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montaners · 1 year

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was that álvaro rico spotted down at the shoreline of east hamptons main beach? must just be camilo montaner the twenty seven year old model, influencer and heir. whenever i hear sirenas by taburete it reminds me of them. they are known for being argumentative but they make up for that by being determined. they have been living in the hamptons for two days.

basic stats ;

⟶ full name: camilo hernán montaner de luna ⟶ nicknames: no nicknames, absolutely hates being called cam. the only thing he hates more than that is being called milo – you might as well just slap him in the face while you’re at it ⟶ three things he likes: finding new vegan recipes, music in spanish, enrique iglesias ⟶ three things he dislikes: people who ask too many questions, dirty fingernails, bad mannerisms ⟶ gender: cis male ⟶ height: 5 ‘ 9 ⟶ age: twenty seven ⟶ birthday: december 5, 1995 ⟶ zodiac: sagittarius sun, aquarius moon, scorpio ascendant ⟶ right handed or left handed: fully ambidextrous ⟶ eye color: baby blue ⟶ hair color: black ⟶ piercings and tattoos: no piercings, no tattoos ⟶ languages spoken: spanish ( native tongue ), italian, and english ⟶ sexuality / romantic orientation: homosexual / homoromantic ⟶ place of birth: barcelona, spain ⟶ last five songs listened to: en esta habitación by libido, no te preocupes por mi by leiva, testa tra le nuvole pt. 1 by alfa, manda una señal by maná, el perdedor by enrique iglesias ft. marco antonio solís ⟶ five aesthetics: jetting off somewhere because you’re bored, stress shopping, light blue eyes gazing into the sunset, getting up at 5 am for a daily morning jog, being the pickiest eater known to mankind ⟶ character inspo: ander muñoz from elite, isak valtersen from skam ( og skam ), brando pacitto from baby

background story ;

camilo was born to britta incanti and lorenzo montaner in barcelona, spain. his mother is an italian model and fashion designer who was miss italy in 1993, and runner up for miss universe in 1994, and his father is owner and heir of hotel and resort chains called montaner ( literally equivalent to hilton hotels ). needless to say, his family on both sides comes from a lot of money, and have pretty much bought into anything you can think of. gas companies, gastronomy business, electric, you name it, his family is somehow involved

camilo, being an only child, grew up with anything materialistic anyone could ever think of. all he had to do was point, and it was being handed to him without any type of questions. he was spoiled, practically born with a golden spoon in his mouth, in the public eye. his family was widely known in europe and also had business’ world wide, which meant he had a rather public life since he could remember

to anyone, his upbringing sounds like a wet dream, and in a way, it kind of was. i say ‘in a way’ because his life isn’t as picture perfect as everyone thinks it is. simply put, his parents were never really present. he grew up with the best help money could buy – nannies, butlers, personal chefs, maids, people who worked for his family and treated him like he was the last cup of water in the middle of the desert. he had it all, minus the people who were supposed to love him the most

they missed his birthdays, christmas, important holidays, things that any parent should be present for, they were never around. instead, he was always surrounded by people who were literally paid to care for him. he was never really held as a child, never hugged when he was sad or sick, and because of his rather cold upbringing, this made camilo an equally cold person

due to constantly being in the public eye, he became cynical and calculated. in his eyes, everything was a game. nothing was unattainable to him because of his hefty wallet and no one was genuinely worthy of his time. at least, this is what he grew up thinking

he grew up feeling an insane amount of pressure. despite his parents not being around, they always let him know that what the world thought of them, the idea people had of him, was everything. the way he looked and acted was all that mattered, and carrying this with him since he could remember was a lot to deal with

he quickly became obsessed with his physical appearance. what he wore, down from his shirt to his shoes, how his hair looked, how his skin appeared and his weight especially, became everything for him. camilo would rather die than go out wearing sweats or looking anything less than impeccable – he simply had to look his best or he wouldn’t go out at all

his earlier years consisted of traveling a lot. he lived in his mother’s hometown in the amalfi coast in italy for a few years, traveled back and forth to any country his heart desired, and would leave as soon as he grew bored with where he was staying at

by the time he’s fourteen, he decides to move to los angeles to start high school there, mostly so he could better his english, but also because his family had contacts there and he knew a few celebrities

this is how he meets his first ever boyfriend, dani, when he’s sixteen. truth be told, camilo wasn’t a fan of him at first. they were polar opposites and he considered dani to ‘not be at his level’. he doesn’t know how it happens, but he somehow makes his way into camilo’s cold ass heart, and soon enough, they begin to date. dani was someone camilo would have never considered, but he basically falls head over heels for him. he’s the first person who makes camilo feel less cynical, like he doesn’t have to be perfect or do everything so impeccably so. he makes him feel real, like he actually matters to someone and isn’t just a display case for the world to judge. simply put, he makes him feel things he never thought he would feel before, makes him see things from a completely different perspective

unfortunately, this romance is short lived when dani disappears one day, with no warning. camilo tries not to let it get to him, but he’s so hurt by this move, he ends up going to a boarding school in san francisco and finishes high school there, heading back to his hometown, barcelona, two days after his graduation

at this point, his trust issues are at an all time high. he has a very difficult time letting people in and mostly maintains superficial relationships with everyone, without much depth, or any depth at all, really

he basically becomes even more obsessed with his physical appearance, especially when he gets signed to a modeling agency by the time he’s nineteen. to camilo, the way he looks becomes everything to him, up to the point where it becomes unhealthy

he’s modeled for a few brands in the past before, but when he actually gets signed to an agency is when he starts to feel the pressure. being around his peers, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like he’s above them. in fact, he feels inferior to them. some of the names are so big, that the importance of his last name doesn’t mean anything to them. never wanting to be below anyone, he starts working extra hard to make sure he’s on their level, or better than they are

! tws for eating disorders, fainting, hospitals and body dysphoria for the next four bullets, read with caution or skip over this if you’re triggered ! his habits start off so small at first, that he genuinely doesn’t see it as a problem. over exercising is only the beginning, but soon enough, he starts cautiously watching, and counting, the calories of the stuff he eats. when this isn’t proven to be enough, he switches to a vegan diet, and it just escalates from that point on

to be honest, he was never overweight. in fact, doctors would tell him he had to gain some weight in the past, but despite this, he didn’t feel good enough. more so, he felt like he could be better. he became obsessed with any little flaw he would pick out of himself and would work endlessly to fix it, or make it less noticeable. one of his more genuine friends in the modeling industry flat out told him he had a problem, but camilo brushed it aside and kept ‘working’ on himself. by working on himself, i mean practically torturing himself with unhealthy diets and extreme exercise routines

the worst part is that he really didn’t think he had a problem. he struggled with an eating disorder and body dysphoria for over six years, until one day, six months after his twenty sixth birthday, he ends up passing out during a photo shoot. waking up in the hospital, he’s told he has pretty bad malnutrition linked to an eating disorder and is recommended to seek help. at this point, he weighed ninety seven pounds ( almost forty four kilograms )

it’s at this moment that he realizes that he’s not okay. despite not being quite ready to get the help he needs, he ends up checking himself into an inpatient clinic in madrid that specializes in eating disorders and mental health. he’s there for three months and it’s basically hell for him, the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, but... he does get better. by a lot. ends up gaining the weight he needs and see’s a nutritionist to work out a ( healthy ) vegan diet for him. after leaving said clinic, he goes back to los angeles to continue working on his modeling career and meet his sponsors. he’s there until december, and afterwards, makes the decision to move to long island in a pent house his parents own, wanting to be far away from anyone he’s ever known and start fresh

headcanons

truth be told, camilo still does struggle a lot with his weight and appearance. he knows better at this point, but it’s still something he deals with on a daily basis. his habits aren’t unhealthy anymore, but he’s a very picky eater. he’s literally the type of person to separate food on his plate and eat it in different sections, one at a time. he will probably never go back to harming himself the way he did for so long, but he still carries that part of his life with him. he has a healthy diet and exercise routine now, but god knows it took him a while to get there

he can be a real pain in the ass when it comes to keeping things clean. i wouldn’t say he’s ocd, but he can be a borderline neat freak. things have to be tidy otherwise he literally can’t sleep

he enjoys drinking alcohol from time to time, but that’s about it. he hates weed because of the munchies and used to chain smoke cigarettes, but thankfully, that’s a habit he’s broken out of. he’s tried coke and dabbled with it back in spain when he was going through everything he was going through because he liked how it takes away your hunger, but he doesn’t really do anything now, claims he’s ‘high off life’

even though he makes it seem like he doesn’t want anyone or is too good for anyone, deep down inside, camilo really wants to be loved. he wants a boyfriend who will turn into his husband, he wants a kid and a house, and he wants an actual future with someone, despite showing anyone who has ever been interested in him romantically the complete opposite ( minus dani rip )

he has a cat he named draco meowfoy, clever twist on his favorite movie and book character, draco malfoy. his cat is one year old and a ragdoll cat, basically the sweetest cat ever, acts more like a dog than anything

he’s a model and an influencer, future heir to the business’ his family owns. he has thirty five million followers on instagram, and an equivalent amount on tiktok and other social media platforms. he has a ton of money besides that, but he makes a very good amount of money on sponsorships ( his favorite ones so far have been brands like adidas and colgate )

when you really get to know him ( which is rare ), he’s goofy. nothing like that ‘i’m better than you’ persona he puts on for the whole world to see. he has an idiot side to him that likes corny jokes and puns, enjoys knitted sweaters and dad jokes

he plays piano, has been playing since he was four years old, but this is a rather hidden talent of his. he’s a huge example of ‘what you see isn’t what you get’ because people tend to meet him and make up their minds on who he is, but the truth is that he has a ton of layers, a ton of hidden parts of himself that very few people, if not no one, really know of

camilo is also a huge example of ‘money doesn’t buy happiness’ because he has anything materialistic any person could ever dream of having, but deep down inside, he’s not genuinely happy. he definitely has depression, but doesn’t take medication for it

he wants to live a relaxed life here, far away from the chaos that was barcelona and the shit show that was los angeles. he wants a place where people don’t really know who he is, somewhere he doesn’t feel pressure to be ‘perfect’

when he does let you in, he’s loyal. he doesn’t believe in cheating on people and will defend you until the end if he considers you a true person and genuinely likes you. if he doesn’t, it’s the complete opposite. he can be a very fake person for the sake of being ‘diplomatic’, but will literally trash talk you if he isn’t a fan of you. he can say everything to your face as well, but prefers to subtweet about you if you’re not someone he’s fond of

he was offered a spot on a reality tv show in spain with other models, living in a mansion and getting into shenanigans, but he turned it down. the show was similar to ‘hype house’ and he feels like he dodged a bullet with that one

he is a huge fan of enrique iglesias, has been to six of his concerts and has personally met him three times. loves him to death, literally man crush monday all day every day

he has the tiniest accent when speaking english. it’s barely noticeable and will become more prominent if he’s really angry, but for the most part, his english is really, really good. he’s fluent in spanish, english and italian, and even though he speaks all three languages perfectly, his preferred language is spanish, and literal thought process is in spanish as well

i’m gonna end this here because this is long as hell, but below is his birthchart for some extra tea!

birthchart ;

#hhq:intro #flashing gif tw #eating disorder tw #mental illness tw #hospital tw #fainting mention tw #body dysphoria tw #i think this is all the tws but lmk if i missed one skdfnvjkdfnvd #i aint proof read so if u see 500 spelling errors woops skjdnvdjfv

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kingbeghemoved · 2 years

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#jason beghe #jasonbeghe #harvey brand #gif set #body of proof #bop

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christwi · 18 days

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ive got one friend who loves that milkman from the neighbor game and if he had tumblr id be tagging him so rapidly in anything that compares him to clay puppington because my brain sees something that connects our hyperfixations and it makes me feel like a cat giving a dead bird to a human to show how good of a hunter i am

#chris saying words sometimes #i cannot express love like a normal person if i go up to someones dms and drop a gif or pic from their hyperfixation it means i love you #further proof that i am a boy cat trapped in a girl human body

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goddessofwisdom-7 · 4 months

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I Gotcha.

Luke Castellan x daughter of Apollo!reader

Description: three times you promised Luke that you got him. The two times he struggled to believe and finally when he did.

A/N: the gif is not mine, credits to the owner.

************************************************************

The days spent at camp immediately after his failed quest were arguably the worst of Luke's entire life.

He had to drag himself back home with a burnt chunk of an apple, a dragon tooth and half his face destroyed.

You had nursed him back to health. Spending three days straight in the infirmary. The solo quest was a bad idea and you had known it. Luke had gone alone in some sort of attempt to prove himself, seeking glory but now this entire thing had backfired and you couldn't help but worry.

When he awoke he had stared in mute horror at the mirror you held up to his face.

"I tried to minimise the scarring as much as I could, Luke. I couldn't remove it entirely but with the correct balm and scar creams it'll fade," you had explained.

Luke knew you were the best the camp infirmary had but he couldn't explain the rage that boiled within him. This fruitless quest, with its dumb replication to Heracles' and his quest all for the sake of earning his father's attention had permanently marred him.

Physical proof of his father's neglect right there for everyone to witness.

And he would have to carry this stupid scar for the rest of his life.

"Luke?"

His gaze snapped to meet yours, softening slightly, as you placed the mirror facedown on his bedside table.

"Yeah?"

He didn't want to see sympathy in your eyes, no doubt too many campers will be looking upon him like he was a pitiful kicked dog, nor did he want to see disappointment; he wasn't quite sure how he'd stomach that.

But your face held neither of those emotions, instead a strong conviction resided in the lines of your face, lines that you were too young to have, that marked the effects of stress no adolescent should feel.

"I'm gonna take care of you Luke, okay?" You reached out and cupped his uninjured cheek, "I gotcha. I always gotcha."

And wasn't that something.

He reached out cupping your face in his hands, this was his whole world.

"Okay baby; yeah, please."

****************************

Luke had miscalculated. He'd failed to retain the master bolt and the helm of darkness.

Now, he was being punished. Severely. And he hated it but he deserved it. He'd let Kronos down, he needed to learn his lesson so he never makes the same mistake.

The nightmares cut too much into reality though sometimes. His entire body lit aflame but it always got so much worse when he was forced to face a scenario where he had to cut you up so that your pieces would replace the Titan.

He never failed this test, but it always took the most out of him. Even if you always understood his anger, he wasn't sure you'd understand his methods; and at the crack of every dawn, he'd escape his cabin and run to the lake where he knew you'd always be. Like clockwork, watching the sun rise.

This time his skin buzzed with the phantom recollection of his nightmares, he had to scrub at his eyes to clear his vision a few times, mistaking the blood on his hands to be real in his fatigued state.

You sat on the deck, eyes fixed on the changing colours of the sky. He could hear your voice humming a soft nameless tune. This was your ritual, your futile attempts at interactions with your father as he burst across the heavenly dome on his sun chariot.

Nonetheless, Luke always enjoyed the sound of your voice. He'd appreciate it if Apollo never would.

You'd sense his presence as you always did in the early hours and you'd beckon him towards you.

Sitting by your side felt right, amidst all the tension he'd been under. The weight of all his plans. Your song was familiar, the heat and strength of your figure a comfort.

"Nightmares again?" You asked, knowing the answer regardless.

He'd nod.

There were a few truths he was allowed to tell you. Sometimes if he said it with enough of himself, he could fool himself to believe that all you knew weren't mainly lies.

"Come here."

And you'd guide his head to you lap, gentle– loving, like the first rays of the sun. You would card your fingers through his curls, and every now and then lightly ghost your fingertips over the scar on his face.

On occasion, Luke would dream that you were healing him, erasing his scars, erasing his pains.

"I gotcha Luke," you'd murmur, "I always gotcha."

Some mornings he'd fall into a dreamless sleep.

************************

"I gotcha baby," oh he's missed that voice, "I always gotcha, Luke." It's been too long. Days, weeks, months. Years.

You were crying.

Percy and Annabeth were crying too but–

You're crying.

Don't cry.

He's really tired, and it's getting difficult to take a breath. He figures this is the feeling of death and he's trying to not be afraid.

You reach for him, and he forces himself to open his eyes and look at you.

It's not so bad. Your face has always been what he'd like to see last. It's just–

There's so much to say. So many things he has to tell you, to apologise for, to confess, to love and there's no time.

You're so beautiful.

Even covered in soot and monster dust and blood.

Your hands cup his face, fingers instinctively brushing his brows and scar. You keep mumbling small comforts, little assurances. But you don't promise life, because that wouldn't be true and while Luke has been a deceitful liar, you have never been one yourself and you won't lie to him even now.

But you promise that you got him. And he believes you.

"I know baby," He huffs and tries to say, "but now...it's time– time to let me go."

It's a struggle. His vision is blurry, he's really tired.

So he focuses on the feel of you instead, letting his eyes close. This is just like falling asleep.

*****************************************************************************

#luke castellan x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo fic rec #pjo fandom #pjo fanfic #percy jackson #luke castellan #annabeth chase #lc

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tremendum · 1 year

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heyy, can you write din djarin x reader where she's smth like a princess and he's hired as her bodyguard by her father or brother whatever you want (I know this is basic plot but can't help it 😭) tysm❤️🥰

i got u babes! its cute ive never written something like this but i hope u like it!! <3 its fluffier than anything ive really written to tysm for the request! also this is NOT PROOF READ im sorry

after midnight

(gif not mine!) pairing: din djarin x fem!reader (afab, use of terms like princess/duchess/daughter) rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.) word count: 6.2k summary: “you were... a princess. you were untouchable, and he knows better than to fall for one of his jobs. so he'd made a tower of armor to protect him from any attraction; but with every passing day he spent in your company, you happened to slip through those cracks like you were made for it.” warnings: mentions of political unrest/uprisings, reader resents their parents/family because monarchy is BAD folks, threats of death, but smut (PiV, unprotected), mutual masturbation (m&f), teasing, light themes of possession at one point, mentions of eating. cumplay/creampie. i think that's it.

★

YOU are no stranger to fear.

it's been a gently lived life for you, in your several decades orbiting the power of your parents' suns.

the duchess of your family's system, the 'Prize Jewel' your mother loves to say; the one who got the love of the people but sought none of the power.

you weren't the heir, not to the throne: that duty fell unto your younger brother, as per custom tradition. so you were coaxed into a life of sitting around, humming as your ladies in waiting braided your strands, staring longingly as your brother wielded blasters and vibro-blades; as if that is what constituted a good ruler.

so perhaps the fear you've grown accustomed to is the fear of the mirrors that so delicately lined your chambers; the mirror that appears on your own face as any noble speaks to you, as your father commanded you to embark on diplomatic missions that should be left to those who have any stake in the future of the system. the mirror which constricts any true personality or truth from presenting you to the galaxy. you were the duchess, your parents' daughter; you were not yourself.

you'd never gone off world, to either of the other planets in the crown's domain - until the day you did.

that kind of fear was different.

the tumultuous tracks of your heartbeat when that creaking drop ramp was sealed, those days ago; the footsteps that rang out like funeral chimes as the tall Mandalorian bowed his head to you before escorting you upwards into the cockpit of the ship that was to take you to the other side of the system.

you were not, though, afraid of him.

Mando had been your shadow for several months before you left on your enterprise - you were no longer frightened by the cold, sharp angles of his body, the dark rumbling of his scarce voice. now, that same low hum as he listens to you is welcomed. encouraged. sought for.

no, the fear was from something else; there was a scratching, a slow but insistent simmering that tightened the muscles of your lower back and your upper neck until you woke up in sharp gasps of discomfort.

maybe the fear was in the winding hills that turned into mountains, jagging up and into the sky; your fear clung to you even as you lifted your legs and climbed over top of them - those towers to the sky - and settled yourself with the acknowledge that your parents had sent you on this diplomatic embarkment to a hostile insurgence group with nothing more than the Mandalorian bodyguard and a datapad containing an ultimatum which was surely the fuse to the ticking bomb of your family's dominating sovereignty. the crashing of a scepter, or the squashing of a bug.

thankfully your father, in all of his Majesty's grace and wisdom, had offered you a full set of your Ladies of the Household on your journey - as if they'd protect you from blaster fire, or kidnapping, or whatever joys may have lied in wait for you once you reached the rebel territory.

and he knows you are highly mistrusting of those parasitic Mynocks he calls the Kingsguard; that was in fact the sole reason he'd hired the Mandalorian to be your personal guard.

so your father at least had the sense not to call upon the lord commander to escort you, as it would be likely you'd either be dead come nightfall or your cot would be empty come morning rise.

so he'd insisted on only the Mandalorian instead.

a fiercely dauntless man, a walking shield, as clever as he is dangerous.

after seeing him fight, there was no doubt Mando could protect you from hundreds if he needed to.

there was a stint by another insurgent rebel group, of which your family was battling many currently; they'd made threats on your life, so Mando has shown up with a personal arsenal and enough intimidation to make any man fall to his knees.

it took all of thirty seconds of staring at his figure, hearing his voice, to decide you'd fall to your knees for him, too.

and just before you were ordered to visit the duke of the defecting planet, you were informed he would be replacing the four kingsguard subordinated to Mando who usually escorted you around the kingdom.

one man instead of five? you were sure the King was finally sending you to your death, punishing you for his lifelong regret that you'd not been a son.

but you soon came to like Mando and his stoic, taciturn presence.

and at least your instructions were simply to deliver the ultimatum and leave the atmosphere within the hour; the insurgent's strategists would not, as your father and his Hand had believed, have enough time to read through the full terms before deciding they should just break into the duchess's chambers and slit her throat anyways.

you escaped the planet with nothing but a blaster shot grazing Mando's side and the hate of an entire species of oppressed constituents hurling insults at the Crown.

no slit throat for you - but in the end, you wouldn't even blame them if they'd tried.

you know, now, that your fear clouded your eyes, as bright as they may have been back when Mando was hired as your bodyguard. but they grew thick, the clouds lifting into the stratosphere and slipping into Mando's helmet with the modulated, quiet inhales you've come to know almost as your own. you don't think he ever intended to frighten you.

he was there to protect you. and he has.

he has not left you since arriving to the midway planet, where you'll stay for a few days before returning back to your kingdom planet.

here, there is fresh air, the salt of the sea, deep ripe fruits, and warm breezes. there is no fear here, only heat.

Mando helps with that, though he won't let you admit it.

as you stare at that unwavering gaze, surrounded by the gilded intricacies of the farewell feast, all you can do is imagine him. Mando, his body on yours, that cold, heavy metal against the thrill of your heated bare skin. he tilts his head slightly at you; you wink at him over your cup of wine. the man next to you makes conversation about your father's latest agriculture subsidies.

you look back to find the relaxing - bone chilling- gaze on you still. you wonder if he'll crack before you do.

there have been close calls; once, when you'd drank a bit too much ale in the city square and Mando had carried you back to the keep, tucked you into bed as you tried to pull him in with you - you should stay, Mando - the time he'd agreed to teach you to spar and you'd ended up wide-eyed and pinned beneath his very sturdy frame.

you've seen the pressure on his flightsuit beneath those layers when you'd teased him - his own admission of guilt, that he feels something for you, too.

when you'd asked him to help you shoot a blaster, when you'd left the fresher open to shower, or not particularly covering up when you prepared yourself for the day. though he was always there, always at attention for the slightest danger.

even last night, you felt the stuttering in his breaths when you'd sat on your bed, staring down at him - his hand in the nook of your knee, the other unlacing your sandals that'd crawled up your supple calves the entire day. you'd felt his leather hands brush against the soft skin of your thigh, the way that helmet had stared up at you from between your legs. at your service.

you know he could see the way you jolted when he'd place his hands on your hips in passing, or how you'd get particularly flustered at the flip of a blaster trigger, the flex of a muscle under a flightsuit. you didn't try to hide your attraction to him.

but all of those things; those moments you had - even the subtle brushes of his hand just low enough on your lower back, the smiles you'd share even with the barrier of his cold beskar, the soft conversations you'd hold just between the two of you: all, under the soft shadows of the moons which orbit you.

never in the broad daylight.

those souvenirs, the ones which you held close to your heart in the last few weeks, high up in the pews of your heart's cathedral; all idolized yet forgotten with the mornings that rise in clean beskar glinting and sleep rubbing from your eyes.

DIN is sure you're looking straight through him.

those eyes; you're coy the way you look at him now, over the meal you eat at the table.

swirling with mischief.

that trouble-making look, the one he's studied for months as your personal guard. to the constituents of your family's crown, you were the sweet, young girl destined to marry away and sire many noble children. but behind palace doors, you were alive, you were a bolt of electricity that was never to be tamped down.

Din remembers how fiery you'd been when the King had ordered Mando to escort you to the insurgents with your Ladies of the House. you'd requested they not accompany you in this formidable expedition because, as he recalls you'd said, 'how can my bodyguard spare to protect not me but also ten others? shall we just get it over with and behead us all right here?'

he'd smiled behind that helmet when the King and Queen had heard your snippy tongue.

and so it was just you and him, as it'd been for months. and he likes it that way, as much as he would never admit that; you're a kind woman, much too old to be under the reigns of your parent's power but too caught in the web of bureaucracy to untangle yourself from it.

Din sees you tilt your head at him, blatantly ignoring the conversation at the table. heat courses through him at your adamant, keen attention on him despite him likely being the least worthy of your thoughts in this room. still, as always, you tease him.

a drop of a wink; syrupy, sweet, and much too indecent for the public space; much less for you to deliver towards your personal guard. he burns red under the helmet, heat rushing down towards his groin at the way your lips move around the spoon in your mouth.

you know he's watching you, of course; he's always watching you. it's in the job description.

maybe that's the problem: he watches too much. it's always been hard for him to remain simply professional with you, but it's been much more challenging the last few nights as he's tried to get a few hours of shut-eye in the dead of night; with your sweet soft breaths on that large, plush bed that nearly swallows you whole.

it's been excruciating - watching, as you run your hands over your bare legs, kissed by a sweet silk nightgown. massaging your plush skin, slipping just above the hem before dipping down - your lashes fluttering up at him as he stands tall and at attention over you.

he was a dead man, and he'd known it the moment he laid eyes on you.

you were... a princess. you were untouchable, and he knows better than to fall for one of his jobs. so he'd made a tower of armor to protect him from any attraction; but with every passing day he spent in your company, you happened to slip through those cracks like you were made for it.

he wonders if the true tragedy after all was his not watching: although you'd left the crack in the door when you'd stepped into the fresher last night, toweling off your soft skin as steam curls round the doorframe and pulls at him like the tentacles of some lust-ridden beast. you'd given him one of those coy smiles last night as you'd slinked out of the fresher: "thought you said you were always watching, Mando."

you had him wrapped around your dainty, manicured finger and you knew it.

your brows raise at him as you look back up to where he stands, just on the other side of the table, as the diplomats around you at the table buttering you up with a glass of wine, a divine feast, and fancy political phrases.

it doesn't suit you, as you've claimed to him countless times as you strip the bangled gold from your neck, ears, fingers, thighs and slip into something a little more comfortable and a lot less modest. it doesn't really suit you, he guesses. he likes you much more in the throes of your casual time; wearing trousers and a tunic, blaster strapped to your thigh though you don't quite know how to wield it. when you have no handmaidens to primp you and pluck you, to comb their fingers through your hair or paint fancy colors onto your eyelids. you were heavenly like that, in your most comfortable state.

that word; heavenly. the word sounds adolescent, when he looks at you.

you transcend beauty; you're alive, you're nothing but yourself, a woman with life and regret that her world bore her name long before she was born. you told him, as he escorted you through the war-torn scrappings of the insurgent city the day before, that you wished to be free from the chains of royalty. to the royal court, you were nothing but a mirror for them to project their desires.

when you look up at him with those tempting eyes, smirking at him when nobody at the table is looking - Maker, Din swears he will throw away everything he's worked so hard to keep professional.

YOU had pulled the best of the feast onto your napkin once you bid the hosts thanks for the feast, hiding it under the layers of your gown as Mando walked you back to your chambers.

"I kept you some." you offer meekly now, heat painting your face as you offer the spread to him, having taken off your shoes yourself this time. he'd kept his sight on you the whole time, the visor of his beskar piercing you with each movement.

his helmet tilts in question; you spread open the napkin to reveal the small feast of delicacies you'd packed for him. you wonder how he'd missed it, when his eyes were always on you.

"you shouldn't have." he's demure in tone, shifting from his casual position leaning against one of the stone pillars near the intricate dressing screen to standing evenly on both long legs; you smile gently, heart fluttering.

"I thought you deserved some of the feast." you reason, "you did more work than I did, after all." you grin, shrugging a shoulder. you feel the fabric slide over your bare shoulder and it brushes against you like a feather; a ghost of lips that could never be blessed upon your skin.

cursed to always lie in weight under the heavy support of beskar.

but his fingers; they're a different story.

they're gentle, tingling as they brush up the expanse of your deltoid, cascading with a buttery kind touch to return your dress to its rightful place. his hand, swallowed by the leather that protects you so devotedly, trails down your arms, soothing every goosebump that rises in its path. your hand catches his wrist before he can pull away; the tantalizing, intoxicating air in the room rendering him languid as you pull, gently, until your lips press gently to the tip of his thumb.

his breath falters in a staccato as you gently, tenderly press kisses to the tips of each finger; each, a promise. an unnamed affection for the man who does nothing but protect, nothing but exhilarate. the movement feels like the stretch of a plastic band, stretching the tensile strength of your aptitude for waiting, for restraining yourselves.

you wait with baited breath for it to snap in your faces.

it doesn't, though. his hand falls away gently, leaving you to still orbit around each other like lonely stars, crossing paths every few blue moons.

when he speaks, he sounds almost strained. "thank you, ner cyar'ika. you are kind."

your cheeks are warm and they heat up more when you smile up at him. and this time when you step away into the fresher, you make sure the door is fully closed.

the water is warm, curling tendrils of milky sweet oils that bathe your skin in a sweet, plush aroma. you return to the main room slowly after you bathe, ensuring he'll have enough time to return his helmet to its proper place before you see. you wring your hair out with your hands as Mando rises from where he sat on the loveseat; his full height shining that reflective metal against you. your warped, clean, scrubbed reflection stares back at you.

he.... he sees you.

you've always noticed it; maybe that's why you'd commanded your father's men to leave you at the first sight of the Mandalorian's skills - you see a lot of yourself in him. a life concealed behind the preceding reputation: a princess - young, beautiful, generous, stagnant. a Mandalorian - bounty-hunter-turned-guard, sturdy, resourceful, rough.

mirrors follow you no matter where you go. they've been thrust upon you your entire life, every snaking hallway of the kingdom winding down reflective images of your youth, bouncing you from person to person, nothing but a blank canvas for the aristocracy to paint their whims upon.

you suspect, as you stare at Mando's unwaveringly reflective armor, that he understands that more than either of you could know. your heart soars with affection as you pad up to him, craning your neck to take in his entire height.

"did you enjoy it?" you ask with a small smile, combing your fingers through your wet hair. he nods, "yes, cyare. thank you."

you shake your head, unburdened by the gesture of gratitude. "let me guess- your favorite was the..." you pinch your chin with your fingers, scrunching your nose as you pretend to think. "chocolate cake." you say finally, tilting your head as you try to gage his reaction.

a tilt of a helmet, flickering in the candlelight of your chambers. "yes." he sounds surprised; as if you didn't know just as much about him as he knew of himself. it sparks butterflies in your stomach.

"I know you like it sweet, Mando." you tease, sending him a soft wink as you set your face cloth down on the table he leans against; you stare up at him from this angle, your movements molasses as you smile, hand sneaking around his ribs to hold him lightly. his hand rises tentatively to steady your waist, thumb rubbing the satin of your nightgown. "don't worry, I do too." you whisper.

he sighs.

it's a soft, gentle thing; one that nobody would dare imagine your big, bad Mandalorian protector to ever release. but you know him. you see him - Mando is many things, and one of them is hesitant. not unwilling, or shy: hesitant.

(you'd wait a thousand lifetimes for him.)

"cyar'ika," he starts, tone slipping into that gently warning one - the kind he gets when he's feeling bashful. "I don't like it when you tease me." he chides, and it's - kriff, it's playful. you can almost see the grin behind that helmet; his fingers pinch at your sides gently and you screech with laughter, swatting away his touch but hoping he'll soon return it, much like a magnet.

"you do, though." you defend, emboldened by the privacy and the budding tenderness that coaxes you into his arms. his hands soothe over your hips as you stare in silence.

warmth surrounds you; coaxes you to mutter it-

"stay with me, tonight?" you whisper, eyes wide at your own words, shocked you'd finally given in to all of the hunger that has swirled between you for all this time. his helmet tilts. "I am always here with you. my job is to watch you." he says gently, the lilt of guilt ever present in his voice.

you shake your head, eyes shutting in frustration - not at him, never - at who, then? your father? your mother? the last name you've been cursed with for your life? the privilege, the restraint?

"Mando." you say, pressing your palms flat against his chest. "you know what I mean." your eyes swirl with emotion: please, Mando, I can't keep waiting like this.

he waits. "it would be wrong."

you tilt your head, "it wouldn't." but you, much like him, are at a loss for words. a life of inoculation has rendered you unable to express any semblance of amorous emotions, even to this man - the one who is your confidant, your protector, and possibly your only true friend in this world. "I need you. I will-" you swallow, your heart thundering with desire, "I will do anything for you, Mando."

you can't resist the growing wetness in the apex of your thighs as his helmet moves over your figure, wrapped in a silky robe and still wet from bathing. he hums lowly, a long and slow sound, his head tilting ever so slightly as you clench your thighs in search of relief from the growing pressure.

"I have wanted you since I met you." he sighs, hands falling from your shoulders. "but... I shouldn't touch you."

DIN can see your eyes flicker down as he says it.

maker damn you; you've always been too clever for him. he sees the hunger swirl in your blown out pupils, the same hunger that plagues his mind and has sent blood rushing downwards. he feels himself throb as you grin up at him, lashes fluttering as a droplet of silky water trails down the expanse of your bare, awaiting neck.

you know him, you see him. and he thanks all of the stars that you know how badly he needs you, too.

"well, if you can't touch..." you tilt your head to stare up at him through your lashes, loosening the robe which covers your silk nightgown; each inch that slips down your body, Din feels himself stiffen and heat with desire. "...you can at least watch." you whisper, letting the robe drop before you step back from his figure; his eyes trace over every curve, each smooth line and jagged bump.

when you're far enough away, he lets out a shaky breath. "gar Kelir ruin ni, dala" he mutters to himself, swallowing thickly as your figure slinks away from him, traipsing onto your plush bed.

his heart thunders in his chest; you lie on your back, gently, eyes meeting his somehow through the shield of beskar as you move your hands slowly, slowly up your legs. silk catches on your deft fingers as you tease yourself, sighing in relaxation.

Din, standing rigid as a pole as he watches you, cannot look away. you seem flushed, even as your fingers trail over your breasts, toying with the pert nipples which poke through the smooth fabric of your dress. a whimper; high-pitched, breathy as your eyes splinter to Din again. "fuck," you whisper, one hand dragging down to torturously drag the hem of your gown upwards, up, up-

he's salivating.

your thighs, plush and welcoming, spread as you spread your glistening cunt for Din to see. for him, he realizes, only for him. a dark wash of possession shudders his whole being as you let out a whimper, the cool air hitting your wet, hot heat as your fingers start to spread your juices; it takes every ounce of restraint from Din to not just pounce on you, take you right now.

your finger finds your swelling clit and your strangled groan sounds too much like his name - your eyes are hooded, littered with desire and pleasure as you lie out on display for him.

he can't help but watch; his cheeks, hot. his hands, clenched - his heart, thundering, beating hard as Din watches you touch yourself with hungry eyes. your moans are smooth, melodic to his ears as you slowly dip one finger into your heat, whimpering as the stretch as your greedy little hole swallows you up.

he can't stand it.

Din takes a step forward, a staggering, desperate step towards the bed- your eyes snap up from where they'd watched you take your own fingers, eyes blown wide. you whimper, you goddamn whimper it, "M-Mando."

YOU almost pass out when he mutters it, low and baritone.

"take it off." Mando mutters darkly.

you stop your languid pumps as you stare up at him, eyes wide as you see him, now looming just over you, eyes trained still on your heat.

slowly, you sit to peel the dress off of yourself, the material catching on your nipples and sending a shiver down your body.

you're soon bare; laid out for him, your entire body on display for him as you stare up, chest heaving with desire. his helmet does not leave your form as he watches your hand snake back down, toying with your wetness as it pools out of you, dripping onto the mattress below you.

there are thousands of things you wish to say; nothing escapes you except whimpers and moans, the muted, heated pleasure swirling through you as you slip your fingers into yourself, pumping languidly. if you close your eyes, you can almost imagine the bite of cold beskar on your bare chest; the thickness of a warm cock slipping through you.

your eyes stay on him instead, though; the reflection of your squirming, pleasured body on his beskar. you feel sweat sheen your forehead.

your heart nearly stops as Mando slowly starts to palm himself; his cock, hard and strained against the fabric of his flightsuit as his hands pull himself out of the pants. your eyes widen and your fingers start to pump into you quicker, moaning out Mando's name as his hand slowly starts to pump himself.

his cock, skin golden and veins prominent as he pleasures himself to the sight of you. arousal floods around your fingers as your other finger falls to lazily toy with your neglected clit. one hand grasps your breast and pinches a pert nipple, your back arching as you whimper.

you need Mando, you need him.

"fuck, fuckfuckfuck M-Mando, I need you. i-it's not enough, need more." you groan, the dam breaking as the low high you've been riding simmers.

he stops his own movements, his chest heaving beneath the beskar.

"I don't-" you swallow around your dry throat, "I don't think I can cum without you." you admit, heart thundering as you stare up at the beskar wall. "please."

he pauses and your words hand in the air; suspended by a string, one that is tight and ready to snap.

"stand up, princess." he orders.

DIN almost smiles at the speed at which you scramble on eager legs, to stand up, staring up at him with wanton need. he takes a deep breath before one hand reaches out to graze the swell of your breast; the plush give of soft skin, the goosebumps that trail behind his touch. his cock twitches as your hands find him, pumping slowly as you bite your lip.

he groans at the soft feeling of your gentle hands around his thickness; your lips grazing over his beskar chestplate.

his hands tug you as he falls to the mattress; a squeal leaves you as your hands grip onto his shoulders, "Mando!"

he grins beneath the helmet.

the smile slowly fades into a grunt of pleasure as you eagerly find your place straddling his hips; your wet hot cunt envelopes his cock with your slick, rubbing him as you whimper. "fuck, cyar'ika." he grunts. "gonna fuck you nice and good. promise." he mutters.

you smile as you nod, "maker, Mando. I've-I've dreamt of this." you mutter. he smirks- he knows you have. he's heard it.

but the pride is soon washed away with shock and pleasure as you line his head up at your entrance, easing onto him gently; his hands squeeze your bare skin and he wishes he could pull his gloves off and really feel you.

dank ferrik, you are so tight around him; swallowing his thickness in your greedy cunt as your breath stutters, gasping at the stretch. you're hot, wet, and Din's eyes shut tight at the feeling. kriff, he won't last long.

you take him gently, slowly, and all Din can do is breathe through it and resist his hips from bucking upwards and spearing you into two.

his brain is a puddle as you fully sheath yourself on him, thighs plush and shaking as you swallow him.

"that's good." he mutters, breath shaky, his hands guiding you to move against his hips, "how does it feel, princess?"

"Mando, fuck, y'so big, filling me-" you're moaning and he thinks he may pass out; heavenly, heavenly, you you you-

you groan as you start to fuck yourself on top of him, your gummy warm walls coaxing Din towards his high, having been spurred along by the pleasure you'd been giving yourself earlier.

you shudder at the curling sensuality of his words and he can feel you gripping him tighter and tighter, pulsing around him and dragging him down with you into the depths of pleasure. shivers of pleasure coast down your entire body as Din starts to piston up, his thick length, smooth and hard, spearing into your hot cunt. your desire drips down and smothers the fabric of his flight suit; briefly, he thinks he will never wash them again. your breath is laborious as you near your high- Din chases his, too, because this has already gone on for too long and he's greedy, as greedy as your tight, pretty cunt is and-

he lets out a splintering moan when you cum with a scream; your legs quivering, weakening as you slump against him. Din fucks you through your high with a moan of his own, pushing up into your pulsing pussy, the wetness easing him to spear into you with a fire of ecstasy.

"good- you're so good, y'feel so good, Mando," you whimper. that's it for him - he cums with a long groan, release snapping through him with a moan of your name.

he sees colors, shapes of you in a meadow, spread on a blanket with him taking you from above; with you riding him in the cockpit of his ship; you, thighs spread on your father's throne while he delves his tongue through your plush folds.

you are his. you will always be his, nobody else's. he will consume you.

he fucks up into you as he rides through his high, his seed smearing your chanel as he holds you close. "fuck," he mutters, rolling you both onto your sides as his hand caresses your cheek.

"s'good." you mumble, smiling at him.

he smiles back. you can't see it, but he knows you can feel it.

"m'not done with you yet, princess." he promises, tugging you towards the edge of the bed, spreading your legs to see his own seed leaking out of you, mixed with your own wet, sticky spend. it's a sight better than any he's ever seen; shivers of desire roll down Din's spine.

and then Din spends his time on top of you, pulling orgasm and orgasm from you until you're crying, shaking and heaving breaths; he's shaky, drunk from the pleasure of your wet arousal. he aches to taste you, to coax you to sleep with his tongue lapping up your spend; he needs to taste you.

perhaps, another time.

he soothes himself for now with his fingers, his cock; another time, he will taste you.

---

YOU are exhausted. you can barely stay awake; but as Mando lays with you between the sheets, you can't help but feel so alive. the sun starts to creep towards the horizon line, over the shimmering sea; the gentle breeze of the world flowing through the faint curtains.

"Mando?"

he cranes to look down at you, his thumb tracing over your spine.

"in the morning," you start, your hand trailing over his beskar. you figure it isn't comfortable to don this armor in the plush of your mattress; he stays no matter, willing to give you what you want. always, whatever you want. forever.

him.

you chew your lip, "will we- I mean, I just..."

a thumb, warm though marred with old leather, pulls your lower lip from the clutches of your pearled teeth, soothing over the plush, bitten skin. a shiver runs down your spine as he coaxes you to stare up into that endless helmet.

"what is it, mesh'la?" his voice is deep and soothing in its modulated baritone. you preen at the nickname in his native tongue and though he has willingly taught you words and phrases of his language, you are unsure of this one's translation. it sounds lovely coming from him.

"please don't take me back." you whisper.

he tenses under you; you can feel it. you wish you didn't have to plague him with your burdens of asking him such a crime; to take the duchess, the girl made of nothing but stardust, and give her the life she deserves.

a whisper of your name. quiet, an exhale gentle and barely picked up by the modulation function of the helmet.

DIN has been waiting for you to say it.

he wonders just about when he realized you were going to ask him to take you away. was it just now, after you'd finally connected in bliss? was it last night, when he'd taken a blaster shot to protect you - his job, of course, but a lifetime of debt to repay to him, you'd claimed - or, perhaps, was it all those months ago?

your words pull him from his shock as you mutter softly.

"would you take me with you? away?"

all the moments shared between your two souls wait with baited breath as Din tries to find his words through his thundering heart.

"in the morning..." he parrots your words from before, but with a different tone. regret. his heart thumps as you tilt your head, bare shoulder glinting in the light of the moons. "will you still want that? will you want..." he doesn't finish the question, but he doesn't have to. not with you. want me?

you look at him with eyes so soft he almost melts. "I've always dreamt of leaving my life. it's not who I am." you're firm in your words, hand curling over his shoulder as you blink, "I never thought I would act on it. I had nothing to do, nowhere else to go. but now..." you shrug and he starts to feel hot at the implications in your voice.

Din's heart thuds importunately under your sweet palm; could you feel it, under all the layers that separated his body from your bare one?

"if-if you'd have me... it'd be a dream to stay with you. wherever you go."

Din can't breathe; so many words burst to the forefront of his mind, but all he does is stare in awe.

you'd been watching life through the jail of your parent's grasp your whole life; and what is the princess of a mid-rim planet to the rest of the galaxy?

stardust.

"wasted dreams?" you ask softly, shaking your head, "that's worse than death, Mando."

YOU fall asleep with Mando's arms wrapped tightly around your middle; the weight of beskar pushing you deeper into the comfort of knowing you've spent your last night ever in this system.

his words echo in your head.

in the morning, mesh'la, we will leave here. wherever you'd like.

it's illicit; the things you're about to do, the traditions which will be seared. your eyes, bleary with exhaustion and hope, looks to the mirror across the room.

you lie in the arms of the Mandalorian, bare besides the plush sheets which wrap around your figures - and when you stare into the reflective piece of decor directly across, it's you who stares back in the reflection. you smile to yourself.

stardust.

those moments, you hope, will shine in broad daylight now in tandem with the sweet secrets after midnight.

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the-doomed-witch · 9 months

Text

SHOWER THOUGHTS

Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader (no pronouns used)

Summary: Wanda just kinda ✨punishing✨ you

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY; MINORS+MEN DNI. not proof read. masturbation, exhibitionism but like in private?, top!wanda, degradation, kind of praise?, shower sex, heavy orgasm control, vibrators, oral (r receiving), fingering (both), etc etc you get all that. this is smutty

Author’s Note: well anyways hi i randomly had a ✨thot✨ about the shower thing, hope you like it ;)) besides, wanda with nipple piercings 🤤

(gif credits to creator)

MASTERLIST // NAVIGATION // REQUESTS CLOSED

— ✦ —

The absence of Wanda was frustrating. Whenever she was off to work related trips, she always left with you begging for more. “Don’t touch yourself when mommy is away, okay baby?” she says, every single time before she leaves. And you nod like an obedient pup. So you are used to it all.

But it was different this time, she’d been gone for too long a trip. The heat between your thighs has been throbbing for days now. And today, it’s time for her to return.

Unfortunately for you, her flight has been delayed, and she’s gonna take a few more hours to arrive. You, a fully frustrated and wild driven person, had to wait another 6 hours for Wanda to come and take care of you.

It can’t be hard, a bit of dry humping here and there at every given instance should work for a few hours. Except it clearly doesn’t.

You do your everyday tasks, trying to distract the tingling sensation underneath. Fuck, it’s hard to even walk around in the supermarket. You go back home and lay down on the bed, try to sleep, and whatnot.

You estimate about 2 hours before Wanda reaches home, so your hands instinctively reach the belt around your waist, unlocking the buckle. The pants go down, and along goes the black lace you specifically picked out for the day.

Gently goes first finger in, then goes the second. Insert a third one, and you’re panting heavily. It’s not even close to the magic of Wanda’s hands. Wanda’s hands. Oh. You daydream of her fingering you instead of yourself. Soft, little moans and pants.

“Guess who hasn’t been a good girl for mommy.” you suddenly hear a familiar voice and freeze in your actions, fingers still deep inside of you. A part of you is overly excited to see her after more than a week, the other part is scared of all the things she would be doing to you just because of this.

“M-mommy I was so tired. I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll get to that later. But first, let me see how you fuck your dumb self honey. Move your fingers, show mommy what she’s taught you.”

You shift your position in bed to give her a better view of it all, legs spreading wider and wider. The wet sloshing sounds fill the bedroom when you thrust your fingers in and out of the pussy, as Wanda enjoys the show.

As your moans grow louder, she grabs your wrist and holds it in place. The sudden loss of pace made you shudder from head to toe. “Mommy!” you scream out loudly.

“What? You thought you could come despite not following my orders? You thought mommy wouldn’t punish you? What a whore.”

Her hand reaches your neck, holding you in place as she climbs on the top. Slowly, she bends down and captures your lips in a deep kiss. She then pulls away and caresses your forehead with her other hand, whispering, “I missed you, detka, so much. Care to take a shower with me? I could really use a hot shower today.” With a strained voice, you mumble a yes.

— ✦ —

She pulled your wet naked body against hers, behind you. Taking the handheld shower in her hands, she held it against your throbbing cunt. It felt fucking good, but the pressure was shaking your entire body.

“Tell mommy you’re sorry for touching the pussy that belongs to her.”

“I’m s-o-sorry, mommy. I promise I won’t do this again.”

“Say it again.” So you repeat it. “Tell me that this pussy belongs to me and me only.” The pressure of the water had left you incapable of speech. You pause for a moment and stutter, “Th-” Before any other word comes out of your mouth, she sets it to full speed. God.

“Say it, bitch. Or do you want me to punish you?” she pinches your right nipple hard and you let out an animalistic moan. Your back arches, as you keep a grip on the tiled bathroom wall and the fogged glass on the other side to stop yourself from falling down. “This p-pussy is all y-yours, mommy. N-no one else’s.”

“Good.” she speaks in a sultry voice against your earlobe. Her right hand is completely focused on ruining your cunt with just a hand shower, and the other is gripping your body. You can feel her wet tits behind you, along with their piercings.

She moves your slick hair out of her way and starts leaving bite marks all over your shoulders, collarbone, neck, and back. With each bite, you let out more and more shrieks. It all comes down to you asking permission to come, and her denying it.

She places the shower back and you arch at the loss of all the friction. “Let mommy play a little more.” she says, and you submit once again.

Throughout the steamy shower, besides relaxing herself, her hands glided along your whole body. She would grab your breasts, chin, waist, neck. Occasionally, she inserted a digit inside of you, and pulled out immediately. You would take it all just as she wanted, sometimes holding her tits and nibbling on her piercings, too.

It was a pleasing torture till she brought you back inside the bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

Wanda tells you to lay down on the bed. So you do, and spread yourself all over, finally excited for her to get rid of the burning sensation you’ve been feeling down there. She rummages through a drawer, searching for a nice toy for her to use.

Back to the bed, she brings a vibrator. “Aw honey, look at you, so needy that your legs are so apart. Why don’t you have some patience? Let mommy take care. I’m gonna tie your hands now, okay?” and here you nod like a pup yet again.

She ties your hands behind you, and makes you sit up. She sits opposite to you, and turns on the toy. Finally, you think, it’s the moment. She licks its head seductively till it’s drenching in her saliva before she places it on her own folds. “M-mommy-”

“Not now baby, mommy wants a good time for herself. You can watch her come, and maybe get to taste it if you’re good.”

Wanda’s moans are heavy, as she tortures her clit with the toy. Her legs tremble, trying to close in but she keeps them apart for you to see. The second you moan at the sight of her, she comes hard, making a mess on the bed.

She shifts her body, and rubs all of her cunt against yours till you are covered in her juices. Your now oversensitive body gives in and you come against her. She pulls you into a deep intense kiss as you both grind against each other. Drops of sweat roll down her face as she tries hard not to break eye contact with you.

Her hands grab the vibrator again, and she places it between the two of you. As if drinking your screams down, she holds you in for a kiss for longer than you could keep it. You come again, and when her fingers find their way in, you do it once again.

— ✦ —

“Mommy please. No more… hurts.”

“One small taste would do, baby? Can I taste you once again? Just a lick, I promise.”

“Mmhmm”

She goes down, and tastes your messy cunt, humming as she eats you out. You twitch at her nibbling on your folds. Your hands grab her auburn hair to pull her head away, but your thighs close in on her. You release yourself undone all over her face yet again. She gets back up, placing her lips against your lips softly, letting her tongue give you a taste of yourself.

She doesn’t stop soon, but when she does, your entire body is quivering and so is hers.

“Fuck Wanda, that was so… so fucking hot.”

“Oh Y/N… you don’t know how fucking needy I’ve been for as long as I’ve been away. I needed you so bad-” Looking at her state, she hasn’t clearly finished yet. You begin pumping your fingers in and out of her rapidly. Her head rises up as her chest contracts and expands with her puffs. She repeats, “Oh goodness- so bad.”

Her lips once again clash against your in a sloppy kiss, she’d been obviously desperate but hesitated to show it, unlike you.

“Wans, I love you so much. I’ll be a good girl next time, I promise.”

“Oh malyshka, you are a good girl to me. You’re my good girl.”

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff smut #mommy wanda #wanda x reader #wanda x you #scarlet witch

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down-in-dixie · 2 years

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Dr. Megan Hunt --- Body of Proof

#my gifs #body of proof #dr megan hunt #dana delany #bop gifs

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indigovigilance · 13 days

Text

Bullet Theory

Thesis: Crowley passed Aziraphale a bullet during the Final Fifteen kiss. This bullet contains his memories. He tucked it under his tongue, then began to access the memories during the ride up the elevator.

Edit: debunked by God himself, in response to this post. As a reminder, please don’t send fan theories to NG.

Proof:

Glint in the mouth

Inspo credit to this post by @somehow-a-human

Yeah so we were already paying way too much attention to that very special four-letter word we thought Aziraphale was going to say, but it so happens that during that cut-off phoneme is the only time you can see this shiny object in his mouth. (catching this on the right frame was emotionally painful and I’m sending Gavin Finney my therapy bills (actually no I’m not I love you very much sir)).

So that’s the basis of this theory. Crowley passed Aziraphale a bullet that he then tucks under his tongue.

Add’l Evidence Post-Kiss

Aziraphale works his jaw after raising his fingers to his lips: [gif]

Then when the Metatron comes in, he turns his back on the Metatron and raises his hand. I originally thought he was wiping his eyes. Now I think he’s raising his hand to his mouth, maybe to spit out the bullet, maybe to make sure it’s secured under his tongue.

Credits Scene

Aziraphale has the craziest fucking look on his face through the credits, we can all agree. But towards the end, his eyes flicker back and forth, as if he is watching or reading something. Then he smiles. I hypothesize that he is still accessing his memories during this time, and getting the information he needs to [redacted].

Thematic Justification: The Bullet Catch

Aziraphale having a bullet in his mouth as part of a two-man act of deception is not a fresh concept by the time we get to The Final Fifteen.

Additionally, the use of surreptitious modes of communication, where messages are passed from person to person inaudabily, is introduced in this same magic trick.

NB1: I wish I could credit the person who I first saw point this out (relatively recently). It wasn’t even tagged as meta, I don’t think. But the gist was there’s some parallelism between “aim for my mouth but shoot past my ear” and the “pin the lips on the lips” move that Crowley pulls in the Final Fifteen. If I find it I will properly cite.

NB2: One hypothesis that has circulated around, I think creditable to @sendarya, is that Aziraphale mouths “trust me” to Crowley just before he gets on the elevator. This isn’t necessary to the Bullet Theory but it would be thematically consistent.

Small objects carry memories

Why a bullet? Well, it’s a small object that has meaningful significance between the pair of people involved, much like:

Beelzebub introduces us to the idea that a small object like a fly can be used as a storage container for memories. We also see that the object entering the body of the person is a viable way for the memories to be delivered.

(btw Jon Hamm if you’re reading this, you have very pretty eyes)

“I keep a derringer in a hollowed out book”

K, so it’s not like Crowley is just carrying a bullet loaded with Aziraphale’s memories around with him at all times, is it? (I mean, it could be, but probably not. I’ll just point you to this meta for my theories on why, if Crowley had anything that needed to be kept safe, he would keep it in the bookshop.)

We learn in S2E4 that Aziraphale keeps a gun in a hollowed out book somewhere in the shop. A gun wouldn’t be any good without bullets, right? This may not be the reason the derringer was left as a Chekhov’s Gun for S3, but it’s a possibility. If Crowley wasn’t already in possession of a bullet, he knew that he could find one in the shop. Even more likely, the exact bullet used in the 1941 magic trick is a precious keepsake being kept somewhere in the bookshop, and Crowley chose to use that exact bullet because of the memories already directly attached to the object.

Why Aziraphale even has memories to be returned to him

We know that Aziraphale could have had his mind wiped because Heaven has done it before. Certainly once. Probably twice. We know this because when Metatron is announcing that Gabriel, alongside having his memories erased, is being demoted to 38th class, Muriel pipes up and reminds us that they are 37th class:

So this wasn’t a “just Gabriel” thing. Mind-wiping is a routine form of personnel management in Heaven. There is NO reason for us to believe that it didn’t happen to Aziraphale. But in case you need a reason to believe it, here goes:

We know from our interactions with Jim that the person whose memories are missing (1) doesn’t necessarily know and (2) isn’t necessarily distressed by that fact, even if they do. Muriel also fits this “cheerful empty shell” archetype. You know who else does? Ding ding ding. The one and only A. Z. “wiggles with delight” Fell.

I can already hear your very valid counter-argument. This guy is actually terrified out of his mind on any given day that his romance with a demon will be discovered. Yes. Because he’s involved in a romance with a demon. The other two angels we’ve met don’t have this issue. Beyond that, though, these three characters share more in common with each other disposition-wise than any of them do with the other angels we’ve met (Uriel, Michael, Sandolphon, etc.).

We also know that Aziraphale has been [demoted] at some point from Cherub to Principality. This is book canon:

"Technically Aziraphale was a Principality, but people made jokes about that these days."

This has also been confirmed (insofar as Neil Gaiman ever confirms anything) by Word of God:

(marketing video screengrab clipped for brevity)

We don’t know for sure it was a demotion, but I think we have enough evidence to infer that with a high degree of confidence.

Anyways.

Summary: Aziraphale is a cheerful angel who was demoted and has a name that is not biblical canon. This evidence indicates that was probably mind-wiped. This is not the first time I’m proposing this. It won’t be the last.

How Crowley Did It

My meta on Continuity Errors gives the complete proof for why I believe that Crowley is able to stop time without Aziraphale knowing, and I propose in that meta that the kiss was a cover-up for the exertion of effort necessary to pull that off. I further proposed that during the pause, he retrieved something from the bookshop. At the time of writing, I didn’t know what. Now, I have an inkling that it was a bullet.

If you need a refresher on Clock Theory, here’s one. The idea is that the clock behind Aziraphale shifts by fifteen minutes from before the kiss to after the kiss. This is consistent with a theory that Crowley paused time (but the clock kept running) in order to retrieve the bullet, dump Aziraphale’s memories into it if he hadn’t already, and then return to transfer the bullet to Aziraphale.

Why Crowley Kept the Secret So Long

As with Continuity Errors, I am ending this meta with a very unsatisfactory “I don’t know.” The motivation for Crowley to keep Aziraphale’s memories from him until the very moment he’s about to leave must have been a strong one. I think it has something to do with why Crowley was so insistent on trying to get Aziraphale to run away with him, instead of dealing with whatever’s coming. But as with Continuity Errors, I suspect that the good omens meta hivemind (and the vast collection of people who are posting clues, you have no idea how important you are) will assemble yet more breadcrumbs that we can follow to some sort of hypothesis.

Until then,

(here's my meta index if you would like to read more stuff like this)

#good omens meta #bullet theory #the final fifteen #crowley #aziraphale #good omens gabriel #good omens muriel #good omens #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #good omens theory #good omens speculation #good omens analysis #good omens clues

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