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jangofctts · 3 years

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Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one)

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to.

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you—

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible.

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here.

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction.

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.”

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning.

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.”

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either…

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow.

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are.

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?”

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it.

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you.

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air.

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter.

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more.

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.”

Touching.

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow.

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.”

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen.

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor.

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.”

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three.

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand.

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop.

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.

You scowl. “It’s fine.”

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose.

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums.

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel.

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face.

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep.

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.”

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin.

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward.

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.”

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you.

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw.

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers.

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not.

Whatever.

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare.

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need.

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp.

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet.

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides.

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away.

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off.

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no.

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head.

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat. Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts.

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter.

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise.

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans.

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world.

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

#well it aint that good but it honest work wkerkjehr #my writing #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #fanfic #star wars #sw #star wars fanfiction #jangofctts

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thinking1bee · 3 years

Text

When It Reigns Part 16

Requested by Anonymous

Pairings: Kara Danvers x Reader

Tags: Angst, Kryptonian!Reader, Parent!Reader, Parent!Kara, Estranged Parent, Graphic Depictions of Injuries, Blood, Humor, Bad Dreams, Memory Loss

Everything Taglist: @sammy90682 @nobody13 @owloftheshadows @captain-josslett @camslightstories @worldovart @finleyfray @acertainredhead @sammm9068 @reginassecretlover

J’onn was in a med bay separate from the one Kara was in. This one was deemed for hostiles, for the ones that would put others in danger if they happen to break free. It still hurt Kara’s heart to see you unconscious and restrained. And to make it worse, J’onn was using kryptonite. Seeing you, with the same pulsating green veins that she had when she was exposed to kryptonite, made her want to tear the room apart and get you out of there. She could only imagine how you would react to the pain of you were awake. The searing pain was pure agony. The nausea was worst, and the feeling of all your strength forcibly sucked out of you was a jarring as the pain itself. It was worse than solar flaring.

Kara took some comfort in the fact that you were unconscious. Hopefully you couldn’t feel what was happening to you on the outside. Still, watching your veins beat against your skin had her itching to release you. But Kara knew better. You were in there for your safety as much as theirs. They were using concentrated kryptonite radiation lights. The whole room was bathed in an eerie, neon green light. Just looking at it sent shivers down Kara’s spine and from beside her, Angel held her hand with both of hers, giving her a tight squeeze and cuddling close to her as they walked. The room was flooded heavily with the radiation, but given what everyone witnessed back at Lena’s mansion, Kara knew that it wouldn’t work for long. She had to move fast before you woke up, because if that happened, she wouldn’t know if she was staring into the eyes of her spouse, or into the eyes of her enemy, and Kara hated not knowing which it would be.

J’onn stood outside of the room with his arms crossed, his face focused as he stared at your restrained body. Alex was beside him with a tablet in her arms, typing something onto it. They both heard Kara and Angel approach and turned to greet them.

“Hey, are you sure that you should be up?” Alex asked as she handed her tablet to J’onn. She gave Kara a thorough look over to make sure that she was actually alright.

“Hey, I’m okay, I promise. I just feel very nauseous,” she said. Alex kept observing her, noting the slight paleness to her skin and the way her blue eyes seemed duller.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Kara shrugged. “I’m as okay as I’m going to be right now. I’ll be better once I get Y/n back.”

Alex could understand that. It wasn’t just the kryptonite exposure talking. There had to be some mental aspect to it as well. There was no way she would be okay with your state right now. To be honest, Alex didn’t understand how she wasn’t breaking down this very second.”

Alex nodded. “How do we do that?”

“We’ll need J’onn for this.”

At the mention of his name, J’onn turned around and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

***

Reign was trapped with you in the forest again, and she looked positively irate.

Good.

It was best that she turned her focus onto you instead of your daughter. You’re still not too sure about how she ended up back here with you. You just remember hearing Kara’s voice, remembering that way it sounded so desperate, so sad, and on some level, so very angry. It filled you despair, and you just remember thinking that you would do anything to protect Angel. Anything. Maybe anything entailed snatching her back here.

“I’ve had enough of you!” she roared.

Oh yeah. She was most definitely mad but somehow that didn’t scare you like it usually would. You were happy and relieved that, for now, she wouldn’t be able to harm Kara or Angel. It was a small victory, and you’d take them where you could. You managed to duck behind a tree right as she shot lasers at you, and you huddled close to the trunk. Now that the immediate crisis was out of the way, what now? Would you have to run away from her for the rest of your existence? What if you lost your memory again and you forgot why you were running?

Tree bark exploded outwards, splinters of singed wood flying centimeters from your face, and you covered your cheek as you sank lower to the ground. Reign was roaring, shooting blindly into the shadows of the forest. This was…not like her. Of course, not saying that you knew her. You wanted nothing to do with the psycho, but this wasn’t typical behavior for sure. Reign was usually calm and composed, but now, she was acting rabid. It was like she lost her nerve somehow. Like she’d cracked. You couldn’t stop the satisfactory smile that spread across your lips. You did that.

You. Did. That.

In all this time you thought that you were a screw up, but for once, you did everything right. You saved your family and in the process of doing so, caused an alien to lose her mind. You tried not to feel too smug, but it wasn’t working. The feeling swirled all around you, cushioning your chest with a feeling of happiness that you hadn’t felt in a while. You laughed.

“You repugnant human! You won’t be laughing when I’m done with you!”

Oops. You blanched. Best not to taunt the beast right now.

***

“Okay so what is the plan again?” Alex asked as she rubbed her temples. Kara could see the vein throbbing in her forehead, and she offered a steady hand on her shoulder.

“J’onn is going to create a psychic link between myself and Y/n. I need to get in there and see what exactly is going on.”

J’onn grunted. He didn’t really offer any words, but Kara could tell from his body language that he wasn’t too thrilled about her plan either.

“J’onn if you do this, will you be able to help her?”

J’onn shook his head. “All of my focus will be on maintaining the link. I won’t have the energy to do that and project on consciousness too.”

Alex groaned. The noise fell from her lips as her eyes closed tightly. “I swear, you always choose the worst plans.”

Kara chuckled as she held Angel close and kissed her forehead. Kara did have a penchant for that, for choosing the plans that always put herself in danger. She wanted it that way though. No one else was the Girl of Steel. No one else was bullet proof or fireproof. She would gladly keep throwing herself into harms way if that means that everyone else is safe. It wasn’t even about being noble. It was just about being practical.

“I’m going with you.”

And just like that, the smile was gone. “No, Alex. That’s way too dangerous. I won’t even know what to expect once we get there.”

She was already standing up, and the moment Kara watched her raise an eyebrow, was the moment she knew that there would be no point in arguing. Her mind was already made up.

“All the more reason why you’re not going by yourself.”

“I’ll put you two in the room next door,” J’onn said. “You’ll still be close enough for me to maintain the link but far away out of danger in case something goes wrong.”

Everyone nodded and Kara turned to her daughter.

“Do you mind staying with me,” she asked her. “It’ll help knowing that you’re nearby.”

“You’re kidding right, momma? Like you even have to ask? I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

Kara smiled and hugged her close. What would she do without her?

It took a couple more minutes to get everything prepped. It would have taken longer had Kara not used her super speed. Urgency drove her, and she zipped all around the room as she prepared the equipment Alex asked for. Then it was matter of seconds hooking up all the sensors, the heart monitor, and the EEG machine. The last one was specifically asked by J’onn. He needed to know how a link of this magnitude would affect their brains and having one would put him more at ease, especially if something were to go wrong.

Now Kara and Alex laid side by side. With one hand, Kara held Alex’s, and with the other hand, she held Angel’s, who was seated on her other side. J’onn stood behind them, his body rigid.

“Ladies, the sooner you get there and get Y/n, the better. I fear I won’t be able to hold this for long.”

Kara nodded and gave him a reassuring smile. “You got this J’onn.”

He nodded, offering a small smile back, before turning his attention back to the task at hand. His eyes focused on nothing, but his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Kara watched as they began glowing a bright red, and then it was the very last thing she remembered before her world went dark.

Part 17

#supergirl fanfic #kara danvers x reader #reader insert #parent!reader #parent!kara #kryptonian!reader #angst #estranged parent #graphic injuries #blood #humor #bad dreams #memory loss

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dibujamor · 4 years

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[🌱sombra verde x destello solar🌻]

Here i share this drawing of green shadow and solar flare i hope You like them.

#art #drawing #speedpaints #speeddrawing #pvzh #pvzheroes fanart #pvzh fanart #plants vs zombies #pvzheroesGreenShadow #PvzheroesFlowerSolar #PvzheroesHumans

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thecomicsnexus · 5 years

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And Thus Shall the World Die!

CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS #4 JULY 1985 BY MARV WOLFMAN, GEORGE PEREZ, MIKE DECARLO, ANTHONY TOLLIN AND TOM MCCRAW (RE-COLORED VERSIONS)

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC DATABASE)

As Supergirl joins a despondent Batgirl on top of a city building on Earth-One, trying to encourage her before she is called to rescue a plane that falls apart approaching the anti-matter wave, Pariah arrives on Earth-6 where he confronts the royal superhero family of Lord Volt, Lady Quark, and Princess Fern as the anti-matter wave destroys their world as well. Lady Quark watches helplessly as both her husband and daughter are consumed in the wave while Pariah transports her safely out of the universe.

(Find the difference at the right of the last panel, between revised version and the original).

Meanwhile, the Monitor prepares to create a new hero to help him in his quest. By firing an ion-based energy ray into an unstable star in the Vegan system in the Earth-One universe, he causes a powerful flare of solar energy to travel to Earth. It reaches the observatory of Dr. Kimiyo Hoshi, who berates her staff as she uses the telescope to observe the destructive phenomenon present. She screams as the flare strikes her and then mysteriously transports her out of the lab, leaving her fellow workers and her father wondering what happened to her.

In the dark place where the Psycho-Pirate is taken prisoner, the shadowy figure watches on the screen the Red Tornado in action and uses his power to teleport him to the same place.

On Earth-Two in the time of Camelot, Firestorm and Killer Frost (still under the love thrall of Psycho Pirate) get help from Shining Knight to protect the cosmic tuning fork planted there in that time period, as Vandal Savage watches from a window. The three heroes engage the Shadow Demons in battle, but it is all for naught as they merge and form a giant Shadow Demon. This also happens in the other time periods that the cosmic tuning forks and the Shadow Demons appear.

In the present time of Earth-One in Metropolis, the superheroes see yet another cosmic tuning fork appear, though this time with a female in a costume similar to that of Dr. Light. She tries to warn the heroes approaching her to stay away from the tower, and blasts them away with a burst of light. Katana, who understands Japanese, realizes that this Dr. Light is not their enemy, but an ally. Superman, who is able to converse in Japanese, tells Dr. Light that he knows the situation they are in and they only want to help.

As the Monitor on board the satellite watches the heroes valiantly but vainly try to protect the cosmic tuning forks, Pariah emerges to find that the Monitor was expecting him. He reveals to Pariah that he was responsible for his survival when he should have died for his deeds, but before he could say anything more, Harbinger appears, obviously not in control of herself. She strikes the Monitor with a powerful blast that sends him hurtling down platforms until he finally lands dead. Pariah mourns as he realizes that with the death of the Monitor came the death of all hope.

At that moment, the heroes of both Earths 1 and 2 can only watch as their worlds, consumed by anti-matter, fade into nothingness.

NOTORIOUS DEATHS IN THIS ISSUE

The Monitor

Lord Volt

Princess Fern

Earth-Six

FIRST APPEARANCES IN THIS ISSUE

Doctor Light (Kimiyo Hoshi)

Lady Quark

REVIEW

That’s quite the cliffhanger!

There is something that confuses me a bit. We see the anti-matter attacking Earth on each universe, but it is also attacking the rest of the planets, so... let’s imagine that these six planet Earths are rescued in the next issue... what happens to the rest of the planets, the Tamarans, the Omega Men, the Green Lantern Corps? I think that when they say Earths, they mean universes. We just happen to only see Earth.

I am impressed by the appearance of John Constantine who was just introduced the month before in the pages of Swamp Thing. This means that there was some coordination between Karen Berger and Wolfman/Wein/Greenberger. Not only that, this issue also hints at other plots happening around the DCU. To me this means that we are about to start seeing the Crisis affect other books.

The other thing that is easy to forget, is which Earths were still standing. Here’s a hint

Earth-1

Earth-2

Earth-S

Earth-X

Earth-4 (not clear enough, and wasn’t included in the original version).

So five Earths (or four, depending your edition) left. Although at the end of this issue the Multiverse is pretty much dead, you wouldn’t think that everything is lost on issue four of twelve. Until now the heroes had no chance to win this, but now things are going to start turning in their favor, but not without casualties.

To be continued..

#george perez #dc comics #comics #review #1985 #modern age #crisis on infinite earths #the monitor #harbinger #pariah #lady quark #doctor light #john constantine

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thedistantstorm · 5 years

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Phoenix Protocol 39

When the Traveler’s Light was returned to the Guardians after the defeat of the Cabal, it did not manifest itself the same in everyone. Miyu, an Awoken Warlock, finds herself struggling with her abilities, her Light feeling different and not her own. With her Vanguard preoccupied with grief and all eyes turned to the Reef, she finds herself turning to an unlikely source in an attempt to rediscover her connection to the Light and define what it means for her as a Dawnblade.

Note: The amazing artwork for this chapter was done by @guardiangummies. She does amazing work if you’re ever looking to commission art!

Previously

Miyu pulls her blade from the husk of an Acolyte, forming up on her Vanguard. Ikora’s gaze is heavy and dark, the blood trickling beneath her ears dark and sticky with residual ichar. In her hands, the void churns, volatile and hungry, ready to feed at its master’s behest, her superb gift thwarting the call of the Darkness.

“Another Knight,” She calls, louder now. No doubt she’s suffering from hearing loss thanks to her resistance to the Hive’s dark magic, even with her Ghost to heal her intermittently. “There has to be.” A Thrall darts out at them and Miyu smashes her fist into its skull. Solar Light flares out and engulfs them both. Ikora shifts, straightening. “What is - what are you doing?”

“I don’t have a name for it, yet,” The Awoken admits, “But it’ll help.”

“It’s not-”

“I’ve had some time to work on things.” She passes her leader. “I've learned some new techniques.”

Ikora taps her fingers against her ears. It doesn’t sound like she’s underwater anymore, and the energy reserves she’d normally need to cast a rift feels replenished and overflowing. It hasn’t been a minute since she’s cast. Curious. This healing and empowerment is not standard for a Dawnblade's arsenal. And, of course, there was that strange thing Miyu had done when the whispers were having their way with her.

"You've studied the Sunsingers," She calls out.

"Some. The attunement is… different. It's more Dawnblade than anything."

Anything Miyu bad left to say stops when she stands just outside the encrusted archway. Where the Ascendant Plane was less, well, gross in the Dreaming City, the Hive gunk seemed to be thicker and more pungent here.

"Ikora."

The other Warlock strides to her side. "No," She whispers, dark fingers fanning over her mouth. "We're too late."

The three guardians are plastered to the wall, entombed in the paperish crust of Hive residue, their Ghosts as well. All the crust seems to come together in an almost flower-like bloom, coalescing on the crystal embedded in the floor in the center of the room.

The Awoken steps forward. Ikora grabs her wrist, stopping her as a weak voice groans, "Run," The Titan coughs, his helm shattered across the visor. His Ghost pulses above him on the wall, drained. "It's a trap."

"There's a ritual circle," Ikora juts her chin, indicating the floor. "You cannot go in there, Miyu. We have to-"

Miyu's eyes are like jagged diamonds, glinting in the shadows, her mouth curved down in a sharp snarl. Her shoulders draw up tight like the bow her Ghost so affectionately nicknamed her for, centuries ago. Fingernails eclipse her pale skin, drawing blood as she clenches her fists. She jerks herself free of Ikora's hand viciously, startling her Vanguard.

"No!" The Hunter cries, wheezing. Tentacle-like wisps have punctured her middle, her blood trickling slowly from the wound. They intend to make these Guardians suffer. "Please, leave us," She begs. "It's alright."

Miyu looks to Lilith. All but the Exo's face is completely crusted over, her breath coming fast and shallow beneath the gross brownish green ichar, her optics unfocused, metallic lips moving to form unintelligible words, though sound does not leave her vocalizer. She'd been the first, the Dawnblade realizes. Tamashii senses her Ghost's fading Light, barely a dull flicker. He urges caution, but he knows they cannot wait.

"Lilith asked me to come for you,” Miyu informs them, with the kind of grace she does not feel, her heart beating a frantic tattoo in her chest. “I won’t let you die here."

"All three Ghosts are nearly dead," Ophiuchus rumbles behind them. "They're sucking their Light into that crystal." It’s ugly and beautiful all at once, drawing the skeletal paper butterflies that swarm any and all Light in Hive-infested territory.

"We tried to free her," The Hunter spits blood as the Warlock comes closer. "They were waiting for us. The Hive knew we would come for her, and you for us. They're counting on-"

"Good," Miyu growls, stepping in further, paying no mind to the glowing glyphs of the circle illuminating green beneath her boots, or Ikora's concerned outcry behind her back. She lifts her hands. The temperature rises. Furiously, she snaps, voice crackling with the embers of her Light, "Let them come."

Acutely, Ikora realizes that she wishes Zavala were here beside her. Not because she needs him; No, she's convinced now more than ever that the two of them can handle things without issue.

It’s just that no feed, no Ghost recording could accurately capture the way this feels, the decadent warmth of this blazing, empowering Light.

It makes a ring around the arcane circle the Hive have etched into the floor, overpowering the eerie green color with white-gold. It crackles and pops with embers and sparks, staying low and controlled.

When the Warlock Vanguard sees the sword come to life, she knows. This is not like others, not like Osiris's unstoppable blade, not like a Hunter's knives. It is wide, the blade almost as wide as her head. It is not the sword the Dawnblades throw. It is a great sword, held firm in both of her hands.

It is a candle, Ikora realizes.

It is a candle that turns into a bonfire.

Miyu's vision, given form.

With an animal cry, the lithe woman thrusts it down into the crystal with superhuman force. The Hive come crawling from the depths of the shadows as it shatters beneath her feet and the Light is freed.

When they rush in to attack, the Hive burn in shades of orange and gold. Miyu does not watch them fall. Her eyes are on the curls of Hive encrustments, burning away within the manifestation of her might. It spurns Ikora into action, the brilliant light blinding their enemies and allowing her time to pry the Titan and Hunter out from their thorny vine-like restraints.

There is a piercing cry, and then a booming groan. Ikora eases the Hunter to the ground and pushes her flickering, reorienting Ghost into her hands, letting her cradle it close. "This is nothing like what Lilith did," She grits out, her insides mending fast. Ikora is already looking for the source of the next threat., though both Titan and Hunter are immediately on their feet.

Lilith is coughing, hyperventilating, clawing at the hands that attempt to free her from her prison, gurgling weakly and confused beyond recognizing her saviors. Miyu calls to her leader, concerned. "Ikora, we have to get her free."

The smallest of the three Warlocks swings the second one of her arms is free. Miyu takes Lilith’s elbow to the face, unflinchingly. She summons what appears to be a grenade and pushes it against the Exo's forehead. As Ikora rips back the entrapments covering Lilith's Ghost, Miyu holds her charge’s face, wordlessly willing her bright green optics to focus and clear. "You’re okay, Lillie. I’ve got you, you did well. Look at me."

She thrashes until it sinks in, but eventually stills, much like Ikora had, with the Divine Protection thrumming over her meshed skin, healing her body and mind. She reaches a hand for the top of Miyu’s breastplate, pushing her dirty face into the older Guardian’s armor, shaking as her recovering Ghost precariously takes flight, nudging her forehead before phasing into her.

Miyu staggers to her feet, hauling Lilith up with her. The Exo sighs and relaxes into the protective warmth, eyes closing, until she hears the shingk! of Miyu drawing her sword.

Except, it isn’t Miyu’s. Miyu is holding out her sword. The one she’d lost, what might be hours or days or minutes ago, in the haze of confusion and capture and torment. She shudders, but Miyu squeezes her shoulder when she takes the sword and drops to her starting stance despite it.

“Good girl.” That she doesn’t fight her teacher on being called ‘girl’ is a testament to how shaken she is. “Fit to fight?”

“Yeah,” She braves, still breathless, then realizes her surroundings more clearly. “Morgana! Bertie! Are you two-”

Morgana flips her a casual salute. “Right as rain.” She gestures around her. “Your, uh, teacher here kinda made your Well look like a puddle,” She jokes. Bertie nods, but remains silent beside her. Miyu’s piercing gaze is drilling into her side.

Right. Lilith looks at Miyu. She’s studying her intently, obviously understanding what the teasing Hunter meant. “I’ll tell you about it later,” She promises, and her teacher nods sagely.

Ikora turns away, the immediate threat to the Guardians thwarted, and sees the lumbering Ogre, kept shielded by what is most certainly an Omnighul behind it. Knights with their swords advance in front of them, and Thrall fill the gaps. "There are too many,” The Titan, Bertie, says, sounding wary. “We can't outrun them."

"Then we don’t." Miyu informs them. “Ikora?”

Regal, serene even, Ikora steps beside her. “I suspect this ability,” She looks to the side, dangerous golden eyes meeting Miyu’s quicksilver gaze, “Is just as empowering as it is healing?” She holds her hands out as if to feel the golden rift like it’s something tangible.

“You’d be correct,” Miyu agrees.

Ikora grins, and it’s positively feral. “Then allow me.”

She draws back her palms, summoning the slippery-quick Void between them. Leaping with feline grace, she launches a giant supernova of purple light that could dwarf a planet, the entropic pull of her power like atmospheric gravity.

It hits the first enemy in an act of annihilation - the Ogre explodes on impact in a shower of purple fury. The thralls scatter, confused and frightened, Ikora supposes they’re not as mindless as they appear considering her show of power. Even so, they’re doomed to fall to her overwhelming cataclysm.

Beside her, Miyu dips her head. The temperature around her rises once more. “Allow me to finish off the rest?”

“I want the Omnigul,” Ikora responds, her voice still beholden to an undercurrent of her terrifying power.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Miyu responds. “You three, cover us.”

“Do… do you even need it?” Comes the Hunter’s quiet response.

Ikora chuckles. “It will look good on the strike logs if you assist,” She answers, trying not to sound mocking. Like clockwork, she hears the sound of ammunition being loaded behind her.

Miyu snorts, drawing her sword. “You get that a lot, I bet.”

“I don’t get out that much anymore,” She answers, snidely. “But, yes. I did.”

“Huh.”

She tips her lips in something almost smirk-like, but a touch less menacing. “Shall we, Miyu?”

With a smile, Miyu nods. “Thanks for helping me charge up,” She quips, patting her intricate armor. Ikora rolls her eyes, but there’s a kind of mirth, something amused about it.

Where before it had been both, this time, Miyu raises a single hand. Her armor thrums with an exotic kind of energy, bolstering her Light. She’s ready. A more traditional Daybreak sword appears like a lightning strike in her grip, wings blooming from her back. Lilith hollers, half awed, half triumphant.

Miyu supposes they both owe each other a story, when they get back.

#destiny fanfiction #destiny stories #ikora rey #zavala x oc #oc: miyu #well of radiance #collection: phoenix protocol #miyu the sweet bean warlock #one more chapter and then the epilogue!#i can't believe we're finally here

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dailygreenflare · 1 month

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DAY 1

[ art by me ]

#pvz #pvz heroes #pvz fanart #dailygreenflare #solar flare #green shadow #green shadow x solar flare #yuri #wlw

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shiftingpath · 6 years

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to my Exalted Secret Santa

Three options under the cut:

Ledaal Manus, Twilight Caste Solar Spymaster Cathak Argon, “The Forge of Melted Chains”, Slayer Caste Infernal Prince Black Wings to Blot the Sky, Day Caste Abyssal Renegade

1) Ledaal Manus, Twilight Caste Solar Spymaster

Manus is a beautiful, feminine, very privileged young Dynast-turned mastermind of the clock city of Towersong. He acts as social prep/cleaner and advisor to his small Circle, and specializes in seeing everything and making people underestimate him so he can work freely.

He is extremely pretty in a soft, gentle way. He dresses in a sort of semi-Victorian style he’s borrowed from Thorns, brocade vests and slim trousers and so on. He still likes the very high collars and wide sleeves common in Realm fashion, though. He is slim and around average height. His skin is very pale (though should still be recognizably Realm in ethnicity, which for our Creation is closest to Chinese). His right eye is icy pale blue, and his left is a darker, warmer blue (having had it replaced after the original was cut out by a Lunar). His hair used to be white graded to blue at the bottom, kept in a four-foot braid down his back, but recently Ligier chopped it off in an ill-advised duel. Now it falls just below his jaw, short at the back and longer in the front, pure white, and he keeps it pinned back, sometimes with the longer front “french braided” along his scalp. (Drawing either is totally fine.) He wears small oval spectacles and especially loves wearing purple. He has a strong aversion towards displaying skin, so covers up to his neck, down to his wrists, but if it is relevant, he has a brand around one bicep- a chain with a crown linking it like a lock.

He idolizes his Air Aspect father, and often wears a piece of pale blue clothing as if it were his token. Though he has a lot more jewellery, he almost always wears a simple gold circlet on his brow, a brass gear ring nailed through his finger, and a silver pin (on his cravat or coat) of an upright-pointing clock hand, a human hand before it, an eye on the palm- a gift from his Zenith queen when she appointed him her Hand.

He is brilliant and cunning and a dedicated problem-solver, which are put to the test in his role as right hand to one of the queens of the city. (He is always up to his neck in paperwork and responsibilities and happy about it. A consummate bureaucrat, he is Bureaucracy Supernal.) He fights using the sword he pulled from a tree (fulfilling local prophecy at the time), the long and delicate moonsilver-and-starmetal daiklave Silver Riddle. Having recovered his long shorn braid from Ligier, Silver Riddle now wears it like a tassel. He also occasionally uses one of a matched set of artifact assassin blades, the Sun-and-Wind Talons. Manus’ has the image of an orichalcum sun laid over a blue jade sky, but he usually keeps it hidden under his sleeve. In combat he fights with Solar Melee and the counter attack-focused evocations of Silver Riddle, and for sneaky purposes has a little training in two separate Martial Arts styles concerning assassination.

He is a Solar Circle sorcerer, initiated in all three times via scrying into the depths of the giant clock he lives on. He has three signature spells: a clock version of Corrupted Words (which flares his eyes with a subtle emerald flash), Lost Hour’s Offering (in which he uses weird clock magic to remove memories, taking the form of him ringing an ornate hand-bell), and The Titan’s Held Breath (in which he steps between the spaces between Autochthon’s laboured breaths and can run through a strange green-hued clock dimension until he either passes out from nausea or he chooses to allow time to function again).

His anima banner is gold in the center and fluxes to reds and purples towards the edges. The image is a hand presented like the Vitruvian Man, fingers extended and closed simultaneously. An eye opens wide in the palm. Lines of proportion encircle the fingers and their joints and extend out into the rest of the world to display the symmetry of Creation.

Reference:

Normal clothes 1 2 3

His stupid yachting costume

“Savage warrior of Karn” clothes

= = =

2) Cathak Argon, “The Forge of Melted Chains”, Slayer Caste Infernal Prince

Argon’s backstory is Extremely Second Edition and will be under construction until whatever year Infernals are released. However, here is what is not confidential:

Argon was raised in House Cathak alongside his twin sister Araka, raised to believe that obedience to his superiors was right and good, and that it felt right and good, and that his superiors deserved his unquestioning loyalty and admiration. His sister learned alongside him, but all she took away was that the strong get what they want. She exalted as a Fire Aspect, and the two attended the House of Bells together, Argon praying to exalt every step of the way. Araka’s carelessness with her power and her personal abuse of his loyalty to her were key to convincing Argon that his superiors did not, in fact, deserve his loyalty. A metody, one of the acid Malfean elementals, took advantage of his onset of doubt to offer him the demons’ bargain. He exalted as a Slayer, and fled the Isle. Araka, always pressing their relationship beyond that of brother and sister, refused to accept his fate, and wastes countless resources pursuing him wherever she finds a trace of his passing.

Argon is not particularly tall, with a slim build, but is muscled like a lightweight boxer. His skin tone was originally the same as Araka’s, a natural sallow skin native to the Isle, both with brown hair, but as her exaltation brought out ruddy auburn tones in her skin and hair, Argon’s turned his more yellow, mimicking the virulent acid of his co-adjutor. His hair is pulled in a ponytail, and it writhes with uncomfortably living force; distinctly more disturbing than the way an Air Aspect’s hair might blow in unseen breezes, Argon’s seems more to twitch and curl like some strange animal. His eyes are a brilliant acid yellow, and he smells of brimstone. In all ways, he is meant to mimic a Dragon-Blood of Malfean element, with the same sort of elemental “Tells” aspected towards the demonic.

He wears essentially a House of Bells training outfit slightly pimped up to look more majestic. Grey soft clothes underneath, maroon and red tabard over top, with a bright yellow band to signify his loyalties. He bears a yellow jade short spear partially encased in basalt, the Standard of the Beggar-King. From just below the head he has flown a long pennant, bearing only a field of solid black laced with brilliant green pavement cracks. He wears a tainted iron hearthstone amulet after conquering a brutally physically punishing manse in Malfeas itself, and has set a Gem of Infernal Regeneration into it. As a result the scars he bears from his time in the House of Bells and later in Malfeas have filled with basalt; the most noticeable ones are across his nose and cheeks and one deep one in one shoulder, though several smaller ones splash across his arms and torso.

Argon tries to be patient, noble, stern and proud, and emulate the virtues of the Prince as taught in his childhood. He has come to regard the Isle as corrupt, but still believes that a good, benevolent leader exists, in the form of his patron, the Brass Dancer Malfeas, whom he knows almost nothing about and only caught a glimpse of, dancing, for a few minutes once. He believes that he is destined to be the treasured, benevolent leader of some nation, and that he just hasn’t found it yet. His surety that people want to follow strong, loving leaders is somewhat undermined by his powers, which lace him with radioactive essence and punish the slightest misstep on the part of his devoted followers. He is trying his best to believe that he hasn’t signed on to the wrong team, and steadily and stubbornly turns his eyes from any proof that he might not be the worthy leader he believes he is.

He has By Rage Recast (3rd Edition willing), so whenever he goes iconic he transforms into a gargoyle-like beast (an Argoyle), with talons on his hands and feet, a thick tail, bright yellow armored scaling, sometimes black horns, if you liked Gargoyles the feel of it is ripped right out of that. His caste mark is a searing green X as if cut by a blade, and his anima banner is a broken crown with a cracked emerald in its brow.

Reference:

1 2 3

= = =

3) Black Wings to Blot the Sky, Day Caste Abyssal Renegade

Wings was raised as a princess in one of the tiny nations of the Hundred Kingdoms. It was expected that she would be married to broker some allegience, and was made into a creature of beauty and desire, with pure white hair nearly to her knees, unblemished rosy skin, and tattooed with a pattern of white lilies down her body. She would rather have died, and she did.

The princess would have been laid to rest in a state ceremony unlike any her tiny nation had ever seen, had anyone been able to find her body. But as soon as the touch of death came upon her, she rose a different creature. Shearing their hair off, they bound their chest with a strip of cloth ripped from their closet of sumptuous gowns. Clinging to shadows, they left their realm, following the call of something deep and terrible.

Wings is small of build but raring to go. Their hair is still pure white at the sides, cropped short, but they’ve grown the rest into a wild mohawk and dyed it bright red. Their skin is an ashen grey, and they still bind with a strip of no-longer-white cloth that was once a very nice dress. They have been training in martial ways since they left home, and they wear a pair of soft, baggy pants and a red sash around their waist. They have the old style pointed deathknight ears, pierced with several silver rings, and their bottom lip has a thick silver ring as well. Their eyes are crimson, and their cheeks are tattooed with a crest of black points to denote their royalty. The lily tattoo is still in evidence, but they’ve been tattooed many more times since, marred with black bands like shackles and barbed wire from their brief time at the Walker’s side.

During that time, they dressed considerably more princely, with fine, high-necked black tunics and scarves, ornate silver armor set with jet and garnets. They left that all behind in a mirror of their exaltation, when they realized how awful the Walker really was, though they kept the oversized soulsteel smashfists he gave them. Wings has no intention of returning those, and is kind of fiercely enjoying the idea of the fight they’ll give the Walker if he tries to retrieve them. They still tend to throw on scarves sometimes, looping them over their shoulders like dark wings, and they have a weakness for garnets.

They’re a little hotblooded these days, trying to play it cool and not attract too much attention, but unable to stop themself from interfering when their temper gets the best of them. They tend to swear a lot of very earnest and compelling oaths, which they have to grudgingly follow through on in the sober light of day.

Their anima starts as a halo of ominous darkness like a storm in the evening, and culminates in a rushing cloud of bats, their detail reduced to nothing but rapid beating wings, white teeth, and shrieking horror.

I don’t have a design for the smashfists but i’d love to see them on either renegade wanderer Wings or loyal new servant Wings with their full deathknight regalia. They’re originally from a concept where all deathknights can turn into bats so like, forgive furry Wings in the references

Reference:

1 2

#exalted #exalted secret santa

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backyard-bonanza · 7 years

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Solar Flare x Green Shadow? :3

ah here we go, Anon. We’ve found one of my unpopular opinions!!

Honestly, D.

I can see the appeal but... nah. There are better ships if you ask me.

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293456z5676567 · 7 years

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Green Shadow x Solar Flare for the ship thing

GOD I LOVE THAT SHIP!!!

#IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY #Anonymous

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plantsvszombies3 · 7 years

Photo

While I enjoy the Solar Flare X Green Shadow ship, I also really like shipping Electric Boogaloo and Rustbolt. I just find the ship to be really cute.

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dulcidyne · 7 years

Text

Escape Velocity (707/Saeyoung Choi x MC)

Fandom: Mystic Messenger. Summary: He woke up on the wrong side of the multiverse somehow, traveled through planes of spacetime in a wormhole wink to wake up in a universe where he doesn’t belong--a universe where everything is comically, disastrously wrong. Word count: 2510

[Angst/Hurt/Comfort. SFW. 707 route spoilers. After ending spoilers.]

A slice of city skyline slips through the blinds, striping diffuse streetlight glow across the face of a boy just emerging into consciousness. It’s the first thing he sees when his eyelid flutters open--the amber flare of sodium vapor in blue dim--and he winces when the brightness drives a cold scalpel-edge of pain directly into his optic nerve.

“Oh--” another voice says, half swallowed by his reflexive hiss, but distinctively feminine. By the bed, an ECG readout shows the stuttering thump of his heart with a jagged green spike. Despite the pain and the worried chirp of the machines hooked into him, he has to bite back his laugh. It lingers in his mouth like a morphine lollipop, giddy and sweet enough to make his head spin. She never ever listens.

“You’re still here? I’m starting to think you really do just like that chair,” he chides.

But when he opens his eyes again, the concerned face that comes into view stops the rest of his lecture short. It’s not meant for her and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or dejected. Happiness evaporates off his tongue.

“Luc...Saeyoung. It’s--well, I’m sure I’m not who you expected to see...”

Jaehee tucks mussed hair back behind her ears but the effort does little to restore her back to factory standard. She’s as human as he’s ever seen her with her wrinkled dress shirt and her finger-combed hair sticking out in wild wisps. He spots her suit jacket discarded over the back of the chair like an afterthought. On anyone else, disheveled at this hour is nothing extraordinary. But Jaehee doesn’t spend her nights with her nose in a bottle of soju, hand wrapped around a karaoke mic. She doesn’t stumble home after shouting her goodbyes across the street to her coworkers, tottering heels tapping off-tempo staccato onto the pavement. On Jae Hee, disheveled is fundamentally wrong. A negative where a positive should be. An antiparticle. Anti-Jaehee.

The machine beeps come faster and louder. Any second now, this crumpled, grief-smudged doppelganger is going to collide on a molecule of sensible, unflappable Jaehee reality and annihilate everything.

Hospital air, reeking of antiseptic and IV drip, barrels into the room with a rush of dimmed fluorescent light from the hall and he looks up to see Jumin take a pause, hand still on the door handle.

“You’re awake then.”

He offers a perfunctory nod and enters the room without another word. In one hand, there’s a styrofoam cup with a cloud of steam condensing off the top but he makes no move to drink it, set it down, or pass it to his exhausted assistant. Styrofoam. Nothing Jumin owns is designed to be disposable. Not his diamond-inlaid pens, not his porcelain dinner plates, not his silver-plated dress collar stays. His world exists outside of plastic shrink-wrapped convenience. In a corporate heir’s world, things gleam and glow forever.

It’s like a game in a kid’s magazine--the half educational, half distraction ones they stock in the hospital waiting rooms. Circle the thing that doesn’t belong: tailored three-piece Ermani suit, Verragamo tie, sterling silver tie pin, and one disposable cup. If Saeyoung had a pen (just a regular, chewed-up Bik), he’d circle the air around the cup over and over, pressing harder and harder until the cheap nib tore through the page.

“Did you bring that for me?” Saeyoung settles back into the pillows and directs the question up at the ceiling in wonderment that he only has to partially feign. “Oh my, Mr. Chairman-to-be’s tender, caregiving side...”

The cup still niggles at the corner of his eye like a jittering artifact spliced into reality through clumsy video editing. He grins a 707 grin as if nothing in the world can ever bother him and sits up to look at Jumin.

“Oh! Is this what it feels like to be Elly?”

He preens as best he can with one arm hooked to IVs and machines and the other wrapped in layers of gauze. Tubing clatters. He pays it no mind. “Nya~ong. But Mr. Caregiver, do you mind switching out whatever that is for a-”

“It’s not for you.” Jumin interrupts, lips compressed down as if he’d like to say more but thinks better of it.

“Saeyoung, you’re feeling better then...” Jaehee says before her eyes meet Jumin’s across the room. A whole conversation scrolls in the empty space between them. They don’t have to take out their phones and type it up in the RFA messenger for him to know that it’s about him. And. That. It’s. Serious.

Saeyoung taps the pulse oximeter clipped to his index finger against the bed rail as if it were a mouse button and a steady, reassuring clicks fill in the gaps between the machine beeps.

“I am. Nearly 100% better. Maybe 99.00001% better. All I need for that last .99999% is a Ph.D Pepper, and some Honey Buddha Chips,” he counts each off with a tap of his fingertip, “and a Miss Cutie body pillow and matching limited edition collector’s blanket, a Zet Box and a Grey station for when I get frustrated with the Zet Box and a widescreen TV. I think then, I’d feel totally, completely, 100% better.”

His eyes sweep the room until he spots the red of his phone case on the nightstand. Should he call her and see if she got to the apartment safely? Or...would he just be interrupting the first real night of sleep she’s had in days? A restless ache catches him in the ribs. All his nagging for her to go rest at home and the second he wakes up to find someone else in her chair, the whole universe feels off-kilter.

“You…” Jaehee starts then stops, concern in every weary line around her eyes and a frown that says this is hardly the time for jokes. “You do remember, don’t you? What we told you before...”

She’s so serious. He laughs. “Why are you looking like that? Is this a drama?”

Saeyoung pauses for effect, taking a moment to compose his expression into something more drama-worthy--with little success, he keeps laughing despite himself. “Do I…have amnesia? Have I swapped bodies? Am I actually an alien from another planet and the doctors are keeping me for testing? Do I have cancer?”

Anti-Jaehee does a spot-on impression of regular Jaehee exasperation for anything nonsensical. Jumin holds the cup that isn’t for anyone in the room and does a spot-on impression of a man in the middle of a board meeting.

Unlike Jaehee, hospital despair hasn’t left a single visible mark on Jumin. If anything, he’s too Jumin...too business as usual. It’s as if something has distilled him down into a condensed cocktail of emotional detachment, wealth, and cat obsession and poured him back into his suit. But the focused intensity of him is hyperrealistic to the point of artificial.

“You don’t have amnesia or any of those other things,” Jumin says. “But, clearly, you are in denial.”

Matter-of-fact words clipped into precise syllables. They drop to the linoleum like a tray of needles, their metal points ricocheting. “Haha, alright. Disappointing choice, given the alternatives.” His pulse oximeter taps louder and faster and his smile is starting to hurt his cheeks so he lets it fall while he glances back at the phone. Softly, he asks, “What were the writers thinking with this script?”

“You’re being tiresome,” Jumin informs him, his free fingertips pressed against his temple. “I have a headache and there was no wine in the hospital cafeteria due to some strange oversight. I intend to inquire--”

Anti-Jaehee cuts to the point. “V’s death is a shock to all of us. I know you weren’t on the best of terms in the end but that doesn’t...it doesn’t erase years of friendship. You don’t seem to be taking the news seriously...to be making jokes right now--”

V’s death.

His head is shaking, a bubble of suppressed laughter expanding in his lungs. V’s death--that’s just...impossible. Ridiculous. It’s worse than the wrinkled shirt and the styrofoam cup and the wrong person in the chair by the bed. He really should’ve caught on earlier. It’s not like him to be so slow on the uptake. Some genius he is. The bubble in his chest pops against his sternum with one long, shuddering exhale that warps his laughter until it sounds breathy and helpless. V’s death. Anti-Jaehee. The cup. The chair.

He woke up on the wrong side of the multiverse somehow, traveled through planes of spacetime in a wormhole wink to wake up in a universe where he doesn’t belong; a universe where everything is comically, disastrously wrong.

A shiver in his chest maps cold in his veins like contrast dye and numb follows. It isn’t the ‘count backward from 10’ and wake up to find the girl he loves asleep in the chair beside his bed, her hands wrapped around his kind of numb . This numb is frostbite and flash freeze, it’s the cold and shadowed gaps of space where starlight cannot reach.

“Saeyoung. Saeyoung, are you even listening?”

V’s death. Anti-Jaehee. The cup. The chair. He’s still laughing--shallow, gasping chuckles. Above him, the ceiling panels are starting a slow, teetering revolution around an invisible axis.

“No. Why would I? I’m not staying here. I don’t even belong here.”

“What are you even saying? You’re not staying here? In the hospital?”

His head shakes even though, technically she isn’t far off. “In this universe.”

Watching the ceiling makes him dizzy. Saeyoung screws his eyes shut and brings his fingertips down hard on his eyelids. Static pinwheels up from black, rippling like space dust caught in a gust of solar wind. Even with his eyes closed, he can still sense the orbiting room pick up speed. Or maybe he’s the one moving. For some reason, he thinks of the ‘black hole’ donation funnel at the National Science Museum planetarium. He thinks of wobbly coins accelerating away from the flared rim, faster and surer until they’re nothing but a flickering line of zinc curving around the vortex. This universe is wrong. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t want to stay here.

Space dust is accumulating beneath his shut eyelids but he doesn’t dare open his eyes to blink out the grit and the moisture wicking up his eyelashes. V isn’t dead. He isn’t shelved away in a metal drawer in the hospital morgue with a bullet lodged in his chest. V is a liar and a traitor but he’s alive.

An image flashes up before he can stop it, some hypoxia-addled memory. It’s ice cream running cold rivulets over his knuckles--blue, too bright to be anything less than artificial, staining and sticky, turning his hands and tongue a different color. Rika’s laughter echoes up into the museum archways.

“Luciel--here, just use my handkerchief first.”

There’s a borrowed ₩10 coin in his hand, still warm from V’s pocket and sticky from his own hands. He’s laughing too. It doesn’t feel like a goodbye even though it is. Now that he’s with the agency, who knows when he can sneak out to see Rika and V again.

There’s no air left in his lungs and they’re burning, the moisture is evaporating off them and flash-freezing in his chest. He’s floating, spinning in the vacuum of space and he can’t--he can’t--

He can’t breathe.

Metal coins sucked into the dark. Black holes made out of plastic. He’s orbiting around the funnel rim, pulled towards the gravity well, forces shearing him away ten won at a time to slip through bubbles in quantum foam and appear on the other side of the multiverse.

Something wraps around his fingertips and jerks his hand away from his face. Without the pressure of his fingertips, his eyes open by reflex.

She’s there, bangs mussed, cheeks flushed, chin obscured by the thick red wool plait of her scarf. Undeniably real. Undeniably right. Amber flecks in her eyes glimmer brightly through a sheen of unshed tears like constellations in gold leaf and he wishes he could spend the entire night, lying on his back, gazing up and counting each beautiful fleck. He wishes he could feel the warmth of her hand. He wishes he could banish the tears welling up in her eyes and see her smile. But his wishes are truncated and flat, severed away from feeling and emotion so that they exist more in the realm of abstract theory right along with Petri nets, Chomsky hierarchy, and finite automata.

“Stay. In this universe. Stay here with me.” She’s right in front of him but she sounds far away--a signal with spotty quality beamed from another orbit. He can barely hear her over the static crackle of interference and when he finally does, the message has an odd, aged quality to it as if time is dilating in the centimeters between them and the words are already centuries old by the time they reach him.

Stay. He can’t. It’s too late. Whatever tethered him to her world has already snapped and now he’s just drifting and disconnected, ephemeral and insubstantial in between universes, there and not there at the same time. Schrodinger’s Saeyoung.

Tears spill up, curving down her cheekbones but she makes no move to duck her head or wipe them away. She doesn’t take her eyes off him and he can’t pull his away from hers even though she’s asking the impossible. Instead, his numb fingers tighten around her hand until he can almost feel it--almost.

She grants half a wish right there and smiles despite the tears still coursing freely to drip off the delicate curve of her jaw. If he could stay for anything, it would be that smile. Breaking eye contact, she examines the loose fringe of her scarf before finding a trailing red thread that she pulls away with her free hand.

Somehow managing not to release his hand, she winds it clumsily around his index finger and gives it a gentle tug to make sure it will stay put. It does. She meets his eyes again.

“You do belong here, for better or worse,” she tells him and this time the words are perfectly clear. Fragments of glowing city skyline dance a dozen brilliant colors in her eyes. “But if you have to leave for a bit, I’ll just make sure you can find your way back.”

She tugs the thread again. “Astronauts always have safety tethers right? This can be yours.”

Something lights across her face and she yanks free another thread from her scarf to tie it around another finger.

“And another one for Saeran. You belong with both of us, so you need two.”

There’s grief bitter bright in her eyes but hope too. He looks down at their clasped hands, at the red threads entangled around his fingers, and feels an echo of the emotion in her eyes fissure up from the dark, numb hollows of his heart. Grief, but hope too.

Her hand is warm.

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger fanfiction #707 x MC #Saeyoung choi #mysme fanfic #707 route spoilers #Angst #ANGST I SAY!#Grief and loss #Red string of fate

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