#it was a tactical decision (lie)

[samstronomy]

CHAT I COOKED?????

[whitehartlane]

ppl agreeing with klopp and saying a replay should be the outcome of mistakes like this, erm … think about it practically. does liverpool start with 9 men or do they send the two who were sent off (correctly and by law!) at the time they were sent off? when do we play the game? if the lineups are supposed to stay the same, what about gakpo who’s injured and son who’s carrying a knock? or do we choose different lineups? do we start 0-1 to liverpool? do we start 0-0? who officiates? what changes with var if anything? what precedent does it set for the rest of the league? who can appeal? what can they appeal? how many times can they appeal? what happens if the appeal is unsuccessful? is the appeal only restricted to refereeing errors or are var errors also part of it? and most importantly, why do spurs players have to be put through a replay for a mistake they did not commit?

[lazy-ahh]

TROUBLE LOOKS GOOD ON YOU

pairing mark grayson x (vigilante) male reader

you’re a disaster wrapped in kevlar and bad decisions. mark grayson? he’s sunshine in spandex. you shouldn’t work. you don’t work—except when it’s 2 am and the city’s quiet, except when his hands find the cracks in your armor like they were made to fit there. except when he looks at you like you’re something worth loving, and for once, you don’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong.

the crumpled hood of the villains’ getaway van makes a decent chair, if you ignore the broken glass. you’re sprawled across it like it’s your personal throne, watching mark hover nearby like an overprotective shadow. the would-be thieves are zip-tied in a groaning pile, one of them still half-stuck in the dumpster you gracefully introduced him to earlier.

"wow," you drawl, kicking your boots up on the shattered windshield. "you guys really thought this plan would work? even i have higher standards, and i once fought a telekinetic badger with a crowbar."

mark continues to hover near you, arms crossed. "you drop-kicked a guy into a dumpster," he says, like it’s some kind of crime.

"correction: i tactically repositioned him into a dumpster," you counter, grinning as he rolls his eyes. "and hey—" you gesture to the defeated goons. "—no guns, no hostages, just a little creative problem-solving. admit it, vincible. you love having a partner who keeps things interesting."

he opens his mouth—probably to whine about "excessive force" or whatever—but stops when you flick a crumpled soda can at his chest. the way his frown fights a smile? priceless.

mark sighs, defeated, before finally floating down, landing with a stupidly heroic thud. he offers you a hand, and you take it, if only to mock his gentlemanly gesture. except he doesn’t let go. and—weirdly—you don’t pull away either. his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and you have to fight the urge to yank your hand back just to spite him. (who does he think he is, melting your edges like this?)

"you wanna come to my house for dinner?" he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. "mom says she’s cooking your favorite dish to entice you. her words, not mine."

you can hear the smirk in his voice. bastard. "wow, bribing me with food now? you’re getting desperate, vincible," you shoot back, but your traitorous fingers tighten around his anyway.

he huffs a laugh, warm and close. "is it working?"

(yes.)

"depends," you lie. "what’s she making?"

"pork sisig."

"sisig?" you deadpan, raising an eyebrow. "damn, aunt debbie’s playing dirty. she knows i’d crawl through hell for that crispy pork."

mark’s grin is obnoxiously smug. "yep. she also said if you say no, she’ll save the leftovers for me instead—"

"over my dead body," you snap, already dragging him toward the street. his laugh is stupidly bright for someone who just witnessed you yeet a man into a dumpster ten minutes ago.

(and okay, fine—maybe you like that sound. maybe you’ve memorized the exact way his nose scrunches when he’s trying not to cackle at your bullshit. maybe you’ve even stopped "accidentally" stealing his hoodies because his scent clinging to you is… whatever. not the point.)

"knew you’d cave," mark sing-songs, swinging your joined hands like an overexcited golden retriever. the sidewalk crowd parts around you two—not out of fear (though your rep should warrant it), but because invincible is practically skipping down the street with a guy who once put a batarang through a drug lord’s windshield as a warning shot. the stares burn into your back. great. tomorrow’s headlines will be invincible’s mysterious boyfriend revealed! with some paparazzi shot of mark grinning like an idiot while you glare at the camera like it personally offended you. you think it's funny (and endearing) that mark doesn't seem to care.

you shove him with your free hand. "shut up. i’m tolerating you for the food."

"uh-huh," he says, voice dripping with the kind of smugness that makes you want to strangle him. or kiss him. annoying. "that’s why you also agreed to movie night after. and let my dad teach you viltrumite chess last week—which, by the way, you cheated at—"

"vincible," you growl, "i swear to god—"

he kisses your gloved knuckles, slow and deliberate, just to watch your brain bluescreen. asshole.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"aunt debbie, i don’t think i can eat anyone else’s cooking of sisig anymore," you say around a mouthful of rice, already reaching for your third serving. "this is illegal. you’re gonna ruin all other food for me."

debbie beams, refilling your plate before you can even ask. "good. that means you’ll keep coming back," she says, flicking your forehead lightly. "mark said you punched a guy through a wall today. again."

"he deserved it," you mutter, shooting a glare at mark—who’s too busy laughing into his soda to defend you. his knee knocks against yours under the table, warm and steady, and fuck, you hate how your body betrays you by leaning into it. like some pathetic magnet. like you’re not the guy who once made one of the most notorious villains flinch.

nolan leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "you know, when mark said he was dating someone ‘intense,’ i didn’t realize he meant ‘frequently commits property damage.’"

"oh please," you scoff, pointing your fork at him. "you literally leveled a city once. i’m tame compared to you."

the table goes quiet. mark chokes on his drink.

then nolan laughs—deep and booming—while debbie shakes her head like she’s already drafting your apology to the mayor. "he’s got you there, honey," she says, patting nolan’s arm.

mark kicks your shin under the table, grinning. "stop impressing my dad. it’s weird."

"make me, vincible," you shoot back—just as debbie slides another heap of sisig onto your plate.

you don’t miss the way mark’s fingers brush yours when he steals your spoon to eat your food, though. or how his thumb lingers on your wrist for half a second too long, calloused and sure. bastard. he knows what he’s doing. knows the way your pulse jumps under his touch, knows you’ll let him take whatever he wants from you—food, space, the last shreds of your reputation as chicago’s most unshakeable bastard.

and the worst part? he gives it all right back. in the way he leans into your space like he’s trying to fuse your skeletons together. in the way his laugh softens to something private when you grumble "fine, take it," pushing the plate toward him. in the way he tugs you into the couch later, his nose buried in your hair like he’s trying to memorize the scent of gunpowder and cheap shampoo.

(you’ll never admit it, but you’d raze cities for this guy. and he knows. he knows.)

you lay there, ear pressed to his chest like it’s the only compass you’ve ever needed, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. it’s too much. it’s not enough. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid the universe will yank this away any second—because it always does. because you’re the kid who crawled out of a battlefield that could've been his grave, the soldier cecil left behind, the ghost who burns too bright to keep. you don’t get this. not soft blankets on your back, not warm hands in your hair, not mark’s stupidly perfect ribs rising and falling beneath your cheek like some kind of prayer.

but for someone who’s never stayed in one place longer than a mission briefing, this feels like home. and that’s the most terrifying part.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever, mark combing his fingers through your hair like you’re something precious instead of something broken. your arms lock around his sinfully thin waist, pulling him closer with a quiet huff of contentment. you, who’ve bitten off threats with bloodied teeth and called it a smile, who wear your scars like armor—you melt against him. your usual sharp edges (the furrowed brow, the tension in your jaw, the always-ready-to-bite smirk) smooth out into something peaceful. something safe.

mark’s chest rumbles with a silent laugh beneath you. ha. knew you were a softie. he doesn’t say it out loud, but you feel it in the way his fingertips trace your scalp, in the way he presses his lips to your forehead like he’s sealing a promise.

and damn him for it, because he’s right. damn him for the way his hands fit against the notches of your spine like they were carved to hold ruin. damn him for how easy he makes it—to breathe, to stay, to believe the impossible truth that a heart as shattered as yours could still be something worth kissing.

damn him for the way his stupidly perfect smile slots between your ribs and into your heart every time he looks at you. those soft brown eyes that don’t just see you, but keep seeing you—past the bloodstains and the body count, through every lie you’ve ever worn like armor. his dark hair spills across the pillow like a piece of the night sky you’re allowed to touch, and isn’t that the cruelest joke? that someone made of starlight and second chances would choose to orbit a black hole like you?

damn him most of all for how he loves you. reckless and relentless, like his heart didn’t get the memo that yours is a crime scene. he pours love into you like it’s something you could deserve—overflowing and endless, while all you can give back are jagged pieces and residues of warmth and love, scraped raw from the ruins of you and in-between the cracks of your broken heart.

and the worst part? you’d let him ruin you like this forever.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it’s 2 AM, that cursed hour your body insists on waking to like clockwork, some leftover survival instinct from a life that demanded you sleep with one eye open. but tonight, the reason you’re awake is softer. warmer. mark’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his breath steady as a metronome. you push up on one elbow, slow and careful, just enough to see his face in the blue-dark of the living room—all the daylight tension smoothed out of his features, his lips slightly parted, his stupidly long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

you stay like that, frozen in the quiet, staring with the kind of naked devotion that would’ve made your younger self sneer. pathetic, he’d have said. weak. but here, now, with no one to witness except the moon through the curtains, you let yourself look. let yourself want. your fingers itch to touch, so you do—trailing through his hair like you’re mapping the shape of something holy. his strands are stupidly soft between your calloused fingers, and when he sighs in his sleep, nuzzling unconsciously into your palm, your chest does something embarrassing.

you’re so fucked.

you should stop. you don’t. minutes stretch like taffy, sticky-sweet and endless, your thumb brushing his temple, the shell of his ear, the dip behind his jaw. you’re a thief memorizing the contours of a treasure you’ll never deserve. mark shifts, and for a heartbeat you think you’ve woken him—but no, he just turns his face into your wrist, his lips grazing your pulse point like an accidental kiss.

then his eyes flutter open.

and god, the way he looks at you—like you’re the first thing he wants to see every morning for the rest of his life, like he’s already dreaming and you’re the best part. his groggy smile is a knife between your ribs.

"morning, sleeping beauty," you murmur, your voice rough with something too close to worship. your fingers don’t stop moving through his hair, even as his arms tighten around you, pulling you down until your foreheads touch.

"what time is it?" he slurs, already half-asleep again.

you press a silent kiss to the corner of his mouth. "you don’t need to know." your hand slides down to cover his eyes, playful. "just... go back to sleep."

"no, no... it’s fine." mark’s voice is still thick with sleep, but his grip on your wrist is sure as he pulls your palm to his lips, pressing a kiss to the scar that cuts across it—the one you got the night you two met, back when you still pretended you weren’t impressed by him. he pushes up onto his elbows, his hair sticking up in every direction, and kisses your forehead like it’s a habit. "i know you wanna go for a ride. i’ll come with you."

and fuck. you’ve spent your whole life being looked at, not seen—except by him. your breath stutters, eyes wide as you stare at him like he’s just peeled back your ribs and counted every broken piece. what did i ever do to deserve you? you don’t say it, but your face must scream it, because mark just laughs softly, already tugging you off the couch with that stupidly chivalrous "up you go" grip he’s had since day one.

a year together, and it still hits you like a sucker punch: how easy this is for him. how he knows you better than you know yourself—knows that when the nightmares or the restlessness claw at you, your first instinct isn’t to talk, or fight, or drink. it’s to vanish into the city’s veins on your bike, let the wind rip the thoughts right out of your skull. and mark? he doesn’t ask. doesn’t lecture. just straps on his helmet like it’s the most natural thing in the world to chase your demons at 2 am.

"you’re buying the coffee after," you grumble, shoving his shoulder as you grab your keys off the counter.

mark grins, already toeing on his sneakers like a man who’s done this a hundred times. (he has.) "uh-huh. and you’re not gonna speed just to feel me cling to you like a scared koala."

"no promises, grayson."

wow. 2.3k words of pure sleep-deprived brainrot (are you sure?) at 2 am and somehow... it worked? i was absolutely COOKING while listening to "soft spot" by keshi on repeat - that song basically soundtracks the whole couch scene so please go give it a listen! we all deserve this exact brand of tender love in our lives (manifesting it right now for all of us) cause we know we all need that inVINCIDIH-

[icanlife]

Very tired of people who continue to argue that Bill destroying Euclydia was completely on purpose and he didn’t care about anyone at all because he’s just trying to garner sympathy in The Book of Bill, despite all the supporting evidence outside of Bill’s words that allude to how deeply traumatic it was, (so many, many things about) how he loved and misses his parents, how much of a sore spot the topic is for him, how much he wants to return home but can’t, etc. in addition to how perfectly Alex and co. crafted a parallel narrative between Bill and Ford, including how they hurt the people they love out of carelessness and blind pursuit of their dreams, justifying to themselves that the people they hurt just couldn’t understand

Yes, Bill is an unreliable narrator, and that includes all the very obvious posturing that he did it all on purpose and it was actually a very good thing, that everyone loved him, that he’s NOT incarcerated or anything and that he’s still a really all-powerful being, etc etc etc. To fully believe that EVERY vulnerability he reveals is an evil manipulation tactic, and not actual character writing, you have to interpret his very prevalent denial of weakness, which continues into the conclusion of the book where he already knows he’s lost the reader and is still denying any emotional needs or trauma, as itself a lie.

There’s a reason why the Pines family cracked open this book and laughed at Bill, calling him a fractured, pathetic mess.

The Book of Bill has a plot, a great plot, and great character writing. It’s a crazy companion to Journal 3, Ford’s story. Parallel stories, but where one ends with someone healing from their trauma, coming to terms with one’s mistakes and accepting the need for human love and relationships, the other ends with one stuck forever in their layers and layers of denial, never acknowledging their own trauma, never acknowledging their need for human companionship, grasping in desperate need at their continued facade of hating to love and loving to hurt.

Bill isn’t an always-in-control sly master of the mind, he’s a delusional and desperate man, fractured by his own trauma, who will continue to hurt others to prove that he’s in control. I’m tired of the false narrative that abusers can’t have trauma, aren’t people, giving them this otherworldly status above all humanity. Aside from not being narratively or societally productive, it undermines the ending and message of the book. Acknowledging Bill’s brokenness gives his victims POWER over him. The fact that Bill needs Ford, but Ford doesn’t need Bill is powerful. Them laughing at his desperation is powerful. Looking at someone who once seemed untouchable to you and realizing they’re just a suffering meat sack like any other human being is powerful.

The ending of The Book of Bill is the demystification of Bill. The book is a real look into his mind, telling a story that’s actually very tragic. It’s a very real story, a cautionary tale. You’re not being manipulated or tricked if you feel bad, it’s a very intentional writing decision that this ending elicits that dark pity, as he desperately fades away (arts and crafts materials confiscated) saying that he’s FINE.

So yeah, The Book of Bill and the website are a masterwork of the character, I love them, they’re incredible, and I don’t want to see such a tight character story discredited as “you can’t believe ANY of it!”

[karenandhenwilson]

Let's talk about the 21st century and queer rights

Sometimes I see a post and wonder what kind of world people live in, how ignorant and hateful they are of the community they claim to be part of, and even the most recent history of that community.

I saw this post with this line in it: "Its the 21th century, are we still suppose to justify people who lie at their partners in order to protect their reputation?" And I'm not reblogging because I don't want to have it on my blog.

So, let's talk about the 21st century and queer rights in the US, shall we, @queershits?

Did you know that same-sex marriage in the US as a whole has only been legal since the Supreme Court decision on Obergefell v. Hodges on June 26, 2015? Prior to that, the first state to grant same-sex marriage was Massachusetts in 2004, while the first civil unions for gay and lesbian couples became legal in 2000. But at the same time, 28 states had banned same-sex marriage and the recognition of those marriages from other jurisdictions until 2015. In fact, the federal government had been banned from recognizing same-sex marriages by the Defense of Marriage Act in 1996, which had been voided by the Supreme Court decision in 2015 but has only been fully repealed by the Respect of Marriage Act in 2022. That's all the 21st century. And very recent 21st century!

When Hen and Karen adopted Denny in 2011, they weren't married. Because at that point in time, they weren't allowed to in California.

Did you know that until the Supreme Court ruling on Lawrence v. Texas on June 26, 2003, same-sex sexual activity was illegal in 14 US states? And that even with that ruling 12 of these states have not changed their state's constitution, so that these laws aren't executable but still on the book and regularly used to harass queer people? (And didn't the current Supreme Court just say after overthrowing Roe v. Wade they'd like to take a good long look at Lawrence v. Texas, too? People might lose their rights again in those 12 states if the worst comes to pass here.) That's all the 21st century.

Did you know that "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" came into effect in 1994, allowing gay and bi people to serve in the US military as long as no one found out about their sexual orientation? If they were found out, they could face dishonorable discharges or even prison time. Either would be a permanent burden on their records for the rest of their lives. DADT was repelled in 2011 after a long and hard debate. That's well into the 21st century.

Karen explicitely states that DADT is part of the reason she didn't become an astronaut. (Though, NASA was never truly subjected to the rule as it is not a military organisation. But on the other hand, many of the astronatus are active or former military.)

Tommy was at the 118 in 2005. We know he was in the Army prior to joining the LAFD. That means Tommy served under the rule of DADT, which would have been an immense burden on him.

Do you know that there is a defense called "LGBTQ+ panic" often used in combination with a defense of insanity, provocation, or self-defense? This defense tactic is only banned in 21 US states, and most of those bans are very recent. In 2018, only three states had banned this defense. In 29 US states people are allowed to say "this person is gay/trans/queer/etc and I felt threated by that fact alone so I saw myself with no other choice but to hurt them" in a court of a law and the jury has to consider that argument. That's the 21st century.

Let's take a look at the kind of world Josh, Michael, and Tommy would have been children and teenagers in. That's not quite the 21st century, but it's near enough.

Tha aids epemedic started in the 1980s, and is — for the record! — still ongoing. But in the 1980s it was very much deemed a problem of the gay community only. And many, many people claimed outrageous things like "they're getting what they deserve". Josh and Tommy are both 80s children, Michael was a teenager in the 80s. We know Tommy grew up with a bigoted and hateful man like Gerrard as a father. He probably heard the above quote and worse regularly.

Have you ever heard the name Mathew Shepard, @queershits? (If not, go and educate yourself!) Mathew Shepard was a young gay man tortured and murdered in October 1998. Josh and Tommy would have been teenagers or maybe young adults (as we don't know the exact age of either of them) when that happened. It was all over the news and there were, again, people not shying away from saying he got what he deserved. I've no doubt Tommy's father (and Gerrard) was one of those people.

That's the world Josh, Michael, and Tommy grew up in as gay men that Josh talked about. They didn't hide to protect their reputation, as it was put in the quote above. They hid to protect their life and well-being. Finding the confidence and security to let go of that kind of learned behavior to protect yourself is so hard. But all three did it!

There are still people today who have to hide like this in the US. Because they're born into the wrong family or the wrong neighborhood or the wrong religious community where being queer is still seen as a ground to hate them, to exclude them, to hurt them, to kill them.

The number of hate crimes is rising again. The hard-won rights and freedom of queer people are threatened again. It's the 21st century, but that doesn't mean we are always safe or that we don't sometimes have to do shady things to protect ourselves or that we can lean back and enjoy the rights we have. Because many of us all over the world either don't have any rights or are facing the very real danger of losing the rights again that those who came before us fought so hard for.

[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.

[nutterzebutters]

Honestly given the update I'd like to say a few thigns

First things first, white lily cookies separation!

This character is so brief that one might not think about it, however I do have it in mind that this Tower keeper had purposely reminded pure vanilla and white lily of the riddle in order to push Lily to make a decision sooner, rather than later as originally intended. I do believe it was a good decision for her to go off on her own, as we all know that pure vanilla is quite lost on the topic of dark enchantress vs lily- at this very time we are unsure if truthless recluse is a further repressed version or a version that has somewhat accepted it. Furthermore, if truthless recluse is a shard/illusion I do feel it may defeat a lot of storyline purpose, and do hope that it is truly a pure vanilla or part of him that has since transformed.

As for this sprite - I will not lie this is not the Sprite I was expecting to be edited for beast eyes! I totally expected the mental breakdown Sprite. I've seen a few say that this might not be pure vanilla as Shadow milk is tampering with memories- however!!!

Part of the tactic is to put pure vanilla in situations so that he may react himself in order for shadow milk to place the narrative that he will become just as bad as him. He can use these reactions and insecurities against pure vanilla- after all he poked at pure vanilla on the matter of Lily becoming dark enchantress. That she may have been more qualified to wield the power of Truth regardless, using pure vanilla's self perceived failures as the device.

This one's a little peculiar, I have a few ideas here.

Step one, I feel I should clarify if it's not already obvious that the implication of pure vanilla being Shadow milk is not a literal one~but one that works in tandem with the ladder truth of the story. Much like Shadow milk, pure vanilla does lie! Even if Shadow milk used it for his own game, pure vanilla is self-aware enough to recognize that he too has lied so that cookies may find a sweeter world. Even if it's about himself, or about the situation at hand regardless if it was for comfort it is always dug him into a hole and has even gotten him in trouble with friends. He too is somebody that has been shown to be skilled tactically- it is very reasonable to say that beyond the soul jam this was the sub-context shadow milk was bothering pure vanilla about back in episode 2 of beast yeast, "the biggest liar" as a means to place on pv.

Now let's talk about the sheer silent terror that Truthless recluse is bc I can't express enough how unnerving he could be.

Throughout the entire time, fortune teller cookie still kept a rather calm demeanor. Keeping pure vanillas soft spoken attitude and quick thinking when it comes to help- even when faced with his current self. He was silent, he was an observer and he did it without much hassle showing how cold and calculating fortune teller cookie operates. It's a different type of imposing presence than Shadow milk but I would imagine it isn't any less cold.

It does not seem that shadow milk had given him any power boost either, rather that he was holding back the first time gingerbrave and Co fought him. This is a character who is making moves with precision bearing a frigid expression not at all like the warmth that the characters have come to know. The safety that was pure vanilla cookie has been ripped out from under Earth bread at this point, as for a large majority he has somehow remained the catalyst/nexus for a lot of progress events in the main story..

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

I don't have a screenshot of this part, but I do remember golden cheese appearing next to clotted cream in the Republic! I do feel that shadow milk had used the likeness of such figures to instill what may have been a previous anxiety of pure vanillas. Especially towards golden cheese, whom seeks comfort in the fact that he has experienced the same events regarding his kingdom. It shows that for pure vanilla there's always been a confliction and form of denial regarding Lily- losing the trust of everybody he has put every effort into protecting is definitely a huge fear.

I'd also like to point out in case some were confused, the doubt pv has of his power being Shadow Milks is not merely a ownership conflict despite the wording!!!!!! I can already smell the misinterpretations.

It's that everything pure vanilla has worked through was only really lent to him, his skills and anything else that may connect to the soul jam has created a permanent tether to the ladder: making it near impossible to escape. Even from episode 2, Shadow milk has set up the very open paranoia of forever watching pure vanilla- it's a consistency so we cannot say for sure that this part is a lie!! After all, in the developer commentary live stream it stated that shadow milk is more incomprehensible than the other beasts- and just unlike the other beasts his relationship with pure vanilla and the way their soul jam works is entirely different.

Pure vanilla is aware that now that shadow milk has been there the entire time, he needed to be extra careful. Now with this vision he feels that he can't use it at all unless he wants to bring danger to the cookies he cares for- damned if he does and damned if he doesn't! As if the soul jam attached to him is nothing but a tracking device with a chain.

Just like the countless appearances of Shadow milk you can only really go off of consistencies in a world of lies. One of these consistencies is the idea that pure vanilla is more connected to the other-realm/dark side of the moon then your typical cookie. It's hard to say if he inherently came from the realm, like some sort of magic birth such as candy apple but the fact that shadow milk left it so open ended leaves it as a possibility-

NOW. I will not be showing the awakened spoilers, as I am aware they are about and circling. For those who wish not to see it, I will not show it! However I will talk about a few details that I will keep for the sake of selective obscurity as I do believe that the pure vanilla Nation won💀

We all remember the theories?? Hell, even with the connections to moonlight and keys. Y'all he's gorgeous. I cannot WAIT until he gets patched in. It also seems that some of truthless recluse stayed! Hinting to the idea that pure vanilla did not escape unscathed and reinforcing the narrative that being somewhat more intertwined with Shadow milk is not a lie. That pure vanilla will eventually gravitate towards a different balance, Fun things!

[eldritch-spouse]

Can we get Santi making his match ~Properly~ apologize after they gave in and resummoned him after banishing him?

[Ohhh I'm gonna hurt you good. Fem reader.]

TW: Manipulation; Brief but descriptive past gore; Struggling with trauma; Angst and abuse.

Ironic, isn't it?

You did it. You successfully banished a high-ranking demon from your life. Not just any high-ranker, one that claimed to be your "match". You had assumed that was just another appeal to emotions back then, a trick to wrap your around his pinkie further, but you've done a lot of research in order to successfully pull off what you did, and there's no lie to be found in those words.

Few humans can drive their matches away for good, very few. You have the scars to show for it, certainly. The ragged rifts on your limbs from when Santi had sunk his claws so very deep into your flesh, raking them down and tearing your muscles apart in the process. You have a bad eye. It's not blind, but it's definitely not as good as its twin. Lastly, of course, there's the dead and withered mark on your mons... Faded, but still there, still visible, still mocking you every single time you look at yourself in the mirror.

It's been years.

Yet you still scrub at it ruthlessly, hoping that it'll disappear little by little, like a grease stain. The nightmares remain, feeling it throb through your entire organism, glowing that hellish magenta, signaling the nearness of your personal castigator. Your unrequited pest that, much like a cockroach, refuses to die.

It's been years...

And he's still haunting you.

He's in Hell, probably in Lust if you had to guess, where he belongs- And he's still fucking up your life. Poetic, a true demon.

The exhaustion you felt the moment Santi successfully got phased back into the fires has stayed since. It dug roots into your soul, hugging it possessively, his parting gift to you- Numbness.

You reinvented your life.

New hairstyle, new fashion, new place to live, new interests, new friends. It felt like the only way to be free of the incubus was to become anyone but the person he claimed to have fallen in love with.

No matter what you did, what new hobby you took on or what personal goal you achieved, you never felt accomplished, never felt good. Psychologists treated your supposed chronic depression with every tactic they had, only succeeding in making you feel even more pathetic when every single one of them failed.

It was clear you were not in the mindset to begin any type of relationship, but... Your libido demanded it of you. It's unclear what changed your appetite. Was it the mark? Was it the constant sexual contact you had before? Or is it just that you can't satisfy yourself anymore? Maybe all.

You tried sex again once.

It was... A monumental disappointment.

Enough to make you swear it off, and live in a gross state of constant frustration, unsolvable no matter how much you pushed yourself into new spaces to attain new sensual experiences. Maybe, maybe you just had to try something different, right? Try a few kinks.

No, not even the almost shameful collection of toys you've amassed since Santi's been gone have done a single thing to relieve you properly. Every orgasm feels dull and requires too much effort.

You started hating yourself when the only thing that seemed to make you cum faster was thinking of him.

The image of your very own abuser above you, whispering sweet encouragements in your ear and moaning as he sunk his cock into you. The thought of his skin on yours was enough, it was effective- And the wave of pure self-hatred that rolled over you when you orgasmed crying his name was strong enough to make you break down into screaming tears, naked and soaked and humiliated.

You'd wake up in fetal position, throat hoarse, the crust of your own pleasure sticking to your thighs, numb as per usual.

It's been years, of this.

And today, you've given up.

It wasn't a spur of the moment decision, of course not. It was more of a slow spiral into hopelessness.

Is this misery going to be the rest of your life? This insupportable existence.

You'd rather never live another day than allow it to continue. And if, to fix it, you need Santi again... Then you need him again.

Is it weak of you, to do this? Maybe a stronger, more dignified person would choose death. But you've been worn down, you've never recovered, you're still on his fucking palm!

Were you ever truly free of Santi?

What does it matter, right? If you're still going back to him after all this.

Making a summoning circle is easier, certainly more so than cleverly hiding a banishment circle. Droplets of shame drip down your cheeks as you arrange it, as you come to terms with your defeat.

In spite of his rank, there's no need for a big offering. Santi will know it is you who's calling him, because of your blood. You're letting him know preemptively. An orgasm should suffice.

There's no need to think about his sigil, the very shape of it is embedded on your frontal lobe, a pesky cattle tag clipped onto your body. It's on your fucking cunt, the blasted thing.

There's a long moment of contemplation where you stare at the spacious circle in your living room. A brief streak of resilience has you wanting to put everything away, except your legs don't budge, stone-like.

Once more, your mind says no, but your body says yes.

Bile rises in your throat, yet if there's anything you've learned to do by now, it's swallowing.

There's an exhausted grimace in your complexion as you sink to your knees before the circle, pushing panties aside, and fall into your guiltiest pleasure. People use the term very loosely these days, you've noticed.

It should disgust you how easy it is, how quick you approached a peak, how the anticipation of feeling his hellishly delightful touch brought you that much closer, that much faster, that much wetter- You're a loser.

And maybe you deserve this. Whatever comes of this.

As soon as you orgasm, the circle pulses, your blood seems to sink into the demonic sigil, and a stillness follows, lulled by the hum of a portal waiting to manifest.

Torpid hues study it. Seconds pass. A minute maybe.

A hysteric little giggle escapes as you wonder if he'll deny you now. Reject you.

No. No, he wouldn't- That filthy piece of scum would suck the grime off your shoes sooner than reject you. Because that's all he is, a worthless fucking worm who should be grateful you're letting him see your face again.

Eventually, a rift cracks through the floor, widening, the symphony of Hell echoing out in a scream of triumph. A hand pushes through, as dark and large as you remember it, sinking into the first anchor it finds. Soon, a great body is pushed through.

Santi.

... Santi?

Your breath catches in your throat.

He looks... Off. Turned away from you, crouched in the circle, it's hard to put your finger on what's changed, but he feels different. His horns have grown bigger, sharper.

Motionless, you watch a thick tail twitch. He rises to a stand carefully, joints cracking when he rolls his neck. God, that's not his usual posture at all. And then, you get to see his face. Gaunt cheeks, a larger, darker mouth with unnatural teeth. Santi's charm had been, in large part, his ability to toe the line between handsome and monstrous, taking advantage of his inhuman abilities to impose and using his sightly features to cause a "scared but horny" effect. That line has been long eroded, if you had to guess.

What strikes you the most are the eyes.

His stare has changed completely. The demon looks... Horrifying. Where once there had been something sharp and seductively warm to hide the evil beneath, there's now a corrosive transparency oozing off him, an animal carelessness. The left eye is particularly dulled, having lost pigment, the pupil won't move, lodged in an upwards position as if midway through rolling back into his skull. The whisker on that eye is also damaged, it looks to have been cut.

Certainly, it wasn't just you that changed.

You both look like complete shit. Well, he looks like shit as much as a concubus can...

Still, once he's fully turned towards his summoner, Santi attempts to put on a familiar mask.

The result is a far cry from the past.

" Minx. "

The incubus nods, his gaze blazing into you, unreadable.

Your mind wars between fear and irritation. The nerve of this motherfucker, to immediately address you the same way he did when you were but his mindless cur! When he did unspeakable things to you in the name of love. This anger is tempered by the shock of his rougher tenor, by the simple fact that you hadn't heard Santi's voice in so long- It feels too real, it feels like he can hurt you just with it.

Returning the favor, you call him by something that'll make him feel vulnerable.

" Noph'ae. "

A slight wrinkle.

Success.

His chest inflates. You think Santi's about to start shouting at you, but he just exhales afterwards. This happens a few times before you realize he's smelling something.

" It's been a while since I've been to the surface. The smells are so different, the lights, you take it for granted until it's stolen from you. "

He stole a lot of things from you that you took for granted too.

When Santi's tongue snakes out, it becomes clear he's now just trying to catch whiff of your recent arousal. Whatever trace of it still wanders.

Surprisingly, all the incubus does afterwards is just... Sit down, in the middle of the circle, continuing to look you up and down, as placid as can be.

You hadn't expect this, needless to say. You assumed there would be anger, indignation, a vicious desire to maul you or demands to let him free. Mockery even. Not this. Not nothing.

Your attempts to stare him down and coax some kind of response -Not that you even know what you want to hear from him. An apology? A justification?- Are fruitless. He just stares back, and speaks when he pleases.

" I see life has treated you harshly. Pity. "

" Shut- " The anger lodged in your throat like a knot makes you choke. " Shut the fuck up. "

He does, waiting. A few seconds pass before you can gather enough calm to say anything.

" I hate you. "

Santi blinks slowly, the words having no effect on him. God knows you've screamed them a hundred times and they never amounted to anything. Why would they now?

Still, the fact that he seemingly won't react to them drives you mad enough to pull at your own hair in a small tantrum.

He smiles faintly at the show.

" Would it please you to hear me say the same? " Santi interrupts the pain, making you all but glare venomously at him.

" It would make you happier if I said I hate you too, right? After you banished me. That I only exist to make you hurt. That I answered your call just so I could wait for a moment to kill you. " He sighs. " That's what you want. "

" But that's not the truth. "

When Santi's expression softens, and he spends several moments openly observing you in an almost nostalgic manner, a pit of dread forms in your stomach.

You start shaking your head. " No. No, don't you fucking dare- "

" I love you. "

A shriek bursts out of you. " You piece of shit! You don't know what love is, you know fuck all about love, all you know is how to break someone down to nothing! "

New tears follow tracks already left behind. " You can't even apologize to me. You're just soulless, aren't you? "

" If ever there was someone I loved, it was you. " He taps the floor with his clawtips as he speaks. " I only wanted us to be. You felt it too, but you kept fighting it. I would never willingly let you take away the best feeling I had ever felt. It was my paradise. "

" It was my Hell. "

He frowns.

" Don't lie to yourself. "

Before you can bark anything else at the demon, he continues.

" It was 'your Hell', but here you are, calling for me again. " Silence. " Doesn't add up. "

There's so much you want to say. So much you want to shout at him. Too many ways to contest his arrogance, his shamelessness, too many ways you'd like to torture him. The rage fueling you, generating those fantasies, dies when you realize it's all pointless.

Santi won't ever believe he's wrong. He won't ever say what he did to you wasn't justified. You could probably kill him, he'd still think he was right all along.

It rips the small, sick joy you could attain from picturing him groveling for all his mistakes. Talking to Santi about this is like debating a brick wall. It's time to move on.

He reads the defeat on your face plainly, wisely deciding not to poke further.

" What happened to your eye? "

The incubus tilts his head. " Concerned for me, love? " Again, he hardly allows you to inhale. " I felt that we should match. "

Confusion and anger is a very bad mix. " Is that your idea of a joke?! "

" No I... " Santi has the decency to look away, if even for a second. " I wanted to punish myself. It was never my intent to blind you. "

You huff, then make a broad gesture over your face. " And the rest? "

He lets the question hang for a while, then shrugs. " I've changed. Didn't you? "

As much as you want to deny it, squish it like a bug, reality is that he's been miserable too. It shows. This should make you happy, but all you can feel is a mysterious frustration.

Only in the ensuing silence do you begin to hear the gentle pitter patters of raindrops on the windows. A soothing sound, hushing the turmoil in your racing mind for a fraction of a heavenly beat.

" Will you break the circle, love? " Santi eventually concedes, leaning the least bit forward.

The fact that he's the first to address the matter of his summoning is a small victory for you, one that doesn't please you that much, though you still eat it up. It must be hard for him, seeing you after so long, yet not being able to touch. Must be torture. Good.

There's an avenue of power you'll always have over Santi, a double-edged sword actually, but he's more affected by this than you are. As his match, you are the incubus' most favored meal, and just being in front of him in nothing but your panties is likely chipping at his composure in fast swings.

Not that you are faring that much better, your current arousal may be buried under the scent of your orgasm, but it will fade soon, there'll be nothing to mask the want then. Even if he's endured some changes, the demon before you is still the one that made you reach platforms of pleasure previously unfathomable to you. Even when you didn't want it, even when... The mark...

How can you still want him, even after all this time?

" No. "

The answer comes easily.

" How am I to offer my services then? "

" You're not touching me! " Of course he will, who are you even lying to anymore?

Santi rolls his neck, tail thumping idly while confusion writes itself on his complexion.

Wordlessly, you reach for the waistband of your underwear, removing it slowly. The cloth is aimlessly twirled around your index, then thrown half-heartedly into the circle.

Predictably, pathetically, Santi swipes it before the thing can even make contact with the ground, bringing it to his face instantly. The sound he emits is like a sobbed groan, he rubs himself on it like a house cat, breathing it in, drooling on the fucking thing as he appears to damn near drug himself on the scent of your pussy.

It's satisfying.

It feels powerful, in a depraved and unhealthy way.

Which is why you never expected him to turn to you with a look that gushed utter vitriol.

" Break this circle. " He demands, finally using a voice befitting of his rank and infernal authority.

It's always a shock when Santi does this. The demon so deliberately maintains his tone to a seductive lulling purr, that when his patience chips just enough to let the real beast slip, it thunders through your composure.

" N- No! Be silent! "

Even to yourself, you sound like a frightened bleating animal.

" Pathetic! " The incubus laughs, straightening, leaning those great horns forward just to have you watch when he hooks your panties in the left one. Like a prize. " You summon me out of desperation, then play footsie and cocktease like a coward- "

" Desperation?! " Your own anger rises like burning bile. " Typical of a fucking demon to think so highly of yourself! "

Santi pauses to look at you quietly, wordlessly and petulantly asking you if you're sure that's your answer. A challenge.

" I don't need you for anything! "

" Are you hearing yourself, Minx? Why am I here, then? " A dark finger wags. " Better yet, why did you summon me and not another concubus, hm? "

Wracking your brain for answers that are anything but the truth takes time, time Santi won't offer you.

" I'll tell you why. Because you made a hotheaded decision and you've been living with the consequences of it for all this time. And you can't take it anymore. "

White knuckled fists begin to quake.

" So you banished a high-ranker, ooh la la, quite the feat! " Sardonic clapping rings across the room. " But you don't know how to get that out, do you? "

When Santi points at the mark previously hidden by your panties, goosebumps cover you from head to toe.

" You don't know how to make your mind forget me, much less your needy, luscious little body. " That pointed index moves from your pelvis to your chest. " I rocked you to the very core! The same way you took me by the neck, woman. "

All you can do is gulp, and all he can do is watch the motion of your throat.

" And it's not so easy, shattering our bond, love. We have a beautiful thing, that you've tried to ruin. I still don't know why... But what I do know, is that you've put us both through torture, isn't that right? Or do you think you were the only one miserable all this time? "

For some reason, no matter how angry you are and how much you want to say, the words won't leave your mouth.

" Was it fun? Tell me, did you have a good time? " He's already laughing. " Was it nice to never feel relief, to crave pleasure you could never achieve on your own again? This isn't like smoker's withdrawal, it doesn't go away. Did any body you ever sampled after mine offer even a tenth of what you had? "

It feels like your airway is tightening.

" No. Of course not. You never got it through your skull that neither of us had a choice in this. There are some things in life we don't get to choose, right Minx? We're each other's matches, and we have real chemistry together. That scares the living soul out of you, doesn't it? That you'll always want me. "

A choked cough makes it past your lips. He's as close to you as he can get from within the carved, advanced circle. No salt here, Santi would bulldoze through it immediately.

" As much as I love you, my sweetest delight, you are selfish. More than me. Because you never stopped to put yourself in my shoes. I am just as much of a slave to you as you are to me, there's no denying that. "

The next words he throws at you lash welts into the very fabric of your being.

" Even worlds apart, with all the wards and circles and magical aid, you will still be mine. And I will still be yours. "

Hearing him say what you had recently come to realize makes you deflate in a way you can't even describe. It's the final nail on the coffin you had no idea you were inside of. The last embers of a flame before wind blows it away. He's silent while the waves of defeat wash over your figure.

Several seconds later, Santi resumes with a somewhat calmer lilt.

" We'll never be free of each other, not without the type of pain that would make you rather die than keep breathing. That's what I've been trying to tell you from the very start... So, why don't we start over? "

You hadn't realized that you had begun glaring at the floorboards in the middle of his speech, only now cautiously rising your gaze to the agitated demon trying to gather his own calm.

" After you apologize to me, naturally. "

Finally, your mouth opens. " A- Apologize? "

Santi huffs. " Well yes, love. None of this would have transpired if you had just listened to me all those years back. I rather think I deserve this much, don't you? "

You hate him. You hate him so much. But, most of all, you hate that he's right.

Your fate had already been decided long before you could begin to make a choice. You won't get rid of him, because just like Santi says, even when he's away, your body will torture you to find him again. And it doesn't stop, because you don't have the means to make it stop. He said it perfectly, which might mean he's been mulling over this conversation as many times as you have mentally imagined it.

You're just so tired. Even if every ounce of rage in your heart demands that you send him back into the fire and tough it out, even if it kills you- Another part of you craves rest, comfort, calm. It wants the normalcy and modicum of well-being you'd sometimes feel before.

It wants this to end, at any cost.

Maybe you do have to learn to live with him.

Because it's not a choice for you. For your health or mental stability.

Maybe if things are done just right, you can mold him into a more tolerable person, you can teach him to be more than he once was. It's disgusting that you have to fix Santi, but it's the only way, isn't it? That's the only way to make it work and spare yourself unnecessary torment.

And, to fix him, you first need to make amends.

" I'm... " It's as if your tongue won't move to form the rest of the sentence. It has to be forced. " I'm sorry, Santi. "

Perhaps the only thing that makes it sound sincere is the fact that you're already emotionally exhausted.

The demon hums. " Very nice, that's a start. " You quirk a brow. " But for a proper apology, you should break this circle. "

A denial almost slips off your tongue without thinking, making the demon's gaze harden. Realistically, there's no escaping this. You're going to have to let him out one way or another, might as well have it be a gesture of cooperation. For a better future.

Sighing, you reach behind the slightly shifted couch, knocking three glowing crystals out of the specific order they were previously in. These same crystals were the ones you used to create a circle not even a high-ranker like Santi can break through- They were incredibly expensive, and acquiring them without raising his suspicion proved to be one of the most anxious episodes of your entire life.

Instantly, the glow that once contained Santi and limited the summoning rift's width fades away, leaving only hasty chicken scratch markings on the ground. He looks mildly bewildered that you actually followed through, but the expression wipes itself away quickly.

There's barely enough time for you to turn before Santi's all but prowling after you, a massive body colliding with yours while restless hands instantly dart everywhere.

He seems to want to do everything at once. In his desperate longing, the incubus crushes you against him, palms grabbing the globes of your ass then squishing the fat of your sides as he buries his face into your neck and snarls hard enough to make you quiver like a leaf in the wind. One second he's rubbing your legs luridly, the next he's rolling your tits and trying to lock his teeth around your neck. It's too much too fast, but exactly what your body had been craving for endless time. It wanted his attention, wanted his soothing- Your whines fall somewhere between frustrated and inconsolable, largely drowned out by his vaguely intimidating calls of delight.

Beastly in his want, Santi licks your jaw to a humid, tingling mess before forcibly crashing his lips unto yours, easily weaseling his tongue inside. Traces of your own arousal linger, but are otherwise negligible compared to the euphoria of his kiss. It's just as powerfully addictive as it was the very first time he selfishly stole the gesture.

And, if there's one good thing about Santi's irresistible nature, it's that his pheromones and fluids won't allow you to feel guilt for enjoying this. What a wonderful excuse, to let yourself sink into the experience bereft of all shame.

You can't hope to halt the noise of animal pleasure that rips itself out your throat, something he moans for, happily receiving and encouraging it. Santi's fevered hand eventually snakes downward and palms the faded mark still clinging to you, before reaching further and offering you just the briefest feathered brush against your clitoris. He soaks his digits in your generous wetness to make the motions even more fluid, the teasing very quickly has you shifting your hips in between heated kisses and breathless panting.

No matter how much you wordlessly beg him to indulge what you'd both been deprived of for far too long, Santi doesn't cave. In fact, he growls warningly whenever you try to buck, claws digging into your meat so you can't rock yourself on him.

" None will ever compare. " He finally parts, mouth as coated in your drool as yours is in his. There's a dreamy look in those tired eyes. " I wracked the Rings looking for someone that could satisfy me, and I went mad along the way Minx, but it was okay. "

A force on your shoulders takes you by surprise, the ensuing impact of bare knees on wooden tiles sobers you up gradually. Quiet clicks follow when Santi takes a few steps back.

" Because I knew you'd call for me again. "

What a nice way to say he knew you'd come crawling right back like a bitch in heat...

As you kneel there in disheveled confusion, Santi merely beckons you forward with a deceitfully warm smile.

It's obvious he wants you to crawl, but you still try to play dumb and raise a leg.

" Stand and I will be much meaner to that pretty face, love. "

A threat that instantly stills you.

" I'm not discouraging you, by all means, I miss those times where I could feel you try to breathe through your nose but you were so flush to me you couldn't... "

His words alone evoke a myriad of images, flashes of his teeth twisting into pleased grimaces and the oxygen-deprived skip of your heartbeat while spots danced around the edges of your sight. Memories that feel all too vivid now.

Crawling towards Santi is far from the most embarrassing thing you've done, so it's hardly worth antagonizing him about it.

The monster's own anticipation betrays him and he steps forward to close the last bit of distance between you, expression somewhere between manic and endlessly adoring when he whispers.

" Now, show me you're sorry. "

You know what to do to get the incubus revved up, not that he needs much assistance, seeing as he's practically bursting out his slit.

Keeping eye contact, a reverent kiss to that overheated sheath and a tongue flirting with the edge is all it takes for him to groan, holding your head to the side so you can watch his cock slide out, already throbbing from repressed arousal. Fortunately, nothing's changed on this end. He's still just as mouth-watering as you remember him from all those years ago.

Before you can wrap your lips around him, Santi grabs a soft hold of your hair.

" Tell me about the people you've bedded after me. "

You frown. " I only... Only had sex once. "

The demon tilts his head, mind seemingly shattered by that. " Once? "

After your nod, he nudges you slightly. You get the pleasure of seeing him inhale sharply at the first feel of your warmth around him, a shaky sigh following while he waits for you to worship him properly.

" You poor thing, was it truly that bad? "

There's no answer to be had aside from your slight gag when you attempt to take a little too much of him too soon. Santi pauses just to buck and make you gag again, the gross sound turning him on. He triggers the reflex until your face is flushed and there's strings of drool hitting the floor.

" Ssh sh, that's perfect, just the way I love it. " He murmurs praises when you pull away to cough hard.

" What did you do then, to make it bearable? " Santi appears to forge his own answer. " Did you spend your days fucking yourself to the thought of me? "

Instead of thinking about his words, you just focus on pleasuring the monster, bobbing on him effectively enough to disrupt his train of thought a few times. He makes a guttural sound when you audibly pop your lips and pulses madly.

" Hhn- Did you ever regret it then? In those moments where you were just so close but nothing would get you there... And you knew you banished the only one that could help. "

When you fail to pick up the pace accordingly, Santi rolls his own hips into your now stationary face, occasionally choking you deliberately, but also pausing to simply let himself rest on on your tongue. He intends to languish every moment of this.

" Because I thought of you when nothing and no one could make me cum. I thought of every sound you made and every inch of your stupidly gorgeous skin. " His tone intensifies with his speed, words chopped into tight breaths. " I hope. You crawled. The walls. "

Almost.

" I hope- You screamed. My name. "

You did.

" And I hope. " He pants. " In the end. You cried. "

You... did.

Santi's getting close, you already know all his tells, down to what muscles he twitches when he's nearing an orgasm. Part of being his match is knowing his body well, though not as well as a demon of carnality can read yours.

Instead of wanting to sink as far into your throat as he can, Santi offers mercy to your creaking jaw when he merely has you suck him hard around the most sensitive spot, curling forward slightly in his mounting pleasure.

" That means you learned something from this. So you won't have to cry anymore. "

When his jaw becomes slack, the first rush of sizzling ecstasy hits your tongue, a taste imprinted deep into your brain, like sweet liquor enabling a spiral into total debauchery. You know, somewhere in what's left of your rational mind, that ingesting his fluids will only make you more restless- But this is exactly what you wanted.

You want that hit. The high. The relief. Is it really a spiral when it feels so good?

The incubus refuses to indulge your greedy wish, pulling you off his length so he can make a mess of your already less than composed visage. You hardly have the mind to care about the flashes of warmth as he paints you all pretty, simply smiling contentedly. Santi finds it endearing enough to coo.

" There, my lovely little Minx, aren't things better already? " His claws swipe gently over your cheeks and chin, entering your mouth with another offer of poisonous sweetness you can't decline. He lets you clean him at your own sluggish pace, spare hand pumping a slick but by no means spent cock to the sight.

The rest of it is rubbed across your lips like some perverse gloss.

" I love you so much. " He swoons. " Say it back to me. "

You barely heard his request, too busy hypnotized by his eyes. Even damaged, they're still the eyes of the most captivating creature to ever exist, for your cum-drunk brain.

" I... Mm... " You swallow, every inch of your throat feels sticky. There's something dripping down your neck.

He leans down to mouth the words for guidance, but all you do is try to reach his lips for another kiss, causing the incubus to laugh and shake his head.

" Come one, darling. Three words, I want to hear them from my one and only. "

Although his tone is so sickly sweet it borders on sardonic, you're able to focus enough to at least heed the request.

" ... I love you. "

" I love you, Santi. " He corrects quietly, yet sternly.

" I- " The lustful fog only ever allows you seconds to think clearly. " I love you, Santi? " "

He makes a face that reads something among the lines of 'good enough', grinning in an all too familiar way.

" Then hold on. "

It's a while before you realize he's not telling you to wait. Santi has curved his head just enough that you have access to his horns, and though you give him a slightly puzzled look, all he does is chuff impatiently. Your panties still hang off his horn, you imagine he'd like to keep them on for as long as he can get away with it.

As soon as you have decent purchase on those thick handles, large hands swipe you up by the ass, making you clap onto his thighs. Santi bounces you a bit more until he can stand a little straighter, with you effectively anchored onto him by the horns. Instinct has you quickly crossing your legs around his midsection. He's holding you up as if you weigh less than feathers.

The demon rumbles from the depths of his chest, a feral and drooling Cheshire beam.

" First order of business, my love, is fixing the gift I so kindly offered. "

He uses one hand to smooth over the residual mark and tuts, the distaste written all over his face. Said hand helps him adjust and, in what felt like a blink, he's hilted inside you.

Both of you quiver and call out in tandem.

Your own orgasm is triggered immediately, the cry of an addict reaching delirious heights, your vision darkens for the briefest second as you can only groan senselessly and milk Santi with a grip that might have made him burst if he hadn't only moments ago. Instead, he merely huffs and rasps curses in a tongue you don't grasp.

He drags you off his length deliciously, every ridge bumping its way out, then shoves you back down with intentional force, cockhead kissing spots that have you nearly dizzy. Each disorienting thrust has you struggling to get enough air in your lungs, toes curling hard enough to tease a cramp while your arms fight to keep holding on and your legs don't know where to shift- Not that Santi allows you to squirm much.

" Lords- " He has to loll his tongue out for a second, teeth glistening and chest heaving. " I could die buried in you. Did you miss this, Minx? "

As if you had the wits to answer him right now, grinding your teeth from overstimulation. He laughs when your body freezes every now and then, unable to accompany so much mounted pleasure.

" Save your voice, and save your tears, because when I fuck you full of cum, you're going to feel every inch of that mark blaze to life again. "

And he's right, the sparks are already burning you...

After tonight, there's no going back.

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: you'd never been shy about sharing what you knew about the dead. to hide in plain sight was a decision you'd made behind your mother's back, all while respecting the warning she'd given you those many years ago. because, really, who would believe you?

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

tysm for all the love u guys 😭

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.2

It was the first real day of spring, the sun shining and the breeze warm, and Mathilda had coaxed you and Xavier outside for lunch. You sat in the grass beside the bleachers and were lazily watching the football team run drills when you spotted Maddie and Simon.

They joined you when you waved them over, closing the circle, Maddie beside Xavier and Simon beside her putting him to your left.

You'd seen the way Maddie and Xavier looked at each other, bashful glances and pink cheeks when they thought no one noticed. They'd been cute for each other since you'd gone to the Gorrorcon screening of Grindhouse as a group last month. It was rare that Xavier tagged along for the gory movies, but as soon as you'd mentioned Maddie's name, he hadn't needed much convincing.

While the others chatted idly, your attention drifted, tracking a footballer who appeared to be coaching a boy dressed head to toe in denim. The boy looked uncomfortable on the field, held the football like it was a baby he might drop, and grimaced when the footballer jogged backward a few yards and signaled for the ball.

You knew who they were. Knew you shouldn't be casual about witnessing a moment they thought was theirs. Only, you couldn't help yourself. The footballer was beautiful. Not just hot or sexy or handsome. Beautiful. With dark, fluffy hair and soulful eyes that you wished softened for you the way Xavier's did for Maddie.

Wally Clark, stadium namesake, died doing what he loved.

Even from afar, you could see the way the muscles in his arms bunched when he tossed the ball, had to wet your lips when his shirt rose to reveal a pale stripe of skin. Instead of the sweatpants he usually donned, he wore shorts that, in different circumstances, would've earned Wally a dress code violation. Barely there, they clung to him like paint on a canvas, accentuating the curve of his ass and thickness of his furry thighs.

Have mercy...

"Leave our sweet flower alone, you know she's saving herself," Mathilda said, pulling your attention back to the conversation happening around you.

Whatever comment she'd responded to, it had to have been about your virginity. A realization you shook your head at while Mathilda made herself the picture of an angel. It was one of several tactics your friend group employed to violently drag you back to earth whenever your head was in the clouds.

Xavier chuckled and nudged Mathilda's shoulder with his.

"What I miss?" You asked, glancing between the others, still a little dazed by the image Wally made on the field.

Unfortunately, Simon didn't know the rules and, curiosity piqued, asked, "Are you really?"

"Am I really what? Saving myself?" Simon nodded. You grinned, shameless, and stretched your arms above your head as if embracing the sky, "Of course I am," then dropped backward to lie on the grass.

That wasn't entirely true. Simply, your virginity wasn't something you ruminated on, having never been in a relationship, but you'd also long since accepted that you couldn't do what Mathilda had done, finding an interested partner at a concert and losing it for the sake of getting it over with. "I'm surprised Tilly didn't tell you."

Mathilda scoffed, "About your ghost?"

"Ghost?" Now Maddie was intrigued, glancing between you, Mathilda, and Xavier, seeking answers. "You're saving yourself for a ghost?"

You rolled your head toward her and winked through your aviators, laughing lightly at her shocked expression. You could tell she wasn't sure what to make of it, hovering between interested in hearing what the hell you meant by that and concerned that you were that delusional.

"So, you wanna die a virgin, got it." Simon turned to look you in the eye, expression straight for all of three seconds before he started to shake with laughter.

You sat up and swatted at him; he grabbed your wrist and dragged you to his chest, giving him the angle he needed to grind his knuckles against your scalp. He released you when you shrieked and dug your elbow into his stomach.

Once you'd both settled, "How would that even work?" Maddie wondered, raising a hand to list her thoughts on her fingers, "I mean, a) say you guys can get physical, would it be like sleeping with a corpse?" Ew. God. "And b) don't ghosts haunt the places they died? So, if there was a ghost here, you guys would have to do it in a classroom or...the janitor's closet—" "Another nail in the coffin of Romance." Xavier said. You were surprised and somewhat gleeful that Maddie was willing to lend genuine consideration to such an absurd topic, to the point you didn't see the harm in revealing, "Actually, ghosts can roam as far and wide as they want. They aren't confined the way we are. I mean, they could get stuck in a loop if their death was that traumatic, but, for the most part," You smiled at her, "Ghosts can haunt wherever their spooky little hearts desire."

It's not as if anyone really gave credence to the things you said, anyway. Proven when Simon launched into a tirade that drew a lot of inspiration from a show in the Flanaverse.

Hide in plain sight. An idea you'd concocted when the witchcore revolution had exploded on tiktok, alt kids everywhere boasting a collection of healing crystals and excusing their behavior on Mercury Retrograde. Even your mother had taken advantage of the era, promoting her services via heavily filtered videos she had your sister film.

As far as everyone was concerned, your weird ghost lore was a matter of personal opinion and not the result of your family's unique and extensive library.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"Now what?" Simon asked, phone pressed to his ear as he watched you retreat into the school. Probably questioning his sanity with every step after the conversation he'd just had with you.

"I don't know." Maddie admitted, picking her nails, "I really needed to believe it was true." Even though, before she'd died, Maddie had been skeptical about your sense of the supernatural.

While you'd been in the bus shelter with them, Maddie had argued at Simon to confide in you about his ability to see her. Thought, prayed, that you were perhaps too afraid to admit you could see her, too. Only, it'd become increasingly clear that you weren't faking how Maddie didn't exist in that moment with you at all.

Maddie's chin fell to her chest, eyes sullen. "She had no idea I was right here, I—" She groaned roughly and fell back against the glass, hands scrubbing her face. "—I don't know what I thought she could do to help, I just..." Hoped you'd have answers; maybe had a way of getting Maddie unstuck so she could roam further than the boundaries of the school grounds.

Too bad it was, as you'd put it, a fraud.

Simon itched to console Maddie, hated that he couldn't. He could tell she was conflicted, emotions warring between sadness and anger and resentment. You'd let her down, whether or not you'd meant to, and it stung.

"Hey," Simon said, trying to infuse some positivity into his tone, "We'll figure something out. Until then, I'll just keep doing the heavy lifting."

Maddie turned her head and regarded him softly, "I don't want to keep putting you in situations like that." She remembered Mr. Anderson manifesting behind Simon that night in autoshop, a tinge of menace in his demeanor, and winced.

"It's not like I have anything better to do." Simon shrugged and gave what amounted to a smile, "I got all this free time since my best friend went missing."

A pungent silence crept in and hung in the air between them, neither willing to address that went missing was putting a delusional spin on it.

💀___________________________

PART ONE - PART THREE

also available on AO3!

MATERLIST

[grison-in-space]

trying not to scream about that post I saw this morning asserting that the "original context" of coming out was entering a queer* community such that one can connect safely with other queer people. so don't think that coming out has to mean anything unsafe!

to which I am not linking because frankly it's trying to send a message of reassurance to a lot of people who are terrified and demoralized just like me, to be clear.

but holy shit. What a way to erase decades of extremely explicit political theory exhorting people to come out to their straight loved ones, friends, and acquaintances as a humanizing tactic. the idea is that if enough people do this everyone will know someone who is queer, so they can't dehumamize us. the point of coming out was to put a known, beloved human face on queerness for as many people as possible.

now, does that mean that anyone should come out if coming out would be unsafe? No, absolutely not. That's why coming out should always always always be the decision and choice made by the person who is doing it. We Do Not Out Other People.

I get we're all terrified. I get that it's good to remind people that we've gone underground as queers before. I get that it's good to try to give people who have never lived in places when it's not safe to be out the knowledge that the closet, too, is a place where one can survive if one must.

but what a way to diminish the wisest and most powerful insight about the power of outness itself as an activist tool! an insight that could only ever have come from a population whose marginalization is usually not shared with parents, a population who can be born anywhere.

Like I said, the message I think the other writer was aiming for is "don't just lie down and die: we lived once in hiding and we can live again if we must," with a side of "if coming out genuinely isn't safe for you, do not pressure yourself to do it For The Cause," both of which are messages I agree with deeply. Especially for folks who still depend on parents for safety and housing or education.

It's just that I think it's important to acknowledge that coming out is politicized and framed as an act of solidarity with the larger queer community and resistance against the demonization of queer people because that is exactly what it is. Being out is a political act. It might not be one you can afford in every moment but that doesn't stop it being political.

*here I'm using queer to refer to generic communities of both gender and sexual minorities

[lchufflepuffcorn]

Hey queen, me again. I had like an idea like dragon!hybrid Targs with a mate that’s horrified of heights and just refuses to join them like flying and stuff. bc lowkey I feel like they would want to take their mate for a ride and like some of them would be divas about it.

- 👑 anon

Hi again!! I find it so funny you thought of that, because for sure it would have happened to some !! I haven't written about everyone, because you didn't really specify, so I chose those who struck me as funny or would absolutely have an attitude about it.

Masterlist

Dragon!Targaryen Masterlist

Aemond: 

Will be the first one to work with you to remove that weakness. 

He needs you to be able to take up on yourself if needs be

This means having to fly on his back for a quick escape! 

Does not really understand why you fear the great vastness of the sky

He longed to fly since he could see Aegon and Helaena do it. 

Will work you hard, like one would practice the sword. 

He’ll even scold you if you tear up because of it

Will feel guilty about it afterwards

The bed is empty when you wake the next morning. It’s later than usual, but Aemond has not roused you with him as he usually does. Maybe he truly was angry with your failure. 

The room is engoulft in an unusual silence, and you take a moment to truly rise from the warm bed. There’s already a plate with breakfast on it, and flowers. You frown. Walking closer, you also notice a small bit of parchmin on the platter. Qelos written on it. 

Now, you smile. 

Baela:

Would be one of the most understanding of your fear. 

But it would be funny because her literal nickname for you IS Rider. 

So you should have rode on her before that 

Or it’s for a more cheeky reason 😏

Or maybe, she’d convince you to ride with her, so you went

Because who would contradict THE princesse Baela, right? 

Not you. 

How were you to know that not having your feet on the ground would actually make your stomach drop to the sole of your shoes?

At first, Baela thought you were laughing. 

The wind being in her face and pushing the sounds away did not help

But she felt you grasp at her tightly, and knew something was wrong. 

Once landed, and changed back into a form somewhat more humanoide, Baela would be cradling you, kissing every inch of your face while she apologised. 

“I’m so proud of you. Not many people can say they have rode a Targaryen!” 

Her teasing made you smile a bit, still shaking in her arms. Your legs felt like jelly and your heart was beating at the same rhythm as a waring drum. 

Daemon: 

Is too proud to have you ride him anyway. 

He’s a dragon not a horse. 

Truly couldn’t care less about your fear of flying, cuz he won’t ever take you nowhere. 

That’s a lie. 

While he IS too proud to become a mere horse, we would be disappointed that you don’t even WANT to think about flying with him. 

Would be the type of man to surprise you by picking you up in dragon form

And learn about your fear that way. 

Will tease you about it. 

What’s the point of having a fearsom dragon shifter Targaryen as a lover if you don’t even want to use him as a scare tactic?? 

Kinda flattered that you’re not seeing him as just an advantage tho 

Daemon ran a hand over his face, both amused and annoyed at your stubbornness. 

“Has it ever brushed your stream of thought that you could lie, Azantys?” He purrs, the rumble of his voice making his chest where you laid, half-asleep tremble. “I’m sure anyone else would have used our relationship to their advantage.”

You furrowed your brows, too tired to put up a real fight. “I don’t. You might be a dragon, but you're not an object for me to use…And I realy don’t think humans should be flying.” 

Rhaenyra: 

Being that she loves flying herself, she’d be disappointed

She would respect your decision of not wanting to try, but would silently judge you

Will ask you a couple of times by years, to see if you changed your mind

If you did, she’ll take you flying 

Not too high, she wants you to agree again sometimes soon

Syrax might become overjoyed and push your limit a little bit tho…

She might be younger, like S1!Rhaenyra, too… 

“See, beloved? Wasn’t it such a great time?” 

You were as tense as a bow, your smile iced on your face like the wind had sculpted it as such. You simply nodded, fearing that your voice would betray you, like your legs were at the moment. You were leaning heavily against Rhaenyra , hugging her back tightly to keep her from moving away. 

“Yes. Fun.” You finally let out. She giggled. 

Taglist: @lady-dragon-rider

Current anon: (👑)😵‍💫🥰🧑‍🍼😣

[valve3nthusiast]

(I've talked about Drift fucking crystals before right? Like there's no way that I haven't at least once right?)

How it all starts, of course, is with Rodimus making dirty jokes about some of the more... suspiciously shaped crystals in his collections, which Drift scolds him for. None of his crystals would be used like that! It's disrespectful!

Drift definitely doesn't spend the next couple of weeks staring at the ceiling of his room, furiously jacking off, while carefully avoiding looking at his collection. Or even thinking about it. Absolutely not. (Damn it, Rodimus)

So when he's next at an alien market and perusing the crystals and gemstones section, he definitely has no ulterior motive for buying an absurdly large harmonic quartz suspiciously cut and polished into the shape of a textured spike. Complete coincidence. (Listen, it was a really high-quality quartz for dirt cheap, he had to take that deal, ignore his bank account numbers)

And Drift is simply making a smart and tactical decision when he hides it in his subspace until he gets back to his room. Rodimus would probably never shut up about it, and maybe even steal it to try and do... lewd... acts with it! Truly, he is just looking out for the safety and dignity of all involved. Minimus would be proud

It's just... curiosity, that makes him take out the new quartz before he starts... "tending to himself," so he can compare it to his spike... only to see if it actually is that phallic!

The harmonic quartz is certainly pretty, shimmering with many vibrant colors. And large. And thick. And at the base of the center pillar, there are still some small crystalline formations, lovely and polished to a shine, but decently sharp enough to make you want to keep them away from anything... sensitive

A healthy dose of self-delusion really can't cover for the fact that once Drift realizes the crystal is so generously proportioned that it's nearly twice as big as his spike, his valve starts dripping. Any internal justifications of "academic interest" or "morbid curiosity" can't cover for the way he's now rubbing the blunt tip of the quartz across his glowing node and flushed valve folds

And, all right... maybe... he's been thinking about this more than he should. Maybe, getting it out of his system would make him stop. Maybe putting that blunt, unyielding crystal into his valve won't feel good at all, and he won't lie awake thinking about it anymore, so he should just put it in and be done with it-

Drift's loud moan shatters both the silence of his room and his hopes of not enjoying this, as he forces the massive crystal past the first caliper of his valve. It's somehow nothing like a spike, and yet better, his valve desperately clenching around the too-large quartz. The burn of his first caliper squeezing down on its unyielding, solid mass is exquisite. (It's possible there are some other things he has been avoiding admitting to himself, every time an injury made him revved up with charge that he did his best to ignore)

And, well. Maybe once Drift's collected himself, he ends up staring at the ceiling again, thinking about the empty ache in the rest of his valve, and the sunk cost fallacy, and how the rest of the crystal might feel if this is just the tip, and the merits of literally just saying "fuck it."

So he does. Fuck it, I mean. Vigorously, with great enthusiasm and some mild self-injury. His needy little valve was designed take the softer living metal of a spike, or something similar. The hard quartz he's forcing his valve open with is nothing like that at all. The sweet thrill of pain lights up his array with more charge than he ever really wants to self-reflect on

If Drift could even hear himself right now, he'd probably be embarrassed by the noises he's making. The aching burn of each new caliper he harshly pushes through has him moaning like a virgin taking their first spike. But he's too distracted by how fragging full he feels, one hand brutally pistoning the quartz into his abused valve, the other furiously rubbing circles on his anterior node

Fragging hell, when he finally manages to force the whole thing inside of him and grind the fat, blunt tip into his ceiling node, he shrieks like he's being fragging murdered, and accidentally overloads himself into unconsciousness

As Drift wakes up the next morning, still aching around the crystal he didn’t have the chance to pull out, valve lips scratched and bleeding from the rough edges at the base of his new favorite false spike, he looks at the ceiling and thinks: maybe I should start a new crystal collection...

(and, oh primus, if I get an infection from this, no one is ever going to let me live it down)

[r-memberme]

road trip | k.m

⎯⎯“I don’t need a map,” he replies, completely unbothered. “I have an excellent sense of direction.”

warnings: flufff

The road stretches endlessly ahead, a ribbon of asphalt cracked with time, winding through rolling hills that seem to go on forever. The sun bleeds golden over the horizon, staining the sky in hues of soft peach and amber, while long shadows crawl over the fields on either side. The wind roars through the open windows, warm and heavy with the scent of wildflowers and the distant promise of rain.

And yet, despite the absolute perfection of the evening, you are two seconds away from murder.

“You have the worst sense of direction known to mankind.”

“And yet, here we are,” Klaus remarks, the smugness practically dripping from his voice. One hand rests lazily on the wheel, the other stretched over the armrest, fingers just barely brushing against yours—probably on purpose.

“Yes, here we are. At a gas station in the middle of nowhere because you swore you didn’t need a map.”

“I don’t need a map,” he replies, completely unbothered. “I have an excellent sense of direction.”

You snort. “You just turned onto a road that led to a dead end five minutes ago.”

“That was a tactical decision.”

“For what? Character development?”

“Exactly.”

You groan, tilting your head back against the seat. “I knew I should’ve driven.”

Klaus smirks, eyes still on the road, looking every bit the picture of someone who has never doubted himself a day in his life. “You? Drive? You can’t even parallel park without giving yourself a pep talk first.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

He hums, entirely too pleased with himself. “You talk to the car like it’s going to reassure you.”

“At least I know how to read signs.”

“Signs are merely suggestions.”

You groan again, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the window. The outside world rushes past in a blur of deep green trees and dusty roadsides. The car hums beneath you, a steady, comforting purr, the air vibrating with the sound of cicadas in the distant fields. Despite your frustration, there’s something about this moment—this endless road, the dying light of day, the wind tangled in your hair—that feels almost dreamlike.

“How much longer?” you ask, stretching your legs as best as you can.

Klaus tilts his head, as if considering. “That depends. Would you rather I lie to you or tell you the unfortunate truth?”

You narrow your eyes. “Lie to me.”

“Ten minutes.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “And the truth?”

Klaus grins, entirely unapologetic. “Three hours.”

“Three—?! Klaus!”

“Relax, love. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

You glare at him. “You tricked me into coming on this trip. You said it was a short drive.”

Klaus shrugs, utterly shameless. “Short is subjective.”

“I’m going to strangle you.”

“By all means, sweetheart. But I should warn you, I’m rather fond of breathing.”

You throw your hands up in frustration, sinking back into your seat. The sky above darkens, the first few stars blinking awake, glistening like diamonds against the deep blue. It’s quiet for a moment, just the sound of the tires humming against the road and the distant croak of frogs from the fields.

“This is the worst road trip ever,” you mutter.

“That’s a bold statement,” Klaus muses. “Especially considering we haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet.”

You glance at him warily. “And what part is that?”

“The part where we end up in a completely unfamiliar town, with nowhere to stay, no cell service, and only our wits to guide us.”

Your jaw drops. “Tell me you’re joking.”

He merely smirks, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

“This is your fault,” you say.

Klaus laughs, deep and rich, something like mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Oh, absolutely.”

And despite yourself—despite being trapped in a car with the most insufferable man alive, completely lost with no plan whatsoever—you find yourself smiling. Because somehow, with Klaus, even the worst ideas turn into the best memories.

enjoy this short one <3

Taglist: @heretic-gf @myworldrightnow

[goodboyeatlots]

Okay but hear me out. Feedee. Contracts.

I had a feeder before who gave me rules, which I had to obey otherwise it was brat behavior. I'll try to remember them all.

1) I will accept any offer of food, from anyone but especially from my feeder. Whether I am hungry or when I've last eaten does not matter for this rule.

2) I will always allow myself to be upsold if I am ordering my own food. This means that I will choose the largest portion size available, say yes to extra add-in offers, and add additional foods if I am asked "what else?" at a drive thru.

3) I will finish all of my food in a single sitting, unless my feeder says I can stop.

3a) If I can't finish everything I was given because I quit eating or my feeder says I'm out of time, I may be subject to punishment as my feeder sees fit. (This one of course requires a separate discussion.)

4) Dessert is not optional for me anymore. It will accompany every meal.

5) My feeder may make any and all food selections and food-related decisions for me. However, I reserve the right to veto eating things I find gross.

6) I will keep snacks within easy reach at any place i frequently sit.

7) I will not check my weight, measure myself, etc except at direction of my feeder. My feeder may choose to reveal or conceal the information.

8) My feeder may lie, manipulate, gaslight, condition, and use any similar tactics desired to make me gain. If I call these out for what they are, I may be subject to punishment.

9) When my feeder orders me to eat, I must eat.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

You know what?? I think William was right. Like… 100% right.

He set up the assassination at the Summit to 1) secure better outcomes for his house including more land 2) stop money from being fed into Close Knit and 3) take some form of revenge for what happened to Vincent, Sam, and Lovely during the Inversion (something he has the right to do under Senguine Primero).

He didn’t tell Vincent. He didn’t tell Sam. He made their lives very stressful before, during, and after the Summit. I don’t think he chose to keep them in the dark lightly. He needed their reactions to be genuine because Sam and Vincent couldn’t handle acting surprised, not on top of their own moral superiority about the whole thing. I in fact think he was right to lie to them. They wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

Sam and Vincent are young and their reactions of those of young men. They haven’t lived a full human lifetime, let alone multiple. I think William made the decision that a 500 year old person would make. Permanent, tactical, decisive. You don’t get to be 500 years old by fucking around and making the kind choices. I think we should have all (Sam and Vincent included) understood before this, on some level, that William must have been capable of cruelty, otherwise he wouldn’t be alive.

I think William made an unsavory decision, the sort of decision that lets 500 year old lineages survive. I think Vincent is going to be faced with one of those decisions early into his time running his own house and won’t be able to make it. And I think he’s going to suffer greatly for that.

Anyway I’m a William apologist and I will not be shamed for it.

[dr5amatic]

THE ABILITY TO HOLD PAIN ,

a sentence starter prompts list comprised of quotes from the novel the sword of kaigen: the theonite war story by m. l. wang. please be advised that this list may involve topics including, but not limited to, murder, death, and violence. change verbiage as needed.

you don’t need to play dumb with me. i like you better when you’re smart.

be careful how hard you love what you know you can’t have.

i’ve never seen you smile. what’s wrong with you? are the corners of your mouth busted or something?

you’re not a disappointment. you couldn’t be if you tried.

you… are you saying our government would lie to us?

any warrior will tell you that even the strong can’t afford complacency.

you’re a good fighter and your small-town pride is cute, but it’s all based on a lie.

you’re talented, but talent is meaningless without self-discipline. you will never be fully realized if you continuously let your pride run away with your principles.

you’re patriotic and loyal. you’re exactly what everyone’s told you to be.

if i kill you, you’ll be facing me with a sword in your hand.

i don’t just make up ridiculous, self-serving lies whenever i feel like it.

i’m too young to die!

are you hurt anywhere else? is there any bleeding?

the moon and ocean fear no change.

we can’t claim to be crime-fighters if we disrespect life just as much as the criminals we fight.

i don’t think killing a horrible, hostile person is really disrespecting life.

if you didn’t want your enemies dead, why even bring me onboard? why did you choose me?

street fighting is always messy and full of cheating.

so, you care that everyone lives, but you don’t care whether you fight clean?

how easy do you think it is to build a life out of nothing?

it’s not your powers that make you special.

i know you can take care of yourself. i’m just not sure you will.

do you not understand? you’re going to die!

if i think your life is in danger, i will kill for you.

only you could turn an offer for help into a threat.

for someone so proficient at fighting, you certainly seem to loathe it.

careful what you wish for.

you should lie down and rest for at least a little while.

can i tell you why i hit him?

you learn over time that the world isn’t broken. it’s just…got more pieces to it than you thought. they all fit together, just maybe not the way you pictured when you were young.

listening never made any man dumber, but it’s made a lot of people smarter.

the world is whole. you are on the right path. everything is going to be alright.

ours is borrowed power, a gift and a blessing. the true power belongs to the gods.

respectfully, i just want to know how you feel about your government lying to you.

do you fight to be remembered?

if it came to it, i would have killed without a second thought. if it was to save [name], i would have killed as many people as i needed to.

that is the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. square up.

you can try to stop me.

i’m not sure i’m worthy of your pride, but i will be. just wait.

you’re going to find something worth fighting for and you’re going to get your chance to fight for it.

you think i’m a good person. that saved my life.

you saved me. i’m going to return the favor, but i need you to trust me and hide.

are you serious? you’re sure you don’t want to run?

power. that’s really the thing people use to decide who they marry?

i don’t want to leave without you.

a life of dangerous adventures might seem worth it now, when you are young and seemingly invincible, but one day, you will have children, and you will not want that life for them.

you’re trying to hurt me so i can leave you here without any guilt.

i know your tactics. they won’t work on me.

this doesn’t seem like something you would have chosen of your own free will.

i made a decision you don’t like, so i’m a coward?

divinity lives here. i think this is a place of miracles.

i never loved you the way i should have.

the least i can do is warn you about what is going to happen next.

are you always going to be this mean to me?

this power… i might not understand it completely, but i know that it comes from my will to protect the people i love.

i’m impressed. patience has never been your strong suit.

you’re good at talking to people – lifting them up, breaking them down. you’ve always been good at that.

i’ve stood by too long while you disgraced yourself, but this–this is the last time you will be weak in front of me.

do you ever feel love?

the anger is not going to go away, but you are going to face it and tame it.

you’re guilty of the same thing i am.

if you don’t want to hurt me, you will face me like a real fighter, with respect

there are worse things than fighting. i like a bit of fighting. it’s silence i can’t stand.

when you’ve been around the world and seen all different kinds of lies, it gets easier to see through them. i don’t fault you for being misinformed.

what happened to the fearless optimist i knew?

a person’s tragedy doesn’t define them or cancel all the good in their life.

how many of them did you kill?

i’ll never understand how you forgive people you disagree with so fundamentally.

i thought i could become strong enough to protect the people i cared about from anything. i understand now that that’s not true. and it’s too late.