#Sell Your Scrap Metal

[thecrabbybarista]

dead serious we need lolita fashion now more than ever

disclaimer op knows it's more complicated than that, it just has a hyperfixation

[hatingfromacrackedscreen]

Ok we need to take about spaceships. I love sci-fi, and I love the CONCEPT of spaceships as much as the next guy, but we need to start being creative. A spaceship can be literally ANYTHING, so why can we only imagine them as giant hunks of metal? Our present is getting in the way of our imagination!!! Like look at these ships

They’re all gorgeous right! But also they’re all different archetypes of the same model. Let’s think big!!!!

Anyways this post was an excuse to post my favorite spaceship from all time, the Black Moon Clan’s ship from the second season of Sailor Moon:

LIKE????? Of COURSE a space ship can be a giant fucking crystal!!!!

LOOK AT THIS SHIT!!! LOOK HOW FOREBODING IT LOOKS DESCENDING ONTO HUMANITY FROM THE CLOUDS!!!

I’ve seen/read so much sci-fi, and yet not ONE of the space ships has this much creativity and uniqueness in design. And the interior too! (Ignore the crucified sailors they got better)

I’m so upset that I haven’t seen anything else play with the sci-fi genre w/ respect to spaceships as much as Sailor Moon did in 1993, which was literally 30 yrs ago 🙄

Hopefully we’ll have more open minds in the future

[alnilaem]

you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.

cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out

ghoap (x reader)

-

You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.

Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.

“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.

You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.

Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.

“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.

“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”

You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.

“That’s– is everything alright?”

He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”

Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.

The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.

A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.

You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.

It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.

You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.

Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.

wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.

You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.

johnny_leash.avi

The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.

The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.

It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.

A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.

“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.

The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.

A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.

There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.

“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”

The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.

The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.

The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.

You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.

“Yer recordin’ me?”

“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”

Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.

Your body betrays your moral plight.

Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.

His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.

Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.

The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.

But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.

You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.

The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.

Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.

“You want your snack, boy?”

Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.

“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”

Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.

Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”

The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.

You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.

It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.

breeding_my_boy.avi

Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.

Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.

Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.

You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”

You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.

It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.

Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.

“Wish I could breed you, pup…”

Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.

“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.

“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”

Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.

“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.

Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.

It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.

Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.

The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.

You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.

And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.

Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.

Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.

A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

The Prophet spoke, and the faithful knelt

Summary : You would never be a hero for Zaun, a revolutionary, a leader. But you would care for your prophet with every single breath your body would allow.

Pairing : Viktor x Reader

Word count : 3.2K

Warning : Explicit

You couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at you with something other than disgust.

The bumps on your skin were large and deformed, like warts on a toad's back. Dark, unnatural purple spots had consumed most of your body, your veins glowing faintly inside your flesh. Staring at them, pulsating like worms making their way through your organs, still gave you unparalleled nausea. You were the kind of monster little children of Piltover feared in the shadowy corners of their bedroom, and you couldn't remember a time when it had been otherwise

The others like you all lived in small, crummy camps, where the warmth of a teared-up blanket was something worth killing your neighbour for. If the value of human life was close to none in Zaun, here, it was worth absolutely nothing.

A wasteland inside a wasteland.

Most lived off scraps left by bars; there were few other ways to get food. The familiar feeling of hunger digging its sharp claws into your stomach had never lessened. For water, there were only the thick metal pipes, going above to supply the golden city, which sometimes leaked drinkable but rusty liquid.

The best days, the only bearable days, were those where you found half-used needles of shimmer in the trash. For a few blissful hours, you were someone else, somewhere else, and nothing in the world could hurt you. Then it was back to being cold, hungry, and alone.

You had tried to live a semblance of a life, once, when the craving for shimmer hadn't been so all-consuming. But addicts were bad for business: customers didn't like seeing them, with their empty eyes and malformed bodies, and they were a very poor investment for an employer. How many months, or days, before they would abandon their job in favour of chasing their never-ending high?

Then there were the whore houses. One could get a few pieces of copper, if their body wasn't too ravaged by the drug. Damaged goods still sell, but for a fraction of the price. And yet there it was no better either: patrons would come in, use you, and leave, without ever looking you in the eye. Like you were less than human.

But not him.

He looked at you without ever flinching, without ever shying away. There was no sign of disgust or pity in those strange eyes of his, but an endless compassion, something that went beyond your comprehension. As if a simple glance at you had allowed him to read every corner of your soul.

You could have sworn time had stopped the second he locked eyes with you. In the warm amber of his pupils swayed a reflection of pale blue, like sunset on the ocean.

You had fallen to your knees without ever willing your body to do so, pressing your forehead against the cold gravel. It feels natural, almost instinctive, to bow in the presence of a god. For what other word could describe him, his presence, his aura?

Did someone like you, ugly, broken, filthy, deserve to see beauty like this?

A gentle hand brought your face back up towards the sky, lithe fingers tucked under your chin. Soft, so soft.

His eyes were back into yours, the sunset having morphed into a pool of liquid gold. Tears had begun to fall from your eyes, rolling down your scarred cheeks and onto his delicate hands. He shushed you before you attempted to speak, like he already knew whatever words you would tell him.

“It's alright. I will take care of you.”

The digits slid slowly across your face, impossibly smooth, and you couldn't help but nuzzle into the touch, revelling in the feeling of a sensation you had all but forgotten. He softly pushed the dirty hood off your face, hand settling on top of your matted hair. You closed your eyes; whatever this man was willing to give you, be it salvation or judgement, you simply knew you were ready to accept it.

And then, everything became light.

—

You saw him perform miracle after miracle following that day. He brought people back from the depths of hell, which they'd lived in for so long, with the simple touch of a hand. He brought back the smiles, the joy, and the hope all of you had given up on.

To your community, he was everything.

The familiar presence of his voice called for you inside your mind. It was so comforting, having him there, feeling him as a part of you. Knowing he would never leave you, that he would never let you be alone again.

He looked like a statue when you found him, seated in his cave, still and ethereal beyond your mortal comprehension. The gods had crafted his face from porcelain; his body from the world's most precious metals; his eyes from the sun and the sea; and his smile with the very essence of magic.

“Here you are. I was beginning to worry.”

That was not true; both of you knew very well you had heard his voice and were rushing to come to his side. Yet, the idea that a being such as him would worry about someone like you made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

“Herald?”

“Mm?”

He blinked, calmly, peacefully, as his eyes met yours once more. No other feeling compared. His pupils glowed inside the barely lit cave, a gentle and divine light emanating from his face.

The words were hard to get out, and you found yourself fidgeting with your hands, looking away from his perfect gaze.

Get a hold of yourself, you admonished your brain. You had practiced this moment more than once.

You were certain he knew exactly what you were about to ask him; he knew every thought going through your mind, after all. Which meant he knew of the nights you spent dreaming of him, of his body, and of the hundreds of ways you craved the touch of your messiah.

But he simply looked at you, calm and composed, the hint of a smile barely on his lips.

Briefly, you wondered if he was teasing you by letting you stew in your anxiety.

“I have come to realize,” you began unsurely, voice almost breaking, “that you always take care of others, Herald. Always take care of people like me.”

He observed you with that indecipherable gaze, still not moving an inch. You gathered all your courage to stare back at him as you pronounced your next words decidedly:

“But does nobody take care of you, Herald?”

He smiled, properly this time, yet still calm and moderate. It was beyond beautiful, his delicate features marked by soft dimples, the hint of a mole over his lips. You would have given your life in a heartbeat if it meant he would have smiled at you like this once more.

“I don't require such things anymore,” he explained serenely, fingers absentmindedly tracing the complex patterns of his arm. “This body doesn't feel cold, or hunger, or want. It is pure of all the desires the man I once was might have had.”

You swallowed with difficulty; was he rejecting your advances? You could not bear living without knowing you had done everything for him, given him every inch of your being.

“But that man,” you tried once more, moving a timid step forward, “he is still part of you, isn't he? Wouldn't it only be fair to take care of him too?’

There was not a hint of confusion in his expression; he understood exactly what you meant. Yet one of his eyebrows had slightly risen, perhaps of amusement or appreciation for your boldness.

“If you have something in mind,” he simply replied, his thick accent hypnotic, “you should show me.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

You would show him what his gift had meant to you.

Gradually, reverently, you approached the frugal throne where he sat, a simple rock formation at the back of the cave. You kneeled at his feet and gazed up, unsure if you were allowed to touch him. He gave you a light nod, a glim of endearment in his eyes.

With deference, you slid the fabric of his tunic to the side, parting his knees to give you access. You felt your cheeks heat at the realization he had no underwear, trepidation bubbling in your lower stomach. Then you stopped right in your tracks.

Where there should have been… something, there was nothing.

Your mouth opened in surprise, but no words managed to find their way out. You spluttered, confused, gaping at the being above you.

A low, small chuckle.

His luminous eyes were teasing, barely enough so that someone else would not have recognized it; but you did.

“I could not resist to watch your reaction,” he admitted, “My apologies.”

His delicate hand covered the area of his groan, and a faint light shone between the cracks of his fingers. The sound of metal forming, pieces sliding with one another, echoed inside the empty cave. When he removed his hand, it was as if the member had always been there.

As you had always pictured in your dreams, the Herald was well endowed, even in a softened state. It was without question like a regular human’s, but devoid of any veins, marks, and bumps. Not a single hair adorned the base. It was all perfectly smooth, the head only distinct from the rest of the length with its thickness.

He was art, in the most primordial sense of the term, and you could do nothing but admire him.

“This body shapes to my will,” the Herald explained at your look of awe, “It had no need for genitalia, so it did not have any. At least… before now.”

Your fingertips slid timidly on the indigo skin, feeling the polished texture. The contact felt pleasantly electric, like his body brimmed with untapped energy. The first small lick was somehow nostalgic, the feel of popping candies bursting pleasantly on your tongue.

When you wrapped your lips around him, you could immediately tell his taste was unlike anything you'd ever had before. The coppery flavour of metal mixed with something so enticingly sweet it could not be anything other than the taste of the arcane itself. An encouraging hand petted your head softly, fingers threading through strands of your hair. You moaned with your mouth still full of him; a single touch from him was enough to have your core burnt with want. You sped up your pace, taking as much of him in your mouth as you possibly could. The energy pulsated against your tongue, his cock hardening to your rhythmic pace. The thickness of his tip kept hitting the back of your throat, cutting oxygen for a few blissful milliseconds at a time and making you see stars.

It was perfect.

And yet, after a few minutes, you realized something was wrong.

You'd been with your fair share of men and women before. The twitching, the moaning, the cramping of the thighs from the building pleasure and the coming release- it was all absent.

You pulled back with a soft ‘pop’, looking up at your prophet once more for guidance. The same all-knowing visage stared back at you, that boundless compassion he had for all mankind. You understood what was happening, now.

“Herald,” you said slowly, voice horse from taking him, “why have you called me today?”

Silence. It looked as though he was thinking over his next words, choosing how best to explain things to you.

“I could sense you needed guidance,” he finally answered, “Support. I merely wanted to help in the way you needed me.”

Helping you. He was helping you once again. Even now, when you begged him to let you help him, he was still only thinking of others.

“You're not satisfied,” the Herald deduced from your crestfallen expression, “Why?”

Tears of frustrated devotion prickled the corner of your eyes, and you felt like a pathetically pouting child:

“My goal was not to satisfy myself. It was to please you.”

Perhaps you had dreamed it, but a glimmer of surprise flashed in his sunset gaze, gone too soon for you to ever be certain.

“Allow me to try once again, please. I will do better,” you requested, resting your head against his inner thigh, his cock still perfectly hard against your cheek. Looking up at him from under your eyelashes, you whispered your next words like a prayer, hoping it would reach him: “It is all I want to do from the deepest part of my heart.”

The smile again, so slight and yet so luminous. Perhaps he hadn't cured your addiction to shimmer, and had simply replaced it with the profound need of him. A drug you never wanted to be freed from.

“Very well,” he acquiesced, voice low, “you may do it again.”

This time, you could tell there was a genuine look of surprise in his neutral expression when you stood. ‘So he can't tell my thoughts immediately as I have them,’ you reflected silently. ‘I can use that.’

It was without asking that you made your way onto his lap, legs bent on both sides of his thighs. The position wasn't very comfortable, rocks digging into your knees; but he was so close to you that you felt the warmth of the arcane emanating from every pore of his body. The pleased look he gave you at your initiative made you feel emboldened, and you guided his cock to your entrance, lining yourself to slowly slide down on his length.

“I do not wish to interrupt,” the Herald made you pause, thick eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “or to appear to stroke my ego, either. But I believe it would be wise to… prepare yourself, prior to taking me.”

You looked away in embarrassment, confidence fading, not wanting to reply directly. To explain how you had prepared yourself for him in your tent, in the slim hopes this moment might happen, would certainly be the death of you.

His eyebrows rose back up, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. He understood.

“I almost forgot how prepared you always are. Clever girl.”

You felt yourself tighten at the compliment. You committed the words to memory, engraving them in your mind forever. You would never forget when your Herald had praised you.

You patiently lowered yourself onto him, inch by inch, getting accustomed to him. A little shamefully, there was an undeniable selfishness of wanting this moment to last as long as possible.

When you took him whole, it was almost too overwhelming to bear.

His size was an undeniable component, both in length and girth. You had to wonder: had he been so big when he was but a regular man?

‘Yes’, a familiar voice supplied in your head. Had you not known better, you could have sworn his tone was slightly cocky.

But it wasn't just his dick, either. The flow of energy running through you from the point of your connection was dizzyingly intense, coherent thoughts barely stringing together. It felt like the high of shimmer but unbelievably more potent, simultaneously cutting you open and putting your body back together. This was being alive.

“Breathe,” he reminded you, a guiding hand sliding to the small of your back. Even now, he still took such good care of you. Overwhelmed tears had begun to fall down your eyes without you sensing their presence, and you tried to regain some semblance of your senses.

For a while, minutes, maybe hours, only the sound of your panting resonated through the cave. You gripped the Herald's shoulders tightly, scrunching the fabric of his tunic in your fists. His impartial expression never changed, but neither did the way his hand held you in place and comforted you. Once it felt as though your lungs were getting air again, you began moving.

All of it seemed like a dream; the feeling of fullness between your legs, the slow drag of his cock inside you, the warm wetness of your juices slipping out with each trust. If there was no heaven for sinners, then you had found your own right here. You picked up the pace, settling into a fast and wild rhythm. You scanned his features for any sign of disturbance; the slightest hint of red coloured his pale cheeks, the faintest laboured breath coming from his lips.

So he was still a bit human, after all.

You kept moving with renewed vigour, not able to contain wanton moans of pleasure.

“May I try something?” he asked, voice low, deeper than you had ever heard him speak.

You let out a sound of approval that dissolved into nonsense when the tip of his cock hit the spot you had carefully been avoiding. This time, he moved, ramming over and over against your cervix, too deep for comfort, shaping you to him and only him. You were so close, right on the edge, begging him for release with gibberish.

He had undeniably felt your incoming demise, and with one last push inside your core, he leaned his head forward, bringing both of your foreheads together.

In that moment, you were him as much as he was you, a single mind in perfect balance. You saw everything he saw, felt everything he felt. The weight and lightness of the cosmos, the thousands of strings connecting him to his followers, the understanding of the final step for humanity.

The Glorious Evolution.

And with that, you came, body spasming uncontrollably against his. You fell into the crook of his neck in exhaustion, sobbing, wondering if you had just died in your prophet's arms. Far away, as if he was in another room, you heard his comforting voice shushing your whines, his long fingers caressing your cheek. He looked at you as if you were the one to be admired. Too much, it was all too much.

Perhaps an eternity had passed as you came back to your senses. Things felt tangible once more, corporal, the now cold feeling of your wetness drying on your inner thighs. There was a feeling of awkwardness, of embarrassment, and you hesitated between staying still or pulling him out of you. Were there proper steps to follow after something like this, or any steps at all?

“You didn't…” you commented, unsure what proper term to use to not seem crass.

You didn't cum. You didn't fill me.

“I am not certain that would still be biologically possible for me,” he answered with little emotion, seemingly neither bothered nor frustrated by that fact.

Even if he hadn't been linked to your mind, your disappointment would have been palpable. You had wanted him to experience some of the relief he had given you, to release all that could have troubled him inside you. You wanted to care for him.

Selfishly, perhaps, there had also been the want to carry your prophet's seed so no one would ever question who you belonged to.

“However, to the extent this body can still feel pleasure…” he continued, not missing a beat, otherworldly gaze deep in yours, “you took great care of me. Thank you.”

This time, you smiled.

You would never be a hero for Zaun, a revolutionary, a leader. But you would care for your prophet with every single breath your body would allow.

And there was nothing more important to you than that.

[solbaby7]

I love the idea of the drink menu for the requests! It's brilliant ✨️

Could I please get an Old Fashioned, salt rim, neat? Take your time 💋

[ “no, no, leave your clothes on for me.” + smut + az ]

thank you so much for the request and being patient with me 💕💕the vibe of this one is giving situationship that yearns to be more, been watching too much scandal🫣

-> BLURB BAR <-

��

You’d learned pretty early on in life that asking for forgiveness was better than begging for permission.

It was just easier, usually made things less complicated which is why you significantly downplay the importance of the dress purchase that had half a dozen seamstresses prattling about your bedchambers. One of them promptly shoos Azriel away once they notice him eyeing the divider you strip behind, ushering him up and out of the doorway. He’s adjusting his pants when the door shuts behind him, vividly recalling the glimpse all that tight fabric and the way it cinches at your waist, accentuating the full curves concealed beneath. It leaves him hungry; wanting—salivating like starved wolves that scavenge through the Middle for mere scraps.

“Hot date?”

Azriel’s brows furrow, still a little dizzy from the sight of you and your lingering scent; his body annoyingly attuned to your own. “No, why?”

Rhys lazily points in the direction of your room, eyes trained on the array of chilled whiskeys at the bar cart before him. “The dress she’s wearing is designer—exclusive; one of a kind. Need to book an appointment a year in advance as well as having a good word with the owner type exclusive.”

“So?”

“So,” Polished crystal clacks heavily against metal, one, two, three ice cubes fall inside before a hefty pour of some smoky whiskey that’s been sitting around longer than you’d been alive. “They don’t sell a single dress without taking specific measurements for alterations, making multiple appointments for fittings.” The lack of response makes Rhys turn, fingers brushing at the crease in his dress shirt as he takes his brother in. Hazel eyes are clouded with curiosity, a million possibilities being pinned up on a board as the hunter within him collects pieces of a puzzle. “My point is, no male in his right mind lets the woman he wants go out in a dress like that without having some sort of claim on her first.”

Suddenly, it makes sense why people of power are urged to be of sound mind; to have a level head so that advice like that didn’t send one into a spiral.

Azriel quickly learns that he is not of sound mind. A harsh truth that he realizes seconds after Rhys leaves him alone to settle with those words. They echo in his brain, repeating in his mind like some curse that’s dead set on haunting him.

Sure, the two of you hadn’t exactly put a title on all the secret moments spent scuffling off to some dark corner for a few frenzied kisses. The times where group nights at Rita’s leaves two bodies disappearing out back for his hands to hike up some skimpy dress enough to get a good grip of your ass. But that alone had to count for something at least, didn’t it?

No way some other male would get the chance to see you how Azriel did, right? His hands twitch at the uncertainty—jealousy lighting a fire in his ass that has him bee-lining it to your room like he fucking owns the place.

It’s almost comical, the way your door bounces off the wall under the pressure of his palm once he’s finally reached it. Too bad he’s too honed in on his target to take in the true humor of six attentive ladies shooting daggers at the towering interruption that keeps making your arms fidget or hips shift while they try to work. “Az?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, can it wait? They’re nearly finished with the—“

“No, I’m sorry. It needs to be now, it’s urgent.” Shadows are already following their masters will, urging the ladies out of the room and into the hall, the door shutting before their disgruntled words could breech the barrier. He turns, a speech brewing at the tip of his tongue but it all goes blank when he looks at you—really looks at you. “Wow, you look….wow.”

You preen under the attention, one arm holding up the bodice as you give him a spin. “I just knew when I saw it, it had to be mine.” There’s a few loose threads, buttons waiting in a little dish to the side to be sewn on properly but he gets the gist. Fully understands the intent of such fabrics when he sees it holding onto the shape of your curves. “Fits like a glove.”

“I can see that.” Grace is granted when you fully return to face the mirror, too entranced in the little details to even notice the way Azriel eats up the picture you paint. All soft lines and pretty shadows casted by the flickery golden light emitting from the candles you favor. Warm notes of vanilla and honeysuckle fill his nose and he commits every bit to memory; latching on to whatever he can of you. “A little skimpy for Starfall, don’t you think? Or is there a matching coat I’m not seeing?”

The cutting look you throw his way is felt through the reflective glass. “I’d never waste a dress like this on a familial event.” A neat brow raises as you carry on with your hair, hands holding it in a pony. Twisting it into a neat bun. Letting it all free and tousling it messily, lips pouting at the sexy bed head texture it creates.

“Then, what’s it for?”

“To get laid.”

Raw jealousy is injected into Azriel’s veins faster than he can even comprehend the attack. It shoots through his bloodstream, gobbling up all sensiblities while simultaneously planting seeds of doubt. Every inch of him goes rigid, lids narrowing and pupils dilating. Acid pools on his tongue, singeing through the words he speaks, “What gave you the impression that anyone else could touch you while you’re fucking me?”

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe, it’s the lack of exclusivity?” Mascara is brushed through your lashes. Lipgloss smeared across supple lips. “Or maybe it’s because I’m just too fucking pretty to be always second guessing why you won’t make a move already.”

A muscle ticks along his jaw, “I thought it was obvious enough that you and I—you belong to be.”

“Says who?” He abhors the way you laugh around your words. “Because, that conversation doesn’t ring a bell.”

Azriel’s shoulders shift, frustration lingering in his stance and you find yourself annoyingly attracted to the entitled way he begins to fill up the space of your room. Outside shoes sink into the soft plush of your rugs until he’s standing behind you, one finger flicking at your dress as if it were personally offending him. “Says me.”

A scoff passes glossy lips, a hand waving absently in his direction as if shooing off an insect. “Save the brutish male bullshit for a female who favors it. This dancing around your feelings thing is growing tiresome and borderline pathetic.”

You’ve gone too far.

The absence of his reply makes you sure of that. Too many seconds pass in silence, long enough for the mood to grow awkward. Lips part and close, the heat in Azriel’s stare too ambiguous to go off of.

Fingers fiddle with dainty gold rings held snug against your knuckle. “Az, I’m—“

“—In need of some clarification, it seems.” Every syllable comes out alarmingly even, forcing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand at attention. “Go to the bed and bend over.”

“…is this a joke?” You question over a tense laugh.

Not a single thing about him indicates so. “Does it feel like one?” He leaves no room for a response, jaw jutting out towards the bed. “Bend over.”

You swallow thickly, moving to comply while shimmying the dress down your torso.

“No.” Azriel’s voice cuts through like an arrow through the night, shadows curling around the curve of your shoulder, teasing through your hair. Goosebumps kiss your flesh, neck craning as your body melts to mush under his attention. “Leave your clothes on for me. You spent so much money,” Every step he takes is as silent as a whisper; the only way you can tell he’s directly behind you is because of the foot that nudges between your ankles, widening your stance. “Let me appreciate it how it deserves, yeah?”

He’s not really asking for a response but you nod along either way.

Anticipation burns beneath your skin, warms your belly, makes toes curl in expensive shoes when you hear the shift of his clothes as he crouches down to his knees. Shadows hold up the hem of your dress, preventing you from seeing exactly what Az is doing, but your imagination fills in the blanks when you feel his breath against the back of your thighs. "Pretty," The muscles in your legs jump at his touch, cool fingertips trailing up your calves, squeezing at the thickness of upper thighs while running his thumb under the fat of your ass.

You get the feeling he isn't referring to the intricate lace detailing or near invisible line along the side that concealed the zipper running from hip to rib. Not when he spreads you open, a deep hum rumbling in his chest at the wet sound of your cunt separating beneath thin cotton.

“Now there’s a warm welcome,” A hooked finger peels it away, revealing bare sex and dripping arousal. Calloused skin dragging against a sensitive clit has your hips jumping at the sudden attention.

Teeth bite at supple lips, a moan crooning free as pleasure licks up your spine—it’s not enough. You shift from foot to foot, heels forcing a strain in your hamstrings while bent over in this position but Azriel doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. “Beating around the bush, as usual.” He’s perfectly content exploring around with your sex, circling around your clit and teasing his fingers into a warm hole that all but weeps in rejoice at the attention.

“Don’t rush me.” Your throat rolls with a thick swallow at the authority in his tone, brows pinched with pleasure as he works you open. “A male can spend all day tinkering away with his toys if that’s what he pleases. Don’t you agree?”

It should bother you more that Azriel plays fucking dirty.

He’s just daring you to deny him while he’s got you so exposed—so vulnerable. Fingers abusing at a sensitive spot that has your legs shaking and pelvis bulging a little at the intrusion. Arousal pools in his palm, fingers coaxing your mind to mush; pulverizing all the fight you have as he works you to your high.

“Yes!” You all but shout, back arching into the orgasm that washes over you. Incoherent little babbles follow, choppy encouragements and whispered pleas for reprieve but all Azriel can hear is ‘yesyesyes’ ‘yoursyoursyours’.

Someone of his own to covet. To kiss and love and fuck and ruin.

Something like satisfaction coats his cadence. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

[lol a lil bonus part i couldn’t make fit but refused to delete]

“Pathetic, hm?”

A satisfied grin spreads along flushed cheeks, hair messy and lipgloss smudged. “You do your best work when provoked.” Something like realization bleeds back into your eyes and in seconds you’re flailing from his arms, slipping off the mattress and using the discarded dress as coverage when you rush to the door.

There’s a few seams loose, string hanging out haphazardly and wrinkles all over but your smile is bright—damn near dopey when you drop a thick velvet bag in their palm. “Final payment plus tip—the dress is perfect.”

“It’s ruined!”

“Trust me,” Fabric whispers as it moves, legs shuffling to tuck your frame better behind the door. “It served its purpose.”

[our-trans-punk-experience]

THE BATTLE JACKET MASTERPOST

FINALLY PUNKS IT'S HERE

a battle jacket (also called battle vest, cut-off, punk jacket, patch jacket, and probably other stuff) is a jacket (duh) usually made from denim or leather with DIY additions of patches, studs, flags, painted panels, chains, and other bonuses, used to signify subculture. Punk, metal, and biker scenes all use patch jackets, but I'll only go into specifics about how they're used in the punk scene. Metalheads, I think, almost solely personalise with music/band shit. Bikers use them to signifying which club you're riding with. Punks started using them in the 70s and they've remained a staple of the subculture's style since. They're good for signalling your politics, bands you like, and other information you might want to get across. They also look cool.

HOW TO START

If you're here I assume you wanna learn how to make your own so I'll cut the history lesson short and get on to the practicals.

1: first you're going to want to get a plain jacket, probably denim or leather, but you could get a canvas jacket if you're nervous and new to the scene because it's way easier to stitch canvas, so you could experiment with that as you're building confidence. The jacket should be at least a bit oversized because with all the stitching and painting or whatever you'll be doing, you could run into fit issues with a very form fitting jacket. also, this jacket might frequently be worn over other jackets or layers so that will help with that too

2: start making choices. namely whether you want to keep the sleeves. obviously you can remove or reattatch the sleeves later but I think making that big mod first is a good starting point to help you feel like it's a work in progress. so if you're going to chop the sleeves I say do it now

3: brainstorm. I know, I know, coming up with your own ideas is hard, but this is your own totally literally unique piece, so think about what sorta look you want

4: you don't have to brainstorm alone though. search tumblr or pinterest for punk jackets, punk patches, punk clothes ect for inspiration. you might get a good idea for an individual patch, or for a broader layout

PATCHES

1: the big deal. this is what will make your jacket into a battle jacket. there are some unofficial rules/sayings in the scene about what sort of patches you should put on your jacket. some people get dickish sometimes about if you put a non-punk band on your jacket? however i think that is bollocks and you should do whatever you want forever. one saying i do personally mostly stick to is "politics up front, bands on the back" with the idea you stick your politics on your front so you can see the punches coming

2: where do you get the patches? you make them yourself. You can buy ofc but don't get shit off amazon or shein or whatever the fuck. If your fav band or small artist is selling patches go for it though. You will have the most choice if you make your own patches. Do you have scrap fabric (maybe the sleeves of the jacket, which is where i got a lot of my patch material)? Do you have paint and paintbrush? good. you can make a patch

3: how do you do that? well depends on whether you stencil or freehand. stencil means you cut out an outline, of say a band logo, out of card, and use that as a stencil. freehand means you paint whatever tf you like

4: paint?? yes paint. messy as you like. start maybe with simple slogans or symbols often found in the punk scene like "ACAB" or "eat the rich". maybe an anarchy symbol. i also like to paint a layer of mod podge over my designs to waterproof them.

5: great, you've got a patch, what are you going to do with it? sew it onto the jacket. unless ofc you bought an iron-on in step 2, in which case iron that shit on and be careful punks. most likely though, you're sewing it on. a lot of punks use tooth floss to sew on because its cheaper, easier to find, readily waxed and waterproof, and does a better job sewing shit down onto heavy duty material like leather or denim. I use a combined running stitch and whip stitch personally

STUDS n SPIKES

1: all those punks you've seen have metal sticking out their jacket eh? yeah, theres a whole lot of options here. spikes of many different sizes and shapes, which within that can be stitch on, screwback, or have fold down prongs on the back of them

2: where do you put them? probably the front or top of the jacket. you can put them on the back but that might be uncomfortable, or rip up someone's upholstery

3: where do you get them? you can still DIY these by cutting up a metal drinks can [whole other post] but BE CAREFUL. i suggest checking out the internet for these, same buying rules as patches though. no shein. no amazon.

OTHER SHIT??

1: go wild

2: other common additions would be chains, lighter caps, badges, and can tabs

HAVE FUN PLS ASK ME QUESTIONS AND SHARE IF YOU START A BATTLE JACKET

[directdogman]

What kind of class would the cast of Dialtown be in DnD? (Ie, Druid, Rouge, Paladin… etc)

Oh, I did a whole DnD Dialtown thing ages ago that conveniently mentions some classes in it with some rewritten backstories for the characters in this new universe. I'll paste it below (preamble is important for the character descriptions, so sorry for the lore:)

The story is set in a fictional landmass, with parts of it based on a fucked up Alaska, parts resembling the Swiss Alps, a desert zone and nuked carnival wastes. In the present era, an evil empire rules over the whole map, ran by an evil necromancer, Callum Crown. Him and his partner, Milton, took over the entire continent in a bloody conquest together that ended with Crown dropping an arcane nuke on the clown territory, ending the war, but turning Milt against him, leading to a civil war, in which Crown destroyed Milt.

Crown has a phone head made from scraps of the metals of the heroes who've failed to vanquish him, and has a lich body, which he reinforces with the same metal he used to build his head, gaining a gradual suit of armor in order to stop himself from physically falling apart. He has a powerful arcane gauntlet which he uses to cast devastating spells. His undead empire sells death to people with a snazzy sales pitch. Basically, you sign a waiver that gives you benefits within his empire while you're alive, but once you die, your corpse is resurrected to serve Crown until your remains degrade beyond use.

The plot of the game is that Crown is trying to unravel reality to remove an ancient arcane law of magic from the fabric of reality as old as life itself: necromancy cannot resurrect a life that has taken itself. Crown, despite presiding over the whole world and everything in it, cannot bear the loss of his friend, Milt, who he beat in the civil war, which ended with Milt drinking poison before Crown could reach his throne room in the final assault of milt's base.

Crown would tell you that he wishes to resurrect Milt so he can finally have Milt answer for his betrayal, but in reality, he just really misses Milt. To revive Milt, because he specifically took his own life, would require the fabric of reality be altered... something that could potentially end the world. Gingi is a non-human monster (not considered a person, starts the game as a low level enemy) who gets caught up in a complex socioeconomic conflict/conspiracy by being in the wrong place at the wrong time and has to travel with a band of companions in order to resolve the conflict and eventually, once powerful entities begin to take notice of you, in order to survive.

The plot involves Crown's pursuit of the final piece of the puzzle: gaining the ability to rewrite universal law, and eventually, Gingi either has to choose to help him achieve this power, prevent the power from being accessed by anyone, or taking it and using it however they decide to. Basically, Crown wants to rewrite universal law because he can't accept that he owns everything, is all powerful, but cannot revive one specific person.

Now onto the companions with classes mentioned:

Randy Jade: You meet him in one of the cities in Crown's empire. He approaches you to ask you for a cigarette, and if you give him one, he then asks you for a lighter too. He explains that he had a string of jobs in Crown's empire, but kept screwing them up and getting fired, and at this point, he's stealing to eat.

If you recruit him, Randy will fight for you. Randy's a rogue, uses small blades (starting item are some house keys he found poking out through his knuckle), he's a glass cannon (good DPS, low health) and is politically neutral.

Oliver Swift: He's a traveling bard/performer who's going on a journey to raise enough money so his old mentor, Mr Dickens, can gift a sword to a young hero in his village and order him to go forth and vanquish Callum Crown (a yearly tradition for the village that always ends with crown getting another scrap of metal for his head/armor)

If you agree to give him a share of the loot to send home, he will join the party. He attacks with blunt weapons (metal lute, wrench). Ironically, despite Randy being the rogue, Oliver has the better lockpicking skill. Politically, he dislikes Crown, and without a high speech skill, will leave the party if you align with Crown.

Karen Dunn: A bureaucrat in Crown's empire. A talented mage, she works in Crown's deathdealers headquarters. She's the person at the line for mages looking to sell their souls to Crown. She really doesn't care for this job, allowing the player to convince her to ditch it + join the party. Karen uses fire magic offensively but starts with a few healing spells too.

Karen is politically neutral, though she has a personal distaste for Crown's empire as an employer.

Bigfoot: Can be admitted into the party. He's a melee tank, but has a few forest magic spells that buff himself and other party members, giving him support capabilities. Bigfoot will become frightened and leave the party during some cutscenes when loud noises/conflict occurs, if you do not equip earmuffs onto him.

Norm Allen: A former sheriff (now fugitive) in the annexed desert territory. Formerly an avid supporter of the order that Crown brought, and one of Crown's enforcers in his home town of [desert zone], Norm is hellbent on putting a bullet in Crown's head and dismantling his empire.

If you become friendly with Norm, you find out that the thing that Norm specifically bolted from Crown over... was the overreach of justice, and selling tyranny to his people as justice. Norm's a tank. His defense stat is middling, but his attack accuracy is locked at 100%, which is valuable in bad weather conditions or if the team gets blinded.

Norm will turn on the player if they do anything BUT prevent universal power from entering anyone's hands.

Mingus: Mingus is Crown's key enforcer/assassin. At the start of the game, she's trying to track down and execute Norm for betraying Crown, and as the plot progresses, eventually targets the player.

A stealthy cat woman, she strikes from the shadows, always, and usually after wetting the tips of her claws with a devastating poison. The poison she uses has no known antidote.

Politically, she's a fanatic, found abandoned as a kitten by Callum Crown many cycles ago. While Crown is cold with her, speaking to her like a tool, he keeps her in his service with his false promise to rewrite reality so other people like Mingus and to erase her abandonment from the timeline. Mingus secretly pines for his approval/kindness above all else, believing that helping Crown achieve her goals is the only way she'll ever feel loved. She's a potential late-game companion, being recruitable during the lategame, if you're doing Crown's ending.

There's more, but that's the gist of it. Hope this was interesting!

[revelboo]

REVEL BOO! PLEASE POST ANOTHER CHAPTER IF AOK WITH BLURR! AND MY LIFE IS YOOOOUUUURS!!!

Well, alright then

Fighting my deplorable impulse control because I really want to assemble these, but also realize they’re limited editions and some of the singles are already selling for around $40 but…. Shiny Starscream…

A-Ok Pt 3

TFA Blurr x Reader

• Helmet bouncing and rolling away on the concrete, he stares at the limp form in his servos. Did you just die? Had known humans were delicate, but this i I s ridiculous. Shifting you to one hand and catching your face to tip it up, he can feel a pulse in your throat. Seem to be breathing, too. Good. Just offline and helpless. “Scrap.” Would you be okay if he just leaves you here? Somehow he doubts it. Shoulders slumping, he turns in a fidgety circle, not sure if he’s looking for another human to pawn you off on, but giving up, he hefts you over a shoulder and takes off.

• Motions blurring as he streaks through alleys, hits a wall and propels himself up, that giddy sense of freedom spreads through him. Momentarily going airborne, a hand on you to keep you in place when his peds hit the roof of the brick building and he’s moving again. Carrying you to the abandoned warehouse he’d claimed as his own base of operations. Hating that he’s going to now blow that secret, too. Slipping in through the hole in the roof of the old structure, he grabs you and sets you on the crude berth he’d cobbled together from scavenged metal. The space fine for him, he can rest anywhere, but looking at your limp form, he’s realizing how inadequate the building is as a shelter. The floor strewn with litter and leaves that had blown in from the broken windows fronting the building before he’d blocked them for privacy. Needless to say the roof leaks and there’s no heat. Fine for him, but for you? No. It’s not like you’re staying. You’re gone as soon as you’re awake. No longer his problem.

• Cold, you curl into yourself and a faint muttering draws your head up. That’s right. Zippy. The wreck. Muzzily watching the blue bot pacing around the unfamiliar building you’re in, you shudder as his movements edge into an uncanny speed. Blurring almost nauseatingly. “Chill, Zippy. You’re making my headache worse.” Mouth dry, you slowly sit up and he stops pacing. But doesn’t stop moving, big hands shifting and servos flexing like he’s holding a conversation with himself in his head. Like he can’t be still. “Where are we?”

• “I thought maybe you’d died,” he mutters, ped sliding slightly as he shifts his weight and drifts to where you’re sitting up on his berth, head in your hands. “You just broke.” Remembering the unsettling way you’d just gone boneless and collapsed. You arch your brows at him as he shudders, grimacing. Hands lifting and falling away shy of touching you. Making himself back away as you watch him. Because handling you? Big mistake. Do humans imprint? What if he can’t get rid of you now? If he’s not alone?

• “Sorry to disappoint you, but humans are pretty hard to kill.” You say, knowing that compared to him, that’s a lie. You’re not metal, only soft flesh. Ridiculously easy to kill, but he sounds almost upset about you ‘breaking’ on him. Best you can figure, the adrenaline from the wreck crashed. Everything a bit fuzzy. Leaning out to realize you’re higher up than you want to try and jump down from, you look at him expectantly. “A little help, Zippy?” When he just stares at you, you sigh and hold out your arms like a toddler asking to be picked up. “If I jump, I might actually break.”

Previous

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[sorcererofsolitude]

15 years in the future, Wenclair's eldest child just lost her first baby tooth. There seems to be some disagreement between them over the proper custom to celebrate the occasion...

Wednesday: How thrilling, her first baby tooth came out! Add it to my bone collection, and I'll get the scorpion.

Enid, stopping in her tracks: Uh... the scorpion?

Wednesday: Of course, she deserves a reward for parting with a small piece of her body, after all. We can put it under her pillow when she falls asleep.

Enid: Wens, you are NOT about to traumatize our child!

Wednesday: Nonsense! My mother and father rewarded me with a small creature every time I lost a baby tooth, and I turned out just fine.

Enid, raising an eyebrow: ...

Wednesday: Spare me your skeptical gaze. Since you seem so against my idea, what do you have in mind?

Enid, looking exasperated: You put a dollar under her pillow like every other parent does!

Wednesday, crossing her arms: A dollar? That's it? You could sell scrap metal for more! Does the tooth fairy not adjust for inflation?? That's practically an insult!

Enid: Okay... you have a point.

They compromise and place a crisp $20 bill under their daughter's pillow, along with a small picture book titled "My First Poisoned Arrow"

AO3: SorcererOfSolitude

[libraford]

Okay!

So plastics! I took a deep dive into recycling HDPE plastics this winter because my seasonal job at the parks ended and because I knew there wasn't going to be much that I could do while I was recovering from surgery.

I'm going to talk about the process a little bit. Its not really a tutorial so much as it is just showing you the thing. The steps are uncomplicated, but they can be time consuming and there are MANY, with a high rate of failure. The good thing about the failure rate is that if you screw something up you can just melt it back down and try again.

I have been jokingly calling the processed material Amirite because once you melt it down enough times it looks like an agate. I made a separate blog about it: @adventures-in-amirite

But this process actually starts WAY back in June. As a parks person, one of our main annoyances is the amount of bottles (water, gatorade, powerade, PRIME, BodyArmor... whatever the Big American Energy Drink is right now) that get left overnight on weekends from people playing sports in our fields. 178 trash public trash cans in the city and they just leave them on the fucking ground.

When something unavoidable annoys me, I make it into a game. I learned that bottle caps are made from HDPE and LDPE plastics, which can be melted over and over again with household heating implements. So I started collecting them!

And I collected well over 300 caps over the summer. When I say it was a PROBLEM.

My seasonal job ended, which freed up a lot of time for me to experiment.

First thing I had to do was clean them.

Soak it in a mix of white vinegar and water or soap and water. Rinse, use a pressure setting on your faucet if you have one. Then let dry.

The next step is to sort all the caps into similar colors. After they're sorted, I melt all the similar colors together into a flat sheet using a panini press and parchment paper. My goal is to get the material thin enough to put it through a guitar pick punch. I like the shape of guitar picks.

I am doing it this way because this means that I can have usable thin blanks of pure color.

Any scraps smaller than the guitar pick are cut up and sorted by color into 'frit,' which is a word I'm stealing from glassworking.

Now here is where it gets fun.

I pick some colors I want to work with in both frit and guitar pick blanks and I throw them on the press to melt them together into a big multicolored slab.

Let it cool.

Here's the high failure rate part.

I put down a silicone mold. I put the colored slab on top. I put parchment paper on top. I put it in the press. I let it melt.

I try to flatten it as much as possible to fit the mold. Use a bottle, a rolling pin, a spatula.

I still get bubbles and voids when I demold. I've decided to embrace that and use rub n buff to make fill the voids with metallic colors. Still working through the kinks in the process, but I think these look cool enough.

All the scraps go back into the bin to be re-processed. It makes a kind of agate texture that's really cool, and that's what I used in that last photo.

Anyways! Applications are limited but I'm having fun experimenting with it. Hoping to approach some shops about it and sell a few, maybe do some shows this summer.

Anyways, that's how my post-op has been going.

[maeby-cursed]

➴ OH, STUPID CUPID ! ♡

✧ a/n: happy valentine's, dear angels ! ♡

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day.

Why would he, after all? It’s merely a capitalist ploy to keep the consumerism engines turning. You can disguise greed in glittery pink polish and white chocolate bonbons but at its core, it won't change its nature.

And so, he spends St. Valentine’s like he would any other day; gets up at dawn, works until his hands are peeled and his back aches and gets home to eat whatever he has left over. 

It’s a good routine, the most stable one he’s found for himself in years. 

He can't recall a time where the fourteenth of February meant anything at all. 

(Except for that one year that it had.)

But he won't think of withered flowers or laughing kisses or other sweets that have since rotten in his memory. A woman, a child, an apartment downtown.

That is all long gone now. The apartment downtown had gotten expensive, and the child had grown older. The woman had gone long ago and there were no more flowers or kisses or laughter.

It’s all capitalism, it’s all vapid and stupid and childish.

So, Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. That is until you come along, knocking on his workshop’s door.

You’re obviously lost, mumbling an inquiry about how much you could get for selling a motorbike you keep referring to as "an old piece of garbage".

He can't help but snicker at your wording, a little chuckle that grows into a full chest laugh when he sees what you’ve dragged to his shop. It’s painfully obvious that this thing isn’t yours.

You keep holding the handlebars with careful hands, sparing few disgusted glances to the vehicle, as if its mere existence wounded you.

He asks how long you’ve had it, and where you got it, and how much you’d like to get. 

You answer back curtly: two years, your ex, nothing as long as you get rid of it.

You seem annoyed just by having to be there and for some unexplainable reason this amuses him to no end. Maybe being surrounded by car engines in a small workshop with no windows is starting to affect him.

“I’ll take it.”

You raise your gaze from the dusty headlight, shocked by his offer.

“You will?”

“Sure thing. You don’t want it, I could use some new parts, I’ll just scrap it.”

You let out a sigh, relieved, and all the tension dissipates from your shoulders.

“Oh, that… well, that would be great! Thank you.”

Your smile makes him stop in his tracks. Pretty and warm and familiar – something dangerous. His head travels back.

After a second that lasts forever, he acknowledges what you've said, grunting as his only response and getting back to the store with you in tow.

“Could I leave it with you now or…?"

“Bring it back next week, I don’t really have a place to put it right now, y’know?”

You look around the place. It’s full of buckets of paint and car parts, no decor but stacks upon stacks of metallic shelves full of objects you can’t recognize. You chuckle awkwardly, seemingly in a better mood after the compromise you've arranged.

“Right, uhm… Actually, I'm not here next week, could I come back tomorrow?”

Toji turns back to stare at you, and for the first time, really sees you. You look young, probably in your mid-twenties, of bright eyes and shiny hair, and that pretty smile that keeps fluttering over your lips. 

He hasn’t done this in a long time… But maybe…

“I close at 10pm today, why don’t you come back then?” he says, closing his fists to stop them from sweating.

Your wondering eyes freeze on him then, and your lips part slightly. He just can't stop staring.  

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t you have any plans?” you ask, shyly.

“I don’t believe in that crap.”

Shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

“Oh,” you whisper. You're still grinning up at him, but your expression has lost its warmth, instead replaced by a polite awkwardness and doubtful gaze, and now he's kicking himself in his head.

“Sorry, did that bother you?” he asks, hiding his guilt with a smirk.

“No, not at all!" You laugh, playing with your hands. "I… just, I don’t mind it, I guess.

"I know it's not even a real holiday and that it's merely a product of capitalism, and that it’s all about sales and consumerism and all of that, but… I find it nice, you know? Having a day to be with the people you love…" You look around his shop once, before giving him a shy stare. "It’s sappy, I know.” You end with a shrug, your ears flushed.

Toji doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just breathes and takes it in. 

Oh, he’s grown bitter, hasn’t he? Old and sour. 

His son is out there right now buying flowers with his friends, his coworker is on a date at a fancy place, his one and only friend is buying chocolates for his wife… And he’s here at 5pm, with his hands dirty and his neck sweaty and the prettiest woman he’s seen in a long time in front of him, with no plans for tonight and a lovely smile hidden by a familiar sort of nervousness.

What is wrong with him? Is he truly that fucking stubborn? Can't he deal with a bit of pink?

He’ll admit that he's never minded the chocolates and the roses – even if they aren’t his favorite – and that he always laughs at the cherubs and the cheesy postcards. Of course, he won't talk about how he still hums old 50s songs while he works or how he indulges in a bit of dessert when February rolls around, though.

But he knows. He's always known.

So, maybe it’s not all about the money. Maybe it’s more about being accompanied for once since he was twenty three and alone. Maybe it’s more about taking a shot at getting something good back.

Maybe it's not all capitalism, not all vapid and stupid and childish.

“Yeah… I guess it’s not all that bad.”

“I do like it… sometimes,” you finish, as if completing his train of thought. This hasn't happened to him in a long time. "I’ll be back tonight then…?”

He recovers quickly, smirking briefly before turning to clean his hands with a rag.

“Sure, at 10pm," he says, over his shoulder.

You laugh, cheerful once more, and begin walking to the door.

“It’s a date!”

And, God, he really hopes it can be, if only because it’s Valentine’s Day.

© 2024, MAEBY-CURSED — do not copy/repost/edit.

[sergeantxrogers]

The Space Between - 1

"You have enough blood on your hands that not even four lifetimes of atonement could wipe off, Barnes."

He stared at you, blue eyes critical and assessing. "Funny."

"What?" you snapped.

"Funny how you think I'm not aware."

The US Secretary of State, backed by the government, has given James Buchanan Barnes an ultimatum: spend the rest of his old, unnaturally prolonged life behind bars, being poked and prodded and tested on, or be pardoned of all charges of treason, mass murder, kidnapping, blackmail, property damage, terrorism, torture, abuse, breaking and entering, and stalking (just to name a few), on one condition: he's to live with someone who the US government deems credible and fit enough to keep him on the right path. Obviously, he chose option number two. Just his luck that the credible person assigned was none other than Tony Stark. And double that luck with you, Tony's younger sister, in the equation. As if the guilt wasn't already eating away at his soul enough.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!reader

Chapter word count: 4.5k

Chapter warnings: Swearing, mentions of minor character death, hostility, mixed feelings, angst

series masterlist | main masterlist

If there was anything Tony Stark prided himself on more than his money and his good looks, it was his genius brain. The genius brain that built an empire up from nothing, that used scraps and heaps of metal to create things the world had previously only dreamt of, the brain that earned him PhDs in physics, mechanical engineering and electrical engineering.

That same brain was the one that brought Avengers compound to life, of course, with copious amounts of help and advice from one Pepper Potts. Yet that same, genius brain was the one that decided the layout, how to maximize the size of the compound to its fullest potential, how to best make the entire place seem even bigger than it already was with an open-floor plan throughout most of it.

Right now, however, that maximized open-floor layout seemed to be the bane of his existence, fueled by the loud echoes and hysterical shrieks filling the main living area as you yelled at him. And yelled. And yelled. And yelled.

And now, Tony's big, brilliant brain was at risk of detonating.

"There's no way in hell I'm gonna be sleeping under the same fucking roof as that - that murderer!" you seethed, fists clenching and unclenching as you paced in front of your brother, trying to collect yourself and failing.

Tony sighed, pulling his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He leaned forward, throwing them on the table, and rested his elbows on his knees. "It's not like you have a choice-"

"I should have a choice! Who the hell does Ross think he is, shoving a problem like that into our lives - into our home - with no regard for our feelings or our safety?"

"He's the Secretary of State, and our feelings matter very little to people like him when they have different things to take into consideration."

"Yeah? Things like what?" you asked, hands on your hips.

Tony's voice rose steadily, parallel to yours, and you could tell he was nearing his breaking point but trying to put it off. "Oh, I don't know, maybe things like the safety of the entire country. Things like not having a pardoned criminal fresh from HYDRA's refrigerator roaming around the city however he pleases."

"So we're being punished? Is that it? Did you do something to piss him off-"

"No, I didn't." He hesitated.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "What aren't you telling me?"

Tony sighed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. You waited, watching him.

"A few years back, before you moved back to New York, I had... a phase..."

You blinked at him. Your jaw ticked.

"What kind of phase, Anthony?"

"Well, it wasn't a phase so much as it was a hobby of sorts."

"Spit it out or I swear-"

"I spent a couple years making and selling weapons... illegally," he muttered.

You froze.

Tony looked up at you sheepishly, and scrambled to continue. "I didn't know it was illegal at the time! I only found out later, and then I cut off all ties and broke off every contract I had with those contacts. However, dear Secretary Ross has his fingers in every pie imaginable, so when he came to me and told me I had to take in Barnes, I sort of didn't have a choice."

A heavy sigh escaped your lungs, and you moved over to collapse onto the couch next to him. "So, basically he blackmailed you."

"He liked to think of it more like a favor: he's allowing me to take in Barnes, and in doing so, he'll strike every illegal job I've ever done off the records and keep me out of jail."

He leaned back to match your position, and the two of you sat side by side, staring up at the high ceiling. Silence surrounded you for a few minutes as you were both thrown deep into thought. Then, Tony broke it in a soft, tired tone.

"Trust me, I don't like it either. If I had any say in the matter, Barnes would be anywhere but here. But now all we can do is weather the storm together."

He twisted his head to look at you, and you did the same. You couldn't help the tears gathering in your eyes as you let out another sigh, this one defeated and resigned.

"I suppose you're right," you whispered, and you felt him grab your hand and squeeze it tightly, once, twice.

And then, in true Tony fashion, he ruined the moment: "And wipe your tears before someone gets here. You always were ugly when you cried."

He ran off with a smirk on his face before you had the chance to throw something at his head.

Bucky Barnes stood with all of his possessions and belongings packed tight in a small navy backpack, thrown over his shoulder just as haphazardly as the baseball cap on his head. He stared up at the looming building above him, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his anxiety from skyrocketing. Better than prison, he thought to himself as he followed his five assigned agents through the large entrance of the Avengers compound and headquarters.

Personally, he thought five highly skilled and trained agents for one of him was a bit of an overkill, but then again, what did he know about government business. If it made everyone else feel safe, he was more than happy to comply. These days, confrontation was the last thing on his mind.

One of the agents, a tall man with broad shoulders and a shiny bald head, turned around to face Bucky. His hands clasped in front of him, he cleared his throat.

"This is as far as we go."

"What?"

"Unfortunately, we're not authorized to go any further, or step foot into the compound. Mr. Stark still has some say in the matter, it seems."

Bucky took in a deep breath through his nostrils, then nodded. The agents turned to leave, falling into a single file line as they passed by him and went in the direction they came from, towards the two black vans waiting for them. He watched them go, jaw clenched and hand squeezing the strap of his backpack.

His ears picked up on a sound. A low, vibrational sort of hum, so faint he doubted he would've heard it if his hearing wasn't advanced. The hum grew closer, behind him, until it came to a stop. And Bucky knew someone was standing at the entrance behind him.

Turning slowly, his eyes followed the ground until they landed on a pair of bare feet - or, at least something that looked like feet. If feet were normally red, then yes, these would be considered feet. His brows ticking slightly in confusion, Bucky's eyes travelled up khaki pant legs and a torso clad in a black sweater, before finally landing on a face. A red face, seemingly without imperfections, with bright eyes that stared at him so intently and uncannily that Bucky subconsciously shifted in place.

"Hello," the man - robot, person - spoke. Bucky said nothing.

"Sergeant Barnes," the robot continued, voice steady and clear. "We have been expecting you."

Bucky almost scoffed at the sentence. Expecting him, as if he was a guest, here of his own free will. As if he was wanted here.

"What are you?" he asked blankly. If the tone of the question bothered the creature, it didn't show. He merely tilted his head ever so slightly to the side as he studied Bucky.

"You may call me how everyone else does."

Bucky quirked a dark brow. "And that is...?"

"Vision."

The person - Vision - turned suddenly, and it was only then that Bucky noticed his feet were a few inches off the ground. He was floating, not standing. Vision motioned with his head for Bucky to follow, and then began floating his way down the large entry hall of the compound.

"What the hell," Bucky muttered under his breath as he fell into step behind him.

Vision led him down a hallway with high ceilings and windows instead of walls, the greenery from the forest and lake outside seeping in through the glass and giving the entire space a more natural feel. Bucky supposed, in any other circumstance, the sight would be quite relaxing. They passed by multiple doors on either side, the rooms behind them closed off and teasing Bucky's curiosity with their secrecy. At last, they reached some sort of bridge structure, closed off on all sides, and as Bucky walked down it, his boots left hollow thumps with each step he took. The end of the bridge flared out into four large, wide stairs, and beyond those stairs, a magnificent sight greeted Bucky.

He slowed as he descended the steps, looking straight ahead in poorly-concealed awe. The main living area of the Avengers facility was gigantic, with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling glass windows on every side, letting in sunlight and a slight breeze from the nearby lake. Everything was sleek, modern, expensive and definitely made Bucky feel as if he stuck out like a sore thumb. The couches were white, the rugs were white, the furniture was dark mahogany, the chandeliers were large and shiny, the technology was more than he could take in. Everything was clean, bright and new, and it only amplified Bucky's feeling of being too dark, too broken, too out of place wherever he went.

His eyes travelled up, glancing at the second floor landing, the bars of the balcony wrapping around the entire area. Every single little thing was out in the open. It made him squirm.

Bucky had almost forgotten Vision was there, staring at him patiently, waiting for Bucky to take in his fill, until he spoke and broke the semi-trance he had found himself in.

"You may have a seat. Mr. Stark will be here shortly," Vision said politely, waving an elegant hand towards the sitting area. Bucky nodded mutely and, as if on auto-pilot, felt his feet carry him to the couch Vision had guided him to.

Bucky opened his mouth to say something, anything, but was interrupted by a harsh, female voice.

"Thank you, Vis. I'll take it from here."

Bucky's brows furrowed as he tried to pinpoint the origin of the voice, and his eyes scanned the area until they landed on you, standing right above him on the second floor landing, hands resting on the railing. Your eyes were already focused on him, narrowed and intense, and he narrowed his in response. Some deep instinct told him yours was not a friendly face.

Vision nodded, hesitating only a moment as he looked between the two of you, then floated off through the wall behind him. Bucky tried not to let that weird fact distract him as he watched you circle around, one hand never leaving the railing, towards the side and down the spiraling staircase.

You made your way over to him, and the tension in your body called out to the tension in his own, preparing him for a fight or a risk. He felt on edge, vulnerable in his seated position as you reached him and stood in front him him, arms crossed and glaring.

"I know what you are," you said, and Bucky's brows furrowed imperceptibly.

"Wh-"

"I know what you are, Barnes. I know what you've done, and how much of it you've done, and you're kidding yourself if you think there's any amount of community service, court-mandated therapy and apologies that'll change that."

Bucky stayed silent, but got to his feet, bringing him even closer to you. Now, your faces were inches apart, and you no longer had the advantage of height. He stood a head taller than you, making you crane your neck to keep your eye contact. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, not faltering, not backing down, as he mimicked your stance and crossed his arms.

"And what, exactly, am I?" he said lowly into the space between you.

You steadied your breathing, and clenched your jaw to keep your gaze from falling to his lips as he spoke. "A murderer. A cold-blooded killer who finds enjoyment in other people's pain and grief. That's what you are, and nobody on this God-given planet can convince me otherwise."

You stepped closer, closing the gap between you even more, until only an inch separated your angry eyes and flaring nostrils, and your next words came out in a whisper.

"I see right through you, Barnes. You can't fool me."

Before Bucky could react and do something he would've most likely regretted, a cough brought your attention to the railing where you had stood moments before.

"Barnes," Tony Stark said as he scratched the back of his neck with a wince. "I see you've met my sister."

Those words washed over Bucky like a bucket of ice water, and his eyes found yours again as he stepped back, almost stumbling. A maelstrom of emotion whipped around inside him; regret, fear, grief, pain, sorrow, anger, disbelief. All of them whirled and shot through his nerves, like fire in his veins as he took a deep breath to try to calm himself and seem more composed than he felt.

"I didn't know there was a sister," he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. Of course there was a sister. Of course the universe liked to make Bucky's life hell even more than it already was. Of course fate would find a way to amplify Bucky's grief and regret tenfold. As if he didn't already despise himself enough, standing before him, looking at him with eyes that he now recognized as hurt, was another reason to hate himself. Another person whose life he ruined even as he tried his very hardest not to and still failed. Another person who had every right to say and do whatever they pleased to him, because he deserved it, for taking away something so precious and something so irreplaceable: your parents.

Tony sighed heavily as he came down the stairs you had descended minutes before. "Yeah, she's a real ray of sunshine."

"Fuck you, Tony," you snapped, eyes still glaring at Bucky.

You watched him, carefully. You saw the exact moment the realization and recognition flared behind his eyes, even though he tried to hide them. You saw the feelings rippling beneath the surface, locked away. And you couldn't help but feel happy about it. You hoped it hurt. You hoped it burned him as much as it burned you your entire fucking life. You hoped he would waste away in his misery. It wouldn't bring your parents back, but it would be something.

"Smalls..."

You inhaled sharply through your nose at the nickname, and shot Tony a look. "Don't."

"Please, just - just go. There's no reason for you to be here right now," Tony said, eyes pleading and sending messages he hoped you would receive.

"There's no reason for him to be here, either," you said sharply, jerking your chin at Bucky. "Yet, here he is. Standing in my living room. Free."

"Not free," Tony amended, stepping towards you and grabbing your shoulders gently. "And definitely not your living room. It's my living room, and I, of course, am just being a good brother and letting you mooch off me and my money."

You rolled your eyes and tore them away from Bucky, who was standing silent and still as a statue, eyes flickering between you and your sibling. You looked up at Tony, and softened slightly when you saw the truth behind his sarcastic attitude: it wasn't easy for him either. In fact, it was tearing him apart inside, but you had both already come to the conclusion that there was no other choice.

Tony stepped to the side ever so slightly, effectively blocking your view of the man standing behind him, and shook your arms softly. "Please, go upstairs. You'll only make it worse if you stay here, for everyone involved, and that includes you."

His words were whispered into the air, and you bit your cheek but nodded. He placed a kiss to your forehead before letting you go, and wordlessly, you retreated back up the stairs, not bothering to spare Barnes a second glance. You felt, however, the weight of his stare on your back right up until the moment you rounded the corner of the upper hallway and left his sight. And you felt it branding your skin long after you slammed your bedroom door shut behind you.

You hated him. You hated him and his stupid blue eyes that intimidated you when you stood too close, you hated the slope of his mouth that twitched when he decided not to say something. You hated those stupid leather gloves under which you knew a metal arm was hidden; a metal arm that caused so much pain and strife, and it was now living under the same roof as you.

You hated the fear you felt in his presence, something visceral and innate, rooted deep in your bones, as if every molecule of your DNA was singing the same song: danger, danger, danger.

Because, at the end of the day, that's exactly what Barnes was: dangerous. Highly skilled, highly trained, every single pore seeping with the energy of threat and peril, as if he's always ready to attack at a moment's notice. And he probably was. His ledger was dripping, and no amount of walls or security or reassurance from Tony was going to make you feel safe sleeping at night with someone like him in the same vicinity.

You let out a frustrated sigh that sounded more like a growl, throwing yourself onto your bed. When you felt tears stinging your eyes and the familiar tickle in the back of your throat, you shoved your face into your pillow and let out a long scream. You had no idea how you were going to survive living with your mother and father's murderer. You only prayed for the strength not to go insane.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

A gasp clawed its way up Bucky's throat as he shot up off the floor, scattering his pillow and blanket across the linoleum floors.

"Fuck," he whispered, running a hand through his hair, now sweaty and sticking to the back of his neck. "Fuck."

He sat there for a long while, waiting for his breathing to go back to normal, for his chest to stop heaving and his lungs to stop burning, as he stared at a patch of moonlight illuminating the floor by the foot of the bed. Trying his very hardest not to think of the nightmare that had woken him from sleep, he shook his head and stood, wobbling slightly on his feet.

Bucky interlocked his fingers and held them on the back of his neck as he walked over to the large wall of windows in the room he was given. It was nice, quiet luxury spilling out in every corner, but it was nicer than he was used to, and nicer than he believed he deserved. The bed was too soft, the rug was too rich, the view was too beautiful, the floors were too shiny.

The windows in his room gave him a perfect view of the lake behind the compound, and the forest that stretched beyond it. He had no idea what time it was, but he could now see the gray tinge covering his surroundings, showing the very first signs of dawn about to break, the moon leaving and about to be replaced by the sun.

Mission report, December 16, 1991.

The night he took two lives, and ruined two more in the process.

You seemed young. Incredibly young, at least younger than Tony, and definitely younger than Bucky, and he couldn't help but wonder how old you were when you got the news that your parents had died in that crash. If his guess was correct, you were only a child, probably just starting school when your life was turned on its axis completely.

He shook out the tension in his arms and let out a heavy sigh. Bucky was certain that sleep was no longer in the picture for him, so he decided he may as well leave his room and explore his new living quarters before anyone else woke up.

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and the first shirt he could find, going to the bathroom and splashing his face with some cold water just to try and shake the remnants of his nightmare - no, memory - from his mind.

Leaving his room, his steps were quiet as he walked down the west wing, taking in the amount of doors and windows and opulent décor that Tony obviously had no problems spending his riches on. He made his way down the staircase, crossing the sitting area and heading over to the kitchen in the corner.

Bucky paused, realizing he had no idea where things were stored here, or how to use any of the fancy machines Tony had set up, so he decided on just a glass of water. Bringing it to his lips, he took a sip and leaned against the counter behind him, watching as the breaking dawn slowly but surely lit up the compound. This was the most peaceful part of the day, Bucky thought, where the world was still asleep but the planet was just waking up, calm, quiet and unbothered by human touch and sound.

He let his mind wander as he stared at a point somewhere in the distance. He thought back to his conversation with Tony just a few hours before, and involuntarily winced.

"Listen, Barnes," Tony turned to him as soon as your bedroom door slammed shut and echoed throughout the compound. "Just because I saved you from the wrath of my sister, doesn't mean I like the fact that your here, or that I even like you. If anything, I'm only tolerating your presence because a) I don't have much of a choice, and b) consider it a favor for Rogers. Capsicle owes me a lot, but I owe him that much and then some."

Bucky's brows furrowed. "You spoke to Steve?"

"Of course. What, you think because we had a little skirmish, almost killed each other, then went our separate ways, we can't keep in touch? Be serious, Barnes."

"He - Steve knows I'm here?"

"Yep. Don't get your hopes up too much. He won't be visiting in a long while, since he's off God knows where with Natasha and Wilson, doing off-record crime fighting and do-gooding."

Bucky couldn't ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in his chest at that - he had hoped Steve's presence would act as a calming balm on his soul, maybe even help him transition into a regular life.

"Anyways, that's not the point. The point is, I'll be keeping an eye on you. This isn't going to be some sort of vacation for you, so you can relax and lounge about away from the press and prying eyes. You better watch how you act because I swear to God, Barnes, one wrong move and I'll have bullets raining into your body from every corner of this goddamn house. You'd be dead before you could blink."

Bucky sighed and finished off his water, turning to put the glass in the sink, when movement caught his eye.

In the faint first light of the morning, the soft sunrise made you seem to glow as you made your way carefully down the stairs, making as little noise as possible. Bucky stayed quiet and perfectly still, realizing you hadn't noticed him standing there yet. His body and mind already reacted, sending him into overdrive, ready to fight or flee at the first sign of trouble from you, but he stayed still, eyes following you. They trailed up your legs, bare from the mid-thigh down, the soft light catching on them as you walked. The huge shirt that was hanging on your body seemed to be three sizes too big, and made you look shorter than you normally were.

A tired yawn escaped your lips, and as you rubbed an eye, you finally focused on the figure standing like a statue in the kitchen. You froze.

Your pulse accelerated, and you didn't know whether it was from anger, surprise, fear, or a strange mixture of all three. Your eyes locked with his, and you felt as if the blood in your veins slowed to a stop. Was this what loathing felt like? You were certain it was.

Bucky continued his quiet streak, waiting for you to say something or nothing at all. You seemed content to do the same.

You finally padded over to the kitchen, closing the gap between you, and stood on the other side of the island. You stared. Bucky stared back. You narrowed your eyes. Bucky raised a brow.

You broke the silence first.

"Already looking for an escape route?"

Bucky clenched his jaw. "How'd you know?"

You rolled your eyes.

Stepping around the island, you made a point of ignoring him as you reached into the fridge for something - what, exactly, you couldn't remember. Not with his gaze bearing into the side of your face like he could see right through you. You blinked at the contents of the fridge a couple times, before giving up. Closing it empty-handed, you turned your attention back to Barnes, who was still staring at you in silence.

"If you take a picture, it'll last longer."

That seemed to do the trick. Bucky scoffed, breaking his silent streak as he pushed off the counter. "Yeah, because I definitely want that."

He stepped away from you until the two of you were standing a few feet apart, and then swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided better of it, and closed it with a barely-there shake of his head. He seemed to scoff to himself, before turning on his heel without a last look at you, retreating back to his room. It was now your turn to watch his back has he left, staring at him until you could no longer see him, all the while trying to calm your anger and slow your breathing. His presence caused you to feel unbalanced, unstable and irrational. You hated it, and everything about him.

Up in his room, Bucky paced the floor by the windows, running his hands over his face as he calmed his breath. A hot flash shot through him as the voice from his nightmare echoed in his brain, however this time it was accompanied by the sight of your furious, grief-stricken eyes, and Bucky let out a frustrated growl.

It was only later, when the sun was high in the sky, reflecting off the lake, birds outside chirping and signs of life chiming through the world, that Bucky lied in his bed, staring at the ceiling, and realized he had no idea why you were up so early, too.

[dimlylittorch]

The Debt

part 1 // part 2🔜

My Masterlist🌱

Silco x transmasc!reader

small synopsis: you have a debt to pay off; this will be a multi part story. Word count: 1k

p.s. i’m trying to start thinking of titles, sorry if they look cringy- i do all of this on tumblr mobile lol

The room was dimly lit, spare for a lamp with a green shade, offering a dull glow to the barren space. Cigar smoke lingered in the air, remnants of a blaze left in the ashtray on the corner of the desk. The sound of patrons out by the bar offered little help in drowning out his thoughts, and the ink stain left in the chair that sat across from his desk made his eye twitch. An abhorrent stain left by a bumbling fool. A man who deserved to be forgotten. Not like him.

The paper lay heavy in his hand as he skimmed over the words once again. It had surprised him- how easily someone could sell away a soul. But he supposed it was easy when it wasn’t their own. Collection day may not be soon, but it certainly isn’t far off. Things were changing in Zaun. And debts must be paid.

—

Living in the Undercity was never what your mother had wanted for you. When you were little she’d talk about a better world- a better life. All for you. When she died, her dreams for you died with her. Your father never bothered, always knowing you’d never climb out of this hell hole. He started teaching you about the family business, and by your teenage years you were running it practically by yourself. Well- except for one area.

The business dealings were completely off limits. That’s what your father always told you. You never understood why- you knew the business just as well as he did. But still, that rule always remained. While he may not have been much of a dad.. you still listened. It would be unwise not to. Even as a young adult, he had control over you. No love, no care. Simply his lineage that he had to take care of.

Things changed just as you were beginning to become an adult- blossoming into your own person. Your father passed about a month ago, leaving you shacked up with his business.. and his debt. Unknown to you, there was a reason he never wanted you at those business meetings. You didn’t really have any idea who he worked with.. just that one of these days, they’d come by looking for him.

—

It had been two months since you had take over the shop. It was hard work- and not the kind that felt rewarding. It was a scrap metal shop, finding and selling pieces for barely enough money to feed yourself. You get it now; why mom never wanted this for you. It fucking sucks.

But it gets a hell of a lot worse when one day, just as you’re about to close up shop, a tall woman walks in. She hovers in the doorway, and you can see the shadow of someone else outside. “I was just closing up.” You mutter. “I can give you five minutes.”

When you heard a huff slip past her lips, the room went cold. Eerie. She walked forward, and suddenly there was a knife jammed into your wood counter. A toothpick hangs from her lips, and you see her metal arm glint under the low yellow light. “You’ll need more time than that to beg.” She says lowly.

You stare at her, your eyes narrowing. What the hell did your dad owe her. “Look, I’m not sure what-“ you start to say, but you’re cut off by another voice coming from the doorway.

“Where is he.” Silco speaks as he walks in, his hands behind his back as he looks at different things in the shop with a bored eye. And by his tone.. it wasn’t a question. It was an order.

Swallowing slightly, you back away from the counter, showing you’re not going to reach for anything. “I don’t know what business you had with my old man.” You say quietly. “But he’s dead.”

Silco stills for a moment, but eventually slowly turns to look at you. Your eyes flit over his scarred face for a second before quickly shifting your gaze elsewhere. “You’re the daughter.” He states plainly, a hint of a question in his tone.

You sigh, leaning against the counter against the wall. “Used to be.” You murmur. “I’m the son now.”

He hums, walking over to the counter and waving Sevika off. She pulls her knife out of the counter with a grunt, walking out of the door with a huff. When he hears the door close, Silco pulls out a cigar and lights it. You have half a mind to say ‘no smoking’- but you weren’t very keen on dying tonight. Instead your eyes drifted to Sevika’s shadow outside of the window, a force to be reckoned with, certainly.

“Son, then.” He murmurs as he lets out a puff. “But that won’t be a loophole in the contract. I hope you don’t think I’m that stupid.”

Your head tilts slightly with confusion. Contract? “Whatever contracts my father had- we can deal with them.” You say tiredly, rubbing your forehead. Why did he have to leave you with so much bullshit? “I just need a little time to figure it all out. I didn’t know you existed until you walked through my door. I’m still getting my bearings.”

Silco’s eyes meet your own, and he pulls the cigar from his lips. He tilts his head with curiosity, his eyes narrowing. “Your bearings.” He says amusedly. “As if anything is your own.” He scoffs.

You stare at him in confusion, stepping forward and looking up at him directly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask tentatively.

He stares down at you before rolling his eyes slightly. He reaches down into his back pocket, pulling out a folded up piece of paper. Tossing it down onto the counter, you quickly open it, skimming over the words. Your eyes widen when you read the terms.. and the signature at the bottom. Your fathers.

“Little one” Silco spoke with a faint smirk on his lips. “I own you.”

hey guys!! i’m gonna start trying to do multi part stuff so i can make it easier on myself, as much as i love writing super long fics😔🙏 the next few weeks will be focused on my Silco works and clearing out my inbox :3 thanks for reading!

[sinful-lanterns]

On top of holstar!Korryn being a star holstaur breeding bull, id like to think that we were a constant first place winning show holstar. A very memorable star thats won many shows if not everyone we've gone too. We have amazing genetics(which is why we're so irresistably hot/pretty to Korryn with a perfect, plump, and healthy body) and our old owner also had a long line of breeding contracts for us to produce show holstars for other ranches. Each calf we produced always came out with at least an 8/10 so there were a lot of contracts lined up.

Anyways, after some unfortunate event, like our original owner dying, we were moved to Mira's ranch. She probably inherited us or something. Thanks to this truamatic and stressful string of events, most of the breeding contracts our original owner had for us had to be reworked by Mira for the sake of our health and wellbeing(before being completely scrapped due to Korryn, much to the bull's pleasure).

Our time in the pen next to the pasture was quite pleasant thanks to Korryn's constant presence, leaning on the fence with a potent hard on, talking to us. We actually ended up acclimating a lot faster thanks to Korryn's constant presence. The breeding bull started spending a majority of her time just at the fence's edge that Mira started getting suspisions on why she wasn't breeding other ranchs' cow hybrids like she usually did.

Then her suspisuons are proven right when she looks out into the pasture the very morning she united us with the other holstaurs to see Korryn enthusiastically mounting and breeding us. Well look on the brightside! Korryn, a star breeding bull is completely infatuated and more than happy to breed us, this multi first place winning show cow. Maybe Mira could make up her losses with this potential opportunity.

That opportunity being selling off the calfs us and Korryn produce and holy shit do they sell for a lot! Anywhere from 100,000$ to a $1,000,000! All thanks to our incredible and pure and amazing genes(maybe Korryn and reader are the same type of holstaur and the most expensive kind) And thanks to the exclusiveness we and Korryn have for each other and untamable lust(and Korryn's possessiveness), Mira doesn't have to worry about us mingling with any of the other bulls in the herd and producing their calfs instead.

The only problem now is seperating Korryn and reader from each other for check ups, vet stuff, and grooming.(more so Korryn from us as she is possessive and protective as shit and doesn't want us being away from her for more than one milisecond). They also learned that waiting until the calfs made by us and Korryn are best to take when they've fully weemed(weened? Idk) as there is the least amount of then hostility.

KORRYN AND COW READER’S BABIES ARE MAJESTIC LMAO. Born with their stats MAXED out thanks to your overpowered genes, even Mira is shocked to see the calfs you produce because she’s never seen a more beautiful holstaur baby in all her life (I mean what did she expect though pairing a 10/10 cow hybrid with a 10/10 bull hybrid?)

I will say though, in terms of your babies, Mira will not remove them from your care until they’re a lot older. Unlike actual baby cows who are able to be independent fairly quickly, Holstaur babies stay with their mom until they’re are a young adult (at least in my AU) so you and Korryn basically have a family of your own on the ranch until your babies are old enough to go to other places 🥺

That said though, Korryn is extremely protective over you and your little calfs. You think it’s difficult taking Cow! Reader to the vet? Try taking Korryn’s babies to the vet for a checkup, the bull Holstaur is so close to breaking through the metal fence just to get to them 😭😭

Korryn is a pretty good “father” to the calfs. Most Bull Holstaurs tend to not really do much for their babies, however Korryn is over here playing with them, cleaning them and teaching them how to be a proper Holstaur. If you give birth to any Bull Holstaurs specifically, Korryn will teach them how to headbutt just like she does!

P.S: When your babies grow up they get huge. Thanks for Korryn’s huge stature already, your babies are very tall and one of them even grew taller than Korryn!

[hotchscoffeecup]

don’t punch beskar, you’ll break your hand

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Rating: M (18+ MDNI)

Word Count: 6.8k

Tags: Hand to hand fighting, Injury, Burns, Blindfolds, Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mando Takes Off His Helmet

Summary: You’re the Marshall of your small remote town. When you’re injured in a fight with pirates, Mando tends to your injuries. Time spent together in close quarters leads to even closer relations and when Mando suddenly disappears, you can’t help but feel used. (Happy Ending)

A/N: I wrote this back in Summer of May 2023 and am working on bringing my works over to Tumblr from AO3. I’m not super well versed in Star Wars lore outside of Mandalorian, so some details seems a little vague or inaccurate, that’s probably why! Hope you enjoy!

You nod your thanks as the bartender replaces your empty drink with a full one, flipping a few credits toward him from the dwindling tower you’d stacked in front of you earlier. A tentacle shoots out from the barkeep’s octopus-like face and snaps them out of the air. He grunts his assent and disappears into the back room.

You sip the bitter alcohol and revel in the burn as it slides down your throat to settle in your stomach and fuel the delightful buzz trilling through your body. It’s not enough to disorient you, but enough to ease the dull ache in your temples as you pour over the journal you’ve logged each and every one of your arrests in since the day you became Marshall of this godforsaken town. It’s not what you wanted to do with your life, but what else was there to do in the wake of pirates setting up shop on the outskirts of your city. There was no one in charge, never had been, and no one willing to take up the mantle. They were lost, leaderless.

And now here you are, feeling more lost than you ever had before.

You shake off the thought and return to your logs, tracking crime rates and making note of the areas with increasing levels of violence, piracy, and spice usage. Every time you thought you’d rid an area of criminal activity, it seemed as if double the illicit operations popped up in their place. So was the cost of being an independent planet. It made it all the more appealing to set up shop where there was no threat of the Republic stopping you. In a more developed part of the planet, they would’ve had the means to install better infrastructure or hire more of a guard to dissuade this sort of thing. Not here though. Not on your small blip on the map.

Crime rates had increased hard and fast, with pirates demanding protection payment from the shops and people that lived there. They were armed to teeth and operating a small black market, selling and trading spice and weapons to any and all willing to buy. And every day the market grew, attracting more criminals and making it that much harder to corral the growing threat.

You just didn’t have the manpower to take them on, so all you could do was sit and watch as they overtook the city, your city. It may be a godforsaken town, but it was yours damnit and you would die to protect it.

It had been nice once, beautiful even. The buildings sleek and well lit, laughter pouring out of open doors into the street as people and aliens alike drank, ate, and celebrated a life not run by any government or order.

The peace was short lived as pirates moved in, taking advantage of the wayward town often missed on maps by travelers and government officials alike. They were a town off grid, perfect for a crime syndicate to set up shop in. By the time you’d discerned the severity of what was happening, it was too late and it wasn’t long before they’d overtaken the city and turned it into an industrial hellhole; scrap yards piling higher than buildings destroying the views of what were once lush forests, now mines. Pirate lackies stood guard atop high metal walls that overlooked the town, ready to gun down anyone that might step too close until one day they attempted to lay the town bare; collateral damage in pursuit of establishing a central hub so they could expand their operation and make the entire city some sort of a base; the people living within the walls of the city be damned in pursuit of their own twisted little empire.

They’d have been successful if he hadn’t arrived, the Mandalorian. You’d heard rumors of one traveling the galaxy with a small green creature in tow, though the nature of the creature varied widely. When he’d arrived, there was no creature, and you didn’t feel as though it was your place to ask about it. He’d then helped without even having to be asked. No bargains. No payment. He just wanted to help.

Together, you devised a plan, and with a few of his allies in tow, you destroyed the base from the inside out; something you still can’t believe you’d managed to accomplish with so few individuals. But for the Mandalorian, he himself might as well have been the equivalent to an entire fleet of troopers and his allies the same.

You’d suffered some major burns to the right side of your body in the explosion that leveled the base, but it had been worth it to see that pirate filth laid to waste. Everything had still gone according to plan.

In the weeks that followed, the Mandalorian had tended to your injuries and saw to the restoration of the city. Your memory was hazy after the explosion, but you remembered the pain of it all; the gnawing, biting pain that cut down to your bones as he cradled you into his arms and jettisoned you back to the Razor Crest. Your vision had been hazy. blurred by the severity of the injuries and the toll they’d taken on your body. You’d barely clung to consciousness as the Mandalorian worked on the burns, the debrieding sprays and burn gels doing their job, but feeling as though your skin had caught light once more. Strained “I’m sorry’s” and “I know it hurts” had echoed through the Mandalorian’s modulator until you’d finally passed out from the pain.

It was three days until you’d opened your eyes again. And when you did, you were still in and out of consciousness, unable to keep them open for more than a few seconds at a time.

Once though, when you could manage the strength to blink through the haze, you could have sworn you’d caught a glimpse of dark hair and tan skin passing through the corridor. Your vision had been hazy with sleep and the lights dimmed. You still don’t know if that had been a dream.

On day eight you’d regained full consciousness, You awoke to find bandages soaked in some stinking salve coating the right side of your chest and shoulder, winding across your torso and down your arms. A loose sheet covered the rest of your exposed body, though someone had put a pair of loose linen trousers on you. You attempted to clench your right fist and hissed as the charred skin beneath the bandages immediately protested the movement.

You attempted to sit up and very quickly realized that was an equally stupid thing to try to do.

“Woah, stop!” instructed a modulated voice.

Your eyes flicked up toward the door, where the Mandalorian rushed in. “Take it easy,” he said, calmer this time. “Your body has been through a lot.”

“How long has it been?” You asked, disregarding the concern in his voice.

“Listen, you need to stay down and—“

“How long has it been?”

A mumbled curse hissed through the modulator before he spoke up. “Eight days.”

Your eyes flew open, “Eight?” You cried. Using your left hand to hold the sheet over your exposed chest, you forced yourself into a sitting position despite the stiff flesh under the bandages begging you to stop. “That’s unacceptable. I need to leave. I have to help my people. I need—“

“To heal,” the Mandalorian stated, a command. He took the two pillows that you’d disregarded and propped them up against the metal wall at the back of the cot and gently lowered you back onto them. “My people are on it. The black market has been eradicated. Things are being rebuilt as we speak.”

“I,” you started, but weren’t sure what to say. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing all of this? You have no allegiance to us.”

“My allegiance is to doing the right thing.”

“I don’t often find people care about what’s right or wrong,” you said bitterly, “just what will serve their own selfish agenda.” Your eyes found what you were imaging to be his behind the black T of his helmet.

He tilted his head, regarding you. After two minutes of insufferable silence, his Beskar rattled as he bent at the knees to sit on a flipped over crate near the bedside. You’d not even noticed it before he sat down. Had he sat there before during these last eight days? Watching you?

“Listen,” he began. “I’ve learned a thing or two about being selfish and constantly seeking that which would reap the greatest reward. Recently, I’ve found there are things far, far greater than just going through the motions of what you’ve been told is right and what is wrong because someone says so. I want to see the things that I do in this world actually make a difference, not just for me, but for everyone; and to do that I have to do it on my own terms. So, when I tell you I’m just trying to help,” he sighed through the modulator and leaned back against the wall, his armor clanging against it with a dull thud, “I mean it.”

His words sounded genuine enough, but you weren’t altogether sold. Though, he didn’t have to agree to help take down the pirates nor take you in. He could’ve dumped you at the local med bay and been off planet doing gods know what by now, but he stayed. Not only did he stay for you, but for your people.

“Why did you help me?” The words left your mouth before you could think them through.

His answer came fast. “You’re alone here.” He stood and reached for an overhead shelf where he withdrew a med pack. He knelt at your side and released the locks, the pack snapping open with a satisfactory click.

You watched his leather clad fingers withdraw equipment and arrange them neatly along the edge of the bed.

He snapped the med pack shut and turned his masked face in your direction. “I know what it’s like to be in pain alone, to suffer alone. I did not want that for you.”

“Begging your pardon, Mando, but why would you care what I want?”

Your eyes flickered back and forth in the dim light, searching for him behind the mask. You wished you could read his expression.

He picked up a pair of scissors, though his gloved fingers quickly posed a problem as their thick padding didn’t allow him to hold them properly.

“This was a lot easier when you were knocked out,” he muttered through the modulator. He cursed and dropped the scissors, snapping his hand free from the glove. “And my name’s not Mando,” he added, now able to comfortably pick up the scissors with his long pointer finger and thumb. “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”

You're surprised when your breath catches in your throat; not at how he’d revealed his name, but that he’d revealed any amount of skin to you; deep tan skin pebbled with scars and calluses.

“Are you allowed to do that?” You asked, voice incredulous.

The scissors slid under the bandages, stinging the burnt skin as they gently glided across. You hissed and he apologized, making sure to lift them higher as he cut away the bandages.

After a long moment, he answered. “I don’t know.” He snapped out of the other glove and made deft work of the bandages, apologizing as they stuck to your mottled flesh. “I don’t know a lot of things anymore.” This he’d spoken more so to himself.

Once the sullied bandages had been pulled away and discarded, you glanced down at your flesh, and sucked a sharp breary in through your teeth at the sight of it. No wonder you’d been out cold for over a week. The entire right side of your upper body was unrecognizable to you the way that the flames had licked and curled around your limbs. Tears stung at your eyes and you forced yourself to look away

“I know it looks bad now,” he said calmly, placing a comforting hand over your uninjured one. You're surprised by how soft it is despite its rough appearance. The gesture placated you and you find your body relaxing. “Over time it will fade and eventually look like nothing happened at all. Trust me.”

“Do what you have to do then,” you consented, knowing the treatment was probably less than pleasant.

He squeezed your hand and when he withdrew it you found yourself longing for its warmth. You brushed the thought aside as quickly as it came and braced yourself for pain as Din coated your wounds in a numbing spray; the effects of which caused your eyes to well with tears.

Flesh numbed, he spent the next hour debriding the wounds of dead flesh and applying a gel that encouraged skin cell regeneration. He then applied bandages that were soaked in a stronger version of the gel in thick layers against and around the burns.

By the time he finished you were barely able to keep your eyes open. This was the longest you’d been awake since the date of the explosion and the treatment had exhausted what little energy you had to give.

“You should sleep,” he recommended as he pulled his gloves back on, and a part of you is sad to see his hands hidden away once more. “When you next wake, we’ll try to get some solid food and water in you.”

He pulled the sheet up higher over your body, his gloved fingers lingering against your neck. Your eyes trailed up the length of his arm before reaching what you were sure to be his gaze behind the mask. He held your stare, only for a moment before he quickly withdrew his hand and stepped away toward the door.

“Get some rest.”

“Thank you,” you said softly. And as he stepped through the door you added, “Din.”

Your eyes fell shut, but not before you noticed how he paused in his tracks to take one last look at you over his shoulder before continuing on his way.

•

“Dank farrick!” Din cursed and threw his hand of cards down on your dining room table as you laughed and pulled in the ever growing pile of credits toward yourself, now easier with the improvement in mobility in your arm over the last few weeks as the burns continued to heal thanks to the Mandalorian.

“Come on, Mando!” You laughed, still not completely comfortable using his given name freely. “You wanna make it triple or nothing?”

He pointed a gloved finger directly at your face, “No.”

“Oh come on,” you begged. “I didn’t peg the Mandlorians as sore losers.”

“We should turn in,” he said, gathering the cards together. “I’ve got a run scheduled with Greef Carga and I’d like to take off before sunrise.” Greef Carga had been one of the Mandalorian’s allies who had helped them level the base. What weapons and spice caches hadn’t been destroyed, Mando had been delivering to Carga’s city where they had the proper means of destroying it. His was a city far more well equipped than yours.

“It should take two trips, right?” you asked, already concerned with the amount loaded onto the Razor Crest. If word had gotten out about the market’s destruction here, roving sects of the cartel or other pirates could be out for blood; especially if they knew the Mandalorian had been responsible. If they caught the Razor Crest with that many illegal arms and substances loaded inside of it, they would do their damndest to get it back.

He nodded. “I should be back by nightfall.”

He gathered all the cards together into a neat pile and held them out for you to take. As your fingers slid over them, the leather of his gloves glided over your skin eliciting goosebumps across your flesh that you wished you could hide better from him.

He dropped his hand. “I should get back to the ship.”

He turned to leave and before you could process what you were doing, you lunged forward and wrapped your fingers around his wrist.

“Or you could stay.”

A long breath escaped the modulator as your name fell from his lips, and you immediately wanted to kick yourself for acting this way. Did you sound as needy as you felt? Weeks now, you’d spent in such close quarters with Mando, working side by side to draw up plans to rebuild the city and renew that which has been lost alongside the very close contact shared with him with the daily burn treatments. With each passing day, you’d found yourself watching the curve of his hips as he sauntered around so confidently with each step; the way his muscles flexed beneath his armor as he hammered reinforced steel into the damaged buildings around town.

Beyond the physical, his gentle demeanor behind the rough and tumble exterior pulled you in with its own gravitational force. Each day, he’d opened up a little more to you, sharing more and more about his life as a bounty hunter and his journey with the Child. You laughed harder than you had in years over the ways in which he recounted the mischievous and naughty behavior of the little green guy. And though you couldn’t see his face, even through the modulator, you could hear the longing in his voice for the Child. Despite having done the right thing in reuniting him with his own kind, you knew that that had torn away a piece of Din’s heart, even if he didn’t say it out right.

“Don’t read too deeply into it,” you chastised before the silence could become even more deafening in the moments since he’d whispered your name. “I’ve got a spare bedroom. You don’t need to sleep cramped up on that cot in the Razor Crest. Gods knows it’s not comfortable.”

He chuckled in response. “Sorry if it didn’t meet your standards, princess. I think it served you just fine, did it not?”

You waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still working the kinks out of my back from that whole experience. Come on,” you said and inclined your chin down the hall. “Stay, Get a good night’s rest, With the way you’ll be traveling tomorrow, you’ll need it.”

Ultimately, he relented and followed you down the hall.

“My room is the last door on the right at the opposite end of the hallway if you need anything. Fresher is the door on the left. Goodnight, Mando.”

“Din,” he reminded you.

You turn toward your room and walk down the hall, calling over your shoulder. “Goodnight Din.”

•

There was no sleep to be found tonight. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you wondered what Din was doing just down the short length of hallway from you.

Was he asleep? Behind the safety of a locked bedroom door, did he remove his helmet and armor and actually let himself rest his body? Or did he still sleep in the same armored, crunched up position, arms folded over chest, masked chin tucked in on itself?

Your eyes burned from lack of sleep and you cursed yourself for letting these thoughts drive you mad. Using your good arm to push yourself into a sitting position, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and pulled a satin robe over your shoulders. Tying it loosely around your waist, you silently opened the door and padded across the stone floor to the kitchen intent on making tea. Maybe after a hot cup, sleep would finally find you. You filled the kettle at the small durasteel sink and before you placed it on the stove, the sound of a faucet turning off set the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

“Mando?” you whisper shouted.

No response.

You took a few steps toward the fresher door and tried again. The floor to ceiling metal doors in your home betrayed no light to escape so there was no way of telling if he was in there.

You hesitantly reached forward to press the button to open the door. You tried one more time. “Din?”

No answer. You cursed yourself for being so stupid. He was probably fast asleep and here you were, shouting at your empty fresher in the middle of the night. For peace of mind, you decide to slap the open button before returning to finish making your tea.

You immediately regretted your decision to do so as the door cracked open and a shaft of light filled the hall.

Your eyes fell to the floor, landing on a pair of tan, bare feet. Feet that move faster than lighting as a pair of strong arms wheeled you around and pressed your face into the wall.

“Close your eyes.” His voice was dark and you felt as though you had no choice but to oblige.

“I’m sorry,” your chest heaved, though constricted against the wall slick with steam from the shower. “I’m sorry, Din. I didn’t see your face. I didn’t—“

His grip relaxed suddenly, his touch becoming gentle; more responsive and less reactive. The rough palms of his hands flattened against where he grabbed you and rubbed the skin beneath, easing the sting of his tight grip from moments earlier. “No,” he breathed and for the first time you felt his breath against your skin. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to react like that, you just—I thought you were asleep.”

“I couldn’t,” you stated.

A few moments of silence and then he answered, “Neither could I.”

His hands slowly slid down the length of your arms, the one on your right much softer than the left, minding the still healing burns. You couldn’t help your body’s natural response to arch into his touch.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” you asked, breath bated already.

You felt his presence draw nearer to your ear before the air reverberated around the sound of his voice. “I couldn’t stop thinking of what you might be wearing to bed”

His hands slipped off of your elbows and onto your waist. He stepped forward so that his body was flush against you and a small gasp escaped your lips as you felt his erection pressed up against the curve of your ass through the towel around his waist. He reached one arm around you and easily pulled the tie securing the robe around your waist loose, exposing your naked body. He tugged at one end until he’d pulled it free from its loops.

Your breath hitched in your throat as the satin material covered your eyes and he secured a knot tightly, but not uncomfortably, behind your head.

“There,” he said softly, turning you around and holding your face in his wide hands.

Hesitantly, you raised your hands to wrap around both of his wrists, leaning into his touch.

After a moment you reached out in front of you, hand landing on his chest. He was soft beneath your fingertips; muscular, but soft.

He dropped his hands from either side of your face as your other hand found his chest and you began to slowly explore the planes of his body.

Your heartbeat hammered in your chest as your hands traveled up the length of his torso, to the wide V of his shoulders. He was tense beneath your touch and you hesitantly withdrew your fingers to hover above his skin. “I can stop,” you said gently.

His hands wrapped around yours, placing them back on his chest. “No,” he said. “It’s ok. I want you to touch me.” As your hands found his neck, you cautiously continued to his jawline, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your fingers splayed against the sharp lines there.

Your thumb brushed lightly against his lips and he shuddered beneath your touch. You’re shocked to find he’s got facial hair lining the top of his lip and a gentle laugh tumbled out of your lips.

And as your fingers came to hold his face in your hands, you drew him down to you so that his forehead was touching yours.

“Mando,” you breathed.

“Call me by my name,” he said, his words gentle, yet firm.

You didn’t hesitate. “Din.”

His lips rained down on yours with an energy so blindingly hot that stars dotted the corners of your limited vision.

You parted your lips to grant him greater access to your mouth and his tongue slid over yours as his hands fisted into your hair.

Your arm snaked around his neck and when his hands cupped your ass beneath the satin of your robe, you pushed off your feet to jump and latch your legs around his waist.

He bore your weight easily, as if you weighed no more than an infant, and pushed you back into the wall. You hissed into his mouth as pain stung your shoulder blades but your whole body was a live wire at the moment and you didn’t care.

He started to walk, carrying you still, as your lips crashed together over and over; devouring one another as if this was the only taste you might ever get.

The hiss of a metal door opening sent a blast of cool air over the two of you, causing your taut nipples to harden even more against the skin of his chest.

He lowered you onto the mattress and the springs creaked under your combined weight. As he crawled over you and straddled your waist, you could feel his erection firm against your thigh.

Blindly, you reached for it with your good arm and as your fingers barely skim the smooth skin of his cock, your hand is pinned above your hand.

“Not yet,” he growled into your ear and your middle turned to liquid.

He released your hand and began trailing his over your body; the tips of his fingers tracing the outline of your calves, then your hips, your stomach, until he’s got both of your nipples pinched between his fingertips.

A cry slipped past your lips as he rolled the peaks of your breasts between his fingers. When he took one into his mouth and began to tease you, flicking the sensitive skin with his tongue and toying at it with his teeth, you bucked your hips up into his erection.

You could feel the slickness between your thighs spreading with each kiss and pass over your body, though you craved more of him. Your pussy throbbed with a need to be touched by him, filled by him.

“Din,” you whimpered. “Please.” And you swore you heard him chuckle deeply in his throat.

He took his hands and placed them on the insides of your knees. Slowly, he pushed them apart and you knew he was gazing into your core.

“Fuck,” he groaned and murmured your name. Your thighs quivered as his fingers slowly dragged up your thighs. Using his thumb, he ran it up the slick length of your folds, pausing at your clit to rub painfully slow circles and you squirmed beneath his touch. “So wet,” he murmured, “so wet for me.”

He adjusted the position of his thumb so that he could continue his torturously slow massage. His name tumbled from your lips as he, at an equally slow pace, thrust his pointer and middle fingers into your center; in and out, in and out, toying with the spongey soft cleft within you that caused your belly to clench in response.

You writhed beneath his touch, needing more, begging for more.

“Are you ready for me?” he purred, and you nodded vigorously.

“You feel ready,” he said, and you could sense the smile on his lips. He dragged his fingers, slick with you, up the length of your folds once more before pulling them away completely and touching them to your lips. He traced the outline of your mouth before gently pushing them in between your lips, “Taste how ready you are for me.”

You sucked and swiveled your tongue around the length of his two long fingers, tasting the tang of yourself on them and wanting more.

He withdrew his fingers and cupped your chin in his large hand, “Good girl.”

You bucked and cried out as he thrust his fingers back into you; once, two more times, and on the third, withdrew his fingers and slammed into you with his cock.

You cried out from the shock and pleasure of it all, gasping for air as his width stretched and filled you. He’d hit hard and fast only to slow down to a torturous rhythm. He slipped a hand under your right leg and lifted it onto his shoulder, holding you there as an anchor point as he continued to plunge himself in and out of you. His name spilled from your lips as with this new leverage, his cock struck your g-spot with every thrust.

“Yes,” his voice was low in his throat. “Say my name, darling. Say my name.”

He increased his speed and returned his thumb to your throbbing clit where he teased circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves there in a tortuously sweet rhythm with the speed of his thrusts.

Stars dotted your limited vision. Your chest rose and fell heavily as you tried to meet him thrust for thrust, but you lost track of the rhythm as you felt everything inside your lower abdomen start to collapse in on itself until the pleasure was blinding and you exploded around him.

He continued to thrust into you as your orgasm drove through your body in waves. After a few more thrusts his own release spilled out into you and he cried out your name; collapsing on top of you and wrapping his arms around your body, both of you slick with sweat and panting.

You stayed there for a minute, joined together physically, chests heaving against one another.

You both groaned as he slid out of you. Slowly, he maneuvered your arms out of the satin robe that you’d both forgotten about. Gently, he used it to clean you up, before discarding it onto the ground where it fell with a soft whoosh of fabric.

He then collapsed onto the bed next to you and minding the burns to your right side, pulled you nearer to him.

He kissed you softly on the lips and then your temple before stretching an arm behind his head.

Your head rested upon his chest and you could feel his heart beating steadily beneath his skin, the dull thump-thump enough of a rhythm to sing you to sleep, but you didn’t want to. Not now. Not after everything with him had just changed.

His hand lazily dragged through your hair, smoothing it back over your shoulders.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your ear. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The Mandalorian was nowhere to be found come dawn; he’d disappeared without a trace and you were left behind feeling like an absolute idiot for ever having opened yourself up to him.

In the weeks that followed, stray pirates that had barely escaped with their lives began to trickle back in when they’d learned the Mandalorian had disappeared and rumors of the spice and weapons supply you’d still had confiscated reached those still alive and hoping to rebuild the black market.

You’d been able to hold them back, killing them in a shootout in front of your offices.

There was nowhere to safely hide or destroy the spice or weapons. Burying it wouldn’t destroy them, so those hoping to retrieve it could still attain it. Burning them would release a smoke so toxic, it would kill anyone within five clicks of the pyre with the amount they had in tow.

So, there was no choice but to stand and fight. Stand and fight until your deputy was dead and you’d suffered a blast to the shoulder.

With no one left to defend the supply, they’d moved in quickly, raiding your office and burning it down in the aftermath as a warning to leave the market alone. You still don’t know why they didn’t kill you.

Weeks turned to months and they were right back where they’d started; black market and all successfully up and running as your people suffered for it. Heads turned away as you passed through town. You’d let your people down.

And that was why you sat in a bar, alone at two in the morning, going over crime logs and wondering how things had fallen apart so quickly.

So, when that distinct tinkle of metal armor echoed in your ears, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

You froze, heart hammering in your chest so hard you swore it would shatter your rib cage. As each heavy, booted footfall drew nearer, your fingers inched toward the blaster holstered at your side.

When you were confident he’d drawn near enough, you leapt from your seat, kicking it out and whirling around as it knocked his legs out from under him.

The Mandalorian hit the floor with a loud metallic thud and something tumbled from his hands across the floor.

He rolled out of the way as you aimed your blaster at him; knocking it from your hands in the process.

No matter; you slipped the knife from your waistband out and slashed at him. He expertly dodged each swing, but when you raised your leg and kicked him square in the stomach; he flew backwards over a table, shattering it on impact.

You leapt upon him, knife raised, and he knocked it from your hand.

Immediately, you raised your opposite fist and when you moved to bring it down, he caught your hand in his gloved one.

“Don’t punch Beskar,” his modulated voice advised. “You’ll break your hand.”

You sat there, frozen, as he held your fist in his hand. You stared at the black T of his visor, knowing he was staring right back at you. Tears burned your vision, but you would not let them fall for him.

Grunting and cursing, you kicked off of him; dusting off your pants and moving toward the bar.

“Get the hell out of here, Mandalorian.” You spat before returning to your seat at the bar. not minding the destruction you’d just left in your wake.

Tears burned your vision as you tossed back the second shot of liquor you’d left behind. The burn offered no relief from the pain of his return.

Your body stiffened as you heard his armor clanging as he stood and collected himself; but as you braced yourself to hear his steps withdraw, they only drew nearer to you.

He slammed a bag down on the table next to you.

You scoffed, ignoring it. “We don’t want your money, Mandalorian.” As if that could undo the damage he’d caused in his absence.

“Open it,” was all he said.

You swiveled in your seat, eyeing him dangerously before pulling the bag to you. You pulled the strings holding it shut and gasped upon finding the severed head.

Your eyes snapped toward his, or at least where you imagined they were behind his visor. “What is this supposed to—“

He tossed a puck on the table. Your mouth fell shut as a hologram appeared; stunned to see your face in the hazy blue light emanating from it.

You turned back to the Mandalorian, “I don’t understand.”

“He put this hit out on you,” he gestured toward the head. “On the day I left to dispose of the spice and arms with Greef Karga, I was attacked by spice runners. Spice runners who had your face in their hands. I couldn’t let them get to you.”

Blood pounded in your ears. He’d not come back to protect you, to keep you safe. It didn’t stop the damage done in his absence.

“You could’ve made contact,” you bit, venom sharp on your tongue.

Mando used his forearm to push the bag aside and lowered himself down into the seat beside you.

“If I’d pinged you, they could’ve pulled your location. There were already enough trickling back into the city and the hit wasn’t widespread news amongst local crime networks. Gods knows I did my best to hunt down anyone with this puck in hand; and in doing so, it lead me to the leader.”

Your mind whirled; both from the sudden realization of what had actually transpired and the liquor burning a hole in your empty stomach. The fight with Mando had stirred up things both physically and mentally and you suddenly felt sick.

Leather clad fingers brushed your shoulder and you hated how it both set your flesh alight with desire and caused your body to relax. The anger you felt was so raw and biting, but the way your body remembered his gentle touch had your tight shoulders sagging beneath it.

The pad of his thumb circled the thick pink scar tissue from the blaster strike; the shoulder still ached from time to time but overall had healed well.

As his thumb gently probed the tissue, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky breath you’d not realized you’d been holding in.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said after a long while.

You swallowed the growing lump in your throat. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” You turned your body to look at him straight on. “You lied to me.” Thick, hot tears welled along your lower eyelids. Your voice wavered as you continued, “I felt like a whore, Din. Like a plaything that you used once and got bored of.” Tears leaked over your lashes and you cursed yourself for being so vulnerable in front of him. “Damnit!” you slammed your first down on the table and raked a hand through your hair.

“You could’ve left me at the med bay. You barely knew me. You had no obligation to stay. But you, Din, you took me back to your ship and literally nursed me back to health.” You stood to leave then, not bothering to look at him as you did so as the tears flowed freely down your cheeks. “You were the one to stay behind long after you were clear to leave, yet you stayed. You treated me like I was a fucking royal and then left me like a womp rat stuck in a trap that you couldn’t bare to put out if it’s misery.”

As you reached the exit door, a leather clad hand wrapped around your wrist and an unfamiliar hiss caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up. You stood there for a moment, frozen, unsure of what to do.

“What are you doing?” you choked out, refusing to turn around.

“I don’t know what I could say,” his voice was smooth, unmodulated. “That this gesture can’t prove.”

His grip tightend around your wrist, not painfully, desperately.

You closed your eyes and bit your quivering lip. He said your name and it came out of his lips a plea.

Turning around, you didn’t open your eyes. Instead, you loosed yourself from his grip and felt for his other hand which clutched his helmet.

You circled your fingers around the lip of the opening and took it from him, surprised he allowed you to take it from his hand. With your other one, you felt up the breast plate of his armor until you reached the sharp line of his jaw, rough with a few days worth of stubble.

Raising the helmet, you used both hands to lower it down over his face until it hissed and clicked back into place. Only then did you open your eyes, finding them reflected back at you in the inky black of his visor.

“I would never ask you to forsake your Creed, Mando, surely you must understand that.”

He took a daring step toward you, inclining his head as he did so. “That’s not my name,”

“Din,” you breathed, sighing his name out. “Surely you know I’d never ask you to do that.”

His leather clad fingers slipped between yours. “I couldn’t risk them hurting you, I’ve only just found you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips for the first time since he’d stepped foot inside the tavern. “That’s a bit romantic for a Mandalorian, don’t you think?”

You felt the cool steel of his Beskar vambrace through the fabric of his shirt as he drew you near to his body for an embrace.

“I keep finding ways in which I’m not a normal Mandalorian.”

“Good,” you responded as you wrapped your arms around his pauldrons. squeezing and hoping he felt the warmth in your embrace. “I’ve never liked normal.”

[ross-hollander]

Their skins are made...

...of metal, of course, but that aside- really, they haven't changed much. They look just like any other 'mech pilot outside of them. (Okay, maybe not like any other pilot; in the half-light of a dim hangar their eyes look an ocean-abyss black, but that's the most you'll ever notice.)

The point is, putting their 'mech in another's hands- it's a powerful thing to them. If it's in front of you that they choose to pop their canopy, climb out onto the gantry, and start rattling off what they need fixed, it means they trust you. And for some mechtechs, daunting as the pilot's requests might be, the fact that they're the ones being trusted to fill the order is enough to propel them into doing it. That sort of faith can be uplifting.

You can, in theory, take the 'mech from them. You shouldn't, but if you do, they will be obliged to you. Just take care to hide it very, very well. Scrap it and sell off the parts to eight different traders- one day, that 'mech will walk up to your great-great-grandchild's hangar, reassembled piece by painstaking piece, and blow the entire place to a smoking craterscape. They're patient, long-lived, and they can really nurse a grudge. (Don't try to melt it down. It won't work, and it also releases them from their obligation.)

But, supposing they do trust you with their 'mech, there's one very important thing to remember: when they ask for you to get it warmed up and re-armed, whether it's for one patrol or to redeploy permanently to another base, give it back. Sometimes it's time to let a good thing go.