#if moralism is the blue sky communism is the night sky no?

[bluastro-yellow]

I thought Kim's portrait looking a little like the Rising Moon Hanafuda card was just a neat coincidence but I actually like the idea of Kim symbolising a moonrise instead of a sunrise. the Sun is the brightest star in the sky and when it's gone the Moon keeps reflecting its light. what if (if you play him as a huge communard) Harry dies just like Mazov and Kim becomes the "echo maker", the one who spreads his message

#I'm just saying words and blathering because I'm waiting for something and I need to distract myself #I like putting ideas out I don't know if they make sense #in the hanafuda card the moon is rising at sunset 🎴. they meet for a moment #disco elysium #pointless microblogging #if moralism is the blue sky communism is the night sky no? #disco elysium spoilers #sort of #let kim fix the fucking tiptop analysis he needs to do it #even if it's right because he might love machines but you can't deny he craves violence in some complex way #he needs to sit down and write his thoughts on the subject so he can think about it

[mylovelies-docx]

Sorry, I Love You - Part 9

Oh wow, a new chapter? Who'd have thunk it.

My posting schedule is all off and I honestly don't know if I can get it back under control. I have no idea when I'll get time to sit down and write and when inspiration will strike, so I can't assure weekly updates. But I'll try my hardest to get this story out! I have future chapters written, it's just that I have no way of connecting them right now :/ Oops.

Plot: You and Bucky have a good thing going - best of friends that also have more than a little chemistry between the sheets. Everything is fine until you develop feelings for the man who doesn't want a relationship. What will happen when Bucky finds out?

C/W: Ah shit, here we go again. Angst, arguments, jealousy

Word Count: 2,250

Tag List: NOW CLOSED! If you'd like to keep up with this story, please follow my blog and turn on notifications! ❤️ you :)

[Prologue][Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4][Part 5][Part 6][Part 7][Part 8]

Some moments are easier than others. Sometimes you feel like you’re not pining like a love-sick teenager enough to think that you can actually do this – you can actually be friends with the man you love.

But then there are moments like tonight.

A few weeks have passed since community get-together, and you and Bucky are the new kids in town. Everyone drops by to say hello, leave you with enough food to last the winter, and invite you both back to their homes for dinner. It’s all very sweet, and you would appreciate the hospitality in any other situation.

But the amount of mothers trying to marry their daughters off to Bucky is insane. 

Several have not-so-subtley seated Bucky next to daughters of marriageable age, while everyone else is silently discouraged from interrupting their conversations. It skeezes you out when the girls are barely out of their teens, but most of the girls are around your age or older. Morality-wise, that’s a whole lot more appropriate. Internal monologue-wise, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh doesn’t even begin to cover it. What you feel whenever he laughs at something they say, or looks at them with his intense blue eyes – it hurts. That’s how he used to look at you, once upon a time. Like his life wouldn’t be the same without you in it, like you’re one of the most important people in his world.

To be fair to Bucky, you probably read waaaay more into it than he ever meant. And you only ever really saw that look come out when you were straddling his waist and grinding hard on his cock, skin mottled with his teeth marks and wearing his metal hand as a necklace. 

Stop, stop, stop, stop!

Anyway,

You’re usually placed next to older, widowed relatives, as most of the young men in the town have already settled down and popped out a few kids with their spouses except for Petre. Tessa foists the two of you together at every possible opportunity, hoping you’ll hit it off and decide to get married in the near future. 

Petre is nice, smart, cute, but not really your type. You’re convinced that you’ve only ever had one type and he’s off-limits. But Petre’s company is much more enjoyable than the sad, lonely older men they try to pair you with – it never feels great to be compared to someone’s long lost love – so you don’t mind having someone around your age to talk during these things.

Speaking of.

“It’s a nice night, yeah?” Petre comments. The night is warmer than expected, but you and Petre are still bundled up in your coats as you stroll through the dead copse of trees near the latest dinner party. The sun had set only minutes ago and the stars are making their presence known. There’s next to no light pollution in this area, so you always take the time to admire the night sky when you have the chance. 

You often take walks with Bucky up and down your street as a way to decompress after your shifts at the HYDRA facility. After the first week or so of being everyone’s errand-runner, they’ve slowly built up your workload to include calculations and deductions based on redacted data – it’s not as much information as you’d like, but it’s enough to build a foundational understanding of what the experiment was about.

You hum in agreement and continue walking. It’s about time to turn around and head back, but you can’t bring yourself to return only to watch Bucky flirt with the pretty girls that were also invited.  

“Is something the matter?” Petre asks you.

You startle out of your petty, jealous thoughts. “Hm? Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong,” you reply with a smile.

“It’s just that you seem very distracted tonight,” he responds.

With your hands in your pocket, the only thing you can do is shrug your shoulders. “Just tired, is all. It’s been a long week at the office.”

“Ah, I know the feeling,” Petre commiserates. 

All of the sudden, a wailing, piercing shriek ricochets between the tree trunks and reverberates in your ears. Tensing with adrenaline, you take two steps forward, ready to intervene in whatever events are unfolding in the darkness.

Before you get much further, Petre reaches out and takes hold of your elbow. Turning you around, he starts leading the way back. You try to tug your arm from his grip, but he holds firm.

“The cry of a vixen who is looking to mate. They’re rather vicious creatures this time of year, foxes. We don’t want to get in her way,” Petre deters.

“But…” you begin, looking back over your shoulders and watching for unexpected movement among the swaying branches. “It sounds so real.”

“Terrifying, really. I was just as concerned when they began, as well.” Petre gives you a tight smile and relaxes his grip slightly when you stop trying to pull away.

“What do you mean?” you question.

“What?” Petre’s eyes flash around quickly, looking through the woods that surround you.

“‘When they began’. What do you mean by that?”

“Ah,” Petre replies. “When mating season began.”

There’s no more discussion on the eerily accurate sound of a woman in distress. You can only trust that Petre would know the local fauna and their habits better than you, since you’ve never spent an extended period of time in areas such as this.

***

The neighbor’s house finally comes into view. A lone figure stands silhouetted against the porch as they lean against the railings, their arms braced against the banister and posture rigid. When you get closer, you realize that the figure is Bucky. 

You can’t see his face, but you can feel his eyes on you. And apparently Petre can as well.

“He doesn’t like me?” Petre asks.

“Why do you say that?” The question puzzles you because Bucky has no reason to dislike Petre. He’s been incredibly helpful so far, allowing you to ask as many questions as you want about himself and others and he doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. In fact, you feel as if you and Petre have become friends.

“It just seems like he’s never happy to see me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that – James just has RBF,” you reply nonchalantly.

“RBF?” Petre replies.

You laugh as you and Petre climb the stairs, only now realizing that he still has a hand on your arm. You’d forgotten all about it, but you miss the slight warmth that permeated through your jacket when he removes his touch. You turn to look at him, but Petre is looking away, his hands now deep in his pockets. Turning your focus onto Bucky, you see him watching Petre, his eyes squinted.

A large smile returns to your face as you reach up and grab Bucky’s chin, squishing his cheeks and making his lips pucker from the pressure. “This –” you say triumphantly, “is an RBF.”

Bucky glares down at you and swats your hand away. You cackle at the perfect example of Resting Bitch Face™ in front of you, throwing your head back in joy. When you right your posture again, you can see a small smile on Bucky’s face as he laughs along with you.

“Whatever,” he murmurs. He shakes his head in exasperation before circling his arm around your shoulders. Bucky begins dragging you back down the steps you had just ascended and you grunt in protest. “It’s time to go,” he says simply.

“Ugh, you’re so rude,” you say to him. Craning your neck as much as possible, you look back towards Petre who remains on the porch. “I’ll see you later!” you call backwards with a wave. Petre raises a hand in return, face hidden in shadow as Bucky’s had been.

Focusing back on the road in front of you, you can practically feel what little mirth Bucky had drains away. Looking up, you notice that his jaw is clenched and a hard look has entered his eye.

“What’s wrong?” Now you’re worried that something happened to Bucky while you were gone that has put him in a bad mood. Did someone say something to him? Did one of the women reject his advances? You can’t see who in their right mind would turn him down, but not everyone feels the same way about him as you do. But if it’s the latter, the guilt you feel only slightly outweighs the relief.

“You don’t think you’re spendin’ too much time with him?” Bucky says between clenched teeth.

A frown appears between your eyebrows as you continue to look up at him. “No?” you respond. “He doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Ofcoursehedoesn’t,” Bucky mutters under his breath, but you can still hear him.

You slide out from under Bucky’s hold, his agitation sparking flames of your own. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You don’t think you’re leadin’ him on a bit, Y/N?” Bucky asks you.

You scoff. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You’re always hangin’ around him!” Bucky quips back. “You’re flirting with him and walking out of parties together. All these people, Petre included, are going to think you’re pitching for an engagement.”

The hurt and pitiful feelings from earlier tonight come flooding back. Only this time, instead of feeling them for what they are, you combine them with the anger his comment brings. How dare he accuse you of leading Petre on? As if he isn’t doing the same thing to all those girls?!

“And what about you?!” you yell, the last word ripping its way between your lips and setting your tongue ablaze. “You don’t think you’re stringing all these girls along behind you? You don’t have any intention of getting into a relationship with any of them, either, do you?” 

As the words escape, you remember how Bucky sat you down and asked for a friends-with-benefits situation. Said he wasn’t ready for a real relationship, but tired of one night stands. How the two of you could help each other out since you weren’t seeing anyone either. The old resentment towards yourself and how you let yourself fall for someone wholly unavailable whiplashes back into your mind after months of repressing it. 

If he could ask that of you, does that mean he’s asked someone else? You usually arrive home later than him, but on some occasions that you are released early, he’s not there. Instead of asking where he’s been, you had just let it slide since it could have been construed as possessiveness. Like your feelings – that Bucky believes to be long gone – entitle you to his life. You hadn’t wanted to risk anything at the time, but now your mind can’t help running wild at the possibilities.

“It’s not like I’m screwing his brains out every time we’re gone!” You shout at Bucky. You had been walking down the road away from the house party which was on a street with few homes, so there’s nobody around to hear your fight. “We’re not in the bathrooms having quickies, he’s not fucking me against a wall, or bending me over his motorcycle! He hasn’t proposed we fuck around with each other until someone better comes along!” 

Your chest heaves with the effort of expelling these vicious words from deep within your heart, and you can feel a burning beginning to creep behind your eyes. You hate getting angry – hate that any strong emotion makes your eyes well with tears and makes you look weak. And in this situation, you are weak – weak against Bucky, weak against yourself, weak against the knowledge that the one man you’ve ever loved never felt the same way and never will. Your inability to keep yourself from falling for someone you knew you could never have? Your jealousy that he is probably sleeping with one or more of the women in town? That makes you weak. 

And you can’t stand to be weak in front of Bucky again.

“Newsflash, Buck: I know how it feels to be lead on by you and it fucking sucks!” You lower your voice slightly and take another step away from him. “I know that wasn’t your intention, and I didn’t feel that way at first, but that’s how I feel now.”

“You were my best friend, Y/N – I didn’t want to lose that!” Bucky exclaims. “And I genuinely thought we were on the same page!” He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands over his eyes before saying, “And seeing you run off with Petre all the time just reminds me of us – how we’d always sneak away to get some time alone. It’s just –” He drops his hands and sighs heavily, looking up at the star-studded sky and then back down to you. “I’m jealous.”

“You’re jealous?” You ask incredulously. “Why?”

“Because –” You can tell that he’s struggling to get this out, and if he hadn’t started this argument and accused you of wronging Petre, you might have been more receptive to what he’s saying. More understanding. But right now, your anger swallows all empathy and hope that his words would usually supply. “Because that could have been us,” he breathes. Bucky takes a tentative step in your direction, but freezes solid at the icy glare you send his way.

“No,” you say flatly, “No, it couldn’t have. You made that abundantly clear when I asked.”

You turn your back on him and start running, ignoring the sound of your name as you leave Bucky behind.

Part 10

Taglist: @jackiehollanderr @rabbitrabbit12321 @12345sebby @blackwood-bodecker-housewifeife @lauraashley93 @themorningsunshinee @happinessinthebeingg @nash-dara @calwitch @stany0url0calwh0res111 @pono-pura-vida @learisa @introverbatim @kentokaze @marvelogic @kaz11283

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #sorry i love you

[baby-jaguar]

Phillip Graves; Sheriff

Introduction to the AU

Let's meet our candidate!

Where is he from?

Genoa, NV

Where does he live?

Searchlight, NV

What's his livelihood?

He was a previous soldier in the Nevada militia before leaving for Searchlight, where he soon followed his childhood dream of enlisting as a deputy. After some time, he ranked up to become the town's sheriff.

What are his qualities?

Phillip has made a well-known name for himself, and his ego is possibly even bigger with the level of authority he commands and holds. As the Sheriff, he is protective over his people but demands the respect that he deserves for keeping the town safe. Though he is a hard-liner, he does have a soft spot for those he protects and is always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need. He does live by his own code of ethics, being sure that any action is in the best interest, regardless of the consequences. 

He describes himself as a cowboy casanova, someone with blue eyes that rival the sky on a clear day. He is a man who deserves respect in every aspect of his life, but will never mistreat the closest he gifts his love to. Phillip is looking for a spouse who is not meek or submissive to the challenges faced in the wild region but will give him the respect he deserves as a hard-working husband. He is searching for a spouse who will be able to keep a good face around the town and become well acquainted with the townspeople, to have the inside information and aid Phillip in keeping the peace. Despite the quick tongue and even quicker draw of his gun, he is a charming man to his core. 

Biography

Phillip Graves was born in the settlement of Genoa, Nevada in 1885, the son of a Mormon pioneer family. He grew up in a strict and devout Mormon community and was raised with a deep sense of morality and justice. From a young age, he was drawn to justice and the rule of law, loving the idea of being able to enforce the law and serve the community, and he desired nothing more than to become a Sheriff.  

As a young adult, he enlisted in the Nevada militia in his late teens, and he quickly distinguished himself as a capable and effective soldier. After several years of service, he returned to civilian life, but ultimately left the Mormon Community and moved to Searchlight, Nevada where he found a calling as a lawman. Phillip's passion for justice and dedication to the law led him to become a deputy in the Searchlight Sheriff's Department. He quickly rose through the ranks, and soon became a respected Sheriff in his own right.

He is a stern lawman, known for his uncompromising sense of justice and his relentless pursuit of criminals and rogues. Even through the harshness of his demeanor, however, he is also seen as a fair and honest man, and he is respected by the people of Searchlight and the criminal element alike. However, he was not above a little corruption now and then loving the thrill of bending the rules and taking great delight in using his position to get what he wants. He is known for his quick wit and cunning ways, being able to maneuver through some of the toughest situations.

Despite his sometimes corrupt ways, Phillip is a highly respected Sheriff in Searchlight. He is known for his fairness, his honesty, and his dedication to the law. Now, while he does love the life of getting to serve the people he protects, he also craves companionship and love after a long time of being too busy for romance. As he spends most of his days patrolling the streets and nights working on cases, he can't help but always feel like romance is something he is missing in his life, no longer a distraction from his duties.

#phillip graves #task force 141 #cod mw2 #commander graves #shadow company #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #graves cod #graves mw2 #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #warren kole

[icy-bluez]

Strongest You've Ever Been

Characters: Zayne

Warnings(?): Themes of pregnancy, you're a fricking warrior and you're mad strong, slight angst, lots of fluff in the beginning.

Synopsis: You're about to go to war, whilst pregnant.

A/N: Part 2 is out fellas.

| Part 2 |

Last night, you were in bed with Zayne, tangled and sweaty. Both of you touching and kissing each other with a passion. No clothes, no barriers, no shame. The night was blissful and loud.

In the morning, the both of you bid each other reluctant goodbyes and went to work.

It had been about 3 years since you and Zayne had been married. With him, Azure's Echo day would be celebrated with the both of you tangled in bed in the morning and laughing around in arcades at night. Christmas, enveloped in his coats and trying extremely spicy food in restaurants. Halloween, with you experimenting with costumes on a very reluctant Zayne.

Zayne didn't smile often, so the first time you had gotten him to laugh, you had felt so proud about it you never stopped bragging. Now a picture of both of you smiling, showing teeth stood in the living room. You admired the picture everyday before going to work. Zayne had a bright green glow in his eyes and slight crinkles around it. Sharp, canines that looked ever so cute with his smile. He had his arm around you, your head on his shoulder and his on top of yours. You were the only one he was childish with, the only one who saw his lopsided, playful smile every morning in bed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

14 years prior.

Wanderers had appeared on Earth. This year, they swarmed in.

You and Zayne had suddenly gotten extremely busy. Akso hospital brimming with injured civilians and hunters alike. Zayne worked himself to the bone.

You, being the captain of the Z01 squad were immediately summoned to the Headquarters. 15 hunters were dead, 2 of whom belonged to the squad you loved like family. The Metaflux stabilizers had been utterly destroyed and a worm hole enabled hundreds of Wanderers to swarm somewhere farther from Bloomshore District. The area was quite desolate but the remaining residents were quickly evacuated.

A containment zone was put up with hologram technology which was slowly being broken down by repeated attacks from the mindless Wanderers. Citizens in the periphery of a couple miles were asked to evacuate. The most elite squads, including yours, were immediately dispatched into the containment zone with ample precautions. Your squad led the others and you in turn were the General in this war. You were determined to protect the city with your life and so was your army of hunters. Your resolve never faltered, determination ever burning.

"Eugene, right flank, Jennie left. Shoot wanderers on sight, do not hesitate." You say while speed walking through the formation of your soldiers on either side. Form straight, eyes bright and focused. A tight full black suit with armour on your body and two guns slinging in your hands. Your presence was revered and respected in the battlefield.

"Yes ma'am."

"Keep weapons ready, get backup ammunition at hand. Y2 squad defend East, Y1 West, Q20 at standby. Technical team, check communication connectivity again. Make sure there are no errors."

"Roger that." The static of their voice on the other side works itself into your earpiece.

The sky turns purple and blue in an instant. A bright glow of a forming and expanding worm hole emanates from the sky. The soldiers tense, the wanderers emerge. You wait with bated breath at the very front of the army and say one word.

"Charge."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After more than a week.

The first wave of wanderers had almost been completely wiped out. Your soldiers congratulated each other exhausted and wounded but still trying to keep team morale high. Zayne had not been able to come to the camp yet because of an immense amount of workload. Doctors milled about and you kept searching for familiar hazel eyes until two bright brown ones occupied your gaze.

"Hello I'm Rachel. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me to treat your wounds. Can you walk?"

You were too tired to talk so you shook your head instead, being honest. A wanderer had deeply wounded your leg and a tightly wound rag around your shoulders kept another's bleeding at bay.

You were helped into the infirmary.

"How are you feeling?"

"I feel like I'm in pain." You reply. Your sadness from seeing your squad in pain had morphed into anger, barely hiding the unusual whirlwind of emotions in you. After a quiet moment you oblige. "I also feel weirdly sick..."

Rachel asks you a myriad of questions after that, some a bit too personal. She also takes your blood for a blood test and cleans and bandages your wounds thoroughly. Exhausted, you fall asleep.

You wake up to news you did not expect.

Rachel declares you are 1 week pregnant. You had been pregnant the entire time you were on the battlefield. Now the Metaflux ratings were slightly more stable. HQ had ordered part of the hunters to be on standby and part of them to go back to Linkoln city. The hunters would be summoned again when Metaflux ratings started going haywire.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Cap'n you're a bit distracted..." Tyler says. Your squad of 9, earlier 11 had insisted on walking you home after noticing that you had not been feeling well. 'Captain's super strong, it's unusual to see her sick. We must protecc.' was their argument. Now you walked back home like the mama duck of 8 ducklings.

"I'm fine Tyler. Shouldn't you have been in the hospital?"

"My wounds aren't that bad Cap'n." He says bumping his chest.

"Yeah like you weren't the one screaming like a baby when your leg fractured." Eugene says.

"Oh yah, i have it recorded." Jennie cuts into the banter.

"What!? No! Give me your phone!"

"My god you lot have an immense amount of energy--" you stop mid sentence when you lock eyes with Zayne who was hurriedly walking down the stairs, still with his doctor's coat on.

"Y/N." He says, almost out of breath and envelops you in his arms, ignoring the crowd around him. Jennie squeals for a moment then her and some other responsible squad members drag the rest of the squad away to give you guys privacy.

"Are you injured? Why didn't you see me before you left?" Zayne says, gaze sharp and almost angry. He looks into your eyes like they were saying 'do you have any idea how worried i was?'

"There wasn't a chance Zayne. We were given immediate summons and you were super busy." You cup his cheek in your palm and give him a sad smile.

He tilts his face and buries it in your palm, frown still evident on his brows.

"Are you on your way to work?" You ask.

"No, I just got off. The hospital recieved the announcement that some squads we're coming back. Yours was on the list so I just...ahem, came to check."

"Walked out of work."

"I would not frame it that way. William's covering...actually, nevermind."

You burst out laughing, taking his hand and walking to your house.

"That's the first time you have done that, you workaholic! And for me! I'm honoured but also concerned." You try to flick his nose but he catches your wrist and places a kiss above the bandaged area.

You could almost feel Zayne reassuring himself that you're fine. The moonlight shone into his sad and tired eyes making guilt flare through you as you thought of the news you were going to give to him.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Zayne..." You say sadly, sitting on the edge of the bed as he returns into the bedroom with a cup of hot chocolate that you started craving.

He frowns. Setting the cup on the bedside table he kneels down in front of you and holds both your hands in his.

"What's wrong love?" He asks, concern etched in his features. You have no idea where the emotions are coming from but tears well up in your eyes as you look at him, then glance away.

"Y/N?" He asks, cupping your cheek with one hand and running his thumb over your other hand.

"We need to talk...about something..." You continue, willing yourself past the voice crack.

"I'm here love, talk to me..."

"You know I have to...go back to the frontlines the week after this right?" You continue, he nods, examining your face.

"I know and I really do not think I feel good about letting you go. But...I cannot stop them because of the emergency situation." He grits his teeth. You knew how much Zayne wanted to protect you and you knew that he would keep you safe in his arms if you wanted.

"There's also..." You hesitate, fearing what his reaction might be. Zayne had always supported you and had been open to having kids. He was an amazing husband and you knew he would also be an amazing father. He waits.

"I'm pregnant." You say as tears roll down your cheeks. When you look him in the eyes, they are wide. Surprise and horror clouds them.

You take a deep breath. "I have to go back to the frontlines next to next week."

"No. Y/N...what..." He says. You could not bear the look in his eyes. The realisation that the risk factor for you had increased ten-fold. Heart disease and pregnancy whilst being the General in the frontlines.

"I should be happy but Y/N it's too risky...there's chances of a premature delivery and fetal growth restriction given your heart condition. Being in the front lines, fighting and getting wounded during pregnancy is even worse. I support you, love but I do not want to see you hurt...or worse."

You pull Zayne into the sheets with you and just lie down, letting the words sink in, hiding your face.

"Y/N look at me please..."

"Hunters are allowed to continue working till delivery...hours are restricted to 40 per week--"

"Y/N..." You put your arms around his neck and just hug him. He returns it and kisses the top of your head.

"Zayne, I know it's risky and I know you're going to be worried sick but I can't step down now. There's too many lives dependant on me, my orders, my Evol. Without its protection, they won't be able to stand anywhere close to the wormhole."

Zayne sighs and then breathes your scent in. He detangles himself from your hug and places his forehead against yours.

"On one condition."

You move away and give him a questioning look.

"Please just, for my peace of mind, let me be posted at the military facility."

"How are you going to get permission?" You ask as Zayne wipes away your tears.

"I have qualifications from going into previous battlefields. You know about it...and also I used to be your primary care physician before we got married..." Zayne says and trails off.

You bury your face into his chest and mutter a tiny "okay".

ANTHOLOGY LIST

#zayne love and deepspace #zayne #love and deepspace #fanfiction #angst #fluff

[annymation]

Now that I'm animating the stars' reactions to Asha choosing Aster, I was wondering, How would Aster have reacted if Asha chose another star? I know that the most likely thing is that he will be sad, but I started to think that he would communicate all the time with the other star that Asha chose so that he is aware of everything that happens or that he would get angry with the star because it happened something bad to Asha, I don't know, ideas that come to me out of nowhere in the middle of the night lmao

Okay buckle up because this one will be a crazy ride:

You know this is a very interesting question but is also really hard for me to say because I’d have to imagine how another star would even go about granting Asha’s wish.

Because keep in mind that I took inspiration on how wishing stars work based on the Blue Fairy. The blue fairy didn’t accompany Pinocchio the whole way through, she just gave him some little interventions, so like, if Aster was in the Blue Fairy’s place he’d stay with Pinocchio the whole way through, because that’s his style, but it’s not how wishing stars usually do things, they only give small interventions and some advice.

… But in Asha’s case I can’t imagine a star doing that and not coming off as an huge jerk, because she needed A LOT of help, not only to save her people but also to protect herself from Magnifico granting her cursed wish.

But let’s say that Asha wished upon a star that followed all the rules:

All that star did at first was go down, introduce themselves to her, give her some magical intervention like boosting her confidence so she’s braver to spread the word of who Magnifico really is, so maybe she can start a silent rebellion, and also makes so she doesn’t need to sleep so she herself can stop the cursed wish from getting to her…

So this star does all that with their magic, very quickly, says goodbye to Asha and wishes her luck? then goes back to the sky to chill… And Aster pops up next to them like

Aster:…….. What the heck was that?!

Star: What? I gave her some advice and now I’m watching how it’ll play out.

Aster: UMM! She had a TERRIBLE day and you just took away her ability to SLEEP! Do you have any idea how important sleep is for humans??

Star: …. Do you?

Aster: NO I DONT BUT I IMAGINE ITS VERY IMPORTANT! THEY DO IT A LOT!

Star: *sigh* well you’re young, you don’t know anything. I’m just doing my job. So how about you mind your business and we watch how this play out, okay?

And it all plays out… The next day Asha gets trapped in the dungeon after she’s found out trying to start a rebellion

Aster (looking at the star very angrily):……. Go. Down. There. Now. Or I’ll turn you into a black hole (a dead star)

Star: OKAY OKAY IM GOING JEEZ!

The star gets there and frees Asha just like how the blue fairy freed Pinocchio from a cage.

Asha: What took you so long??? Nothing went according to your plan!

Star: Listen child, this is new even for me. I’m not used to dealing with evil kings.

Magnifico: Yeah, I can tell.

The king says from the shadows behind them. He only trapped Asha in the dungeon as bait, so he could capture the star.

Star:….. Well %#€&$

Aster (all the way up in the sky): AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!

And the star gets captured and Magnifico steals its power.

The end.

Moral of the story? Sometimes going against tradition and doing things your own way is THE BEST way. So even though the stars keep complaining that Aster isn’t following their rules of “not getting attached” and “only giving advice then leaving the human to do it by themselves”, his way is literally THE ONLY WAY that Magnifico could ever be defeated. What seemed like bad luck was a actually a blessing.

#wish rewrite #wish reimagined #kingdom of wishes

[ruinedbylanadelrey]

King of Your Heart

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 5 "More than friends but less than lovers"

summary: All that Frankie has ever wanted to be was your everything. After years of being best friends one phone call changes everything between the two of you.

inspired by The King by Sarah Kinsley

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, age gap (reader is 28-29, Frankie 38-39), friends with benefits -> situationship, Frankie isn't a dad, jealously, best friends with benefits, reader is lowkey toxic, drugs, smoking weed, alcohol consumption, reader wears makeup, reader has long hair, self-hate (both characters), yearning, secrets, no y/n, possessiveness, triple frontier boys, Tom is dead, reader is a flirt,

inside the world of king of your heart

playlist

series mainlist | main masterlist

taglist: @hiroikegawa

The humid air hit your cold skin from the AC when you slipped out to the patio of Frankie's backyard. It was just about to be sunrise, you were wearing Frankie's shirt and had a joint rolled the night before if you needed to get a little high on the blind date. The sky was fading to a blue and orange ombre. You kept replaying what you said to Frankie. 

'...we are more than just friends,'

Frankie never said it back. God this is so childish! You were angry that he didn't say 'we are more than just friends,' no confirmation, just let you blow him and smear across your face. Did you break the rules first? Or was it when Frankie drove to Ben's place? You raised the lighter to the joint in your mouth. Taking in the first hit in weeks.Savoring the taste of weed and the feeling of the smoke filling up your lungs to the very top. You expel the weed and feel the warmth of the upcoming high approach. 

Your heart was beating fast as the internal monologue in your head became the forefront of your mind. This isn't how it's supposed to be, Frankie can't be in love with you!

Why would he?

Especially since he knows how you treat men. He could never love you. You think of yourself as a bad person because you become in a relationship, cold and distant but such a tease. But you are in his house, not kicked out as soon as your escapades were over, and you're wearing his shirt walking around his home like you've always been living there. 

It's easy, comforting, not labels, just being with each other, caring for each other, not single but not taken. You loved everything about it, Frankie was your connection and you would be his too. 

"Kind like more than friends but less than lovers," You explained to Frankie, sitting on his lap when he joined you outside, just watching you smoke. "The less than lovers is kinda harsh." Frankie isn't going to beat around the bush anymore. "I don't mean it as we don't romantically care for each other but it's not at the level either." You spoke like you had all the answers, it seems that way due to the weed opening your mind just a bit bigger than Frankie's. 

"I love you, Frankie I do but being friends knocks my romantic love for you down a bit too much," Your words felt like small snake bites to Frankie. Here you were getting cold and distant, instead of how usually warm and open you are to him. 

Always putting out the fire just when it begins to spark. 

Frankie sighs, not knowing what to say but just to let you dangle the idea of being together in front of his heart. Maybe things are actually better left unsaid. Just to keep you in his life for a while longer. 

You pulled into the community center's parking lot, for the MMA fight. Ben and Frankie waiting on the bed of Frankie's truck. You quickly threw the car in park and got out to greet them.

"Told you I would be here, Benny," You quickly kissed his cheek and patted his back. "I need you here every fight, you're my good luck charm," Benny chuckles, You turn to Frankie who has his hands in his pockets, and you give him a weak smile. "Well I'm going head inside and grab our seats, Good luck pretty boy," You said as you readjusted your purse before heading inside.

Ben turns to look at Frankie watching you walk away, he whistles at you making you turn around a roll your eyes seeing that it was Benny whistling at you. Frankie throws him a glare over his shoulder.

"Hey, you weren't gonna do it," Ben smirks, he thinks he's the only one in the know about the two of you.

"What's going on with you guys anyway?" Ben takes the lead inside to locker room. Frankie sighs, takes off his cap, and runs his fingers through his curls.

"the fuck if I know," Frankie really didn't know where the line is anymore. You both keep picking it up and moving it so far away from 'just friends'.

One night you and him would go on a date and not even have sex. Then the next day Frankie is fucking you for hours until you both pass out. Another day you'll freak out and bring the line to purely platonic. You openly flirt with him in front of everyone but still make eyes at strangers at the bar.

"She goes back and forth with the idea of 'us'. She said 'more than friends but less than lovers.' I think whatever we are doing now is working, at least for me..." Frankie's drained voice carries through the empty hallway,

"She's a bit harsh to you, Fish," Benny said patting Frankie on the back, Frankie laughs dryly and quiets down when Ben pushes open the door to the locker room, he hears Pope and Will laughing. Ben doesn't miss a beat when he knocks his fist on the metal lockers grabbing the attention of the group. Everyone is shaking hands and giving aggressive hugs before heading out to ring. You were waiting with beers in your hands, and cheering as they announced Ben's name.

Your smile was big and beaming, and your voice carried throughout the loud crowd. Ben winks as you pass by.

"There she is!" Santiago pokes your waist, causing you to almost drop everyone's beer.

"Watch it!" You giggled at Pope who took the drinks from you and passed them out.

"Let me guess you paid for this with everyone's poker money," Will jokes kissing you on the top of your head.

"It makes great pocket money," You rest your head briefly on Will's chest to talk back. Frankie sits down, watching you look up at Will with such love and tenderness.

Does she look at me like that? Is that how she looks at everyone?

"She looks at you entirely differently," Pope takes a seat next to Frankie, it was like he was in Frankie's head.

"How do you know that?" Frankie wipes away the foam of the beer off his mustache. Pope laughs and shakes his head, taking a glance at you and Will now chatting about his fiancee and her wedding planning.

"Her eyes get wide and she bites her lips and then grows into a smile that just says it all." He said, Frankie scrunches his brows together, trying to recall every time he's seen you look at him.

To him it was so normal, that is just how you look at him. It was not the same look you gave Will, the look Frankie gets has love and lust in it.

"I'm done talking about this," Frankie snaps, looking down the row to watch you type on your phone, Your brightness was down and you had it angled for no one to see.

'You're being kind of a dick for ignoring me'

Your text buzzes Frankie's phone in his pocket. You were a little bit hurt by Frankie being distant since you were out with the guys. Frankie pulls out his phone and reads the message, he becomes annoyed by it.

He doesn't know how to act anymore, can he be touchy with you? Can he sit next to you? Can he breathe near you without anyone smirking? You watched him roll his eyes and shove the phone back into the pocket.

If looks could kill Frankie would be a dead man. You glared at him, the bell rang and the fight started. You rest your chin in your hands watching Ben throwing the first punch, Will and Pope stand up cheering him on. You glanced at Frankie who decided to stand up and join them. 

A rash of embarrassment flushes your neck traveling all over your face. Why is he being like this? Do you not exist out of sex? You could feel your heart tear, tendrils of muscles being pulled apart. Why do you fight yourself about being happy for once? Frankie is everything you want. He will outshine anyone even if someone cloned him. You want him for his faults and all. 

You're being selfish and reaching out for more when you set the limit. Frankie isn't going to cross the line until you do. 

Fuck it!

You walk down the row and stand next to him, Frankie turns to you and looks down at you. What is she doing? You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest watching Benny continuing to be the winner of the fight. You angle your head to see Frankie watching you, every move you make, his arms wrapped around your shoulders and his hand petting your hair. 

Line crossed. No one is pulling away. You both live to see the look on each other's faces. 

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fluff #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x f!reader #pedro pascal

[like-dogs--shianni]

Unusual OC Associations: Variel Lavellan Edition

Tagged by no one, but I liked this too much to miss it! Tagging @isayashai , @ghoulsbeard , @antivantalon , and anyone else who feels like doing this. Answers under the cut :)

Seasoning: Saffron. The plant itself is easy to grow with a little care and yields a violet flower. The spice comes from the plant’s crimson stigmas and has a subtle earthy-sweet flavor. It takes time and dedication to gather saffron, as it does to get to know Variel in her guardedness and depth — proof that many good things take time. Saffron also represents love, healing, and mental strength.

Weather: A warm afternoon just after a heavy rainfall. Sunlight makes the wet streets glitter and the earth bloom with the scent of petrichor. The memory of a storm is fading away and would feel like little more like a dream, if not for the last rumbles of thunder in the distance. The air feels new, refreshed, and the day begs to go play in puddles.

Color: Plum, indigo, pale gold.

Sky: The hazy, diluted, dark blue of the night sky, still peppered with glittering stars, as it begins turning lighter and lighter into dawn.

Magic Power: Aura reading. The ability to sense the "energy" of another, including their emotions, health status, or moral alignment.

House Plants: Moth orchid. Often lonesome, but brings the symbology of beauty and joy to a room.

Weapon: Meteor hammer. A soft weapon that can take opponents by surprise, as it gathers inertia by swinging in various directions before striking. Long-range and dual-ended, it allows to perform defense and offense at the same time. Alternatively, a book thrown at someone’s head.

Subject: Translation. Variel is fascinated by the language and its trappings, the prospect of breaching gaps in understanding by bringing sources of meaning together. Knowledge is lovely by itself, but even better when used to foster connectedness.

Social Media: Wordpress. She has a dozen abandoned blogs from different periods of her life, full of poems, reflections, and unfinished stories.

Make Up Product: Mascara. Variel’s eyes are one feature she likes about herself and play a significant role in her communication style, earnest and moving. Doesn’t hurt to have a little extra oomph when she stares into your soul or resolves conflict with some strategic eyelash batting.

Candy: Fruit confections (aka gummies). A burst of flavor that is almost natural except enhanced for an unbridled sugar rush.

Fear: Becoming untethered. This includes losing the people she cares about, naturally, but also losing herself; to oppression, to expectations, to the confusion of existing. She is caught between wanting to be free and fearing that she will fly into the sun if allowed.

Ice Cube Shape: Ice chips. Delicate, simple, and yet great for staying hydrated + sensory stimulation to bring the mind back to reality.

Method of Long Distance Travel: Caravan. Sitting in the back of a supply cart, journaling anonymously, watching the scenery pass by.

Art Style: Expressionism. Based on subjective perspectives of the world, uses radical distortion and vibrant hues to evoke moods or ideas.

Mythological Creature: Feathered Serpent. In Mesoamerican mythologies, examples include Quetzalcoatl, which represented the duality of body and spirit, life, light, and knowledge.

Piece of Stationery: That one pen that writes with just the right texture to be soothing. Not too thin or scratchy, not so full of ink that it splotches.

3 Emojis: 🕊️🌩️📚

Celestial Body : Supermoon. A celestial body already known for its mysticism becomes even more striking when it is closest to us; but even then, it remains at an unbreachable distance. Associated with the enhancing and deepening of emotions.

#variel lavellan #Variel tag #unusual OC associations #OC games #the dove is not Quite the animal that represents but. it’s what comes closest #i wish there was like a raven or hummingbird #anyway the bird vibe is there & that’s what counts

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Eris (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- She-Witch by Eileithyia

Bringer of Chaos by the people of Olympius

Age- 16 (immortal)

Location- Little Sparta, New Olympus

Personality- Eris is very dark, introverted, and unpredictable. She has a twisted sarcastic sense of humor, viewing herself as a non-conformist. She likes to stir up trouble. She’s single & is currently not on speaking terms with either of with her parents.

She has the standard abilities of a goddess. As the goddess of strife & discord, her abilities include shapeshifting as well as being able to communicate with venomous snakes and some nocturne creatures, curse inducement, pyrokinesis (her fire burns a rich golden red), limited umbrakinesis, being able to induce arguments, riots, disasters, & calamities, and flight (due to her vulture like wings). She can also manipulate people’s emotions- varying from anger to envy. She can also generate strong wind currents when emotionally heightened.

Eris was ecstatic when she stopped physically aging after she turned sixteen. She was free to live on her own. She lives in a loft in the Little Sparta neighborhood of New Olympus. Inside, there are colors of gold, red, & black with lots of eccentric prints and patterns on leather furniture. She has a pet dragon- a girl named Anarchy.

Out of all her siblings, she's the closest to Ares (god of war). She travels to Themyscira & Sparta sometimes to see him, sleeping over at his apartment (also in Little Sparta) too. They love to wreak havoc and cause trouble. They got into many shenanigans- including throwing up graffiti on the back of one of Athena’s libraries, blowing up one of Hermes’ casinos, drag racing alongside Dionysus, destroying two square blocks and even defacing the statue of their father near the Lightning Harbor.

Eris keeps her social circle small. Her best friend is Lyssa (goddess of rage & frenzy). She’s also cool with Hecate (goddess of magic & witchcraft), Lykos (goddess of wolves), Ailuros (goddess of cats & warfare), Nemesis (goddess of retribution), Diochetévo, Alala (goddess of the war cry), Nike (goddess of victory), Bia (goddess of force & power), Methe (goddess of drunkenness), Circe (goddess of sorcery), Achlys (goddess of the death mist, poison, misery, & sadness), and her uncle Hades. She's even a part of Bia's semi-pro wrestling team. She's also cool with two of her brother's best friends- Kratos (god of strength) and Zelus (god of envy, jealousy, & zeal).

In the patheon, she greatly admires Nyx (goddess of the night), Kakia (goddess of vice & moral wrongdoing), Atë (goddess of mischief, ruin, blind folly, delusion, & downfall of heroes), and Hybris (goddess of insolence, hubris, & reckless pride as well as Koros (god of surfeit & disdain); and his band Dissonance Machine. Eris' mentor was Enyo (goddess of war, destruction, bloodlust, & devastation).

Her go-to drink is a hard apple cider beer. She also likes dark cherry cola, appletinis, rum and cokes, black tea, & her usual from The Roasted Bean is a large chocolate mocha.

She has even dog-sat Cerberus a few times.

Eris can't even bear to be in the same room as her parents Zeus (god of the sky, thunder, & lightning) and Hera (goddess of women & marriage).

She does like gold roses!

Eris is aware of her very low approval rating in Olympius, but appreciates her "rebels" on Fatestagram.

Her go-to order from The Hearthside Diner is the fasolatha (bean soup), lamb gyros (with spicy tzatziki sauce), and roast pumpkin & feta croquettes- washing it down with a caramel almond milkshake. Eris also likes the spicy buffalo chicken sandwich (with extra blue cheese sauce) from The Bread Box.

One of her favorite desserts is the apple strudel from Hollyhock's Bakery. Her second favorite is the apple pie!

A favorite treat of hers are the caramel coated apples from The Frozen Spoon!

She and Ares are also a musical duo called Discordic Harmony. They both rap and sing with alternative, sadcore, & trip hop being their musical genres. They haven't released a full album- just singles. They've been nominated for nine Golden Laurels!

Even though she views them as annoying spoiled "Hera Clones," she does care for her younger sisters Hebe (goddess of youth) and Eileithyia (Ella)(goddess of childbirth). As far as her relationships with her half-siblings, Eris is mostly cool with Hermes, Dionysus (god of wine), and Artemis (goddess of the hunt). She's curious about her brother Hephaestus (god of the forge), having never met him.

In her free time Eris enjoys graffiti art, flying (on her own & on dragonback), listening to music, wrestling, mixed martial arts, sword fighting, darts, and baseball. She also loves stopping by the wrestling arena in New Olympus to check out the new matches, especially the ones featuring Palaestra (goddess of wrestling). She also loves playing video games & laser tag.

“To all the nay-sayers in Olympius, bite me!”

#my oc #eris goddess of discord #eris goddess of chaos #my oc character #my character #oc character #oc intro #character intro #oc introduction #character introduction #modern greek gods #modern greek mythology #greek myth retellings #greek goddess #greek goddesses #greek mythology #greek pantheon

[faerune]

— UNUSUAL MUSE ASSOCIATIONS

Tagged by @arklay​, @leviiackrman​, @dataterm​, @preachercuster​, @jackiesarch​! Thank you friends 🥰

Tagging: @solasan​, @chuckhansen​, @queennymeria​, @prometheas​, @arborstone​, @aartyom​​, @lvllns​​, @faarkas​​, @shadowglens​, @druidgroves​​, and anyone else who wants to!

seasoning: fresh basil, sea salt weather: warm, clear-skied night with a slight seabreeze colour: white, champagne, gold sky: a pale golden sunset over the horizon magical power: alchemy house plant: orchid weapon: 9mm pistol subject: history, art social media: instagram product: highlighter, mascara candy: butterscotch  fear: loss of freedom, imperfection, failure ice cube shape: crescent method of long-distance travel: first class plane rides art style: baroque mythological creature: siren piece of stationary: monogrammed paper, golden luxury ballpoint pens three emojis: 😒🥂🧭 celestial body: mercury (mind, communication, intellect, reason, language, intelligence)

seasoning: cayenne, table salt weather: cool spring with the sun shining, no breeze and just the barest wisps of clouds above colour: cornflower blue, teal, browns sky: a bright blue sky but in the distance you can see the dark grey of a storm on the horizon magical power: healing house plant: rosemary weapon: knife, pistol subject: biology social media: facebook product: concealer, chapstick candy: peppermints, chocolate fear: losing someone she loves (+ being responsible for it), being alone, being seen as a burden, having to choose between two people she loves ice cube shape: crushed method of long-distance travel: horseback art style: realism mythological creature: banshee or erinye piece of stationary: pen with her old vet office on the side of it :’) three emojis: 🦋🐴🥰 celestial body: venus (attraction, love, relationships, art, beauty, harmony)

seasoning: chili powder weather: thunderstorm colour: red, black, grey, white sky: an overcast day with a bit of sun peeking through the clouds magical power: lie detection house plant: golden pothos weapon: pistol subject: language arts social media: twitter product: concealer, mascara candy: twizzlers fear: failure, imperfection, letting her family (namely her father) down, not staying true to her morals/becoming spineless, being put in a position where she has to choose between her morality and someone she loves ice cube shape: crushed method of long-distance travel: motorcycle/bike art style: realism mythological creature: gorgon piece of stationary: small notebooks where you flip up instead of side to side, chewed on pens three emojis: 📰😡📷 celestial body: mars (aggression, sex, action, desire, competition, courage, passion)

#emily got tagged #these were a ton off fun #oc: cassie #oc: tess #oc: camila #this made me realize how similar in a two sides of the same coin kind of way cassie and tess are #whereas cassie priorities morality and the good of all tess prioritizes the safety of her loved ones over her own morality and others #LOVE

[wodnes--coyotl]

im thinking about the few brief moments we spent in los angeles, how scintillating they were, all the grime, and the dirt, the danger, the promises. i never had such big, painful dreams in my life, until i walked around hollywood and wanted to be poor there too because it was better than being poor here, except it wasn't. it was worse than anywhere, and it was heartless. but i have the memories of how every day it's bright, and every night it's never quite dark, because the port lights everything up in LB, and los angeles is like cocaine and a bad abusive lover you can't stop going back to. it always felt that way for me. all the years of 'why dont you just try it?' 'why dont you live here' 'we're your new family now' and then nothing, just, absofuckinglutely nothing, i had never been made to feel so worthless until living there, but in a different way than seattle. everyone in los angeles is in a DEEP state of denial. i dont believe most people there are happy. all the industry people are so depressing, the name drops, the photo ops, the jealousy, the money, the nepotism, the everything it's everywhere. and beneath all the beautiful veneer of money and glamour and rock n roll is the stupid freeway being shut down because of wood pallets catching on fire, or the rats and the roaches and the sycophant fucking landlords and the class traitors of every race and the freakshow of the tourism industry and the heroin and the missing teeth and the netflix building looming red in the distance neon through the marine layer fog and yet somehow despite the grime and the fags throwing up in west hollywood and the fancy horribly opulent topiaries in beverly hills, it was still beautiful. and it broke my heart over and over and over like a horrible drug, bad lover, cocaine. my only friends the dirty ocean and the silent heavy blue sky and the palm trees and the ravens distracting me from rent and my slumlord and my slumboss and my only friends really being the homeless aids community and a handful of fellow fags i sometimes saw and even though everything seems to be collapsing beneath us there infrastructurally, we couldn't deny the full moon on a night driving into town after dodging and ducking and swerving through so many fucking freeways and then stepping free onto the sidewalk onto the street before a show with stories and actors and weirdos and players and all the memories the brief flash in a pan, it breaks my heart because it could never be mine, and for some reason, the only delusional tale i ever believed in as a poor transsexual from texas, was that i could be somebody too, a small somebody, because if i could be a small somebody in seattle, i could be a small somebody in LA, i could have friends again, or smile into the sun, but without seasons and with all the glad handing and lying, time stood still and all the cheap vinyl and battered leather jackets and fishnets and whiskey could never be alluring again because it wasn't real. just a cheap fake attraction. a disaster. not even a crisis anymore just a dying hopeless crushed bug gasping beneath the boot of corporate lipgloss kits. and for someone so rational, so rigid, so moral, i thought somehow, there was a place for me, because everyone that ever knew me, they knew one thing, and they knew that i was meant for and could live in a place like los angeles, but los angeles didn't want me, and i learned to give up the ghost.

#its a true story #actually i lived in long beach which used to be cheaper but is rapidly being gentrified #i still love la but i lost a lot of friends... really fast including my longest friend #she had basically been turned into a POS because of...well...living in LA #i felt a sense of pride living in LB because living in LB is tough no matter who you are #but being a poor white fag in long beach with no family or roots is a very fast way of being totally alone #if you arent a cis male fag that is... you can kiss your ass goodbye bc these queens will curb you #im so glad i moved to oregon and its probably gonna save my life but... my heart still hurts deeply about la #reallifeposting #losangelesposting #longbeachposting #californiaposting

[sunlit-gully]

Happy WBW! In honor of Idalia and her looming approach on the SouthEast US, what is the most dangerous natural threat to your world?

Let's go with Eight of Stars.

The most dangerous natural event in Tenharverse is the Starfalltides.

It is said that for every star in the sky there lives a spirit, no matter how minor or major. When a spirit wanes out of existence, whether forgotten or punished or killed in their physical mortal form, their essence will fly up into the sky to become a new star. This tale is the same in every corner of Tenharverse. It's a very old tale. There are no other versions.

Now, there are 4 Starfalltides during the year: spring equinox, summer solstice, autumn equinox, and winter solstice. Those days are when the stars disappear off the night sky, and the spirits assume their physical form. When the stars begin to fall down, the ensuing light is so blinding that all humans who see it will get their eyeballs irreparably seared.

During those days, the minor spirits have to recharge their essence in the vicinity of their 'native' element's nexus. Woe betide all humans that irks their very capricious temper, on purpose or by accident. They'll absorb those people, head to toe, both the physical body and the elemental power.

The major spirits are even less forgiving. During the Starfalltides they will visit their own dedicated temples, often managed by an appointed family branch of the local rulers. If sacrifices are found lacking or their holy artefacts are damaged, rest assured that the local place will have suffered at least one major conflict before the next Starfalltide. And with the Akazan Empire trying to colonise as much of Tenharverse as possible and much of Tenharverse being rather poor, that happens at a much higher frequency than you think.

It wasn't always like this, didn't use to be like this. Starfalltides used to be merry times when human and spirit would tie up loose knots, celebrate festivities each other, or just gather from some good ol' chilling by the nexuses. The Akazan Empire's conquests, however, was disastrous to a lot of the Tenharverse populace, and the ensuing spiritual deprivation was such that not even the spirits were unaffected. Bereft of the communities that nurtured and worshipped them meant that spirits, minor and major alike, must jump at every opportunity to absorb elemental power, a thing at vanishingly short supply. And well, with their blue-and-orange morality, basically nothing is off-limits...

#writing nook #writeblr #eight of stars #ravine talks

[endless-sketching]

Aha time to use my very obscure tumblr account to rant about making things

I kinda wanna make this entry public since I wanna air out my stinky thoughts about making things and stigmatism towards making certain things that are great but the fandom is horrid-

Yes it's about Friday Night Funkin Mods, scroll past now if you don't want to read it.

Ok now imma get into a niddygriddy. FNF mods used to be such a niche little thing to make that people can appreciate. And whenever I saw a new mod pop up in my youtube reccomendation feed, I would be curious and genuinely intrigued about the mod itself and what it offers.

Early years of the modding community kinda just uprooted the game's engines to make their own kind of thing. It was so cool that the vs Whitty mod was able to make an original story based on week 7's code, then vs Hex came out and that mod did a mid song sprite switch with zero lag!

Then later on uh hm I'm struggling with a specific mod to mention but later on there would be mid song animations that are probably based on BF's "YEAH" animation then later on shaders which not even I know how they did THAT

But then out of nowhere people started making their mods more gimmicky. A huge difficulty gap would just be the main reason why a mod is popular, when vs Whitty did it that mid at least had good music to pair with it that contextually makes sense. Combat Madness is a hardcore classic newgrounds series and Whitty is a crazy zombie clown so it only makes sense.

Then who the fuck thought Matt from WII SPORTS SHOULD HAVE UBER FAST SCROLL SPEED ON TOP OF A BUSY CHART BE A GOOD MOD TO MAKE??

I can't even say the music for that mod sounds good, it eventually just sounded like a Nokia phone ringtone.

Mind you later on bbpanzu made a neat little rhythm heaven inspired mod called Golf, and it's gimmick is like rhythm heaven. You press buttons to the cue. If the vs Matt mod had done something similar it would've been a delight to see people replicate Wii Sports mini games in FNF! Imagine tennis but you sing and swing to the beat. That would've been a better gimmick than horrid charting.

And now comes in the big thing FNF is now more imfamous for. A general toxic culture that's somehow worst than Twitter. Wait no IT IS Twitter.

Remember that bbpanzu guy I mentioned earlier? He's a talented creator, being able to make really amazing things like vs FL-Chan, helped with vs Miku, that Golf mod from earlier. He would then make vs Sky, a mod based on a kid's FNF OC that the mod takes the idea and makes it this whole vibe of 2010 YouTube animations with its music and everything.

I personally really liked this mod for its portrayal of a much more innocent time every content creator has, hell any 2000s kid would have. And it was really cool how she got annoyed mid song.

And then bam, porn. Some assholes bombarded the original creator's Discord server with porn of their character. Then talks about how old the Sky character and the creator cropped up questioning the morality of the concurring events. People were taking the very leverage of a kid's creation to justify a Discord porn raid, all because the original creator made a couple of edgy and suggestive lowbudget videos on their tiktok. What's worse was that bbpanzu saw all of this and blamed himself for the events and eventually took the mod down to divert the harassment towards the original creator of Sky.

But that was just the calm before the storm, then comes FNF's rushing popularity. Which said popularity comes with kids. Despite the fact that this very Friday Night Funkin isn't exactly for preteens. Hell the original game has blue balls pulsing on the game over screen how the fuck is this shit even for that young of an audience. But like how FNaF has its fair share of young audience and drama, so did FNF.

I want to at least preface that, this is the internet. People of many age range use it and post what they want. Which is a finnicky place for a growing mind to be at. Then here the script says things about bad things happening to young kids will always happen. I'm ranting, and I'm upset that FNF now just has this surface level impression of low respect. That people don't take it as seriously now.

And with that also comes with the usual content milking the internet will do and many people just get trample over just to get a quick buck by putting tits on a character and whatever click bait bs people use nowadays.

And then mods that were novel on top of a strong start ends up getting canceled because of internal issues and impossible demands.

FNF Modding is a nonprofit hobby.

And when people start demanding things, the enjoyment of that hobby will go away.

I'm just hoping FNF modding will still push on to making it more accessible for people like me that want to make mods for myself without much coding knowledge. In someways we are there but the instructions are still really confusing and people seem to have just stopped making tutorials on how to make FNF mods in certain engines.

Anyways rant over byeeeeeee

#this is a rant #i swear if im in a video i will lose it #i just wanna be able to make silly mods with copyrighted music

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Invasives by Emily Kingery

ADVANCE ORDER: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/invasives-by-emily-kingery/

Emily Kingery is an English professor at a small university in Iowa. Her work appears widely and has received honors and awards in both poetry and prose. She serves on the Board of Directors at the Midwest Writing Center, a non-profit supporting writers in the Quad Cities community (mwcqc.org).

PRAISE FOR Invasives by Emily Kingery

INVASIVES achieves a rare feat for a chapbook: it not only creates a world, but it renders an entire life heart-beating through that world, propelled through nights of adolescent self-destruction, defying easy notions of virtue toward a tougher kind of grace. Vivid in both its danger and humor, risk and abandon here are channeled through deft formal execution and booming lyricism, opening up poems that deliver not only a brilliant story, but a thrilling, consuming experience. The characters and incidents intersecting this story are animated and bound together by a tenderness toward the difficulties encountered (“secrets no more than / hands changing color in cold”) as a necessity to acquire the vision and wisdom extending through these poems, like the end of a sunset under an endless Midwestern sky.

–Ryan Collins, author of A New American Field Guide & Song Book

In her Invasives, Emily Kingery exposes the exposed. Dirt bags and bright girls further prove that wet is light and dirt is dark—but it’s all intimate, none of it disposable, all necessary to the story. We think we know what story that is: it’s the one we aIways deserved, the always that needs us in it. Never only a small town. Never just a neighbor boy. These poems inhabit a body that is all will, and willing to be more. “We had visions more necessary than eyes,” Kingery says. To visualize with her is to see, ever more clearly, how we got here.

–Beth Roberts, author of Brief Moral History in Blue (New Issues Poetry & Prose) and Like You (Ottoline Prize, Fence Books)

In Emily Kingery’s Invasives, the past has a volatile life of its own: it appears and reappears, casts and recasts itself among the speaker’s present, with the power to heal as well as to poison. How do you own disorder? an early poem echoes, and this becomes our objective: How do you claim presence in a past that was dependent on your disappearance? How do you logic or language your way out of a past where logic and language were not yours in the first place? Our speaker attempts new methods of witnessing a disordered past that neither damns nor absolves: (“though it’s wrong / to say we are in mourning, even if / we are”). And the results of these attempts are gorgeous, penetrating poems, startlingly precise in their imagery, yet transcendent in scope. In a past where experiences were named and made by others, these poems now do the naming and making, slipping through a textured past at once resolved and resolutely present. Kingery’s crisp language rings in each line, making each one work like an unpredictable, alchemic ritual. What we bury, and what buries us, is never too far away from the surface, never too far away to transform our present: “We forgot to clear our histories,” Kingery’s speaker confesses. “We unsubscribed, but the seeds could keep in the soil / for a decade, longer. / They could be so hard to control.”

–Gale Marie Thompson, aut

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry

#poetry #preorder #flp authors #flp #poets on tumblr #american poets #chapbook #leah maines #women poets #chapbooks #finishing line press #small press #book cover #books #publishers #poets #poem #smallpress #poems #binderfullofpoets

[slashbitch2]

Wavelength

slight nsfw warning ;)

Eve had always felt that she stood out from those around her. That in every situation, in every group and at every point in her life, she was walking round on an entirely different wavelength. Although, living this way wasn't as direly lonely as it sounded, rather she learnt to appreciate the few and far apart moments with company. When someone would, for just a split second, understand her.

The first person to ever make her feel this way, and regrettably the only for a very long time, was Ted. He'd swept her off her feet and into a less isolated world, a concept so unfamiliar at the time that she'd allowed herself be dragged out to sea. Then there was Brandon, who she was told would change her whole world. And he did, for a while.

Brandon was her life preserver until his priorities changed; until Mother's day cards became Valentines day cards, movie nights were exchanged for house parties and homework for alcohol. But Eve wasn't the kind of mom to act as though this behaviour was unwarranted and abhorrent, so she let him wedge the door shut and clear his search history. She could cope with a little more distance.

Then along came Ted's affair, their crumbling marriage and eventual divorce. Before she knew it, she was drowning.

The all too familiar feeling of solitude reappeared, completely devastating for her when Brandon left for college. However, this time she swore that she wouldn't let it overwhelm her, and did everything possible to prevent herself from sinking. Which initially started with a class at a community college, and ended with her lying in the arms of both her colleague Amanda, and classmate Julian. And yet, after they'd hurriedly packed up their things and left, she felt no better.

Brandon was sitting on the porch when she found him later. His back was turned to her, but the hunched up posture and awkward shuffling said more than enough. In that moment, Eve reverted back to her old way of thinking. She came to the conclusion that she'd failed as a mother, that her mistake was unforgivable despite the years of morose behaviour and selfish demeanour Brandon had subjected her to.

For retribution, she removed Julian's number from her contacts, predicting that he wouldn't be able cope with remaining friends. He too immature, still in that irrational sulky stage of adolescence. Next, she specified to Amanda that what happened was a one time thing, though she was already way ahead of Eve, chatting casually like nothing had taken place that weekend. Her easy-going reaction was a nice break from the prevailing tension with Brandon, which she then mentioned to her friend.

She tried to casually bring the subject up in the same manner that she imagined Amanda would if the roles were reversed, acting like the issue was nothing to do with her.

"As much as I hate to use such an outdated phrase," Her friend said. "boys will be boys. "

Eve chuckled, though the general concern weighing down on her shoulders meant it came out as more of a scoff. "You can say that again."

There's a brief lull in conversation as Eve disinterestedly taps away at her phone while Amanda sips thoughtfully at her coffee. The silence is only invoked by an awareness of social standards, since there's much Eve wants to talk to her friend about, but feels would be inappropriate in public.

Eventually, Amanda's the one to break the silence. "Are you still looking for someone to fill in for Sarah?"

Eve's attention flickered back to the woman sitting opposite. "I am." She replied hesitantly, knowing that she ought to have posted the job advertisement weeks ago, but had forgotten.

"I know someone who'd be good." Amanda was sliding her phone across the table before Eve got the chance to respond.

The screen displayed what she could only assume was a job application, though the font was too small to actually read. Squinting, she picked up the device to try and glean some information about the potential applicant.

Amanda continued as Eve scrolled. "She hasn't worked with seniors before, but has managerial experience."

"Are you sure she'd want this job?" Eve asked apprehensively as she set the phone down. "Seems a little over-qualified to me."

"Yeah, she's serious about it." Amanda's expression grew more determined. "Y/N just moved here. Mentioned she was looking for a more lowkey kind of job."

Eve remained doubtful.

"She's travelled a lot. Had a lot of different jobs." Amanda took another sip of her drink. "But she said she wants to settle down somewhere. Get a job that'll take her to retirement- which was an exaggeration, but you get the gist."

"Well." Eve sighed. "You can't get much closer to retirement than working at a nursing home."

"Exactly. So can I pass on her contact details then?"

"Sure." She shrugged. Assuming that her friend's recommendation was genuinely helpful, then she would be saved from suffering through the tedious interview process, which was worth taking a risk for.

---

As Eve sat at her desk, the world around her faded into obscurity. Without Sarah as the assistant manager, she'd been suffocating under piles of neglected paperwork, only now forcing her way through it. The main thought motivating her was that you were due to arrive any minute, for what she'd described as a first informal interview. The idea of conducting anything more formal this late into the evening was unappealing. So, based on the unusual circumstance by which you'd applied, and the strange time slot reserved, the interview would be more casual.

Finding that her eyes were starting to strain, she granted herself a quick break to look round the office. Eventually she settled on looking out the window, content watching the world pass by. The day had been unexpectedly hot, and some of that humidity still lingered, but judging by the gentle breeze filtering in through a crack in the window, the evening must've started to cool. A soft pink colour filled the sky, darkening to orange where the sun had just set over the horizon. From the other direction, a deep blue had begun to filter into view, the only indication that night was approaching.

When her gaze drifted back to the room, she realised that the pink light was cast around the room, bathing every surface in a delicate glow. How the simple beauty of the evening had previously escaped her attention was a mystery. One that prompted Eve to take a break to admire it.

The break was short-lived, however, as a sharp knock at the door quickly stole her attention away.

"Come in." She called out but found her voice hoarse from disuse. She frantically cleared her throat as the guest entered.

Eve looked up at you and smiled politely, then down at her desk, then did a double take. Although she hadn't given enough thought to form any preconceived image of what you might look like, she certainly hadn't expected someone quite so attractive.

As soon as the label crossed her mind, she was already berating herself for it. You'd barely entered the room and were here for business, she couldn't let herself think of you in that way. It was wrong. Both professionally and morally.

"Evening." Your voice was deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn't distinguish.

Eve tried her best to smile amiably, though she was sure the emotion wasn't reflected in her eyes. Instead she scanned your body from top to bottom, lingering on your neck, and then your hands. The action was automatic. An unintentional response to her attraction- and there it was again. She'd allowed herself to get distracted barely ten seconds later.

"Hi." Eve was too quiet, her tone lacking the necessary command. She swallowed. "Please, take a seat." And smiled, this time more genuinely.

"Thank you."

She watched you stiffly slide into the seat, effortlessly demanding the attention of the entire room. Although Eve had known you for less than a minute, she'd already decided that there was something hypnotic about the way you moved. From the slight twitch in the corner of your lips, to the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Every movement, regardless of it being barely perceptible, had her mesmerized, however she was mostly fixated on your hands. How they couldn't quite settle in your lap, rather were wrung about anxiously until abruptly stilling.

Your hands falling limp dragged Eve back into reality as it dawned on her that she'd been staring for a little longer than appropriate. She literally had to shake herself out of the senseless state and clear her throat once more before she was ready to continue.

"It's nice to meet you." Jolted into reality, she outstretched her hand, which you eagerly met. Your grip was firm, matched with a confident yet humble smile that looked well practiced.

"And you."

Eve already understood how you'd succeeded at accumulating such an impressive employment history, as every second of the interview so far, you'd acted perfectly. Like you'd written the book on 'How to Handle Job Interviews.'

"Just call me Eve." Separating from the handshake, she dismissively waved her hand, unable to hold the eye contact for any longer. There was an inquisitive manner to the way you were watching her, as though you were trying to ascertain the most information possible from appearance alone. Being exposed to your scrutinising glare caused Eve to shift in her seat, though not from discomfort or uneasiness, rather from inadmissible lust.

As the interview progressed, her eyes continued to occasionally stray toward your hands. Despite how hard she was trying to stay focused, she kept catching herself unintentionally imagining how they'd look gripping her waist, pushing apart her thighs. And if she blocked out this particular fantasy, then her attention would shift to your neck, and how she'd love to bite down on the supple skin presented to her.

She'd hoped that her fling with Amanda and Julian would've suppressed her incorrigible longing for pleasure, yet still found her thighs pressing together as her imagination overpowered reason. All the scandalous scenarios flashing through her mind only grew more vivid, more frequent. An incessant stream of borderline pornographic images, which worsened her guilt as she struggled to focus on what you were saying.

The cool breeze from earlier seemed to have vanished, replaced by unbearable humidity. She could feel herself sweating bucket loads, and only flushed more upon realising that she must've looked a mess; with stray hairs framing her face, an inability to sit still and a layer of perspiration covering her entire body. You'd probably noticed by now.

"God it's been hot recently." You commented, playing with the neckline of your shirt.

Had Eve not been observing you so closely, she would've guessed this was general small-talk. But judging on how you'd acted so far, this was a strategically placed act of mercy, a way of excusing her, no doubt, dishevelled appearance.

"Yeah." Eve chuckled, twirling a strand of hair round her finger. "We could move outside." She suggested, then quickly added. "If you wanted to, that is." Her desperation to please you came as a surprise. The roles should've been reversed. You should've been trying to impress her.

Eve had undeniably lost all authority in the situation, which simply excited her further.

---

When Eve laughed, she scrunched up her face and closed her eyes, which was inconvenient even at the best of times. Right now, however, she'd never despised the quirk quite so much.

As inconsequential as the current circumstances would look to any passer-by, she wanted to commit every detail to memory. From the lingering pink hue of dusk, to the way you threw your head back as you laughed. In fact, she wanted to memorise everything about you. Since leaving behind her stuffy office, conversation had flown easily between the two of you, the matter of employment seemingly dropped in place of getting to know one another. You'd indisputably gotten the job. Eve knew it. You knew it. So both were happy to indulge in a lighter tone of conversation.

The topic had turned to worst first date experiences, so she had very few to share with you, though that didn't stop her from enjoying listening to your little anecdotes.

"What about you?" Taking a calming breath after an outburst of laughter, you paused to ask her the dreaded question.

In comparison to your story, her worst date was relatively tame. "Well." She scratched at the corner of her eye, considering whether she could exaggerate in some way. "I went on a date recently that I had to walk out of."

"Really?" You folded your arms, leaning back against the brick wall. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I guess it just didn't feel right." She shook her head, hoping to deter any more questioning.

"Fair enough. Sometimes you just know- right?"

Eve drew her eyes away from being locked on the ground, finally summoning the resolve to look directly back at you. She bit her lip, compelling herself to nod.

There was something about you that was pure ecstasy to her. While looking at you, she could feel herself falling deeper into the hypnotic state she'd been in earlier, unable to tear her eyes away and unwilling to try. In spite of the normality of the situation, it felt meaningful. Eve didn't feel so alone, so out of place. Which made no sense to her as she'd known you for barely over an hour.

"What did you do after?" Your voice was somehow deeper, eyes lidded and posture relaxed. "After the date." You clarified.

The inquiry was personal, even without context that could be inferred. Eve hummed, delaying her response long enough to consider how much she was willing to divulge. "I-" She laughed nervously, suddenly embarrassed to confess. "I went swimming."

"Swimming?" Your eyebrows shot up, amused by the many connotations of her vagueness. "Where?"

Eve scuffed the heel of her shoe against the concrete ground, shamefully incapable of returning the eye contact. "Here." She admitted quietly, grinning as if in disbelief that she'd actually done it.

"Wow. I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting that." You took a deep breath, rendered speechless for a second. "So, you have access to the pool?"

Eve shifted restlessly, hesitant to pursue the topic any further. She knew where this was going, and that she shouldn't endorse this type of behaviour. But the heat wasn't helping, and neither was her overactive imagination. She was supposed to be responsible, but then again, so were you.

Inevitably the possibilities of what could be overpowered her better judgement. "Yes." She reached into her pocket, producing the coveted key ring and hanging it on her pointer finger.

Upon glancing up, she discovered you were watching her intently, indisputable lust reflected in your eyes. Eve found herself in one of those rare moments where she felt understood, on the same wavelength as someone else. The logical part of her brain argued that you were basically a stranger. That if she followed through on your shared idea, then your hiring and subsequent job experience would be forever tainted. But the possibilities were too tempting to ignore.

So when you asked. "Want to go swimming?"

She couldn't refuse.

---

You'd held her hand as she'd lead, the reasoning being that most the facility was shrouded in darkness. Though Eve liked the weight of your hand in hers, so she didn't bother to turn the lights on until reaching the pool. Only then did you separate, crouching down to check the temperature. You beamed with childlike joy as you waved your hand around in the water, skimming the surface then diving deeper down.

Eve grinned. Your pure happiness was infectious, the effect it had on her similar to being drunk. She was intoxicated from exhilaration. She would've been content watching you relish in the feeling of water running through your fingers for eternity, though to her dismay, you soon grew bored. And then to her surprise, you unabashedly began to strip. Her eyes were glued to the expanse of your back as you pulled your shirt over your head, and to the revealed skin as you tugged your trousers down.

She had to stop herself from stumbling back as the strange reality of the situation suddenly dawned on her. Instead, she reacted by comically clutching at her heart, clawing the fabric of her own shirt.

You turned to the side, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. "You coming?"

She chewed on her lip, pondering the two words in greater detail. This was you asking for consent, giving a final warning. You were both aware that this was an incredibly outlandish idea, an extremely irresponsible one that should've discouraged Eve. Yet it had the opposite effect.

Before she could overthink the consequences, her shaking hands were clumsily unbuttoning her blouse. At the unspoken confirmation, you smirked back at her, then without warning, threw yourself into the pool. The splash echoed round the room, proceeded by carefree laughter as you resurfaced and began leisurely swimming away from her. While you were busy, Eve took the chance to continue undressing without interference.

Her insecurities didn't emerge until it was too late, resolved moments later as she dove into the pool. The water was colder than she'd anticipated, but her burning desire dulled the intensity. Breaking through the water's surface, she inhaled deeply, grateful for the supply of oxygen. However, her breath was soon stolen from her as she noticed you were treading water directly in front.

Somehow, you looked even more beautiful now. With the wave's reflections dancing across your skin, your hair drenched and dripping. She wanted to chase after the droplets with her tongue, despite knowing she'd likely be met with the bitter taste of chlorine. But what really flustered Eve was the way you were staring at her; the hunger in your eyes that hinted at your intentions.

Your stillness was teasing her, the water practically stagnant around you both. Eve was becoming increasingly irritated, the heat between her legs only growing. So it didn't take long for her to snap. She lunged forward in an attempt to grab hold of you, though her hands couldn't quite clutch onto your slippery skin. She stumbled to the left, floundering around until you grabbed hold of her.

Upon securing her grip, she froze, due to both the sensation of your body pressed up against hers, and her embarrassment. She couldn't bare to look up, to face her awkward failure. After a beat of silence, she heard you laugh lightly. It wasn't necessarily unpleasant or mocking, but she insisted on keeping her eyes locked on the wall. That was, until your lips gently brushed against her ear.

"Were you trying to kiss me or drown me?"

She snorted, the tension leaving her body, then turned to rest her forehead on your shoulder. "The former. Definitely."

You laughed again. This time Eve joined in, happy to ignore what'd just occurred.

"Want to try that again, then?" You kissed just behind her ear, causing a shiver to suffuse across Eve's body. She waited a minute, expecting more before realising you intended for her to make the next move.

She glanced up at your face, fixating on your lips. You were so close. All she had to do was lean forward ever so slightly. One final glance to your lidded eyes confirmed you wanted the same- all she had to do was close the distance.

Taking a shaky breath, Eve shifted a hand up to cup your cheek, her thumb softly stroking your skin. There was no rush; you both wanted the same thing and were eager to revel in the experience. So, when her lips finally grazed against yours, there was no deep sigh or sudden change in pace, rather a blooming warmth in her chest. She was floating, both literally and metaphorically in a sea affection.

She kissed you again, this time with more conviction. Then fell backwards, her feet now comfortably resting on the bottom of the pool, her back hitting the wall as your grip on her waist tightened. You dragged a hand across her chest, causing her to gasp. Your touch was scolding compared to the cool water. A perfect balance between lustful heat and a mind-numbing, all-encompassing chill.

She raised her arms, flinging them around you and exhaling as her impatience reappeared. Though thankfully, you didn't make her wait long. Soon enough, your mouth had latched onto her neck, leaving messy kisses from behind her ear, to down by her shoulders. The feeling was pure bliss, encouraging her to lean into you and press your bodies closer together.

She didn't need to say anything. You seemed to know exactly what you were doing. Like you had her body memorised: every caress was perfectly placed, each touch just what she needed. It didn't take long for Eve to reach her pleasure, although she did spend a while in a dazed state of satisfaction, simply drifting in your arms. Eventually, she regained awareness to feel you tenderly nibbling on her lower lip, and eagerly reciprocated the kiss.

Motivated by the sudden fervour, she switched the positions, pushing you up to the wall.

"Get on the ledge." Eve murmured against your lips. She looped her arms under your thighs, ready to lift once you'd agreed.

Surprised by her abrupt confidence, you quirked an eyebrow, but obeyed nonetheless.

With you sat before her, she knew the evening was only just beginning, and judging by your breathless expression you felt exactly the same. This was one of those rare moments where Eve felt completely understood.

#eve fletcher x reader #mrs fletcher #eve fletcher

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH11

18+ Explicit Content: Graphic descriptions of gore, violence, and smut; oral sex (male recieving), vaginal sex. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. Chapter Word Count: 12,951 holy fuck Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

Tense. That’s the only word to describe the atmosphere—maybe a little suffocating, too—in Peli’s hangar; she’s been highly adaptable in regards to the Mandalorian’s extended stay, though he suspects she doesn’t mind one bit when the Child is in her arms. Speaking of which, he had eventually reawakened in the earlier hours of the morning when the twin suns were making their reappearance over the town. He hadn’t been acting like his usual self—hadn’t demanded attention nor nutrients all day and the Mandalorian doesn’t know how to restore his regular demeanour. 

Mando isn’t a caretaker—he’s uneducated and inexperienced in regards to performing as someone’s guardian. It’s discouraging not being informed on what to do and there’s not a soul alive that can provide their insight into this situation. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of people in the galaxy who might understand the Child’s abilities, much less the side effects that come with it such as his recent behaviour changes.

Not to forget the Girl.

The Girl—the source of the leaps in his heart, twitching in his fingertips, and the harassing ache in his head. She’s impeccable in contrast to him, beautiful and soft and sweet but dank farrik if she doesn’t know how to invade his thoughts as if they were her own; splayed out in the midst of his consciousness serving as a constant reminder of everything he desires. 

Between needing to prioritise the Child and wanting to surrender himself to the Girl, he’s going stir-crazy being confined in such small spaces surrounded by them, which brings him straight back here—pinned down by blaster fire and frantic screams in Huttese. It’s as though he likes it; enjoys the adrenaline coursing through his veins at every laser shot his way. It gives him an edge and provides a distraction from his thoughts, or it used to but since he took in the foundling his mind hasn’t had a chance to take a break—the arrival of the Girl only made matters harder for him. How’s he supposed to focus when all he can envision is her laying bare underneath him or wearing his shirt, only his shirt. It sends him numb from the waist down.

A twinkle of red flies overhead Mando as he army crawls along the metre-high wall to alternate positions, allowing him to gain an upper hand against the cluster of enemies defending their post. There’s a lot of them, fifteen at the least, all equipped with weapons ranging from vibroblades to flame projectors—he hadn’t prepared himself adequately for such a hefty job only armed with his handheld blaster alongside his amban rifle, though he’s running short on cartridges and decides to save them for when he’s in a pinch. Amongst his blasters he’s low on fuel for the flames in his vambrace, having used a vast majority of it on a heavy-duty lurker mere minutes prior to this shootout.

Putting it simply, Mando was in a dilemma—forced between a rock and a hard place—a real catch-22. He’s reliant on his blasters and that alone as he hadn’t communicated to the Girl about his commission received nor his departure from the hangar. There’s nobody coming to aid him—nobody here to watch as he takes one too many blaster bolts—but he doesn’t mind; actually, he prefers it. It’s as though he’s returned to his earlier years of being a Mandalorian, dependent on himself and his tools and unafraid of death; equipped with nothing but the beskar on his back and the decades-worth of abilities fine-tuned to suit his combat style perfectly. 

Mando won’t go down easy, it’s not in his blood; not the blood of his relatives, but his manufactured Mandalorian blood. He’s been taught to fight - survive and to die here from lousy Klatoonian troopers wouldn’t be warriorlike—especially not with his head wracked with stubbornness regarding his crewmates. Nevertheless, there’s a heaviness in his chest - deep and thick and pleading with him to turn around; to return to the Crest with the Girl and the kid. It’s warning him—the increased beating in his ribs suggesting things aren’t in his favour, but he can’t just leave, not without figuring out what he’s to do for the Child.

And if he was to die here on this scummy rock of a planet, surrounded by nothing but sand, heat, and blasters, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that bad—it’d salvage the Girl and the kid from having to see him die, see him take his last breath.

They’ll be okay in the long run. They’ll care for each other and the Crest will protect them; be their support anchor.

They don’t need to be there when his heart stops beating.

They don’t need to see that.  

It’s a macabre series of thoughts. He sighs groggily and hoists himself up to peer over the barricade, observing two Klatoonian soldiers communing at the top of their post, neither of their eyes on the Mandalorian stealthily underneath—it’s a good opportunity, one with a short duration to act. Mando scans the area for any others on the lookout and climbs the wooden rungs carefully, ensuring he’s making minimal sound to not drag their attention to him. 

At the peak of the tower, Mando fires a bolt at the back of the head to the one on the right and it drops stiffly, the left’s turning around sharply and thrusting a spear in his direction. Mando’s leathers wrap around the shaft and yank it from his clasp, turning it around and penetrating the Klatoonian in the chest above his heart plate. His body plummets to the surface with the spear lodged inside of his torso and Mando steps up towards the edge of the watchtower, counting the visible heads aimed at the barricade he’d been behind a few moments ago. There’s eight to his left, five with rifles and three with melee weapons, and six to his left, all equipped with short-ranged blasters, and another couple secured in the structure below him. 

It’s way out of his comfort zone—there’s far too many for him to take down without receiving some new scars to paint his flesh; he’d already obtained one today. It’s small, not something to fret over, but the gash on his side pulses each time he raises his arm to fire a laser. He’d been distracted while in the midst of combat, his thoughts preoccupied with large green batwing ears, and one of the Klatoonian’s managed a nasty slash to his waist. The assailant was taken care of, of course, but the damage was done and now his movements had been slowed by a hairline fracture—not a lot, but every second counted when on the battlefield.

Mando unclasps the strap of his amban rifle and rests it on the trim of the watchtower’s partition, gazing through the scope as he assesses the situation. There are only three canisters left. Three opportunities to disintegrate and put an end to an overabundance of hostiles. He needs to play it smart; needs to ensure he doesn’t exhaust his ammunition needlessly.

His eyes lock on to an unscathed, ominous-looking canister perched upon a table beside one of their campfires where six of them have gathered around, devouring what looked to be a scorched womp rat. They’re confident in their abilities, not concerning themselves with patrolling the borders for the Mandalorian’s reappearance—a mistake they won’t live to regret. Mando twists the mid-section of the rifle’s scope, scaling in to focus on the canisters’ hazardous symbol painted into the sides. 

Surely they’re not that foolish.

It’s worth a shot—Mando aims for the weakest point in the canister and squeezes the trigger, leather crunching underneath his force and he traces the bolt of red as it nestles a burning hole through the capsule and explodes abruptly upon impact, producing a very loud bang that echoes through the valley for klicks. So they are that stupid to leave out combustible materials, right beside an open flame no less. Four of the six instantly plummet to the ground from the explosion, while the other two attempt to fight off the suffocating flames engulfing their bodies. It’s no use and they, too, fall to a charred heap among the grit; it sticks to their melting flesh with vengeance.

The remainder of the adversaries stand in stunned silence as their heads frantically spin and twist, searching for any sign of the direction the bolt had originated. Mando pops out the empty cartridge from his rifle, listening to the satisfying tink as it bounces along the wooden surface beneath his boots and rolls to a stop beside a corpse. Heaving his leg upwards, he slips another cylinder out of his boot and slides it into the chamber. The nest of Klatoonians have scattered throughout the campgrounds, shielding behind walls of sandstone and supply crates where they blend into a mass of dark greens and browns—Mando activates his thermal vision in order to distinguish the bodies as they peer curious heads out from behind their positions.

His sight is isolated to stone-blue over the landscape except for a blush of orange-red jutting out from the top of a crate, the unsuspecting Klatoonian’s head twisting and turning wildly. Mando shouldn’t fire—shouldn’t waste a shell on a singular soldier, not when there’s still plenty left—but, perhaps, if he eliminates one that’s hiding, they might fall into hysteria and rush out of their concealments. There’s not a whole lot of options from this position—if the watchtower was on the opposing side then he’d be set; easily pick them off one by one with his blaster pistol, but that’s not a course of action now.

Mando flexes his finger against the small of his trigger but doesn’t get the chance to squeeze before there’s a weight on his pauldron—faint, but enough for him to blindly thrust his arm against the figure and knock them against the railings, his hand retrieving his blaster from the holster on his thigh and directing it at the orange heat. Its hands raise swiftly, empty, and the familiar soft, sweet voice he’s grown accustomed to fills his ears, “Hey, hey, it’s me!”

“What’re-”

“Peli told me you went out. Something about a kidnapped girl? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffs, returns his blaster to its sleeve and disengages his thermal; returning the colour and the Girl’s features to his vision. She’s eyeing at his side, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but decides not to ask. “It was a ploy. There’s no girl.”

She sighs in relief but notes down his dismissal to her questioning. “Okay, let’s go then. I took out three on my way here and there’s more coming. We’re sitting mynocks up here.”

“No.”

The Girl cocks an eyebrow at Mando and he returns to his scope to avoid her attention. “Let’s go,” she whispers through clenched teeth, digging her fingers into the soft of his shoulder where his pauldron couldn’t shield. She drops the appendage when he shrugs underneath her clutch, obviously peeved at something she couldn’t read on him. “Mando, come on. There’s no girl, there’s nothing to prove to these guys.”

His throat grumbles as he attempts to stifle the thoughts in his head, not wanting to implode at the Girl and potentially startle her, but it’s difficult keeping everything caged up all the time—from his miserable thoughts regarding himself to the domineering cravings deep within his core. It’s too fucking much. If there was a key to it all he’d surely have tossed on a desolate planet by now, somewhere nobody, not even himself, will discover it. 

He snaps.

“I have something to prove—I need to know I’m still useful.” Mando involuntarily groans at his childish outburst. It’s on par with the Child’s when he doesn’t get his way.

He’s not someone to express his emotions and especially not to direct it at another; not the Girl.

“Of course you’re useful, Mando. What’re you talking about?”

Caf-coloured eyes flicker behind the visor and he squeezes them shut, discarding the threats below as he tries to focus on not derailing all of his insecurities at the Girl. He doesn’t want to confess all of the little nitpickings he’s accumulated throughout his life—he’s learned to keep them buried underneath the rubble of trauma that is his daily life—and he especially doesn’t want her to see him so….sensitive; it’s not an attractive feature on him.

Mando’s mouth moves on it’s own accord, suppressed beliefs regarding himself misdirecting at the Girl in surges of angry jeering, “I used to be feared, used to wear this armour with pride; represented the Creed with the beskar the artisans forged for me. Ever since you waltzed in my life, I’ve…” He sighs, his shoulders visibly sagging as he exhales. “My competence has crumbled to dust that resolves from a gentle wind. I’m getting hit, shot, stabbed because I can’t get you off my fucking mind.”

He unknowingly strokes a finger down the barrel of his rifle, as if to imply he’d been shot with one of the pellets—nothing more than mere particles left of him.

He doesn’t need to look at her to acknowledge he’s gone too far—gone and pushed her away—and the lack of noise she produces is mockingly deafening. 

But then there’s that faint, gentle weight on his pauldron again, dragging him from his dissecting and to her eyes filled with reassurance and tenacity. Mando finds himself like an icy dessert underneath the twin suns; liquefying beneath her gaze. 

There’s a lot on his plate right now with the Child’s current situation and the Guild still coming after them—she knows this, and he knows that she knows; she’s accommodating to the unavoidable bursts that may escape him occasionally. She doesn’t need to, but she’s willing to; volunteers as his subject until it’s all out in open air and they can proceed. Mando simultaneously respects that—that he’s allowed to vent even if it means she gets a little bit of venom splattered at her—and despises himself for his misguided resentment.

Mando doesn’t genuinely blame the Girl for his lacking; he’s well aware it’s his own negligence. It’s his responsibility to maintain the upkeep of his abilities, his responsibility to protect himself and his companions as a Mandalorian. It’s just easier to push the blame on another; to pretend it’s out of his reach—out of his control.

“Let’s go,” she repeats, slower. “Please, Mando.”.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t mean it.

He’s never been good with words.

Hands more experienced than his vocals, he draws a line with his thumb across the curve of her jaw and settles it on the tip of her chin to crane her head back just enough that enables his eyes to swallow the stretched skin of her neck. “Okay,” he murmurs and releases her, withdrawing the rifle from its perch.

She sighs when his leather retires from her face and stumbles over one of the corpses in her daze. She takes the lead down the ladder while he keeps watch from the top, ensuring no Klatoonian’s sneak up on her while vulnerable, and she reciprocates the favour when she’s at the bottom.

“There’s a speeder bike just beyond the walls,” the Girl says once his boots are on firm ground, the sand crunching underneath his weight.

“We won’t both fit on it.”

“Sure we will,” she chuckles. “It’ll be snug, is all.”

Mando scoffs to himself and peers around a sandstone corner, squinting as the suns disorient his vision, but he gets a quick glance at a stroke of red about a metre ahead of him—and then a familiar symbol: hazardous product. 

“Get down!” he yells, but it’s not fast enough - not fucking fast enough - and he’s flung into the parallelled wall. There’s pressure in his neck and spine, his helmet reverberates against the sandstone, and he slips onto his shoulder in the grit; his lesion collecting the sand molecules and painting them red. Pain stretches from the heels of his feet to the back of his head but he hasn’t got the opportunity to examine himself over—the Girl, where is the Girl?

Mando hisses as his head flexes, searching through the cloud of dust and rubble for his companion; heart hurdling over the gaps of beating and his fists balling against the land to keep him off his side.

“Mesh’la,” he croaks. “Where-oh, are-”

She’s hastily beside him, unscathed besides a few grazes across her forehead and hands—hands that are trembling against his beskar, investigating his condition with manic eyes. “Shit, shit, sh-”

There’s an attempt to calm her nerves on his part, placing a stocky leather weight on top of her hand to indicate he’ll be okay, but she doesn’t believe him—he’s still on the ground, apprehensive of moving in fear of what he may discover.

He moans at a twinge in his neck and carefully scrambles to his feet with her aid, her hands submerging into the flight suit for leverage, but it’s a mistake; his legs are numb and can’t support his weight and he has to rely on the wall to remain perpendicular and not tumble on top of her small frame. 

She navigates a hand to his throbbing lesion, covering it with her palm to protect it from further invasion of particles, and the other rests against the back of his neck for reinforcement.

It’s exhausting standing like he’s made of beskar and not just wearing it - anchoring him to the ground, and it’s even worse attempting to move, his legs hot and heavy as his soles drag through the terrain. 

“I got you,” she mumbles to herself, tucking into his side.

There’s a warmth at the back of his neck, his head, underneath her hand; hot, scalding and threatening. It fucking hurts—this isn’t a concussion, he quickly realises, he’s had plenty of them to discern easily; this is different, worse, concerning. The adrenaline is doing very little to conceal the pain and he emits half-groans-half-exhales in protest to his body’s tensing. It’s something he hadn’t experienced before, something that he can’t prepare himself to face the facts.

His leather tugs at the hand on his neck and the Girl hesitantly complies with his request, removing it from the cowl and bringing it ahead of his visor for examination. “What’s the mat- Shit, is that from your head?” she asks, hand trembling. ”

Mando confirms his suspicions; a dark thick coating of the finest Mandalorian blood staining the Girl’s delicate fingers. It’s not good, not ideal, but he wasn’t dead yet and they couldn’t stay pinned down here. “It’s not that bad,” he professes.

“Not that b- your fucking head is bleeding! Fuck, okay, okay. Sit down, here.” She aids him to sink onto an underturned crate against the stone wall and removes a small satchel that rests among her hip. “There’s a medpac in there. Fix yourself up while I go take care of these assholes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“No, wait-” Mando slips his blaster out of his holster and into her free hand, his leathers discreetly caressing the backs of bruising skin before letting her retreat. She glances at him one last time, doing her best to convince herself he won’t bleed out before she makes it back. “You better return,” he whispers as she disappears behind the corner, dual blasters aimed high in her sights.

You better return to me.

Mando turns his attention to the pounding at the back of his neck, the blood pooling inside his helmet, seeping into the thick of his cowl, running beneath the material of his back. What good was a helmet if not to protect your head?

Tatooine’s desert is no match for his throat, it’s suns mere wisps of flames—he’s starting to go into shock and he strives to fight it, his fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically but he can only hold on for so long before it overcomes him. Fuck, he’s so exhausted, his legs numb and throbbing with short bursts of tension beneath the muscles.

The satchel is heavy like a bantha offspring in his lap - taunting and restricting - but he raids its contents in the hope it’ll distract him; it doesn’t. Mando can’t—won’t—dress the wound, not here, not when there’s Klatoonian’s running around with murder on their mind and the Girl in their sights. It can wait—he can wait.

But he’s no help in this condition and he’ll only be a nuisance if he were to go against the Girl’s orders—he’s not that foolish.

He groans, deep and scratchy that tickles his dry throat, and tosses his head back against the wall—prompting a red reservoir to leak from his wound, his vision fuzzy with black and piercing white spots. Fuck. Stupid. So stupid.

“Mando. Mando?”

There’s a tapping against his visor that triggers his ears to ring and his head to throb. His eyes open to see the Girl before him, her face contorted into unpleasant angles of concern; he misses her smile, how her eyes squinted when she laughs.

“Come on, there’s a gap. We need to go.”

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

He’s apprehensive; she’s small and dainty compared to all the beskar and with his worsening condition his weight will only multiply each step they take.

“Mando!”

She’ll only continue to persist and, to avoid her casualty along with his, he fists the fabric of her shirt and drags himself to his feet, utilising her as a crutch as she navigates him through the narrow alleys of the encampment. They follow a trail of corpses, blood, and blaster holes that he hadn’t even heard ring throughout the desert, his senses so colourless. His boots are alike durasteel; heavy and tight around his feet, constricting and dragging through the sand behind him. He yearns to kick them off, stretch his toes. 

“Left here,” she instructs, twisting his body to a breach in their wall that’ll serve as their escape route perfectly; out of sight, in the far back that’ll provide them enough time to head for the dunes before they’re on their tail—or not. A bolt tinks against Mando’s vambrace grappled around her shoulders, but she’s not messing around - not letting a foolhardy Klatoonian interrupt their evasion. She bends her body just enough to point her blaster at the soldier without disturbing Mando’s positioning and crushes the trigger against the hilt, a vibrant red shooting out of the barrel, skimming through the air and whistling as it burrows a burning hole into his chest—all without looking.

Mando groans, impressed, “Where - where’d you learn that?”

She scoffs in amusement and continues trudging to the hole in the wall. “Well, you’re always so quick to point blasters you never let me show off. Could’ve aided you if you weren’t so metalheaded all the time.”

“Is that so?” Mando huffs a breath as a laugh. “Might have to upgrade your blaster then.”

“I think you need more upgrading than me right now.”

“Not - not a droid.”

She chuckles and assists him in ducking through the hole. “No, but you do need some repairs.”

The speeder bike sits only a few metres away from them; small, dainty, not suitable for a passenger. “Won’t-” he gasps, “-fit.”

She pats his chest for reassurance. “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get on.”

Mando slings a leg over either side of the speeder and lowers onto the back of it, uncomfortable and awkwardly positioned but it’ll have to do. “I can’t drive.”

She teases, “Oh, I know, I’ve seen you pilot.” She seats herself between the handlebars and Mando’s hunched body, patting the side of his thigh to indicate him to scooch closer. “Come on, you’ll fall off back there.”

Mando obeys her commands, his inner thighs pressing against the outside of her frame and beskar squeezed between both of their bodies, an arm gingerly curves around her midsection for greater support and it permits him an opportunity to be close to her - to hold her even if it’s not exactly how he imagines it.

“Go,” he instructs, visor tilted at the influx of Klatoonians emerging from the exit way.

Speeder hums to life, repulsorlift engine vibrates underneath their bodies and sags the vehicle towards the ground at the additional weight of him. She flexes her fingers around the throttle and zips off in the opposite direction of the gathering army, zigging and zagging to dodge the incoming bolts that kick up the dust ahead of them, one of them just barely managing to skid against Mando’s pauldron from this distance. She’s a good driver—avoiding missable dunes and anything else that might jolt him off, but the constant sharp turns don’t assist with his increasing headache and he tucks the peak of his helmet between her shoulder blades, concentrating on the rise and fall of her lungs.

In, out, in, out; fast and shaky like a collapsing tree in a brutish storm.

“Passed by an abandoned cantina on my way here,” the Girl says, mostly to ensure he doesn’t fall unconscious. “We can set up there. Take care of you. Be back before nightfall. Sound good?”

“Nnngh,” he groans. “Out of fucking action, again.”

“There was no way to know they had explosives. Don’t blame yourself.”

“That’s not true - used it against them. Should’ve - should’ve figured they’d do the same.” 

The Girl’s back flexes as she twists the handlebars and sharply turns behind a cluster of boulders, casting them in a thick shadow and providing a break in blaster fire. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mando. I’ll fix you up and we’ll go see the kid, yeah? He’ll be waiting for ya.” It falls on deaf ears, Mando too preoccupied with not passing out and sliding off the speeder—there’s so traction, nothing to support his weight, and he maneuvers his chin to rest against her shoulder questing for the cushioning of flesh to soothe the throbbing in his head.

Normally, the heat of Tatooine suns posed as a nuisance with all of the layers he donned, but now it’s comforting and Mando welcomes it with open arms—the heat equalising with that of his neck—like a temperate bath drawn just for him and he sinks his toes in the waters, moaning at the buoyancy and how light he feels - how unrestricted he is without the beskar.

The Girl slaps his thigh, though it does very little to draw him out of his daydreaming; perceptions desensitising as his weight gradually distributes to her, forcing her shoulders down so she’s almost laying on the speeder with him atop of her. 

“Mando, fuck, come on. Get up, you’re heavy - we’re gonna crash.”

“Can’t.” 

It’s all he can manage to slip out of the drought of his mouth, his lips catching on his teeth. He’s so heavy, blood converted into uncured duracrete that sags through his veins, thick and clumpy and asphyxiating.

“Just hang in there, all right? We’re almost there. Stay awake.”

She sounds so far away, so out of his reach, and his fingers subconsciously dig into the shirt—struggling to latch onto her as though she’ll disappear if he doesn’t—but it feels like he’s grasping at mist; the particles just floating through his digits as he clenches around nothing. He’s breathing it in, dense and cloudy with a taste like smoke and rotten flesh, coagulating in his lungs until he’s spluttering inside the helm at the assault.

Mando doesn’t feel the speeder come to an abrupt stop, doesn’t register he’s been relocated inside the cantina she spoke of until he’s on the floor propped up against a wall; beskar scraping against the stone as he fights off not collapsing to his side and welcome the duracrete as his eternal resting spot. She blocks the door with a bystanding chair, just in case, and returns to his side on her knees, hands frantic and gliding all over his heaving body; it’s oddly comforting - her touches crafted with the healing properties of bacta and his eyes slip closed to envision them slow and grazing along his skin, along his chest and neck, dainty fingers wiping away the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” she questions, dipping her fingers into his cowl and amassing metallic crimson at the tips. “Stubborn son of a-”

“I won’t make it,” he interjects, helm twisting to admire her—memorising her beauty in hopes it’ll remain with him in the afterlife. Her lips raw from the onslaught of pearly whites, her eyebrows taut with concern, eyes shifty as she investigates his bodily injuries; it’s an unfortunate circumstance, yet her beauty knows no bounds—she’s in fear and shock of letting him slip through her fingers but she’s still so fucking breathtaking.

“You’re getting out of this.” 

She files through the medpac stocked with minimal medical supplies, having used a vast sum of it on her the night prior. There’s not enough for both of them, her lashes still needing tending to, and Mando tries to stop her; tries to explain there’s a good chance the bacta won’t even make it to his system before he shuts down, but nothing but a soft groan flutters past his lips - his subconscious taking control over his obscurity. ”

The Girl’s scared, terrified, more than he’s ever seen her before, more than back on the spacecraft; more than when she speculated he would kill her. It shoves needles into his heart looking at her like this, looking at her be so fucking concerned for his health more than her own—she should leave, she needs to leave. They’ll be coming for him. This is why he came alone—why he didn’t want anybody around when his heart stops beating—why he’s been sidestepping around her.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so detached she’d be back safe in the Crest and he wouldn’t be slowly hemorrhaging to death.

She’s been around him too long; her brain picking up the most minute details he lets slip past his beskar walls. “I’m not leaving you,” she reassures, reading his mind.

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

Mando whispers her name in short puffs, uttering the beautiful title that is solely her into the sand-buried cantina and strokes a delicate line across her cheekbone to her jaw where he rests his hand. It clenches underneath the leather - Mando swipes his thumb over the front of her chin sweetly, tenderly, just feeling her contours and arches. “Go.”

“Mando,” she forcibly smiles, “you’re an idiot if you think you’re dying here.”

She’s as stubborn as a Bluurg - he smiles.

He’s beginning to understand now—why the Girl hadn’t notified him of her past—or, then again, maybe he already figured it out and chose to ignore it, to replace desires with rationality. Perhaps that’s why, despite all of the suppressed emotions expanding against the confines of a metaphorical transparisteel bottle, he subconsciously found ways to distance himself from her. Utilising the Child’s priority, feigning resentment, straight-up leaving her in the dark—why he was still isolating himself even after their cin vhetin. 

After all, it’s easier to care for a skeleton in the closet than the very alive passion in his chest. But it’s easier to neglect the corpse—forget the closet entirely—than the mania; that never stops, never allows him a brief moment to recuperate his thought process.

“I forgive you,” he mumbles with a smile, a smile she won’t get to see. “I forgive you, ner mesh’la.”

It’s only when you’ve forgiven her that you’ll truly move forward.

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

If he doesn’t make it out alive, she deserves to know—she should know how he feels towards her, even if it’s not reciprocated.

She freezes, hands hovering over him with a tremble that matches his heart’s; her eyes sliding close—it’s for his benefit, he realises, she doesn’t want her pathetic sobbing to be the last thing he sees. 

It’s not pathetic in the slightest; how could somebody so intangible ever be considered pathetic?

With quivering muscles, Mando presses his leather flat against her cheek to collect a stray tear. It rolls along the curve of his thumb and soaks into the wrist of his flight suit, the moisture felt against his skin and he moans in a blend of delight and pain; a drops worth of Her converging against his flesh, staining it with salt. 

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

Grief is etched into her eyes when she finally peels the thin lids back, her pupils flickering across the visor desperate to discover the eyes behind the cold blackness. There’s a pang in her heart that pulsates each time his chest collapses underneath her hands, counting down the rise and falls until it inevitably discontinues. “You’re not dying here.” Her lips are pulled taut against her teeth, cheeks wet with tears. “I won’t allow it. The kid needs you. I need you. End of discussion, all right?”

Mando’s head tilts, an overly enthusiastic tug in the corner of his mouth.

“All right,” he permits. 

“Good.” The Girl wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of the shirt; his shirt. “Sit forward, let me fix that head of yours.”

“Helmet,” he groans.

Oh, how his creed screws with him, obstructs him from the most basic aspects of life.

“It doesn’t need to come off.” She drives him forwards off the wall and wraps an arm across the front of his shoulders, a leg clipping behind him and another in front over his lap, snuggly positioning him between her legs so he doesn’t collapse either side. She’s tepid, pillowy, and he allows himself to lean into her, his pauldron squishing into her chest. “It’ll just be hard to tell if it’s sealed,” she narrates to herself as she digs through his cowl where it obscures the underneath of his helmet. “Is this okay?”

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

Delicate, smooth fingers trail beneath the rim of his helmet—his breath hitches—and slip through the gap. Mando swallows the moans and twitches she produces when she brushes around the wound, charting out its size, location, and severity. She’s so close to him, so fucking close; her hand is inside the helmet, inside his personal space, inside his Creed—fingers tangling with his overgrown locks, curls knotting around creeping digits dragging them in and holding them against his skull while blood cakes onto her skin.

Bacta spray expels from the flacon in her clutch and adheres to the wound, the properties immediately getting to work reconstructing the fractured cells. It’s sticky, burns against the sensitivity, the groaning is unavoidable but he centres on his breathing and slacking his muscles.

“That’s it,” she coos, patting his far-end pauldron, “relax.”

The consoling reminds him of the nights he’d spent staying up with the kid, murmuring reassuring words he’d plucked from the depths of his memories as a child and he hums at the bittersweet remembrances—they’re faded now with his age, as though he watched it through the eyes of a passerby in a dense crowd, too difficult to focus on the exact detailing but everything that mattered remained; the scratchiness of his father’s beard against his forehead each night, his mother’s subdued tone lulling him to sleep, both of their warmth encasing him on chilly nights surrounded by the village’s campfire.

Mando didn’t have the luxury of a rewarding life - the privilege - the right. There’s not much he remembers from his youth, much less than the average with the trauma he’s endured. He doesn’t want that for the kid, doesn’t want him to forget Mando; he means too much to him and it’d tear his heart beyond death if those memories were buried by the same trauma that keeps Mando awake—the same trauma that draws him right back to a battlefield as a coping mechanism. 

Mando’s been living the way of Resol’nare for decades now—ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor - An vencuyan mhi, he recites the rhyme, obey the commands of Mandalore—his soul intact and a designated spot in Manda reserved just for him; it’s a great honour, one any dar’manda would be envious of, yet he’s uncertain - tentative of the afterlife. He’ll be alone again. Just like before the Child was placed into his care. Just like before he met the Girl. Nobody will be there to welcome him—no parents, no relatives, no friends, no-one.

Twitches coursing along his spine and the back of his neck does little to soothe his nerves regarding his mortality, his body tense and rigid as though he was already proceeding with rigour mortis. He mustn’t be concealing it well as the Girl draws him closer into her chest, his helmet resting against the side of her head as she continues administering the spray, a hand smoothing along the curve of his neck to rest there.

He’s positioned just like he had that night the Mandalorians rescued him, the same fear and panic pulling at his tendons and compressing his lungs, seeking comfort from his saviour—like a scared little boy. 

It’s both humiliating and heartening; the Girl being so delicate with him despite being dipped in a coating of sharp, cold beskar head-to-toe. It’s committed to protecting him, to aid him when all else fails, and yet she’s the one he wants to surround himself with. She’s elastic-y and pliable—versatile for any situation he throws her way—made of exotic materials from the most desolate planets in the Outer Rim. 

Mando wonders what her hands would feel like elsewhere; tending to the wounds he accumulates among his torso, rubbing at the aging lines of his face—always taking care of him. Mando forages underneath the stockiness that is his heart plate and cowl, leathers wrap around the small beskar pendant amidst his chest and rips the lace from around his neck. It’s shiny, rarely exposed to elements and harsh sunlight, but still worn with age and he runs a padded thumb along a steel tusk protruding from the skull.

The Girl pats him on the curvature of neck and shoulder one last time before retracting her hand from his helmet and returning him against the wall; he nearly mopes at the lack of her. “That’s that. I applied a thick coat so you should be okay, give it a moment to settle in.” She wipes her bloody hand against the thigh of her pants and clips the bottom of his helmet between a thumb and forefinger, twisting it to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

Mando considers. The majority of the pain had vanished, or numbed, and his senses are making a steady comeback but the whole ordeal has left him drained, too exhausted to even think about manipulating his muscles to utter a sentence in reply. He does, though, he doesn’t want her worrying more than she already is. “It’s an improvement. Thank you.”

“Let me take a look at this.” She lightly taps around the gash on his side to test his reactivity. It’s not a deep wound—no cauterising today—and he sighs with relief when she fingers through the medpac to recover a bacta patch. He’ll need proper care eventually but it’s all they possess way out here.

Mando flinches when she inches the flight suit out of the way, hissing.

She searches the satchel and retrieves an all-too-familiar pouch, his eyes hardening. “Why do you have that?”

“It can be used as medicine,” she mumbles, suddenly uncertain. “It helped me, it can numb the pain.”

Mando glares at the narcotics, shaking his head obstinately. “No -- no, it’s addictive. You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want you using it.” His muscles tense at his plea, hoping she doesn’t read into it and discover its underlying reasonings—how concerned he is. “It should - should be disposed of. It’ll only entice-”

“I’m not addicted to it, Mando. It was a one-time thing.”

“It’s-”

She cuts him off with a gentle sigh and shoves the pouch back into the satchel. “Was just trying to lessen the pain, ya know, guess you’ll have to endure it. Might teach you some manners.”

His eyes soften, his chest lax; he’s starting to make a habit of blowing things out of proportion—it’ll only drive the Girl away if he persists. His thumb assaults the surface of the pendant in his clutch, rubbing it raw, and folds his adjacent hand over hers poignantly. She understands his sentiment, offering him a small smile that puts his concerns at ease.

She’s too benevolent for her own good—too compliant to his immaturity.

She changes the subject. “This is all getting old real fast, you know. All this patching up we keep doing for each other. We oughta take a break somewhere. Could be good for the kid.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t take breaks, not when he’d been injured and definitely not when he’s a fugitive but hearing the Girl suggest one makes his thoughts run wild creating phony scenarios where the three of them could spend time somewhere secluded other than the Crest. Somewhere far away from all the fucking sand. 

It could be good for the kid, could help him return to himself being out in free lands without the worry of a lurking Guild member aimed to either kill or capture him.

Mando parts his lips but he’s cut off before he’s even constructed a sentence in his mind; the rhythmic strums of speeder bikes nearing their quarters. He activates his sonic detectors and isolates the audio, concentrating on the alternating warbling while the Girl fists the hilt of her blaster instinctively in preparation. “There’s two,” he claims.

“Okay, wait here.”

“Wait, wait.” Mando catches her wrist as she stands to arrest her raring thoughts. He unclasps the strap across his chest and maneuvers the rifle around from his back and shoulders, gingerly pressing the wintry steel barrel into her palm. “There’s one cartridge loaded.” His hand snakes to his boot and retrieves the final cylinder, relinquishing his paramount foundation to survival.

She stares at him with wide eyes filled with wonder and questions he can’t pinpoint, hands examining the Amban-phase pulse rifle loosely clutched in her palms. A soft, genuine smile sketches into the curve of her lips and she gratefully accepts his offer, perching herself against a window to observe the vastness outside. 

Mando can’t manage to see past her, the window too high from his angle, so he entitles himself to travel her frame; monitoring—recording—her posture, alternating foot and knee flat against the duracrete and her shoulders pulled taut where the stock rests in the crevice. The posture of a Sharpshooter.

She sucks in a shallow breath and slowly exhales, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes lock onto an unguarded Klatoonian through the lens.

Mando quietly chuckles underneath his beskar and subconsciously runs his thumb along the beskar pendant once more, his eyes never tearing away from the Girl—she’s like the Child when he’s given the knob of his control throttle; devilishly grinning with a mischievous glimmer in their eye. 

He recounts how curious she had been regarding his rifle, how she used to pester him just to get a glimpse of the silver barrel. I’ll get my hands on it one day and I won’t be giving it back, she had said once and seeing that excitement in her eyes now only insisted on the claim. 

A micro pellet shoots out the fork-tipped tubing, the sound reverberating inside the structure for a moment before it settles to silence. Assessing the expression on her face, she hits her mark. A surge of pride runs underneath Mando’s muscles—the Girl utilising his sniper as if it belongs in her arms, fashioned just for her hands and fingers—followed by an unrelenting tide of arousal through his veins and to his crotch; maybe she can keep the rifle.

The Mandalorian has only ever had material possessions, so seeing her exercise his tools of survival like her own—squeezing the trigger, hugging the stock, peering through the lens—pressing her body up against the exact rifle he’d press against - fuck, if it doesn’t stimulate dark, inappropriate, disturbing thoughts and a tingling sensation at the base of his stiffening cock. 

Embarrassed from his condition—wounded and bloody and fucking horny—he droops his eyes to the opened bacta gel. It’s laughable. It seems each time he’s injured and she’s touching him, taking care of him, his arousal decides it’s time to awaken. She must think he gets off on it; that’s enough to make him cringe under his helm. 

Another blast echoes the spacious room and this time he hears the pop of the second Klatoonian, followed by a soft exhale from the Girl at her accomplishments. “That’s taken care of,” she sighs. “Sorry, Mando, I don’t think you can have this back.”

Mando rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“How do you suppose you’ll use it without any more ammunition?”

She huffs and props the rifle against the wall beside him. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty hidden away. I mean, why not gimme yours? I’m a better shot than you--”

“We don’t know that.”

“--and you did destroy mine, remember?”

Actually—he’d almost forgotten. It’s the entire circumstance that scripted their journey through the Outer Rim together, but with everything that’s happened within the past few days, he wasn’t exactly in the right mindset to be thinking about their agreed-upon reimbursement.

The Girl continues, “We should make a contest for it. Whoever's the better shot, gets to keep it. Sounds fair to me.”

Mando scoffs and reminds, “There’s no ammunition, mesh’la.”

“Come on, just admit you’re scared of losing.” She pauses to allow him to pipe up. He doesn’t. “Okay then. I’m getting you fixed up and then we’re going to the Crest to get ammunition and then I’m gonna kick your ass in this challenge.”

“I never agreed--”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Mando.”

He hums in feigned thought; she seems satisfied with herself and lowers to her knees beside him once more, hands uncorking a canister of water to flush the lesion of grit and administer a clump of soothing gel. She’s astonishingly fast and precise; she’s not joking about this competition—he’ll be in trouble if she proceeds. Nevertheless, having her hands so close to—fuck—he jolts abruptly and repositions himself so he’s concealing the bulge in his lap, extracting a concerned yet confused glare from her.

“It’s sensitive,” he lies through his teeth, but she nods her head with the allegation.

Her hands smooth over a bacta patch underneath his flight suit—another ripped garment alongside his cloak—and he moans as the patch pulses a soothing burst that numbs the slash and lessens the tenderness. 

“Okay, you’re all set. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

Beskar is weighted in his palm and he returns his attention to the pendant, shimmering in the sunlight cascading through the windows and reflecting onto the ceiling above them. Mando’s head angles to the side as he slips the torn threads through his fingers and pries them apart, the beskar dangling in the middle of the lace, to slide his knuckles along the sides of the Girl’s neck until he’s at the rear. She gazes down at the pendant stowed against her sternum as he secures a taut knot, mindful of the strands of hair as to not entangle them together.

Pulling away, he hooks a forefinger along the thread and collects the beskar at the bottom where he rubs a thumb along the face of the skull. 

His vocoder whirrs a humming sound, “Better, mesh’la, much better. Thank you.”

“What’s this for?” she questions, examining the necklace incredulously.

“You.” It’s simple - sweet - truthful; it’s all hers. She doesn’t seem entirely content with his answer, her eyebrows stitching together as she mulls the symbolic gesture. He takes mercy on her rationalising, albeit awkwardly, “I can’t return a mutual connection. Can’t give you me - wholly. I received this necklace as part of my initiation to the Creed denoting my trust, my devotion, and it’s been with me since I was a boy.”

She lifts her eyes to the visor as he shares, her hands resting atop his still playing with the pendant. 

“It’s a part of my Creed—a part of me. I want you to have it.”

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

She leans into his personal space until her warmth invades the confines of his undershirt that puts Tatooine’s twin suns to shame. Mando’s throat bobs when a hand tunnels through his cowl to splay across the side of his neck and her face looms near the side of his helmet. He doesn’t twist to look at her—doesn’t want to unnerve her with the leering tint—but his shoulders sag at the vague tremor through the beskar; her lips weakly compressed against the curvature on his helmet.

He’s not one for words, but it seems he succeeded on that front.

It makes his heart flatten and swell in succession as though she was kneading the organ with her hands, the contact so placid and gradual - just taking her time tenderising the muscle.

Not to mention the boost of blood that flows through his abdomen and finalises below his waist, causing a twitch in his pants and she hadn’t even touched him except for a delicate hand on his cowl. 

Mando really was like a boy—a pining, desperate, hormonal boy.

The Girl withdraws somewhat and trails the hand from his neck over the bump of his heart plate and seats it in the cushioning covering his stomach, her eyes bounce from his visor to his reviving arousal with her bottom lip clamped between rows of teeth. She softly snickers, “You don’t need to get shot at for me to touch you, Mando.”

He swallows, his helmet twisting on its axis to watch her expression—eyes darkening and tonguing crawling through her parted lips to apply a coating of saliva on them. 

“Is that what you want?” she croons. “For me to touch you?”

He’s speechless—choking on his own spit—and she doesn’t help matters when she glides the hand lower, her fingers catching on the hem of his waistband and her palm enveloping the curve of his bulge. 

Mando recollects all the instances he’d thought of the Girl like this—touching him so sweetly, pulling moans from his mouth—all the times he’s wanted more, needed more. Even with her hands down his pants he craved more, required her warmth—wanted to be buried in that warmth.

“Yes,” he musters up, his words coming out staticy through the modulator. 

It’s all she needs to continue, r hand snaking beneath the hem and she wraps slender fingers around his length, sluggishly pumping twice that has his back arching off the wall and she smiles smugly in her endeavours. 

His heart is in his throat, his stomach, his crotch—everywhere. 

The Girl tightens her grip some, her fingers catching on his skin without any form of lubricant but it reminds him of being back on the Crest in the pilot's chair and he has no criticism of that. She drags her hand to the top and gradually slides back down, her thumb following a pulsating vein back to the base. It has his muscles tensing, constricting underneath his layers, but his fingers dig into the cloak underneath him. 

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

She seems to understand his request and reaches for the hem with her other hand, scrambling to yank his trousers down and he assists by lifting his weight off the ground with his forearm until the hem rests at his mid-thigh; the beskar cuisse preventing the fabric from lowering any further but he couldn’t give a shit. It’s enough.

She hums at the sight of his cock—large, hard, and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. Digits contract at the base, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat, and the Girl tosses a flirty smile at him as she gradually dips her head down for her lips to meet the tip. 

“Fu-ck,” he moans, his eyes widening as she flicks her tongue to collect the drop of white and it just melts into her tastebuds; brands them with his cum. She teases him, just barely making contact with a modest brush of her tongue against the head and he’s forced to restrain himself from bucking each time she spawns a coating of saliva that the hot air wipes dry in a matter of seconds.

Mando scrunches his fists against the duracrete and listens to the tinking his helmet produces each time he twitches his head against the sandstone, if it wasn’t made of beskar it'll surely be scraped to hell. He’s fortunate the bacta spray was so efficient—there’s no doubt in his mind he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much as he is without it working wonders on his wound. One of his hands occupies the back of her head and he unintentionally drives her downwards until her lips seal around the head of his cock and he’s gasping for air—the filters of his helmet breathing violently to supply the oxygen he’s lacking.

It’s exhilarating being inside of her mouth—albeit very little of him—and he lifts his hips to delve deeper, exploring the uncharted territory of her tongue and throat; so fucking soft, like her gums are fabricated out of clouds and her tongue a bed prepared just for him to rest on. “Gods,” he chokes. “Such a — pretty little mouth, mesh’la.”

She half-moans around his length, sending pulsations that makes his knees weak and toes curl. She bobs her head up and down rhythmically, her hand stroking what she can’t fit inside, and his gloved fingers twirl around a cluster of strands at the nape of her neck just to hold her - to feel the muscles stretch and loosen each movement she makes.

Mando is gluttonous for her—so fucking desperate to quicken the pace or attain new limits—and he experimentally sinks her head lower onto his shaft, slowly but with some level of authority that makes the Girl moan and comply with his proposal.

The curve of her nose brushes against the flock of unkempt bristles at the base—it’d been a while since he last tamed them, though he suspects the Girl doesn’t mind—and her sharp hot exhales through her nose can be felt dancing along the soft flesh of his groin, the head of his cock nudging against the back of her mouth before it slips past and eases down her throat an inch. Along with the newfound pressure around his length, the Girl flattens her tongue on his underside and sucks—generously hard, might he add. 

There’s an ache in his abdomen, a crack in his knee as it jerks, and he’s forced to gnaw on his lips to refrain from spewing out shameful noises from deep within his throat. His sonic detectors pick up the faintest of audio; the squelching of his cock slipping in and out of her throat, her short puffs of exhales, and her cut-off gagging noises she makes each time he explores a little more than she can withstand. It’s unrighteous how turned on he’s getting from the noises alone, but she makes her presence well known when her lips glue around at the base just sits there taking in his entire length in her throat; tears brew in the corners of her eyes and she swallows a heap of saliva—consuming all of his rationality as her throat tightens around his width.

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

He reflexively yanks her head up until only the head of his cock is situated in her mouth, twitching, leaving the remainder of his length sodden with stringy pools of her saliva that streak to the brown curls.

Mando observes the mess she’s made, mouth drowning with lust. As much as he could sit there and fuck her mouth like this, he aches for more contact—requires it like the oxygen he breathes.

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

His hand travels from the base of her neck along the curve of her spine and rests on the soft of her rear, indicating his proposition. She reluctantly pries her lips from his tip and glances up at him with filthy eyes to murmur, “Need me?” she swallows. “Need me to take care of you?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

“Yes, mesh’la.” His fingers bite into the flesh of her ass and dip in the waistband at her tailbone, lazily tugging at the material but it fails to budge against the defence of her belt. 

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

Mando is needy—dehydrated and starving for her—utterly insatiable. 

She unclasps her belt and unbuttons the two little dimes at her groin, but he beats her to the belt loops and slips either thumb on the farsides and tugs. His eyes soak in the exposed flesh; how cushiony her thighs look, how they must feel squeezing the sides of his head. There’s a rumble in his chest and it finds its exit through his filters, shooting straight to the Girl’s core.

The Girl guides a leg out from beneath her and he continues undressing her from the waist down until she’s only left in her undergarments, the length of her legs being explored by crunchy leather. She doesn’t allow him the opportunity to take initiative and remove his gloves—he wouldn’t be able to control where his hands led if he had—and tosses a leg on either side of his thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing against her clothed pelvis to evoke a muffled moan from his throat.

One of her hands rests on his side atop of the bacta patch and she gazes into his helmet, silently inquiring her concerns.

“I’m okay.” She continues eyeing him, her pupils flickering to the bottom side of the helmet his lesion laid in slumber. “Mesh’la, I’m good.” He proves it with a minor thrust of his hips that has her scooting against his lap, distributing her weight among his thighs.

She seems pleased with his condition, tearing her hands from his wound to bunch up the overhanging fabric. Mando stops her, clinging to the hem of the shirt. “No, keep - keep it on. Looks good on you.”

An imposing heat rises to her cheeks and paints them hues of reds and pinks at the implication Mando gets off on her wearing his clothing. He’s watching her, she feels the leer of his visor, and she bows her head and strokes his length in an attempt to hide away, to distract him from the mortifying blush gracing her cheeks and nose. Mando’s insistent, stubborn, refuses to look away from her ‘pretty little face’—his words, not hers—and just scouts as her features contort shyly.

He won’t look away.

Especially not when she lifts her thighs and hovers over his readying cock, the head nudging against her clothed sex; warm and damp from her secreting through the fabric. She wants this, he acknowledges, just as much as himself.

She dips her hips enough, just barely, so he’s firmly pressed against her; his twitches travelling through to her, sparking her fingers to dig into the pads of his shoulders in shock. Mando groans, powerless underneath her, and bucks his hips plenty to maintain a pleasant caress against the tip of his cock.

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

She smirks. “Why not do something about it?”

Oh, he will—he’ll make her applaud the ground he walks on if he has to.

With one foul swoop, Mando plunges his hand between her legs and eases the garment aside, positioning himself between her folds and collecting the slick with his head. It makes something erupt inside of him, in his abdomen, and he freezes like that; his cock scarcely pressing against her entrance - she flutters against him.

The throbbing at the back of his head pulls him out of his relishing but he’s not willing to interrupt—not when he’s waited so fucking long to feel her like this. “Sit down,” he breathes, lightly pushing on her thighs. “S-slowly.”

She abides by his commands and gradually sinks on his length—so fucking slowly. He asked for it, but she’s just torturing him at this point. His eyes tear from what lays between them back to her face, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth latching onto the flesh of her poor hand. His muscles lack, his hands caressing her legs. “Sweet girl,” he coos, “you can do it.”

“Gods, what else are you hiding under all that beskar?” she moans and continues, stretching herself around his impressive size; Mando’s not small in the slightest.

His helmet inclines with a soft chuckle, clashing against the wall behind them—the wall he was ready to die on and now he’s fucking her against it - he hadn’t even cleaned himself of the blood soaked into his cowl and caking his hair - it’s fucking dirty.

He hums her name in reassurance. “Should’ve - should’ve prepared you with m-y fingers first.” 

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

“Doing so well, so good. That’s it. Nice and slow-ly.”

There’s a silence that fills the air once he’s completely sheathed inside her, the both of them tardily comprehending the reality of the situation—they won’t be able to return to normal after this, won’t be able to look at each other without thinking of the other naked. This is their new normal, at least for today, and they carefully descend back to the scene with clarity. 

Her - his shirt’s hem rubs against his garbed stomach, loose and large on her, and he slithers his hands up the back of it to clamp down on her shoulders; holding her firmly against his pelvis so she’s restricted and refuses her the opportunity to move—he wants to savour the feeling of her stretched around him, the feeling of her warmth welcoming him. She hisses at the cold steel of his vambrace along the muscles of her back and arches on him.

Mando basks in her warmth, shifting his hips side-to-side to rub against the inside of her canals, and resting the peak of his helmet against her sternum above the pendant’s residence to breathe in her scent. It’s faint with the helm’s filters stripping the air of her but there’s a hint of sweetness that he jostles around among his tongue and a speck of her musk, alongside a whiff of his personal scents from his shirt—gun oil, leather, his own musk fusing together with hers.

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

The grip on her shoulders loosens, enabling her to move slightly but doesn’t allow her to take initiative this time; his ass flexes against the ground as he thrusts up into her, pulling soft gasps from her tongue. It’s so hot, so enticing, a sound he’s dreamt of hearing but actually triggering the noises from her is intoxicating. He could bury his face between her legs and listen to her all night if she’d allow it; if his Creed allowed it.

“Pretty girl.” His hips slam into hers. “Always - always taking care of me.”

“Fu--fuck, Mand-o,” she chokes, her breathing staggering each time his groin rolls into her pelvis. A delicate hand runs along the front to the back of his cowl and sweeps underneath the steely brim, never breaching his comfort zone until he imparts his consent with a faint nod. She inches her digits up till they disappear inside his helmet—there was a time he wouldn’t let anybody get within arm’s length of his helm and now the Girl was freely raiding the unexplored depths of his skull for the second time that day. 

There’s a slight pang around his lesion when she tugs on the curls and it only roams upwards when she shoves her palm up as far it’ll reach in the cramped space, her fingers working out the tight knot. He jerks at the sensations, all so foreign, so new and exciting he’s struggling to withhold himself from doing something stupid.

“Been thinking about this for so lo-ng,” he whispers, quickening his pace to drive up and nudge against her cervix that has her flinging her head back. “Thought about fucking——fucking you over the control panel ea-ch night.”

“Maker,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Nearly crawled in your fuck-ing bunk with you.”

Mando groans. “Yeah? I’ll fuck you in my bunk whenever you want, mesh’la. Name the time.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

“Din,” he slips, freezes, muscles stretched and tight—he went and did something stupid. The Girl notices his wavering, his thrusts having abruptly stopped, and joins his absence of movement. A layer of nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead, his heart paced faster than a Kaadu. Everything is distanced, the Girl seemingly klicks away, thoughts clouded with analysing his psyche’s outburst; a foolish slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment. 

He hasn’t heard that name since he was a boy—hadn’t uttered it aloud since he became a foundling—so it’s a huge fucking shock when he hears the syllable trip past his lips.

And it’s an even bigger shock when the Girl repeats it back to him, “Din?” 

It does sound nice coming from her, though. He can’t deny that. Like his name is made of nectar, sweet and thick that dribbles from her tongue and down her chin—he could just lick it up from her, catch the remnants before it plummets the duracrete.

She grinds herself against him to pull him back to reality, twirling a curl around her finger curiously; cloyingly. 

“Din,” he repeats, firmer, with authority, “Say it, mesh’la, say it for me. Please.”

She tugs on his locks, forcing his helmet to tilt up to look at her and his heart misses a beat when she parts her lips and moans into his visor, “Din.”

Dank Farrik—she always knows just what to do to get his blood pumping. She doesn’t even know the significance of the word, just acknowledges how his cock quivers inside her from speaking it and then she’s a mewling mess muttering along a never-ending string of Din, Din, Din’s.

“Hold still,” he warns, a sturdy vambrace wrapping around her coccyx and propelling himself upwards and unto his knees with her below him, a gloved hand at the back of her head to protect it from slamming against the hard duracrete.

She’s even more sublime from this angle; spread out underneath him, the backs of her thighs pressed against his hip joints—purely on display for him and only him. 

Din can’t stand not being inside her, not feeling her slick walls hugging him so fucking tightly it drags pleasure through the core of his shaft, and he sheathes himself back into her quickly. Propping up his weight with a forearm beside her head, and pounding his hips into hers vigorously - the clap of their skin snapping through the air. 

She grinds her hips upwards into his lap to massage the swollen nub of her clit against him, jerking at the sensitivity - though she’s so restricted between solid flooring and a just as solid beskar figure that she more-or-less humps into Din’s body - her fingers slither behind the beskar margins of his cuisse’s to stabilise herself.

The abandoned cantina air is hot, sweltering, thick with sweat and sex—versus the dry, dusty stench prior that left his lungs ticklish. They’re fucking each other so desperately they’re emitting a skyrocketing heat, it’s dumbfounding.

Her lips are pulled invertedly to force back the whiny incoherent moans. Beads of sweat along her forehead. Eyes glued close. 

What a beautiful sight. All for him. It’s contrasting to the last time they were in a similar scenario—her hands on him, him sitting there licking every crumb off the plate of food she served him—but their positions had changed and now he’s the one working those noises out of her. A flurry of youthful pride rushes through him and he slips two fingers to touch where they connect, feeling the ridges and veins of his cock through the leather as he pulls out and slides back in - feeling what she’s feeling - memorising what she’ll memorise.

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

She’s close to her apex—her walls tighten around his cock even further. If she gets any tighter Din will come right here and now. He’s still not done - still needs more of her - thirsts for it.

“I know, mesh’la, I know. A - a little longer. Just a little longer.”

The digits between her thighs compile a coating of her slick seeping down the sides of her leg, applying it to her clit and drawing fast circles. She doesn’t complain about the scratchy leather on the sensitive bud, doesn’t gripe that he’s not allowing her the touch of his bare flesh—she thinks it’s fucking hot; he can’t take his hands off her for a fucking second to rid himself of the confines, can’t keep her waiting to inch his pants down past his thighs. He’s still completely clothed, permitting only his cock and thighs to spring free of his flight suit enough to fuck her into the ground—into the ground. It’s unadulterated filth through and through.

Din’s tattered and slashed cloak droops to the side of him and the Girl wads a horde of the scratchy fabric in her hand, tugging on it that brings him to meet with her hips like she’s coordinating his movements. “Oh, fu-ck. Right there, Mando, right there.”

“Din,” he growls a reminder all-while maintaining the pace and posture she’s arching into, her moaning of his name an addicting motivator, “my - my name is Din.”

If he wasn’t hitting something so unreachable—something so itchy she never knew existed—she might’ve wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his helmet in for a kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in response to his confession. She can’t though - he doesn’t give her a second's worth of breaks. Unable to demonstrate her appreciation, she wrenches her head to the forearm beside her and administers a laden press of her lips to his leathered wrist; a small but incredibly sweet gesture that has his lungs tugging on his heartstrings.

She whispers his name as if testing it out on her tongue, this time with more sentiment. It’s a soft, short, and rounded-sounding name—everything he’s not—such a breathy syllable it doesn’t require much mouth manipulation and the Girl takes advantage of that; chorusing the word in sync with her pleasured writhing. 

Din extracts his cock from her gradually and sharply slams back into her, shoving her spine across the ground that she jumps from her position an inch, the grip on his cloak tightening.  “Fuck, Din!” Pearly whites sink into the leather surrounding his wrist and he grunts at the stimulation, his thrusts beginning to stagger as he reaches his climax. He won’t allow it - he’ll postpone his relief until she’s had hers if he has to; she deserves it.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You take care of me so-so well, let me feel you relax; come.”

She does relax, becomes nothing more than a boneless pool of flesh and blood beneath him that yelps at each smack of his hips, tingles at the squelching of his cock slipping through her lubricant and coating the base of his groin in a wet sheen of her. 

Din’s fingers continue on her nub only periodically stopping to delve deeper and amass her juices. He hits a sweet spot and she writhes into his chest, ripping her teeth from the leather to sink them in the thick padding of his shoulder where she freely moans into the fabric—deliberately putting on a show for Din that makes the head of his cock twitch.

Din increases his pace, maintaining a speed that compensates for his lack of back with the explosion—delivering a steady tempo fit for a week's worth of workouts.

She’s so close to his ear, if the beskar wasn’t there she’d be pressed right up against the cartilage, her risque whining intruding the tunnels of his eardrums. It’s too much to consider, too fucking much. 

She clamps down on his cock, tight and vice-like that he struggles to move inside of her. Her body rocks and jolts as she cums on his cock—he can feel the warmth dripping over the head and running along the sides like syrup sliding down his throat. “That’s it, pretty, do-ing so good.” She transmits a low drone from his words of praise, her bite deepening enough to leave a groove of her teeth in his muscle.

Din pinches her nub once, twice, savouring the impact of her chest against his with each jerk he pulls out of her. He aids her descent back to Tatooine, luring out the remainder of her orgasm with slow lazy circles until she politely relieves his hand from her clit—too sensitive and sore to continue.

The Girl shakes and trembles below him, feuding with the hot air that won’t stay in her lungs. She’s glazed in a gloss of sweat from her forehead all the way to her thighs; drained and overstimulated, but she extends a helping hand to the base of his cock and pumps the few inches not inside her. 

“Can’t - can’t stay there all day, Din,” she teases.

It’s on the verge of abusive how she engages him, every inch of her knowing exactly what to touch and how to touch it as if he’s just constructed of mere text on a holorecord. 

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

Although, he takes her laboured breathing into consideration and rewards her with his sympathy; dragging out his own climax. Din experimentally rocks his pelvis, his cock pulling on the tightness of her channel—feeling all the grooves so distinctly, the gentle flow of warm cum trickling past his length—he’s managed his own undoing, his fingernails digging into the leather of his palm, cock rigid and violently palpitating. 

She observes his shoulders tightening, his breathing shake, his thighs flexing as he anxiously pulls out of her sex—buries it somewhere safe in her memory for later—it’s a glorious experiencing watching a Mandalorian—The Mandalorian share something so vulnerable with her; like the after-effects of a meanspirited storm, all tranquil sounds and apprehensive touches. She seizes a hand and presses the leader against her cheek, mildly gnawing on the thumb that impishly slips past her lips, her remaining picking up the pace on his cock drawing out his high.

It’s so cordial watching her tear at his thumb, pull on his length, stare into the visor knowingly; too personal, too spellbinding. He takes the bait. “Fuck, fu-ck,” he moans, staggering on his knees and firing out a sticky white that pains the insides of her thighs—trademarking her.

She’s unrelenting, milking every drop out of him until he’s lagging and softening in her palm. When she’s finally conducted his orgasm, she presses a quick peck to his thumb and retreats her skull to the duracrete, officially out of stamina for anything more than a breathy: Shit, Din. That was-fuck.

Her thighs are wet with their combined juices—a shiny translucent mixing with the softening white. He gathers it up on the tips of his fingertips and lifts it to the Girl’s mouth, wiping the sex on her tongue she’s poked out in compliance. “So good to me. So pretty,” he strums. “How’s it taste? Did we do good?”

She nods, humming and rolling her tongue around inside her mouth to blend the liquids with her saliva. 

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

Din can only imagine the flavour they spawned together; a mouthwatering syrup that leaves a savoury aftertaste from the sweat laminating her thighs. He longs for a taste, salivating with need, but resolves. 

The Girl’s slick coating his softening cock sticks to the insides of his pants as he fixes the hem back to his hips—rubbing the remnants on his thighs and gluing the short hairs to his flesh. Din reaches behind him to detach his cloak and uses the edge to wipe away the accumulated mess he’d created between her thighs, mindful of keeping the bloody end far away from her, taking his sweet time to cherish how the flesh judders in the direction of his digits and the muscles tense when he delves closer to her sex.

She props herself up with her elbows and observes him still firmly planted between her legs, a pink blush encroaching her cheekbones at the sight of her nakedness compared to the Mandalorian. 

He notices her shyness and decides not to comment, simply places a hand on either of her knees and trails them up to her torso and across her arms where he interlocks his fingers with hers - bending down atop of her to tuck his helmet in the curve of her neck, shielding her from the prying eyes of the twin spheres peeking through the window.

She rests her cheek against the side of his helmet, murmuring soft praises. Fucked me so good, she whines, gonna leave me sore all night.

Din groans into the helm and settles his weight on her, too exhausted to move, but she welcomes his physique—invites the dense muscles to recuperate on her for as long as he requires—and she wraps an arm around the back of his helmet, cradling him into her sweat-slicked neck.

“So about that break…”

_____________

“ner” - my/mine “mesh’la” - beautiful “cin vhetin” - fresh start/clean slate “Resol’nare” - Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life “Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor- An vencuyan mhi” - Education and armour, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader, All help us to survive” “dar’manda” - one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity

taglist: @ohhersheybars​, @greatcircle79​, @northernpunk​, @tanzthompson​, @djarrex​

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x y/n #mando x you #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x y/n #star wars #star wars smut #smut #fan fiction #fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #fiction #mandalorian smut #lunar fic #cw smut #cw violence #cw gore #cw drugs #mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian x reader

[pascalisthepunkest]

Frankie Morales | Imagines A-M

✨ this masterlist is a compilation of wonderful writers* that have blessed us with their amazing works ✨

Warnings/mentions: Alcohol 🥃 Drugs 💊 Violence 🔪

Keys: Angst 😢 Fluff 💕 Smut 🔥 Smuttish 🍑 Keyless 🔑

2:32 a.m. 💕

A Chance and A Thanks 💊🥃😢💕

A Date in History 💕

A Golden Birthday 💕 02💕

A Helping Hand 🔥

A Letter to My Love 😢

A Little Bit of Sugar 💕 02💕

A Little Longer 💕

A nice weekend with Frankie and Gabi 💕

A Test of Patiences 😢🔥

A Wound Deeper Than Shrapnel 💊🔪😢

Accident 😢💕🔥

Addicted 💊🔥

Aftermath 😢💕

Always 💕

Anniversary 💕

Another Night 😢💕

Anything for You 🥃🔪🔥

April Fools’ 💕

As Does the Snow 💕

At the Fair 💕

Baby Bee 🥃

Back to You 😢💕🍑

Back to You 😢

Bad Day 😢💕

Bad Day? Not Anymore 🔥

Be My Fake Boyfriend? 💕

Be My Wife? 💕

Beach Day 💕

Being a new member to the team and Fish tries to get to know you better 💕

Between the Lines 💕

Between the Raindrops 💕

Block Part 💕 02💕

Brown Skin 💕

Car Wash 🥃💕

Carnival Games 💕

Catch 💕

Catfish Blues 😢🍑

Catfish for Dinner 🥃🔪

Celebrate You 🥃🔥

Champagne Problems 💊🥃😢

Change of Pace 🔥

Chopping Wood 🔥

Christmas decorating with Frankie and Gabi 💕

Clean 😢💕

Come Inside 🔥

Comfort Blanket 💕

Communication 🥃💕

Complete Chaos💊🥃🔪💕

Confessions 💕

Confessions 😢💕

Confessions 🔥😢💕

Confessions 🔥💕

Cover Me Up 💊😢

Dance in the Rain 💕

Dancing with Your Ghost 💊😢 02💊😢💕

Date 💕

Deserving of Love 💕

Detachable shower head 🔥

Different 😢💕

DIY and Other Disasters 💕

Domesticity 🍑 02💕

Drinks on Me 🥃🔥 02🥃🔥

Early Morning 💕

Early Mornings 💕

Embarrassed 🥃💕

Endorphins 💊😢🔥

Esta noche 💕

Everything 🥃💕🔥

Fall 💕

Falling in Love 💕

Father’s Day 🔥

Feathers 💕

Finding Family 💊😢🔥💕

Fire in the Sky 🥃🔥💕

First argument 🥃😢💕

First date 🥃💕

First “I Love You” 💕

First kiss 💊💕

Fix It 💊🥃😢🔥

Focus on Me 😢💕

Folded Flag 💊😢

Forever & Always 🥃😢💕

Forget Me Nots 😢💕

Forts 💕

Frankie and hearing impaired/deaf reader 💕

Frankie comes home 😢

Frankie finishes too soon 🔥💕

Frankie getting payback for you teasing him in public 🔥

Frankie interrupts your zoom class 💕 02💕

Frankie makes you squirt 💕🔥

Frankie may have a panty kink 🔥 02🔥

Frankie teaching you to suck him off 🔥

Friendly Competition 💕🔥

Friends with benefits and both people catching feelings 😢💕

G.O.M.E.R. 🥃 02💕

Germany 2012 🔪😢💕🔥

Getting into a bar fight to defend your honor 🔪

Getting to know what he likes 💕🔥

Girl Next Door 💕🔥

Give My Everything to You 🔥💕

Go Fish 💕

Good Girl 🔥

Got a Bite? 💕

Green Thumb 💕

Grounding 😢💕

Hands 💕🔥

Happy Birthday Mr. García 🔥

Hard to Believe 💕

Hateful Glares 🔥

He Calls You Home 💕

Headboard 💕🔥

Heart-Shaped Glasses 🥃 02🔥

Hello Sunshine 💕

His Hands Are Miracles 💕

Home 🥃🔥 02🥃🔥

Homecoming 😢

Hot 💕🔥

How they tell you they love you 💊😢

I Couldn’t Do This With Anybody Else, and I Don’t Think I Could Take It by Myself 😢💕

I Have to Go 💊😢

I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight 🥃😢🔥 02😢 03😢🔥 04😢💕

I’ll Be Back 😢

I’m Here for You, Always 😢💕

I’m On Fire 💕🔥

I’m on Fire 😢🔥 02💕🔥 03😢🔥 04😢🔥

It Was Always You 😢💕

It’s Always Been You, Sweet Girl 💕

Jealous Frankie 🔥

Joining Souls 💕

Just Dancing 💕

Just Look at Me 🔥

Just the Rushing Wind on a Rolling Mind 😢💕 02💕

Just the Two (Three) of Us 💕

Just the Way You Are 😢💕

Keep You Close 🥃😢💕

Keep You Safe 😢💕

Knitting 💕

Ladies Night 🥃💕

Lap Dance 🥃🍑

Lazy Saturday 💕

Leisurely 💕🔥

Let It Out 😢💕

Little League Coach 💕

Locked In 💊😢💕

Loose 🥃🍑💕

Love Bite 🍑💕

Lovesick 💕

Make-Up Date 💕

Marshmallow Fluff 🥃💕🔥

Mary Jane 💊🥃💕

Mile High Club 🔥

Mirror 🔥 02🔥

Moments Like This 💕

Money, Money, Money 🔥

More Than Friends 🥃😢💕🔥

Morning Routine 💕

Morning Stroll 🥃💕

Frankie’s Masterlist | The Masterlist

if you don’t reblog this it’s all good, but r e m e m b e r to REBLOG and maybe reply too, ya know? that’s also nice the original posts bc these people are blessing us with their writing for f r e e!!! likes are nice and all but they don’t get writings anywhere really! having a lot of notes is cool and whatnot but actually reblogging something is ✨💕😭🎉💖 so yeah be the real mvp and reblog the author’s works bye!

*if your stuff isn’t here: it’s not you, it’s me! i’m a lazy ass! and also i couldn’t keep up with the amount of works being posted 😅 if you would like to be added pls just message me or fill this form! i know adding absolutely everyone is impossible at this point, but i’d love to add as many people as possible, i mean it 💙

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales imagine #francisco catfish morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales oneshot #masterlist #reblogs are much appreciated ✨