposal for its transgressions. I wasn't able to see it myself, but I headcanon it because it fits with the observation that:

Crowley's attitude towards himself is changing.

He is evolving from internalized guilt and sense of inferiority to believing that he deserves care, even if he is a little blemished. It is this shift that brings it within the realm of possibility that he can admit his feelings to Aziraphale.

In both seasons, the unifying theme is that Crowley is reliving his trauma over and over, and then reliving his healing over and over. This cyclical behavior is, to my knowledge, incredibly characteristic of PTSD and CPTSD. In a phenomenon clinically referred to as Repetition Compulsion, the subject recreates and relives events of a traumatic past over and over in their present life, seeking resolution for something that has already happened, where the opportunity for true, satisfying closure is forever lost to the past. A huge part of therapeutic treatment is breaking these maladaptive cycles [citations]. But to our knowledge, Crowley doesn't have a therapist.

If this is how Crowley's CPTSD manifests in his relationship with inanimate objects semi-sentient dependents, how might it manifest in his relationship with his angel?

The Rescue Motif

The cycle of Aziraphale's self-endangerment and Crowley's nick-of-time rescues might look like just a cute part of their flirtationship, a necessary cover for their continued association, but I argue that it something much darker.

Crowley rescues Aziraphale over and over throughout history to try to absolve himself for the one time he couldn't.

But clearly, Aziraphale doesn't know that.

It only took one rescue for Aziraphale to realize that this kind of behavior brings them closer together - and he desperately wants to get close to Crowley. Please forgive the crudeness of the metaphor, but: when you need to drive a screw into a board and all you have is a hammer, you're gonna smack that thing on the head over and over with the only tool you've got. The problem is, this is really bad for the screw.

Aziraphale, by leveraging the damsel-in-distress motif, over and over again, is inadvertently triggering a trauma response from Crowley because he likes what he gets out of it, which is spending time with the demon he loves and growing intimacy. If he knew that this is what he was doing, it would be sick and twisted and go against everything he believes about himself as an angel, let alone being mortified that he was hurting Crowley.

So the only possible conclusion (given we take the above conjectures as fact (see @queerfables, I listen to you <3)) is that:

Aziraphale Doesn't Know About His Own Jimmification

What is it that Crowley could have failed to rescue Aziraphale from that Aziraphale himself is unaware of? Well, at the least, it would have to involve a mind-wipe.

We know, canonically, that the Metatron can and will mind-wipe angels without actually casting them out of Heaven. Just because Aziraphale is an angel does not mean we can assume that this ability was never leveraged against him.

If Crowley knew that they were going to do this to his friend, he would have tried to stop it. The repeating damsel-rescue motif (in context of the existing, plant-based evidence of Repetition Compulsion) is a strong indicator that his mission to protect Aziraphale from the memory-wipe failed, and he is living in an endless loop of rescue behavior to try to resolve his guilt about that.

So why wouldn't Crowley tell Aziraphale that his mind was erased?

To properly address that I will need time to write a part 2. But others are welcome to use this as a jumping-off point, please just cite the inspo; it's a little thing that brings me joy ^_^

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the meantime, if you enjoyed this, you may also like:

Why Crowley is Blind to his Yellow Eyes

A Nightingale Sang in 1941

Baraqiel and Azazel

The Erasure of Human!Metatron

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #repetition compulsion #trauma #ptsd #complex ptsd #good omens memory #ivoc #erasure theory

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mejcinta · 3 months

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This scene will definitely be a set up of how Aegon rules (without motivation at first). I think, he still doubts Alicent's words that Viserys approved of him as king. And even if he did believe, he still thinks and feels like he's not cut out for the job and that brews some fear and insecurity.

You can spot some subjects that don't bow in this pic and Otto in the front waiting to steer Aegon. We could see how eager or not Aegon is to address his subjects as well as how he responds to Otto.

It's very probable that the scene of him on the throne here appearing pissed could be when a defiant lord, one of those that have not bowed to him in the throne room shot above, challenges his authority.

I mean, let's face it. Beesbury's death is being kept a secret and his house is probably there to demand answers. Aegon also looks a bit dishevelled, especially his hair...giving the impression he came later than expected and Otto is displeased with him, as well as some of his subjects who were waiting.

Should one of the lords speak out against Aegon, he could order they be detained, against Otto's directive not to do so. Aegon could use that chance to spurn Otto's control and show his subjects he's capable of ruling with an iron fist. Defiance will not be tolerated.

Ruling as King will begin as a game for Aegon, using power to serve vegeance to anyone that mistreated him, especially Otto, and maybe Alicent to a lesser extent.

However, Blood and Cheese could be the incident that finally thrusts Aegon into reevaluating the importance of his responsibilities as King. He's been warned by Alicent many times that the lives of his loved ones would be made forfeit if Rhaenyra took the throne. Loss, grief and vengeance will give him the motivation he lacks.

Since episode 9 of season 1 failed to show Aegon accepting to be king so as to protect his family, I imagine s2 will rectify this glaring problem by having Aegon take it upon himself to protect what remains of his family after B&C. Spite, guilt and anger will drive him into being more responsible if not more serious and proactive.

#hotd trailer #hotd season 2 #hotd theories #aegon ii targaryen #king aegon ii #otto hightower #alicent hightower #blood and cheese #helaena targaryen #jaehaerys ii targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #maelor targaryen #helaegon

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madhare0512 · 1 year

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A Comprehensive List of SpideyFist Interactions (pt.4)

hello and welcome back to: reasons Spideyfist is canon. a series where i take you through each episode of The Ultimate Spiderman and show you why i believe that Peter Parker and Danny Rand are dating in canon, or at least that they are each other’s favorites. and also give you commentary on the show itself as i do

warnings for: episode spoilers, season spoilers, action/injury description, unsolicited commentary, probable cussing, violence, caps lock, bullying, mentions of pedophilia

this part features episodes 21 through 26 of season one

~~~

S1E21 I am Spider-Man:

- before i even opened this episode to watch, my brain assaulted me with the plot and i can tell you right now that it was fucked up in more ways than one. Danny’s not really in this episode, so this is probably gonna be headcanon and commentary only and i’m sorry for the commentary you’re about to receive.

- MJ calling creepy guys out on their bs like the queen she is

- also, the fucking Trapster is boarderline pedo

- okay, we all know how Peter feels about his secret identitiy. that’s always been clear through every iteration of Spiderman, Peter Park does NOT want people knowing he is Spiderman. so, what this is to say: when Peter removes his mask on stage and the camera pans to the reaction, there’s shock on MJ, Luke, Ava, and Sam’s faces. but Danny’s not shocked. Danny looks scared. this is gonna be apparent in later parts, but Danny knows how much Peter’s identity means to him, the entire team is fully aware. Danny’s scared for Peter, not shocked it’s him under the mask

- MJ wanting to change the public opinion is so valid

- Coulson is so self-centered in this episode it scares me

- how in the fuck is Spiderman wrong for the part of SPIDERMAN

- Peter’s bully being chosen to play him is ironic

- Sam’s blatant dismissal of Peter’s bullying, also the costume switch, is another reason i ship what i ship. Sam had no right to take Peter’s costume, that he put time and effort into making, and honestly, i don’t blame Peter for being angry about this

- JJJ really just has a grudge a Peter at this point

- the understudy list is so fucking wrong. also, it shows how much Coulson DOESN’T know Spiderman. Sam is on the list after Flash, Ava after him, Miles Morales next, then Peter. you wanna know who’s NOT on that list? either of the other two people specifically mentioned ealier in the season to be quite similar to Spiderman by Taskmaster. bull-fucking-SHIT

- honorable mentions of poly!team: Danny, Luke, Sam, and Ava show up to support Peter (or laugh at him, but they could’ve just watch a video for that)

- Peter does his job to the best of his ability, even against Flash

- Peter’s the fucking best at speeches

- Peter’s gonna look less like the real thing, which is something else that goes towards his secret identity

- in the team line up, Peter says Danny’s name first

- Danny’s the first one with an inkling that this fight may actually be real, doesn’t count towards SpideyFist, but it does show how observant and smart he is

- “is there some chance that’s the real Spiderman?” Danny knows exactly what Peter looks like when he fights and exactly how he acts as Spiderman, which counts because you have to be paying attention a LOT for that kind of memorization, he dismisses it, probably because of May distracting him, but it’ll bug him until he’s proven right

- headcanon: Danny always knows when Peter’s in a fight from here on out. he’s constantly got a line of his attention focussed on Peter in some way

- Coulson just pisses me off this episode

- the second-hand embarrassment was so real this episode, i had so much of it. i nearly turned the episode off like six times, kid you not

- of course Ava’s worried about sitting out an actual fight

- Flash being a good guy for all of five seconds

~~~

S1E22 The Iron Octopus:

- Danny’s also not in this episode, so it’s headcanon and commentary

- ah, second Deadpool mention

- happens all the fucking time, apparently, Peter

- huh, i don’t remember this episode well

- nope, nevermind, yes i do

- Peter doesn’t like guns, which likely comes from trauma relating to Ben

- Iron Man no longer has a head

- Tony destroys his own tech regularly, which is kinda funny when you look at it through the “he gets mad when his armor is broke” lense

- two rich guys, one his best friend’s father and the other his mentor. looks at my SpideyFist lists ...man, Peter just attracts rich guys, huh?

- among the things i don’t blame Doc Ock for are being so utterly pissed off at Norman.

- “might want to sit this one out, doc” Peter being so protective of Dr. Connors is adorable on all levels

- knowing what i know now about the team and how the SHIELD thing works for them specifically, i think it’s fucking weird how little Fury calls on them. they’re supposed to be training to be heroes, correct? how are they supposed to learn if they don’t get real-word experience. is it that they aren’t ready? but Peter is? idk maybe i read too much into this. also, what’s the team doing right now that they can’t go and help in this situation with Doc Ock is attacking the hellicarrier?

- WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL THEM ALREADY YOU FUCKING DUMBASS

- Peter’s done things to villains that would apparently see him strung up

- Osborn’s manipulation thing is disgusting

~~~

S1E23 Not a Toy:

- “i need back up! front up? side up?” Iron Fist appears out of the fog and yes this freaking counts

- “tell me you’re not freaking out and maybe i’ll calm down!” translation: Danny is the most zen and chill guy Peter knows, if he’s freaking out, then Peter knows this is something worth freaking out over

- the second Peter lands, he’s trying to find Danny

- Coulson, i’m pretty sure there are stronger people than Cap around

- Danny and Peter are standing next to each other after a battle again!

- Peter fighting until his last breath to get Cap for one more round just because he and the team are excited about it

- the absolute SHOCK on their faces when Steve puts his shield on the line to keep

- listne, Peter just wants JJJ to stop being so cruel to him and that’s a very valid goal

- Danny lasting more than two seconds in a fight against Captain America when he’s still a trainee and having not trained as long as Cap has. AND landing a solid hit on him

- something i think shows since the beginning is that Danny is always well prepared when fighting against Peter or his fighting style. we know from later episodes that they have a weekly sparing session, but we don’t know how far back it goes. given that it’s pretty far into season 1, i think it goes back far enough, like definiately mid-season 1 at least

- Danny, who’s been trained in a multitude of weapons, knowing EXACTLY how dangerous that shield can be

- i’m not saying Sam ratted Peter out, but i am saying he’s the one quickest to blame Peter for things.

- headcanon: this version of Captain America can look at someone and know exactly what they’re capable of and the potential they have

- “know the fight” is a piece of advice i try to live by these days

~~~

S1E24 Attack of the Beetle:

- Danny’s not in this episode, no notable interactions. and unfortunately, at this time, i don’t have the energy to provide more commentary, so headcanons you’ll get.

- headcanon: Peter doesn’t believe he’s going to get good things (until, you know, the team and Danny), but he does believe he deserves them

- Peter things his aunt and Coulson shouldn’t go out because Coulson isn’t COOL oh my god

~~~

S1E25 Revealed:

- guys, gals, and nonbinary pals, i have a small confession. i’ve been waiting for this episode since i started this plot. this one and a few others are pretty big for Spideyfist. one of those episodes is Strange Days, this is the next one on the list. i apologize for nothing about what i’m about to do

- celebrating the small things

- Danny doesn’t pull Peter away from things. to my knowledge and so far to where i’m at in USM, Danny’s never called Peter in. Ava has, Sam has, and now Luke, but Danny hasn’t. which i’m counting because it means Danny doesn’t want to pull Peter away from his “me time” or his friends

- i feel awful for Harry in this moment. his best friend and his father have both abandoned him

- when Klaw is about to attack Peter while his back is turned, Danny comes barrelling in immediately to make sure Peter stays safe. and the thumbs up they give each other is adorable

- Peter and Danny are standing next to each other during a battle again. i should binge USM and take a shot of chocolate milk whenever this happens, just to see how long it takes me to get a sugar high

- “let’s take ‘em out!” aaaaaaaand Danny’s the first one to follow the order

- “try to maintain calm, friend.” right after you just went and punched the robot so hard it fucking exploded?

- gee, i fucking wonder where Spiderman is. y’all didn’t watch him, so the bad guy snatched him

- also, Sam and Luke look in one direction confused, but Danny looks AROUND in a panic

- headcanon: Danny may not be the first one out the door, but he’s right on Ava’s heels

- ah yes, the Goblin serum

- headcanon: Peter has lightning scars

- Danny is right there at the front, closest to the way this little bot is going. he talks about having patience like he needs to remind himself that he need to be patient, which counts as being very worried about Peter

- “eventually it’ll lead us to Spiderman.” not “to the person who has Spiderman”, not “to where we need to go” both of which would’ve been more in character with Danny not even two episodes ago. “it’ll lead us to Spiderman”

- Danny moves first to go after the robot. almost desperate, like he NEEDS to get to Peter

- you know, for all Doc Ock rants about being a great scientist, he sure doesn’t do well at the whole “creation i can control” thing

- who’s the first one to jump down into the fight to help Peter? Danny’s the first one to jump down into the fight to help Peter

- and Peter’s talking directly to Danny instead of the rest of the team again

- oh, look at that, Danny walks up to get a closer look at the new creature formed and who does he stand behind (protecting his back while also knowing he’s going to be protected)? Peter, it’s Peter. of COURSE it’s Peter

- hey remember when i said back in like part 2 that Danny only talks himself up twice? i was mistaken, it’s just the once. Danny’s saying they should’ve stayed and finished the fight. but why would he do that, this is a new creature, they don’t know it’s power set. well maybe it’s because Doc Ock stole his boyfriend and he’s a little touchy about that.

- also, Peter says “we’re drawing it out” and lemme just flashback to Damage Control when Luke and Danny’s plan was to draw the assailant out

- in the fucking fight. in the fucking Green Goblin fight, who gets hurt first? Luke. Luke, who’s been electricuted and is not getting up, who Danny and Ava where both worried about depsite having trained with and understanding his powerset. and who does Peter go to when injured? NOT LUKE. NOPE! no, no, no, Danny gets smacked into a wall and Peter goes to Danny instead

- “Iron Fist! Stay with me buddy!” other teammates getting hurt and knocked out around him

- AND PETER STAYS THERE WITH DANNY UNTIL GOBLIN TAKES A STEP TOWARDS HIS DIRECTION! TOWARDS PETER WHO’S RIGHT NEXT TO DANNY

- you wanna know something else? Peter’s all quips and wit until someone fucks with the team. like this is the first serious battle where we see the team get hurt to the point that they aren’t getting back up. Peter isn’t saying any quips, he’s not using those one-liners he’s so famous for. what does he say to Goblin when Goblin makes towards his fallen teammates? he says, “you sick freak.” this isn’t a game to him, and that’s not his best friend’s dad anymore, that’s the person who hurt his team. that’s not Norman Osborn, that’s the Green Goblin.

- he’s also not holding back. you see him giving EVERYTHING he can. “i should beat you into a paste!” like it’s something Peter can DO without trying. Peter’s fucking terrifying under the quips and the sarcasm and rookie-ness

- and STILL he extends help to Goblin. even after he beat Peter’s team up, even after causing pain and injury to the people Peter considers family, he still says, “let me help you”

- “sorry, Mr. Osborn, but my team? they’re like my family. and if i have to take you out to save them, then that’s what i’m gonna do” FUCK

- the fact that the team is literally carrying each other out is something awful and terrifing. i didn’t watch this episode when it first came out, and watching it now as an adult just sinks it in that we’re meant to view Goblin as an Ultimate Adversary

- Peter blames himself because of course he does

- Danny’s the only one facing away from Peter when the camera pans to the team when Peter says “everyone i care about”, i know i talked about how Danny doesn’t like letting people see him vulnerable or weak. he’s supposed to be a king, a leader, of course he doesn’t want someone to see him injured. this goes DOUBLE for Peter, Danny’s leader.

- Peter cuts the team coughcoughDannycoughcough out of his life to keep them safe but of course we know that won’t work. their leader sets an awful example

~~~

S1E26 The Rise of Goblin:

- Peter, babe, that’s not healthy, you gotta sleep

- Peter is shocked to see his team, despite knowing that his team would literally follow him to the end

- “what are you guys doing?” following their leader, dumbass

- do i think Spideyfist broke up this arc? no. but i do think their relationship was a little strained. they had to work it out.

- and despite not wanting his team in the middle of this, he lets them hold Goblin off while he gets Harry out of danger

- “it’s that serious?” no, Harry, it’s all a practical joke being played on you by Spiderman and his team to fuck with you

- Danny is the first one to try and convince Peter that he needs the team and Peter gives Danny his full attention

- Peter gets after Ava, Sam, and Luke for being at the fight, but not Danny who was also there. Peter literally doesn’t even LOOK at him during the fight except for when Danny’s talking directly to him

- “nobody. and i mean NOBODY hurts my friends.” and we’re back to Peter being all business

- hey guess what. Peter and Danny where walking next to each other after a fight again.

- camera pans over to Sam when he speaks and shows Sam and Danny instead of just Sam

- Peter says stop and Danny (and Luke) is right there to enforce Peter’s rules

- GUESS WHO’S RIGHT BEHIND PETER AS THEY’RE GEARING UP TO FIGHT AGAIN

- do i even need to say it at this point? becaue Fury may have been right behind Peter but Danny was a step behind Fury and that fucking MEANS SOMETHING

- the SECOND Gobling starts going after Danny, Peter is on his feet and MOVING to take the threat out

- “you wanna know who’s responsible for who i am? my mentors! my friends! my team!” aww, he gives credit to his team, that’s so cute

- Peter doesn’t quip when he’s pissed off at the villain he’s fighting. Goblin not only attacked him and Harry, Goblin attack Peter’s teammates. Goblin hurt Peter’s teammates and that’s a transgression Peter cannot forgive

- honestly, i’m just taking a shot every time Peter and Danny are standing behind or next to each other after, during, or before a battle

- there’s a metaphor here about mental health and how the Goblin is the angriest and darkest part of Norman. Goblin wanting to stay as he is, is kinda like a metaphor for a person who doesn’t want to get help, who wants to stay the way they are dealing with the symptoms and triggers that are part of their mental illness. it’s awful to see, in a way

- “i will find them. all of them!” and Peter’s up on his feet threatening both Goblin and Venom with bodily harm if a single one touches his family

- and this is forshadowing for the season 2 finale

- when Peter is presumed dead after the hellicarrier explodes, Ava, Sam, and Luke all call out for him, they’re worried about who’s gonna tell Aunt May. you know who doesn’t say a word? Danny. you know who doesn’t say a word when someone they love and car about had died? that person's significant other. Danny was speechless

- and when Peter comes back up on the beach, they all look happy and shocked, but Danny? Danny’s face is pure relief

- and WHO EMBRACES PETER FIRST? IT’S DANNY

- and Danny coming in with the comforting advice that makes Peter stop and LISTEN

- and here’s where we find out that the other four heroes actually live on the hellicarrier which once again brings me to the question, where the hell have they been the past season when the hellicarrier was under attack? you don’t see them anywhere else but school or training or mission

- honorable powerspideyfist mentions: Peter (teasingly) insults Ava and Sam, gives Luke and Danny compliments. this also applies to Spideyfist

~~~

and this seasons total Spideyfist count is: 169 interaction out of 26 episode.

thank you so much for reading! season 2 coming soon!

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frogchiro · 3 months

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Hello um, I was the anon who told you that I thought Makarov and Graves were the same person when I was still new

Well I don't have the game nor I have the gadgets to play it to know the lore and I have some questions...

• What's the difference between Makarov and Graves? And who really is the one who killed Soap? (Deeply sorry if anyone seeing this got spoiled)

• Who's Valeria? I've been seeing edits of her and I know she has something to do with bombs in the lore but that's all I know (unfortunately)

• Are KorTac and TF141 enemies or they completely do not know each other at all

• What's the general idea or the summary of the lore of Modern Warfare 2?

It's fine if you can't answer all or some of it, I'm not really trying to dig into the lore but I need some clearance up because sometimes when I read fanfictions about COD, I read stuff that's part of the lore and I have 0 context about it, also I want to show genuine interest in COD because I don't want people to think that I'm just here for the hot characters (I am) Because I don't wanna be *that* type of girl that the COD fandom hates *cough* annoying girl who says she's a fan of COD but has 0 knowledge about the lore *cough*

Again ot's fine if you can't answer some or all of it, just really curious here

-✰anon (can I claim it? :3)

Please don't worry about it and I will happily amswer these tothe best of my knowledge♡

WARNING: MAJOR spoliers under the cut, if someone doesn't want to get spoiled then do not proceed!

I really hope I explained it as well as I can♡

1. Makarov is the main antagonist of Call Of Duty Modern Warfare both the original version and the now reboot although in MW1 he didn't appear at all and wasn't even mentioned, and in MW2 he was a background antagonist. He's the leader of the the Ultranationalist Konni PMC group who want to 'restore glory to Russia' and basically control the world. It was Makarov who killed Soap in both the og series and in the reboot although in the original it was indirectly by an explosion he caused and in the reboot he shot him in the head.

Philip Graves served as an secondary antagonist in MW2. He's the commander and founder of the PMC group Shadow Company and he was working closely with General Shepherd and then 141 during the events of capturing Hassan in Al-Mazrah. He betrayed the 141 on orders from Shepherd and then supposedly died, killed by Soap and Rodolfo Parra from the Mexican Special Forces in the epilogue of MW2 but then in one of the Season Episodes(?) it turned out he didn't die and is still working with Shepherd now to capture Makarov.

He didn't have a role as big in MW3 as he had in MW2 but he returned to work alongside 141 again before he was put on trial together with Shepherd but, as it turned out, he betrayed the general to save his own ass and denied everything he did in MW2.

2) Valeria Garza also known as 'El Sin Hombre' "The Nameless" is a drug lord/cartel lord who was an antagonist in MW2 when 141 worked with the Mexican Special Forces while in Mexico where they hunted for Hassan. She was the one who ruled in Las Almas with an iron fist and helped Hassan to escape from the military/transport the missiles. She was captured and put in prison but in Season 2 (I think) it showed her escaping the prison and for now her whereabouts aren't known.

3) KorTac and 141 as far as in game campaign canon goes they never met or worked together. I don't really know if this is really canon or fanon but as far as we know they're opposite fractions and are enemies.

4) MW2 has quite many storylines, the general main one is that Task Force 141 chase and have to capture Major Hassan Zyani, an Al-Quatala member who wanted revenge for General Ghorbrani, another terrorist who was killed in the prologue. During an attack on a base where Hassan supposedly was, Ghost and Soap discovered american ballistic missiles that had absolutely no business being there.

From there on it was a chase after Hassan and the missiles and how did Al-Quatala get them. It turned out that it was General Shepherd who ordered the missiles moved in an 'under the radar' operation with the help of Shadow Company because he wanted to send them to the Middle East (supposedly to aid Farah Karim) but the convoy who was responsible for moving the missiles was attacked and killed by Konni soldiers who then took them over and ultimately sold to Al-Quatala. Shepherd and Graves covered the incident and because the 141 + Laswell and Mexican Special Forces were close to finding them out, Shepherd ordered Graves to kill them.

Graves was declared K.I.A after Soap and Rudy exploded the tank he was supposedly in and Valeria later admitted that the last missile out of three was heading with Hassan for Chicago where then they moved and ultimately killed Hassan. In an ending scene it was revealed that now 141 are chasing after Vladimir Makarov therefore kickstarting the events of MW3.

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #call of duty mw2 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty mwii #☆anon

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sammygems · 4 months

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Things I Have Noticed/Remembered from my MCDiaries rewatch

I will be updating this as I continue my rewatch, currently everything listed is out of order, cause I've started writing this as I am on episode 64 of season 1 and I don't feel like fixing it to be in order, so sorry!

What the fuck was Garroth's "plan" he mentions to Zenix in the first episode 😭

Zenix seems to be younger then Garroth in Diaries, considering the way that Garroth talks about him, but I think in MyStreet, Zenix is either the same age or slightly older then Garroth, so far this is like, the only obvious age difference between the series (besides Travis and everyone else of course)

I forgot how entertaining Brendan's character is, he's far less annoying then I remembered

ZANE AS AN ACTUAL BAD PERSON, I LOVE HIM

I love Vylad, but I legit forgot how much he was in Diaries season 1, I thought he was in it far less

Currently at the stage of Diaries where there is no lgbt+ people, i'm very disappointed by this (we haven't even reached the queerbaiting)

KC's character is....not as bad (racist) as I was expecting, still not great though. I'm choosing to believe that KC is from Tu'lu and Maid Cafes are a thing there, and "Kawaii~Chan" is just a stage name for her work.

Y'all know how Cadenza went missing and she was actually turned into a chicken? Yeah, the way Hayden, Castor, & Laurance talk about her to Aphmau makes it sound like Cadenza is a small child. But then it turns out she's the same age, if not older, then Laurance and Aphmau.

Aphmau should've just made Joh and Hayden lovers, I'm so serious, it would make the whole Cadenza and Laurance being "close like siblings" in season 1 to I think actually being called as siblings in season 2 and in MyStreet a lot easier to understand and make a lot more sense.

Why does Kenmur have like, some sort of romance with all the girls from Meteli??? He was engaged to Sasha and is stated to have feelings for Cadenza.

I love when the episodes open from Sasha's POV, and she goes and talks to Gene and there's just no voices. I love having to pause to read what they're saying. (this point is sarcasm)

The way literally everyone reacted to learning Laurance was blind was....icky. Like, I understand Cadenza and Aphmau reacting as like "we need to find a way to bring his sight back", but the fact that it was literally EVERYONE who decided he needed to get his sight back was so weird.

I don't mind Laurance ACTUALLY getting his sight back, but I wish it was done differently. Like, personally, I'd have him like, have to wash his face with the water of the fountain of Lady Irene.

Emma & Corey, Dale & Molly, and Logan & Donna are very sweet couples.

After Zoey and KC were able to turn Cadenza back to her human form, Zoey mentions that she "recognizes Cadenza from somewhere", but I don't think this goes anywhere???? I'm assuming it was supposed to hint at like, Cadenza's backstory.

ngl, I kinda wish we got more of Zane and Kiki's relationship, I really wanna know what side of Zane Kiki actually saw.

Anyway, Kiki is currently expecting.

Nicole (my beloved) has showed up. I've decided I won't question the logic behind her iron fists being able to break bedrock, and instead say that her referencing her iron fists just made me think of Ace from One Piece and Natsu & Gajeel from Fairy Tail.

I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT NICOLE'S FOX, ROXY, AND ABOUT THE WYVERNS IN GENERAL 😭

I need to mention that in one episode (before Aphmau went to Scaleswind and learned about Lady Irene), Garroth says to Aphmau "by the seven", which I think she was hurt, but the use of "by the seven" is similar to how the same phase would be used in Game of Thrones or to how irl lots of people say "oh my god", so I'm really wondering if there were originally supposed to be 7 Divine Warriors instead of 6.

The way when Aphmau found Levin and decided to keep him and Garroth IMMEDIATLY decided he would be Levin's father figure.

The way when Laurance found out that Aphmau had a kid, his response was to play with Levin and say to Aphmau "you didn't tell me you had this little buddle of joy/energy".

That's all for now, I'll like, update when I have more to add.

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gloomwitchwrites · 5 months

Text

Frozen Ground: Part 2 (Din Djarin x Female Reader)

Content & Warnings: Mandalorian culture, romantic fluff, breeding kink / undertones, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv (it’s fantasy, wrap it up), creampie, multiple positions, happy ending

Word Count: 5k

Din travels to a farming planet to recruit a reclusive group of Mandalorians to help retake Mandalore. The snowy season is starting, and the locals are preparing for their winter observance. While waiting for the Mandalorian covert to come to a decision, Din spends time with the local population, finding a bit of comfort with a particular someone.

A/N: Part of the Winter 2023 Collection

Part 1

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: cyar’ika – darling / sweetheart ka’rta beskar – iron heart mesh’la – beautiful ner dala – my woman riduur – partner / spouse

That evening, after everyone eats, another meeting is held.

Din does not speak during the entire discussion. Right now, his voice is not wanted. They’ve heard him, and they must decide as a covert whether to follow him to Nevarro.

He leans against a wall at the back of the communal area. Grogu is at Din’s feet and periodically reaches out to him with one arm, indicating he wants another berry. Din fishes out the little fruits and hands them one-by-one to Grogu who eagerly stuffs each round berry into his mouth. His little, three-fingered hand is dripping with juice, and the area around his mouth is stained a deep red.

Crix and Jido are with them, standing off to Din’s left, watching the whole affair just like Din. Even though the two men are only acquaintances, their presence is comforting. Mandalorians are strongest together even if they come from different tribes.

So far, most of the meeting has been spent debating. Whoever wants to speak is allowed to, and everyone else must listen without interrupting. Every voice must be heard, which is difficult for any Mandalorian. It is in their nature to act, not to sit around in philosophical thought.

A male Mandalorian in golden armor sits down. Another stands to take his place, beginning their monologue.

Crix leans toward Din and Din turns his head slightly in acknowledgement. “She’s pretty,” murmurs Crix.

“Who?” asks Din flatly, knowing exactly who Crix is referring to.

“Really?” snorts Crix.

Din runs his tongue along his top teeth. “What about her?”

Crix leans in a bit more, lowering his voice. “You should approach her.”

What would be the point? You are not Mandalorian. There is no future there. Din grits his teeth, his hand forming into a fist as he tries to calm himself. Not having you, knowing that he cannot be with you, is a gut-punch. The Way of the Mand’alor always comes first.

“Why?” Din keeps his tone neutral. “She is not Mandalorian. How would that work?” The words coming out of his mouth feel hollow. Din is almost resentful of them.

Crix laughs softly, and one of the nearby Mandalorians listening turns around abruptly. Crix waits until their attention returns to the middle of the room. “Why should it matter whether she is Mandalorian? Several of our tribe were once members of the very same farming community. To walk the path of a Mandalorian is often a lonely one. Why not make it a bit less so?”

Din shakes his head, not understanding. “This is common for your tribe?”

Crix shrugs. “Yes. Is it not with yours?”

Din steps around Crix’s question by asking one of his own. “But you don’t remove your helmets?” Even with the helmet on, Din can sense the confusion on Crix’s end.

“I’m not sure what life is like for your tribe,” says Crix slowly. “For us, we only remove our helmets in front of immediate family. That includes our riduur and our younglings.” Crix glances down at Grogu and adds, “or foundlings.” He sighs. “This is the Way.”

Jido, who has mostly been quiet this whole time softly repeats it back.

Crix nudges Din’s arm with his elbow. “You don’t need to remove your helmet to make a youngling.”

The very idea of Din doing such a thing with you warms him everywhere and sends blood rushing to his groin. He needs to stop focusing on this and focus on the betterment of all Mandalorians.

The same Mandalorian who turned around minutes ago does it again, glaring behind their helmet.

Din pays them no mind, returning his attention toward the middle of the room. There are plenty of members of the tribe who vehemently disagree with returning and many more who wish to go. Each Mandalorian who stands and speaks has a solid point. They all have a clear and thoughtful response to Din’s message.

And nothing is solved. No one comes to an agreement.

Din will be here longer than expected if this the rate they’re moving. He hasn’t even contacted Bo-Katan to give her an update. What can he tell her? That he has made no progress?

When the covert ends discussions and begins to break apart, Din picks Grogu off the floor, tucking the foundling close to his heart.

“Sleep well, Din Djarin,” says Crix, tipping his helmet in a goodbye. “I’ll come by in the morning.”

Crix stays true to his word, and this time, Din brings Grogu with him. Jido, Ran, and Cerra all tag along as well. They respectfully keep their distance, mostly focusing on walking the streets and keeping an eye on the settlement.

Snow falls in light swells from the sky, and covers the tops of the buildings. Grogu coos, his little hand reaching toward the flakes as he tries to catch them. Every time he does, and he draws his hand to his face for a look, the snowflakes have melted.

Grogu’s ears droop as he presents his hand to Din.

“You run too warm. Melts when it touches you,” replies Din to Grogu’s silent question.

Grogu’s head tilts to the side and then he’s back to watching the falling snow.

Crix draws up to Din side. “Are you going to approach her?”

Din sighs, unsure of how to answer. He wants to, but his obligation to his tribe and his people gives him pause.

Crix nods at Din’s silence, and then tips his helmet toward the right. “Whatever you’re thinking about, decide fast because she’s heading your way.”

Din immediately straightens, his helmet pivoting to locate you. There is a soft, unsure, almost demure smile on your face.

“Is this little one yours?” you ask.

“This is Grogu.”

At the sound of his name, Grogu perks up, his ears flaring slightly.

“Hello, Grogu,” you croon. With delicate movements, you gently clasp Grogu’s small hand and shake it in greeting. Grogu’s coo is a pleased one, and Din carefully wraps this memory up for safekeeping.

You let go of Grogu’s hand and look up into Din’s t-shaped visor. He knows that you cannot see his face, but yet he still feels vulnerable under your stare. Your attention pleases him.

“May I seek your assistance with something?” you ask, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Anything,” says Din automatically.

Crix and Ran snort. Cerra punches Ran in the arm and shushes them both.

You shrug sheepishly. “I know you’re a Mandalorian and you’re used to more…strenuous work.” Someone snorts after the word strenuous, and then Cerra is shushing the other Mandalorians again. “But most of the women who usually help me are unavailable,” you continue. “They have other matters to attend to, and I could really use the help. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

You sigh, relief spreading across your face. It’s beautiful, and Din has to resist reaching out to brush the curve of your bottom lip.

“I’ll take the young one,” says Crix, stepping up to Din.

For a brief moment, Din doesn’t want to hand Grogu over, but Crix’s reasons for doing so suddenly come flaring to life in Din’s mind. Crix keeps pushing him to be alone with you. Deciding to take the chance, Din slowly removes the strap of the bag from over his shoulder, handing the precious bundle over to Crix.

Grogu makes a little sound and then Crix, Jido, Ran, and Cerra are walking away. Din watches them go. When they disappear around a corner, you lead Din to the small building where you placed the necklace around his neck and kissed his cheeks. As you lead him inside, Din sees that no one else is there.

There are only two illuminated lights along with the uncovered window. Under the window is a heater that pumps in warm air. There are several of those canvas bags stacked in the middle room of the room Din noticed the other day.

“I need help separating the flowers from the nettle. It’s time consuming and the young boys who went out this morning to gather it all didn’t take their time. It’s all jumbled together.” Your hands move in the air as you explain, almost like it’s a nervous habit. It’s cute, and Din doesn’t realize how close he’s actually standing to you until one of your wandering arms knocks into his chest plate.

He steps back as your gaze softens. Separating flowers from nettle seems like a vacation compared to Din’s usual work. “I’m happy to help,” he says, meaning every word.

You gaze drops to a point near his waist. “You still have the one I gave you.”

Din looks down at the Daily Strand attached to his hip. “Yes.”

“We replace a new one each day. I can do that now if you like?”

Din shakes his head. “Afterward.” It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to say, because Din wants to say yes. He wants you to put another one around his neck and receive your kisses even if he cannot feel them against his skin.

You guide him to one of the bags, and the two of you kneel next to them. The bags are heavy, nearly overflowing, but Din selects one and begins sorting. He understands what you mean the moment he opens one up. It’s an absolute mess.

The nettle is sharp, even Din can feel it through his gloves, and you’re working without any. He sees the flinch, notices your gentle recoil from the constant poking. You try to hide it, and when your fingers bleed, you attempt to discreetly mask the red that blooms on your fingers.

“Do you have gloves?”

“No,” you reply, shaking your head. “And I can’t seem to locate a spare from anyone. It’s not bad. Really.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Din reaches out but you pull back.

He’s having none of it. Din grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, but the momentum is too great. You go tumbling into his lap. Din’s back hits the floor and your hands fly out to steady yourself, landing on his chest.

The two of you hang suspends like this. There is Din flat on his back and you straddling his hips, hands firmly planted on his chest, your face dangerously close to his helmet. Din’s hands float in the air on either side of you.

You and Din linger like this until the reality of the position seeps in. Din doesn’t drop his hands to his sides or try to lift you off his lap. Instead, his hands drift closer, resting on your hips. When you do not pull away, Din’s hand slide lower, squeezing your thighs. The little sound you make goes straight to his groin.

He immediately sits up, but he does not allow you to slide off his lap. Din won’t let you get away. One of his arms slides behind your waist, securing you against him, drawing you closer. Idling in this closeness, every temptation to run away with you scorches in Din’s blood.

Yet it is you that speaks first. “I’m not really in the mood for sorting flowers anymore,” you murmur.

“I’m not either,” answers Din, his voice raspy and low.

You lick your lips, and his gaze follows it. “There’s a backroom.”

By the time the suggestion is leaving your mouth, Din is already up, keeping you against him. “Show me,” he growls, no longer able to contain the fire burning within his blood.

You nod in the direction of the back wall. Din’s helmet turns and he sees the panel. Din strides forward, legs pumping as he keeps you aloft with one hand while smashing the button for the door. It slides open and Din steps in with you.

It’s cramped, more of a storage space than anything. There is a plain table pushed against the wall, and a full shelving unit next to it. Din deposits you on the table, his gloved hands reaching for your hips. Din is eager. He has you alone.

He moves closer, stepping into the space your spread legs create, sliding an arm around your waist. Din’s helmet dips forward, and he breathes in your scent, sighing.

You are not immune. You tuck yourself against his chest, leaning into his touches, and Din is downright prideful. This is your reaction to him. You are warm and comforting, a small source of light that Din wishes to carry with him whenever he is in the dark.

To sink into you, to lose himself entirely, would be a gift.

Din’s hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. Slowly, the tips of your fingers trace the edge of his chest plate. Then, they drift up, running along the edge of his helmet.

“Is this okay?” you ask softly. You do not reach out to remove his helmet. Other women have tried to, and Din always has to draw their hands away from him.

“Yes,” he murmurs, and your gentle smile spurs him to action.

Din does not linger on your hips. He explores and touches, running his gloved hands over bare and covered skin. The skirts of your dress are up around your thighs, and Din takes this opportunity to slip his hand underneath the fabric.

The moment he makes contact with your inner thigh, you inhale sharply, fingers digging into his arms where there is no armor. The way you cling to Din pleases a primal part of him. He wants to possess you, to draw you into himself until he alone can call you his.

But the touch is not enough. Din needs closeness. He needs skin against skin.

Tearing his hand away from your thigh, Din pulls on the fingers of his glove until the fabric gives. He tosses it onto the table, and returns his now bare hand to your inner thigh. You both groan, and Din squeezes your flesh, reveling in your warmth.

He wants to be inside you. His body is blazing, calling out for you like oxygen.

Din’s fingers drift closer until his middle finger parts your sex. The tip of his finger catches on your entrance, and it’s very clear to Din just how wet you are.

Something inside him snaps. Burns bright. Neither of you are leaving this room until he’s claimed you properly.

Din draws the wetness up, dragging it over you until he finds the thing he’s seeking. He swirls the tip of his finger around your clit. Your own fingers dig into him deeper, your lips parting slightly as you inhale.

“Mesh’la,” murmurs Din, as he slides his finger inside.

You moan loudly, head tipping backward as he begins to pump his hand between your legs. The hem of your dress is bunched and covering up his view. The desire to rip your clothing from your body roils up unbidden, and it takes every molecule of control for Din not to follow through.

Your legs fall open wider, and the hem of your dress stretches, exposing you to Din’s gaze. Now that he can watch, Din is unable to look away. He is enraptured with the way his finger disappears inside your welcoming body, only to retreat, coated in glossy wetness.

Unable to help himself, Din inserts a second finger, curling them slightly to hit that sweet spot deep inside you. It pleases Din, but it’s not enough. He rotates his wrist and presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing in slow circles.

It isn’t until you’re clenching around him, whimpering, that Din realizes you’re falling apart. Your moans are sweet, and Din doesn’t stop moving until your body starts to relax. He holds his fingers inside of you while your chest heaves.

“Can I keep touching you, cyar’ika?” asks Din, his helmet dipping until his forehead almost rests against your own.

You nod frantically. “Please.”

Your desire to continue, the need to keep going also fuels his own. Din strokes his thumb across your clit. It’s the perfect flick, and you tense up, squeezing around him. Din is pleased at how easily you fall apart for him.

Din does not pause. He keeps going until the muscles in your legs tense and involuntarily clamp around his hips. Your hips jerk with aftershocks, and you slip, falling onto your elbows as your eyelids flutter with pleasure.

“You’re teasing me,” you groan.

“Am I?” Din asks innocently, his thumb stroking against your clit yet again. He is a man on a mission. He wants you wet. Dripping. Ready.

The only response you manage to muster is another groan, and this is enough for Din. He continues to pump those two fingers in and out until your wetness coats the top of the table beneath you.

If he weren’t wearing his helmet, Din would taste you. He wants to understand your taste, to put his fingers in his mouth to know your flavor. He wants to imprint it on his memory. He never wants to forget. Whether the two of you can truly be together is irrelevant. This moment—this interaction—is enough for Din if it is all he can have with you.

But Din does not taste you. Instead, he coaxes you toward another orgasm, guiding you toward it until you fall over the edge, smashing into the ground below in a wordless, choked, cry. Your back arches, hips rolling outward, meeting his fingers until the wordlessness leaves you and you’re openly begging.

Din gently removes his fingers and holds them up before his face. The glossy pleasure drips onto his knuckles and the back of his hand. While you cannot see his face, Din is watching yours, and the way you observe him through half-closed eyelids, a beautifully lusty gaze settling over your features.

With exaggerated slowness, Din tugs on the hidden zipper at the front of his flightsuit. Once it’s undone, he guides it open, unsheathing his cock. It’s been aching and hard this entire time, and he uses the wetness on his fingers to coat himself.

Your lips part, form a soft o. Then his hands are on your hips, guiding you to the very edge of the table, lining himself up, the tip pressing but not venturing further.

“May I?” asks Din softly, not understanding this odd feeling in his chest. It’s a fear of rejection, as if you’ll take everything back and push him away.

The smile on your lips tells Din everything he needs to know before you even speak. “Please. I want this. I want you.”

At your gentle plea, Din surrenders. You’re so wet, Din glides right in. You groan, your legs falling wider to accommodate him.

“Ner dala,” murmurs Din, thrusting gently as your warmth stretches to accommodate him.

He rolls his hips until you take more and more of him. It’s only when Din is completely inside of you that he pauses, holding there as your walls flutter and flex. It sends Din’s limbs into coiling tension.

Din’s next thrust hits deep. He impales you, sheathing himself entirely. He holds there for only a moment, one hand moving to your stomach to keep you firmly in place as you fall back against the table.

He stretches forward, resting one hand on your stomach while the other presses into the table next to your head. Din anchors himself, leans forward, and groans at the feeling of your body adapting to accommodate his change in position.

It’s kriffing sinful, and now Din understands why the local covert has absorbed some of the local planet’s citizens. If this were his life, he’d convince you to take the Creed, to join with him, and be by his side.

Then, he has is way with you, setting a pace that has you begging for him. You take him in, pussy stretching around and squeezing him. Din is relentless, hips rolling forward and back until the table creaks and bangs against the wall. Your fingers grab and pull at him, and your desperate need to touch him only fuel’s Din’s desire more.

Din’s brain is buzzing, his body screaming for release. You’ve lost your words, the little pleas falling from your lips now transformed into sharp exhalations. But you are wanton, and Din catches sight of your hand sliding between your bodies, fingers searching for your clit. When you do find it, it only takes a few flicks and then Din feels you clamping down around him, squeezing, drawing him further into your body.

“Kriffing hell,” groans Din, grinding forward, his hand sliding away from your stomach to grab onto your hip. He needs to anchor himself somehow or he’ll be quick to follow.

Your hand slips away, and then Din resumes, knowing that his end will come swiftly.

“Say my name, cyar’ika. Beg for me. Tell me you're mine.”

“Din,” you moan, legs locking around his back. “Please. I’m yours.”

Din rolls his hips a few more times and still, creating a seal as he empties himself inside you. His hand against the table slips, and Din goes down on an elbow, trapping you against the table as his breathing become heavy and labored.

The two of you cling to each other, and Din is reluctant to let go.

One of your legs starts to slip and Din catches it, guiding it softly back to the table. You place your hands on his chest and push slightly, indicating you want to sit up.

Groaning, Din slides out of your body, immediately wanting your warmth again. Before your dress can fall over the mess, Din glimpses the pearly white of his release pooling at your entrance.

The skirts of your dress fall into place, and Din pretends like he wasn’t just gazing on the results of your mating. He discreetly tucks himself back into his flightsuit as you fidget with the sleeves of your dress.

Are you nervous? Embarrassed? Din hopes not. He isn’t ashamed of what the two of you did. With gentle tenderness, Din guides you off the table and onto your feet. You’re a little wobbly and Din is immediately alert.

“Did I harm you?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “No. Of course not.” Your gaze drops to your feet but he catches your flustered lopsided grin.

Din simmers with smugness behind his helmet. He returns his glove to his hand, only to reach out and tug on a strand of your hair in a playful gesture. You immediately step into him, and Din sees this as a victory.

“May I have that Daily Strand you offered.”

“Of course,” you murmur, sliding your hand in his.

“The two of you made a youngling.”

Din turns on Crix. “We did not make a youngling.”

“You sure? I can smell—”

Din holds up a hand. “Be careful of your next words.”

Crix throws his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m happy for you. Really. Us Mandalorians struggle to grow in number.”

Crix isn’t entirely wrong. Once the two of you returned to the main room to keep sorting, it wasn’t long before Din had you pinned beneath him, moaning his name. You make him vulnerable, and while in any other situation Din would despise that, with you, he enjoys it. With you, he doesn’t feel judged or unwanted. It’s a different kind of want Din feels with his tribe. They value his skills, but you value him for everything else.

This meeting is just as unproductive as yesterday’s. There is no progress, but Din is thankful there isn’t a regression. After all this, he doesn’t want to return to Bo-Katan without this tribe in tow. They are a fairly large covert, easily numbering in the hundreds.

The next day, Din is right back with you, sneaking off to your private home on the very edge of the settlement.

“Hold on to me, cyar’ika. Don’t let go.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his flightsuit, and your forehead rests against his helmet. Your warm breath fogs the beskar with each exhalation.

Din reclines in a large chair with you straddling him, knees pressed into the cushion of the chair. Din grips your hips, guiding them forward and back, gliding you up and down his cock.

Those delicate fingers of your slide upward, curling around the edge of the flightsuit, pulling until there is a faint sliver of skin. Din does not stop you. Your mouth presses against that flesh. Kissing, sucking, nipping over and over until Din is bouncing you on him, his head falling back to revealing more of that skin to you.

Your mouth opens, comes down on his throat, sucking, and Din groans loudly, slamming your hips down on him as he finishes. When you pull away, Din is quick to lift you out of the chair and into his arms, moving toward the small bed in the corner.

You giggle the whole way, and then shriek in playful surprise when he tosses you down onto the bedding. It isn’t long until Din guides you onto your hands and knees, sliding back inside.

He wants to stay here, to linger with you, but he knows that this will end. That he will have to leave. But for now—for the moment—Din will enjoy the time he does have.

That is how it goes. For almost two weeks, the covert debates, and between their debates, Din goes to you, falling into your arms with eagerness. Then it all comes to a crashing halt. It is a blow that Din knows is coming and yet still takes him by surprise.

“We will join Lady Bo-Katan Kryze’s efforts to reclaim Mandalore.” Vikal stands with the other leaders of the tribe, addressing Din in the early morning light.

“When can we leave?”

“Immediately,” answers Vikal. “Within the next few hours.”

“I will contact Nevarro and tell them to expect us.”

Vikal and the other leaders place their clenched fists over their hearts, bowing slightly. Din does the same. As they depart, Crix steps up beside Din, watching them walk away.

“Would you like to go to her?” asks Crix. “Tell her you’re leaving?”

“Is there time?”

Crix nods. “I’ll see that you get it.”

When Din arrives at the farming settlement, and locates your home, it’s a slash across his heart. As he steps inside and sees you there, standing to greet him, Din’s resolve starts to faulter. He is not immediately walking toward you, and as you realize this, your face falls, concern replacing the joy.

“You have to leave,” you say simply.

“I do.”

“For your tribe?”

“For my people.”

You glide across the floor like a phantom. As you draw close, you lift your hand, and press your palm against the side of Din’s helmet. He leans into it, his own hand cradling yours.

“Then go, with all my love leaving with you.”

Din shakes his head. “You cannot give that to me.”

“My love is for me to share. And I place it with you.” Your other hand gently rises and then rests against the ka’rta beskar, the iron heart in the middle of every Mandalorian’s chest plate.

Slowly, Din removes your hand from his helmet, only to press it against the spot where his lips would be if he weren’t wearing it. Din reaches out, draws you against him, the two of you standing in that little room in quiet contemplation.

Din is reluctant to leave, but he pulls away, aching within his heart with every step.

The Great Forge burns bright and hot.

The uncovered faces around Din glow with pride. They are stained with joyful tears. While Din also feels the same, while he also feels victorious and proud of his people, there is one person that lingers in the recesses of his thoughts.

Of the last Daily Strand he received, there is only a single petal left. Din keeps it tucked inside a pocket of his flightsuit, and when no one is watching, he removes it, rubbing the delicate petal softly between his fingers.

The deed is done. Mandalore belongs to the Mandalorians again, but there is still a missing piece within Din. A shape that is simply an empty hole. Bo-Katan told him he is not obligated to stay, but that his presence is a welcome one.

Din watches from the back of the crowd, and decides that he needs to do what is best for him.

The N1 lands on frozen ground.

It is deep winter on Itera, and the snow crunches beneath his boots. The people walking around all greet him like the first time he stepped beyond the wall. Din knows the path. He knows where to go.

When he stands before your door, he hesitates, unsure if he should just go inside. He almost debates turning back, and he does, briefly.

“Din?”

His voice is a question. It is you, asking. Din glances over his shoulder and then turns his upper body in the direction of your voice. There is a momentary pause, a second where everything stands still.

The basket in your hand falls, and then the two of you are falling into the snow together. You are real and warm and wonderful in his arms.

“You came back,” you whisper, your breath turning to steam in the air.

Din tugs you closer, presenting the petal he’s kept all this time. Your lips pull back into a wide grin that stretches toward your ears.

“I need a new one.”

You lean in. Kiss the beskar helmet on the right and then left side. “Is that all you want?”

Din’s gloved hand brushes against the curve of your jaw. “No. It’s not everything.”

Part 1

taglist:

@padawancat97 @foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @garfunklevibes2012 @tiredmetalenthusiast @dameron-grant-spector @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @kayden666 @enfppixie

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