#why do his pauldrons have to look so damn cool

[scriberat]

me: alright, so kuja's new trance form should look like but not just be his other forms. let's make the sleeves pauldrons

the drawing, as im working out how to do the pauldrons: *plays one winged angel*

#life of scriberat #mysterious heart gifted miracles #kuja #sephiroth #ffix #ffvii #why do his pauldrons have to look so damn cool #and be so much like kuja's jacket but metal

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough  Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

#king of cups #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female oc #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x female oc #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #star wars #din djarin #din djarin smut #mando smut #star wars fanfic #slow burn #slow build #fic rec #writing #gun kink #angst #mutual pining #soft!din #pedro pascal #the mandalorian x female oc #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #no y/n

[ariadnekurosaki]

Just Let Go

Rating: T (Ichigo has a potty mouth... again)

A few weeks ago @creativepromptsforwriting posted a weekend game and I got prompt #401: "Just let go." "You know I can't."

Anyway, this happened. Minimally polished and not connected to anything else I've written.

His suit collar itched fiercely and beside him Inoue beamed as Ichigo took pictures using the girl’s new camera. A murmur arose from the back of the room; the bride and her brother had arrived. Ichigo swallowed heavily as the guests around him stood and turned to watch the bride walk down the aisle. This was really happening.

Rukia was getting married.

To Renji.

Today. Right now.

It took only a moment for her to come into his view, and an ice-cold bolt shot down his spine. She was wrapped in white silk, tiny in the heavy layers, and the veil over her head obscured her face. All Ichigo could see was that day on the bridge, when she’d been helpless in white cotton and a red collar.

Inoue hissed at him cheerfully to take pictures, but Byakuya caught Ichigo’s eye. The older man looked at him before his glance slid down to Rukia.

He knew what Byakuya was asking him to do.

Ichigo shoved the camera into Inoue’s hands.

“Just let go!” They were different words but the same sentiment, each time she asked him not to follow her, not to rescue her, not to worry about her. Each time she asked him to let her sacrifice herself for him, for his friends, for Soul Society.

For the world.

“You know I can’t,” Ichigo growled low in her ear. His arm tightened around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, pressing the side of her body against his broad chest. He sprinted through the dangai as though the Kushanada of Hell were after them.

After all, he’d basically kidnapped her. And on her wedding day, no less.

The strawberry flower-embroidered veil fluttered behind them, and when the benighted thing got caught in the walls of the dangai Ichigo spared half a second to tear it from Rukia’s head, leaving it to be absorbed into the dark walls surrounding them. Damned thing, he thought as he put on more speed. He’d pricked his fingers sewing flowers into the veil, flowers that bore his name.

“But Renji…”

“Will forgive us both eventually.” Ichigo tried to sound more confident about that than he felt, but then – Renji hadn’t looked thrilled about the wedding either.

The larger of his two blades banged against his back as he ran. Sode no Shirayuki slapped against his thigh; in the chaos of tearing off that ill-fitting polyester suit in favor of his shihakusho and stealing Rukia from Byakuya’s side he thought maybe Kiyone had shoved it in his obi.

Not that he knew why the blonde had it.

“Nii-sama…” Rukia yelped as Ichigo sped up again.

“Would have stopped me if he’d wanted to,” he bit out. Though they’d been first enemies and then uneasy allies, Ichigo had learned to read Byakuya’s expressions since that first fight when he’d stabbed Ichigo and called him slow.

Stop this, Byakuya had been saying with that look. Stop my sister from making this mistake.

“But he planned the whole wedding!” Rukia protested, and smacked him in the chest, trying to get him to let go.

Ichigo only squeezed tighter. “Stop that, we’re in the fucking dangai,” he growled. There was a light ahead of them, but he could hear the cleaner behind them, could practically feel it breathing down their necks.

Zangetsu cackled in his head. Bankai, the zanpakutō said, and Ichigo took a breath. He hadn’t tried to use his bankai since defeating Yhwach – and what a shitshow that had been. But his zanpakutō usually knew better than he did, about these things.

“Bankai! Tensa Zangetsu!” he roared, and instead of the heavy white bands and red scaled pauldron, instead of the heavy, black fabric that had weighed him down three years ago, Ichigo wore the sleek, open coat of an earlier transformation, the one that – thank kami – made him fast. He roared, putting on a last burst of speed and reaching the light at the end of the long tunnel.

They burst into the nighttime sky of Karakura, no one there to break their fall. Ichigo landed hard, falling to one knee with Rukia still clutched close in his arms. Zangetsu’s blade and Sode no Shirayuki’s sheath scraped against the pavement.

“You idiot!” she cried, but when Ichigo met her eyes he saw relief in them. “I told you—”

“And I told you, all your opinions are rejected,” Ichigo growled down at her. “I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself, not ever again.” She was so light in his arms, even with the heavy, white silk wrapped around her body; Ichigo was sure she hadn’t been eating enough.

Yuzu’ll fix it, he thought. She’d take one look at Rukia and make the older woman’s favorite dishes every night for a month.

She looked away from him. “It was for the best. And he’s been in love with me for almost fifty years,” Rukia mumbled into the cool night air. A car, headlights on high beam, drove past them without noticing either of the shinigami.

“Do you love him?” Ichigo asked quietly. If she did, if she really did…

“…No. I tried to,” she whispered. “No.”

“Hn.” He started walking, feet finding the path to Urahara’s shop unerringly. She needed a gigai, and the ex-captain would probably be expecting them soon. The man always did know too much.

“And when Soul Society comes after us?” Rukia demanded as Ichigo let her geta-clad feet touch the pavement just outside the shop. Ichigo had been right – even though it was the middle of the night, a light still shone from the open doors in welcome. He straightened up and she followed, taking in the black markings – like bindings – that once more wrapped around his wrists and streaked over the backs of his hands. He wondered what it meant that Zangetsu had changed yet again. But the zanpakutō was silent.

“Tch. I’ll beat all their asses,” Ichigo said easily. “But I don’t think they will, since they’re not here already. Byakuya wants you to be happy.”

“And you think you know what would make me happy?” Rukia demanded.

Ichigo’s expression softened, and he brushed fingers feather-light over her cheek. “Don’t I?” he asked gently.

“Ah, Kurosaki-san, Kuchiki-san,” Urahara’s voice reached them from his place in the doorway. His good eye raked over Rukia. “I have a gigai and some more comfortable clothes ready for you, Kuchiki-san.”

“How does he always know?” Rukia grumbled, but she allowed Ichigo to escort her into the bright light of the shop. “I won’t thank you for this,” she whispered. But her hand slipped into his.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ichigo's hand squeezed hers, and the door slid shut behind them.

#ichiruki #ichigo x rukia #bleach fanfiction #deathberry #flash fiction

[ahkaraii]

tov drabble (1618 words)

“Good fight,” Don Whitehorse compliments. “Not good enough, though.”

Schwann knows when he’s lost. He resorts to a cool, helpless apathy in these moments: a trait characteristic to him since birth.

“Then kill me,” he says without inflection.

“You won’t beg for your life?” Don asks.

“I am already dead,” he says. “There is nothing to beg for.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Don then shrugs his massive shoulders, like saying, ‘what can you do?’. “Aw’right then. Hey! Boys! Give this kid a good Altoskian welcome, and escort him to a cell, will ya?”

Altoskian hospitality is not unlike the Empire’s, Schwann reflects. They knock him around, piss in his water bowl, and don’t give him any toilet paper to wipe his face or his ass during the whole damn stay. Then again, an assassination attempt against his Imperial Majesty would easily warrant a public beheading — here, it seems to equate with seven days of enforced meditation toe-deep in his own shit before being kicked to the curb like nothing ever happened.

“You’re letting me go?” Schwann asks, a faint tone of disbelief in his voice.

“You’re not the first to try to off the Boss, y’know,” the guard explains, “and you won’t be the last. It’s almost a right of passage at this point.”

Schwann must reevaluate the guild’s hierarchy. His intel was clearly missing some rather important information. “Did you also try to kill Don Whitehorse?” he asks, not even meaning it sarcastically.

“Sure,” the guard admits, like it’s nothing. “Though I tried to poison him, myself. Gave the Don a case of the runs and he put a bucket of it in my cell and that was enough to make me not try again.”

Schwann’s just spent a week stewing in his own filth and understands what a powerful motivator the stench of unceasing fecal matter and lack of hygiene can be to a man who once thought himself as dignified. “Huh,” is all he offers. Is that how Don Whitehorse inspires loyalty? By sparing his foes in such a contrived way?

“Now, I’d close my eyes if I were you. Ready? Splash!”

After Schwann’s been waterboarded into smelling a little less like a sewer, the guard escorts him out the door and onto the cobbled street some ways from the headquarter’s main entrance.

“That’s it?” Schwann repeats, still not quite believing it.

“That’s it,” the guard says. “Though if I were you, I’d get a proper wash and new duds. You fucking reek.”

A bed and shower at the inn requires gald he no longer has. And even the filthiest tavern won’t let him in wearing the shit-smelling rags he’s got tattered on by a thread. He’s tired, he’s hungry, and he’s really five seconds away from giving up and taking a nap right there in the street. Where even is he, anyway? Dahngrest is a fucking labyrinth with far too many dead ends.

“You need quick cash, son? I’ll pay you to suck my dick,” a strange man with a caved in nose offers in one such dead-end alley, idly smoking a pipe.

Schwann considers it for all of three seconds before he smoothly says, “I must decline,” and walks off in the opposite direction as fast as his tired calves will take him. It’s barely been a week and he will not fall to prostitution just to get a fucking bath. That guy probably had syphilis, anyway.

“Hey! New guy!”

Schwann would’ve started walking even faster if the pitch of the voice hadn’t distracted him — it belongs to a kid, prepubescently high, gender difficult to tell with the patchwork quilt of nonsense they’ve got on.

“Take this package to Saggitarus,” the kid says, and hurls something at him that Schwann catches out of reflex.

“What?” he asks, but the kid’s already disappeared. Fast little bugger—either that, or great at climbing walls. “What...?” he repeats, staring at the innocuous brown-paper-wrapped box in his hands. It’s about the weight of his pauldron, some two kilograms dense, and rattles like there’s something round inside it. A blastia, perhaps?

“Saggitarus,” he echoes. The tavern?

Is this a test?

Is the Don testing him?

For a moment, Schwann expands his senses, wondering if he’s being followed. He can immediately feel eyes on him, and detect the sounds of muffled laughter in the distance. Then again, that might just be paranoia. He has just spent seven days with no privacy and bored guards idly betting on when he’ll get thirsty enough to drink the piss-bucket. (Shamefully, he only got to two before he succumbed.)

If there’s a blastia in here, maybe he can sell it, or, hell, use it. If Schwann’s already presumed dead and his dignity gone with it, then maybe--

The thought crosses his mind and leaves it without much fanfare. There is a task he has been given, and he shall complete it. “Saggitarus,” he repeats, and twists his ankles in the direction of the last tavern he’d been to. Maybe he can ask for directions there.

“Saggitarus tavern? Heh...y'mean the Sagittarius Tavern? It’s that way, new guy,” says the bouncer stationed outside.

Hm. Does everyone know his task, then?

“Sagittarius, huh? It’s southeast,” another man offers, “follow the music.”

It’s starting to feel like a wild goose chase, and everyone’s in on it. There is no music but distant laughter.

“Naw, new guy, it’s north! Y’know, by the fountain? Surely you passed it already.”

On and on and on, each new direction being interrupted by some new person with eyes on his package and cruelty in their smiles. It’s clear they’re all in on it, and he’s the butt of the joke.

“You’re all fucking with me,” Schwann says monotonously. He’s really quite tired. Honestly, he doesn’t really need a weapon to kill things. If he goes outside the barrier, maybe he could just rip a couple of stray Filifolia monsters into lettuce for a salad and then sell the rest of it for gald enough to pay for hay to rest with the horses…

The thought tantalises him for three seconds before he focuses back to reality. Don Whitehorse has probably already forgotten him. His underlings are the cats playing with the new toy the Don has given them. He’s nothing but fresh meat quickly spoiling.

“You finally give up, new guy?”

It’s the kid who gave him the package. Schwann eyes them more carefully this time. Blond, grey-eyed, and oddly confident in their stance. For being such a pipsqueak, this kid has balls to poke an enemy of the Don while he’s down. Schwann’s dead tired and still quite capable of snapping the kid’s neck like he would a chicken.

“What happens if I say yes?” Schwann asks, lightly.

“I take the package back,” the kid says, and stretches out a small hand riddled with weapon-born calluses. “Hand it over, then.”

“Hm,” Schwann makes as if he’s thinking, and a part of him feels silly but delighted when the brat begins to look visibly impatient. Is this kid the one in charge of his punishment…? “I think not, then.”

“Ugh,” the kid says. “Then hurry up and make it!”

Schwann bows his head like he would to Princess Estellise. “Of course, young Master,” he says, and is rewarded by the kid looking proper startled. Bingo. “I’m afraid I am quite lost, though. Why don’t we both help each other and you get me there, for real this time? That way we can both finally take a break.”

The kid squints at him and then gives an explosive sigh and turns around and starts walking. Schwann follows them leisurely. They walk down faintly familiar streets and end up at the tavern right where Schwann started. The bouncer outside looks just as amused as he did the first time.

“Ah, I see now. Saggitarus is your name, isn’t it?” Schwann says, managing a sardonic smile.

“At your service,” the guy says, and stretches out his hand. “Did you ever find the Sagittarius tavern, then?”

“Your directions were one of a kind, but my sense of direction is quite another.” Schwann plops the brown box unceremoniously into the guy’s outstretched palm. “Here’s your package, Mister Saggitarus.”

“Here’s your payment, Mister New Guy,” Saggitarius says, and flicks him a single gald coin.

“Thanks,” Schwann says without a trace of sarcasm, and turns to the kid. “Y’know where a tired old man could get a bucket of clean water for a single gald?”

“Uh, try the fountain,” the kid says. “Duh.”

“Duh,” Schwann echoes, and can’t help but laugh a little. Duh, indeed. Children above, he’s so tired.

“Hey. New Guy. I’ll throw you enough for a meal if you give Pecan this package,” Saggitarus offers, clearly taking pity on him. “Pecan’s the third waiter on the right at the Sagittarius tavern. You know your way there now, right?”

Schwann’s everything aches, but he’s starting to get the hang of this place now, he thinks. “Sure,” he says. “Throw in an old tunic and I’ll deliver it as fast as these old legs can take me.”

“Do it without causing a ruckus and I’ll give you some new shoes, too,” Saggitarius says.

“You got yourself a deal,” Schwann says, and points his feet towards his goal. He can’t wait to feel a little cleaner and rest enough to regroup and decide his next course of action; if he doesn’t send an encoded message to Zaphias soon, Commandant Alexei’ll probably assume him dead or, worse, a traitor. Till then, it’s nice to have a mission with clear cut instructions.

“Third waiter from the right,” Schwann murmurs to himself, and sets off.

#karaii fic #tales of vesperia #spoilers #just trying to get a hand on writing ol' raven #i'm really fascinated by his first few months at altosk and how he gradually got everyone's trust despite like #yknow #trying to kill the don

[zet-sway]

Spiritual Shrios Summer Prompt Fill - “Pray”

My second fill for @rosenkow's Spiritual Shrios Summer! At this point I can't look at it anymore or my eyes are going to fall out. I really wanted to get this right.

Rating: General Audiences - Safe for Work AO3 Link: "Your Gods are My Gods" - (Chapter 1) Note: Chapter 2 is identical, but with Male Shepard instead Pairing: Female Shepard / Thane Summary: Thane helps Shepard gear up in the minutes before the Omega 4 Relay, and offers a prayer for her protection.

If you would prefer Male Shepard / Thane, click here!

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Thane smiles at her, gracelessly pushing one leg into the underlayer of her hardsuit. It's strange to see her like this, hanging somewhere in the middle of a of transition between Shepard the woman, and Shepard the soldier. He crosses the room to help, offering an arm to lean on and holding the sleeves out for her to thread her arms into.

"Is it standard practice for Alliance soldiers to help their commanding officer dress before battle?" He asks with a smile.

Her answering laugh is a ray of light in the darkness before the storm. "Absolutely not." The zipper of her suit is still undone but she steps close and meets his eyes, arms threading around his waist. "But we aren't Alliance soldiers." A quick kiss on his cheek. "Lucky us. Fraternizing with a superior officer is grounds for dishonorable discharge."

He could melt into her embrace. Somewhere in the long hours between stars, they found each other. Their meeting had been professional, and he was unsurprised to find her coming to ask him questions about his illness and the mission. But somehow, little by little, he met the Commander, then the soldier, and then... her. The woman, the human, the person - Shepard - surprising him at every turn.

She listens with her full attention, interjecting her own thoughts and validations as he damn near gushes about his dogma, his gods... his wife and son, his hurts and regrets. At times when the night cycle drags on, she retires to her cabin only to ping him on his comm. By the time they're ready for the mission they've been training for, it feels like he has known her for a lifetime. He still doesn't understand why it's her that brings out the conversationalist in him. Maybe no one else had wanted to listen. Maybe he'd never given anyone else a chance.

"If faith is your pillar of strength... then your gods are my gods."

Those words echo in his mind, warming him to his bones. She isn't exceptionally spiritual, but she listens and receives him without question or judgement. The kindness in her makes his heart swell, standing together, assassin and commander, in the cool quiet of Shepard's cabin.

"Shepard, if you will permit me," he says hesitantly, "I'd like to offer you a prayer."

"A prayer?" That smile again - corners of her mouth tugging upward, lifting his spirits despite the oppressing anticipation of battle. "I'd be honored."

Shepard touches her forehead to his and he takes the zipper of her undersuit, slowly dragging it upward, watching it close over her skin. In his mind, the fabric is the armor of her spirit and he is welding it closed. Eyes sliding shut, he makes his hushed call to the goddess of protection.

"Mother Arashu, I ask protection for your daughter,"

The zipper slides closed in the hollow of her throat and he kneels before her, sliding her feet one at a time into her boots, sealing her greaves around her calves. The material is scuffed from use but sturdy and lightweight. He feels the muscle tensing beneath each piece, compressing, relaxing, gently forming into the confines of each specialty fabricated stim plate and shock absorber. Her armor is as much for her enhancement as it is for her protection, and later he will watch her legs propel her across the battlefield with inhuman speed, dodging enemy fire, weaving in and combat as she was born to do.

"Repel the evils that would harm her,"

Scaled hands run over her knees and thighs. She pulls her cuisses from her locker and holds each one steady for him to clamp reverently around her thighs. Straps thread around her legs, he takes care not to make them too tight. A full body hardsuit is impractical - she needs unrestricted movement to meet the demands of combat, but he hates himself for knowing how vulnerable she is with merely flexible kinetic weaves to protect her femoral arteries. He presses a kiss below her navel as he rises from his knees, palms gliding up her sides, pausing again to kiss above her heart.

"Be her shield and sword of flame,"

She holds her hair up as he fits her gorget around her neck. It supports the heaviest and most reinforced part of her armor - segmented carbon and titanium plates that hug the curve of her back all the way down to the base where it connects to her cuisses. She checks to make sure it's properly fitted and connected. It has to be - one stray shot is all it would take to sever her spine. She sighs and stretches upwards as it clicks into place, plates moving fluidly against her back.

"None shall come to hurt or maim,"

Thane's thumb passes over the embossed N7 symbol over the right breast of her curiass before he lowers the unit over her head. Custom fabricated seals meet at her sides, hissing closed and tightening around her ribcage like a glove. Reinforced joints over her breastbone and collar allow it to expand and contract with each of her steady breaths and flat plates against her abdomen stiffen her posture. Shepard guides his hand to the seal just below the collar of her chestplate and when he presses it, the onboard electronics sputter to life, lights flickering on and fans humming in the dim silence of her cabin. She almost seems taller now, calmer; the soft creature he'd lain with just an hour ago safely encased in the familiar armaments that have carried her through battle after battle.

He can't help but embrace her, forehead meeting hers with eyes closed. Her measured breathing steels his nerves and deepens his understanding of her as a solider - why so many, himself included, have unwaveringly sworn wage war against impossible odds with her at their side. Tonight, he may die for her cause, but it would be his privilege to die by her side - his warrior angel. His Siha.

"Let her be an impenetrable wall,"

She kisses his cheek as his arms enfold her, attaching her belt. It clamps around her waist, arcing over her hips. Pivoting hinges hang over her hipbones, catching easily on her cuisses to form one complete unit - a clean design that conserves her mobility while protecting her soft waist... where his hands had clung not long ago, when they were as one. He clicks the assembly together just below her navel, and his prayer continues.

"She will be a shield for all,"

There's nearly a tangle of straps that meet over her shoulders. Jointed pauldrons click into place where they intersect with her chestplate supports. With her curiass attached, these are automated, designed to be quickly donned without assistance, software tightening each strap to preset customizations. Around her biceps, forearms, and hands, each vambrace is a fully contained set of panels and joints. He kisses each gloved palm as he draws the seals closed one at a time. She is nearly complete.

"Great Arashu, lend your power,"

Their lips meet one final time in a chase kiss. Thane gently tucks her hair behind an ear, drawing her visor around her forehead in an upward, unpowered position. He etches her eyes into his memory before they nearly disappear behind her combat HUD.

"Keep her safe in this final hour."

She is in his arms for a few precious seconds and they breathe together as one. Her voice is a mere whisper: "Thank you." It's not goodbye, but... "May Arashu protect you this night and every night."

It's time to go.

Their hands lock together as the elevator descends to the CIC.

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Thanks for reading! If you like creating shrios content, please consider participating in the summer challenge!

My previous fill: "Secrets in the Steam" (AO3) - Note the rating before proceeding.

#thane krios #shrios #fshrios #zet writes things #spiritual shrios summer #spiritualshriossummer

[scorpioxsith]

Don’t you agree?

I was totally on my bullshit after watching Chapter 13 last night, I smoked a joint and, god damn I was feeling inspired, I wrote something, whatever my imagination was doing at 1AM.

It’s just a little something. I tidied up the grammar to coherency but i kinda like it being organic as it was, to reflect reader being not-sober (just like me baha). 🤪

Also influencing this, I’m in the UK and we’ve been in lockdown for the past month and it ain't about to end for me anytime soon, so i am pining for a night out (idk just some fun god damn) and some mando attention. 

I felt like sharing it because it’s kinda fun and lighthearted and if it helps someone else escape right now then cool. This is some #realthirstyhotgirlshit, reader is flirty and a lil confident but also a lil shy because heck I can be confident (lies) but put me in front of Mando and you bet I would be total jello. (also i dont think mando is necessarily OOC in this BUT if he is idc i just want him to be my daddy lmfao) 

Im living for season 2, someone give Filoni an award NOW!! 

warnings: references to alcohol/drug use. its not smut but its flirty. if i carry it on it'll go “further” but I’m scared of commitment so

Drabble below the cut.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You hanged off of Greef Karga in a friendly embrace and giggled in the spice lounge. You were howling about a story he had just told you and the two of you were almost crying with laughter. You’d just come back from a very successful mission, and when he'd asked if you wanted to celebrate the win with him, you shrugged your shoulders at him with a playful smirk “alright then.”

two hours later and you were both inebriated. it was bleeding into the mid evening, the night at its peak. energy buzzed in the spice lounge with the music and fluttering ebb and flow of conversations, carrying an infectious energy into the air. 

your body felt relaxed, your mind loose. 

it was a little foolish, given you are in so doing letting your guard down, but you hoped if you were unlucky enough to be accosted in this state, with Greef by your side you felt a safe bet you could still take most people. 

Although you didn’t particularly have much in common with him, he had a playful demeanour that made for a fun drinking partner. 

Karga tapered his hysterics off into a deep chuckle, “ah, you know-” 

“Karga.” 

A blur of silver came into yours and Greef’s vision until it materialised before your eyes into a Mandalorian. A hot Mandalorian. You had no idea you had a thing for that but it was the first thought that sprung to your mind. You quickly looked to Greef, playing off your fluttering lashes and hoping the Mandalorian hadn’t noticed your astonishment. Or…maybe if he had, maybe it wouldn’t be totally the end of the world. Who knows. 

Greef Karga also took a moment to summon a response, frozen for the barest of moments, but you saw it. He was taken aback by the Mandalorian's presence. Then, he flew into a huge bravada of an introduction. 

Maker, you were both so high. 

“Mando!” Greef bellows, “well I never. I never thought I’d see you in this particular establishment!” 

The Mandalorian cocked his head impatiently. “I’m only here because I was told this is where I’d find you.” 

His voice went straight through you. Fuck. 

Greef turned to you. “Allow me to introduce my associate…” 

you smiled awkwardly at this, oh god - why were you feeling shy? I mean…well actually...you do know why, don’t you? 

“Good to meet you,” you said carefully - you didn’t want to spook him, so no heavy flirting yet but your tone was warm and a little sultry. 

The Mandalorian’s helmet turned to you and you weren’t sure if you imagined it but you were sure you felt some sort of tension almost immediately bloom as he continued to hold your gaze. Your skin prickled in a path down your body as if his very gaze was passing over your curves and leaving a blazing fire in its wake. 

Your voice lazy, a little sexy, as were your sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. “I'm Y/n.”

“Mando,” he responds huskily. You think that will be it, but then- “I haven’t seen you around here before.” 

His voice is run through a modulator in his helmet, making it hard to pin down his tone. You couldn’t tell what his angle was but something inside of you hoped he was feeling the same magnetism as you right now.

You realised he was waiting for an answer, and you hope you mask the subtle cheeky glint in your eye before you respond. 

“I am new to this parsec, yes. I have been in the Guild for a couple months now but I’m often out on mission.”

“Is that right?” There’s a smoothness to his voice that makes you blush slightly, you hope its not obvious. To Greef, that is. It'll definitely be obvious to Mando’s heat vision, but you could live with that embarrassment. He continued, “I assume as you are here, your previous mission was successful.”

You nodded up at him, thinking wow he’s so tall and big and yes and he’s looking down at you too, until a hand clapped on your back and Greef came into the picture again. 

“Indeed!” Greef commended as if it was the best thing in the world. “An impressive one hundred per cent success rate! She’s almost as talented as you, Mando, I like this one!” 

Karga gives you a joking side wink and you can’t help but laugh - he forces it out of you when your eyes meet as if something is so hilarious but you’re not even sure what it is, mainly just the fact that he’s chatting absolute shit and you can’t take it seriously. Mando gazes at you as he waits for you both to finish your ridiculous and illogical giggling fit.

It takes longer than a minute for you both to get control of yourselves, your laughter filling the air of the spice lounge. Mando's hands went to his hips and he cocked into a stance that had you wanting to drop to your knees. That stopped your giggling. 

Karga wipes another tear from his eye, you’re not sure if he’s doing it for dramatic effect and it almost sends you off the edge again. 

“Forgive me, I’m feeling loose. Speaking of, I’m going to go get myself another Gin ’n’ Juice,” Karga announced playfully. “Mando? Drink, Y/n?” he asks you. 

“Just a water, please,” you said sweetly. You needed it. 

“Karga, I came here to talk,” Mando quipped impatiently. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Karga rolled his eyes, “and if I’m gonna listen to you, I need a drink. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be right back.” 

With that he whirled away, leaving you with the Mandalorian. 

You weren’t sure whether to start conversation or wait for him to ask you something, but then there was the predicament of what to say. The armour was sexy as hell, but it did make him difficult to read. 

The Mandalorian was watching Greef retreat to the bar, before seeming to roll his shoulders and relax slightly, consciously, then looked down at you. 

Then, he adjusted his weapon away from his body so he could take one large stride over to the now unoccupied space by you. He sat close, but still too far away. However, he relaxed into the seat a little more, the bulk of him spreading out further and inching closer to you. It was like some kind of erotic display and you couldn’t help but gaze at him in a way that betrayed your desires. 

His helmet tilted at you and he chuckled knowingly. “Careful, kitten.”

  Your eyes widened in surprise and a sudden warmness whooshed through your whole body. It was dizzying and immediately a hot aching began to pulse in your core. His voice danced through your tingling senses and you were enraptured. 

You wanted to touch him, desperately, even just get a little closer. Encouraged by his boldness, you summoned the courage to teasingly reach out and slowly trace your fingers over his thigh. You hear a staticky breath come out of the modulator. 

One of his large hands snapped down to rest over yours, except he didn't snatch your hand away. He held it in place, his hand heavy and hot over yours, pressing down on his firm thigh. Your breath hitched as movement in your peripheral barely caught his other hand coming up, too late and you were taken by a shudder when you felt his gloved fingers trail gently down the sensitive curve of your exposed neck. Your head tilted in compliance, lashes fluttering, barely in control of the longing gaze of desire you were levelling back into the visor of the helmet.

"You should be careful, cyar'ika," he murmured, "Some would take advantage of this right now." 

You barely held back a whine, but you knew he was right. Shit, his righteousness only made you want him more. 

He pulled back swiftly, though it was a gentle touch when his hand gripped and lifted yours off his thigh, placing it back onto your own lap. His fingers ghosted over your forearm as they retreated.

Moments later, Karga returned with more drinks you knew one single man could carry, and you gaped at him. 

"Karga, I said water!" you pouted.   

"I got that, too," he replied, pushing a glass filled with clear liquid towards you, condensation beading down the side. 

You drank half of it immediately. You eyed the pink drink he'd also brought you back, unsure if it was wise. You weren't really one for drinking and smoking at the same time, it was risky business that. 

Greef lowered himself into the seat across from Mando. "Get on with it then, before I change my mind," he said to Mando, urging him to get the business talk over with, because he knew for sure that must be the reason for this highly unexpected appearance. 

  You didn't miss the way the Mandalorian looked at Karga in a silent challenge, daring him to cheek him again. Karga laughed it off, bumping one of Mando's pauldrons and slid one of the drinks across the table to the Mandalorian.

Mando's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh of defeat, like he just couldn't be bothered with the hassle.

"I think the puck you gave me was intended for someone else." With that, Mando slammed the puck onto the table, startling you slightly and some of the fuller drinks jumped out of their glasses onto the table. 

The puck's holo beamed up a second later, a picture of a wealthy, androgynous looking human male. 

He continued, "You know I can't be going anywhere near the Inner Rim." 

Karga peered at the puck. "Ah yes..." he glanced at Mando, then you, before chaotically spinning the puck across the table towards you. 

"Dank ferrick!!" you cursed, barely catching the puck under your palm as you slammed your hand down to the table quickly. 

  Karga burst out laughing, "coincidentally it was meant for her ladyship here. Very chivalrous to bring it to its rightful owner, Mando." 

  The Mandalorian's head spun to pin you with an unreadable gaze. After a tense moment, he said, "Who said I was returning it?" 

  You blinked at him, palm suddenly burning where the puck was sitting innocently beneath it. 

  Karga chuckled again. "Apologies for the assumption, old friend. How can I resolve the matter?" 

  Mando's gaze returned to Karga, briefly releasing you. "You promised me payment for this. The only solution I can see is a partnership for this bounty."

The Mandalorian turned back to you. "Don't you agree?" 

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian drabble #the mandalorian fanfic #this is a total hot mess hahaha #but i had fun #my writing #my drabbles #my fics #man i dont understand the spacing on tumblr at all im sorry

[vaguely-concerned]

The Mandalorian Chapter 13 reactions

Well, that was... well. in short I quite enjoyed some of what happened while din was there and I didn’t really care about what happened while he wasn’t there lol. I think it’s becoming increasingly clear that I just don’t care for the episodes dave filoni writes for this show, which is simply a matter of taste I guess. 

(if you loved this episode wholeheartedly -- probably look away now, I’m going to be a bit of a downer about it and I don’t want to shit on your joy haha)

- let’s just get this out of the way first: there’s a lot of stuff around rosaria dawson and transphobia in real life and yeah, of course that affects how I watch the show. I don’t even want to talk that much about ahsoka in this because of it. she was not that good in the role, after seeing how it played out I don’t think the character needed to be in this show at all, and she should never have gotten the role in the first place and that’s about it for what I’ve got to say. 

- dave filoni consistently does things with din’s characterization that feels off and weird to me, subtly out of place with what we see in other episodes (he’s... ruder? more short tempered/cocky/actively or aggressively interpersonal? more prone to express himself directly than he is usually? idk how to describe it but filoni!din always feels one step to the left of what he should be and I’m so hyper-attuned to this character that when something’s a bit iffy with him it throws everything else off haha. it feels like a shallower, more convenient read on him and I don’t like it)  

I also think filoni is almost too familiar with and in love with the source material sometimes? “A Mandalorian and a Jedi? They’ll never see it coming” is undeniably a great line that echoes in decades of deep lore and so on, but dave my good man din had no real idea what a jedi even is until literally this morning. we, the audience, know about this long and storied history, but unless ahsoka spent the afternoon explaining it to him din still only knows the faint outlines of it, he has no personal experience of or attachment to it. it’s not bad, as such, it just rings false to the character based tone of the show for me personally 

- positivity break: baby sitting perched on the dashboard to be close to papa while they’re in hyperspace........sd sdfskdjhfdsakjksdhfkasjd  

also this is some full on madonna and child in the manger shit and I am LIVING for it (odds he’s crying quietly behind the helmet here? pretty damn good if you ask me). the mundanity of what’s essentially the shitty spartan bathroom of the razor crest on one side contrasted with the light and tenderness and love on the other? amazing, a perfect microcosm of what this show does with combining the grittier everyday down to earth stuff in the star wars universe with myth and wonder and magic and through it elevating both

 - the idea of having an iconique samurai/sword duel standoff and a western standoff going on simultaneously is genuinely inspired, but in action it didn’t really work for me. (the sword duel stuff needs these moments of stillness with sudden outbursts of violence and then stillness again, the western standoff needs mounting tension until it’s nearly unbearable, and cutting between them the way they did you sort of didn’t get either to its full potential. again it’s a cool idea, though, I hope someone picks it up and does it better at some point)

- seeing a jedi and a mandalorian wander together through a burned out wasteland left desolate by greed and warfare should have hit me harder than it did but for some reason it didn’t, idk. thematically sound, though, I like it a lot on the metaphor level

- I LOVE that pure beskar makes a specific sound, and that it’s an almost ethereal noise like the high clear chime of a distant bell. also now din has something to fight light sabers with that isn’t the dark saber which makes me so happy because you guys I do not want him to be the mand’alor. keep that funky laser sword away from my dad, apart from killing him at the end that is literally the most boring way to end his arc pls do NOt 

- wow they really went in hard on the samurai stuff in this one huh! there is a part of my mchanzo-loving heart that thrives on seeing a space cowboy and a space samurai team up, *wild otp-fuelled whisper* they’re twin genres inextricably entwined okay they belong together if you see this spreadsheet I’ve made over here -- 

- even knowing it was just a trick I felt such intense distress seeing the signet pauldron away from din. like the attachment I have to these pieces of metal because That Armour Means Dad... wild  

- they really chose the dumbest name possible for the baby huh fsajdfhsaj I agree with din his name is ‘kid’ now (eh just give me a while to get used to it probably I’ll come around)

also... you know what I’ve said before about shrinking the big unknowable galaxy ‘the mandalorian’ has been setting up? wow did they do that big time in this one, and it makes me feel decidedly :/. why does the baby have to come from the jedi temple, is there truly no other tradition of force users in the entire galaxy he could be from? WHY do you have to pull thrawn into this when most people watching this show won’t even know why he’s such a big deal? is this a stealth tease for a rebels sequel? if so why spend an entire episode of this show that only gets eight precious episodes a season on it??   

- on a more fun positive note: baby’s clothes are clean again, so it’s confirmed that din does wash them (and I guess that he does have some means of washing clothes aboard the razor crest!). I loved... most of the dad and baby stuff in this one, but then don’t I always I’m easy to please that way haha (the ‘playing catch’ sequence felt a bit off to me but I don’t know why. din being like ‘he’s so stubborn’ wasn’t... eh. didn’t land right. “that would be a first” was fun tho lol) 

- having ahsoka state the baby’s feelings out loud like that felt... weird? and also kind of unnecessary in parts, like yeah he’s a baby who’s been passed along to different groups of strangers and experimented on by empire scientists, you don’t need to spell it out for me that he’s been scared and lonely, or at least spell it out more interestingly? it’s such blunt force storytelling where it didn’t need to be? there are more elegant ways to get the same things across, I am absolutely convinced 

- ...wow while I was watching the episode I was mostly like ‘okay this is Fine I can go along with it’ but seeing what I’m thinking about in hindsight... yeah probably my least favourite episode of this show full stop haha, it took the spot from chapter 5 which was also a filoni ep

- I did 100% genuinely adore the whole part of din approaching the town and meeting the magistrate. consistently hiding the baby behind his cape and his arm? being deliberately, teeth-grindingly dispassionate with everyone, just giving them nothing? getting to see a bit of professional bounty hunter din again? wonderful in every way, I love this man  

- lots of meaningful shots of baby in the middle with a mando on one side and a jedi on the other, it’s almost like they’re setting up some Themes here lol 

- ...do you think din told ahsoka about either the rhino-levitating or the force choking. because girl I don’t think not training him is going to make this just go away haha, he just won’t know what he’s doing  

- it makes me so sad that baby connects his force powers with being abused :( (also a heartbreaking sign of just how much he cared about din from the very beginning, since he used it on the mudhorn to save him anyway ;________; was that like. literally the first time he sensed kindness and affection in anyone in like twenty five years or... ) 

- I understand why ahsoka would feel this way because of her past and specific traumas, but tbh attachment in a baby? probably a good thing, he doesn’t really have the higher brain functions to cultivate non-attachment yet and needs a safe figure because again. he is a baby. 

good on her for realizing it’s not a task she can take on both for the baby’s sake and her own, and also that din is that baby’s Dad though. the way she smiled at the end watching them leave seemed vaguely hopeful/had a little bit of wonder in it, like maybe she felt the potential for something good there, something she couldn’t conceptualize from her background but could sense the tentative outlines of anyway?  

(also so much pressure on a lil bb to decide his path... his dilemmas should be limited to what colour socks he wants to wear today not the course of his entire life :( I know he’s a magic baby but.......) 

- idk maybe I’ll find more affection of this episode through rewatches, you never know

#star wars #the mandalorian #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian meta

[pedrobois-fanfic-collections]

MandoxReader: The Escapee Pt4

I don’t really know what I wrote

You watched the door to the Razor Crest close, Grogu in your arms. The child cooed sadly as his dad disappeared from sight.

“I know, little guy, he’ll be back though.” You muttered unconvincingly, taking Grogu’s hand and squeezing it gently.

The Crest had landed a short while ago on the planet Voss. Voss was home to a cunning alien race known for its trickery and deception, its complete neutrality always between the Republic and the Empire, and unusual affinity with the force. One of Mando’s bounties had chosen to hide out here. Or perhaps, one of Mando’s bounties was a Voss. He didn’t say.

You felt uneasy as you set Grogu down so you could make him a snack.

Sighing, you shook your head. You had no business fretting over the Mandalorian, he could handle himself. Besides, you had only known the fearsome warrior a few days at this point. What reason could you possibly have beyond a business relationship for caring about him?

You bit your lip as your cheeks heated up from the steam coming off the water heating on the stove. The water sure had heated up fast, your marveled, idly.

Eventually the stew properly heated and you set it before Grogu. He looked at it uninterested.

“C’mon, you’re going to have to eat at some point, I know you miss your dad.”

Grogu’s ears drooped, and his normally bright black eyes looked dull.

You pondered for a moment before holding up your index finger.

Turning around, you climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and found the lever with the ball that always caught Grogu’s eye. Quickly you twisted it free and returned back to the lower level.

“Grogu.” You started softly, holding it out, “I have something for you.”

Grogu looked up excitedly, noticing the ball. Holding out his hands and squinting his eyes, you watched as he focused for a moment. His whole body seemed to shake and then suddenly… the ball shot out of your hand.

Your mouth dropped open and you gasped.

“How did you do that?” You blinked at him. “That was incredible!”

Grogu cooed softly, gripping the ball tightly and rolling it back and forth in his hands.

“Ok, well now you have it, you have to eat some soup, that was the deal.” You put your hands on your hips.

Grogu looked up at you and opened his mouth with a cross between a smile and a giggle.

You bent down and handed the soup bowl to him, “drink up, you have to be big and strong like your dad. Got it, mister?”

Carefully setting the ball down next to him, Grogu took the bowl from you and began to drink. All the while, he watched you curiously from over the bowl, seeming to wonder what you would do. You sat down opposite him, and drank your own soup, watching him just as closely.

Eventually the two of you finished your meals and you Grogu’s eyes began to droop. You carefully scooped him into your arms, climbed the short distance into the cockpit and placed him gently in his pram. With a soft his, the pram slid shut and the world disappeared around him.

You smiled, pleased at your first day of babysitting.

Looking around, you wondered what you were supposed to do now. Mando’s captain chair stared invitingly back at you. You pictured him sitting in it, spinning around to face you; how he would stare imperiously down at you from the black visor of his helmet.

Feeling dangerous, you twisted the chair around and sank into it.

The chair was surprisingly comfortable. No wonder Mando often slept in it. You shifted around, finding a position you liked and leaning your head to the side. Yea. This wasn’t too bad, you figured, you could sleep here if you needed. You glanced at the copilot’s chair, that one hadn’t been that uncomfortable either, now that you considered it.

You started upright.

There was a noise down below.

Listening intently, you held your breath, straining to hear.

The Crest’s outer door closed.

You looked to Grogu and shoved his pram into a corner hoping it wouldn’t be noticed. Cursing yourself softly, you remembered you left the blaster Mando had given you in the event of an intruder down below.

But then, no one could get on the Crest without armed entry.

So it had to be…

“Mando?” You mumbled uncertainly, slowly rising from the seat and walking over to the ladder. He couldn’t have been gone for more than three hours. Mando had assured you this would be an overnight bounty.

You heard the ‘fresher door open and close and nothing else.

Silently you waited for the water to turn on, but nothing came.

Growing uneasy, you climbed down the ladder and looked around, blinking.

Mando’s pauldrons were discarded in a haphazard pile outside the door to the ‘fresher. You recoiled in confusion. Looking around as you saw a trail of discarded weapons and a poor attempt at removal of armor.

Concern rising, you moved to knock on the ‘fresher door.

There was silence for a moment before a strained, “Yes?” From a modulated helmet. That was good, he was still wearing his helmet.

You exhaled slowly, “Um, are you alright? There’s a bunch of weapons out here and some armor…” You trailed off, bending down and picking up the pauldrons. It was your first real opportunity to examine the crest so closely, some sort of horned creature.

There was heavy thudding and shifting from within the ‘fresher and the door opened.

Your eyes widened in shock at the sight before you.

Mando, still wearing his helmet, his boots, and his trousers. Though with his shirt half tangled over his head, one glove still on, his cloak seeming to be half attached and otherwise the rest of his armor lying behind him in a pile on the floor.

It took all your willpower to keep your mouth from dropping open and gawking the deeply tanned skin of his torso, marred with a myriad of scars but deeply toned. Fighting to keep your words you blinked and forced yourself to look back up at the visor that was slightly obscured by his tattered shirt.

“What happened, why are you-?” You looked back down at his torso and noticed a bloodied wound in his side. It seemed relatively small, but Mando was cringing in pain and nearly doubled over from its location. You looked closer and saw from the wound, it seemed to radiate black lightning on the skin. Angry jagged bolts arching across his skin far away from the initial wound and spreading fast. “Poison.” You breathed.

Mando gripped the doorway with both hands, sliding down to his knees, hitting the ground hard and shook his head. “They expected me.” He groaned, moaning softly in pain. A thin sheen of sweat began to build up on his skin.

You bit your lip, looking around. “You’re going to want that helmet off, I can see the fever coming.”

“No.” Mando shuddered.

“Maker help me.” You shook your head. “Where’s your medkit, please tell me you have kolto, bacta at least? Something?”

Mando nodded, “Just keep Grogu safe.”

“I’ll keep you alive too, damn fool.” You grumbled, stalking off to look for the kit. “It’s a stupid creed!” You called over your shoulder.

When you returned, kit in hand, Mando was slumped against the ‘fresher wall, the wound inky black in a solid circle. The jagged lightning strikes had spread further through his body, across his veins.

You grabbed a vibroknife from his boot and slashed the last of his shirt apart, pulling it from his head, careful not to remove his helmet.

The movement jolted Mando back to life.

With viselike strength his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. You yelped, crying out. “Hey! I was just getting your shirt off!”

Immediately he released your hand and pulled back. “I’m sorry.”

Choosing to forgo rubbing your wrist, you grabbed the bacta shot and stabbed it into the worst of the poison. “That should stop the spread. And ease the pain.” Biting your lip, you reached around his head and slipped your hand under his helmet.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t take your helmet off to check for a fever, so this is the best I can do.” You pressed your hand to the back of his neck, hand brushing against soft locks of hair. It was hard not to wonder what color they were, though given the bits of hair poking up on his stomach, you had a vague idea. You swallowed hard.

The visor stayed fixedly on you.

“We’ve gotta get you cooled down.” You mumbled, glancing at the shower.

“I am cold.” Mando muttered, leaning his head back.

You reached into the medpac for more things, “This should help with fever.” You smeared it on the wound. “But into the shower you go.”

Mando rested his hand on top of yours as you smeared the medicine. The black of the visor staring down at your combined hands.

You felt your cheeks heat up again as you laughed nervously, “Heh, heh, oh great, the delirium is setting in… oh goody, this is just what I need.” You pulled your hand away, but he held fast. “Look, why don’t you get cleaned up in the shower, while I go look on the holonet what type of poison this is and we can look up an antidote and then get this taken care of, hmm, what do you think?”

“I’m cold.” Mando mumbled.

“And the shower is very warm. See, let me show you.” You moved to stand up but with surprising strength given his feverish state, he tugged you back into his arms and held you against his chest. How Mando could possibly be cold was beyond you, the guy was a radiator of heat. You imagined if he was on Hoth he would be the perfect person to be stuck up against. With his bare chest pressed up against your light shirt you could feel the fevered heat seeping into your skin, another heat of your own you were trying to ignore in your own body along your face, neck and chest.

“Mesh’la.” Mando hummed.

“Uh, listen. I don’t know what that means but I don’t think you’re in your right mind to be saying it.”

Mando pressed his helmet to your forehead and held it there for a moment, before pulling away and slumping against the wall. He seemed satisfied but still gripped you tight in his arms.

“Mando.” You whined, “You’ve been poisoned, I don’t know if it’s lethal. Get in the damn shower and let me go look for an antidote.” It was becoming more and more difficult to think as your cheek was rubbed more against his chest. Why were you complaining so much really? If you wanted, you could just pepper his smooth skin with kisses, and he would let you.

You pushed on his chest abruptly.

“Get in the shower right now.”

“Anything for you, mesh’la.” Mando still seemed dazed as he extricated himself from you, slowly stumbling towards the shower.

You walked over and turned on the water as cold as you could make it. “Take your helmet off too.” Turning around, you listened for a difference in the sound of the water. Satisfied by the change you abruptly heard a Mando speak.

“What the hell?” It was weird hearing his voice without the modulator, and you knew you would miss it.

“You’ve been poisoned and delirious. I need to get on the holonet to see what the antidote is too it, but the fever has been the worst part from what I can tell.”

“Is that why you’re in the ‘fresher with me?” Did Mando sound shy?

“I made you keep your helmet on. Trust me, your delirious self was all too happy to take it off.”

The water turned off. There was a soft hissing noise and Mando’s voice was modulated once again, “Thank you for respecting,” he trailed off, stumbling forward.

You caught him, “Don’t worry about it. It’s basic respect.”

“You’d be surprised.” Mando’s voice sounded weak, “Just about everyone else is eager to see us without our helmets.”

You shrugged, “Yea, well I guess I’m not everyone else.”

“You’re not curious?”

“Oh I’m completely curious, but if you’re going to show me, I’ll know it when you’re ready.”

Mando nodded.

“Now you sit down, I’ll go get you a blanket so you don’t get too cold, and I’ll be right back.”

During the time that you were downstairs, Grogu had woken up. After looking through the holonet in the cabin and finding the ingredients that would be necessary – a solution of bacta and some berries rare to Voss but common to most other planets – you brought Grogu with you back down to where you left Mando.

Grogu rushed over to Mando’s side and cooed excitedly to see his father back so soon.

“I didn’t get the bounty.” Mando grunted.

Grogu tilted his head.

“I don’t think this one is worth it.” You interjected.

Mando looked at you but didn’t say anything.

“I think tonight we should sleep in the hull.”

Mando tilted his head and Grogu’s ears perked up.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to sleep alone in case the poison acts up again and the hull is the biggest area for everyone to bunk out. I don’t want your fever to come back. That delirium was,” you bit your lip, “scary.”

Mando was once in a shirt, though his armor was still removed, the wound now wrapped. It was a small wound after all, but the poison had its lingering effects.

“I have the larger room. You could just stay in my room if it’s about making sure I don’t become delirious again.” Mando offered.

You swallowed hard, “Uh, sure, that works.”

-

Bedtime quickly arrived and you found yourself staring at Mando’s bed.

There was room for two. Loosely speaking.

If those two people were rather close together.

Maker help you.

Mando walked up behind you completely devoid of armor and now only wearing the clothing he wore under his armor. And of course his helmet.

“You sure you want to sleep in that helmet?” You asked.

Mand stared back at you, silent for a bit.

You were just about to assume he wasn’t going to answer when he broke his silence.

“I suppose there’s one way.”

You swallowed hard, turning to look at him fully.

Mando bent down and rummaged in one of the boxes and pulled out a particularly tattered cloak of his. With impressive strength, he ripped it further and held it up to you. You looked at it and he motioned for you to turn around. Carefully, he slid the piece of material over your eyes, tying it behind your head until the world was completely black.

“Can you see?” Came the modulated voice from behind you.

You shook your head.

There was a soft his, a light clunk and then, in that same soft deep voice you had heard before, “Good.”

You smiled, turning back around and blindly reaching around, trying to pat his shoulder. Mando grabbed your hand as you waved your hand through the air. With his hand as a point of reference, you reached out and managed to almost pat him on the shoulder. “There, now you can be comfortable.”

Mando chuckled and you found it sounded much softer than it did beneath the modulated tone.

“Alright you, time for bed.”

Din stared at you in awe, a smile stuck on his face as he watched you blindly climb into the bed. Grogu was already locked into his pram for the night. But you, to volunteer to let Din sleep comfortably and keep his creed… and to do this to make sure the poison didn’t flare up again in the middle of the night.

Din watched you collapse on the bed rolling over onto your back and giggling as you accidentally took up the whole cot. He didn’t remember any of the delirium episode, but he did long to crawl over you, straddle your hips and kiss you until you couldn’t think straight, if you let him. Another time.

Crawling in after you, Din slid you over and pressed his back to yours so as to give you the most privacy and space. He stiffened in pleasant surprise as you subconsciously wriggled your back into him. The two of you soon fast asleep.

#Mando x reader #Din Djarin x reader #ficbit

[sp00kworm]

Home in Your Heart (Saint-14 x Female Reader)

Pairing: Saint-14 x Female Reader 

Warnings: Adult Content beneath the cut, Robot Romance, Robot x Human Romance and made up Exo anatomy. 

A/N: Thanks to a special friend for reading this through for me. I would be lost without that help for these giant pieces I end up getting myself into. I hope this is fun for people to read!

---

Saint watched from the tower wall as the pigeons fluttered up into the rafters above him. The Hangar was quiet this time of night, even with the last dregs of the Vanguard returning from missions out beyond the safety of the Last City and its walls. The Exo watched the pigeons huddle closer, cooing softly as they readied to bed down for the night, and smiled up at the birds. They were one of the things he loved about the city. They ignored him as he cocked his gun and set to unscrewing panels and readying pieces of cloth for cleaning. The Perfect Paradox. A weapon made from light and the will for him to live. It was a fine piece of craftmanship. The Titan stripped back pieces of the shotgun with practiced ease and took the lubricating oil in hand, making sure to get it into the small cracks. He took the cleaning pole and gently started cleaning the barrel, watching to see when the cloth came out clean of carbon and residual gunpowder. Saint-14 hummed a song as he worked. The children had sung him when he took his round around the city. It was about a thorny rose in a secret garden. It didn’t let a man pick it for his wife and learned later about her death. The man returned to the garden and the rose and the man grew close before it allowed him to take its beauty, enamoured with his devotion and love for his wife who had long since passed. The pressed rose was placed on the man’s grave when he passed away and the rose was honoured to mark where such a great man had been laid to rest.

 Saint hummed the sad song as he worked and sighed when he finished it, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth at the sadness. It was not a day for such a feeling. There was nothing but joy to be had.

“Hmm. The Guardian made you well.” He joked at the shotgun in his hands as he took the small screws in hand and started to fit the panels back into place, lubricated and clean, ready for action again. He didn’t see a lot of action anymore. Patrols and catching thieves were common outside of ferrying guardians too and from Osiris’ trials. With a warm feeling, he placed the shotgun aside and looked at the nights sky. The Traveller was on the other side of the tower, where Zavala and Shaxx stood during the day. Saint hummed as he looked down at the buildings again, amazed at the sheer size and scale of the buildings. Hundreds of thousands of people lived here now, under the restored safety of the Traveller.

“Saint?” You asked from behind the goliath of an Exo, “You can’t sleep either, huh?” You moved towards him, across the lines of the football field with your Ghost trailing behind you, peaking over your shoulder as you approached the legendary Titan.

“Guardian! It is good to see you!” Saint hollered from where he was sat, armoured head turning to watch you as you walked over.

You had come for a walk, unable to sleep in your small apartment below the Tower, in hopes of tiring yourself out. Guardians didn’t sleep much anyway, but sometimes you wished you could at least have the few hours that you wanted. Either way, it was better than the starving to death Guardians used to have to do. Thinking about the Dark Age made you shudder in your bed at night, the Drifter’s haunting words about the famine and death making you hope it would never come to be again. His plans made you worried that perhaps it would return, but, as you smiled, looking at the cheerful titan who was reaching to remove his helmet to match you, you couldn’t find the sadness that was keeping you up at night.

“Its good to see you as well, Saint.” You chuckled as you sat by the Titan, yawning as you flopped onto the mat next to him, taking a look at the helmet.

The Exo’s grey metal face flexed to reflect a smile as he rubbed a shine back into the plating of the Perfect Paradox, “Sleeping is sometimes difficult, yes. I find mending things to be helpful. Makes the brain sleepy.” He laughed, optics closing as he bellowed over the side of the tower, “You can help me, if you would like, Guardian?” Saint reached for another shining cloth and handed it to you along with one of his great, spiked shoulder pauldrons, “Be careful of the spikes.”

 Gently, you took the armour piece and watched Saint-14 reach to unclip the rest of the plating. The armour on his legs came off easy, along with his gauntlets, but the Exo reached for the back straps of his chest piece and grunted.

“You need some help with that, Saint?” You asked gently as you laid the pauldron he had passed you on the mat.

The titan grumbled, “It would seem so, friend.” Gracefully he took a knee before you, back exposed so you could easily reach the buckles and air locks of the armour from where you were sat.

Skilfully, you started to unlock the armour piece, “You really love clasps, huh, Saint?” You joked as you finally pulled the buckles free and heaved the heavy armour over his head, careful not to hit the metal of his head.

“It is for safety! All armour should be like this, not like that puny amount Hunters wear, and do not get me started about robes! Who in the Vanguard for Warlocks believes that fabric can stop bullets? Pah, stupid. Book smart, all of them, but stupid. The only way to survive bullets is to wear this armour.” He gestured to the heavy plating and stretched in the thick undershirt, the long sleeves being rolled up to reveal the circuitry and grey plating of his arms.

 Laughing, you took hold of his pointy pauldron again and started to clean in between the dangerous points, metal lubricant and cleaner bringing a gleaming shine to the fine armour in your hands, “Its such a task to look after!” You sighed, exasperated, “But I guess I understand why Titans are so fond of huge shoulder armour.” With a finger you eased the cloth between the spikes and began to shine them individually.

“Yet you have such care for mine…” Saint exclaimed before being cut off by the familiar noise of a yowling cat. The Exo turned his head to see a young kitten, yowling underneath the roosting pigeons, paws clenching as it looked up sadly, “Ah, damn cat. Away with you.” He moved to shoo the cat away but stopped as you grabbed his hand, tugging him back towards the mat before you got up and moved towards the thin looking kitten slowly. The cat’s back arched as you came close, hissing as the fur of its back rippled. It was a small thing, barely getting by with whatever tiny amount of food it could scrounge from the locals.

“Shh. Come on. You don’t have to be like that!” You joked as you knelt and offered your fingers gently to the kitten, “Here.” You pulled open your small bag to see if you had any leftover rations from your last mission. With a stick of beef jerky in hand you wiggled it in front of the kitten and watched it’s eyes grow wide and wild.

 Laughing, you tore some pieces free and started backing towards where Saint-14 was sat, a knee propped up, one leg hanging over the edge of the tower.

“Do not bring that rat to me!” He huffed, “It will upset the birds!”

“Its just a kitten, Saint.” You whispered back at him as the cat followed your trail, hungrily devouring the pieces of meat. When you reached the mat, it peered up at your hands and waited, watching you tear off a piece of meat, “Go on.” You offered the food between your fingers and smiled when the kitten pulled the meat free and continued to take food from your hands. With a gentle hand you stroked along its back and smiled as it purred softly, still unsure of the attention and whether to trust you.

“It is a cunning beast.” Saint mumbled as he continued to fix up some loose plating on his gauntlets, “Yet it likes you. It shows that kindness can get you a long way.” Saint-14 eyed the creature as he fixed the finger on his gauntlet, “Even if the object of such kindness delights in killing pigeons.” His face plates shifted into a scowl as the kitten pawed at your lap and climbed into the space in between your legs, purring and rumbling with delight as your fingers weaved into its fur.

 Saint-14 felt a burning jealousy begin to boil within his chest as he watched your fingers run through the animals beautiful ginger fur. It was great and fuzzy, the fur long and in desperate need of brushing and washing. A street cat. He was jealous of a stick thin street cat.

“Will you be keeping it?” Saint asked as he watched the beast stare up at him with lidded eyes. A cat that had gotten the cream.

You hummed and rubbed the kitten’s ear, “Maybe. I think I’m allowed pets, right? I don’t think the Vanguard apartments have rules against it…” Taking hold of the cat you gently reached to place it in the Exo’s lap, “Here. You should have a hold.” You cooed at the kitten as it curled up on one of the Titan’s large thighs, purring, claws nicking at the under-armour Saint was wearing.

Saint peered at the cat and sighed warmly, looking at the soft ball of fluff, “It is very fond of people, for a street cat.” He observed as he touched cool robotic fingers to the creature’s head, “I find myself liking this cat.”

With a chuckle you plucked the kitten back and smiled at Saint’s grey-scale face, “I’ll make sure he has a good home then.”

Saint’s plates moved as he laughed, “Good! Perhaps he will be less inclined to kill things with a nice owner?” He snarked as the kitten rolled onto its back, purring in delight when you tore open another piece of jerky rations to feed it with.

Saint smiled at your own smiling face, feeling the jealousy subside as you wished him a goodnight and took the kitten back to your apartment.

 “He is so large! Now he does not suit the name Peanut.” Saint-14 cooed from the doorway of your apartment, peering inside with his glowing purple helm. The Titan looked on in awe at the Maine Coon sprawled over the small couch in your room. The ginger tom looked over towards Saint, having heard his booming Russian accent in the doorway. Glancing over the Exo one, he soon reclosed his eyes and went back to dozing in the sunlight. It was winter, and the heat in the apartment was more from your radiators and the space heater facing the cushions rather than the cold, weak sun.

“Pah, and so arrogant.” Saint felt his helmet get transported away by Geppetto and frowned up at the giggling Ghost before it disappeared into the apartment with your own, “They are like children.” He complained as you let him inside, “Always giggling and doing the singing of annoying songs.” Saint felt the rest of his armour disappear and growled as Geppetto snickered again and rushed away into the small kitchenette to scan some large lemons. With a sigh he reached and plucked your adolescent cat from the couch, flopping down onto it with a large creak before placing Peanut back in his lap. The Maine Coon rumbled but stretched himself back over the Exo’s warm thighs quite happily.

 “Would you like tea?” You offered, “I have some ramen too if you want some?”

Saint chuckled, “That would be nice. I have not eaten ramen…well it has been a long time since that nuisance hunter was at my door.” He turned his head back to Peanut and scratched at the cats ears as you dished two bowls of the fresh ramen and poured tea. You returned with the tray and smiled at the Titan, placing it on the coffee table before you handed him his own, as not to disturb your grumpy, sleeping cat.

“You both look right at home.” You laughed after a mouthful of noodles as Saint tried to eat around the dozing cat in his lap, “Even if you still don’t like cats.”

Saint swallowed his noodles in his odd Exo fashion before he replied, “I like your cat. Peanut and I see eye to eye now.” He joked as he took hold of the tea and carefully poured some into his mouth, silicon tongue trying its best to help in place of his non-existent lips.

“I think he likes you because you’re a heater.” You listened to Saint’s fans whirr in embarrassment, “He’s forgotten all those mean comments last time you met.” You joked as Saint began to laugh, the noise gentle and deep.

 The titan shrugged his shoulders and watched as Peanut grumbled, removing himself from the room to go and occupy your bed, where it was a lot quieter, “He is temperamental, like all cats.” He shook his head and turned back to you, “But I came to see my favourite guardian!” He cheered, “So, how is the campaign against the darkness going?” He asked ask you slurped your ramen.

You shrugged, “About as well as everyone else. Eris has been getting me to do more and more recently. Its tiring.” You hummed as you placed your empty bowl on the tray, “Hopefully it doesn’t separate us all like last time…” You stated sadly, looking into your tea.

A heavy hand took your shoulder in a soft grip, “Do not be sad. We will fight together to protect our home and our family.”

You felt your throat tighten as Saint squeezed your shoulder softly, “I…I don’t know if I can do it, Saint. Not again.” You felt your eyes burn as you were tipped into the Titan’s lap, “We already lost so much.” Tears dripped over your cheeks as you choked on a sob.

Saint-14 was gentle as he held you, a hero of recent times, in his arms, rubbing soft circles into your back as he let you cry, “We will stand strong. We will not let what happened to the city before ever happen again. This I swear.” The Exo reached to wipe your cheeks with his thumbs, trying to smile and cheer you up as you sniffled at him. You laughed at the odd shifting of his face plates and pushed yourself from the Exo’s lap.

“Thank you, Saint.” You whispered as you moved to make more tea for the both of you.

“Anytime, guardian…anytime.”

 You wished he had called you anything but ‘guardian’ that day.

 Saint-14 rushed from his ship. The pigeons scattered from the supports as he charged from the landing dock towards where Zavala stood. The stair metal moaned as he dragged himself up them, rushing past the Postmaster bot who gave a startled ‘oh’ and pressing onwards towards Zavala. The Awoken turned around in time to raise an eyebrow at the purple Titan rushing toward him.

“If you are here to complain about the lack of bird seed, I would suggest you take it up with the courier.” Zavala sighed, bright eyes looking at the Exo with annoyance.

“You almost got her killed!” Saint hollered, “No fireteam and no back up! What were you thinking Zavala!?” He felt his metal hand creak under his own strength as Zavala eyed him with a stoic curiosity.

“It turned sour quickly. It was only a scouting mission. Gather information and leave. I did not plan for an ambush when I sent one Guardian. I expected a little tact and stealth. Her whereabouts were known as soon as she set foot on Io.” Zavala laid out the facts and spread his hands, “She is home safe. Injured but safe.”

“Yes.” Saint droned dangerously, “But she had to put a bullet through her skull to do it.” He spat before turning away, “I will not stay here…I think I might launch you over the edge of the tower if I do.”

Zavala watched the Titan leave with a sigh as he turned back to peering at the broken Traveller, hands tight around the barrier.

 “She will be fine, Saint-14, you are worrying over nothing. Ghost has done all he can to heal her. All we can do now is let her rest. She was running for three days and nights before getting free enough to transmat to her ship. You must be patient.” The hooded healer laid her hands out in front of her, “The Speaker would have known more of what to do. I was his student but…” She sighed, “The tricks of the Light evade me.” She confessed as her own Ghost span over her shoulder worriedly.

“Thank you, Sister. You have helped a great deal.” Saint gently placed his hand on her shoulder and opened the door of the small medical ward for her.

Before she left, she offered him a sleeping draft, “Even though her Ghost healed her after the gunshot, the revival was quick…it took a lot out of them both. Be careful, Saint-14, and be gentle with her.” She left, her Ghost reciting a list of other people that needed their help for the day.

Saint-14 closed the door after her and returned to your bedroom, watching your ghost bob sadly over your chest. Geppetto appeared over his own shoulder, spinning in a sad circle before he rushed over to the Ghost and tapped their shining shells together gently.

 “Geppetto…is there anything we can do to help her?” Saint asked as he sat down heavily in the chair, “Anything that the Sister could not…”

Geppetto spun counter-clockwise but shook mid-air, “The Sister can do more than me. She will wake up on her own, I think.”

The other Ghost nodded and placed himself on your chest, “Soon. I can feel the Light still there. It is healing her.”

Saint nodded, “Good. The Vanguard will suffer a great loss if she passes.” He whispered, purple optics blinking as he felt oil well underneath the lights. He had not cried tears in many years. He had forgotten that he could. The Titan reached to his face curiously and wiped away the black oil with a finger.

Geppetto watched him with one, bright eye, “You once said that you last cried when you were a baby.” The Ghost joked before landing in his palm, “I believe you think of her as more than just a Guardian that saved you.” Geppetto floated up to touch his forehead with his shell, “Maybe you should tell her that?”

The other Ghost remained quiet before coughing awkwardly, “She is waking.”

 You opened your eyes with a great groan, peering at the ceiling over your head. A throbbing pain seeped behind your eyes as you came too. Your Ghost tittered overhead, white light seeping from him into your eyes. The pain subsided somewhat, and you groaned as you remembered why there was shooting pains in your brain. The bullet had passed straight through your head.

A large hand pushed you back into the mattress, “Down. You barely made it back alive.” The harsh Russian accent of Saint-14 made your eyes widen as you turned your head to see the large Exo sat by your bedside. His metal fingers held a cold rag which he laid over your forehead.

“I have never tended to an ill Guardian…but I remember a mother doing this to her child once. It helps pain and fever.” The Titan arranged his faceplates into a smile, “Hopefully it helps.”

You looked at the grey plates of metal before laughing, loud and bright, “Thank you, Saint.” You reached and found his hand, “Thank you for being here as well.”

The Exo looked at your hands and held your own tighter, “You scared me. I feared they were bringing your Ghost’s shell when I saw the crowd.” He stopped himself and you reached your other hand over, squeezing his hands tighter.

“I’m alright, Saint.”

“And for that I am glad.” Saint smiled again before continuing, “Because you mean…a lot to me.” He whispered your name as you felt a hot blush ripple over your cheeks.

“I feel the same.”

 The grip on your hand only got tighter. You both breathed, though the Exomind’s fans seemed to simply exhale hot steam from his coolant reserves.

“I love you.” Saint-14 whispered close to your cheek before moving back to take in your face.

Your face burned as you eased your way up. Struggling, you managed to get onto one elbow and tugged Saint down by his sweater, kissing the Exo on his metal lips. The metal was cool but quickly warmed as the Exo went hot, fans whirring wildly as his hands walked to your hips, clenching around the flesh and bone gently, holding you like a precious flower.

You pulled away from the kiss and smiled weakly, flopping back into the pillows with a little huff, “I love you too.”

Saint chuckled before breaking into great laughter, arms wrapping around you as well as he could manage with you laid down, “This is fantastic!” He cheered before pressing his faceplates to your lips again, repeatedly kissing you over and over, smothering you with pecks as the both of you laughed together.

 “Happy Dawning!” A woman sang from the square as Saint-14 made his rounds, watching the children giggle and chase each other with ribbons and mistletoe. It was a happy time of year. A time for celebration when there was finally a semblance of peace. Saint-14 shouldered the two young girls on his shoulders easily, listening to their festive songs with a smile underneath his helm.

“Where is this song from, little one?” Saint asked as he placed them down by their home.

“Mama says France. I added some of my own bits to it though!” She smiled, her two front teeth missing in her smile, before she took her sisters hand, “Thank you Mister Saint.” And led her little sister through the door to their home.

“Thank you, Saint-14. I feared they had gotten lost.” Their mother bowed low.

“It is no trouble.” Saint dipped his helm, “I am glad to bring them home safe. Good evening and Happy Dawning.” He continued on his way back to the main street, his purple optics glowing behind his helm in the dark alley.

 The Titan paused in the mouth of the alley.

“If you are here for a fight. I suggest you make it quick. I have someone to get home to.” He seethed as he turned around, guns holstered as he smacked his fists together, void sparking over his arms, rippling with cold energy as he looked upwards.

You tapped the Titan on the shoulder and ducked the punch before wrapping your arms around his neck, “Calm down, big boy. Its just me!” You scrambled up his back easily and wrapped your legs tight, demanding a piggy back ride, “You were late, so I got the Hunters to scout around and find you. Didn’t take them long with all the kids singing.” You teased, head leaned on his shoulder, “Though now I owe them…And I don’t particularly like owing Hunters. Hopefully they’ll just want ramen.”

Saint-14 sighed with relief before tucking your legs through his arms, tilting his helmet to take the kisses with gusto, “I was ready to crush skulls!” He pinched your backside as he continued out of the alley, “A deal with a Hunter is like a deal with Fallen. You will regret it, zaika.” The Titan hummed as he turned onto the main street, walking easily through the crowds in the market.

“It was worth it to find you though.” You peered around at the marketplace with curious eyes, “The Dawning Markets are good this year. They even have bratwurst…Can we get some?” You asked over Saint’s shoulder.

Saint chuckled before turning in the direction of the stall, removing his helmet as you continued to cling to his back.

 Sausage and bread in hand, the two of you sat in the small park as the night sky formed overhead. You looked at the stars as Saint’s faceplates moved to let him eat the hotdog a little easier.

He manoeuvred the hotdog and hummed as he chewed, “It has been a long time since I ate hotdogs.” Saint smiled at you as you took a bite of your own food.

“I thought people had forgotten they existed.” You joked as you chewed your own hotdog.

Saint-14 nodded, “It is good to see them again. It means the people are recovering. Food is more available. It makes me happy to see the City flourishing so.”

With a smile you took hold of his hand, squeezing tight as you looked at the sky, “Saint! Look!”

The Exo peered upwards as snow began to drift from the sky, “Snow. I have seen so much of it…But since the forest…It is still beautiful.” You passed him the rest of your own hotdog and wrapped yourself around his arm, sighing up at the sky. Saint finished the hotdog and peered upwards as well.

“Happy Dawning, Saint.” You whispered as snow flakes melted on top of your head and in your eyelashes.

“Happy Dawning, my love.”

 Metal hands ran along your legs as Saint moved to gently ease your clothes off. You’d been away in the European Dead Zone, fighting off the Fallen again with their amplified Ether. Most of them had gone mad with the supply. You smiled as the grey-scale Exo’s fingers eased your under-armour clothes away, peeling them free to expose your skin. Purple optics blinked before he leaned down to press a cold kiss to your shoulder, fingers pressing against the tension knots in the muscles of your thighs.

“I missed you, zaika.” Saint rumbled as he pressed a kiss to your ankle, metal fingers trailing warm lines up your legs as he settled over the top of you again, “But I think you need shower.” He laughed and pretended to pinch his nose, “You smell like you’ve been sat in horse shit for weeks.”

“Way to a girls heart, Saint.” You rolled your eyes as he picked you up, hands holding your bottom as he walked to the shower, which was already running. The hot water spray was kind on your burning shoulders as you climbed in. Saint-14 passed you your fresh toiletries and smiled before lowering the shower curtain back into place and leaving you to freshen up.

 You left the shower wrapped in a towel, smiling softly at the Exo spread over your bed, resting in a slouchy pair of pyjama bottoms, the screen at the end of your bed showing some new-fangled television show about the current species of bird left on Earth.

“Hey there.” You sat on the edge of the bed with a smile.

Saint rolled onto his side with a smile before he reached a hand out and dragged you back to lay against the cushions, “Now you smell like fresh lemon. Much better than EDZ muck.” He cooed as he pushed his face against your head, tucking you close, “I missed you so much, zaika.” The Exo whispered against your skin as his hands traced your hips, squeezing you softly as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, rolling on top of you, his weight resting on his elbows as he kissed your lips once more.

“I love you, Saint.” You pressed a kiss to each of his dark grey cheeks.

“I love you too.” He whispered as a hand slid over your collar bone and dipped between the valley of your breasts. The cool metal made you shiver as your eyelids drooped a little, looking at the plates and silicon mapped muscle over the top of you.

 A sigh escaped your lips as Saint’s fingers warmed, trailing over your stomach and hips before he pulled you down by the hips and pushed the towel from the bed. You moaned as cold fingers trailed over your outer lips before the Exo spread them gently, exposing you to his burning purple optics. You gasped and squirmed back against the sheets.

“I am moving too quickly.” Saint murmured as he moved his hands back to your hips, massaging the skin gently.

You huffed up at the huge Exo, hands moving to caress the plates of his body, enjoying the smooth feel of metal and carbon fibre under your fingertips as Saint leaned down to kiss you again.

After a phantom kiss you pulled back and pushed yourself up against the Exo, grinding your hips against the front of his loungewear, “Not fast enough.” You uttered breathlessly against him.

Saint hummed as he slowly eased your legs upwards, hands clutching your thighs as he pressed your legs open and pressed his fingers back to your mound, rubbing gentle circles against your clitoris. A soft moan escaped you as the ministrations continued, Saint rubbing circles with his thumb as a finger pressed inside of your vagina, pushing against your walls.

 “Now I see that you missed me just as much.” The Titan purred as he pressed another finger inside of you. Pumping his fingers, he watched you squirm with intense eyes before moving to kiss you once more. You moaned into the kiss as Saint scissored his fingers apart, watching you squirm as your nerves rushed with pleasure and your head swam.

“I missed you so, so much Saint.” You pressed wet kisses to his mouth, jumping as a cool, silicon tongue pushed out to meet you, pushing against your own tongue and stroking against the inside of your mouth. Responding, you pushed your tongue against him and watched the Exo’s optics dull as he pressed his fingers upwards and brushed the bundle of nerves concentrated in your sweet spot. You moaned loud and huffed at the deep chuckle that sounded over your head.

“I missed you…I missed this.” He rumbled as he removed his fingers and pushed his hips forwards, clothed bulge pressing against you.

 “Can we get these off?” You asked as Saint nodded, leaning back before standing to shrug the loungewear off his hips, exposing the silicon and metal plating of his legs. His fans whirred as he returned to the bed, hips slotting against your own as his mod pressed against you.

“Now I remember why I like them off.” You cooed, hand skirting between the two of you, wrapping around the hard length as Saint settled above you once more, “Because I missed this.” You emphasised your point by sliding your hand up his length, stroking a finger over the tip as the Titan let out a static laden moan.

“You are like minx.” He rumbled as he pulled your hands away from his body, tucking your wrists into one of his giant hands, pinning you back against the pillows as you spread your legs, heat crawling up your spine, “So naughty.” Saint hummed as he released your wrists, cupping your bottom as he positions your hips upwards and pressed your thighs apart, “Are you ready, zaika?” He asked next to your ear.

“Please.” You begged quietly as Saint held his cock in his hand, lining the head with your entrance.

His dick slid inside slowly, the inches grazing over your walls. You let out a long breath as the length settled deep inside of you, the tip brushing over your sweet spot.

 “Are you ready?” Saint asked as he kissed your neck and then your shoulder. His hands held your hips gently, the power in his grip hidden behind a loving touch.

“I am.” You confirmed, bucking your hips upwards roughly, enjoying the feel of the hard length inside you pressing against your walls.

Saint-14 took hold of your hips, pinning them in his grip before he pulled out and thrust back inside, setting a steady pace as your hands flew up to grip onto his shoulders. Your nails ground against Saint’s shoulders as you enjoyed the ride, feeling the hard, mod length inside of you, bumping against your cervix as the Exo gave a grunt and a particularly hard thrust.

“You feel so good, zaika. Better than I can recall.” Saint purred as you tightened around him, a phantom, metal laced kiss.

“You do too. Fuck, Saint, please…I’m close.” You pressed your fingers into the oblique, metal plated, silicon muscles. The Exo buzzed, his voice dipping as your fingers ground into the silicon. It shifted to expose wires and you gently ran you finger over the wires, watching as his optics pulsed and dimmed.

A static rumble escaped his parted face plates, “Y-You…minx.” Saint huffed as he pushed in roughly, “You know what that does.” He uttered as you gasped, spasming around his cock as he eased your hips upwards, roughly thrusting in and out.

“Saint!”

“Are you going to cum?” He asked through a small lacing of static as his mouth moved to kiss you again. He didn’t get an answer as you came around his dick, moaning into the air. Saint moaned in turn, metal hips stuttering as his wires singed and fans roared, pouring hot air over your stomach. You gasped as you reached upwards, fingers stroking the antenna either side of his head as you tried to get feeling in your legs once more.

 In the quiet of the room, you laid on top of Saint-14, hands wrapped around him as his fans quietened down and hummed lowly.

You peered out of your window at the dull, glowing lights of the City, “I love you, Saint.”

Saint lifted your head, cupping your cheeks in his hands, “I love you, my little saviour.” The two of you met each other in a gentle, cool kiss above the city you called home.

#saint-14 #saint 14 #saint-14 x reader #saint-14 x female reader #saint 14 x reader #saint-14 x human #robot x human #exomind x human #exomind #exo #destiny 2 #destiny the game #destiny #exo x reader #exo x human #fanfiction #my writing #fanfic

[martellthemandalor]

OMG THANK YOU FOR WRITING THE CUTE NICKNAMES FIC!!!!! I was so happy when I read it and it was so good!!!!! I was wondering if you could write a sequel where Mando tries to teach the reader Mando’a and shes getting frustrated that she can’t get some of the words down so Mando comforts her and there’s just a lot of fluff? Thank you💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

(read part 1 here!)

Hello again sweet anon!! I’m so happy you liked your last request :)

This one was just as fun to write, soft!Din is possibly my favourite thing atm. I hope this is what you had in mind! So without further ado: 

It’s All In The Nicknames - Part 2

You wanted to scream. Actually and literally just scream. Right in his face, or rather your face as that was all you could see being reflected back at you in the dark shine of his visor. The pair of you had been at this for over an hour. You heard him repeat the word again, using the soft coaxing tone that only really came out when trying to get the child to eat some damn vegetables instead of another live frog. You took a breath.

“Ad’ika, meaning little one, daughter or son,” You repeated back to him dutifully. The word felt foreign leaving your lips, like it didn’t belong anywhere near you.

“Almost, but the emphasis is on the ‘D’ not the ‘A’, like this: ah-DEE-kah,” He said, gently correcting you. You couldn’t help the sigh that escaped you, your eyes briefly leaving his visor before fluttering back.

“Ad’ika,” You responded, nodding your head slightly as you emphasised the ‘dee’.

“Perfect cyar’ika!” (“sweetheart”) He praised. You weren’t sure exactly how many times he’d said that now. Every other time you pronounced any Mando’a phrase correctly he would repeat that sentiment, as if he himself had drilled it into his head the way he was drilling these words into yours. Those words, that once would make butterflies fill your stomach, had lost their lustre to you now.  “Next one, cabur.”

“Cabur, meaning  guardian or protector.” It still didn’t feel right. Din had been teaching you these phrases over the past month or so, but for whatever reason you just couldn’t get it right. You patiently waited for his response. You knew you had said it wrong, Din knew you did to, he could read it plain on your face. His hesitation seemed to last a lifetime, so you braced yourself for him to give up on you. Your hand drifted to your chest, palming at the heavy mental pendant that rested under your shirt.

“Nearly, kah-boor.”

You couldn’t even look at him.

“Kah-boor,” You said quietly, on the verge of giving up yourself. Din tilted his head at you, the lights of the cockpit making the beskar shine in a multitude of shade. Normally you would have been entranced by the way reflections danced in his helmet, but you couldn’t summon your usual wonder to even look at it. 

“I need a break, excuse me,” The words tumbled from your mouth, almost catching on the tidal wave of tears you could feel building behind your eyes. You shot out of the cockpit, dropping unceremoniously into the hold.

Din slumped back against his pilots chair, head resting against the plush headrest of the seat. The kid cooed at him from their crib and when he looked over, he saw their little arms in the air. He sighed as he leant over the picked the child from the floating container, nestling them in his lap.

“You don’t happen to be able to read minds do you?” He asked earnestly, stroking a finger across one of their soft ears. They babbled back in return, tiny hands patting at Din’s leather clad own. “Yeh, I didn’t think so.”  

He looked from the big orbs of the child to the open cockpit door and the ache to follow you spread across his chest, but he knew that he was probably the last person you wanted to talk to right now.

“I just want to right by them, kid, I really do. I thought this was the best way to do it. When I asked them, I mean you were there, but I was so sure it would make things perfect for us, my aliit,” (“family”)He looked back down at the green child in his lap, who was so intently listening, ears pricked up just to hear Din speak. The sight made his heart swell. “The lessons are supposed to help them, but right now they’re just upsetting them. It hurts to see them sad.”

Even more than that really, it broke his heart every time your face fell when you couldn’t get your head round the words. He thought it shattered today though, you couldn’t even look at him when you got it wrong. No the kid wasn’t a mind reader and neither was he. He needed to talk to you.

“I should go after her shouldn’t I?” He questioned the small creature, who babbled happily in response. “Thought so. Good talk, little whomp-rat.” Din placed the child back in the crib, closing the lid on it so they couldn’t get to the control panel (again). Then he slipped out the cockpit to find you.

You’d crawled into the bunk that you and Din shared and shut the divider, blocking out the lights from the hold. There you sat, knees curled up to your chest, and in your hand you held the silver pendant of your necklace. 

You traced the bumps and ridges of the cool metal with your thumb, the action soothing you a little as you sobbed quietly. The tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t need your eyes to tell you that the metal had been forged into Din’s Mudhorn signet, Maker knows you’d traced the shape of it on his armour with your fingertips enough times to memorise the shapes.

The divider slid open with a heavy schuk , flooding the small space with light. Instinctively you tucked your head into your knees. You knew full well that it was Din who’d opened the door and you didn’t want him to see your tears, your weakness.  Then you felt the worn spring of the cot dip at your feet, a gloved hand lightly coming to rest over your own crossed ones at your shins.

“Mesh’la?” (“beautiful”) Din said softly, “Talk to me.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Large sobs wracked your body, separated only by gasping breaths. Din didn’t say anything more, simply removed his hand from yours. The action made you only cry harder, thinking that your worst fears were true, he did think you were weak. Weak and stupid.

You were so sure of it that when you felt the bed shift even more and his warm, leatherless hands surrounding yours, you almost stopped crying out of shock.

“Come here cyar’ika,” Din coaxed, manoeuvring the two of you so your back was resting against his armoured chest. He folded is arms around you, hands never leaving yours and in this small space it made it feel like he was surrounding every inch of you. It’s the most comforting thing you think you’ve ever felt.

Slowly the crying subsided. Your Mandalorian held you tight and gently smoothed his thumbs over the soft skin of your hands, silently soothing you through it all. Inside your combined grip was the Mudhorn pendant, the metal now warm between your palms.

“I’m sorry Din,” You eventually said. His grip on you tightened momentarily. Then he sighed.

“Don’t apologise mesh’la,” He replied firmly, “But please tell me why you’re so upset, I don’t know how to help you.”

Your heart nearly splintered at that. Even after this, you being so difficult to teach and now crying about it, he still wanted to help you. Maker above you loved him with everything.

“I just feel like I’m letting you down Din. When you asked me that night, when you gave me this, you told me you wanted me to be a part of your family for good. And in return all I could promise…” The words petered off as your mind reeled with the memory of that night.

The night he had asked you to be his Riduur. His Wife.

The memory burned in Din as well. He’d been so nervous, so scared you’d say no. He’d already been to see the armourer and gotten the signet pendant, his signet, forged out of his own damaged thigh plate. He’d threaded it onto the black string of the necklace himself. 

He’d landed that evening on Naboo, knowing how much you loved the water, hoping it would show you that he remembered these small details about you. It was all worth it when he saw your face as you walked onto the vibrant grass of the world. Though nothing could ever compare to your face when you realised what he was asking, the weight of his words.

You knew how much of a big deal the Riduurok (marriage agreement) was, you knew it meant he was ready to show you his face. You were so overcome that silent tears had escaped your eyes as you breathlessly answered “Yes.”. 

In return you promised to learn some Mando’a, more than the basic endearments you already knew at least. Din had sworn that it wasn’t necessary, but you could hear the excitement in his voice, the longing to teach you another part of his religion, part of himself. And yet here you were, messing it up and letting him down.

“How could you ever be letting me down, mesh’la?” Maker he was being so gentle. One of his hands moved from yours to carefully wipe the tears from your cheeks, and then he began stroking your hair. You sniffled, leaning into the soft touch.

“Because you’re going to give me so much, maker alive Din you’re going to share your creed with me, share your face and your soul. I mean how can I ever give you something so incredibly special in return? So I thought you would at least be able to introduce me to your creed brothers and sisters with pride, tell them that I can speak some of your mother tongue. It was the one thing I could do for you in return. But all I’ve managed to be is a disappointment and an embarrassment.”

You twisted in his arms at that, burying your face into the fabric between his chest plate and pauldrons. Din’s hand never left your hair, he kept stroking it while the other hand drew patterns across your back.

“Cyar’ika, you have already given me something I myself feel impossible to repay. You gave me your unconditional love, you have from the start. Even when I believed I couldn’t be loved like this, you were right here to prove me wrong,” Din’s voice was painfully sincere; you could hear it even through the vocoders modulation.

“Do you know what else you gave me? You gave me a family. Ever since my parents…” He stalled at the mention of his parents. This time it was you who held him tighter, arms snaking under his and pulling him impossibly closer. “We have a saying, ’Aliit ori'shya tal'din’. It means ‘family is more than blood’, when I was young it felt like a stupid excuse, a way to glance over my lack of true family. Now it feels like it couldn’t be truer, because you and the child are my family.”

He pulled away from you, one hand cupping your cheek while the other prised the pendant from your closed fist. He held the signet up, right between your faces.

“When I asked you to be my future Riduur I gave you this. It’s my promise to you, that we will be under one signet. Our clan of three. Seeing you wear it gives me more pride in you than anything else.” He looped the string of the necklace back around your neck, positioning it neatly at your sternum.

Then he tilted his helmet so the beskar touched your forehead. Closing your eyes, you let your smile find its way back you, savouring the warm emotion swirling around your body at his words. 

Din had never spoken to you so much in your time together, the fact that he was comfortable enough with you now to talk like this made your heart ache with joy.

“Thank you Din,” You whispered, almost afraid your voice would somehow break the spell of the moment.

“I love you, cyar’ika, I’ll do anything for you,” He replied, lacing his fingers with yours.

“Even continuing our Mando’a lessons?” You asked sheepishly. A breathy chuckle passed through the helmet, causing an answering giggle to rise from your own chest.

“Yes mesh’la, especially continuing our Mando’a lessons,” he pulled you to his chest once again, revelling in the closeness of your bodies and your soft skin under his fingertips. “I’ll even tell you the secret of it. When Mandalorian’s speak in Mando’a we do not speak from the head, it’s what we use to speak from the heart.”

Your eyes shot wide in realisation. The words you spoke with ease were the ones you connected with the most, which were essentially only the nicknames you used with Din. Knowing that, you thought, maybe this whole Mando’a thing wouldn’t be so hard after all.

“I love you, ner cabur,” (“my guardian”) You murmured into his chest. Din almost cried at your perfect pronunciation, his head swimming with joy at the sound of you talking his language with your whole heart.

“I love you to, ner meshurok.” (“my gemstone”)

#💜 anon #din djarin #the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fic #el answers

[biotic-boshtet]

Aftermath - Chapter 7

Read on AO3

Start at the Beginning

Doubt (and Duct Tape)

“Norah Jean!”

“I’m so sorry, Jeff.”

The comm dies and the pod launches. The fireball blooms in slow motion.

She’s spinning.

Spinning.

Spinning.

Suffocating.

-

Norah Jean snaps awake. The first thing her eyes land on are the multitude of stars through the skylight. They used to be so beautiful. Now she can’t even breathe, staring up at them. Can’t tear her eyes away from the cold, emotionless lights. She’s vaguely aware of her corona flickering in and out, rising and falling with her shallow breaths. The comforter is tangled around her legs. She focuses on what she can feel. Her hands are balled up in the sheets, clenching so hard her knuckles hurt. Her body is drenched in sweat, soaking her t-shirt and shorts. The air circulating through the cabin is frigid, cooling her sticky skin.

She can almost take a normal breath.

The soft whir of the fan pointed at her bed breaks through her thoughts. Norah Jean takes a breath, listening to the subtle hum of the drive core, then the sound of the empty fish tank. She can smell the air freshener on the desk, apple cinnamon, it smells like home. She shifts slightly, and the smell of her shampoo wafts up from the pillow.

Her mouth tastes like blood. She must have bitten her cheek before she woke up.

Norah Jean can finally look away from the stars, can a deep breath. She sits up and puts her feet on the cold floor, holding her head in her hands. She won’t be getting back to sleep tonight. This marks the sixth night in a row she’s had that nightmare. She learned on night three that falling back asleep only brings more of them.

She gets up and walks to the desk. Half a dozen reports sit stacked next to the computer. The clock reads 0200. With a sigh she sits down and picks the first pad off the stack. They won’t read themselves.

-

Her cabin is cold, just the way she likes it, and Kaidan is wrapped up completely in her comforter on the bed. She climbs onto the mattress and peels away the edge of the blanket to shimmy under and cuddle close to him. He stirs when her cold hands touch his warm skin, rolling over to face her.

“Hey, Sugar. Didn’t think you’d show.” He presses a kiss to her nose.

“Didn’t think I’d show? This is my cabin.”

“I missed you so much.”

“What? Kaidan, I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“Two years is a long time, Norah Jean.”

“I haven’t left, I’ve been here the whole time!”

“No, you haven’t. You died. None of this is real, Sugar.”

“No. Let’s just go to sleep, this is just a nightmare, everything will be okay when we get up.”

“Norah Jean, you need to open your eyes. It’s time to wake up.”

She blinks and they aren’t in her cabin anymore. Alarms wail all around her and Kaidan faces her, fully suited up.

“Joker’s still in the cockpit, he won’t abandon ship. I’m not leaving either!”

Alarms give way to the silence of space as the Normandy crumbles around her. In seconds, nothing but stars surround her.

She can’t breathe.

-

With a start, Norah jean sits up in her desk chair. Her datapads are scattered across the desktop, and the clock reads 0430. She leans back and rubs her face, covered in lines from the datapad she fell asleep on. She gets up and heads for the gym in the cargo bay.

-

After a few hours of deliberation, looking between the roll of duct tape, the folded bedsheet, and the skylight, she keys the comm frequency for the main battery.

“Hey, Garrus, are you busy right now?”

“Well, I was in the middle of some calibrations, but I’ve been looking for an excuse to run a full system diagnostic. Please tell me you need my services for two hours or so.”

“I do need your help with something, I don’t think it’ll take me two hours though. Meet me up in my cabin?”

“On my way.”

Several minutes later, the door chimes as Garrus walks through. He makes the Turian approximation of a whistle as he looks around.

“Damn, Shepard, you’re living like a queen up here. What’s a guy like me gotta do to get a view like this?”

“Oh? I’ll trade you. I’d sleep better in the down in the guts of the ship anyway.”

“You’re not sleeping?” His mandibles twitch and he looks long and hard at her face, as if only now seeing the dark circles under her eyes.

“Only a little bit. Not nearly enough. But that’s why I called you up here actually, because I have a plan.” She turns to grab the folded sheet and roll of duct tape from the bed. “We’re covering the skylight.”

“’We’?”

“Yes. As you can see,” Norah Jean stands on the bed and reaches one arm up. Even on her toes, she doesn’t come anywhere close to touching the ceiling. “I can’t reach it myself, and this bed is attached very firmly to the floor. So, I need you to give me a boost.”

“A… boost?”

“Yes, Garrus, stand on the bed and pick me up so I can reach the ceiling.”

“Okay. And if I drop you?”

“Are you already planning to?” She laughs at the way his mandibles twitch.

“No! I just don’t want you stabbing me because I accidentally dropped you!”

“Garrus, where would I be hiding a knife? My hair isn’t long enough to do that anymore. Even if you do drop me, I’ll land on the bed, its fine. If you’re that worried about dropping me, I can just sit on your shoulders.”

“I like that, that sounds more secure.”

“Okay then let’s do it, lemme climb on.” Garrus climbs onto the bed and kneels down, so she can climb onto his shoulders.

“So, what is it humans say about duct tape? That it fixes everything?” He slowly stands to his full height, wobbling a bit between the squishy mattress and the marine on his shoulders.

“200 plus years and it hasn’t failed us yet. Even in space, there’s use for it.”

“Maybe Ceruberus should’ve used a bit of it on you, might’ve sped the process up.”

“I’m not gonna give that the dignity of a response.” She lays the sheet over she arm and tears off a strip of tape.

It takes them almost thirty minutes to securely fix the sheet to the skylight. The first corner she’d taped up peeled off once two sides were plastered to the steel. Then as they finished the final corner, the second corner sagged down. By the time everything is secure they’ve gone through a roll and a half of tape, and Garrus is lying on the bed with his eyes closed.

“Tell me when the room stops spinning okay?”

“Here, this’ll fix it.” Norah Jean tears off a square of duct tape and sticks it to Garrus’ armor.

He lifts his head and opens one eye to look at his new silver patch. “It really does fix everything.”

-

Norah Jean sits on her too-soft bed and stares at her armor on its rack. She’s put herself through countless armor drills, just like the Academy’s, but still, she can’t get her time under three minutes. Major Mabbit would have her ass.

She walks over to the rack and starts the timer.

Two minutes and fifty-six seconds. Progress. Hopefully she won’t need to suddenly get ready to drop anytime soon. She takes her time pulling the armor off, inspecting the slowly growing collection of scratches and dents. Ghosts her fingers over the dent on her chestplate from one of Garrus’ concussive rounds. On one of her greaves, a gouge from an impromptu sparring session with Jack out in the field. A square of silver duct tape right in the middle of her left pauldron. The signs of a stranger’s armor slowly becoming hers.

-

The door to the cockpit slides open, and Joker glances over his shoulder to see Norah Jean come in. She scuffs a foot on the floor before sighing and sitting down, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Uh-oh, you’ve got that look that means you’re thinking about one specific thing too much. Spill it.”

“I’m still me, right? I’m still the person you grew up with? Your old high school sweetheart?”

Joker sighs, turning his chair to face where she’s sitting on the floor. “Norah Jean, why-“

“Just. Answer the question. Please.”

“It’s a complicated question, so you’re getting a complicated answer, just a warning. Yes, and no. Of course, you’re not the same person you were in high school. You’re not even the same person you were when you graduated from the Academy and left Arcturus. But that’s normal, hell, even encouraged. You came away from Akuze like a ghost, you’d been through hell and back, but you were still you. People don’t just walk away from trauma without changing, Norah Jean that’s just not how that works. It’s unfair to expect yourself to be the exact same person you were when you saved the Citadel. You got spaced for fuck’s sake, and you remember it? That changes people. So yeah, you’ve changed, but everyone changed when the Normandy went down, whether they want to admit it or not.”

“That’s not what-“

“If you’re asking me if I think you’re some Cerberus controlled zombie, the answer is hell no, absolutely not. If Cerberus had a chip in your brain, I don’t think I’d be able to beat you at Scrabble.”

Norah Jean snorts and rolls her eyes. “Wow, that’s the metric you’re going by? I didn’t realize the bar was so low.”

“It’s more of a combination of things.”

“Do you ever wonder about how life would be if we’d stayed together after the Academy?”

“Telling you “No.” would be lying and I try not to lie to you, you’ve got a weird knack for figuring that shit out.”

“Because you have a shitty poker face, Jeff.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I try not to dwell on it, it was 10 years ago. I can guaran-god-damn-tee that if we were still together in ’83 I wouldn’t have been piloting the Normandy because there’s no way Anderson would’ve passed up having you as his XO. Do I regret breaking up with you? No, not really, because without worrying about the regs, you got to chase down what you wanted from your career, and I got to pilot this sweet, sweet ship. Yeah, at first it sucked because you needed space and that space meant we didn’t so much as message each other for 2 years, but it was worth it. And plus, I like our friendship better this way, we’ve got a good thing going here. Now grab the Scrabble set, get your ass in your chair, and we’ll see how many games I win this time.”

“You spend all this time building me up just to break me down again, I see how it is.”

“I’ve gotta keep you in check somehow, Norah Jean.”

#mass effect fic #garrus vakarian #jeff joker moreau #norah jean shepard #this is my near miss shakarian chapter dedicated to how many times ive gone through the reach and flexibility convo to almost romance garrus #aftermath #mandi writes

[the-squinkle]

A short piece about an elf in love with an orc

Original characters, please let me know what you think!

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

With a brutish yell, Nokk’s war hammer slammed into the bandit’s temple. She was dead before she hit the ground, a horrific dent in the side of her head as her knees buckled under her own weight, and she fell without a sound. 

Nokk panted, shouldering the hammer. All five bandits lay dead on the dirt paved road, scattered around the cart. The horse whinnied pitifully where it lay, it’s two front legs broken and mangled in the mud. Nokk’s greenish skin was flecked with pink gore and dark red blood. She licked her tusks that grew out from her bottom jaw and tasted salty copper. Her hearts pounded in asynchronous rhythm as she approached the wooden cart and held out her palm in a human show of peace.

Seven hostages were bound and captured, thrown haphazardly in the back of the carriage. A couple humans, one dwarf, and an orc girl not even eleven years old. All females. 

They recoiled and shifted into each other as Nokk stepped closer, unsure if she was another marauder. 

Nokk huffed, her hand lowered to her side. She ground her yellow teeth as she glareed the hostages down. “Fine. Stay in the cart. I don’t care.” 

“My dearest, you were incredible!” Came the lilting, high voice of her traveling companion. From his hiding place behind a cluster of moss-covered trees sprung Sylvester, dressed in a fine purple cloak, a silk white shirt and red trousers. His outfit made Nokk’s eyes hurt, and his voice caused her to drag a hand down her face. 

“You were so brave to defend these good people! And to protect me! You saved my life again, my love.” He swooned and rushed to her side. He squeezed her burly green arm. He tried to slide his arm around her own, and she pushed him away by his head. The elf barely came up to her elbow. 

“Oh, you poor little dears.” He gasped when he turned to the cart, raising a hand to his mouth. His glossy nails and soft hands had never seen a day’s work in their lives. He leapt into the cart with ease, his silver-blond hair hanging loose over his shoulders, glistening in the sunlight that broke through the leaves above like a waterfall of the purest platinum. 

“Your wrists, how tender they must be. I’m going to cut you loose now, but have no fear. This knife would never kiss your soft skin.” He winked at one of the human girls as he cut the rope about her wrists. The girl had been as stiff as a corpse just moments ago, but now her shoulders shook with nervous laughter as a smile tugged her lips. 

Sylvester climbed out of the cart and offered his hand to the human girl, helping her down. She lighted on the dirt path and thanked him under her breath. 

One by one, he helped the women from the cart, drawing a blush even from the dwarven maid. He carried the fierce orc girl on his back as he turned to Nokk, a giddy smile on his face. 

Nokk snorted, her nostrils flaring as she began to lead the group back to the village. She could feel Sylvester’s obnoxious grin, even when she wasn’t looking at him.  

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

“Another round for the heroes who brought my daughter home!” Madam Bellanora cheered, lifting her tankard into the air with one hand, and the dwarven girl’s in the other. 

The tavern cheered, lifting their drinks to the orc in dull, blood-splattered leather and the elf dressed like a peacock. Sylvester stood up in his chair and took a few long bows, flourishing his hand in the air. Nokk’s lip curled in disdain before she lifted her tankard to her lips. Damned things were too small, she could swallow the contents in three gulps. 

Nokk’s chair creaked under her weight as she leaned back in her seat, watching Sylvester roam about the tavern to shake hands, drink and talk. He never stopped talking. 

She wanted peace, wanted quiet. Wanted to get back on the road and leave this village far behind, but he’d insisted they stay the night. She downed her tankard and slammed it on the table with a low grunt. 

“Knock-Knock?”  

She snorted, then turned to her left with wide eyes. How could someone so loud and colourful sneak up on her. 

The elf had his fist in the air, rapping at an invisible door. He grinned and took his seat beside her, dumping twelve little pouches on the table. “Look at this, my love! Look how grateful the people are to you, this is nearly twice what the Madam promised us!”

Nokk grumbled, eyeing her tankard for the last few drops. 

“You look like an angel when you scowl, but my heart aches for you.” Sylvester pursed his lips into a pout, clasping his hands to his chest. “Oh, my darling… What is it? Perhaps you’re tense after your fight. Shall I massage your shoulders?”

“They are grateful to you. Not me. I killed the bandits. You claim the gold.” Nokk snarled, lowering her eyes to the elf. 

“Not at all! This is all yours, sweetness. All of this is from the families of the girls. I would never suggest to be the hero.” He leaned forward to place his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. A slow, dreamy smile crept up his lips. “You will always be my knight.”

Nokk ground her teeth, her bottom jaw jutting forward. 

Sylvester tilted his head, like a curious dog. “Do you scoff at my love?”

The orc barked out a single note of thunderous laughter. The music and fanfare of the tavern faltered to look back to their table. A member of the city guard standing by the doorway reached for his sword, his eyes narrowed on their table. After a few moments, the music began again. 

“Like silver bells in the lightest breeze…” Sylvester’s eyes fluttered shut, his words a whispered coo. his eyes falling shut. They snapped open as Nokk seized him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. 

“Do not make me laugh. I do not want your love. You share it freely.” Nokk growled. Her anger only boiled when he swooned under the flecks of spittle that splattered over his face. She let him go with a huff and wiped her hand on the tabletop. 

“Your eyes are like diamonds when you sneer and snarl.” Sylvester placed a cool hand to his hot face. “Oh, my. Darling! My love, please. Don’t turn away.” He placed a hand on her arm as she moved to stand. He cleared his throat and pat his cheeks to calm down, then met her gaze with a more level stare. “Nokk, I enjoy beauty in all it’s forms. I cannot help but appreciate a sunset, a pretty woman’s smile, or the whistle of blades through the air.” His hand danced through the air in a dramatic flourish, smiling with all his white, perfect teeth. He turned back to Nokk and his smile faded. “But of all the most beautiful creations in this world, you are the most intoxicating. You are who I dream of when I close my eyes, who gives me butterflies in my belly. I will travel with you to the ends of the world, if you would have me. But if I am too much, I understand.” 

He stood up from his seat. He lifted her heavy hand that dwarfed his own and kissed the back of her calloused, cracked knuckles. “We have traveled very far. If this is truly the end, I do not regret a minute of it.” He gave her index and middle fingers a gentle squeeze before pulling away completely, drawing his cloak tighter around himself. 

Nokk wrenched her hand away from him as soon as he let go. She growled something low in her throat before standing up and moving to the bar. 

Her arm struck the metal pauldron of the guard. An iron grip caught her wrist, and the orc whirled around with a snarl, jutting her tusks out. 

“That’s assault on a member of the crownsguard. And that’s a threat.” He gestured to her expression and tightened his grip on her wrist. “Disturb the peace again, and you’ll be spending your last night here in the stockades.”

Nokk snorted and drew herself up to her full height. She had at least a foot and a half over the guard. Her eyes scanned the tavern before they landed on him again. “Try it. You are alone.”

The guard grasped the hilt of his sword and pulled. Nokk left her hammer in the inn, but her fists would be enough. She snarled, bending her knees and lifting her hands into the air. 

“Jonah! I thought that was you.” A lilting voice called from her right. She faltered and glanced down to see the elf approach the pair with a smile, then clapped the guard on the shoulder. “Have you accepted my offer for a dance? I told you, people love a man in uniform, just so long as they’re agreeable. So come along! I know the blacksmith’s boy had an eye on you.” Sylvester winked. 

“Not now. I’m right in the middle of something, you pompous twat.” The guard known as Jonah sputtered, batting the elf’s hand away. He paused, then glanced across the tavern. A muscular human male stood among some of the musicians, bobbing his head to the beat. His brown, tousled curls bounced with the movement. 

“... Did he really?” Jonah asked in a whisper. 

“He did!” Sylvester pulled the guard closer and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “He says he keeps trying to get you into the forge and make you some custom armor, but you never have the time!”

“The capitol sends us our armor.” Jonah mumbled uselessly. “I don’t need anything special.”

“I know! It’s common knowledge! So why does he keep pushing it?” Sylvester pulled back with a grin, then pushed Jonah toward the crowd by his shoulders. “Go, get out of here.”

Sylvester snickered to himself as the guard awkwardly staggered through the tavern, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. The blacksmith’s son turned to him with mild surprise, then an eager smile. 

Nokk snorted. Sylvester craned his head to meet her gaze, then tilted his head to the side. “Anything wrong? Oh! Right. Leaving you alone. I’m very sorry, darling-... I mean, Nokk. I’ll get right on that now.”

Nokk rolled her eyes. A thick hand tousled his perfectly combed hair. “Could have handled that myself.”

“Oh. Oh!” Sylvester stammered, unsteady on his feet when she pulled her hand away. He chuckled, combing through his hair with his fingers. He shifted his weight as he stood in place. “I know, of course you could have. You’re amazing.” Nervous fingers tapped together. “I just thought, perhaps, that you wanted a peaceful night. In a bed, rather than in the city dungeon.”

Nokk pushed her tankard into his hands. “Get us more drinks.” 

Sylvester swooned, placing the back of his hand to his forehead. “A noble quest for the fairest maiden~.”

Nokk crossed her arms over her chest. 

“You have no sense of humour.” Sylvester stuck out his tongue and turned for the bar. 

Nokk chuckled under her breath, just as soon as she knew he was far away enough not to hear.

#writing #writing prompt #fantasy #fic #fiction #orc girl #elf ears #elf oc #orc #elf #dndcharacter #dnd #original story #writerscommunity #writer #fluff #excerpt from a book i'll never write

[brandstonethings]

Forge of Souls

Following: Nemesis

It was like walking into the stomach of some menacing beast. Only, this beast was more machine, made up of steel, bones, and fire. The Forge of Souls. It was not a place Joe expected to wander into at any point in his lifetime, yet here he was with his lover and his friends.

The four crept cautiously across long walkways of steel, crossed in a web-like pattern. They were suspended by towering chains hung from the ceiling above, of which he could not see where it ended. The enormous cavern, hollowed out to house this twisted machinery, was dark and cold. What warmth they had seemed to only be sucked out of them by the cool steel. The only light and heat emanated from the braziers spread out along the walkways, the red glow of what appeared to be massive grinders spinning dangerously fast below, and the fires shooting out of the sides and top of floating spires, suspended in the same manner as the walkways. It was the central spire that the group was headed for.

The sounds of the hammering of an anvil echoed through the darkness as the group finally reached the spire. After hastily tracking down the robed woman who escaped them previously, they had at last caught up. The walkway turned and the four followed it up a ramp and into the spire’s platform. It was there where their eyes bore witness to a great fire dancing above them, only it was incredibly unnatural, floating and being fed by a fuel source unknown. Joe had never seen anything like it. Along with it, an undead drake was spotted flying overhead with its death knight rider. The robed woman was in the center, tending to the recovery of her master, Neregory... Joe’s nemesis.

Their fight began with a burst of speed and intensity, Lithvia, Genny, and Joe quickly became locked in combat against Neregory’s two apprentices while Tralaia did her best to suppress the master from the fight with her arrows and traps. Yet, he was not kept out of the fight for long.

“Enough!” Neregory shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the chamber as he freed himself. At the same time, a sheet of ice was blasted off in all directions, freezing everyone in the chamber, friends and foes. “Each of you, naught but wretches! Dying for a feeble man without the will to protect his own family!” He barked. “Fools, each of you. You have marched here to halt me, yet you have only marched to your deaths!”

Joe had stood over the drake rider, about to bring his axe down on him when he had been frozen in the ice. Yet, his gaze moved from the rider to Neregory now. His words had added to the fire of rage that already burned inside of him. Memories of the night his four-legged companion Hic had been brutally slaughtered by the same monster that stood before him flooded back into his mind. It was the same that night. Joe had stood unable to help, being trapped in a prison of ice. It was a lie, what he had said. Joe would die in an instant to protect his family, a fact he knew was true in his heart. His voice came forth with a growl and a deep rumble. “Say that again about me...”

It was then that the plated menace had begun to march toward him. Joe tried with all his might to break out of the ice, as he tried on that terrible night. He figured that if not with his pure strength alone, then maybe all of his rage would lend to it. It was not enough, Neregory was upon him now and took him in his grasp. “My weapons, my helm. Forged with the souls of innocents, the souls of those long dead. The souls of whose -children- could not help them!” The cold, gauntleted fingers found the back of Joe’s neck before he could even respond and launched him flying across the chamber. He landed hard and tumbled near the very edge of the platform, with what looked like the abyss below. Luckily, he did not fall off the edge, though he coughed up his own blood. Pushing himself back up with Tralaia’s help, the fight would then rage on relentlessly...

“Your struggling is pointless.”

Joe let out a cry of pain as Neregory’s sword came crashing down on his pauldron, sending him to a knee. “It’s not pointless... I’ll fight for my family to the death! Somethin’ you’d never understand! There was a time I loved you like a brother... but you betrayed me!” Joe reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out the crystal orb he had used to defeat Neregory before, preparing to use it once again. He was struck across the face but caught himself at the cost of dropping the orb, which rolled away, dangerously close to the edge.

“A brother? You speak of betrayal, yet it is -I- who have been betrayed. By all I knew. By you. By my closest friends... By the fucking -Light-! Where were you when my soul was tormented? Where were -you- when I was made into nothing but a vessel of darkness! No. I have seen the true way of things, Joseph. You’re all lost, for death is inevitable, and betrayal is hardwired into the heart of every man!”

Joe had slowly begun to stand against the weight of the sword crushing his shoulder. “It wasn’t me who tormented you! You were nowhere to be found! Part of me wept for your loss, despite our fight that night you wrecked my eye! You came back an’ betrayed ME!” He swung his axe wildly at the once noble paladin, biting into his plate and forcing him back. “You left me to die! That’s what you did! Worse than the wicked man that brought me back to this shithole! You abandoned me, you abandoned your parents! You’re a coward, Joseph! You’ll never be anything more than that! A drunken, useless, coward!”

Joe stopped to catch a break as the fight continued for his friends behind him, the both of them more focused on their fight with words rather than steel. “So... that’s why you came back ‘n tormented me. It weren’t jus’ for ‘entertainment’ as you put it... You wanted revenge on me?” He spat more blood. “You left by yourself without a damn clue for me to follow! I never left you to die! I never abandoned my parents!”

“Never? Then where were you when they were slaughtered! Where were you when their souls cried out in anguish! Where the -fuck- have you been?!” Neregory descended down the ramp the opposite side from which Joe and his friends had entered. He stretched his hand out and a string of unholy energy shot out to grasp Joe, tugging him closer and threw him over Neregory’s head where he was slammed onto the metal walkway behind. Still coughing up blood, Joe moved to stand, rage fueling his strength. He heard the faint sound of Genny crying his name back in the chamber, yet his stare remained glued to Neregory. “You’ll pay for tormentin’ them. I might be late... but I swear I won’t rest till I make you pay!”

“Will you, Joe? Do you really believe that?” The death knight turned, stepping down the ramp with a great swing of his blade. “Or will you finally perish! Useless and unloved?! These fools may be under your sway now but it’s only a matter of time before you turn your backs on them as well!” Joe parried that swing and used his momentum then to deliver a series of powerful swings of his own, letting the axe guide his steps as he simply followed it, hungering for blood. “I will never betray my friends! Unlike you, I don’t believe two wrongs make a right!” Their fight with steel resumed, now out of view from the others. In the background, Joe could hear the loud roar of the frostwyrm and the beat of its bony wings just before it landed. It wasn’t long though before he put that thought out of his mind. He was going to kill this husk of a man, he wanted to kill him a hundred times over. He had him on his back foot once again and now had caught Neregory’s sword in the hook of his axe. He was going to end him now.

It wouldn’t be that easy, however. The death knight used the catch to pull Joe off balance and into a block of ice that formed around his fist. The frozen chunk of glacier was slammed into Joe’s face, making him stumble back down the ramp, though he shook it off, unrelenting. He charged up the steps again with a bloodlust roar and hurled the heavy axe at Neregory, who managed to block the axe. Not slowing his charge, Joe came up behind the screen of the axe and grabbed onto the runed blade, attempting to wrench it away from the knight as he bashed his shoulder into him. Neregory was shouldered, but had an iron grip on his weapon and would not release it. Stepping around Joe, he wrenched the blade away from Joe as a hot blue flame danced upon it. It left Joe with a look of panic written on his face as the flame heated his gauntlets to the point he could feel his hands burning inside. He had many times smelled his own flesh burning as the result of torture. It was something he dreaded deeply. He frantically ripped the gauntlets off and threw them to the ground. “You wish to end our game, Joe! I will see it ended!” the knight called to him as he backed down the ramp. There was a loud crash behind him and a painful wail of the drake. Despite the burn he suffered, Joe charged recklessly at the knight, throwing his arms around him and clamping Neregory’s arms to his sides, rendering him unable to swing.

At that moment, Joe felt something shoot through him, yet it did not hurt. It was warm and made some of the pain that wracked his body go away. It wasn’t the same for Neregory. The beam of Light was sent by Lithvia who had rejoined him, along with Tralaia. The Light burned Neregory, who roared and broke free from Joe’s grasp with a burst of strength. He kicked Joe down and turned to deal with his friends.

Joe forced himself to stand, taking a moment to get his bearing of the situation. He saw Lithvia hung off the ledge of the walkway, clinging on for dear life as Tralaia clung onto her friend, trying to pull her up. He also saw Neregory approaching behind Tralaia with his blade ready. She had no choice but to hold on, otherwise leaving Lithvia to fall. Joe looked around for Genny, but she was nowhere to be found. Was she hurt? Or was she dead? The thought made him even angrier. He took a breath... one thing at a time. Joe rushed over to Neregory and clamped his arm around his neck as he kicked his runeblade free of his grip, clattering off the edge and falling to the abyss below. His helm was next. Pulled free, the lich fire in Neregory’s eyes instantly faded. He was struck again by a gauntleted fist, but it barely phased him. He charged him again, clutching his neck with his burnt hands and threw a series of wild punches at him while not letting go. He was panting by the time he threw his last punch. It took every ounce of him to keep his grip strong, gritting his teeth against the stinging pain of his palms. “You... You’re weak without your souls...” Joe lifted Neregory up and moved him over to the ledge, hanging him over it. Directly below awaited one of the massive spinning soul forges.

“Yet still stronger than you will ever be.” Neregory groaned as he produced something in his hand and held it out to Joe. “Joe I’m... My work in this world is not done. Destroy it, you’ll know of what I speak.” He forced a key into Joe’s palm. “Ironforge, my home there, from before...” He clenched his weak hands into fists, frustrated at his defeat. “Do me this last favor... brother.”

Joe stared into Neregory’s cold dead eyes as he listened to his last request. He quickly glanced down at the key before back up at Neregory. “Why should I do a favor for you? After all you’ve put me through?” He cackled, “Because this is not me, this is a husk, a shell. You won’t be doing a thing for -me- Joseph.” Joe growled, “Release my parents...” Neregory spat in return, “Destroy the helm.”

Joe glanced back at the helm which laid on the walkway, back down at the key, and then finally back up at the man he once trusted. He dared ask for a favor after tormenting him all this time. On top of that, he dared to call him brother.

“This is the end for you...” said Joe, his stare cold and unwavering. 

“I know.”

Joe closed his fist around the key and then threw Neregory off the ledge, his limp body torn and split into pieces in the great grinding forge below. At last, Joe let himself to shut his tired eye and out of his mouth escaped a sigh of relief.

It was finally going to be over...

@steelmantle @tidesage-crestwell @tralaia and Lithvia… THANK YOU so much for the epic RP and being a part of this!

#long post #story conclusion coming soon!

[radabadabing-bing]

A Rounded Raven

Oh my god this thing has been plaguing me for months. Like. Actual months. What began as a “oh yeah i’m going to do this cause it’s cute hee hee” quickly devolved into months of “I’ll work on this later” and soon enough I just couldn’t move on from it. I’m not sure about the quality of it, but I feel like having it out rather than gathering dust in a google doc... ...It’s, uh, a Raven x Lucius wg/expansion fic. I probably should've specified that already. Hopefully it’s fluffy enough and close to their characters.

“Damn mages.” Raven spat, sheathing his blade. What a mess of a fight...And worse, they didn’t even clear out all of them. Some ran for the hills, specifically the ‘damn mages’ Raven had mentioned. Shot off some odd magic as they ran off, too. Though they seemed like shoddy casters to the mercenary, not even injuring him…

“Lord Raymond, are you alright?” Piped up his shadow, Lucius. The two had been making their way across Etruria as mercenaries. A multitude of small threats had been hopping up following the death of Nergal, dissolution of the Black Fang, and other concentrated incidents- ruffians, brigands, standard stuff. Though sometimes a member of the defunct Black Fang would worm their ways in with the common thug. And unfortunately, some had with this particular group. Though their magic may not of been apparent at first.

“I’m fine…” The red haired mercenary grumbled. After all, as one not magically inclined, he felt nothing wrong. “I’m more upset they got away.” He glared at the horizon.

“So shall we pursuit?” Lucius questioned, though Raven had a quick response.

“No. Not yet.” He told his accomplice. “Could be an ambush. Let’s recoup back at camp.” Raven’s word did have some truth. They were disadvantaged following them. And while Lucius was a skilled mage, Raven didn’t want to risk it. Not one bit. 

Lucius was quiet for a moment. But he knew what his lord was doing. So he’d indulge the idea. “So be it.” 

And so they left the makeshift battlefield for their camp. “...You didn’t get hurt, did you Lucius?” This was partly an attempt to make small talk, and partly an attempt to insure his other half wasn’t injured. 

“No, I kept my range.” The monk said, “There were no archers, and the mages were focusing on you…” And he glanced at Raven. His red headed partner seemed to be slowing, ever slightly. If the mages were focusing on Raven...why didn’t they attack? Or perhaps it was something more...insidious. “But...Lord Raymond, are you certain that you are fine?”

“I must’ve worn myself out in the fight…” Every step seemed to be heavier. He took a deep breath. Raven was unusually worn out...He couldn’t deny it himself anymore- something was definitely wrong. And if he hadn’t known already, what happened next sold him on the idea. 

Raven’s body locked up. His muscles just...wouldn’t respond. Wide eyed, he fell toward the earth, much to the shock of Lucius. The blond-haired man quickly came to Raven’s side, pulling him up to his knees. “L-lord Raymond…” And Raven’s face was pained.

“My...stomach…” He groaned, as the aforementioned body part felt as if pins and needles were being dug into it. There was a deep growl from it, and the hold it had on him began to lighten ever so slightly. With Lucius’s help, he rose to his feet once more. “Camp...it isn’t far…” Raven gruntled through clenched teeth. The camp wasn’t well reinforced, but it was far enough out of the way, and at the least had supplies.

“O-of course.” With the support of Lucius, Raven began a slow gait towards the camp. But with both of their attentions on moving forward, neither of the duo had noticed how Raven’s belly had begun to pudge ever slightly over his belt. How his pants seemed to fit his form just a tad more snug.

This unnoticed growth would become an increasing burden on Raven. As his abdomen grew, his belt dug into it. Absentmindedly, he attempted to adjust it, annoyed at how taut it had become. Compounded with the stomach pain, it was nigh unbearable. “Damn belt…How’d it get so tight now-”

Raven’s eyes widened once more when he at last noticed how he had began to swell up in size. “The hell is this-?!” Now made aware of his condition, s began to connect in his head. So that was why the mages retreated- they wanted him to chase, then get bogged down. Then they’d likely do the same to Lucius...Seemed that not pursuing was the right choice after all.

And Raven’s surprise alerted Lucius to the change as well- who looked on with fear, and a spark of...excitement? His heart skipped a beat for one of those reasons, though was unsure which...Though Raven snapped him out of it as soon as he had begun talking again. “Just keep moving.” 

By the time they had reached their camp, Raven’s body had only continued to balloon. His clothes were doing their best to hold him in, but it was clearly a lost battle. The belt deeply cut into Raven’s distended gut, the buckle twitching under the force. The strap holding his scabbard was faring similarly. The sides of his pants had began to split, small bits of his skin peeking through. And his chest had begun to billow outwards, more straps facing resistance. Even Raven’s face and arms seemed to round out and puff. 

With Lucius’s help, he managed to settle down with a slight thud next to a burnt out fire. Once he sat down...he had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting back up. Not for a while.

“I’m going to check my books. There must be something in it about...this whole mess.” But as Lucius went towards the said tomes, Raven began grumbling again. “W-wait. This belt...It feels like it’ll cut me in half. Help me get it-” And like it was on cue, the belt snapped, the buckle flinging off into the brush. Raven let out a sigh of relief. “-Nevermind.” Lucius’s face went flush as he turned away. He...Needed to fix this. Right, fix. 

The strap holding his scabbard to his hip was next to go. Hadn’t dug into Raven as hard as the belt did, but that didn’t stop him from exhaling yet again. Now the resistance came from the straps holding his pauldron to his shoulder. “Ngh...Come on.” One strap managed to come undone from his bloating pectorals, but each passing moment seemed to make this job harder and harder. 

And without the belt holding his jacket and shirt down, his girth slowly began to be exposed to the cool forest air. The front of his pants had begun to stretch to their limits, akin to the still splitting seams at his side. Raven was too busy undoing his pauldron to address it. “Almost...got it…” With grit teeth, the strap was undone, and the pauldron’s grasp on his shoulder was loosened. For a moment, he felt a shred of pride- before the shriiiip of his pants reminded him of his bizarre predicament. His victory seemed ever smaller…

“Ugh.” The side seams of his pants tore ever further down his legs, as they continued to pack on mass, growing outwards. His jacket began to part, having the benefit of being loose on him in the first place. Raven’s shirt however had no such benefit- rolling up at the whims of his expanding belly, still stretching to accommodate his set of moobs. It’s fate would likely be shared with his pants…

Though as he pondered the survivability of his shirt, the affliction began to affect his face and neck more noticeably. Both becoming round, making his grimace much less intimidating. His theory on his shirt was becoming true, as it began to rip to accommodate for his now fattened breasts. Following that, the seat of his pants- Raven’s ass too large to hold back any longer.

Said pants were hardly holding on at this point. Scant few threads held it together, and his shirt was still shredding further. The bulk accumulated on his arms began to tear not only at his undershirt but jacket as well...Of course it couldn’t escape completely unscathed.

And as Raven persisted to swell and billow every which way, Lucius was diligently searching for some explanation for this- having gone through two books already, he miraculously had found an answer half way through the third one. “Aha!” Taking the book with him, the cleric returned to his lord’s side…

Though Raven had changed drastically in shape from the last time Lucius had seen him. He had been growing before, but he was still muscular and rigid in places. Now he was much...softer. His clothes had been mostly torn to shreds, except for the jacket, just barely covering his chest. The mercenary was just...huge.

“...Are you just going to gawk at me?”

Raven clearly was unhappy with the change. Lucius knew enough about Raven to know that- And he didn’t want that for his lord, but...It was appealing. For some reason. “I…” He considered for a moment not telling him about the solution he may of found. Though Lucius quickly found himself ashamed of such a thought. “...Figured out what it was. It’s a curse. Likely those mages did hit you with it, it just didn’t show until now.” “So they wanted us to pursue. I’d become this, and...Hmpf.” His scowl wasn’t all that intimidating to Lucius in the first place, who had become quite used to it. But when his face was all rounded, it lost even more of it’s edge. “Is there a way to change me back?” “Um, just a moment.” Paging back through the book, finding the passage… “Ah. It says the curse is temporary, and should cease eventually.” “Eventually…” Raven’s disdain for the situation seemed to only grow. Knowing that he was just locked in place for an unknown amount of time was frustrating. Incredibly so. “Damn it all.” “Perhaps I could try to reverse it myself-” “Don’t bother.” Raven was quick to rebut the thought. “It likely won’t end well. If I have to wait, I’ll just...wait.” His frustration was clear, but as was his resignation. 

Which, much to Lucius’s own dismay, was basically a best scenario. Raven would return to his form (hopefully) in time, and for now, Lucius had this softer Raven.

Perhaps it was impulsive, but Lucius found himself scooping up the belly of his mercenary…

“L-Lucius.” His tone was not necessarily angry, and certainly a far cry from the gruffness it had in his previous speech. Perhaps embarrassed...Which was confirmed by his blushing chubby cheeks.

Which was enough confirmation for Lucius, at least, that his happiness of the rounder Raven wasn’t as one sided as he may of thought.

#gave up at the tbh #it just needed to be done #chrom story next #feeder emblem #fat emblem #male weight gain

[zet-sway]

MShep/Thane Spiritual Shrios Summer Prompt Fill - “Pray”

My second fill for rosenkow's Spiritual Shrios Summer! At this point I can't look at it anymore or my eyes are going to fall out. I really wanted to get this right.

Rating: General Audiences - Safe for Work AO3 Link: "Your Gods are My Gods" - (Chapter 2) Note: Chapter 1 is identical, but with Female Shepard instead Pairing: Male Shepard / Thane Summary: Thane helps Shepard gear up in the minutes before the Omega 4 Relay, and offers a prayer for his protection.

If you would prefer Female Shepard / Thane, click here!

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Thane smiles at the Commander, watching him gracelessly pushing one leg into the underlayer of his hardsuit. It's strange to see him like this, hanging somewhere in the middle of a of transition between Shepard the man, and Shepard the soldier. He crosses the room to help, offering an arm to lean on and holding the sleeves out for him to thread his arms into.

"Is it standard practice for Alliance soldiers to help their commanding officer dress before battle?" Thane says with a smile.

Shepard's answering laugh is a ray of light in the darkness before the storm. "Absolutely not." The zipper of his suit is still undone but he steps close and meets Thane's eyes, arms threading around his waist. "But we aren't Alliance soldiers." A quick kiss on his cheek. "Lucky us. Fraternizing with a superior officer is grounds for dishonorable discharge."

He could melt into Shepard's embrace. Somewhere in the long hours between stars, they found each other. Their meeting had been professional, and he was unsurprised to find him coming to ask him questions about his illness and the mission. But somehow, little by little, he met the Commander, then the soldier, and then... him. The man, the human, the person - Shepard - surprising him at every turn.

He listens with full attention, interjecting his own thoughts and validations as Thane damn near gushes about his dogma, his gods... Irikah and Kolyat, his hurts and regrets. At times when the night cycle drags on, he retires to his cabin only to ping him on his comm and continue their conversations. By the time they're ready for the mission they've been training for, it feels like he has known him for a lifetime. He still doesn't understand why it's Shepard that brings out the conversationalist in him. Maybe no one else had wanted to listen. Maybe he'd never given anyone else a chance.

"If faith is your pillar of strength... then your gods are my gods."

Those words echo in Thane's mind, warming him to his bones. Shepard isn't exceptionally spiritual, but he listens and receives him without question or judgement. The kindness in him makes his heart swell, standing together, assassin and commander, in the cool quiet of Shepard's cabin.

"Siha, if you will permit me," he says hesitantly, "I'd like to offer you a prayer."

"A prayer?" That smile again - corners of his mouth tugging upward, lifting Thane's spirits despite the looming anticipation of battle. "I'd be honored."

Their foreheads meet as Thane takes the zipper of the Commander's undersuit, slowly dragging it upward, watching it close over his skin. In his mind, the fabric is the armor of his spirit and he is welding it closed. Eyes sliding shut, he makes his hushed call to the goddess of protection.

"Mother Arashu, I ask protection for your chosen,"

The zipper slides closed in the hollow of Shepard's throat and he kneels to help his feet one at a time into weathered but sturdy boots, sealing the greaves around his calves. Thane feels the muscle tensing beneath each piece, compressing, relaxing, gently forming into the confines of each specialty fabricated stim plate and shock absorber. The armor is as much for enhancement as it is for protection, and later Thane will watch those armored legs propel him across the battlefield with inhuman speed, dodging enemy fire, weaving in and combat as Shepard was born to do.

"Repel the evils that would harm him,"

Scaled hands run over knees and thighs. Shepard pulls his cuisses from their locker and holds each one steady for him to clamp reverently around his thighs. Straps thread around his legs, Thane takes care not to make them too tight. A full body hardsuit is impractical - Shepard needs unrestricted movement to meet the demands of the battle, but Thane hates himself for knowing the vulnerability of mere flexible kinetic weaves to protect the Commander's femoral arteries. He presses a kiss below his navel as he rises from his knees, palms gliding up, pausing again to kiss above his heart.

"Be his shield and sword of flame,"

Shepard stands unmoving as Thane fits the gorget around his neck. It supports the heaviest and most reinforced part of his armor - segmented carbon and titanium plates that hug the curve of his back all the way down to the base where it connects to his cuisses. Shepard checks to make sure it's properly fitted and connected. It has to be - one stray shot is all it would take to sever his spine. He sighs and stretches upwards as it clicks into place, plates moving fluidly against his back.

"None shall come to hurt or maim,"

Thane's thumb passes over the embossed N7 symbol over the right breast of Shepard's curiass before he lowers the unit over his head. Custom fabricated seals meet at both sides of his broad chest, hissing closed and tightening around his ribcage like a glove. Reinforced joints over the breastbone and collar allow it to expand and contract with each of his steady breaths, and flat plates against his abdomen stiffen his posture. Shepard guides Thane's hand to the seal just below the collar of the chestplate and when he presses it, the onboard electronics sputter to life, lights flickering on and fans humming in the dim silence of the cabin. He almost seems taller now, calmer; the soft creature he'd lain with just an hour ago safely encased in the familiar armaments that have carried him through battle after battle.

Thane can't help but embrace him, foreheads touching with eyes closed. The Commander's measured breathing steels his nerves and deepens his understanding of him as a solider - why so many, himself included, have unwaveringly sworn wage war against impossible odds with him at their side. Tonight, he may die for Shepard's cause, but it would be his privilege to die by his side - his warrior angel. His Siha.

"Let him be an impenetrable wall,"

Shepard sighs quietly as Thane's arms enfold him, attaching his belt. It clamps around his waist, arcing over his hips. Pivoting hinges hang over his hipbones, catching easily on his cuisses to form one complete unit - a clean design that conserves mobility while protecting his soft waist... where Thane's hands had clung not long ago, when they were as one. The assembly clicks shut just below his navel, and the prayer continues.

"He will be a shield for all,"

There's nearly a tangle of straps that meet over Shepard's shoulders. Jointed pauldrons click into place where they intersect with the chestplate supports. With the curiass attached, these are automated, designed to be quickly donned without assistance, software tightening each strap to preset customizations. Around his biceps, forearms, and hands, each vambrace is a fully contained set of panels and joints. Thane kisses each gloved palm as he draws the seals closed one at a time. He is nearly complete.

"Great Arashu, lend your power,"

Their lips meet one final time in a chase kiss. Thane gently runs his fingers along Shepard's scruffed jaw before drawing the visor around his forehead in an upward, unpowered position. He etches those eyes into his memory before they nearly disappear behind the combat HUD.

"Keep him safe in this final hour."

Shepard is in his arms for a few precious seconds and they breathe together in time. The Commander's voice is a mere whisper: "Thank you." It's not goodbye, but... "May Arashu protect you, this night and every night."

It's time to go.

Their hands lock together as the elevator descends to the CIC.

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Thanks for reading! If you like creating shrios content, please consider participating in the summer challenge!

#mshrios #zet writes things #spiritual shrios summer #spiritualshriossummer

[signutai]

I didn’t actually end up sleeping last night so I guess it’s time for me to talk menswear, I say, opening up the Fallout wiki to the list of NV armors for reference. Takashi’s armor is his very own version of the classic NCR ranger vet armor everyone knows so well, more closely resembling the unique riot gears found in Lonesome Road than anything else, though clearly distinct from them. The duster is dyed a forest green, only barely desaturated, and reaches down to about just above his ankles for dramatic flair, with a high collar (enough to completely cover the back of his neck) and consisting of three layers: the original outer leather layer, along with a secondary layer of leather sewn into the inside and a layer of sturdy protective mesh sandwiched in between. It’s heavy and much more stiff than the similar armors, and when he’s in a tight spot he’ll usually just toss it aside for freer movement. No pockets on the outside; they’re all on the inside of the coat instead and he keeps his secrets there. There’s some spots of minor damage here and there, along with a few places where he’s sewn new leather over holes, and the ends of the coat itself are starting to come apart thanks to the repeated wear and tear associated with traveling the wastes, but overall he tries to avoid damaging it and makes sure to oil the leather when he can find any leather treatment materials--it overall lacks that dirty, dusty, and aged look the other riot gears tend to have. The pauldrons are similar in size to the elite riot gear’s, though more rounded like the advanced version. Have some visible damage (some denting, missing paint, ect.) due to the fact that he mainly uses them to break down doors. They’re attached directly to the duster, just because it’s one less step to remember when he’s dressing himself. The throat guard is larger and has “Lefty” painted on it in white rather than a number. The breastplate is almost identical to that of the Remnants power armor, except more polished and the metal less dark, stripped of any electronic components and outfitted with clasps on the sides and shoulders for easier removal. Has some minor dings, dents, and scrapes, but he’s recently had to resize it and he banged and buffed out the worst of the old damage in the process. Under all of that he wears a simple dark leather shirt (think barebones reinforced leather armor that still has both sleeves). Wears his Pip-Boy on his right arm, along with an additional layer of padding between it and the sleeve to help alleviate pressure on an injury there. Has a nondescript, unpainted metal guard on his left forearm that is heavily marked with scrapes, cuts, and dents from deflecting/countering melee weapons. And under that is a heavy cloth shirt, to which is attached a backpack-like metal device that links to a cooling system built in the shirt. There are holes cut into the leather armor, breastplate, and duster to accommodate it (he puts it on first and then fits everything else over it), and a small solar panel on the top that provides it with power. It does a fantastic job of keeping him from overheating despite all the layers, at the cost of needing to scavenge for or buy coolant to keep it going (not always an easy task and part of the reason why vertibird wrecks can be a veritable goldmine for him; not many folks know how to properly salvage a ‘bird). Produces a constant, quiet hum when running. The shirt has a zipper to make it less of a pain to wrestle with and zips up all the way under his chin. Fingerless gloves. He tried full gloves once and got nervous about not being able to actually touch anything. Simple, loose-fitting canvas pants (currently) with big pockets for more secret storage (namely, a pencil and his “quest book” as he so fondly calls it). He’s found thigh armor to be just a little too restricting on top of everything else, so the pants tend to see more damage, and get replaced and patchworked more often than any other part of the outfit. Wears knee guards similar to the elite riot gear, and more metal plating over the front of his steel-toed boots. The boots, like the duster, are well-oiled, though a lot more visibly worn. He does a lot of walking. The helmet hasn’t seen a lot of modification because he doesn’t really like wearing it--the actual helmet part of it is identical in construction to the elite riot gear’s, though darker, and the mask portion more resembles the advanced gear’s, save for the red lenses are swapped with a bright green (”The world looks much more friendly this way,” he says.). Under the duster and crossing his chest from the right shoulder are one bandoleer stocked with his very special homemade hand-load .50 MG rounds and another of small pouches (ideal for storing a few handfuls of caps or things like lockpicks that are good to have close at hand). Other ammunition is stored either in the inner breast pocket of the duster or a satchel on his belt. Both bandoleers attach directly to the shoulder and side of the breastplate because the cooling system prevents anything from being looped comfortably around the back. Would absolutely wear a big obnoxious belt buckle if he could find one, though at this point he’d struggle to find room. Keeps his hunting revolver in a holster on his left hip, as well as his wakizashi. Three or four other pouches and bags on the belt hold things like snacks, ammo, more caps, and his cache of herbs, spices, and teas. Carries two canteens on the same damn belt, which is currently crying for mercy, can you hear it? Other storage consists of a courier-style satchel he usually wears with the strap over his left shoulder--that contains the important things, like whatever he’s courier-ing, his medical supplies, a stock of non-snack foods, the rest of his caps, extra water, a length of dyed leather in case of duster damage, his other weapons, books, and various repair kits--and a duffel bag he’ll just sling over his shoulder that he uses for loot and/or anything he hasn’t currently sorted into its proper place in his exhausting storage system. (Yes, he does have the Pack Rat perk, why do you ask.) Basically, his entire set-up is built for enduring long road trips through extremely harsh terrain and for being able to withstand a fair amount of damage--not as much as if he were in full metal armor, but it’s nothing to sneeze at. It is, again, much heavier than the other riot gears, and the fact that he can still keep much of his speed and agility while wearing it is a virtue of his own unique constitution rather than any deliberate effort to make the armor manageable for anyone who isn’t him. His fingers and maybe a small sliver of throat, if he tilts his head right, are the only skin he shows to most people. That is by design. Just about everything that would require him showing his face (eating, bathing, ect.) is done in total privacy except for the two or three people he trusts enough for that. In this way, he’s protected from the outside world in more than one sense. Exact colors I’m still trying to figure out a way to work on, but I’m imagining a bold and quite distinct mix of fairly saturated mid-tone and darker greens, black/dark greys, and silver. He stands out in a crowd and cuts a pretty impressive--if very square--figure. Takashi Takeda is nothing if not a vain motherfucker at his core, and he’s not going to go around looking like he just spent a month swimming in a pool of wasteland dust, regardless of how impractical it is for him to try and keep himself and his armor clean of the stuff. Though he’s since done extensive modifications to suit his particular lifestyle and look, the armor was originally a gift. He can’t remember who from.

#Courier Lefty #long post #i'm probably forgetting a few pieces but yeah #there is a 'late-game' version of this in which he stops wearing the helmet and swaps a few minor things out but #dunno if i want to get too deep into that territory yet #leftyref