#get flashbanged idiot

[tinnedmarlin]

FULL BRIGHT

[bravecrab]

Can't help but imagine some poor bastard in Hyrule finding a dazzlefruit for the first time, taking a bite, and getting flashbanged in the face.

[joelemmons]

gneeperton

[betweenblackberrybranches]

Okay ready with the sketches of the next automaton au comic update

Yay

Now the actual work begins...

[yankee-in-wyndon]

Magic anon, a smiting, your fine though it's just light and sound

[automatic audio recording]

"huh?"

There's the sound of something metallic hitting the floor, followed by a loud noise.

"FUCKIN' HELL!!!"

[tahnisreu]

if any of ya'll wanna ever co-op in fop you're more than welcome to add me : heartonpins (PSN)

[chryzuree]

well, that post i made right after i woke up from my nightmare is unreadable. thanks for playing along, everyone

[yurischolar]

My mom did this to our old lady by accident...sea urchin....

[atypi-cals]

I feel like there's some sort of demon clinging to my shoulder causing my insomnia...

[mikaorangeart]

I call this one "CMYK" aka "I can't believe I managed to do this in a single afternoon" aka "get flashbanged idiot lol"

No readmore this time. You're watching the timelapse whether you like it or not

[aurae-rori]

DR RATIO ANALYSIS: PART 2, ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

SPOILERS FOR 2.1 CONTENT.

Now, you might be saying - "Aurae, you already did one, why do you need a second?" And my answer is, "LORD, I FORGOT TO TALK ABOUT HOW HIS DEFINITION OF 'IDIOT' IS DIFFERENT. AND ALSO HE DOES NOT HATE AVENTURINE NOR DOES HE THINK AVENTURINE IS STUPID." Once again, here is my disclaimer - although I have been researching psychology for a solid six years, I am NOT a professional. (I will be, one day. Just you wait, just youuuu wait-) So understand that everything I say has been analyzed with personal judgement, with my own conclusions, come to with logic and my personal interpretation. This is just what I have concluded, and you are always free to disagree.

This is my legacy. To be an analyzer. So let's go.

Okay, now that my disclaimer is over, let's take off Ratio's plaster head and chuck it into the sea, and see - what does he mean by 'idiot'?

This will be much shorter than my last, so don't worry - I will not be flashbanging you with another 4k words. This is more like a follow up, than anything else, because there's a few things I wish to touch on.

Dr. Ratio doesn't hate idiots in the sense that he hates people that have 'low IQ' or are 'stupid' in terms of being 'slow to understand'. I definitely touched on this in my last analysis, but he hates people who take their education for granted and don't go places with the gifts that they've been given. He hates "idiots" - "narrow minded" people who have the capabilities to do more and perceive more than they choose to do. People who deliberately look away or take what they know and what they could do for granted. He wants to open people's eyes and allow them to see life from multiple different angles and he believes that everyone should have a chance to learn - with the whole "knowledge for everyone" thing he's got rolling.

He wears a plaster head around people he doesn't seem to know too well in order to think more, or so that he doesn't have to see the faces of the people he dislikes. Pretty good roast. However, he does NOT wear that plaster head around Aventurine. Let's listen to the doctor's judgement - Aventurine is far from stupid. Although he likes to chalk up a lot of the things he does to his own luck, he is an INCREDIBLY capable individual who's managed to get this far because of his own form of genius. He's a man who relies on chance and good fortune, yes, but his charm, his way of scheming, and the way that he's good with people? That's skill. A talent he doesn't take for granted. Dr. Ratio respects him for this - because despite the fact that he has no proper education, he has his eyes wide open to the world and doesn't take shit for granted. He learns what he can in order to survive and he does it fucking well - Aventurine is a very smart man. He's observant, quick on his feet, and great at going with the flow and thinking in the moment.

Aventio aside, I actually believe that Dr. Ratio would be a really good teacher to those who struggle. He's patient where it's needed to be, even if he's got a quick temper, and I believe in his pursuit for knowledge he would do his best to go out of his way to find strategies that would work for their individuals. We're all unique, and he's aware of this - and because he wants to allow people to think for themselves, whatever helps the individual works. Depression? He's got a psych degree, I'm sure bro could give you some strategies. Autism? He has a touch of the 'tism himself. ADHD, and not feeling organized? Bro will help you. It's canon that he's a great fucking teacher - those who finish his classes go on to become successful people who are intelligent and critical thinkers. Round of applause for Ratio, the man that kins my father. He's shit at emotions, but great at knowledge.

Also, on that note, I believe that he would most likely hate parents that push thier "gifted" students to the limit without any compassion for the person that they really are. He's most definitely got some of that academic trauma so I believe that bro holds a secret disdain for parents who just use their children to gain more recgonition. Well, not so secret. He'd cuss them out. (Ratio please cuss out the horrible parents.)

Dr. Ratio, the Teacher ever. (Hey, maybe he'd get along with Kunikida...)

Also, I am definitely planning on making a fic where he teaches Aventurine Latin. As long as you're eager to learn and willing to look past the chalk being thrown, he's got a place for you.

Thanks for coming to my tedtalk. I did not read this through, so this is not edited. Take my unedited rambles.

[teecupangel]

I had this unhinged crossover idea, Desmond getting yeeted into left 4 dead. Consider this like a really, really late Halloween thing.

I hadn't thought too much on how things would play out for Desmond but all I know is he fucking hates it, he's thought he hated being the main target for Abstergo? Oh he's gonna hate the undead despite feeling a bit of sympathy for them.

I mean, the green flu appeared to have started slowly before things spiraled out of control continuing to evolve and further spread, and the next thing people knew, their loved ones were dropping like flies only to rise once more and begin just attacking out of nowhere. Heartbreaking to him but now his fight for survival just got worse, there's no innocents anymore, and survivors who were once kind and generous are now willing to kill other survivors just to stay safe and get supplies.

He did find some of the saferoom wall writing hilarious though, if he found a marker he totally adds his two cents in.

Absolutely hates the special infected, avoiding witches? He can manage that unless some idiot startles her, first encounter he had was not fun- he swore his heart stopped for a second hearing the witch screech. And don't get him started on the hunters, they boggle his mind and make him internally rage. Of all special infected, he's 100,000% certain if he drops and all he'd end up a hunter, and that thought terrifies him above all else.

Like, could you imagine that? Hunter!Desmond would be a freaking menace, and unlike other hunters who aren't all that silent due to his training and bleeding effects, his stealth goes above and beyond what the typical hunter is capable of. Nightmare fuel for sure.

Well, this is obviously a very late Halloween thing because I just answered this today XD

I have fond memories of L4D as it was the game me and my friends would play between classes if we were quite bored. I even play Back 4 Blood with my friend a few months back just to get back to that L4D feel (and also because it was one of the few games we both had that we could play together hahahaha).

Out of all the infected, I prefer being the Hunter so there’s definitely some bias when I say that I agree with you that Desmond would definitely be the worst kind of Hunter.

Made for stealth and speed, compounded by his unique genetics that makes him the closest Isu among the humans if we don’t count the Sages.

He wouldn’t just be a Hunter, he’d be a mutated Hunter.

One might even call him the Apex Hunter.

His vision would stay in a heightened state of Eagle Vision, unaffected by flashbangs or any kind of tools that might impede his visions or other senses.

The heightened state of Eagle Vision meant that not even walls can hide his preys and he has… ‘favorites’, one might say.

The Apex Hunter would prioritize hunting and turning specific humans.

Humans that would turn into Hunters as well, joining him with some kind of strange pack-like intuition.

To the humans, it would seem random and they won’t realize it but the Apex Hunter…

He turns those that glowed bright to him.

Those with higher Isu genes that the rest.

And it is those nightmares that plague Desmond’s sleep.

It makes him fear being infected.

Not that it was easy for him to be infected.

He wore a mask to cover his face and lessen the chance of being hit by blood or any kind of body fluids from those he takes down. He goes to the nearest museum and ransacks their historical weapon and armor displays, going for the chainmail and leather armor instead of a full metal armor. It was as light as he could get it while offering the necessary protections as he sometimes has no choice but to get into close combat with them.

He goes for weapons his Bleeds are familiar with, a hunting bow for stealth kills that wouldn’t alert the hordes, a sword with the nearest weight to what he was familiar with, a hunting dagger that he uses more as a utility tool than anything else and an emergency pistol he got from an undead police officer he took down.

He kept his identity a secret. There was no need to tell everyone he was Desmond Miles, not when he’s not sure yet if Abstergo had already been wiped out or if they’re not behind the scenes, protected by the best security money can buy.

He woke up alone, in a room that had enough clues for him to figure out that he was about to be dissected (or vivisected since he wasn’t dead yet).

No clues on where the Assassins were.

If there were even Assassins left.

All he knew was that he woke up and the world had turned into a post zombie apocalypse.

So he continues to travel, focusing on the rooftops to traverse and only making contact with other survivors when it was necessary (or if his kindness gets the better of him).

He does not give a name.

But his existence is whispered regardless.

The White Hood.

A man clad in a white hoodie with a blank mask that covers his entire face.

You know when you see him because…

His white clothes do not have a speck of blood at all.

[definitelynotstable]

Matching [Ghost x fem!Reader]

AN: My essay is due tomorrow at 5pm and I still haven’t started. I’m really trying my luck here. 

Synopsis: You and your Lieutenant manage to get matching wounds. A certain Scottish sergeant finds it amusing. Word count: 930 Warnings: Canon compliant violence, blood, guns, field medicine etc Ghost x fem!reader (callsign Red): No explicit romance but the chemistry is there babes. Veeeeery slight angst but mostly fluff. 

[][][][][][][][][][]

“You’re an idiot,” the Lieutenant gritted out as he tore your pant leg. If you hadn’t been so out of it you might’ve found it hot.

“Save the lecture for later, LT.” You groan as he wraps his belt around your upper thigh, pulling it tight as a makeshift tourniquet. “Suffering enough as is, yeah?”

He mutters something intelligible under his breath, shaking his head as he gives the belt one last tug. You hiss in surprise, batting weakly at his firm grip. He defends himself easily, shoving your arms back against your sides.

“Hold still,” he growls sternly and you still your wriggling. His eyes sharp and hard. No room for argument. 

Bullets thud and ricochet off of the crate the Lieutenant has dragged you behind. Happy with the tourniquet, he settles you against the wall, leg stretched out in front of you. 

“Stay.”

You scoff at the order but do as he says. Ghost turns his back to you, inching forwards to fire a round back at the hostiles. There’s a yell and a thump. The constant fire ceases. The Lieutenant edges around the crate, gun poised. 

“Bravo, this is Ghost. Main atrium is clear.”

“Copy, LT. We heard disturbance through Red’s comms, you seen her?”

You reach for your comms before the Lieutenant has a chance to reply. “I’m with the LT, nothing major, Gaz.”

Ghost scoffs, you glare at him. 

“Copy that, Red. Moving in now, LT.”

Ghost nods, hand against his ear. “Copy. We’ll cover you.”

You press your hands against the cool brick behind you, stumbling to your feet. You grab the ACR leaning against the wall next to you, slinging it over your shoulder. 

“Think you’ll last, sergeant?” The Lieutenant’s eyes are questioning, watching as you limp over to his side. He’d call EXFIL if you even gave him the slightest indication you couldn’t soldier on. 

So you grin, giving the stoic man a clap on the back. “We’ve got a terrorist to catch, LT.”

[][][][][][][][][][]

The Lieutenant’s pace is fast and unwavering. Bodies fall and bullets ping as you clear the hallways of the compound, providing cover for Bravo team who were attempting to secure the HVT. 

“On my six, Red.” Ghost barks, sending a round into the second atrium. The room is teaming with hostiles. Your leg throbs with a heartbeat of its own but do as your asked while the Lieutenant readies a flashbang. He lobs it into the room, ducking around the corner to take cover. You step past him, firing a couple of rounds at the flailing hostiles. 

A classic stun-’n-gun. 

Ghost joins you, providing cover as you together clear the room. 

“Bravo this is Red,” you pant in exertion, pressing a gloved finger to your comms, “second atrium is clear, copy?”

“Copy.” Soap’s accent is strong as he responds, “Target acquired, heading to EXFIL now.”

You raise your hand to reply when you catch a movement out of the corner of your eyes, a hostile on the floor fumbles for his gun. Someone barrels into you. Pain flares through your leg you hit the ground. You manage to send a bullet into his skull, the man slumps back, dead.

Ghost groans from where he lies atop you. You grit your teeth, shoving him over. “Christ, LT. Buy a girl a drink first.”

The Lieutenant huffs, clutching at his leg. “Noted.”

You notice the crimson soaking his right thigh, swearing under your breath and ignoring the pain in your own leg, you bat his hands away. Loosing your belt, you work it up his leg; just as he’d done for you earlier. 

“Eager to match, hm?” You joke, pulling the belt tight around his upper thigh. Exactly where his own belt sat on your own leg. Ghost doesn’t make a sound but his jaw clenches beneath his mask. The blood flow slows and you sigh.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He breathes, clambering to his feet, “Johnny’ll have a right laugh when he sees us.”

You nod, breathing sharply as you put pressure on your leg. Ghost takes note immediately, kneeling back at your side. He grips the belt around your own thigh, meeting your eyes with a questioning gaze. You bite your lip but give him quick jut of your chin. The Lieutenant gives the make-shift tourniquet a sharp yank and you yelp, grasping his shoulder to prevent yourself from falling over. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, squeezing your calf for a second before dusting off his hands and returning to his feet once again. 

“Don’t worry about it, LT,” you assure him with a quick quirk of your lips, “matching, remember?”

[][][][][][][][][][]

Soap’s guffaw as he spots you both stumble towards the heli is music to your ears. 

“Now this’ll be a good story,” he chortles, racing over with Gaz who wraps an arm behind your back. Soap deposits Ghost in the seat opposite you, kneeling at the Lieutenant’s side as Gaz kneels at yours - a medkit open beside them. 

You sigh, resting your head against the rattling metal of the chopper as it starts its ascent. Your tired eyes meet Ghost’s, his cobalt irises twinkling. The Lieutenant pulls his mask up slightly, revealing his smirking mouth.

“Told you,” He mouths before yanking it back down, mirroring you and leaning back as Soap cuts away at his pant leg. 

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the tired smile from settling over your lips.

[][][][][][][][][][]

Masterlist

[its-a-me-mango]

Hello hai! You're such a cool SMG4 artist and I love Mango! Bro is just a Mario duplicate that's got a PHD and a job, I love them for that <3

Anyways, I thought of a funny little scenario between Hexsy and Mango, where when he's doing a check-up on her, they scare her pretty bad by grabbing it suddenly, so she accidentally FLASHBANGS him with the light on the end of it

*drops art and runs like a maniac into the sunset*

KTXYKHLFHLCCHLCHKDCHKKGSKXHLH I LOVE THISSSSS, GET FLASHBANGED IDIOT!!!!! THIS IS SO GOOD HEXSY IS SUCH A COOL CHARACTER, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS I ALWAYS LOVE SEEING MANGO INTERACT WITH OTHER CHARACTERS SO THIS RULES!!! THANK YOU, HEXSY FLASHBANG THIS MOTHER FUCKER AGAIN LCHKXGXYKIXTHKXGKCYCYOIT

[baradorable]

The Grand Unifying Prodigy Theory

So the new NYX issue raises a lot of questions. Some things just don't fully add up if you think about it, or are too convoluted.

If the goal of befriending Kamala was to sacrifice her, why bother spending time befriending her? Just direct her to Times Square at the right time.

What's the deal with the quiet assassinations?

Why did Hellion suddenly get nerfed during the fight with Prodigy?

How could Prodigy beat Hellion with a grappling hook?

Prodigy spent the book thinking about the false dichotomy of Magneto vs Xavier, but at the end says that mutant culture is the X-Men? He says it belongs to "all of us," but then the X-Men line throws it all off.

But here's how it all comes together: Prodigy is in on it, and he's the mastermind behind it all.

What We """Know"""

So the Quiet Council's plan seemed to be: make big scenes and use the chaos to quietly kill some government officials. Then, they lure Ms. Marvel into a confrontation with the Krakoan, in which she loses and gets brutalized on TV, so people can witness what happens to those who try to get in the Council's way. Prodigy messed things up by getting involved. He defeated the Krakoan and got him arrested.

From the outs, it looks like Prodigy doesn't fit anywhere. In fact, having him involved ruined their plans. So how could he be in cahoots with them?

If you look at it from the perspective that he's involved, suddenly the plan makes more sense. Little gaps start to get filled in. Now all we need to do it fill in the gaps his involvement creates.

Prodigy here is notable for three things: his role at the university, him stopping the Krakoan, and his perspective on mutant culture.

Prodigy vs the Krakoan: Julian Forgot His Powers (And So Did Prodigy)

And yes, I know I shouldn't capitalize all words in a title. But I think it looks nicer. I'm going by vibes.

Okay, so let's analyze the fight and go over how it makes no sense.

Realistically, Prodigy could defeat the Krakoan. With his brain, he can glean Julian's strategies and work around them. He also knows of one of Julian's biggest weakness: violent women sound. He could throw some flashbangs and make enough noise to break Julian's concentration. Without his telekinesis, Julian is at a major disadvantage. Prodigy can solo most people when it comes to physical combat.

But instead of actually using strategy, Prodigy's plan is to... dodge attacks and then get a lucky shot in. Yeah, he could get in Julian's head and learn where his next attacks will be, but this whole strategy predates on Hellion not just grabbing him in mid-air, or putting him in a bubble, or flying faster than Prodigy can move, or creating a bubble around himself, or just... hovering a few feet higher, out of Prodigy's range. Hell, Prodigy's plan would sink if Hellion took hostages, or just flew up to the news helicopter, climbed in and took a nap.

Both of them could have easily ended the fight in a few seconds. Instead, it's a long, drawn-out, dramatic fight. All because both of them forgot to use the full extent of their powers.

It only makes sense if one or both of them were holding back. Otherwise, both characters randomly became idiots for the plot to work. And we know Hellion's not dumb, because he's already involved with the Quiet Council's secret, multi-step plans. Plans that include deception and creating big scenes to hide their true motives.

Why didn't Prodigy come in with a plan? I guess he only made do with that he had, so no flashbangs or firecrackers. Sure. Maybe he couldn't use the full extent of his powers. But why would Hellion let Prodigy win? Because he could use the full extent of his powers.

Conclusion: Hellion wanted Prodigy to win.

This is Entertainment

And after all, why wouldn't Hellion crush Prodigy like he did Kamala? It would only emphasize his statement. Oh, but speaking of Kamala, notice how she punched him into a truck on one page, but then got decimated on the next page?

Hellion could have crushed Kamala easily. But he was stalling for time until the cameras arrived. The whole point of the fight was to make a show of it.

It's a similar case with Prodigy. He could have ended things quickly and without much of a fight. But that wouldn't be a good show now, would it?

If Julian was already nerfing himself for one match, who's to say he wasn't doing it for the other match? If he was purposely making a show out of one match, who's to say he wasn't purposely making a show out of the other?

Let's go back to the assassinations real quick. We know Hellion's been causing a ruckus in public, lifting trains and throwing them at his stalker. But he's never shown killing anyone on-screen, and the only confirmed deaths are select targets in the city government.

In fact, this suggests that his only victims are the government officials. And remember: he could have killed that train full of people in issue 1. But he let them live, because he never wanted to kill them. All of the Krakoan's plans have been about making big shows, while hiding his true motives.

So here we have the Krakoan purposely limiting himself in order to draw things out and make a spectacle. With that in mind, it makes sense why he went easy on David: the goal was never to kill David, even if he was getting in his way. He had other plans.

Conclusion: Hellion let Prodigy win in order to hide or progress another, less obvious plan.

The Grappling Hook

Prodigy's grappling hook makes no sense. When you have a grappling hook, you have to stop, climb up, disconnect it, fling it to another location and - assuming you didn't miss and have to start over again - make sure it's secure before he can swing around and start the whole process over. The point of grappling hooks is that you can't swing around and dodge things like Spider-Man.

Yet here Prodigy was, swinging around like Spider-Man and dodging attacks.

But now go into this fight with our assumptions from earlier. If the fight was staged and David needed to win, then we can explain the grappling hook defying physics.

Maybe Hellion was manipulating the grappling hook? Making sure it always landed and stayed still, so Prodigy could easily swing around and do his impressive feats of agility.

After all, the fight wouldn't be a big spectacle of Prodigy had to stop every three seconds to set up his grappling hook. The fight would end very quickly if Hellion just attacked the location of the hook and sent Prodigy falling to his death.

This could easily just be the grappling hook reflecting the green light from Hellion's energy attacks. OR it could be a green aura surrounding it as Hellion subtly manipulates it. But it's probably just reflected green light. But what if it isn't?

Remember: the fight had some big explosions. Those could have been used to distract people and mask the mistakes in the fight.

But for this to work, it would mean that Prodigy would need to be in on the plan. Otherwise, how would he know that Julian would play fair? How would he be able to swing around and dodge attacks? How would he even move around?

Conclusion: Hellion was actively enabling Prodigy during the fight, AND Prodigy was in on the plan.

Why did Prodigy throw a rock at Hellion's head?

Just for fun.

The Kamala Factor

Hellion was never going to kill Kamala. He doesn't like killing. And even if he's behind the assassinations, the book made it clear that he was only targeting bad people, and everything else was for show. Both David and Kamala explicitly stated that Julian isn't a psychopath. He wouldn't kill an innocent person, much less a mutant.

Now here's the kicker: Hellion makes a video game reference to Kamala. Hellion plays video games, but he doesn't just casually drop references like he did here. He's not a quippy character in combat. And he just so happens to use it on the one hero who would get and appreciate the reference.

It was a secret message. He knew she'd get the reference. He was subtly showing her that he was playing around, not being 100% serious. That he wasn't the monster he was portraying himself to be.

She was never in any real danger of dying.

But let's circle back to Prodigy. He was watching the fight with his flatscan boyfriend at home. When he saw Kamala was in danger, he ran to her location and got there just in time. How convenient, he just happened to live close to the location of the attack. It's almost as if the attack location was chosen with this in mind, to ensure Prodigy arrived on time, without doing anything to contradict his previous "I'm staying out of this" stance.

Now it makes sense why Kamala was selected as the target for this convoluted plan. Prodigy would only get involved if his student was in danger.

It was all a set-up. Kamala was so focused on Sophie betraying her, that she didn't even notice Prodigy was in on it. David is in on the plan - only instead of setting Kamala up, he and the others are trying to make Prodigy look like the good guy. To get Kamala on his side.

But this would only make sense if he knew about the Quiet Council's plan and was actively working with them.

Conclusion: He knew about the Quiet Council's plan and was actively working with them. Also, his plan involved saving Kamala and defeating Hellion, so he could get Kamala on his side and follow his beliefs.

But speaking of his beliefs...

Mutant Culture is the X-Men

Okay, so Prodigy's heroic speech to Hellion has him say: "We're the custodians now. Mutant culture isn't Krakoa. Mutant culture is the X-Men."

Which is weird, because the last issue was about the Morlocks/Arakki and their culture. And most mutants aren't the X-Men, even if they're a driving force for things. That's like saying American culture isn't America or its history, American culture is the Kardashians.

I get what he probably means: the people who are there now, the diaspora, the heroes and villains, the mutants who continue on. Every mutant is the spirit of mutant culture. Their identity is not defined by their nation, but its people. But why, specifically, say X-Men? It's dumb and, say it with me, makes no sense.

Look at his narration throughout the issue. He criticizes the false dichotomy of good vs evil, Charles vs Xavier, us vs them.

Further, he's been actively keeping mutant culture alive by educating people about Krakoan culture.

Here's the kicker: David expressed dissatisfaction with the city's government at the start of the issue.

Oh, curious. Hellion was specifically targeting the city government with his attacks.

With this in mind, and the assumption that David and Julian were purposely putting on a show, now it all makes sense: he's trying to publicly distance himself from the bad guys, but he actually agrees with them on some level. And they have a common enemy.

In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the attacks on the officials were Prodigy's plan in the first place. Think about it: would Julian even know all the intricacies of New York's local politics, enough to know who, where and when to target? Would the Cuckoos care enough to learn, when they could just mind-control all the Council members into having a public orgy to get them all fired?

Conclusion: Prodigy is a bullshitter.

My theory is that he falls somewhere in the middle of the Xavier-Magneto spectrum. The Quiet Council is going too far with their command and conquer ideas. But Xavier's dream of co-existence is too flawed. So go for a middle ground: co-existence, but taking steps to ensure the humans don't mess it up.

But Prodigy Got Arrested?

Yes. If this was all part of the plan, he still threw away a good career and risked being sent to prison. He loses the influence he had as a professor to educate the masses and keep Krakoa alive.

But think about it: he lose everything because he chose to do the right thing and stop a bad guy. He's making himself out to be a martyr who's being unfairly punished for the system. Something he knew would happen, because he told Kamala about the risks of him getting involved earlier in the issue.

If he lost his job? Mutants will see him as a hero and rally to his cause, while Kamala will respect him more. If he kept his job? Sweet, tenure and the opportunity to keep spreading the good word of Krakoa.

Or, alternate theory: what if this was just Plan B?

Because Prodigy's flatscan boyfriend was watching the drama on TV, and he was wondering why no other heroes were showing up. Weird detail to mention. Usually heroes don't show up in another series outside of crossover or a plot point. That's just how comics work. So why call attention to it?

Maybe a hero was supposed to show up and get involved, and they were going to be Hellion's opponent. They show up, defeat Hellion, and he gets arrested. No loses their jobs, no one gets hurt. Except for Kamala but whatever. She'll be okay. Since no hero showed up, Prodigy had to step in and get involved to keep the plan going.

Prodigy wanted to keep the job, but he was willing to sacrifice it for Plan B, to ensure everything went smoothly. It was a worthy sacrifice.

Of course, Hellion goes to Graymalkin either way. And that's right where he needs to be. He could be their man on the inside, keeping tight until the Council or X-Men launch their strike on Graymalkin. With his help, they can free all the mutants who are being unfairly held captive.

The martyr angle is cool when you look at the cover for #7, coming in a few months.

He's been drawn in the style of those murals people paint. You know the ones. Where people are killed unfairly, so they're memorialized and honored by people who they've inspired. I think there's a word for it, but Googling with a vague, largely biased, possibly misinterpreted sentence is hard. But you guys know what I mean. It's like that Lionheart mural in Robyn Hood? For the 3 people who watched that show. Mostly to laugh at how bad it is. But still.

But this is just my segue into my next point: speculating about Synch.

NYX #7

"I've seen what you're building, Prodigy. And I don't think you have any idea how dangerous it is. Ms. Marvel trusts you, but you're helping her perpetuate a lie. Sophie trusts you, but you're absolving her of her crimes. Wolverine trusts you, but you're asking her to indulge her violence. Anole trusts you, but he's the only one of you holding to the old ways. So I'll make this easy. I'll do it in a language we both understand. My name is Synch. And I challenge you to a battle to the death. I challenge you to the CIRCLE PERILOUS."

The solicits are written from Synch's perspective, and he's calling out Prodigy. And this message makes a lot of sense when you consider everything we've talked about.

Ms. Marvel trusts you, but you're helping her perpetuate a lie.

He's manipulating her, and she's going along with him. She's perpetuating his lies, because she's unknowingly supporting him while ignorant of his false flag operations and schemes.

Sophie trusts you, but you're absolving her of her crimes.

Sophie is in on the plan, and Prodigy is justifying all their actions. We saw how bad she felt about betraying Kamala, but knew she had to do bad things for the greater good. Prodigy gets to be the boss and direct her, so none of these bad things are really her fault: she was simply told to do them, because it was the only way to help mutants.

Wolverine trusts you, but you're asking her to indulge her violence.

This is curious. Back in issue 2, he at least wasn't aware of her stuff with Local or Mojo. But if she's in on the plan, maybe he was just surprised to see her doing things unrelated to their mission.

What's her role? If she's indulging in violence, maybe she's the one who's assassinating people during Hellion's attacks? After all, how can he single out one person during all that chaos, and manage to kill them and only them, each and every time.

I got the idea from Dewyatt. While everyone's distracted, Laura is sneaking in and killing the politicians. And if you want some extra drama for fun: since Hellion would be against her being used to kill, the Cuckoos wipe his memory of her involvement. Laura is against the violation of autonomy, but maybe she accepts it because she doesn't want Hellion to become a killer? Stopping him from killing, just like he stopped her from killing in the past.

Anole trusts you, but he's the only one of you holding to the old ways.

The old ways. We know Anole's ways are the ways of the Morlocks/Krakoans/Arakki. And while he's living in the sewers, he also wants them to walk on the surface openly, and without fear.

Prodigy agrees with those views. Maybe Anole trusts in Prodigy's plans?

Empath

Where does Empath fit in? He clearly didn't expect Prodigy to come in, and he was angry when he won. So he must not be in on the plan. So why is he there?

In this issue, one of the Cuckoos says how suspicious they'd look if someone from the outside saw that they were working with Empath. They don't seem to like him. Another Cuckoo elaborates that he's working with them. Either way, they clearly don't have much respect for him, and are other-ing him from the plan.

I'm not sure where he fits in. But if Prodigy is the mastermind, he's merely a pawn in a much bigger game. He thinks he's the puppeteer, but he doesn't even notice the strings coming out of his own back.

Conclusion

Prodigy is the mastermind behind the Quiet Council and its machinations. He's purposely staging big scenes to secretly assassinate bad people, but not actually hurting any innocent people. He's trying to manipulate Ms. Marvel and condition her to his less-than-ideal, but non-genocidal plan. He staged a fight with Hellion, so the latter could get arrested and be their man on the inside. In the end, Prodigy is trying to be the best mix of all previous factions, which he believes will ultimately guide mutants towards progress.

Will this be canon? No, absolutely not. This theory is complete nonsense. But I'm not going to let the truth get in the way of a good story.

[weirdsociology]

Distractions (The Mandalorian, E)

Title: Distractions (6.6k)

Series: Part one of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction. 

Description: An artifact from the Mandalorian's past leads to trying something new - and remembering the past.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, sex toys, fingering, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, oral sex, penetrative sex, implied violence, spit, a touch of size kink, light manhandling, very mild D/s in all directions because we love a switch in this house, no betas we die like men, canon what canon

Tropes: hurt/comfort, idiots with feelings, angst but it all works out in the end, the helmet stays on

Author's note: I blacked out, I don't know what happened, and frankly I'm embarrassed that the first fanfic I've written in 20 years is kind of fluffy and not significantly more insane. This little offering is canon timeline-agnostic; I just wanted to give our armored dumbass a happy ending. Please don't think this reflects my personality, I am spiritually covered in the blood of my enemies at all times. Also there is one small bit of truth from my personal life in here and I'll give you a hint: it wasn't flashbangs, it was bayonets. This one is for @tarabyte3 who got me excited about what fanfiction can do again.

***

Sometimes, it's hard to sleep in hyperspace. A ship this old doesn't have the automated circadian rhythm programs that dim the lights according to species preference, and all the daylight bulbs are second-hand, their blueness dimmed by repeated use. Darkness is in plentiful supply, but that's only half the equation of an artificial night. You do your best, careful to check the time reads on the navigational display, and adhere to a schedule as much as you can. It helps give structure to long periods of transit, and you know that ten years from now, your body and mind will thank you for being careful to guard their rest.

The Mandalorian, by contrast, doesn't have a diurnal cycle as far as you've been able to tell. His sleep patterns are pure anarchy, having nothing to do with mood or physical need. Sometimes he'll spend a week getting no more rest than a few brief, truncated minutes on the ground after trekking in harsh terrain. Sometimes you'll go looking for him after a quiet stretch in flight and he'll be in the bed he calls his rack, completely dormant for the next fourteen standard hours. You don't know how he does it. He lives like someone who fully expects to die before their body has enough years to register protest - which on the one hand makes you anxious, and on the other you find it hard to blame him for.

Still, despite all your attendance to regularity, there are nights - times - when you can't sleep. Especially when you are headed past the Outer Rim, and the length of travel means nothing to do except read and watch holovideos you've already seen and eat stale food and exercise in cramped, artificial repetition. Nothing new to look at, nothing new to do.

Which is how you end up awake at this hour, dressed in nothing but your bandeau and shorts with goosebumps pebbling your legs as you lean over one of the big crates in the cargo bay. You're digging through the thermoplastic case that holds the Mandalorian's personal possessions, looking for one of the old holonovels you're sure he has stowed, when you find it. A smooth, round black cylinder with a cap on each end. At first, you suspect it's yet another esoteric firearm - but then why isn't it in the weapons locker above?

Curious, you gingerly remove the cap from one end. Life on the ship has taught you to be cautious about any unfamiliar object. You don't know if it's normal Mandalorian living style to have to shove aside a mountain of electronic flashbangs when looking for clean blankets, but it's certainly normal for this one.

What's inside isn't like any weapon you've ever seen. The cylinder is filled with something soft and yielding, silicone or plastisilk you think, and it gives disconcertingly when you brush a thumb over it. There's a small bore in the middle about the diameter of your finger, but the polymer feels like it would stretch. It's textured near where the cap would fit, small ridges inside and a gentle flowering of protuberances around the borehole. Almost like -

You stand up, unsure whether to blush or laugh, and snap the cap back on. You've certainly found something new this time; something that might help break the monotony of space travel if you approach the topic - and Mando - correctly. If you're right there should be something else nearby, something that would make this a little more... usable.

There is. A discreet bottle, neatly wrapped in plain paper.

You take cylinder and bottle and step out in the corridor from the bay, checking the location of your fellow crew. Mando is not in his rack or the lockers, which means he's in the cockpit. The Child is in his usual nest. It's late, and the kid should be asleep for a long while yet. You jam the - the toy, you suppose - and the bottle into one hand and climb your way up the ladder, half appalled at your boldness and half delighted at the thought of making your Mandalorian squirm for once. You're secretly hoping to catch him out, tease him with the evidence of his private sexual habits, a friendly nip around the edges of his Creed. 

"Look what I found," you say as you approach the pilot's chair. His head is turned away from you, bent over something in the navcomp, his long legs in front of him as stretched out as they can be in the small space. He hums an acknowledgement and takes a moment to finish entering something before he looks over his shoulder. You offer the cylinder to him flat across your palms, like a knight offering a loyal blade, which you hope is both funny and at least a little charming.

It doesn't work. He's still looking at you. You wave it in front of him instead, resisting the urge to waggle your eyebrows. The helmet drops to consider the cylinder, then you. "I'd forgotten I had that. Where did you find it?"

You stop, hands still outstretched. "Forgot-- your crate in the cargo bay, but... is this what I think it is?"

Mando can't raise his own eyebrows at you, but his chin twitches upward in the way you've learned to interpret is the same thing. "Do you think it's a cock sleeve? Because it is."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I've always been less concerned about what to call it than how to use it," he says. He's fully turned to face you now. The conversation is not going as you imagined. You flush and he gives you an appraising look, taking in your half-undressed state.

"Isn't that... Against your Creed?" How does he do this. How does he always turn the tables. How is it you're the one quailing under the calm scrutiny of his helmet. You'd meant this as a good-natured ribbing, not a come-on, but suddenly you're picturing what you were decidedly not thinking about earlier - Mando, years ago, alone in his rack or fresh from a hunt, with his beskar still on and his arming jacket rucked up, screwing the toy down onto himself with his fist. The thought makes heat pool between your legs. It also makes you a little melancholy. Suddenly you want to fuck him and hold him in equal measure.

"You weren't always here, you know," he says calmly, honest and unembarrassed as he is shockingly honest and unembarrassed about everything to do with sex. He reaches for you, captures your wrists, pulls you further into the cockpit and down into his lap. You thrill as always at his casual possessiveness, his desire to be close. At the breadth of his shoulders under your hands. "The Creed isn't against pleasure, only distraction. Sometimes it's more distracting to make your body suffer than to give it what it wants."

"Like me?" you ask. It's a joke that once would have stung, an echo of your first night together - you are nothing to me but a distraction from my work - but it's an old wound, long since rubbed over by the smooth edges of time and shared affection.

An amused huff through the modulator. "Like you," he agrees, and though the helmet dampers every inflection you now know, where once you only imagined, the statement is fond.

***

You'd been traveling together for months, a reluctant passenger paired with an unhappy custodian. It had been weeks since the first time the tension between you rose to the breaking point, pulling his hands to you like a gravity well. You were now fucking the Mandalorian regularly, enthusiastically, and, at least to you, inadequately. Regardless of how well you took him, how perfectly he fit when he slicked and stretched his way into you, your heart hammered the same rhythm: no room, no room. His attitude toward you had made that abundantly clear. There was no room for you in his life, on his ship, in his Creed. You were his... distraction. That's all.

You mostly ignored it. When you were working or hunting, you barely thought about it. You pushed the thought down and stored it away to keep from slicing yourself on its sharp edges. But there were moments when it pressed forward again, tumbling out of the drawer of your heart in disarray. The Mandalorian was behind you or over you or under you and you were crying out the name you knew him by even as your blood rushed in your ears demanding more. Not more sex, not more of the heavy punch of his hips against you or the feeling of his hands in your hair, but more of him. You wanted him. You wanted everything.

You wanted to know what it kriffing meant when he called you his distraction.

And sometimes, after you had been fucked within an inch of your life and left lying on your bunk or still pressed against the weapons locker, it hurt a breathtaking amount.

You were pretty sure the Mandalorian was not unaware of how he affected you. Beyond that first epithet which became routine, he was not intentionally cruel. Away from the heat that flared between you and his resentment at his own inability to ignore it, he was considerate and distant and respectful. Unfailingly polite. You loathed every moment of it with a growing bitterness that threatened to replace food and sleep. It reminded you of the time you'd run into a recruiter after she’d turned you down for a job. Sorry kid, you had your chance to convince me and you blew it. Except Mando, being Mando, had never given you a chance at all.

It was worse when you fucked. For weeks, you had resolved over and over to put an end to his careful handling of you. Better an angry rebuttal or cold silence than... whatever this pitiful halfway connection was. Next time he approached you with that weight in his step or crowded you into a corner, too close, you would force his hand. You knew that was the time to do it, when you had his full attention and the bargaining chip of your body. You'd seize his wandering gaze and stare into the helmet: "Why do you call me a distraction?"

You had told yourself this a dozen times. But his practiced fingers were already slipping inside you and all you could do was whine as his modulated voice, sounding not quite human, breathed a word that meant nothing to you in your ear: Mesh'la, mesh'la, mesh'la.

***

You had entreated him to show you how he used it, before you joined his crew. Before, as he drily puts it while running a gloved hand up your thigh and teasing along the waistband of your shorts, he had a far superior array of options. Now you're mostly naked in the dim light, seated between his spread legs, his helmet tipped against the headrest as he leans back. You're watching the arched column of his throat, watching his gloved fingers wrapped around the cylinder and most of all, watching his thick cock disappear into the plush expanse of the toy. He's hard but not fully erect, probably because you refused to touch him until you got to see him touch himself. Not that you needed to threaten - you both know that Din, and it's Din now, in the privacy of the cockpit with both of you partially undressed and warmth radiating from him, will deny you nothing where his body is concerned. Except, of course, his face.

His cock is stirring to full attention, and you suspect it has more to do with your rapt gaze on him than his own ministrations. It's a novelty for you to watch him for once. The way you two fuck, he normally has the better view, pulling back to see your cunt swallow his length and hear you moan in gratitude. He likes to watch you touch yourself while you're speared on him, chasing your own orgasm as you clench. He likes to see your thighs tremble when you ride him, and your face when he makes you come too much. "One more, mesh'la, one more for me, let me see you," he'll croon, as one hand worships your sore clit and the other bats away your arm as you try to bury your face in the crook of your elbow. Din likes to watch anything that shows him how good he makes you feel.

Your Mandalorian might be on to something, you decide. Watching certainly has its appeal. You can hear the soft slide of the toy, see the tension in his forearms and his stomach even through his tunic, his breath through the helmet fast but even. He looks gorgeous like this, a warrior half-undone for your enjoyment. You slide the palms of your hands up his thighs and run them lightly along the bare skin peeking through where he's partially shucked himself of armor and clothing. His breathing alters a little, hitching as your skin makes contact with his.

"How does it feel?" you ask, watching the steady rise and fall of the cylinder. You idly trace a finger up his groin and along the sensitive skin just under his sack. He hisses, and you twitch in response to the noise you know so well, your cunt giving a little spasm as if to remind you of its needs.

After a moment, Din answers your question. "Tight, but not warm. Better than nothing but... Like a ration bar when I have a meal right in front of me," he adds pointedly, and one booted foot slides between your folded knees, leather rubbing along the seam of your sex to make his point clear. "I like that you like looking at me, but we could have bought a mirror instead. I could be fucking you in front of it right now."

Your cheeks warm as you think about it: Din, arching over your back, holding your chin, making you watch your own face as he nudges the head of his cock into you. You don't know how you'd feel staring at yourself like that, but your cunt twitches again, letting you know that more important parts of you fully approve of the concept. The helmet has dropped back down. He's observing your reaction. You file the idea away for later. "I like seeing you like this, though. Did you really never use it after you met me?"

A chuckle. "Oh, I used it. Before... when you were first here. I used it so much I think I did permanent damage."

A little shiver of heat winds up from the base of your spine. This is new information. But he's not done. "Which is why I should be allowed to show you how much I appreciate you, not this plastic junk." He makes a show of slowing down, grinding up into the toy and letting out an exaggerated groan. You know he's still watching you closely, waiting for his cue.

You give him a wicked grin. "Sometimes... it's more distracting to make your body suffer than give it what it wants." Din groans for real in response, but you have other things on your mind. "Back before... when you... were you thinking of me?"

He makes an uninterpretable noise. "Oh no, mesh'la, I wasn't thinking of you. Only of your hips. And your hair. And your tits. And your ass. And your cunt, and if I could get you wet for me, and what that pretty mouth would look like around me, and how you'd sound when I put my cock down your throat."

"... Fuck," you say breathlessly. What started as a flutter has become an aching, empty pulse. "Fuck, Din," and you lean forward, bringing your face almost close enough to nuzzle where he's still sheathed in the toy, breathing in his scent. It has the unintended effect of driving the tip of his boot further into you, a solid mass pushing on the thrumming bundle of nerves between your legs.

When you first started doing this, he said very little to you. You could read nothing in his body except desire and frustration, both of which he extinguished in the furnace of your sex. Later, after Mos Eisley, when anger was no longer the single note of your shared existence, he talked to you constantly. The man of few words outside the ship became the man of many words when he was buried inside you. He told you what he was going to do to you, what he wanted to do to you, how good you felt and what you did to him. He talked like he was trying to construct a gilded cage of words you wouldn't fly away from. You had been dumbfounded by the change, shy and unsure, unable to find a way to reassure him you had already stooped to his lure. Part of you was afraid that if he knew the truth - that you'd have him any way he wanted, silent or talkative or babbling in Tuskan sign - he would stop. He hadn't, but the stream had slowed. More deliberate, less frantic. Somehow even more indecent.

He's being indecent right now, timing the strokes of the toy with his words. "I wanted you every morning and twice at night." Down. "I couldn't think - could barely shoot straight." Back up. "I wanted to bend you over the crates and fuck you until you felt the same." A slow slide back down. "Fill you up with me until you cried, until you knew you were mine, until that sweet cunt wouldn't want anyone else." Up, until just the tip of him is still out of sight. He's losing his even tone, the modulator turning gasps into static. "And then I did fuck you, and it got so much worse. You let me pull you open and put my cock in the hottest, wettest place in the galaxy and-- are you really going to come on my boot instead of letting me fuck you?"

You come to with a little start, pulled aware by the abrupt shift in subject. There's dampness under you, and you realize you've been rocking back and forth on his boot, rubbing the folds of your cunt against the worn leather, and moaning into his lap while he talks. It feels so good to be here, sitting at his feet as he strokes himself for you, hearing the jagged details of your shared past transformed by pleasure. The scruff of the boot against you, the bite of a seam into your tenderest flesh, the smell - steel and old smoke and hot sand - so uniquely Mandalorian it has you panting for him.

"Din," you breathe. "Stop -- stop. I want to feel you."

That's all it takes. The toy is gone in an instant, he's off the pilot's chair and dragging you upright and his half-bare hips are against yours, crowding you into the console. His cock is painfully hard against you, already smeared with precum and the lubricant that makes someone of his size using a toy like that even possible. You realize with dizzy delight that this is going to be one of those times where he fucks you without preamble, pushing his way in, making you feel every inch of his invasion. The pleasurable burn of your cunt adjusting to his girth will be revenge for making him use the toy - a revenge he knows you will enjoy.

More leather, this time at your mouth. The feel of his glove as he curls his fingertips under your chin. "Spit," he commands, and you do.

"Good girl. Now turn around."

***

It was after the first time he'd had you in the cockpit that you'd found the courage to ask. It had already been one of the worst days of your life, what more was there to lose? You were so numb there was no cliff you wouldn't jump off, no risk you wouldn't take. If you asked and the answer was indifference, well, it was just one more pain to add to the litany: your cracked lips, your shredded feet, your bruised ribs, your bloodied hands. And soon, maybe, your broken heart.

Mando had left, as he always did, after you were done, leaving you on the steel floor mostly naked and entirely without the desire to stand on your own. You told yourself that you would simply sleep there, if you had to, rather than getting back up on your cut soles. After all, you'd slept in worse places recently. Though you'd meant it to be fierce the thought sounded pathetic even to you.

The sound of boots climbing up the ladder interrupted your self-pity. Mando had not only come back, he had come back with a box: the medkit he kept in a crate in the cargo bay. He knelt beside you on the floor and started to lift you to him, one hand on your back and one hand under your knees. It was close and familiar in the worst possible way, like the fuck wasn't, and you made a hoarse inhuman noise and tried to kick him. You slammed a broken toe into a beskar vambrace instead and then you screamed for real.

He was patient with you and you hated it with every aftershock of white-hot rage in your body. You struggled even once he managed to get you up in his arms. After a bad moment where you thought you might actually try to bite him, he stopped attempting to haul you down the ladder and dropped both of you into the pilot's chair abruptly instead, pulling his hands away like you'd burned him. "Hey, it's me, just me, the one who's on your side," he'd said, attempting a touch of humor, and strangely it was the buzz of the modulator, so unlike the voices you'd been hearing for the past few days, that had incrementally slowed your galloping heart.

The medkit was in reach and at first he was gentle but even that was too much. You pulled away without leaving the chair, putting distance between you and that damned helmet. All you wanted was to rest, except you were afraid of what you might have time to think about if you did. There was a tense minute as he resumed his work with gauze and tape and bacta spray, but even in your exhausted state you somehow felt him make the decision to stop trying to be tender. He took your cue and bandaged you with impersonal efficiency, like you were a soldier in his regiment or a fellow Mandalorian. It made his touch tolerable, and you were so tired you almost resented him for it.

By the time he was done, you were nearly asleep. You heard the click of the medkit closing and, calmer now, a little more returned to yourself, braced for him to lift you down the ladder. But he surprised you by making no move to get up, resting his hands on his legs, around you but not on you. You could tell he was waiting for something but not what. Maybe it was something from you, but you were all out of give. It was his turn.

Another moment of silence, then momentary confusion as you both spoke at once:

"I have to tell you so--"

"Mandalorian, why are you--"

He stopped. You pressed on. "Why are you always calling me a distraction?" Your tone was flat. You sounded like you could be asking about the price of power cells.

The helmet twisted. This was clearly not the direction he expected your post-coital, post-triage conversation to take. "Because you're distracting."

You thought anger might be the only thing keeping you upright. "Not good enough. What the fuck are we even doing here? Why did you come after me? You told me we were done, that you didn't owe me anything. You could have left me there and pocketed the bounty for yourself. They would have let me go once they convinced themselves I didn't have the information.” A lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “That doesn't sound like I'm just a distraction."

"I said you're distracting, and you are. That's different." You were sure he was being pedantic but your tired brain couldn't keep up with Mando at his most evasive. "You're not just a distraction. I don't make a habit of coming back for-- distractions."

Coming back for was a polite euphemism for the amount of killing Mando had done in the past few hours. None of it mattered to you if he was doing it because of his damned Creed. Maybe none of it mattered at all. Maybe you had kept your mouth shut for nothing. Your chest hurt and you had no idea if it was because of your ribs or because of your heart. You kept going.

"It makes no difference if I'm a distracting fuck or something worth coming back for or a kriffing bantha, Mando. I'm still..." Exhaustion made you blunt. "I'm still against your Creed."

He made a noise that could have been agreement, or negation. "The Creed is not against pleasure. Or companionship. Only... distractions." He sounded like he was reading out of a textbook. You'd heard it all before. You had wrung everything out of him you could about his Creed, because you wanted to find somewhere to fit. That was all he'd ever said.

He surprised you again. "Distraction is a-- it's not easy to describe. It's not as simple as wasting time or effort. Distractions are... things that pull you from your orbit without returning value, like a comet disrupting a planet's path around a sun. Too many and you begin to drift away from the tribe, the Creed, the things that make you a Mandalorian. You lose yourself chasing what streaks past you, already gone."

That little speech was probably the most words you'd ever heard Mando say at once, and there was too much there for you to process in your wasted state. You latched on instead to the thing that seemed most personally insulting, given how you'd been spending your time the past few days. "Maker, Mando, do you think that's all I am, a comet? That you'll turn around one day and I'll be gone? Do you think I did-- what I did– what we did– for fun? Do you think that's all you are to me?"

There, you had said it. Or at least implied it. Your cortisol response gave one last death rattle and suddenly you found you could sit up a little straighter, could feel your pulse in your throat. Your feet ached.

There was a long silence. 

Then the Mandalorian sighed, and in that sigh was more defeat than you'd ever heard after a hunt gone wrong. The sound seized you and squeezed your breath as it stuttered in your chest. When he spoke, it was low, tired, and edged with brutal honesty. "No mesh'la. I don't think you're a comet. Not after... today."

And that, somehow, was what did you in: his surrender. The first acknowledgement of what you had endured for him and what you'd done together and what it meant between you. You dropped your face into the filthy duraweave of Mando's shoulder, not caring if you caught the edge of beskar beside it. Something boiled up in you and you weren't sure what it was, only that you snapped your mouth closed hard over a noise like being struck and fisted your hands in his tunic. All the fear you'd put aside came slamming in, the torrential wave presaged by an empty beach. You drove yourself as close as possible to your Mandalorian and shook as though a blaster bolt had found its home in your brain after all.

When you knew where you were again, you found you had shifted - or he had shifted you. You were curled between his legs, your arms still around his neck, your face against where his cheek would be in the cruel parody of a kiss. You froze for a moment, anticipating the helmet to feel hostile against your lips, but it was only Mando, the smooth silver of him that you'd come to know and expect. With sudden resolve you drew back an inch or two, away from the spot where your  mouth left a sliver of fog. Your heart beat in your ears, marching steadily onward toward its inexorable conclusion. You had always known what you needed to do for both your sakes', and now you even thought you knew the bargain that could make it bearable.

"Mando," you whispered. "If that's the way it is, I wouldn't... I would never ask you to go against your Creed. I couldn't."

The warrior under you was so still you feared he might not respond at all. Then he blew out another long breath and put his hands around your waist, impossibly solid against you. It was the second time that night he'd reached for you with gentleness and, leaning against him, you could nearly imagine what it would be like to feel safe again. It would have been so easy to sink into shared delusion. But you owed him something more.

"I couldn't," you said again. "You couldn't. We could never-- it would never be right between us. I don't want that." You were certain you were crying by then, silent tears racing down your cheeks. "But please... I'm not ready yet. I'll leave tomorrow. Please, please... just give me tonight."

The hands on your waist spasmed, gripping you so hard that for one deranged instant you thought he might throw you down on the steel and fuck you all over again. He did the opposite and hauled you painfully upright, stood you in the tight space between his knees and the console. You winced when your abused feet took your weight. His own posture and the set of his shoulders told you absolutely nothing. He was still holding you like a lifeline.

"No," he said. After everything you'd done it was absurd that one word could make you want to crumple to the floor again, but you stayed upright, nails digging into the console for support. "I won't give you just tonight. I know you. You walked into that warehouse for me. You were so afraid for me you couldn't be afraid for yourself. You bled-- you killed-- because you hoped it would buy me time. I know you. Now you're offering– this. I refuse. You're not a Mandalorian, but your courage puts ours to shame. Who would I be if I returned your loyalty so little of my own?"

"Mando, what are you saying?" You were so numb with exhaustion that you weren't sure you had it in you to hope. You tried to keep your gaze steady, but you knew your eyes were wet.

"Stay with me," he said quietly. You did crumple then, your knees turned to water, and only his grip still on you kept you standing. "Stay with me, and let me prove my honor to you."

"Yes," you breathed, and that was all he needed. He hauled you to him, pulling you down, until your chest was pressed to him as he ran his gloves frantically over your neck, your shoulder blades, your hips. You rested your forehead against his, against the blood-warm beskar, and waited. You wanted nothing more than the feeling of his hands on you but you were so tired. "Will... will the tribe understand?"

A pause. He slowed, but did not stop, tracing soothing heat across your body. The blank faceplate tipped up to gaze out at the desert night. "Some will. Some won't. It doesn't matter. How I feel about you can't be against the Creed any more than my helmet. You can't turn a thing against itself." His head was still turned away, looking past the canopy to the starless sky outside. "You aren't a distraction from my Creed, mesh'la, and you never have been. You're part of it. You make me a better... a better Mandalorian."

His hesitation did not go unnoticed. You heard what he didn't say: a better man.

***

The problem with having sex in the cockpit is that when you want - no, need - to lay down afterward there isn't quite room for both of you between the chairs. Also, the floor is that textured, anti-slip steel they use for gantries, which pokes uncomfortably into bare flesh. You end up squashed together, half on top of your Mandalorian, letting his still partially-armored back take the worst of your combined weight as you roll on to your side and throw one leg over him, pillowing your head on his pauldron. It's not ideal, but after the three orgasms he pulled out of you with as much dedication as he'd ever chased down a bounty, you don't really have a choice. Going down the ladder in your current state might actually be the thing that kills you.

Din is still breathing hard from his own climax, sought only after he'd made you so sensitive that he'd had to put a callused palm over your mouth to keep you from shrieking and waking the Child. He'd started, as you thought he would, by pulling off your flimsy shorts and shoving the thick head of his cock into you with no preparation other than telling you to bend over the console and stay quiet. You'd cooperated, knowing that the position put his mouth conveniently close to your ear, and were rewarded with that smooth modulated voice telling you he was going to make sure you never made him use a toy again, never want his cock in anything but you. He told you he was going fuck you so thoroughly you'd beg for him to let you come on his cock. He'd started rough, his pace matching the coarseness of his words, and you'd bitten down your whimpers at the stretch. 

But Din knew you far too well to let you off so lightly. Fast had turned to slow and deep, caging your hips with one forearm while skillful fingers lightly circled your clit, never giving you quite enough pressure to get you where you ached to go. Then you had begged, and he'd almost given in: pulled out of you abruptly, replacing his cock with three fingers after ripping off his gloves. You'd come so hard Din had groaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, your legs trembling uncontrollably, but even that wasn't what you were hoping for and he knew it. He'd coaxed you to a second orgasm by turning you around and crudely shoving his knee between your legs, making you ride the textured cuisse on his thigh. He'd insisted you work for it, rubbing yourself against him and leaving streaks of arousal on the beskar, and that was less satisfying still. Only after you'd gotten yourself off did he ask you what you wanted, and by then you were so needy, so desperately raw and sex-drunk, that all you could do was whine, "You-- please, Din-- you." The sound of his name seemed to shred whatever last bit of composure he had left, and he'd pressed into you harder than ever as your hand dropped to provide the friction you'd needed. You'd come apart with him buried deep, your cunt gripping him like a vise, and he'd followed not long after, your name on his lips as his cock twitched and softened in you.

The nice thing about steel floors, you decide, is that they're easy to clean. You can feel Din dripping out of you and you're pretty sure you're going to leave a wet spot. You’re also pretty sure that the cylinder rolled under one of the consoles and is still jammed there, but that's a problem for later. You pull yourself even closer to him, enjoying his warmth in the shared quiet, watching the strange false light of hyperspace dance outside the canopy.

You don't notice that Din’s turned his helmet to you until he speaks. “Another 26 hours and then we’re off this boat.” He sounds relaxed, pleased both with your current configuration of tangled limbs and the prospect of no longer being confined to the ship. “Felucia is a jungle world. Plenty of frogs for the womp rat to chase.”

You grin. “Or eat. How long are we staying? Are we dropping in somewhere civilized or staying off the radar? And who are we even after? You didn’t show me the puck yet.”

“Off the radar, and this one’s a solo job.” You start to protest, but he stops you. “Really. The contact says he’s holed up in a cave in the middle of nowhere. We’ll set down in the nearest open spot, then it’s half a day overland to the hideout. No point in you coming, nothing for you and the kid to do but get wet and feed the gnats.”

After space travel, a hike doesn’t sound unpleasant, but you know he’s right. There’s no reason to go to the extra trouble of packing supplies for two more when it’s a straightforward retrieval. At least you and the Child will get to explore your landing site. You can do your work outside in the open air, and if all goes well, Din will only be gone a day or two.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’ll come back, right?” It’s only half a serious question. You trust your Mandalorian. You’ve trusted his competence and drive and ability since the moment you met him, and have learned to trust that his desire to return to you is real. Still, you always ask. It’s a private ritual between you, something soft built over top of hard truths. 

You think of the times he’s left you. To work a job or on a hunt or sometimes just for the cold, hard recesses of his mind where you cannot touch him. Once, although you try not to remember it, for a black and shaking depression that terrified you both. Most of all, you think of that night, on Mos Eisley. The crunch of sand under his boots as he turned away. The glimpse of beskar through the door. The feeling of his hands on your battered ribs. His voice, very tired, I don't make a habit of coming back for distractions.

"Of course I’ll come back, mesh'la." You’ll never not thrill to Din’s electronic baritone calling you beautiful. "How could I do anything else? You're part of my Creed."

***

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