#anyway i love the crest so much rip
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THE RAZOR CREST during The Mandalorian, Chapter 12: The Siege
+ bonus
#the razor crest#din djarin#the mandalorian#grogu#star wars#flashing tw#themandalorianedit#swedit#starwarsedit#userobihoe#userlils#userkosmos#userelio#mine#i wanted to do an appreciation post during star wars appreciation week but had to work#anyway i love the crest so much rip
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Din/Luke Pacific Rim AU pt.3
Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.4
Welcome to part 3 of my madness as I continue to take inspiration from scenes in the movie. This is when Din get's a full view of Luke's scars (and is caught looking) not long after the drift compatibility tryouts. He still doesn't know of their origins, but he might find out soon 👀👀👀 (More info under the cut if you're interested).
Anyways, hope my insanity entertains y'all! There's still plenty more to come and perhaps even more in the works.
P.S. All the love that this idea has been shown has been a great motivator for me to work on the fic. So thank you to everyone who's interacted with these posts and have shown their interest. Glad to know I'm not alone in being interested in a niche ship and a 10 year old movie crossover.
More info about Luke's Scars: It starts with part of the timeline I've formulated.
2027 - Luke becomes a pilot with Biggs.
January, 2028 - Death of Paz; Birth of Grogu; Din leaves the Jaeger program
August, 2028 - Death of Biggs; Luke is injured;
2029 - Leia becomes a pilot and is Luke's new partner
So, essentially Luke joined the program very young (17) while Leia was still studying politics with the Organas. Biggs was Luke's drift partner and they piloted together for a year.
The destruction of Razor Crest and the death of Paz/disappearance of Din marked the turning point for the Jaeger program. Not long after that incident the Jaegers were struggling to fight back against the onslaught of Kaiju. More frequent attacks along with higher category Kaiju started to wear them thin.
In a particularly dicey situation, Luke and Biggs were deployed on their own to deal with a CATIII Kaiju while backup was on the way. Despite how skilled the two were, the Kaiju overwhelmed them before backup could come and their Con Pod was ripped from their Jaeger. The damage caused an energy serge through the pilot suits causing Luke to get his scars. Those injuries, plus the ones from getting tossed onto shore, also resulted in Bigg's death.
After hearing about this, and while Luke was recovering. Leia decided to join the program and began her training. By the time Luke was recovered she was graduating cadet school and they were able to pilot together. It took some time for Luke to get used to piloting again after being connected to someone who died, but he trained himself to feel the serenity in the drift and keep those memories at bay. Luke's control while in the drift is next to no one except maybe Anakin, but he hasn't piloted in a long time, so it's hard to say.
Speaking of Anakin, he isn't supper happy about his children being pilots, but there wasn't much he could do to dissuade them. After Padme's death during a Kaiju attack, and Anakin subsequently blaming himself for it, he threw himself into the program. He wasn't able to raise the twins because he was on duty so they were raised by Owen and Beru as well as mentored by the Organas (mostly Leia).
Leia is resentful of Anakin for leaving them when they were so young and had just lost their mother. Luke mostly blames himself in an unreasonable way and thinks he wasn't worth enough for Anakin to stick around. The reason Anakin did leave was so he could try to stop the Kaiju and make the world safe for his kids. However, in the process, he may have lost the time he could have had with them.
#dinluke#star wars#luke skywalker#din djarin#art#fanfic#fanfiction#the mandalorian#dinluke fanart#dinluke au#pacific rim au#leia organa#tru's dinluke pacific rim au
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Personal skills for the awakening kids
i wish awakening had personal skills SO BAD it's not even funny.
anyway. i thought up some personal skills for the 2nd gen. these are all made within the context of 3h as that's the au that's been swimming about in my head for several weeks hence any reference to those mechanics but pls enjoy :) :)
lucina
gee, lucina, how come mum lets YOU bring the overpowered game mechanic to other games--
basically just the engage chain attack feature as lucina there is The Chain Attack Emblem. killassisting killstealing left and right. would serve really well with 3h's love of chunky hp monsters. the weapon durability aspect is kind of incentive to always have her equip falchion (3h regalia should NOT have limited durability and in THIS essay i will--) or a forged training weapon as the damage is fixed.
this probably could transfer to fateswakening where this would proc on top of normal dual strikes, but another option i thought up for her would be the ability to dual strike for anyone as long as the targeted enemy is within her movement range (i.e. she can dual strike without being adjacent to an ally)
owain
i wanted to make the fateswakening trio's skills distinct from their fates counterparts... though i wouldn't be able to use aching blood in a 3h setting anyway as it has no weapon naming feature. truly tragic.
this is probably self-explanatory: owain does extra damage when using any attack that has a name bc He Gets Excited. it would apply to each individual strike rather than the total damage number, and part of me wonders if this would make 3h-astra actually viable.
also, rip to like half the crests in 3h which have this exact effect but separate and worse since they're a non-guaranteed proc. we honour your sacrifice so owain could rise
inigo
3h's authority makes rally skills pretty easy to get, but the fact they only affect one unit means i barely use them and it makes me sad. inigo deserves his funky little rallies and he will GET his funky little rallies.
this skill would also apply to the stat boost from special dance (though not the dance effect itself).
not much else to say. i just think this skill is neat
brady
this is basically the skill stealth, which is otherwise exclusive to the thief/assassin/trickster classes in 3h. it puts the unit at the bottom of the priority list for enemy attacks so they will only be attacked if there are NO other viable targets.
great for a healing brady. i always put him in a support role so this is perfect for me. less great if you want brady to be a combatant as it limits what you can do on enemy phase, but you could still use it to your advantage
i just have this image of enemies seeing a healer on the battlefield, going to attack them, and then being hit by this Stare of Promised Violence that makes them back off and decide to attack,, idk. fucking dedue instead. and brady is sitting here confused bc he didn't do anything (it's just his normal face)
kjelle
She Will Not Be Knocked Over. armour too strong. 10/10. truly a GET DOWN MR PRESIDENT skill of all time, as she has earned
this skill means she takes the damage but doesn't get movement sealed or debuffed or anything after being hit by a gambit. Not Even The Force Of Ten Dozen Men Charging Will Faze You.
a fateswakening equivalent i considered would be preventing specifically armour-effective damage i.e. from hammers or armourslayers, so they just deal normal damage instead (or, in fates' case, the weapons get hit with the non-effective target debuff).
cynthia
basically a stronger but more situational variant of elise's and flayn's lily's poise. all about protecting the vulnerable, plays into her more sensible (read: comparative to owain) idea of heroism.
i personally like this a lot bc i always always go falcon knight cynthia (it feels better) and cynthia with a healer flavour... mwah.
i'm generally a massive fan of aura skills (i.e. buffs to allies within a certain range of a unit) and this is the type of skill that could definitely save your units after an unfortunate mistake
severa
THE COUNTERPART TO BERUKA'S PERSONAL THAT SELENA SHOULD HAVE HAD. NO I WILL NOT TAKE CRITICISM they did her SOOO dirty with her fates personal--
aside from being perfect personality-wise (she WILL prove she is better than others--), this also syncs well with most classes severa will find herself in. swords are pretty much wholly 1-range weapons, so are usually facing a counterattack, except the levin sword...but nobody is rushing to give her that. (she has a 10% MAG growth in awakening, which is quite literally the lowest available...)
i wanted to name this competitive but apparently that's takumi's personal skill name. so rude of him
gerome
local teenager fixates on dragons, more at 6
he's studied dragons + minervikins so hard he knows how to fight beside them in a way that lets them fight to the fullest. also he gets so secretly happy (and it is secret do not tell a soul) to be next to a dragon that he too fights better.
this would apply equally to wyvern units and units that are dragons in non-dragon classes e.g. a mage nah.
gerome <3
yarne
the original name of this skill was sudden brevity until i realised brevity does not mean what i clearly thought it did when i wrote it.
an improved version of strong riposte from fates. poor yarne spends so much time wanting to hide on player phase that any damage he is directed to deal is only mediocre, but when enemies attack HIM on ENEMY phase, he's like oh shit gotta survive--
DONT MESS WITH A BUNNY indeed :)
laurent
3h's limits on spell learning means this basically has a cap of +10 in the late game, but even that is still mega broken. this skill would serve as a really strong incentive to train his reason/faith in the early game and the extra power you get from learning spells would scale well as you progress further.
now that the meta is out the way, this skill is like when a character (not necessarily a fe one) gets a new skill in a game and there's this super exaggerated powerup sound effect and a victory quote, and you're just like... 'all you learned was how to wear heavier armour' but with THIS skill it's actually VALID
knowledge = power and also justification for laurent joining the cast of fodlan characters found near exclusively in the library
noire
it's a little criminal that awakening wasn't able to give us something that reflects noire's blood and thunder state in combat aside from her crit quotes, so this is what i came up with.
the more she fights, the more BLOOD AND THUNDER she gets.
it makes the most sense that her offense would be the one boosted, and even though she's an archer she can fill a good role as a mixed attacker (i WISH awakening had a shining bow), hence STR/MAG being boosted. i briefly considered SPD, but noire has one of the best base speed growths in the game anyway (before growth inheritance; she's on par with lon'qu and a speed-boon robin, and weirdly only beat out by PANNE with 55 base speed for some reason) so it'd be a little redundant when she already doubles everything
nah
this is based off that odd quirk of nah's where she always forgets she can turn into a dragon. i think of her support with f!morgan all the time, where she spends ages trying to learn how to catch a wyrmslayer and in the end realises it was a wasted effort bc she doesn't even fight in her human form and her dragon arms are too small to do what she learned.
"until engaging in combat" applies to combat initiated with nah on either player OR enemy phase. you'd have to have her avoid combat completely for this skill to build up. it would apply to offensive non-damaging magic e.g. silence, but wouldn't apply to healing, so nah could spend her time doing that.
this is a skill you need to dedicate yourself to using yourself, but in the hypothetical scenario where she's a boss, this skill is absolutely terrifying. especially if you took all the limiters off. it would actually make for a very fun map i think--the best fe maps are those that make you go on the offensive IMO, but that's not exactly what this post is about, so i'll move on.
f!morgan
i've made separate skills for the morgans because their supports are different enough that they feel like different characters to me, even if just slightly. it's why i always like them as twins.
what i wanted with the morgans is a skill that hints at what they were before losing their memory and joining the shepherds. for this one, though she is a wyvern lord in future past 2 she is a malig knight in my heart. they just hadn't yet invented malig knights when they made her. this skill is based on its lvl15 skill, savage blow. (to be clear, the 5 extra damage would also apply after combat).
this is a fun one that's good for crowd control and mopping up large groups of enemies, especially with the existence of 3h canto where you can just swoop out of enemy range after obliterating their movement.
it's a very fitting skill if you have morgan in, say, a wyvern class or even dark flier. but if you put her in a dainty little base pegasus knight class... the image of a fragile little pegasus that will fall to like two axes hunting people down is kind of hilarious. sorry morgy
m!morgan
last but not least, the son himself... likewise to f!morgan, i wanted this skill to reflect who he was before the shepherds. he's a sorcerer in the future past 1, which is why i wanted this skill to be dark magic based. both morgans having skills that debuff enemies is another intentional choice.
it's loosely based upon the -taker skills. this skill isn't as powerful as them (you get less stat per proc and the cap is smaller) but you can gain the boosts without delivering the killing blow and you have more variety in what boosts you can get. morgan tends to be a jack-of-all-trades like robin, so an all-round boost is good for him.
past morgan was probably pretty scary with this, but present morgan without a hint of memory now just goes around Yoinking enemy stats. Morgan Says Teehee Mine Now. as he should :)
#p.s. i'm in the market for better names for some of these skills (mostly luci/inigo/m!morgan's) so if you have suggestions... hmu#fe13#fire emblem#fire emblem awakening#fe awakening#fe lucina#fe morgan#fe owain#fe inigo#fe brady#fe kjelle#fe cynthia#fe severa#fe gerome#fe yarne#fe laurent#fe noire#fe nah#awakening kids ever beloved sons and daughters always
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Part one of a mini Scum Villain design series I've been doing between work and assignments recently, mainly on the demons and their looks and fashion. First up: Luo Binghe's extended family. I've included some sketches and notes in that main picture, but I'll include some thoughts beneath the read more for if anyone is interested. Just keep in mind these are all head canons based on. my brain. and get a bit over explained and in depth (to the tune of 1k words) (in theory these is a read more here but uhhh rip):
Also keep in mind idk the official fashion names for stuff so I call things belts, robes, pants, ect even when that may not be the official term. if you know the official terms or even have guides or references I can use then please hmu and I will love you forever. Anyways:
Since TLJ ruled the southern kingdom and MBJ ruled the north, I've primarily divided the demon variants to be based around the directions. For most demons, I've got them in "clans" that really just denote what color fabric their belt is and what the design/color of the crest featured on most of them is. I imagine those sorts of simple visual signifiers make it easier for demons, especially lower class ones who may be unable to read, to identify friend or foe at a glance. I also wanted to have the demons wearing jewelry much more prominently than the humans do. As in like, the human fashion sense trends towards sensible, refined, and modest, and the demon fashion sense tends towards ostentatious, lax and boastful, though that ofc doesn't apply to everyone. This sorta stuff gets more relevant later for the designs of demons like Six Balls and Meng Mo.
For these lads (sans Binghe), they're southern demon based, as shown by the little cat demon design at the bottom right. Completely arbitrarily and just for the fun of it, I've got their primary clothing choices as being warm color fabrics paired with gold as a metal, form fitting tops with exposed stomachs, and baggy pants. Looser lighter fabrics allow for more flexibility for animalistic features or and body transformations that may happen. They're also typically in open toed shoes for similar reasons. Only Zhuzhi in this lineup has mini little horns, but I've also assigned each region a general horn shape (so edged and jagged for the north, spiral for the south, straight for the east and curved and wavy for the west). The only thing Binghe adopts from any demon style is the exposed chest, cloth on the belt, colors, and the demon mark.
I like giving the demons openly animalistic and beast like features, like colored skin, horns, fur/feathers/scales, claws, three fingers, ect, which again comes into play for the later demon designs I'm gonna post. For heavenly demons, however, since they're ancient fallen deities, I wanted them to skew more towards a human appearance. So while they have more vibrant skin and eyes, or sharper ears and fingers, they wouldn't have to put too much effort into a disguise or glamour to come off as a human.
Anyways, onto actually explaining what's happening in the pictures:
TLJ is attempting to appropriate human fashion choices, but has no idea what the line is. Like, he's aware they wear more fabric than demons, and have sleeves that fully cover their arms, but has no clue what pieces pair together and what fashion choices are clearly demon related that would get him recognized immediately. Like "what do you mean human's don't wear their clan crests everywhere? well how else do they define their enemies?!" Su Xiyan, meanwhile, is dressed in Huan Hua clothing. I wanted to make them distinct visually from Cang Qiong, so currently I have CQ having each peak have its own colors of robes (patterns and such denoting ranking), with each peak generally having a similar look and all of them (sans peak lords) wearing identical belts and boots, with the only variations being colors. Meanwhile, I have Huan Hua having everyone in the same gold silver white uniforms, with ranking denoted by accent colors and accessories they choose to wear. Like, if she was more self absorbed here, Su Xiyan could have worn a longer robe and a cape over that uniform but just chose not to. I like the idea of them wanting all their people to look the same, like an army or a hivemind.
Going to the bottom there: TLJ's Sister and ZZL's mother...what a figure. Like what was up with her. Like TLJ saying "if i had a mother like that I'd want to forget her too" like is that in reference to the abandonment or to her being a piece of work? Also, how on earth did the little sister of Mr "I'm so powerful a multi sect ambush of the top cultivators was only enough to imprison me" TLJ just casually died?? Like can heavenly demons even do that??? I love making up wild conspiracies about her based on nothing. She faked her death. She didn't die, she ascended to godhood as the god of deadbeat parents, or perhaps snake lovers. She dropped her mortal body to enter the dream realm like Meng Mo did and that's how she told TLJ her wish for ZZL. Wild. Oh also my other wild conspiracy is that she had more than one kid and thus there are a bunch of unclaimed half heavenly demons running around. Banging a snake man and ditching the kid?? Ain't no way that's her first time. Anyways.
My only comments on Zhuzhi are that I wanted to make him look like a little guy. And I hope I succeeded. Oh and also that his cheeks, nose, forehead, shoulder, hands, and feet are darker bc thats a cluster of harder scales he retains even in a humanoid form. Anyways.
Onto bingqiu: I've seen some art of Binghe in that white robe on top of his darker ones and had the thought that it'd be nice if that was the Qing Jing inner disciple robe, so I leaned into that. Their robes (as also shown on the little Ning Yingying next to him) are like a shorter color swapped version of the peak lord robes, and they're wearing similar belt and hair crowns. I think Binghe would wanna wear them partially to show off his disciple status and partially to wear the colors of his husband (like with the upper eyeliner), though he still has demon traits and fashions showing. I gave TLJ and LBH heterochromia since I wanted it to be immediately obvious to anyone who looked at them that yeah, they have the same eyes. Binghe's everything else is just slight adjustments of SXY, like the nose and the fluffy hair. Meanwhile, I've got SQQ in mainly his peak lord robes, with a few exceptions: The tassel on the closed fan he's holding is the same as Binghe's earring, he's wearing red eyeliner, and part of his hair crown is red. Also he's embarrassed about the pda (h*lding h*nds in public), that nervous expression isn't bc he was forced to do anything he doesn't want to.
Anyways to wrap up this one thousand word brain ramble, I have a lot of thoughts on world building for fleshing things out, and part two of this will be focused on Mobei Jun, thanks for reading
#svsss#scum villain self saving system#scum villain#scum villain fanart#svsss fanart#tianlang jun#su xiyan#luo binghe#shen qingqiu#zhuzhi lang#my art tag#my svsss char design series
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Oh yeah funny story
So I went on a field trip yesterday out to this field station on an island out in the hyper-saline lagoon that’s like,, right down the road to collect botanical samples for my wetland ecology lab.
Left a little while after 2pm.
We were on the island for about two hours collecting plants (and finishing the trip off with some king cake) before hopping back on the boat. It was about 4:30pm
So,, normal lab field trip right?
WRONG.
Our boat stops suddenly and a big plume of mud is sprayed out from behind the skiff. Not a good sign. Four guys hop out of the boat and start trying to push the boat free- Laguna Madre is VERY shallow, especially in this area since we weren’t where they had dredged it out for the larger ships, so the water was about knee deep where we got stuck.
We started moving again. Kinda. I see the guys get these poles out and start using them to turn the boat like those gondolas in Venice. (Sadly no accordion) Also not a good sign.
THEN the guy who was sitting at the wheel gets up and walks up to the front where we were sitting and pulls the anchor out, and then drops it out into the water. NOT A GOOD SIGN.
Then I hear my professor talking about calling the biology lab coordinator to figure out what the fuck to do, and then she’s on the phone with someone talking about how we need someone to come out and tow us back to the boat ramp. 💀
It’s 5:30pm now and the sun’s beginning to set. (And my other lab back on campus had just begun, which I obviously wasn’t able to attend unless I could teleport) My brother also happened to call me which I answered with a “hey you won’t be able to guess where the fuck I currently am.” Never a dull moment.
Another hour passes and FINALLY the lab tech guy shows up with another boat to tow us back (while wearing his Iron Maiden shirt like an absolute legend, we love lab tech guy) it’s now sunset and we’re finally moving. Slowly, but moving’s moving.
The sun set completely and I had dozed off a little as there really wasn’t much else to do. It was also COLD with the wind blowing off the water and the lack of sunlight. Thank GOD I decided to wear both my hoodie and wind breaker, along with a bandana to use as a scarf. Eventually we made it back to the boat ramp at around 7pm. So I’d finally be able to go back to my apartment and have some warm hot chocolaty goodness right?”
HA if only it was that easy.
It probably took them an hour to get the boats back onto their trailers because they kept loading them incorrectly and would have to retry. Me and some other classmates stood out in the cold for about fifteen minutes before we realized that we could hop in the van where it was warm, and wait in there. So that’s EXACTLY what we did. Luckily I packed some snacks because I thought it wouldn’t hurt to bring them along, so I just kinda,,, passed around a bag of trail mix.
Something something hour later we get back to campus at like 8pm where I was finally able to go back to my dorm. (My wonderful roommate brought me hot chocolate bless her)
Anyways I’m tired <33
TLDR: Went on what should’ve been a three hour long field trip for hehe swamp science fun times and our boat's steering went out so we were strANDED FOR TWO FUCKING HOURS IN THE LAGOON. We were out in the sun for like five hours and gone for six. I love being a stem major <333 yippee!!
(For those biology nerds out there we saw mullets jumping out of the water, sea grass beds, black mangroves, various salt flat succulents, stupid plant with wickedly sharp thorns that ripped apart the sample bag it was in, wolf berries, mosquitoes, a tiger moth caterpillar, turkey vultures, dolphins, brown and white pelicans, mosquitoes, a crested caracara, tons of laughing gulls, great blue herons, mosquitoes, egrets, white ibises, cormorants, and black tipped skimmers.)
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Hey Avenger, just wanted to say thanks again. You're the best, I knew we made the right choice supporting you back then. Anyway, we would love to take you with us, but if you don't want to, that's fine. Take one more kiss as a farewell gift?
"Yeah, yeah. I'll miss you idiots too. Take care, watch your backs, and stay safe. I don't want to see your butts again until you've won. And... don't worry about the Admin. Sure, I'll probably get punished horribly for it but, well... you know my whole deal. Pain and torture is nothin' new. Now--"
He surged with magical energy, holding his hands out.
"Let silver and steel be the essence.
Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation
Let the blackened Grail be the artifact I pay tribute to.
Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall
Let the four cardinal gates close.
Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate."
"I hereby declare;
Their will creates your body, and your sword creates their destiny.
Submit to the beckoning of the Cursed Grail
If you will submit to this will and this reason…Then answer my call!"
"From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three greet words of power,
Come forth from the ring of restraints, protector of the Holy Balance!"
The Command Seals burned. They were new. Different.
Different Command Spells. Different bonds. Different experiences. A different chapter in this journey.
A new chapter.
Though there wasn't much time to ruminate on them and that before--
Thunder clapped, ripping the clouds in the sky asunder, as a hole was ripped in the heavens.
In less poetic terms...
The sky exploded as you were shoved back into the war.
Clearly, subtlety wasn't... entirely on the table.
A figure hurtled from above like a shooting star. It plummeted downwards through the sunset sky, arms flailing at first before they settled, adjusting the trajectory and quickly making calculations as they steered away from the city, landing in the plains- far from civilization.
The crash was obscenely loud, disturbing the rest of any living creature within several miles.
A smaller crash to the one that killed the dinosaurs, luckily.
And one survivable by the Servant, as they crawled out of the crater, the movements alien and spider-like at first before twitching and adjusting to more careful, humanoid posture.
Data integration.
Atmosphere. Strata. Temperature. Air speed. Oxygen levels. They all reading as normal, no obvious flaws or variations, perfect consistency. Too perfect for the natural world. A simulacrum. Digital. Virtual. Theoretical, yet reality.
More data being carefully taken in, as jade eyes darted back and forth, pinpricks of light emitting from the heavy dust cloud. The mind of an invader. A foreign presence. Intense, predatory, merciless, as the light reflected back and was transmitted into more useful data. The running of the water, the crests of the hills, a presence.
Magical energy. A tether. Cross referencing data, 'Ghost Liner'. Servant. A Servant, which meant--
Contact. Quickly cross-referencing data. Key words. 'Wizards'. 'Magi'. 'Masters'.
Contact. Language. Communication. Physical communication. No way to touch with the physical, so one needed to use their voice and their eyes. Vocal communication. Visual communication. Proclamations of peace. Friendliness. Openness.
Contact.
Colloquialisms, 'first impressions'. If this was a simulacrum of Earth, then such things would be logical. The importance of one's first words.
True Name, KUKULKAN. Related items; QUETZALCOATL, Q'UQ'UMATZ, ITZANMA.
The clothes changed, as quick as the dust settled. The Servant, giving a loose, wild wave and a toothy, cheerful grin, spoke.
"Hello, world!"
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it’s them
Adorable <3 I wonder how Silver gets the idea that a headbutt might work to grab Espio's attention, haha! Perhaps Espio has carefully cultivated his abilities to ignore any noise around him while meditating, and thus Silver's verbal requests for his attention did not work? And thus he had to go towards more physical means <3 With Espio being shown multiple times to just be standing/sitting and doing nothing but meditating or idling in various media, I figure Silver definitely needs a fool-proof method to bring him back to the world of the living! And if he can give some affection in turn, that would be even better for them both.
I got an idea for a fic for it too, yay ^-^ A very tiny one that's basically the first draft, but I hope you enjoy!
-----
Calm and quiet and emotionlessness occupy Espio’s mind. Meditation, centred around grounding his thoughts despite the busy world that he is expertly blocking out around him. Not a single sound, shuffle, noise, or indication of life around him passes through the carefully-cultivated emptiness in his head and gentle redirections of any wandering thoughts-
Except for the something that rams into his shoulder.
A flinch and gasp follow before Espio can stop them, body jolting back by instinct… and thus crashing right into the lockers behind him, ripping another grunt from his lips. “What- Silver!”
“Espio,” the hedgehog sitting in front of him with curious eyes responds. “Huh, so that worked after all. Neat.”
Rubbing his affronted shoulder Espio flicks his tail. “What are you talking about.”
“I said your name multiple times, but you didn’t react at all. So I figured I had to try something else.” the blunt retort comes, Silver scurrying forward to wring himself inbetween Espio and the locker. With a grumble Espio scoots over to give him some space, the other’s head flopping onto his shoulder and nose rubbing the sore spot in question. Which is nice and all, except Silver is responsible for the fact it hurts in the first place, and thus Espio purses his lips back all the same.
“You could not have tried something a bit less forceful?”
“Like a softer headbutt next time? Sure.”
“That is not what I mean,” Espio protests back, though it is a losing battle they are discussing. After all, he has honed his abilities to ignore any noise around him once he’s gone into meditating so much that he’s able to completely ignore Vector and Charmy having their usual arguments right beside his head. Honing them even further until he can filter out Silver calling his name, while the hedgehog happily participates in such arguments sometimes, is going to be a tremendous challenge. After all, Vector and Charmy get pointedly ignored as well if they try to interrupt him while he is mediating, even if they blatantly say his name also… “Okay, a softer headbutt. A very soft one,” the chameleon mediates: it is the best he can do for his sake and sanity.
“Like so?” Head leaning down Silver presses a very soft headbutt indeed against Espio’s crest, that doesn’t even shove at the chameleon. A soft nuzzle follows there as well, and Espio finds himself smiling before he can help it. Better than what it was at first for sure, if a bit unconventional still. But this is Silver, and he loves his psychic for that.
“Yes, like so,” he agrees, one hand moving up to caress Silver’s ear. “And what did you need me for, anyway?”
“Oh! I wanted to ask if you had time to hang out with me. And I wanted to give you some affection, too," Silver beams up at him… as Espio groans.
“Tenshi. I am busy. Meditating is a most serious business, you know that. I do not have time for affection right now.”
Sparks of cyan poke at him, lifting up his hands and dragging them over to Silver’s chest. “Your fingers don’t meditate. They’ve got lots of time, they're not busy.”
“Time to do this, you mean.” Playfully Espio lifts his hands even further, grinning at the squeak that follows as he playfully pats Silver all over his face and muzzle. “Expect to suffer this every time you disrupt me in my meditating, small one.”
“Hey, it is affection too,” the easy response comes, Silver contently sinking down with content hums aplenty. So that is not as strict a punishment as Espio could have hoped for, but in the same vein… he cannot find it in himself to be mad about it, not at all. If Silver is happy, he is too, and with how cagey the hedgehog can be about getting touched by their friends still, he should only encourage the other willingly seeking out his attention.
With very gentle headbutts alone.
But as Silver oozes against him, little clicks of happiness rumbling in his chest and Espio easily slipping into his peaceful mediation once more, he trusts he has indicated that request clearly. And if not…
Well, surely in his meditating he can indeed give face-pats galore in turn.
Especially if they give Silver the attention he yearns for and make Espio feel amused in turn, they might just be a perfect solution for Espio to show Silver his affection is received and returned.
#silver the hedgehog#espio the chameleon#espilver#blue's writing#my ability to half-grasp things is unparalleled because I did *not* miss that the post said that the headbutt was specifically to give-#affection but I certainly *did* forget to somehow incorporate that as the main part of the fic instead of attention-grabbing lol#regardless I hope you enjoy!
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Rock'n Riptide
Poly!lost boys x Goth!mermaid!gn!reader
Got this idea a little while ago while swimming. It's honestly just me as a mermaid, but anyways....tell me what you think. And tell me if I should consider taking requests! Thank you and enjoy
Moving to Santa Carla was a big thing for you. You hadn't been here since the last time you came to visit your grandma, years ago. But now the house you had so many good memories of her in is all yours. Since you just got out of college, a house that you fully own isn't a bad start.
Even though it's across country from your whole family in Ocean city, Maryland.(another sunny beach town on the east coast) For as long as you could remember you mom would tell you the stories of how 'our kind need to stay by the sea, so we can always follow when it calls'. So Santa Carla was the perfect place, that you just had to re-learn to love.
After a week and a half of unpacking, job hunting and settling. You had found a job at a local alternative store, and you started in a few days. So you decided to have some fun while you still could, and go to the boardwalk.
You had forgotten how much you love the Boardwalk, Because you fit in with all the freaks and weirdos here. You were wearing ripped black jeans, a band-T you cropped yourself, black calf high boots with purple laces, and a black denim jacket with a painting of your family crest you did yourself too. You had a choker on, a few rings and bracelets, and you did your hair and makeup how you always do.
Moving through the heavy crowd, your senses were in full action. You could see all the bright lights, hear music somewhere in the distance, and feel the excitement in the air. But above all, you could smell the ocean air. The waves wafting the smell over you and making you feel right at home.
In the midst of all the fun, you hadn't noticed the two blonds tailing you. That was until you caught the shorter one staring, then immediately caught the twisted sister looking one staring too. Feeling playful as always, you ducked into the crowd, turned a few corners, and lead them right into a dead end. They couldn't understand it, they could have sworn they sall you turn into this ally.
"Looking for someone?" You said a smirk playing at your features. Now that you were up close, you could tell they weren't human.
"Just the rock'n Goth we saw just a second ago...do you know where they went?"
"That depends...what do you want with said rock'n Goth?"
“Well I'm Marko and this is Paul" Marko piped up “and we just wanna show you a fun time!"
"Well then, how could I say no to an offer like that, I'm y/n by the way"
The three of you made your way back to the Boardwalk, where you proceeded to raise absolute hell together. After a few hours, they dragged you over to their bikes. Where their two other friends and a little boy they had told you about. 'David, Dwayne, and Laddie' you thought to yourself.
David gave both the blonds at your sides a look of questioning. but all he got back was a look of ‘can we keep them!?!’. he would never admit it, but in that moment he was beat and he knew it. there was no getting rid of you.
it didn't take long for your friendship with the boys to turn into more. you spend almost every night with them and its nothing but fun. even when you have to work late the boys are there at your job to visit distract you. the only reason your boss doesn't mind is because they only come in at night.
after a while you piece together that they're vampires. you don't confront them about this, you want them to be comfortable enough to tell you themselves. that and you understood, you had a secret that you wanted to, but couldn't share.
as a mermaid showing someone your tail and swimming with them is an incredibly intimate thing. you wanted to share that experience with your boys, who you love so much. but you had to be sure of our decision before you did.
luckily you wouldn't have to wait for the conformation you needed, for long. the boys were happily surprised to hear that you already knew they were vampires. before they could offer you to turn, you asked them to meet you on the beach, late the next night. when you left the cave right after, the boys didn't know how to feel but they couldn't refuse you.
the boys were anxious and curious the whole night on the boardwalk, wondering what you had in store for them. after the boardwalk had closed, the boys walked out onto the beach. after a minute of looking they saw you, far down the beach. you were sitting on a large rock with the light of the moon illuminating the silhouette of your upper half.
the closer they walked to you the more they couldn't believe their eyes. there you were, your long tail of all black scales with streaks of shimmering gold, displayed in all its glory. in this moment you were even more breath taking to them ever, and then you turned to them, eyes the same striking gold color.
when they reached you they were speechless so they let you speak. you explained to them what you were and they didn't make a noise the whole time, untill you were done.
“can i touch it?” Paul said right before Dwayne smacked him upside the head.
You giggled "yes you can touch my tail just please be gental."
One by one they all reached out and placed a hand on your tail. With Carefull caressing they admired your scales up close.
"I've wanted to do this for a long time. Tell you guys everything, show you my tail and I would be honored if you would go for a swim with me." You spoke with confidence hiding the fear you were really feeling.
"How could we refuse?" David words soothed all your fears at once.
You could feel the excitement building in you, as the boys quickly stripped to swim with you. Diving into the water, the boys close behind you, there was nothing in the world that could make you happier. Vampires don't really need air so you didn't have to worried about it, while you swam the night away.
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(Hi again I’m sending a matchup again because I forgot to add my hobbies so ignore/delete my first request Please I’m so sorry ;-;)
Anyways here it is:
Personality: Shy, quiet and awkward at first but When person who is close to me, I’m Sweet, bubbly and funny sometimes
Gender: Female (She/her)
Likes: The color pink, Anything about food (because I’m a foodlover), cutecore aesthetic and plushies
Dislikes: Ocean, Darkness and Arguing
Hobbies: Singing, Dancing, baking and playing video games
Multiple and I don’t mind poly
(I’m so sorry again ;-;)
No need to apologize! It’s all good.
I hope you like the matchup!
~~matching…~~matching~….~matching…~DING~
You match completely with Coal!
You match with Crest!
✨✨
(SF Papyrus) Coal:
Your love for cute stuff definitely drew him to you! And it all started with him commenting on a cute keychain character of a game you played at a game store. It just so happened that Coal was interested in that same thing and he didn’t have anyone he knew that was interested in that game so he couldn’t help but blurt out. “-! hey, that’s that -whatsem name again - the fluffbutt. where’d ye get em?”
(How romantic am I right?)
Coal can be an awkward bean at times when he’s not accompanied by his brother Mastiff. (When the twins are together Coal has both their brain cells and is capable of speech without feeling socially awkward but when separated Mastiff has both of them.) But you guys manage to hit it off by your shared like for the game.
Lowkey, highkey, as Coal got to know you he found your shy demeanor accompanied by your cute style adorable. He down right swooned when you finally let your bubbly side show.
You’re the perfect person to build pillow forts with and snuggle while video gaming. Loves playing animal crossing with you. Your plushie collection has Coal in awe, if you’re not careful you’ll find him asleep inside the pile of plushies.
The kind of guy to tease and bother you while you’re busy in the kitchen baking, he will cause a flour fight. Also he’d kill for your baking. You two are two precious beans.
✨✨
(AT Papyrus) Crest:
This boyo could be a good match too!
You warm up to him quickly with his bright and honest personality. This boy is a rambler, his mind is always being busy so sometimes he ends up talking about whatever comes to his mind.
Make sure he wears his talon and claw protectors when he’s around your plushies, otherwise there’s a chance he might end up ripping them.
Crest will stop whatever he’s doing to listen to you sing. Or to watch you dance without care and with so much joy. Dancing and singing is a big thing in the bird side of monster culture, and it means a lot to Crest that you feel comfortable around him enough to freely sing and dance to your hearts content.
The first time you saw him really dance, it was a courtship dance meant for you. His wings alight with intricate glowing patterns. It was also the first time you saw him so shy as he landed in front of you to ask if you accept his courtship.
This sneaky birb will sometimes attempt to snag your recently baked cookies. Or swoop in to nuzzle your face or twirl you around before taking off again.
Let him paint you at least once! I don’t mean on paper either, more like body paint. He wants to see what kind of gorgeous creations and creatures he can make with you as his canvas. It’s both intimate and lighthearted at the same time.
Crest is a very loving and affectionate lover.
✨✨
Sadly enough, Crest is not one to share his mate so no poly in this matchup. But I hope you enjoyed either way!
#papyrus#undertale#swapfell#papyrus x reader#aviantale#aviantale papyrus#200 followers matchup event#matchup#swapfell papyrus#coal#crest
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For the asks: 😅 🛒🎢
Thanks for the gift of your writing!!
u are very very welcome!! 💕 💞
😅 - what's a story or scene you've created that you're a smidge embarrassed exists?
ok i will just. go ahead and expose myself here. see the thing is i've been writing on the internet since i was 12, so like....there are plenty of cringeworthy things i've written, BUT most of them were lost when nickolodeon deleted quizilla (rip fly high sweet angel) and also i'm not even really embarrassed by stuff i wrote in middle school anymore because i'm like awww i was a kid.
however! something that does still make me cringe a bit is the fact that while i was in high school, i got reallllly into voltron. like. really into voltron. and so the first fanfic i ever wrote was a self-insert shiro x reader fic with background klance. for those who don't know voltron - both keith and lance (klance) were ultimately made straight in the show despite EVERYONE wanting them to end up together. shiro, however, turned out to be gay.
anyway, i never finished the fic and i orphaned it on ao3 a few months ago when i decided it was too embarrassing to think of people going through my stuff now and finding it, but it does still exist out there on the internet 🤠
🛒 - what are some common things you incorporate in your fics? themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc
hmmmm well homosexuality for one. characters that naturally tend towards meanness and have to make a concerted effort to fit their own moral standards for another. i also love having characters who are going to die talk about their futures, and i love when something is going wrong in a character's life and they're like "it's fine i have a plan" and the plan is just the worst thing you've ever heard in your life.
what else what else.....complicated relationships with mothers. fighting and then immediately making out. as far as imagery goes i feel like i very much like guts and gore and especially the juxtaposition of taking something beautiful and describing it in a way that's sort of horrifying, or vice versa. i love any metaphor that has to do with dogs, and idek why--there's just something about it. hungry dog. starving dog. kicked dog. wounded dog. limping dog. begging dog. snarling dog. gets me every time!!!
🎢 - which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?
honestly probably the hand that feeds lol just because i feel like i made the hogwarts years this overall light-hearted amalgamation of fun situations and tropes and then u reach the war years and it's like cresting the peak of the rollercoaster and just dropping straight down. and u crash at the end. but then i come and put u on a stretcher and kiss ur forehead. or at least that's the way it's looking right now--haven't actually written the ending yet so 💀
emojis from this
#upon reading back i realized that.#12 years is literally half of my life#i have literally spent exactly half of my life writing on the internet#oh jesus#dear god#ask
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What's your opinion on the different MegaTen soundtracks? Which series has your favourites? Do you think there are any particularly bad ones?
Ooh thanks for the question! I love listening to MegaTen, my favorite YouTube channels are PSC, which catalogues all of the Persona music, and Megaten Music, which catalogues all of the MegaTen music. They’re great because they include a lot of lesser known soundtracks like OVAs and bonus CDs.
As far as my favorites go, of the Persona tracks I listen to the Persona 2: Innocent Sin soundtrack all the time. My favorite songs from there is definitely Knights of the Holy Lance and Yukino’s Theme. Yukino’s Theme is a bop and Knights of the Holy Lance is THE most hype song in Persona. Fight me.
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I’ve also been listening to Persona 5 Strikers a lot lately, and I have to say I jam out to Counterfeit Phantom every time it comes on, it’s AMAZING.
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The Persona soundtracks are all so good I could talk about each one for hours but I won’t. I WON’T. I’m forcing myself not to. But one more, I really love the Persona 3 Portable soundtrack, I think it deserves more love. One of my favorites from there is Sun, it is a bop, truly. When the horns come in I can’t help but dance, it’s great.
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Switching over to MegaTen, SMT: If has a fantastic soundtrack that all of you should listen to. Tbh Old Enemy - Akira Volume might be the best battle theme I’ve ever heard. It’s so good, gosh. I feel like I keep saying that. Persona 5 had a remix on their soundtrack, which is also amazing, but here’s the original:
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This might be a Steaming Hot Take but also really like the Dx2 soundtrack, particularly Desolation feels like I’m ascending to another reality when I listen to it which is kinda jarring considering everything else about Dx2 is so lackluster but the music is SICK. It’s all on Spotify too, give it a listen if you haven’t.
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Also very much love the SMTV soundtrack, my favorite has got to be the Demi-fiend remix they did, it’s an absolute banger. But I also love Battle -origin- which plays when you fight Fionn, because WOW when I first heard that I was floored.
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Okay this is a recent listen for me but the Raidou game soundtracks??? The HORNS??? My goodness WOW I love it so much. I have yet to listen to the full soundtrack but the main Theme is amazing, it very much makes me think of like, jazzy heists like Great Pretender.
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Slightly veering off MegaTen for my “honorary” MegaTen titles, these are games that I consider in the same category as MegaTen but actually aren’t, but I still wanted to share anyway.
Trauma Center is such an enigma to me. I wish they would bring the series back, I think it’s pretty funny tbh. The series is just about dramatic doctors I think it would be hilarious if it was in MegaTen. Can you imagine. Anyway I love the soundtrack, there’s not really a good rip of it on YouTube unfortunately but like, unironically, they did not need to go this hard. Of course it was Shoji Meguro who composed it so who’s surprised? One of my favorites is Second Opinion, it’s very similar in vibes to Persona tbh. I think Vulnerability was a meme at some point, but I listen to that one quite often as well.
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Okay guys. Listen. Catherine? WHY DOES IT GO SO HARD? I love the remixes they did of classical music so much, I listen to them all the time. My two favorites are Ode to Joy and Beethoven - Piano Sonata No. 14, Op. 27 No. 2 in C Sharp Minor. The former is a BOP and the latter goes INCREDIBLY HARD.
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I’m limiting myself to 10 so this is my last one, but I need you guys to listen to, like, the entire Etrian Odyssey soundtrack, from every game, because they are all on Spotify and they are all amazing. It would be impossible to choose a favorite but one of the bangers on my repeats is Tumult - Raise Thy Sword in Pride Nexus Version, because wow wow wow wow that’s all I have to say about that. Edit: Tumult - Crest of a Violent Wave [Arranged Version] also makes me want to scream it’s so good.
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I don’t know if there’s truly a MegaTen soundtrack I dislike, I listen to most of them quite frequently and every soundtrack has its ups and downs. The soundtrack I dislike the most would probably be the Persona 5 Dancing soundtrack, because I don’t think there’s a single remix on there that I like to the point of listening on repeat, and it’s a shame that the game didn’t include anything from Strikers or Royal by virtue of it coming out before them. It shows that Atlus really jumped the gun on those games and put out rushed and unpolished games that could’ve really benefited by just… waiting. And when the songs in your dancing game aren’t very good, that’s really not a good sign.
Anyway enough negative talk, I love MegaTen music so much, I have a playlist filled with 500 of my favorite songs you can listen to here:
I’m constantly adding more song to this playlist, it’s mostly persona at the moment because it started out as a persona bops playlist and then I started adding a bunch of MegaTen as a whole so I’m still in the process of evening out the ratio. But anyway, give it a listen if you want, it’s quite the playlist lol.
If you have music of your own to share, please do! There’s still a bunch of MegaTen I haven’t heard yet.
#ake-asks#persona 2#persona 5 strikers#persona 3 portable#shin megami tensei if#smt if#shin megami tensei liberation dx2#smt dx2#shin megami tensei v#smt v#raidou kuzunoha#devil summoner raidou kuzunoha#trauma center#catherine full body#etrian odyssey
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my working notes (as in done at work when I should do work instead), unedited, just transcribed
girlies, and i know no one cares because i never wrote that Rissberg fic, but what if Carla Demetia Crest Raven Way was the last living member of the research team by the time of witcher saga and she was totally a GILF? What about that?
And like Salamandra tries to recruit her because she's awesome and authored that only one existing dissertation on witchers and mutagens. But she's like 'no <3', and Azar and Prif are like 'uwu pappy JdA, she doesn't want to work with us :C'. So Jacques sends over Albrecht who's like 'I can hand draw a perfect circle', and Carla is like 'lmao is that supposed to impress me? <3', and then they fuck. YES, Al fucks that grandma. And they bond over their mutual interest in demonology because I never wrote that Rissberg fic, but that's what I actually planned for Carla to be doing at Rissberg, Kiyan idea had to come from somewhere, so it might be from a bunch of guys going 'maybe my experiment will succeed', even tho a woman already told them no, it won't <3
Anyway, Al and Carla work together wasting Salamandra's resources and not making much progress in demon + witchers stuff because of all that sexual tension in the air
and don't tell me that Kiyan and Fail Experiment don't look at least somewhat similar. also don't tell me about Ortolan, I don't care, I'm not read storms or whatever
instead let me tell you how Albrecht dies, because I love making up guys and then killing them silly, it just fucking works, so you know how the Order splits and whoever cares for fire stays with de Lowe and goes to build that totally-not-Malbork in Redania? yeah, so for whatever fucked up reason Order ends up being at war with Redania, and Siegfried ditches this fucking circus before that because clearly no one actually care for good-doing, and Al kinda ends up being in charge, and there's that whole siege of that castle, and now he's acting grandmaster and they're clearly gonna lose, but at this point, he's just so fucking lost, and then he summons something he shouldn't but is all so sure of himself, like 'we're in the chapel stupid demon, you can't do shit to me :D', but the demon is just laughing and goes 'fool, you don't worship the Fire, your faith is in JdA, but Jacques is no more, he was a mortal and now he's dead. Your god is dead and you have no power!' and then Albrecht just gets ripped apart. That would be sick! lowkey vibe of that Castlevania moment with lies? in the house of god? more likely than you think!
anyway one may ask, thirsty, marcin, my bro, what de fuck it has to do with Carla, and i don't know, it's work in progress and i never wrote that fucking Rissberg fic, but trpg has a chapter about demonology in the latest book, i didn't read it like all, because fuck reading and fuck trpg, but there's that mechanic that lets PCs bind the demon to themselves, and when you bind Bes and it gives like dexterity and shit like that, or claws, idc, anyway Greater Binding done by Carla, she's now fresh as ever after 400 years of girlbossing
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In A Galaxy, Far, Far Away
I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s. It was a time of societal tumult, assassinations, Vietnam, protest marches, long hair, bad fashion choices, emerging gay rights, women’s liberation, the civil rights movements, garbage strikes, teacher strikes, violence, racism, graffiti, and no eye contact in the NY subway. I observed societal turbulence but also lived with maelstrom in the home and in my spirit.
My mother had a mental illness, now known as a behavior health disorder or brain disease. All of these terms seem so vague and empty. She had hallucinations and delusions. The voices told her things to be wary of, plots against her and her family. She received special messages from the radio from disc jockeys on WNEW AM, a station that played crooners like Sinatra, Martin, Como, Davis. The rat pack of the sixties became incorporated into her delusions. Sinatra was supposed to give her a million dollars but she did something wrong and the rat pack would then give the money to her sister instead. The money appeared to go up with inflation, eventually cresting at 40 million.
I had to listen to this lunacy near daily when she was ill. We lived in a small home and until a much older brother moved out, I had to sleep in my parent’s bedroom for many years and would listen in the middle of the night while my father desperately tried to use logic to convince my mother of the fallacy of her ideas. Sometimes she would be up all night, acting as a bandleader to music she only heard.
When I would go visit my grandparents, my mother would tell me not to eat anything because it might be poisoned. I ate anyway, mostly knowing the food was not poisoned but having a bit of lingering doubt. My mother would check my hairline when I came back, fearing some type of poison was put in the hair to make my hair fall out. She loved my hair and so did I.
She would write letters to the disc jockeys, William B. Williams and Julius DeRosa, names I will always remember, to assist in her getting her rightful due from the rat pack and asked me to mail the letters. Sometimes I would, sometimes I ripped them up. It didn’t seem to matter one way or the other.
I never knew what I would experience when I returned home from school and could not bring friends home when she was ill as she was an embarrassment. There was an ornamental carving over the front door and I thought it showed the house was cursed. If I could take it off, perhaps in a way like the story of the blood over the door in the Passover story, God would pass over this house and the curse would be lifted.
There was a period of time when she used alcohol to control the hallucinations and simply knock herself out. When my mother was falling down drunk, my father would be enraged when he returned home from work and there would be a big scene that would play out the same way in which the bottle of alcohol would have to be found and the remaining contents spilled out. Sometimes I took it upon myself to find it, spill it out, and tell my father on his return home in order to avoid the loud tumultuous drama. Sometimes, I would take care of the bottle but also sober my mother up, make dinner for the family, and pull it off so that my father never knew she had been drunk. Difficult choices made on the spot, a skill that can be useful but also a very lonely one.
There were episodes of high drama. My mother had to be hospitalized against her will numerously. The police would be called to literally take her away. I remember hearing the walkie talkies and the sounds of the cops while I was in bed, and those sounds have reverberated for the rest of my life. Although extremely disturbed one time, she made an excuse to the cops to see me. She said she had to lay out my clothes for my day but I was too old for needing that. It was a way for her to kiss me goodbye as she knew it would be a long time before she would see me again. I pretended to be asleep while she kissed me and she said her goodbye’s. She knew I wasn’t really asleep. I thought if I pretended to be asleep, maybe I’d actually be asleep and then when awoke, none of the events would have happened, but they did.
There was the time she nearly starved to death because she thought the food was poisoned. My father, a brother and I went to visit her in a state hospital and she still hadn’t eaten. The state hospital in the 60’s or early 70’s was as frightening as you would expect it to be. Dark, massive open space with little furniture with Zombie people pacing, some clutching dolls, none of who would converse with each other. Staff were nowhere to be seen in this massive room. We were sitting at a table and I started to cry seeing my mother desiccated and shriveled up to nothing. My father stated, “see he loves you, show him you love him and eat”. Soon after she did.
My mother did love me and I her. When she was well, she was loving and compassionate. One time in Junior High I was overwhelmed during a Christmas break for failing to work on my homework till close to the end of the vacation and started to cry. She hugged me and said to simply take it one class at a time. The advice was good but the hug was what was most effective.
The times of quiescence varied. At some point, she would stop taking her medication. At times, I tried to supervise her taking the medication and would catch her cheeking them. I also accompanied her as a teen to a storefront clinic and tried to convince the doctor to put her on long-acting injections as I knew she would stop taking the oral medication at some point but my pleas were to no avail. Although frustrated and angry with my mother for stopping the medication, I also understood her unwillingness. It often caused weight gain. Every pill was a reminder to her of a disease she denied having and was a societal stigma. I also understood that parts of the psychosis may at times have been better than reality, as a world filled with involvement with Hollywood elite was better than her drab existence of a housewife.
I guess I learned many useful skills through the survival of the madness. When later in life paralyzed from a neurological illness, I borrowed some courage from my younger self to believe I could survive my medical crisis. Having faced crises alone as a child and teen, I learned to deal with what life dealt me later on oftentimes by myself. Due to a childhood habit of having to be a lone adult, it is now only somewhat reluctantly that I can let someone inside and that I don’t have to solve all dilemmas by myself.
One time returning from college on a break, she greeted me at the door and said loudly and with force, “Brian, you are going to lose your hair, your nose is going to grow, and penis is going to shrink. I simply laughed and said,” It’s good to see you too ma”.
Despite it all, our bond of mutual love was never broken.
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Out Of Love
Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader
Warnings: angst, peter falling out of love, mentions of blood
Summary: You always thought he was the one—but the twist of fate was falling out of love
You didn’t know how it all started—you finding Peter or perhaps, it was the twist of fate that you both met. All you remember is watching the brunet break down on your terrace, his hands sodden with blood and grim as excruciating sobs tore through his throat. You wouldn’t have advanced towards him if it wasn’t for the familiar suit he was clad in. And Peter knew as you crouched in front of him, hesitantly taking his hands and wiping his tears, that at least someone understood he had a heart.
That night, it felt like a God-sent replacement to Peter. Gwen was ripped apart from his life, but he had you; you had uncomplainingly opened your arms for him to live.
You heard the chink of the balcony door sliding open, and dusting the flour from your hands, you traced your way to the bedroom.
“Peter?” You tapped on the door lightly, almost instantly getting a grunt in reply.
“I’s open.”
Pushing through the door, your pupils dilated at the scene—Peter slouched against the glass pane of the balcony, his suit displaying severe holes, and you suspected him to have engaged in some inferno mayhem.
“Hey?” You sat in front of him, resisting a hiss that involuntarily acted in your system when your skin made contact with the cold tiles.
“I’m okay,” Peter winced as you rubbed away the blood from his lips. Your touches were light, but it was hurting anyway. “Ah, fuck.”
“Shh, that’s alright,” you coaxed him as he tried to keep your eyes in his line of sight. “Let’s get you changed first?”
Even though Peter was bruised and little to speak, even though the cookies you baked to share with him under the cool air of moonlight turned cold and unforgotten, Peter was in your arms, his breath ragged and heart thumping in a steady beat against yours, you knew things were alright…you two were alright.
The heels of your sneakers sounded too loud in your ears as you climbed the stairs, the strap of your bag tangled in a death grip between your fingers. It was already so late, and what were the odds that Peter would be awake?
Silently setting your shoes on the doorway, you entered the house, watching Peter sitting on the couch with his hands grappling his temple. You looked at his horrified hickory eyes…so lost and so distracted.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you coming.”
You shook your head with a smile. “It’s okay. I was wondering-”
“No plans tonight, I’ve a bad headache.”
Peter watched your smile crested eyes opening in subtle disappointment and hurt. He didn’t know why he was doing this—pushing you away yet craving you.
And before you could shake your head again, touch his arm in assurance, he was gone, clicking the bedroom door shut in his trail.
You thought he just needed his time as you watched the parody of two lines Peter had drawn some months ago on the wall—just intersecting once, never to be seen again.
Months, it had been months you had last talked to him in a real sense. Your questions were answered with excuses, your frustration was answered with silence and your touches were answered with flinches.
He deserves his time, you reminded yourself, but how much?
Drumming your fingers along the periphery of the small dining table, you counted every tick of the clock.
Five…four…three…two…one—but where was Peter?
Laying your head on the wooden surface, you eyed the careful carvings on the cake. You waited until the exhaustion of your body closed your eyes for your own good.
Guilt bubbled inside Peter as he slapped away his hair. What was your fault? None. And why was he dragging you in the drudgery of his misery? He wished somebody would answer him as he gingerly closed the door behind him, finding you already asleep in the kitchen, your arms protectively shielding the cake you baked for him. Just for him.
His throat constricted as he read the little ‘boink!’ written beside the big ‘happy birthday’.
Boink…it bought back so many memories, so excruciating ones.
It was just a few months you both had shifted together, you were engrossed in your book while Peter with his phone. God knows how you had ended up walking and when two lost people as you both had slammed into each other, your temple hitting his chest, which was perfectly nothing to worry about. But Peter had held onto your wrist with a flabbergasted look and simply said, “boink.”
“Boink?”
“You always hit the head twice and not once,” he pantomimed horns over your head. “...yeah.”
“But I didn’t even hit your head-”
All your protests had fallen off when Peter pressed you to his chest, his voice soft and soothing. “Boink.”
“Boink.”
Everything seemed so stifling to Peter as he suppressed the tears. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to your sleeping form and was off.
‘That’s a very ungodly hour to be awake,’ Peter would have told you only if he was there. You dropped your phone on the couch after trying to call him for the hundredth time, retreating to the kitchen where you mindlessly touched the freshly baked cookies. The hot and gooey chocolate sizzled up your finger and left you much worse than before.
Peter’s face flashed in front of your face, his long lost smile wistfully revolving in your mind as he would playfully try to nick a hot, chewy cookie from under your command. It was only after he had pressed you against the kitchen counter, he would lean over you, letting you know how much he was in love with you.
You craved that feeling, you craved the feeling of having his arms slithering across your waist from behind.
The glass bowl tumbled down the counter as you haphazardly pushed everything away from yourself.
It was all so obliterating; you slid down on the floor, in between the shards that seemed to mimic your heart.
Every effort to mob out your sobs was so useless because right across the kitchen, Peter was standing transfixed at the sight of you—so broken and so helpless that he hated himself to the core.
You tensed when you felt Peter wiping your tears, sitting with legs tucked under his arms just like you. But this time he had no excuse.
“You think- you think of me as a replacement, don’t you?” You didn’t care about asking him where he had been all this while, you needed your answers today. “A replacement to Gwen…to your lost comfort—I can’t even tell you how it feels.”
“Try me.”
“It feels…it feels like we are running in circles, Peter,” you hiccuped as he brushed your hair away from your face. You didn’t know when his touch started feeling so repulsive. “Every force in the world is just, it’s just ripping up apart bit by bit. You know, Peter, you were so afraid to lose your comfort that you didn’t even care to check what kind of graveyard you have been leaving me in.”
An uncomfortable silence was all Peter could give you in return.
“Are you tired of all this?”
Somewhere you wanted to deny whatever he asked. “Yes. I’m tired. Very very tired.”
You held many regrets in life but made yourself believe that this wasn’t one of them as you watched Peter push himself off the floor, and picking a cookie from the counter he was gone again. Maybe forever.
But it didn’t matter anymore. You were so out of love and so was he.
Taglist- @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @wtfstxr @fairydxll @gossamer19 @raajali3 @lucyysthings @yesshewrites1 @camelliaflow3r @mypalbuck @abiseifried @xoxoloverb @stariightjoyy
#andrew peter parker#tasm peter parker x reader#tasm peter parker x fem!reader#tasm peter x reader#tasm andrew garfield#tasm peter parker#peter parker x fem!reader#peter parker x reader#peter parker#peter parker x reader angst#tasm peter parker x reader angst#angst
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Their Fat, Lazy Pig
cw: nsfw, eructophilia, eproctophilia, immobility, slob, piss (last few sentences)
yep this is the bts ot7 ver of the thing i did a few days ago lol it’s only a bit different at the smut part otherwise it’s basically the same but anyway just wanted to get it out since it was the original ✌️
• • •
Jimin always has food nearby, and has done away with manners inside the house. The boys absolutely love hearing the results of his gluttony, love hearing him shamelessly belch and fart to make room to be able to continue eating, love hearing his stuffed stomach groan in distress at the sheer quantity he manages to cram inside it. When he sits down his ample gut takes up his entire lap, sinking between his doughy thighs to rest heavily on the seat underneath. The size of his stomach forces him back in his seat, rounding out into a huge, distended dome, the top of it so taut full of food all the time that it pushes his swollen breasts sideways. He’s too obese to sit and eat at tables anymore, so instead he rests bowls and platters on the jutting shelf of his gut. He doesn’t mind. He says it’s better that he doesn’t have to reach so far, his arms don’t get tired as quickly.
On the lessening occasions that he walks, his corpulent belly sways and bounces with every waddling step he takes, slapping rhythmically against his blubbery thighs. The others can’t resist the temptation the sight rouses, groping and jiggling it in their arms, because that’s how much of it there is; armfuls of fat, undulating lard that ripples endlessly when you smack it, rolls atop rolls of soft, hefty body. Their humungous piggy pants and complains until they let him sit down again, groaning tiredly and having to support himself with a hand as he lowers himself. The force of his weight impacting on the seat below him causes his whole body to wobble alarmingly like a heap of quivering jelly.
As of recently, Jimin has stopped being able to see over his gut after they’ve sat him down and stuffed him to his limit. It’s a milestone they’re all very pleased about him reaching. To celebrate, they all arrange to come together and fawn on him all day, because it’s simply better when his favourite people are pushing endless amounts of food into his mouth from every angle, lovingly rubbing thick belches out of his gut, slapping his expanded belly and watching it tremble and surge outwards as his clothes give out. It’s what he deserves, all the calories and praise he could wish for.
Watching Jimin struggle to get up from sitting down is probably one of their favourite pastimes, the way he swings his flabby arms to gain momentum, sending his bingo wings swinging madly is a sight to behold. Well, maybe it’s their favourite pastime after seeing him try to get up in the morning. It’s remarkable, how long it takes him to roll his fat ass out of bed, his gelatinous stomach pooling out in front of him when he’s lying on his side, sloshing and rippling like a big water balloon. Of course, Jimin can’t help but rip long, sloppy farts as he tries to stand, just as he does when doing anything even slightly strenuous. At first, he was embarrassed by his uncontrollable flatulence. Now, he pats his stomach with a pleased smile and proudly announces that he feels hungry again.
For a while now, Jimin’s found it hard to lie on his back in bed, his immense weight suffocating him. But sometimes, it’s all he can do after a particularly hedonistic day of gorging himself far past the point of excess. When he does, he’s nothing more than a mountain of fat. Helplessly splayed out and unable to move, completely overfed and incoherent. His rotund gut rises up high, sloping roundly even with gravity working against it. It’s on days like these when he shamelessly eats too much that he finds himself profusely aroused by his own lack of control. But there’s no way he could ever hope to reach around his absurd belly to his dick should he want to relieve himself. Even if he could, his body is encased in so much blubber that even lying flat his gut still spills between his thighs and over his sizeable hips, completely obstructing his crotch.
So, after helping to get Jimin comfortable, the boys will sit on the bed around him let him struggle and whine for help, coo teasingly as his pudgy cheeks turn red and he grunts with effort, trying to no avail to rock his mountainous stomach from side to side just to be able to reach himself. When he gives up, sweating and out of breath, they finally give him a hand. His lower belly is plump and heavy, and pushing it out the way is no easy feat. When Jungkook and Taehyung manage, Jimin’s poor, useless cock underneath is already so hard it’s leaking precum, pink and throbbing from being rubbed all day between his thick thigh rolls. Even fully erect, only the the tip of his weeping cock is peaking out cutely from his pillowy fat pad. Namjoon teases him, fucking his long fingers Jimin’s sensitive fat pad alongside his cock, admiring how soft and pliant he is. They take turns taunting him for his obscene overindulgence, praising him for being such a fat, insatiable glutton. Yoongi kisses him breathlessly as he squeezes the thick rolls on his sides, Hoseok meanly squeezing his plentiful chest. He loves all of it, they know he does. Most of all, he loves when Seokjin grabs a handful of his full belly and shakes it, sending his lard rolling decadently and disturbing the trapped gas inside, forcing deep, gurgling burps out of him. Namjoon can’t see Jimin’s face over the crest of his stomach, but he can tell Jimin’s close by the way he gasps exhaustedly, gut quaking and heaving with every strained breath and moan he puffs out. He doesn’t last long with all of their enticement, and they stare in awe at the way every inch of his obese body wobbles when he comes with a gasp, a cascade of jiggling adipose that doesn’t stop even after he’s spent and lax. Overcome by exhaustion and fullness, he lets them clean him up as he catches his breath. He’s normally asleep by the time they finish, tired from doing nothing but eating all day.
Obviously, there are times when the boys all leave the house at once for one reason or the other. Jimin doesn’t love it because he’s started having a hard time getting around without help. However, they leave him with plenty of food to keep him satiated, and that silences any complaints he has. On those days, it’s easy for him to get so lost in the food on his own that he eats himself into a complete stupor in bed, on the couch or on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge. Take today, for example, Jimin’s boyfriends watch him on the house cameras they’d all agreed to install, in the case that they were out and he got into any trouble due to his increasingly limited mobility. They can see that he’s planted himself on the reinforced bench made just for him in the kitchen, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be moving. They’re all easily enraptured at the sight of their greedy feedee on their phones, unable to look away as they watch him eat so much that he physically can’t move, totally beached and burping piggishly, groaning in pleasure as he caresses his straining stomach and appreciates his immense size. While he gorges, he attempts to fuck his own underbelly and fat pad, weakly pressing down on his overfilled gut and twitching his hips until he climaxes, the strain of his orgasm forcing gas noisily out from both ends. Jimin tries to get up from where he’s slumped, struggling helplessly to lift his bloated body and get himself to the bathroom to relieve himself after drinking litres and litres of fizzy drinks throughout the day. But however hard he tries he’s just too fat, too heavy to support his own weight, pinned down by his ballooned belly. In the end, Jimin gives up and starts to squirm, wincing and trying to hold it in for as long as he can. But in the haze of a food coma and post orgasm drowsiness, he lets go and pisses himself where he’s sitting, hot liquid pouring down his legs and splattering on the floor. With a desperate moan he hefts his overflowing gut upwards, attempting to angle his fat-encased dick just to piss over himself. A literal pig, stuffed stupid and covered in his own mess, completely glutted out and too fat to move an inch.
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WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE
Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1
Words: 8.4k
Rating: E
Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?
a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun.
……………
Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose. Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.
Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”
“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”
“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”
“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”
“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.
“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.
“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”
Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”
“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.
“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.
“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”
“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.
“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.
“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.
Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.
It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.
“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.
“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.
Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.
“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”
“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.
You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.
You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.
Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”
Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”
“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”
“The cards,” Greef urges.
“You’ll be rich.”
You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”
“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”
Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”
“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”
The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”
Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…
Maker’s fucking mercy.
You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.
You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.
The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.
And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.
You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.
You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”
“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”
“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”
Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.
She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”
You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.
Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”
“On the ship. I need to get back.”
“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”
“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”
Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”
“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”
The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga. “Who’s they?”
“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”
Silence.
You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…
“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.
≈
The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.
“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”
He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.
“Business.”
You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?
“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.
“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”
“He told I did that?”
“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”
“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”
“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.
You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”
“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”
That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.
“I was, actually.”
He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”
“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”
You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.
“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”
Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”
“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”
“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.
Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you. You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.
“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”
“Then why?”
You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”
He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”
You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”
And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.
“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…
“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.
With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.
But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.
Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”
You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.
“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.
“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames your knees with his legs “—armchair.” Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.
A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.
“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.
Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.
The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.
“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”
Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.
“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.
“That’s cheating,” you gasp.
He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.
“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—
The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.
Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”
Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.
“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.
“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.
“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.
You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.
“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”
Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.
Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.
The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”
The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.
“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.
Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.
Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.
The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—
A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.
“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”
“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”
No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.
Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.
“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.
He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—
The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.
Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.
But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.
You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”
The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.
“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”
“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.
He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.
“Mmmando,” you sob.
Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.
“Mando, I…”
“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.
Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.
“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”
“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”
There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you? Fuck.
You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—
Zium!
It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.
…………
Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo
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