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#i need to get this out there otherwise ill lose my shit

sadkidwarexpert · 1 year

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so my lips are dry and cracked and swollen because of mouth breathing and i also got sick? It's 7.24am and i still haven't fallen asleep (it's the weekend so it's fine) and i am about 17 lectures behind in internal medicine, my body is sore all over from a single set of workouts on Wednesday and at this point i am so overridden with anxiety that it feels like i drink it by the gallon.

#i need to get this out there otherwise ill lose my shit #sickness is mild for now #ebonirants #why did i get into med again?

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bunnyreaper · 8 months

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Hello! First of all, I LOVE your blog!! Could you please do forced breeding with John Price if you haven't? Maybe older roomate Price..

ahh hi, thank you!

older roommate!price, who you moved in with due to a recommendation from a friend in the military. otherwise you probably would've been pretty hesitant to move in with any kind of older guy, but your friend assured you john price was a good, decent man.

plus he was barely ever there--basically a guest in his own flat rather than anything else. most of the time you had free reign as he was deployed or on base. when he was home, he was incredibly courteous--neat and organised and not at all a nuisance.

you knew john worked hard, saw some shit, so when he was home you liked to cook and bake for him, grab him beers and keep him company--and you managed to only blush a little when he made a joke about how you're basically his young, pretty housewife.

the truth is that you want him, bad. you shouldn't have a crush on your older roommate who surely doesn't view you in that way. but it's hard to not feel something when he greets you in the kitchen, tight shirt and grey sweatpants, a lazy smile as he reaches around you to grab a mug--all while telling you something smells amazing (and those baby blues are looking straight at you and not the food)

or when you're sat watching a movie together and you get distracted watching the way his hand wraps around the neck of the beer bottle you just fetched for him (while he gave you a wink and a thanks, love) or the way his neck bobs as he swallows or how he so happily will watch anything with you even if he hates it.

so it shouldn't have surprised you too much when he caught you staring, and finally decided to do something about it. everything changed in an instant as he pulls you into his laps, fingers splaying over your thighs as he pushes you down onto his clothed, hard cock.

he takes everything slow, stripping you down while he remains dressed--kissing your cheek, your neck, the tops of your breasts. he makes you drip and tremble, systematically undoes you under tender kisses and lingering touches that move closer and closer to where you need him most.

he has you exposed, fully at his disposal as he lounges back and pushes his sweatpants down, freeing his thickness that looks way too fucking big to be inside you. with the way he's touching you, with the way he's rubbing the head through your slick, drippy holes, it's so hard to think. and he just leads so naturally, coaxes you into everything he wants under his convincing touch and devilish lips.

you know you should say something when he slips inside, you know you should tell him he has to pull out but it just feels so fucking good. he's older, experienced, knows exactly how to touch you, how to roll your hips against him in just the right way to steal your breath from you.

and he looks so fucking feral, driving his cock as deep inside you as it'll possibly go, grinding himself against your insides and getting lost in the pleasure. you're practically a doll on top of him, being manipulated by his large, rough hands. "feels too good, love. jus' wanna make you feel good too. you deserve it, f'being my little wife."

wife. the word shoots through you like lightning, not technically true and yet so accurate in many ways. you keep his home warm, keep his belly fed and now have committed to keeping his balls drained. all the duties a good little wife tends to. you moan out deliciously, lost in the idea of being his.

his arms wrap around your waist, anchoring you to him with no escape.

"how about i make you a mother, yeah?" he coos, rocking in deeper--clearly losing his mind with the pleasure. "really make you mine."

it's just the dirty talk, you convince yourself, its not something he's going to actually do.

"ill come home knowing I have a pretty little thing like you growing my kid." his words turn to growls, his arms like a vice around you as panic sets in and you try to wriggle free. "john, please I don't--" it's hard to finish your sentence with the surge of pleasure as he bounces you up and down his length, latches onto your neck with a filthy kiss. you're so young, and he's so much older, you can't become a mother...

and yet every movement of john's hips brings you closer and closer to that eventuality, his strength too much for you to overcome as you try to free yourself from your fate.

john's eyes fix on yours, something so soft in his gaze despite the way he's forcing you to take his cum. "shhh, i know what's best for yer, promise, darling. just let me fuck a kid into you."

#john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #bunny mail #lmaoooo today really is breeding day in the bunny house

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stqrgir1e · 7 months

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smoking with tgc boys !!!

isaac, larry, bigt, yumi, and nick! <3 written while I was genuinely stoned for authenticity. jorge killed it with using the words bro and homeboy way too much 😝

mentions of . . . smoking, drug use, cuss words??? established relationship w/ reader + girl mentioned like once otherwise pretty gn. this might be a bit confusing if your a non-smoker since i wrote for a stoner!reader ( petnames used ➜ hon, babe, baby, pretty girl,)

Isaac ➜ we all know homeboy is more of a drinker. it definitely would be on a dare or bet, he would wanna prove to you he could handle his substances.

"who said i greened out after one joint?... tanner did?... he's lying, we can smoke tonight and ill show you." he would act all smug about it until he actually was face to face with the lit joint.

he would hold it like a cigarette, and when you stifle a laugh at the fact he does so- he would shrug it off while taking a loooong drag of the joint. exhaling before having a small coughing fit. you couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, his face a shade pinker after the humiliating reaction to the joint. but its Isaac- so of course he would brush it off like nothing.

"been a while since I smoked hon... maybe you should finish the rest of it." he would say nonchalantly while passing the joint back to you- insisting you have to finish it. would use the excuse 'he's doing some voiceovers for a few videos tomorrow and can't risk losing his voice.'

def vibes more with edibles. but he always takes half because thats what the back of the packaging says 😡 "why are you taking three! it says half right here!" he would then shove the packaging dramatically in your face- really he didnt want you to see how low his tolerance was and how high he got off half a 15mg edible.

would end up passing out in bed w/ you, gets sleepy especially with edibles/indica. you would mess around and tease him a bit- poking at him while joking how he cannot handle his weed. "nooo, im jus' always down for a nap with you, pretty girl..." he would mumble half asleep, voice drowsy from the high. hella affectionate when high, chronic problem with playing with your hair or like, maybe any bracelets you have on??? i hope this makes sense bro

larry ➜ isn't afraid of the idea of weed, he usually just saves it for social events. like how people are social smokers with cigarettes? larry is like that with weed.

he would get all hyped at a party after seeing you and tanner sharing a one-hitter. "bro! imma need some of that right now." he would act hella shady for comedic effect as well. taking the toke while looking around all mischievously like there was feds hiding in the crowd of the party. you and tanner were stoned- so obviously yall laugh at his antics.

bro is a menace after one hit, isnt even that high he just does it for shits and giggles. lets say nicks filming or some shit- larry is the star of the show. talking his head off in front of the camera while blowing some cart smoke right at the lens. "you see this? its y/n's pen... *takes long hit off cart*... gettin lit tonight." he would definitely hold back his coughs.

speaking of carts, larry is one of those rare mfs that prefer carts over bud. why? he thinks there more convenient- and bud always leaves his nose runny. last time you guys had a smoke sesh date he used up all your sanrio kleenex after smoking 2 bowls 😡

"weed makes my nose run babe! maybe we should've stuck to the cart..." he would say after you complained about him sniffling for the third time. while you were busy explaining why you prefer bud, he would sneakily grab your cart from your hoodie pocket and sneak a few hits. bro is ruthless when it comes to that thing 💀 if you tell him you got the pen on you he's beggin for it.

in fact larry would get a little too comfy with the cart, accidentally almost greening out at a target once when he hit it one too many times in the car. "lets just sit down..." + "on the floor?... in target?..." + "yes babe im telling you just trust me." really thought he was gonna vomit and needed an excuse to sit for a second.

bigt ➜ omg brotha was all over you when you wanted to smoke for your first date!!! he had two little rolling trays set up on his bed prepared for your smoke sesh/movie date.

low-key adorable... literally went out and bought a new one-hitter so you guys would have matching ones, they were green and had little turtles on top of them ): (isnt that so much fun) he wasn't even tryna be cheesy or anything genuinely was just very passionate about smoking. i def feel like him and yumi were smokers in high school so he knows a thing or two abt mary jane. 🤨

"after this bowl i have a gummy we can split..." his tolerance is quite high so he would wanna keep going even after like the fifth bowl. he likes to give his lungs a break though so no carts for him after like the third bowl. edibles from there on out. you know he's gonna be all weird n shit and make you guys split the edible by biting it in half. (like that lady and the tramp shittt bro.)

but at social events and parties??? he's a lot more closed off with smoking- more of a drinker at parties. if he is gonna get high he'll take an edible. "baby weed these days is crazy! I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew guy that got laced with crack!!!" yea he was being sarcastic duhhhh but he was genuinely scared of getting laced at a party.

tanner is a avid cart enthusiast tho!!! he would only use like smoke shop ones though- no street carts for tttt. he would probably prefer zaza's, hes a classic man with taste so he would prefer the cereal milk strain. carts are his go to for when hes just vibing in his room since there pretty much odorless. "I wasn't lying when I said I was smoking zaza!" finds the word zaza hilarious especially when he's stoned.

he takes maaanny tolerance breaks and would probably make you do the same. if you really struggled with staying away from weed he would make t-breaks fun or some shit. (like making a fun little tolerance break sticker chart 😩)

softwilly ➜ nick fr said 🤨 when you asked him to split a bowl with you one random friday night. he eventually agreed because you already had everything set up and he didnt wanna say no after you put all this effort into it ):

"ow! fuck... can you do the lighter babe..." needs help with the lighter, you guys were sat in kind of a awkward position smoking out of his bedroom window since he didnt want any of the guys to question anything 😒 sometimes those flames fight back with the bowls brooo. he has a playlist for smoking after that first time- it kind of becomes a tradition for you guys to try and smoke every friday/weekend (:

his tolerance is worst than isaacs bro. he’s either passed out after the second bowl or laughing at anything that moves. if you guys end up laughing too loud or just making too much noise in general he gets hyper aware about if the boys can hear all the ruckus >:( does not want your smoke sesh to be interrupted. very easily paranoid when high for sure.

he doesn’t love carts- but i mean your his weakness homeboy how can he say no to you every time you ask? “strawberry banana cart?…. fine. one hit, but just to see if it really tastes like strawberry’s and bananas.” it didn’t taste like strawberries and bananas- but he was stoned for the next thirty minutes after that (:

hates the smell of weed. he always has the windows open, a candle burning, incense burning, anything to diffuse the smell of marijuana. he’ll specifically ask you to blow the smoke towards the window- but sometimes you blow it towards the pillows on his bed… or some plushies even just to get a rise out of him. “fuck babe… now my bedrooms gonna smell like kush for a week.” + “it’s just a little smoke!” he would obviously say it sarcastically, he dgaf where you blow your smoke he just wants to be a pain in the ass for funzies.

another big believer in tolerance breaks- but he dosent even know what the fuck a t-break is. he would just tell you he’s taking a break from weed in general. homeboy is very inexperienced in the smoking department and stayed away from it until he was in his early twenties.

yumi ➜ blake definitely has the highest tolerance out of all of them, but he isn’t a raging stoner. probably prefers weed over alcohol especially at parties- has an occasional joint on the weekends or when he has the time but he’s not stoned 247.

yumi is a classic man, he likes classic things. he prefers bud almost over everything else. he won’t turn down an edible but he despises carts because of the aftertaste they have. “babe that shit taste like potting soil… i’ll just take the extra twenty minutes to roll up.” + “it does not taste like potting soil! it’s supposed to be peanut butter and jelly flavored…” after a bowl or two though… homeboy is loving up on the cart!!!! “damn okay… maybe this shit does taste like pb&j…” better be willing to stop at a smoke shop the next day or have your dealer on speed dial because blake is draining that pen 😩

omg he out of all tgc boys fucking loves little smoke sesh dates. like finding a nice little spot off a hiking trail or just in the woods and rolling up together ): he would make sure to have a playlist and everything just like nick this man is soft for you bro. “alright babe are we feelin’ apricot gelato or blue dream today?” very organized with his weed. he knows his favorite strains and doesn’t venture out farther than the ones he knows he likes.

blake is a whole different personality when high, like he’s still blake but… better? idk how to describe it gahhhhh!!! like he’s more laid back, cusses more frequently, very sarcastic, voice a bit deeper/raspier from smoking. “brotha look over there… that bird is straight chillin’ on that tree branch.” + “brotha?…” doesn’t even realize he’s doing it- you would bring it up afterwards and he always denies it. “babe i can promise you i’ve never talked like that when high, maybe you just think i do because your always stoned when i’m high.” if you ever showed him a video of how he talks when stoned he would become hyper aware of how he acts whenever he’s high 💀

homeboy rolls the best joints- how can he not? somehow they always turn out perfectly cylindrical and no leaf actually ever falls out of the joint. he’s got the magic joint rolling hands, what can he say.

omg don’t even get me started on fucking munchies. i am a chronic victim of binge eating while stoned and i have a gut feeling yumi is too. homeboy can be expected to be covered in cheetos dust if he plans on smoking. it brings out the best and worst in him, the worst being eating copious amounts of food in such a short period of time. “your such a fatty babe,” + “am not! you literally scarfed down three zebra cakes an hour ago…”

#tgc #the groupchat podcast #the group #yumi #softwilly #larrycroft #bigt #isaacwhy #isaacwhy x reader #yumi x reader #bigt x reader

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the-way-of-words · 8 months

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You Will Not Be Mine, So Give Me The Night

Noah Sebastian x OFC Content Warnings: Fingering, P in V sex, and infidelity. There are no miscommunications, no misunderstandings here... just two people making the conscious decision to be unfaithful. Contains sexual situations with a fictionalized version of a real person. This is fiction, none of this is real. But if RPF isn't your thing, please hit that back button.

This was a smut prompt request from @itsvictoriaarose with #189 "You're really telling me to stop while both your hands are up my shirt?" and #182 "You can't leave marks." I kinda went back and forth over this for a while, trying to figure out what direction I wanted to take and then I got hit with an angst spell and decided to take it out on Mr. Noah Sebastian. So enjoy?

Special thanks to @signs-of-ill-portent for beta-ing this and just overall being the amazing person you are, and to @throwingmetothelions for telling me to just go for it haha.

tag team: @signs-of-ill-portent @ladyveronikawrites @nerdraging4point0 @cncohshit @jxstthisonce, @shaydayhere @kingdomof-omens @thebadchic

If you would like to be added to a taglist, feel free to send me a message

My master list can be found here

~~~~~~~~~

It starts innocently enough. She's the new guitar tech, shadowing JB and learning the ropes to take over for him now that Jimmy needs him more. Noah can’t help but be a little standoffish. It’s always hard to bring someone new in, but it goes well. She’s good at what she does, and she’s a quick learner when it comes to all their little idiosyncrasies, technical or otherwise, noting Jolly’s preferences and taking them to heart. His people are happy, so he’s happy and he starts to relax into this new normal.

Three stops in, shit hits the fan and while the rest of them are bustling around, trying to fix it and not lose their collective shit when new girl steps up pulling a fix from God knows where. It gets them through the night and off to the next city, where they have a day off to figure out exactly what went wrong. He stops worrying for a bit after that.

They’re three weeks into their eight-week run when Noah realizes he might have a problem. At first he notices the way her nose scrunches when there’s something she can’t fix right away, how she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she thinks it through. He catches himself staring at her mouth more than once, wondering if her lips are as soft as they look. With a mental shake, Noah forces his eyes away from her, letting the sparkle of the ring on her finger taunt him as he unlocks his phone.

His girlfriend’s face smiles back at him from the home screen, and it’s enough to get his thoughts off of her for the time being.

But it only works for so long. The more time they spend together, the worse it gets. He starts to catch her looking at him when she thinks he’s not looking, her head quickly turning away when he looks back, their friendly touches beginning to linger a little too much on the side of Too Long. So he tries to put as much distance between them as possible, but it's not exactly easy when they’re practically living on top of each other on the rig.

She corners him by week five, appearing at his side to lean against the bar next to the stool he's parked himself on.

“Did I do something to upset you?”

Noah can feel her gaze as it burns into him, the same stare he’s felt the past few weeks when she thinks he’s not paying attention. It was one thing when he thought it was one-sided, but he doesn’t think it is anymore.

“Nope,” is all he says, refusing to look at her. Instead, he lets his eyes wander to the other side of the room, watching a few of the others face off at the pool table.

“You sure?” she asks, incredulous. “Because, apart from a sparing glance, you’ve barely been able to look at me for the past two weeks.”

He sighs, letting his head hang as he closes his eyes. "I think you know why…"

"I know," she replies, voice quiet.

"I'm not the only one who feels it, right?" Noah asks as he finally lets himself look at her. She looks tired as she sits on the stool next to his, running her hands up and down her thighs. He tries not to focus on how thick they look under the tight material of her leggings, and how they might feel under his own hands if he were to reach out and touch her; instead, he keeps his eyes trained on her face.

“No. No, you’re not.” The confession makes something flutter in his chest. Excitement, maybe, but it’s quickly tampered by the cool wave of dread that settles over him when she continues. “So, where do we go from here? I really like this job, but if it’s better for both of us if I--”

“Hey, wait, no,” he cuts her off quickly, reaching out to take hold of her hand. “That’s not what I want, and that’s not what I think you should do… because you’re good at this. That shit the first week? The whole show could have gone south if you didn’t figure out a way to fix it. I don’t want to lose you as a tech just because we’re attracted to each other… okay?”

“So what do we do then?” she asks tiredly, staring down at their joined hands. Her skin is warm under his and he can feel the beginnings of electricity sparking under his thumb where he runs it across her knuckles.

Noah shrugs, “We deal with it, okay? You’re engaged for fucks sake, and I have a girlfriend, that’s more than enough for us to push whatever this is to the side and remain professional. We can even use JB as a go between if we need to.”

She scoffs, but it’s more amused than derogatory. "Just ignore it. Is that really the solution you’re suggesting? Healthy.”

That pulls a laugh from him as he raises both of his hands in a mock surrender. “I’m all ears if you have any other suggestions… besides quitting.” He needs her to know he’s serious, because apart from JB, she’s the best tech they’ve had and Noah’s pretty sure Matt would strangle him if he had anything to do with them losing her.

“Okay…” she says, exhaling loudly. “You’re right. We’re both adults here, we can be mature about this. It doesn’t need to be anything more than a strictly platonic work relationship.”

“Exactly.”

Their new found understanding is shaky at best, and it only takes JB’s departure for it to all come crumbling down.

It's the last week, the home stretch. JB's gone off to do his own thing with his own band, and in his absence, all the things that hold them back seem to not matter anymore. Without him as a buffer between them, the ring on her finger doesn't sparkle quite as bright, and the face that smiles back at him from his home screen doesn't carry the weight it once did. Not when she throws her head back to clear the hair out of her eyes and his eyes trace the line of her throat, wondering what kind of sound she'd make if he did the same with his teeth.

He tries not to over-indulge when he’s around her. She feels magnetic when he’s sober, sparks crackling under his fingertips where they brush against hers when he’s riding that first beer feeling, and he knows it’ll only increase the more he puts away. Noah can’t tell if she’s doing the same thing for the same reasons, but he always notices when she stops at one as well. And much as he loathes to say it, he knows right then that it’s only a matter of time before they do something they shouldn’t.

It all comes to a head after their last show. The night goes off without a hitch, and everybody's riding that high, despite how tired they all are. At the after show party, he stops at one, like he always does, but it’s not enough this time.

He tells himself that it’s not a conscious decision to offer her his hand. That it’s the alcohol’s influence as they sneak away hand in hand, out to the rig while everyone else is otherwise occupied.

Noah’s the one who kisses her first, but she kisses him back with fervor, sitting on the table by the small kitchenette, spreading her legs to let him into her space. He gasps into her mouth when her hands slip under his shirt, trailing fire in their wake as they wander the broad expanse of his back, heat pooling in his gut when her tongue slips into his mouth to slide against his. His hands grip her thighs, tugging her closer and it’s not until he pops the button on her jeans that she breaks away.

“Stop…” she pants, the words slipping out between gulping breaths. “We… we gotta stop.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right, but. “You’re really telling me to stop while both of your hands are up my shirt?”

That pulls a breathless laughter from her chest, and Noah tries to ignore the way he mourns the loss of her touch when her hands leave his body, a chill quickly replacing her warmth. “You know I’m right… we can’t do this.”

His head falls forward to rest against her shoulder. “I know.”

But he doesn’t move, doesn’t back away to let her go before they do something they can’t take back. Instead he kisses her bare shoulder, and she doesn’t stop him. Nor does she stop him when he skips over the thin strip of her tank top before letting his lips mark a path to the curve of her neck. She just tangles her hand in his hair with a sigh of his name, tipping her head back as he continues his way around throat where he whispers into the skin, “I don’t want to stop.”

He can feel her throat bob as she swallows before taking a deep breath, her following sigh loud in the empty space around them. It’s quiet as the minutes tick by until she tugs at his hair, pulling his gaze up to meet hers. “You can’t leave marks.”

It’s all the permission he needs.

Noah tears at her jeans, pulling harshly at the zipper before shuffling the denim down her legs until she can kick them off. Sucking two fingers into his mouth, he steps back in between her legs to push her underwear aside, circling her clit before he sinks them into her, all the way to the knuckle.

“Fuuuuck.” Noah curses. She’s so wet inside, and the knowledge that it’s all for him makes him delirious as he fucks her with his fingers. He works her to her orgasm quickly, the sound she makes when he thumbs at her clit just before she shudders around him makes it hard for him to think about anything other than getting his dick inside her. He shoves down his shorts and underwear, trying not to trip as he steps out of them before kicking them somewhere behind.

Noah grips her thighs, pulling her closer to the edge of the table underneath, spreading her legs wide with both of his hands. She’s still spasming when Noah pushes his way inside, the clench and release of her pussy as he bottoms out forces him to pause as he tries to hold his own release at bay, and he refuses to think about anything but her as they rest their foreheads together, panting into each other’s mouths.

“Hey, look at me,” he requests, setting his thumb beneath her chin as his palms rests against the soft skin of her cheek. Her eyes slide open just as he pulls his hips back and the way her mouth falls open in a silent cry as he thrusts back into her is nothing short of beautiful.

For a moment, he wishes things were different, that he could have her spread out beneath him on a bed and take his time, instead of a hurried fuck in an empty tour bus. But then she cants her hips up to meet his, and he’s rocketed back to the present moment so hard his head spins. She floods his senses; all he can see, all he can feel, all he can smell is her, them, as they rock together.

She clutches at him as she cries out, hands fisting into his shirt when he feels his dick brush against a particular spot inside her and he can feel her cunt begin to tighten around him.

“Shit,” Noah gasps, “A-Are you gonna cum again? Gonna cum around my cock?”

She nods, working one of her hands between them to play with herself. “That’s it… that’s a good--” he cuts off with a groan as the quiver of her inner walls threatens to pull him over the edge. Pulling her mouth to his, he smashes their lips together, swallowing her moans as he fucks her through it.

“Oh god…” he pants against her lips, rhythm slipping, “oh fuck, I’m gonna--”

Noah groans, kissing her deep one last time, pumping into her twice more and then he’s pulling out, working a hand around himself until he cums, his release spilling onto the curls above her center and the soft part of her lower belly.

Her hands find his face, brushing the hair that's fallen forward back before pulling their foreheads together. He knows exactly what it is, this soft moment in the afterglow; it's a goodbye for something that never even started and he lets himself bask in it.

With ears still ringing, he pushes away from her, stumbling towards his bunk to pull out an old shirt lodged at the edge of the mattress.

Noah grimaces as he hands it to her. “Sorry, I didn’t have anything else to--”

“It’s okay.” She interrupts.

Noah waits for the guilt to creep in, but nothing comes. Nothing but more want when she pushes past him on the way to her own space, bare ass in full view. He can feel his dick stir back to life at the thought of nipping at the soft cheeks with his teeth, griping the full flesh in both of his hands to hold her open while he fucks her from behind. But he lets it go, choosing instead to find his shorts.

They don’t talk as they redress, crossing in the parking lot silence and returning to others a few minutes apart, just in case.

He gets the wedding invitation three weeks later.

#bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #bad omens rpf #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #rpf #noah sebastian/ofc #noah sebastian x ofc #smut fic #noah sebastian smut #smut prompt fic #cw: infidelity

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fandomfluffandfuck · 2 months

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*Pops into existence right next to you with an absolutely deranged smile on my face* DID SOMEBODY SAY BIG SUB STEVE?!???

I can’t even think right.

I’m picturing a shrunkyclunks situation, personally. Maybe a 2011 era Steve with a Bucky that’s a cute little Stark Intern (maybe Bucky looks like a certain italian we’ve been talking about in dms 👀 but I also adore the idea of sort of a TJ Hammond type).

They’ve been together for about six or so months now, and neither of them can get enough of each other. Steve was nervous about their first time, as it was his first (hey, you try getting action as a closeted chronically ill skinny kid in the 40s). But the way Bucky kissed his neck and told Steve that he was “such a good boy for Daddy” made him see stars. He didn’t even know he liked that!

Now, though, he’s laid out on the bed, whimpering and whining like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. There’s a chance it is. Bucky’s showing him no mercy with the way his hands are grabbing at his chest and the way he’s whispering the filthiest things in his ear.

“You’re such a pretty little thing. My angel. Gonna fuck Daddy like he wants you to?” Steve nods like a bobblehead, hips jerking up as a moan rips its way from Steve’s mouth.

It seems like a lifetime before Steve feels the tight heat that means that Bucky’s made good on his word. He does his best to be good like Daddy says he is and not fuck up into the pure bliss that is Bucky’s body.

“Aww, is my sweet puppy a bit overwhelmed?” Bucky says breathily, making desperation surge through Steve.

“Ah- Daddy! Please, need it! Wanna- wanna be good!” Steve sounds like himself before the serum, he’s so drunk with how good it feels.

“C’mon, sugar. Make Daddy feel good. Be a good little puppy for me.” Steve doesn’t hesitate, making Bucky gasp and moan with how fast and hard his thrusts are.

“G- oh, fuck! Good boy!” Bucky cries out, and Steve whines and never wants to hear anything else.

Once Steve is all cleaned up and is wrapped up happy and floaty in Bucky’s arms, he finally looks up at him with starry eyes.

“You alright, Stevie?” Bucky asks, worry lacing his voice.

“Yeah, Daddy, I’m alright. I love you.” Steve says, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek.

“Aw, sweet thing. I love you too. So much.” Bucky kisses Steve’s forehead, full of adoration and care.

if anyone wants to know, the “certain italian” is a gorgeous man by the name of Francesco Di Raimondo ;)

related to this, and this (I think, haha)

Oh my goddd

✨️them✨️

I don't even have words, just vehement agreement because, yes.

They're both so soft and pretty, and you'd never guess how fucking filthy they get. They both have this skittish, nervousness to them. This is so new and precious and so seemingly innocent yet... Bucky opens his mouth, and immediately Steve is squirming, blushing with his sudden feverish affliction.

H-he, he didn't know that anyone could talk like that!

He didn't know someone would talk to him like that!

He didn't know how badly he wanted it!

He doesn't know, now, though, how he's expected to live without it. All he wants to do is fuck Bucky, it's all he can think about. He can't focus for shit. Otherwise, he just wants to lose himself in him, panting puppishly, thrusting, drowning in how hot and tight and overwhelming he feels. All while Bucky combs his fingers through his hair, encouraging him, keeping his head spinning.

Jesus Christ, I like this pairing too much 👀 Thanks for sending this my way!

#asks #anon provided writing #sillysickly #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #au

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awaytobeunshaken · 6 months

Text

Ashrym Week Day 2: Been a While

They don't like the unsteady way that Orym is stumbling away from the battle. “Hey, you need a hand? Let me call F.C.G.”

Orym shakes his head. “I don’t think they got a hit in.” And after a quick circuit around the halfling, Ashton has to agree; he doesn't have a scratch on him. “I guess it’s just been a long day, we could all use some dinner and some sleep.”

Despite his request for dinner, Orym only picks at his meal before starting to nod off in his seat. “Hey . ” Ashton reaches out to give him a shake, and it ' s only then that they notice the heat radiating from Orym’s body. Shit. He wouldn ’t normally do this, but he scoop s Orym into his arms to carry upstairs.

“Hey, you should get out of that armor,” Ashton mutter once they manage to settle Orym onto the bed, not wanting to take the initiative on that front.

He still end s up having to help out a bit, or a lot, as Orym clumsily struggl es with the buckles. But eventually they manage to get Orym stripped down to his smallclothes and tucked under the bedsheets. “I’m going to get you some water.”

Ashton returned with a full pitcher and a towel, managing to rouse Orym enough to drink before filling the basin and laying the damp towel across Orym ’s forehead. F.C.G. had told him they could try to cure the illness, but it would have to wait until morning, so all Ashton could do now was try to bring his temperature down.

He sleeps fitfully, sitting with his back against the bed frame, jerking awake every so often to freshen the cloth on Orym ’s brow. Eventually, they’re awakened by the squeak of F.C.G.’s wheel as he scoots through the door. They place a hand on Orym, and Ashton sees a faint pulse of blue light, just for a moment before it fizzles away.

“Any luck?” F.C.G.’s magic has been tricky lately; they’d reported themself that the Changebringer was becoming harder and harder to reach, and Ashton isn't sure if the spell actually took hold.

“I don’t know. I felt something, but I think he might need to get better on his own.”

Ashton look s at Orym now, and put s a hand on his shoulder, and the sheen of sweat tells him that the fever has broken, at least.

Orym stirs at the touch, and a soft smile spread s across his face as he meets Ashton ’s eyes. “Hey, Ash. What’re you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on you; you were pretty out of it last night. How’re you feeling?”

“Like something big and nasty just pounded me into the ground. But I’ll manage.” He moves to sit up, but it barely takes any pressure from Ashton to keep him in bed.

“You need to rest. You’ve got the flu or something, we're gonna hole up here until you’re better.”

“There’s no time.” But Orym’s words lack the steel Ashton would have expected from the statement and Ashton can tell that he’s fighting himself more than anything. “You should go, then. Don’t want you to get sick, too.”

“Nah.” Ashton let a smile creep across his face. “Thing about being made of rock, it’s surprisingly disease resistant. I’ve barely gotten a cold since I changed.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have to be stuck here…”

“Hey.” Orym was sounding an awful lot like… them, Ashton realized. “When’s the last time you let someone take care of you?”

“A while,” Orym admits quietly. “Will. Although I probably took care of him more; he was such a baby when he got sick.”

“And no one after? Because I’ve met your mom and I refuse to believe that.” Ashton knew what it was to lose the most important people in their world. Granted he’d lost a lot more than that, but still.

“That’s not the same. I didn’t need—”

“What, because you wouldn’t have straight up died otherwise? Because you were technically physically capable? Because I’ve had more than my share of days I didn’t want to get out of bed, and it wasn’t from the pain. Now, I'm gonna find you something to eat. Assuming you're feeling up to it."

"Yeah. I could eat." And a long silence hangs in the air until Orym's next words follow them out the door. "Thanks, Ash."

ao3

#critical role #ashton greymoore #orym of the air ashari #ashrym #ashrym week 2023 #cr fic #my fic

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spoops-screams · 2 years

Text

| MC who has terrible luck

Character(s): Malleus Draconia

TW: Injury, car/carriage crashes, illness, minor angst

Notes: Gender neutral MC || My friend sent me a meme about the fact that everyone has one friend who can never catch a break and seems to be targeted by god himself. Unfortunately, that friend is me according to her and everyone else so after the risk of losing the house, my health going to shit in the worst way for me at the time, various other complications and a car crash within the past 2 months, I figured I needed a better way to cope which is this <3

He's constantly horribly concerned about you even before he knows you all that well considering everything he hears going on around you. He considers that it might be the first years you hang around but it doesn't take long for that theory to be disproven

On top of constantly being roped into every single overblot incident and more, everything in the entire world seems to quite literally be against you

His life isn't really led by luck with his magic often taking the lead and ensuring him safety and success. With you, who doesn't have that privilege, it's a completely different story which is made much more evident when you don't seem to react to any of the frankly horrifying situations that you find yourself in

How you could be so used to this really makes him worry about how your life was before

You'll joke about some higher power targeting you but even Malleus begins to genuinely believe it with certain things going wrong only when you were present

The first time he attempted to bring you to the valley of thorns, he'd had to take you through the mirror and by car the rest of the way to the castle because teleporting, he had found, made your blood pressure drop drastically, something that he doesn't think he'd ever come across before

And only when you are in the car - a magically powered limousine - does another car somehow crash into it, from your side and only affecting your side in any way that mattered

But you act like you're completely fine. A little shaken and sporting a few small cuts from the glass which shattered on you but otherwise alright. Even he himself was panicked by the occurrence and yet you acted like it was a regular kind of incident

Even when he takes to putting up elaborate shielding spells around you, nothing seems to help. Your health which he had begun always closely monitoring, would take a random turn for the worst with a sudden deficiency which Silver and himself are absolutely certain there should be no way that you have

And whenever the spell weakens when it's been up for too long, something ridiculous will happen that the spell can't block like a tree branch falling directly onto you

It genuinely terrifies him because you seem to accept every incident so easily

Crowley forgets your staying in Ramshackle and a government issued bulldozer comes into the school to take it down since it's a safety hazard while you're in it? He's never teleported so fast in his life but catches you climbing out of under some shattered wooden planks. "Don't worry, only like 3 planks fell on me and most of them were rotting and light anyway :)"

One of the horses violently throws you off of it into a fence? You sit up with a wince and give him a thumbs up. "I'm alright :D" Well, you shouldn't be!

You're mortal already, he hates the risk of you suddenly getting into some freak accident that he can't save you from which only seems to be amplified since it's you

He gets so, so worried some days and will cling to you so much, absolutely refusing to let you out of his sight

You make him really tempted to just keep you in Briar valley but, knowing you, you won't be safe there either. As much trust as he has in magic, he certainly can't be certain of your safety when even he's struggling to keep up with everything that goes on

He's used to time moving slowly but here you are giving him whiplash

Do not repost or claim. Only reblog 💕

#twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst malleus #malleus draconia #twisted wonderland malleus #twst hcs #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanon #twisted wonderland headcanons #malleus x reader #malleus headcanons

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jinkieswouldyoulookatthis · 3 months

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I am not hijacking yet another one of scoobydoodean's posts for an Amy discussion (been there, done that), so I'm copying the whole thing over here:

@pendragony Thinking about the conversation in the comments of the latest instalment of @ani-coolgirl ‘s awesome ‘Every first time’ wincest project re Dean killing Amy. The thing about Sam is, for all the puppy dog, baby girl, uwu vibes, that man is also a stone cold killer who is capable of going right off the reservation without his brother acting as a moral compass. And Dean is used to clearing up his family’s messes. So, while there’s a lot of other stuff to consider, Dean quietly going to do what his mentally ill and morally questionable brother couldn’t, and then trying to ensure his peace by not telling him stuff that would hurt him, is also classic big brotherism on Dean’s part. It reminds me of his reaction to the Meg possession and finding out Sam killed a hunter - tidy up after little brother, and nobody needs to know. Both brothers are willing to monster themselves in order to save the other. @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis @blue-chimera

Do I understand why Dean killed Amy? Yes. Do I agree that it was, in their world, something that needed to be done? Yeah, I guess. Do I understand why Dean felt like he needed to do it behind Sam's back and then lie to him about it? From Dean's pov? Yes, but it still makes me want to shake him. Narratively, I get it. But there is a very loud voice in my head that goes, "Dude, that was an asshole move."

Like, Amy basically was what Sam had briefly suggested they become way back in Time is on My Side (3x15). She killed only to save the life of her son. She made an effort to kill those she considered to be bad people, trying to make the act feel less bad. But otherwise she had structured her life around not killing humans, finding "ethical" ways to source what she and her son needed. This is basically what Sam was thinking about when considering if they could somehow use Doc Benton's methods to loophole out of Dean's deal.

One of the things that I really like about Supernatural's story is how the boys are constantly dancing along a knife's edge of becoming the monsters that they hunt. And for the first half of the series, Sam was most often the one in danger of slipping, and his innate morality is less clear cut than Dean's so he relies heavily on Dean to help determine the right course of action. But as the series goes on, as Sam better figures himself out (has the pride beaten out of him by the story), Dean becomes the one losing his way. The Amy situation, happening at the beginning of season 7, is around the tipping point for this shift, and I think that may be part of why it stands out and causes so much passionate discussion.

But, I don't know, as always, I just wished they'd talk to each other about shit, lol!

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handspunyarns · 9 months

Text

You Were Marked: Days Eight through Eleven.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 8.8 K

chapter summary: Din races to save Marathel, Grogu loses his temper, and Din remembers a time he accidentally got high as f*ck

warnings: angst for days, head injury, severe bodily injury, mention of blood, mention and aftermath of rape, mention and aftermath of object rape, mention of past drug use, bodily fluids and illness, vomit, sexual abuse, physical abuse, violence towards women, torture, enmeshed misogyny, Mando'a and English cursing

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

Din managed to get the Crest into the air and out of orbit, but it was a struggle. His concussion was giving him double vision, and it was already hard enough to see through the darkened visor without power to the vision capabilities. The Crest also had to pressurize upon leaving the atmosphere, and Din believed that his eardrums were perforating, if the pain was any indication. His helmet seemed to be compressing his skull, which was in agony. With a terrible groan, Din pulled the helmet off, dropping it to the cockpit floor, and he lost consciousness for a few seconds. When he came to, Grogu was already in his lap, reaching up to his face, and a confused Din had a flashback to when he turned over the boy to the Jedi — the second worst day of his life — and Din panicked, thinking it was happening again. Din clutched Grogu to his chest, whispering, “No, kid, you’re staying with me; I’m not giving you up again!” Grogu’s hands went to Din’s cheeks, and Din began to feel a warmth and calm flow through his head. Din quickly pulled back and took hold of the boy’s little hands. “Enough, Grogu, that’s enough, don’t waste your power on me.”

Grogu looked dubious and his ears drooped. “Mahr?”

Din swallowed. What about Mahr, indeed? He needed to get her somewhere fast and close. Canto Bight was close and had great medical facilities. However, he felt reasonably sure that New Republic authorities would see her looking like an Imperial torture victim, as well as not having an ID chip, and confiscate her as well as arrest him. That was unacceptable, so he decided to head to Nevarro, hoping that Karga would be able to hook him up with a medic who could be trusted. Tatooine was also an option, in fact it might be the better option — Boba and Fennec would keep their mouths shut, and there was a bacta tank at their disposal — but it was half a day’s further in hyperspace, and he didn’t think he had that kind of time.

As he tried to concentrate on the task of plotting the course as well as figuring out just how hard he could push his antique ship, Din remembered some half-baked story about a Rebel general who had a Corellian freighter that went .5 past lightspeed, but he’d also heard that same asshole did the Kessel run in twelve parsecs instead of fourteen, so Din set little store in that kind of bantha shit. On the other hand, the same jackwagon was allegedly banging a princess half his age, so what did he know?

Concentrate, you osi’kovid, keep it together.

Din fired up the hyperdrive and sent the ship on its course. He took a breath and looked down to Grogu, still sitting on his lap, and took the little boy’s hands. “Grogu … we gotta talk, kid.” The boy looked at him expectantly. “Mahr is very badly hurt. We must hurry to get her help.” Grogu stood on Din’s lap, reaching for his face. “I know you want to help her. But right now, I need you to stay here while I try to help her. I can’t let you see her … not how she is right now. Okay?” Grogu climbed up Din’s chest and hugged him as hard as his little arms would allow. Din hugged him back, pressing his cheek against the boy’s, and it occurred to him that he’d removed his helmet again before a living being, compounding his guilt as a failed Mandalorian even more. “I’m sorry, Grogu,” whispered Din as he stood and placed the boy in the rear seat.

Din exited the cockpit and quickly closed it off before Grogu could try to follow him. He dropped to the floor, jarring his skull painfully. He looked at the pile of blood-soaked cloth just outside his quarters, and then at the rag-wrapped object. He took a breath, steeling himself against the sight of Marathel, and how useless he’d been in protecting her.

Din picked up the bin with the bacta supplies, and carefully entered his quarters. There was barely room for him to turn around in here when alone; how the four women were able to cram in here along with Marathel was beyond him. Marathel still lay prone, face-down, her face turned to the opposite wall. Her hands were placed up near her head. Each hand was wrapped around some sort of splint. She was covered from her waist to her knees with a ragged-edge square of light fabric, and the rest of her exposed back and legs had large, brown leaves plastered to her skin. He knelt and sat against the wall beside her. He carefully lifted the edge of a leaf on her upper back, and the plant fibers disintegrated under his fingers. Din counted his bacta sheets again and found that there were not enough to cover her whole back. He grabbed one of the bacta shots and carefully turned her head to face him so he could administer the shot directly into her neck, which bled more than he’d like, but, considering her blood clotting disorder, was unsurprising.

Marathel’s face was also covered in the same leaves, and Din found the best clean rag there was left and started to wash off the crumbling leaves. Her face was badly bruised, both eyes nearly swollen shut. As Din tried to gently wash the blood away, more kept coming and it was hard to see from where. Finally, he laid down next to her in the tiny room to get to her level, to see her full face, where he found that she had a deep gash down the center of her face, starting at her hairline, going between her eyebrows and down the bridge of her nose to its tip. They cut her. They cut her face. Right where everyone would see it. The edges were clean, surgical, so the cut was done very deliberately with a very sharp knife. Din shut his eyes tightly for a moment to suppress his emotions. He gently pressed the cloth to the gaping wound to staunch the blood, but blood continued to seep slowly and drip down her cheek. He found a smaller, partial bacta patch that he fitted to the deep cut as best he could, hoping that the patch would adhere to the bleeding wound.

Marathel’s lips were dry and cracked, so he sprayed those with bacta, gently opening her lips to look at her teeth. He could see at least three teeth missing and two broken. Din felt a blind rage bubble up inside him at the damage done to her lovely face, her beautiful smile. He placed his hand on her head above her blood-soaked braid. “Marathel? Mesh’la?” Din whispered. Marathel did not respond. “I failed you, Marathel. I’m so, so sorry.” The words rang hollow and insignificant against what she’d suffered, and Marathel remained silent and unmoving.

Din sat back up, his head throbbing with his change in position. He needed to wash the crumbling leaves from her back, but he needed more clean water. He’d have to hook up the recycler again — another damn thing he’d been meaning to do. He’d always hated the notion of drinking or using recycled water and preferred to spend the extra coin to have tanks of fresh onboard, but his cash flow had been low lately, so he’d been conserving as much as possible.

Din stood up, and staggered to the water storage, nearly emptying the last tank for a fresh bowl of clean water. He’d figure it out later. He went back to Marathel’s side and clumsily got back down to the floor. He gently washed the leaves from her back, opting to use the bacta patches on the worst lash marks and bacta spray on the less severe wounds. The spray didn’t seem to do much for the bleeding, but Din hoped it would keep infection away. He moved down to her waist, knowing he had to remove the cloth that was covering her, but he was loath to expose her after all she’d suffered. Telling himself he had to do this to help her, he lifted the covering and pulled it away.

There was a large concentration of whip marks on her buttocks, along with a lot of deep bruising that fed the blood flow. Din cut another bacta patch and applied pieces to each buttock, quietly apologizing to Marathel for having to touch her that way as he did so, but she remained still. It was then that Din noticed that Marathel had a large tightly rolled wad of fabric tucked between her thighs. He didn’t want to find out the reason why — he had a pretty good guess — but he needed to know how bad off she was. Din carefully moved her leg to the side, and he was now able to see the deep bruising that went between her buttocks and thighs, and he could see whip marks there as well. He took hold of the wadded cloth and gently pulled it back to find that Marathel had bled profusely from her vagina and her rectum, now knowing he was correct, she had been brutally, probably repeatedly raped. The wadding was mostly soaked through. Din shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, unable to catch his breath, damning himself for not getting her out, for just standing there like the worst kind of coward while she suffered these indignities, disregarding the fact he had been incapacitated for most of it. Din banged his head against the wall a couple of times, relishing the fresh pain as punishment while he carefully replaced the wadding where it had been, unsure of what to do for her.

He banged his head one more time for good measure, and he suddenly felt nauseated. Din quickly slid out of his quarters — leaving a smear of blood along the floor from where it was puddled underneath Marathel — and made it to the vac tube before he vomited. Sitting on the floor, he let despair wash over him for a minute before he ordered himself to get it the shab together; Marathel needed his help. He opened his eyes, which fell once again on the rag-wrapped bundle.

Din slid over to it on his knees, picking it up, knowing that there was … something inside. Something heavy, metal, and of a … particular shape. Uneasily certain of what he might find, Din unwrapped it with shaking hands. Inside was a heavy metal cylinder, with sharp points studding the outside, slicked with blood and gobbets of flesh. This must be the Dilimgau, thought Din, and all at once he knew exactly how it had been used on Marathel, when Olba told the other women to hold her leg higher and hold her down, Marathel’s horrific screaming, and the blood-soaked wadding between her thighs. With an anguished howl, Din dropped the torture device, where it hit the metal floor with a heavy clunk. Din backpedaled away from the horrible piece of metal, unable to tear his eyes away from it, unable to reconcile the fact that a lovely, sweet woman like Marathel allowed herself to endure something like that for a pile of coins, fucking coins, and he stood there frozen and let her willingly take this kind of torture, all because he had fucked her when she had no control over herself.

I’m no better than the Elders, thought Din, as his skull continued to pound. He went delirious for a moment, and somehow his addled mind believed that the Dilimgau was also made of beskar, and he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, shuffling to his weapons locker and pulling out the beskar hammer. Din dropped to his knees and with inarticulate cries of rage, let loose on the horrific metal cylinder with the beskar hammer, and the Dilimgau was nothing more than base metal, not beskar, not forged at all, and Din flattened it to a metal scrap — as well as hammering a deep divot in the flooring — before tossing the hammer and the remains of the foul instrument of torture down the corridor, away from him. Exhausted, Din fell to a sitting position, drew his knees up, and dropped his head, hugging his knees with his elbows, trying and failing to not weep.

It took quite a while before Din could bring himself to return to Marathel’s side. He stood at the door, looking down at her, paler than he had ever seen her. He had to do right by her. Part of him kept wondering why he didn’t just bring Grogu down here and let him work on healing her, but he just couldn’t do that. Grogu was just a child, and Din kept hearing Marathel protesting that a child shouldn’t have to bear the burden of her hurts. And the kind of injuries Marathel had, where her injuries were … how could he, in good conscience, have Grogu heal those? Grogu had already suffered so much in his life, been through enough torture, without having to take on the suffering of the woman the boy obviously had adopted as his mother.

Din knelt back down at Marathel’s side, cursing himself for leaving her both unattended and uncovered as he had. The bacta patches seemed to be doing some good on some wounds, but blood continued to seep from the worst whip marks. Din sprayed bacta down her legs for the whip marks there.

He took a closer look at her hands, which he discovered were placed on wooden splints that seemed to be specially carved for such injuries. Her hands and wrists were in a neutral position, and there were channels carved in the blocks for each finger to lay statically and in line. Each of her fingers was black with deep bruising, and several fingernails were missing. Din was deeply disturbed that the Hold had created such things, so specifically for this purpose, and these splints seemed to have received a lot of use. After injecting another partial bacta shot in each arm for the healing of her hands, Din finally took a another look at Marathel’s face, realizing that her lips had turned blue.

Realizing that Marathel was cyanotic, probably due to blood loss, Din jumped up to find the emergency oxygen feed. There should be one in this room, he thought. They should be everywhere on this ship! Finding the correct panel, he pulled it open to find that the tubing had been disconnected and dismantled.

“Haar’chak!” Din snapped. He grabbed the tubing and climbed back into the cockpit, where he knew the emergency oxygen feed was actually working. He pulled the tubing as far as it would reach, jerry-rigged a connection with splice tape, and turned up the condenser as high as it would go. Finding a spare cannula in the medkit, Din fed the tube into his quarters and gently placed the cannula over Marathel’s head and under her nose. “Breathe, mesh’la, please breathe,” Din whispered. Satisfied that Marathel was getting some oxygen, Din sat back against the wall to take a breath himself when he heard a whimper outside the door.

Din immediately slid out of the room on his knees again, adding to the blood smear on the floor, to find Grogu standing at the bottom of the cockpit ladder, staring at the bloody streaks and boot prints on the floor. “No, no, buddy, not right now. She’s … I can’t let you.” Din scooped up Grogu, who was now screaming for his Mahr. “I’m sorry, pal, not right now, I promise I’ll let you see her soon. Just … not right now.” The tiny child beat Din’s chest with his little fists, howling. Din wondered if the boy could feel Marathel’s pain, and he carried him back up to the cockpit, and sat down in the pilot’s chair to let Grogu cry out his frustration while Din rubbed his back. “Careful, kid, don’t hurt yourself punching my beskar, okay?” Din sighed. “I know, buddy, I know.” Din leaned down and pressed his lips to the boy’s fuzzy hair, just as he’d seen Marathel do so many times in the few days he’d known her, and realized it was the first time he’d ever done so himself. The boy’s hair was fine and soft, he knew, but this flyaway texture was so different against his nose than against his fingertips. The tickle of the fine hairs was strange to him, having been cut off from all touch for decades. Din put one foot up against the console and rocked the captain’s chair gently, each sway making his head hurt, wishing he could cry and yell along with Grogu, until the boy cried himself to sleep.

Before Din put the child in his pram, Din decided that Grogu did have a couple blankets he could spare if needed. He went through the little pile, wondering if the kid was stealing blankets from every damn place they went. Din tucked the favorite blankie as well as the one that Winta — Omera’s daughter — had made around the child, and shut the pram, hoping that Grogu would be out for a little while.

Din climbed down from the cockpit again, the throb in his head synching with each step he made. He was so tired. His armor was too heavy for him to bear any longer, so he removed each piece as he wobbled unsteadily, forgetting most of the words for each incantation. The cloth bag of coins that had been behind his cuirass fell to the floor at his feet. After staring down at it for a few moments, he kicked the bag down the corridor in the same direction he’d thrown the beskar hammer. He tried to bend over to properly stack the armor, but he had no sense of balance, and he dropped to one knee as his vision greyed out for a few moments.

If you won’t let the kid help Marathel, at least let him fix your busted head.

No … no, I need to suffer, pay some penance for what I’ve done, thought Din. I’m an apostate, I’m not worthy to wear this beskar, I’m not worthy to carry those weapons. I’m not worthy to follow the Way. I am a coward.

Din felt woozy again, and he fell forward on his hands. Groaning, he crawled towards his quarters, dragging a blanket with him through the blood trail. Marathel still lay motionless and naked on the floor. Din pulled the blanket over her, covering her, whispering apologies to her again and again for not protecting her, for taking advantage of her, for not treating her with honor.

Leaning over her still form, Din decided that he could not stand another moment seeing her hair in braids. Carefully untying the ribbons — once blue, now a dull deep brown-purple — at the bottom of the plaits, Din gently untwisted the locks of hair, using the remaining clean water to wash out the dried blood clotting the hair together. He combed the unbound hair with his fingers, much like he did when he volunteered to stay with her on the second night of the Dahls’ mating.

How quickly you volunteered, too, he thought. Did you do it for her sake, or just to get your dick into a willing body you didn’t have to pay for?

He didn’t know.

The only thing he knew at that moment was that he was blacking out again, and he collapsed on the floor against Marathel’s hip.

Din awoke to a continuous, piercing shriek. His eyes opened, but he was quite unsure of where he was. He tried to raise his head but was hit with severe pain. He’d forgotten — he’d been bashed in the head with a fucking huge hammer. Din squinted his eyes against the light, and realized he was wedged in the small space between Marathel and the wall, using her thigh as a pillow as he hugged her legs. On some ordinary day, this would have been quite a pleasant way to wake up, but this was the furthest thing from an ordinary day, and Marathel had been beaten and tortured nearly to death and she still lay unmoving, unconscious. He quickly let go and pushed himself up to a sitting position, his head in agony. Din leaned over to look at Marathel’s face, and he could see the bacta was doing very little good: her face was less swollen, but blood was seeping out from under the bacta patch. She was still getting oxygen from the ship’s condenser, but her exhalation was thin and shallow. Her eyes were not fully closed but were heavy-lidded and glassy looking.

Is she not responding to the bacta injections? And what the ever-loving shab is making that noise?

Din slid back out the door and pulled himself to his feet. The piercing sound was an alarm coming from the cockpit. He wearily pulled himself up the ladder and began checking gauges. It turned out coolant was leaking from the port engine and the whole damn thing was in danger of overheating. It was something he’d been keeping an eye on, but he’d forgotten to check it before leaving. What he really needed to do was drop out of hyperspace and fix it properly, but he couldn’t risk the loss of time. Din was worrying about how he was going to slap a quick fix on it when he discovered a holotext message from Karga:

GK: No can do, Mando, only have a part-time medic and a couple of outdated droids. Good luck.

“Dank ferrik!” Din shouted, which he instantly regretted as he felt the throb go through his brain, blurring his vision. He got the alarm to stop blaring, at least, but he needed to check on that coolant situation, lay out a course to Tatooine, get a message to Boba, turn on the water recycler … what was he forgetting? He was forgetting something. One thing at a time, he told himself, and he reconfigured the course of the Crest towards Tatooine, which took much longer than he thought it should, as the numbers kept looking wrong, not like proper numbers. He coded out a holotext to Boba, which he was sure was a garbled mess, but Din had pretty much hit fuck it.

Grogu had taken up residence in the aft chair, hugging his green blanket, watching Din with wary eyes. Din blinked at the boy a few times, and finally remembered that regardless, the boy needed to eat. Din opened the panel under the console with the secret stash of ration bars, which wasn’t exactly a secret so much as pure laziness on Din’s part: he just preferred to be in his captain’s chair rather than go up and down the damn ladder. Dropping a packet in front of Grogu, Din mumbled, “Have at it, kid,” as he exited the cockpit to check on Marathel.

Din squeezed back into the tiny room. Marathel had not moved. The bacta patches seemed to no longer have any effect as the slow seep of blood continued from each of her wounds, which baffled Din. He had never heard of bacta not working. Were the patches bad? Old? How much longer could she continue to bleed like this until she had nothing left?

There was one bacta injection left. If he were being a sensible man, he’d take the injection himself so he could be in a better frame of mind to help Marathel and fly this ship. Instead, he jabbed Marathel in her fleshy hip, hoping that the bacta would help her most severe injuries, the ones covered by the blanket. He threw the empty canister out of the room and began placing the remaining leaves the women had left on Marathel, despite knowing they would not work. Nothing was working. He thought about getting the cauterizing gun before deciding it would do more harm to her fragile skin than good. He considered freezing her in carbonite but figured that she would perish in either the freezing process or the thawing process.

Din sunk down next to her, lying beside her as he had done multiple times on her bed tick on a wooden platform on a beautiful planet with wide seas, grassy meadows, rocky paths. He touched her cheek, marked with bruises, cuts, and that horrible slice down the middle of her face, remembering how she looked in her sleep as he held her on that fragrant, crackly bed tick of hers, so soft, so warm, so gentle. Now she looked … mostly dead.

Tell me what to do, mesh’la, I got nothing.

Din held his breath, listening to her breathing, only hearing thin, reedy sounds. He watched the gash on her face bleed, the blood cresting with her fading heartbeat in each wound.

You should have taken her somewhere beautiful, instead of this fool’s errand, thinking that you could get her help. You should have let her die in peace, on her own terms.

But he couldn’t, he couldn’t, not even with a blaster to his head.

Because he was a coward.

Din must have fallen asleep — or passed out again — because he opened his eyes to the sensation that the ship was vibrating. With a grunt, he sat up, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head that seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Din slid out of his quarters and into the main corridor, listening. Aside from the dull scream of the twin engines being pushed to their limits, Din could not detect anything untoward happening with the ship — for once. Then where was the vibration coming from?

Din looked back into his quarters and saw that the vibration was not the ship, but Marathel. She was shaking all over. Haar’chak, a man needs three hands at a time like this. Going back to Marathel’s side, he touched her face and realized that she was shivering because she was burning up with fever. Her face was a ghostly white, except for two high patches on her cheeks that were more blue than pink. Din leaned in to check her breathing, and he could smell the infection on her, sure that she was going septic, probably because of the damage done to her by the Dilimgau. At the same time, her breath was not thin and reedy anymore, but raspy, gurgling. Her lungs are filling with fluid, he thought. Din immediately took her arms to roll Marathel on her side, facing him, trying to get the fluid moving out of her lungs. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really; she hadn’t taken a full breath in however many days. When he rolled her, he realized that he had only been concerned about her back and had not given a thought to what damage may have been done to her front.

Marathel’s midsection was a patchwork of dark bruises, and Din believed he felt several broken ribs as he rolled her. There were whip marks on her belly and thighs, and deep bite marks on her breasts. Din felt his rage flare up again. The blood from between her legs had saturated the wadding there and soaked into his sleeping pad like a sponge, creating a bizarre ink blot of red over her entire front. Marathel’s head lolled to the side, but the shift in position did not help her breathing. In fact, Marathel did not seem to be getting any air at all, as her inhalation only made a thick sucking sound.

Din swept his fingers in her mouth, clearing out a handful of viscous foul-smelling mucus. He tipped her head back to try to get an airway open, but no sounds came out. Desperate, he closed her nose and pressed his lips over her mouth, trying to suck out anything he could from her mouth and throat. He spit out a mouthful of the vile stuff, and tried twice more, with only a small amount of success. Marathel lay limply in his arms, still unable to draw breath.

“Dank ferrik, Marathel, breathe, breathe, damn it!” Din snapped, pulling her over so she was partially face-down as he held her over his leg. I’m so sorry, he thought, and he pounded her as hard as he could between her shoulder blades with the heel of his hand. He hit her three more times, wincing as he watched the whip marks that had barely closed open once more. He swept her mouth with his fingers again, but nothing had come loose. Din put his ear to her back, listening, and could only hear crackles and wet sounds, and those were faint from lack of breath.

Din laid Marathel down on her back, pulling the blanket up to cover her. He knew he had to cut her trachea, create an airway, suck out as much mucus and fluid as possible if she was going to breathe again. However, a tracheotomy was something he’d never actually done, had only seen his buir do once, on another Mandalorian who was drowning in his own blood after a bad neck and chest wound. But Din could not second-guess, could not waver, he had to do this if she had any chance of survival. Silently apologizing to Marathel, Din took a moment to kiss her mouth, tears pricking his eyes, almost certain this would be his only chance to ever do so, before carefully laying her head back down and rushing out to his weapons locker.

He nearly ripped the door off in his haste to find his best vibroblade, the thin stiletto with the highest oscillation. Finding it, Din slapped the blade into motion and began heading back to Marathel when his eyes locked with Grogu’s eyes as the boy stood at the top of the cockpit ladder.

Grogu saw Din stepping towards his Mahr with the long knife, and with a howl, extended his tiny hand out to Din, who suddenly felt his entire body flung back to the far end of the corridor, crashing into the hanging carbonite shells. Din’s head received a fresh beating, and he felt something wrench in his shoulder as he fought against Grogu’s Force power. Din managed to move forward a couple of feet before Grogu leapt down to the floor and Force-pushed Din as far back as he could.

“Grogu,” grunted Din. “Stop it! I’m trying to help Mahr…” His words were cut off as Grogu twisted Din’s wrist painfully, making him drop the vibroblade, pushing him up against the far wall, holding him there. Feeling as if there was an invisible stone wall pressing against him, Din cried out, “Mahr can’t breathe, boy! Her lungs are full of fluid!” Din groaned as he tried to break free of Grogu’s capture. “If you won’t let me help her, you have to do it, quickly, before she drowns!” Grogu growled at Din. “Please, Grogu! Please, you must help her! Mahr needs you!” Grogu released Din, who crumpled to the floor. Grogu had thrown him hard, and without his armor and helmet, Din was as vulnerable as a loth kitten. He now had a couple broken ribs, ringing in his ears, and he was sporting a new gash on the back of his head. “Help Mahr, Grogu, please help her.”

Grogu took a long look at Din, who hoped that the child would understand. Din pulled himself up to his hands and knees, vision going in and out with the additional concussive injuries. When he raised his head again, Grogu was toddling into Din’s quarters, whimpering. Din struggled to stand, weaving like a drunkard towards the open doorway, lurching forward to catch himself on the wall and then sliding back down to sit on the floor. Din poked his head into the tiny room and saw Grogu gently touching Marathel on her mid-section with his little clawed hands. “It’s her lungs, kid, understand? She can’t breathe; can you do anything?”

Grogu tilted his head, moving his hands up to Marathel’s upper chest, his little face full of concentration. Din watched as the blanket moved to wrap itself tightly around Marathel, and her heels came up off the floor. Slowly, slowly, Marathel’s body turned over as if she were on a spit, her hair defying all gravity, floating about her head, and she continued to raise slowly into the air, her feet going higher as her head tilted down towards the floor, again, looking so much like she had in Din’s nightmare just a couple nights previously that Din felt transported back into the dream. Grogu’s eyes were closed tightly, his little arms above his head, hands held out to Marathel, whose head hung down limply. Her midsection seemed to quake, her shoulders rolling, her chest heaving, and her mouth opened, and a glut of revolting fluid, mucus, and blood emptied from her mouth with a guttural choking sound. “That’s it, buddy, that’s it, clear out her lungs," Din said as he pulled himself into the room, doing his best to clear up the horrible mess from under her head. “It’s better out than in, please keep trying.” Marathel’s body roiled in mid-air, releasing another large clot of mucus from her mouth. Grogu moved his hands, and Marathel’s body seized with a sharp gasp of air, and then she hung limply, her breath moving in and out mechanically as Grogu slowly set her back down, her arms and hands returning to their previous position on either side of her head, her hair gently twisting into contained bundle against her head, her face turned to the side. Grogu moved up to her face, and he stroked her cheek, and Din watched as Marathel’s eyes fluttered open to focus ever so briefly on Grogu before sliding back to their half-closed, glassy state. Din couldn’t say if Marathel was breathing on her own or if Grogu was forcing air in and out of her lungs, but at least she didn’t sound like she was trying to breathe through mud.

Grogu sat down wearily against Marathel’s arm, and he rested his head on her, his back to Din. “You did it, Grogu, you saved her,” whispered Din, and he reached out to the boy, and Grogu jerked away from Din’s touch with an angry squawk. Din sat back against the wall, and Grogu stroked Marathel’s cheek, both listening to her measured breathing. After a few moments, Marathel also stopped shivering, and she broke out into a heavy sweat. Realizing that her fever was broken — probably by Grogu as well — Din found the other blankets he had pulled from Grogu’s pram and spread them over Marathel. Lying back down on the floor, Din watched Grogu use the Force to pull a lock of Marathel’s hair into his outstretched hand, probably the one thing the boy could touch of her that wouldn’t cause her more pain. Grogu looked over Marathel’s arm with glimmering eyes at Din, who reached out and took hold of Grogu’s hand, hair and all. Grogu continued to concentrate on Marathel, willing her lungs to breathe, her heart to beat. Din, with a new ringing in his ears and eyes unable to focus, began to fall back into oblivion. Grogu looked over to Din, who muttered, “Not me, kid, just take care of her. I’ll be …” as he passed out again. Grogu chirped with worry but went back to watching Marathel breathe as he moved air and out of her lungs.

Sometime later, the comm.link on the cockpit console was whistling shrilly. Din’s eyes slowly opened to see Grogu still reclining against Marathel’s arm, his eyes closed. Marathel’s back continued to rise and fall with her breathing. Din pushed himself upright, only to almost fall again. He crawled to the cockpit ladder and groaned before grabbing the rungs and struggling up into the cockpit. Din grabbed his chair and pulled himself into it, hitting the comm.link switch.

“Din?” Din grunted a response. “Finally. Boba. Sit rep.”

“She’s dying … my fault.”

“Then take her to a medic. They’ll be discreet about a bounty.”

“Can’t do …” Din slumped down in the chair, slipping towards insensibility again.

Boba called out to Din twice, only getting a grunt in return. It was worrying enough that it took nearly an hour for Din to answer the comm.link, but he also sounded blackout drunk. Switching to Mando’a, Boba barked out, “{Din Djarin! Wake up!}”

Din’s head bobbed up, confused. “{I am awake and ready.}”

“{What can you see?}”

Din took a deep breath. “{I see the console. It’s telling me that I’m on course to reach the Tatooine system in 11 basic hours.}”

“{What do you hear?}”

“{The engines are overloaded and may fail.}”

“{What do you feel?}”

“{I … I have a concussion. I can’t concentrate. I keep passing out. I am a coward. I failed her. I must set it right.}”

“{Then you know what you must do. Check the engines. Keep her alive. Get her here. Be a Mandalorian. This is the way.}”

“{This is the way.}” Boba clicked off the comm.link, and Din took a moment to breathe in and out to clear his head. Boba was right. He had to keep the Crest flying and Marathel alive until he landed on Tatooine. That was all. Din stood and by sheer force of will, climbed down the ladder from the cockpit and headed straight to the hold to access the cooling system of the overheating engine. Luck was on his side for once; the coolant leak was not too terrible — the worst issue was a badly cracked gasket right above a sensor. He slapped some sealant on the gasket and called it good.

The water recycler was a different problem altogether. He’d forgotten that he’d dismantled a whole section of it but had been distracted by some damn thing at the time and never went back to it. Getting sloppy, old man. It hardly mattered now; they were close enough to Tatooine, and it was so far down on his list that he’d even let one of Peli’s droids take a crack at it.

Din’s ears were ringing terribly, and as he left the hold, he put his hand to one ear to find it was bleeding. His whole back felt wet and sticky. Din assumed it was blood; whether it was his or Marathel’s blood was immaterial. He stepped back into the corridor by the carbonite shells. Three of them were off the track completely, and another hung by only one point instead of two. He could see a big clot of blood on one corner of a shell, and a puddle of blood on the floor along with a blood drop trail, and it took him a while to register that it was his blood he was seeing. Din staggered closer to his quarters, counting bloody boot prints as he did so. This did not affect him so much as the tiny, clawed footprints did. Seeing Grogu’s footprints in Marathel’s blood hurt his heart in ways he didn’t think possible. What am I doing, dragging a child around the galaxy with the likes of me? Din finally made it to the doorway and looked in. Marathel had not moved. Grogu was curled up under her chin, his hand on her throat. Din could see that she was still breathing, and he also believed that the boy was somehow pumping her heart.

Cyar’e, I need you to keep breathing, at least long enough for you to tell us the story of the Great Godynferth … you can’t die without telling us that, ne’kar’ta.

Din’s legs could no longer support him, and he slid down the doorway again to the floor. The blood puddle under Marathel now took up the entire remaining visible floor of the tiny room she lay in, and the pad she was laying on resembled a raft in a pond of blood.

Just a few more hours, cyar’e. Please, please hang on.

He thought he’d just closed his eyes for a moment, but the next thing Din knew, all he could hear was a howling. Din lifted his head to see Grogu, holding Marathel’s face. Din panicked: he assumed it was Grogu howling, and he quickly moved to Marathel’s side, fearing the worst. But Grogu was not the one making the howling noise, and Marathel was still breathing … and bleeding.

Din slid out of the room, looking for the source of the noise. It was mechanical, but somehow hollow, but then he finally remembered that both his eardrums were ruptured, and he was hearing the alarm that they were about to drop out of hyperspace.

Almost there, mesh’la.

Din pulled himself up the ladder and into the captain’s chair. Leaning forward toward the console, and mostly using muscle memory, he brought the ship out of hyperspace. The shock of the speed change caused a bout of vertigo and Din dry-heaved; he hadn’t eaten since some toast soldiers after puking up clams several days ago. Just the act of dry heaving made his head pound painfully, and he could see stars, but he pulled himself to face the controls again. The Crest entered the atmosphere of Tatooine at a bad angle, bouncing the ship like giant ball for a few moments, and Din hoped Grogu had a hold on Marathel. As Din flew the ship at breakneck speed towards Boba’s palace, his addled brain suddenly reminded him of a situation from decades back.

He had been a young man — and therefore, an idiot — and he recalled it was shortly after his buir had died. He had been running with another ne’er-do-well — what the shab was his name? Zek, that was it. Frith, that guy was an asshole.

They’d picked up a spice addict masquerading as a spice runner, and there’d been a lot of spice sent airborne during the capture, leading all of them to get high as ever-loving shab in the process. Zek had decided that it was perfectly appropriate to bring the mark in on his own ship. Din had had no previous spice experience, so he was useless at the controls — and anyway, he was enjoying the sensation of being a weighted blanket far too much to do anything but sit in the co-pilot’s seat with his feet on the console as Zek flew the ship like … well, a dipshit high on spice.

As they approached the landing site on the space station that was their drop-off point, Din briefly stopped contemplating the pretty colored lights to remark: “Man, I think … you’re coming in kinda high.”

Zek replied, “Look, man, if there's one thing I know, it's how to fly while I'm stoned.  You know your perception is completely fucked so you just let your hands work the controls as if you were straight.”

They clipped the top edge of the landing tunnel and bounced the ship all the way to the far end, taking out a comm. tower before sliding to a rest inches from the window behind which half-a-dozen landing pad controllers looked on in fear.

Din, still lolling in the co-pilot’s seat, had said, “Whoa. Nice flying, man.”

Back in the present, Din recalled that not only did they have to forfeit their bounty, but they also both landed in jail while the Guild smoothed things over. Well, right now, his perception was completely fucked, so he hoped his hands would be able to work the controls as if he weren’t a concussed, barely conscious osi’kovid who hadn’t eaten or properly slept in four days.

In the landing tunnel at Boba’s palace, Fennec, Boba, and two medical droids waited for Din to approach. Fennec sighed and said, “Din could take an injured bounty anywhere. Why was he so insistent on coming here?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he say?”

“That she’s dying. Definitive – and quite insistent -- on she.” Fennec rolled her eyes and Boba grunted. “We owe him.” Fennec scoffed, then went silent. He squinted at the approaching ship, noting its relative speed. Boba raised his comm.link and shouted into it, “Slow down, Din! You’re coming in far too fast!” To Fennec, he shouted, “Get back … get back!”

The Crest barely missed the edge of the tunnel and nosed down into the sand. The landing thrusters screamed as Din worked to stop the ship, sliding through the sand and spinning halfway around before finally coming to a stop, steam escaping from all ports. Din leapt down from the cockpit, stumbling as he landed, falling to one knee as he rushed to get to Marathel.

In the sleeping quarters, Marathel, who had not been tied down, had been tossed several times against the walls and was now in a crumpled heap on the floor. The cannula had been pulled off her head, and her arms now bore new injuries from the metal walls. Grogu was tightly holding on to one of the blankets wrapped around her, babbling angrily at Din. “Get in the cockpit, Grogu! Go now, boy!” Din pulled Grogu off Marathel and roughly shoved him out of the room. Din lifted Marathel and struggled to stand up as she lay limply in his arms, her head and arms hanging. Osik, she weighs nothing now. He rushed to the ramp door, hitting the control to open it with his foot, hardly waiting for the ramp to set down before running down it.

Boba and Fennec ran forward with the floating gurney, both realizing at the same time that Din was not wearing his helmet. Fennec started, “Is he not …?”

Boba snapped, “Look away, Fennec, look away!” Fennec turned away as Boba kept moving with the gurney. “Boy, what the hell …”

“{Help her! She is dying!}”

Boba helped lift her limp body on to the gurney, noticing several things at once: Din was covered in blood, he had bad wounds on the back of his head, he was bleeding from both ears, and his pupils were two different sizes, indicative of a bad concussion indeed. Of the woman wrapped in bloody blankets, Boba mostly noticed that she wasn’t just pale, she was grey, covered in wounds, and was probably already dead. Grabbing two bacta injections and some bacta patches off the gurney, Boba shoved the gurney back towards Fennec. Dropping back into Mando’a, Boba snapped, “{Back in the ship, Din!}”

Din clutched Boba’s jacket. “{Help her, please!}”

Boba grabbed Din and began pushing him back towards the ramp. “{They have her, Din. Let them help her now, we must move the ship.”

Din blinked uncomprehendingly at Boba, then turned, and began lurching back into the ship. Boba followed him up into the Crest and came up short: there was blood everywhere. The corridor was practically an abattoir; bloody footprints of both Din’s boots and the tiny footprints of Grogu led back and forth all over the floor of the ship. Boba glanced through the open door next to the vac tube, seeing the pile of rags and the sleeping pad lying on top of a veritable pond of blood. There is no way that woman lives. Not with this much blood loss.

Din had been mumbling about moving the ship in Mando’a, but now he began to rave, his words slurring. “{Gonna move the ship … fly back to that fucking planet … blow that Hold to dust … kill that Bishop … if Frith lets me, I’ll kill him twice!}” He staggered to the cockpit ladder, put his hands on the rungs, and looked up to see Grogu standing there in bloodstained clothing that was made with Marathel’s now destroyed hands. “GANGWAY, Grogu!” shouted Din in a tone he’d never taken with the child before, and Grogu, with rage in his eyes, held out his little bloodstained hand to Din, and Din crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Boba stood still for a few moments, watching Grogu’s face drop into despair as the child sat down, looking down sadly at Din. With a sigh, Boba said, “Good job, kid.” Boba knelt next to Din, checking his vitals. His heartbeat was strong, and his breathing was even. Boba injected bacta into both sides of Din’s neck before gently asking the child, “Where is his helmet?” Grogu disappeared briefly into the cockpit and Force-lifted the deeply dented helmet out to Boba. He whistled softly at the damage done to the beskar. “What the hell did this?” Grogu silently pointed down the corridor.

Boba went in that direction, noticing the off-track carbonite shells as well as the chunk of Din’s scalp plastered to the corner of one shell. Nearby lay the beskar hammer. Boba picked it up along with a flattened, bloodied hunk of metal, placing both in the weapons cabinet, locking it. He then noticed a cloth bag, which made a jingling noise as he picked it up. Opening the bag, Boba’s eyes went wide: inside were at least 150 Aurodium coins, practically ancient Aurodium coins, if the date was to be believed. He tucked the bag of coins under his cuirass and went back to Din’s prone form. Boba knelt and carefully adhered a large bacta patch on Din’s head wounds before replacing Din’s helmet, giving back his anonymity. Boba then closed the ramp door, climbed up into the cockpit, and picked up Grogu. The boy clung to Boba’s neck. Boba set the controls, managed to get the badly abused engines to start, and flew the ship to Peli’s yard.

Peli, confused but delighted at seeing the Crest land in her yard, came out to greet the Mandalorian and the little green boy she loved so much. As the ramp door opened, she was already yelling out, “Mando! What have you been doing to this poor old ship? And where’s my niblet?” Peli came up short when she saw it was Boba Fett at the top of the ramp. “Daimyo? My apologies, sir!”

“No worries, Peli, do not stand on ceremony with me.”

Peli saw Grogu in his arms. “Niblet, by the hairy balls of a Jawa, what happened? Is he injured? Stars, he’s covered in blood!”

Boba came down the ramp and handed the boy and a handful of clean clothes to Peli. “No, he is not injured. But he has had a very hard time these past few days. He needs a bath, a good meal. And lots of hugs.”

“All life’s problems should be so easy. Where’s Mando?”

“Inside, unconscious.” Peli opened her mouth in shock. “He’ll be fine, he’s full of bacta. He has a bad concussion, but what he needs now is rest. Let him sleep himself out.” Boba physically turned Peli around and started walking her back to her workshop. “Leave him be, but don’t you go in there. Send the pit droids. Do not go in there. No one should see that.”

“What about Mando?”

“If you have a mech that can check on him every couple of hours, do that. Check his vitals. Otherwise, just have the droids clean the ship, fix what needs fixing. I’ll cover the charges.”

“Done. Take that speeder back to the palace, if you like.”

Boba shook his head and moved his cape out of the way of his jet pack. “I’m good, Peli. Thank you for your kindness.”

Peli stroked Grogu’s ear. “What happened in there?”

Boba shrugged. “Bounty gone bad. Very bad. Ask Mando when he wakes up.” Boba took a step back and blasted off with his jet pack.

Peli watched him go, then returned her attention to Grogu. “Hey, little guy, it’s gonna be okay. Auntie Peli’s got you. Mando’s gonna be okay, we’re all gonna be okay.”

Grogu looked up at Peli with huge tears in his eyes. “Sad Mahr?”

Peli frowned in confusion, but said, “You betcha, little bug, Sad Mahr too, baby.” Mahr must be the bounty, she thought. Peli yelled at the droids to get a move-on as she carried the exhausted child into her workshop.

Next Chapter ->

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inf1nyxw0rlds · 1 month

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pspspspsps 4 the infinite asks: 3, 18 n 26 :eyes:

oooo ALRIGHT here goes !!

3. what's your favourite part of his design? why?

honestly a fucking difficult question but i'm reaping what i've sown. it's very close between mask and hair – the mask is so iconic in it's shape, i love the asymmetry and the attention to detail in that the right side is blacked out, likely because he doesn't need to see. it's crisp, it's edgy, it's a moment and a vibe and i love it. sure, if you wanna draw it at funky angles it could be a nuisance, but because it's shapes are so distinct u CAN break it down. and use references baby!

his hair i love because i'm just a sucker for guys – or, in his case, guy who is not a Man but is a boy in a dog way – with long hair. let them have it. please. it suits him so well and you can style it in a lot of different ways even besides the iconic locs !!

18. how do you feel about shadow killing squad jackal? do you headcanon otherwise?

okay this topic is one that i've seen a LOT of differing views on, and i definitely understand the divide on it because shadow's character in general is one that can never really be agreed upon among fans. my own take isn't one i've shared here yet so here it is – i think it depends on circumstance.

i can see it going either way depending on how things actually went down. rather than just asking why would shadow kill squad jackal, i like to ask why wouldn't he? both questions make you think about it from a different angle, i think. i can see him not caring either way; they're willing allies of eggman, but they're not a big deal. they're insignificant, whether that means their lives are unimportant, or not worth the energy to take. i don't think he would do it with outright malicious intent, though he is still an asshole.

i veer more toward he wouldn't, because he doesn't really give a shit and it isn't worth the energy. knocking them unconscious suffices just fine and they don't seem to be as dangerous as villains he's faced in the past. at the same time, i understand how his indifference could go the other way. he's also impulsive, and trained to take out anything in his way – it could be instinctual. my opinion of shadow is that he's neither killing enthusiastic or opposed. he deals with things case by case. he's not a monster, but not against doing what has to be done.

these are incidents from different sources, so take it with a grain of salt, but he extended an offer to metal sonic in archie to turn over a new leaf, though in cases like eggman and tinker, eggman shows much less, if any, promise of potential change, and that's where the line gets drawn.

shadow doesn't know anything about squad jackal and why they're allied with him, but on the basis of just working with eggman, would that be enough? i don't think so personally but, that's just me. again, i see it being more instinctual, a means of completing his mission, if he did. tunnel vision sort of deal, you know?

what happens in my fic, however, is complicated. that's all i'll say on the matter :)

26. what does his self-care look like?

it doesn't. okay jokes aside, i think he's always had a rough time looking after himself, between mental illness and being on the road for years fighting for his survival. he cares about his appearance a lot, but at the same time, it's hard for him to manage it and this really applies after losing his team.

he likes baths over showers, though, and if he had the option he would probably like one with candles, just allowing himself to lay there for a bit. he cares a lot about his hair and it has high priority. comfy clothes on a bad day, music appropriate to his energy levels, cookies and a blanket. he tends to take space and just withdraw to reenergise if he can. i also headcanon him letting his emotions out through art, writing, and being very elaborate and often brutal BUT that's post-war

#transmission #infinite tag #TY FOR TYE ASKS

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tears-of-boredom · 3 months

Text

i completely forgot to do this omg only now remembered

so uhh, prepare for a lot of talk about The Exorcist. because i took notes. ill talk about shit in the order it happens in the movie. and yeah spoilers.

so first, the part that's in Iraq. i liked the quiet, very comforting. im very confused what's wrong with the old guy. he looks like a walking cane would help him a lot. more than the molly or whatever pills he takes. and also i was so confused why that statue mattered at all.

mom checks up on Reagan: "wind cannot be that cold in like usa the fuck you shivering for",, in hindsight, there's another reason for it to be so cold.

the film set: "damien karras spotted!!" @weirdlildude you have conditioned me to get excited whenever i see him. otherwise, "what the hells going on", i was so confused the whole time, mainly because i didnt know if the protest was real, or if everyone was actors. it was just very confusing. and when damien walks away: "sad pathetic man!!"

mom, Chris, is walking home: "ace attourney ass music" and "why'd she pay attention to that??" when she stops and watches the priests talking.

"what is with this movie and the sound design", just a general statement. the movie likes to contrast thick silences with really loud sounds.

Karras visits his mother: "pathetic man caught lying to his mother!!", when he says he's alright.

Chris and Reagan hang out: "girlypop ive got a chronic case of parent issues"

the other priest checks up on Karras: "losing faith? *eyebrow raise*"

Chris goes up to the attic to check the noise: "omg im like so bored", legit nothing was happening, was getting very bored. also i didnt write this in my notes, but Chris has a horrid haircut. its like a bowlcut but worse.

priest does stuff in the church: "do priests legit need to kneel everytime they approach the altar. doesnt that get like really tiring geez" and when the priest discovers the vandalised statue: "LMAOOO JGGIDJAGHJAFD FUCK YEAH"

Reagan's first doctors visit: "omg words that should never come out of a mothers mouth number 1 "my daughters not depressed" "

the director gets drunk at Chris' party and calls that one dude a nazi: "LMAOF "whats for dessert?😏" "

Karras has a dream: "doggy:)"

Reagan's second hospital visit: "oh god i hate horror stuff that takes place in a hospital", and "oh god i hate this why's she awake during this"

Karras is running on the track: "he's a runner he's a track star", when he's talking with the detective and leans on the chain fence "i want him to kabedon me like that", and when the conversation ends "tbh i did not fully understand that conversation but understanding that father karras is a little shit is enough"

Chris and Reagan return home and the detective is watching them: "this fucking creep ass detective", Chris and him start talking "i fucking hate this guy omg shut up", they talk more "this guy is so rude omg"

Chris hears Reagan scream and goes to check on her: "is uhh,, is this movie like pure horror? like that wasnt supposed to be comedic?". this is where i started to really be confused about the genre of the movie. like, i started to realise that it was not inciting any horror from me, and barely even like, anxiousness. like i did care for the characters, but its hard to really feel scared for them when the demon threatening them is chanting "let jesus fuck you", and puking constantly.

Chris goes to ask Karras for an exorcism: "why is the church so progressive in this??" like legit you're telling me the catholic church doesn't believe in posession, because science has advanced to explain the symptoms. that sounds like bullshit to me. in 1973? you're just lying.

Chris is desperate to help her daughter: "dude my parent issues be hitting hard"

Karras throws tap water onto Reagan: "i dont get it like. why did it react to the water?", i just dont get it. the movie doesn't really care to explain it. cuz i thought that the demon actually wouldn't be real because of that. or did Karras unintentionally bless the water by saying its holy? idk

when Karras and the older priest take a break from exorcising, and the old priest walks off: "is he gonna kill her. also am i supposed to understand what the pills he's taking are?". genuinely i have no fucking idea what the pills are that this old guy keeps taking, like they could just be breath mints for all i know.

Karras is sitting downstairs in the hall: "sorry he's so hot jeezums"

Karras is resolved to not let the demon kill Reagan: "oh shit karras be fighting FOR THIS GIRLS LIFE"

Chris opens the door to the detective: "OH MY GOD FUCKING GO AWAY YOU DETECTIVE"

Karras, uhm,, takes a leap of faith: "I FORGOT THAT THIS HAPPENS I KNEW THIS AND STILL DEAR GOD NOOOOO",

"BUT ALSO KINDA COOL OF HIM TO DO THAT", it was kinda hot that he sacrificed himself, though he was probably just looking for a reason after his mom died.

Chris and Reagan talk to that one priest that knew Karras: "oh like she(Reagan)'s thanking karras for saving her? she recognised the collar and felt compelled to thank him?", wondering why Reagan gave a kiss to the priest.

this whole ending scene tbh: "jesus its so quiet again", this movie really likes its quiet silences.

detective talks to dyer: "LMAOOOOO"

credits: "DAMN I ACTUALLY REALLY LIKE THE SOUND TRACK??", "lmao warner bros should add a "the exorcist" attraction into the universal studios park"

anywayy yeah its a fun movie, though i feel the need to read the book now to understand it fully ya know? feels like im missing something... also i know that it got popular cuz its so like "provocative" and stuff, but in this age i dont really get the hype. i guess it is still worth appreciating for furthering the art of film ya know.

#the exorcist #media

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imagoddamnonionmason · 8 days

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Howdy stranger original poster of the ask game

🎭- what’s their dream musical role? (If you don’t know musicals pick a movie role)

🌋- quick they have to save a town from an erupting volcano what do they do?

🏥- how do they act when their hurt/sick

🏛️- they’ve suddenly become President of the moon. What do they do?

for any OC

Eyup, nice to meet ya mate! Thank you for the ask!!

So, I'm gonna split the questions between a few of them :0c

-----

🎭- what’s their dream musical role? (If you don’t know musicals pick a movie role)

So I instantly knew I would be answering this question for Nanette. Cannot be convinced otherwise that this woman doesn't know most musicals and sings them in the shower. I think if she were to pick a role, one that she'd absolutely love and get giddy over performing, would be that of Jenna from Waitress. She loves the actress' voice and the songs are just so lovely - there's the good balance of funny, love, sadness. That and she is a mother and I feel she can relate to some things within the show and Jenna herself.

🌋- quick they have to save a town from an erupting volcano what do they do?

This is the first time I'm actually writing about him... but I think this question would be great for exploring Keith Wells, my CIA Agent.

He'd probably watch it burn. Unless losing the town would affect Perseus, his faction and their goals, nah that bastard would put a pair of sunglasses on and watch the flames. Probably get a kick out of it, too, the little rat.

🏥- how do they act when their hurt/sick

Franca is an absolute pain in the arse when it comes to being sick or injured.

When sick she'd put it off until someone pulls her aside and says 'you look like absolute shit mate please go and rest'. Even then, she wouldn't allow anyone to fuss over her because she hates the attention. She never had it growing up and she doesn't need it now, so just leave her to her hovel in her bedroom and when the sickness has cleared she'll emerge like nothing ever affected her.

When injured, she would be worse than when she is sick; getting illness is something that someone can't control, you know, it's all 'it is what it is'. Being injured? Well, according to her that's usually because someone has been reckless and stupid and should have being paying attention... so when she's the one that's been reckless... and stupid she'll hate others knowing she's injured because then they'll laugh at her. Like, you spend all this time lecturing us about safety and not getting hurt and then you go do it, kinda thing.

She will also refuse treatment because 'I'm a medic, I can take care of the injury myself'.

Yep. 141 sometimes have their hands full with this little Italian/English woman.

🏛️- they’ve suddenly become President of the moon. What do they do?

Haha, I'm going to do little Ashley Woods for this because toddlers have the best imaginations.

She would declare to her parents, Jodie and Frank, that she is now the president of the moon and if ya wanna live there, you gotta give her the sweet tax. If you do not have sweets, then chocolate milk will be fine. If you do not have chocolate milk, then unfortunately you cannot live on the moon with her, the president, and so will be 'thrown off'.

Frank is nodding along, agreeing that throwing people off the moon would be a good solution to not receiving the sweet tax. He is proud of his daughter for not taking any shit - no sweets or chocolate milk? Yeah, see ya!

I also imagine that she's wearing a blanket as a cape and is wearing one of those paper crowns kids can get from fast food restaurants. That is the uniform of the Moon President. The crown would be slightly too big for her head, so drops down a little on one side, but she'd probably mutter something about 'that's how it's supposed to look' if her mom tried to adjust it.

Sigh... Ashley is an adorable menace.

-----

Thank you again for the ask!! Hope you had fun reading these!

~Goose

#call of duty #black ops cold war #cod mw2 #call of duty oc #cod bell oc #cod mw oc #frank woods #jodie hall #keith wells #nanette mactavish #franca lorenzetti #ashley woods #my ocs #canon x oc mention #gooseanswers #oc ask meme

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enruiinas · 1 month

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[Scattered In-Progress Headcanons:]

I'm on day 2 of one of those kicks where I'm not doing any actual writing, but I've been ooc screaming on the sidelines about muse and dynamic thoughts and just... every little thing in between to the point I get so hyped I literally can't keep up with all the thoughts I'm having. So I'm sorry for a bunch of ooc posts & to do list type things to refer back to when I calm down but I'm trying to write scattered thoughts down as I have them to revisit later or I'll lose them.

Some things on my mind today to explore further/write up properly when the ooc brainwaves I'm enjoying calm down:

Talking to @code01746/@mingos about Law having anxiety attacks & post-Minion Island PTSD. Exists in varying levels in verses where Cora lived or canon compliant where he didn't, but this ties into the "don't hide illness/injury from him" brainwaves yesterday. This part would definitely be worse in a verse where Cora did live but was still very badly injured at one point in time (unsurprisingly, he gets the most angry with Cora himself for doing this). That said, Law is still very much a hypocritical Little Shit and is the "I'm fine, nothing to worry about" type with his own condition - because of course he is.

Whether Rosinante lived or not, Law has recurring nightmares (or waking panic attacks) where he finds himself back in the treasure chest, screaming and helpless again, OR where he's seeing Cora covered in blood and collapsing again. He's not claustrophobic per se, but being in small/enclosed places can trigger the first and seeing anyone bleeding when they're otherwise pretending they're okay triggers the second.

He is confident in his medical knowledge and abilities but a panic attack could absolutely happen in a situation where he's treating a loved one in a life or death situation. This one is interesting to me because I've been talking with @gumpistol/@cptnslog a bit about Penguin, Shachi, and Bepo knowing at least a decent bit of basic medical/caretaking knowledge and I think they're all capable of stepping in if they ever happen to look up and see Law's normally steady hands shaking - at least until he recovers, because I think there would be a window of "yes, you're freaking out, but you are probably the only one here who can do this and you need to get it together right now".

He gets really frustrated & upset with himself after the fact. Even if he got it together and everything turns out okay, he'll be very shaken that he got to that state in the first place. (If Cora lived, especially, he'll think he should have "gotten over it" because "they made it and it should be fine" even though it... doesn't work like that.) When it comes to feeling heavy things like this in general, Law tends to "allow himself" a given amount of time (a few minutes) to indulge in them, and then no matter what it's like... okay those 3 minutes are up, you've indulged yourself, time to get up, brush it off, and keep going. Sometimes this is a good thing; often it's not enough and not a healthy coping mechanism.

#was going to tag this ooc but honestly it's really not. there are several other wishlist/ooc things i do need to type up but...#these are actually relevant so i shall leave as is on this one.#tw: blood #tw: death mention #✦ — 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. | tbt.#✦ — 𝐡𝐜𝐬. | tbt.

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words-after-midnight · 2 months

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I enjoyed your question so much it made me curious so I'm throwing it back to you: what in your WIP would start internet debates if published?

Haha. Can you tell that question was inspired by how I think about this all the time regarding my own WIPs? 😅 Well, two of them in particular, namely Life in Black and White and The Dotted Line.

For Life in Black and White:

The ending and core message will almost certainly be very controversial if the book gets any kind of traction, even just based on the response I've seen to previous books that addressed similar themes and topics. I've tried my best for years to make it come across as intended, but of course, there's only so much I can do. There will be people who will "get it," and people who wildly misinterpret it or approach it with too little nuance (ironic, given that "approaching fundamentally nuanced things without nuance can be dangerous, harmful, and have far-reaching complications" is, like, the core "point" of the story, but I won't get into specifics beyond that because of spoilers).

This story explicitly portrays actual codependency, not the romanticized (and incorrect) version fandom loves to tack onto every mutually obsessive ship. The central dynamic is an ill-defined, intense, and abusive relationship between one person who adopts a permanent caretaker role with regard to the other person, who frequently engages in reckless and unsafe behavior to an extent that is both self-destructive and destructive more generally. The caretaker character has good intentions (you know what they say about those!), but basically loses his entire identity and sense of self in his misguided attempts to care for (read: control) the other character, who does whatever the fuck he wants and is about as "tameable" as a wild dragon. This dynamic is fundamentally cyclical and is only broken when they are separate. If you know anything about libaw, you've probably figured out who I'm talking about. I can only imagine the sheer discourse about their Problematic and Toxic relationship if ever this sees the light of day. I call them trainwreck for a reason!

By the way, that character who allegedly needs to be cared for and protected because, left to his own devices, he just can't help being a living tornado? Yeah, that guy? Main antagonist of the story. Callous, vile, wickedly manipulative, would 100% be either sexualized to hell and back or called "bad queer representation" (among other things) on Tumblr. He is not any of the endearing, hilarious, and/or harmless-looking masks he wears in daily life. He's said and done some absolutely heinous shit. Unfortunately for everyone, the aforementioned caretaker character is WILDLY obsessed with him and thinks he's in love with him. None of these intense romantic feelings are remotely returned, which I expect some readers to understand, while I feel like others will think that there is some particular "special affection" there that Jeff holds for Gabriel and that he just can't express in a "typical" way (I might as well name them, you all know who I'm talking about here), because that's usually how these types of dynamics are written (ie. the "unfeeling" character having one or two close people in their lives they have some genuine affection for).

The exact nature of Jeff's affective disposition will be argued about to shit and probably called "bad representation of neurodivergent people" because he's not a good person - regardless of anything else about him - and displays some aggressive/violent/otherwise unpalatable behavior. He will almost certainly be assumed to be neurodivergent in some way, because it's extremely obvious, but this is why I've never specifically defined or labelled it. I know what he would be labelled as (eg. in a correctional or psychiatric setting), and that's partially what I based my character research on, but I also think labels are just that. They're not an immutable, core aspect of someone, and they're often disputed and debatable. Nuance, right?

I've alluded to this before in previous ask responses, but Jeff experiences a traumatic incident at one point in the story. You see part of his response (which is atypical and not prime-time drama approved), but it's filtered through Gabriel, who is having an overblown vicarious trauma response to this event and handles it extremely poorly, which includes basically making it all about him, because this ridiculous fucking man cannot separate his identity from Jeff to save his damn life (jfc I'm getting heated, lmao). For some people, this will all be completely fine because Jeff is a terrible person, right? Pretty classic Asshole Victim trope going on here. Again, absolutely none of this will pass the social media vibe check.

Speaking of atypical trauma responses: there are several in this story, and I expect to get flack for "unrealistic" or "irresponsible" portrayals of trauma. As in, I have literally seen takes online calling a trauma response I've written an "irresponsible portrayal" in other media, when in fact said response is quite common, just not commonly portrayed. The thing is: if there's one thing I've done in fifteen years of working on this story, it's my fucking research. In some cases I'm also drawing from my own experiences. Most of my characters are trauma survivors to some degree, but I tailor their responses to their characterization. For example: Gabriel lost his mother shortly prior to the beginning of the story, but almost never talks about her or her death, which some may interpret as him being "unaffected" by the loss. Actually, though, Gabriel's grieving process with his mother is functionally identical to mine when my dad passed away at a similar age.

Last but not least (though I'm sure I'm forgetting things): several characters, including Gabriel, have diagnosed mental illnesses, and I don't beat around the bush when it comes to describing the "ugly" symptoms.

For The Dotted Line:

My joking answer is "the whole thing." Like, not literally, but overall it's worse than Life in Black and White when it comes to heavy and controversial.

We've got a realistic American state prison setting in the mid- to late aughts.

We've got a first person narrator with low emotional tone - think A Clockwork Orange. His narrative is like this piece (which is also narrated by him).

We've got a bona fide villain protagonist who is also an incredibly complex character. I try to make you feel conflicted about him on multiple occasions, which I'm sure will go over very well in the world of online discourse.

Not only do we have atypical trauma responses and just mountains of horrific shit that becomes almost mundane given that, again, it's a prison, we get to have all of this filtered by the internal monologue of a guy who lives by his own warped sense of morality, is in warzone mode 24/7, and believes that we live in a world of predators and prey and that "if you play with sharks you can't get all upset about being bitten." Lovely, huh? Can't wait to see how the world wide web dissects this man's behavior and life experiences.

WOW THIS GOT SO LONG AND I'M SORRY, but I'm also not sorry, because this is stuff I think about a lot and it was kind of cathartic to write it out lol.

#libaw #tdl #my characters are excellent specimens of humanity /s #writeblr #ask #sts

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