#foreign trade training

[techminsolutions]

Exploring Opportunities and Procedures in Foreign Trade: Entrepreneurship Workshop by KIED

Exploring Opportunities and Procedures in Foreign Trade: Entrepreneurship Workshop by KIED The Kerala Institute for Entrepreneurship Development (KIED) is organizing a comprehensive three-day Entrepreneurship Workshop for those interested in leveraging the potential of the foreign trade sector. The workshop aims to equip participants with the essential knowledge and tools to excel in import and…

[prettymunchkin]

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[luveline]

bombshell finds tickets to a russian movie thing sitting in spencer’s desk at work and they’re about to like run out (?) so she presents them to spencer and asks him on a date and pretends that she didn’t just pull them out of spencers desk in that bombshell way

You’re looking for gum. If Spencer were at his desk, you’d politely beg for a stick and he’d give it to you, but he’s not here, so you must search. 

You sit in his seat, slinking down as he does with poor posture, your kitten heels hitting the spine of a book kept under the desk. Your dress’ skirt rises up your thighs, the fabric at your neck pulls, but you have bigger problems. You’re feeling the weird franticness of unspent energy and only a stick of gum is gonna fix you. 

He has a drawer full of things, neatness traded for space. Blue and pink paper clips in an arrowhead shaped box. Push pins of all colours, their box more ordinary. He has a travel book on indigenous North American birds with stamps held between the pages, a plastic bottle cap, train stubs from Quantico to the station outside of his apartment and a bottle of ibuprofen missing half of its contents. 

Your fingers dig around for the familiar shape of a packet of gum, hesitating thoughtfully against the thread of a thicker cardstock. 

You pull a cream envelope from the desk and, perhaps wrongfully, unveil the contents: two tickets to see any Russian flick at the foreign language theatre free of charge (if you buy a large drink). They expire tonight. 

You press them to your chest and spin in Spencer’s chair without any regard for whoever might see you slouching. Across the office with his hair out of his face and a smile bordering lackadaisical stands your favourite. He even has a pencil in hand. He likes to underline things in the books he reads for your benefit. It’s the pencil that decides your next move. 

You stand up, brushing down your nice dress that he seems to like, a black cotton with thin pinstripes settling nicely just above your knees. You check your lipstick in the black reflection of his sleeping monitor, buzzing. 

He’s watching you when you turn back. You hide the tickets behind your hip and begin a light walk to his side, the chug of the printer a constant hum you can feel in your shoes. 

“What’s up?” he asks. 

You tilt your head toward your shoulder ever so slightly. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure.” He squints. “You’re acting strange.” 

“Suspicious,” you correct. 

“That, too.” 

“How come you let me hold your hand?” 

Spencer doesn’t hide his surprise at your question very well. His eyes turn deer in the headlights, then down to the printer. “What do you mean?” he asks. 

“When we first met, you wouldn’t shake my hand. And that’s okay,” —your smile is loving in the hope that he finds your question as the curiosity it is and not an interrogation— “I’m just wondering what changed.” 

“I was distracted.” He’s talking about the first time you took his hand, the two of you on the way to the office. “You stopped me from being late.” 

“Right, but I should’ve asked and I didn’t. And now we hold hands all the time.” You take a half step back. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, I’m just wondering.”

“Nobody’s held my hand in a really long time. And you’re mostly clean.” 

“Mostly!” you laugh, giving him a guilty smile. “I’m super clean, I just forget how gross door handles are sometimes.”

You have embarrassed him, in a way. It’s really not what you meant to do, not when you’re about to ask him on a date. 

Ever since you started your official position at the BAU, you and Spencer have grown closer, but there’s a difference between flirting because he’s lovely and flirting because you want him to be your boyfriend. (Not that he knows what you want.) You shouldn’t have started with the hand holding thing. 

“Spencer.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Will you go on a date with me?” You present him with the movie tickets. “Got these, they expire tonight…”

“Are those from my desk?” he asks, taking the tickets from you to look over closely. 

“I’d love to go with you, unless you’re gonna take someone else, which is fine.” You embarrass yourself a little, even though you’re not, hoping it makes up for the hand-holding investigation. “Yeah, they’re from your desk. Sorry. I really wanted a stick of gum, my– my nervous energy is through the roof today.” 

Spencer frowns at you again. “How come?” he asks softly. 

“I don’t know. It just happens sometimes.” 

And that’s nothing you’ve ever admitted to him. Your perfect mask is broken, and Spencer doesn’t look at you any differently. “Do you actually wanna go to the movies?” he asks. 

“Only if I’m not stealing you away from somebody else.” 

“There’s no one else.”

Spencer abruptly turns his attention to the printer, where he collects his copies and shuffles them into a straight, neat pile. 

You recover quickly, though inside your heart is a stuttering mess. “I should hope not,” you say. “Okay. Awesome. I’ll bring hand sanitiser and you can hold my hand through the previews.” 

[seresinhangmanjake]

Defending His Lady

Feyd-Rautha x wife!reader

Summary: Both Feyd and your son take issue with the people of Giedi Prime not accepting you as their Lady. Part of the His series

Notes/Warnings: Based on a request. It's a little bit different. Typos, probably.

Words: 1250

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Years ago, when you imagined your future, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t on this planet. It wasn’t with the husband and child you have. It wasn’t with the title you obtained from your marriage. You imagined light glowing through an open home, frilly gowns, a stuffy Lord, and a daughter who would be treated like a princess. It wasn’t necessarily what you wanted for your future, but it was what was likeliest to be. You’d be a foreign Lady on a new planet, yet respected just as much as their home-grown Lord.

You learned rather quickly that that’s not always how it works. And while you wouldn’t trade the life you have—not your husband, not your son—for anything the universe could offer, you can’t deny the difficulties that come with being the wife and mother of the Harkonnen line of Giedi Prime. 

The people wanted Feyd to marry one of their own, certainly not the concubine their na-Baron once took. They wanted purity. To them, you are tainted blood, and despite your status on this planet, many cannot resist treating you like a parasite. In the five years that have passed, you’ve taken the poor treatment and whispered words with as much grace as you can, knowing Feyd is always there to end the lives of those who step out of bounds, but it’s harder to ignore now that Fionn is no longer a baby.

Your son is growing. His ears catch more than you’d like. He notices how his father reacts to the harsh words directed at you and how he never sees the people who speak them ever again. He’s gathering the pieces that his mother is often disrespected, and that is the last thing you want.

—

“He sees it,” you tell your husband as you slip into your nightgown.

“He doesn’t see it,” Feyd says, pulling back the top layer of covers on the bed and settling under the sheets. When he reaches out his hand, you snuggle into his embrace. His arms are snug around you. His lips press a kiss to your hairline. “You worry too much.”

You hold in your huff of frustration. “I do not. He asked me as I put him to bed if bad people are hurting me and if that’s why Daddy keeps making them disappear.” Feyd pulls back to look down at you, his brow furrowed. You nod. “He sees it.”

Feyd exhales heavily through his nose. As a father, he’s been diligent, so very careful with how he leads his son; a surprisingly delicate guidance—something he didn’t have growing up. What started from Feyd’s fear of your son being too much like him died as the boy showed only love, but Feyd has continued his intricate training. He has trained so that even at the age of four, Fionn is vigilant, particular with his words, and practical in his choices. He trains so that outside factors are not as influential. He trains so the boy can think for himself. And it shouldn’t be a shock that he notices what happens in his own home. 

“It’s time he understands then,” Feyd says.

Your eyes go wide and you let out a light gasp. “Feyd, he’s four.”

“There’s no point in hiding what happens to them if he’s already curious. He’s as stubborn as you are,” he tells you. “And he’s old enough.”

—

“Mommy, where are we going?” Fionn asks, his little hand tugging on yours to get your attention. 

You take a deep breath, sucking in the dank air that leads to prisoner cells. You’re not sure how this is going to go, but you agreed and you need to let it play out. “Daddy wants to show you something.”

Fionn’s head turns to Feyd. “Is it a bad man, Daddy?”

Feyd pauses halfway down the hall and crouches in front of his son. You release Fionn’s hand so he can fully face his father. 

“Yes,” he says. “It’s a bad man.”

“He hurt Mommy?”

“Some of our guards heard him talking about your mother. He said rude things, called her names. He wished for harm to come to her.”

Fionn makes a soft noise of surprise. Name-calling—he considers that one of the worst of crimes, knowing what it got him when he insulted the little Lady of House Kenric. 

“But why?” he asks. 

“It doesn’t matter why,” Feyd says. “What matters is that we protect the ones we love, yes?”

“Yes,” Fionn agrees with a sharp nod.

Feyd looks up at you, silently commanding that you stay here. The last time you entered a cell to face the one who insulted you, more abuse was hurled at you until it tapped into a well of internal shame. It took you three days to shake that off, all the while your husband begging for you to return to your natural state of uncaring. 

You’ve always cared though, to some degree. It doesn’t matter that they like you so much as it matters that you’re not a stain on Feyd’s reputation. After all, he’s the Baron now, and one day, his son will be. If the people of Giedi Prime cannot forget where you come from, you worry they will never forgive Feyd, and worse, that they will never accept Fionn as their ruler. 

Feyd takes your boy’s hand once again and leads him the rest of the way. They stop at the correct cell and when a guard turns a key, they head inside. 

Inching your way down the hall, you halt just outside of it. Your finger goes to your lips to ensure the guard does not give you away, and with your back to the stone wall, you hear Fionn.

“He did it?”

The man is silent, likely knocked unconscious from Feyd’s earlier visit. You suppose he’ll be awake soon enough. 

“Yes,” Feyd tells him, his voice dropping an octave, “He did.”

“Did he apologize? He should apologize to Mommy.”

Feyd releases a sigh. His son is much more diplomatic than himself. But your husband can’t fairly be bothered. That’s the point of his parenting: to raise a better Baron than both he and his uncle have ever been. 

“Son, we do not let men like this apologize. We do not let them near your mother.”

“Oh.”

“So what do you think we do with them?”

Fionn hums, and it’s so much like his father that it’s as if he has stood on the sidelines of every death your husband has executed. The way Feyd hums as he plays with his victims. A fake hum of consideration, of contemplation. What should I do with them? How should they leave this world? Questions he pretends to ask as if he hasn’t planned their deaths out from the moment he was informed of the crime. And that’s the hum your son gives. He hums like a natural monster in the making. You wouldn’t be surprised if the boy is tapping his finger against his chin as he thinks. 

You feel an ounce of pride. There’s more to him than a kind heart, lovely as that heart is. He will be a fearsome Baron, but one that will show mercy when mercy is fit. However, here, now, mercy is not fit, and his father has made that clear.

“Would you like the first stab?” Feyd asks. “Top of thigh.”

The shing of metal scraping against Feyd’s sheath fills the space. A small blade. Good for Fionn’s hand.

“Which thigh, Daddy?”

Feyd chuckles. “You choose.”

[spidey-webz]

the sweetest sin – bucky barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Summary: Bucky goes undercover at a charity event to get closer to you. You’re his mission. But that dress you’re wearing is a little too tempting…

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, r deals with weapons, r and bucky have a shared history, mentions of bucky’s trauma, r wears a dress, r is also shorter than bucky, somewhat public sex (in a restroom, door closed), slight dom bucky, they’re both really horny, very little plot, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, mirror sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, use of petnames (doll, darling), fingering with the metal hand, hair pulling

Word Count: 4k

A/N: This idea came to me after seeing the Thunderbolts trailer and I really hope you'll like this one!!

Masterlist

The ballroom was filled with chatter and music. Multiple waiters were balancing champagne glasses on their trays, walking from group to group and handing them out with a smile. There were men discussing business deals, old friends exchanging memories and some women holding onto their husbands’ arms as they laughed. 

None of them paid any particular mind to the man in the corner of the room. 

Bucky Barnes was leaning against a stone pillar, his eyes roaming through the room as he attempted to find you in the crowd somewhere. He had declined every glass of champagne, so he could stay alert if you passed by him. 

He had not seen you in a while. To be honest, he had never kept up with your life. His own had been quite the mess after the Blip, but seeing your name in the mission file served as enough of a reminder of what you two had shared. Bucky had been a man without a path ahead of him, only fleeing from everyone that might recognise him, and there you had been – in Romania. You had only spent a few weekends together, but he had enjoyed them all the same. For that short while, he had felt like a normal man. 

When had things gone wrong in your life? Or had you always been involved with this kind of trade? 

The files on you did not mention any criminal activity when he had first met you in 2016. Had it been the Blip that forced you to join illegal weapon trading? Had it been something else in your life?

Bucky could never say he knew you. There had been many secrets between the two of you, starting with his very own identity. You had made him feel safe and yet he hadn’t been able to share his name with you, too afraid that it might slip you at the market or at the gas station. 

Back then, he barely even knew himself. His memories had been a disorganised mess, a whirl of moments and feelings he could not exactly put together. Even being with you, feeling your warm body around him and having your lips wander like feathers over his skin – it had felt almost foreign to his troubled mind. 

Those memories were cherished by him and once he had settled back into a somewhat normal life, Bucky had found himself reminiscing about them on lonely nights. 

Now he was after you. 

There were so many women with the same hair colour as you, but he felt certain that he would still recognise you between all of them. Sam did not know why he had been so determined on receiving this mission, but he would explain it to him in due time. Bucky had promised to reduce the number of secrets he had, but he had never felt comfortable sharing you with anyone. Until now, he had kept you hidden away in a part of his heart that only he could access – in the middle of the night, in quiet moments, in the comfortable space of his bed. 

A flash of white passed by him. Another man might have missed it, but he had been trained to notice any movement in the corner of his eye for years. He turned his head to the side, trying to find the same white dress in the crowd again and there you were. 

Your dress was low-cut, no sleeves and a slit on the side for your thigh and knee to peak through with every step. He flexed his jaw, taking a deep breath as he watched you talk with a man he did not recognise. A glass of champagne rested easily in your hand, your eyes fixed on the person in front of you. He was not blessed with enough enhanced hearing to make out any part of the conversation, yet he found himself entranced with the movements of your lips. 

Bucky had feared that this might happen. He had not seen you in so long and there were so many questions floating around in his head, so many unspoken things on his tongue. But you were his mission all the same and he had hoped to make this entire ordeal a little bit easier on you if it was him that came looking for you. 

The dress you were wearing almost demanded all of his attention. His cheeks started to feel warm once he allowed the memories to flood in. He had you spread out on your bed, his tongue expertly moving between your folds, strong arms holding you in place just for him. You had squeezed his cock so beautiful during every night you two shared and this dress, the flashes of your skin, all of it reminded him of those moments. 

In an attempt to gather himself, he pulled on the ends of his jacket, straightening it in the process.  

People always moved out of his way. Even with his metal hand covered up, they often didn’t want to cross him. It was a strange sensation, no doubt. Bucky would not call himself particularly frightening. 

He did not mean to interrupt your conversation, but he did linger a little closer to you than before. If he caught you alone for a moment, he could speak to you. 

You had seen him when you had turned around to place down your glass of champagne. Bucky Barnes had been a momentary part of your life in Romania, but he had lingered in the back of your mind for years. You had changed and so had the world around you. It didn’t change the way his touch had seemed to stay with you. In lonely moments, it had become a source of comfort, a source of wonder. Of course, you had eventually realised who he was. It had been all over the news. 

The Winter Soldier. 

How could you not know him after every newspaper in town had his face plastered on their front page? And yet he had been a stranger to you until the last second. 

Whatever choices he had made, they had led him here and they had led him to follow you. If you could trust any of the newspaper articles you had read about him recently, he was now one of the good guys and that meant he was out to get you. 

Not that you had committed a horrible crime, but you had given other people the supplies to commit theirs. Enough of an offence to have the former Winter Soldier on your tail. 

You knew he would not interrupt your conversation. He was waiting for the right moment to speak to you and that moment would have to be one between just you and him. You decided to give him the chance to since his eyes seemed to burn holes into your back. With an apologetic smile, you excused yourself to the toilet. 

Moving through the couples standing in your way, you briefly glanced back over your shoulder. He was following you, a stern expression on his face. You had only smile him a few times and those never seemed to reach his eyes in the slightest. There had been a deep sadness about the man you had met in Romania and you wondered if it was still there. 

You closed the door to the restroom behind you, but it opened again just a moment later. 

There was a tzzzz sound and you knew Bucky had used some sort of device to lock the door behind himself. After engaging in weapon trade for a few years, you had become familiar with different methods to remain undisturbed for important conversations. As you stood in front of the mirror, you did not look at him at first. 

His presence alone sent a shiver down your spine. 

Had he thought of you these past years? Had he remembered you in a positive way? 

Bucky had stayed with you even days after his departure from Romania. The memory of his touch had been with you during a shower, during the boring commute to your job and most importantly, during nights facing the moon in an attempt to feel the same way you did for those short weekends. 

His eyes continued to linger on you. He was almost frozen in place even though you did not even give him a glance again. Bucky wanted to tilt your head to the side, run his lips over the familiar skin of your neck and make you shiver in his arms as he had done before. You were right there, a temptation he should avoid. 

He was on a mission. He was not here to reconcile with an old acquaintance and he was definitely not here to indulge any of his own desires. No matter how tight his throat started to feel and how his body seemed to protest his every thought. After all, Bucky had felt alive with you. After so many years of living on auto-pilot, those nights with you had brought him back to this world a little. 

Bucky flexed his left hand. How was he supposed to initiate this conversation? 

I am here to arrest you. I need to know more about the people you’re supplying to…

Why are you wearing this dress? I can’t stop looking at you. 

Neither of these options would work. 

His steps echoed through the empty bathroom once he approached. His reflection appeared in the mirror, close to yours and you searched for his gaze until your eyes met. Maybe you had just imagined it, but Bucky’s expression seemed to soften for just a moment. 

His posture gave him away though. He was tense, metal hand curled into a fist by his side. A smirk appeared on your own lips. His eyes drifted down your neck, to your collarbones and eventually to your cleavage. Of course, he was looking at you. The dress was a nice one, showing just enough to tempt any man. 

Bucky had never been able to forget any detail about you. Having you right in front of him brought all the desire he previously felt right back. 

“It’s good to see you, Bucky.” 

He had never heard you say his name before. Back then, it had always been a different one, but it now sent a shiver down his spine. 

“It’s good to see you too.” 

You were not oblivious to the looks he was giving you. It seemed like your body was tempting him just as it had done years ago. Would it get you out of this situation? 

His suit looked good on him too. You had never seen him in formal clothing before, but it brought out the best in him. His eyes were still the same piercing blue as you remembered. Even though your weekends together had not been of the strictly romantic kind, you had spend hours upon hours gazing into his eyes and trying to make sense of the man in front of you. 

Bucky had always remained a mystery to you until your ways had eventually parted. 

“Have all these years taken your ability to talk to me?” You asked with a wicked smile, turning around to him fully as you leaned against the sink behind you. You could watch his gaze briefly turn towards your exposed knee, then flicker back to your face. 

“Not at all. I am here to talk to you about your job.” So you had been right. Bucky was here to talk to you about your trade, but if you were quite honest, you were not in the mood to talk about it at all. 

“Do we really have to talk about that? You haven’t seen me in years.” You stepped closer to him, taking a moment to appreciate the beard on his face and the curve of his lips. He looked healthier than the last time you saw him – stronger, even. Would his lips still feel good on yours? Would his hands know exactly where to touch you? 

Could he make you come undone like he had done so many times before? 

“No, we do not.” His voice had grown rougher, his gaze darkened just a little. 

Bucky could smell your perfume. It seemed to envelop him entirely, dulling all his thoughts until there was only you. 

You and your pretty dress. You and your tempting lips and a body he wanted to lose himself in. 

His mission was on the line. Could he allow himself to fail it? Return home with empty hands? Just because his hands wanted to be all over you. Bucky wanted to run his fingers over your exposed knee, let his hand wander up and up until he’d reach the wet folds between your legs. Would you still taste the very same there? 

“I did not expect to meet you again like-”

Bucky’s finger found your lips and stopped your words altogether. You blinked up at him, once, twice, through long lashes and he knew he was a doomed man this evening. 

“Quiet,” he whispered. While his right index finger rested on your lips, his left hand slid up your arm. The metal was cool against your skin, a familiar sensation you had dreamed about many times in the past years. 

“Just be quiet.” He leaned down to your ear, his lips grazing your skin ever so slightly. “You look lovely in this dress.” A soft kiss planted at the spot between your ear and your jaw. Enough to send a shiver down your spine. You pulled your arm away to grab his hand, planting it on your waist instead. 

Bucky took his finger away from your lips and looked at you, desire burning in his eyes. His pants were getting tighter the more he thought about your naked body and the promise of maybe exploring it once more. Even if this would be a short-lived moment, he wanted to cherish it. When would he ever get the chance to touch you again? 

You wanted to kiss him, you wanted to give your body to him, even if it was just for one evening. 

Pulling him just a little closer, you pressed your lips against his. Bucky’s hands firmly grabbed your waist, pressing you up against him. You could feel his arousal hard against your leg and it brought a smirk to your lips. He wanted you just as much as you wanted him. 

It was easy for him to lift you up onto the sink and part your thighs enough to stand between them. Bucky’s hands roamed your body, starting at your hips and running his big hands up your back. Your own began to wander to his shirt, opening it button for button, just to see his trained chest peak through. 

His tongue parted your lips, the kiss growing more hungry by the second. He felt like a man starved and you were the only one able to quench his thirst. 

“Need to fuck you in this dress.” His words were a low mumble against your lips, but still enough to make your panties almost feel soaked. Your pussy clenched around nothing, another sign that you needed him just as much. 

“Please do,” you whispered, already feeling out of breath when you briefly parted from each other. Bucky’s hands moved underneath your dress, squeezing the bare skin of your thighs, hands inching further to the inside. 

He wanted to savour this moment. Once you two left the restroom again, life would continue. For now, it could stay exactly like this. 

“Lift your hips for me, doll.” 

There it was. Doll. A familiar endearment from his lips and you were quite happy to oblige. Pushing yourself off the counter for a moment, Bucky hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and pulled them down your legs. He pushed them into the back pockets of his pants, before kneeling down on the ground in front in you. 

His lips were laced with a wicked smirk after he wet his lips with his tongue. “Spread your legs for me.” 

Once your thighs had parted for him, you leaned back against the mirror behind you, the cool glass against the back of your head. Bucky’s warm breath on your most sensitive spot caused goosebumps to spread over your entire body. 

“Already so wet for me. Did you lure me here on purpose?” Even though you couldn’t see his smile, you could hear it in his voice. 

Whatever words you wanted to reply got stuck in your throat once Bucky’s lips wrapped around your clit. He sucked on it softly, his metal hand travelling closer to where you needed him the most. As his middle finger slid between your wet folds, you pushed your hips against his hand, eager for more. 

“Oh shit,” you cursed under your breath. The cold sensation of his metal digit inside you left you gasping with every new curl of his finger. Bucky continued to alternate between sucking on your sensitive nub and flicking his tongue against it. 

He knew how to work your body and he wanted to see you explode in front of him. Your taste on his tongue was enough to keep him satisfied for days. Once he added another finger, filling your pussy so tightly, you pressed your left hand down on your mouth to prevent your moans to slip past your lips. 

Your right hand found its way into Bucky’s hair, pressing him just a little closer to your middle. The tension in your abdomen became more and more, your walls quivering around his fingers. With every stroke of his fingers inside you, with every expertly placed flick of his tongue, he brought you closer to a climax and he could tell. 

Bucky felt your walls clench around his hand, your thighs shaking around his head. A deep groan escaped him. It was enough to sent vibrations through your core, your squeal only being muted by your own hand around your mouth. 

“Come for me, darling.” You wanted to obey his wishes and with one more roll of your hips and a flick of Bucky’s tongue against your clit, your orgasm rolled over you. Your hand pulled harder on his hair as you tried to keep as quiet as possible. Bucky loved the feeling of your thighs closing around his head, almost threatening to smother him in-between. 

When he stood back up once your climax had worn off, he licked over his lips slowly. You barely had time to catch your breath when he pulled you right back into his arms, erection pressing against your thigh as you could taste yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s kiss was eager and hungry, his metal hand sneaking up the back of your neck. 

“Can you taste yourself on my tongue?” His words were a mumble against your mouth, almost being drowned out by another kiss. Bucky’s eyes were wide with lust, his hand manoeuvring your neck to the side, so he could run his tongue up your neck. Another moan slipped past your lips, your body eagerly pressing into his. You wanted to savour each of his touches and stop time. 

You nodded in reply, feeling the rough brush of his beard against your jawline. It was enough to make you shiver, enough to want even more of him. 

“Talk to me,” he urged you, his mouth right next to your ear. 

“Yes, I can.”

Your voice was trembling, your hands fumbling to get a hold of his cheeks. When you cupped his cheeks, you turned his face towards you. Bucky’s cheeks had turned a soft red colour and his hips were slightly rolling against your leg. He needed the relief as much as you had. 

“I need you.” 

Bucky didn’t need to hear more than that. You helped him open his pants and slide them down, his boxers soon following. In an attempt to relieve some of the need between your legs, you squeezed them together, but Bucky quickly pulled them apart once more. 

“Need to be inside you,” he mumbled against your neck. Your hands moved to his back, legs wrapping around his hips and Bucky grabbed the underside of your thighs to position you properly. His tip brushed past your folds, eliciting a soft gasp from you. Bucky had always filled you out so nicely and you couldn’t wait to feel it again. 

When he pushed inside, you leaned your head back against the mirror behind you. Bucky let out a soft groan, closing his eyes to savour the feeling. Your walls were still so very tight around him, fitting perfectly around his cock. His first thrust was slow, but it filled you out all the same. 

Your fingers attempted to get a hold of his shirt as he leaned down and softly sucked on the soft skin at your throat. “Fuck,” you groaned, pushing your hips up to feel him even deeper. Every thrust sent another wave of pleasure through you, your body rocking in sync with his even when his thrusts grew more rapid. 

Bucky’s fingers dug into the soft skin around your hips, holding you in place as started to chase his own high. The knot in your abdomen got tighter and tighter. 

He groaned into your shoulder, face pressed against your skin, his hot breath leaving goosebumps spread over your entire body. “Shit,” you cursed again, feeling yourself getting so close to that sweet high – once again. 

Before you could reach your sweet relief, Bucky pulled out again, leaving your cunt empty and leaking. A puzzled expression appeared in your face, but you soon knew what his plan was. In one swift movement, Bucky had you off the counter and turned around, seeing your own flushed face in the mirror. 

Bucky entered you once more, this time with one hard thrust. It was already enough to send you over the edge, but his thrusts kept going. Your pussy was spasming around him, legs trembling as your orgasm just kept going. Bucky’s metal hand pressed down on your mouth to silence your moans as he kept the ruthless pace up, hitting your sensitive spot over and over again. 

The pleasure was too much, your thighs trying to squeeze together and your hands holding tightly onto the counter. His grunts of pleasure filled your ear and his eyes searched for yours in the mirror. Once your gazes met, his teeth scraped against your earlobe, his thrusts growing almost erratic. Bucky was so close too, so close to spending himself inside you. 

“Going to fill you up, doll,” he groaned and as you pushed your hips back again, walls squeezing his cock so deliciously, it finally tipped him over the edge. His low moan sounded in your ear and his face was distorted with lust. The sight alone gave you one final push to reach your next high, one hand desperately holding onto Bucky’s strong forearm. 

He held you in place as ropes of cum painted your insides white, his cock still pulsing inside you. Bucky wanted to hold you like this forever, as close as humanly possible, and never let go again. 

Soft kisses were planted on your shoulder, his beard scraping along your soft skin, leaving a slight redness behind. His lips wandered over to your pulse point, making you whimper as you pressed yourself back into his chest. 

“I’ve missed you.”

His words were unexpected, but you cherished them all the same. You had missed him too – more than you often liked to admit. 

“I missed you too.” 

There were still so many things to discuss between you, but Bucky was pretty sure that those could wait for another moment longer. That dress had already distracted him more than enough, but he wished to remember every little detail of you wearing it. That would take time. 

It definitely looked like time had stopped for the both of you, even if it was just for tonight. 

[604to647]

The Might of the Realm

8.9K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Summary: Din Djarin, General to your father’s army, finds himself in the gladiator arena of a foreign planet fighting for the success of your diplomatic mission.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Established secret relationship (they are stupid in love), Mando'a nicknames (mesh'la, cyar'ika, cyare), the helmet comes off but reader is blindfolded, bath sex, fingering, unprotected PiV (Star Wars is made up and in space, so we pretend it's fine). A wee bit of angst if you squint.

A/N: Written for @beefrobeefcal's The Glandolorian challenge! This is the same AU that I imagined for my Kiss It Better drabble, with the same Princess!reader: set post Season 3, Carson Teva has dispatched Din to a New Republic stronghold planet to train and strengthen their armies; he becomes their General and falls in love with the realm's princess. I imagine this story to take place before Kiss It Better, when they are still sneaking around 🥰.

Many moons before another General (🤭) came on the scene, I outlined a long story for this AU that I'm not sure I'll ever write, so kindly forgive my self indulgent word count - I really took advantage of this challenge for a chance to write these two 🥰 Struggled a bit with the Dieter Bravo reference, but I think I found something that works (Thank you to @morallyinept for your invaluable character dialogue database!) Also got inspired by someone's Gladiator II premier look and snuck in one (1) The Princess Bride reference 🤭 / Dividers by @saradika-graphics

“No.”

“Princess, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, Din.  We came to pay our respects to the new rule and to affirm that our established trade routes through Flavin 5’s space will remain intact.  We did not come to be participate in some archaic gladiatorial fighting match to assert dominance.”

Even through the blankness of Din’s visor you can tell he’s amused by your hiss of a retort but is holding back his reaction.  His stoic and impassive demeanor normally reserved for others, you know that if he’s being less than fully direct with you it’s for one of two reasons: 1) he doesn’t want to lie or 2) he doesn’t want to risk your ire.  You suppose it’s the latter in this case, and that thought alone is reason enough for you to calm your emotional response to this predicament and reassess.

Taking a deep breath, you rest one hand on your hip and mimic a stance you’ve seen your fearsome General make many times; with your other you gesture at Din to present his argument for voluntarily sending your guard, the top lieutenants of the army he commands, into a battle arena on foreign soil.

“Mesh’la, I know your instinct is to protect your people, but you know as well as I that our troops, and especially the men who have been deemed fit to accompany you on this diplomatic mission, are more than capable of handling themselves in any combat situation.”

Din almost chuckles at the way you tilt your pretty head ready to interrupt, his feisty cyar’ika; he continues hurriedly, but with the calm confidence he knows you respond to, “You diligently studied Flavian traditions and history before embarking on this trip – you yourself taught me all I know of these people.  Despite the new ruling family’s decision to resurrect this ancient custom, what is your sense of these people?  Do they seem barbaric?  Cruel for cruelty’s sake?  This isn’t the Petranaki arena on Geonosis.”

You would roll your eyes at Din’s perfectly level-headed analysis, if you didn’t consider his strategic and tactical mind one of his most attractive qualities; Din’s shrewd ability to consider all angles of any situation is one of your army’s greatest strengths, and one that never fails to weaken you at the knees.  He’s taking this situation as seriously as you need him to, and so, you consider your answer carefully - working through your thoughts out aloud, “No, they are not a cruel people – and you’re right, these gladiatorial games were never about execution or spectacle like they were on Geonosis.  The ancient Flavian events were meant to bring the people, no matter class or station, together to be entertained, usually in celebration.”

“Do you think that tradition is being respected?  Or do you suspect some hidden agenda?”

You remunerate on this, thinking back to the new Flavian royal family you met earlier today, “No.  I believe them to be sincere.  Their purpose in resurrecting this historic custom is, I think, to build a connection with their people.  Participating in the gladiator match would be a show a respect for the Flavian people and a celebration of the new royal family.”  You take a deep breath, “So, we should participate.”

“I agree completely, Princess.”

This time you do roll your eyes at Din, but there’s no arrogance in your expression, “Fine.  But Din, just because there’s no ill intent does not mean there isn’t risk.  We don’t know what to expect from such a fight – there hasn’t been one like it held in centuries.  Who knows what opponents our men would face in the arena?”

“No matter who or what our troops are pitted against tomorrow, Princess, there is no doubt in my mind that they will be able to handle it.”

Nodding thoughtfully, you have to agree, Din did train them himself after all, “I believe it.  Especially since they will have their fearless General there to lead them.”

“No.”

“Din, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, mesh’la.  I cannot leave you unprotected and without guard in the Royal Box,” huffs Din.

Stepping into Din’s space, you lay your hands on the shiny beskar that sits across his expansive chest, swearing you can feel it vibrate beneath your gentle palm from his thundering heartbeat; tipping yourself towards the great warrior before you, you feel his big, gloved hands move to your waist to steady you just as you knew they would.  Giving Din your most innocuous expression, you coo, “There is no need for me to have a protective guard if we deem the Flavian royals to be of honourable intent; if it is safe enough for our soldiers to participate in the gladiatorial games, then it is safe enough for me to be alone in the Royal Box.”

Din’s smile at your cleverness and persuasive tactics is hidden beneath his helmet, but he’s yet not ready to show you he’s given in so he remains as silent and cold as the armour he wears.

You use this opportunity to loop one arm around your hulking General’s neck to bring him closer to you still, your free hand takes one of his from your waist and brings it up to his helmet in a silent request.  The familiar click of Din’s helmet unlocking is the only invitation you need - using your nose to lift the brim of his helmet slightly above his strong jaw so you can find his plush lips with your own, you feel the hint of a smile against your pout before you deepen the kiss.  Opening to let Din lick into your mouth, you melt against the hard metal that represents everything he is to you: extraordinary, flawless, indestructible.

And such a good kisser, letting loose a soft whimper you nearly miss Din chuckle something against your lips.

“What’s that, General?” you sigh dreamily.

“I said, Princess, I saw what you did there, and that was NOT the way,” chastising with no actual bite, Din lowers and relocks his helmet.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” flashing him that breathtaking smile of yours that always makes him forget himself, “I’m only following the logic you already agreed to.  Grogu and I will be fine watching you showcase the might of our realm from the safety of our spectator seats tomorrow.”

“Grogu will be with me in the fighting area.”

“No.”

“Cyar’ika, he will be fine.”

“He’s just a baby, Din!”

“And a Mandalorian apprentice.  You’ve seen what a formidable fighter he’s already grown to be.”

And so on, and so forth – the two of you, the General and his Princess, spiritedly discussing and debating matters that affect your realm.  The thought crosses your mind, not for the first time, that when you ascend the throne after your father you will need a ruling partner who challenges you like this: one who makes you wiser and forces you to expand your horizons, but trusts your compassion and tender heart, and who you trust to keep you and your kingdom safe.  And as you always do when this thought naturally lends itself to an image of Din by your side, tall and proud as your King consort, you push it away as far as you can.  It hurts too much to imagine something that seems to materialize so clearly and happily, as if it could actually become a reality, when you know it could never be.

The crowd in the arena is deafening.  Already amped from the opening entertainment acts, they’re now cheering loud, calling for the main event.

Sitting front row in the Royal Box, you scan over the floor of the arena – knowing that it’s unlikely, but still hoping for a flash of silver beskar from behind one of the gates that line the sides of the arena floor, behind which lay the holding areas for the gladiator fighters selected for today’s match.  Once or twice, you think you spy the sunlight catch something shiny from beneath the stands, but before you can look more closely, someone from the Flavian royal family will engage your attention.  Though your mind never strays far from Din and his, your men, you cannot forget yourself or your role - your purpose for being in this arena today: you’re here to secure the continued prosperity your kingdom and strengthen your realm’s relationship with a long-standing ally. 

If you’re honest, despite the trepidation that sits heavily atop your heart, you cannot help but be affected by the electricity of your environment.  The stadium thrums and pulses with the excitement of thousands of Flavian citizens who have come out in the hot sun to partake in today’s festivities – you see children of all ages waving noisemakers and colourful flags, men and women young and old already cheering for who they anticipate to be today’s victors.  Based on the chatter in your tent, the news of your General fighting today has spread like wildfire through the city – very few Flavians have ever seen a Mandalorian, never mind have the privilege of seeing one fight; today was going to be a day they remember for the rest of their lives.  As for your companions in the Royal Box, you’re happy to see that your and Din’s assessment had been accurate – there is no underlying bloodlust or malevolent show of power associated with these fights, everything is only in good fun; your royal cohorts are all in splendid moods, showing genuine enthusiasm akin to the original spirit of the same games put on by their ancestors.

You’re just chatting amiably with the new Flavian king about having some of the wonderful Flavian wine and fruit you’ve enjoyed in the tent sent up to your room later, when a fanfare of trumpets echoes throughout the stadium announcing the start of today’s fight.  The crowd quiets to a soft buzzing as the amphitheatre’s speakers announce the entrance of your fighters; the volume rises again as the audience goes wild when the might of your realm runs in through the gladiator’s entrance.  You can’t help but beam, chest bursting with pride at the impression they make on the Flavian crowd – a big, broad Mandalorian General, towering in his stance and intimidating in his majestic armour, flanked by your guard: five of the strongest, most formidable soldiers from your father’s army. 

You spy Grogu before the Flavian royals do, but it’s only because you know where to look.  A perch for him has been attached to the side of his father’s jet pack so he can remain secure at Din’s shoulder during combat, but have the flexibility to jump off and join the fray if needed.  The instant the Flavian prince spots him, he excitedly points him out to the others – and you take great pleasure in informing your hosts that they, in fact, have the honour of seeing two Mandalorians today.

With only a few moments before their opponents arrive in the arena, you take a closer look at your fighting contingent – they have been outfitted with Flavian weapons (swords, blasters, electro shields), the standard issue armament of your kingdom they normally carry nowhere in sight; the only exception is of course Din, who carries the gladiatorial weapons like the others and all of his usual weaponry – you chuckle to yourself, imagining the poor Flavian weapons master who tried to strip a Mandalorian of his religion.

A loud voice announcing the incoming fighters for Flavin 5 jerks you back to the scene before you.  The crowd thunders as a squadron of battle droids nearly a hundred strong marches into the arena, each carrying varying sized blasters or blaster rifles in addition to their own swords, a few wielding double ended electro staffs.  You barely have time to fret over how outnumbered Din and your troops are before the king is rising in his seat and giving the ceremonial hand gesture for the fight to begin.

You hear your General shout quick, decisive commands and his trusty men move swiftly into the desired formation, electro shields lit up and expanded in one coordinated movement.  They advance as a team, strong and sure, every aim of their blasters true – each man practiced at covering the comrades at their sides as the droids begin shooting back.

When your men are close enough to the front line of the remaining droids, the intimidating battle cry you hear emanating from Din’s helmet is repeated in response at tenfold the volume by his men, a signal to shift fluidly into a tiered offensive formation that you recognize from watching their training on the palace grounds at home.

The legion moves with precision and speed, the crouched soldiers providing the impenetrable shielding needed by the men who stand tall as a precision sniper team that can’t be touched; your Mandalorian the tallest, unphased by the droid fire that bounces harmlessly off his beskar armour.

The formation is far more effective than the static positions of the droids and in almost no time at all, your fighters have driven the remaining thirty or so droids back towards the entrance gate.  Answering another roared order, your contingent springs apart with an unrivalled ferocity to attack the remaining droids via direct combat.

Din cuts down mechanical fighter after mechanical fighter, mowing through the defensive lines of the Flavian droids that have none of his agility and lighting quick reflexes, bolstered by his trusted troops at his back who move with the confidence of men who have been trained by the best, used to fighting with the best.

Grogu has left his father, jumping from his perch onto and over droids with lightening speed - they shoot at him with their blasters only to miss their fast-moving green target every time and take each other out instead.

You watch their every move with bated breath – every bolt that connects with your realm’s armour quickens your breath, the clashing sounds of weapon on weapon too loud in your ears, and each hit or wound sustained by one of your men jolts a phantom pain through your own body.

When the last droid soldier falls, your men, your man, stand victorious at the epicenter of the arena; bloodied, exhausted to the point that the heaving of their chest plates can be seen from the Royal Box… but all standing.

You can hardly believe it - your heart exploding with pride, tears nearly springing from your eyes in relief.  Looking to your hosts, you half expect them to congratulate you and acknowledge the victory of your fighters, but instead, you see them still engaged with the scene before them, eyes trained on the arena floor.

They smile with genuine excitement and anticipation, and your eyes snap back to Din and your soldiers at the sound of the brassy, melodic fanfare now being played throughout the stadium.  The crowd rises to its feet with an ear-splitting roar as the orchestral horns continue to crescendo, announcing the coming of something.

You glance at the Flavian prince, his face alight with boyish joy – he’s excited in an almost childish way and when he sees you looking at him, he beams and points to one of the gates that’s now opening, voice elated, “Cliff beasts!”

Cliff beasts?!? You stand from your seat and rush to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing and leaning as far as you can so you can see what new challenger is about to enter the arena.  You gasp when you see it – a woolly beast larger than Din and his men combined, trotting out into the arena on four stubby but powerful legs.  A magnificent horn, the length of which must span at least half of the creature’s massive body protrudes from its snout, thick and battle ready. 

A mudhorn??  Of all the beasts to have entered the arena, what where the chances it would be the beast of Din’s clan signet?  For a moment, you’re alarmed that maybe there have been unseen machinations at play and you’ve been blind to it all – that you’ve somehow failed in your diplomatic duties, failing your kingdom, your men, Din. 

You study the Flavian prince who’s now proclaiming to his father, the king, “These cliff beasts are so large!”  The two of them are enthusiastically waving and gesturing to the other attendees in the Royal Box, their chatter is of wonderment and genuine amazement at the sight of this creature that they’ve never before beheld on their planet - you conclude, with relief, that it has to be a coincidence.  Wait, what did he mean – these? 

Peering down into the arena again you see a second, smaller mudhorn ambling behind the first.  A parent and its child!  Your heart tightens, imagining how scared the two creatures have to be and how fiercely the adult will fight in order to protect its young.  You catch Din’s visor pointed up at you from the arena floor and you know that he understands the distressed expression of your face perfectly.

Immediately, your General gathers his men and lays out his strategy – unknowable to the crowds of the arena, but you can read Din clear as day: he won’t cause harm to another living creature if he doesn’t have to.

Din and his soldiers slowly fan out, purposefully ignoring the young calf while surrounding the adult mudhorn.  As expected, the mudhorn charges in attack.  Trying to blink as little as possible for fear of missing anything, you watch wide-eyed as your men deftly leap and roll out of the path of the stampeding animal.  When the mudhorn stops and turns back towards the perceived threat to its young, the soldiers surround it again – rocking on the balls of their feet ready to evade its charge again.  They aren’t always as lucky or fast enough – you cry out in anguish whenever the Mudhorn makes contact, sending your guard flying, landing with a sickening thud on the arena floor from the force of the impact.  The crowd gasps in worry, cheering louder than ever when your men get up to rejoin their brethren in repeating the same maneuver over and over.

Din’s plan is working, the mudhorn is getting tired. 

Part of you is relieved, the other hopes that its fatigue doesn’t make the creature desperate; though your men are still standing, you don’t know if any of them can sustain more injury to their bodies – an increasing danger that only grows as Din and your soldiers begin tightening the proverbial noose.  You spy Din protracting his fibercord whip from his vambrace by hand only seconds before he does what you suddenly realize he’s going to do.  The mudhorn is pawing at the ground, exhausted and angry while your men surround it, now each only about an arm’s length away, when Din uses a jetpack blast to leap onto its back - throwing the whipcord around its horn and pulling back on his makeshift reins.  The other men scatter and the crowd screams as your General rides the wildly bucking animal around the arena.  At their General’s direction, your men are now divided between two tasks: half shoot at the galloping beast that unwillingly bears their fearless leader and his son, their blaster bolts a distraction but doing little to the mudhorn’s tough hide; the remaining men tasked with capturing and restraining the calf – the seemingly easier task. 

Heart nearly in your throat, you watch as Grogu climbs down the front of his father’s arm and onto the mudhorn, quickly crawling to the top of its head where the massive horn joins the creature’s skull.  With one of his little green hands holding onto the cord his father holds taut and the other placed directly on the mudhorn’s woolly head, you see Grogu close his eyes in concentration.  Gradually, the mudhorn’s steps slow and its movements around the arena become unsteady, then wobbly, before it finally teeters and crashes onto its side fast asleep.  Din jumps off just in time to avoid being crushed by the animal’s huge body - Grogu does a dramatic flip into the air at the same time and lands perfectly in his father’s waiting arms.  The crowd roars its approval. 

The Flavian royals next to you are on their feet, clapping and cheering with astonishment and admiration – congratulating you on the victory of your men and thanking you for the fantastic show you’ve provided them today.  Clasping your hands in appreciation, they heartedly assure you that the documents confirming your planet’s trade routes will be completed and delivered to you tomorrow. 

You express your appreciation before turning your attention back towards the arena, heart full - relieved and proud of the men still on the fighting floor.  You have to admit they make quite the sight waving to the cheering crowds while standing next to a sleeping mudhorn, two of your lieutenants holding a makeshift leash with a smaller mudhorn standing docile at its end.  To the admiring masses, the large beast was subdued by these men, the might of your realm, but you know the truth.  You blow a little kiss to Grogu who pretends to catch it in his little hand before waving back, happy but somewhat tired.

Even with his helmet on you can read Din’s expression as he looks up to the Royal Box.  Where is my kiss, mesh’la?

You smile back a playful smirk just for the unseen eyes behind the dark T-visor.  Later.

You pace in the large, ornamental suite that your hosts have graciously provided – it’s beautiful, a true testament to Flavian luxury and craftsmanship, but you have no attention to spare for its finery.  Not when you’re straining your ears to listen for footsteps coming down the hall, eyes continuing to dart towards your door as if for some reason you may have missed hearing them come.

“Princess…”

Your lady’s maids, Olivia and Serine, pace right along with you, following your tracks around the grand room.  They’re as exhausted as you are, but you know their hearts to be as determined as your own; you give them the most indulgent look you can muster and any plea to ask you to rest dies on their lips.  The three of you continue to take turns listening intently for the telltale sounds of a soldiers’ march.

Finally, you hear something.  Faint but purposeful footsteps walking in synchronicity – the herald of well-trained soldiers with an intended destination.  Perked, you look to your faithful companions with renewed vigor and sprint to your door, flinging it open without grace and hurrying into the dimly lit hallway.

They’re still far enough down the hall that you have some time, even with your hastened steps, to study how your men appear to be faring; you know that when you ask, they will insist they are fine so not to worry you.

Two of your country’s finest are limping slightly, one of your lieutenants and a captain.  Your other lieutenant is walking fine, but he has a nasty gash on his forearm, dripped, half dried blood wrapping around his wrist like a terrible bracelet.  The armour of your realm that the legion proudly wears has taken a beating, covered in evidence of today’s bout – marked, dirty and bloodied, but none of the men themselves appear to be grievously injured.

But it’s the man at the front of the pack that you study the most sincerely.  Din’s gait is not too unfamiliar for you to suspect he’s hiding any serious injury - he would know better than that.  After the battle on the Fields of Planoor he had learned not to conceal his injuries from you, that you were so familiar with his body and the way it moves, you would know something was wrong without a single word from him.  As Din stalks towards your group, you can feel the hot gaze from behind his visor assessing you just as you assess him; your General holds himself a bit straighter, his massive frame puffing in pride.  He bears no sign of serious injury, a little sigh of relief escapes your lips as you continue to run down the hall, Olivia and Serine hot on your heels.  But his back is probably killing him.

The men stop to a coordinated halt as you reach them; their weapons sheathed, they each raise their left fists to their chests and bow, “Princess.”

You wave your hands in a graceful but frantic manner, dismissing this need for formality, “Please.  Are you okay?  Is everyone alright?”

Reaching for Grogu, your heart settles a little when he climbs down from his secured perch on his father’s shoulder and leaps into your arms.  Fussing over him, you check his fuzzy green ears and sweet face for injuries; when you run your hands over his limbs and body to do the same, he coos and giggles as if being tickled.  Resting your palm against the security of the beskar rondel he wears beneath his tunic, you exhale in contented relief and place a long kiss to his head.  He’s okay.

Those same words are now being echoed out loud in the low modulated rasp of the voice you trust most in this galaxy, “He’s okay, Princess.  Not a scratch on him, the little womp rat.  The Lieutenant could do with some fresh dressings for his arm, but the rest of us are fine – a bit banged up and tired, but nothing a warm bath and a good night’s rest can’t fix.”

Knowing that Din’s helmet will give nothing away, you study the faces of your countrymen, trying to ascertain if their beloved General is downplaying the damage for your sake.  Finding no deception in their eyes, and knowing that they know you would know, you relent, “Have you eaten?”

“We were given sustenance after our victory.”

You raise your eyebrow at this, suspecting that Din’s words answer only for his men, but not necessarily himself.  Nodding, you give your final charge for the evening, “Olivia, Serine, please kindly see our brave soldiers to their rooms, run their baths and tend to them as needed.”

Your ladies-in-waiting curtsey in assent at your words and intuitively, Olivia extends her arms for Grogu – there are no secrets between you and your closest companions.  Din nods at her and she takes her favourite little green playmate into her arms, happy to help clean him and put him to bed tonight while his father is otherwise occupied.

Din turns to face his men – similarly, there are no secrets between the General and his most trusted squadron, men who love their princess with an unyielding loyalty that rivals only his own.  Your father’s soldiers salute their esteemed leader, bidding their Princess and General goodnight before following Olivia and Serine to their assigned quarters.

Silently, you take Din’s hand and lead him back down the hallway to your room, careful not to hurry should he be much battered and sore, though the urgency in your chest is nearly bubbling over.  Your concern appears to have been unfounded because as soon as the door to your room shuts, Din sweeps you into his arms with a force that takes your breath away - crushing you to his chest so tightly that you can feel him deflate beneath the hard beskar as he exhales his own long held sigh of relief.

You chuckle, “You would have thought that I was the one fighting cliff beasts in the arena today.”

“Cliff beasts?” Din tilts his head quizzically at you.

“I’ll tell you later.  Right now, let’s get you out of your armour,” your fingers slide under his pauldrons, feeling for the familiar release mechanism.

“Cyar’ika, if you wanted to have your way with me, you only had to ask - you didn’t need to send me into a fight arena with a mudhorn,” jokes Din, wincing slightly from the stretch of his muscles as they contract and relax with the weight of his armour being lifted from his aching body.

You cluck your tongue in playful disapproval, even as you continue to make quick work of removing the rest of Din’s armour.  With now practiced precision, you lift off his chest plates and the attachment frame, unhook his jetpack, unclip his cape, slide off his vambraces, unstrap his thigh plates, unlace his boots, unbuckle his belt, unzip his flight suit.  The ceremony of this process is one you will never tire of, nor is its significance lost on you. 

Din, a Mandalorian, willingly lets you touch his armour and remove it from his body – trusting your delicate hands with his most precious property: the physical embodiment of his honour and creed, the very symbol of his people.  Not only that, but he allows you to strip him of protection and reveal his vulnerability to you, exposing him and his softness – he exists as the man beneath the beskar for you and you only.  You’re the most privileged being in the galaxy – the weight of Din’s trust in you is something you will never take for granted.

When Din stands before you in only his boxers and helmet, you begin your study of his body in earnest.  Dancing your fingers across his hard and tanned chest, you trace old scars in order to separate them from new marks; palming his torso and checking his thick arms with the same careful hands.  Rounding your warrior, you continue your roaming examination over his muscular back and listen intently for any change in Din’s breathing when you press down on his tense shoulders – relieved when you hear him groan in satisfaction instead of pain.  As you’re lightly scraping your nails over his wide thighs you hear the telltale unclicking of Din’s helmet – he beckons you.

Rising to meet his lowering face, you use your thumbs to lift the brim of Din’s helmet slightly, always keeping your eyes closed so you don’t see any of his face – not for the world would you betray Din’s trust.  Mouth finding his easily, you kiss Din gingerly – unsure of what injuries he may have sustained beneath his helmet; lightly pecking his soft pout and pressing restrained affection to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going to break, cyare,” Din grins as if he’s reading your mind.

Snapping down his helmet with a bit more force than necessary, you peer up into the black horizonal stripe of his visor and sniffle, “I can see some big bruises starting to form over your abdomen and on the back of your thighs.  And the muscles of your arms and back are overstrained and need to loosen or you’re going to be more sore tomorrow than you already will be.”  The emotions you held in all day now start to spill over your lash line; dropping your head, you cry softly at the toll today’s events have taken on your strong man’s body and how he bears it without complaint.  Contrite and indebted that he sustained these injuries at the behest of your kingdom - your behest, for you. 

Din gathers you in his arms and pulls you flush to his chest, tilting back his helmet again he kisses you lovingly, devotedly – with every stroke of his tongue, every nibble of your lips, he reminds you that it is not only his duty, but his honour to serve your kingdom, to serve you.  He would do anything for you, without you ever having to bid it.  It is not in him to deny you anything, his heart’s desire is to give you everything.

“I love you, Princess.”

“I love you, General.”

Not without some difficulty, you pull yourself out of Din’s embrace and lead him to the suite’s fresher, running the taps of the large tub and scenting the water with fragrant, healing oils.

“I can do that, mesh’la,” one of Din’s large meaty hands covers yours as you test the temperature of the water.

Shaking your head shyly, you bring that hand up to your lips and kiss its calloused knuckles, “Please. Let me serve you, Din.”

“That is not befitting of a princess.”

“I am not like other princesses.”

Tilting your chin up with two of his thick fingers, you can feel the smile behind Din’s next words, “No, you are not.  There is no one like you in the galaxy.”

“And I’m yours.”

The helmet, never having been relocked, is lifted again and Din sweeps you into a passionate, hungry kiss, different than the reassuring and devoted kisses of earlier – deeper, greedier.

“Get in the tub, Din,” you murmur against his lips while you can, before you forget your task and give yourself over to him completely.

Chuckling, Din can only acquiesce whenever he hears a direct request from your mouth – he never hears you command him as his sovereign, only ever as his love.  No matter – he would obey either way.  Stripping off his boxers, helmet still on, Din slips into the steamy water of the deep soaker tub, letting out a heady groan at the way all his muscles relax in reaction to the sudden heat against his rough skin. 

With a soft footedness that still surprises Din, so used to picking up every little sound with his helmet’s acoustic sensors, you reappear suddenly with a small tray table bearing various Flavian fruits and wine for Din and a thin silk scarf for you.

“I know you didn’t eat after the match,” you say matter-of-factly when Din tilts his helmet in question.  Neither did you.

“Will you join me, cyar’ika?”

“Of course, my love,” you begin to disrobe, perfectly understanding the double meaning of your General’s question.

Though he’s seen and worshipped your naked form more times that you can count, there’s always something about being unable to see the eyes that devour you which makes you shy.  Able to detect the rise in temperature of your face, your bashfulness amuses Din to no end – if only you could see his own expression; every time Din sees you bare before him is like the first time, he thinks you might even laugh at the slack jawed, awestruck expression hidden by his helmet – if Mandalorians were to believe in a literal afterlife, then Din could well be deemed a heretic for he’s sure he’s already seen heaven.

Stepping in the tub, careful not to trip over Din’s strong legs, you settle on your knees in the water near his feet; taking the wash towel from the side of the tub, you lather it up with your own luxurious cleanser, the scent of which you know Din loves and begin to wash his body.  With great care and affection, you wash and massage Din’s feet, calves and thick thighs, the two of you quietly chatting about your individual perspectives on what transpired in the arena today as you move up his body with your loving touch.

Din groans when you wash his groin area, and you smirk and pretend to throw him a look of disapproval even as you stroke his fast-hardening cock with the washcloth.

“Cyare…” he strains.

“Hmmmm?” Humming, you shimmy to straddle his lap and innocently begin to wash his hard chest and tree trunk arms.

“You’re teasing…”

“Not at all, I’m cleaning,” you giggle.  Rising onto your knees, you lean over Din’s mountainous shoulder to clean his back, dangling your wet, supple breasts right at helmet visor level.  Definitely teasing. 

Two can play at this game. Din’s modulator muffles his snicker as he makes sure you’re entirely engrossed in your task of scrubbing his back, concentrating adorably so that you don’t notice when his big paws reach for your chest, groping and kneading the pillowy flesh with hardly any warning.

You squeal and grind down on Din’s cock - in retaliation he zeros in on your already pert nipples, rough fingers roll and pinch, flick and tug your pretty peaks until you forget your work and bury your face into his shoulder, completely lost to the pleasure that only the General can give you.

“Din,” your voice a soft whimper, needy yet still regal and melodic, “… you have to…”

“What do I have to do, Princess?”

His teasing tone makes you gush; this man knows exactly what he’s doing – you try to claw back some semblance of control over the situation, “You need to let me tend to any injuries you may have sustained under your helmet.  And let me wash your hair.”

“Oh, do I?” 

Nodding in earnest with your eyebrows raised, “Yes, and then you have to rest.  Your body needs it.”

“My body needs you, mesh’la.”

Leaning back, your eyes follow the trail of your fingers as they rake down the smooth skin of Din’s broad chest, slowing over the various long-healed scars whose tales of origin you know by heart, you prepare yourself to argue your way.  But the truth is, you don’t want your way – you need Din, too.  Here on Flavin 5, there is no fear of getting caught, no need for hurried kisses or fleeting touches – the two of you have time.  Time to enjoy one another.  Time to let your hearts run rampant with affection and want.

Tomorrow morning is the last morning you can wake lazily in Din’s arms, like any other couple waking to just another day in the rest of your lives together.  Tomorrow you will return home and your love for your steady warrior will once again need to be tucked away close to your heart, safe from the prying eyes of the kingdom. 

So, you don’t argue.

“Injuries first, General.”

“I have none, Princess.”  You can feel Din’s shit eating grin radiating from behind the beskar.

Grinding down a little on Din’s hardening length as a warning, “I should like to see for myself, thanks.”

“Of course, mesh’la.  I would see you satisfied.”  Though still smirking, it’s with enormous feeling that Din picks up the scarf from the side table and with his practiced hand, covers your eyes; wrapping the silk around your head twice before tying it securely.  He doesn’t ask you if you can see, knowing that if you could you would volunteer it.  Sitting prettily with your hands clasped together, you wait for the welcomed sound of Din’s helmet being lifted and set down where you scarf previously lay.

Heart full, your hands reach out to gently touch Din’s face, fingers tracing over the most intimate part of the man you love.  His jaw relaxes as you stroke though his facial hair and his plush lips curl as your thumb brushes over them.  Din’s strong nose feels unbroken, thank goodness – your gentle kiss to the tip earns you a breathy chuckle that tickles your throat.  Mapping the strong lines of his forehead, you discover your first wound at Din’s hairline – the soft curls of his brown (or so you’re told) hair already matted and sticking with dried blood.  When your fingers caress Din’s temple, you find a small superficial cut by his left eye, and your heart tightens further upon feeling a nastier slice on the apple of his cheek.  Even without seeing and Din giving away no hint of tenderness at your touch, you’re sure there are bruises starting to form on the face you love.

Though you’ve never seen it, you know Din’s face – positive that you could pick it out of a crowd as surely as you could your own in a mirror.  It’s the face of the strongest warrior you’ve ever known, one whose honour and integrity is as unbreakable as the beskar armour that covers his body.  A protector who fights without fail to defend the weak, uphold justice, and push back against tyranny and corruption – no matter how hard something may be or the risk to his own self, the man who bears this face will never back down, always standing up for what’s right.  It’s the face of a man who loves fiercely – loves his Creed, his people, his duty, his son, his woman.  You.  You know the face of this man, the man who owns your heart, your body, your soul - wholly and completely.

You wash this face, carefully cleaning your discoveries.  Then, before you wash his hair, you cradle Din’s head delicately and check for bumps and scrapes, sighing in relief when you find none.  Lathering up a generous amount of your shampoo, you distribute it through Din’s curls, massaging his scalp as he groans in approval.  Your smile at the sound could melt even the steeliest warrior’s heart, Din is sure – it melts his.

When his hair is rinsed and face pat dry, salve applied to his wounds, you attempt to get Din to eat from the food on the tray.

“After, Princess,” Din’s voice somehow lower than when it’s filtered through his modulator.

“After what?” you pretend to be confused.

“After I have what I’m truly hungry for,” you can feel the sides of his face lift beneath your hands as the curve of his mouth pulls up into a wicked grin.

You flash him what you think is a mirroring smirk, “And what is that, General?”

Din takes an excruciating long time trailing his fingers featherlike down the column of your throat as an answer.  His massive hand skate over your naked breasts, pinky pretending to be caught on your pert nipple before catching up with its brethren that have moved on to tickling your soft tummy.  When his hand finally dips below the water, it’s no more hurried, no less teasing – knuckling down the front of you, his hand so big and wide, his thumb and baby finger stretch to slowly stroke along the apex of your thighs at the same time with no additional effort at all.  You quiver at your warrior’s languid and gentle touch – that these same hands are trained for weapons and brutality is not lost on you; how lucky are you to be able to feel them as they are now, so close to where you need them, reverent and worshipful.  Hands meant for building up and protecting, instead of tearing down and destroying - and yet you know them capable of both - and moreover, that they can and will do both to you. 

Leaning forward to press your lips tenderly to Din’s, you whisper, “Promise you’ll eat after?”

He knows the condition of the ask is empty - you need him as much as he does you, both of you hungry for more than the food your empty stomachs growl for.  The worry you felt for your Mandalorian every second he was in the arena today has morphed into a blazing desire now that you have him secure once again in your loving arms; even when he was facing blaster fire or the murderous glare of a mudhorn today, Din’s thoughts never strayed far from the moment he could return to your warm embrace.

But he plays along, because he knows you need to hear it, “I promise, cyare.” And then, because your well being is always as much on the forefront of his mind as his is yours, Din adds, “As long as you eat with me.”

“Promise.  Now touch me please, Din,” you’re trembling, not just from want but need, a need for the reassurance that he’s here safe, that the violence you saw in the arena did not touch him.

Even if he had not pledged his fealty to your kingdom, Din would submit to your request, to you – if it were up to him, he would spend the remainder of his days catering to your every whim, carrying out your will, doing anything and everything necessary to ensure your happiness.

He parts your folds with his fingers, finding you slick and ready for him.  As Din glides his thick digits along your seam, your soft moans fill the steamy room, “Ohhh Din, yes right there, please.”

“Such a polite little princess, isn’t she?” hums Din, loving how responsive you always are for him.  He kisses down your neck, nipping at your shoulder as you come to a rest against his chest.  You’re shuddering from the way he’s stroking your pussy, swirling infuriatingly at your needy hole but never dipping inside, teasing you with long broad swipes up to your clit.

Pressing his thumb against your already slippery nub, Din takes advantage of your lack of sight and surprises you by dipping his head down to take one of your breasts in his mouth at the same time – you cry out from this sudden double attack, body trying to run.

The old bounty hunter in him activated, Din chuckles and increases the pressure of his hand on your pulsing clit, and with his free hand, he holds you firm by the nape of your neck - face now buried deep in your cleavage, biting and sucking every bit of soft flesh his mouth can find.  Rolling your pert nipple between his teeth, he seals his lips over the sensitive peak and murmurs, “I got you, mesh’la.  Let me make you feel good.”

At his sure words, you immediately relax and willingly giving yourself over to your warrior, sighing in surrender as he worships you with his fingers and his mouth.  This is the only time that you allow yourself to be covetous of what is not rightfully yours – Din’s face you may know without having ever seen, but the lascivious sight of what he looks like when he loses himself in your pleasure remains a mystery.  You secretly long to see it – wishing to know how dark his eyes burn, how his lips wet and plump, how his brow might furrow or relax in reaction to your whines and whimpers. 

If you were his riduur – no.  No, you can’t let yourself go down that path of longing, it only ends in heartbreak. 

As if he can sense that your mind has started to wander, Din slips two of his thick fingers deep in your heat and curls them, beckoning you back to him.  You fly right back into the moment and to the space of devotion that he holds just for you, gasping for air at the stretch of his welcomed intrusion.

“Need to get you ready for my cock, cyare,” purrs your Mandalorian, bringing you back fully and binding your heart to his in the here and now.

Nodding almost mindlessly, you crash your mouth to Din’s.  The kiss is desperate, needy for so many reasons – your tongues licking and chasing, dancing to the song of perfect pleasure that strums along the electric current that connects you.  Din feverishly conducts the symphony of your body – grand upward motions of his fingers in your cunt send waves of bliss that crescendo through your core; the sweeping of his lips against yours keeps you in tempo with his own urgency; his rolling downward gestures on your clit coils the band below your belly tighter and tighter.

No one can play you like Din can – beneath the beskar armour he’s a master musician, lover.  Like the weapons he so deftly wields and handles, your body is an instrument he knows intimately – every shift, slight change or tensing is noted and adjusted for so he can optimize performance, maximize your pleasure.  Din knows you’re going to come before you do by the key in which your breath hitches, the cadence of your fluttering walls.

“Come for me, Princess,” he growls, biting down on your plush bottom lip.  Now it’s your turn to obey – you come with an arch of your back and a chorus sung to your General’s name, Din, Din, Din, Din.

Here you can be as loud for as long as you want and Din can fuck you through your high for as long as you need, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean only when your cunt is complacent enough to release him, “Always taste so sweet, cyar’ika.”  You sigh at the filthy sounds of another forbidden sight you long, lust for.

Lips finding his again, you taste yourself on Din’s tongue and tease, “I thought we were eating after.”

This time it’s Din’s turn to act coy, repeating your question from earlier with a knowing smirk against your pout, “After what?”

In response, you reach between your bodies and even without the benefit of sight, easily find Din’s hard, throbbing cock.  Stroking his length with your delicate hands, you lift to line him up with your entrance and wordlessly sink down, “After you come, General.”

“As you wish, Princess,” Din groans at the way your pussy hugs him.  When you feel him shift beneath you to plant his feet on the bottom of the tub, you stop Din with a hand on his wide chest and shake your head, “You’re tired and your body needs rest, my love.  Let me do the work.”

Big, loving hands come up to cradle your head and a playful but reverent tone accompanies Din’s protest, “A General’s duty is to serve his Princess.”  You tilt into his paw and nuzzle; your Mandalorian’s affectionate touch and the feeling of fullness combine in making you compliant.  Leaning in close you ghost over Din’s lips, “Together then.”

Half awestruck, half groaning in agreement, Din slides his hands back down your soft body to come to a rest on your waist, holding you gentle and secure, “Together.”

It’s easy to find the perfect rhythm, your bodies already so in tune with one another.  Din’s slow upward thrusts meet your lighter bounces halfway, causing the water of your bath to ripple and splash against the sides of the tub.  It’s tender and patient until it isn’t – with no communication other than your soft whinnying and Din’s grunts and heavy breathing, your tempo and intensity remain matched, building together. 

Always together.  How you love being together with your Mandalorian.  How you love him.

You press yourself to Din, the rise and fall of his chest grounding you as your hips work in tandem with his.  Arms snaking around his neck, you cling to the General as your joint movements become more fervent and passionate, the water now choppy from your lovemaking.

Together.  Everything is better when you’re together.  You were able to get through today, together.

Love, relief and gratitude flood your pleasure wracked body as you crawl up Din’s broad mountain frame to find his lips.  Latching your mouth to your Mandalorian’s, you kiss him heady and desperate.  Every press of your plush and swollen pout thankful for his survival, of today’s fight and of all the fights that came before today so that he could come into your life.  A thank you to maybe that same mystical force that gives Grogu his unexplainable powers, for making the man that fills you so full at the moment the warrior, the father, the man is.  Thankful that he loves you.  For all of him.

Din meets every brush of your lips with the same devotion, somehow able to read the emotion behind your eyes without seeing them - the same way you’re able to read him even when he’s hidden behind his helmet.  He himself grateful for bringing his son and your countrymen back to you safe, for being the one to give you what you needed for the success of your mission.  A thank you to that same power than runs in his son’s veins and makes him a warrior far stronger than Din could ever be, for bringing him to you.  Grateful that a woman as regal, compassionate, and kind as you saw past his hard armoured exterior to the man beneath and holds him in your esteem.  And in your heart.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” Din growls with a deep rumble of his chest that echoes off the walls.  I love you.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” you cry back in the perfect pronunciation that Din taught you.  I love you.

Neither of you able to hold back your love for one another nor the crest of your bodies any longer – coming together, lyrical song sung loud and shameless.  The Princess and the General have nothing to hide here, tonight.

Later, after you’ve each eaten and drank your fill of Flavian fruits and wine, and you’ve massaged and kneaded Din’s sore muscles until you’re satisfied with the way his aches have melted away, Din guides you, still blindfolded, out of the cooled bath to the bed.

With Din protectively hovering over your naked body ready to take you again, you realize that as thankful as you’ve been feeling, you haven’t actually acknowledged those sentiments out loud to the man to whom you owe everything, “Thank you, Din.  Thank you for being the might of the realm.”

Though he knows you cannot see them, Din’s eyes fill with a love he hopes he can properly convey in other ways, “No need to thank me, cyar’ika, it will always be my honour to fight for you.  You must know - you are the might of the realm.  The realm prospers and remains strong because its Princess is brave, smart, good.  You’re everything, mesh’la.  You’re my might – I can only do the things I can because I do them for you.  I would do anything for you.”

You feel the scarf you wear across your eyes dampen as it absorbs your tears, “I know, Din.”  Happy, content, you welcome your General between your legs once more; and with the rare luxury of time and freedom that the two of you have been gifted tonight, you know it won’t be the last time.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Contingent.

Commissioner by the very lovely @pale-horse-writing.

Pairing: Yandere!Warrior!OC x Reader.

Word Count: 3.5k.

TW: Dub/Con, AMAB!Reader, Mentions of Blood + Gore, Obsessive Behavior, Codependent Relationships, Unhealthy Relationships, Mentions of Past Trauma, and Possessiveness.

He returned from the battlefield only minutes before sunset, bathed in golden light and backed by the crimson sky. From a distance, you could almost trick yourself into believing you didn’t recognize him, that you didn’t know why a masked man carrying enough weaponry to supply the better part of a legion would be approaching your ramshackle home, but you weary mind was not so yet exhausted as to slip so easily into such pleasant delusions. Maybe, one day, you’d be able to find that escape, to allow yourself a world without such gruesome rituals, but for now, you didn’t have the time to be so optimistic, so hopeful.

For now, you had to entertain Hidemasa – lest he find himself craving pastimes less wholesome than vying for your favor.

Today was a worse day than most to be so closely tethered to reality. Even from the stone steps of your cabin, you could see the fruits of his labor, make out the scarlet blood dripping from his blade and splattered across his bare chest. A jagged cut had been carved into his right cheek, visible above the grinning mouth of his wooden mask, but you saw no other injuries save for the bruises and scrapes he brought on himself with his relentless training. Even the cut, as ugly as it looked, had probably been his doing; either a blow taken deliberately or his own work, committed with the shattered sword of a fallen enemy when he realized the battle had left him unscathed. He was many things – brutal, manic, unyielding – but Hidemasa had never been exceedingly strategic. To him, injuries were tokens that could be traded in for your attention. The idea that there would be a wound you couldn’t bandage was as foreign as that of an opponent he could afford to leave alive – something that scared and worried you in equal measures.

With a sigh, you shut your eyes and stood, an age-old injury protesting from somewhere deep within the scar tissue of your side. As you fought to ignore the pulsing ache, a pair of well-toned arms found their way around your waist, lifting you off the ground entirely and hauling you against Hidemasa’s broad chest. Thankfully, he remembered himself before you had to correct him, placing you back onto your own feet as delicately as a man the size of a mountain with the strength to match could. Still, his hands remained on your hips, his face soon buried in the crook of your neck, then the dip of your shoulder as he slotted himself against you. You could only be grateful exposure had left you numb to his constant affection.

Carved wood grated roughly against your skin. With no small amount of hesitation, you brought a hand up and raked your fingers through his long, untamed hair – tangled and matted with gore after such a long fight. You tugged, and with only a slight groan by way of protest, he raised his head, blinking curiously. “I saw the size of their encampment. Were there any survivors?”

There was a delay before his answer, and you reminded yourself to be patient. Speaking was still relatively new to Hidemasa. A well-forged weapon had no need to respond to its commands. “There weren’t.”

“This is not a matter you can take lightly. Warriors traveling in such great numbers might be here on behalf of the shogun, and a single survivor could bring—”

“There were no survivors.” His voice was gruff, his tone clipped, and yet, he practically keened into your palm, more than happy to melt into your touch. “Have I done something to upset you, master?”

It was a question asked with complete sincerity, his earnestness alone enough to lodge a tight knot of guilt in the back of your throat. You pulled away from him quickly, taking a step back. “Never, ‘masa.”  You paused, nodded towards the two straw baskets sitting by the door to your cabin. Fruit and vegetation spilled over the sides of each in excess. Personal trinkets had been nestled among the bare necessities, and you saw Hidemasa‘s on a palm-sized plush rabbit before flickering back to you. There was no doubt in your mind that it‘d be added to his ever-growing collection before the night ended. “A group of women from the village wanted to show you their appreciation for staving off the newest wave of invaders. Can you take them inside?”

You watched as he stiffened, cocking his head to the side. “You…” Speech was still new to Hidemasa, you repeated to yourself. He did not have the necessary training to disguise negative emotions so easily. Even if he’d been a better liar, the way his eyes dipped to your exposed chest would’ve given him away. “You spoke to the villagers? Alone?”

“They came while I was fetching water. We only passed each other briefly.” You, on the other hand, were a skilled liar. It would’ve been hard not to be, when Hidemasa provided so many opportunities for practice. Before he could linger on the subject, you beckoned him inside. “If I must, I’ll recite the encounter to you in its entirety later on. Right now, you need to bathe - I won’t have you tracking filth through our home.”

At the mention of ‘our’ home, he immediately softened, any jealous outburst delayed in favor of following after you like an overgrown lapdog. The overflowing baskets were lifted without a trace of effort and carried to your meager kitchen while you found your way to the back porch, where a carpenter had been kind enough to build you an outdoor onsen after Hidemasa saved his family’s farm from a group of pillagers. Your routine was well-defined, and you played your part dutifully – filling the stone basin and igniting the small stack of coal and kindling that laid underneath. Hidemasa didn’t mind the cold, but he’d be unbearable if you caught so much as a chill.

He appeared as you finished, already undressed and, for the most part, unarmed. With a quick glance to you and a nod by way of permission, he collapsed into the basin. Water sloshed over the stone walls, and you took your place behind him, running a comb through his now-damp hair.  He let out a satisfied groan, shutting his eyes and settling into place. “Heard there was going to be a festival in town tomorrow,” he muttered as you worked, barely audible. “Wanna go with you, to celebrate.”

You frowned. Handling Hidemasa was a balancing act. He was tolerated so long as he protected the village from greedy warlords and roaming samari, and you were tolerated so long as you were able to keep him in-line; a task easier said than done, considering his own strength had surpassed your own long before you’d ever met him. The fact that he had such a gentle demeanor only complicated things. Trying to read his expression was useless when he could strike down a hundred men without ever letting his smile falter. He didn’t have a taste for civilian blood, but he didn’t have to. A single misstep around you, and every man, woman, and child in the village would be cut down within the hour.

With a hum, you set down the comb and began to braid his hair with a rushed sort of swiftness. “What are we celebrating, exactly?”  

��Our anniversary.” He glanced over his shoulder, a slight grin painted across his lips. “It’ll have been five years since the day we met, come sunrise.”

You tugged the final strand into place. “I’d hardly think that’s something worth remembering. It took three weeks before I could believe you wouldn’t die in your sleep.”

“It was the happiest day of my life,” he countered, his tone one of dream-like wonder. “It was the day I fell in love with you.”

Something large and sharp lodged itself in the pit of your stomach. Another sigh, another moment taken to gather your composure before you pushed yourself to your feet and found your way to the edge of the basin. You took a few seconds to reevaluate his injuries (or lack thereof), but again, found only the cut on his cheek. You didn’t think before raising your hand to it, dragging your thumb underneath the thin line of tattered skin. “You were barely alive. You would’ve fallen in love with whoever filled your stomach and gave you a place to sleep.”

“Which is why I’m so happy that it was you.” His grin widened as he melted into your palm. “You loved me too, right? I know you do now, but—” His smile took on a shy lilt. “—did you love me back then?”

It was a familiar question, one he asked as often as he could afford to, and you gave a familiar answer. “Of course.” You leaned toward him, letting your lips ghost over the top of his head and lingering there. “How could I not grow to love such a devoted student?”

He didn’t laugh, this time, but purr – the sound reverberating from somewhere deep in his chest. Before you could draw back, an arm caught you by the wrist and dragged you into the scalding water, into his lap. Out of instinct, you made a weak attempt to straighten yourself, to pull away from him, but your pride crumbled quickly under Hidemasa’s strength and, with only a thin scowl and a half-hearted glare by way of protest, you settled against him, his chest against yours and his face once again buried in the side of your neck. Without his mask to act as a barrier, he was free to latch onto you, his teeth gazing over the curve of your throat before he found the target of his harsh affection: the tender patch of flesh underneath your jugular vein. His canines pierced vulnerable skin without resistance, and he groaned as fresh blood washed over his tongue, as he lapped over the fresh puncture marks as if in apology. Again, you fought the temptation to push him away, your hands finding their way to his shoulders as his fell to your waist, then lower – his calloused fingertips digging into your ass through the now-soaked material of your yukata.

With his face buried in the dip of your shoulder, he rutted into the knee that’d fallen between his legs, his agonizingly stiff cock grinding against your thigh. You’d been fortunate enough not to notice his arousal before being pulled into his lap, but you could only imagine he’d been hard long before he’d gotten into the water. Since he got home, if not from the moment he departed from you that morning – his head full of thoughts of victory and his body already aching for the reward he’d come to expect from you. Distantly, you heard him whine, saw a dark flush begin to spread over his pale cheeks, and for a moment, you could almost believe that this was not the bruised, battered, half-staved boy you’d taken in, but someone else entirely. For a moment, you could almost believe that a monster had crept into the home in the dead of night and taken away your poor student, leaving only this unsatiable beast of a man in its wake. For a moment, you could almost believe that you didn’t truly hate Hidemasa, but only pitied the creature he’d become.

Then, one of his hands fell that much lower – gazing over your hip before curling around your limp cock, and once again, you were freed from such juvenile delusions.

“Need you,” he muttered against your shoulder, beginning to pump his fist over your shaft in stunted, hasty movements. You weren’t hard, let alone excited, but if Hidemasa could tell the difference between his eagerness and your suppressed dread, if he minded the pained look that came across your expression as your cock begin to pulse against his palm, then it would’ve been impossible to tell. As always, he was more than happy to do the work himself, to grind the heel of his palm into your base and swipe the pad of his thumb over your tip until you were leaking in his vice-grip. His technique was sloppy, his pace prone to waning whenever his attention drifted to nipping at your throat or nuzzling into your chest, but he knew your body well. It was almost endearing, his clumsy passion, how whole-heartedly he devoted himself to your pleasure. It might’ve been, had you been more willing to endure that pleasure.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day.” A hitched breath, his cock jutting against your thigh. “I never wanna be that far from you again. Thought I might—” He drew back, allowing just enough distance between your body and his to slip an arm between you. There was a moment of relief, then a renewed pressure as he took his cock up along with yours, pumping his fist over both in tandem. His gaze softened, and your skin began to crawl. “Feels like I can’t breathe when I don’t know where you are. Think my heart might stop beating if I ever have to be away from you for that long, again.”

His pace grew more erratic, this grip tightening to a nearly painful degree. You winced, moved to tell him to be more careful, but a ragged groan cut you off as his mouth crashed into yours. Kissing, too, was an art he’d never taken the time to perfect, despite all the time he’d put aside to practice it. His tongue forced its way past your teeth as his lips moved against yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he did his best to suffocate you, to leave you entirely pliable under his touch. He wouldn’t. As far as you could tell, his greatest desire was not unrestrained pleasure, but mutual pleasure – for you to be as obsessed with him as he was with you. If something were to happen to you, if you told him to stop and truly meant it, he would. You had to believe that he would.

Not that you would ever get a chance to try. Hidemasa had not been taught to endure rejection, and he sought your approval so relentlessly - you could only imagine what your refusal would do to him. You could only imagine what his anger would do to you, after that kind of—

His hand flexed around your cock and for a blissful moment, your thought blurred and distorted before blotting out completely. Moaning into Hidemasa’s mouth, you came into his hand and, although he’d only received half the stimulation, he did the same – the evidence of his satisfaction splattering messily against your stomach. You would’ve been content to sit in the lingering pleasure, to let the aftershocks fade with his body pressed against yours, but Hidemasa was less lethargic; winding an arm around your waist and hauling himself upward. The basin was forgotten entirely, and with a clumsy haste, he carried you into your home, into the bedroom you shared with him. You were laid unceremoniously onto your unfurled futon with another messy kiss, another hitched whimper that seemed to fall from Hidemasa’s lips in fractured pieces. Hands that you’d seen crush skulls and split open rib cages came to rest on either side of your head, and for a moment, he hovered above you, dark eyes boring into your skin, kiss-bruised lips ever so slightly parted. For a moment, all you could picture was the blood on his chest, the battlefield’s worth of bodies the villagers would be burning long into the night.

Your hand found its way back to his cheek. You shouldn’t have asked, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself – the question slipping out before you could so much as attempt to swallow it back. “Does it ever bother you?” His head lulled to the side inquisitively. “What we ask you to do, I mean. I know it’s gruesome work.”

His answer was delayed, and you ran your thumb over his cheek by way of encouragement. “I don’t like anything that takes me away from you,” he admitted, eventually. “If I could, I’d like to fight by your side again, but that’s—” His gaze fell to the scarring stitched into your side, and he shook his head. “Sometimes, I think it’d be better just to get rid of everyone else – everyone but me or you. That way, there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight, and we could always be together.”

You weren’t surprised. You couldn’t be, not he’d always worn his twisted heart on his sleeve. “That’s a rather callous solution.”

“Oh.” For the first time since his return, his lips quirked downward. “I’m sorry, should I… should I have said something else?”

He remained steady, but his voice shook, his hands curling into fists on either side of you. Of course, you rushed to comfort him and of course, he embraced your sympathy with enthusiasm – allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck, to draw him that much closer to you. “No, ‘masa, of course not – I shouldn’t have asked at all.” It was your turn to kiss him, now, although your affection was much more delicate than his own. You stopped yourself from pulling away until you were breathless and he was distracted, his concentration once again centered on rutting his cock (still hard, still leaking, you noted with more than a drop of despair) against your thigh. You couldn’t help but laugh, the noise more weary than amused. Still, it didn’t seem to make a difference to Hidemasa. “Do you want to take care of me, tonight?”

This time, there was no hesitation, his immediate answer coming in the form of an eager nod, an abrupt desire to paw at your clothes. Your sash gave out with a single tug and the damp material of your yukata was shoved aside; disregarded in favor of leaving you completely and entirely exposed. You let your head roll back, your eyes fall shut, but Hidemasa was far more proactive – straddling your waist as he aligned your cock with his entrance. There was only a moment of solace, of anticipation, and then, you were fully sheathed inside of him.

You’d tried alternatives, before, when Hidemasa was younger and you had yet to fully grasp the weight of your responsibilities. You thought it might be a more passive role, that you might just be able to close your eyes and allow it to pass over, but Hidemasa’s size made that impossible; even after hours of preparation, a single thrust had been enough to leave tears welling in the corners of your eyes as you begged him to pull out. You’d been unable to walk the next day, but this – his body on top of yours, your cock buried inside of him, the walls of his tight canal clenching around your length – was hardly better, only slightly less overwhelming than the feeling of him tearing you open had been. His back arched as the head of your cock brushed against something soft and sensitive inside of him, knocking his braid loose and leaving you trapped within an impenetrable curtain of pitch-black hair that smothered the world around you, swallowed everything that wasn’t Hidemasa, Hidemasa, Hidemasa. “Been thinking, and—” His breath hitched, and he rolled his hips, immediately falling into a steady but unrelenting pattern of rising and falling, grinding and rutting. “—I wanna marry you, master.”

For the first time in months, you felt your blood run cold. You only barely managed to stop yourself from shaking your head, from letting your revulsion show. It was a useless precaution – in his fervor, you doubted he would’ve noticed if you’d screamed, doubted he was capable of acknowledging anything save for the feeling of your cock fucking into him, of your nails biting into his scalp as your hands shot to his hair. “…think it’d be nice just to be able to call you my husband.” he went on, voice airy and concentration clearly elsewhere. You felt him clamp down around you and drew back sharply, only for Hidemasa to catch your wrist, to press your limp hand against his cheek, against the proof of his devotion to you. “Think it’d be nice to hear you call me your wife.”

“No, ‘masa, that’s not—” You were cut off by a ragged whine from Hidemasa, his hands soon braced against your hips as he started to ride you properly. The pleasure was rough and invasive, that sudden spark of heat enough to turn your body unbearably hot, and whatever you might’ve said was lost to the pure heat that coursed through your form. He’d caught you off-guard, last time, but you could feel him dragging you toward your second climax, see it on the horizon despite your best efforts to hold out for that much longer, to spare yourself the guilt of coming undone so easily for your former student. He was relentless, though, determined to split himself open on your cock, never happy unless you were buried as deeply inside of him as was humanly possible. He was warm, and tight, and you couldn’t stop your hip from snapping against his ass; your eyes clamping shut and your body going stiff as you came undone inside of him. Hidemasa wasn’t far behind you, his hand wrapping around his cock and pumping once, twice before you felt something thick and searing crash onto your stomach, your chest. You didn’t let yourself look at the damage, you didn’t let yourself look at him – letting your head roll to the side and keeping your eyes shut, even as you felt him shift, even as he leaned over you, your cum leaking out of his ask and spilling onto your thighs.

His tone was so light, his voice so innocent, you could almost believe it was a question posed out of love rather than obsession.

Almost.

“We’ll always be together, right, master?”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t have to.

There was only ever one answer you could give, when it came to Hidemasa.

“Of course.”

[the-badger-mole]

What is your NUMBER ONE headcannon for each person in the Gaang (Katara, Zuko, Aang, Toph, Sokka, Suki [and Appa and Momo if you feel so inclined])

Katara: After the war, she goes back to the NWT to train with Yugoda and becomes a master healer as well as a master of the NWT fighting style. From there, she goes back to the Foggy Swamp Tribe and masters their bending style, too. With the help of Sokka, Zuko, and (in some headcanons) Hama, she also rediscovers SWT waterbending and not only masters it, but teaches it to the new benders in the SWT. By the time she leaves the SWT, there has been a school established where all bending styles are available for study. She's one of the few who actually has mastered them all, though.

Sokka: He is eager to return home after the war. He throws himself into infrastructure and policy revamps, and he almost singlehandedly staves off the soft colonization attempts of the NWT. Under his efforts, the SWT rebuilds and reestablishes parts of its culture that had been lost during the war. With the discovery of oil on SWT land, he is also instrumental in establishing eco minded extraction techniques, and in trade ties with the rest of the world (although he is very much helped by his sister's deep ties with the Fire Lord). It's a surprise to no one when he's chosen to lead the SWT after Hakoda retires.

Toph: She does not become a cop. Instead, she goes back home and takes over the Earth Rumble, taking it from an underground even to a world wide phenomenon. She eventually allows benders of other elements to join, and the Earth Rumble becomes pro bending. She does also establish a metal bending school. In the end, she is wealthier than her parents, but because she couldn't really care less about money, she keeps enough to live at the standard she wants, and gives the rest away to causes that interest her...like the guy who wanted to set the record for the biggest bao bun ever, and needed funding for an oven big enough to cook it. She also establishes a halfway house for runaway teens.

Zuko: During his tenure as Fire Lord, he establishes a robust social services program that includes subsidized healthcare, education, and housing for the lowest income families. Under his reign, the Fire Nation becomes home to some of the earliest pioneers of mental health. At his wife's advice, he also makes paid maternity leave standard across the nation, and includes several programs to help single parents stay afloat. Taking inspiration from the SWT, Zuko makes some changes to how his advisory staff is selected. Instead of choosing from among the nobility, Zuko has the different provinces elect a representative to speak on their behalf. A lot of the nobles hate this, blaming his wife's influence, but the people adore their monarchs and despite their best efforts, there's little the nobles can do except start campaigning in their home provinces. It's not a perfect system, but it does open the door for the Fire Nation to end the monarchy within a couple of generations.

Suki: She continues to lead the Kyoshi Warriors for a few years after the war. She also helps train troops around the world as they pivot from active war service to more local work. She helps establish something like the coast guards for several different countries. Eventually she retires from that to help her husband run the SWT. She and Sokka make a wonderful team as he handles the domestic policies and she handles foreign affairs. She often jokes with her sister in law, Fire Lady Katara that they ended up with the same job.

Aang: I'll go with my most optimistic headcanon for him. He's an okay Avatar. Not great. Not the worst. After the war, he tries to take part in rebuilding efforts around the world, but he finds his help isn't needed much. He turns his attention back to salvaging what's left of the Air Nomad legacy, and discovers that there are actually airbenders still around. A few of them are even interested in learning to live like the Air Nomads. Many of them aren't, though, and after learning how to actually use their powers, they go off and do their own thing. To Aang's shock and dismay, eating meat has no effect on the strength of their bending, He does learn to deal with it and enjoy his time with the air benders who embrace the Air Nomad culture. He does go on to have kids, and he still favors the benders over the nonbenders. Ultimately, his legacy as Avatar boils down to taking Ozai's bending, and that's it.

[underacalicosky]

I continue to torture myself with fix-it scenarios where Anakin just can't handle seeing Obi-Wan having an emotional meltdown and gives up the dark side as a result. What if Obi-Wan was a wibbly mess on Mustafar?

“Until now, you’ve become the very thing you swore to destroy.”

“Don’t lecture me, Obi-Wan. I see—“

“Lecture you?!” Obi-Wan snaps suddenly, his voice bellowing. “You think I came here to lecture you?”

His sharp tone makes Anakin take a step back. He sucks in a shaky breath and straightens his posture, refusing to be rattled. As he opens his mouth to respond, Obi-Wan continues interrupting him.

“No, Anakin, I lecture you for staying up too late. For not folding your tunics properly.” His voice gets progressively louder and more impatient. “For not getting enough fiber in your diet! I’m not here to lecture you. I was sent here to kill you!” Obi-Wan yells.

Anakin knows it’s the reason why Obi-Wan is here, but to hear him say the words, with such certainty, makes his heart plummet. He’d hoped, with whatever little hope was left, that he wouldn’t have to fight Obi-Wan. His chest aches, knowing that this is how it must end. But he ignores the weakness that still lives in him and draws on the dark side for strength. The Force ripples around them when he pulls on it.

“And kill the rest of myself along with you,” Obi-Wan says furiously. “Part of me has already died.” He fixes Anakin with an intense stare, a seething fire in his eyes.

Taking another deep breath, Anakin narrows his eyes and returns his glare. He’s never seen Obi-Wan angry like this. It frightens him, but he keeps pacing like he's a caged wild animal because he can’t let it show.

“It died when you knelt in front of a Sith lord and proclaimed him your Master!” Obi-Wan’s face twists with uncontrolled and un-Jedi-like rage. “It died knowing that you would trade me for him. Do I mean that little to you?” he demands, spreading his hands and arms out in front of him. “I poured all of myself into training you and raising you and—”

With matching ferocity, Anakin shakes his head. “This isn’t about you!” Anakin yells, pointing at him.

“Of course it’s about me!” Obi-Wan yells back. “Your mother entrusted you to Qui-Gon and he entrusted you to me. Do you know what it was like everyday being scared out of my mind that I would let them down? That I would let you down?”

This is not Obi-Wan. Anakin was prepared for Obi-Wan to use reason. To remain somewhat collected as he projected his disappointment. Perhaps confronting Anakin with all the ways he’s violated the Jedi code, betrayed the Republic and democracy.

Obi-Wan’s skillfully talked circles around politicians, foreign royalty, the Jedi Council and kept his emotions at bay every time.

But this… Anakin is unprepared for this.

“No,” Anakin says with another shake of his head. “No, I made these choices,” he insists.

“Maybe I should’ve left the Order with you. We would’ve found our own way.” Obi-Wan was lost in his own thoughts, his eyes ticking everywhere at once, unable to focus. “And I wouldn’t have had to train you to be a soldier. Wouldn’t have dragged you through a war. Wouldn’t have let Palpatine near you.”

“I never wanted to be a burden!” Anakin cries.

“You weren’t a burden! You were my brother, Anakin! My greatest joy!” Obi-Wan screams. “What could I have done differently to stop this?” Obi-Wan asks, nearly begging.

With his fists balled at his sides, Anakin holds onto the last vestiges of his resolve. He can’t let Obi-Wan break him.

“We can’t change the past,” Anakin says, his voice hollow.

“Did I not love you enough?” Obi-Wan asks sadly, tears streaming down his face.

Instinctively, Anakin reaches for him through their bond, a habit formed from years of training and bickering and teasing and laughing and to his horror, it recoils and his heart shatters.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Anakin stomps his foot. He can’t have both. He can’t embrace the dark side to exploit its unnatural powers and still expect to find comfort in the golden and pure light that tethers him to Obi-Wan.

Anakin Skywalker has made a lot of choices in the last day. And here, he makes another.

With his head hung, he relaxes his hands and releases. The ground beneath them shakes as the dark, consuming anger bleeds from him.

Again he touches their bond, tenderly. Lovingly. Apologetically.

“I can’t change the past, but help me change the future,” Anakin sobs. “Please. We need to save Padmé. And the baby.”

Finally, Obi-Wan blinks as he snaps out of his trance. His eyes lock on Padme’s unmoving form on the ground and Anakin sees the moment that Obi-Wan realizes his renewed purpose.

“Yes. Get her onto the ship,” Obi-Wan says with the authority of a war General. “I’ll make sure 3PO and Artoo are both accounted for and have them help me find the nearest medical facility,” Obi-Wan says.

“If the Republic finds me… after what I’ve done…”

“Then we need to be careful where we go so they won’t find us,” Obi-Wan tells him and glances at Padmé, then back at Anakin before he boards the ship.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

The worst opening ceremony ever

That’s because you’re looking at it all wrong. The opening ceremonies are incomparable, for a whole list of reasons:

The economic and financial situations, both in the country that’s hosting and for the entire world.

The country hosts

The creative and production teams involved in putting on the shows.

Geopolitical tensions and issues of the times

The athletes involved

You’re expecting 2008 production value in a 2024 world that’s dealing with different economic crises, two very significant wars with WW3 breakout potential, and a rising far-right/return to dictatorship. It’s incomparable.

You have to look at the opening ceremonies as their own standalone unit. And when you consider last night’s spectacle that way, it was actually a tremendous success:

Arson shut down most of the French trains and there were enormous fears of what it meant for the ceremony, but it went off without a hitch.

It rained the whole time, but all the performers still made good performances, no one was injured, and everyone made it.

Celine Dion made her first major public singing appearance while dealing with a huge medical condition. If you don’t know the significance of Celine Dion to the French or the song that she performed, then just be awed by her commitment to turn up, IN THE FREAKING RAIN, on TOP of the Eiffel Tower to perform. Who cares if she lip-synced? It was raining! She showed up anyway, with every right to demand the performance be relocated to the flat ground under cover.

The athletes all had a good time and were excited.

The cityscapes during the torch relay showed off Paris’s incredible architecture and skyline. Name any other city that can do that and have it be so meaningful.

The bells of Notre Dame rang for the first time in 5 years, they gave credit to all the workers and trades/crafts that have been restoring and repairing the cathedral, and gave an homage to the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

There was a lady in a croissant costume. A CROISSANT costume!

They had a choir of headless Marie Antoinettes accompanying a heavy metal band that was performing AT the very same prison she was held captive at.

They lit a piano on FIRE and floated it down the Seine while performing “Imagine.”

They acknowledged France’s bloody, violent history without it being preachy or sentimental. (Watch the LA 2028 ceremony ignore the US’s bloody history - I guarantee you it’ll highlight our melting pot culture but it won’t even touch on the oppression, slavery, Civil Rights era, or how indigenous peoples were treated, much like the London 2012 ceremony didn’t acknowledge Britain’s bloody history.)

They highlighted all the ways that French culture contributed to the global community; music, literature, love, fashion and Coco Chanel pink, Louis Vuitton, the Eiffel Tower, croissants, the minions, and French people’s contributions to modern sport (as well as foreign success in French sport).

The homage to Assassin’s Creed, the Phantom of the Opera, and other famous masked French figures in the torch relay and flag-bearers.

They had an opera singer dressed as the French flag singing the national anthem from a sloped rooftop over the stadium in the rain. I had literal chills, y’all. It can’t get more patriotic than that.

Organizers made statues of important French women to display during the ceremony and they’re DONATING all of them to Paris after the Olympics! I don’t know if you caught it, but the male-to-female representation in Paris’s statues is 4.5:1 (over 200 male statues, just 40ish female statues). It’s an incredible start towards gender equality in Parisian and French history that a lot of countries could take a note from.

Les Mis! Who doesn’t love a good musical interlude?! Especially one introducing a segment paying tribute to the French Revolution. (And I must admit, I’m now kinda expecting LA 2028 to have a Hamilton nod.)

The image of Assassin’s Creed with the dove wings behind her as she walked up.

All the athletes running together for the final torch relay - more chills! (Usually that doesn’t happen.)

Raising the Olympic cauldron by hot air balloon so everyone could see.

That amazing light show from the Eiffel Tower.

and so much more.

Yeah, the can-can line was sloppy and the audio quality was poor, the parade of nations took forever (they always take forever though) and no one understood the order they were coming in (because it wasn’t explained until *after* the ceremony that the upcoming hosts are also at the end) and there’s a ton people offended by the threesome and the drag queens on the grounds of religious morality (you can see my reaction to that criticism in the earlier post below), but overall, all things considered? Considering the entire 4-5 hour show, in the spectacle that is Paris, with a terrible weather forecast, in the unprecedented geopolitical times we’re in?

It was a kick-ass opening ceremony.

[prettymunchkin]

Effortless business travel is key to maintaining productivity on the go. With Trade Wings, streamline your corporate trips by using integrated travel platforms to book flights, hotels, and transportation in one place. Pack light, opt for priority boarding, and use fast-track services to save time at airports. Stay connected with portable Wi-Fi, and rely on mobile travel apps to manage bookings seamlessly. Maximize comfort with hotel loyalty programs and pre-scheduled airport transfers. Use flexible flights for last-minute changes and simplify expense tracking with advanced tools. With Trade Wings, business travel becomes stress-free, efficient, and hassle-free.

[travelingthief]

Hermes Offerings and Devotions

Offerings

Keys

Dice

Playing cards

Coins

Rocks/pebbles

Playing jacks (UPG)

Bouncy balls (UPG)

Lucky charms (Cereal)

Rabbit's foot

Horse shoe

Magic 8 ball

Coffee

Energy drinks

Herms

Road trip snacks (I like Hostess donuts)

Airplanes/trains/cars imagery

Foreign/new foods

Trail mix

Peanut m&ms (UPG)

Turtles

Lyres/string instruments

Sandals/shoes/running shoes

Journals

Camping gear

Survival gear, like multitools, fire starters, first aid kits etc.

Pens/pencils

Small (stolen) trinkets

Language dictionaries

Work out gear

Panpipes

Postcards

Letters

Mail

Stamps

Envelopes

Zodiac signs

Sheep/goats

Car parts

Backpacks/drawstring bags/bags

Crocos

Sticks

Saffron

Sticks

Board games (UPG)

Dominos (UPG)

Pick up sticks (UPG)

Books

Cups

Scales

Dream journals

Graveyard dirt

Cookie fortunes

Foreign money

$2 Bills

Dollar coins

Marbles

Travel souvenirs

Bikes/skateboards/skate

Old licenses/IDs

Sport trophies/jerseys/jackets/gear

Wings/feathers

Letters/numbers

Video games

Magic kits

Oranges/Lemons (UPG)

Devotional Acts

Write letters

Go for walks

Run

Road trips

Learn about alchemy, astrology, lucid dreaming/astral travel, astronomy, etc.

Learn basic car maintenance (change a tire, jump a car, change air filter, check oil etc.)

Give money/socks/cigarettes/water/food to panhandlers

Go talk to a panhandler and keep them company for a bit. I usually smoke a cigarette with them (only time I smoke) and just chat.

Pranks

Public speaking

Tip well

Stargazing

Geocaching

Learn new language

Learn ASL

Work out

Drive safely and predictably

Use your blinker fools

Bike/skate

Clean your car

Make a travel altar

Get a passport

Travel

Practice keyboarding

Have a penpal

Train your voice

Magic tricks

Check your mail/email regularly

Low risk gambling, like lotto tickets

Riskier gambling if you're mindful of it

Make sigils

Have a race

Play a tag

Be nice to wait staff

Play sports

Make maps of trails near you

Make maps of whatever you want

Play uke/string instruments

Make herms

Carpool

Uphold confidentiality

Coin tricks

Be a reliable worker

Thrifting/yard saling

Dumpster diving

Making trades and barters

Help look for missing people/pets

[dogbites-puppylove]

Hello! I hope you're well.

Can you do a Damian Wayne x Male reader oneshot? Based on the song "Stacy's Brother" by Mad Tsai.

Damian finds out that Male reader is the little brother of [Big! Sister].

Then Damian decides to approach [Big! Sister], in jobs, projects, etc. All this to get closer to Male reader.

Maybe a sporty, extroverted and clumsy Male reader?

I can't get it out of my head that Male reader is somewhat nervous about being around Damian due to Damian's personality and the fact that he is taller than M!r doesn't help.

Also, Can I be anon 🛸?

Male! Reader x Damian

TW: description of yandere mentalities and actions (obsession, possessive tendencies, stalking, etc)

Tags: Yandere! Damian Wayne x Reader

Solitude is preferable to irritants for Damian, so to prove useful enough to be a contact of his is difficult. He’s an heir first and a human second,this is fact, every thought he has is spent towards a goal, and every goal to another's gain - this is the natural state of his operations. Much like a king's pristine puppet he is a glorified prize that must maintain itself. If he meets his darling through a sister or really any family member not of his own, the darling has no backing to stand. Simply and utterly he is beneath nothing to Damian - and maybe that's how he got trapped. 

Contacts from his mother provide lethal abilities, contacts from his father are useful and cut throat -expectation and criteria create his world brick by brick - everything has its place of necessity. A contact form outside this world is easy to push off - it's useless and creates nothing but problems for him - but his Darlings sister is needed and to maintain relations he must come to know Darling - so he takes to this as a bat. The Darling is a lesion, a bleeding pus addled wound in his world of rules and he must get you to heal - it's a clinical and medical perspective. He is his own greatest triumph and Darling are the termites that are picking at his puppet strings. 

Diagnosis comes from close observation- and he needs to be perfect to complete his tasks. You are stalked and detailed without mercy - without decorum, for the first few months you aren't even human. Damian takes a while stalking him, perching on the ceiling and staring through windows - devouring every image with curiosity. Like a dog lapping at its bleeding wounds - Damian tends to him with hypothesis and obsessiveness  - laving over him with his tongue until he’s all that he can taste. Every detail is crucial - every twitch of his muscle under his skin and every time his drops of drool on his pillow in the throes of the Darlings sleep. 

It begins with details and ends with praises and reverent prayers - what used to be details of something he needed to heal became the height of his worship. Damian slips from the king's grasp and becomes a tumbling mess of flash and singing blood  - the para social relationship nurses itself into an infection. 

Sporty? Good, keeping himself in shape is the least of the training that his Darling needs to do in order to stay safe in Damian’s own shadows. Not to say he’d ever let anything touch his darling but it's crucial to keep him in good shape. Paranoia runs in his blood - it's how survival is formed, it's passed on heirloom. 

Extroversion is hardly a trait he is foreign to - in fact it's perfect that his Darling seems to seek out others in social situations. As his other half, his humanity given flesh - it's obvious he would have the skills to express it. 

So what if he’s clumsy? It's simply the innocence of untarnished life showing through - Damian has none left - not even in the hollows of his bones - but his darling can make up for it. To him it's an even trade - like heaven and hell to the spirits that pass. 

After sufficiently gathering all he can from the window - it's only so long before he reaches in. He needs you - from the wound is born an infestation and Damian is sick with it - it fills his orifices and body and mind until Darling infect his brain. He won’t blame you for it - how could he - but you’ll have to take responsibility. 

Your sister is a means to an end - from the beginning of her contact to the time he uses her as a ticket into your life. He blows up her phone, her email, her everything - it's intensive and consuming and he won’t stop even if she answers. He needs you awfully, horribly to the point he might bleed out if he doesn't have his hand on your skin. She tries once to pull away - for her youngest brother's sake - she wakes up with a katana and a whispered warning to her ear. She does not try again. Sometimes you can see her eyeing you from the other side of the room with something like an apology on her face. 

Sharing a gender orientation gives him easier access to you - into bathrooms, locker rooms, and a sort of social intimacy that society gives leeway. It's not overly suspicious as he leaves an arm on you - seeks you out - it's what friends do. You're both boys so there's nothing to be shy about Darling. 

Of course he makes you nervous - ha can’t blame you - he's a trained assassin and you're all but a civilian but he’d never harm you. Never dream of it, even, to harm you would be his death. But it doesn't stop his eyes that are far too familiar for a stranger, nor the offsetting way he accommodates you so easily - as if he knows you better than yourself. As if he’s a worm in your brain and was wriggled so far it's made its home - a parasite. It sets you on edge - pulls at your skin until your organs and bones and he still needs to go deeper. 

Author's Note: Hi anon! I don’t actually have a cohesive list of anons but if you want to identify yourself with emojis i'm all for it :)). Also - my writing in general doesn’t incorporate gender a lot but I hope this is ok. 

[astrojulia]

Tarot Cards as Professions

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Major Arcanas:

The Fool: Work with abroad, connections with imports, language teacher, multinationals, entrepreneur, intern, college student, art major.

The Magician: Entrepreneur, job that needs skill with the hands (acupuncture, hairdresser, artisan), actor, salesperson, influencer.

The High Priestess: Education, especially children, nutrition, psychology, cook, housewife, food engineering, toy factory, fortuneteller, spiritual advisor, librarian.

The Empress: Management, business administration, foreign trade, secretariat, translation, decoration, stay-at-home mom, model, cook, farmer.

The Emperor: Business administration, work related to areas of technological innovation, the military or sportsmen, CEO, tycoon.

The Hierophant: Philanthropic areas, ONGs, religious work, social work, diplomacy, and a degree, journalism, writer, editor, priest, spiritual guru, politician.

The Lovers: Sales area in any sector, tourism, theater, advertising, the arts in general, porn star, stripper, masseuse.

The Chariot: Activities related to transport, cars, the latest technology, chauffeur, mechanic, athlete.

Strength: Aesthetics, physical education and various body therapies, medicine, zoologist.

The Hermit: Teacher, writer, doctor, antique dealer, restorer, librarian, gardener.

Wheel of Fortune: Financial market, exchange offices, casinos, lottery houses, stock exchanges, and areas related to public relations, hospitality, game show host.

Justice: Public jobs, won through competitions, politics, police, with government positions, in the diplomatic area, law, insurance company worker.

The Hanged Man: Nurse, auditor, inspector, porter, secretariat, general assistants, yoga instructor, prison guard, philanthropist.

Death: Doctor, farmer, geologist, business administrator, gardener, accountant, assassin, death row executioner, surgeon.

Temperance: Working with liquids in general or with what is transported in liquid form such as alcoholic beverages, medicines, juices. chemist, chef, food critic, regional or even international traffic.

The Devil: Does not limit the individual to a professional wing, so he can also go to extremes for the desire he has, such as landlord, drug lord, sex trafficker.

The Tower: Social assistance, humanitarian aid, medicine, firefighter, police officer, construction worker.

The Star: Music, painting, sculpture, poetry, cinema, makeup artist, dressmaker, beautician, agent, promoter, sound artist, astronomer, harpist, dealer, meteorologist.

The Moon: Oceanographers, sailors, fishermen, owners of bars and restaurants or nightclubs, artists in general, medium, hypnotist, psychiatrist.

The Sun: Motivational speaker, entertainer, comedian, social relationships, work with the public, artist in general, member of society.

Judgment: Work done at home, connection with the law, lawyer, judge, work with disabled or people excluded from society, social assistance, board member, executive producer, director.

The World: Pharmacist, massage therapist, scientist, teacher, community leader, religious leader or priest, fashion designer, makeup artist, interior decorator.

Wands:

Creative industries such as advertising, marketing, and graphic design.

Entrepreneurship and starting your own business.

Athletics, sports coaching, or physical training.

Outdoor jobs like park ranger or tour guide.

Event planning or organizing.

Firefighters or rescue workers.

Ace of Wands: Entrepreneur, startup founder, motivational speaker, fitness coach, personal trainer.

Two of Wands: Business strategist, project manager, travel agent, international consultant, import/export specialist.

Three of Wands: Sales representative, marketing manager, e-commerce entrepreneur, market researcher, international trade coordinator.

Four of Wands: Event planner, wedding coordinator, party organizer, festival manager, hospitality industry professional.

Five of Wands: Conflict resolution specialist, mediator, lawyer, debate coach, competitive sports coach.

Six of Wands: Public relations manager, spokesperson, social media influencer, motivational speaker, winning athlete.

Seven of Wands: Defense attorney, human rights activist, political campaigner, advocate, civil liberties lawyer.

Eight of Wands: Courier, delivery driver, airline pilot, travel blogger, expedition guide.

Nine of Wands: Security guard, bodyguard, soldier, endurance athlete, self-defense instructor.

Ten of Wands: Overworked entrepreneur, project manager, event organizer, professional organizer, heavy equipment operator.

Page of Wands: Assistant in a creative field, aspiring artist, intern in a startup, social media coordinator, apprentice.

Knight of Wands: Travel journalist, adventure tour guide, professional athlete, race car driver, stunt performer.

Queen of Wands: CEO, business owner, charismatic leader, life coach, influential speaker.

King of Wands: Executive manager, entrepreneur, leadership coach, consultant, director of a creative agency.

Cups:

Counseling, therapy, or social work.

Hospitality industry, including restaurant management and bartending.

Wedding planner or event coordinator.

Artistic fields like poetry, writing, or acting.

Healing professions such as nursing or holistic therapy.

Psychologist or counselor specializing in emotions and relationships.

Ace of Cups: Therapist, counselor, social worker, holistic healer, emotional support specialist.

Two of Cups: Marriage counselor, matchmaker, relationship coach, wedding planner, love psychic.

Three of Cups: Event organizer, party planner, celebratory event coordinator, community organizer.

Four of Cups: Meditation teacher, mindfulness coach, spiritual counselor, psychologist, therapist.

Five of Cups: Grief counselor, trauma therapist, hospice worker, emotional healing practitioner, bereavement support.

Six of Cups: Child psychologist, teacher, daycare worker, children's book author, pediatric nurse.

Seven of Cups: Creative writer, fantasy novelist, imaginative artist, dream analyst, visionary.

Eight of Cups: Travel blogger, adventure seeker, spiritual pilgrim, explorer, wanderlust photographer.

Nine of Cups: Life coach, happiness consultant, gratitude coach, self-help author, wellness retreat organizer.

Ten of Cups: Family therapist, marriage and family counselor, foster care advocate, wedding planner, family mediator.

Page of Cups: Creative writer, artist in training, intuitive healer, aspiring therapist, dream interpreter.

Knight of Cups: Actor, romantic poet, musician, art therapist, love and relationship coach.

Queen of Cups: Psychic reader, intuitive healer, counselor, compassionate caregiver, therapist.

King of Cups: Therapist, counselor, intuitive mentor, emotional intelligence trainer, psychologist.

Swords:

Legal professions like lawyers, judges, or law enforcement officers.

Journalists, reporters, or investigators.

IT specialists, computer programmers, or hackers.

Teachers or professors specializing in critical thinking or philosophy.

Military or defense-related careers.

Strategic planners or analysts.

Ace of Swords: Lawyer, judge, legal consultant, investigative journalist, strategic planner.

Two of Swords: Mediator, conflict resolution specialist, negotiator, diplomat, relationship counselor.

Three of Swords: Divorce lawyer, grief counselor, trauma therapist, emotional healer, heart surgeon.

Four of Swords: Rest and relaxation specialist, meditation teacher, spiritual retreat organizer, yoga instructor.

Five of Swords: Military strategist, competitive sports coach, lawyer specializing in litigation, debate coach.

Six of Swords: Travel agent, relocation consultant, therapist specializing in transitions, boat captain.

Seven of Swords: Private investigator, spy, intelligence analyst, cybersecurity expert, undercover agent.

Eight of Swords: Social justice lawyer, human rights advocate, disability rights activist, therapist specializing in limiting beliefs.

Nine of Swords: Insomnia specialist, anxiety therapist, nightmare counselor, sleep coach, mental health counselor.

Ten of Swords: Surgeon, coroner, forensic scientist, mortician, grief counselor.

Page of Swords: Researcher, journalist, fact-checker, apprentice in a legal field, investigative reporter.

Knight of Swords: Military officer, police officer, attorney, competitive fencer, conflict resolution specialist.

Queen of Swords: Judge, lawyer, critic, journalist, literary agent.

King of Swords: Judge, attorney, CEO, strategist, military general.

Pentacles:

Financial advisors or investment bankers.

Real estate agents or property developers.

Agriculture, farming, or gardening.

Architects, builders, or construction workers.

Conservationists or environmentalists.

Accountants or bookkeepers.

Ace of Pentacles: Financial advisor, investment banker, wealth manager, entrepreneur, luxury goods retailer.

Two of Pentacles: Financial analyst, accountant, bookkeeper, event planner, stock trader.

Three of Pentacles: Architect, contractor, project manager, teamwork facilitator, craftsman.

Four of Pentacles: Wealth manager, investor, financial planner, asset protection specialist, treasurer.

Five of Pentacles: Social worker, philanthropist, charity organizer, financial counselor, volunteer.

Six of Pentacles: Philanthropist, humanitarian worker, non-profit manager, social worker, charitable fundraiser.

Seven of Pentacles: Gardener, farmer, agricultural consultant, sustainability expert, botanist.

Eight of Pentacles: Craftsperson, artisan, apprentice, skilled tradesperson, technical trainer.

Nine of Pentacles: Luxury brand manager, independent business owner, successful entrepreneur, vineyard owner, art collector.

Ten of Pentacles: Real estate developer, property investor, family business owner, generational wealth manager, financial advisor.

Page of Pentacles: Intern, student, apprentice in a practical field, aspiring entrepreneur, entry-level employee.

Knight of Pentacles: Accountant, financial planner, farmer, skilled tradesperson, meticulous worker.

Queen of Pentacles: CEO, business owner, property developer, hospitality industry entrepreneur, financial advisor.

King of Pentacles: CEO, business mogul, successful investor, high-level executive, financial consultant.

(CC) AstroJulia Some Rights Reserved

[musouie]

੭ simon loves to play cat-and-mouse with the lovely little publican | suggestive language, 1.0k wc, angst if you squint, fem!reader

It’s at a dingy hole-in-the-wall pub where Simon found he spent most his time. In a dodgy part of the city, one that perpetually smelled of tobacco and car-exhaust; nestled between a boarded-up shopfront and a seedy hotel that any out-of-towner wouldn’t give a second glance.

There was no sign, no windows — just a lone, flickering porchlight glowing above a decrepit old door, looking so worn and dilapidated that it could fall off its hinges at any moment. It all seemed more like the cover to a bando than an actual pub with scarcely decent ale, but he minded that little.

It meant not too many people frequented it — that he saw the same lot everyday — faces so familiar they blurred and meshed together most nights —

— which was just the way that Simon liked it. Inconspicuous. Subdued.

No one here batted an eye at him, the boulder at the end of the bar, who nursed his drink between a huge paw and sat by his lonesome. Who would? No one here was quite the saint. Otherwise, they’d have long left, made for the hills when they heard half the conversations that went on:

Of rogue smuggling. Gun trades. Dirty deals. Attempted hits.

It was only a plus, Simon mused solemnly, eyes lidded and trained on the bird before him, that you were here. The pretty little publican, as sweet as a fig in the midst of summer, plump and dangling from the vine.

(He wanted to sink his teeth into you, peel your flesh back, savour you to your core.)

Your hands were nimble, fingers rolling around bottles and skimming against ice as you poured a golden light ale into a chipped, glass mug. A flick of your hand and a fizz bloomed atop the drink, foam ebbing at the sides, flirting with the rim before settling. A fair pour, he reckoned, no ounce wasted. It was one of your virtues, really. An eye for a measure and a patient pour.

Simon caught you in his periphery, saw your head was tilted to the side and his lips pursed. Had you said something?

He cocked his brows up at you, inquisitive, glancing away from his drink. (It was only you he’d do this for. A sacrifice of the greatest kind, he’d wager.)

“Havin’ a night?” you hummed, leaning against the counter. You were close enough that he could see down your shirt, your dainty, little breasts outlined with the help of your nude brasserie.

No, yes.

Maybe. Could you see the weariness in his eyes? The lilt of the bags underneath them? His posture was slouched, but with an undercurrent of tenseness, the type of rigidity that clung until it was instinct — ran clear down to the sinew, blood…marrow.

You were perceptive. Maybe a bit too much so.

What could you glean from him now?

He shifted in his seat, drumming his thick, misshapen knuckles against the countertop. “Wha’ would make you say tha’, dove?” Simon hummed, low and sonorous.

A pause. Fingertips danced on the glass bar top, tapping in a cadence that suggested you were deep in thought.

“You haven’t flirted with me all night.”

He smiled behind his mask, crow’s feet crinkling as his mouth twisted peculiarly, mirth so foreign his lips couldn’t even lift without a fight.

“Tha’ makes it seem like all I think about is fuckin’ you.”

He ignored how his chest thrummed, pulsated, rumbled, alive and aflame. (A rare occurrence, a rare fusion.)

“Don’t you?” You glanced over, furtive — shy almost, if it weren’t for the coy little smile across your lips. Smug, self-satisfied, beguiling, bewitching; your mouth, your mouth, your mouth.

“May be a lad, but I think ‘bout other things.”

(The odious squelch of blood. Explosions that shook his ribcage and rattled his teeth — strained his maw. Gristle and flesh and innards and brimstone, the stench of them rife when they were raw and unburnt, prodding at his feet.)

“Oh, really?” You leaned further, breasts pressed against the lip of the counter and met his hooded eyes with your sceptical ones. Curiosity danced in your irises, untamed and bursting at the seams. “Like what?”

His gaze briefly flitted down to your cleavage, the supple skin of your breasts plumped between your arms, rising and falling with the jagged rhythm of your breaths. “Brews, birds,” — this, punctuated with a shrug of his broad shoulders — “bike engines. Bein’ of good company.”

“Bloke like you? Company?”

“‘m sure there’s good blokes even in the bowels of hell,” Simon huffs, lightly chagrined.

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Napoleon,” he provided with a crude grin, amused and impious. “Lucky fuck could nab a cunt like Josephine.”

“A dead cunt’s nuthin’, yeah?” Simon snorted; it’s low and gruff, but his eyes gleamed — danced with humour and the unbridled joy of provocation, dark and bottomless, obsidian pits that pulled and pulled and pulled, further and further. “Only you would think he’s good, bein’ a military bloke like yourself.”

Simon smirked, loosened his grip about his glass. “You ask me wha’s wrong just to insult me, dove?”

“But you offer yourself up so willingly, Si.”

He tried not to dwell on how sweet his name sounded tumbling off your tongue, like honey. Sugary sweet nectar that caused a swell in his veins. “Bugger off, bird.” Simon thumbed the edge of his glass. “Shitty service and rude staff. Remind me why I keep comin’ back?”

It was the little quirk of your lips that got him every time.

“‘Cos you love the ale.”

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

[nocandnc]

~Edo period Kikoru-sama~

The wealthy daughter of a warrior turned daimyo, Kikoru is of Dutch descent via a political marriage made to strengthen trading ties. Nearly all importation of the latest foreign weaponry and medicine needed to combat kaiju is overseen by the Shinomiya family, making them quite important.

In this AU, Kikoru doesn't start out as a proper fighter. Though she's trained with various weapons and martial arts, Kikoru has not experienced real battle and the soldiers always go easy on her when asked to spar.

While Isao remains distant and is often away for both business and battle, Kikoru has a slightly warmer relationship with him due to the altered circumstances of her childhood. After he's killed by a powerful kaiju, Kikoru awakens to a godly blessing not unlike Ashiro no Mikoto and resolves to take up arms.

Kikoru feels a bit out of place at times thanks to her mixed heritage (not that she'd ever admit it). As such, she's particularly drawn to a young samurai in her family's employ named Reno who is also of mixed descent.

Though I said previously that I wouldn't go into details on the godly aspect of this AU, thinking of which kami would give different characters favor has become too much fun... so I'm just going to go ahead and indulge myself!! So, who would Kikoru receive power from?

Izanami, goddess of the underworld.

While she's largely known as such, Izanami is first and foremost a creator goddess, the mother goddess from whom many of Japan's primary kami were made. It would be quite fitting then, I think, that Kikoru's mother also had Izanami's blessing. Taking Kikoru's "no one dies while I'm on the battlefield" line to the extreme, I think luck of this variety would likely be the nature of her blessing - but it wouldn't cover the wielder herself. Meaning Hikari still loses her life in battle much like in the main series.

Instead of raising her to be a fighter, Isao deters Kikoru from following in her mother's footsteps to the point of lying about Hikari's role as a warrior altogether. So Kikoru grows up safe and restless, eager to act but lacking in real power. Only after she experiences death - the death of her father - does the goddess of death herself take notice.