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[kyojurokoibito]

"LET ME PAY YOU!"

Pairing(s): kyojuro rengoku x reader

Synopsis: how kyojuro met his civilian wife

Genre: fluff

Warning(s): n/a

Kao's Notes: just something to put out there while i work on requests in the meantime :) enjoy! <3

"EXCUSE ME, MISS!"

"OH MY G—!" *BANG* "OW!"

you hit the top of your head on the bottom shelf of your stall as a loud voice rang through the night. you ran a popular food stall in the small, lovely town you call home. people loved coming by your food stall for the service, the food, and for a chance to talk with a beautiful lady. each day, you decided to try a new recipe, and everyone was eager to see what you'd be serving every day.

"forgive me," the loud voice called again. "it was not my intention to startle you!"

"i-it's alright." rubbing the crown of your head with a slight pout, you rose to look at the owner of said voice. "i–um–wasn't expecting many people to come by this late, so you caught me by surprise."

taking in the man's appearance, you quickly gathered he was a demon slayer. the distinct design of his haori, the nichirin blade at his hip, and the obvious uniform was a dead giveaway.

you smiled, "would you like something to eat while you're here? i'm making gyu kushi(beef skewers) on top of rice, along with some mochi tonight. you'd be the final person i'm serving!"

the man's smile nearly blinded you, "yes! i would appreciate that very much!"

"great!" his smile was so contagious. you couldn't help but to deliver one as well. "how many orders would you like?"

"that depends," he stated loudly, excitedly slamming his hands on the counter and smiling at you. "how many are you willing to make?!" that's...the first time you've received that response.

"o-oh...uh..." you looked beneath your stall again. "well, i could make the rest of my inventory for you..." you lifted your head to look at him with a nervous laugh. "although, it's a considerably large amount of food, sir."

he laughed, "if you are willing to make it, i am willing to eat it! and no need to call me, sir! i am rengoku kyojuro!" you couldn't stop yourself from laughing along.

"then i'll be happy to make it for you, rengoku-san!"

kyojuro watched you gather the ingredients and quickly get to work on prepping his food. it was clear this was like second nature to you. you worked so diligently and moved with unwavering certainty.

"so," you began as you continued cooking but kept your gaze on kyojuro. this caused the hashira to look at you. "what brings you by this late?"

"a mission," he stated proudly, his smile never leaving. "it is completed, but i always stop by to check on towns nearby!"

"well, that's nice of you," you stated before finishing his first plate of food and handing it to him. "here, have a taste before i make the rest."

he loudly thanked you before placing the beef skewer between his teeth, pulling one of the chunks of meat off with his teeth.

"TASTY!" another bite. "TASTY!" a bite of rice. "TASTY!" a bite of mochi. "TASTY!"

you clapped your hands in delight, overjoyed that the hashira found your food so tasteful.

"so, everything tastes okay? would you still like to have the rest, rengoku-san?" you asked, although you're sure you already knew the answer.

"yes! i would love the rest!" he began fishing around in his pocket. "how much would it be?!"

"oh no," you quickly shook your head and quickly began preparing the rest of the food with a content smile. "i never charge the slayers that pass through. it's the least i can do for you all."

"please!" he slammed a pouch of coins onto the counter, causing you to shriek at the loud noise. he leaned forward, eyes boring into you with conviction. "ALLOW ME TO PAY YOU!"

"i-it's no trouble, really!" you jumped back from the close proximity. he only leaned in closer.

"THIS AMOUNT OF FOOD WOULD SURELY MAKE A GREAT PROFIT FOR YOU!! LET ME PAY!!!"

"b-but, the sales i've made today are more than enough already!!!"

"TAKE MY MONEY!"

"i don't need to!!!"

you two continued back and forth like this as you finished cooking the remainder of his food, packaging them nicely in cute boxes, which only fueled his desire to pay you. as you had given him the last box, he beckoned you to him.

"if you will not let me pay," he placed his free hand on his hip. "then allow me to escort you home!"

placing a hand on your chin, you paused to mull it over. it was pretty late, and you did live on the other side of the town. even if it was small, it would grant enough time for a demon to stake its claim on you.

"alright," you finalized with a greatful nod. "sounds fair!"

on the way, you both engaged in a quiet, lovely conversation. topics ranging from your cooking, his work as a slayer(at least the parts he could tell you), or your childhood, the atmosphere around you was peaceful. now, the current subject of the conversation was family.

"yes, you're right," you respond with a smile as rengoku concluded a story about his little brother. "it can be difficult to care for little siblings. especially if the parent is...more or less present." you cringed at your lack of better term, but kyojuro didn't mind at all. "my parents, unfortunately, fell victim to a demon, so i understand."

"very much so, and i am sorry to hear that! my condolences to you!" he responded with a solemn nod before asking his next question. "i take it you have a sibling then?"

"mhm," you nodded with delight as you drew nearer to your house. "i am the eldest of seven."

"SEVEN?!" he immediately fished the pouch of coins back out before shoving it in your direction. "SUCH A LARGE FAMILY! NOW YOU REALLY MUST TAKE MY PAYMENT!!!"

"i told you already," you pushed it back toward him in defiance. "i don't need it!" he tossed the pouch towards you, leaving you no choice but to catch it. "hey! take it back!" you tried to hand the coin pouch back to him.

"my apologies," he exclaimed after using his other hand to hold the food as well, even though he didn't need to. his smile never faltered as he blatantly ignored your attempts to return his money. "but my hands are full! i can not hold anything else!"

"but you were carrying it one-handed this whole time! you can just–"

"my hands are full!"

"but–"

"i can not carRY ANYMORE!"

"ren–"

"IT IS A PERFECTLY LEGITIMATE REASON AS TO WHY YOU MUST KEEP IT!"

you gave up.

kyojuro–1

y/n–0

upon reaching your house, you turned face kyojuro and gave him a polite bow.

"thank you for walking me back, rengoku-san," you stood straight. "you really didn't have to...nor did you have to pay me."

"it was no trouble at all," he smiled down at you. "and please, call me kyojuro."

you opened the door, and entered the doorway to your home chorus of "NII-SAN" called out to you. fondly shaking your head at your siblings(who were supposed to be in bed by now), you turned back to the hashira and returned his smile.

"alright, well," you placed a gentle hand on one of your little brother's heads, who'd been tugging on your shirt to get your attention, and replied in a hushed voice. "goodnight, kyojuro. have a lovely evening, and please travel safely."

he visibly brightened once he heard his name fall from your lips, and a gentle smile was bestowed upon you.

"goodnight to you as well, and thank you."

as you closed the door, kyojuro happily went on his way but stopped. he couldn't believe he forgot such an important piece of information.

oh well, he'll simply have to find his way back to you because he never got your name.

[puppys-tiny-space]

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Fun fact of the day: artificial banana flavoring is based off of an extinct kind of banana, which got wiped out in the 50s

[hapan-in-exile]

It's alright to just admit that I'm the fantasy

A Mandalorian One Shot

Yeah, I know your little secret...

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

Reader: You are a courtesan at the Dark Garden, Coruscant’s most prestigious pleasure house. Owned by the crimelord Boss Set’ki and operated by his lieutenant Mistress Anassa, when business meets pleasure, you’re expected to entertain soldiers on the payroll. But there’s one—a Mandalorian you’ve come to know and respect—who’s never taken advantage of your services. Until one day, he asked, What if next time I said yes?   

Word Count: ~9K

Pairing: dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI, 18+ only.

Warnings: Roleplay, bondage, blindfold, fingering, oral sex (m+f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spanking, hair pulling, choking, biting, protected anal, unprotected piv, rough sex, edging (him), explicit consent, aftercare.

If the above looks super intense, please know I wrote a soft(er) dom Mando—no extreme degradation. Lots of checking in! Lots of praise!

A/N: This is a one-shot set in the same universe as my ongoing Mandalorian fanfic series. It has no bearing on the series plot.

No description of skin, hair, or eye color; no description of age or body shape.

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

Tales from the Dark Garden

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says disinterestedly, sliding the pile of neatly stacked credits into his waiting palm. “Please extend my gratitude to Boss Set’ki for his generous and timely payment.”

You watch him tuck the metallic ingots into one of the leather pouches sewn to his belt—right between the buckle and a string of explosive charges. There’s a dull thunk when the butt of his rifle knocks against the table’s edge as he turns to leave. 

It's quite the arsenal. The bounty hunter certainly cast an imposing figure. 

It’s a miracle those shoulders made it through the hatch.  

You’d heard rumors from the other girls at Dark Garden about the fearsome Mandalorian who visited Mistress Anassa. This just happened to be one of those delightful twists gifted by the universe, where the real thing exceeds expectations. He was terrifying. And sexy as hell.

That first moment when you’d opened the door to see him standing there in full plate Beskar was a shock to the senses that would have reduced a younger you into a stream of inane babbling. 

Good thing you had a lot of practice controlling your expression—the demands of professional decorum, after all. It would ruin your Mistress’s reputation if you started drooling over the customers.

The armor suited him. It accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his forearms, and his powerfully muscular thighs. The belt slung low around his tapered waist, and the quilted canvas hinted at the taut abdominals concealed beneath.

All the adrenaline that surged through your body at the sight of his weaponry had  immediately transformed into excitement, raw and primal. 

This man made you feel…

Sweet gods, divine and merciful.

“Of course,” you smile, leaning forward to place your elbows over the polished tabletop so that your breasts rise enticingly. Lacing your fingers together, you gently rest your chin atop your knuckles. “I will happily deliver your compliments to my master.”

The Beskar gleamed in the candlelight despite an ashy layer of soot. From the state of him, he might have come straight from the lower levels where he’d tracked his quarry. Your eyes linger over the blood splattered across his helmet, sending a shiver of panic down your spine. What sort of violence had this man committed mere hours ago?

Arousal surges within you, fear and wanting intertwined. 

The gore and grime are a stark contrast to the lush surroundings. Draped in silk tapestries, with thick woolen rugs and brocade pillows, your shuttle interior was designed to be a sanctuary from the vulgar world outside. 

But you suspect the Mandalorian wrapped brutality around him as tightly as the cloak hanging from his neck. It would take a woman of considerable charm to remove either.  

Which is why Anassa chose you.      

“It is my honor to serve, Master Set’ki,” you reply, rising artfully from your chair and gesturing toward the lounge where you’ve laid out a modest tea service. “And my duty to please.”

The Mandalorian pauses midstep on his way to the door.

“Excuse me?” he asks, curiosity peaked.

Shrugging out of your robe, the silken fabric pools at your feet. You kneel onto the plush carpet before pulling back, sitting on your heels, and reaching for the enameled pot. “My master thought you would enjoy the companionship. A chance to indulge in softer luxuries before you return to the Outer Rim.” 

The Mandalorian’s helmet gives away nothing, but you can feel his eyes tracing over you.

Looking up at him through dark lashes, you explain, “The use of this ship—and myself—are yours for the night.” 

Despite the layers of cloth and metal, when he folds his arms across his chest, you see the muscles in his back ripple. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. 

And right now, he’s imagining taking you. 

The fear is still there, but by now, it had sharpened to anticipation so intense that it ached. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he says firmly. Yet, his words did not match his actions. Instead of continuing on his path toward the door, he turns to face you, uncrossing his arms to hold them at his sides.  

Is he simply nervous? Sometimes, warriors hardened on the battlefield liked to yield dominance in the bedroom. Maybe you should try throwing him against a wall and climbing him like a tree. 

No. If submission were his preference, Anassa would have chosen someone else—Katlin with her barbed whips or Bat’ya with her cruel tongue. 

You need to coax him without pushing. The subtle art of persuasion. 

Let’s start with coy seduction. 

Turning to look at him from over your shoulder, you toss your hair just so, sending shimmering waves down your back. You twist gracefully at the waist until your bodice gapes, revealing the contours of your body.  

“Think of it as a reward,” your voice is supple as the velvet cushions surrounding you on the floor. “Someone to take care of you. My only desire is your comfort and pleasure.”

With that, you pour the tea and walk over to him, proferring a cup.

“That is indeed generous,” the Mandalorian cocks his head. “But I usually find more comfort in solitude.”

Yet, again, he makes no attempt to leave, accepting the cup from your hand graciously. Worn leather caresses your skin as your fingers brush against each other, reaching around the warm porcelain. The jaw of his helmet lifts, and you catch a glimpse of bronze skin and coarse black hair while he raises the cup to his lips.

Surprisingly full lips.

What did he mean by offering resistance? Was this a challenge? Some test of your professional acumen?  

A skilled courtesan is, above all else, a student of human nature and hidden desires. She must know what her clients want before they speak the words. Before they know it themselves. This Mandalorian wanted to be…tempted. 

Timidity would yield nothing. 

You arch an eyebrow, “I have never known a man who preferred solitude to my company.” Then, you stare directly into the jet-black surface of his helmet’s visor. Meeting his gaze, you place a delicate hand over his chest plate and fill your voice with honey, “Let tonight be a rare exception to the usual.” 

The Beskar feels cool against your palm and the pads of your fingertips. You hadn’t realized how flushed you’d become with your heart beating this fast. The insistent yearning between your thighs matches each pulse coursing through your veins.

“I am here to satisfy your needs. Whatever the Mandalorian desires is his for the taking.” 

While the bounty hunter remains stubbornly silent, you can hear his breathing grow shallow through the modulator.

Having made your supplication, you draw back. “If it is tranquility the Mandalorian desires, perhaps I could play the valachord or sing for him?” 

“Sing?” he huffs, sounding amused. It’s funny, hearing the smirk on his lips.

Well, at least he’s not completely immune to your charm. 

“Pleasure takes many forms,” you say, flashing him a demure smile. “As such, we courtesans are skilled in many arts. I’ve been told my voice is exceedingly lovely. And I know all the Twelve Ballads of Kiergaard.”

You shift onto the edge of a thick cushion to pour yourself some tea. When you raise the cup to your lips, the look of elegant femininity slips—just for a moment, so he can see the earnest hunger filling your gaze. You fix him with your most smoldering stare, “Though I can certainly think of other ways to please you with my mouth.”

The tea tastes bitter on your tongue, but you hardly notice, waiting for his reaction.

The Mandalorian says nothing as he pulls the rifle over his head, settling it against the door frame. He walks over in a slow saunter that makes his hips dip and sway. Slowly, he extends his hand to take your face in his leather fingers, lifting up your chin. 

“You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Your breath catches in your throat. A wave of arousal courses through your body, emanating from your clenching belly until it ripples over every surface of your skin, pinching your nipples.

“If the Mandalorian—” but he cuts off whatever beguiling line you intended. 

“I thought this was about what I wanted?” he demands.

Suddenly, you’re too flustered to speak, confused by the sudden shift in dynamic. All his polite reticence had been an act. He was done testing you. He wanted to assert dominance. 

In answer, you lower your gaze.

“That’s right,” he says cooly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re remembering what you’re for.” The Mandalorian takes the cup from your hands and tosses it aside. “There’s no more need to talk. Don’t open your mouth unless I tell you.” 

Then he reaches down to his belt and unbuckles it. 

And to think you worried he’d be too self-conscious for roleplay. This is going to be so good.

“You’re here to give me whatever I want?” he asks, his tone gruff and intimidating.

You don’t look up, just nod.

He laughs, “I’m glad we understand each other.” 

With your gaze locked on the floor, you watch the tread of his boots make their way to a lacquer armchair in the corner of the room. His knees splay wide as he leans back in his seat. “Answer my question.”

“Whatever the Mandalorian desires, I will give him.”

“Because tonight, your body is for me.”

It’s not a question, but you find yourself nodding in confirmation. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

You answer truthfully. “That you’re a dangerous man, and I should do my best to please you.”

“Smart girl,” he says in a rough whisper. “But don’t worry, I have no intention of harming you. I’m going to make you come. Then you’ll sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Senaar'ika. Little bird. 

Your whole body flushes with heat.

“What do you know about Mandalorian customs?” 

When you hesitate, he adds, “You can answer me.”

“I know that it’s a sacrilege to look upon your face. That to touch your helmet, even by accident, is to forfeit my life.”

“Then you’ll understand why I need to tie you down.”

At that, your head snaps up to look at him.

“Or tie you up. I haven’t decided yet.” 

Part of you is terrified by the thought of being captive to this man for hours, splayed wide and helpless. The other part of you wishes he’d do it this second. 

“You can undress while I make up my mind.”

Obeying his command, you stand and reach behind you for the lacings of your bodice.

This, at least, is an art in which you can make your mistress proud. The trick is to envision it’s a private ritual, something deeply intimate. That you always loosen the silken knots this slowly. That each row of the lacings must be pulled free, one—by—one. 

You lift your elbows so that he glimpses the soft curves of your breasts as you move. Slip your right arm from its fitted sleeve, then the left, until you’re certain the dress will fall, cascading over your body like waves caressing the shore. 

Only then do you turn, rolling your hips and then your shoulders, displaying your nakedness, before you finally look over to where he’s sitting, as though you’d forgotten anyone was watching. 

At some point during your performance, the Mandalorian had leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together in wrapt attention. 

“That was beautifully done,” he murmurs. “You may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart swells, hearing his admiration—perhaps because it sounds so genuine. Suddenly, all you can think about is how best to please him, the things you’ll do with your lips and fingers.

“I understand the Hapan courtesans from Dark Garden are the most expensive, the most prized companions in all of Coruscant.” The hunter’s voice sinks into a low, husky rasp as he says, “But tonight, I’m not interested in your talents, though I’m sure you have many. This is about what I want to do to you. Tonight, you belong to me.” 

It’s just as well he demanded your silence because you can’t speak. 

You know he can see you breathing, shallow and fast, from the rise and fall of your breasts. See your pulse thundering against your throat. He’s feeding off your fear, you realize. That’s why he keeps trying to catch you off guard like this. The Mandalorian wanted to shatter your artful calm and see something raw and real in your eyes. 

You know you should be afraid—and you are—but you’ve never been more turned on.

So when he gets up from his seat to approach you, you don’t bother hiding the way your whole body trembles in trepidation.

The Mandalorian crouches to pick up the belt from your discarded robe.

“Give me your hands.” 

He uses the fabric to tie your wrists together, wrapping the belt around and between them in a complicated knot. Then, his strong hands pull you under one of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling. 

Cupping it in his palm, he lifts the glowing orb from its hook to set it down beside the abandoned tea service. The cabin grows dim, like he’s wrapped you in shadows.

That’s when you realize what’s about to happen. Unspooling the cable from his whipcord, he loops it through the empty hook. He’s going to suspend you from the ceiling by your wrists. 

The breath coming from your nostrils is so fast now that it’s the only thing you can hear in the close, quiet cabin of your shuttle. But you say nothing. You can’t protest; you can only submit. 

After securing your bound wrists to the cord, he inspects the knots. 

“Not too tight?”

You release a deep breath and shake your head no. 

“You remember the signal?” Mando asks with concern, breaking from the fantasy entirely. 

“Yes,” you smile up at him with more confidence than you really feel—trying to ignore the insistent throbbing between your legs. 

“You can stop me at any time.”

“I know.”

“Alright,” he says before his voice drops into a rough whisper. “You’re giving me total control. Anything I want is mine.”  

Fuck, just hearing him say that makes you ache with need. That same trembling emanates from inside you, fear and arousal, two halves of the same coin. You don’t know precisely what the bounty hunter plans to do to you—and the suspense just makes the fantasy feel more real. 

Within seconds, you’ll be tied up, defenseless against him and his desires. The only way to stop him is to say the safe word, and you already know you won’t. You want it too much. 

You’ve spent months building up to this—years, really. It’s my choice, you’d told him. It’s different when it’s my choice. 

“Yes,” you whisper breathlessly.

Then he pulls down on the whipcord, and your arms lift above your head. 

For one panicked moment, you think he’s going to haul you entirely off the ground, but your feet remain on the floor, bearing your weight. You remind yourself that this is his domain. He knows how to bind, what the body can withstand. 

And for now, the tension feels manageable. Slack enough so you don’t feel the strain in your joints; taut enough so you can grip the cord to steady yourself. 

Yet you remain utterly helpless, unable to turn your head or move without losing your balance.

He takes a few steps back, leather boots creaking, and you watch as the Mandalorian strips his gloves off before removing the Beskar from his arms and chest.​​​ The fabric underneath outlines every contour of his powerfully muscular body.

Though not as graceful as your tradecraft, he certainly knows how to build anticipation. Each time his hands grip, pull, and tug, your stomach clenches. 

Soon, you feel volatile, ready to explode, waiting for him to touch you. When he finally does—when you feel the tip of his calloused finger tracing over the length of your spine, it burns through you, down to your core, so hot your cheeks flush scarlet. 

“It’s a good thing we have all night,” he murmurs. “There’s a lot I want to do with you.”

As he circles, the view plate sweeps up and down your body as though inspecting some prize captured in a snare. All you can do is stand there on display, completely exposed, until he makes a satisfied sound, a hummm that vibrates through the modulator. The hunter, pleased to discover what he’s caught.

“I feel deeply honored to receive you as my reward,” the Mandalorian sounds eager, standing behind you, voice full of hunger. “Now spread your legs.”

The breath catches in your throat, hearing that tight ache—the same raw yearning to match your own. You want to obey. 

But there’s no give to the whipcord. The bindings on your wrist pull tighter the farther your feet draw apart. Though you can still balance, your shoulders start to burn from the stretch. Slowly, you rise onto tiptoes. But not fast enough—

Wrapping an arm around your waist, the Mandalorian lifts you from the floor. 

“Wider,” he commands, gripping you roughly by the knee to pry open your thighs with his other hand. You have to bite back a scream. By now, you’re so wound up that just the sensation—the air cool against your wet center, his powerful chest pressed against your back, his fingers digging into your skin makes you drunk with lust. 

“You’re so wet already, senaar'ika. It’s slicking down your thighs,” the Mandalorian groans, breath warm against the back of your neck. His hand gripping your knee slides upward between your legs, tracing toward the heat of your skin. “No wonder you were begging me to fuck you.”

His fingers part and probe—massaging in slow, firm circles that spiral until you’re panting. Every stroke sends pleasure pulsing through you, and you can’t stop yourself from whimpering. 

“You like it when I use my hand?” he asks, voice maddeningly calm. Only the persistent throbbing against your hip, matching each beat of his heart, betrays his arousal. When you release a sigh in desperate delight, he says, “Maybe this is how I should start.”

And fuck, if Mando doesn’t knows exactly where to touch you—how much to bear down and how fast to go.

“Mmmph,” a moan of deep satisfaction escapes his lips as he thrusts two fingers inside you, sending a gush of wetness welling against his palm. He pushes them in and out, obviously relishing the obscene squelching sound.

Wait! When did he take off his helmet? 

No. No, this is forbidden. This is dangerous. 

You couldn’t move your head to look at him even if you wanted to, but your eyes shut tightly just the same. The fear of seeing his face, the dire consequences, amplify every panicked thought running through your mind, heightening every sensation—his fingers curling, his thumb pressing down over your clit.  

Your breaths come sharp and shallow now. All the blood in your body rushing between your legs. The stimulation is almost too much to bear, the excitement and panic roiling within you—the Mandalorian dipping his fingers inside, slipping them out to circle and stroke. Drawing a wet line between your cunt over and over.

Desire ripples through you in waves. Your body tightens, muscles clenching. Your bound hands keep straining in their futile urge to grab his wrist, your knees fighting against him to shut tight around his thrusting fingers. 

You’re close now. So close, you’re on the brink.

He kisses the back of your neck, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

“Aaangh!” That’s when he presses harder, circles faster, and you come, “Haaa-aah!” 

Your orgasm crashes through you in a tidal wave that upends gravity. You cry out desperately with all the air left in your lungs—the relentless pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums making you dizzy. 

“Haa-aah! Aaah!” 

Losing equilibrium, you sway, and the bindings pull painfully around your wrists. You’re at the limits of your flexibility, fighting to keep your balance before the Mandalorian’s muscular arm tightens around your waist, until he’s bearing enough of your weight to keep you upright.

“I’ve got you,” he says gently, pressing a tender kiss over your head. “Stand up. Come on. Legs spread. You know what I want.”

You shift on your heels, testing your unsteady knees. “I can’t—” but your words break off into a gasp when he clasps his hand around your throat, warm and sticky with your come.

“Shhhh,” he whispers against your temple. “I told you not to open your mouth unless I said so.”

His tone is soft, and he kisses you tenderly again through a tangle of damp hair, your forehead glistening with sweat. But his fingers grip tighter in warning. 

“Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more.”

You nod once in understanding.

“Smart girl,” he says, and without the helmet on, you can hear the wry grin on his lips. “I’m glad we understand each other. It’s going to make everything so much easier. But just to be sure—”

His wide palm fans out from your waist, gliding down your body to slip over the curve of your buttocks. 

Then he brings it down in a sharp smack that echoes through the quiet cabin. Hearing that slap, feeling the sting on your skin, the burning heat that radiates from his handprint—shakes you from the hazy lust. 

It’s not enough to want to obey. 

“I’m going to take good care of you, senaar'ika. But you have to do as you’re told.”

While he’s playing a role, the pain is very real. Yet this fantasy is about your powerlessness. Whatever the Mandalorian wants to do to you, you have to take it. Yes, the pain is undeniable—but the adrenaline?—it sharpens the hunger.

When you finally regain your balance and tilt your pelvis forward at just the right angle, your ass brushes against his straining erection, and he groans, a low vibration you feel through his chest. Arousal arcs through you, and you gasp responsively. Even now, as your body tingles numbly in the aftermath of climax, your cunt still aches, longing to be full of him.

With his entire body sealed against you, you feel the firm pressure swelling against your ass. It throbs, heat radiating through the canvas flight suit. The coarse fabric is rough, rubbing over your slapped skin. 

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding the entire length of his cock against you. “That’s what you’re going to take for me.”

Holy fuck, he’s huge. Thick, too. Your mind reels at the impossibility; can you really fit him inside you?

“You’re going to take it all,” the bounty hunter huffs, as if he’d heard your thoughts. “You’re going to come with my cock buried in your ass.”

Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! 

It’s something you’ve talked about, something you said you wanted and prepared for, but….you’ve never had anyone this big up your ass before. He’s going to tear you apart. 

“Are you scared? Because trust me, I’m going to make you ready. You’re going to beg me for it. Then you’ll come so hard with my cock in your ass, nothing else will ever feel as good.”

The hormones that suddenly surge through your body make arousal indistinguishable from panic. You should be so afraid, and yet, you want this. Under the fear, you’re still full of need, urgent, and emphatic.

“After that, if you’re lucky, then I’ll fuck your mouth.”

Shit! Shit, that’s…you try to banish away the shame washing over you. He’s going to claim your body in every way imaginable, use you filthy—and it feels like you shouldn’t want this. But you do. 

“Don’t worry,”  he sighs, voice sounding softer now, gentle. “I’m not going to rush this. First, I want to explore your beautiful body.”

You feel the cold Beskar plates against the backs of your thighs and shiver.

His hands slide outward along your shoulder blades, curving down and around just enough for his fingers to lightly brush the sides of your breasts. Then, the Mandalorian’s arms circle you, reaching up to grasp them in both hands. Arousal rekindles as he kneads and squeezes, pressing them together tightly. Igniting as he tugs and pinches. 

And when your nipples are so tender you whine, “Mmmph!” he soothes them in his wide palms. 

“You—are—so—beautiful,” he moans, kissing the curve of your jaw. 

Behind you, his lips trail soft, open-mouth kisses down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, along your spine, and lower, until he drops to one knee. His hands trace over your ribcage, your sides, the indentation of your waist, and the flare of your hips. 

The pads of his fingertips are coarse but tender.

“Look at you. Legs spread. Open and wet for me. When I dream of you, this is what I’ll see.”  

Then he crouches between your knees to press lighter, softer kisses up the inside of your thighs, teasing you until you grow desperate with anticipation. “Haa!” you gasp, already panting. 

Spirals of arousal coil through you, so dizzying you have to grip the whipcord for balance. 

Soon, you’re lost to anything but the desire for him to taste you. That he’s risked so much by removing his helmet is the only thing keeping you from breaking position, regardless of the punishment. That’s how much you long to tilt your hips and rub yourself against his mouth. 

Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more. Would he like it if you begged?

“Please,” you whimper, voice full of desperation. 

He groans in satisfaction before making one long sweep of his tongue, right through the very center of your urgent longing. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes!”  

“I like hearing you beg.” Then his lips press firmly between your thighs, enfolding you in his warm, wet mouth.

Okay, wow, he’s good at this. He’s really, really good at this. 

The Mandalorian’s tongue searches for your clit, stroking and circling in a rhythm that drags you back to the brink almost instantly. But slowly, agonizingly slowly, to hold you at the edge of pleasure—like he could do this, keep you suspended there—forever.  

“Show me how much you want it,” he says, hot breath tickling against your delicate skin. 

If you could bury your fingers in his hair, you would. Instead, you shift all of your weight onto one leg, using what remains of your equilibrium to drape the other over his shoulder, feeling the rough stubble of his beard and the shell of his ear press against the inside of your thigh. 

Helping you balance, one strong hand grips you by the hipbone while the other slips over your knee before guiding his mouth between the sopping wet folds of your cunt. 

You tense every muscle, digging your heel into his sinewy back to try to keep him there. Right there! 

He rewards you by lapping faster—and then, when you cry out, speeding up even more. “Sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Every throb of pleasure ripples through your body from your nipples to your scalp, all the way down to your toes, until you can’t help yourself from rocking your hips, increasing the pressure just a little more. You feel each bob and turn of his head as he keeps at it, caressing you in spirals as a long, luscious wave of ecstasy swells inside you.

Mando’s fingers tighten around your thigh to hold you in place. He keeps going, maintaining his rhythm so that you can ride each cresting surge. It builds low, climbing and arcing higher, and when it finally overwhelms you, when you let go, and it rushes through you—you do sing. You cry out in one long wail that lasts the length and breadth of your climax.

Your body goes limp once the orgasm fades, and just like last time, the Mandalorian is the only source of strength to keep you upright. Hands clutching your hips, he pulls back to place a wet, sticky kiss low on your belly, then says, “We’re not done yet, little dove. Not nearly done yet.”

Gods in heaven, how much more of this can you take? You’d love nothing better than to sink to the floor in post-orgasmic bliss…but his cock is still in his pants. 

Too afraid to look down, you feel his body shifting between your knees and wonder, what next? Should you offer to reciprocate? Fuck, you want to. Right now, you want him in your mouth so badly that it’s all you can do not to beg for it. 

Your lips part, the words ready on your tongue—

When suddenly, he lifts you by the back of your thighs, settling you on top of his shoulders. You barely have time to gasp, to grip the braided cable between your hands—to think—before he buries his face between your thighs again.

“Oh, gods!” you gasp. “Oh, haah…!”

The tension in the whipcord keeps you from falling backward, but you feel precariously weightless sitting on his shoulders. Reeling, overstimulated from your last orgasm, you instinctively try to writhe away from the press of his wet tongue, his hot mouth, the coarse hair of his beard, and nearly lose your balance. 

Mando steadies you, wrapping his arms around your lower back, ass braced against his thick biceps as he works, tongue parting the soft creases of your cunt to find your sore, throbbing clit. 

This time, he holds nothing back, laving and shaking his head until your vision starts to blur; the pleasure is so intense it’s blinding. 

Oh shit! Merciful gods, this might break you. It’s too much. Too much. But you can’t move. Caged in his arms, you have to take what he gives. It feels so good. 

You don’t think it can get any better until he starts to suck. After that, you can’t think about anything anymore. Your mind is just blank. Static. White noise.

Fuck! You’re at the brink again—so fucking close—your heartbeat is thundering against your ribs. The muscles of your inner thighs lock, clenching around his jaw. Your body is poised right there. Right there! That exhilarating moment before—

And at that's when the Mandalorian slips a finger, slick with your come, inside your ass. 

The sensation kindles alarm, and your entire body tenses in response. All your instincts awaken in primal fear to remind you just how vulnerable you are.

Okay! It's okay! Just relax. 

In answer, his other hand begins sweeping up and down your thigh, caressing and soothing the tension away. 

That’s right. You have to relax. He’s doing this for you, to make you ready. Right now, your pleasure is the only thing that matters. Focus on his tongue circling your clit, his finger gently caressing millions of tiny nerve endings. 

But he slides up so seamlessly, so deep inside you, the pressure pools in your abdomen, and you gasp, “Oh, gods!” again.

Don’t resist the sensation—yield to it. Work with it. Take what you need.

Pulling on the whipcord for leverage, you thrust your hips against his mouth. He groans in encouragement, responding by sucking harder, licking faster—and then, spearing his tongue inside you.

Okay, yes. Yes! Gods, yes! You have never come so soon after your last orgasm, but he’s going to get you there.

That’s when he adds a second finger. 

You feel it stretch you, but your body doesn’t resist this time. And when he starts working them back and forth in rhythm with the thrusting of his tongue, it starts to feel so good. So good.

Each rut of his tongue and stroke of his fingers sends heat coursing through you, so flushed now that your skin seems to be on fire. Your hair clings to your sweaty cheeks. But nothing is as hot as his breath between your thighs. 

So you move faster, rubbing yourself against the raw stubble of his chin, the tip of his nose, drowning him in your cunt. All the while, he increases the pressure of his fingers just a little more, massaging inside you. 

You start to shake, the muscles in your legs trembling, as the Mandalorian twists his hand, rolls his wrist, and you feel the brush of his knuckles against the tender skin of your asshole. 

Then, he sucks your clit between his teeth, and you come in a burst of ecstasy so sharp it makes you scream. There’s a second when your vision goes entirely white—like staring into a bright sun—and your heart thumps so hard you hear the blood rushing in your ears.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your stomach.

His fingers gently slip out of you so he can grasp you by the ribcage with both hands, bracing you as you shudder through the ricocheting aftermath of your orgasm. 

“You taste like heaven.” 

He would know. His face, his hands, his neck, and shoulders are all covered in your come.  

“I told you I’d take care of you,” Mando’s broad hands stroke the length of your back, and the sound of his voice melts away any lingering doubts. He knows when to be gentle and when to be rough. You can trust him with this. 

When the bounty hunter ducks his head out from between your thighs, you think you’ll have to stand up again, get back into position. And you know you’ll be punished—but you can’t. You’re shaking too much for that. 

It doesn’t matter. Your feet never touch the floor. Bending you at the waist, he slings you over one broad, muscular shoulder, so that you dangle limp and dizzy, upside down as he steps into a lunge to lift you both off the ground. Tearing your wrists free from the whipcord at last, your arms fall numbly behind him, blood rushing back into your digits.

Draped over his shoulder like a hunter’s prize, he strides across the cabin toward the bed. 

Perhaps you’re delirious—you must be after three orgasms. Or maybe it’s because your fingers are so desperate to find new life. But when you look up (or is it down?) to see his perfectly sculpted ass outlined in dark gray canvas about a foot from your face…weak as you are, you can’t stop yourself from reaching for it. Your hand stretches lower until you feel its firm contours press satisfyingly against your palm. And gods help you, but you squeeze. Hard.

The Mandalorian chuckles, a deep booming laugh that has your knees jostling against his chest. You’re breaking from the submissive fantasy, but maybe he won’t—

“I knew you wanted it,” he laughs, voice full of triumph as—fingers splayed wide, he slaps his hand down over your ass cheek—the exact same spot as last time—so hard the sting brings tears to your eyes. 

Fuck! Your jaw drops. The pain sharpens all of your senses, bringing everything into focus. Your thighs squeeze together, cunt clenching against the sensation. Fuck that stings. Right. He’s back in the role. Time to be rough.

“You’ve wanted my cock inside you since the moment I stepped through that door. Haven’t you?” 

When he tosses you onto the bed, you fall onto the mattress, flat on your belly. But before you can get to your hands beneath you, he presses a knee down between your shoulder blades to keep you from moving. 

“You want to beg me some more, senaar'ika?”

The silk belt of your robe slips over your eyes, and he lashes it tightly behind your head. 

“Tell me!” he demands, like he’s making you confess to something. 

“Yes,” you whisper into the sheets, words muffled by the bedding. 

“Yes, what?”

“I want your cock.”

“Where?” he asks, and the sound of him tugging down his zipper fills your ears.

“In—inside me,” you gulp. “I want your cock inside me.”   

You hear him tearing open the condom wrapper, “That’s right. Beg me to fuck you.” 

“Please—”

Then he’s on top of you, hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your face, his knee lifting from your back to part your thighs, his massive weight pinning you underneath him. 

Reaching between your naked bodies, he wraps a hand around the base of his shaft to rub the swollen head of his cock along the cleft of your ass, back and forth, slicking the entrance before he pushes inside you.

You cry out in shock. 

So does he.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s so tight! Haa, haa!”

Leaning forward, he places a soft kiss atop your head, pausing with just the first few inches of him inside, letting your body stretch to fit him. 

“You okay?” he whispers quietly against your cheek, his face damp with sweat. 

When you nod, he begins tracing his tongue over your earlobe, kissing your jaw and the corner of your mouth. His beard is still drenched with your come.

“This feels amazing,” his breath is hot in your ear. “Just this. You're gripping me so tight.”

You’re tempted to stop here, to say the safe word. And you trust Mando to stop; you know he would. That’s why he’s reminding you. And this does feel amazing, his body enfolding you, the rub of his bare skin over yours, the feeling of every firm muscle pressing into your soft curves—the pressure inside you. 

But you want this. You want all of him.

“More,” you moan.

The aching burn is so intense as his enormous cock plunges deeper inside you—slowly, but without ceasing. “Oh fuck!” he gasps. “Fuuuuck, that feels so good. Almost, ha-aah…almost. It’s almost in.”

The burn as he opens you—the way the entire universe narrows to this bodily sensation, until you perceive nothing but its fantastic pressure—only anal sex does this for you. But its so hard to trust someone to be careful, to make you feel safe in spite of being so vulnerable and powerless. Mando does that. 

“I’m going to start, haah…I’m going to start moving, okay?” he says, panting from arousal and restraint.

Adjusting his weight onto his elbows, he rolls his hips gently, strokes building. There’s so much lubricant on the condom; each shallow thrust is frictionless, but you’re still trembling like one of the strings of your valachord. 

“Haah, you feel so good. So—nnngh—so fucking good!” Threading his fingers through your hair, his forehead drops against your neck, and the heat from each ragged breath spills over your shoulders. “Anngh!”

Then he starts fucking you in earnest. He pushes deeper now, pulling out further to feel the grip of your asshole squeeze up and down the length of his shaft. Already, you feel arousal peaking within you with each long, slow stroke. 

Mando’s width and length stretches you, makes you burn. And you moan, fingers twining in the sheets as the pleasure becomes indistinguishable from the pain. 

“You like this?” his voice is teasing again, getting back into the role.

“Mm-hmm,” you moan, unable to form words. 

It’s like you can’t feel anything but him moving inside you, pleasure surging in ebbs and flows, like a tidal current. It’s hard to describe. The barrier between your cunt and anus is so thin you feel him everywhere. It burns, this inner blazing heat. 

It’s a sweet agony, like the handprint on your ass, making everything tingle with sensitivity, amplifying every sensation. Even the pressure of the mattress against your clit is enough to send a thrill through you.

“Is this the biggest cock you’ve ever taken?” 

You cry out in torment and desire as he shoves into you harder this time, and your whole body bends and turns in a desperate effort to accept every inch.

“Yes,” you want to sob into the mattress. It aches. It’s so fucking good you could scream.

“You’re taking it so good,” he whispers as he sinks in even deeper. “That’s it.”

And he’s finally all the way inside you now, so deep that when he starts thrusting, you feel the slap of his sac against the dip of your cunt. Each stroke presses you harder against the mattress—hitting you where it feels best inside and out. 

And strong, so strong he pushes your body upward on the bed.

“I want to fuck you like this all night.” His voice is tight with strain—just barely holding on, waiting for you.

But he’s not moving fast enough for you to come.

“More,” you whimper into the damp folds of silk.

Mando pushes in again, burying himself balls-deep inside you before whispering against your shoulder, “What's that?”

You need more. “I need more…I need—”

“You worried I won’t fuck you hard enough?” he laughs, plunges in deep, and bites the soft flesh of your shoulder. It’s not enough to break the skin—but you cry out from the painfully sweet ache of it.

“Beg me, senaar'ika,” he says, sitting back on his heels, filling his lungs with each heaving breath. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

But this time, you don’t want to obey. You don’t want to say please. You want to find out exactly how hard the Mandalorian can give it to you. If you want to come with him, you need more, and you know how to get it. 

You turn your head so he can see the jut of your chin, fill your voice with challenge and say, “Gods above, shut up and fuck—me—harder.”

The bounty hunter scoffs in shocked bemusement.

His arm hooks around your elbows, pinning them behind you, “You’ll regret that, little dove.” 

Then he yanks back on your arms, pulling you off the bed, and against his chest. Your ass presses into the bowl of his hips, thighs sealed against his. His other hand slides up your stomach and between your breasts to clasp around your throat. A touch that means possession. 

The Mandalorian owns you now, and he knows it.

Mando slams into you, and you want to cry out—but you stifle it somehow. You don’t want him to stop. You’re so wound up that tears well against your eyelids, dampening the blindfold. It scares you how much you want this. Gods help you, but you do. You fucking love it.

His thrusts remain slow at first. Deliberate. Punishing. Yes, punish me! His pelvis clashes against your buttocks like the snap of a paddle. But the tempo increases as he starts to get into it. Soon, he pumps into you so hard that it makes your breasts bounce, and your entire body starts to sweat. Your hair swings around your face, tendrils sticking to your neck, your flushed cheeks and forehead.

He never loosens his grip. Your shoulders start to ache from being pulled back so far—your throat throbs against his palm—and yet you want nothing more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock filling you. It’s like he’s reaching to the core of your very being with every thrust.

Yes, you think, fuck me. Make me take it.

The bounty hunter’s hand tightens around your throat—unconsciously, you think—because of how close he is. Each ragged breath vibrates against your back. You can still breathe, but his grip keeps you dizzy and light-headed. 

A sharp thrust, and your arousal climbs. Another, and it goes higher. Mando bucks and bucks, and the world behind your eyelids becomes bright and sparkly around the edges. Sensation shivers upward through you, strengthening by the moment.

The climax builds from somewhere deep inside you, and you sink into it with every thrust, slipping deeper into pure instinctive sensation, until it claims your whole body in white-hot ecstasy. When you come, the desperation in your wordless cries transforms into a feral scream as you fall forward, tumbling back onto the sheets when he releases you. 

The silk feels so cool and smooth against your feverish cheeks. 

“Haah, aah! I knew you’d love it,” he groans triumphantly. “Nnngh!”

But he’s almost at the brink himself—his body contracting, abdominals clenching. That’s when he pulls out, denying himself release.

The mattress dips and creeks as he climbs off you, and off the bed. 

“I’m not done with you yet, senaar'ika.”

You hear the snap of latex when he removes the condom.

What next? You’re limp and dizzy, lying sprawled across the covers. Will he make me come so hard I pass out? Fuck me until I can't walk straight? You shouldn’t want that as much as you do, but complete surrender can feel so sweet. 

“I can do this all night,” Mando pants.

Then, he lunges across the bed and grabs your ankles so tightly you feel the press of his thumb dig into your bones as he drags you down the mattress, until your legs dangle off the side. The tips of your toes brush against the floor. 

“You thought you could push me?” His voice has lowered almost to a growl. “But that’s not how this works. You belong to me.”

He pushes your thighs apart roughly, then clutches your hair and tugs back hard enough to bring renewed tears to your eyes. Bent over the edge of the mattress like this in front of him, you feel his other hand seize you by the hip, and with that, he shoves the whole thick length of his cock inside you.

“Aaah!” you cry out as he starts thrusting faster.

"You don't tell me what to do—mmmph—with what's mine." His fist in your hair tightens as he pumps into you, and already you know you’re going to come again. How is that even possible?

“That’s right,” he pants. “You know you have to take it, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

Yes, make me take it. Gods help you, but you fucking love it. There’s nothing you love more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock. “Yes!”

"Because you're mine. Mine to fuck."

"Yours... I'm yours."

Mando fucks you so hard and so fast. Your ass would not have been able to take this. Shallow rapid thrusts until, growling, he rams his full length into you. Then he’s pumping inside you again and again. By now, the shame you think you should feel at being taken like this—held down by your hair and fucked with every ounce of strength in his body, every bit of force he can put into it—has been eclipsed by the pleasure surging within you. 

Every single goddamned stroke of the Mandalorian’s cock sets you on fire. A wildfire so hot it consumes you, burns you down to nothing. You press your face into the mattress and feel the tears welling in your eyes spill down your cheeks, pooling against the sheets.

The only sounds in the cabin are his guttural grunts of pleasure and the slap of your bodies against each other. Just hearing it turns you on even more. 

He’s moving faster now, and you’re nothing but heat. Pleasure tightens, blazing inside you. 

Mando fucks you, and fucks you, and then you’re coming again, clenching around his cock. "Fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Holy shit...!"

"Mmmph, you like that, don't you?"

"Yes! Yes, please! Don't stop...please don't stop!"

"Haa-aah, I knew you'd beg me for it."

You come so hard that consciousness is nothing but white light, white noise. Your cry is muffled by the sheets and blankets, but you wail it out anyway, unable to hold back.

“Yes,” he whispers as he pistons even faster than before, his hand on your hip gripping tighter. “Fuck, yes—yes!”

The Mandalorian groans as he throbs inside you. He goes tense, makes an animal sound that seems to come from low in his belly, and slams into you one more time.

Then he’s pulling you off the bed and onto your knees. You feel his wet cock press against your face. "Be good for me," his voice is hardly more than a whisper, trembling with need. “Open your mouth.”

His fist in your hair doesn’t leave you much choice. You open, and Mando pushes inside. "You're going to swallow all of it."

It’s all you can do to take him in, to brace your palms against his thighs. You taste your come slick around his cock as it slides between your lips. He’s so huge that you can't move your tongue, so you bob your head, doing your best as he thrusts, shallow and then deep.

The Mandalorian's grip takes control, sometimes pushing no more than the head of his cock into your mouth, and you suck, hallowing your cheeks—then shoving into your throat, making you choke and gag around him.

It doesn’t take long.

"Haa-aah! Aah!"

He shouts out, and then he comes, filling your mouth with each hot pulsing spurt. You swallow it down, every drop, as the sensation of him throbbing between your lips spills saliva down your chin.

The Mandalorian pulls out then. The fingers buried in your hair release their grip. Pausing one long moment to regain his breath, he brushes the sweat-soaked hair from your cheeks. 

“You have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”

Really? Blindfolded. Flushed and sweaty, legs tangled beneath you, slumped against the bed frame?

But the honest tenderness in his voice has you pressing a hand to your chest. 

His cock is still half-hard, nuzzled against your cheek, and there’s a second when you’re tempted to pull him down to slide back onto it. But…you’ve reached your limits. 

And the Mandalorian is in no better shape. You hear him collapse onto his knees beside you on the floor, crawling over on his hands and knees to reach for something. His helmet, maybe?

But it’s not his Beskar. 

Gently, he drapes the soft folds of your robe over your shoulders and gathers you in his arms. He leans back, sitting propped against the bed, settling you onto his lap. You let your head fall against his chest and delight when he rests his chin atop your head. 

“Are you alright?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you manage to form words. “Just give me a second. I’m…melting.” 

That makes him chuckle, and for a while, you both stay like that, laughing, breathing hard, barely able to move.

“I wasn’t too rough?”

“No! No, you were perfect. I loved it. It’s like—like you read my mind from that night we met. It was everything I wanted. You took such good care of me.”

His voice remains concerned. “But you’re shaking all over?” and his arms wrap tighter around you.

“It was just so intense.” 

“Here,” he says pressing a cup of tea into your hands, then lifting it to your lips when your fingers tremble too much to grip it tight enough. Fatherhood has softened him.  

“Are you?” you ask timidly.

“Am I what?”

“Are you okay?” You feel strangely shy in front of a man who just fucked you senseless. “I mean, was it okay that I asked you to do this? Are you okay with being—with what we did?”

“It was amazing,” he sighs, kissing your temple. 

But that doesn’t really answer your question.

Honestly, this is the part you were most afraid of…that it would change everything. That no matter how good the sex had or hadn’t been, you thought, afterward, he’d lose respect for you, and it wouldn’t be worth it. 

You don’t want his judgment or pity for needing this.

But there's no contempt in his voice. He doesn’t sound righteous. Or cold, or callous. And he doesn’t seem intent on sneaking out to leave you alone in regret. 

“Before, I was worried that I might hurt you…and that was hard to balance against my instinct to protect you," the Mandalorian says thoughtfully. "But you made more than enough noise to let me know how much you enjoyed it.”

“Oh gods,” you laugh, clapping a hand over your mouth, absolutely mortified. 

“That was the best part,” Mando lifts your hand from your face, tilting your chin up to kiss your nose, then your lips, not shying away like some men do, after they've come in your mouth. So you part your lips and feel the brush of his tongue against yours. His fingers wrap around your neck, deepening the kiss, and pulling you closer.

It’s not the unbridled passion from before–it’s tenderness and longing. Two lonely hearts finding shelter in a precious moment of fragile intimacy.  

“I was just surprised, given…”

“Some of my clients never touch me. Some have hurt me—said horrific things. Most are rich businessmen,” you shrug. “Nervous about cheating on their wives. Regardless—given what they pay, they all expect a performance... 

So it’s nice to let someone else put in the work,” your lips tug into a sly grin. “Seriously, five times? And your dom talk is shockingly good! The growling is very hot!” Guess it's true what they say about the quiet ones. "Now I get why Anassa keeps offering you a job."

"She told you that?" He scoffs.

"Hmm, she likes to tease me about having a crush on the Mandalorian."

Nestled into the crook of his arm, you feel the rumble of renewed laughter building in his chest. 

"She told me I could keep the armor on."

You reach a hand behind you to stroke his jaw and bury your fingers in his hair. "I'm glad you didn't."

Mando's head turns in your grasp to place a soft kiss against your palm.

“And you don’t think differently of me for…wanting this?”

"I know the difference between fantasy and reality," then he leans forward to stroke your earlobe with the tip of his nose. "And I bet I could make you scream just as loud, taking you soft and sweet."

Now why does that make you blush redder than your slapped ass?

“Maybe next time, we can switch roles. Then I’ll understand better why you like it.”  

Next time? You love that! He’s already thinking about the future. 

Your brow arches, “Maybe I'll tie you up—borrow one of Katlin's whips to smack that tight ass of yours.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

There are no words for the wicked anticipation in Mando’s voice. 

Next time...

****************

Continue reading Part 2!!!

Thanks for reading

[janelovxx]

Giyuu Tamioka Boyfriend Scenario 

♡ Love Language ⁠♡

Fluff

Giyu Tamioka x Reader

!!!: Demon slayer do not belong to me.

✧⁠*⁠。✧*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*

Dating the cold and reserved water hashira is definitely not for the weak. It takes time even when just befriending the guy but dating him and being his girlfriend? You will definitely be the one who will have to confess. Everyone knows he is cold, quiet, reserved, and blunt. Showing affection is not definitely not his suit, you're wondering how he shows his affection? Of course he'll do it on his own way and pace.

✧⁠*⁠。✧*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*

✧He is not a man of words and showy when it comes to affection but! Definitely an act of service guy.

✧Can't carry all the bags? He got it! Having a hard time cleaning the house? He'll help. Anything you need, you may not notice it but he'll definitely act on it.

✧"Do you need help?" "I'll do it" "Is this alright?"

✧but aside from Act of Service, Gift giving is definitely his love language.

✧ You're chatting and you said you wanted to get this? He'll get it right after his mission on the way home! You don't need things he bought for you? You gotta need it girl! It's from him!

✧ "huh? For me?..but! Why?"

"You wanted it."

✧Aside from getting what you want, He'll definitely got something that reminds him of you.

✧ "This reminds me of her." "Is there [F/C] available of this?" "I hope she likes this"

✧⁠*⁠。✧*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*

Imagine him on his way coming back from a long mission and pass through the city where there's stall outside selling cute stuffs or accessories like hair clip, cute bracelets and stuff. He'll pass by and definitely buy something that reminds him of you. He will probably buy something matching but subtle for him to wear.

After buying that stuff, he'll go home immediately, not wanting anything but to rest after his long and exhausting mission in your arms.

When he got home, the sound of the door opening was the only signal that will warn you that he is home. You ran to him as soon as he went home, greeting him with your usual smile and affection.

"Welcome home, Love"

And of course, there's nothing greater than your daily hug and peck of kisses on his cheek after he went home after every mission, indication of relief that he is back once again.

"Here." He will just put the pouch of that gift on your hand as you look at him curiously before opening that. There is a cute hairpin designs with gem stones.A blue one specifically.

"This is so...so cute! Thank you so much love!"

And of course there's nothing greater than seeing your wide smiles and sparkling eyes at things he'll do for you. It will never fail to quicken his heart beat.

Oh how lucky he is.

And of course, he'll always remind himself to buy you something after his missions so there will be an award for you for always waiting for him and also,

To always see your sparkling eyes indication of excitement and so those smiles that will never fail to squeeze his heart in affection.

[hetalianhistorian]

Reservations are open for the Hetalia Barunko merch line from Neowing!

Source link: https://twitter.com/Neowing_Otome/status/1857258721736364116

The product line will be set for release on February 2025!

Goods List

Mirrors - ¥1,320 yen each

Flat Pouches - ¥1,650 yen each

Stickers - ¥550 yen each

Keychain - ¥1,650 yen each

Stand Keychain - ¥1,980 yen each

Trading Can Badges Box Sets - ¥3,080 yen each

For all the trading can badges and the mirrors, they will come in three different designs of the characters grouped together:

Group A - Italy, Germany, Japan, Romano, Prussia, Czechia, Slovakia

Group B - America, England, France, Russia, China, Spain, Portugal

Group C - Austria, Canada, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Iceland, Finland

You can purchase here through the Neowing website!

Note: Not all stores ship internationally. A proxy or forwarding service may have to be utilized. Please keep this in mind and do your own research when buying Hetalia goods from Japan!

[marveltrumpshate]

Want to participate in Marvel Trumps Hate, but don't know what to offer? Think outside the box!

Stumped on what to offer because you don't write fic or draw? Marvel Trumps Hate welcomes a huge variety of fanworks and fan labor (see our sign-up post), so there are different ways you can contribute. You'll be amazed by the breadth of skills, talents, knowledge, and types of creative expression found in fandom!

Here's a smorgasbord of offers that we've either had before or seen people discuss as possibilities for MTH 2024 or future years to help inspire you. What you can offer is not restricted to the list below; these are just examples to get you brainstorming about what you can auction off because trust us, even if you think you might not have something to offer, you probably do!

ART (VISUAL/ILLUSTRATIVE)

Drawings/illustrations

Single-page and multi-page comics

Pixel art

Paintings (oil, acrylic, gouache, watercolor)

Mixed-media artwork on canvas

Ink-on-bristol art

Embroidery on canvas

Pour paint/spin art

Rotoscopes

Digital coloring books

AUDIOVISUAL WORKS

Fan music or filk inspired by characters, ships, or fics

Podfics

Videos (fic trailers, themed edits, vids set to songs)

Animations (making original art/animation or turning existing art into animation)

BETA SERVICES

Editing

Cheer reading

Soundboarding/planning/development work

Fact-checking

Culture-picking

Sensitivity reading

Knowledge about specific topics or experiences (e.g., identities, lifestyles, professions, interests, fields of study)

Research

CRAFTS & MERCH

Candles

Lip balms

Soaps

Stained glass/suncatcher

Scented beanbag-style sachets

Candy/chocolate/baked goods/jellies/sweets

Fic/character/ship/theme boxes (like book boxes)

Pins, magnets, patches, charms, standees, key chains, ring holders, calendars, stickers, bookmarks, temporary tattoos

Sculptures and clay figures

Ceramic mugs and other ceramic items

Apparel/wearable accessories (shirts, jackets, scarves, gloves/mittens, hats, face masks, regular masks, cowls, pajamas/onesies)

Backpacks, tote bags, itabags with custom window shapes, leather dice bags, wallets, pouches/pencil cases

Plushie animal or Tsum Tsum versions of Marvel characters

Dolls (crochet, needle felt, matte board, hand-sewn)

Embroidery hoops/wall art and cross stitch pieces

Jewelry (diamond painting, macrame, metal, crochet, wire, beads)

Woodwork/wood burning (cheese board, box/chest, USB stick, coasters, photo frame, alphabet blocks)

Glasswork

Custom Funko Pops

Paper cut light boxes

Pillow cases, quilted pillows, baby blankets, dishcloth/washcloths, potholders

Handmade leather journals

Linoleum stamps

Dog/cat/pet toys

Artbooks, paper doll books, and coloring books

Hand-dyed yarn skeins

Custom tea blends

DIGITAL (GRAPHIC DESIGN)

Gifsets

Graphics/edits

Mood boards

Photo manips

Fic covers/posters/banners

Icons and headers

Webweaving

Tumblr or website layouts

Digital calendars

Wallpapers

Custom Discord emojis

FAN LABOR & TRANSLATION

Typesetting

Bookbinding

Recipes based on characters, ships, or themes

Names, tags, and summaries for fics

Audio/sound editing and/or soundscaping for podfics

Book cover design and printing

Art/comic/fic translation

Website/game/AO3 skin coding

Fic rec lists

Fic playlists/fanmixes

Knitting/crochet patterns

Art coaching

Help with launching and organizing fan events

WRITING

Fic

Poetry

Meta posts

Social media AUs

Physical letters written by characters to the reader or between two characters

Remixes of your fic or an existing fic with the author's permission

Whether you can do something on this list or something else altogether (we're sure there are a lot of other things that you can do that we haven't thought about or seen before), we hope you'll consider signing up before the deadline: September 28, 11:59 PM ET.

[drakomod]

Still been on a bit of a bard Finley kick, so of course I had to make him a ref!! This guy is so ridiculously pink.

His main outfit is from the BG3 Mystical Fashions mod! With some minor changes. The first outfit on the far left is an original one designed by me, you can see the full fit here. The other 3 are pulled directly from the game. And I could have honestly grabbed more XP He has so many outfits.

Comm info | Cara | Twitter | Twitch | Discord

More about Tiefling Bard Finley under the cut :D (Finley is an OC of mine that has been made into a Tav for BG3, so technically this is an AU!)

Finley grew up as an urchin outside and around Baldur's Gate. He was, as most tieflings are, treated very poorly growing up and mostly raised himself on the streets. He had big dreams that could never quite be stomped out after he had found a love for music in a music box, and later, a broken lute.

He met another young tiefling named Paisley, a young boy with a particularly strong affinity for fire. With Finley's love for music and storytelling, and Paisley's magical talents, they were able to perform on the streets and do their best to keep themselves alive.... With the odd pick pocketing here and there when necessary.

Later he managed to find work in a brothel. He had hoped for it to be his first real gig as a musician, but was offered better pay for other services that he couldn't rightfully refuse from his current living situation. Only later, when he got to go out and adventure with friends, did he truly get to be the bard he had always wanted to be.

Other fun facts!

Finley does like pink, and mainly wears it to match his skin to look non-threatening. His actual favourite colour is blue.

Since tieflings face a lot of racism and comments about their fiendish nature, Finley greatly dislikes being compared to demons and devils and can sometimes take well-meaning comments a little too seriously.

The markings on his face are partially a birth mark, partially a face tattoo funnily enough. He hasn't had the best influences in friends and partners, and previously dated someone who wanted to practice tattoos with his birthmark. Luckily it's not too bad.

He was born with heterochromia and is actually able to see invisibility without casting any spells.

the pouches on his waist hold spell components and other useful items, he also has a little latch there that holds his flute.

His primary instrument is his lyre, but since it's big and potentially unwieldly at times, he has the flute as a backup. He could also sing to cast his spells, but that can be greatly effected by his condition and emotions.

He's a bard of valor, and isn't opposed to getting down and dirty with the rest of his party. His high Dex allows him to practically tank for the party if needed. And by tank, I mean just not get hit.

He's a Mephistopheles tiefling

His glasses have a loop in the metal arms to wrap around his ear to avoid losing them in combat. It's not fool proof though and still does happen sometimes.

For people who aren't familiar with BG3 tieflings, those ridges on his skin are not body modifications, but actual bumps and ridges underneath his skin that he was born with.

[iamafanofcartoons]

Redesigns, and how they ignore and miss the point of the shows they are based on. Featuring RWBY

When Monty Oum, Miles Luna, and Kerry Shawcross made RWBY all the way back in 2014, even if we acknowledge that Poser was not the best animation engine, we have to give credit to Monty for 3 things with his character designs.

All characters, female and otherwise, were required to have pouches, pockets, bags, something to carry items. And all had weapons.

NO EXAGGERATED PROPORTIONS. Monty did not want his characters fetishized, despite people claiming the writers did, or demanding that it should have been.

Finally? Conservative clothing, relatively speaking. No panty shots, no jiggles, no sexual poses, and a lot of skin is covered. Also, no bikinis, no yoga pants, etc.

And yet, when people try to "redesign" RWBY?

They ignore all 3 of those things.

For them? Redesigning and "ruined potential" is about sexualizing teenagers as much as humanly possible.

Here, see for yourself. When they say they "hate" the new designs? Its about them not being able to sexualize or fetishize the characters. Which Monty Oum wanted them NOT to do. And these people like to think they're doing the show a service by fetishizing teenage girls. That nudity and fanservice somehow makes them decent. It doesn't...it only makes them worse. But by sexualizing the characters as hard as possible, and claiming to be "fixing" the show? People are only promoting toxicity against the show, and accusing anyone criticizing their designs of "toxic positivity".

[carpetf1uff]

let’s talk fat!momo because fuck her og design

-to prefece this analysis/rant i have only read the first 4 manga but i have read enough bnha fanfiction over the last three years to kill a man so take this with a grain of salt-

.♡♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡♡.

she would at least have some chub are you kidding me her whole quirk relies on using her fat stores aka the thing cushioning her body so she doesn’t get horribly injured sooo:

get this girl a fucking meal plan! a dietitian she can afford it she’s rich rich like what she should keep fat rich snacks on her person especially in her hero costume in like a fanny pack something with a lot of fat that’s easy to eat quickly like full fat yogurt pouches, nut butter packets, baby bells, lots of full fat dairy and desserts

How fast is her metabolism? How easily can she keep fat on her body?

One of her side effects is anemia. I used to be anemic and that shit fucks u up makes u dizzy, light headed, blacks ur vision out, makes u pass out and super tired so its vvv important that shes eating!! also it could get worse on her period so get her on birth control if she's not already and iron supps! Make sure her foods are also iron rich in addition to the fats

SHE SHOULD INTERN WITH FATHUM AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL!! like are you kidding me uwabami is fine but she’s just fine momo is rich rich like rich rich so i’m assuming she already has media training and fatgums quirk revolves around his size and his diet both things that momo needs to learn to deal with!!

also her costume her fucking costume and don’t start with that “but she needs a lot of skin for her quirk” bs there are other options for her quirk that don’t rely on the fan service of a 15 year old TEENAGER are you kidding me - give her like a poncho or straps or buckles fucking something besides a boob window are u seriously implying that she gets fat from her boobs how does that even work? is that safe? how are her boobs still so big if she’s making bombs with them?!?!? all quality questions i don’t have answers to

costume made out of skin so she can have coverage but still quirk. lemillion’s costume for example is made out of his hair. That wouldn't work for momo but couldnt u make like a twisted ver of that with her fat or skins cells?

science to use her cells to make more fat —> lab grown fat cells?

mix of cells and fabric!!

 tunic/poncho: cons = could get caught on something/pulled on by enemy - strangled, pros = could pull stuff out of tunic - more coverage

What parts of skin does she use the most? Everybody's bodies are different but most people gain fat on their thighs, butt and midsection so focusing her costume on the accessibility of those areas would be good.

That is an early ver of momos' costume! I like it way better because say it with me folks NO BOOB WINDOW! i love that her tummy is still exposed so she can create bigger objects and her shorts are longer still short so theres access to her lower thighs! and the pouches for her snacks! i wish we had kept this

[emptypothead]

OZCHIN Smell Proof Bag with Combination Lock Tobacco Pipe Pouch Bag File Organizer Case Container Medicine Lock Box Odorless Storage Bag Great Gift for Friend

emptypothead is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC associates program, an affiliate advertising program designed provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to amazon.

[modcroissant]

OKOK SO

juniper has younger siblings which is why i made them a children entertainer! Also their younger siblings are an orange and a lemon, which is why i use yellow and orange in her design!(i flip between all pronouns for juniper, but in my eyes for the rising stars au all the handlers call him by she/her because gendering him made them more appealing to all audiences)

Oh boy are they s t r e s s e d. They werent a fan favorite when the show first dropped, but after it grew in popularity she started getting more attention. Still not the most popular toon, but far more than when the show started. Shes also not used to the skirt, because his original design had shorts. He’s still teaching kids to write, but it gets overwhelming easily since Juniper has GAD(Generalized Anxiety Disorder, its not obvious though as he’s decent at keeping a handle on things til they’re alone) and some days noises get overwhelming for them.

as for Juniper’s siblings, theyre trying to protect them from the worst of the new schedules. Is it successful? Ehh.. kinda but not really

Overall, they’re good at keeping a straight face but they need a break

AND FOR SALLY

Sally is a service toon because i cannot put her in front of an audience or have her be security. She would not survive or thrive there. Plus, i can give her dresses pouch Mary Poppins logic. She can fit so much in there, theres like 5 types of band aids

As for how she’s handling stress? Not well. The stricter schedule leaves very little time for her to relax and she misses her time to herself. She got quieter and speaks only when spoken to when guests are around.

She also doesnt like the glitter. Its in her paint and she wants the glitter free paint back DESPERATELY. She also doesnt like the pom poms on her leaves, theyre uncomfortable and she would prefer to have them off. Also they got rid of her muddy boots, she misses the muddy boots.

Overall, give her a break

UH YEAH ALSO NEITHER OF THEM LIKE THE FOUNDERS

Anyways uh ramble over i talk too much byeee

Lets be honest, the toons and even the staffs don't like the founders at all. If someone somehow do? They're getting sent to therapy IMMEDIATELY

[strawberryybird]

ok fuck it. in honour of fire emblem: free real estate timeskip day, have some disability headcanons.

edelgard with crutches. thats it thats the post. done.

but also i absolutely think edelgard can have some mobility aids as a treat specifically for me, mobility aid user and edelgard enthusiast. i think the double-cresting she has going on means she has some level of chronic fatigue. use crutches babygirl <33 you know what? She can use a wheelchair, too. And a cane. All the mobility aids for my girl.

lysithea too, for that matter. I'm very fond of lysithea being the default recipient of Hilda's embellishment and decorating. I think Lys has trouble with her joints and uses braces, wraps, and ergonomic designs of things. Whatever motif Hilda has designed this month, Lys will give a test run.

Lys and her dislocating joints creating new spell-casting techniques by force of need and love of her craft.

Hilda's love for jewellery and decorating leading to her interest in the exact intersection of utility and design. Anything to stop people from having to put in so much effort to do things. That's atrocious. Use this, for Seiros' sake.

Magic users with Magic!Psoriasis in their joint extremities. Hands, feet, kneecaps, neck. Anywhere, really. Magic causing immune system reactions my beloved headcanon.

Claude takes out a new tangle from a new pocket in every class. where did he get them. why does he have this many. how did he get a new tangle in the span of the last 6 minutes. claude what the hell.

Marianne & Bernie having enthusiastic sign language chats in the tea gardens. Byleth makes sure to teach them every swear they've ever learned.

If Byleth has to step outside for a bit of air when they realise they're missing another memory from Before, no one makes a big deal. The world will keep moving with them, says Ignatz, who can't bear loud noises anymore.

Dorothea unabashedly handing in her essays on dyed paper, because the pink means the letters stop sliding around. Bernie made her a little quilted pouch for her green-lensed glasses.

Ferdinand making Edie nearly weep with laughter as he matches her pace on the stairs, threatening to have them all demolished for domestic terror and regicide.

Annette and Constance inventing the dicta-quill, creating ye-olde speech-to-text. Annie sends one personally to Lorenz, who lost his left forearm in the final battle. She gets 3 pages of effusive praise and thanks back. Their correspondence gets so long, that the post service starts charging their letters as parcels.

[thesilliestrovingalive]

Updated: February 9, 2025

Torquil, Guilherme, and Ferdinand

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to death, racism, SA, suicide, verbal abuse, and neglect.

Torquil Aitken

Nickname: Torrie

Occupation: Private First Class, a vehicle driver, and a grenadier of the Rebel Army and a volunteer for transportation services (formerly)

Retirement plans: To visit all historic landmarks, become an auto technician, and start a pet foster program for cats and dogs

Hobbies: Performing his accordion and singing traditional Scottish songs at social gatherings, upgrading and fine-tuning cars and tanks, and fostering kittens and puppies

Likes: Causing some mischief with Guilherme, his mom’s cooking, and archaeology

Dislikes: Being told to stop joking around, seeing his friends bummed out, and animal torture

Favourite food: Kedgeree and gummies (preferably gummy worms and sharks)

Sexuality: Heteroflexible asexual

Gender: Male

Age: 28 (in 2022), 34 (in 2028), 36 (in 2030), 38 (in 2032), 40 (in 2034), 47 (in 2041), 49 (in 2043), 50 (in 2044), and 53 (in 2047)

Design: He's a 5’ 7” (170.18 cm) Scottish-American mesomorph with a robust musculature, a subtle roundness of his belly, and semi-broad shoulders. He sports medium-length coppery red hair with gentle curls, styled in a shaggy crop with sideburns, and often wears it tied back into a bun. He has tanned pale ivory skin, brown freckles, dull jade green eyes, a cleft chin, and a metallic gold prosthetic left arm. He sports a prominent scar that stretches from the right side of his forehead, organically zigzagging down to the middle of his left cheek. He dons a metal dog tag necklace with his name and the standard Rebel land troop uniform, which varies depending on his deployment location. Above his right breast pocket is an embroidered badge featuring a scarlet horizontal stripe with a thin white stripe centred within it and a black X emblazoned across the middle.

He carries a maroon duffle bag containing his accordion (a family heirloom), a versatile toolkit for mechanics, and a rocket launcher equipped with homing missiles. Like other grenadiers, he wears seven belt pouches filled with grenades. In place of the standard crimson waist pack, he sports a pink lavender one on the left side of his rosy brown belt. Inside, he carries a flare gun, 12 Gauge shells, a few extra grenades, and two bags of gummy worms and sharks. He often shares these treats with his friend Guilherme, particularly when he's starting to feel anxious or overwhelmed. He would share some with Ferdinand, but he isn't a fan due to their chewy texture, which bothers his jaw.

Character summary: He's a cheerful, happy-go-lucky extrovert whose charisma stems from his fun-loving attitude and ability to make others laugh with jokes tailored to their sense of humour. His carefree and enthusiastic demeanour gives way to a more serious and concerned attitude only when he senses that something is deeply wrong. As a confident individual, he exudes swagger in his step and rarely shows fear in the face of adversity, but it can sometimes tip into recklessness and overconfidence. He'll stop at nothing to protect his comrades, but can't resist charming the ladies and indulging in the occasional bout of mischief. He's naturally curious and enthusiastic, often getting thrilled by things he finds fascinating. When he encounters something as awe-inspiring as a tank, his excitement takes over, revealing a playful, childlike wonder.

On the battlefield, Torquil's preferred war machine is the Type-4 Girida-O, his absolute favourite, but he occasionally switches to the T-2B Melty Honey when he's feeling particularly confident. The only vehicle he refuses to drive is the Type-5 Iron Iso, due to its rarity on the battlefield and the fear of destroying it too quickly. To alleviate his boredom on the battlefield, he periodically bursts into traditional Scottish songs, eliciting either amusement or annoyance from his comrades. He honestly fears Ferdinand due to his overly serious and ill-tempered nature, yet he admires his exceptional skills on the battlefield and values his wise mentorship. Guilherme serves as his reluctant partner-in-crime, and he secretly harbours deep affection and romantic feelings for him, drawn to his understanding nature and unwavering kindness.

He holds General Morden, Allen O'Neil, Logan, and Sagan in high esteem, acknowledging their authority and sharing their vision of toppling corrupt governments and militaries to create a better society. Although occasional doubts about the morality of their crusade creep in, he quickly suppresses them, hesitant to entertain complex and potentially pessimistic thoughts that might undermine his commitment. He doesn't mind Sagan's pampering and occasionally plays along with her flirtations, which frequently lead to affectionate hugs and gentle kisses on the lips. He thinks the elite members of the Peregrine Falcons Squad, S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., Ikari Warriors, and Division 6 are incredibly impressive, regarding them as both awesome and fearsome opponents. Although he recognizes them as the sworn enemies of the Rebel Army, he relishes the opportunity to engage them in battle. Moreover, he readily acknowledges their exceptional fighting skills and impressive teamwork, often praising them with respect and excitement.

Unlike his two friends, he maintains a neutral stance towards the Rebel Army. While he appreciates the action, loves the tanks they use, and shares their goal of combating political and militant corruption, he’s dismayed by the reckless behaviour of some comrades who cause unnecessary harm. Additionally, he disapproves of their willingness to use torture against perceived traitors and enemies. He strongly condemns bullying within the Rebel Army, particularly when directed towards individuals with physical or mental differences. As a steadfast advocate for equality, he believes that every soldier deserves respect and dignity, regardless of their background or intellect. He appreciates the vacation days, which give him the perfect excuse to spend quality time with his two closest friends outside of work and visit his mother, whom he deeply loves and cherishes.

Backstory: Torquil Aitken was born on November 15, 1994 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States. His father, Vernon Aitken, was a renowned archaeologist driven by a passion for adventure and a desire to share his discoveries with the world. His mother, Elspeth, is a veterinarian who also works part-time as a convenience store clerk. His parents loved him dearly and did everything to ensure he would lead a successful, resilient, and optimistic life, instilling in him the fearlessness to tackle any challenges that came his way. He has four siblings, including an older sister named Sloane and twin older brothers, Fearghas and Farquhar, all of whom care about him deeply.

Vernon would share with him his archaeological endeavours and contributions to the advancement of ethical archaeology. In contrast, Elspeth taught him the value of treating animals with kindness, while emphasising the importance of companionship, love, and living a healthy lifestyle. Additionally, he often assisted his mother with meal preparation, with dinner being his favourite meal to prep.

Torquil was a mildly quiet and worrisome kid who was anxious around strangers, but once they had earned his trust, he would become a talkative jokester when he felt comfortable around them. He would frequently engage in playful banter, pull pranks on Sloane and Fearghas, and play soccer with Farquhar. He was also fascinated by his siblings' hobbies and would often intently watch Sloane work on her scrapbooking projects, Farquhar write poetry, and Fearghas play video games, driven by his curiosity.

Sadly, just two months after he turned 13, Vernon met a tragic end. Vernon and his team of fellow archaeologists were attempting to escape a sudden mummy uprising in an ancient tomb within a previously unexplored pyramid in Ajirabia, as their careful probing inadvertently awakened the curse of Nephthys. In their frantic bid to contain the mummies, debris dislodged by dynamite fell and crushed him. This was devastating news for Torquil, his older siblings, and Elspeth, plunging her into a state of melancholy. However, Elspeth knew she couldn't give up easily, so she did everything in her power to raise her four children on her own.

After losing Vernon, Torquil adopted a more extroverted, carefree, and fun-loving demeanour reminiscent of his father. As he now lives with his mother, Elspeth, who is struggling financially, he took it upon himself to find a way to support his family. He drew inspiration from his older siblings, each of whom had their own part-time jobs. Sloane was a librarian assistant, Fearghas held a position as a data entry clerk, and Farquhar worked in lawn care. Leveraging his interest in fine-tuning cars and tanks, he came up with a brilliant idea: volunteering for businesses that required transportation services. By making deliveries and carrying materials, he earned a steady income, allowing both him and his family to stay afloat financially for a while.

At 33, Torquil's life took a dramatic turn when Maurice, a coworker and high school acquaintance, revealed that the Rebel Army was seeking new recruits. With minimal persuasion, Torquil saw this as a thrilling opportunity to witness tanks up close and eagerly volunteered. However, his mother was hesitant to let him go, fearing the dangers of warfare and the possibility of losing her son. She worried about his safety and whether he would return home alive. His siblings were also worried, uncertain if the Rebel Army was a legitimate military organisation and fearing he might not make it out alive. Torquil reassured them that he would be fine, then set off to join the Rebel Army, where his expertise with cars and tanks earned him a role as a vehicle driver. To enhance safety, he further volunteered as a grenadier, mastering grenade deployment.

Guilherme Delgado

Nickname: Guil

Occupation: Private and a rifleman of the Rebel Army and a fortune-teller (formerly)

Retirement plans: To start a small business where he can sell his handmade, crocheted clothing

Hobbies: Writing and sketching in his journal, honing his cardistry skills, and crocheting

Likes: Adorable rabbit merchandise, nu metal and post grunge music, and the unique meanings that each tarot card has

Dislikes: Panic attacks, incurable diseases, and people exploiting his kindness for their own selfish gain

Favourite food: Coxinha

Favourite drink: Limonada suíça with condensed milk

Sexuality: Homoromantic graysexual

Gender: Male

Age: 31 (in 2022), 37 (in 2028), 39 (in 2030), 41 (in 2032), 43 (in 2034), 50 (in 2041), 52 (in 2043), 53 (in 2044), and 56 (in 2047)

Design: He’s a 5’ 1” (154.94 cm) Brazilian ectomorph with a lean figure, a mediocre musculature, sloping shoulders, and left hand that has six fingers. He has wavy chocolate brown hair styled as a textured quiff, umber skin, and sunburst green-hazel eyes. His neck bears heavy scarring on the right side, and he has two distinctive facial moles: one located above his eyebrow and another near the centre of his chin. Like Torquil, he dons a metal dog tag necklace with his name and the standard Rebel land troop uniform, which varies depending on his deployment location. Above his left breast pocket, a circular silver badge trimmed in scarlet features a pair of outstretched black dragon wings extending from either side.

He carries a chestnut-hued satchel bag containing his crocheting tools, four yarn balls in different colours, a pencil, an eraser, a red ink pen, and a treasured family heirloom: a worn, handmade Spanish blue leather journal passed down from his great-grandmother. He uses it to record his thoughts, observations, and insights, often accompanied by sketches of the people and environments he encounters. Guilherme wears a navy blue waist pack at the back of his dark teal belt, holding a deck of tarot cards that he often shuffles through to calm his nerves when feeling anxious. A faded greyish-green bandolier is slung over his right shoulder, which securely holds his rifle's ammunition.

Character summary: Due to his compassionate and nurturing nature, he has a habit of prioritising the needs of others over his own, which can sometimes lead to self-neglect. He’s a shy, resourceful, melancholic individual that listens actively and shows genuine interest in others' concerns, but his patience wears thin when his paranoia takes hold. He strives to remain calm in high-pressure situations, but when overwhelmed, his composure can give way to ruthless and reckless behaviour. Guilherme is often taciturn, but will become a skittish loudmouth when impatient and extremely paranoid. He's an incredibly observant person who often notices details that others miss, and has a habit of fleeing from situations he deems particularly grim.

Despite being a down-to-earth sharpshooter, he's surprisingly prone to anger when his rifle jams, particularly in high-stakes situations. When feeling anxious or awkward, he exhibits one of two behaviours: rubbing his hands together or picking at his skin. He deeply admires Torquil's confidence and courage in battle, which inspires him to be more fearless and push through daunting situations. He often joins in on his playful antics and secretly harbours romantic feelings for him, drawn to the kindness and tenderness he shows him. He regards Ferdinand as a wise mentor and strives to prevent him from lashing out at Torquil when he inadvertently provokes his frustration. He has assumed a paternal role in Tyra's life since rescuing her from the clutches of depraved fanatic land troops, offering her much-needed solace and comfort. Whenever possible, he cherishes spending time with her, engaging in wide-ranging conversations and actively listening to her stories about her life's recent developments.

Despite his admiration for General Morden, Allen O'Neil, Logan, and Sagan, he can't shake off the nagging doubts about their true intentions and whether their actions will genuinely topple corrupt governments and militaries. Sagan's platonic pampering makes him feel valued and brings a glimmer of happiness into his life as he struggles with self-doubt. Although he's not fond of how Logan playfully teases him for being timid, he appreciates his words of encouragement, which further motivate him to become a more fearless and assertive fighter. He secretly aids the enemy by leaking classified information and intervening in situations where they're outnumbered and outmatched, all while avoiding detection to prevent being labelled a traitor and suffering the deadly consequences. Marco's allies deeply appreciate his readiness to lend a hand whenever possible and have warmly welcomed him as a trusted friend. He keeps his alliance with the Rebel Army's enemies hidden from Torquil, fearing that if discovered, their friendship would come to an abrupt end.

Unlike his two friends, he has a complicated relationship with the Rebel Army. On one hand, his involvement brings him a sense of fulfillment and boosts his confidence. On the other hand, he’s deeply troubled by the constant violence, cacophony, and disturbing incidents of racism and sexual assault he has witnessed, which leave him feeling miserable. He deeply regrets joining the Rebel Army, yet he remains loyal due to his strong bonds with his two closest friends, whom he cannot bear to leave behind. Additionally, he feels compelled to continue supporting Marco's allies, fearing that if he were to leave, they would abandon him. Another concern that keeps him from retiring is the traumatic experiences he endured during his time in the Rebel Army, which he believes would make it difficult for him to reintegrate into society. He's immensely glad that he's been granted vacation days, which he uses to hang out with his two best friends and spend quality time with his long-lost sister and his pet rabbit.

Backstory: Guilherme Delgado was born on April 3, 1991 in Salvador, Brazil. He got along fairly well with his father, and he made sure his son had adequate food and a safe place to live. At the age of 6, he witnessed a traumatic event that would leave a lasting impact: his father taking his own life with a hunting rifle. Compounding this trauma, his mother was largely absent from his life, leaving behind a legacy of secrets and mysteries surrounding his family. The only few things he knew about her were that her last name was Delgado, she had an older sister, she wasn’t on good terms with his father, and she worked in the clothing manufacturing business. His anxiety stems from his childhood experiences growing up in a violent and cruel environment, where he had to find ways to survive.

Fortunately, his aunt and great-grandmother provided a safe haven for him to stay in until he was mature enough to venture out into the world on his own. He remembers his aunt as strict and grumpy at times, but deeply loving, while his great-grandmother was incredibly compassionate and would often tell him Portuguese legends and stories about her own life experiences. His cousin, Juscelino, didn't get along with him because he struggled to connect with Guilherme due to his social difficulties and sensitive nature. Additionally, Juscelino felt overshadowed by the extra attention Guilherme received from their great-grandmother. As a result, Juscelino often ignored Guilherme, partly because he knew Guilherme would tattle on him if he teased or bullied him.

He was formerly a devout Catholic, often praying to God for hope in a better future and the strength to persevere. Additionally, he would pray to Menina Izildinha for good health, protection from harm, and deliverance from diseases for himself, his aunt, and his great-grandmother. To earn a living, he turned to fortune-telling, using tarot readings to predict the future, and also created handmade crochet items like scarves, ponchos, sweaters, and hats to sell on the side.

However, he lost his faith in Catholicism when his great-grandmother died from a hemorrhage after a devastating fall. Shortly after, his aunt passed away from a debilitating disease with no available cure. Juscelino distanced himself from Guilherme, irrationally blaming him for the tragic losses they had suffered. He had come to view Guilherme as a bad omen, and this misguided perception only intensified the overwhelming sadness and loneliness that lingered after the passing of his aunt and great-grandmother. Before his great-grandmother passed away, she gave him her journal, and he decided to use it to record his insights and observations, and sketch the people and environment around him. He would also adopt a lop-eared rabbit with a harlequin fur coat named Janaina. Journaling and the companionship of his newly adopted bunny brought him some solace, alleviating some of his sorrow and isolation.

As an adult, he continued to explore his surroundings, still haunted by unresolved questions about his family's past: What had happened to his mother? Had he had any brothers or sisters? Driven by a desire for answers, he embarked on an odyssey to find more members of his family. After a long and arduous search, he finally found his lost sister, Geovana. As they spent time together, he learned that she had been a successful surgeon.

However, his life took a dramatic turn when he stumbled upon a propaganda flyer promoting recruitment for the Rebel Army. Feeling unfulfilled and without direction, he made the difficult decision to leave Janaina in his sister's care and joined the Rebel Army five months before the Great Morden War. Once he had joined, he was frequently picked on by the others for being timid and a person of colour, which caught the attention of Torquil. Torquil offered to be Guilherme's friend, which he hesitantly accepted, and they remained on relatively good terms since then.

Ferdinand Hofbauer

Nickname: Ferdan

Occupation: Specialist and a Gatling soldier of the Rebel Army and a landscape architect (formerly)

Retirement plans: He's not entirely sure what he wants to do after his military service ends

Hobbies: Attending classical opera performances, rock balancing, and collecting taxidermy

Likes: His beloved house pets, fine art enthusiasts, and baroque architecture

Dislikes: Winter, being reminded of his wife’s death, and needlessly wasting functional technology and edible food

Favourite food: Homemade apple strudels and bosna

Favourite drink: Grape soda

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Gender: Male

Age: 38 (in 2022), 44 (in 2028), 46 (in 2030), 48 (in 2032), 50 (in 2034), 57 (in 2041), 59 (in 2043), 60 (in 2044), and 63 (in 2047)

Design: He’s a 5’ 3” (160.02 cm) Austrian endomorph with a partial beer belly, decent muscles, and broad shoulders. He has straight jet black hair styled as a crew cut, warm beige skin, blue-grey eyes, and a finely chopped goatee. A cut scar crosses his left cheek, and he has a prosthetic right leg that almost seamlessly blends with his skin. He has a shimmering silver-grey glass eye in place of his right eye, marked by a scar from a severe stab wound. Like Torquil and Guilherme, he dons a metal dog tag necklace with his name and the standard Rebel land troop uniform, which varies depending on his deployment location. On his right breast pocket, a metallic black skull with a missing jaw and scarlet eyes hangs from a silver-white ribbon, secured by a golden clip.

Ferdinand always carries around two photographs: one of him and his deceased wife on their Caribbean honeymoon, and another of him sharing a meal with his two best friends at a café in Gerhardt City. He wears a harvest gold waist pack on the right side of his brownish-black belt, equipped with his silver-plated night vision binoculars, a pack of cigarettes, an almond-hued lighter, a black digital camera, and five cans of grape soda. He often shares a couple of grape soda cans with his closest friends, Torquil and Guilherme. He carries a heavy minigun with a back-mounted ammo pack, a machete sheathed at his left hip, and a Desert Eagle-designed pistol secured in a crimson drop-leg holster on his right.

Character summary: He's quite serious and overprotective of his two best friends, Torquil and Guilherme, due to a deep-seated fear of losing them, stemming from the tragic loss of his pregnant wife. He’s a by-the-book individual who carefully follows protocols and expects the same from others, maintaining a stern expression while trying to avoid distractions. He’s a strategic thinker that rarely complains, preferring to keep his true emotions hidden behind a stoic mask. He has a fearsome temper, triggered only when people neglect their duties or stir up unnecessary trouble. He asserts himself confidently, especially when defending those he cares about, and doesn't back down easily, refusing to accept "no" as a final answer.

He's extremely sensitive about his weight and becomes deeply upset when others mock him, often responding with angry outbursts and profanity. Ferdinand is a wise and hard-boiled individual with a penchant for surveilling his surroundings due to his hypervigilance. He lives with chronic depression, but he prefers to keep it private due to concerns about the stigma surrounding mental health. He sometimes finds Torquil's overconfidence and playful nature grating, particularly when it leads to slacking off and distractions. In contrast, he’s deeply concerned about Guilherme's fragile mental state and makes a conscious effort to offer comfort and support him during his darkest moments.

He holds General Morden, Allen O'Neil, Logan, and Sagan in high esteem, and his gratitude for serving in the Rebel Army leads him to trust their judgement implicitly without questioning their motivations or moral compass. Although he protests Sagan's affectionate nature, which includes lavish praise, playful flirtations, and tender kisses, he can't help but secretly enjoy it. He harbours a deep contempt for the fanatic land troops, whose unstable behaviour and penchant for sabotaging vehicles he finds utterly reprehensible. He secretly admires the elite members of the Peregrine Falcons Squad, S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., Ikari Warriors, and Division 6, respecting their exceptional tactical prowess and seamless teamwork. He harbours a lingering sense of guilt whenever he confronts them, but swiftly suppresses it, wary of being perceived as sympathetic to the Regular Army.

He's the sole confidant of Guilherme's clandestine assistance to Marco's allies, but he remains tight-lipped about it, fearing the consequences of exposing someone he cares deeply about. Despite his reservations, he occasionally lends a reluctant hand to Marco's allies in extreme circumstances, such as when they're lost or desperately low on supplies, even though it troubles him to aid the enemy. Unlike his two closest friends, he holds the Rebel Army very dear to his heart because it provides him with a sense of purpose and an outlet to exercise his mental acuity and physical prowess. He values his vacation days, which give him the opportunity to spend quality time with his pets and reconnect with his father, a retired police officer living in the Austrian countryside, whom he had drifted apart from after the loss of his wife.

Backstory: Ferdinand Hofbauer was born on August 26, 1984 in Kufstein, Austria. His father, Gottfried Hofbauer, was a distinguished police officer who had once aspired to be a therapist. However, he changed careers after noticing the alarming rise in crime rates. Tragedy struck when his wife suddenly passed away shortly after their son's 5th birthday, succumbing to mysterious and unforeseen heart-related health complications, leaving him a widower. Recognizing the importance of both parents in a child's life, he remarried, hoping to provide a mother figure for his son. His stepmother, a public opinion analyst, presented herself as a charming and affectionate person, but beneath this façade, she was a hedonist who was verbally abusive and neglectful towards Ferdinand, viewing him as an obstacle to her husband's affection. In contrast, his father was a simple man who cherished the lives of the innocent and his family above his own, finding joy in the small things in life during his quiet moments.

At the age of 7, Ferdinand began exhibiting signs of child verbal abuse and neglect, which deeply concerned his father. When Ferdinand revealed that his stepmother was responsible for the mistreatment, Gottfried was consumed by strong displeasure and even regretted remarrying. He made the difficult decision to divorce Ferdinand's stepmother and severed all ties with her, prioritising his son's safety and well-being above all else.

While attending university to study architecture, he met the love of his life, Franziska. They went on numerous dates, including attending art museums and baking homemade desserts, and grew closer. After completing their college education, Ferdinand proposed to Franziska. After getting engaged, they married a year later and spent their honeymoon in the Caribbean, where they began thinking about starting a family.

Four years after landing their dream jobs—Ferdinand as a landscape architect and Franziska as a law clerk—they decided it was time to start a family. Franziska became pregnant, but tragically, her life was cut short. At just five months pregnant, she was brutally mugged and killed by an unknown assailant on a snowy day while out getting lunch. Ferdinand, who was at work, learned of his wife's passing via a phone call from his mother-in-law, leaving him utterly devastated and heartbroken.

After his wife's passing, he quit his job, feeling lost and aimless because Franziska had been the source of his happiness. Struggling to move on, he became withdrawn and distant, and developed self-destructive habits: chain-smoking, frequenting bars, and getting into trouble with the law for public indecency and starting fights. He would also gain more weight as he turned to binge eating and alcohol as a way to numb his emotional pain. He drifted apart from his father because he didn’t want to burden him with his personal struggles. Seeking comfort, he adopted two pets: a Russian Blue cat named Franziska, after his late wife, and a Styrian Coarse-haired Hound named Benedikt. This decision brought some solace to his sorrow and gave him a renewed sense of motivation to improve his lifestyle and health, and to search for new meaning in life.

Three years before the Great Modern War, Ferdinand stumbled upon a recruitment advertisement for the Rebel Army, urging citizens to join their ranks. Seeing an opportunity to find purpose, he decided to join the army and become a soldier, hoping to do something meaningful for once. Although he faced ridicule for his weight and solitary nature, he swiftly silenced doubters by showcasing his military prowess and innate leadership abilities. As the Great Modern War began, Ferdinand met Torquil, who was repairing his Type-4 Girida-O, and Guilherme, who was sketching in his journal, at a campsite in a forest near the Villeneuve Mt. System, where he and his fellow comrades were stationed. Desiring an end to the bullying he faced for being a loner, he made the bold move to approach them, and surprisingly, they instantly clicked, forming a lasting and inseparable bond that has endured to this day.

[bengaly]

Can you tell me more about Jiji and his species? I love their design!

Hello!! Yeah sure! Jiji is a meao-ixuí! They're those guys:

Jiji being the white one here:

Meao-ixuí are a species I'm revamping from some really old concepts I used to draw. I LOVED long eared, flat faced creatures and I made a thousand of them - some were their own species, some not. Heres some ideas from 2008/2009:

They're more recognisable as meaos in 2010:

Since they weren't really a single species but a set of features I enjoyed drawing, I never really wrapped them up as a single thing. So back last year 2019 or so I decided to turn those concepts I been drawing for over a decade into a species, the name being "meao" which is a silly way of writing "miau" (meow in portuguese) because thats what me and @mirtiloart called everything in our teens. So I'm kinda honouring my teenager self with that name. Theres more than one way to draw meaos - long and flat faced, and thats where the -ixuí suffix comes. Meao-ixuí are long faced ones, and meao-xatpan are flat faced ones. Heres a flat faced one from 2009 btw:

So! Their current design and lore isn't fully developed yet. I have thought a lot of little things about their culture and species, but its not a complete puzzle yet. I can for sure say so far is that they're from the tropics, are sentient, they're from a world with multiple sentient species and they're kinda the oddball there for being the only one around whos gynandropmorphic. They're marsupial-like, having pouches, and have some cool thylacoleo-like teeth:

This one is from 2019 and I've since then tuned the teeth a bit down but its still a fun way to draw it! (I've also noticed I didn't post this here which I will do after this ask) They're not very widespread in their world and often keep close to their traditional territories. Traveling around the world is a bit dangerous for them as certain things that are common in sentient communities is toxic to them - mostly things other species like to smoke so they can't really avoid it. Jiji travels as a nomad merchant with that yellow xoywren in the chibi picture, his name can be either Little Bee, Igutsak or Mayanga. Jiji is very skilled with weaving and embroidery, and since certain gatherings are dangerous for her health, its often Igutsak doing the negotiations. Personality wise, Jiji is a very chill meao. Shes often observing things in the background, but will jump in any conversation - invited or not - if she finds an opportunity for profit. Shes often the one giving ideas while Igutsak executes them. She and Igutsak adopt a human kid in their story (which is a very fun way to develop how different species deal with their offspring), and she was the one who noticed an abandoned baby hidden in a dense forest area. Igutsak is the one who nurses the kid, so heres again she being the brains while hes the action. Oh also, their world doesn't has currency. Negotiations are done by trading time, services and items. Jiji is often carrying a thousand things around in her basket backpack, which is what she is wearing in the chibi. Also the red markings on her are make-up! Meaos do that to protect bare skin areas from the sun, and also to look cool.

[bantarleton]

Thomas Dowdeswell, by Joseph Blackburn c. 1778. Dowdeswell was a Lieutenant and Captain (a ranking convention peculiar to the Brigade of Guards that I won’t get into here) in the 1st Foot Guards during the American Revolution, and this portrait shows him in the modified campaign uniform he wore in the early years of the conflict.

Superficially it follows what we might expect from an officer’s garb, but differs from standard regulations in many interesting ways. Firstly, Dowdeswell’s hat is not the cocked “tricorn” (to use the later term) that we’re used to – it’s been modified by being cut down into a small round hat, with the lace left off and only one side pinned up, plus a few feathers.

He carries a fusil and bayonet and the accoutrements that go with it – belting and a cartridge pouch, making him appear in this regard almost indistinguishable from a regular private soldier. It seems he doesn’t have a sword. He has kept his gorget and sash, but removed the gold lace from around his buttons. In fact, his regimental coat has been cut down to a jacket, with the skirts shortened.

Besides these more obvious modifications, there are many minor ones that set him apart, from the pointed design of the cuffs to the slender trim of white cord around his collar and turnbacks. It is an ensemble that doesn’t match most regulations, but fits with reality.

Officers rarely modified their uniforms wholesale during the war, but nor were they all strident followers of the 1768 regulations. The traditional rank signifiers of sash, gorget and epaulettes were sometimes present in different combinations. Not, of course, that a formal portrait necessarily denotes exactly what was worn during active service, but in Dowdeswell’s case he seems to have specifically worn his “campaign uniform.”

There are further caveats to this – the Brigade of Guards made a lot of specific uniform modifications prior to deploying to North America in 1776, but didn’t keep all of them up throughout the war. Officers dressed differently in different theatres and at different times.

But I think the Dowdeswell portrait gives a nice indication of some of the variation at play. Much of this comes from the brilliant research of Professor Gregory Urwin, who has studied and analysed hundreds of portraits of British officers from the period. For the full modifications undertaken by the Brigade of Guards in 1776, see this excellent article by William W. Burke and Linnea M. Bass https://www.military-historians.org/company/journal/guards/guards.htm 15/15