#like. marks that looks like eyes on his arms. markings in the shape of wings on his back. it makes no sense whatsoever but by god I love it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

monstrousvoice · 23 days

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Bar Snack

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Relationship: Husk X Female Reader

AN: It is 4am and I wake up. I see this post and am struck with the desire to write smut.

I do so.

Tags: PWP, Female Reader, Reader has a vulva, Cunnilingous, Sex in a Public Space, Daddy Kink, Mentions of Husk being on the chubbier side, If I missed any tags please let me know

Read on AO3!

“J-just hold still, alright?”

“You mister, have had too much!” You laugh, even as you let Husk manhandle you onto the bar top. The tips of his claws prick at the soft flesh of your hips and the sting has you biting your lip and hissing in pleasure. Husk's ears twitch and rotate to face you, taking in every noise you make. His golden eyes lock on to you, pupils dilating and contracting rapidly. He lets out a low growl.

“So what? Just…just need to hear you, need to-...to taste you a little, baby-” He leans forward, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, breathing your scent. You wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him closer to you. You feel his teeth ever so gently graze across your neck, following the coarse feeling of his tongue as he licks you without shame. A sudden nip has your hips bucking towards the counter edge and against his own, your legs wrapping tight around his hips.

You can feel him, his hardening cock slipping out of his sheath and pressing against you. His wings flutter before you, tense with the muscles in his back as Husk makes it his mission to suck a hickey onto every available spot of your neck and shoulders. His claws, still on your hips, dip underneath the edge of the dress you have on, pushing the fabric up to stay bunched up around your waist.

“W-what if-what if someone comes in-?” Your voice is no better than a whisper, your breath stolen by the attention being lavished upon you. Even as you worry, your hand moves from its clawed grip on his shoulder to travel down, and you smirk in victory when you find your prize. You cup Husk's growing bulge, outlining the shape of his hard cock and balls through his pants. You give his balls a gentle squeeze and are rewarded with his hips bucking into your hand, wings flaring, and a bite on your shoulder that does nothing to muffle his possessed growl.

You keen, proud of yourself.

“F-fuckin slut-” He hisses against your tender new mark. “Acting so worried but you go and do that.” His tone is harsh, but the gentle lapping of his tongue shows he's anything but angry.

“Just because my Daddy doesn't-” You moan, interrupted as his paw moves to your cunt and presses. “-m-make the best decisions, doesn't mean I'm not gonna take care of him~” Husk chuckles, a deep, low sound that vibrates through your body. Your hips are moving on their own, rocking your hot core against the fingers still pushing that maddening pressure against you. Your slick is leaking through your panties and you know he can feel it.

“You do take care of me, don't ya baby doll?” The tenderness in his voice is unexpected but not unwelcome. Husk hooks a finger from his free hand under chin, turning you to look him in the eye. “You’re always there for me, bad day or no…my good girl.” His pupils are wide and fuzzy, and the tenderness you see directed at you is almost too much to bear. You practically freeze, locked under those eyes as he leans forward and kisses you with such softness it feels dream-like. You press back, welcoming his affection with a moan of bliss and fluttering eyelashes.

His tongue meets with yours as the fingers pressed against your cunt move again. You feel the pressure ease away and almost whine into the kiss, before feeling his claws hook under the fabric of your panties. The sound of seams ripping hits you, and you're distantly aware that you are, yet again, down another pair of panties. You don't really mind though, not when losing them leads to situations like this.

Husk's claws are back to your drooling slit, tracing up and down with a sort of reverence. Your pussy feels hot and slick, and Husk groans low in his chest when he uses two fingers to spread your lips, your arousal drenching his fingers. He pulls away from kissing you and you pathetically chase after him for more. He presses another quick one to your bruising lips, then another when you keep following after him.

“Alright baby-” He grunts, and you press more kisses to his muzzle, trying to bring him back for more. “C-c’mon sweet girl-no more…” You stop, leaning hard into his chest, the weight of his tummy pressing into yours. You whimper and bite your bottom lip, wanting to protest but knowing better than to do so. You try to plead instead.

“Pl-please daddy? Just, fuck, just a couple more while you f-fuck me? Please?” You grind your cunt against his fingers as you beg, unashamed at the possibility that someone else in the hotel could walk in to find you moaning like a whore for the bartender's touch.

“No baby, no, cause I'm not gonna fuck you-” Your heart drops at his words, desperation and fear immediately setting in. Your mind races with things you could have done to deserve a punishment tonight, and you watch with wide eyes as Husk lowers himself to his knees before you.

“Yet.” He hisses. Relief floods you instantly, and by the mischievous glint in his eye, Husk knows how worked up his words made you. He chuckles and moves his hands to your thighs, cupping them and pushing them apart to give himself a first-class view of your cunt. You bite your bottom lip and look away, closing your eyes as your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. You can feel his paws move closer to your pussy, until his thumbs are suddenly touching. He plays with your lips for a moment, his thumbs spreading your slick everywhere before hooking them and spreading you open.

Your cunt is forced to gape before his eyes, fluttering with arousal despite the mortification burning you alive.

“Fuck, what a pretty cunt. Already this wet from some kisses and rubbing? Heh, you're dripping on the floor at this point.” You whimper and keen, peaking an eye open to look down at him. His eyes are like molten gold as he stares back at you.

“Don't be embarrassed baby girl, it's alright. Daddy’s gonna clean up your mess.” You barely have time to process his words before he leans forward and trails one long lick up your pussy. Your hips buck immediately at the feeling of his rough tongue against you, pushing your hips up into his muzzle.

“S-s-sorry Daddy-!” You whimper, but Husk doesn't stop. He simply wraps one of his thick, heavy arms over your hips and pins you to the bar top, licking away at your cunt like he doesn't have a care in hell. You shudder and gasp, your hips twitching to grind against his mouth for more than rough kitten licks but unable to with his arm pinning you down. The knowledge makes your blood burn hotter, seeing how easy it is for him to control and manipulate your body to his will. His claws dig into the fat of your thigh and hip as he eats you out like a five-star meal.

You feel his tongue wiggle inside, your gummy walls clenching down in response to squeeze a cock that isn't there. Husk lets out a purr in response, the only sound in the hotel bar besides the slick ‘slurp’ noises he makes as he sucks your clit like it's his favorite piece of candy. You can only throw your head back against the bar and endure his assault, wishing that the sweet torture would never end.

“D-Daddy, fuck-! Please, please d-don't stop, please-” Your words start to slur together as you beg for more. You bring a shaking hand from your face to your hips, gripping the paw holding you down like a lifeline. A sharp nip to the hood of your clit has you gasping, sitting up straight to look down at your boyfriend with shock. He doesn't stop, still lapping away at your fluttering cunt. His eyes are hooded, taking in the sight of you sitting above him, losing your mind on his talented tongue. He pulls away from his feast only briefly to rumble a command at you.

“Hold my head baby, don't let go.”

You do as you’re told, taking your hand not holding his and carding it through the fur on top of his head. Husk lets out a pleased rumble before diving back in, suckling your swollen clit without mercy. You cry out, throwing your head back and gasping at the sensation.

You're so close, you can feel the coil in your cunt, the pleasure shooting through your veins that lets you know your orgasm is on its way-you just need-need a little more-

A new sound reaches your ears, wet and slick like the sounds coming from your cunt, but just off ever so slightly-

You look down at Husk, his eyes closed as he loses himself to your taste. You can see his breath steam up as he snorts from his nose, drowning in your smell. Looking down further you see it, past the wonderful thick belly you nuzzle into every night. Husk has undone his pants one handed while eating you out, and his free hand, you hadn't even noticed it leaving your thigh, was fisted around his cock. Pink and red peaked at you from between his fingers as he tried to jerk himself in unison with his mouth as he ate you out. A thick glob of precum was drooling from his cock head, getting swiped up by his thumb to make his hand move slicker, only to be immediately replaced by more.

A full body shudder tore through you at the sight, your own mouth drooling with the desire to have that fat cock shoved down your throat as Husk moaned for you. It was enough, and your cunt squeezed tight around nothing as Husk licked and sucked your clit.

“C-cumming-” You gave a breathless cry, hips bucking in vain against Husk's strong grip, your orgasm tearing through you with an intensity that had your toes curling and thighs squeezing tight around Husk's head. He simply moaned low in response, lost in the feeling of your thighs squeezing and your hand pulling his fur as you lost yourself to him. He continued lapping at your swollen and puffy cunt, making sure not one drop of your cum was forgotten by his tongue. Even as your body fell boneless under him, he kept licking and sucking, moving to the meat of your thighs to leave hickeys and bite marks as you recovered and learned how to be alive again.

“How ya feeling baby doll? Talk to me.” He spoke, his voice sounding gravely and deep even to himself, thick with lust he hasn't had a chance to relieve yet. He tucked his still hard cock back inside his pants, zipping it up just enough to keep himself from popping back out. He stood back up, leaning over your limp body on the tabletop. You gave him a dazed smile from where you lay.

“G-good…thank you Daddy, for letting me cum…” Husk smiled, pulling you in for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue. You whimpered into his mouth as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you off the bar top and into his arms. Your legs wrapped around his hips immediately, your still sensitive pussy being pressed against his hard cock, covered in fabric. He pulled away from your kiss, adjusting you in his grip as he began walking towards the hotel elevator.

“Glad you enjoyed yourself, baby.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek as he walked. “Now, you're gonna be a good doll and let Daddy have his turn, yeah? I need a tight little hole to fuck~” He growled in your ear. You felt the vibrations from his chest travel through your whole body. Despite cumming already, your pussy throbbed at his words, and you moaned.

“Y-yes Daddy, whatever you want-” You managed to whimper, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you to your shared bedroom.

~~~~~~~

The following morning, Husk walked behind the bar to find a note folded with his name on it. He raised a feathered eyebrow, feeling curious as he opened it. It was Charlie's neat cursive.

Husk,

Nifty found a rather…interesting piece of clothing early this morning when cleaning. I frankly don't want to know what you two were doing last night, I don't need details, but I do ask that you clean up after yourselves at least.

Thank you!

Husk snorted, pocketing the note to show you and laugh about later. He supposed now he and the princess were even, considering the sight he had walked in on in the kitchen just a week ago.

#Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel Husk #Hazbin Hotel Husk X Reader #Husk X Reader #Smut #My Writing #I havent written smut in forever and I feel so goddamn rusty at it #please judge with a grain of salt

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klaunee · 2 months

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Wanted to try this again so I made a (very animation-unfriendly) "redesign" of Lucifer Morningstar from Hazbin Hotel! Inspired by P.T. Barnum, Harlequin, puppets, and king cobras while retaining and embellishing the ringmaster and clown motifs of the original.

I tried to create a creepy and fearsome design befitting of the King of Hell! I love the idea of Hell being a circus and him being a ringmaster, and I wish this was explored more in the show.

He displays his angel features - wings and halo - without shame here. He's proud of being a fallen angel and these qualities make him stick out in Hell.

This interpretation of Lucifer is a trickster through and through, and he LOVES Hell. Although jaded about humanity, nothing makes him happier than tempting mortals and damning them to an eternity in his realm.

I put a lot of symbolism in here that I'll elaborate on below:

He has a broken halo befitting of a fallen angel. The points on it are meant to look like a crown and a diamond.

The heavy use of diamond shapes is inspired by Harlequin of the Commedia dell'arte.

His hair is based on P.T. Barnum, showman and ringmaster.

The top of his cape is meant to look like the hood of a king cobra, with the diamond shapes resembling the spots on said animal.

He has puppet-like mouth markings but might not necessarily have a puppet-like mouth, I'm not sure.

He has no eyebrows, they're painted on.

Clown paint!

His serpent-like staff is capable of moving at his direction.

His cape is meant to look like a circus tent.

I tried to give him snake-like facial features.

Ultimate Form

The gold diamonds near his hood are meant to look like eyes, and the strings coming from them are meant to be like marionette strings - they're attached to his arms. However, they're also meant to resemble the Eye of Providence.

The diamonds on his back are multi-colored to symbolize chaos, like the motley of Harlequin.

He has a forked tail, like common depictions of the devil.

The flame inside his halo is meant to symbolize enlightenment, as Lucifer is the "light-bringer".

#lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel redesign

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the-scandalorian · 2 months

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like a moth to the flame, part IV

Pairing: monster!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 11.1k Content Warnings: dark!Din, predatory/obsessive/possessive behavior, body horror/painful physical transformations, injury/gore, blood and hunting and monstery shit, oral (m-receiving), p-in-v Note: Endlessly grateful to both @frannyzooey and @ezrasbirdie for lending me their big beautiful brains xx

DIN Din had woken, disoriented and hurting, that morning after he’d found the Armorer on Glavis.

He came-to curled in the fetal position on the hard metal floor of his tiny compartment on the humming public transport. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he knew his body felt wrong. Uncomfortable and unwieldy, heavy and strange.

When he did open his eyes to the harsh, artificial light, the first thing he noticed was the sharp clarity of his vision. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but it felt like he was looking through one of the strongest filters of his visor. He blinked hard. No change.

He unfolded his arms and studied his hands, splaying too-long fingers, and his thoughts tangled and snagged as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

The glint of cruel silver claws.

In his periphery, he caught the movement of a dark shape over his shoulder.

He tried to scramble away from it. It followed, a shadow.

Wings.

The word felt absurd. But it was…right. Silver that matched the half-moons of those claws, a structure of bone sprouted from both of his shoulder blades, a hooked joint forming the apex of each inky black, bat-like wing. Colossal and dark.

Piece by piece, in a haze of disbelief, he discovered new parts of himself.

The sheer size of this body, the power coiled in his changed muscles.

He ran a finger along the edge of his teeth, catching the pad on an elongated canine. Blood welled.

The wound on his thigh, where he'd burned himself with the saber the night before, was largely healed. There was only a trace of it, a fading pink scar.

Din stopped there. He couldn’t bring himself to look in a mirror, to see himself like this. He wasn’t ready for it to be real, to know if his face was still his own.

Instead, he picked up his chest plate to start collecting his armor, and his claws bit gently into the perfectly smooth surface. He was stunned.

What scratches beskar?

Beskar.

Of course.

The silver of his claws, of his wing joints was beskar. Virtually indestructible.

Din sank back to the floor and closed his eyes. He sat against the cold metal wall with his clenched fists pressed against his eyelids, the tips of those talons cutting into his palms. He wanted to escape the prison of this body, of this new reality; to wake from this nightmare; to blink himself out of existence altogether.

He forced himself to slow his breathing, holding it at the top of each inhale, until some of the tension in his chest eased. He let his thoughts go, focused on the cadence of his breath. Preparing himself as he did before a fight.

A slow, creeping sense of relief spread through him gradually, growing so palpable it turned physical. Like a cool wash of water over his aching muscles, a full-body shiver racked him. The tremble and quake of his broad frame was fleeting but intense. A release. His bones shifted in a pinch of discomfort. His mind drifted.

And then, stillness.

He’d opened his eyes minutes later, and his vision was blessedly, beautifully blurred—just barely. As it always was. As it was supposed to be.

Sitting there, staring at his hands and his blunt, human nails, Din might have been able to convince himself he’d imagined all of it. A fever dream. A delusion. An exhaustion-fueled moment of insanity, his mind addled by the fight and the pain and the life-altering dismissal from his covert.

Except, etched into his chest plate…those damning marks.

A mechanical voice announced the imminent arrival of the transport, interrupting his moment of existential crisis. Tatooine. The local time and weather blared through the speaker.

Tatooine. He couldn’t go back there. Not like this.

He made a choice. He dressed and readied himself, deboarded and found his way to the baggage claim. A droid unlocked his case, and Din methodically reattached each of his weapons. He reached for the dark saber last. The metal hilt felt hot, even through the thick leather of his glove. Nothing else had—not his blaster or his charges. Just the saber, warm under his touch. Warm like something alive. Like something warm-blooded, something with a thrumming pulse. Like something pleased to be back in his grip.

Like it knew.

He clipped it to his belt and let it drop, relieved to not have it in his hand.

Din turned, looking for the closest screen of departures, and scanned the list for the least populated destination.

*** Now, months later, he wakes to a fantasy.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. He didn’t want to risk it, even in the armor—not after he felt his body start to shift under his beskar last night. He didn’t think that was possible. Then he’d sucked your taste off his fingers, and his head had snapped to the side, his spine straightening. He’d felt the pop of vertebra and the sudden tightness of the skin across his back, the warm tension in his muscles straining for the change, but he’d managed to stave it off.

Just barely.

No, he hadn’t meant to sleep last night, but he had. And he wakes now, well rested, to the feeling of your warm body curled into his side, your head nuzzled into his neck, your breathing slow and deep. Watery morning light, as light as this dark forest ever gets, is visible through the trees outside the window.

He’d tried to move away from you during the night, to give you space, sure that you’d be more comfortable without the hard edges of beskar digging into your soft body, but every time he’d started to extract himself gently, you’d grumbled and tightened your fingers wherever they happened to be—caught in the folds of his duraweave, gripped around armor, tangled with his own. The leg you had hooked over his thigh had tensed too, your foot tucking itself under his other knee. You twined yourself around him, like a tenacious little climbing vine, and refused to let go.

He likes it. You’re possessive too.

The realization hurts a soft spot under his ribs—you want what he wants. To belong to someone. To claim and be claimed. To know that closeness. Skin-to-skin, joined and sweaty, without all these fucking layers between you. That hopeless, dangerous thing he can never give you.

That thought is unbearable when you’re asleep on his chest, your hand still curled over the top of his chest plate, fingers clinging to the sharp cut of metal. When he can smell the faint tang of your blood as it pumps idly through your veins, detectable even under the layer of your delicate floral scent, even from beneath his helmet.

His mouth waters.

It’s the catalyst that finally gets him moving. He carefully but forcefully unfastens your hand, inches your leg off his, and slips out of bed. You readjust but don’t wake.

As soon as he’s standing, looking down at you, he regrets it. The space between your bodies is intolerable, and he has nothing to do but wait for you to wake. So he waits. He waits, and he seethes.

He thinks about the mistakes he’s made.

*** He’d spent yesterday angry at himself, fuming at his own idiocy. He’d ruminated on how to proceed, how to scare you off again after he’d all but courted you the previous night when he’d given you a com link. Had invited you to use it. Fucking encouraged it. He’d been drunk on you—on your presence, on your forgiveness, on your smile. On the headiness of your scent as you’d stood so close to him outside your house. And it had messed with his fucking head, made him do stupid things. Dangerous things.

He’d worked through the steps of his drills while he thought, slashing the saber through the air as he’d tried to decide what to do. How to retract his offer of the com. He didn’t think he could bring himself to be cruel to you, to reject you outright. He’d imagined your face, imagined the hurt there, and he’d just…known he couldn’t do it. He’d have to leave. He wouldn’t let himself see you again. He'd jam the frequency of the com link. A clean break.

It was the only option.

He’d decided he’d let himself change early then, before the sun had dipped below the green horizon. One last hunt before he found a way off this planet.

He’d been minutes away from letting himself shift, minutes away from heading out completely uninhibited, when he’d caught your scent. You were close. The timing of it had made him want to break something. That was exactly the problem with all of this: one misstep, one instance of bad timing…and you could end up dead.

Why hadn’t he thought about you finding the bodies? How had that not occurred to him?

He’d left a perfect trail from your house to his. His animal brain had thought protect and nothing else. He’d gotten sloppy, comfortable. Maybe some part of him had wanted you to find it, to follow.

This was how it would end, then, he’d thought as he waited for you. Not in the easy way he’d planned, not a quiet exit—a coward’s exit. He’d have to face you, to turn you away and tell you he was leaving.

Then you were in front of him, and all of that was gone—the struggle and the resolve, the determination and decency. He’d fought to get it back for a few minutes, scrabbled against his own desire. Had tried to deny himself—to deny you. It was futile.

You’d asked him if he thought you were weak, if all of this was somehow your fault. And that was it.

He’d refused to punish you for his sins.

*** And now you’re in his bed. Warm and soft under his comforter, your head pressed into his pillow. A dream. Something he could wake up to tomorrow and the next day, if he wanted. A string of perfect, untouchable days stretching before him like a beckoning temptress.

He can’t let himself think like that.

Your life, he reminds himself. Your life is what matters most. Keeping you here wouldn’t just be selfish, wouldn’t just be a temporary balm, it would be a gamble. Your life pitted against his own self-restraint. Your life pitted against the self-restraint of a monster he doesn’t trust.

If he can just get you out—out of his bed, out of his house, out of his head—he’ll be able to think straight, and then he can go.

He watches you stir, aware suddenly that a fully armored Mandalorian looming over you might not be the most comforting sight for you to wake to. But you crack open sleepy eyes before he can move, and a lazy smile spreads across your face. His heartbeat stumbles.

“Morning,” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“Morning,” he replies, clipped as he tries to expedite this process.

“It’s early,” you muse, your gaze trailing to the window. “I think you should come back to bed.”

Din’s thoughts stall immediately. You look so cozy, so comfortable snuggled in his bed. In his bed.

“Please?”

Din’s helmet follows the path of your hand as it begins to wander: as it slides languidly down the column of your neck, molds over the swell of your breast, lingers along your waist. You know you’ve snared him right away. You always know.

He just stands there, silent and yielding, as you kick the blankets away and shimmy out of your clothes. He wants to tell you to stop, but his mouth isn’t responding to his brain, his jaw dropped open slightly behind the helmet as he surveys the bare lines of your body. He didn’t get to enjoy this yesterday, didn’t get to luxuriate in the view, to drink in every detail. To commit it to memory.

His visor catches where your fingers stroke the curve of your hip.

“I can’t—” he starts.

You slip your hand between your legs, run your fingers through the soft hair there.

He was going to get you out. To regroup. That was his intention.

One of your fingers slips lower, dips into the seam of your sex. His cock responds.

He barely knows his own name, let alone any sense of reason when you’re looking at him like that—touching yourself like that. Begging him to touch you. His nervous system jolts from freeze directly into overdrive, and immediately he can feel himself brushing up against some physical limit, teetering on the edge of his control.

He watches you drop your knees open, and a low, pained sound passes through the modulator when you use two fingers to part yourself, putting yourself on display for him. You roll the pad of one finger over your clit, and your head drops back onto the pillow, your eyes closing in pleasure. Need claws at the inside of him.

“Stop,” he commands, but there’s no bite in it, his mouth watering at the sight of your stroking fingers.

You smile and widen the spread of your thighs, moving your hand lower.

He tries to sound firm, but his words come out like a plea: “Don’t—”

“I wouldn’t have to touch myself if you’d do it for me.”

You keep your eyes on his visor as you press two fingers inside yourself, frictionless as they sink inside the warm clutch of your body. He’s fixated on the flex of your wrist as you fuck yourself gently—his rapt attention suddenly a shivering, living thing throbbing under his skin. When you ease them out, he can see the shine of your arousal coating your skin up to the knuckle, a clear thread strung between your fingers for a brief moment when you slowly separate them.

“Your fingers feel so much better,” you breathe.

His blood pulses loudly in his ears, a too-slow beat. He knows what you feel like, clenched around his thick fingers—how slick, how hot. He knows what you taste like, licked off his own skin. Din would like to say that some greater primal force takes over, hijacks his body, that the monster in him doesn’t give him a choice, but that would be a lie.

He decides to let go.

Without changing forms, Din silences the part of his mind that’s protesting. He lets the animal of his hindbrain take control, a predator submitting to the call of its prey drive. It feels good to give in—a rush of blissful quiet overtakes him. He looks at you, and it’s simple. He wants you.

Time slows, but his hands move quickly—going to his belt buckle. The weapon-heavy leather thuds when it hits the ground at his feet.

You watch him disarm himself, poised like a willing sacrifice on his bed with your hand caught between your open legs, a naked eagerness on your face that pleases the possessive, hungry thing in his chest. His vision is tinged red, the severed thread of his control a distant memory as he thinks of all the things he wants to do with you.

To you.

He condemned himself to this the moment he let himself touch you. There’s no going back. He’s going to taste your nectar from the source. He’s going to fuck you with his tongue and gently suckle your clit between his lips until you sob. He’s going to eat you out until you come on his face, your hands tangled in his hair.

And then he’s going to do it again.

He tries not to think about how much easier that would be with his other tongue, his tongue when he’s transformed—long and dextrous as it is. He could get so deep inside you like that. Taste you from the inside out.

Later. He appeases himself with the promise of later. The promise of tomorrow and more more more.

His gaze settles on your mouth. There’s something else he wants now.

He approaches the bed and stands at its side, waiting patiently. That desperate sense of urgency drops away, and his shoulders relax. He can decide to have all the time in the world with you if he only lets himself.

When he hunts, when Din really truly hunts these days, he finds that he likes to draw out the indulgence of it. The tease and the chase. The kick of adrenaline before the slaughter. He understands why a predator plays with its prey before it makes the kill.

Because it can.

Because it feels good.

You’re expecting him to join you on the bed. He can see it in your expectant gaze.

“You want it so bad?” he asks, dipping his helmet down. “Come here.”

A wicked look flashes across your face at the change in his voice, at the invitation. There’s a beat of anticipation as you decide to play along, and then you crawl to the edge of the bed on your hands and knees. He watches, an imperious tilt to his helmet.

You perch on the edge, looking up. Waiting.

“Go ahead,” he nods. “Take it out.”

Your hands move to the button on his pants, but you don’t pop it open right away. You let your hand mold to the hard bulge there, feeling the heft of him.

He tilts his helmet the other direction, impatient, and you go for the zipper.

Before you’ve even pulled his cock out, before you’ve even touched him, Din thinks the sensation of your hot breath on the expanse of skin exposed by his open fly might be the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced.

He rips his gloves off and locks a hand around the nape of your neck.

He thinks for a fleeting moment how obvious it must be—his obsession with your mouth. The edge of mania he’s shoved toward when you let your tongue drag up his hip bone. That he’d slit his wrists at the altar of your perfect lips if you asked.

Your eyes drag upward slowly as you lick across his skin, gaze catching on the armored lines of his body before it meets his visor. You peer up at him as you inch the fabric of his pants down just far enough. And then your eyes flick down to watch a pearly bead of precum slip down the length of his shaft at your closeness.

“You want it?” he rasps. “Open your mouth.”

He grunts in satisfaction when your lips part immediately. Again when your hand curls around the base of him and your tongue darts out to circle his head, a touch so infuriatingly delicate that it makes him want to hold you down and fuck your throat raw.

He doesn’t, of course. He lets you set the pace even though your teasing lick across the underside of his cock and another over his slit feel as much like torture as they do like pleasure.

Finally, finally, you take him fully into the heat of your mouth. You start up a steady rhythm, and he’s more than satisfied to let you take the reins.

You’re less satisfied with that though—you settle a hand over his on your neck and press down, your eyes skirting upward as you nod subtly, your other hand urging his hips forward, urging him to fuck your mouth.

Use me.

He wishes you could see his face in this moment, what you do to him. Din’s eyelashes flutter shut at the perfection of your request. But immediately, he snaps them open again, needing to see.

He thrusts forward, and you whine in approval, your fingers tightening on his hip—taking him deep again and again, until he watches a line of saliva slide down your chin. Until your lashes grow wet, eyes watering at the effort of taking him over and over.

It’s too much. It’s too good.

The tight, hot constriction of your throat as you swallow around the head of him, the hard suck of your cheeks hollowing out around his shaft. His helmet rocks back, and a growl reverberates through his chest. But he’s not about to let himself come without knowing what it feels like to fuck you.

His hand drops away from the back of your neck; he forces his hips to still. “Enough,” he grits.

When you surge forward again, taking him deep, he closes a hand gently around your throat and eases you backward, off him.

“I said stop.” He thinks the words would be menacing if the fractured restraint in his voice weren’t so apparent. If you couldn’t see the steady leak of precum from his cock, the drizzle of opaque liquid on his dark pants. He’s teetering right on the painful edge of orgasm, and you know it.

“Need to fuck you,” he says, his hand still settled over your throat.

“Then fuck me,” you reply, your voice hoarse as you shift backward on the bed.

“You want my fingers first?” he asks, his hand drifting down the inside of your thigh. “You want to cum on my hand again?”

“No,” you say, catching his wrist and pulling him onto the bed, over you.

“No?” he says. “You want it to hurt?”

“Yes.”

His fingers tighten on your thigh. Too hard. “Turn around.”

You flip over and settle on your knees in front of him, and Din can see how much you enjoyed sucking his cock in the glossy spread of your cunt.

He catches a drop of your arousal with two caressing fingers. “You want to be fucked hard? Is that what you want, you greedy little thing?”

You press your hips back, rubbing yourself into the cup of his hand. And for a moment, his mind buzzes with blankness—with the thought that he could be tasting you instead of just touching you. He satisfies himself for now by lining up his cock with the soft heat of your pussy, by pressing his sensitive head against your arousal-slick flesh.

But when you whine and start to shift backward into him, he waits. Savors. “You need my cock that bad, huh?”

“Please, I need it. I want it—”

It’s that thing he fantasizes about—the daydream he strokes himself to in the shower after he hunts, when he’s sticky with blood and the leash on his desire has long been snapped. Your whined plea for him, your need so stark and bright that he couldn’t ever possibly deny you. Your need for him so heightened it threatens to match his for you.

“Take it then,” he pants. “Take what you asked for.”

He sinks his cock into the welcoming heat of your body, pressing slowly against the tight resistance of little preparation—hears the soft, drawn-out oh of your pleasure—and he knows there’s no coming back from this.

*** So he doesn’t fight it. He keeps you.

Days turn into a week. Into two. You bring life and sound to this desolate place—the creak of your steps on the hardwood floor, the sound of your humming, the quiet clanks of your movements around the kitchen in the early morning light. The quiet, steady tick of your heartbeat. All those pretty little noises you make when he has you in his bed—the moans and the whimpers and the pleas. His pillow smells like mellow spring flowers, and there are rose colored skirts and silky blue pajamas in his dresser.

He likes it.

He likes the noise and the tightness of the space and the company.

When he heads outside to chop wood for the fireplace, you follow to watch him roll up the duraweave sleeves of his flight suit and swing the ax—again and again until a thick log splits down the middle with a crack—and the attention pleases him.

The weeks stack up, and there is a bar of soap speckled with lavender flowers in his shower. There are sweet strawberry preserves lined up in his cupboard, a colorful wool throw blanket tossed over the back of the couch that you insist is a necessity. For sitting in front of the fire, of course. You poke fun at his ascetic choices, at the lack of coziness in his house, but you don’t seem mad at all to be the one to provide it.

He thinks you know instinctively that home isn’t a place or a concept he’s familiar with. He thinks you love being the one to show him what it could mean.

He can tell you don’t mind that you have to face opposite directions when you eat. He thinks you like the sound of his voice even more when it’s not passed through the modulator. You draw out every meal with questions. He draws them out with his answers.

He tells you about the little green bounty that changed his life, the soup his mother made for him when he was sick, being adopted by the Mandalorians, the fact that he used to love swimming as a child. That sometimes he thinks about how good it would feel to strip off his armor and swim now. You tell him about your dreams, your childhood, your plans, everything.

When he slips his helmet on again and you turn to face him, he can see that the gulf between what he does tell you and the whole truth is obvious, though.

There is a question—are many questions—swimming in your eyes. The intention to get answers too. He’s not sure which exactly questions they are: Why the armor? The helmet? The Creed? Why this place? Where is he going next? When? What happened to him? What is he? Why the isolation and the fear and the hesitation and mile-high walls and why why why?

What the fuck happened to the wall of the shower?

Valid questions, every one. Many are things he asks himself regularly. All are questions he doesn’t know how to answer without shattering this perfect moment, without ruining the lovely domesticity you’re cultivating together. So when he sees that look and your lips part, Din speaks before you can. He’s not ready, yet, to go there. He reaches for your hand or strokes a gloved finger over your cheek and deflects.

Just a little longer, he thinks, please. And you’re not fooled—he knows that. You understand the request and allow it for now, and he’ll take what he can.

“You want to learn how to shoot?” he asks instead.

Your eyes light up.

He helps you pick a blaster from his collection—“How many blasters does one man need, Mando?”—that’s well suited to you, that fits your grip. He sets up targets outside, scattered on trees at varying distances, and stands close behind you, a solid wall against your back. He adjusts your stance and the placement of your hands, letting his touch linger on your waist in a way that makes your heart rate readout on his helmet spike.

“Are you going to let me focus or not?” you quip, peering at him over your shoulder. “I thought you were trying to teach me something here.”

He raises innocent hands and steps back. “I didn’t realize I was distracting you.”

You smile slyly at him. “Sure.”

He lets himself enjoy it, the ease between you, the way you can read him even through the armor. Standing a short distance behind you, he talks you through the process: how to aim and shoot, how to breathe.

Hand-to-hand, next, he thinks to himself as he watches you practice. Then blades. Tracking.

He’ll teach you anything and everything that will protect you.

For when he’s no longer here to do it for you, he doesn’t let himself think.

He watches you practice each day, watches you focus on the target, your lip caught between your teeth in concentration, until you nail the bullseye. You run to the tree where the target is hanging—a hole singed through the middle—letting out a triumphant cry, and he follows.

“Look,” you grin, so proud it makes his heart trip. You point at the perfectly placed burn mark.

“Good,” he praises. “Do it again.”

You roll your eyes, but you do. You return dutifully to the line he’d drawn in the pine needle strewn ground and shoot until you get the hang of it, until a miss is rare. And then he fucks you up against that tree, your dress bunched up around your hips, the blaster abandoned somewhere by your feet.

You leave for a day, maybe two, here and there to check on things at home, that little fawn you love. As soon as you’re gone, he spends a couple hours getting as far in the opposite direction as he can, changing, hunting whatever he can find in the shortest time, and then after he’s washed every trace of blood away and donned his armor, he waits for you to come back. He tells himself it’s a perfectly workable arrangement.

It’s fine. It’s safe. Safe enough.

With his attention elsewhere, it takes him a few weeks to notice that those prints, the ones he’d been tracking so obsessively, have started to show up closer to his house, to yours. They mark a quiet, slow encroachment into his territory—inching just barely past that boundary he’d been so careful to hold until recently. Their bravery is returning, their local numbers rebounding, because he hasn’t been pushing them back by culling their pack with regularity.

He makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on things, reassured by the fact that there are miles of buffer between their progress and you. And, more importantly, that more often than not, he’s by your side these days—like the times you ask him to come with you when you leave. He’s not going to say no to you.

Every night, he gets to undress you and pull you into his bed. To touch you and fuck you and make you come. He gets to learn what makes you cry, what makes you scream, what makes you beg.

All in the armor, still. In the beskar prison that keeps you safe from him. That line he manages, somehow, to maintain. The monster in him hasn’t wrested it from him yet, and he clings to that last safety net, that final border between risky and reckless.

He wonders every day when you’ll hit your threshold. When it’ll all become too much—the secrets and the questions and the armor. Every day you don’t ask or push or leave, he breathes a sigh of relief, knowing full well it just means the next day is more likely. That worry is so dwarfed by the pleasure of having you that he barely notices it, though.

It helps, too, that he’s well rested for the first time in a long time.

Din doesn’t dream when you’re in his bed, isn’t haunted by the nightmares. He slips into sleep, and it doesn’t fight him like it usually does. He sleeps soundly with your warm, soft form tucked against his side, your face pressed into his cowl. Your presence, your touch, your scent—they soothe him.

He’s always known—even before he admitted it to himself—that there would be no halfway with this. No measured approach to having you. And he was right, of course. Here you are, living with him… and happy, he thinks. He doesn’t like to think about what would happen if that changed, if you left. What he'd do. What he'd have to stop himself from doing.

Din loves hard, with teeth, and all of his are sunk deep in you. If he really thinks about it, though, the opposite is true. Yours, sunk deep in him. You have a bone-deep hold on him, a fatal bite that severed something vital upon first contact. If you decided to let go, he’d bleed out.

And he feels lighter than he has in months. Maybe years.

It scares him so much he doesn’t want to think about it.

So he doesn’t.

YOU

It’s not intentional. You don’t sit down together and make a decision, but you don’t want to leave and he doesn’t want you to go. So you just…don’t.

Slowly, with time, your most essential things migrate from your place to his. You bring a bag of clothes here and your favorite blanket another time. Your shampoo comes along with other bathroom essentials, and some kitchen supplies find their way into his drawers and cabinets.

Within a few weeks, you all but live with him.

You know instinctively that the opposite arrangement—staying together at your house—isn’t possible. Whether or not it’s actually necessary, Mando takes his self-imposed exile seriously. It’s another of the many things you don’t push him on.

Yet.

You visit home on a regular basis, of course, to keep an eye on things. Town, too, for supplies. You make the long walk alone—or sometimes together when you can convince him to put off whatever mysterious, imperative thing he has to do when you’re gone, and it feels shorter then. He’s not so hard to persuade.

You check on Luna, who is happy and well fed in the warmth of the barn, kept company by the chickens and the handful of braying goats.

You find that she’s terrified of other people—or at least of Mando. You’ve never brought anyone else around so it’s hard to know if it’s something about him specifically. Maybe it’s the armor or his size. The first time she sees him, she goes rigid, the picture of freeze, and it takes twenty minutes to calm her down after you nudge Mando back out of the barn and close the door behind him. Even after several visits, she remains wary of him, barely willing to tolerate his presence.

A detail, like so many others, you file away for later.

It's one of many that you don't mention—anything that might prompt impossible conversations. Instead of souring the moment, instead of asking the hundreds of questions that are piling up in your head, you tacitly agree to avoid those things, skirting around any topics that elicit unanswerable questions or suggest an expiration date. Again and again. For weeks.

Then months.

It’s easy enough to rationalize. Might as well make the short time you have together pain free. Only good.

And, fuck, is it good.

You wake in his bed each morning and fall back into it each night. You wait for your lust for him to abate, for the initial need to be sated. Two months in, though, it hasn’t so much as begun to subside. If anything, it’s grown. It’s fed, you think, by the fact that you still don’t get all of him—what you do get just makes you want more.

You get his hands, his cock, the expanse of his lower abdomen and upper thighs when he unbuckles his belt and fucks you. The sound of his unfiltered voice when you eat together. The sight of his thick, veined forearms when he chops wood. Snatches of golden skin dusted in dark hair.

Never his mouth, his eyes, his chest, the rest of him—his face. His face, that you think you might already love without having ever seen.

The why of it all—of the pace, of his nature—doesn’t feel so urgent any more, now that you’ve had the opportunity to soak him in, in more than just brief interactions. You can sense the why on him when you start to appreciate the weight of his past and his creed. There’s a layer of pain and loss calcified under his armor: you can all but feel it when your fingers work past an edge of beskar. He starts to tell you about it, too; he starts to untangle the complicated knot that is Mando. It’s usually during a meal when you’re faced away from each other and you get to hear his real voice that he starts to open up. You untease his past question by question, answer by answer.

When you do almost slip, almost ask a question that is too present, he helps you put it back. Offers a distraction that you gladly accept. An unspoken agreement of not yet.

He just needs time. You just need more time together.

You try not to think about the fact that you might not have time. No, you package that thought up with that list of forbidden questions, the ones that would threaten to crack the ice you’re standing on together, and tuck them all away.

You take the things that he does offer, accept his baffling limits. You satisfy yourself with the reminder of progress. If you think back to a few months ago and draw a line from those cordial interactions at the Saturday market to the current reality of living with him—to watching him welcome all the ways you insinuate yourself into his space, to witnessing the way he seems to soften for you—you can’t help but feel hopeful about what the next few months will hold.

*** Winter comes early this year, sneaking in on quiet feet. It descends around you slowly—in brisk mornings and frozen dew drops strung along twigs like pearls—and then it comes all at once in a sudden blanket of white. You wake up to a thick layer of snow on the ground, the tree limbs and roof frosted and glittering.

He teaches you how to protect yourself—how to shoot and fight and track. You think there’s a part of him that’s certain if he only teaches you enough, you’ll always be safe. You can feel it in his palpable sense of relief when you master a new skill. As if he has a mental list of things to impart on you before he runs out of time.

When you’re consistently nailing the center of his targets again and again, Mando outfits you with a blaster of your own, tells you to keep it on you at all times—that it’s yours. That day, he drops to one knee in front of you.

“Lean,” he says, patting his pauldron.

You listen without really thinking about it, bracing a hand on his shoulder.

“Up,” he says, gesturing to your foot and offering his armored thigh.

You comply, and he slips two loops of leather up your leg, the fabric of your skirt catching on his forearm as he inches them up, until the tips of his fingers brush your inner thigh. A holster. A holster he made for you.

He tightens the straps and then slips the small silver blaster into the leather sheath.

You graduate to hand-to-hand combat next—well, not so much graduate as add it to the schedule. He’s visibly pleased when he discovers that you already have some skills with a knife, when you know how to disarm him of his vibroblade in certain holds, how to make an attacker bleed freely with one well-placed slash. How to sever a tendon or an artery. But he finds plenty of ways to stump you, ways to overpower you, and you practice those until you know how to get out of them too.

A few weeks in, you’re more than satisfied with your skill level, ready to move on. Mando, on the other hand, is ever insistent on more. He holds you with your back against his chest, caught and pinned, a purring vibroblade at your throat.

You’re exhausted, sweaty and sore from breaking out of his grasp again and again. You’re supposed to be doing it once more right now. But you’re limp in his hold.

“Go on,” he grunts.

“I’m actually fine with this,” you decide, letting your weight go even more leaden in his arms.

He scoffs low in his throat. “Is that right.”

“That’s right. I surrender. Do with me what you will.” You drop your head back, looking up at his impassive visor.

He considers. “Anything?”

The word slithers up your spine. “Anything,” you repeat, letting your eyes go heavy-lidded.

He closes the blade and tosses it away, releasing his hold on you. When you lurch forward at the unexpected freedom, your knees buckling slightly, he catches your waist to steady you.

You spin to face him, pointing a finger at the diamond-like center of his chestplate, staying far enough away that he can’t encircle you in his arms again. “Technically that counts as me getting out of that hold.”

He plants a hand on his hip. “Disagree.”

“Emotional manipulation is a weapon. You’re just mad I’m better at it than you are. Maybe I should give you lessons. You know what, yeah, I think it’s only fair that we also start practicing scenarios where I’m the one in control.”

He cocks his head suggestively. “Are we still talking about training?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you silently, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. It speaks volumes.

You scoff. “Are you implying that I could never have the upper hand in a fight? That there’s no chance in the galaxy of that ever happening?”

A damning beat of silence and then: “No.”

“You are!”

He gestures at his chest, shrugs. “Beskar.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d just need to catch you at the right moment—sleeping or showering—and take you by surprise. Or have the right weapon. Like poison. I know plenty of plants that would kill you—plenty of plants I could find out here or maybe…yeah…those.”

You gesture at the row of detonators lined up on the side of his belt as he reattaches it around his middle. He always takes it off before you practice hand-to-hand, along with the vambrace that apparently emits flame.

“Yeah, they’d be effective,” he admits, clipping the buckle together. “The problem is you don’t have any.”

“You don’t like me enough to share your detonators with me?”

“To kill me? No.”

“How about this one?” you ask, reaching toward the mysterious hilt that’s always clipped next to them.

He steps out of reach before you can touch it.

“What is it? Can I see it?”

“I don’t use it,” he says. You know him well enough now to read the lie in his level voice.

“Then why do you always carry it?”

“It’s…a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” you press, curious.

He looks away. “I can’t.”

And you realize it isn’t just stubbornness or stoicism. It’s pain. A bruise he isn’t ready to address, and you’re prodding it.

You wonder how many secrets can simmer between you before they boil over.

“Alright, come on,” you say, grabbing his hand and turning for the house. “I’m starving.”

*** It’s deep winter when Mando starts to take you into the woods, away from his house, to teach you the basics of tracking. Each time, when the forest lightens around you and you can hear the titter of birds overhead, he tells you to pick the tracks of a deer or a fox to follow. It’s easier now that the snow is thick on the ground, a continuous blanket of white.

He instructs you, as he always does, to disregard the larger prints—the clawed ones—that you come upon occasionally. Too often for comfort.

“I’ll take care of those,” he says, unconcerned.

Each time, you think back to that bloody trail and know he’s more than capable. And then you wonder when he’s away from you long enough to actually do that.

Never, it turns out.

You’re on the tail of a stag when he holds out an arm unexpectedly, stopping you in your tracks.

“What is it?”

He turns his head slowly, scanning the quiet forest. Listening, waiting. You can’t hear a thing—not a rustle of leaves or whisper of wind. The stag isn’t close.

“They’re coming.”

“The sta—?”

Mando drops his arm and grabs your hand, hauling you back in the direction of home. You follow on instinct when he breaks into a jog with you in tow, heavy boots crunching through the snow. He twitches as he moves; he groans and presses his shoulders back, rolling his neck, his hand too tight around yours.

He’s in pain.

“Mando—” you say, trying to slow him down, to understand.

“Run,” he interrupts, pushing you ahead of him, urging you toward the house. “I can’t stop it."

You halt in front of him, a hand raised to his chest plate. “I can’t— I won’t—”

He growls when you hesitate, the sound not entirely human. His hands are shaking.

“I can help—” you start, not even entirely sure what you’re offering.

“I won’t risk you.”

“But—”

A gloved hand settles over your mouth, the other gripped tightly around your bicep. “We don’t have time for this. I won’t let you—I can’t—just go home and lock the door. And promise me you’ll stay there until I come back.”

He drops his hand and starts stripping off his gloves and vambraces. “What are you—?” The pieces click together belatedly in your head. Those colossal prints, the clawed ones.

They’re coming.

“Promise me,” he says, forcing them into your hands. “Take this too.”

He reaches for his helmet and rips it off his head, pushing it into your arms. Your jaw drops open in surprise. You don’t even have time—or the free hands—to cover your eyes or the sense to shut them tight.

“It’s okay,” he says, responding to the fear in your eyes. “I wanted to—been wanting to.”

You only have a moment to take him in. He’s just as handsome as you imagined—maybe, impossibly, more. His dark hair is wavy and tousled, falling across his forehead. His eyes are brown and wild with fear, his sharp jaw peppered with gray-flecked stubble. His perfect lips are set in a half-smile. He looks a little bashful for a moment, a little boyish as you study him.

He holds your face between his warm hands. “Promise you won’t leave the house until I come back.”

You nod.

“Say it,” he prompts, his dark eyes serious. He knows you didn’t really mean it the first time.

“I won’t leave the house until you come back,” you repeat, a little dazed.

You’re looking into his eyes. Your brain is struggling to process it.

There's fear there that doesn't just belong to the threat to your safety. It's more: the fear of being seen. Wholly.

You’re waiting for more words to come to you—something that will express the feeling that’s blooming in your chest without relying on words it’s too early to say.

“Be careful.” It’s the best you can manage.

He presses his lips to yours in a quick kiss. It’s too fast, not enough. If your arms weren’t full of beskar, you’d grab him to keep him close, to kiss him deeper. Instead, he’s pulling back and turning you on the spot with an iron grip.

“Go.”

He urges you forward with a gentle push, and you break into a jog, glancing over your shoulder as often as possible without running face-first into a tree or slipping in the powdery snow underfoot. He’s stripping off his chest plate, his pauldrons, his thigh guards. Leaving them haphazardly on the forest floor.

The last time you look back, his back is to you, and several pairs of yellow eyes are emerging in the dark spaces between the trees.

One, two, four—too many to count.

You’re tempted to stop. To turn back. To bring him the rest of his beskar. It feels so wrong to leave him out here, alone and unarmored. He’s stripping down from metal to man, and it feels unbearably vulnerable. Maybe you could help—

But just as you’re thinking that, Mando turns his head and bellows, “Go!”

You’re far from him—too far to truly make out the details—but you swear, even across the vast distance, that the whites of his eyes look black.

*** You drop the pile of beskar onto the kitchen table, unholster your blaster, and drag a chair to the window. You study the intricate line work of ice on the frosted pane, tracing cold veins with the pad of your finger. You fidget and shift, but you don’t dare leave your spot.

You stare at the place between the trees where you emerged, straining to hear any sound, knuckles white where they’re wrapped around the edge of your seat.

It’s silent.

Minutes pass like molasses—they stretch and sprawl, leisurely and unhurried, while you wait.

You steal glances at the clock on the wall. You swear it’s been hours since you slid the dead bolt shut behind you, but the clock tells you you’ve been sitting here for eight minutes.

Ten.

Twelve.

Seventeen.

He’s out there, outnumbered and alone.

Fuck it.

You get to your feet.

You wrench open the front door, but before you can break into a run, you catch a subtle movement between the trees. The blaster slips out of your hand. He’s staggering back to you—stripped and injured. His flight suit is unzipped to his waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. One hand is gripping his ribs, the other trapping pieces of his armor against his side. He’s barefoot and limping through the snow.

You run to him.

His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and there’s blood on his face—so much blood—coating his lips, smeared across one flushed cheek. Lines running down his neck. It covers his hands, forearms. It’s splattered across his muscled chest. When his lips part in a pained grimace, you can see the inside of his mouth is bloody too, red lining his white teeth.

You don’t have time to process it, to think about what it means because he’s hurt.

He must see the terror on your face when you register the state of him because he shakes his head and says, “Not mine. Just this,” jerking his chin down to gesture at his side.

A row of deep lacerations is seeping blood down his ribs, over his tense fingers and down his stomach, where it’s soaking into the dark fabric bunched at his hips. You shudder at the sight of it—even through his spread fingers, you can see that his flesh is torn open in a way that makes your stomach pitch.

Behind him, there’s a sporadic trail between the trees, red dripped on virgin snow.

You want to hold him, to pull him into your arms, and, most of all, to fix him and put him back together. You start by taking the pile of armor from him and slipping under the arm of his uninjured side, pulling it over your shoulders to support his weight. He accepts the help wordlessly, leaning on you as you stumble forward together.

“They’re gone,” he pants. “Dead. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you scoff. “Are you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He grunts.

You limp the rest of the distance to the house together and pull open the front door, kicking it shut behind you as you help him inside. He reaches behind you to lock it, his shoulders dropping in relief when it clicks.

You drop his beskar on the floor as gently as you can while you’re half holding him up. It clatters.

“We need to get these closed up,” you say, gesturing toward a kitchen chair. “You need bacta. Sit down.”

When he doesn’t move to sit, you look up at his face, and he’s staring at you with an intensity—a soft, quiet intensity of creased brows and bright brown eyes—that takes your breath away.

“I’m fine,” he protests, gently gripping your shoulders and pushing you back in the direction of the bed instead. He fumbles with the hem of your shirt, trembling fingers slipping under the fabric to caress your skin. “I’ll heal. Just let me touch you.”

His hands are hot on your waist.

"You’re not okay,” you protest, trying and failing to redirect him. “You won’t heal if you bleed out.”

“I just need to hold you.” His words are starting to slur, running together. The blood loss is tipping him into delirium.

“After—just let me—”

He ignores you and curls himself around you, crushing you against his body, a heavy hand holding your head to his chest, the other arm locking yours to your sides.

“Mando, please—I really need to stop the bleeding—”

“Din,” he says, nestling his face against your neck sweetly. His forehead is sweaty and feverish. He brushes gentle lips over your fluttering pulse. “My name is Din.”

You’re speechless.

“I want you to call me that,” he says. “Please.” There’s a heartbreaking vulnerability behind his words, like he’s worried you won’t accept the offering of something so precious.

“Of course. Of course, I will.” His grip slackens, and you wrap your arms around his middle reflexively. The heat of his throbbing wound and the hot slip of blood against your forearm make you recoil.

“Shit—sorry—”

But Din doesn’t react to the pain.

“Din—hey—”

You try to pull back, to extricate yourself from his hold and get a better look at him, but the arms draped over your shoulders go leaden, and he sways on his feet, forcing you backward a couple faltering steps. The backs of your calves hit the bed.

“Din—” You try to steady him, but he’s getting heavier by the second, his weight shifting unexpectedly as he tries to keep his balance, half-conscious and fading.

Your knees threaten to buckle when he grunts and goes completely boneless, slumping against you.

“Fuck—”

You’re just barely able to angle your body so that you can gently—and awkwardly—use his momentum to guide him face-first onto the bed. It’s a miracle you both don’t end up in a crumpled pile on the floor. You hoist his legs up too. It takes all your strength to haul his dead weight over to flip him onto his back so you can access the slashes across his ribs.

Your heart jumps into your throat when you see how rapidly a crimson stain is spreading on the comforter underneath him. You run for the med kit, dumping it on the bed beside his prone form and digging out all the necessities.

He doesn’t flinch when you clean, close, and dress the wounds. Not even when you prick him with a bacta shot. You work as quickly and carefully as you can, keeping tabs on his breathing all the while. Any time you have a free hand, you rest it on his chest, soothed by the shallow but steady rise and fall.

The whole time, you think about all those questions, those details, those secrets. You turn them over again and again in your head in a feverish loop—all those things you’ve been stacking on top of one another all this time, a teetering pile of essential pieces of him, ready to topple with a gentle nudge. Kept at bay by distractions and diversions and half-truths. All the ways you’ve both been keeping your relationship in stasis to postpone…what? Loss? Something that’s inevitable, something no one can ever truly prevent. It feels undeniable when your hands are covered in his blood. When you almost lost him anyway.

It seems obvious now. Obvious that in the end, it will be more painful to have only stayed in this place with him than to have at least tried to give yourself wholly to whatever this is.

Before you secure the final bandage over the wounds, you check your work once, twice—terrified the simple expansion of his ribcage as he breathes will force them open again. You press edges of the bandage down and watch closely, dreading the red seep of blood on clean white. It doesn’t come. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You clean him up with a moist towel, wiping the blood from his skin, his face, his rumpled hair.

If he hadn’t chosen to take his helmet off before any of this, you’d feel like you were invading his privacy by being able to see so much of him. It still feels that way, just a little, as you admire the taut lines of his biceps, the broad spread of his shoulders, and thick muscles of his pectorals. As you gently swipe over the soft expanse of his middle, feel the hard abdominals underneath. As you study the slope of his nose and the grays threaded through his stubble, his long eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. The soft pink of his lips.

You rinse that stained-red towel until the water runs clear, until there’s no trace of blood left on him.

The bloodied sheets and blanket and pillow underneath him will have to wait; it doesn’t even occur to you to be bothered by them when you climb in next to him, when you sweep his damp hair back off his forehead and press your lips to his warm skin and settle against his non-injured side.

You fall asleep like that, your head on his sternum, the subtle rise and fall sweeter than a lullaby.

*** He’s healed by the morning.

He’s healed.

When you wake after a fitful sleep, you scramble out of bed to pull back his bandages and find that the wounds slashed across his ribs look like they’ve had several weeks to mend, the skin knitted back together seamlessly. You run your fingers gingerly over the tender flesh in wonder, in relief.

Another one of his secrets. Something else to ask.

He rouses at your touch, starting as he blinks open bleary eyes. He must be immediately aware of the absence of his helmet because his whole body tenses as he recoils, his eyes panicked as he tries to decide to attack or to flee, jerking away from your hand on his arm.

“It’s okay,” you say, holding up your hands in placation. “It’s me, Din. It’s just me. You’re safe—you’re home.”

He calms somewhat as he meets your gaze, as he registers your face and his surroundings, settling his head back against the pillow. The tension in his body remains.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, resisting the urge to reach up and brush his tousled hair off his forehead. Touch, you think, is his to initiate in this moment.

“Fine,” he croaks. He’s visibly uncomfortable like this, still not used to being so unguarded around someone else. Holding eye contact for longer than a moment seems almost unbearable for him, his eyes shifting around the room so they don’t have to stay settled on yours.

You hand him a glass of water, and he sits up against the headboard to drink it. He winces a little as he maneuvers, his jaw ticking. He’s sore.

“You’re the worst patient, you know,” you gripe, trying to lighten the mood, to give him something to focus on.

He scoffs, lifting an eyebrow over the rim of the glass.

You give him an unimpressed glare. “I couldn’t take care of you until you fainted from blood loss.”

He has the audacity to shrug a little.

You blow out an exasperated breath, distracted, maybe, by the movement of his throat as he swallows. By every detail of his face that you can’t seem to memorize quickly enough—a privilege you’re more than willing to relinquish if it means easing the tension in his shoulders, the wrinkle of concern etched between his brows.

When he sets the glass down on the bedside table, you retrieve his helmet and offer it to him wordlessly, a show of nonjudgmental understanding, a willingness to back-pedal if that’s what he needs right now. His eyes soften when he takes it.

The urge to say something before he disappears behind beskar jumps up your throat.

“I was scared, so scared,” you admit quietly. “Din, I thought—I thought you…”

He sets his helmet beside him on the bed and jerks his chin. “Come here.”

You make to settle next to him, but he pulls you onto his lap instead, guiding you until you’re straddling his thighs.

You try to wriggle away. “I’m going to hurt you like this—just let me—”

“Shhh,” he breathes, hands locking down on your hips. “I’m fine, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He hesitates for the briefest moment before he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours.

His lips are soft, tentative. His first, you realize. Of course.

Your mind snags on the way he tends to be in bed—directive, commanding, sure—and holds the two up side by side. This hesitation, the halting press of his lips, has something in your chest going soft. Between your legs going molten.

You cup his jaw and lick into his mouth when his lips part—an it’s okay, I want you to take—and his breath goes ragged against yours. He leans into you, an arm slung low around your back to keep you close as he starts to tip you backward.

“Don’t move,” you say, attempting to ease him back gently.

He ignores the command, responding to your open mouth with the slip of his tongue.

“Or I’ll stop,” you threaten.

He sits back, chastened, a subtle pout to his lower lip. It disappears when you lean back in.

He makes a low noise of protest when you don’t meet his lips, but it turns into something pleased when you move your attention to his neck. You lick over his thrumming pulse, across the faint saltiness of his flushed skin. Your hands roam the planes of his chest, over his pounding heart, and down the swells of his muscled arms—greedy for so much warm skin, for so much of him you’ve never seen or touched or tasted.

Even with the helmet set beside you, the fear that you’ll have to go back—to concede gained ground—that he’ll revert back to full armor again, rankles at the back of your mind. You dig your nails lightly into his shoulders, and he growls.

You can tell it’s taking all his restraint not to move, to keep totally still aside from his wandering hands. You know he’s hard underneath you, that he’s aching to wrest control from your hands, to put you on your back and fuck you like this, with no layers between you. And he knows you won’t let him when he’s still healing.

You try not to let it escalate, to keep things from getting out of hand. But then his mouth is on yours again, your lip caught gently between his teeth, his hand locked possessively around the nape of your neck, and you can’t help the quiet moan or the subtle grind of your hips in his lap.

Din jerks back, hands braced on your shoulders to keep distance between your bodies, his head tipped back against the headboard and eyes closed as his panted breath gradually slows.

And you know it’s not just the injury. He isn’t humoring you or in too much pain. He’s fighting it—the transformation, the change that keeps him in his beskar. What he wouldn't let you see in the forest.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you say—quiet, serious.

He pauses, understanding despite the sharp turn. The energy in the room shifts as he waits for you to continue.

“Your…you—?” you stumble over the words, struggling to find the right ones. It comes out badly. “What you…are.”

His eyes are downcast, fixed on the silver shine of his helmet.

He doesn’t ask how. Of course you know—it’s an open secret between you, has been for months.

“I want to see,” you press. An honest plea. “To know. Just let it happen.”

A tight, subtle shake of his head. No.

“Please, Din,” you say, laying a hand on his chest. “Show me.”

He looks away, his eyes full of some unnameable emotion, something soft and fragile, a sharp edge that might be anger. He slips away so easily, even without the helmet.

“Please,” you beg, framing his face with your hands to guide his gaze gently back to yours.

He still won’t meet your eyes.

Suddenly, you know this was a mistake. That this is the thing that’s going to break what’s between you. He’s given you his face, his name—they should be enough. Yet, here you are, pushing him for more. There’s no coming back from it, no swallowing the words, though. You find you don’t want to anymore, even when you can feel him slipping out of your hands.

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“How? It’s you.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

“I don’t understand, Din,” you say, a hint of desperation laced between your words. “And I need to. I need to understand. We can’t avoid it any more—look at what happened. I just—I can’t do this when I know I don’t have all of you. I can’t do this anymore. All these walls, all these secrets between us.”

His head snaps to you, a flicker of panic kindling in his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it, the skirting and avoidance, the game you’ve both been so willing to play. His eyes settle on your joined hands.

“I want all of you. I need all of you. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice low, and the panic in his eyes is swallowed by a deep, hollow want—a yawning blackness that expands and disappears so quickly you think you must have imagined it. “I do understand that.”

“Then let me see you.”

His brown eyes flick upward to meet yours, and he nods.

#my writing #monster!din #dark!din

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hunn1e-bunn1e · 2 months

Text

神話 - "Fallen Star Seeking Enigmatic Clouds"

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

In which the Traveler and Paimon unknowingly come across a mysterious adeptus by the name of Sky Weaver while the two are exploring near the sparsely populated cliffsides of Mt. Mingyuan. Or; In which the long-forgotten tale of the adeptus Sky Weaver is uncovered by Aether from the lips of the various Adepti of the Nation of Liyue and the people who know them.

🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞

The swirling cloud of mist watches closely as the golden blonde boy descends the mountain with his fairy-like friend in his arms. As the boy becomes but a silhouette, the cloud glows the colors of the night sky once again as it changes shape into something more humanoid. The white mist fades away and in its place stands a beautiful man with hair so long it sprawls out against the off-colored teal-green grass.

"...A most gracious and inquisitive fallen star has stumbled upon one's mountain dwelling..."

The man mutters quietly as he rests a thoughtful thumb against his lower lip; eyes still trained on the path that the boy left from.

" ...In One's sky it is most often that stars fall in pairs... thus, this must be the star that accompanied the tenacious one all that time ago..."

The man closes his painted lids as he recalls the time he met the first of the pair. A girl, with hair and eyes of gold who dressed in otherworldly garb. The tenacious little star, who descended from the sky and assisted in slaying his God, his creator, in cold blood and sunk into the abyss to become a "god" herself.

"Master?"

A soft and youthful voice to his left curiously called out to the man.

The beautiful man glances behind him and spots a small child with winged ears and small purple markings on his face. Yu Wuzhe, a half-adeptus child whom he found not too long ago and took under his guidance. The man sighs softly and gently rests his hand upon the young boy's choppy white hair in a silent assurance of his well-being.

"Why'd you go and help that nosey mortal? Ugh, I– er... One is most tired of those humans en... encro...—"

"...Encroaching..."

"—encroaching upon my– uh... one's masters territory. It is quite bothersome."

The the half-adeptus grumbles as he crosses his arms; his winged ears give a few frustrated flaps with puffed-up feathers as he glares at the spot where the blonde traveler once stood.

The boy's master hides an amused chuckle behind the sleeve of his silk robe; watching his pupil cutely puff out his cheeks as he pouts. He pets the five-year-old's little head to calm him down; already used to the child's antics from raising him till now.

"...Compose yourself, Yu Wuzhe. One simply sensed that the mortal was one of the two stars of gold that were fated to descend upon Teyvat long ago..."

The man utters intelligently; momentarily forgetting that he's speaking to a young child.

Upon seeing the utterly lost look on the you boy's face, however, he quickly corrects his wording.

"...The mortal is important..."

The man simplifies; his face betraying his hidden exasperation.

Yu Wuzhe huffs, slightly envious of the golden blonde being considered important to his fath– master before grabbing onto the adeptus' large hand and tugging along as he starts to march higher up the mountain. The older man only chuckles at his pupil and easily follows along at a slow pace.

"...Once we've arrived, one must review your vocabulary, you seem to be struggling..."

"Aw man– er... I mean uh... how um, o-di-ous?"

"...Yes, one shall most definitely be occupied once one reaches their abode... how arduous..."

🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞•♡•🏞

Footnotes:

I wanted to give Sky Weaver a half-adeptus companion to teach as Cloud Retainer did with Shenhe and Ganyu since I thought that it would be cute. Yu Wuzhe's name came from the Traditional Chinese translation of Raindancer or 雨舞者, which was originally what Sky Weaver was supposed to be called. 神話 means Myth. Sky Weaver's banner is a placeholder; the character used is Chuyi Flower Cake from The Tale of Food.

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Wanna see similar content? Check out my Genshin Masterlist and Series Masterlist!

If you want to be added to the tag list, please let me know! #thetaleofskyweaver @itztaki @sassy-cat-in-town @xharisrealm @lupicalbestwolf @pjmsies @just-here-reading @chibiduck @dellalyra @kiiyoooo @heavenlysilence0vx @2nd-number @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mshope16 @paastaboi

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genderbinaryisforlosers · 2 years

Photo

everyone give it up for knickolas pterodactyl hob. rue certainly has

[id: Two digital drawings depicting a scene from A Court of Fey and Flowers; Hob, Andhera, Binx, and Rue meet in the abandoned tailor’s shop. In the first image, Andhera and Hob stand side by side, with Andhera touching the back of his neck and smiling at Hob as his stormcloud brews, and Hob standing with his hat tucked under his arm, nervously saying, “The K in K.P. stands for Knickolas.” In the second image, Rue rests their face on their claw and above their head in cursive script, surrounded by hearts and peonies, are the words, “I Love Him.” At their side, Binx looks confused, with question marks gathering around her head. /end id]

more detailed description under the cut

Andhera is a young Unseelie faerie with dark plum-coloured skin, extremely long pointed ears, and ember-red irises on black sclerae. His hair is in messy curls flopping down to the side, and streaked with dark grey. He is wearing his usual gold and black robe, exposing his chest, which is shiny from the drizzle raining down from their cloud. He is wearing a gold circlet on his head and several matching earrings in their extremely long ears. He is smiling gently with his eyebrows raised, looking in Hob’s direction. Their cloud is dark, subtly cracking with pink-purple lightning, and some of the peaks look like the tops of hearts.

Hob is a fluffy brown bugbear with large fangs and tall pointed ears. He is dressed down, wearing a plain navy-blue greatcoat with his cavalry hat tucked under one arm and his other behind his back. His brow is furrowed, and he is looking towards the ceiling, with comical droplets of sweat jumping off his forehead. His eyes are luminous yellow in the dark.

Rue is a gigantic owlbear (bipedal, top half owl and bottom half bear) with a barn owl’s face and dark talons. They have yellow-green-tinted feathers that become dark khaki as they get longer. They have big, shiny black eyes, and pink speckles around them. They are wearing a multicoloured quilted jacket over an ornate red doublet, and a single-shoulder forest green cape with a leather pauldron. The pauldron is engraved with golden peonies, and pink peonies also bloom around their thought of “I Love Him.” They are also wearing a dark pink floppy cap with a peacock’s feather stuck in it.

Binx is a very short moth faerie, with brown moth wings folded at their back. She has dark purple, short-ish messy hair and purple eyes. She is dressed in dark purple and bronze, with detailing like damselfly wings. Her ears are medium-sized and pointed, and she also has fluffy moth feelers. She is covered in pinkish blotches on her cheeks and shoulders, and her skin is otherwise light brown. Their eyebrows are styled in dots, and they are wearing purple lipstick and a paperclip as a hair clip. The question marks around them are purple, and resemble streaks of paint.

The tailor shop is darkened, cast in a blue hue with only vague shapes behind the foursome. Shafts of light come through on Hob’s and Rue’s sides, leaving Andhera and Binx in shadow.

/end id

#kp hob #delloso de la rue #binx choppley #andhera of the unseelie #ruehob #battlemaster of ceremonies #a court of fey and flowers #acofaf spoilers #d20 art #dimension 20 #image described #my art #things i made #fortpolio

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fafnir19 · 2 months

Text

Sailing the other way

Lauritz' sister's fiance Samuel and him were very different. Samuel, the suave and sophisticated heir to a wealthy family, always seemed to have the world at his fingertips.

Lauritz, on the other hand, was a rebellious and free-spirited punker who didn't quite fit in with the conventional lifestyle his family wanted for him.

Despite their differences, Samuel and Lauritz got along surprisingly well. Their interactions were a peculiar blend of class and nonconformity that created a magnetic dynamic between them. It was on the cusp of Samuel's impending wedding that an unconventional idea began to take shape.

"Ey, Sam, let's do something wild before your wedding, mate," Lauritz proposed with a glint of mischief in his eyes. Samuel raised an eyebrow, unsure of what adventure Lauritz had in mind this time. "What did you have in mind, Lauritz? Last time your 'wild' idea led to us spending a night in a police cell in Amsterdam." Lauritz replied: “Vegas would be cool, but at the end of the day it’s your bachelor party. I'll do whatever you want!" Flashing a boyish grin, Samuel draped an arm around Lauritz's shoulders. "I want to take our boat out and sail across the Baltic Sea. It'll be an epic journey filled with freedom and salt-kissed air. You in?" Lauritz, with his unconventional mohawk and punk attire, looked askance at Samuel. "Sailing? That's a bit, you know, bourgeois for my taste," he quipped, adjusting the studded leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Smirking, Samuel continued, "Nonsense! It's summer, and what better way to enjoy some fresh sea air? Besides, it’ll be an adventure, and it'll please the in-laws to see you refining your tastes." Lauritz's parents, along with Samuel's family, were indeed relieved by the prospect. "Better than if you were hanging out with those punkers," his mother had remarked with a grateful smile. With their bags packed and spirits high, Samuel and Lauritz boarded Samuel's family's mahogany sailboat bound for Helsinki.

The sun's golden gaze kissed the cerulean waves, casting a mesmerizing glow upon the Baltic Sea. "Ah, this is the life, isn't it?" Samuel exclaimed, his gaze sweeping over the glittering expanse of the sea. Lauritz nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. "It's not as terrible as I imagined. But still, wouldn't you rather be planning your wedding festivities than gallivanting with me?" Samuel chuckled, adjusting his nautical cap. "Oh, come now, my dear Lauritz. We have the rest of our lives for all that. Let's revel in the freedom while we can. Besides, you're not so bad to have around, even for a punker." Lauritz feigned offense, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "You wound me with your words, Samuel," he teased. As the ship cuts through the gentle waves, Samuel took Lauritz under his wing, teaching him the art of sailing. Despite his initial skepticism, Lauritz found himself unexpectedly enjoying the experience, reveling in the salty breeze and the rhythmic lull of the waves against the hull. Their journey led them to the enchanting city of St. Petersburg, where the juxtaposition of baroque architecture and Soviet-era relics offered a feast for the eyes.

As they wandered through the labyrinthine streets, the allure of the city enticed Lauritz to explore the more unconventional facets. "I've been thinking," Lauritz began, his voice laced with determination. "I want an eyelet in my ear, like the punks back home. It's about time I made my mark, don't you think?" he declared, pointing to a trendy piercing found amongst the punk subculture.

Samuel's face turned a shade of pale as he frantically tried to dissuade him, envisioning the cocktail of disapproving glares from his in-laws. "Lauritz, you can't just waltz back to the family estate with a hole in your ear. What would my in-laws think? Besides, piercings can lead to infections. How about something more inconspicuous? Like a nipple piercing?" Lauritz let out a laugh, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Oh, Samuel, always thinking about appearances. But where's the fun in that? I want something that screams independence! Something bold." Their banter was interrupted by a raspy cackle that seemed to echo through the narrow alley they were passing. They turned to see an old woman, draped in shawls and adorned with clinking trinkets. Her eyes glittered with an unsettling intensity as she fixed her gaze on the two friends. "You just have to hold him tight, then we'll circumcise him and I'll make a silver ring out of his foreskin," the old woman mused, her eyes glinting with whimsical certainty. "All you have to do is put this ring on your penis and Lauritz will visually adapt to your taste as long as you wear the ring." Samuel gasped, his mind reeling from the outlandish suggestion. But to his surprise, Lauritz entertained the idea, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "We'll do that, Samuel," Lauritz proclaimed, casting a challenging grin. "After all, you wanted me to do something inconspicuous. What's more inconspicuous than a circumcision?" Despite Samuel's vehement protests, Lauritz remained resolute, and before long, the old woman performed the peculiar ritual, and to their astonishment, the excised foreskin transformed into a shimmering silver ring, which she bestowed upon Lauritz.

Back on the sailboat, Lauritz couldn't contain his mischievous glee as he gazed at the ring. "Now, it's your turn, Samuel. Put the ring over your... You-know-what," he demanded with a sly smirk. Reluctantly, Samuel acquiesced, only to find that, to his bewilderment, nothing seemed to happen.

As the mahogany sailboat gently cut through the azure waves, Samuel and Lauritz lounged on the deck, basking in the warm embrace of the sun. The sea stretched out around them, a shimmering expanse as far as the eye could see, carrying them toward the next port of their Baltic odyssey, the enchanting city of Tallinn. Lauritz sprawled out on the deck, his eyes half-lidded and gazing at the sprawling cityscape of Tallinn ahead, the gentle sea breeze ruffling his hair. Lauritz raised a hand to his shock of green mohawk, only to find something unexpected. Instead of the vibrant strands he had known for years, his fingertips grazed a neat, blonde faded cut with shaved sides.

He let out a surprised chuckle, turning to Samuel with an air of amusement. "Samuel, can you believe it? The old woman's prediction must have come true!" Lauritz proclaimed, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. "This silver ring has really worked its magic. Look at this hair!" Samuel's eyes widened, examining Lauritz's transformed hairstyle with disbelief. "But I saw your green hair this morning. You must have cut it just to fool me," Samuel elucidated, struggling to reconcile the inexplicable transformation before his eyes.

Their banter was interrupted by the sight of Tallinn's spires unfolding on the horizon, a tapestry of architectural marvels rising from the coastline. The allure of the city's winding streets beckoned them, and they eagerly embraced the promise of new adventures. In the heart of Tallinn, the cobblestone streets echoed with the lilt of their footsteps as they wandered through the centuries-old alleys adorned with vibrant blooms. They eventually settled into a quaint street café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the gentle breeze. Lauritz, donning a sailing jacket, leaned back against his chair, relishing the warmth of the sun's embrace. With a casual air, he began unbuttoning his jacket, revealing the absence of his usual body hair, a curious discovery that piqued Samuel's interest.

"Lauritz, your... your hair! It's gone," Samuel exclaimed, his eyes widening in incredulity. Lauritz chuckled, his voice laced with a roguish charm. "The magic strikes again, my friend. Behold the power of belief and a touch of enchantment." Samuel watched in awe as the revelation unfolded before him, unable to completely dismiss the inexplicable occurrences that seemed to dance around Lauritz like a whimsical symphony. "You must've shaved this morning to jest with me," Samuel suggested, his tone tinged with skepticism. "This can't be real." "Ah, always the skeptic," Lauritz teased. "But I assure you, this is the handiwork of the ring. It's brought a dash of transformation to my life, hasn't it?"

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting hues of amethyst across the sky, they sailed toward Stockholm. The promise of new adventures and unexpected marvels beckoned them as they set sail toward the Swedish capital. The following morning, Lauritz awoke to the gentle lull of the ship, the rays of the rising sun casting a golden glow upon the skyline.

As he prepared for the day's exploration, his reflection in the mirror above the sink evoked a bout of bewilderment. His eccentric punk ensemble had been replaced by an impeccably tailored ensemble—an unbuttoned shirt and sleek olive-colored pants that exuded an air of refinement and sophistication.

"What in the world?" Lauritz muttered, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "Samuel, you won't believe this!" Samuel emerged from the cabin, his eyes immediately falling upon Lauritz's stupefying transformation.

"Samuel, it's happened again! This silver ring is truly astounding," Lauritz exclaimed, his spirit alight with unadulterated glee. "Look at these clothes! I didn't expect the magic to work on my outfit too!" Samuel's incredulity was palpable as he regarded the sight before him. "Lauritz, you must have changed into this outfit while I wasn't looking," Samuel reasoned, his tone laced with skepticism. "It's impossible for a ring to cause all this. Whatsoever, I still think it’s good that you dressed more refined today. After all, we want to have breakfast today at the Grand Hotel, where the Nobel Peace Prizes are usually awarded.”

The mahogany sailboat bobbed gently as it sliced through Stockholm's sun-kissed archipelago en route to Visby on Gotland. Samuel manned the helm, while Lauritz was standing at the bow, his gaze trailing horizon. Suddenly Lauritz went through another unexpected transformation. Lauritz's black jeans and baggy T-shirt shifted seamlessly into a wide-open shirt and tight red shorts, his physique now exuding an athleticism that caught Samuel off guard.

Samuel's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening in disbelief as he beheld the improbable evolution unfurling before him. "Lauritz, what... what in the world is happening? This—this isn't right," Samuel stammered, his voice trembling with an amalgamation of astonishment and concern. "I... I need to put a stop to this. I need to get rid of that ring." Lauritz, amusement dancing in his gaze, placed a supportive hand on Samuel's shoulder. "Come on, Samuel, don't be so quick to stifle the mystery. Embrace the uncertainty," he encouraged, a playful glint in his eyes. "Let's see what more this whimsical journey has in store for us."

As the sailboat glided toward the shores of Gotland, the island exuded an alluring mystique, its ancient ruins and labyrinthine streets promising an adventure both whimsical and enigmatic. Their footsteps echoed through the quaint streets of Visby, framed by structures that stood as timeless testaments to ancient grandeur. The island cast its spell upon them, ensnaring their senses with the echoes of bygone eras and the whimsy of forgotten legends. As they ambled through the cobbled pathways, Lauritz noticed a peculiar shift in the way the islanders regarded him. Warm smiles and nods of acknowledgment replaced the guarded glances that typically followed his punk façade.

"Lauritz, did you notice that?" Samuel inquired, his tone laced with a tinge of wonder. Lauritz nodded, a spark of amazement gleaming in his gaze. "It seems the residents of Visby have taken a shining to me, haven't they? The magic of the ring... it's a wonder indeed." The day waned into a resplendent evening, the sun casting its golden embrace upon the island as a symphony of stars unfurled across the heavens. Samuel and Lauritz reveled in the evening's enchanting tapestry, their thoughts drifting toward the next leg of their Baltic odyssey

The melding of disbelief and marvel lingered in the air, enveloping them in a veil of intrigue, as they embarked on their final leg of the journey toward Copenhagen. Clad in polished tuxedos, they reveled in opulent indulgence. Since Samuel had studied in Copenhagen, he knew how to gain access to the most exclusive establishments with a practiced ease.

Amidst the effervescent allure of the Danish capital, the two friends embraced the revelry of their adventure indulging in the opulence that enveloped them. Their boisterous laughter and animated conversations resounded through the hallowed halls of the city's elite establishments, the allure of upscale soirées and lavish gatherings capturing their spirits in a whirlwind of decadence. "Ah, Copenhagen has a certain allure, doesn't it?" Samuel remarked, a smirk playing on his lips as they strolled through the city's resplendent evening. Lauritz nodded, the vibrant tapestry of revelry and sophistication intoxicating his senses. "It seems your world has its own brand of enchantment, Samuel. I can't deny its appeal."

Samuel watched with an inexplicable mix of astonishment and fascination as the vivacious Lauritz seamlessly embraced the lavish lifestyle that had once appeared incompatible with his punk ethos.

The morning of their departure from Copenhagen arrived, and the sailboat set sail once more, carrying them toward Helsingborg where Samuel will marry Lauritz’ sister. As the sailboat rocked gently over the calm water, Samuel brought up the topic that had been bothering him. “Lauritz, I think it’s time to take the ring off. After all, your sister expects you to look like a punk – even though I prefer your current, charming look,” Samuel announced with solemn weight in his words. Venturing into the cabin, Samuel endeavored to remove the ring, only to be met with an unforeseen predicament.

His fervent words reverberated with unrestrained urgency, "Lauritz, I can't... It won't... It's... I can't remove it! Lauritz, I can't seem to get it off," he called out in distress, his voice wrought with urgency. "It's stuck, and I don't know what to do." Lauritz sprang into action, his touch eliciting a peculiar sensation in Samuel, who found himself thrown off balance by an unexpected surge of arousal - Samuel sported a boner. Before their bewildered eyes, Lauritz's demeanor underwent a subtle shift, his gaze now infused with an alluring allure that took Samuel by surprise. As the unexpected surge of desire enveloped them, Lauritz dropped his shorts, parting his legs with a provocative air.

"Take this opportunity, Samuel. Let's embrace the unexpected," Lauritz uttered with a newfound confidence, the air thick with unspoken desires that coursed between them. Samuel was drawn by the sight and couldn't resist and took the opportunity to penetrate Lauritz. After they made love Lauritz turned to Samuel, a solemn glimmer in his eyes, and whispered, "Samuel, I... I want to stay like this. I don’t want to become a sleazy punker again." Samuel’s breath caught in his throat, his gaze locked with Lauritz's. "What are you saying, Lauritz?" In an unexpected twist of fate, the ring tightened around Samuel's cock, seamlessly merging with his flesh. As the transformation took hold, a sense of undeniable euphoria washed over him. Gazing at Lauritz, a knowing smile curled Samuel's lips. "Tomorrow, I will marry my dream girl. And as her dowry, I received her brother to have fun with. I couldn't be happier." Lauritz chuckled and teased, "I guess even a trip to Las Vegas couldn't have been wilder. Seems like your gay sailing trip turned us both bi.”

The following day, as Samuel stood at the altar, he exchanged vows with his beloved, the echoes of a union hitherto unforeseen threading through the tender fabric of his heart.

And in Lauritz, he found a cherished confidant—a companion bound by the threads of an unexpected journey that would endure far beyond the veil of tradition. As the evening unfurled in all its opulent splendor, Samuel orchestrated a future endowed with an unforeseen serenity. With unwavering determination, he ensured that Lauritz was granted a place at an elite university and provided the resources necessary to flourish—a life enraptured by boundless opportunity.

In the wake of unforeseen revelations, Lauritz embraced the life of a typical, self-assured scion, reveling in the embrace of newfound passions and embarking on an uncharted journey tinged with the allure of possibility.

#male tf #male transformation #personality change #mystery #straight to bi #sailing tf #magic ring #punk to prep

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nocasdatsgay · 20 days

Text

The Siren’s Song

Day 5 of @polyacotarweek Favorite Tropes (Sex Pollen and Mating Bonds 😉)

Pairing: Nesta/Cassian/Azriel | Rating: E | Word Count: 2667

Poly Week Master Post | Read here on Ao3

Warnings: Unadulterated smut. Sex Pollen Trope. Slight dub con

Summary: Nesta Cassian and Azriel go to the middle to investigate an illegal trade route that is involved in some assaults in the Court of Nightmares. But instead of a headquarters they stumble upon the very field that’s being harvested.

AN: This lovely fic Called I Pretend You’re Mine All the Damn Time by daycourtofficial is what reminded me of how much I love the sex pollen trope. If you like Az/reader and this trope, go read it.

Tagging: @saltedcoffeescotch @hieragalbatorixdottir @ysmtttty @mybestfriendmademe

“The camp is empty.” Azriel landed beside Nesta and Cassian.

She took in her surroundings; the small clearing with a few tents and a small campfire in the middle was indeed empty. They’d been tracking the trade route for a week and planned on ambushing them. Instead they found nothing.

“Maybe they knew we were coming.” Cassian crossed his arms. “Wasted all this time for nothing.”

“Or maybe something else found them first,” Nesta pointed to the tent on the right, which had the sides shredded.

She looked back at Cassian and Azriel, both shooting each other concerned looks. The Middle was not a safe place. Nesta knew that first hand. She walked over to the tent; she could smell something rotten- food it looked like. The tent was full of supplies left behind. Something definitely came here and took out the residents.

“Found a map.”

She moved out of the tent to see Az and Cassian looking over a large roll of paper. Az lowered it so she could look as well. It was a crude drawing of The Middle, some blank spaces with others filled in. A circle over an area in red caught her eye.

“Maybe they went there,” she pointed at the circle. “They marked it for a reason.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to check it out,” Cass looked to Az. He didn’t disagree. “Let’s go so we can head home. I’m tired of this spy shit.”

“It’s only been a week. Big baby,” Nesta teased.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The flight was short. Nesta held tight to Cassian as they flew. She too was ready for this to be over. The field seemed no different than any other they’d come across. Az signaled for them to land, Cassian following wordlessly. As they got closer the grass seemed to be speckled with white. It wasn’t until they landed that they realized the whole field was covered in small star shaped flowers.

No sooner than he let go of Nesta, placing her on her feet, Cassian began sneezing repeatedly. Nesta stepped back and yellow pollen kicked up around her feet.

“Don’t move,” Az said, his shadows flurrying about him.

“Why?” Nesta shifted and kicked up more pollen, making Cassian sneeze again.

“Stop Nesta,” Az panicked. Nesta and Cassian stood still as stone. “We need to leave. Right now.”

“Why?”

Cassian sneezed so hard his wings flew out. Pollen kicked up high, covering all three of them. Az cursed and he moved, pollen flurrying around him and his shadows. He grabbed Nesta and Cassian and pulled him into his shadows.

They reappeared at the House of Wind.

“We need to bathe this shit off, now,” Az beckoned them to follow.

“Azriel, what the hell is this shit,” Cassian tried to dust himself off. It only smeared on his leathers.

“It’s,” Az looked pained. “It’s Siren’s Dust.”

“What does that mean?” Nesta felt Cassian stiffen beside her.

“That shit is a myth,” Cassian snapped. He sneezed again.

“What does it do?”

Nesta watched Az tug at his collar, his shadows disappearing under his wings. Nesta didn’t realize she, too, was tugging at her leathers. Cassian scratched his neck beside her.

“We need to bathe and lock ourselves in our rooms until it gets out of our system.”

“Neither of you are telling what it is,” Nesta stomped over to Az and his wings flared out.

“Nes don’t,” he stepped back. She did not stop and Az couldn’t help himself; he grabbed her, shoving her against the wall. “Cassian, come get her out of here.”

Heat flared through her. She could smell his arousal and surprisingly her own. Azriel’s pupils were blown and he still looked pained. She wanted to kiss him. She looked to Cassian, he was walking to them and her gaze dropped down to the bulge between his legs. He was turned on too. Nesta let out a noise- a sigh and a moan. Az whimpered.

It clicked for Nesta what was happening. “It’s an aphrodisiac,” she panted.

“Yes,” Az said through gritted teeth. “We need to get it off of us and wait it out.”

Cassian stopped beside them. He too looked pained. But instead of grabbing Nesta, he gripped Az’s hair and pulled him up into a kiss. The two males sighed loudly as their lips met. The lightning of want shot through her and she almost fell to her knees. Azriel was the only thing holding her up. Cassian pulled back and rested it on Azriel’s forehead, both of them panting.

“Take us to the guest room,” Cassian panted. “The one with the shower.”

Az nodded and shadows enveloped them all once again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Nesta had to be dreaming.

Her whole body was on fire and she was in the middle of Cassian and Azriel in the shower. She had to be dreaming. In what world would she be so lucky? Azriel’s hand was between her legs, rubbing her clit while she could feel his cock rubbing against her ass. All while she stroked Cassian’s and kissed him with her tongue in his mouth.

They’d long since washed off the pollen. They somehow managed to keep their hands to themselves until Az decided to grab her and lick at her neck. Now they were all moaning, trying to get each off. Az explained through heated kisses that it would take a while to wear off. He even tried to leave but Nesta and Cassian both weren’t having it.

She came first, those textured fingers making her pull away from Cassian yell as she clenched around nothing. Cassian and Azriel both groaned, Cassian coming all over her hand and Az on her back. She could hear the thuds of their wings trying to flare out, which made her laugh loudly.

That cleared their head but not by much. Just enough for them to rinse off and get out of the shower to dry. Nesta was putting her hair up when she turned to find the boys kissing again. Heat bloomed between her legs again.

“You two look like you’ve done this before,” her voice sounded as hazy as she felt.

Az pulled back, Cassian went for his neck. “We,” Az groaned, his cock hardening again. “We’ve fucked before, Nes.”

That made Nesta weak in the knees. “I want to watch,” she replied.

“No,” Cassian pulled away and gave her a look that made her cunt throb. “No, I think we want you with us.”

Thank the cauldron, the guest bed was huge. Az was tossed by Cassian onto the bed and Nesta crawled up between his legs. Gods his cock was pretty and everything she imagined. She didn’t ask as she took him into her mouth, both of their moans filling the air.

Nesta bobbed her head and hollowed out her cheeks when she felt the bed sink behind her. She pulled back, cursing as Cassian pushed into her from behind.

“Keep going, baby,” Cassian said, thrusting into her again. “I wanna see my good girl choke on his cock.”

She clenched around him- when was the last time he called her a good girl? She did as she was told, taking Azriel’s cock in her mouth and forcing it down her throat. Az let out a strangled curse and his hands went into her hair.

“So good, Nes,” Az panted. “Gods Cassian, she beautiful.”

“Wait until you see her ride you,” Cassian chuckled. He grabbed her hips to hold her still while he thrusted into her harder.

Nesta almost came at the thought of Az buried deep in her. She pulled back and licked up his length, swirling her tongue on the head. Cassian’s movements were getting sporadic. Something cold touched her clit- she looked between her legs to see a shadow swirling above as Cassian fucked her.

“I knew it,” she looked up to see a smug Az. “I knew you used them for sex.”

Az didn’t say anything but the shadow and Cassian hit her both just right that she squealed.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Cassian said behind her. “Come on my cock while you have Az in your mouth.”

She nodded and took Az back down her throat while she used both hands to hold herself up. It didn’t take much more for her to come, a muffled yell on Azriel’s cock making him come down her throat. Cass was right behind them both, thrusting deep into Nesta, spilling in her with his wings flared out.

Another brief moment of clarity passed between them all. She pulled her mouth off Az and he scooted up the bed looking sheepish. She wiped the seed and drool off her lips and Cassian eased out of her. He moved off the bed and she could hear him walk to the bathing room again, probably to get a towel.

“I’m sorry,” Az pulled his legs up to cover himself. “You two should go, it only lasts a few more hours I think.”

Cassian came back and wiped up the mess between Nesta’s legs.

“But I still want to ride you,” she said bluntly as she sat up on her knees.

“That’s the pollen talking,” Az shook his head.

Cassian laughed loudly. “No, Nesta’s been wanting this for a while.”

“I’ve had two males before.” Nesta couldn’t be bothered to be ashamed. “But they weren’t either of you.”

The pollen was hitting her again. Nesta could smell arousal spiking in the air and heat flushing her body again. She looked at Az with her piercing silver eyes.

“Do you want us to leave?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Gods no.”

“Then let me ride you. I want to feel you inside me, Az.”

Az cursed but lowered his legs, his length had hardened once again. She crawled over him and pressed her chest to his and kissed him. He tasted as good as she expected. His hands grabbed her ass, kneading the flesh and forcing her cunt to rub against his cock. She pulled back and reached between them, wasting no time sinking down onto him.

He felt so different from Cassian- longer but not as thick. Still it felt right. She let herself adjust, head falling back with a sigh. She didn’t notice Cassian crawl up the bed beside them. His wings were tucked in, his own cock hard and curled up to his chest.

“Okay pretty girl, show Azzie what you got.”

That first lift and drop made her wince. Az was longer than Cassian by only a small bit but it was enough to make a difference.

“You okay?” Az whispered.

She nodded. “I’m not used to the length.” Cassian busted out a laugh and Az’s cheeks darkened. “Just need to not overestimate it.”

She sat up straighter and did it again. It didn’t hurt that time. It was easy to find a rhythm, pleasure coiling in her stomach and thighs quickly. Az used one hand to cup her breast and pinch her nipple. The other reached over to stroke Cassian’s cock.

She watched one shadow come up onto her other breast, brushing her nipple and another slide down Az’s stomach to settle between her legs again. This orgasm was slower- not as strong but still made her yell when she broke, throbbing tight around Az. He and Cassian both groaned, Az coming inside her and Cassian spilling on his stomach and Azriel’s hand.

Another bout of clarity and another haze swept over them. They went slower the next round, Nesta on Cassian’s face, licking up their cum while Az rode him behind her. Another round with Nesta on her back, Cass inside her and Az inside him. Nesta stroked their wings at one point, finding all the spots that had her males singing. Hours later there wasn’t a position they hadn’t been in already.

Nesta herself was starting to feel sore and tired, the haze not taking her over like it had before. She laid between Cassian and Azriel, hot and sticky from sweat and other things. Az buried his face against her arm and pillow. Cassian was on his side, a hand resting on her sternum.

“I think it’s over,” Cassian murmured.

“Good, I’m tired,” Nesta closed her eyes. “I don’t think I could walk if we had to do another round.”

She felt Azriel stir beside her, and she opened her eyes to watch him sit up. He didn’t look at either of them.

“I’ll go clean myself up,” he whispered. His shadows seemed agitated as they flurried around him.

“Stay,” Nesta reached out her hand to grab his. She squeezed it tight. “We’ll nap and then clean up.”

Az didn’t move. His wings were tucked in tight. She knew what he was thinking and it made her ache in her chest.

“Please stay,” she whispered.

“I don’t think I can handle it,” he finally replied back, his voice cracking.

“What do you mean?” Cassian sat up on the bed and frowned. “Az don’t-“

“We did what we had to do.” He snapped. He turned and she could see the pain in his eyes. “Just let me go so we can get back to normal.”

“No,” Nesta squeezed his hand again. Her chest ached more. She sat up beside Cassian and looked Azriel in his eyes. “Stay with us. This- this can be our new normal.”

He shook his head. “But you’re mates. And I-”

Nesta didn’t know at that moment what came over her. She just knew Azriel needed to stay, that if she let him leave that bed- she moved to him and pulled him into a kiss. That ache in her chest eased and when he kissed her back something else tightened.

She pulled back with a gasp.

He shook his head with panic in his eyes. “That’s not-“ he looked past her and his shoulders hunched, like he’d been stuck in the chest.

Nesta turned to Cassian and his mouth was dropped open. Did that mean-

“Holy Mother,” Cassian let out a breath.

“It’s a trick,” Az said. She turned to see him shake his head. He tried to pull away and Nesta kept a grip on his arm. “It’s probably a trick of the Siren’s Dust.”

“Az, it’s not,” she shook her head. “Az we’re-“

“Don’t say it,” Az's voice broke. “Please don’t.”

Nesta could feel his grief and worry, a bond now present and wide open. She could feel Cassian too, his worry and love for Az pulsing on her end.

“We’re mates,” she whispered and tears fell down her cheeks. “We are your mates, Azriel.”

“But how?” He asked and looked between them. He watched Nesta let go and put her hand to her chest when he tugged it. “Two mates?”

Nesta felt Cassian shrug, moving on the bed to be closer to them both.

“We can have Amren or Rhys check,” he said, his tone soothing for the panic coming off Azriel. “It’s there. I would know, I have one. Gods, this whole time,” Cassian laughed a little harshly. “We were mates this whole time.”

“Why don’t we clean up,” Nesta offered. “We clean up and have a good nap. Together. Then we can talk about it.”

Az hesitated but agreed. They all got out of bed and cleaned themselves up. As she feared it hurt to walk, but she didn’t regret it. The House changed the sheets when they returned and Cassian was the first to pass out snoring. Nesta looked over at Az, his hazel eyes watching her. She reached out and took his hand, stroking her thumb over his knuckles.

“I prayed for a mate,” Az whispered in the dark. “I never got one. I thought the Mother had cursed me for being selfish.”

“I would know about being cursed, Az,” she whispered back. “We can be cursed together now.”

“We are if he snores like that all the time.”

They both snickered, even more so when Cassian let out a louder snore. Once they finally settled, she sent her love down the bond to Az. Just as she fell asleep she realized he sent her love back.

#acotar #poly+acotarweek2024 #poly+acotarweek2024 d5 #azriel #cassian #nesta archeron #nesta x cassian #nesta x azriel #nessriel #cassian x azriel #fave tropes #cw sex pollen

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aquaquadrant · 1 year

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What would the au where tango never got experimented on and as a result never left hels look like

you said that tango would have found his way to timmy eventually and that’s really interesting if they would have been friends I wonder how close they would be

the bond like the one Jimmy and tango have was only possible because tango had spent at least a year in hermit craft learning to open up and jimmy was raised not in hels

even if tango wouldn’t have the experiment trauma he still would have trauma and Timmy well I’m pretty sure he would’ve been open to it

Can you share your headcanons on the hypothetical situation please

(i know i’ve been sitting on this ask for ages but i had to turn the idea over in my mind a few times, like really let it get in there, let it simmer, rearrange the furniture. so uh, here ya go!)

~*~

“timmy,” tango calls urgently, ducking into the netherrack cave.

“yeah?” timmy pokes his head up from their nest. there are a few stray sticks caught in his hair- he must’ve taken a nap like tango suggested, thank god.

“sminor said there were blackcoats at the market yesterday, asking about hybrids.” tango talks quickly, his tone low and impersonal. he crosses over to the double chest they’ve set up, starting to rummage through it. “we gotta go, pack your stuff.”

timmy makes a noise of dismay, sitting upright. “is sean gonna be okay?” he asks tentatively, wringing his hands together.

tango scoffs. “c’mon, you know him. long as he stays outta water, he’ll be fine.” okay, that’s everything he can carry. he pops his ender chest down and starts reorganizing, trying to fit as many resources as he can. “now we, on the other hand, happen to be a bit more visibly obvious hybrids, so like i said, we gotta go.” satisfied with his ender chest, tango mines it back up before turning to face timmy. “now c’mon, scooch, i gotta burn it.”

timmy glances down at the nest, his face falling. “but i just got it how i like it…”

“well sorry, but it’s gotta go!” tango huffs, totally unapologetic, tugging at timmy’s arm. he manages not to scratch him. “now hurry up, get packing-”

“can’t we just hole up here for a few days, til they clear out the area?” timmy asks desperately.

“timmy-”

“you hid this place really well, they’re not gonna find it.”

tango doesn’t let the compliment sway him. he knows he’s hidden their base really well; countless hours were spent mining a virtual labyrinth of tunnels through the mountain, painstakingly shaped to appear as if they generated naturally. the way up to the cave is subtly marked by ever-so-slightly misplaced blocks of netherrack, completely imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know they’re there.

but if the rumors about the blackcoats are true, that won’t be enough.

“we can’t take that chance,” tango says sharply. he jerks his thumb back at the chest. “last warning. get packed or i’m burning it all.”

sighing, timmy finally relents, climbing over the edge of the nest and shuffling over towards the chest. his head is bowed, mouth pressed into a thin line. pouting, like a little kid. fucking typical.

leaning over the rim of the nest, tango dips his clawed fingers into the brush. he closes his eyes; fire flows from his fingertips, easy as breathing. the stick-and-leaf structure catches light almost instantly. fire crackles and pops in the still air.

timmy has turned his face away as he digs through the chest, shoulders hunching by his ears and wings tucked closed to his body. tango refuses to let himself feel bad for it. it had to be done.

“how’s your hunger?” he murmurs, stepping away from the burning nest.

“hm?” timmy doesn’t look over at him, preoccupied as he sorts his inventory.

tango sighs. “timmy. your hunger.”

“oh, uh- fine?”

“did you even check your comm?”

“i’m pretty sure it’s fine-”

“lemme see.”

“tangooo,” timmy whines, in that plaintive way of his, willing tango to drop the subject.

but tango remains firm, holding out a hand expectantly. after a moment, timmy wilts under the pressure, as expected. he meekly hands tango his communicator, glancing away.

tango quickly scans timmy’s stats. full health. thirty-eight levels (it’s been a while since his last death, tango notes with no small amount of pride). two armor points, cause of the iron boots tango made him last week. and his hunger bar-

“two haunches?” tango hisses. he can almost feel his blood start to boil. “damn it, timmy, how many times do i gotta tell you? you keep it at four at the absolute lowest, in case you have to run or fly. i told you, you don’t have to ration food, if we’re low i’ll go get more.”

timmy gives him a pleading look. “tango-”

“no- no, stop it with the puppy dog eyes! i already- i told you!” tango shoves the communicator back at timmy, none too gently. “do you want the creepy scientists to catch you? huh? want them to experiment on you? you want them to do a- a live dissection- a vivisection on you?”

“hang on,” timmy protests, a nervous tremor in his voice, “we don’t- we don’t know for sure that’s what’ll happen if they find us-”

“what do you think happens?” tango snaps, tasting flames on his tongue. he knows his blaze rods must be spitting fire at this point, but he can’t bring himself to care. “everywhere they go, hybrids disappear. what, you- do you think they’re all just enjoying some super secret hybrid party, joining hands and singing kumbaya? don’t be stupid.”

for a moment there’s silence, nothing but the steady crackling of the burning nest behind them. timmy just looks at him, those big sad eyes shining with tears, and tango’s anger extinguishes.

as easy as it is to lash out at timmy, as good as it feels to get that release, tango always regrets it pretty quickly afterwards.

“hey…” tango exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “okay, okay, sorry. you’re not stupid.” he steps closer, carefully taking timmy’s face in his hands. “and- and i don’t wanna leave either. but it’s the only way to keep you safe. i mean- i promised i would, didn’t i?”

“yeah, i know.” timmy sniffles, avoiding tango’s gaze. “there’s… another town fifteen hundred blocks north?”

“no,” tango says, taking care not to let his voice harden. he picks a stick out of timmy’s hair before stepping away. “no towns for a while. we need to lay low til they clear the area. we’ll find a nice mountain in a forest somewhere, okay? maybe- maybe we can even have a little skylight.”

“yeah?” timmy asks, his voice going up hopefully.

“yeah.” tango pulls a cooked salmon out of his inventory, handing it to timmy. “here, eat.”

in hindsight, tango should’ve known they wouldn’t be safe for very long, living near a coastal town. oceans are few and far between in hels, so they get a lot of traffic. but god, it’s so nice to have actual meat for a change. he loathes the thought of going back to rotten flesh and spider eyes.

timmy takes the fish without complaint and starts nibbling on it. satisfied, tango turns to their double chest and breaks it, letting all the excess items and blocks spill onto the floor. a single well-aimed fireball sets the whole pile ablaze, leaving nothing but smoldering netherrack.

lastly, tango mines their respawn anchor. now that their spawn point is untethered, he feels the anxiety start to kick in with renewed force. a death now would strand them at the world spawn, and that would be all kinds of bad. he takes a final look around the cave; there’s no sign they were ever even here.

“alright, let’s get moving,” he says, putting his pickaxe away and heading for the exit tunnel.

timmy follows him out of the cave. they travel in silence for a few minutes, tango keeping an ear out for mobs since the only light they have is the faint flow of his blaze rods. lighting the area up would give them away, so they’ve had to get used to seeing in the dark.

“someday,” tango says quietly, “we’ll go far enough that we won’t have to worry about those guys ever again. and- and we’ll be able to make a little happy house together, nest and all.”

timmy hums, his arm brushing against tango’s in the dark, wing spread around his shoulders. “yeah, a proper home. i like it. we can- uh, d’you think we’ll make like, a farm or somethin’? a little cozy cottage, like a- a homestead, or…”

“a ranch?” tango suggests, feeling a grin pull at his mouth. like they’d ever find enough passive mobs for that. but for some reason, the idea appeals to him.

timmy huffs a laugh, something tango hasn’t heard for a while. “yeah, sure, we’ll be ranchers.”

“ranchers,” tango agrees. his inner fire has dimmed to a gentle warmth, now; some soft, weak thing he doesn’t have a name for. “team rancher.”

~*~

#hels to pay au #HTP fic #hermitcraft #anyway YES tango and timmy would’ve found each other if tango didn’t leave hels #it wouldn’t have been like it was with jimmy- not exactly #but they would’ve done the best they could #certainly not the worst by hels standards

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ninoxwof · 9 months

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🐢

Turtle! Requested by my girlfriend. Had a lot of ideas for him so it was a little difficult to simplify him down.

[Image ID: A digital drawing of the seawing character from wings of fire, Turtle. He's an emerald green seawing dragon. He has a light red neck that transitions into a desaturated green underbelly. Down his neck to his tail, he has a darker greenish blue color, he also has blocky spots on his beak forehead and near his eye of that same color, that resembles markings of that of a turtle's. His bioluminescent scales and coral stalk like horns are a light green offwhite. His fins are kelp and seaweed like, with a blue color and he has a stalk on his head with an esca. Wrapped around his neck is a zippered pouch bag in the shape of a turtle shell. On his left wrist, he has a bracelet that has three skyfires in it, while the rest of the slots on the bracelet hold nothing. On his wings, he has a wave like bioluminescent marking to show he is of seawing royalty. He has worrying blue green eyes with a little bit of yellow in them, and his upper eye lids are showing. He is sitting down looking anxiously with one arm raised slightly off the ground. /.End ID.]

#wof #wof arc 2 #seawing #wof turtle #turtle wof #my asks #ask me stuff #wings of fire

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greeenchrysanthemums · 4 months

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Appearances for the GG rivals au character.

I am no artist, so these will simply be written descriptions with a few images thrown in here and there. These are all subject to change at any time, as well, since this is still in its early planning stages.

For Gem, I imagine she looks a lot like in this gorgeous fanart, except her dress has slits up the side to allow for easier movement and her hair is a low bun with a braid wrapping around the front of her head, like this.

Scott and Impulse wear armour similar to how applestruda draws it in her au, with their cloths in shades of teal and yellow. Scott, I like to imagine, has long, back length hair, that he wears down and covering one eye. Impulse has shortly cropped hair and two little nubby horns that are tipped in black, as well as sharp clawed hands. Scott's teeth are sharp; no one quite knows why.

Grian's eyes are entirely black like a barn owl's and his hands end in sharp talons rather than nails. He doesn't have wings, not anymore at least. He wears a high collared red tunic and brown trousers, but both are rarely seen past the heavy, ankle length, black cloak he hides himself under, which is held closed by a silver brooch in the shape of an eye. The cloak has a hood but he never wears it. He always seems to be sliming, whether that smile is devious or genuine is up for debate. The brooch looks something like this, minus the blue center and the circlular details

Scar wears a similar black cloak, held closed by the same brooch, though he wears his with the hood up, and it has red flower detailing on the hem (so, similiar to his secret life look but its a full cloak). His eyes are still green, though, and he has a single grey streak in his brown hair. His tunic and trousers under the cloak are both black and he wears his shirt just a little bit too open at the top. He also always wears a smile, but pretty much everyone can agree it is deceptively kind.

Mumbo and Etho wear matching outfits, claiming it is professional since they share a job, but it is something they choose to do not something that is required of them (they are just silly, really). I imagine they are simple outfits consisting of white tunics with black trousers and thick, leather aprons on top (mumbo's is red and etho's is green). They both wear goggles and thick gloves, as well as chunky boots, all for safety since they work with explosives. Etho wears a black bandana on his lower his face. His goggles replace his headband in this look, being what keeps his hair out of his face. His scared eye is missing entirely; he does not have a false eye, it is just an empty socket. Mumbo wears his goggles around his neck when they are not on his face.

Bdubs dresses similarly, minus the apron and goggles, since he works out in the garder. His shirt is white, and he has brown trousers. Over that he wears a thick cloak that is almost always covered in some manner of flora and/or mud. He completes the look with a wide brimmed hat to protect him from the sun.

Cleo is also dresses similarly to Etho and Mumbo but her apron is a plain brown that is stained with soot. Her tunic sleeves are always rolled up to show off her strong arms and she doesn't wear her safety gloves nearly as much as she should, and she forgoes eye protection entirely. One of her eyes is missing (surprisingly not related to the lack of protective wear), replaced with a glass eye of a slightly different shade of green than her organic eye. Her hair is pulled into a much messier bun than Gem's, with frizzy stray hairs going every direction.

Ren and Martyn look like how they are typically drawn in third life fanart. Ren's eyes are red, as well as blood shot, and he almost always appears angry.

Pearl wears a white tunic with flared sleeves tucked into a pair of high waisted black trousers. Over this she has a deep, red cloak that stops at her waist. She has a crescent moon shaped birth mark on the left side of her face. She carries a sword around her waist. Her hair is always down and messy under her hood.

Bigb just looks like a baker, I am not sure how to describe it. But he always seems to have flour stains on his clothes no matter how hard he tries to wipe it off. Big strong arms for him as well.

Skizz wears the same armour as Scott and impulse, and his underclothes are black. The sleeves of his tunic are ripped off and he does not wear his gauntlets. He refuses to elaborate on why. He is a dove avian.

Tango wears a short sleeved red tunic and black trousers with big chunky boots. His hands are clawed, and his ears are pointed; both are tipped in a red to black gradient. His eyes are entirely red. He has a long tail that ends in a tuff of fire that doesn't seem to have any real heat.

Jimmy wears a blue tunic with a brown vest over it. Brown trousers and chunky boots. His sleeves are always rolled up and he is always covered in some manner of dirt, both because of the work he does on the farm, and from being very clumsy. He has bull horns, one of which is chipped. He also has a tail.

I still don't have set roles for joel and lizzie just yet so they do not have designs in mind either, unfortunately.

#GG rivals au #geminitay #grian #hermitcraft #life series

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onomatopagu-et-cie · 11 months

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HAPPY 19TH DGM ANNIVERSARY & some other notes on DGM!

I'm a little late but HAPPY 19TH DGM ANNIVERSARY!!!! Time flies fast and this series accompanied my thoughts and heart for almost two decades now!

This first preface will stay a long time in my thoughts. Thank you for letting us join in on your wonderful journey, Hoshino ⋆｡°✩

I recently listened again to Blue Moon sung by Ella Fitzgerald and ... it's giving me Mana, Allen and Neah (or the whole cast haha) feelings ;;

I had some other notes I wanted to share since the previous post, so here it goes!

(SPOILERS UP TO CH247!!!!)

▶ Innocence & Akuma and Timcampy Innocence is attracted by Akuma, as though they once formed a whole together:

(the imagery here haunts me, especially with a heart in the background and the cross in the middle!!)

-> the story insists on informing us Innocence and Akuma balance each other and hold equal power over each other -> at the Asian branch, Allen’s Innocence reactivates only once he saw an Akuma ; the 3rd generations arm and Allen’s Innocence activated on their own when they were close -> the Innocence takes the shape of a bust deprived of head, arms and legs, but it has wings (and the recent chapters mainly represent Innocence with wings eg. Mugen, Apocryphos and Allen) ; the Akuma egg is a head in itself -> the Innocence’s mark on the exorcists looks like a cross but also the stigma on the Noah’s forehead -> both evolve in the same fashion. However, Akuma seem to me visually more ‘complete’ than the Innocence (eg. in Phantom G ark, even the children, the Prioress and Emilia thought a Level 4 was an angel): some are seen with more defined human features, wings, halo, tail, horns altogether. It’s curious how Level 4 Akuma (and Alma also) are designed with a halo, which is generally a symbol of holiness in art.

-> Skull use what looks like ladybug to create their barriers (which can prevent anyone except Akuma from entering, nullify Allen’s left eye power and his ability to summon the Ark).

In some cultures and languages, ladybugs are often seen as a good-luck charm and are linked to heaven and God. For example, in french, we call them ‘bêtes à bon Dieu’ (something like God’s creature) since the Middle Age. Its name can even be associated with the Virgin Mary (ladybug/bird or in german, Marienkäfer means Mary’s beetle). In japanese, the word for ladybug is 天道虫, ‘tentou-mushi’ which literally means 'Heaven Path bug'. It can also be written with the kanji for 'red' and 'girl' respectively, 紅娘.

Now, this is a wild reach which might lead nowhere (surely like the others 8D), but the Crows are the only ones described by their red silhouettes (you would expect their costumes to be jet black, by their title) and the two red dots on their forehead. There are also many black ladybug species with two red spots on their wings eg. the twice-stabbed lady beetle.

-> Just another wild speculation but if the song heard when the Dark Boots crystallized itself around Lenalee was the lullaby (the only song mentioned in the story along with Lala’s and Maria’s), what to make of it?

While the Innocence only affected non-exorcists (supposedly because its will is overwhelming to them, according to Bookman), Level 4 Akuma seem to have the same head-crushing cry and it incapacitates exorcists, to the point that they struggle to synchronize.

Only the dead like Maria seems to remain unaffected. However, in ch147, Link was still able to move to save Allen from the collapse.

-> The only instances Akuma and Innocence use each other’s attributes are Akuma 4 (wings) and Fallen Ones’ (halo) designs.

-> The Earl is determined to keep the Akuma’s true nature hidden from the Heart, because there’s something in there it could use as an advantage. It suggests something could directly be done by the Heart if it knew that piece of information eg. control both Innocence and Akuma or turn Akuma into Innocence or vice versa? Idek anymore haha

-> Timcampy is the only character to have both the Innocence and the Akuma/Earl attributes, wings and horns. And we also had THIS cover (the second picture, I never saw it colored before I re-read DGM and idk if this was established it was Timcampy):

Not to mention Timcampy’s weird deus ex machina entrance to motivate Allen again in ch53 (when he was giving up on saving Suman)?

▶ The Chang, Akuma, Skulls and Link A detail I forgot to mention in the first post was that Link’s tattoo, as expected, share the same motif with the ones inked on the Chang to link them to Fō as it’s shown in volume 21. Similar tattoos were on Alma’s arms and belly since that magic was also used on him.

Level 4 Akuma and Skulls also share the same marks?????

Fô’s head ‘accessory’ looks like the Akuma egg’s design:

Skulls (the katakana highlighted in green on the screenshots), like the Chang family, are also sorcerers. The manga introduces them in japanese with the title 守化縷 (the kanji highlighted in yellow on the screenshots), which literally can be translated as ‘guard(ian) of the thread’.

Now what's a synonym of thread?

… It’s Link!!!! The coincidence goes even further with Link’s last name, Howard. According to wikipedia’s entry:

????????? I don’t know what to make of this, but this sure isn’t pure coincidence. This and the way Apocryphos and Lavi called Link ‘watchdog’ as well as Kanda ‘Luberrier’s dog’ insists on his role as a guard. But whose? Allen’s? Luberrier’s? Somebody/thing else?

-> According to his profile in volume 20, Edgar Chang Martin, part of a secondary Chang branch, was related to a great sorcerer involved with the Order. The sorcerer was german. Link is also german (like Kiredori, Tewaku, Goushi, Madarao and Tokusa), I don’t believe we have other german profiles in the story nor blondes like him, Bak’s father and Bak himself (oh, and I forgot ofc our girl Miranda!!). Link could be related to that great german sorcerer and thus be an heir of Atuuda, unbeknownst to Zuu (but I wonder how that would be groundbreaking for the story?)

-> the spells the Chang use could be related to/even originate from the Skull’s (given how the manga hints at how ancient Skull’s sorcery is). The operation to bestow the power to cast magic to the Crows could be similar to how the Skull tinkered with the scientists’ head in volume 15.

-> heck, dude could even be linked to Timcampy, they’re both gold (I’m half-joking at this point idek anymore 8D) and Timcampy uses the same sanskrit-inspired magic as the Skulls (eg. when Tim destroys the barrier to save Allen during his battle against Alma and Kanda). Hoshino also emphasizes the importance of the gold color in the manga (the Noah’s eyes, Timcampy, Allen getting hungry over this color, the Campbell mansion’s landscape, …) just as the silver/gray color, so there might be something? Also, Cornelia’s wood can destroy Timcampy. Cornelia derivates from the latin cornix, which means crow…………… Please e x p l a i n

Also, what is this ‘thread’ the Skulls have the duty to protect? Their main duty is to protect the Akuma egg?

Now three things will keep bothering me until we get answers in the manga:

2) These pages following each other (and the last two are literally back to back, it’s more visible when you read the physical copy + it’s Link’s right hand and Allen’s left):

(Of course I know Atuuda acted up once Link subconsciously shook when he thought of Apocryphos and this is a smooth way to have a transition to Neah’s pov, but the panelling is still interesting here)

3) What Zuu really meant to say to Link before he was interrupted by Luberrier (and I don’t think it was the whole ’becoming the 14th’s ally’ because Luberrier was clear on that in front of Link only some pages later)?????

▶ Cross and his mask Hoshino hinted that both Lavi’s eyepatch and Cross’s mask are mysteries to be unveiled. The mark on his mask looks like the Innocence and the Noah’s stigma. It also looks like Mana’s Pierrot makeup, or even the Pillar mentioned in volume 27:

The shape of his mask looks like a coffin? (It could also be a visual recall of Grave of Maria, but who knows!)

It reminds me of the "La" + "Vi" cover and the 'box' protecting the egg also looks like a coffin:

▶ Road We now know Road was even able to manipulate Allen/Neah’s dreams without even interacting with them (unlike with Lavi). She even invited Cross’ dreamy-whatever-consciousness in it (because I’m sure Cross himself was conscious of it to some extent and was able to give some hints to Allen even though he was used by Road), which persuaded Allen to go to the Campbell mansion. Could it be that she also tampered with Lenalee and Allen’s nightmares after she met them (or at the very least Allen, since the manga shows how the dream strongly motivated him to reactivate his Innocence)?

I find it even more curious she’s named like that when one of Allen’s elements of crisis over his identity is following a road already traced by somebody else.

Road might have something to do with the Heart (that and also the fact her iconic door is heart-shaped, with a checked pattern and a crown on top?)?

▶ Apocryphos Ch247 finally established the link between the Cube’s prophecies and Apocryphos: the Cube is regarded by the Order as the official « text » on the Innocence and the three days of doom, the Heart is mentioned but there is no trace of Apocryphos in there. Just as the truth on the 3 days of doom the Noah claim to exist. Also just as the Heart is capable to create dupes to escape the Earl. Apocryphos is a literal reference to the apocrypha, texts deemed unauthentic by religious authorities. According to the Cambridge dictionary, « an apocryphal story is probably not true although it is often told and believed by some people to have happened. » The one the most tricked so far in the story seems to be the Order.

▶ Cross in volume 17

In volume 17, Cross asks Allen « What if I told you that when you become the 14th you will have to kill the people (or someone) you care about? ». To which Allen answers: « What do you mean I have to kill the people (or someone) I care about?! »

In the original version, Cross uses « daijina ningen (人間) » for ‘the people (or someone) you care about’ ; Allen uses « daijina hito (人) ».

Which is curious for Cross because hito (人) would generally be used here: both mean human, but while 人 refers to ‘human’ as a person, 人間 refers to ‘human’ as the species in a taxonomic classification. Is it to highlight the true nature of Neah as a Noah apart from the humans Allen came to care about along his way? Does Cross also set himself apart from the humanity as a 3rd party?

▶ Funny how Link and Mana can be associated in the manga: -> ch137, « Orphan and Clown », introduces Link to Allen when he’s still trying to figure out why the Ark’s partition uses the signs Mana taught him and is questioned by Link about it. It is later revealed in the manga Link was an orphan before joining the Crow. -> in ch183, Allen inadvertently voices his memories of Mana to Link -> in ch212, « Searching for A.W.: Calling You », as Allen loses consciousness, fighting Neah’s awakening, he calls out to Link but instead is greeted by a vision of a young Mana, calling out to Neah. This chapter also introduces the importance of Allen’s name to save him from Neah’s dreams. The original version for ‘Calling You’ is ‘’君を呼ぶ ‘ (kimi wo yobu). ‘Kimi’ is the pronoun both Mana and Link use in the manga ; past!Allen also seemed to use it with Neah. Johnny and Kanda both use omae for Allen.

EDIT: Allen also uses 'kimi' so the chapter's title works both ways (in French, the title was translated as "Écoute ma voix" which is "Listen to my voice", I like the way the calling works interchangeably!)!

-> in ch213, Link faces a mirror shirtless like Mana does later in volume 25:

-> in ch220, « Searching for A.W.: He Closes His Eyes Tighter in a Vortex », Neah recalls the Earl he’s Mana but remains in denial and Link admits being conflicted over Allen and Neah

Link, Neah and Cross share similar positions and the panelling adds to this parallel:

-> Link was given the order to aid Neah but hopes that Allen overcomes his fate as his host.

-> Neah awakens years later and faces the Earl, struggling with Mana’s memory ; he’s determined to destroy him even if he holds him dear.

-> Cross had to witness Mana's struggle against the Earl. Yet he still had to carry on his mission even when the Earl possessed Mana. Then he had to watch Allen being slowly taken over by Neah. Cross's message in ch173 hits even harder given his link with Mana and Neah: "You may not want to listen to someone like me who carries the will of the Fourteenth… But if you think either of us is forcing you to walk a certain path… I want you to know that’s not true. A path forms behind you as you walk. The earth you step on is compressed, leaving a print. You’re the only one who can make your path. So stop wearing Mana’s mask. Walk in your own if you haven’t given up." Perhaps he even said similar words to an anguished Mana (or he wished to have said them). He had to watch them go, one after the other, helplessly.

▶ The moon, D. and C.

Are the D and the C just stylized in Mana and Luberrier’s names? At least for Mana’s and Neah’s, the D. could hold some meaning since it even was ch218’s title. Hoshino dreamed to become an astronaut, loves the moon and the stars (they’re even part of her name and her own mascot) and used it a lot in her previous works.

In DGM, the moon is seen in its different phases at important moments. It mainly signals the passing of time (eg. how long has Allen been on the run) or gives atmospheric context to the scenes, but sometimes it holds a symbolic meaning:

-> The first Noah reunion shows the moon phases on each chair

-> It is part of the Musician's Score's lyrics (from the french official translation): « Tu étincelles, toi, l’enfant né sous une tremblante lune d’argent. » which could be « You shine, the child born underneath a trembling silver moon ».

-> It frames a romantic scene between Crowley and Eliade:

-> The moon and the stars are used in chapter titles eg. ch129, « Black and white, 0° » (a reference to the new moon) and ch144 « Black star, red star »

-> It’s foreboding in Lenalee & Allen’s nightmares and Allen’s prophecy as the Destroyer of time:

-> The full moon appears when two characters reunite: in astronomy, a syzygy is a « situation that occurs when the sun, the moon (or a planet), and the earth are in a straight line. This occurs when the moon (or planet) is at conjunction (new moon) or opposition (full moon) ». Syzygy comes from the ancient greek συζυγία which means junction, reunion.

Mana and Red’s first meeting, as Mana sings the lullaby:

Allen and the Earl’s ‘first’ meeting:

Allen and Link reunite:

As for the D and the C, when the moon waxes it is shaped like a D, and when wanes it appears as a C. Could this be a coincidence? The C in Luberrier could also be Campbell, but for now the mystery surrounding his family is far from being revealed.

▶ Timothy and Allen In ch183, « Wash your face and you’ll be alright », Timothy and the Prioress face the sunset the same way Mana and Red did as later revealed in ch238:

Have a nice week!

#dgm spoilers #dgm meta #d gray man #allen walker #road kamelot #cross marian #mana walker #link howard #neah campbell

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