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darkcircles4lyfe · 21 days

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it's a story about hands (reprise)

Yeah, okay, today's the day.

I gave my blog that title for a reason, you know, and it has loomed over me for years because the hand motif is absolutely everywhere and you could go on about it forever.

Maybe that's something I'll never actually attempt to do, but this chapter, we reached a breaking point.

Before I continue, I need to give a big, big disclaimer: I do not have a physical disability, so I'm not able to speak about that from the standpoint of representation as a first-hand perspective. I have at least listened to enough disabled people to know that fictional characters who become amputees only to miraculously gain their limbs back is, um, a trope. Disabled people in general being "healed" is a conception we would really prefer to avoid here. Not to call people out, but I don't think we're giving enough space to acknowledge that.

I don’t feel comfortable making the judgement call about what should happen. I’m leaving that open. I also don't want to downplay people's emotional reactions. Honestly, I don't know if I can accurately define the line between acknowledging real pain vs. ableist pity. But I’d like to talk about the possibilities of what could happen. Other characters have definitely gotten permanent disabilities as a result of their hero work, or even just the side effects of their quirk. But, for better or worse, I don't think this case is really about representation. Not that Horikoshi won't do that justice. He might. What I'm saying is that's not his purpose for having Izuku lose his arms. It's meant to be symbolic, so we can explore what it means. The other thing I’m keeping in mind here is that Horikoshi is notorious for playing with our expectations, like, alllllll the time. I mean, just take a few chapters ago for a classic example. Eri appeared at the end, and we all assumed she was about to take some sort of action to save someone with her quirk. Then, immediately following, we were given an explanation for why that wouldn’t be happening. And now it’s clear he wanted to do that “fake out” not just as a silly cliffhanger prank, but specifically so we would know not to suspect that Eri could be the miraculous solution to Izuku’s loss of his arms. Rest assured, there is no easy way out of this.

The expectation at play in this particular instance is an old one. It’s very understated, but its subtext has burned so brightly, you’d be a fool not to notice it. It sits with anticipation like one half of a call and response. Man, I was so certain. Lots of people still are. I was really looking forward to printing the panel where it happened onto a t shirt and wearing it proudly. All the hand motifs in this story radiate thematically from a single moment, the one that started it all for Izuku.

It raises all kinds of questions about the act of saving, who needs saving, why, what does it mean, what are the dynamics of power, politics, honesty, exploitation, compassion, pity, disdain, sacrifice. Katsuki has dealt with many of these since he first rejected Izuku’s hand. While Izuku was the one who was convinced Katsuki would keep on rejecting him…

…Katsuki was the one who kept that moment in his mind all these years and eventually came to regret it.

Katsuki is the one yearning for that hand-hold, the one who has imbued it with so much more weight than it ever originally had. Izuku, in contrast, does not allow himself to dwell on what he wants. To illustrate this difference, we need to look at another piece of foreshadowing:

Ugh, do y'all remember when lots of folks were complaining about how there never seemed to be actual consequences for Izuku's destructive treatment of his own body? I don't blame them, I was concerned and confused about it too. There were several "fixes" along the way. Recovery Girl healed him, but left a physical reminder. Then he started training to fight with his legs… sometimes. Then he got support items. All of these were unsatisfying non-conclusions because they didn't present Izuku with a lasting enough impression to change in a meaningful way. They didn't address his core, his origin.

Of course, that all changed this chapter. Now it looks like our frustration was inflicted intentionally. With the current context in mind, all of these moments look more sinister, like this day was always gonna come because they kept putting bandaids on a deep emotional and psychological wound. The problem is pretty much spelled out for us here:

As Katsuki put it, he just doesn’t take himself into account, ya know? He doesn’t care what happens to him. And he lies about it, to keep others from worrying, to keep them safe. To keep them from returning the favor and putting themselves in harm’s way for his sake. His motivations are noble,

…but what about the little boy inside Izuku? Who saves him?

This is all about Izuku giving himself up to the point that he literally has no more to give. The thing is, I bet he saw this coming. He knew his limits and decided to keep going anyway, because his personal safety and wellbeing are not important. Now that way of thinking has come back to bite him because the fight isn’t over yet, and he’s already made his sacrifice. So now we know who will be more distraught over this. Not Izuku—Katsuki.

It’s not about Izuku becoming disabled, it’s about how Katsuki wanted to use the intertwining of their fingers to communicate that he would never let go. Never stop valuing him most. Never let himself make the mistake of rejecting him again. Never let Izuku be so reckless with his life. To say: “we are in this together.”…if only Katsuki believed he deserved to be able to say such things. To reach out his hand would have been the ultimate way to simply imply them and let Izuku be the one to decide. Then, to feel their hands clasped together would be more than either of them dared hope for, but so beautiful, so right. A moment they’ve waited their whole lives for.

Yeah. That’s what we were expecting. We’ve been so comfortable. Horikoshi gave us all the signs. He tempted and teased us over and over. BUT. You know he does this thing were he gives us a desirable, completely plausible and simple thing to look forward to, and then he snatches it away. And THEN he replaces it with something much better, something we were not expecting at all because it seemed too good to be true. That’s exactly what happened when Himiko snatched Izuku away, and we were robbed of the chance to see him and Katsuki fight together. In hindsight, though, I’m glad things went a different way because now there’s so much more depth and angst on display. Likewise, in the present moment, we may consider how, as one door closes, another opens.

As wonderfully meaningful as the hand-hold would have been, perhaps it is still too simple a resolution for Izuku, for his and Katsuki’s relationship. Tbh, it could have been done like 100 chapter ago. At this point, there’s so much more potential. There are a couple of ways it could go. If Izuku stays armless, Katsuki will be forced to use other methods to get his point across. He’ll have to do something else, or say what he means, or both. Yes, I’m talking about what you think I’m talking about. If I say it, I just might jinx it (lol), but I mean it. I’m being serious. Either way, if Izuku did get his arms back in the end, I’m sure that it wouldn’t be an easy fix. It would be hard-won against Izuku’s self-destructive mindset, and/or by Katsuki’s conviction. Again, I say this knowing it is not meant so much as a representation of disability, but as a representation of Izuku’s greatest character flaw taken to the extreme. I know this might sound harsh, like, hasn’t he been through enough? I get that, but… I’ve said it before and I say it again: Izuku is stubborn as hell.

I wish I had a resounding final note to end this on, but I kinda don’t. I’m not sure what’s best. Now we just have to wait and see what Horikoshi has in mind.

#lin speaks #bnha meta #bnha manga #bnha 419 #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #bakudeku #bkdk #dekubaku #dkbk

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adaptacy · 8 months

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I know this might seem like a weird hcs to make but if Johnny went to prison do you think he would want his s/o to stay with him or leave him to live a normal life ?

Hi anon! I really hope this doesn't break your heart. Sorry if it does darlin <3

If Johnny is getting arrested, if he's going away, he is going away for life. Like, ten- maybe twenty, hell, thirty times over. We don't even know how many people he's killed. And I'm no law student, but I'm pretty sure cannibalism and stalking and hunting them definitely makes those life sentences worse.

Point is, there is no way he's getting out. Not legally, anyways.

And Johnny more than understands that. He is NOT going to let you sit around dreaming about him when he knows he's gonna be rotting behind bars for the rest of his life, and then some.

The first thing he tells you when he gets arrested is not to wait for him. You'd be waiting an eternity. He tells you that he loves you, and that he's sorry, but maybe it's for the best. So yeah, no, he wants you to leave him. I mean- he doesn't want that but I think if he really does love you he wants you to be happy. It's not like he can do anything about it from behind bars.

That being said....

If he somehow, miraculously gets (breaks) out, he's hunting you down. Doesn't matter if it's been 6 months, two years, or fifteen years. He will find you. I mean, it's not like there's much to do in prison other than think about his life before. And that means you.

Sure, his tracking skills are a little rusty at this point, but information becomes easier to access the more that time goes on thanks to technological advances. And he will find you, eventually.

When he does, you immediately recognize him- prison has gyms, after all, and he'd need his muscles in jail anyways, so he's still as buff, if not more. He looks more rugged, clearly he's had a good number of prison fights. Not surprising, seeing as how it is Johnny.

At first, he's gentle. Asks how you're doing. Asks- err, demands, that you don't report him to the cops. He is definitely a vigilante, and a very much wanted man. Asks if you missed him.

And then he's a little more forthright. "Missed you. Thought 'bout you. A lot." It gives you butterflies, but you're not sure if you want to suffer through the heartbreak of him potentially being stolen away by the cops again.

Also, if you have a family or another partner, that's going to make things much more troublesome. If you accept him, you'd have to accept moving several states away from Texas and completely change your identities. And if you are with someone else...

Johnny isn't upset at you. He expected it. He never would've guessed he got free, so of course you wouldn't have either. But he doesn't really know what to do with his life if he can't have you. He hated his family- grew to hate the Sawyers as he aged in those concrete walls, realizing just how responsible they were for his problems. yeah, he's not great at taking responsibility. He had a lot of time to brew on that anger.

So beyond hating his family, you were what kept him going. Even if he'd told you to find happiness elsewhere, you were his happiness. So hearing that you are already with someone else definitely hurts.

He accepts it.

...

At first. And then he thinks about it some more, and he finds the idea a little ridiculous. You'd pleaded to stay with him, promised your devotion even when he'd told you not to. But now you were suddenly going against your word? Yeah, right.

He'd visit you often. Specifically when he knew you were alone. because he knew he could win you over and convince you with enough time. Eventually, he's taking you out to 'catch up', and then those turn into weirdly romantic dinners, and small gifts, and...

Oh, and he's kissing you. And you're kissing him back.

Shit.

This is gonna be tough to explain.

#tcm game #tcm #johnny slaughter #texas chainsaw massacre #johnny tcm #johnny slaughter x reader #johnny slaughter tcm #johnny slaughter headcanons #adapting to johnny slaughter

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ackerifle · 4 months

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I personally see yan!Levi being like he is in the show, keeping his emotions in control, being focused and having the whole no-nonsense attitude. While being just a tad bit too overprotective. I doubt he'd ever harm reader if he's caught feelings for them or force himself on them. (just my opinion and personal preference!) But it makes me curious to see how he would genuinely struggle with his feelings, being self-aware of how too much he feels for reader while also being quite dense in a way. Seeing him deteriorate as he's trying to keep up with how he usually is with everyone else. While you see things from his POV, his psychology. And how the absence of any form of intimacy and probably not thinking he needs it affects him. I've read all that you've written and really like your writing and wondered what your take on this would be? a scenario or headcanons, Can be sfw and/or nsfw!

dramatis personae!

yan. levi ackerman x fem. reader

+ CW. — headcanon’s: internal morality conflict, stalking, possessive and manipulative behavior, slight intimidation, implied: forced relationship & eventual mind break; i fear the structure worsens as it continues; not proof-read.

first and foremost, you flatter me, i am delighted to hear that you’ve taken a liking to my writing, and your patience in waiting is well appreciated. this particular ask near reminds me that it is long overdue for me to create a work that is written exclusively in levi’s perspective, or rather, one that happens to centre around his general frame of mind as a yandere.

levi is no fool, love comes easy to the forlorn who have never had a taste of it. and when it comes to you? he knows it’s love, he knows it right away. but these feelings are so… intense, so peculiar, so persistent, so passionate, and so not normal. levi’s struggle with morality is a burden that rivals the responsibility of being humanity’s strongest soldier, truly. and although levi does his utmost to justify his unusual behaviors and progressively concerning actions, he simply can’t. you’re quite unfortunate yourself, to have a man such as levi absolutely and utterly enamored with you, and he wholly acknowledges it. but who is to pay the price, if not you? initially, levi’s solution to suppressing the severity of his feelings, if not the feelings altogether, is distance. but this proves only temporary as absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it isn’t long before he gives up because why would he deprive himself of happiness after just finally attaining it?

it’s almost too much, really. levi feels quite a lot, but most of all, he feels guilty— just not guilty enough to stop. and as time passes, his resolve inevitably weakens, and it becomes easier to rationalize what he does, even if levi is astutely aware deep down that acting upon his own selfish desires will always be wrong, at least with the way he’s going about it. it isn’t entirely justice, per se, but levi does happen to have a strong sense of righteousness, of rectitude, of common decency. human life holds great significance to him, but so does the quality of said life; he wants you to feel everything and anything but suffering by being with him. but there will come a point where i believe that he stops caring altogether. that levi’s erstwhile efforts of concealing his sincere intentions and ardent sentiments would waver in due time, but this would be late into his life, likely after the battle of heaven and earth when you’re even more emotionally eroded than he is.

it starts off small, considering that he is fairly unsuspecting as a yandere, and quite little would change about his mannerisms, at least until you’ve noticed too little too late. levi wants your relationship, romantic or not, to develop as organically as possible so he can get over the fact that it is quite literally anything but. not when he already knows everything he needs to know about you. levi is observant and watchful as is, but he also happens to have a plethora of resources at his fingertips; such as your legal documents, military papers, and medical records. furthermore, it would only take one little harmless white lie to attain more… personal information: family history, biographies, or even reports written by none other than yourself, ones that had been published decades ago, that is.

and while i don’t particularly envision levi as the obsessive, nor delusional, type (as much as i find him to be the possessive type), it may simply pass his mind that this isn’t insanely weird. only until levi finally reels himself in — with rare restraint that levi is usually well renowned for having, even in comparison to his most reticent peers — and he realizes that he’s violated your entire right to privacy, unbeknownst to you. it eventually registers in that lucid state of consciousness of his that he’s going out of his way to do this on his own personal accord, that it is taking time out of his work schedule, and that he cannot accredit this to assisting the survey corps in literally any way. when it settles, he’s honestly mortified. and the worst of it all? you’ve probably only interacted a grand total of two times, three if we’re being generous.

the feeling of levi’s presence is hard to miss, let it be from across the dining hall, or in close quarters, both of which levi will ensure that you become mindlessly accustomed to overtime. as aforementioned, levi is adamant about this bond forming naturally so as to prevent himself from digging a deeper hole than he already has, so the introduction of his company in day to day life will be the first steps in making himself known to you. of course, you already know him, all of the soldiers do, but you’ll find that he is just everywhere, and in particular, everywhere that you are. there is no shortage of his lingering presence; you see him often, more often than someone of your rank should. and it gets to be awfully concerning when your recurrent rendezvous with the man take a gradual turn from fortuitous close-shoulder proximity in the mandatory meetings, to levi cornering you in the furthest and deserted hallways of the headquarters to ask the most obscure and obscene questions that only someone maintaining close relations to you would know.

this is levi’s (not-so) subtle way of letting you know that he has taken an interest in you, even if you are likely to perceive it as him being a hardass that has spontaneously discovered that he fancies finding fault with and denigrating your performance in the corps. levi is a busy man, but never too busy to miss visiting you in one way or another; and although he prefers to demonstrate acts of service to indicate his affections for you, you two aren’t exactly close enough for that, yet. ironically, levi may find that doing anything for you is a little too forward, it is blatant favoritism at worst, and a telltale sign of his relentless loyalty at best; but his definition of forward is very different considering it wasn’t all that forward when he decided to hold you hostage in his office to do menial tasks simply because he wanted you there. and it isn’t that levi is intentionally acting with such amateur impromptu (although granted, not like he has had much experience to begin with), it’s rather him just being careful. levi has no issue when it comes to being straightforward, but this… this is surely quite different.

you may come to the conclusion that his sudden, awkwardly formal yet somehow equally as intimate interactions with you — given no prior history with one another, not even as fellow soldiers — is because he is too embarrassed to outright admit what he wants; which is you. that he is above pursuing whatever this is with another, let alone someone of (presumably) lower status. but levi isn’t necessarily shy as much as he is hesitant, and ideally, it would be you who initiates. for the same reason he feels beside himself and ashamed, it would ease the guilt if you had wanted him back in the first place, with levi believing that you may need a push in the right direction to do so. but that push is more like a shove… off a cliff, because it doesn’t even so much as cross your mind that these are levi’s questionable ways of romantic advancement, and not him attempting to intimidate you into woefully resigning from the military.

and when levi ascertains that he has to be the one to do something, he will. it wasn’t that levi was apprehensive out of fear, nor daunted by the notion itself (… like have you seen this man’s initiative statistics), it is just that it would have been for the best had you played along in the first place. to placate levi’s longing for something, anything, from you in return to give the illusion that his valiant efforts weren’t all for naught, he may have even been pleased, regardless of the fact he can see right through you. but you don’t, because you aren’t stupid enough to give yourself to him, and now that he’s been so kind as to give you a chance, you won’t be getting it again. he’ll be curt as all hell, terse with his wants, and unabashed about his desires; but it isn’t quite what you’re used to.

if i were to describe the connection you hold with yandere levi, it would actually be intimate. perhaps not in the traditional sense: physical, emotional, or other, but in the way that levi feels safe, something he hopes you feel with him as well. that he is free to express the innermost dark and delicate thoughts of his subconscious and as himself as humanity's strongest and levi ackerman— to you, as his confidant, as his comrade, and as his lover. real, genuine and authentic intimacy is something that levi has never had the fortune of experiencing. but once he has, he can’t get enough. let it be known that i feel that levi wouldn’t refer to you with typical terms of endearment, as they still remain rather foreign and ambiguous to him, but also because words alone don’t even come close to expressing the extremity of his feelings. he can just show you, if you let him.

levi may be a man who sustains exceptional self-awareness, however, he is a bit thick-headed when it comes to why he loves this way. it is… depraved to say the least, and while he fully understands that the process of falling and being in love is only natural, which he has reluctantly come to terms with now given his current situation, he just can’t place a finger as to why it has to be this way. his behaviors are susceptible to going unnoticed for an alarming amount of time by those around him, even the veteran soldiers who have come to know him for years; save for erwin who is far too sharp and perceptively nosy for his own good, and hange who is pertinaciously attentive as ever. it matters not in the end, as levi won’t be taking advice from them anyway. as exhausting as it may be to varnish over and conceal his deranged approach to love in the eyes of the public, there are only a handful of people that he owes such pleasantries to; and should a cadet have the gall to address him, levi will see to it that there will be no repetition of such daft inquiries following in their footsteps. but he prides himself in the fact that he is greatly disciplined, his self-restraint and intellectual control are unmatched, and it is a blessing that levi can regulate his emotions with the stability that he does, because by god, you would never know peace otherwise.

only partially have i discussed the manipulative potential that levi has (and already possesses) but not as detailed, nor thorough, as i am about to now. this man will drive you up a fucking wall. you can kick and scream, yell until your voice goes hoarse and berate levi to your heart's content, but he won’t budge. you’ll only be met with a blank stare. and it’s honestly terrifying, you’ll find that some reaction, any reaction; angry, sad, hurt, and what have you, is better than nothing at all. the silence after is what kills you, and it does well to remind you of where you stand. he won’t give you the reaction you so desperately wish to see to soothe the nerves that flare when levi goes dead quiet. but he has no reason to paint himself in any bad light, levi has done nothing but good for you, and this is how he is reimbursed?

levi can cope with a darling that detests him, it most certainly will get under his skin, but he’ll live. specifically because he knows that you never asked to be put in a position that you were, one where there is no way out. because levi knows that if what was left of humanity had fallen, obliterated and defeated by the titans as everyone had once feared, you would leave him without a second thought or even sparing a farewell. and as understanding as he is of the unfortunate circumstances (for you) and the wonderful situation (for him), there is no ounce of empathy or pity that could ever topple levi’s hunger to have you. but he is possessive through and through. your love is irreplaceable, priceless even, but it is merely a perk to having you.

thus, levi doesn’t fret when it comes to getting you to love him, though that isn’t to say he disregards the endeavor entirely. he is eerily forbearing, with the patience of a saint and all the time in the world, levi is nothing if not restrained. be it a day, a month, a year, thirteen years, levi can wait because your submission is bound to overcome any sort of resistance you have left. you are the prettiest when you cave in, give in, and although almost as pleasant, your love cannot compare to your compliance, to your acceptance. that isn’t to say levi won’t try, he wants you to like him, but he acknowledges that learning to love him as he does you will take more time, and he can wait.

levi is a slow burn yandere to the end, and if you think you can best him in the long game, you have another thing coming. at the height of his infatuation, back to the very beginning, you may have found yourself maddened and infuriated to your wits’ end by his constant presence, but he has always been the one person to take such tender care of you; to the point it would be almost strange if he had so suddenly stopped. and when the battle of heaven and earth had become the last calamity to finally break you, you stop fighting him. you’ve only one another left, and levi is all yours, always has been, always will be, and maybe you’ll accept that you really are his.

#ackerifle #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere attack on titan #yandere aot #yandere aot x reader #yandere levi ackerman #yandere levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x reader

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months

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Dark Knowledge: Part Five

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: oral sex (female receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, tentacles, dubcon elements, forced proximity, power imbalance

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: Part Five of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

The First and Last Dragonborn come together. Hermaeus Mora makes a move. Reality is returned.

Part Four

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

What are the options before you? What cards do you have to play?

The answer is few. There are not many things you can do when you’re at someone else’s mercy. Having to submit is insulting, but your pride is of little importance when there are greater perils showing their faces.

You escaped Hermaeus Mora only to land in Miraak’s lap. One hell for another. One terror traded for an arrogant, power-hungry bastard who believes you’ll join him, that there is no question about your compliance, and fighting against him is imaginable.

Miraak is wrong to think you won’t push back about his quest for power. Teldryn was right when he said that all of Tamriel’s ills are not your responsibility. They aren’t, even though sometimes it feels that way, and that every error or catastrophe can somehow be rectified if you take up the mantel yourself.

After the bath, you emerge to food. It isn’t exactly warm, but it is filling, and you notice that Miraak does not eat. But he does watch you from behind the mask, as if you consuming the meal is somehow hypnotic to him.

It’s unnerving, and every bite becomes staler in the mouth the longer he watches.

As the First Dragonborn, he must be incredibly old, but how is it that he has lived for so long? Is it because he has dwelled in Hermaeus Mora’s realm for all these years? Is Miraak alive simply because Mora has made it so, or is there something else going on? What magical secrets does Miraak keep locked away in his head?

“Afraid I’ll choke?” you ask dryly, not particularly liking his undivided attention.

The old rags you wore before are gone. They were whisked away by a Seeker, likely destroyed or maybe used for some nefarious purpose. In their place, you were offered simple, plain black robes. They’re similar to the robes the Ciphers of the Eye wear except yours ties off at the waist.

You’re thankful for the coverage of the material but nothing about this outfit will protect you in a fight. It seems inevitable that blood will be spilled. Whether that is yours or Miraak’s—or someone else’s—is yet to be determined.

Miraak is not your friend. He is not an ally. Nor is Hermaeus Mora. You distrust the both of them, but the Daedric Prince of Knowledge is the one you fear more. Gods are eternal. They can be pushed back, kept down, even restrained. But killed? No. Not Mora.

The easier target is Miraak, but right now he is all you have. He is just a man. He is arrogant, and clearly needful in his quest for power. Stringing him along might be enough for now until you can find a way out of this awful place.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” states Miraak, completely ignoring your question.

“Thanks for the reminder,” you mutter, consuming another bite of food. The bath Miraak provided was lovely, even if the conversation the two of you had struck a nerve, and made you question everything. Those followers of his tried you kill you, and yet Miraak didn’t want that. He’s made that perfectly clear several times over.

But there is still a part of you that doesn’t trust his offer. Even if you join with him, help him break out of Apocrypha and back into the lands of Tamriel, why would he have any reason to keep you around afterward? With his quest for domination, you would eventually become an obstacle, a barrier he’ll need to break through.

Miraak circles around the side of the table, coming to a stop next to you. You pause, utensil halfway to your mouth. His golden mask tilts slightly to the left, his broad shoulders taking up too much space.

It’s like you’re in a cage again. Trapped. Boxed in. But this time, there is a sensual sway to the way Miraak inserts himself into your space. It’s not exactly a threat, but there is certainly an underlying hunger radiating off of him.

With deliberate slowness, Miraak lifts his hand, and gently runs the back of his gloved knuckles down the length of your upper arm. There is an immediate spark, a quick burst of power that appears when he makes contact and then blinks out the moment he retreats.

You’re so focused on that sudden wave, that Miraak’s voice is a distant, gnarled thing that sound like you’re submerged in water.

“What?” you ask, blinking, your mind refocusing on the present moment.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” he repeats. “I shall replace it with my own.”

I shall replace it with my own.

No. You are not Miraak’s to toy with. You are not his wife, or even his partner. You owe him nothing, and you are not his property.

The utensil drops from your hand, clattering against the vessel your food is served in. Power ripples up from your toes, sending the edges of your fingers tingling with need to lash out. A deep, primal part of you tells you to do just that, to rip off that mask, and go for his eyes. But you are also incredibly exhausted, and the rising power fades as quickly as it appears.

“I am not an object,” you growl, pushing off from the table.

You need some distance even though there is little space for you to escape to. Whatever you decide, Miraak will simply run after you. It’s clear that he’s not going down without a fight, especially on keep you to himself and not leaving you to Mora’s whims.

“No,” croons Miraak. “You are more than that. You are Dovahkiin.”

When Miraak speaks the word, the ground and earth shakes. It startles you so severely that you reach out for the table, eyes widening in fear. Won’t Hermaeus Mora hear that? Won’t he know that you’re here?

“What are you doing?” you snap. “Hermaeus Mora will hear you.”

“Will he?” Miraak replies, the delivery so casual that you nearly choke in disbelief.

“This is Apocrypha. This is his home. He knows all here.”

Miraak taps his knuckles on the table. “You should finish eating.”

Now you’ve truly had enough. Pushing off from the table, your cross your arms over your chest. “If you want my cooperation, you need to be nicer to me.”

Miraak’s hand flattens against the top of the table. “I have bathed you. Provided you food. Showered you with compliments.”

You snort. This man is arrogance personified. “You told me I smell and then proceed to order me around.”

“Hermaeus Mora is laughing at us. He knows you’re here with me. Likely amused with our…disagreement.”

“You’re delusional.”

Miraak slams his hand against the tabletop. Everything atop it rattles. “And you are trying my patience.”

“My apologies,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

Men are always complaining. They always whine when they don’t have their way, especially if a woman will not bend to them. You’re not going to bend, but you might twist a bit as a way to ensure your survival.

Miraak’s hand forms into a fist, and yet you know he does not intend to strike you. There is something defeatist about the way he does it, like he’s losing hope. But about what? While you are aware that Miraak desires freedom, that he longs to return to Tamriel once again, you also know that Hermaeus Mora is in the way. As are you to a certain extent.

It is entirely likely that Miraak can return to Tamriel with or without your assistance. Why all this effort to keep you around if you’re entirely capable of putting a stop to all of his plans? Is it only to keep you out of Hermaeus Mora’s grasp? Or does Miraak seek something else?

Whatever Miraak’s internal conflicts, they aren’t yours to figure out.

“Hermaeus Mora probably thinks you’ll kill me or I’ll kill you. Which is why he hasn’t intervened yet,” says Miraak flatly. “That is unfortunate…for him.”

“How so?” you ask, entertaining him for the hell of it.

“Because you will join me. That is inevitable.”

You sigh heavily. “I’m not interested.”

Miraak shrugs. “It does not matter that you’re uninterested. You have no choice in this.”

“I have no choice?” you scoff. “Are you listening to yourself?”

This man is truly delusional. Miraak is almost or perhaps even more arrogant than Hermaeus Mora. You’re in hell. This is torture, having to listen to and be pushed around in this forsaken place with no will of your own.

Returning his hand to the top of the table, Miraak starts to walk toward you. His stride is languid, and you’re sure he’s smirking behind that golden mask.

“The Last Dragonborn will join me. Or die. Those are the only options.” With the agility of a serpent, Miraak grabs the back of your neck, and draws you closer. On instinct, your hands go up to rest against his chest. You try to push back, but your muscles are tired, and there is true power behind Miraak’s grip.

“Do you wish to die, Dovahkiin? Or will you waste such beauty?”

Snarling, your rip yourself out of his grasp, almost tumbling to the floor in your haste to find space.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap.

“My scent belongs on you,” replies Miraak, his voice soothing even though you feel anything but. “And you on me.”

Grabbing the nearest object—an empty bowl—you hurl it at Miraak. He bats it aside. The bowl strikes the ground, shattering.

“You’re mistaken if you believe I’ll ever lay with you.” You back up, not watching where it is you’re going.

“Oh, but you will. Don’t you feel that attraction? That power between us? Because I do. And I know it is not something easily denied.”

This time you grab a book. It’s rotten, and your fingers sink into it, but you hardly care. “You’ll only find pleasure with your own hand, Miraak.” You hurl the book at him and he catches it out of the air, lightly tossing it to the side.

“Then you will watch. And want to join.”

You can hear the amusement in his tone, the teasing underneath his words. It’s irritating, and yet your body warms with the idea, betraying your growing anger. This isn’t right, and it’s not fair. You don’t want any part of this.

Turning on your heel, you run for the platform, intending to throw yourself over the ledge and into the maze below. Miraak does not stop you. He only follows, moving slowly, as if his pace will catch up to you.

When you make it onto the platform, you jump, preparing to use your Thu’um to catch your fall. Hovering in the air, you are weightless, holding in suspension. Now, you feel true freedom.

Your body starts to sag, and then descent kicks in.

But it is short-lived. Fleeting.

One moment you are falling and the next everything blinks out and returns, your feet on familiar ground. You’re back in Miraak’s tower. You’re back in the room and Miraak is only a few feet away.

“You can’t run from me,” he says.

You don’t stop to question what just happened. Instead, you take off again, priming your legs to lift you off the ground.

Your feet leave stone, and then it happens all over again. This time, you’re even closer to Miraak. Again, you run, and again you are pulled back to him, teleported over and over until you’re nearly within his grasp.

Trying once more only lands you directly in front of him. This time you cannot run. This time you cannot bolt.

“I can call you back to my tower as often as I like. There is no fleeing from me.” Miraak takes hold of your upper arm. Your strike out at him, but Miraak is quicker, twisting your arms against your back and bending you over the nearest table.

“So you’re going to take what you want?” you snarl, bucking against his hold which only presses you into his groin. You feel the hard outline of him through his robes.

“That is where you’re wrong, Dragonborn. I am not going to take from you. You are going to give in. You will surrender to me. You will join with me of your own desire.”

“I doubt that,” you growl.

Miraak does not respond. Instead, he drags you off the table, spins you around, and effortlessly lifts you by the waist and situates you on the edge. Miraak stands between your legs as your hands grip the front of his robes. One hand stays on your waist while the other rests against the top of your thigh.

“Shall we test it out?” Miraak’s gloved fingers squeeze your flesh through the robes you wear. “Spread your legs, Dragonborn. Let me have a taste.”

His touch is fire, rippling through your body like an inferno. Miraak is right. The teether is strong. Its tug is even more apparent now that you’re nearly under him.

“You wish you could feast between my thighs. It is an honor you’ll never have.” Your words are hollow. Deep within yourself, a primal part of you understands that it will happen, that the two of you will join bodies even if it is momentary.

Miraak leans closer, the golden mask nearly brushing against your cheek.

“Grant me this one request, Dragonborn. And then you can decide.” His voice drips like honey. It is sweet and deadly. Poisonous comfort. His hands are under your robes, massaging bare thigh. “Remove my mask.”

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper, even as your fingers loosen around the front of his robes.

“Don’t deny yourself.” Miraak’s voice is a caress, one that moves you to action.

Slowly, you release his robes, hands falling upon the sides of his golden mask. Miraak does not draw out of your touch, nor does he cower or hide. He stands perfectly still, waiting for you to remove it.

There is a slight tremor in your fingers before your resolve shifts into place, becoming steel. Perhaps under the mask, Miraak is a monster. Or he is simply a man. Nothing more. The only way to find out is to get this over with, to remove the mask, and face him directly.

Your fingers grip the sides, and then the mask gives, surrendering as you start to remove it. Miraak’s features come in a slow reveal. First, there is pale skin and scars. Next comes piercing dark eyes followed by a strong chin and jawline. The last feature is Miraak’s hair. Silky, shoulder-length, and blond. It falls into place once the mask is gone and resting in your hands.

Miraak is handsome, and for some reason you did not expect that, which is downright irritating. He is your enemy. You need to escape from here, to get away from him, and yet his knowing smile is all sultry prowess, like you removing the mask is the first step to victory.

His hands are what bring you back to reality. They are at the tops of your thighs where your legs meet your body. He is dangerously close to your core. Just a small movement and he’d be brushing his thumb over your clit.

“This is your monster,” murmurs Miraak, his mouth dangerously close to yours.

His fingers dig in deeper, and then tug you to very edge, your legs forcing further apart around his hips. “Am I so terrible?” he asks.

No. He’s not. In the mortal world, if a man like this propositioned you, you’d likely take him up on the offer. But this is Miraak. The First Dragonborn.

“Not physically,” you reply, immediately hating yourself for admitting so.

Miraak’s smile is nearly playful, and perhaps it’s really not so bad. He is just a man. Not a god. Give him some slack, let him believe he is winning, and then tug it all out from under him.

Leave him hanging. Leaving him swinging.

Those hands of his ease upward, his forearms pushing your robes open further, revealing more leg and thigh. Miraak starts to sink to the floor, and you’re utterly hypnotized by the way his gaze slowly drops to the place between your legs.

You’re not sure what you see upon his face. An emotion passes over it, one that appears and disappears quickly, slipping through your fingers, escaping your ability to comprehend it before its gone.

Miraak’s breath against your thighs is warm. It tingles, nearly tickles your skin. You’re not ashamed of your body, but you are nervous. You’re vulnerable like this, and this man is supposed to be your enemy.

But an enemy does not place their mouth upon you like he does. When Miraak’s lips and tongue touches your flesh, there is an immediate connection, a string pulled taut, your back arching, hips nearly coming off the table as he caresses your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“There she is,” murmurs Miraak. His tongue darts out against, circling your clit with several soft strokes that has your thighs quivering, squeezing around his head like you’re trying to crush him.

“This changes nothing,” you groan as Miraak’s hands drag along your thighs and he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Your hands go out, grab at his shoulders and his hair. Your fingers tangle in his blond locks, mouth hanging open as you try and fail to slow your breathing. The power is drowning and ice cold. It is a slap against the heat burning under your flesh.

Miraak releases your clit, only to lazily flick over and around it. It’s almost lazy in the way he does it, and you’re so sensitive, that the pleasure building in your spine rockets upward, rippling out into your limbs, seizing your muscles.

Your back bends, curls forward, fingers digging into his scalp as your end appears with a choked moan. Miraak grins against your sex as your body responds in little tremors. He is victorious, and while you’re buzzing, this is not enough to make you join him.

As the peak of your orgasm begins to fade, your lips part, words forming on your tongue. It’s to tell him he’d failed. That, while his tongue knows what it’s doing, it isn’t enough to make you join him.

Seeming to sense your rebuttal, Miraak’s mouth returns to your cunt, his tongue sliding over you yet again.

“Oh, gods,” your groan, completely falling back against the table, your grip on him slipping.

One of Miraak’s hands fall away from your thigh, only for a finger to press at your entrance. Your legs obediently fall wider, opening like a flower. Miraak’s own groan on pleasure drifts up from between your legs, and the sound is enough to make the power under your skin vibrate in response.

The connection is growing, becoming stronger, deeper. Perhaps inseparable. And yet you’re hardly thinking of that. You’re concentrated on the slow thrusts of his finger in and out of your body, and how his tongue moves in perfect rhythm with it.

Another wave slams into you, and Miraak does not cease. He devours and tastes, giving and giving until tears form in your eyes. The pleasure is unending, bordering on painful. Only then does Miraak give you relief. Only then does he pull away from your body.

Miraak’s lips and chin drip with you. He grins, proud of his accomplishment. “What do you think now, Dragonborn?”

Your chest heaves, and your mind is gone, drifting off into Apocrypha’s atmosphere. “Can’t speak?” he chuckles. “Perhaps you need something else to find your voice.”

With a quickness that surprises, Miraak lifts you off the table and into his arms. You are soft and pliant, more like melting snow than the strong warrior that you are. It is but seconds before Miraak brings you down on the bed, slipping your robes off in the process, leaving you bare and open for his gaze.

He sighs with contentment, hands roaming up and down your body. “By the end you will want only me. I promise.”

The orgasms Miraak just gave you make it hard to think, to even process his words. The euphoria of pleasure is still beating beneath your skin, burning bright and hot. Miraak is removing his own clothes, tossing them aside as if they’re nothing at all.

You reach for him, and his response is a low growl of need, his hands slipping between your legs to guide your thighs open and up. Where has all your resistance gone? It is washed away. Missing.

Miraak’s cock slides over your cunt, coating himself in your slickness. The head bumps against your clit with each pass, and it only drives your sensitivity higher, the muscles in your thighs quivering with anticipation.

Slowly, Miraak starts to drape himself over your body, trapping your legs in this position as the head of his cock begins to slide in. There is brief resistance before it glides in, and then your body welcomes him entirely.

You both groan when he bottoms out.

Miraak rolls his hips backward, and then thrusts forward, his head falling to burrow against the side of your throat. His hands reach for your arms, bring them over your head, crossing your wrists. Then, with one hand, he presses down on those wrists, pinning you to the bed with more than just his hips.

Using your locked wrists as leverage, Miraak begins to pound into his, each thrust powerful and steady. He hits deep, and each meeting pushes the air from your lungs. You can hardly hold on. You can only desperately reach for reality. It is slipping. Falling away.

Like this, you are at his mercy. You are at Miraak’s pleasure. And he takes full advantage, claiming you in a way that no other man ever has. There is no reason for sex with him to be this good. It’s simply impossible.

It has to be the connection, the buzzing battering of power that seems to exchange hands every time his hips smack into yours. His nose nuzzles against your neck, and Miraak inhales deeply, sighing as he exhales. His lips, which are surprisingly soft, brush against your skin in tender caress.

This isn’t fair. It makes no sense.

Miraak shifts position, forcing your legs open wider, his pelvis rubbing against your clit with each renewed thrust. You sink into the bed, surrendering to the pleasure, basking in how perfectly the two of you fit together.

Those powerful, steady thrusts of his become erratic and needy. He is heading toward his own end, seeking it out in desperation. You can tell by the way his soft grunts become breathy groans against your throat.

Miraak’s hand encases your throat, squeezing slightly as he arrives at his end. He grinds forward, groaning loudly as your cunt squeezes around him, his releasing emptying inside you.

“How does it feel, Dragonborn? To truly be mine?”

Using his hand around your throat, Miraak guides you to face him, his lips hovering against yours but not fully closing the distance.

You don’t answer him. Don’t dare speak. There is no agreeing to that, regardless of how wonderful you feel.

And Miraak does not kiss you. He only nuzzles your cheek before he releases your throat and then your wrists. With a carefulness that surprises, Miraak slides out of your body, leaving a hollowness you don’t particularly like.

He lifts himself up enough to help your legs fall to bed. Kept in that position, the backs of your thighs burn, and seeming to know this, Miraak starts to caress and massage these muscles even as he shifts to lay at your side. He is incredibly tender, but you’re unsure if it is performance or genuine concern.

One of Miraak’s hands slides between your breasts and pauses on your belly, pressing lightly. This one touch pulls at a thought, draws forth a doubtful tug that sits heavy in your chest.

“Miraak!”

Hermaeus Mora’s voice rings loud around the tower. It’s piercing like an arrow and you slap your hands over your ears in an attempt to cut off the bloody sound.

Miraak’s arms immediately wrap around you, tightening. He pushes you onto your back, his body draped over yours protectively. The middle of his brow wrinkles with anger, and his mouth is formed into an animalistic snarl. Miraak’s gaze darts everywhere, searching for the Daedric Lord.

He lowers his body, head dipping toward your face. Miraak to press his lips to your ear. “He will not take you from me.”

The possessiveness of his words twists your stomach.

“Show yourself, Miraak. Release the Last Dragonborn to me.”

Miraak chest expands as he inhales. His anger is palpable, nearly vibrating against your skin like a Seeker’s rattling cry.

“There is a Black Book at the top of this tower,” he continues to whisper against your ear. “Open it. And you will return to Solstheim.”

He draws back enough for you to turn to him.

“I will distract him,” mouths Miraak, carefully moving to the edge of the bed. Once there, he leisurely stands, completely naked. Only then does he begin to dress, taking his time in doing so. He’s drawing this out. Giving you a chance.

Knowing this is all the time you have, you snag your discarded robes and secure them quickly, not caring if they don’t look perfect or even practical. You just need to get to that Black Book and you’ll be free.

“You are trying my patience,” comes Mora’s voice. It is a rolling rumble, one that shakes your skeleton.

It is closer now, and you hurriedly slip out of the bed, keeping low as you move toward the spiral stairs at the far side of the room. Miraak is still taking his time, but his gaze is intense, watching you while also keeping any eye on the open platform.

Hermaeus Mora might appear right there in all his horrid splendor, and you don’t want to be anywhere near that space when he does.

As you slink by the alchemy shelves and place your foot on the bottom step of the stairs, you hear the slimy squelch of tentacles. Glancing over your shoulder, you watch with horror as at least a dozen black tentacles appear on the platform and archway. They curl around the stone or slide over it, seeking something—or someone.

But Miraak is not watching it. He is watching you. The golden mask is in his hands and his eyes are pleading, telling you to go. Swallowing down the memory of what Mora’s tentacles felt like, you ascend, stopping just as you step out of sight and hear Hermaeus Mora speak in a voice that is so near it sounds like he’s speaking just over your shoulder.

“Where is she, Miraak? I know she dwells within your tower. I sense her.”

Keeping low, you peer around the small structural wall that supports the ceiling and the level above. Mora’s form takes up the entire platform. He is so large, even larger than the dragon that brought you here. Miraak seems like nothing more than discarded parchment in comparison to the Daedric Lord of Knowledge, and yet Miraak appears unafraid of his master.

“I do not command the Last Dragonborn,” replies Miraak, voice calm.

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his tentacles vibrating as if he’s shaking off a shiver. “But you want to. I sense your desire to control her. You believe she’ll bring you great power.”

Miraak says nothing, and Mora’s massive form deflates slightly as if releasing a great exhale. “She hides from me. Tell me, champion, where is she?”

Still, Miraak says nothing.

“What do you think you will gain?” asks Hermaeus Mora. More tentacles appear, sliding into the interior of the tower from the platform. “Is it power over me?” The massive singular eye in the middle of Mora’s horrid form blinks slowly. “That would be foolish.”

“I do not seek to usurp you.”

“But you are restless,” replies Mora, one of the larger tentacles snapping in the air like a whip.

Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye swivels in the socket, seeking you out. You sense Mora’s magic creeping up from nowhere, sinking in to everything around you. It is an anchor, and you realize that he is physically trying to draw you out into the open.

You will not go back to him. You will not return to the prison he put you in.

That anchor, those invisible teethers, are tentacles in their own right as they attempt to snatch you from your dark shroud and drag you into his horrific presence. Resisting their pull, your foot slips, slamming hard into the rock, the sound echoing around the tower.

Hermaeus Mora large eye snaps in your direction. Miraak turns too, his shoulders stiff. It is quiet before chaos.

“Dragonborn!” roars Hermaeus Mora, the tower rattling from the sheer strength of his voice.

Twisting, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend.

Turning, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend. The tower shakes, and Mora roars, his anger palpable. You throw yourself up the last bit of stairs, only to be spit out into a small room with a singular window. In the middle of the room is a black stone pedestal. Resting on top of it is a Black Book.

Like the one you opened, this too oozes black mist and hums in its own voice. This time, there is no nefarious pull. There is only desperation on your end as you the tower rumbles, tossing you to the side like a discarded doll.

Crawling on your hands and knees toward the pedestal, your reach of the rock, helping yourself up to standing, staring down at the large tome before you. This is your out. This is your chance. It is done.

Grabbing the edge of the cover, you force it open, the pages moving with you, following the cover.

Just as before, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time, and Hermaeus Mora’s roar is a distant thing. Even the shaking of the tower is far away. You don’t even feel it.

The sudden silence is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward. The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your feet lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness, sliding over and around you, wrapping around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push as this time you do not resist them. While you know what’s coming, you also know that this is your only way out. Escape is possible as long as the tentacles pull you through before Hermaeus Mora finds you.

You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet land on…wood.

The odd, almost stagnant temperature of Apocrypha is gone. Instead, there is warmth. Physical heat with the slightest bite of cold air. Your nostrils flare, inhaling the scent of burning firewood, and roasting meat.

Glancing up, you find yourself in a vaguely familiar structure. It’s a shaman’s shack. You’ve been here before. You’ve stayed in this home, eaten shared food, and listening to stories.

It’s a Skaal home. This is Storn’s home.

A familiar voice calls your name. It’s a bit slurry as if you’re listening on the other side of a door. Slowly, you shift to the right, glancing in that direction, only to see Teldryn. The edges of him are blurry but become clearer by the second.

“Teldryn,” you breathe, arms going out to him.

He sighs with relief and wraps his arms around you. “Azura be praised,” he murmurs against the top of your head.

“You’re squeezing me too hard, Teldryn,” you mutter against his chest, voice muffled.

“Shut up. I’m sad I’m not getting the house.”

You laugh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. When he pulls back to glance down at your face, all that relief washes away, replaced by worry.

“What is it?” you ask just before the world starts tipping.

You blink. Shake your head. Attempt to throw off whatever this odd feeling is. There is a slithery sensation over your skin. A creeping that drags, pulling you into a soft weightlessness.

Teldryn calls your name but you are falling to your knees even with his arms around you.

Reality is fading.

Fading fast.

Dovahkiin.

“No.”

Dovahkiin.

Within your chest and head, Mora’s voice blooms and grows, shoving you down into an abyss.

Part Four

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats @ninman82

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wolveria · 3 months

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gimmie my boy please (wip game)

One Crosshair, coming up ;)

It was a trap.

The night was calm, without any movement, and that was how you knew. You could have warned the rest of your team, but you weren’t here to hold their hands. If the got caught in a trap, it would only aid in flushing out the hidden insurgents, and that was fine with you.

You were all disposable tools, discarded once your use to the Empire ran out.

“Leave at least one insurgent alive,” you said, the filters on your mask distorting your voice. “I will interrogate them myself.”

Mere seconds later, ES-01 stepped on a pressure plate and activated several reprogrammed battle droids, including an impressive number of super battle droids.

Amateurs.

The ES troopers ducked behind whatever bits of encampment they could find, and you sensed CT-9904 heading for higher ground. He, at least, was intelligent enough to not get pinned down.

You didn’t bother to run for cover, you simply walked forward, letting the Force guide you as blaster bolts sped past you from both sides. You only ignited your lightsaber when two super battle droids got in your way. You cut them down without straying from your path, ignoring the rest of the droids. The remaining three ES troopers could handle the bulk of the pathetic force, especially with the covering fire from the clone sniper.

In the end, it wasn’t difficult to find the scouts. With your lightsaber extinguished, your robes blended into the night like a specter, and you slayed two of them before the third realized the fight was already over.

You indicated he should kneel before you, and he did, sweat coating his face underneath is round helmet.

“Where are the rest of your friends?” you asked, low and serene. “I know there’s more than you three. Perhaps they’re standing by to extract you?”

The rebel shuddered, but despite knowing his life was yours, he met your eye.

“You’re a Jedi,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “Why… why would you do this?”

Your own teeth wanted to be bared, but you simply held the red, burning blade near his cheek.

“Does this look Jedi to you?”

The fear in his eyes was quickly overtaking the bravery.

“Tell me where they are, or I start cutting.”

When the man remained silent, you brushed the blade against the side of his head. The effect was immediate, as was the sizzle of burning flesh and his muffled scream. It had only been a glancing blow, but his ear was permanently ruined.

Tears trickled down his face to join with the sweat.

“Save… save us both some time…” he said, the trembling worse now. “…And kill me. I won’t talk.”

You crouched next to him, your words soft. Almost sympathetic.

“Everyone breaks eventually.”

He cried out as you grabbed him by the nape of his neck and forced him to the ground. Extending his arm under your knee, you raised your lightsaber, the blade humming louder as if eager for the impending bloodshed.

The blade never came down. Danger and alarm rang through the Force, but when you looked up, you were still alone. It was not your own danger you were sensing.

With a jerk of your hand, you forced the insurgent into a sedated state, and then took off at a sprint. You leapt over and cut your way through the battle droids you couldn’t avoid, giving one last jump that sent you halfway up the nearby cliff face overlooking the camp.

You propelled yourself up the rest of the way, urgency fueling your muscles as you cleared the edge.

The clone was on his back, bleeding through several slashes in his armor. The vibrosword responsible was held in the hands of a droid commando, its yellow markings indicating it was specialized—the kind of droid that would know to sneak up on a sniper rather than face him at a distance.

It raised its sword above the clone, and you jammed your hilt into its back, activating the lightsaber.

The blade erupted through its chest plate, and you calmly removed the vibrosword from its hands before gravity could finish what the droid could not. You tossed the weapon aside and kicked the droid in the opposite direction, making sure it stayed down in the dirt.

CT-9904 stared up at you, panting either from pain or trying to catch his breath, but his teeth were clenched in clear dislike of you. Your lightsaber continued to thrum in your hand, bathing him in a red glow, until you finally extinguished it.

Picking up his fallen weapon, you tossed it back to the clone, and he caught it in one hand.

“Get up,” you said. “We still have a mission to complete.”

#inquisitor!reader #crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair #wip game #crosshair #annwayne #sorry these snippets are getting so long #i had to convert them from outline form and then just kept going

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toxic-mothers-tourney · 11 months

Text

Toxic Lightning Round 1: Warriors

Rainflower vs. Millie vs. Lizardstripe vs. Mapleshade

Why they're the Worst (TM)

Rainflower:

Basically disowned her son after he was permanently disabled due to falling in the river and smashing his jaw on a rock. Had him RENAMED after his injury (Stormkit -> Crookedkit) and said she couldn't love him because he was "ugly". Spent the rest of her life ignoring him and heavily favoring her other son and Crooked's brother. AND YET. SHE STILL GOT TO GO TO HEAVEN???

She didn’t allow him as a small child to sleep in the same nest as her and his brother, basically the cat version of throwing him out on the streets. Rainflower also forced their leader to change his name to something that reflected his disability, and once he was old enough to provide for himself effectively disowned him. This extreme emotional abuse had a huge effect on both of her sons, and caused her disabled son to literally start training in cat hell because he didn’t feel appreciated anywhere else.

read more here

Millie

Treated her daughter's disability as a tragedy and used it as an excuse to neglect her other children. Briarlight deserved better 🔪🔪🔪

Lizardstripe

tw: cat murder)))) let the kitteh win the tournament, she pretty much just hated her kits including a foster kitten she was forced to adopt, and that foster kitten was bullied by her kits and he was blamed for it. pretty toxic mom ngl also she's a kitty look at the lil hissy girl look at her /affectionate (this also goes for rainflower too I just hate her)

Mapleshade:

Oh boy, strap in bc this one’s crazy. So, Mapleshade was a cat who died several generations before the main series began. She had kids through an illegal relationship with the man who killed her leader’s son, and she and her very young children were ultimately exiled from their Clan when the truth of their parentage was revealed. Mapleshade tried to take them across the river to their father, and all three kittens were swept away and drowned. Mapleshade then went on a grief-fueled killing spree, driven by hallucinations of her dead children urging her to kill the cats she perceived to be responsible for their deaths. Eventually, she confronted her ex and his pregnant mate (bc oh yeah, it turns out Mapleshade was the Other Woman), and the ex was killed protecting his pregnant mate. Mapleshade also died in this fight, but her hatred was so strong that she basically became a demon in cat hell and declared eternal suffering on her ex’s entire bloodline. Two generations later, the ex’s grandson breaks his jaw as a kitten and is rejected by his mother. Mapleshade swoops in as a maternal figure and promises to make the poor kid into the best warrior he can be, despite his broken jaw being a significant disability. She grooms and manipulates him throughout his entire life, and every person he loves dies horribly, one by one. Whether or not Mapleshade actually caused these deaths is unclear, but she does make Crookedstar (the cat she’s been manipulating) believe that she’s caused them. This is because when Crookedstar was a small, rejected child, she made him promise her that he would always put his Clan first. Being a kid, Crookedstar made the promise without a second thought, not realizing that Mapleshade meant that he could never be close with anyone (since that would mean putting his loved ones before his Clan). Therefore, Crookedstar thinks that every death of his loved ones is a punishment from Mapleshade, his maternal figure, for breaking the promise he made as a kitten.

mod notes:

#rainflower #millie #lizardstripe #mapleshade #warriorcats #warriors #lightning round #toxic mothers tourney

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bridgertonbabe · 2 years

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Anon asked: just recently learned about a "servants' ball" that existed for the aristocracy back then, and ik it was probably more prevalent in the 20th century, i think it was still a thing in the 19th century esp for "kinder" families like the bridgerton. i think bc the show loves using ball scenes to create tension, they could have one for the benophie szn and there could be another moment for benophie to dance AS just sophie and ben (sans mask)

Ngl I actually love the sound of that.

The Bridgertons would definitely be kind and generous enough to treat their staff to a servants ball but I could also see it coming about after Hyacinth grows jealous of all her sisters attending balls while she still has years to wait. I could see her grumbling to Kate about it and Anthony overhearing and deciding to treat his sister to a ball of her own and having Bridgerton House host one with the servants having a night off for some fun of their own. Violet would buy extra fabrics for the lady staff members to make dresses out of or even lend some of her daughters' old dresses to the younger servants (perfect chance to incorporate Sophie being lent Francesca's old dress).

Then on the evening of the servants ball you'd have Hyacinth dancing with Anthony and Kate dancing with Gregory, meanwhile Colin asks Mrs Wilson for a dance as a show of thanks for being his mother's long-time lady's maid, Eloise dances with John the footman to show her appreciation for all the times he's let her get away with murder, and Francesca and Sophie have a giggle as they spin around the floor together. Benedict would show up and be surprised at the festivities, not having been made aware his family were hosting a servants ball but immediately his face lights up at the sight of Sophie beaming with delight as she dances with Francesca, and naturally Benedict makes it his mission to ask Sophie for a dance.

However, Sophie proves to be a popular dance partner as John the footman takes her for a twirl next, as do several other male servants and even Gregory dances with her. Benedict would also realise at some point that Sophie was purposefully trying to avoid him - once she saw him, she knew any interaction between them would be scrutinised even more so than normal, and dancing with him would only take her back to the night of the masquerade; a night which Benedict still doesn't recognise her from.

Eventually, when Sophie's defences are down and she's having a chat with Violet, Benedict materialises and asks for her next dance. Sophie is surprised with his boldness, especially in front of his mother, and expects Lady Bridgerton to dismiss the offer on her behalf, not wanting any talk to come from her eldest eligible son dancing with a maid; but on the contrary, Violet takes Sophie's drink from her and encourages the pair.

Benedict leads her to the floor and far from the relaxed and lively dancing he had witnessed her enjoying earlier on throughout the night, in his arms Sophie has tensed up nervously and can't quite look him in the eye.

"Just look at me, Soph." he says quietly and she does so instantly, her mossy green eyes gazing up into his. "I'll guide you. Just keep your eyes on mine."

And they begin their waltz around the ballroom, their eyes transfixed, Sophie's body moving perfectly in step with his without instruction.

"You're a natural." he says to her. "Have you ever danced before this evening?" he asks, assuming he knows what her answer would be.

"Only once before." she reveals and it's the only time she glances away from him, her cheeks blushing, and Benedict frowns as he wonders what other man once got to share in a waltz with her.

"I hope I am a much better partner than the other gentleman." he remarks and regains her eyes locking onto his, something indecipherable glimmering in her curious gaze.

She offers him no response and then their dance comes to a finish. It's only when Sophie finally breaks their longing gaze - several beats after they had let go of each other and their dance had ended - that she suddenly becomes aware of everyone in the room watching them.

All of the servants and all of the Bridgertons are studying them and Sophie immediately acknowledges how they must have come across, and quickly leaves the room, the ball, and Benedict behind.

Benedict watches her leave, his eyes dancing with sadness from her abrupt departure, but something else is bothering him. His dance with Sophie took him back to the night of the masquerade ball with his Lady in Silver, and while he'll always wonder what happened to this mystery woman, now that he's danced with Sophie he can't imagine dancing with another.

#asks #sorry for the wait anon but for whatever reason i couldn't respond with this long an answer to your ask #and finally the text post has allowed me to write so much #benophie drabble #benedict x sophie #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett

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marzonomy · 1 year

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I’m doing so bad rn so I’m gonna write some angst to cope 🤭

(I’m okay now but I wasn’t when I started writing this)

MAJOR TW FOR SEWER SLIDE AND SEMI-GRAPHIC WRITING

Jeff's reaction to your attempted suicide (scenerio)

Jeff

He’s sent you multiple texts and called you multiple times, but you haven’t picked up. So naturally, he decides to break into your house.

He opens your window and crawls in. You’re not there. He calls out to you, but there’s no response. He sees a note.

‘I’m sorry’ it reads.

He panics. First place he thinks to look for you is the bathroom.

How he wished he hadn’t.

He can’t help but simply freeze at the sight. You’re laying limp in your bathtub, practically bathing in your own blood. He rushes over to you, screaming your name, shaking you vigorously. But nothing works. However, he can see you breathing. You’re alive, but it’s unclear if you’ll say that way.

He can’t take you to a hospital, he’s a wanted serial killer. So he takes you to E.J. Jack may not be a professional, but he has a lot of medical knowledge and stolen equipment.

Unfortunately, your heart can’t possibly produce enough blood to make up for what you lost in such a small amount of time. This wouldn’t be a problem for hospitals who receive blood donations, but this is just some autistic dude with a special interest in the medical field.

He does have blood type tests and IVs, but he doesn’t have blood. It would be a menace to test every victims blood type. But Jeff is a devoted man.

You’re the only person he’s ever loved like this. He cant lose you. He would sooner kill himself than let you die.

So he goes around, kidnapping several people and bringing back their bodies.

One of them has got to work. He doesn’t have time for them to not work. You could die any minute now.

Eventually one of the blood tests comes back with your blood type.

He’s so fucking relieved. He doesn’t show it but it feels like thousands of pounds has been lifted off of his shoulder.

Obviously he makes quick work of all the victims, no reason to keep them around anymore.

Holding your hands tenderly as you wake up. It physically pains him to hold back the tears threatening to form.

He doesn’t even say anything, just hugs you tightly. His face is buried in your shoulder but you can tell he’s crying by the rapidness of his breath.

Normally he would be pissed that you would do that to yourself, but right now he’s just glad you’re alive and well.

#creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta x you #headcanons #jeff the killer #jtk #jeff the killer x reader #jeff the killer x y/n

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rubykgrant · 2 years

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I would like to do Grif for my character ask :)

First impression

At first, back in the distant year of 2006, I felt like Grif had the most “regular person” vibe. Like, he’s definitely a weirdo (they all are), but he was also relatable enough I could imagine having an actual conversation with him about whatever. He was funny, a good blend of sarcastic and occasionally light-hearted

Impression now

Yes, he is indeed funny and still relatable (for several reasons), but also he’s so FREAKING IMPORTANT. Look, Grif is a dink, but he’s also way smarter than people think he is, and he does that on purpose. He complains and argues constantly, but he also cares so much; he loves his sister, he worries about his friends, but he’s just so bad at showing it! Every time he thinks he’s going to lose somebody, he tries to be the one that leaves first, almost like it will be easier if he makes everybody hate him, then he won’t miss them and they won’t miss him... but he DOES miss them, and they just don’t work without Grif. Not because he’s the “hate glue”, but because really is a “regular person”. Imagine Blood Gulch, but no Grif. He just never went there, never met any of the other characters. It would all fall apart. Not only would Simmons be even MORE of kiss-ass, he wouldn’t have anybody to talk to, he’d be miserable and isolated with his own thoughts that never go anywhere. Sarge needs somebody to back-talk him, both when he’s too over-the-top AND when he is close to giving up (Grif was the one who decided to fight to the end on the Staff of Charon!). Grif also had an interesting “frenemies” thing going with Tucker and Church. Heck, he was a major turning point during the “Evil Wash” period and the fight with the Meta. All the characters are integral to the story, but I especially appreciate Grif’s role, how it changes, and what remains constant

Favorite moment

Man, a lot... the “Why are we here?” moment with Simmons fighting Gene, him tricking Simmons into thinking that Game of Thrones was definitely a real thing that happened, that quiet and smug little response he had when Tex asked if he was happy she couldn’t lift the bomb (”Yeah, kinda”), that time he punted robot-eye Epsilon Church, the long bitch-bitch-botch argument between him/tucker/Simmons on Chorus, him totally lying to Huggins and pretending that the movie Die Hard was his life... there are a lot of good times with Grif~

Idea for a story

I have my whole story-line with him and Simmons finally getting it together so they can just shut up and date already, but that leads to lots of little relationship stories with them... one AU I had that featured them that was pretty fun was the Little Merkid story; a young Grif discovers and then befriends a merkid, who is indeed Simmons. They were friends for about a year, until some other people discovered Simmons, captured him, and took him to a lab. Grif’s been trying to break in and help his friend escape. A new security guard, Sarge, eventually finds out what is going on, and rescues both of them

Unpopular opinion

I didn’t think it was “unpopular”, but evidently some people don’t appreciate Grif being fat? Or, they dislike the fat jokes, but the reaction to that is “Grif shouldn’t be fat at all”... and like. No. The real answer is, stop treating fat like it is the worst thing ever. Grif is FAT and strong and smart and funny and FAT. An aditional good thing; imagine scenarios in which the other characters ease-up on the fat jokes, and appreciate their friend~

Favorite relationship

If it isn’t OBVIOUS, I like me some Grimmons~ But I also appreciate the heck out of the Grif-Sibs, and I love imagining him feeling more comfortable with himself, and thus able to connect with others more, because he is a friendship magnet! He’s a good buddy to Tucker, Church, Caboose, Locus... oh, and him being the chill-mentor to Carolina is awesome!

Favorite headcanon

Of my own; he was annoyed with Matthews not just because the guy was an even MORE over-eager kiss-up than Simmons, but also; Matthews reminded Grif of Kai when she was younger, and Grif does NOT like to deal with his own emotions

Thanks for asking!

#anon #ask #answer #red vs blue #dexter grif

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glorious-blackout · 1 year

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BigBang fic Sneak-Peek

@shadowmonkeysbigbang Here’s a little sneak-peek of my Big Bang fic! Thankfully the whole thing is written, but I have a fair amount of editing to do so I’m trying to motivate myself to get on with it 😅 I’m also torn between two possible endings which is slightly complicating matters...

Current word-count (spread across nine chapters): 44, 742 😬

I’m not artistically minded enough to make a mood-board but here were some musical inspirations (not including Arctic Monkeys/TLSP):

Death In Vegas - Dirge

Rammstein - Zeit

The Eagles - Hotel California

Richard Hawley - The Ocean

Pink Floyd - Brain Damage/Eclipse

Alex wakes to the caress of a ghost.

Consciousness returns with patience, guiding his mind into the present with sensations too pleasurable to abandon with any great haste. His limbs feel heavy, weighted down by tangled sheets and a firm body draped across his back. Any light Alex senses behind closed eyelids is honeyed and warm, promising the embrace of a golden sun, as morning birdsong and soft breaths tickle his ears. As he crawls towards reluctant wakefulness, he finds himself unable to contain a small, sated smile as slender fingers graze along his arm, eliciting goosebumps in their wake. Alex knows whose face will greet him when he wakes, and he’s torn between the urge to throw himself into Miles’s arms and his desire for this moment to stretch on forever.

Miles must be growing bored, however. Either that or Alex’s attempts to conceal his smile are woefully insufficient. The gentle caress of his arm stops without warning, yet before Alex can complain, a trail of kisses is left on his nape instead. He remains still as Miles migrates from his neck to his shoulder; from his shoulder to his cheek and into his tangled mop of hair.

Much as Alex wants to wake up fully and return the favour, he’s also wary of breaking the spell. Wakefulness will bring a new day with new responsibilities, and much as he’d like to convince himself otherwise, Alex knows they can hardly spend all day in bed. They’ve tried that on several occasions in the past, and while it always sounds like a good idea first thing in the morning, it’s never long before interruptions arrive in the form of ringing phones or knocks on the door (often at the most inopportune moments) or often just sheer restlessness. The space Alex occupies now – this unknowable space between dreams and waking – is the only thing sparing him from the eventuality of Miles no longer resting by his side.

It isn’t long before Miles leans over to brush his lips against Alex’s own, and he finds himself incapable of holding back a contented smile. A musical laugh tickles his cheek and a delicate finger brushes a stray curl behind Alex’s ear, eliciting cool tingles across his scalp. What was once pleasant light glimpsed through closed eyelids is now a tad too bright, and with a sense of finality, Alex finally flutters into wakefulness before turning to face his sweetest tormenter.

An ache of longing grips his chest as he takes in Miles’s gentle smile. His sun-kissed skin appears golden in the morning light, the glow bathing him as though he were a Greek god setting his sights upon a meek mortal lover. His hair is starting to grow long again, with dark strands curling at his nape, and Alex yearns to run his fingers through it and pull Miles in for a kiss. A heavy-lidded gaze and lazy grin betray Miles’s own residual sleepiness, but he’s no less beautiful for it, and Alex wishes he could find an excuse to gaze at him until the sun elects to devour the Earth once and for all.

“Morning beautiful,” Miles says, as he always does whenever he’s the first to wake.

Alex can’t help but frown as the words reach him just a second too late; too distant and broken to have emerged from the smiling man before him. The Miles he hears and the Miles he sees are two entirely different entities. One looks content and peaceful while the other sounds lost and scared. The mismatch shatters the illusion before Alex can salvage his grip on it, leaving him with the impression of having stumbled into an antique mirror. Cold grief washes over him as cracks trail across Miles’s skin and the morning glow dims to ghostly moonlight, and in the space of a blink, Alex wakes to find himself alone in an unfamiliar bed, his hand unconsciously reaching out for a lover who may never return to him.

#also @the prompter I hope the story still aligns with what you wanted - I got a bit carried away with your wonderful prompt 😅🥰#my writing #TLSP big bang

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scribblestatic · 1 year

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He stays around the little town, though he doesn't stay in the shelter. Getting food is easy from the forest, but he also does little helpful things to get money for weiners-on-a-stick. Though, recently, he's been affording enough to get hot dogs. They're better.

His shoes have a problem. They can't stand up very well to his speed, so he's constantly needing to tape and repair them. There's not much else he can do to help the situation, but it's fine

...Just to kinda speed through things:

He sticks around town but goes into the forest for days at a time to enjoy openness and freedom

During one of these runs, he comes across Dr. Robotnik causing trouble

He uses his super speed to destroy the robots, much to the doctor's irritation

Noticing that the man is rather egg-shaped, Sonic starts thinking of him as Eggman

During another run, he comes across Miles getting bullied

He stops the bullying and Miles decides to follow him around

Miles asks what his name is, and after hearing Miles talking about his "supersonic speeds", he calls himself Sonic using nonverbal language

Miles sees that Sonic refers to him by spinning his fingers, and realizes Sonic's maybe calling him Tails

Considering how positive Sonic is about his tails, he accepts the nickname with pride

Sonic and Tails go on several adventures together from then on

Sonic has no memories of the ARK. While looking at Eggman makes him think of someone he once knew, it doesn't trigger much in him other than the desire to be careful around this strange person.

And talk.

He really wants to talk to him for some reason. But his muteness is persistent, so he doesn't try yet. Instead, he uses his body language to communicate with him, teasing the doctor, gleeful at his responses.

Tails is helping him after a while, too, and they both help the town and get rid of Eggman's bots. Eventually, Sonic gets enough money for new shoes, but they break while Sonic is battling Eggman.

Much to his surprise, during the next time they meet, Eggman gives him shoes.

"You're my enemy, but you should at least be able to fight at your strongest! I won't beat someone who is already down. That makes me look weak!"

Sonic puts on the shoes, and indeed, after running, they don't break. Sonic smiles up at Eggman.

"Thank you."

His voice is rough, soft, and whispery. Dry from disuse.

But Eggman hears it all the same, harrumphing after a bit before he tries to take Sonic down once again.

After that, Sonic starts speaking in bits. Not much, but getting used to his voice.

Eventually, he can hold full conversations, using a snarky, cocksure attitude.

Over the years and over the adventures, he becomes Sonic the Hedgehog, the hero who runs faster than the speed of sound.

He gains friends from the future, from other dimensions, from around the world.

He gets killed, comes back to life, then kills god (something no one but he remembers). He becomes a king, becomes a powerful djinn, becomes the savior of planets and worlds alike. He fights, and sometimes kills, other creatures and beings that threaten his home, rehabilitates those who change their ways, and befriends people who might have a different way of doing things, but mean no harm at large.

Like Knuckles, who doesn't really need rehabilitating, he was just mistaken. And now, he's one of his best friends.

Like Rouge, who has a thing for theft, but hey, he's broken into G.U.N. bases before to take back the Chaos Emeralds, so pot, meet kettle.

Like Jet, who is a grade A for asshole, but can be reliable when the time is right.

Like Shadow, who he manages to convince not to destroy the whole world in the name of Maria.

Maria...

Sonic doesn't dwell on that name much, not around others.

But in his private time, sitting out alone or on his runs, he does think.

The name sounds familiar.

A bit infuriating. A tad frustrating.

Painful.

He's not sure why. It's not like he's met the girl, and what he does know of her from Shadow's accounts and videos of the late Professor Robotnik, she was a wonderful girl who loved an earth she could never live on. If anything, it sounds like Sonic would've gotten along with her. That they could've been friends.

But there's a muddy feeling inside of him whenever he thinks of that name. So, he doesn't think about her often. Nor of her grandfather, whose name also brings a strong sense of discomfort.

And so, Sonic ignores these things that, in the end, don't mean much at all.

He ignores it until he can't.

Until Dr. Starline forces Eggman back into evil after he was so, so close to being good.

After the Metal Virus starts.

#static writes #sonar au #sonic content #sonic the hedgehog #sonic au

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beskarandblasters · 5 months

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Oral Fixation

Inexperienced!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Author’s note: If you wanted to, you could imagine this is in the same universe as Uncut and Grasp & Tug!

Summary: Din eats pussy for the first time.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, Din watches porn, nipple play, fingering, oral sex (F receiving), light daddy kink, pet names (princess, cyar'ika), no use of y/n

Din has a little problem, a hyper fixation you might say. He wants to eat you out so bad. It’s a deep, primal urge inside him. But being desperate to eat you out isn’t necessarily a problem, though. The problem is that he’s never done it before. He’s worried he’ll be bad at it. He’s worried you’ll hate it and never want him to do it again. That thought breaks his heart. He loves you more than anything else in the galaxy. All he wants to do is pleasure you.

So what does every anxious, inexperienced man turn to at a time like this? He turns to porn.

When you first got together, several months ago, you brought a holo-pad onto the Crest. Din thought it was mainly for reading or mapping out a course for traveling. But what he didn’t realize is that you can watch videos on it, spicy videos even. You’ve brought up watching porn together as a method of foreplay, which he enjoyed, but he’s never watched them by himself.

Until now.

You’re at the market on Nevarro. The Razor Crest is parked on the outskirts of town. Din is completely alone and he’s going to take advantage of that. He picks up the holo-pad and browses through the database of videos. He stops scrolling at a particular one titled, “Naboo Cutie Gets Her Flower Licked by a Mandalorian Daddy”.

…Flower?

But the word “Mandalorian” in the title also caught his eye. He glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re not back yet before he clicks on the video.

It looks like it was filmed somewhere on Naboo, in a random field. The woman is lying down on a blanket in the grass. It’s a sunny day out, her skin shiny and slick with some sort of body oil. The man kneels on the blanket, situating himself by her feet. He’s wearing Mandalorian armor that’s most likely fake. He takes off his helmet and hovers over her face.

“Let daddy see your flower, princess,” he says.

That sentence sounds sort of awkward to Din but the woman seems to like it, whimpering in response. He makes a mental note of the dirty talk and continues watching.

The man spreads her legs apart and crouches down so he’s face to face with the woman’s cunt. The camera zooms in on what’s going on and Din is thankful for that. He’s watching this to learn, not for his own pleasure. The man licks her entrance, running his tongue slowly up towards her clit. The woman lets out a long moan, most likely extremely exaggerated. But it doesn’t take long for the man to bury his face in her cunt, his nose grinding against her clit. The man slides two fingers inside her, driving the woman insane. She clearly likes it because soon enough, Din’s bunk is filled with the lewd noises of the woman’s moans and screams, and the absurd slurping noises the man makes.

…It’s a little much for Din but eventually, he’s tuning out the noises and fantasizing about doing this to you. He’s so into his fantasy that he doesn’t notice you entering the Crest and standing behind him until you place a hand on his shoulder and ask, “What are you watching?”

He startles a bit, his body jolting a little before pausing the video.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” you chuckle.

“It’s okay…” he says, still feeling embarrassed.

“So, what are you watching?”

“Uhh…” He doesn’t finish, instead just handing you the holo-pad so you can see for yourself.

You take it in your hands and unpause the video. Your eyes widen at what’s happening on the screen.

“I see. What were you watching this for?”

“I want… I want to do that.”

“Really?” you ask, your lips curling into a suggestive smirk.

“Yes. I want. So badly,” he says, his strained horniness prominent in his voice.

“Why?”

“I want to make you feel good.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, turning off the holo-pad and setting it on the shelf behind you, “Let’s do it.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you say, starting to undress.

You toss your clothes into a small pile on the floor and kick off your shoes. Din moves so you can lie down on the bunk. He takes off his helmet to reveal his face, his eyes filled with lust and admiration. His face is still a sight you’re getting used to, always a treat. He wastes no time pressing his lips against your neck, licking and tugging at the soft skin with his teeth. He moves downward, trailing kisses along your collarbone before getting to your breasts. He takes one in his hand and runs his tongue along the other. He takes your nipple in his mouth, moaning as he sucks on it. He only recently took off his helmet in front of you. And ever since then whenever you’re intimate, he has the urge to christen your skin with his mouth in whatever way he can. He’s developed a sort of oral fixation, obsessed with kissing, licking, biting you, marking you up in places only he can see.

He moves his mouth to your other nipple, giving it the same treatment before moving down your tummy and abdomen. He leaves goosebumps on your skin in the wake of his mouth, finally arriving at your groin. He takes a deep breath once he’s staring directly at your cunt. And that’s when he says, “Daddy’s gonna lick your flower, princess.”

You can’t help but laugh, just a little.

“What?”

“Flower?”

“Is that what I should call it?”

“Just call it what it is. Like pussy or cunt.”

“Okay,” he says shakily before licking a slow stripe up your cunt.

You shiver in response, prompting him to say, “Mmm, you like when daddy eats your pussy?”

“Much better. Ah!” you say, your words getting cut off by a moan he licks your cunt again.

He licks up and down your entrance before moving to your clit, swirling his tongue around it. For it being his first time doing this, he’s not doing a bad job. The movement of his tongue circles faster and faster around your clit.

But then he stops for a second much to your dismay. He picks up his head off the cot and tugs off his glove, tossing it on the floor. He brings two fingers to his mouth, moistening them and inserting one inside you slowly. He returns his mouth to your clit and curls his finger against your walls. It feels so good, but you need more.

“More,” you moan softly. He hums against your cunt, sending a vibration up your core before he adds a second finger. He presses them against your g-spot and sucks on your clit simultaneously, a perfect combination of the two sensations.

You feel yourself arrive at the edge and you moan out “Din, I’m gonna cum.”

He doesn’t falter the flow of his movements, instead he picks up the pace. You cum against him, your release soaking his hand and his chin. Your back arches up off the cot and your limbs are filled with waves of pleasure.

But once you’re done coming you’re back down on the cot. Din laps up your release, savoring your test before pulling away and looking up at you, his facial hair soaked.

“That was your first time doing that?” you breathe out, your voice still sort of high-pitched from your orgasm.

“First time,” he affirms.

“Couldn’t tell,” you sigh. But then you quickly add, “Aside from the dirty talk.”

Can’t resist the opportunity to make fun of him, just a little bit.

“I’ll get better at that, cyar’ika,” he promises.

“Your turn now?” you ask, moving to sit upright.

But instead, he places a hand on your tummy and gently pushes you back down.

“Actually, I think I want to stay down here longer… That okay with you?” he says, followed by another lap at your cunt.

“Fine with me,” you sigh.

Follow @beskarandblastersfics and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post a new fic!

#din djarin smut #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #starwarsficnetwork

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litteral-sunshine-ao3 · 1 year

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5 times fWhip really needs a break and the 1 time he actually does get to rest (feat. Smallishbeans)

No romantic shipping

rating: general audiences

(1)

The first time fWhip realized he was putting too much responsibility and work on himself, the empires server hadn't existed yet.

He was a young man, almost still a boy, fresh out of the admins academy. Studying code had been awfully hard, but very rewarding. fWhip was excited- extatic even- to start his own server, to look after a handful of people in the special ways only admin could.

He had always had the dream of creating a world that could be a safe place for all people of any kind. Hybrids, magical beings, even celestials he would welcome with open arms and a warm smile.

fWhip had to realise soon, however, that the task was not that easy or quick to be handled. Even after graduating from the admins academy, he still had to go through a lengthy process of requesting his own server, getting it approved and get permission to use the strings of code that allowed for hybrids and most magical beings to show their true forms and make use of all their abilities.

That last one seemed to be the highest burden. The specific code needed for that was hard to come by, under heavy regulations and usually wasn't given to beginner admins like fWhip. In the hands of the wrong people, that kind of world could easily become an interdimensional threat.

Proving that he had no ill intentions and that he was capable of running a server full of hybrids was near impossible. fWhip had known that when he decided what kind of server he wanted to run, but actually trying was much more exhausting than he anticipated.

But fWhip didn't give up. He couldn't give up. This was all he ever wanted to do. He had spent years and a good amount of diamonds to study at the academy, he had gotten his server approved fairly quickly, he had simply come too far to give up.

And so, he worked relentlessly, for months, day and night, getting just enough sleep to function half-normally, learning the ins and outs of all the rules, regulations and laws for hybrid servers.

In the end, he got his code approved, but not because of any of the work he put in, no. The reason he was allowed to run his sever how he intented was because an anonymous celestial - a god - had put in a word for him and insisted to the admins council that fWhip was fully capable of this job.

fWhip should be grateful. He knew he should've been. And he was, truly, he was. But he couldn't help the frustration and disappointment he felt at the fact that none of his work had been enough for the admins. The council had made it abundantly clear that fWhip wouldn't have these permissions if the unknown god hadn't stepped in.

While fWhip thanked the celestial, in all the ways he could without knowing what God exactly helped him, he still felt a little bitter.

But eventually, he let his grudge go.

(2)

The second time fWhip realized he may have been just a little too ambitious, was when he received the first applications for his new server.

He had decided to call it "empires", as the premise was to literally build a home for yourself and live together with others in a safe world, free from any oppression against magical beings, which unfortunately still seemed to be a fundamental part of many servers.

He send out a public notice to all servers and worlds who want to receive it, stating the premise of this new server and asking for applications. He had gotten 11 responses, from all across the universe, a cast so diverse he didn't know how to make it work, at first.

The first to contact him was Solidarity, or Jimmy. Jimmy was a young merling hybrid, more accustomed to the waters than the land, tho he had the ability to live in both. He'd said he'd been in hiding for about 20 years, which was most of his life at that point. Jimmy didn't state explicitly why he had been hiding, only hinting that in the world he grew up in people weren't kind to hybrids of any kind. fWhip didn't care why Jimmy had to hide, all he cared about was giving him the chance to be himself and enjoy his life, without any sort of fear from his servermates.

Accepting him as a player was a no-brainer.

The next couple of responses came fairly quickly, and most of them kept their own personal history private, only occasionally hinting at a hybrid hunt or similarly barbaric traditions. There was Lizzie, a shapeshifter who was tired of hiding her abilities, Joey, a rather secretive man who insisted on not revealing his full hybridism, other than stating it was connected to deserts somehow. fWhip thought he may be a descendant of the husks, hybrids of hostile mobs tended to get the worst treatment. (He of all people would know, he was a descendant of the netherdragons after all, a species of hostile mobs that were deemed dangerous enough to be driven to complete extinction.)

There was also GeminiTay, a truly remarkable deer hybrid. Along with her hybrid status, she also submitted a portfolio of builds and other creative work she had done and to say fWhip was in awe wouldn't cut it close at all. The photos were stunning, the choice of blocks and the way Gem had used them were unique and quite simply perfect.

Then there was Shubble, a young witch who seemed a little timid in her first applications (later, fWhip would find out that Shubble wasn't timid, but rather anxious about not being accepted), she insisted over and over that she was a nice witch, with no intentions of harming anyone.

The next person came as a huge surprise to fWhip. His full, official name was Dangthatsalongname, but he was far more commonly known as Scott or Smajor. fWhip had heard of him before, of course he had. He truly believed there was not a single person over the age of 14 who hadn't heard of Scott at least once.

To be all honest, fWhip didn't even know how Scott had gotten as famous as he was. Nowadays, he did plan and host the Minecraft Championship, one of the most popular shows of all time with fans all over the uni- and multiverse.

But Smajor had been a very popular figure even before then.

The reason for his interest, according to the application, was simply that: interest. He thought the concept of a save heaven for hybrids was promising and wanted to see where the server would go. fWhip didn't think twice about accepting Scott. He might not have thought once, even.

Then there were Katherine and Pearlescentmoon, two women who were mostly looking for new friends. The next two applications came from Pixlriffs, a name fWhip had stumbled across sometimes on the rare occasion he wanted to delve more into redstone, but he seemed like a nice person who held a personal and genuine interest in learning about different hybrids and didn't want to pass up any opportunity to make them as a whole group feel more welcomed and accepted.

The other application was from MythicalSausage, an elytrian, who fWhip actually had expected to apply. Sausage had tried to learn code and even attended the admins academy for a while, but he went off to learn about building instead after getting his moderator degree. fWhip had shared a few courses with him at the beginning of his time in the admins academy and the two had tried to keep in touch after.

And then there was the last application. This one struck fWhip as a little odd. The man who submitted it was called Smallishbeans, but preferred to go by Joel. He was, according to his application, fully, completely, 100% human and, unlike Pixlriffs, he wasn't a scientist and had no interest in learning about hybrids or their culture. fWhip was hesitant to accept him at first, so he went out to meet him in person.

Upon meeting him, however, all of fWhips worries eased away. There were many reasons as to why. The first and most obvious were the giant, golden, shimmering wings that spread out behind Joel. The second was well- he was funny. Really funny, and nice to talk to outside of jokes, too. And, apparently, he had heard about the server through his wife- Lizzie, the shapeshifter, who fWhip had already accepted onto his world.

The most peculiar thing about Joel however was that he hadn't lied on his application- as soon as he entered the empires server, fWhip asked of he could check his code, and Joel agreed. fWhip was just plain curious about Joels biology, since nothing except for his wings indicated him not being human. And that is when he found out- Joel was, like he had said, 100% genuine human. No hybrid status or any magical properties could be found in his code at all.

Finding a way to house all these different players with their specific needs and adjustments to their unique physiology and biology proved to be very difficult. But, after a bit of troubleshooting, fWhip managed.

(3)

At the third time, the health of all his players and fWhips own was in danger.

Somehow, a demon had found its way onto the empires server. It was a demon of corruption and hatred, the corrupted files it left behind in the code of the world were all named "Xornoth" so that is what fWhip referred to the demon as.

Demons came in many different forms, with various ways and intensity of impact. A lot of them were harmless, only some were out for mischief and even fewer were actually hostile.

fWhip didn't mind demons. He was born and raised in the nether realm, where many demons found their home. fWhips family had been taken from him at a young age due to the hunt of nether dragons and a small village of fire demons took him in when he was around 7 years old. fWhip liked the demons, and he was quite familiar with their language and culture.

So, he tried to contact the demon in his world, Xornoth, to calm him down and explain that he was not in danger, that he had no reason to attack, since demons are generally welcomed on the empires server.

However, Xornoth refused to communicate with fWhip. The only response he got was after he spoke in the demons native tongue and it was just a very angry "leave me alone" spat out like it was venom.

fWhip was confused, to say the least. There was no reason for this demon to act hostile towards him or his players. There was no reason for Xornoth to corrupt the server files and spread red tentacles around.

And that's when the demon started corrupting the players codes.

Joey was first, then came Pixlriffs, Sausage and eventually, Scott. The worst fate however had Joel. The demon had managed to corrupt his memory files, making him oblivious to the threat lurking at every corner.

After Scott properly lost his mind, convinced that the only way to get rid of Xornoth was his own demise, fWhip decided he needed to put end to this.

The corruption had spread too far into the server by that point. Rescuing it was simply impossible. The only option fWhip had was to burn it all. To destroy ever last bit of code in this world, transfer his players onto a new one and shattering the old server into millions of little pieces.

And so, that's exactly what fWhip did. He made blood rain from the skies, forced the oceans to drain itself and every bit of corrupted water, shattered the earth hard enough to snap entire palaces in two, let fire rain on the lands and blew up his own empire until nothing was left but smoking ashes of the buildings that once stood as his pride and joy.

That was the end of the first server he created. That was the day fWhip found out just how far his powers could go if he needed them to. That was when the admins council recognised his talents and classified him as one of the highest ranking admins in the multiverse. That was when not only the gods, but also the watchers found an interest in him.

Later in his life, fWhip would come to learn that most admins did not have the power to pulverise their own worlds to ashes as they pleased, that his powers went far beyond that of even Xisuma, who was long known to be the most powerful admin of them all.

But that knowledge wouldn't come for a long, long time.

(4)

The fourth time nearly killed fWhip.

His hand was moving on its own, reflexively catching himself on the cave wall. The world around him was spinning, fWhip felt dizzy and nauseous, his knees were shaking, his whole body shivering.

How had it come to this? fWhip liked to think he didn't know. He liked to think there was no particular reason, perhaps he had just gotten sick down in the cold, wet caves.

But he couldn't pretend, couldn't lie to himself any longer. He needed a break. His body was screaming at him, begging him to sleep, to rest. But fWhip- he couldn't.

He couldn't allow himself to do that. There were things to do, versions to be updated, mods to be checked, code to check and repair, and fWhip was alone. He was the only one who could do this job for the empires server. He was the only admin on the server, the only one who had access to the server code, the only one who was keeping the server running and stable.

12 people relied on him now- and his own life depended on it too, of course. He couldn't stop. He couldn't take a break, he couldn't.

No matter how much he should.

That's why he let himself fall down to sit in the cave, placed a couple more torches to keep monsters away and opened the right windows to start his check-up routine.

The server seemed to be doing okay. A few bug fixes, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unusual, nothing he couldn't deal with.

The only thing he could find that was concerning, was that one of his players seemed to be in bad health.

fWhips vision blurred, the lines of codes sliding and slipping around, his eyes unfocused. His head was pounding, his chest was heaving, lungs were burning. But he needed to see who's stats had dropped so low, needed to see what they needed and get it to them as quickly as possible.

He needed to help his player. That was his duty as admin, that was his job. fWhip needed to fulfill that duty.

He forced his eyes to focus in the player name. With much effort he could deciffer it, only to find that it was his own.

It was him who's health had declined so rapidly, him who needed help, who needed to rest and sleep and heal. It was him who was hurt.

That was the last realisation fWhip made before his eyes slipped shut, exhaustion taking hold of his body, forcing him to rest finally.

He woke the next day, minutes away from being devoured by a zombie. He attempted to fight it, but soon found he couldn't lift his sword, his arms far too weak still. So, he did the only thing he could do: run. As fast as his legs would take him, as close to his house as possible.

It took entirely too long, but he eventually got home. He managed to gulp down some soup- more solid food was not an option at that moment- before he collapsed onto his bed, falling asleep immediately.

(5)

The fifth time, someone noticed.

The fainting happened more frequently now. fWhip knew it was only a matter of time before someone would find out about it.

And he was decidedly not looking forward to it. He didn't want to worry his players, didn't want them to think he was weak or incapable of his job. All things considered, all of his conditions taken into account, he was doing- he was doing good.

fWhip repeated it to himself like a mantra. He was doing good. He was doing the right thing by not giving up, never giving in. He was doing good. He was good. fWhip was good.

And yet...

Yet...

He had meant to visit Joel, more of a routine visit than anything else. To make sure that he and Stratos were doing alright. He had felt the feeling of fainting creeping earlier that day, but thought he would hold it off a little longer.

When he took a pause next to one of the buildings in Lower Stratos, one hand on the building wall, taking in a deep breath, fWhips knees suddenly buckled.

He fell towards the house wall, barely able to catch himself before he slid down onto the ground and stayed there. He could feel himself struggling to get up again, to open his eyes again, just for another second, before he was out cold.

When he woke up again, bright lights shone down onto him, causing fWhip to squint his eyes and blink rapidly against the tears in his eyes. He moved one hand to shield his eyes from the light. Then, he noticed a pounding headache plaguing him, feeling like someone was bashing his head repeatedly against a wall. Sharp spikes of pain cursed through his body every now and then.

fWhip groaned loudly, rolling around in what was far more comfortable than the ground had any right to be.

"fWhip?" Joel's voice sounded just a little too distant, but fWhip would recognise him anywhere. He makes a low humming noise in response. "fWhip, can you try to uncover your eyes, please?" fWhip groaned again, but slowly complied, turning back around and blinking heavily. "Is the light too bright?" He nodded as best as he could. He heard Joel move around a little, and then the light was turned down little by little until fWhip stopped blinking as heavily. His eyes adjusted to the knew light level and he could make out a white mattress that he was laying on.

Joel came back into his view, shrunken down to average human height, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath. "Can you talk right now?" fWhip took a moment to register the words. He opened his mouth to answer that yes, of course he could. But his vocal chords gave out on him. He closed his mouth again, a slightly guilty expression on his face as he shook his head.

"Alright. Alright, that's okay." Joel reassured, moving closer to fWhip. "I'll ask you a few questions okay? They'll be very simple." He held out his hands to fWhip, palms up. "If you want to say "yes" touch my right hand. This one." He lifted his right hand. "For "no", touch the left one." He lifted the other hand. "Can you do that for me?" fWhip reached out to touch Joel's right hand 'yes'.

Joel sighed in relief. "Okay, perfect. Thank you fWhip. First question: does anything hurt?" right hand. 'yes'. Joel nodded. "Can you show me where it hurts please?" fWhip pointed to his head. "Head? You have a headache?" Right hand again, 'yes'. "Alright. I will get you some medicine soon. my next question: can I help you with anything else?" left hand: 'no'. Joel nodded again. "Good, okay. I'll go get some medicine now. Don't move."

With that, he walked out the doors.

fWhip tried to move into a sitting position and after a little struggle, he succeeded. Luckily, he didn't have to wait long for Joel to return.

"I've got you some healing positions and an insta health one." Joel explained as he gently sat down at the edge of the bed. He handed one of the potions to fWhip. "Let's start with health to kick-start things, then get a healing potion in you." fWhip managed a small nod, reaching out to take the bottle. He took it from Joel and carefully opened it up, taking small sips until the bottle was empty.

He could feel the potion starting to kick in right away. The headache dulled a little and his throat felt a lot less raw than before.

fWhip looked at Joel when he handed him the bottle back and smiled. "Thank you." He said, his voice still very rough, but at least he could talk again. Joel visibly relaxed at the sound of it. "Oh bright stars I'm so glad that helped." He looked genuinely relieved. "Alright, let's get some more potions in you now, drink slowly and remember these take a while to fully show their affect, so don't drink too many." fWhip carefully downed two more potions under Joel's watchful eyes. When the second bottle was empty, fWhip started to properly feel his legs again. He hadn't even noticed that they'd gone numb, but now, slowly, a soreness settled into his joints that he was certain would stay for a while. He closed his and sighed.

A gentle weight pressed down on one of his knees. When he opened his eyes, he could see Joel's hand there. The man himself looked at fWhip carefully, worry still very clear on his face. "What... What was that about?" He asked. "I got worried when you didn't show up to our meeting on time so I went to see where you were. I searched the Goblands first, but came back when I couldn't find you." Joel sighed heavily. "You're lucky the villagers down in Lower Stratos found you and caused a bit of a commotion, otherwise I would've never found you." fWhip could feel heat rise to his face. He hadn't meant to be a bother to Joel, or to anyone. He shrugged lightly and looked away from Joel. "I just.... I just overworked myself a little. With all the admin stuff, you know? It happens, it's no big deal."

An uncomfortable silence fell over them and stretched over a few seconds. When Joel spoke again, his voice was gentle and soft. "fWhip... You really shouldn't push yourself this hard." fWhip sighed. "I know that, okay? I just..." He trailed off, staring at the ceiling for a second or two. He closed his eyes again and slumped back into the pillow behind his back. "I'm the only one on this server who knows code, so I have to manage everything by myself. Keep the server running, keep the mods and datapacks running, making sure everything stays stable, you know that sort of thing. There's a lot of daily tasks I've got to do, before I can even begin to think about doing anything lore-wise." fWhip sighed once again.

"And then I also have to build and take care of an empire, do business trips for trading, try to keep up with everyone else's lore so I know where my help might be needed more. Sausage has been causing me so much extra work and stress with all his dimension hopping and what not, it's been awful trying to keep this server together." Joel's hand moved on his knee now, rubbing in small circles that helped fWhip take a deep breath. "It's just a lot to do. I don't exactly have time to-" fWhip suddenly blushed a little out of embarrassment. "Ah forget that one." Joel scoffed. "I don't think I will forget about it. Go on, please, you don't have time for what?"

fWhip didn't meet his eyes when he said:

"I don't really have time to look after myself anymore."

Joels breath hitched at the words. His mind was racing a million miles per hour, he was extremely worried about his friend. "fWhip- oh, fWhip..." Joel's wings shuffled nervously. "I- can I hug you? I really want to hug you right now." fWhip nodded slowly and immediately found himself embraced by the other. He carefully wrapped his arms around Joel's waist, mindful of the wings, and smiled softly. Both of Joel's wings fluttered a little, then they spread slightly, as much as the room would allow, and moved to wrap gently around fWhip as well.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, until Joel slowly moved back and sat down again. One of his wings folded behind him again, but the other stayed where it was, curled around fWhip and pressing ever-so-lightly against his back.

(+1)

And then, finally, came a time where fWhip could actually allow himself to relax.

The timing was... Bad, to say the least. When Grian had contacted fWhip and asked him if he was interested in a collab with Hermitcraft, he had agreed immediately. Now, there was an interdimensional portal on his server that warped reality around itself and was the most fragile and unstable piece of code fWhip had ever layed eyes on. He spend countless hours by the rift, even went so far as to build a small house near it whe he could watch it easily. fWhip was more than happy to deal with this portal temporarily if it meant he could see his friends for a while, but it was increasingly more work he had to do.

Needless to say, he hadn't found time to look after the Goblands or come to talk to the other players recently. Especially since Sausages dimension hopping had been getting worse as well, leaving Sanctuary more and more unstable too. So fWhip had been spending more and more time travelling between the rift and Sanctuary, doing his best to make sure the server wouldn't collapse in on itself at either places.

The only comfort he ready got was that Stratos happened to be close to Sanctuary. Joel came to visit Sausage quite often, it seemed, mostly with their child, Hermes. However that happened. fWhip had decided long ago he wouldn't ask.

Most of the time when he came to Sanctuary, Joel was there. fWhip wasn't overly comfortable with letting the entire server know how much he was struggling to keep up with admin work nowadays, and Joel was the only person who knew he had struggled much before. So it was easy for him to spot the signs again.

fWhip realized after a while that Joel was seemingly perfectly timed to arrive in Sanctuary whenever he did, too. He was sure that Joel was keeping an active eye on him and his health to make sure he wouldn't collapse on him again. Somehow, fWhip thought it was quite endearing.

One day, when he was in Sanctuary, Sausage himself wasn't there, but Joel came flying from Stratos anyway. He landed next to fWhip and smiled brightly at him. "It's a wonderful day! It's perfect for a little walk, don't you think?" fWhip chuckled. "It's always nice in Sanctuary." Joel hummed. "Sure, sure. Say, have actually seen Sanctuary yet? You're always working when you come here. It's a beautiful place, I'd love to give you a tour."

fWhip wasn't dumb. He knew what Joel was doing- trying to get fWhip to take a break. He smiled and shook his head fondly. "Alright, alright, you win this time." He carefully closed the windows of code he was working on and pocketed his communicator. "Show me around then, but don't make it too long. Sausage dimension hopping had left this area a little... wonky." Joel laughed and slung an arm around fWhips shoulder, dragging him along. "Wonky, ey? That sounds like a lot of work for you." fWhip groaned as he walked next to Joel and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You have no idea, my friend."

They ended up walking around Sanctuary for longer than fWhip would've liked. The entire time, Joel kept asking him about his work and how stressful it had gotten. He seemed genuinely worried about fWhip, so the admin had sighed in resignation and tried his best to calm Joel down, assuring him that he would tell Joel if it got as bad as it did before.

At the end of the tour, Joel dragged fWhip over to a bench and sat them both down. Joel stretched his arms and sighed. "I've been thinking." Joel started. fWhip snorted. "Oh that's dangerous." Joel rolled his eyes and waved him off. "Right, whatever. You know how I'm human?" fWhip nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm admins can see that sort of thing in a player code. It's weird tho, I mean you've got wings. I'm pretty sure other humans don't have those." Joel chuckled. "No wings are not a very human thing. I don't really like to talk about my heritage, it makes me a little uneasy. I did something a while ago, couple years back, that my family and most of our kind didn't like." He sighed and leaned back on the bench. "I have the power to mask my identity however well I please. The wings- I've always liked them, so I kept them when I ran away from home, but I made it so my code would say I'm human." fWhip stared at him.

"So wait, so you're... not human?" Joel shook his head. "I'm not. I don't want people to know. Lizzie knows, but no one else does. But... I think I can help you. With admin work, I mean. My kind have a knack for code and if you're willing to give some special permissions, we could split the workload so you won't have to deal with everything all alone." fWhip sat up straight and looked Joel directly in the eyes. "Joel I'm gonna need you to explain that one." Joel took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I know. I'm- I'm a celestial." fWhip blinked in confusion and perhaps shock. "A ... A celestial?!"

Joel nodded. "Yeah. I was born a god. Like, an actual god. If you're curious, my domain is rain, but my powers also cover smaller bodies of fresh water and, to a certain extend, fertility. Like, fertile soil, not the- other kind." fWhip stared at him for a long second. "Okay, okay, wow. That's- actually that makes a lot of sense."

Joel smiled and finally opened his eyes again, looking at fWhip from the side. "If you're up for it, I'd love to be a moderator for you. You know, help out with server things and all that stuff. I did go to admins school, I didn't have much to do after I left the celestial realm, and I have an admins' degree in player code sciences." fWhip could feel his eyes going wider. "Oh wow, okay. That's- that'd be super helpful, actually." Joel perked up at his words. "So that's a yes?" fWhip nodded. "Yeah, yeah. That's a yes. I- void I can finally actually sleep again-" fWhip groaned and sank back into to bench. Joel chuckled. "Yeah, you can rest as much as you need. I'll be here to keep everyone alive in the meantime."

fWhip smiled. "Before I give you the permissions officially, I have one more question. You don't have to answer if you don't want to." Joel nodded next to him and leaned back on the bench as well. "Alright, shoot." "What did you do? What happened that pissed off the gods so much you needed to... flee?" Joel suddenly laughed loudly. "Well, there was this admin, you see, awfully young that fella. Was fresh out of the academy and wanted to jump into server business right away." Joel sighed, as if he was remembering a fond memory. "I can see glimpses of the future, you know, being a god and all. I saw what an outstanding admin he would become and I had no doubt in his abilities as an admin. The guy wanted to build this massive project, taking care of hybrids of any kind on his server. The admins council didn't approve. I couldn't believe they'd put that little trust in someone who I already knew was more than capable of his job." fWhip suddenly shot up off the bench. "Wait- wait, pause!" Joel giggled.

"Us gods, we're not supposed to mingle with mortal all that much, you know? But I couldn't help myself. I was furious at the council, so I went down there and gave them my piece of mind. I didn't ask them to allow the admins request, but I told them how stupid they are and how wrong their decision was. They changed their mind afterwards."

fWhip stared at Joel in disbelief. "THAT WAS YOU?!" he yelled. "ALL- all this time?! It was you- oh deep void! I can't believe-" fWhip suddenly moved forward and pulled Joel in a right hug. "Thank you so much, Joel. You have- bright stars above- you have no idea how much that meant to me." Joel smiled and returned the hug. "I'm glad you got their permission in the end. You deserved it."

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amywritesthings · 2 years

Text

CHAPTER 11: THERE ARE OTHERS

The POINT A TO POINT B series.

gif credit @ elivanto

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader ( Din x You )

Word Count: 4.3K

Summary: Trusting a stranger on Trask has its consequences. However, you and Mando are not alone in this fight.

Warnings: Peril, Violence, Death (NPCs)

A/N: Aaaand we are back! After a much-needed break, we kick off a new update with much action, peril, and crisis. I take liberties with S2 canon and make it my own, so there are no accuracies here, lol. I cannot get over how kind and generous so many of you have been since my last chapter. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Series Masterlist.

PREVIEW:

“What about you, Mando? Ever seen one of these before?”

“How much longer until the drop-off point?” Mando asks instead, tone clipped.

He must sense something is off, too.

This time, the Captain elects the booming crash of waves against the sides of the trawler to be his response. He smiles against the tentacles of his face, nodding once.

Not towards you or what Mando said — but to the two crewmates who have found their way behind you, right when the bounty hunter isn’t looking.

CHAPTER 11: THERE ARE OTHERS.

You’ve decided you hate boats more than you hate Imperial ships.

The first hour of the morning is spent negotiating with the stragglers on the first floor: safe passage to the last-known location of the Mandalorians in exchange for a sum of credits. You find out the bounty hunter speaks multiple languages fluently — yet another addition to his ever-growing list of skills.

Many heads shake.

Most avoid the beskar the second its shine appears in their peripheral.

The Child remains hidden under the burlap cover of his travel sling as you keep to yourself, back pressed into a corner of the room. Hood up, head low — you observe the bounty hunter work the room for information, only to resign alone at a table in the middle.

The only Mandalorian in the room.

Eventually someone is brave enough to sit across from him: a Quarren dressed in fisherman slacks, hands folded over one another with feigned modesty. You peer from the corner of your eye, watching the exchange from a safe distance.

The Quarren seems confident, arm laid back on his chair as he speaks.

“You lookin’ for the types with the same kind of armor?”

Mando puts on that aloof tone he prefers with strangers. “You’ve seen them?”

“Yeah, off the coast. Three of them.”

“Three?” The question comes out fast — a promising number — but he recovers with similar speed. “I need their last-known coordinates.”

“If you spare a few credits, I could take you right to them,” the Quarren offers, teetering back in the metal chair with an unpleasant squeak. “Your, uh, jet-pack can probably get you half the way, but I imagine it ain’t gonna be easy. I got a trawler that’ll take us right there.”

Shifting in his seat, the Mandalorian slides several credits towards him. His glove remains over them, hovering with practiced caution.

“Half now,” he begins. “Half when you take us safely across the coast.”

“Us?” The fisherman snorts, looking around the bar with a process of elimination. “Who’s us? Her?”

The man thumbs to the wall where you stand. You shift the sling to bring the kid closer to the shadows and out of sight.

“Don’t look at her,” Mando demands in a firm voice. The fisherman snaps his attention back to him. “Deliver us safely to the Mandalorians and you will be paid.”

“Sounds like a deal to me,” he agrees, rubbing his hands onto his slacks before standing. “Hope you’re not squeamish about the sea, though. The waves here can be a little rough, if you know what I mean.”

He laughs, hand pressed to his belly. Mando does not move or speak. The fisherman sours as he drags the credits towards his body.

“Fine. Safe passage for two.”

“So we’re in agreement?”

The Quarren grunts. “Twenty minutes. Meet us at the docks.”

. . . . . . . .

You arrive ten minutes early.

Although your eyes remain downcast upon boarding the ship, you hear the trudge of the Quarren captain’s boots across the deck of the trawler. The vessel is huge, littered with cargo and reeking of day-old fish.

Seven other crew members busy themselves with disengaging the ship from the dock, cackling and speaking amongst themselves.

The minute the boat dips away from the dock, the less your stomach feels ready for an adventure upon the open seas. It isn’t your ideal situation, but it’ll do.

(It’ll have to.)

Mando walks with the Captain, saying nothing as the Quarren talks about everything under the sun. You stay towards the starboard side, murmuring soothing affirmations to the little one cooped up at your hip.

Each crewmate of the trawler tends to pause whenever they pass. You know better than to speak when you feel their stares.

And as much as you hate to be distrusting, the whole thing feels off.

“....has she seen one?”

The Captain’s question rocks you from your worry. As far as you’re aware, you’re the only female on the ship.

“I said don’t look at her,” Mando reminds from the far left, monotone.

“I know, I know,” the other man replies with a wave, “but we’re here, yeah? Might as well give her a show, too, if you’re getting one.”

You wait another beat before looking up, catching the eye of the Quarren Captain.

“Have you seen a Mamacore before?”

As if on queue the water under the flooring rumbles, sloshing onto the wooden slabs and causing the blood to drain from your face.

The Captain snorts, gesturing to the volatile square cage in the middle of the trawler.

“Never heard of one,” you murmur honestly, grip tightening on the sling’s strap.

“No? Well you’re lookin’ right at one.”

Hands pressing to his hips, the Captain peers down before looking up at Mando by his side.

“Beautiful, isn’t she? They’re a bit hard to wrangle, but with the right crew? They can be tamed. Probably one of the rare few ever captured.”

It screeches under the water. Faintly you hear the worried gurgle of the Child in the sling.

“If you’re feelin’ brave, you can feed her some fish. She’s the friendliest when she’s hungry.”

Mando says nothing.

(This doesn’t feel right.)

The only sound for a full minute is a mixture of the booming waves against the sides of the trawler and the Mamacore’s hungry cries.

“What about you, Mando? Ever seen one of these before?”

“How much longer until the drop-off point?” Mando asks instead, tone clipped.

He must sense something is off, too.

This time, the Captain elects the booming crash of waves against the sides of the trawler to be his response. He smiles against the tentacles of his face, nodding once.

Not towards you or what Mando said — but to the two crewmates who have found their way behind you, right when the bounty hunter isn’t looking.

Suddenly your body is propelled sideways, pulled by a pair of hands that do not belong to the Mandalorian. Airborne and all at once, your other arm is seized, loosening your hold on the sling.

It’s too quick of an ambush to react.

A third person charges past you and pushes Mando with immense force — directly into the Mamacore’s murky cage.

From sheer horror, you find your voice.

The scream that breaks the silence is blood-curdling.

“Mando!”

Water splashes as Mandalorian beskar disappears from sight. You lurch forward, fighting the crewmates keeping you at bay. The Child squeals at your hip in fear.

“Keep her steady! We need her alive.”

It’s the voice of the Quarren Captain calling as he bends over the mechanics of the durasteel cage. Quickly he wheels it shut, locking Mando in with the beast.

“Now you get to see one up close, Mandalorian!” he calls, chuckling to himself. “You’re welcome!”

The weight at your side is no more, and a short cry cuts through your focus.

The Child.

No.

The person who pushed Mando into the cage crouches beside you to flip open the satchel and tug the Child from your side, causing you to shout even louder. The Child whines with uncertainty, too small to fight back.

You thrash against their grip, boots slipping aimlessly on the deck floor to grab him. Both crewmates are too strong. The effort is useless.

“Take your kriffing hands off of him!” you shriek, the sea salt overwhelming on your tongue.

“Don’t worry, we ain’t killing this one,” the one holding the Child reassures with a wicked cackle.

“Naw, the Moff wants him, too,” another chimes in. “Two for the price of one.”

“And I get that beskar,” the Captain surmises, looming over the Mamacore cage as the beast roars. “We all win.”

“The Moff?” you ask in a waver, eyes wild and wide.

“You think we don’t recognize you?” the Captain asks in a spit. Your stomach flip-flops in time with a rise and dip of the trawler. “Moff Gideon’s got your little bounty party all over the black markets. A Mandalorian bounty hunter with a tiny green creature and a girl. There ain’t many of those walking around.”

He knows.

Moff Gideon knows Mando has you.

The Captain is interrupted by the otherworldly, static gasp of Mando as the bounty hunter resurfaces under the gate, orange-tipped gloves grasping at the durasteel squares for stability.

The surprise across the boat that he’s still alive is all you need to fight with a purpose.

Without another thought, your boot stomps down on the foot of a crewmate. Howling out in pain, you waste not a second more of his loosened hold to slam your elbow into his gut. With a thump you hit the wet floor boards and take off into a crawl towards the cage by your forearms.

“Mando!”

“Grab her!” billows the Captain as your fingers take hold of the freezing gate, fingers curling over his glove.

“The — Child!” Mando sputters frantically, fighting the violent waves.

“He’s okay! I’ll get him. I’ll get you out,” you breathe in a gasp, trying to keep your wits.

“Grab — the —”

“I swear I’ll— No!”

You shout and reach through the cage to grab his hand as he dips underwater, but his glove slips between your fingers. All you hear is the gurgle of his vocoder before he disappears from sight.

Then your body roughly slides along the floor as a crewmate drags you back by your ankle.

Despite the overwhelming smell of fish and sea salt, your nose fills with the scent of dirt.

Your skin burns as if it’s on fire.

Breathe.

In a blink, you find yourself rolled onto your back staring up at a man holding onto your leg. Without another thought, you rip the close-range blaster pistol from its sheath on your belt, flick the safety off, and fire.

A hole burns straight through the crewmate’s calf.

He screams, shrill and in pain, as he drops to his knees and flops to his side. With newfound freedom, you aim at anyone that isn’t holding the Child once, twice — it jams. Overheated.

The second shot misses, hitting a barrel at the bow of the ship, but the first hits another crewmate in the leg. He screams — only to be rendered silent by a third and final shot.

That shot was not from your blaster.

Several levels of repulsion whiz in the air, circling the trawler. Like a fallen row of dominos, crew members begin to drop one by one to the floor, lifeless. The holes in their chests from the attack sizzle from blaster residue.

A blue boot drops down in front of you, then another, as you lay frozen on the ground in surprised surrender.

Gliding your gaze along their blue armor-clad leg, there is something equally cold and warm about the way they turn as if to protect you from the incoming blaster shots, picking off two more people with deadly precision.

A sunburnt orange belt sits at their hips as a stark contrast to the deep blue chestplate — and the worn, blue-painted helmet obscuring their face from view.

Beskar.

Mandalorian armor.

The person closest to you bends down, grabbing ahold of your arm to help hoist you from the floor. Their torso jolts from the impact of a rogue blast to the back, pushing their chestplate into your. As they curl a protective arm around you, they turn on a heel and fire — a large thud follows in its wake.

Another person in Mandalorian armor, this one painted in shades of gray with blue arm guards, scoops the Child from a lifeless body on the floor. Fear seizes your heart, but they cradle him like precious cargo. Their helmet lowers, checking for wounds with caution and empathy.

When they call out from the helmet, their modulated voice is deep. “The little one is safe!”

“I got the girl!” The blue-encased Mandalorian shouts, feminine and high-pitched. Still holding your arm, their visor turns to you. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but the cage,” you answer in a rush, eyes wide. “He’s in the—”

“Got it.” The helmet turns. “Axe, in the cage!”

“Already there, Reeves!”

The one in gray armor slams their palm on the cage’s mechanics, opening the durasteel barrier to the open air.

“Clear a path, I may have to dive in after him.”

The third Mandalorian finally speaks, her voice feminine with deeper notes and authoritative confidence. Her armor reflects both the blue and the gray Mandalorians, but the art on her helmet is different: swirls resembling an owl take over its face, emphasizing her status within the trio.

The blue Mandalorian tightens her hold, pulling you further from the Mamacore cage. You grip onto her arms to steady yourself, the adrenaline of this attack still thrumming through your veins. The one with gray armor stands at the ready, blaster aimed to the cage.

The owl-patterned helmet stands at the cage’s edge, kneeling with a glove held out to the billowing water beneath.

Silence. Anticipation.

(Dread.)

Orange-tipped gloves grab onto the kneeling Mandalorian’s hand as she pulls with immense strength. Both move in tandem to drag Mando from the cage. Your shoulders slack at the sight of him.

Thank the Maker.

Mando sputters, soaked to the bone as the flat of his helmet touches the trawler’s deck. He swings both boots from the Mamaore cage, laying with a heaving chest as the owl-decorated Mandalorian strands at full height.

“The woman and the creature are safe, brother,” she reassures Mando with her hand outstretched once more.

Taking the offer, he wobbles to his feet. Before he has a handle on his surroundings, Mando wastes no time in crossing to grab the Child from the man in gray armor. The stranger relents his hold as the Child reaches his arms out for Mando, his tiny and cold squeaks shaken and confused.

“It’s alright, kid. I’m fine. Are you okay?”

The Child babbles nonsense to Mando as the bounty hunter checks him for any wounds for himself. You wait with faltering patience — until Mando’s visor lifts directly towards you.

You bolt from the arms of the blue-armored woman across the ship at the same time Mando crosses in four long strides. “Mando—”

“I’m okay,” he reassures once more. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m okay,” you mirror, even though you’re not quite sure if you are. His visor moves in a square, searching every inch of your face and torso for wounds. “Hey — I’m okay.”

Mando’s free hand begins to rise to your chin, but it pauses and re-routes to hold the Child with both hands. Your fists stay at your sides, fighting the urge to wrap your arms around him.

You’re not alone.

You have company.

“Thank you,” Mando finally addresses the three Mandalorians.

“There is no need to thank us, brother,” the male voice promises.

“I’ve been searching for more of our kind,” Mando admits.

“Well you’re lucky we found you first,” the woman with the owl-esque helmet responds with a hint of laughter in her tone.

Mando takes a step forward, starting what feels like a speech he’s rehearsed a dozen times:

“I have been quested to deliver this child to the Jedi. I was hoping that—”

He stops abruptly, voice cutting off in a choke.

All three reach for the chins of their helmets, tugging upwards. And although you may not be Mandalorian, the significance of this action causes you to involuntarily gasp.

Without prompt, the owlish helmet — presumably their leader — reveals her face first. Against the drab grays of the Outer Rim moon, her orange hair is bright and nearly neon. A blue headband keeps her hair neatly in place, only a few hairs wayward. The right corner of her mouth is upturned, confident yet nonchalant.

Next to follow is the full-blue armored woman that stayed by your side through the entire attack. Two braids matted with sweat crisscross over her forehead, regal and strong. Her shoulders square with pride as she sets her helmet at the crook of her elbow, chin raised like a loyal soldier.

The last to reveal their face is the man who had saved the Child, his expression stone-like yet melting with the light spray of sea salt. His scruff-shadowed chin bends back to enjoy the wind on his clean face followed by a generous, satisfied smile.

All three Mandalorians stand helmetless in front of you.

The reality of this causes unease in you — and it worsens when you glance to Mando.

The bounty hunter is motionless, frozen, despite the choppy sway of the ship.

Their leader does not seem to notice. Her gloved hand runs through her pin-straight hair as she huffs in relief. “I am Bo-Katan of Clan Kryze. This—” She turns to the man, nodding with affection. “—is Axe Woves and Koska Reeves—” She swivels to the other woman, smile increasing. “—both of the same.”

When she returns to her center, Bo-Katan waits for Mando to respond, but he remains silent.

In a blink, her gaze trails to you.

“You’re safe now,” Bo-Katan urges with a gentle nod. “You may tell us your names and cl—”

“Where did you get that armor?”

Mando interrupts with an abrupt question, catching her attention. The tightness in his voice is unlike anything you’ve ever heard: he’s bubbling with emotion, slow and still on simmer.

Bo-Katan tilts her head, brows furrowing. “This armor has been in my family for three generations—”

“You do not cover your face.”

Mando’s words are spat with such vitriol that Koska Reeves takes a distrusting step closer to Bo-Katan. The orange-haired woman holds her arm out to keep her soldier at bay, shaking her head ever so slightly.

“You are not Mandalorian.”

Your eyes connect with Axe Woves, who appears to be working the dots of this sudden distrust into a straight line. Koska squints at you before an audible groan exits Axe’s mouth.

“He’s one of them,” Axe concludes.

Them.

Like there is something wrong with him.

Koska draws her free hand up to hook a palm behind her head, groaning under her breath. “Dank farrik…”

“One of—”

“— what?”

You and Mando ask in different tones at the same time.

Curiosity flutters on your tongue. Disgust glides along his.

Bo-Katan draws a soft sigh through her nose, chin dropping to her chest as if defeated. Her helmet shifts under her armpit, and after a minute, she raises her eyes to regard you.

There is an air of hesitancy that wasn’t here before.

“I wear this armor because it is all that remains of my family,” she begins slowly, focusing on Mando in his accusatory state. “I was born on Mandalore and fought in the purge. I am the last of my line.”

She pauses, taking a daring step towards the bounty hunter.

“And if I had to guess, then I’d say you are a child of the Watch.”

Mando says nothing.

“But your companion is not,” Koska speaks, gesturing to your bare face.

“No, she is not,” Bo-Katan answers, choosing to channel her energy into speaking with you. “Do you know about the Watch?”

“I’m…”

You trail off before you can give the wrong answer. Mando is still laser-focused on Bo-Katan, absent from the conversation.

The truth? You don’t know about the Watch. Not really.

(Not in the way they insinuate you should.)

“The Watch is a group of religious zealots that broke away from Mandalorian society,” she provides, filling in the gaps with an almost smug air about her.

“A cult,” Axe surmises.

Bo-Katan doesn’t disagree. “They hide in shadows where they can brainwash their foundlings into their doctrine. As far as I know, very few remain. He’s the first I’ve ever met.”

From the rise and fall of Mando’s armored shoulders, he is forcing himself to breathe steadily as they throw wild accusations about the world you’ve only known through his eyes.

The Watch, categorized as a cult.

Your Mandalorian, an outsider where the odds are stacked.

Three against one.

“Why should I believe you?” you finally ask when Mando remains comatose.

“Because it’s the truth.”

“We don’t know you — I don’t know you.” You are firm, taking a step towards Bo-katan with a confidence you do not rightfully own. “But I know him.”

“Do you think she’s brainwashed, too?” Koska asks, hushed as if you cannot hear, when she rounds Bo-Katan’s side.

“She isn’t one of them,” Bo-Katan reasons. “She shows her face.”

“I don’t claim to be Mandalorian,” you bite, mirroring Koska’s movements to stand beside Mando. “Not like you.”

Koska's eyes narrow. “Are you insinuating—”

“It’s fine, Koska,” Bo-Katan interrupts in a softer tone. “He has failed to discuss the details of his clan because outsiders are not meant to know it. This is not his fault. He looks to us as if we are not Mandalorians, because we show our faces. If he were to show his, then he would no longer be welcomed back to his clan. It’s considered sacrilege.”

Bo-Kata’s brow rises not out of curiosity — but out of confirmation.

“But they aren’t the only Mandalorians in this world. There are only a few of us left, yes, but the Watch is… archaic. Strict.”

She frowns, blinking her attention back to Mando.

“Because it’s easier to control those who do not know the outside world apart from them. Their only goal is to establish the ancient way.”

Mando crowds with an orange-tipped finger pointed in her face, voice a mere growl.

“There is only one way: the Way of the Mandalore.”

Although her soldiers grow tense, Bo-Katan does not.

“This conversation is done.”

“You started this conversation by saying you need help with the little one,” she reminds.

“Not from you,” Mando concludes hotly.

Her eyes only trail Mando when he leaves your side and stalks towards the helm of the trawler with the Child. Her orange hair shakes as she silently forbids the others to follow.

Koska huffs, turning a cheek towards Axe. “We should let them handle this on their own.”

Bo-Katan’s head shakes once more, your gaze in her peripheral vision. “Not yet. There is opportunity here, Koska. We don’t abandon our people.”

“Where can I locate the Jedi?”

Your abrupt question surprises all three to different degrees.

“He won't ask you for help, but I will," you continue, wringing your hands. "The little one needs to be reunited with his kind. Whether you approve of his clan or not, this child is in great danger. There are people looking to hurt him.” And to hurt me. “So, please. Tell us.”

Bo-Katan frowns, shifting from one boot to the other. She glances down at the belt around your hips, expression smoothing with wonder. You step forward to bring her attention back to your face, causing Koska to place a hand firmly on your shoulder.

“You are brave,” Bo-Katan begins. “So I am curious: If not a child of the Watch or a Mandalorian at all, then who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am.”

“And are those your own weapons?” she asks instead, subliminal to her meaning.

(Did he give you those weapons?)

“I work for him,” you tell her, choosing to ignore the question. “I'm no one. But if you don’t know how to help us with the kid—”

“I might.”

Bo-Katan cuts you off, placing both hands on either side of her helmet. Koska and Axe follow suit, pushing their Mandalorian helmets over their heads.

“Tell your colleague that should he wish to listen to reason, then I may be able to help his child reach the Jedi he seeks.”

You close your mouth, daring to look eye to eye with the orange-haired woman. She offers a tight smile to close her comradery.

“He is capable. I imagine you are, too, if you work for him. Help us with a job and we’ll help you in your endeavors with the little one.”

“A job?” you repeat.

“We need weapons and steady hands. You need coordinates and a starting point.” Bo-Katan’s chin dips, brows high and expectant. “Will you deliver the message to him? We will wait for you at the inn right off the docks of—”

“I know the inn,” you interrupt, heat creeping up your neck.

A job.

As if this adventure wasn’t a cautionary tale about trusting strangers with precious cargo.

These people claiming to be Mandalorians could be the only chance you might have at bringing the Child back to his people. Given Mando’s reaction, however, are they worth trusting?

(Or are they right?)

The thought nags in the back of your mind, festering like a paralyzer dart to the neck. There may be an entirely new side of the story you barely know. Mandalorians are warriors, that much is true, but they may be so much more than what you were led to believe.

(Are the Watch truly a cult?)

“I’ll talk to him,” you agree softly, only to shake your head. “But if this is a ploy to…”

“To what? Save your lives just so we can take the armor for ourselves?”

Bo-Katan’s finishes with a tilt of her head before placing the helmet over her head. A T-visor stares back at you.

“You both have so much to learn.”

Axe and Koska fire up their jetpacks, only to shoot off from the boat and into the fading gray skies. Bo-Katan waits a beat.

“The inn at sundown. One job for another. This is the way.”

Her jetpack heats up in rapid succession, bolstering her off the ship and into the sky. You watch as a cloud engulfs her armor, leaving you, Mando, and the Child to find your way back to shore.

#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #current wip #din djarin x female reader #fic: point a to point b

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junowritings · 3 years

Note

Hello! I just saw your Kalim x reader and my heart went boom!

Is there any chance that I can request a Neige Leblanche x Fem NRC student Reader?

*Where Neige falls for her quite literally and romanticly when she is setting up for VDC. But turns out his love is somewhat forbidden in a sense.*

please and thank you! Also, question! Have you seen Yuuekn for the twst manga? He's really cute in my opinion! Have a good day!

I’m so happy to hear that you liked that hun I had a lot of hun with it~! Also I feel like writing Neige on Vil’s birthday’s gonna get me cursed but it’s fiiiine~

Also HELL YEAH I’VE SEEN YUUKEN. That man threatened Crowley with a kendo stick what a legend I can’t wait for the next volume! --------

You were only supposed to oversee the others working as VDC was being set up, to go around checking on others progress and non-too-subtly marvel at all of the booths as they were being built and arranged in the appropriate locations.

Admittedly, you were probably only allowed free reign so you didn’t get in the way of the performers as they got in some practice for the final show. If the sharp look Vil had given you when as he’d practically herded you out was anything to go by, making yourself scarce till things cooled down was your best course of action, so you’d taken to keeping track of the backstage team, if only to see all the work that went into making this long awaited event happen.

It was just pure chance that one of the second years had caught you wandering between equipment and mistook you as part of the team. Before you knew it, he was handing you an imposingly large set of speakers and asking you to get them moved back to the stage, and perhaps if you’d been more firmer about refusing, then you wouldn’t have been scrambling towards the main area, weighty equipment in tow as you hauled them alongside you.

Fortunately, the work you’d been dragged into suited you just fine; you’d worked a few backstage gigs during previous school events, thanks to the headmaster’s brilliant idea to leave professional work to a bunch of minimally trained students (seriously, what does Crowley even spend the event budget on?). Thankfully, you were well prepared, and it looked like the other ‘volunteers’ were grateful for the extra set of hands too, as before long you were being approached by some of the first year workers, asking for your advice or help because they weren’t sure what to do.

You’re overseeing one such first year as he sets up the wires for the overhead lights, peering over his shoulder from where he’s crouched and guiding him when needed. When he plugs in the last of the cords he turns to glance up at you, wordlessly seeking your approval.

You grin and flash him a thumbs up. “Hey, great job. Told ya you could do it.”

At your response the student visibly relaxes, standing up and rolling off the stiffness from being stuck in such an awkward position for so long. He gives the lights a quick once over before shuffling back, releasing a sigh as he muses aloud. “Looks like that was the last of the tech setup; do you think we’ll be needed anywhere else?”

You give a noncommittal shrug. “Probably not; unless we’re needed down by the clubs I think they’re all set.”

Honestly, the work’s pretty much done by this point, and you’re sure that sooner or later you’ll be getting a call from Rook letting you know it’s time to rejoin the group. You’ve got to admit, you’re looking forward to seeing all of the boys’ hard work pay off - you know they’ve been busting their butts to polish their routine and you’re sure their nerves are kicking in right about now.

Maybe you could bring them something back from the stalls? A good luck charm or something to snack on to ease their nerves a bit - you’re sure Ace and Kalim would appreciate some of those ‘pick-me-up’ treats from those food stands they’d been eyeing near the entrance...

Something catches your attention from the corner of your eye mid-musing, and you find yourself pausing as you cast your gaze towards the stage. There’s several people on stage, and you know at a glance that they’re not part of the crew - the pristine white and blue uniforms were a dead giveaway as is, but as you watch the small group move along the structure you freeze, eyes narrowing.

Are those...kids?

You can’t be certain, given that you’re pretty sure this is a students only event, however you’re transfixed on watching them chatter happily to one another as they point at the different decorations strung up all over the venue. There’s one boy among them that you notice, namely because he’s the tallest of the small, merry group; his smile is bright and gentle as he laughs along with his friends, guiding two of them by the hands so that the group doesn’t get separated.

The sight is cute, no one can deny, and it's enough to tug a smile at the corner of your lips. The student beside you notices your silence and follows your gaze, gasping when he spots who you’re looking at.

“Wha-Neige is here already?!”

“Neige?” You look between the student and the boy, confused.

Now where have you heard that name before…

Your eyes widen when you remember. Of course, Neige Leblanche! That guy you’d seen from those interviews! You remember how miffed Vil had gotten when at the sight of the soft spoken boy when they’d worked a shoot together, just about dragging you and Rook out with him before Neige had even finished his segment. Apparently they were rivals or something, but you’d never gotten the chance to ask before Vil had shut that conversation down the moment it started.

Remembering the tempered scowl on Vil’s otherwise pristine face brought a frown to your own. What was it about this guy that he’d hated so much? The more you watched Neige the more he seemed about as nice as you’d expect, regarding his friends with a soft smile that radiated nothing but warmth and kindness as they swarmed around him, all smiles and laughter.

One of the boys tottered away from the group, wandering over to the edge of the stage to look down at the people still milling about. His fingers were wound into the scarf around his neck, pulling it up close to his face as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking around with curious eyes. Eventually, he spotted you off to the side and you found yourself smiling as you offered a small wave.

The boy’s face brightened and he didn’t hesitate to return the gesture, waving back and letting go of his scarf long enough for you to see him smiling back at you. You chuckled a little at the sight, but the little moment doesn’t last long before his face suddenly scrunches up, discomfort crossing his face.

“A-Achoo!”

He sneezes violently enough that it completely knocks him off balance, and your face pales when you watch him start to topple off of the stage. People have wrecked their ankles just trying to jump from that height, so the moment you see him start to fall you’re running to catch him, arms stretching out before you’ve even reached him.

“Ah! Snick!”

Neige notices his friend beginning to tumble and crosses the stage before you get there, calling out the boy's name as a hand reaches out to grab the back of that peach scarf and uses the garment to pull him upright. You’d have been relieved if the momentum of yanking him back hadn’t sent Neige falling right off in his place, and now you’re running to catch a different boy as you watch him go over the edge.

Fortunately, the split second difference between him and Snick gives you enough time to reach him, and Neige lands in your open arms not a moment after you get there with a gasp at the force. Mentally congratulating yourself for the good catch, you look down at the boy nestled in your arms, who looks back up at you with a surprised expression.

His hair’s skewed, hat having landed somewhere in the fall as soft black strands fall over his face and brush against his lashes. He’s close enough that you’re pretty sure that you can hear his heart hammering in his chest, and his eyes are wide - you guess he’s still shaken from the tumble - but up close you can see just how striking they are, a deep brown easing into a honey color.

‘No wonder this guy’s an actor,’ you find yourself thinking. ‘He looks like he’s straight from a painting.’

You shake the thought away and focus on the moment, lips parting to ask. “Are you okay?”

For a beat, Neige blinks up at you, speechless before breaking from his apparent reverie with a start.

“O-Oh! Y-yes, thank you.” you watch a pink hue rise to his face, dusting across his cheeks as he brings a hand to fix his collar, gaze never straying from your own.

Your expression softens at the response. How cute.

“Niege! Neige, are you okay?!”

A voice calls out, and you look up just in time to spot Neige’s gaggle of friends as they race down the stage stairs, moving to converge around you and the boy in your arms. The one who yelled - with silver hair and glasses - seems relieved when he sees Niege is unharmed, and Snick looks on the verge of tears as he shuffles to his friend’s side, bumbling apologies between sniffles.

Neige smiles and reaches out a hand to affectionately ruffle Snick’s hair. “It’s alright; I’m fine, everyone.”

The spectacled boy turns to you and bows. “Thank you so much for your help!”

You shuffle anxiously at the praise. “Ah, well, it’s no sweat, really - I’m glad I caught him in time! Heh…”

Both you and Neige sneak a look at one another, and as your eyes meet you become acutely aware of the fact that you’re still holding him to your chest. Masking your embarrassment with a cough, you loosen your grip enough for him to ease back onto his feet. He smooths out his sweater and you lean down to grab his hat, shaking it back into shape before moving to place it back onto his head.

You don’t think twice about tucking some stray strands of hair behind his ear until he lets out a soft “Oh!” and you fluster, bringing your hands to your chest as he mirrors the motion.

“Thank you for catching me!” he hums, words sincere as he gives a little bow of his own.

“It’s no problem!” you give an idle wave, rubbing the back of your neck as you add. “Besides, the headmaster would have my head if another school’s student got hurt on our school grounds!”

Neige raises a brow at your words, but laughs along with you when you chuckle.

“So, you guys are entering VDC, right?” you venture a guess, changing the subject, and you watch the group nod in various degrees of agreement.

“Yes! I’m looking forward to seeing everyone perform!” Neige beams at the mention of the event. “Are you a member of the NRC team…?”

He trails off, realizing he doesn’t know your name; when you tell him, he repeats the name back to himself softly, as though making sure to remember it.

“As for me? I’m not on their team, well, technically.” you find yourself hesitating for a moment. “I’m more of a manager, cheering on the team and helping out with set-up. Though, Vil’s been handling most of the work, heh.”

“Vil?” he parrots back to you, looking visibly delighted at the name Happy to ramble about your friend, you’re quick to continue.

“Yeah! He’s been working really hard with everyone to polish their performance - I swear, you’re gonna love it! He’s actually-”

“(Y/N)-!”

You freeze, head whipping in the direction of the voice, spotting Vil striding in your direction as the crowd parts seamlessly to move out of his way. You grin as you watch him approach, but your smile falters a bit when you see his expression. Though his face remains carefully neutral, you’ve known him long enough to recognize that he’s positively seething, and you have no idea what’s got him so angry.

Still surprised to see him, you shift to face him. “Oh, hey Vil! What are you doing-?”

“We need to go.” Vil’s voice is stern, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder guiding you away from Niege and back towards the way he’d come from.

“Wha-why?” you sputter, confused.

“The event’s nearly starting, and we’re up first - you’re going to be late.”

He punctuates each word carefully, though gives you a surprisingly soft smile and brings his free hand to rest against your back when he notices the confusion visible on your face. “The others are waiting for you.” he adds, as though working to ease your concern as he continues to walk with you.

“O-oh, okay.” you fumble for a moment before craning your neck to look back at Neige, giving him the brightest smile you can muster as you wave.

“See you later, Neige! Good luck with the performance~!”

Neige returns the wave, soft smile betrayed by furrowed brows as he watches your retreating form disappear back into the bustle of people. For a few moments he tries to spot you in the crowd before reluctantly giving up, bringing a hand up to his chest and lightly grasping his sweater between his fingers.

“(Y/N)...” he mumbles aloud, hoping to himself that this isn’t the last time he sees you today.

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