#saved me from scrapping a fuck load of works

[corrodedparadox]

Handposting

[afawnable]

★ . . . god I'm newly eighteen and I'm so fucking horny. so to try and fix it I'm being the worst student known to man. turning up late. wearing the shortest skirts to show off my bare pussy. the thinnest tops with no bra so people will stare at my boobs. all so that I'll piss off my teachers so much. that they'll drag me to the staff room and lock the door.

★ . . . tell me to strip naked. and when i refuse they force me down. ripping and cutting the clothes off my body. not caring that they are literal scraps on the floor. a slut like me doesn't deserve clothes. especially when I've been such a bad girl. they'll take turns punishing me.

★ . . . spanking my ass till it's redder than the apple I stole from my math teacher that one time. then shoving my holes full of sex toys. forcing me to take orgasm after orgasm. all of them laughing at me while abusing my poor swollen cunt.

★ . . . writing words all over my body in permanent marker. like 'free use slut' 'cum dump' 'brain dead fuck toy' 'rape toy' 'breeding bitch' and more. and just as I'm about to pass out they slap me awake and drug me with asphoradic.

★ . . . telling me the main event is about to begin. forcing me to suck off and eat out all of my teachers while apologising for being such a bad girl. before forcing me to take multiple dicks at a time. stuffing me full of cum. taking me in multiple positions. recording me in the process so they can jake off to the video's later.

★ . . . they make sure all my holes get bred. to the the point where I'm covered in so much cum it's disgusting. but don't worry any cum that doesn't find it's way into my holes they'll make me lick myself self clean. a bitch like me shouldn't waste perfectly good cum.

★ . . . at one point the female teachers start feeling neglected and a bit left out while the male teacher rape all my holes. so they get out there straps and have there way with me. suffocating me while making me suckle on there massive tits forcing me to drink their milk like a good girl.

★ . . . and when my mouth isn't busy sucking on big fat heavy breasts it's it's busy chocking on nine inch straps and sucking on fat juicy pussy lips. the are loaded with my cum so I'm forced to taste myself over and over again.

★ . . . suddenly the door opens and in walks the principal vice principal and the school parent committee. the moment I see them I beg for them to help me to save me from his mess. but they just join in stripping down to nothing and joining in on the fun.

★ . . . I don't know at what point I stopped fighting them. maybe when they tied me down to the coffee table and started pouring hot wax over me. or maybe it was when I felt all of those hands touch and grope me. twisting my nipples leaving angry red bites and hickeys all over my body and shoving stuff in my holes to keep me nice and plugged. wouldn't want any of that spilling out now would we?

★ . . . or maybe it was when my best friends mom was riding my face. while she smacked my tits red with a flog. smacking harder when she noticed I slowed down telling me to put more effort in saying it was the reason I was such a bad student. and scolded me for being a bad influence on her daughter

★ . . . "thank god my sweet jessie is nothing like this, your enjoying this aren't you getting fucked like some cheap whore god but god do you have a talent with that tongue of yours. if I had it my way i'd lock you in my basement and keep you as my pet how does that sound? I'd buy you a nice shiny collar keep you in tight skimpy outfits or better yet nothing at all, turn you into mine and my husbands favorite bitch. what was that? no? I can't hear you guess your mouth is so full of pussy it's left you speachless not like i'd give a whore like you a say anyway."

★ . . . while my or three other friends dads filled me up with there dicks. two in my pussy and one in my ass. the three of them casually talking about work and fishing. and all discussing how my parents should take advantage of having such a slut daughter.

★ . . . "if I had one like her I wouldn't stop raping her no matter how many time I would get her pregnant, not to mention she would make a fortune if I rented her out. not that a slut like you would mind isn't that right sweetie. oh my wife would love you, young dumb and so willing to spread your legs. I can't blame for jason wanting to be friends with you"

★ . . . all of them agreeing to inquire if they could 'borrow' me a couple times a week. and continued to fuck me while my teachers graded my tests from final week. all naked and now nursing glasses of wine as they enjoyed watching me get fucked to death.

★ . . . eventually the principal vice principal and the school parent committee all had to leave. but not after taking there fare share of photo's and video's of my messy fucked out form. while also covering me in one final orgasm. before stepping over my limp abused body. leaving without another look.

★ . . . leaving me with my teacher once again. who first scolded me for failing all my test. before beginning my punishment. but stopped for a second when I cried saying my parents are waiting for me. see I had been trapped in the staff room all day and the sun was minutes away from setting. but they all told me not to worry as they had called my parents to let them know I will be taking private tutoring sessions which require me to stay in school full time. and they shouldn't expect me home for the foreseeable future. and to my horror they agreed signing the legal paper work with out batting an eye.

★ . . . "your folks were rather eager to sign you over to us, though I can blame them a stupid fucking whore like you could test even a saints patience. oh don't cry love we've found something your actually good at, being a brain dead slut! isn't that amazing?"

★ . . . and with that my punishment began. rape me till I was pregnant. which I didn't even have the energy to fight. as I was too tired and not on birth control. so I was definitely getting knocked up. and there was nothing I could do to stop it. while they all whisper filthy words in my ear. about how I'll definitely get pregnant with there rape baby. so I'll be forced to drop out and have to rely on them. but I shouldn't worry they'll all take turns looking after me. locking me up in there homes. keeping me naked well fucked and full of cum. letting them and there partners heck even there parents have there way with me. like the true whore that I am. but that was for later !!

[eph3merall]

18+ content, smut, stalker!matt / don't proceed to read if stalking is a triggering concept to you.

☆ . . . matt knew it was wrong. gaining your trust was just so easy, though, he couldn't help himself. really. you were sweet and naïve, and how could he not take advantage of that when you were just the prettiest thing ever as well?

it's why he finds his tongue prodding his cheek as a big ringed hand slides one of your drawers open to reveal the pretty laid out panties. cute pastels, neutrals, some flashy, lace reds as well. he's biting down on his tongue to stop the groan suddenly clawing up his throat.

matt wasn't in a rush, no. he'd driven you to a party earlier with your girlfriends, albeit a little reluctant since there would be guys there. worse comes to worse, he can track your phone anyways.

sliding the black backpack off his shoulders and letting it drop to your carpeted floor, he unzips a smaller pocket to fumble for the pairs of panties he bought a few days back. two pink and white pairs in the exact brand and style, because he couldn't have you finding out what he was doing, right? that'd be such a shame.

sure, it's freaky and creepy and some people would call him psychotic.

swapping out the neatly lines up pairs in your drawer with the ones he bought just a few days ago, he stashes them in the pocket of his backpack—not before bringing a pair up to his face to sniff them though.

his teeth dig into his bottom lip to stifle the groan building up, even though he's alone in your room. taking a few steps towards your bed, matt sits himself onto the edge of it.

soon enough though, his cock is straining hard against his boxers and sweatpants just from the smell of your sheets and pillows. once his junk is free, a tortured groan leaves his lips once he's starting to pump at it—pre cum already leaking from his slit.

he can't help his free hand reaching for a pair of your panties, pressing them up to his face to sniff at them. his hand works in fruition for the release he's suddenly craving so badly.

god, he's crazy.

yeah, it's wrong and all but fuck matt feels so good. without a second thought in his head he's bringing your panties down to shoot his load into the crotch area of the fabric. chest heaving and tongue swiping over now dry lips, he's sighing heavily.

blue eyes come into focus some more, and he's quick to clean his hand up. washing them and making sure he didn't get any of his cum on your carpeted floors or his own clothes—then stuffing the messy scrap of fabric back into a pocket of his backpack.

slinging both straps over his shoulders, his hood finds placement back on the mess of brunette curls on his head. he's leaning over your bed to fix it—replicating the wrinkles and messy corners. fluffing up your pillows and making sure everything is in place and all perfect.

even if you wouldn't notice, he shouldn't risk it. after how far matt's come? yeah, no. blue eyes take a sweep over your room to make sure nothing is in the wrong place or order, nodding to himself and running a hand through his hair as he slips out of your room.

walking to his car he parked in your driveway, he slides his phone from his pocket once he's in the drivers seat of his car. he just couldn't help but scroll through the album of photos he had saved of you, a slow smile spreading on his face with each scroll. you were so pretty, it made him sick. and also a little hard again.

starting his car out of your driveway, matt pulls up your number.

"hey. y'ready for me to come pick you up yet or nah?"

fun fact. this wasnt gonna be the og writing, draft ended up not saving the first time and i was SO mad. bc the first draft (in my own opinion bc no one else has read it) was so good and UGH am i horribly upset it didnt save. this vers is a lil shorter i remember but hopefully its enjoyable!! after that vers not saving i wanted to give up on writing this but.

stalker!matt prompt/idea (?) lowkey from @sturnioz (pretty girl please lmk if you dont want me tagging you <33)!!! sort of? maybe??? idk. its 3 am im really tired :/

do we fw stalker!matt bcs im thinking of writing him a fic lols.

not proofread as always... i wrote this while listening to faye webster, mac demarco, n the smiths n idk how to feel about that bc this was filthy

—

©eph3merall 2024

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hope you don't mind my idea, I may be a bit biased towards soldier lads ^^;

If your working with Lethal Company, how about a situation where the reader isn't scared of the Nutcracker, but is crazy enough to try and befriend it cause they like the fairytale that much?

OOO this is a big brain idea-

Nutcrackers stress me out,,but oh to befriend them..

.....

With the quota constantly rising, you and your team had to take greater risks on moons with more hostile creatures roaming about....all for the sake of selling scrap.

You four had different roles: One was a scouter, the second a budget manager, the third a fighter (they never left the ship without a shovel or zap gun), and you manned the ship while everyone else explored the facilities.

You watched the monitors and chatted with them through walkie-talkies, alerting them to loot or danger.

Although you've saved their lives more times than you could count on both hands, you kinda got bored and wanted to help collect scrap yourself.

One day, the bestiary on the terminal gets updated with a new creature:

The Nutcracker.

Not long afterwards, everyone returned to the ship freaking the fuck out. Nobody died, and the loot was decent, but they were very much shaken-up by this "Nutcracker" entity they encountered.

It apparently had a shotgun that made them all nearly deaf upon firing AND came close to blowing their brains out.

Yet viewing its model on the terminal did awaken a little bit of childhood nostalgia in you, seeing as it looked like a life-sized nutcracker soldier.

Back on Earth, you loved that fairytale: The Nutcracker and the Mouse.

You even watched performances of the ballet/suite around Christmas.

Least to say, you weren't scared of it..and you wanted to actually see this entity for yourself.

Your team opposed it, until one employee mentioned their scanner registered the shotgun as scrap--and you volunteered to go retrieve it since it could set you above the quota.

Obviously you weren't gonna do that, but managed to convince them to let you go alone.

So you get teleported into the facility, almost immediately spotting the Nutcracker on its patrol, walking around like a true soldier and clicking as it surveyed its surroundings.

You notice the upper half of its head extending, revealing a grisly fleshy eye in its "mouth" as it rotated around.

Now you knew it was likely just a machine controlled by a parasite, but you were still fascinated by it nevertheless.

Then your walkie talkie goes off.

"Hurry up, we leave at midni-"

You instantly turn it off, yet the Nutcracker was alerted.

Next thing you knew, it swung around the corner you were hiding, loading two bullets into it shotgun as it stomped closer and closer...

That's when you got an insane idea and pulled out some items you've held onto since starting this job:

A hard copy of the original Nutcracker tale and a smaller figurine of the soldier.

They were comforts from your childhood. You'd never sell them as scrap. Not even if they're worth a million dollars.

You see the entity hesitate, before the eye reveals itself again and stares at your treasured collectibles.

"I-I always liked your stories and ballets.." You stammer out, still facing down the barrel of its gun, knowing death could await you at any moment. "Could we....maybe be friends, Nutcracker, sir?"

You doubt the damn thing could even understand you...

But then it suddenly shifts its focus back on you and raises its gun, opening fire-

Yet you don't drop dead.

Instead you hear the hiss of a Bracken who was mere centimeters away from snapping your neck, and you realize a bullet tore through one of its leaves.

It looked betrayed, but the Nutcracker's one-eyed glare sent it scurrying back into the shadows.

Apparently it was scared of brief eye contact from all creatures, not just humans.

You couldn't believe what just happened.

The Nutcracker...defended you?

You began to thank it for saving your life, but it's cut short when you're teleported back to the ship and your crew is relieved it's not your dead body.

Yet they'd call you crazy if you even implied that you somehow befriended the entity that just tried killing them all...

So you keep this secret locked away in your journal, wondering if there's other Nutcrackers out there who'd act like the one who saved you.

[scalproie]

stuff I noticed on (???)th rewatch:

Even tho for plot reasons it cant be him, Laurence Fishburne aka Alpha Trion voices the narrator in the archives, fitting since Alpha Trion was the prime in charge of preserving history

Steve Blum voices one of the guard

Shockwave alt mode model spotted when Orion was falling

Orion was just about to enter the miners barracks when when he got caught up while he was fleeing from the archives

Love the little details of the miners knowing each other (miners going "oh. It's Orion." when he was on the train or Moonracer and D-16 silently aknowledging one another, or later the miners from their sectors recognizing them in the race)

Jazz behind Orion in the train and Ironhide talking with Arcee in the background

Cute

Kinda horrifying that they are supposed to leave a fellow bot to die as per protocol. I guess one bot dying is better than three but still, you could already see the system was unfair, they did save Jazz but got no recognition for it. Also despite her irritation, Elita was throwing those supporting sticks like javelins to help them

Jazz being cared for by a cogless bot who looks a bit like ratchet, tho it cant be ratchet since he's namedropped as a doctor later

D-16 helping Orion up

Before she got fired and based on their miner badges, D-16 was a tier away from being at Elita's rank (meanwhile Orion's a shit miner based on his badge alone)

Wheeljack most likely also being fired by Darkwing in the background (speaking of, its funny that the explosion started with Wheeljack)

The scrapped punching bag still being in the background in the barracks

Orion's hand on D-16's shoulder when Sentinel talks about the matrix, then him taking it away when he says he didnt find it

D-16 probably has changed berth before, at the end of the movie, we see that he initially added a huge Megatronus sticker to its left side, but the one we see him sleep in doesnt have it, or maybe in 50 cycles, the sticker simply got damaged with time and had to be removed.

Speaking of, D-16's sticker got damaged FAST

Steve Blum also voices the Iacon 5000 announcer, it wouldnt surprise me that hed be one of the voice actors with the most appearances in the transformers franchise as a whole😊

I believe the only mention of the term "cybertronian" in the movie is when Sentinel calls the Iacon citizens his "cybertronian family"

Sentinel lied about the "tomorrow all shifts will be off" for the day of the race: when we first see Orion and D-16 in the race, it cuts to Elita and a few other bots working

Iacon 5000 board:

fairly consistent and lots of familiar names! (RODDY!!! He was in 6th place before falling back to 9th😔, and Chromia climbed her way up until she was second place at the very end before winning)

D-16's quiet "what is happening" during the big laugh

Darkwing actually being a decepticon in G1 is gonna be so funny in this continuity. Hey what if the guy you relentlessly bullied turned into not only your future boss but also one of the two strongest individuals on this planet and he is known for his rage and lust for revenge

The gag of Bee showing the duo what his job is and telling them he's supposed to pick out what's salvagable among the trash while his helmet he uses as an exemple, smth clearly useful, is just fucking gone in the fire

Nitpicking here and 100% paying attention to details that dont matter but Alpha Trion's map reinforce my belief that cybertron is like. A Tiny Planet. Perhaps the train is incredibly fast and get them closer to the location but it still only take them a day on foot (and later on wheels) to get halfway across the planet

"Easy! ... But it wont be easy."

Prowl and Ironhide loading the crates onto the train, then the two talking in the bg, then finally leaving when Elita goes to investigate the train

Speaking of, love the locked crates system, its clever

Also Elita showing she already know how to fight by the way she beat the trio's ass, which explains her fighting skills later in the movie, she's not a badass out of nowhere

This sign which after looking a while at the cybertronian alphabet I believe say "No Bot Here"? (Not sure on the "Here")

Bee shoving Orion away from the falling crate in the train

Cybertron constantly shifting💖 that planet is alive💖

D-16 helping Bee out of the ground

Orion waiting for D-16 to catch up

Cybertron is also 75% metallic rock formations apparently, judging by the scenery the gang passes by

In addition, everything organic looks foreign, so this is more going into hc territory but maybe the quintessons did bought organic flora with them during the war, "contaminating" the planet, which then could grow into forests

D-16 is downright TINY next to Megatronus' head, which makes the comparaison with Megatron at the end (who is most likely as tall as Megatronus thanks to his cog and his second transformation) kinda jarring

A flower straight up has teeth, I genuinely dont believe its native to Cybertron

Alpha Trion says the war against the quintessons lasted "thousand of cycles" and its fascinating to me: the original storyboards had Orion stating that the war had been over for 1000 cycles- now changed to 50 cycles for the movie and 1) it means that Sentinel's reign is RIDICULOUSLY SHORT all things considered, this is like, after 10 years of war, being in charge only for a MONTH before it all comes crashing down... (now that I think about it, I think my brain wouldve liked the original "Sentinel ruled for 1000 cycles" more) and 2) it somewhat gives me the impression that cybertronians are... actually pretty young? As a race?

During the sand flashback, Prima (or Liege Maximo, they have the same colors here) goes down first buried under Quintessons

Optimus will inherit his matrix axe from Zeta

Also Zeta's head looks like a crown

The Quintessons' main ship not only look organic, which is gross and cool af, but the entrance from which the quintessons soldiers and general came down straight up looks like a mouth with teeth

Orion shaking his head when D-16 says he only cares about himself

Biolights visible during the gang's first transformations💙

D-16 and Elita bumping each other after their transformation, Orion bonks Bee in the chest as well

D-16 IMMEDIATELY putting his fists up at the noise, voice already getting lower too

Big mushrooms

Even bigger trees, the trunk alone must be the size of a human skyscraper, and THIS looks like a proper forest with dirt and everything

Cute

D-16's eyes go from yellow with tint of orange to full orange after he goes "I. Got. It." to Orion. They go back to yellow the next time we see him

Sentinel kept the Primes' table with all thirteen chairs

Luna-1 and 2 cameos

THEY REFER TO THE PLACE WHERE THE HIGH GUARD IS HIDING AS A "BUSTED OLD SHIP", IT STILL HAS FLESH AND BONES AND AN ACTUAL SPINE, WHICH MEANS ITS A QUINTESSON'S SHIP AND YES THEY ARE ALIVE

They really build a fort around this ship, it has barricades and everything

People already know this but Starscream's throne resembles his crown and cape from the '86 movie

D-16 shakes his head when Bee calls the High Guard "prestigious", this is after the shot on his perplexed face when Starscream gives them their options

D-16 also clench his fist in the bg when Starscream mention they saw Sentinel's betrayal and when the Primes fell

RAMJET POG

Everyone already noticed D-16 licking his teeth before the headbutt

Btw how did the High Guard know his full actual name? Orion only ever called him "Dee"

Thrust was SUPER into D-16's speech

Obvious, but D-16's fully go orange at that point

Airachnid and Sentinel's forces shoot yellow blasts, the High Guard shoots purple

Again, another one people know about but Thundercracker swaps with Skywarp between shots (G1 ref💖)

Nothing that proves this, but there seems to be two types of roads in Iacon: permanent ones, and the ones that build themselves as you drive on them, when Orion jumps down to Iacon, he lands on a road and then changes to a autonomous one

THEY GOT ROBO-STREET FIGHTER

The plaza they fight on at the end is directly below the prime tower

If you wanna have fun just focus on any background fight between a seeker and an eradicon when they fight in the tower

In the dogfight before they leave the tower you have Soundwave blasting bots away from Shockwave's tail and then Stascream doing the same for Soundwave before also blasting a bot Orion kicked away. Teamwork

Sentinal has his IDW mask!

D-16 is shooting at Sentinel in tank mode in the background while Orion, Elita and Bee make their way to the broadcast station

It looks like Elita crashed through an office

First look at maccadam maybe? (And was able to at least translate what was above the screen)

I have nothing to say for Sentinel's entire execution scene. Got caught up in it again. Cinema.

The ground literally make way for Orion's falling body and then Primus(' spark) himself grabs him to accelerate his fall toward him

Soundwave, Shockwave and Starscream uses each their specific weapons during the "All hail Megatron" part

Optimus tucks his head in turtle-style to dodge Megatron's bullets and its a neat callback to when he transformed for the first time

Ive noticed they often use smoke to save budget by not showing transformation sequences but its ok bc this still looks cool af, they still showed Megatron transform into his tank mode and you can see his head disappearing under the cannon I love it

Megatron can reattach mid-transformation his tank cannon that Optimus tore away and shoot him afterward with it, god this is so fucking dope

This fight is sick as fuck

Optimus looks SO confused just before his axe manifest

Out of the SSSquad, Soundwave completely miss his entrance and slide across accomplishing nothing, he misses his next punch too, Shockwave straight up does not leave the ground 0.5 seconds after he enters the fight, and at least Starscream has the most action out of all of them but also he still gets yeeted into oblivion

You can see Optimus' axe go from his left hand to his right to cut through Megatron's fusion cannons, the yellow energy passes by the matrix and you can see it via his biolights, which btw were lit since he manifested his axe in the first place

Megatron's shaky breaths

Megatron's split-second bitter smile before he spat that "Prime"

And finally, the red paint of Optimus reflecting on Megatron, making his face as red as his eyes

During the flashback, the words "D-16" and "Megatronus Prime" on the berth are written in english and not with cybertronian letters

Also I love pain and being in pain

Megatron was driving a whole 90° up to the surface holy shit

Handsome

The movie takes over the span of 4 days:

Orion trespasses into the archives in the morning of the first day defore work, they have a "normal" day at work afterward and Elita gets demoted, Sentinel announces the Iacon 5000 and Orion wakes D-16 during the night to tell him his plan to run in the race

Second day and day of the race, we have seen that Sentinal have lied about the "tomorrow all shifts off" line so yeah, bots were still working and still had to work after the race, which probably took place only in the morning. Then enough time has passed when Orion and D-16 waited in the medical bay for miners to go back to work and reach 150% quota, then they got dumped with Bee at sublevel 50 and the next instance of time we see is when the train leaves for the surface, during the time we see Iacon at night, so this whole ordeal of waiting and escaping probably took all afternoon and likely night.

Then we see either the sun rising while the quartet in on the train, I choose to believe its the sun rising since we just saw Iacon at night. Anyway then it'd be day 3: they travel to the location of Alpha Trion and escape Quintessons in the morning, witness Sentinel's betrayal, get their cogs and transform for the first time in the afternoon, then travel back to Iacon at night and get caught by the High Guard, then Airachnid embushes the High Guard and there's the whole battle.

Orion gets out of the rubble and its no longer night, so that's day 4, then the rest of the movie happens till the end, and based on the lighting, Id say it took place almost entirely during that morning

We mightve gotten a glimpse of Jazz's alt mode in the epilogue

AAAAAAH

Counting the end credits scene, the movie ends with the 80s decepticons logo!

AAAAAAAAAH

I love this movie Im gonna rewatch another five times

[cdroloisms]

it's like. we get two accounts of scrapped lore from WOG, one from Dream and one from Sam--but a comparison of the ways they describe each event (because both use the first person and i think it's fair to consier both accounts as being influenced by the character's pov for each cc as they describe what happens) has always been so FASCINATING to me.

first, we have dream's account:

"and like, after quackity leaves, i just start running my mouth to sam, like i'm trying to like, i'm just trying to fucking like, manipulate him to, to do whatever the fuck i can to get out of the situation otherwise i'm dead. and so i'm saying like sam, like, sam, like, you know you like, this takes place after the whole, me, um, talking to sam about him being a bad guy and whatever and like i'm like look you can yeah i'm telling you, like, that you are, i've told you this that you are the same as us but you can, you can like prove that you're not. you can prove that you're not. like you have to, uh, you know, if you let, like just let me go, you have to, you know, prove that you're, prove that you're not like us. you're not the same as us. you know. you're, that you're different. and he's not, like, giving in or whatever and i'm like look i, i'll just, i promise! i'll, i'll leave, i'll just leave you both alone. like i, i won't. i'll just leave. i'll just leave. um, and then i like hear, like, quackity coming back and i'm like sam like you have to make your choice! you have to make your choice, like, now! you have, no, no time...[and] sam let me go"

and then sam's:

"the basic idea of the like short story idea was umm that dream got captured by quackity ummm and obviously quackity does not like dream ummm and i was there, and then quackity left? for like, a short period of time. and during that time dream uhh like pleaded to me to like, save him. and then, uh, i would."

and it's just. i think one of my favorite parts of c!dream's narration here, right, is how he gets sam wrong here. how many times, in the prison, had he appealed to sam's better nature? how many times had he tried to convince sam through his morals only to get hit by the typical wall of "i'm a good guy"? even daedalus itself hadn't been enough, as is evident through the existence of scrapped lore in itself, where c!sam obviously had worked with c!quackity to make a trap for c!dream. how many times had c!dream made the promise you can just let me go and i'll leave you alone, how many times had he tried to find some logical in to work with, some handhold in the midst of c!sam's convoluted moral gymnastics to get him to feed him protect him give him something anything please. and just how many times had those attempts failed! and failed thoroughly! the whole premise of c!dream's prove that you're different comes with the loaded implication that c!dream is asking c!sam to prove himself TO DREAM, which just. isn't something c!sam thinks he needs to do? c!dream is throwing everything at the wall, doing anything and everything to get through to sam, running his mouth and attempting to "manipulate" his way to freedom. and none of it, on its own, would work.

and then compare that to sam's narration--yes, obviously, the differences in the ccs and how they'd talk about things plays into this--but the comparative simplicity. look at how c!sam is specifically cast as someone outside of the dichotomy here! he specifically mentions that quackity does not like dream, and then describes his own character as just being "there." he's not being shown as someone on quackity's side against dream--instead, he's being portrayed as a passive observer. then look at how c!dream's rationalizations are literally entirely not mentioned--again, something easily attributed to the differences in narration, but it's still so fascinating to me how not a single one of c!dream's reasons that he gives c!sam to save him (to prove that he's a good person unlike c!quackity and c!dream. because he's been manipulated. because c!dream has promised not to harm him) is mentioned by sam at all--instead, he boils down the 133 words that make up dream's trying to convince him into seven--dream...pleaded to me to...save him. AND HE WOULD.

like, the simplicity of it, at the end of the day. the way c!dream is feeding in every damn input that's coming to his head into sam's stupid morality decision machine of a brain in the hopes that one of them will spit out an end result of i can get the fuck out of here and the way sam boils it all down into a process that's so much simpler: save dream, or not. even the differences in word choice--look at "manipulate" versus "plead", or "let me go" versus "save him." every damn concession c!dream makes every little thing he throws at the wall every attempt to understand c!sam after a year of prison and then the week of daedalus boiled down to this desperate attempt to get out of his own death by the skin of his teeth and how from sam's perspective literally all of that is white noise: there are only two options in front of him, and there is only one, really, to pick. THEY ARE SO

thinking abt scrapped lore again ...

[funkyllama]

I’m seriously considering throwing out my mods, all my wips, and swiftly throwing my story in the trash.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Survival of the Fittest. 

Pairing: Yandere!Bakugo/Reader/Yandere!Kirishima (BNHA).

Word Count: 3.6k.

TW: Apocalypse/No Quirks AU, Unhealthy Codependency, Non-Consensual Touching, Mentions of Death/injury, Non-Graphic Violence, Imprisonment.

You were lucky Kirishima had been the one to find you.

‘Find’ might’ve been the wrong word. It implied that he was looking, that he wanted to discover you, bleeding and battered and bruised, cowering in a grimy corner of what used to be a grocery store. It must’ve looked pathetic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by your torn clothes, your matted hair, the way you’d whimpered as he first approached, all wide eyes and open arms. Survivors were few and far between, and it’d been weeks since you saw another living, breathing person. Kirishima hadn’t seemed like a god-send, not in the moment, but he was a miracle. You’d been too shocked to thank him properly, as he pulled you to your feet and practically carried you out of the city, but you should. You wanted to. You owed him that, if nothing else.

You were lucky it’d been him, rather than Bakugo. You were grateful it hadn’t been Bakugo.

You’d probably still be rotting in that corner, if it had been.

He didn’t seem to like you very much, even if he had begrudgingly moved aside when Kirishima asked if he could bring you inside. It was a bunker, judging by the sparse furniture littered around the common area, plain cement walls only adorned with the occasional hunting knife or bat left to lean against them. The bench Kirishima had left you on was wooden, too stiff to ever be comfortable, but it was a practical choice. Fabric was a luxury to be stowed away and treasured, saved for things more important than a stranger’s comfort. You’d do the same thing, if you’d been in his shoes.

That didn’t stop Bakugo from glaring, though, perching himself on the edge of a nearby crate and refusing to take his eyes off of you, as if you’d already earned and lost his trust. “There’s no fucking advantage,” He started, but he wasn’t talking to you. You weren't worth his time, just yet, not while you were still just a stray Kirishima was too much of a saint to turn away. “We’re not a damn food bank. It’s not out responsibility to babysit every dumbass on the verge of death.”

“Don’t listen to him.” At least Kirishima was kind enough to address you as he slipped back into the common room, taking his place at your side and handing you something – a mug, cremated and unchipped and filled to the brim with something watery, steam still rising off the top. Your first sip was hesitant, but you couldn’t stop yourself from draining the cup once you recognized the taste. Coffee. Cheap, bitter, heavenly coffee, the kind you didn’t have enough clean water to risk trying to make. You could’ve kissed him. You might’ve, if the calm levity in his voice hadn’t snapped you out of it. “Katsuki’s just a little defensive, when it comes to guests. We’ve got plenty of supplies to go ‘round, and…” He trailed off, glancing over you. To the bruises circling your wrist, the stained bandages peaking out from underneath your shirt. To the spot where your ankle twisted just a little too far to the left for the angle to be natural, the evidence of a fall you tried and failed to break with something besides your own body. “I don’t think we can kick someone out in good faith with those kinda injuries. Not with all the crawler activity, lately.”

You flinched at the name alone. Crawler, creatures, the things that used to be people and weren’t, not now, not anymore. You used to think of them as zombies, but that wasn’t right. Calling them zombies would be an injustice, even if they did tend to rot if left to their own devices. Zombies weren’t that fast. Zombies weren’t that distorted. You’d encountered three or four, but you tried to avoid attracting them, when you could. It was easier, when you were on your own.

Bakugo groaned, bringing you out of your thoughts. You tried to stop your hands from shaking, as he spoke. “You’ve got a group to run back to, right? Nobody survives that long without one.”

You tried not to sound as small as you felt. Judging from the way Kirishima glanced away, it was a futile effort. “Nobody survives that long with one, either.”

Kirishima’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, and Bakugo crossed his arms, a sign that must’ve meant submission, judging by Kirishima’s optimistic response. “Just until your ankle’s healed up,” He promised, a compromise you hadn’t asked him to make. “You’ll stay until then, right? ‘d be a shame if we had to lose another person because of Katsuki’s bad attitude.”

There was a sharp ‘hey’, a barely stifled laugh, and slowly, you forced yourself to nod, immediately receiving a bright grin from Kirishima by way of reward. It was a practical choice, honestly – they had food, they had shelter, they didn’t seem to be grasping at threads just to get by. Even if Kirishima was a little too friendly and Bakugo wasn’t nearly friendly enough, you could life with that, you could get by. Once you’d worn out your welcome, you’d leave. As soon as you were fixed up.

You didn’t want to wait for things to go bad, this time.

~

Despite his reluctance, Bakugo didn’t take long to warm up to you.

Kirishima was still the approachable one, obviously. He was who you went to when you needed to find something, when you had a question about their ration system or weaponry or the parts of the bunker you weren’t allowed to go in, rooms with steel doors and deadbolts on the handle and a raw, metallic smell emanating from the other side, but Bakugo always seemed to be lingering just behind him, ready to scoff and roll his eyes before he took you by the wrist and explained that, if you expected to reap the benefits of their hospitality, you had to at least try to pull your weight. He was helpful, like that, his help less patronizing than Kirishima’s, albeit twice as easily frustrated. Still, he didn’t hate you. If anything, he seemed to—

“If you slow down one more time, I’ll feed ya to the damn bears myself.”

You sped up, reflexively. He didn’t hate you, but it wasn’t too late for him to start.

It’d been Kirishima’s idea for you to go hunting. You were still in a splint, the majority of your calf an abstract blend of medical tape and cloth padding, but you bit back the pain as you followed Katsuki down the rough, unpaved trail, gritting your teeth past the ache forming under your skin. It wasn’t a raid. If anything, you were only getting further from the city, working your way up the mountain their bunker was carved into the base of. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been concerned about the crossbow in Katsuki’s hands, the weapon already loaded and poised, but the hunting knife strapped to your thigh eased your nerves, as did his disinterest in doing anything but trudging forward. If he didn’t take the time to call back to you every few minutes, you might’ve thought he’d forgotten you were there entirely.

But, silence never suited you never well. Not with a near-stranger, at least. “You’re not afraid of crawlers?”

“This far out? Fuck no.” It was an immediate answer, quick and shameless. Like an amputation, if an amputation left you nursing a bruised ego rather than bleeding out. “There’s enough fresh meat in the city to keep ‘em occupied. Only the runts ever bother coming out here to look for scraps.”

“I would’ve been that meat,” You mumbled, absent-mindedly. It was an idle thought, more of an admission than an accusation, but judging by the way his posture slackened, how quickly his attention shifted to the foliage, he wouldn’t have cared either way. “If Kirishima hadn’t found me, I mean. God knows I look like an easy target.”

“You are an easy target. Just be glad he’s got a weak spot for charity cases.”

You opened your mouth, ready to ask what he meant, you lost your footing before you got the chance, slipping on the damp leaf litter as a spike of something agonizing ran from your heel to your knee. Bakugo didn’t flinch, letting you catch yourself on his shoulder as he raised his crossbow, barely taking a moment to aim before firing. You could feel the kick-back, a jolting reverberation that only seemed to make the wet thunk that followed a little worse, the sound of an arrow piercing skin and flesh.

You expected that. You were ready for it. But, you hadn’t been prepared for the deafening scream that came afterwards, heart-piercing and human. You moved to rush toward its source, but Bakugo only caught your arm, shaking his head. Like he’d missed, like he’d only killed a deer. Like there wasn’t a person thrashing in the underbrush, still crying out as he spoke over them. “Looters,” He explained, like that was an excuse. “We’ve been dealin’ with them for a while, now. ’s just a scout, but he would’ve been back with reinforcements if we let him run off untouched.”

Bile rose in the back of your throat. For your own sake, you chose to believe him. “So? We can’t just—”

“Yes, we can.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need your permission, and he didn’t want your compliance. He didn’t even bother to justify himself before he turned away, starting back on the trail as you stood, still too shocked to move. “C’mon, we’ve already lost enough sunlight, and I’m not wasting arrows on scum. The fucker can drag himself back to his hideout, for all I care.”

You could’ve argued. Bakugo didn’t seem to think the blow was fatal, but you could’ve checked, made sure, offer what might’ve been a dying man a few last seconds of company before he bit the bullet. You could’ve, part of you wanted to, but…

But then, Bakugo tossed a glare over his shoulder, and your attention was brought back to the crossbow in his hands, to the machete strapped to his belt, to how pitifully small your knife was, in comparison. You didn’t want to lose the trust you hadn’t really gained, just yet. You didn’t want to take that kind of chance, not when Kirishima wasn’t around to give you the benefit of the doubt.

So, you shut your eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the quiet sobbing in the background as you followed in his tracks.

~

Surprisingly, Kirishima was the first one to slip into your bed.

You told yourself it was a mistake, when he let himself into your room in the middle of the night, closer to sunrise than it was to sunset. None of the doors locked, thin plywood serving as more of a source of comfort than an actual barrier, and beyond your small collection of personal possessions and the bedside table you’d commandeered from storage, your room was identical to any of the eerily unoccupied barracks on the lower layers of the bunker. Still, you expected him to turn around, to see your sleeping form curled up in a corner of your cot and realize he had the wrong room. It was late, and he made a mistake. It didn’t have to be anything more.

But it wasn’t that late, and Kirishima never really made mistakes. He was too careful for anything like that.

At least he was being careful now, too, as far as you could tell with your eyes clenched shut, your breathing restricted to slow, shallow inhales that left your lungs feeling just a little too tight. He was gentle, if nothing else, wrapping a strong arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest and burying his face in the nape of your neck. You didn’t squirm, you didn’t push yourself away, but you must’ve been too stiff, too still, too rigid. He didn’t seem to buy the act, however desperate it was.

“’suki’s real proud of you.” His voice was tired, weighted down by exhaustion. Clearly, he wouldn’t be leaving. “He told me about yesterday. Says you were good, cooperative and all. He likes that kind of thing.”

You didn’t respond, digging your nails into the sterile, medical sheets. Your ankle throbbed, and you tried to focus on that, to justify it. To remember why you could still convince yourself to stay.

“He’s a big softie, though. We both are, but I don’t try to hide it.” There was a light squeeze to your side, the ghost of his lips over the crook of your neck. His breath was warm, compared to the bucker’s constant chill, and you tried to think of his smothering body heat as a small silver lining. “I think it’s sweet. Gets lonely ‘round here, y’know? You’re a good fit.” There was a pause, a chuckle. For a moment, you thought he might push a little further, hold you a tighter, but Kirishima only shook his head, going on with that same careless, tired lilt. “I knew you would be, when I first saw you. A fragile little thing like you could never survive out here, not all alone.”

He was half-asleep. He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d probably apologize tomorrow, if he even remembered. “I’m not going to stay for much longer. I’ll be on my own again, in another month.”

“We’ll see.” The cot’s barred frame creaked as he shifted, his weight coming to rest against your back – a constant, oppressive reminder of his presence. A memory flickered to life in the back of your mind, a familiar intimacy that’d been earned and asked for, but you pushed it away quickly. You didn’t want to think about things like that, not here, not when this was so one-sided, in comparison. “Get some rest. You haven’t been getting enough sleep, lately.”

You’d leave when it was safe to. When you healed. When you’d worn out your welcome and become more of a burden than a benefit.

You wouldn’t stick around long enough for things to get suffocating, this time.

~

It was a mutual decision, when Bakugo and Kirishima stopped you from leaving the bunker.

They didn’t ask. That was the part that stung, really, the thorn that started working itself under your skin the moment you caught them standing in the threshold, an empty duffle bag slung over Kirishima’s shoulder and a baseball bat tucked under his arm. Bakugo had his crossbow, a pistol you’d never seen before holstered at his hip, but that bothered you less than the way they were muttering, keeping their voices purposefully low. Like they knew how you’d feel, if you saw them. Like they wanted to avoid the tension.

You’d never been very good at picking up hints, though. Much less those you were desperately trying to ignore.

“You’re going out?” You called, approaching them before you could stop yourself, suppressing a yawn as you made a show of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. It was early, and you didn’t want Kirishima to know you’d already been up for hours. If he thought you were tired, he’d assume you were losing sleep, and if he thought you were losing sleep, he’d take it as an excuse to visit you at night, again. You… you didn’t like it, when he did. “Let me grab my stuff, it’ll only take a minute. If I knew you two were planning a raid today, I would’ve—”

Bakugo was the first to shut you down. “Sit this one out, alright?” It was a question, this time, but barely, his usual bluntness wrapped in a layer of kindness so thin, you could practically see through it. “’s just a quick supply run. We’ll be out and back before you notice we’re gone.”

“We’ve done this a thousand times,” Kirishima added, offering a small smile. At least he was trying to be nice about it, in his own, patronizing way. “It’s starting to get boring, honestly. It‘d be a shame to ruin all the progress you’ve made for something so minor.”

Right, your ankle. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d complained about it, the last time you’d been in enough pain to limp, even if Bakugo still insisted on tending to your ‘injury’ once a day, at least. The truth was glaringly obvious, even if they still made a half-hearted attempt to hide it, to let you avert your eyes and pretend you believed them.

You didn’t bother trying to hide your disappointment, your expression dropping as your nails bit into the meat of your palm. “You don’t think I can keep myself safe.”

In their defense, neither tried to deny it. Bakugo only looked away, and Kirishima smiled apologetically, his hand already pushing against the bunker’s metallic door. “We don’t want to risk it,” He explained, like you were a liability. Like you hadn’t survived out there for months without their help, injured or uninjured. “If something happened to you, if someone got to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. We both care about you, even if Katsuki doesn’t want to admit it.”

“It’s practical.” Bakugo didn’t look at you. It was a small mercy, really. At least he was self-aware enough to be ashamed. “You need more time. You fucked yourself up bad before Eijiro found you – all that doesn’t go away overnight.”

Expect, it hadn’t been a night. It hadn’t been a day, or a week, and you were starting to question if it’d even been only two months. It was hard to keep track of time, but the weather was already turning, every scrape and bruise Bakugo could’ve concerned himself with was already healed, and you’d already let yourself get comfortable. You’d stayed too long. You’d let them get attached, and you’d failed to make it clear that you weren’t.

You had to get out. Now.

~

Or, you could try to get out, at least.

You’d waited too long for Bakugo and Kirishima to just sit back and let you walk away.

They were stronger than you’d assumed. It was easy to forget what the human body was capable of, when you were so used to be exhausted and half-starved, but it wasn’t difficult to remember, not with Bakugo’s hands wrapped around your wrists, one of Kirishima’s arms splayed over your knees, stopping you from thrashing as they shoved you against a bed, a real bed, the frame wooden and the mattress more than just sponge and stuffing. It was one of theirs obviously, and if you’d stumbled onto it at any other time, you might’ve felt insulted, left out.

Right now, the only thing you could feel was terrified.

“Fucking bitch.” It was a grunt, a growl, followed by something close to a snarl as your elbow connected with his check. He was the one who’s caught you gathering up what little you had to take with you, a canteen already filled and strung across your back. It was on the floor, now, the metal dented and the contents spilling out, but if either of them minded wasting clean water, you couldn’t tell. They were busy, now, too busy dealing with you to worry about something so minor. Too angry to care, leaving you as the center of their rage. “We tried to be nice. We tried to give you a choice. You just couldn’t take the fucking hint, could you?”

“Let me go.” You couldn’t bring yourself to raise your voice, but you tried to come across as frantic, desperate, as betrayed and as disgusted as you really felt. “You’re both fucking crazy. I don’t want to—”

Kirishima didn’t let you finish, he’d never really bothered to. He was already shifting, leaning on one of your calves while grabbing at the other, calloused fingertips pressing into your newly-healed ankle, the remaining bruises still raw and tender. You cried out, more out of instinct than agony, but Kirishima only grit his teeth, rubbing circles into your skin, like that would be enough to soothe you. “We’re just taking care of you, alright? We’re just doing what’s best.” It was pointless to say, but the didn’t stop him from going on, rambling like he was going to convince anyone, including himself. “It’s dangerous, out there. You just need a little more time to realize that. You just need to see that ‘suki and I are your best option.”

They weren’t. They weren’t your best anything, but you didn’t have a chance to retort before Bakugo cursed under his breath, gathering your wrists up with one hand and forcing the other over your mouth, cutting you off before you could protest further. “Just do it,” He spat, all-but ignoring you as he spoke to Kirishima. “There’s no point in trying to explain this to someone so irrational. Let’s just get it over with before we have to do something worse.”

For a moment, you went still, a series of worst-case scenarios flashing before your eyes before you could rationalize them, before you could tell yourself to stay calm. For a moment, there was panic – pure, unadulterated, brutal panic.

And then, something cracked under Kirishima’s hand, and you forgot how to think of anything at all.

You let out a stilted, faltering sob, something akin to liquid fire running from your thigh to your calf to the point where everything stopped – everything below your ankle numb, disconnected, dead meat that still managed to hurt. The rest of your body went limp, your survival instincts gone and replaced with the unbearable desire to curl into yourself and cry, but Bakugo was still holding you, his arms strung around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest as Kirishima slotted himself against your back, cooing soft nothings as you fought not to break down completely. They were talking again, both of them, but you couldn’t seem to listen. It didn’t matter.

Your ankle was broken. Not sprained, this time, not bruised, but broken. Shattered. Dislocated. Forced into a position that meant you’d be forced to stay, voluntarily or otherwise. Whether or not you could still stomach looking at Bakugo and Kirishima, let alone living with them.

You couldn’t leave, and you were beginning to think they were never going to let you.

[shkspr]

hi. on your post where you may or may not have ended on 'moffat is either your angel or your devil' did you have maybe an elaboration on that somewhere that i could possibly hear about. i'm very much a capaldi era stan and i've never tried to defend the matt smith era even though it had delightful moments sometimes so i wonder where that puts me. i'd love to hear your perspective on moffat as a person with your political perspective. -nicole

hi ok sorry i took so long to respond to this but i dont think you know how LOADED this question is for me but i am so happy to elaborate on that for you. first a few grains of salt to flavor your understanding of the whole situation: a. im unfairly biased against moffat bc im a davies stan and a tennant stan; b. i still very much enjoy and appreciate moffat era who for many reasons; and c. i hate moffat on a personal level far more than i could ever hate his work.

the thing is that its all always gonna be a bit mixed up bc i have to say a bunch of seemingly contradictory things in a row. for instance, a few moffat episodes are some of my absolute favorites of the rtd era, AND the show went way downhill when moffat took over, AND the really good episodes he wrote during the rtd era contained the seeds of his destruction.

like i made that post about the empty child/the doctor dances and it holds true for blink and thats about it bc the girl in the fireplace and silence in the library/forest of the dead are good but not nearly on the same level, and despite the fact that i like them at least nominally, they are also great examples of everything i hate about moffat and how he approached dw as a whole.

basically. doctor who is about people. there are many things about moffats tenure as showrunner that i think are a step up from rtd era who! actual gay people, for one! but i think that can likely be attributed mostly to an evolving Society as opposed to something inherent to him and his work, seeing as rtd is literally gay, and the existence of queer characters in moffats work doesnt mean the existence of good queer characters (ill give him bill but thats it!)

i have a few Primary Grievances with moffat and how he ran dw. all of them are things that got better with capaldi, but didnt go away. they are as follows:

moffat projects his own god complex onto the doctor

rtd era who had a doctor with a god complex. you cant ever be the doctor and not have a god complex. the problem with moffats era specifically is that the god complex was constant and unrepentant and was seen as a fundamental personality trait of the doctor rather than a demon he has to fight. he has the Momence where you feel bad for him, the Momence where he shows his humility or whatever and youre reminded that he doesnt want to be the lonely god, but those are just. moments. in a story where the doctor thinks hes the main character. rtd era doctor was aware that he wasnt the main character. he had to be an authority sometimes and he had to be the loner and he had to be sad about it, but he ultimately understood that he was expendable in a narrative sense.

this is how you get lines like “were the thin fat gay married anglican marines, why would we need names as well?” from the same show that gave you the gut punch moment at the end of midnight when they realize that nobody asked the hostess for her name. and on the one hand, thats a small sticking point, but on the other hand, its just one small example of the simple disregard that moffat has for humanity.

incidentally, this is a huge part of why sherlock sucked so bad: moffats main characters are special bc theyre so much bigger and better than all the normal people, and thats his downfall as a showrunner. he thinks that his audience wants fucking sheldon cooper when what they want is people.

like, ok. think of how many fantastic rtd era eps are based in the scenario “what if the doctor wasnt there? what if he was just out of commission for a bit?” and how those eps are the heart of the show!! bc theyre about people being people!! the thing is that all of the rtd era companions would have died for the doctor but he understood and the story understood that it wasnt about him.

this is like. nine sending rose home to save her life and sacrifice his own vs clara literally metaphysically entwining her existence w the doctor. ten also sending rose with her family to save her life vs river being raised from infancy to be obsessed w the doctor and then falling in love w him. martha leaving bc she values herself enough to make that decision vs amy being treated like a piece of meat.

and this is simultaneously a great callback to when i said that moffats episodes during the rtd era sometimes had the same problems as his show running (bc girl in the fireplace reeks of this), and a great segue into the next grievance.

moffat hates women

he hates women so fucking much. g-d, does steven moffat ever hate women. holy shit, he hates women. especially normal human women who prioritize their normal human lives on an equal or higher level than the doctor. moffat hated rose bc she wasnt special by his standards. the empty child/the doctor dances is the nicest he ever treated her, and she really didnt do much in those eps beyond a fuck ton of flirting.

girl in the fireplace is another shining example of this. youve got rose (who once again has another man to keep her busy, bc moffat doesnt think shes good enough for the doctor) sidelined for no reason only to be saved by the doctor at the last second or whatever. and then youve got reinette, who is pretty and powerful and special!

its just. moffat thinks that the doctor is as shallow and selfish as he is. thats why he thinks the doctor would stay in one place with reinette and not with rose. bc moffat is shallow and sees himself in the doctor and doesnt think he should have to settle for someone boring and normal.

not to mention rose met the doctor as an adult and chose to stay with him whereas reinette is. hm. introduced to the doctor as a child and grows up obsessed with him.

does that sound familiar? it should! bc it is also true of amy and river. and all of them are treated as viable romantic pairings. bc the only women who deserve the doctor are the ones whose entire existence revolves around him. which includes clara as well.

genuinely i think that at least on some level, not even necessarily consciously, that bill was a lesbian in part bc capaldi was too old to appeal to mainstream shippers. like twelve/clara is still a thing but not as universally appealing as eleven/clara but i am just spitballing. but i think they weighed the pros and cons of appealing to the woke crowd over the het shippers and found that gay companion was more profitable. anyway the point is to segue into the next point, which is that moffat hates permanent consequences.

moffat hates permanent consequences

steven moffat does not know how to kill a character. honestly it feels like hes doing it on purpose after a certain point, like he knows he has this habit and hes trying to riff on it to meme his own shit, but it doesnt work. it isnt funny and it isnt harmless, its bad writing.

the end of the doctor dances is so poignant and so meaningful and so fucking good bc its just this once! everybody lives, just this once! and then he does p much the same thing in forest of the dead - this one i could forgive, bc i do think that preserving those peoples consciousnesses did something for the doctor as a character, it wasnt completely meaningless. but everything after that kinda was.

rory died so many times its like. get a hobby lol. amy died at least once iirc but it was all a dream or something. clara died and was erased from the doctors memory. river was in prison and also died. bill? died. all of them sugarcoated or undone or ignored by the narrative to the point of having effectively no impact on the story. the point of a major character death is that its supposed to have a point. and you could argue that a piece of art could be making a point with a pointless death, ie. to put perspective on it and remind you that bad shit just happens, but with moffat the underlying message is always “i can do whatever i want, nothing is permanent or has lasting impact ever.”

basically, with moffat, tragedy exists to be undone. and this was a really brilliant, really wonderful thing in the doctor dances specifically bc it was the doctor clearly having seen his fair share of tragedy that couldnt be helped, now looking on his One Win with pride and delight bc he doesnt get wins like this! and then moffat proceeded to give him the same win over and over and over and over. nobody is ever dead. nobody is ever unable to be saved. and if they are, really truly dead and/or gone, then thats okay bc moffat has decided that [insert mitigating factor here]*

*the mitigating factor is usually some sort of computerized database of souls.

i can hear the moffat stans falling over themselves to remind me that amy and rory definitely died, and they did - after a long and happy life together, they died of old age. i dont consider that a character death any more than any other character choosing to permanently leave the tardis.

and its not just character deaths either, its like, everything. the destruction of gallifrey? never mind lol! character development? scrapped! the same episode four times? lets give it a fifth try and hope nobody notices. bc he doesnt know how to not make the doctor either an omnipotent savior or a self-pitying failure.

it is in nature of doctor who, i believe, for the doctor to win most of the time. like, it wouldnt be a very good show if he didnt win most of the time. but it also wouldnt be a very good show if he won all of the time. my point is that moffats doctor wins too often, and when he doesnt win, it feels empty and hollow rather than genuinely humbling, and you know hes not gonna grow from it pretty much at all.

so like. again, i like all of doctor who i enjoy all of it very much. i just think that steven moffat is a bad show runner and a decent writer at times. and it is frustrating. and im not here to convince or convert anyone im just living my truth. thank you for listening.

[calebwittebane]

glad u had a good day u definitely deserve them ! also it would be cool to hear about your mixed media techniques if you want to talk about them. from what youve posted here your paintings fuck hard so to speak

i didnt answer this ask yesterday, im sorry...

okay, so. when i paint with oils and acrylics, i often incorporate different materials as well to add extra texture to my paintings. i like to just... go to a hardware store and buy stuff there. ive tried many different materials, and through trial and error found those that are effective and cheap

main one for me is, acrylic caulk. it is paintable, and unlike many materials commonly used for putting rough+thick texture underneath paint, its elastic when dry, and thats very important when you paint on a canvas, because otherwise you just end up with stuff crackling and falling out. it's very durable. and it's very easy to mold into all kinds of shapes, and you can put down a very thick layer. with the nozzle you can get these stringy effects. i use it for stuff like this (details)

its main downsides i would say, are that because it's smooth, if you didnt thoroughly prime your canvas, the difference between it and the fabric is going to be very stark, seen through the paint; as well as the fact that if you put down a very thick layer of it, it can retain some stickyness when compressed, for example if you store your paintings in a way where theyre touching each other. for this reason and just because it makes everything look better, cover it with a layer of, preferably acrylic paint, in a neutral color that works with your project, before you start painting on it proper.

now.... sometimes its a good idea to just stick random stuff to your painting. now there are very lightweight/flat stuff you can attach: crumpled up paper towels (not toilet paper! paper towels dont fall apart with moisture), small pieces of string, dry leaves, scraps of fabric, and such. and how you do it is simply soak it up a little, then soak it in acrylic paint, and then put it on the canvas where you want it, and then smooth it in with a brush loaded with acrylic paint, basically locking it in place by painting over it. you see, it is easy and fun:

as for a llittle bigger objects: crumpled up fabric, stems and sticks, thicker string, various pieces of something, well you're going to glue them on. and i recommend a water-based assembly glue. make sure you pick the kind that doesn't reject paint, and is moisture-resistant when dry - check the label!

now. if youre using such materials, its likely that youre gonna want a very opaque layer on top of them. like, if youre using a piece of umbrella, and could only get a polka dots one, and dont want the polka dots to show through, you know what im getting at (although if you want the polka dots to show thats awesome too). for this, definitely use wall/ceiling paint. it's highly pigmentated and opaque. you likely dont wanna buy an entire can, so get those little sample thingies from the rack.

youre gonna need all kinds of tools for this, and i will say, tiny little precision palette knives for oil impasto are one thing, but buy brushes and scrapers and spatulas at the hardware store too. of course, again, if you need a high quality natural hair brush for watercolors or precise oil/acrylics application, well you gotta get those, but most of the time? dont get scammed. get your brushes, especially thick bristle brushes and especially wide brushes, at the hardware store. if you wanna work with big canvases and other surfaces, these bad boys are a must

(the bendy one is for radiators, if you need to ask an employee where to find one!)

this will simply save you a lot of time and money... i encourage you to try things for yourself and see what works best. to sum up, my final message.... go to the hardware store, many useful supplies for your art to be found there. turpentine will be a lot cheaper too and its literally the same stuff

and listen! this isnt just for abstract stuff, or still life subjects. you can incorporate such techniques very effectively in landscapes, portraits, scenes, genre paintings, cityscapes, seascapes, and so on! i find that its rly good for depicting foliage, rocks, all kinds of natural textures that sometimes simply need that additional Chaotic Element, that maybe cant always be conveyed through paint alone. try it!

[jangofctts]

Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit 

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

Warnings: good lord y'all here we GO-- smut, explicit language, violence and mentions of blood and gore, injuries, unprotected sex (don't be a dick, wrap that stick!), oral (m&f receiving), blindfolding, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal and anal sex, double penetration, spit is used as lube but for the love of GOD doNT DO THAT, there are some dom vibes on Paz’s end    

Summary: The job you’re on takes a turn for the worst--Paz comes to your rescue and you're brought to the Covert. There you meet Din Djarin. though during a good natured sparring session, you’re suddenly stuck between an age old rivalry that spirals out of hand. Hopefully an agreement can be met. 

a/n: hey...how y’all doin....SO lemme explain you smthn. I said helmets must be OfF--giv me them LIPS BABEY so this is a slight AU in which mandos can see other mandos’ faces. ya get me? I also tHot that it would be nice and fun to set the timeline 5-6 years BEFORE the plot of the Mandalorian so we gots a younger din here. anyway, as always enjoy and I hope you like!!

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

Some as little as burning your finger on the nozzle of a smoking blaster or tripping over your own shoelaces. Simple things. Mindless things. 

Nothing that could ever compare to the catastrophic decision of picking up bounty hunting as a reliable source of income. 

The little ones were easy—tax evaders and deserters of the Empire—most who’d yield and gladly follow without complaint just at the sight of your blaster pointed between their eyes. And the gag of it is—most of the time you never bothered to load the damn thing. 

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster. 

But skirting that precarious edge, one little slip up away from plunging head first into inevitable trouble is better than Bracca. Stars—anything is better than Bracca. There’s no glory in bounty hunting but there’s even less in ship scrapping. Abysmal pay in exchange for risking your life on rain slicked metal with only the Ibdis Maw to break your fall.  

The guild you work for is considerate—scratch that. Greef Karga is considerate. Sure the flirting is a touch unbearable but it saves your ass in the long run. All easy money bounties set aside for you in exchange for a cheap drink, hollow laughs and sugar sweet smiles. 

It’s enough credits to get by—more than plenty to rent a room and charter a ship. 

But there’s only so many bounties to capture within the limits of the guild and oh so many people the empty blaster trick works on. And so the credits begin to thin; it gets too expensive to buy off a pilot and the debate over buying food or being able to pay for your room becomes more frequent than the scraprats that skitter inside the walls.  

It’s suicide to snag a higher paying bounty because....well—these bounties shoot back. 

Whatever.

 Might as well die trying. Who knows, maybe you could score big time if you manage to pull this off. 

Maybe. 

                                                       -=-=-=-

You’re not sure who’s more surprised—Karga when you asked for the bounty or yourself when he actually gave it to you. 

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

“End in a fiery shitshow? Yeah—I figured that,” you sigh, swirling your drink with a little complimentary toothpick. “But I need the money.” 

“Hah! You’ve got guts, girl.” He flashes you a smile and smooths down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell you what. The last assignment was just taken but I’m sure if you run you could catch him. Work somethin’ out.”

Jumping from your seat, you throw on your coat and toss a couple credits onto the table to cover the drink. “What’s he look like?” 

“Big fellow—Mandalorian. You’ll know when you see him.”

You shout your thanks over your shoulder and hightail outta there. The landing docks aren’t far, you can see them from here. It’s finding the guy that could pose a problem.

If he hasn’t already left, you bitterly think. 

However, it seems the universe is on your side today. Karga was right. He is big. Stands out like a sore thumb against his ship that glitters dully in the overcast sky. Kinda like an oversized blueberry. A yellow and blue blueberry….not important—

“Hey! Hey, you!” You’re so close, just a couple yards away. You swear and hurry up your pace as he steps onto the loading ramp. “Big guy! Large...blue man?”

You trip over your own feet as he turns his head. Fuck—

No way are you gonna be able to bargain with this guy. Built like a fucking AT-AT and probably just as stubborn. After all, no one would ever be dumb enough to come between a Mandalorian and their quarry. You grimace, and suck in a breath—

Before a word even leaves your mouth he interrupts with a steady, unwavering;

“No.”

Your brows furrow. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“I know what you were going to ask,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I work alone.”

Ok, then. You didn’t want to resort to begging, but you’re kinda running out of options here. You take a steadying breath and plant yourself at the bottom of the ramp. “C’mon man. Look—I’ll let you take seventy percent of the cut and I can—“

“You’ll let me?” He repeats, the staticky tone of his voice dropping into an edge more cutting than broken transparisteel. The metal platting on the ramp vibrates from the weight of his step to move closer; Stars it takes every fucking inch of willpower to hold your ground. “You’re lucky if I let you leave with your life. Get lost.” 

Fuckfuckfuck—you should listen. You wanna fucking run for the hills and never look back in case he comes looking to purge your name from the kriffing galaxy. You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. Too bad—you’ve dug your heels so far into this empire of dirt and false bravado that your only way out is continuing to poke the sleeping bear until he snaps your spine or caves.

You have to crane your neck to glare into that dark strip of his vizor, seeing as he’s invited himself into your personal space. “No.”  

“No?” He mocks, now toe to toe with your scuffed up boots. 

Your teeth clench, a scalding flush burning through your cheeks and all the way down to your chest. He’s toying with you—finding amusement in your stubbornness and apparent lack of braincells for challenging him. “You don’t scare me.” 

The man hums, a deep purr that rumbles through his entire ribcage as he raises his gloved hand. You curse yourself for flinching because surely he’s about to crush your skull like a fucking grape, but no. All he does is fix your rumbled collar then pat your cheek.     

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“I’m not baggage,” you sneer, slapping his hand away. “I can handle myself.” 

“With an empty blaster?” He points out, tipping his head to the side. “Your parlor tricks won’t do you any good on this job.”

“I’m a good shot!” You sputter, placing your hands over you hips and mustering up your best glare. “W-when I have ammo…” 

“Right.”

Meeting Paz Vizsla, could have gone far better, to put it into the most simplest of words. Jagged and hard to settle into a routine around each other for the journey to Nar Shaddaa in a tiny, old, and cramped freighter ship. Most cycles you have to wedge yourself beside a cargo crate to sleep. In addition to that, how it’s able to break through the atmosphere let alone fly is beyond you—an entire mystery on its own.       

At least you’re able to sit in the spare seat inside the cockpit—one of the only places available to stretch your legs. The only problem is that it’s also where Paz Vizsla likes to lurk (well, not lurk—it’s his ship and it’s where he can comfortably fit but—to each their own). 

There’s a net of tension still woven between you—each interaction like tiptoeing over eggshells. Though, like all things, it becomes simpler. There’s not exactly any ongoing conversations—you don’t want to pry into a life you know nothing about—it’s not your business despite the cumulation of questions that linger in the back of your mind. You know when to take a hint—not every person is willing to indulge you about their livelihood, and surely not something as secretive and well guarded as the Mandalore.  

Familiarity is what you want to call it. Comfortable with each other’s presence with small talk speckled in throughout the never-ending vastness of hyperspace. Compared to the infinite turmoil in your life, slippery footholds and uncertainty—Paz Vizsla is steady. In a way— predictable and safe in the confines of this ship.       

You’d even go as far as to label him kind, a friend maybe—if you look past the grumpiness and rather poor taste in corny jokes. You know it’s stupid, no doubt stemming from the deep ache of loneliness that comes hand in hand with staking it out on your own in the galaxy; but you can’t help but wish that this could be a new normal. Not some once in a lifetime thing where you both part ways, fade into the recesses of memory and leave it at that. 

If things go well—and rarely do they on a job—maybe you’d pluck up enough courage to ask him if you could stay. There’s no harm in it…right?

                                                 -=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show. 

Turns out the stupid quarry you’d been tracking excelled in long range weaponry. A former marksman for the Empire to be exact. Guess that tidbit of information wasn’t pertinent. A need to know sorta thing, if you will. 

You feel the molten bolt of plasma connect with your side before your ears pick up the sound of a weapon firing, like a crack of lighting in the empty alleyway. And before your body even connects with the duracrete, Paz is returning fire. A brilliant neon red against the hazy blur of shadowy buildings.  

Kinda weird how knocking the back of your head hurts worse than the literal blaster wound burned into your side. Shock maybe. Or the heat from the plasma cauterized each veins and artery it tore through and ate away at flesh and nerves. Hm…          

You’re sprawled in a wet pool of something—either your own blood or a puddle of stagnant gutter water and damn—you’re wearing your favorite shirt.

It doesn’t matter at this point…

You’re choking on your own air from the big ass hole blasted into your diaphragm, so to say things are looking grim is an understatement.  

Nar Shaddaa isn’t your first choice to kick the can on, but hey—not everyone gets the luxury of dying on Naboo. And just as you’re ready to slip away into that sweet, sweet abyss, it seems your fellow armored friend has other plans. 

The beskar is freezing against your cheek after he deadlifts you off the duracrete—you remember that plain as day. That and the hushed rumble of Paz’s voice insisting you save your dwindling supply of air instead of apologizing to him—or ordering you to stay alive for kriff’s sake. It’s impossible to argue with Paz—like trying to bite through durasteel, and while those beckoning tendrils of eternal slumber are mighty tempting, you cling to your life with all the strength you have left. After all, inconveniencing someone with a corpse is such a party foul to the highest degree.    

The rest is muddled—like dredging up silt and clay in a murky river that just leaves you with a pounding headache between your eyes. It’s a terrible mess of pain and bouts of temporary consciousness, mistaken with fever dreams and yup—more pain. The only consistent is Paz—hovering nearby or settled beside you—through thick and thin as you heal. 

There’s no solid reason your brain can conjure as to why he brought you to the Covert—it’d have been easier to just dump you at the nearest hospital and be done with it. You’re not his responsibility and you’re too afraid to ask what it means. Too many possibilities—too many answers you aren’t in the mood to face or untwist.     

And so you leave it be, set aside for another time—which brings you to the present day…        

You’re splayed over your little makeshift cot, feet propped up on a spare pillow as you scour through a cheesy Coruscanti gossip magazine. It’s years old—the only piece of entertainment you could find other than a weapon in the Covert. And seeing as a massive hole had been blasted through your ribcage, picking up the clever art of throwing vibroblades or shooting targets to pass the time was out of the question.   

Even if you’d rather fall into a Sarlaac pit than stare at the wall for hours on end yet again—it hasn’t been all that bad. It’d taken weeks before you regained enough strength to sit up on your own, let alone walk—and walking is putting it lightly. It was more of a stiff legged shuffle better suited on a two hundred year old woman seconds from disintegrating into dust at the mere hint of a breeze.  

Not to mention—your right lung was all but shredded. Ripped apart from the plasma bolt and miraculously reconstructed by a more than questionable bacta tank, hopeful thoughts and well wishes. To this very day you still sound like a broken air filter. 

Eh.    

Could be worse. 

At least you aren’t dead. 

Just another setback that adds on the growing pile of reasons why never to leave the Covert. Free food, free board and mild entertainment to top it off. Paz had stayed at your bedside for the most part while you recovered—stuck with babysitting your sorry ass until you regained a bit of mobility. The times Paz hadn’t been at your side to stave off the boredom, it was up to you to find your own fun. 

Snooping is what Paz had labeled it—but you saw it more as an adventure. You met Din Djarin exploring (lost is what you actually were) in the dimly lit underbelly of Nevarro, after all. Yes, you may have scared the ever loving shit out of the poor guy and yes, he may have singed off your brows with a five foot jet of fucking fire—but hey. No one got hurt.        

And you made a new friend. Sorta…Din is difficult to read, subtler in his soft spoken words and quiet demeanor. A bit like a skittish loth-cat at the start, but nowadays it’s not uncommon to find him lounging in the same space as you or hovering over your shoulder, awfully curious in whatever it is you choose to do. Like Paz, Din isn’t overly fond of sharing much information about himself but he never complains after you regale tales of your own vastly fascinating past. He seems interested enough—tilts his head a tick to the right when you speak to indicate that yes, he’s listening despite the unforgiving dark line of his visor.      

There are others in the Covert too—some so elusive you have a hard time believing they exist. Shadows of what they once were before the rise of the Empire. And so, you count yourself lucky that you’d been introduced to two others—Aeris Fenn, a young man nearly as tall as a Wookie, and a woman named Ives Arrey; her armor a flashy green—damn near florescent in the light. 

They’re nice enough company. Aeris is a chatterbox, his wit sharper than a blade but lacking in any forethought before he speaks. Ives is the far opposite—rolls each sentence in her mouth before she voices it, but in no way is she angelic. Maker—you’d bet your entire left asscheek she’s behind each bad decision and silly shenanigans Aeris sticks his nose into. He never learns—not after a harsh chiding or cuff around the helmet from Paz or the Armorer could dampen is childlike enthusiasm or steer him away from repeating the same mistake over and over.  

Though if you read one more kriffing sentence of this garbage magazine you’re about to invite chaos himself to entertain you. Good thing too because just as you sit up to find the red armored Mandalorian—Paz rounds the corner and steps into your little broom closet that hardly passes for a room. 

“Paz!” You greet, tossing the magazine over your shoulder. “Please tell me we’ll be doing something interesting or else I might start ripping my hair out. Or maybe commit a heinous crime—haven't decided yet.”      

Paz grunts and shakes his head. “You’ll be doing neither. But today we’ll be sparing—hopefully that will curve your boredom.”

You scrunch up your face. “Sparring? Er, no thanks—I choose life.” 

“You breathe funny since your injury,” he says, jabbing a finger between your ribs. “And all you’ve been doing lately is laying around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you sneer, tucking your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be running laps with half a lung.”

“It’s like stretching a muscle, you need to gain your strength back.” He retorts. “This will be good for you.” 

You groan and flop back into bed. “I don’t wanna. I was pretty much dead like three cycles ago—cut me some slack, man.”

There’s a brief silence as if he’s mulling over your words, but he’s stubborn. You crane your head to look at him as he says your name with a deep sigh attached to it.   

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.” He says it quietly, fragile even, like he’s still expecting you to tip over and die on the spot. You very well might.  

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.” 

You feel his heavy stare through the helmet. “What happened to you that night was a mistake. It wasn’t preventable but the least I can do is teach you basic selfdefense.”  

You gripe out your complaints but you know you’ve been beat—and well, a bit of your agreement is based on guilt. 

Damn it.  

                                                     -=-=-=-

It’s weird to see Paz without his heavy duty gear—like seeing him naked or a crab without a shell. The only piece he continues to wear is his helmet and padded gloves and under clothes, but it’s still weird. Strange enough that it shocks you tongue into remaining still instead of bitching about this. 

He leads you to a wing of the Covert you’ve yet to discover and ushers you through the doorway. The floor is padded, a bit smaller than you expected and already occupied by none other than Aeris Fenn. 

It’s a whole other kriffing shock to the head seeing him without the plates and layers of fabric and beskar too. The armor makes him bulkier—fuller and much more intimidating. Now, with only his black underclothes on, Aeris could be the spitting image of a sentient tree. Willowy limbs that stick out like branches as he stretches on the padded mat. He lazily swings his head around as you greet him, his face still covered by the black beskar painted with streaks of red. 

“So you choose sparring over knife throwing?” Aeris snorts. “And to think I thought of you as a friend.” 

“You think I chose to be here?” You say, grumpy and still upset at the choice of activity. Really, a brisk walk around the Covert would’ve been fine.

Aeris shrugs. “Ah, and I see you’ve roped in my favorite vod. Tch, he uses his fists instead of his words to teach. I wish you luck—you’ll need it.”      

You open your mouth to retort but Paz beats you to it. 

“Leave.” 

“I’ve just arrived, actually,” Aeris scoffs, folding his torso over his other leg to stretch. “Perhaps you could reschedule. After all—our guest is quite free most days.” 

Welp—you’re perfectly fine with that. Problem solved. 

You spin on your heel and make a break for it but Paz snatches your wrist and pulls you back to his side. “Aeris.”  

“Paz,” Aeris mocks, tipping his helmet to the side. 

Paz exhales, a long, tired sound and grovels out another plea in clipped Mando’a. Aeris languidly stands and brushes off imaginary dust from the front of his pants. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand your accent.” 

“Boy—“

“No, no, it’s alright.” Aeris sighs, waving his hand in a mopey display as if he were told that his birthday party were canceled for the fifth year in a row. “I’d have trouble speaking too if my enormously thick head were cooped up in that little bucket of yours all day.”  

You wince. 

In the time you’ve known Paz Vizsla, he’s never been one to launch into rash decisions fueled by anger—he lets it simmer and build like an oncoming storm over the ocean. Devastating once it reaches land.

Aeris bobs his head and inspects his black leather glove, picking at a loose thread on the inseam over the thumb. He clicks his tongue. “Or'dinii—you’re going to kill her.”  

Your offended scoff is ignored as Paz steps forward; jutting his chin up to even out the few inches Aeris holds over the man. “You still haven’t learned to shut your mouth, boy.” 

The tension surges and crackles like a volt of electricity through the air—unresolved and ready to ignite with the sparking embers of Paz’s growing irritation. It’s not a fight Aeris Fenn will win. He’s volatile and hotheaded—but his expertise is in long range weaponry. Precise, deadly and swift—not whatever this little pissing match is heading towards.    

Aeris clicks his tongue as Paz digs a fist into the black fabric of his shirt. Paz yanks him forward, the metallic clink of their helmets colliding an unpleasant scrape that pierces your eardrums. Aeris snarls out sharpened words in Mando’a as his willowy fingers shoot up to curl beneath the lip of Paz’s helmet. 

In the blink of an eye, Paz lifts Aeris up by his collar and launches him across the room like he weighs nothing more than a couple of down pillows. His helmet meets the wall with a resounding clank, chipping some of the red paint outlining the visor. Ouch. 

Like a kicked dog, Aeris clambers to his feet, still dazed and swaying and for a fearful second you think he’ll retaliate. But with whatever braincells he happens to possess today—he instead spits out a venomous curse that even yourself would hesitate to repeat. He leaves without another word, bristling with rage. 

Your flash Paz a questioning stare. “The hell was that about?” 

Paz waves it away with an irritated grunt. “His heart is in the right place but he is young. Aeris doesn’t understand his place in the Covert yet and I doubt he will for years to come.” 

You frown. “Poor guy…” 

Paz mutters something under his breath. “Enough distractions. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Y’know…I think that’s enough excitement for today. I think I’ll be going now—“ Your last ditch attempt at weaseling out of this is quickly thwarted the moment you turn your back.  

You wheeze as the heel of Paz’s palm shoves into your shoulder blade, the force of it sending you stumbling to the ground. “Paz—“

“Go on. Hit me,” he orders. You squeak, narrowly avoiding the well aimed kick that skims the top of your scalp. 

You scramble to your feet, skirting out of range of the oncoming right hook. “So you attack me instead?” 

“How do you expect to catch quarries who are bigger than you?” He presses. You hiss as the points of his knuckles dig into the meat of your shoulder. 

You dance out of reach and rub your arm, a dull throb flaring up in the muscle. “I dunno—electrocute them?”

“Not if they take you by surprise.” 

You screech as his knuckles skim your cheek. Adrenaline pierces you veins and you wildly throw a flaky punch that wouldn’t even impress a toddler. He catches your fist with ease, his entire hand dwarfing your clenched fingers. “You can do better than that.” 

You snarl and struggle to rip your hand back. “I’m a scrapper. I don’t fight.”

“No,” he retorts. You fall onto your ass as he abruptly lets go of your hand. “You’re a bounty hunter.” 

You roll your eyes. “Hardly—why can’t I just stay here?”

Although there’s nothing to see with that swatch of black covering his eyes, you can certainly feel the look he’s giving you. A deep sigh hisses through the vocoder. “You can stay here—“

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

“—but not without contributing where it’s due.”

You puff up your cheeks and let out a dismayed stream of air. “Booo—lame.”

He sighs again and helps you off the floor. “Even if you leave the Guild, what I’m teaching you is helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I’ll give you a call after I use your invaluable skills to beat up some thug.”

Paz ignores your comment and turns on his heel. “Let’s go through it again. This time use your front two knuckles instead of your whole fist.”

As your eyes land over the stretch of tight fighting fabric over his back an idea pops into your head. It’s a petty move but getting a punch in is fruitless—like trying to beat up a brick wall. You don’t fancy a broken hand and your knuckles are already bruised and swollen to the point where it’s hard to bend them. 

And so, without any forethought and with a running head start, you launch yourself onto him, your arms coiling around his neck. It does the job—takes him by surprise and makes him tip to the right. 

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

He latches onto your forearms strung around his neck and yanks. And much in the same way he threw Aeris like a sack of potatoes—you’re no different. For a short stretch of time that feels kriffing endless; you soar through the air, your directional whereabouts violently ripped out beneath you and equally nauseating in the same breath. 

Why you ever agreed to this—you don’t know.   

Your shoulder blade connects with the mat first, leaving behind a dull sting as you roll and tumble with uncontrollable momentum. Oh, yeah—you’ll feel that in the morning. 

Groaning, you thank the Maker that your body eventually settles into a miserable little pile of limbs and pain. But, it seems whatever higher power that lingers in the edges of the galaxy hasn’t decided to put you out of your misery just yet. 

A bulky shadow blocks out the dim lighting overhead, and for a brief anxiety ridden moment you’re afraid it’s Paz. You roll onto your back with a pathetic groan, a beg for mercy on the tip of your tongue—but as your eyes flutter open they’re met with an entirely different man. 

Din Djarin looms over you, his head cocked to the side as you blink in dumbfounded bewilderment. Ah, hell— 

You swallow, a furious heat bitting at your cheeks. “Uh…fine weather we’re having…”

“We’re inside,” he states with a brief glance up to the ceiling. 

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

With a pensive hum he offers his hand, you sigh and roll over, accepting his gloved hand. He hoists you up easily and adjusts your rumpled collar. “You ok?”

“Pfft, yeah,” you groan, rubbing your throbbing shoulder. “Never better.”

The low grumble of your name is a cross between disbelief and irritation. Din jerks his head, his attention zeroing in on Paz. “Are you trying to kill her?” 

“She isn’t made of glass.” 

“She is still recovering—“

Normally you’d intervene, but their bickering is tiring and it gives you the excuse to lie down. By the time one of them caves you’ve counted exactly one hundred and twelve weird ceiling stains. They should get that checked out.  

“Very well,” Paz snarls, cutting through your wandering thoughts. “You teach her.” 

Din scoffs, his shoulders drawn tight as he stomps over to your splayed out self. “Get up.”

“Geez, fine,” you grumble, not in the mood to test his patience further. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later he’ll no doubt apologize but right now? He has to prove a point. Din cuts right to it, moves in close to place your clenched fists in the right stance and nudges at your feet until they’re a bit wider than hip distance. 

“You have to get in close with a bigger opponent,” he says, stepping into your space until your fists are close enough to touch his chest. “We don’t have much range here—easier to break our guard too.” 

“Right. And how would you suggest I do that?”

“You’re always beating me at cards.” Din says, tipping his head to the side. “You have a clever mind. Use it.” 

“But I always cheat.” You point out, dropping your guard to swat at a stray hair.   

He catches your wrists and returns them to where they ought to be. “Quick enough to get away with it.” 

You make a noise of uncertainty but do as you're told. Din takes a couple steps back and with a rough order you begin. 

He’s faster than Paz—bats at your guard in quick bursts and steps away when you attempt to hit back. It’s a dance almost—somehow elegant in its brutality of bruises and flashes of pain as you move around one another. Compared to Din, Paz is almost clumsy but unpredictable. Din—despite the rapidness of his attacks and evasiveness, becomes predictable.

He steps to to left—you follow. He rocks onto his toes to jab his fist forward and that’s where you find a break. Punching Din’s helmet won’t do you any good but catching the juncture of his shoulder with your elbow is completely feasible. Too bad that you’re not the only one with a clever mind.        

Din uses the momentum of your attack to catapult you to the ground—his own body rolling with you in order to capture you in a headlock of sorts. This sucks. After this you’ll never be setting foot in this Maker forsaken room again. 

Din tightens his elbow that’s looped around your throat as you squirm and flail, trapped against his chest. He grunts as your elbow digs into his ribs but holds steady and snakes his free arm across your front, pinning your limbs to your body in an unbreakable vice. All mobility is cut off as his knee pushes between your thighs, locking your leg out into an uncomfortable and frankly quite awkward angle. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you arch as the crown of his helmet skims along the curve of your throat; the bite of beskar frigid and startling against your flushed skin. You can see his visor out of the corner of your eye; glittering and dark like the polished obsidian on Black Spire and endless like the greedy maw of a black hole. 

Your breath hitches as he shifts and curls his head closer to your ear. His voice rumbles low and deep through his chest and vibrates against the delicate cartilage. “Yield.” 

However much your pride wrestles with the sensible part of your brain, it’s all for naught as you jerk your head in defeat.  

In retrospect you should’ve said something—used your voice or made some kinda sound because suddenly Din’s forearm digs alarmingly hard into your windpipe. He read the stuttered jerk of your head as another pitiful act of defiance but no. Nope. 

Here you are—asphyxiating.   

Not exactly what you had in mind, being strangled by a Mandalorian and all—but a chokehold where you could very well die was not it. 

Fuzzy darkness begins to shade the corners of your vision, lightheadedness and a curious warmth that prickles down your spine settling low in your belly. A raspy gasp manages to slip through your blocked off airway, and stars why does this feel good?   

“Din—”

Paz’s sharp bark is distant above the ringing in your ears and it all stops.

You gulp in air that burns your throat like refined fire whiskey—hunched over the mat as a large palm rubs soothing circles over your upper back. You cough and roll over, sounding like a dying animal run over by a speeder then hit with a spiked club to polish it off. 

You’re quickly herded into Paz’s arms and pulled into his lap. Still wheezing and attempting to recover lost oxygen, whatever Din is trying to say translates into an indiscernible hum against the ringing in your ears.  

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though neither of them care to listen. Like bristling wolves, snapping at each other’s heels.  

“Apologize to her,” there’s not so much as a centimeter of room to argue. “Now.”           

It’s nice of Paz you suppose—defending your honor and what not, but you’re not a vengeful person. It was an honest mistake and you want to explain that so Din quits looking like a kicked puppy, yet the sudden touch over your ankle stops you. All the times Din has initiated contact it’d been a friendly pat to your shoulder or ruffling you hair, and while touching your ankle isn’t exactly scandalous it’s certainly an odd place to put your hand on. 

Your fingers clutch Paz’s shirt as you eye the man lingering at the bottom of your feet, his gloved thumb unconsciously rubbing patterns into the exposed skin between your boot and your pant leg. “Cyare—I’m sorry.” 

You blink and lick your lips. Interesting. “I-I don’t know what that word means.”

His hand inches higher, resting on the swell of your calf. “Sweetheart…darling…loved one—“ 

There’s a shift—a dark undercurrent that none of you should be dipping your toes into. There’s a million and one things to say or do to sever this at the root, but are you going to? Nah. 

Din’s thumb now rests over your knee, goosebumps following in his wake. “Should I keep going?” 

It too hot—stuffy with both of their heavy stares locked on your flushed face. You squirm and glance up at Paz who only offers an impassive stare. Great.   

“I can make it up to you,” Din continues, his hand stationary—a warm weight even through the fabric of your pants. “If you let me.” 

Your mouth feels drier than the desert on Jakku. This…nothing good could come out of what Din is hinting at. This is uncharted territory—launching yourself into the great unknown without any idea of what’ll fester and grow if you agree. 

It’s not like it hasn’t crossed your mind—it’s just…it’s never been both of them at the same time. These men are short-tempered, an open flame to jet fuel with deeply seated ire woven into the very fabric of their beings. You’ve barely scratched the surface on the inner workings of their mutual hostility, but you’re bright enough to question if this will make it worse. Tinder and brittle twigs feeding and enabling the hungry flames of rivalry to spiral and consume with chaotic brilliance of a dying star—

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk? 

You suck in a grounding breath and slowly extend your leg that Din touches, gingerly skimming the toe of your shoe along the inseam of his inner thigh. “H-how would you…make it up to me?”

Din preens at your answer and shuffles closer, lifting your legs so that they rest in his lap. Devotion drips off his words like a fine liquor as he toys with the laces on your boots. “Anything—say it and it’s yours.”    

Sparks of molten heat race down your spine and metastasize in your lower belly, spreading through each vein and artery like a some sort of invasive ivy. You spare a look up at Paz as he shifts.      

“Go ahead, girl,” Paz assures. “Answer him.” 

It’s an unspoken, buzzing sort of thing like the static air before a storm, crackling and surging with pent up energy. You all know the implications of what’s to come—but it’s your words, quiet and steady that irons that nail into your coffin.

“Take me like you mean it.” 

The next few moments pass in a dizzying blur, a mess of anticipation as your shoes are yanked off, your pants following soon after and tossed into some unknown corner of the room. Paz helps you out of your shirt, a shiver wracking through your body from the chill, leaving you bare save for your underthings. Yet the warmth that seeps through his shirt and his hands that linger over your ribcage do a lovely job at making up for the cold.

Din shuffles closer and brings his fingers up to cup the side of your face, lowering his head to rest the crown of his helmet on your forehead. “Wanna touch you.” 

Your breath hitches as Paz’s hands sweep up your torso, cupping and kneading your breasts. “Y-you already are touching me, Din." 

Paz snorts as the rough leather of his gloves scrape over your skin and unhook your bindings. You hardly hear Din over your own whine as Paz rolls your hardened nipples between a forefinger and thumb. 

“I want to feel you—without the gloves,” Din clarifies, fighting to keep your attention on him. “Will you let me?”  

Maker that shouldn’t even be a question. You moan out your approval, delighted that both of them decide to slip off the padded fabric. Din touches your bare thigh the same moment Paz returns his hands to your tits and it’s exhilarating. The rasp of their bare palms against your flesh is addicting—something so foreign and warm compared to their usual armor and thick layered clothing. 

You arch into Paz’s hand as it curls around the base of your throat, a tentative pressure but still heavy. “You’d let us do anything, wouldn’t you? Needy little thing.”

“Yes,” you croak, already debauched and falling apart at the seams. “Anything.”

You’re all too happy to fade away in the embrace of the larger man but the other participant is far from letting that slide. Din grabs your hand, guiding it towards the front of his trousers, the drawstrings already loose and easy to pull aside. He groans and twitches as your fingertips flirt along his navel, then curl over the waistband, tugging his pants the rest of the way down to pool around his knees. 

You reach for the already impressive outline of his cock pressing against his boxers, but Paz cupping your cunt through your underwear just before you touch Din is distracting. You gasp and arch as Paz digs the heel of his palm against your clit, electrifying ecstasy zipping down your spine with each touch. 

There’s a twinge of guilt after Din huffs and drags your limp wrist back to his cock, this time encouraging you to palm him by guiding your actions with his own hand until you lazily oblige. Din’s quiet grunts, gravely against the vocoder do nothing but throw more jet fuel to the fire inside your belly. The growing urge to actually touch him gnaws and corrodes the forefront of your brain. With a firm yank his boxers are quick to join his trousers and Maker—

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

Din is thick, rosy brown and flushed at the tip and beginning to curl towards his bellybutton. A bead of liquid shines at the tip, dribbling down the underside as he wraps his fist around the base of his length. He gives himself a languid stroke before he, once again, reminds your hand of what it’s supposed to be doing. Din is searing in your palm, molten and stiffening to hardened steel in your grip.   

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Din hisses as his head rolls back onto his shoulders. “S-so pretty holding my cock.”

Your desperation tears at your insides, insatiable and Maker— you wanna taste him. You want to hear every little stuttered moan and feel each twitch of his hips as he claims your mouth as his own.    

But before you’re able to ask Din if he’d be willing to fuck your throat, Paz grips your knee and slings your leg over his thigh, murmuring praise as he peels off your underwear. Paz’s hand snakes down to your pussy and runs two thick fingers through your already slick cunt, then delicately parts your folds. 

It’s like a fucking bomb going off as his thumb grazes over your swollen clit. His forearm locks tight around your waist, keeping you in place as you arch and tremble. Paz is feather light and teasing, as he strokes over the little bundle of nerves in a painstakingly slow rhythm. 

“Paz—“ 

He nudges your cheek with his helmet and chuckles. “You’re so sensitive, vaar’ika. Such lovely noises too.”  

Paz trades in his light touches for using his two fingers instead. They form a relaxed ‘v’ shape, trapping your clit in between the digits as he massages in a steady up and down motion. You cry out, every nerve shocked and flooded with saccharine pleasure, shoving you so treacherously close to that precarious edge of release.      

You have no fucking chance as a different set of fingers, leaner in length but just as bulky, carefully prod at your entrance. Din’s pointer finger slides into your cunt, quickly adding a second as your core clenches and stretches for him. The dual sensations over your clit and Din’s fingers steadily pumping and curling inside you send you hurling into that dazzling white-hot pleasure.     

Throwing your head back, you cry out—a jumbled mess of their names or just nonsense— pleasure crackling out from your core and all the way down your legs. Your cunt tightens like a vice around Din’s digits, your legs twitching as your high dips into prickly overstimulation. You whine, and swat at Paz’s hand, Din pulling out his own fingers a moment later and wiping your wetness on the inside of your thigh. 

Your head rests in the crook of Paz’s shoulder as your breath fans across the side of his helmet, fogging up the metal where the blue paint is chipped and scraped away. The shirt he wears smells a bit like sweat but the underlying scent of him is comforting—worn leather and something crisp, like fresh laundry. You don’t mean for the words to slip out—

You know better than that, but everything feels muddled and silly and, and, and—

“I wish I could kiss you.”  

It’s like dousing ice cold water on a pile of smoldering coals. A silence, petrifying and like the inhale before jumping off a cliff and into a rocky sea, ensues. Stupid, stupid, stupid—  

Paz shatters the fragile suspense with a rich laugh that burns away all the icy worry making itself a home in your ribcage. He moves his arm up, his fingers gripping your jaw to fix your gaze onto the other Mandalorian. “You want his mouth on you too?”  

You whimper and nod, but it isn’t enough. 

“Use your voice vaar’ika,” Paz hums, pressing the crown of his helmet against your cheek. “Tell us want you want.” 

“I-fuck—” Paz’s fingertips sneak up your torso, rough callous catching deliciously on your skin. “I wan’t your mouth on me. B-both of you.” 

Paz chuckles and releases his hold on your chin. “You’ll have to be blindfolded, sweet girl.”

Din scoffs, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. “Like she’d want to see your face anyway.”

“Please,” you mewl, turning your head to curl into Paz’s neck. It’s not ideal, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. “I don’t care. I need—“

“Patience, little one,” Paz purrs, rubbing up and down your bare sides in a soothing manner. All it does is stoke the flames. “You’ll get what you want.” 

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

You can feel his cock, firmer then tempered durasteel and poking into your lower back. Oh, hell—these men are going to ruin you. 

You’re nudged forward, your vision going dark once your shirt is securely tied around your head. The knot traps a few hairs that pull sharp against your scalp but the measly pain is worth it. Oh so worth it.  

“Is it too tight?” You hear Din ask, concern lacing his gravely vocals. 

You wave your hand in dismissal. “S’fine.”

“Cant see anything either, right?” 

You squirm, your patience spreading thin. “Din, please.”

“Fine.” There’s no bite to his tone and under different circumstances you’d have more composure. Acknowledge that they’re putting their religion, their whole being into your hands—a fragile trust that could so easily be shattered. 

Your ears pick up their subtle movements, their helmets landing onto the thin mat with soft thunks. With bated breath you wait for them to jump into action, seize every spare moment to taste your skin and breathe the same air. But—

“You need a haircut, vod.”

“And you need to shave.” Retorts Din with bitter indignation. 

“It’s hardly even stubble.” He chortles. You giggle and twist away as he scrapes his prickly cheek up and down your neck. “Besides—she likes it.” 

There’s another lull, and with the blindfold everything is amplified—the quick and quiet breathing of Din on your right and the slide of fabric against skin as Paz shifts. Your attention is captured by Din’s bare palm, warm and calloused like weathered leather left out in the afternoon sun. He caresses the outside of your thigh in smooth, longing strokes, enraptured by the softness of your skin. You whimper and let your leg fall open, exposing more of your thigh for his curious exploration. 

The sudden touch on your cheek is jarring. You know Paz is there—it’s not an easy thing to forget the solid chest you’re leaning against but it’s hard to focus. Difficult to settle on one thought before it slips away like grains of sand between a clenched fist. Paz’s touch is heavier than Din’s, ambitious and greedy but…mindful. Even as his fingers spread along your jaw and drag you into a deep, mouthwatering kiss. It’s…stars—   

There’s nothing that can describe this. No word that could ever hold a candle up to the way his lips, plush and soft, move against yours. His nose brushes against your cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his warm tongue sliding against the seam of your bottom lip. 

You whine and bury your hand into his hair as Paz groans, a low rumble in his throat. You wonder what color it is, but carding your fingers through the curls atop his head suffices for now.

Your curiosity is abruptly ended as Din’s hand snakes around your forearm. You’re forcibly yanked away, only to be met with another pair of lips. Din murmurs an apology at the sting of his teeth bumping into your upper lip, but the pain is hardly the first thing on your mind. 

Din’s kiss is devouring—  

Scalding and bright—the galaxy, a thousand suns, all there ever will be and all that ever was. The way his lips move against yours is a devastatingly sharp contrast to the steady, syrupy sweet kiss Paz offers. Desperate and eager to surround you in his own arms—steal away any lingering thought and replace it with him. Din Djarin—  

You gasp as Din’s teeth nibble and pull on your bottom lip, only a moment before he surges closer, wrapping his hand around your jaw to hold it open as he licks deep into your mouth. Breaking for air, Din tangles his fingers into your hair at the base of your neck and yanks, baring the column of your throat. His travels down, the tender kisses morphing into teasing nips and lingering sucks that’ll turn into tender bruises in the morning. 

Din hovers over your breasts, his heated breath and cooling saliva the catalyst to the goosebumps that rush over your skin. He lightly tugs on your nipple using his teeth, then plants a sweet kiss over your sternum.   

“Can I taste you?” Din murmurs, his lips ghosting over your flesh. “Maker—wanna put my mouth on you.” 

“Din—“ A different set of lips latching onto the juncture of your neck and hijacks your train of thought. Wipes your mind clean until Paz is the sole thing you can consciously focus on. 

Paz laves his tongue over the shell of your ear and urges you to lean back against him once more. Your nose scrapes against his stubble as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his hips lazily rolling his hardened cock into your backside. 

“Or…” Paz rumbles, capturing your hand and interlacing your fingers with his. You marvel at the sheer size of his palm—astounded still when he leads his and your hands to palm his cock. “I could give you this. Fuck your pretty little cunt until you’re screaming for me.”

It’s a punch to the gut. Why the fuck do you have to choose? You squirm as Din points his tongue over your nipple then sucks it into his mouth. 

Working through the fog in your head, the answer is clearer than fucking crystal. Because who in their right mind would turn down a Mandalorian’s request to eat you out? Not you, that’s for sure. “Din—want your mouth.”

Din huffs in triumph and slips between your legs that part to accommodate his broad shoulders, leaving no patch of bare skin untouched and worshiped. You shiver as his tongue circles around your bellybutton then retreats. Din settles his head beside your knee and mouths a kiss there.  

You whine his name and buck your hips, heart beating wildly in your ears. The teasing is unbearable and, stars—if he doesn’t start now— 

He nibbles on the inside of your thigh, laving his warm tongue over each mark he leaves behind, buffering the sting of his teeth. Din snake his hands under your ass, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he heaves your cunt closer to his mouth. Din’s thumbs part your soaking pussy, his breath hot fanning over your cunt. His tongue his scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit. 

Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through you. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—fuck. Fuck, you need more.   

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are obliterated; nothing but the warmth of his tongue, and his lips, devouring you as if he were a man seconds from death and you’re his saving grace. That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke—but you’re not going anywhere. Not even a million credits could convince you to push Din’s head away. 

He sinks two fingers into your clenching hole and curls his fingers, stroking and curling his fingertips to make you sing. Zeros in on that little spot that causes the involuntary twitches of your leg and wrenches embarrassing, high pitched mewls that fill the room. You’re careening towards your high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure. 

“Shit—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must hurt. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth. 

Your release unfurls through your body like sticky molasses—smoldering embers that seep into each limb until they’re heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to think and at this rate your brain is as good as gone.   

You pay only a fraction of attention to Din as he kisses his way back up your body and lands a final one over your lips. His thumb grazes over your chin, his gravelly words of praise cutting through some of that foggy haze, how good you were, how fucking delicious you tasted when you came on his tongue. You taste your own arousal on his mouth as he noses your cheek and captures your lips in another kiss.           

“Are you done?” Paz asks dryly, much too barbed to be thrown your way. You groan when Paz jostles your limp body as he hoists you back into his lap.

“Just starting, actually,” Din quips. “Why don’t you hand her back over? I’ve got some more things I wanna try.” 

Paz scoffs and secures a heavy arm around your middle. “Greed will get you nowhere.” 

“Neither will your arrogance.” 

“Shut up—both of you,” you interrupt. Your voice is raw and choppy but it does the job. “Just fuck me already.”

For now their little spat is sidelined—it’s not worth ripping off that bandage of a temporary truce. There’s a chaste moment of quiet, like they’re considering tearing into each other’s throats instead, but with a touch to Paz’s thigh the standoff fizzles out. 

“We need to work on your manners,” Paz suggests, curling his large, calloused hand around your neck in a loose hold. “I believe it’s please fuck me.” 

Maybe if you weren’t practically a pile of brainless goo, you’d argue. See how far you can push—though this time you fold. “Please fuck me. P-please—I need it.” 

Seemingly satisfied with your answer; Paz wedges a hand between your bodies to grip his cock and run the tip through your folds, soaked from you own wetness and Din’s saliva. The head of his member nudges at your entrance, and wether it’s his size or the fact you can’t see anything—you panic. 

Your hand shoots out, nails harpooning into the meat of his forearm. “W-wait—you’re too b-big.”  

Paz freezes and moves you up his lap and presses a kiss over you hairline. “We can stop. Just say—“

“N-no, I’m fine,” you assure, planting an apologetic peck on his stubbled jaw. Stopping is the last thing you want to do—it was just…overwhelming. A sensory overload testing the very fringes of your being. “Go slow?”

You feel his head bob in compliance as he moves you back to where you’re hovering over his cock. You relax this time, not as many alarm bells clanging through your head as your cunt flutters around the fat tip and then that glorious, first thick inch. Paz’s thumb bumps over your throbbing clit, coaxing your pussy to take him further. 

“Yeah, that’s it vaar’ika,” he grunts, his breath fanning over your neck in quick pants. “Taking my cock so fucking well. So nice and pretty.”

Your pussy flutters, fresh waves of arousal hot and burning.You nearly keel over when Paz starts shallowly rocking his hips, easing your body the rest of the way down his length until the back of your thighs touch his. Maker—how the hell is he all the way inside? You can feel him in your fucking guts—         

“See?” Paz purrs. He sucks a bruise into the meat of your shoulder and pushes his palm against your lower stomach, making the fit even tighter. “Fits fucking perfect.”

The noise your cunt makes pulling out and the debauched moan that filters through his vocal chords is obscene. If anyone where to walk by, well—it’s certainly not training that’s going on, for the better lack of words. 

Paz holds true to his word—keeps his pace limited to deep, languid thrusts that brush up against something that makes your whole body shake—like strumming a golden chord molded to a musician’s fingers. Fuck—he’s doing all the work too. Lifting you by the swell of your hips and pulling you down onto his cock with a rough buck of his hips. 

Abruptly, he slows to a gentle rocking—quick to lock you in place as you thrash and roll your hips. “Paz—n-no. Keep going. You n-need to—“

Paz silences your please with a wet, open mouthed kiss. “Our friend looks lonely. Why don’t you use that pretty mouth and suck his cock?” 

Din. 

You hear the man curse in Mando’a, probably some stab at Paz—

But with a pat to your outer thigh, you don’t need any more prompting—you’d give up your left hand to get a chance to suck him off. With the help of Paz, you’re eased onto your hands and knees, shocks of white-hot pleasure zipping through your core at the change of angle. Like this Paz is seated deeper inside, stabbing into each spot that makes you sing.    

Fuck—your arms are shaking—only able to hold yourself up for half a click and then you’re sinking face first into the floor, ass in the air as he fucks into you. Paz clicks his tongue and wraps his arm around your front, pulling you back up from your slumped position. 

“I told you to suck his cock, girl. Not take a nap.” Paz accentuates his words with heavy, well measured thrusts—the kind of force you know will leave your whole lower half throbbing and sore in the aftermath. 

You whine as Paz grabs a hold of your jaw, digging into the tender joints until your mouth falls open. “Good. Keep it like that.” 

Paz’s hand falls away, replaced by a softer touch. The pads of Din’s fingers hook under your chin, guiding and tempting you nearer to what rests between his legs, hot and heavy and large.       

You feel the tip of his cock, flushed and pulsing, rest on your bottom lip. You lap up the beads of sticky precum with kitten licks that morph into suckling the entire head. Din grunts out your name and tangles his hand into your hair as you tongue at the ridged frenulum. He never forces you to swallow down more of him—lets you cradle the first few inches in the wet warmth of your mouth and languidly roll the pad of your tongue around him. 

You want to take him deeper, let Din fuck your throat raw, but your jaw already aches. Your lips are pulled tight around his shaft, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on the mat below. You’re not sure if you could take more of him without the danger of your teeth catching or dislocating your jaw. So you manage like this—hollowing out your cheeks and and using the momentum of Paz’s thrusts to pleasure Din.          

It’s frustrating—it must be each time you let his cock slip out of your mouth to breathe or the fact Din isn’t able to fucking fit his cock into your mouth. Annoying that you aren’t able to think properly to help him out a bit ore when that said brain is being fucked straight outta you, put through the wringer and then body slammed onto duracrete. 

Din cups your cheek, strokes over your skin with his thumb and maneuvers himself out of your mouth. You whine and lean into his palm, his touch addictive like smoldering coals in the dead of winter.    

“You want me there instead of him?” Din purrs, using the tips of his index and middle fingers to tilt your chin and drag you into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck you like you deserve.” 

The profane imagery of Din between your legs instead makes you clench tight. It only takes a couple seconds and a few more feverish kisses before you’re nodding to his request. Paz mutters a swear, hesitates, and reluctantly pulls out, leaving your cunt empty and aching with need. 

Din, however, is speedy—quick to hoard you to himself and yank your legs over his hips so that you’re draped on his lap. He jumps straight to the point, no fancy maneuver or drawn out teasing—just grabs the base of his cock, slides the flushed tip between your folds and sinks into your cunt. Even after your pussy had been stretched and molded around Paz’s length, you struggle to take Din’s entire cock into your aching center. It’s easier than Paz but, Maker—not by much. 

You whine, harpooning your fingernails into his shoulder once he bottoms out. Din snarls a curse and latches his teeth onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder, prickly pain shooting directly to your belly. “Fucking tight. H-how—fuck.”

There’s no time to adjust before Din sets a pace, harsh and desperate—his hands digging into the flesh of your ass for better leverage. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end before it could be yanked out from under him. Din’s staggered exhales below your ear are interlaced with subdued moans that start low in his ribcage then dip into a higher, airy pitch. A delicate sound you’ll guard closer to your chest than any secret you possess for the rest of your life—precious and yours. 

Din turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking good. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking hard around my fingers—“

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Heat sizzles down each vertebrae in your spine, burning up each and every cell with the brilliance of a wildfire. Stars, this is gonna destroy you.      

Din’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of blistering warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Din’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.  

“Good girl,” Din praises, pace faltering from just how tight your pussy squeezes and flutters around his cock. “S-such a fucking good girl for me.”     

Regaining some semblance of control, you realize he’s still fucking going—still rock solid and throbbing, fucking you through the aftershocks of your release. Your arousal turns sharp, like rough cotton over a fresh sunburn as it dips into overstimulation. It’s not unpleasant but Din has to slow his hips to a delicate roll for you to recover.            

In the time it takes to inhale, a different calloused hand kneads into your lower back then smoothes up your spine. A second later you feel the scrape of Paz’s stubble prick along your exposed shoulder as his tongue drags along your sweat dampened skin—all the way up the curve of your neck and ending at the shell of your ear. 

You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but as Paz crowds closer the tip of his cock pokes at your other hole. With a surprised mewl, you tense and shy away—but he follows, molds his chest against your back to sandwhich you in. The hand gripping your bicep jumps to your neck and pulls your head against his shoulder. 

Two of Paz’s fingers dip down the curve of your ass and brush along the puckered skin—far less jarring this time. “Do you want to be fucked here too?” 

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.  

Stuffed to the brim already, it’s hard to imagine Paz cramming himself in along with Din. A little red light blares in some corner of your mind but it’s quickly soothed as Paz plants soft kisses over your cheek and jaw. You trust him—there’s no reason to think he’ll hurt you or push you to the point of pain.

You catch his mouth with a kiss and rock your hips back. “Y-yeah, ok. I trust you.” 

You feel his smile curl against your cheek. “Don’t worry vaar’ika—I’ll take care of you.”

Paz strokes your bottom lip with his thumb and kisses the crown of your hairline as you sink into him. With his ring and middle finger, he pushes past the seam of your lips. “Suck.”

You obey, sealing your lips around his two digits and coating them in your saliva. Paz pulls them out with a pop and moves them between your legs, and with the added wetness dripping from your cunt, the first finger is easy enough. The second and third have you gasping as he scissors them and stretches your tight hole wider. You claw your nails into Din’s shirt—and he’s no better—Din’s own hands are clamping around your hips, struggling to keep still and biting back moans each time your cunt constricts. 

Your hips begins to meet the thrusts of Paz’s fingers as your body familiarizes the feel of him there. It’s a deep thrill that rushes up through your spinal cord—much different from anything you’ve felt before. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Paz goads, chuckling when you whine as he extracts his fingers. “I think you’re ready to take my cock, yeah?”

You shudder and nod, your voice no more than a squeak as it pilfers out. Paz strokes the top of your head and tips you forward into Din’s eager arms as Paz slicks up his length in a mix of precum and your dripping arousal. He touches the swell of you ass in warning, lines himself up with your hole and wedges the tip of his cock inside of you.     

Involuntary tears dampen your makeshift blindfold as Paz buries himself deeper, his rumbling tone urging you to relax—relax even though your mind is drowning in an ocean of arousal and swirling emotions you have no hope to pin down and analyze. It’s for the best—thankful as Paz bottoms out that it wrenches you back to a feasible reality you’re able to manage.

“Shit—I-I’m gonna die—“ You sob, writhing at just how full you are. But there’s nowhere to fucking go—     

“Easy,” Din breathes, and you wonder if he’s said it to keep his own head on his shoulders. “Easy.”

Din’s gravelly rasp cuts through the fog in your head, and stars—you sound like you’re fucking dying. Your wheezy breaths and lightheadedness would certainly suggest that—but no…no, you’re fine. Better than fine.     

A rush so acute and devastating launches up your spine as Din’s patience cracks. He experimentally rolls his hips and that’s the end of it. You’re swallowed up in that riptide you fought so hard to avoid—fuck. You won’t be the same after this. How can you?  

You can feel them both, separated by a thin wall as they sprint towards their own highs. You’re never once left empty—Din reaches the end of you as Paz pulls out and while there’s not exactly any finesse involves it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in your entire life. There’s no bickering—no teasing and you’re struck with an idea that makes you clench tight around both of them. You wouldn’t mind if this was the way they decided to settle scores or finally see eye to eye.   

This time you can’t discern your high—just a constant overflow of ecstasy and dazzling arousal like an imploding supernova. You cry their names—sob and shake in their hold with such fervor that Paz traps you tighter between them to keep you still.  

“Fuck—you get so fucking tight,” Paz growls, blunt nails digging into your hips. “And so fucking wet.”

His fingers touch the inside of your thigh and stars—he’s right. “I get to fuck your cunt next time—see how much you’ll drip for me.” 

Even if the blindfold were off—there’d be nothing to see but a white wash of nothing. Blinded by pleasure and bursting at the seems. 

Jealous, Din steals your breath away with a kiss, licking and nipping at your swollen lips until you whine his name. His jagged pants fan across your chin—chapped lips and patchy facial hair tickling across your bottom lip as you breath the same air. 

Din whispers your name like a prayer, his fingers clutching tight around your thighs as his pace starts to flounder to choppy jerks. “Shit. I-I’m close—“

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Yeah—ok baby. Let go.”

Din’s teeth sink into the base of your throat and cums. His seed coats your insides—hot and copious and fucking shit—if there’s a next time you want him to cum in your mouth.      

You don’t get time to relish Din’s stuttered gasps of your name, laced with praise and a show of a tender and bleeding heart before Paz is gathering up your hair in a tight fist and jerking your head up. “You—you want me to cum too? Say it.” 

Without a breath of hesitation you beg for it, cry and arch into him. It does the trick—

Paz is loud—shouts a thunderous roar and buries his cock deep into your hole. Din is still recovering from the aftershocks of his release when Paz pulls out after what seems like ages pumping you full. His cock no longer there to plug you up, his cum begins to dribble out and mix with the mess between your legs. Your legs shake and you wobble--crying out as Din slips out, your body dreadfully empty and aching.     

You're lowered to the mat by Din and if you weren't still trying to formulate words, you'd thank them. Lips dart over your cheeks and hairline, and for once nothing needs to be said. It’s nice...the radiating warmth from their bodies and the simmering flush through you body is something you could get used to. But you’re no stranger to the shifting tides of the future. 

You shrug it off.    

Your eyes are heavy and with one of them stroking your hair and the other your thigh, you drift to sleep. Later—later all unspoken things and disastrous words can be dealt with tomorrow. You must be dreaming when it’s said--careless and bold, but the words nestle into your heart and sprouts with fear. 

“You love her, don't you?” 

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak 

or’dinni--dumbass idiot 

vod--brother/comrade 

tag list: 

@bobafctts​ @djxrxn​ @teaofpeach​ @corrupt-fvcker​ @nelba​ @datmando​ @ben-is-a-hoe​ @dreams-like-clockwork​ @aerynwrites​ @auty-ren​ @huliabitch​ @anxiety-riddled-mando​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @trippedmetaldetector​ 

[lupismaris]

Blackberry Crepes- silverflintham black sails modern au ficlet

(i saw a few posts about how love is sharing food and making breakfast for your loved ones and lets just say this is part 1 of a series in which Flint cooks for his loved ones when saying i love you might not be enough)

Sleep was something of a stranger to Silver. He liked to joke that he didn’t need it, that he could just cat nap for half an hour here and there, and be good for a few days, that he was just built different, the perks of life on the run and never having a real routine. But in truth he’d push himself until his body gave out and he slept for 18 hours and woke up feeling like death warmed over. That was the only way he’d be able to get any real sleep. Pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, or, as he had eventually learned with Flint and Thomas, getting well and truly laid until his brain shut off and his body felt like lead.   He preferred the latter, of course, but it still wasn’t something he felt he could readily ask for. Especially when it wasn’t enough to keep his mind quiet. Dreams, nightmares, they’re funny things. You can think you’re too tired to dream and then on your way into an REM cycle you get blind sided by the most vivid night terror you’ve had in the past three months. You could be napping on the couch when the phantom limb starts acting up and your mind conjures memories of when you lost it or just vague ideas of what life would be like if you hadn’t and you wake up unable to tell which is worse. You could be strung out and coming down from an orgasmic high and then feel your stomach drop when you finally fall asleep and your mind tells you it isn’t safe, jolting you violently back to consciousness. Or you could be dozing in the early morning hours, the way Silver had been, after a good night, a genuinely good night, and find yourself halfway between deep sleep and waking, faced with fears you’d buried so far deep you hoped they’d suffocate. They’d gone to dinner, on a date even. Flint and Thomas had made a point to be home and get dressed up and take him out on the town and pay complete attention to him, like he was just a normal lover and not, well, himself. It was still an adjustment for him, this idea that he could just have this, a normal relationship with men who actually wanted him, where using each other wasn’t part of it, where the end game wasn’t someone’s bank account or an act of violence, where there wasn’t even an end game to consider. By the end of July the charms of summer had started to wear thin, even for Silver, and he was tired of the heat and the mirror like cage of the city, he was tired of the long days and the long conversations and the longer shadows on the blistering asphalt. He was tired of the haze that made his mind question what was and wasn’t real, despite knowing what was. It left him on edge and he knew Flint could tell, no matter how hard he worked to hide it. If Thomas knew, he was at least polite enough not to give it away. Dinner had been lovely. A little Spanish place by the promenade, followed by a short walk since the evening was cooler than expected and a breeze of the Hudson meant it was almost blissful. There had been wine and Flint’s homemade limoncello tarts when they got home and endless lazy kisses and one of them always touching him as if trying to keep him tethered. There had been sex, great sex, not that Silver had ever had bad sex with the pair of them (the smug rotten bastards), but the kind where Silver had been able to let go and drown in it for a while, let someone else carry the load, and do the thinking for a while. It still hadn’t been enough.

Silver sighed, a cloud of smoke curling around his face as he watched the rooftops shift and glimmer in the faded teal skies of four am, his second cigarette of the hour dangling somewhat carelessly from his fingers. He had tried, valiantly he felt, to stay in bed with Flint and Thomas, to sleep curled up with them the way Flint always hoped he would after sex. Some nights it worked and he’d wake up when Flint went for his blasphemous morning run. Most nights though he’d wait until Thomas was out cold and snoring like a bear, then kiss Flint goodnight, and slip back to his room next door. He’d fallen asleep tucked into Flint’s chest, with Flint’s arm around him and the deep rumble of his breathing filling his ears. Thomas was spooned up behind Flint, clinging to his husband like a child and snoring loudly, but that too was somehow comforting. He was safe, he was loved, he was home. And suddenly the next thing Silver knew he was choking on nothing and fighting the air, sitting bolt upright in bed with a wordless, noiseless scream of fear. The only saving grace was that it didn’t wake the others, Thomas still sound asleep and curled up under the covers, Flint spooned up behind him, years younger in sleep, a different man. Silver had sat there shaking for some time, half an hour, five minutes, he couldn’t be sure. Once he could breathe without wheezing and his hands had stopped shaking violently, he steadied himself and slipped out of bed, grabbing his crutch from where it rested dutifully against the nightstand. There wasn’t much he was good at in life, but John Silver had always been good at running. This wasn’t any different. Now, he was wrapped in an old blanket, hidden away on the roof where he’d been putting together his own little makeshift garden. Plants that he’d found half dead or dying on the curb, abandoned succulents from friends, houseplants he found on discount at the hardware store that he’d barter down to a dollar. He liked the distance heights gave him, always had, was always climbing things as a kid to try and get a better view, try to hide away from prying eyes. It was harder now that he had the prosthetic, but the elevator could take him up to the loft, and the stairs to the roof weren’t too steep, so he could manage them with his crutch. It wasn’t that he didn’t love the little patch of green paradise that Flint and Thomas had nurtured down below, he loved it and the time they spent there. But this- this little scrap of roof top, with it’s homemade shelves of plywood and resurrected plants, was his. Silver took another drag from his cigarette and watched a flock of pigeons shift their course in flight, heading west towards Manhattan where the morning crowds were no doubt slowly beginning to stir. Even on Saturdays, the city got a bright and early start if it ever truly decided to rest. He could hear tidbits of conversation from his perch, voices carried up to him like secrets as their owners walked past, heading home from work, from a night out, leaving home to go to work, whatever their little lives demanded, existing in spite of themselves, for themselves. Cars hummed past, cabbies and uber drivers trying to catch the last of the club goers as they left the bars in search of a trip home, picking up the true early bird tourists as they tried to beat the others to some absurd event or another. He could even hear music, someone’s window open on their block he thought, and the faint repetitive sound of a piano as they worked through their scales. Maybe he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. The neighborhood would be well and truly awake soon. The running group would be on the corner waiting for the stragglers, hitting the asphalt by five am. The store fronts and bodegas would start opening up around six, the bars by eight if they served brunch, and the world would come to life at Silver’s feet. He had until then to quiet the noise in his head and remember how to put his mask back on. The sound of the door nearly gave him a heart attack. He thought for a moment that maybe, if he kept still, he’d go unnoticed, they the sparse shelves and plants and the blanket might hide him well enough that Flint, because it was always Flint, would go back down stairs and go for his morning run and leave him well enough alone. But he knew better. “Do I want to know how long you’ve been up here?” came the sleep heavy rumble of a voice. “Depends on whether you want to be disappointed this early in the morning,” Silver replied dryly. And there it was, the telltale sigh of disappointment, because Flint was going to be disappointed no matter what answer he got. “Silver-” “I don’t want to do this right now.” “Do what?” Silver sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He heard Flint move across the roof, the soft footsteps of bare feet on the weatherproof matting slow and well chosen, stopping next to him. “This thing you do where you try and bully answers out of me. I don’t fucking feel up to these games, alright? I just- I don’t,” Silver said, risking a look upwards. Flint was shirtless, as he always was when fresh out of bed, but he’d pulled on a pair of old sweatpants before going to look for Silver. He’d left his hair loose, the rich copper strands hanging in a curtain around the left side of his face, the shaved under cut peaking out along the right. Silver could still see the pillow prints on his cheek, and his beard was disgruntled and unbrushed the way it rarely was when he left the house. Silver loved him like this, he loved Flint always, but there was something about Flint like this, soft and at ease, bare chested and vulnerable that managed to settle even the worst of Silver’s deep seated insecurities. Because who else got to have Flint like this? Who else but Silver and Thomas got Flint at his gentlest? They looked at each other for a moment, Flint frowning softly with his hands on his hips and Silver wrapped up in his blanket, saying nothing, saying everything they could. Then Flint sighed and sat down next to him. “I’m not here to bully you,” he said gently, taking the cigarette that Silver was neglecting. “You were gone when I woke up, thought I’d check on you,” He paused, relighting the cigarette with his trusty old lighter, “but as you were not in your room I figured something was bothering you and you’d be either working in the office or up here.” “You didn’t have to check on me.” “It was for my sake, not yours.” Silver smiled faintly, his eyes stinging from what he hoped was just exhaustion but was probably tears. He didn’t look at Flint, just blinked them away and watched the sky lighten little by little as Flint finished the cigarette. “You know that’s not what I’m doing, right?” Flint asked after a few minutes of silence. “Whats not what you’re doing?” “Bullying you.” “I mean it’s kinda what you do.” “Is that how you see it?” Flint wasn’t looking at him. He was reaching for the French enamel cigarette case that was sitting next to Silver, one he’d stolen in Monaco several lives before, and lighting another cigarette. Silver watched him, a little wistful, and incredibly exhausted all at once. “No.” He said. “Yes. Depends on when you try and do it I guess.” That got a low hum from Flint, smoke filling the air for a moment in a pensive cloud. Silver waited, oddly tense, hoping that Flint would listen to him, and not try and play one of their fucked up little games so early in the morning. They were doing really well these days, not playing any games at all, having real, honest conversations like well adjusted adults who hadn’t done all the awful things they’d done, to each other, to others. But sometimes it was so much easier to just be awful to each other, to fall back into the old way of doing things. “I only check on you to know you’re still here,” Flint said finally. “I only ask if you’re alright because if I can fix it, I want to. I don’t care if you lie to me about what had you out of bed this morning. I don’t give a shit if you never tell me the names of your ghosts, I’ve told you that a dozen times, I know you remember that as well as you remember the names of my own ghosts.” Silver did remember, both the ghosts, and the plaintive way Flint had asked him to trust whatever it was they had between them. “I just want to know you’re still here. That you’ve not gone running off again. That you’ll run to me next time this,” he waved at the rooftop and the skyline as if encompassing all of Silver’s faulty coping methods, “fails and you’re out at sea. I just- I ask those questions to reassure myself, alright?” He paused, taking another drag from the cigarette, tipping his head back with a heavy sigh. Silver could see the age starting to show on his face again, in the soft lines around his eyes, the firm set of his mouth, the scars on his nose and throat, the endless sea of freckles, the faded ink of his tattoos, the streaks of gray in his beard. Before his eyes, the man he loved, his Flint, was appearing, returning to flesh and blood from the land of dreams. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, pup,” Flint added, finally turning his head and catching Silver looking at him. The sea green of Flint’s eyes always seemed to hook Silver, regardless of whether he wanted them to. They could be the deep inky black full of secrets or the still gray of quiet waters, it didn’t matter- if Flint looked at him, soft and open and endlessly patient the way no one else was, Silver would eventually break. Flint knew it, but so far, he never seemed to abuse the power he held. Silver smiled faintly. With a soft groan he shifted onto his knees, loving the way Flint’s hands immediately reached to steady him whether he needed it or not, and crawled into Flint’s lap, straddling his hips and wrapping the worn blanket around them both. He took the cigarette from Flint’s lips and stubbed it out in the ashtray, as Flints hands settled like an anchor, warm and sure, at the small of his back. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, old man,” Silver said, brushing Flint’s hair out of his eyes, “I promised you were stuck with me. No amount of nightmares are gonna change that.” He kissed Flint softly, smiling at the low rumbling purr it got him, at the way Flint’s hands pulled him closer, spread wide on his back. It was a soft, innocent thing, no heat, no hunger, and that too was still something novel to Silver, that he could have this innocent kind of intimacy with someone, with a man like Flint. He craved it as much as he craved the wilder side of love and was grateful that Flint seemed happy to satisfy both moods whenever they arose. “Good,” Flint said, once the lazy kiss broke and Silver tucked his face into Flint’s shoulder with a happy sound. “Because while I would absolutely give chase, I’d rather not have Thomas trailing after us as well. You know the kind of trouble he gets up to, just imagine him trying to find you.” Silver snorted with an undignified burst of laughter. “No, god, he’d be impossible.” “Exactly. I’d have my hands full just trying to keep him in one piece. I’ve got enough gray hair as it is, pup, don’t go giving me anymore before my time, alright?” Flint lifted his chin as Silver’s fingers petted the gray streaks in his beard, letting out another soft rumbling sound. “Alright. Though I do think it’s sexy.” “Yeah yeah, you’ve made that perfectly clear,” Flint kissed the top of Silver’s head, nuzzling his messy curls. “C’mon, why don’t we head inside, I think it’s a reasonable time for coffee.” “What about your run? Your awful five am morning ritual I can almost never talk you out of even for a blow job.” “I feel like skipping this morning.” Silver lifted his head, leveling Flint with a skeptical look and a raised eyebrow. Flint returned it with a fond smile. “Its Saturday, I feel like making breakfast,” Flint said with a shrug. I love you, Silver heard. “Can we have blackberry crepes? And scrambled eggs?” Silver asked after a moment. “And that fancy bacon you got from the farmer’s market?” Flint smiled, still fond and impossibly warm. Silver’s heart skipped, flipped, and settled in his chest. Flint had heard the unspoken, skittish, and undeniable “I love you too” tucked into Silver’s reply. Flint coaxed him into another soft kiss, still wearing that same smile.

  “Blackberry crepes it is.”

[sitespeedsmooth]

Shimejis that interact with each other

The two would play in Pink's garden until she was finally given a colony. If you like this application deku death tabs, please leave your feedback. As you can see, there's a mischievous file and a calm file ignore the shimejipythonconverterhere, which file to download is up to you. For people confused about how to obtain the Baku shimeji file, just put a 0 into the price window and clic on pay ahah. You can download the original program here. This Ochako Uraraka Uravity shimeji created by superevey from the shimeji pack My Hero Academia will move around on your screen and interacts with your browser windows while you browsing the web. High quality Uraraka Ochako gifts and merchandise. Nonetheless, Hinata persevered and from her observation of Naruto Uzumaki especially, Hinata found an example to follow. His hair appears differently in different depictions, but in the original Haunted Dark Bridal depiction it is a dark plum purple which fades lighter towards. Note that the quality of these goodies is not verified. Our team is constantly working on bigger and better projects-any generous contributions or merchandise sales will go right towards making our future games more awesome!. Aug 14, - Comment lui dire? Papa, j'ai une question. Explore semi-semii Tumblr blog with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience - she her a blog about all things 2D Tumgir. Kokichi Oma was a normal talentless high school boy who participated in the 53rd Season of. JavaScript is required to view this site.Deku Shimeji Anime-Loads. Too many questions!! Honda data link connector pinout What will they have to say to each other? I wonder how Shigaraki will interact with his grandmother. But your past bully jumping without second thoughts to save you? This and few previous scenes. You can barely sit, even their softest of slaps leaves red marks for hours. Your ass is just too inviting to stay away from. Is my dick scrambling those pretty little brains of yours? Good, let daddy take care of it all from now on. Your fucked-out look is so cute! He likes to get all up in your business and sniff like a dog, groaning and humping against the sheets the whole time. Where would you be without him?ĭead in a ditch in his mind. Any little scrap of autonomous action or thought is quickly snuffed out. Midoriya has much more patience, but is somehow more condescending? He truly believes you to be too dumb and naive to take care of yourself. Well that and thank u for requesting! I take most of my inspiration for the types of yandere they are from yanderenightmare. Can you do somethig like that? Thank youuu. Hello its me again I hope I don't bother you I just wonder how Bakugou and the others react if Midoriya has a gf that look exacly like Bakugou.Īnd maybe even their quirk is something boom boom. AN: Hello! This is another discord prompt! This month was a Royal AU and I had so much fun writing this! There are no spoilers through! The marriage is simply to unite your two kingdoms but not long after, you find yourself falling for the stoic king.

[noladyme]

La Cuervo - Chapter 14

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming", this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on on Mayans M.C. are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambigous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive, please let me know.

It wasn’t until Nina was alone, that realization struck her. She’d just agreed to leave Angel. Her Angel. The man who had brought her back to life. The thought struck her like a freight train, and she froze in place, almost literally. Her whole body went cold, and she felt like she couldn’t move for the longest time. The light in the room told her she must have sat like that for at least an hour. Finally able to move her head to look down, she looked at the crescent shaped cuts in her palms from her nails. Something wet began dripping onto them, and she found tears had begun running down her cheeks, without her even noticing it. Forcing her arm to reach for the pillow next to her, she took a deep breath, and held it to her face; before a wail like no other left her mouth. She screamed out her agony, not having felt anything like it since she’d been told that Jackson had gone through with his plan to kill himself. It was as if an actual death had occurred again; but this time it felt like her own.

After a while she put down the pillow again, and got to her feet. She opened the cabinets, and began pulling out he few belongings she’d brought to Santo Padre, and stuffed them in her backpack. Then she made the bed, and went into the small bathroom for her toothbrush. It looked so alone there, as if it missed standing next to Angel’s. She tore herself from the thought, and went to put that into her bag as well. Only the gun and her inhaler were left, and she went to pick them up, when she noticed the phone Bishop had given her laying on the counter by the sink. She picked it up, and sat down on the cot again.

She wasn’t sure who to call. No one could change her situation as it was; but she needed something – anything – to help her through. Just a voice to remind her that it wasn’t all for nothing. Looking at Jackson’s journal and the photo of his boys – which she’d saved for last – the answer came to her. She dialed up the number, praying to god that it was still the same as last time she’d used it. The call was picked up at the second ring.

“Hello?”. “Wendy? It’s Nina”, she said. “Hey, Nina. How is everything?”, Wendy replied. Nina heard a ruckus in the background. “Thomas, no more cookies…! Sorry. Someone decided sugar was a good replacement for lunch... Chibs told me you were going to Mexico”. Nina swallowed thickly. “Yeah… No, not really. I’m somewhere else”. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself. What I’d give for a vacation…”, Wendy said. Nina knew she was just kidding. Wendy had never been happier than since she moved to the farm with the boys and Nero. “Yeah, well; vacation is over”, Nina muttered. “I was wondering if I could talk to the kids for a minute”. “Of course! They miss you”, Wendy said. There was another sound of something crashing in the background. “Sorry, I need to give Tommy a bath. No! We don’t wipe peanut butter on our faces…!”. Another crash. “Goddammit. Abel! Come to talk to aunt Nina while I help your brother… Take care, Nina”. Nina couldn’t help but smile a little, as she heard Wendy chase Tommy around the room. There was a short scrambling noise, before someone spoke again. “Hi, aunt Nina!”, a bright, young voice said on the other end. “Abel… Hi, buddy”, Nina said, instantly falling back into tears; but trying to stifle her sniveling. “How are you doing?”. “I’m ok… But Tommy broke my supersoaker…”. “Aw, that sucks. I’m sure he’s sorry”, Nina said. “Yeah, mommy Wendy made him apologize… You sound sad…”, Abel said. Nina wiped her eyes, as if the boy was right there in front of her. “No, I’m not sad. I just smelled your feet through the phone, and it made me cry”, she replied. “No, you didn’t!”, Abel laughed. “When are you gonna come visit? There’s a mule here, and we named him after you, even though he’s a boy; because daddy always said you were stubborn as a mule. And we have a trampoline, which is really cool, ‘cuz you can jump high. When I stretch up my arms when I jump, I’m almost as tall as Nero! And…”. “That’s great Abel. I’d love to see that…”. Nina sighed and closed her eyes, trying to picture the boy in front of her. He’d probably grown quite a bit, even after the picture Wendy had sent her was taken. “Are you being good for mommy Wendy?”. “Yeah, I eat my broccoli and everything. And I help Nero clean the horse-stalls”, Abel said. “That’s good. And you’re doing good in school?”, she asked, having to wipe her nose a bit. “Yeah… Do you have a cold? Your voice is funny”, Abel replied. “No, it’s still your feet, stinky!”, Nina chuckled. She heard bikes arriving on the lot, and felt another crying fit threatening to attack. “Look, buddy; I gotta run. I just wanted to make sure you were ok”. “I’m ok. Come visit us soon!”. “I promise, Abel. I love you!”. “Love you too. Bye!”. Abel hung up the call before Nina could say anything more. She quickly slipped the photo into the journal, and put it in her bag, before getting to her feet to face Angel.

---

The Mayans all looked to be in a good mood, when Nina opened the trailer door to step outside. EZ, Gilly and Coco went to gather the loaded sleep rolls, while Angel turned to look at her; a bright smile on his face.

Daniella came out of the clubhouse, and stood on the porch. She smiled shortly at Nina, before Angel noticed the blonde, and began approaching her. “Dani, we gotta talk”, he said. “Angel!”, Nina called out. He turned around, and looked at her confusedly. “Give me a minute”, he replied. “No. Now”, Nina declared, and stepped back inside the trailer. The Mayans all looked confused at this point, but didn’t intervene. Angel frowned, and gave Daniella a short look. She shrugged, before looking at Nina; palming her phone. Don’t try anything, she seemed to be saying. “Don’t go anywhere”, Angel said to her, and walked towards the trailer. “I’ll be right here, baby”, Daniella said.

Once inside the trailer, Angel closed the door. “Nina, what the fuck? I was just about to…”. “Daniella’s not the snitch. I talked to her”, Nina cut him off. “You what?”, Angel growled. “Girl talk”, Nina said. “She’s just here for you. Not to sell out your club”. She made herself keep an indifferent face while she spoke. “You should give her a chance”. “I’m not… What are you talking about?”.

Nina sighed deeply, and took a step back. “You and me… That was never gonna work out”. He tried to reach for her hand, but she turned around to throw her inhaler and gun into the bag. “Nina… What are you doing?”, Angel asked. “I’m leaving… Going home”, she replied. “Or somewhere else. I haven’t decided yet”. “You’re not going anywhere!”, Angel exclaimed, and yanked her bag out of her hands. “What the fuck is going on?”. Nina clenched her fists to hide the fact that her hands were shaking. Angel wouldn’t let her go unless she did something drastic. She swallowed thickly, and met his eyes with an indifferent gaze. “You people can’t protect me. I’m safer with SOA; what happened to Camille is proof of that”, she said. The furrow between Angel’s brows was deeper than ever. “I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but I talked to SAMDINO. I’m gonna take up Packer’s offer”. Angel looked like he’d been punched in the gut with a sledgehammer. “Packer… You wanna go be with Packer…”, he croaked. “Yeah… He’s… We’ve got history”, Nina lied. Angel’s expression was growing pained, but in spite of wanting to take him in her arms, and comfort him, Nina had to continue her ruse. “You said I was too good for this life. I’m not. I just want more than what you can give me. Queen of SAMDINO is the right step for me”.

She tried taking her bag back from Angel, but he threw it behind him; and grabbed a hold of her shoulders. “This is bullshit. What happened?”, he said. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to stay here”, Nina replied. “I’m sorry about that year I owe the club, but I’ll try to get some money, and have Chibs pay you whatever Bishop thinks I owe”. “This isn’t about money. You said you love me!”, Angel said, his voice breaking. Nina couldn’t say she didn’t; the words simply would not form in her mouth. She closed her eyes to avoid meeting Angel’s gaze, and let out a deep breath. “This isn’t about whatever I said or… felt”, she finally said. “We should have ended this the night we first slept together. It shouldn’t have gone further”. “Cuervo…”, Angel tried. “We’re done”, Nina declared, and forced his hands off her shoulders, before pushing past him, and grabbing her bag. “I’m sorry”. She almost ran out of the trailer, knowing Angel would physically try to stop her if she didn’t. “Nina!”, he called after her. She looked towards the porch; and through a haze of unshed tears, she saw Daniella smiling as she went.

Before anyone had a chance to stop her, Nina slipped into the front office, and dug out the small cashbox Chucky kept there. She felt bad for taking money from it, but she needed cash for wherever she was going. A few notes in hand, she ran off the lot, and down the road. Avoiding getting found in Santo Padre was difficult, as Nina had spent very little time away from the scrap yard. She knew she had to work fast to get as far away as possible, as soon as possible. There was no doubt in her mind that Angel would try to come after her – he was probably already on his way – and if he didn’t, Bishop might, to get her to fulfill her one-year promise.

Once out on the main road, she flagged down a car, and convinced the driver that she needed to get to a bus station; because her brother was sick, and she had to go see him. She was only half lying, she realized, as there was really only one place in the world she wanted to go in that moment. She had to go see her brother.

---

It took a little over a day to make the trip back to north California. The cash Nina had taken from the scrapyard could only get her so far by bus, and she had to hitch rides the rest of the way. Each time she heard the sound of a motorbike, or saw anyone wearing leather, she had the instinct to duck her head. She wasn’t sure what she was afraid of. Clearly, her cover wasn’t blown yet. Daniella wanted her alive, and if there was another snitch, they didn’t seem to be focused on her. It might have been the shame of how she’d run; how she’d been too weak to fight Daniella for what she wanted. Then again, that shame would have been greater and even more devastating, if fighting back had meant it would hurt her nephews. Ultimately, she was just distraught; and only wanted to speak with one person – even if he couldn’t reply.

It was just past midnight, when Nina finally made it to Redwood Memorial Cemetery, just outside of Charming. She’d gotten used to the heat in Santo Padre, and it was a cold night. With nothing more than a light jacket to cover herself, she was shivering as she walked down the rows of gravestones. She halted for a moment by a white stone, engraved with the name John Thomas Teller. Taking a moment to brush some stray leaves from the top of it, Nina sent a thought to the man who’d sired one of the most important people in her life; before moving on. Someone had left a bouquet of lilies on Tara’s grave. Her coworkers at St. Thomas, Nina figured. She chided herself for not having visited the grave more often, but coming to the cemetery had been painful the last couple of years. A fresh grave nearby sported multiple flower arrangements, and as no one was around, Nina nabbed a few roses from it, and left them next to the lilies. “Abel and Thomas are loved and safe. Sleep tight”, she whispered to the stone.

The last ten yards she had to walk towards her end goal felt like miles. A cold gush of wind made Nina shudder, and she threw her arms around herself; trying to rub some heat into them.

Jackson’s stone looked lonely, in spite of all the other’s surrounding it. It was like he had been in the last year of his life; surrounded by people, but alone in his pain. At the same time, it was incredibly peaceful; like it should be. He’d found rest from his torment and sorrow. Nina imagined him riding his bike down an ethereal highway; his father next to him, and Tara riding pivot. “Fucking soppy”, Nina chuckled to herself.

She sat down on the ground next to the stone, and ran her fingertips over the lettering. Jackson Nathaniel Teller. “I miss you…”, she began. She chewed her lips, and wiped away a stray tear. After a moment searching for the right words, she finally sighed. “I am so angry with you, Jackson. You left me… And I love you as well. I love you for everything you taught me about being a good person; which just makes me even more angry, because I’ll never be able to live up to the example you set… I fucked up. I took so many wrong turns after you died; even though I promised… I know you expected more from me, and I’m so sorry; but I’m not strong enough to…”. The stray tears had become two steady streams falling from her eyes. “You said, be happy… And I was really happy for the first time in what felt like forever. But I can’t be happy, and also live up to your example of protecting your family… My family”. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, as if trying to force herself to stop crying. “Your boys are safe, and I’m gonna keep them that way. That means breaking my promise of being happy to you, but I also know it’s what you would do… So, I guess in some way, I’m still doing what you taught me…”. She took a deep breath, and finally the tears stilled.

Nina moved behind the stone, and leaned her back against it; as she had sat back-to-back with Jackson on the roof of the old clubhouse in Charming, before the explosion. She remembered how her whole body would rumble along with Jax’s; as he laughed at whatever ridiculous thing she would tell him about her day – or the time she’d told him she was planning to drop out of high school, and sign up with CaraCara once she turned 18. Yeah, that’s not happening, darlin’. I’ll tie your ass to the seat, until you’re wearing that cap and gown. I don’t wanna see my little sister’s naked ass on camera. It was that conversation, and his response, that made her keep the fact that she’d quit community college hidden for a full week; before Chucky sold her out. A pang of pain struck her heart as she remembered that she hadn’t even said goodbye to the good-humored little man.

After a long moment, Nina began speaking again “I know I can’t live in memories, but it’s the closest thing to happiness that I have now… And I want to tell you about him”. She took a deep breath, almost as nervous as if Jackson would have been able to respond. “His name is Angel… and you would hate him”, she chuckled. “He’s a biker… surprise! Bet you didn’t see that coming… He’s smug, and a smartass; and a horny little shit… He’s also a Mayan… I know! But he’s also… so kind and full of life… and sofucking hot… which is something I guess you didn’t need to know”. She chewed her lower lip, and closed her eyes, seeing Angel in front of her. “He’s got this dimple between his eyebrows when he gets frustrated or confused – which is quite often, if I’m gonna be honest… And he’s so much smarter and warm and lovable than he gives himself credit for. I’ve never felt more loved and cared for, than when I was with him… I mean, I felt that from you, and from Filip and the rest; but… This was different, because I wasn’t just a sister or a friend. I love him. Like love him…”. She frowned. “But it’s over. I had to end it”.

The cold was getting to her, so the shivers from her pain mixed with ones of freezing. She hadn’t eaten or drank anything for more than a day, and she was exhausted. She looked around her, not ready to leave; and not really knowing where to go anyway. Opening her backpack, Nina got out the journal, and opened a random page; running her fingers over the handwritten words. “Know that the decisions that you make effect everyone and everything, along with yourself. It has taken me a long time to realize that, and I wish I would have sooner. And as much as I want to help you, tell you what to do; I can't. Those choices will be yours, and yours alone. The only advice I can give you, is to examine who you are as a person and what you choose as your path in your life. Find your own truth. It will lead you to the things you love”. “I wish you could help me too”, she whispered. “I don’t know what my path is, and I can’t promise to get over this. I can’t promise that I will be happy; and we both know me well enough to know, that I’m not gonna handle this well… So, I’m just not gonna make any of those promises; it wouldn’t be honest of me if I did…”. She clutched the journal against her chest, and fished the .38 out of the bag; holding it in her hand. Nina sat for a long time, just looking at it. “I’m gonna sleep now. And then I’m gonna drink, and smoke, and try to get laid… and do everything else unhealthy, until I can finally become numb enough to… not chose your path”.

She had nothing else to say; simply couldn’t find the words. Instead, she curled up on the cold ground, closed her eyes; and let sleep take her over.

---

“Nina?”. She heard footsteps heading her way. Filip looked down at her disheveled state, and then at the gravestone and the gun in her hand; and his face dropped. “She’s here”, he said. Tig and Happy came up behind him. “Shit, muffin. What happened?”, Tig asked. Happy frowned. “Chibs, why is she here?”. “Not now, Hap’”, Filip said. “Let’s just get her out of here. Get the gun”. One of them scooped her into their arms; she was too exhausted to notice who…

---

The radio was turned all the way up, and she was swaying her hips to the music.

“Nina, get off the counter!”, Filip called out from across the room. He looked almost angry. Nina took a sip of her beer, and stretched her arms into the air. “Why? I thought the party was about to start…”, she laughed. Filip walked over to her, and wrapped his arms around her legs, making her fall over his shoulder. “Yes. A children’s birthday party. This is an ice cream shop, you lush”, he growled, and carried her out the back door; setting her down at the foot of the stairs going up to the actual SAMCRO clubhouse. She noticed Rat smiling apologetically at the arriving guests; which consisted of a group of 7-yearolds, and the flabbergasted mother of the birthday-boy. “Tell them I’m sorry”, Nina whispered very loudly to Filip, before looking towards the mother. “I’m sorry!”, she yelled.

Filip dragged her up the stairs, and more or less threw her on one of the leather couches. “Jesus Christ, Nina…”, he sighed exasperatedly. “We do actually need the front of this operation functioning”. “Pfft”, Nina sputtered. “Everyone in town knows what this place is. You’re leather clad bikers who sell guns, for fucks sake! I need a drink”. She went to get off the couch, but Filip pushed her back down, and took the beer bottle from her hand. “You’ve had enough”, he said. “Get some sleep”. “No sleep ‘til Charming!”, Nina sang. “You’re in Charming", Tig said, having come over from the bar area. He snatched her pack of smokes from her, before she could get them from the coffee table, and held out a glass of water. Nina scrunched up her nose. “Fish pee in that”, she said. Tig sat down, and lifted the glass to her lips. “Don’t make me hold your nose”, he said. The water looked a little murky, but Nina accepted the glass, and drank it all, before throwing it into the air. Filip caught it mid-air, and rolled his eyes. “Buzz-kill”, Nina sneered.

She leaned back in her seat, before suddenly, her stomach began rumbling violently. Tig sprang for a trashcan, and held it in front of her; just in time for Nina to hurl a week's worth of alcohol and Happy’s scrambled eggs into it. “What was in that?”, Filip grunted. “Bit of charcoal”, Tig said. “Better than taking her to get her stomach pumped at St. Thomas’”. “I hate you…”, Nina heaved between two streams of vomit leaving her mouth. “I know, muffin. I love you too”, Tig smiled, and stroked her back.

After what seemed like hours, Nina finally had nothing left inside her to throw up, and she curled up on the couch. “Now I’m sober… thanks”, she said sarcastically. “Give me my cigarettes”. Filip went to get her bag, and dug out her toothbrush; handing it to her. “This is all you’re putting in your mouth for now”, he said. “Add toothpaste. You smell like death”. Nina disgruntledly took the toothbrush from him, and got on her feet to go to the bathroom; grabbing the toothpaste from her bag on the way.

Once she’d finished brushing her teeth, and splashed some cold water in her face, she went back into the bar area. “You’ve kept me here for days. I wanna go back to my apartment”, she said. “You can’t. Lyla’s using it as a set today”, Tig said. Nina groaned. “They’re gonna get porn-cum on my sheets”, she said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. What was that fella’s name again…? Kirk?”, Filip laughed, and went behind the bar to pour himself a scotch, and fill a mug of coffee. Happy and T.O. came up the stairs as they spoke. “I just remember him as; Please-god-no-I-swear-I’ll-never-talk-to-her-again-guy”, Tig said indifferently. “I think Opie took care of that one”. “Nah, that was Jax himself”, Happy said. “He’s teaching history in Milwaukee now”. “The history of his once functioning penis, I gather”, Filip muttered and looked at Nina, who’d sat down by a table. “Did he know you were 17?”. “I was 19!”, Nina sneered. “And his name was… Fuck, I can’t remember… Look, call Lyla, and then take me home!”.

Filip sat down across from her, and slid the coffee over the table. Nina took a welcome sip of it. “I don’t trust you on your own”, he said softly. “Is that why you won’t give me back my gun?”, she muttered. “You remind me too much of your brother at the moment”, he replied. Rage and sadness streamed through her body, and Nina got up; kicking her chair hard, making it fall to the floor. “Then give me a goddamn bike, and I’ll hit the road. There are trucks enough out there!”. She speed across the room, trying to reach the stairs; but T.O. got in her way, and grabbed her shoulders. He pushed her backwards into Happy’s arms. He picked her up like she weighed nothing more than a small child, and deposited her on the couch. He looked down at her with enraged eyes, tears forming in the corners of them. “Don’t ever say that again! Ever!”, he growled. Nina was shook, and suddenly her body began quaking. She sobbed quietly, and covered her eyes with her hands. Happy sat down next to her, and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry”, she whimpered. “I know, princess”. He rocked her back and forth, and kissed the top of her head.

Nina looked up, and was struck by each of the Sons’ expressions; ranging from sad, to angry, to pained. “I can’t stop fucking up… All I do is hurt people…”, she sobbed. Filip reached his hands out, and Happy released her to take them, and be pulled into the president’s embrace. “You are pure light, my love”, he said, before cupping her tear-streaked face in his hands. “Stop trying to snuff it out… I’m not talking about threatening to off yourself; we both know that will never happen, because we won’t allow it”. He pressed his forehead to hers. “You have to stop thinking of yourself like a failure not worthy of happiness. Stop killing that flame inside you”. “But I can’t be happy…”, Nina croaked. “If I try to be…”. She halted herself. She hadn’t told anyone of her deal with Danielle. “Tell me…”, Filip said. “I can’t”, Nina replied resolutely. “It’s… life or death”.

She pulled herself out of his grasp, and went for her cigarettes; which Tig had put on the top shelf behind the bar. He didn’t try to stop her. “Everything we do is life or death”, T.O. said. It was the first words he’d spoken since he’d arrived, but they were poignant. Nina lit her cigarette, and hesitantly met his eyes. “This is different”, she said. “If it was just… No”. She took a draw of her cigarette, picked up the chair from the floor, and sat down by the table again. “This is how it is now. I’m home, and I’ll try to… be better”.

They were interrupted by Quinn coming up the stairs. He looked around at the emotional faces in the room, and frowned. “Did you guys watch the Notebook again?”, he asked with a smirk. “Whatever; wrap it up. We got the in-laws incoming”. Nina frowned in confusion. “What’s going on?”, she asked. Filip gave her a half smile. “You wanted to go home; didn’t you…?”.

A roar of motorcycles sounded from outside, and Nina looked out of the window. A group of bikes came down the street, led by a brusque looking man on a roadking – handlebars high as the sky.

---

tag: @cole-winchester @doloreschanal

[yandere-daydreams]

Kinktober - Day Five

Prompt: Gun-Play

Pairing: Captain!Leona/Reader

TW: Pirate AU, Implied Future Non-Con, Violence, Recklessly Handled Firearms, Slight Degradation, and Mentions of Death.

“That’s an awfully pretty face for a ship rat.”

You felt something metallic run across your cheek, sleek and smooth and frigid as it pushed against your skin, intricate carvings and the bite of wooden accents serving as the only reprieves to the constant chill. It took most of your self-control not to shudder, not to shake under the weight of the cold and the captain’s pointed stare, never wavering as his muzzle prodded at the side of your face, forcing you to tilt your head to the side or risk allowing him to be a little rougher, to be a little more careless. You didn’t know much about flintlocks - it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you didn’t know anything - but you didn’t have to. By way of greeting, he’d sat you down in one of the few chairs surrounding a low table towards the center of his quarters, leaned against its edge, and made you watch as he loaded the gun you’d assume he’d use to take your life.

You weren’t sure this was much better, if you were being honest.

You hadn’t meant to board his ship, or, you hadn’t planned to, at least. You’d been scared, confused, and when you were alone and penniless in a city that wasn’t known for being kind to wayward souls, anything seemed like an improvement to testing the compassion of a crown’s soldiers. You’d picked a vessel with a flag you recognized, stowed yourself away in what seemed to be a lesser-used part of the galley, and spent the better part of two weeks stealing food and holding your breath, making as little noise as you could as not to attract any unwanted attention from the crew. It’d worked, too. It would’ve kept working, if the first-mate with the toothy smile and sickly pale skin hadn’t stumbled onto your hiding place, slapped a pair of rusted shackles around your wrists, and threw you at the feet of his captain like a cut of meat to a lion. Like a hostage, to a man who was far too happy to wave his pistol around until someone gave him an excuse to pull the trigger.

It was all you could do to keep your eyes open, your hands shaking where you held them in your lap. You could only be thankful you were still out at sea, where the constant, gentle rocking did what it could to hide your trembling. Your voice didn’t receive the same kindness, through, wavering and breaking without an ocean’s worth of excuses to hide it. “I… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” You stammered, doing your best to ignore the renewed pressure on your cheek. You wondered if it would bruise. You wondered if you’d be alive long enough for it to. “I just-- I’m not a traveler, I didn’t want to be here, and the city’s guards had caught me stealing and I thought this might’ve been a navy ship and--”

Your breath hitched in your throat as the muzzle of his flintlock dropped, coming to rest against the nape of your neck while his expression turned from uninterested to displeased, sterile apathy soon replaced with a narrowed gaze, and a small, almost unnoticeable frown. “That’s an awful lot of words for a stow away, too,” He said, his tone just as harsh as his adopted disposition. “I don’t remember saying it was your turn to talk.”

You opened your mouth, but you caught yourself before you could apologize, bowing your head and pursing your lips instead. If nothing else, that seemed to placate the captain. He didn’t pull away, didn’t express his hidden sympathy or offer you a place to spend the voyage, but he sighed, his free hand rising to run through his untamed hair as his tail flicked, the sudden evidence of its existence catching you off-guard. It shouldn’t have, in retrospect, not when you’ve been watching from the sidelines long enough to know everyone one the ship was a beastmen of one variety or another, but the captain had always been reclusive, reserved, hiding himself away during the day and only showing his face when it was too dark to recognize him properly.

You couldn't say you could see why. He was a monster, the stolen gems and jewelry littered around his cabin and the weapon being pointed in your direction were enough to prove that, but he didn’t look like a monster, not beyond the patch hastily pulled over one eye. It was different then the silent strength you’d seen in some of his men, then the desperate mania of his first mate’s laugh. If anything, it looked like he was cruel because he’d woken up and decided to be. Because he wanted to hurt someone, and you--

A fist balled itself  around your hair, jerking your body upward and forcing a pitchy, poorly stifled scream from your lungs. You scrambled to grab at his arm, to pry it away, but your nails sunk into leathery uselessly and the captain only tightened his grip, only pulled harder as tears began to form in the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision. “I’m sorry.” This time, it was involuntary, spilling out before you could swallow it back. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die--”

“Leona, fucking Leona. God, it’s like no one’s ever told you to shut up,” He growled, frustration giving way to anger. You moved to speak, to beg for forgiveness, but something was filling your mouth before you could make a sound, the barrel scraping against your teeth and the muzzle hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to gag, to choke as he hauled you forward, off of your seat and onto the floor, your bare knees crashing into the unforgiving wood as you fought not to collapse.

“I didn’t sit back and let you steal from me for weeks so you could run your mouth the moment I drag you into daylight. I didn’t tell Ruggie to keep you alive so you could keep apologizing like a scared mouse. You know how many of my men have been dying to take a bite out of you?” He paused, but he didn’t wait for a response. It wasn’t like you could’ve given him one, not while you were still struggling to breath. Rather, you watched in astonishment as he laughed, the sound airy, non-committal. As if the thought of you being ripped apart wasn’t worthy of his full attention. “You want to make it to land, right? All in one piece?”

You tried to nod, but the gesture was stilted, nearly too fervid to be recognizable. The captain didn’t seem to notice, though, he didn’t seem to care. You could feel your heart racing in your chest as his pistol almost, almost withdrew, only to press against your tongue at the last second, his scowl breaking into a smirk as your tears began to flow freely, your remaining scraps of pride no long enough to hold them back. You didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to die here, where your bleeding corpse would be thrown into the waves without a moment’s worth of thought. You couldn’t, you wouldn’t, not if there was anything you could do to save yourself. And the captain seemed to know that.

He seemed to know he’d get exactly what he wanted, from you.

“If you want to make it off of my ship alive...” This time, his flintlock pulled back completely, pressing idly against your temple, your own spit coating its silver surface. His grip fell away, but he only took to carding through your hair, pushing it out of your face. Attempting to soothe you, like you were some mindless, terrified animal.

Like you were a pet, just finding out you’d already been forced into a cage.

“You’ll find something useful to do with that mouth.”

[commonwealthoccurences]

Luck Runs Out

TW: Description of massive fighting, wound description (located on the throat), etc. Needles (Stimpak)

Hancock didn't know when a high-pitched ringing had settled into his ears, but it was shortly after gunshots began echoing off the buildings. Sole had gotten lost somewhere in the crowd of Minutemen making an attempt to hold back the raiders, as brave as ever, wanting to lead their people in what seemed to be totally senseless bloodshed.

The raiders had decided they were going to band together to take on Diamond City, which would be an intriguing plan, however their idea was held together with spit and wishful thinking at best, and soon after their so-called battle started, things descended into chaos. At some point their pact must’ve broken, because there were now raiders fighting each other along with Diamond City guards and the Minutemen.

The last time Hancock had seen Sole was when they began slipping through the crowd to reach Preston’s side as he fought off a group of raiders who had begun to pry his weapon from his hands. The chaos closed together behind them and Hancock lost sight right before he had to turn and defend his own people; Goodneighbor had agreed to help Diamond City if the latter agreed to negotiate on their stance with ghouls. Diamond City hadn’t really had a choice in the matter considering the looming threat and McDonough being gone.

It didn’t take long after the companions split off for everyone to still, a hush falling over the crowd as Hancock looked around for the source. Their attention seemed to be directed all to one place. He wove his way through his own citizens and was faced with a sight that made his heart drop straight out of his chest; Sole, held back by two raiders, with a knife to their throat.

There was no doubt that Sole had a high bounty on their head, dead or alive, for their work and status with the Minutemen and Goodneighbor. He swallowed harshly as he watched them struggle against the grip of the two raiders to no avail. Sole’s eyes scanned the crowd frantically before they locked gazes with him, and they seemed to calm slightly. Slowly and deliberately, they moved their gaze down to the gun that rested on one of the raider’s hips.

Thinking on your feet was a skill everyone needed to survive in the wasteland, and Hancock just so happened to be a professional. He stepped forward, breaking the line of spectators, causing the raiders to recoil and emphasize their grip on Sole, who rolled their eyes in response to the show the raiders were putting on. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. You don’t need to harm them.” Hancock took another step forward, putting his hands in the air, on display.

“Yeah fuckin’ right, why do you think we’re here? To make friends? You hand Diamond City over to us and we’ll let your precious leader live, aight.” The raider to their right sneered, pressing the blade of his knife against their throat harder.

“Take a minute, breathe, and we can talk about this, okay?”

Hancock made sure to take his sweet time to shed all of his weapons, tugging knives and guns out of his boots and waistband and various folds of his outfit, ending up with a small pile of weaponry on the ground next to him. He stepped forward, away from it, slowly making his way to where Sole watched him intently, paying little mind to the danger they were in. They didn’t know what he planned on doing, but it couldn’t be good, much less safe for him.

Once he was within a couple feet, Hancock stopped. “We can negotiate, right?”

“And how do you think you’re gonna negotiate? You don’t even have what we want. You’re not exactly the mayor of Diamond City, are you now?” The arrogance in the raider’s tone was seriously starting to piss Hancock off.

“You’re right, I’m not.” Another step forward. “But you’ve got some… precious cargo in your hands right now, to say the least. Think of the bigger picture. What else is gonna prove useful that you can get if you hand them over, huh?”

The raider seemed to pause and mull this over, his grip loosening on Sole ever so slightly. They locked eyes once again with Hancock and nodded before jumping into action. He rushed forward, going for the raider’s gun at the same moment he did, and they fought to get a grip on it. Eventually, Hancock won, and raised the gun to the raider’s temple, pulling the trigger and bringing back a hand sticky with blood.

He turned and saw Sole struggling with the other raider, attempting to wrestle the knife from his hand before he could do some damage to them. With a lunge, the raider got his footing back and swiped the knife clumsily at Sole, who recoiled and lifted a hand to hold their throat. Blood slipped through their fingers as they leaned over, trying to find something in their pocket. Hancock took no time to rush forward and lift the pistol again, ending the smug look on the raider’s face with a twitch of his finger.

Chaos erupted once again as the crowd surged forward, guns firing and blades slashing in retaliation for what just happened. Hancock grabbed Sole’s waist and began tugging them towards the outskirts of the battle, looking for some sort of medical set up to treat their wound. “How bad is it?” He shouted over the deafening gunshots. “Sole, how bad is it?”

They didn’t respond, shaking their head as slightly as they could to minimize the pain. Blood trickled down their neck as they yanked their hand out of their pocket, bringing a small scrap of cloth with it, and returning their hand to their neck to staunch the wound. Minutemen closed in behind Hancock and the General, protecting them as they made their way out of the ruckus and towards a distant tent. 

Preston appeared by Sole’s other side, taking the cloth from their hands and applying proper pressure as they hurried out of the wreck. “It’s pretty much over. The raiders only went after the General as a last ditch effort; they didn’t have much else going for them. They were getting their asses kicked. Still are.” He hefted Sole’s weapon onto his back to lighten their load. “We can take care of everything from here. Just get them to safety, Mayor.” Preston nodded at Hancock before side-stepping away from the duo once the cloth was tied securely around Sole’s throat.

He hefted Sole into the tent and helped them shift their weight onto a nearby cot. The blood seemed to be slowing already, but it was better safe than sorry, and they had already done their part in the fight. Gently, he untied the cloth and pulled it away, cringing at the state of their neck. 

Hancock used what little parts of the cloth were clean to dab away the blood, doing his best to clean their throat. Sole was struggling to control their breathing; they knew hyperventilating was possibly the worst thing they could do, but considering what happened, they felt justified in their panic.  “Breathe.” Hancock’s voice was rough and low, but still warm and soothing. “Everything’s gonna be just fine, sweetheart.”

Sole nodded, forcing themself to pause and take deep breaths. A settler came forward and handed Hancock proper medical supplies, what little they could spare, and returned to the other injured Minutemen after assessing that their General would be fine eventually after a Stimpak. Hancock finally stopped the bleeding and huffed a sigh of relief, taking a moment to lean against the cot and absorb what had happened.

Afraid to speak, Sole simply placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, trying to reassure him that they were fine. He looked up at them and managed a grim smile. “You gave me a real scare there, sunshine. One of these days you're gonna be the death of me.”

Moving to stand upright, he picked up a clean roll of bandage and began winding it around their throat as gently as he could. He secured it with a piece of adhesive. Sole reached up to tilt his head up so they could look him in the eye, but paused; their hand was still coated in their own blood. Hancock looked down when they stopped and his breath caught in his throat. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sole.”

Something about the sight made the reality of the situation hit him full force. Any closer and Sole could’ve been one of the casualties they’d have to cart home. God knows how long the Minutemen would’ve lasted after they passed, much less how long he would’ve lasted. The thought made him shudder, bile climbing up his throat. 

There was a quiet rattling as Sole sifted through the medical supplies, finding some spare cloth to wipe their hands with. They were still stained red once they were done, but it was better than the congealing mess that had made Hancock recoil so harshly. They paused. Their hands were still shaking from their panic; there was no way they could properly apply a Stimpak.

Sole reached over and placed the Stimpak in Hancock’s hands, taking the cap over the needle off for him, and guided them forward towards their thigh. “Take a deep breath.” He instructed quietly before sinking the needle into the flesh of their thigh and pushing down on the plunger.

They groaned in pain as the medication set in. Stimpaks weren't the most pleasant experience but it was a small price to pay for what could potentially be the only thing that would save your life. Hancock stepped closer and guided them forward to rest their forehead against his shoulder, gripping their wrists so they wouldn’t reflexively attempt to pull the needle out of their skin. “You’re okay.” He reassured softly. “It’ll pass.”

Seconds ticked by like hours before Sole slumped forward and wrapped their arms around him, breathing a sigh of relief and relaxing as the effects set in. They’d probably be completely healed in a day or so, if not a few hours. “Thank you.” Their voice was croaky, barely there at all, in his ear as they turned to hide their face in his neck.

Hancock wrapped an arm around their back to hold them in place and pulled the Stimpak away, cringing at their pained exhale. “It’s over.” He moved to hold them, squeezing tighter than he probably should’ve, terrified if he let go something would go wrong.

“Uhm, General.” Preston’s hesitant voice cut through the silence.

Sole pulled away but kept one arm wrapped around Hancock’s shoulders. “How is everyone?” Their voice was still struggling, unsteady and cracking.

Preston couldn’t hide his flinch at their voice and how painful it sounded. “We’re ready to head inside Diamond City. Everything’s been taken care of. If you’re feeling better tomorrow I think everyone would appreciate some words from you about what happened.” He looked exhausted, emotionally and physically, and there was blood spattered against his face and clothes.

“Take care of yourself, Preston.”

He nodded, though his demeanor didn’t seem genuine. They all knew he’d be up till the wee hours of the morning, too selfless to take care of himself if others needed help. Sole would probably have to send someone to intervene later. “I’ll have the medics clear out to give you two a moment to recover.”

Sole and Hancock sat in silence as the world moved around them. Doctors packed up what little equipment they had left and prepared to cart their injured patients inside the walls of the green jewel. Once everyone had deserted the small tent, Sole turned to Hancock with a small smile. They opened their mouth to say something, but Hancock blurted out, “You could’ve died.”

They inhaled sharply, but nodded, their smile fading. “I can’t lose you.”

“Hancock-”

“You don’t understand. I can’t… I can’t lose you, Sole.”

“Hancock what are you saying?”

“Shit, I don’t know. What am I saying?”

He shifted off the cot and stood, scratching the back of his neck as he looked around the tent, seemingly searching for answers. “Hey, look at me.” Sole requested.

Hancock turned but struggled to meet their eyes. Sole reached for him and tugged on his overcoat gently, pulling him towards them. “You can tell me. What’s going on?”

Instead of speaking, Hancock turned his attention to the strands of hair that clung to their face.  He brushed it away from their eyes, smoothing his thumb over their cheekbone as he studied their worn out appearance. “Do you know how terrifying it is?” He asked quietly.

“What?”

“I think I love you. Nah, sunshine, I know it. That’s fucking scary.” He laughed at the way his voice shook.

Sole nodded slowly. “Yeah, it kinda is. But you know what? I know I love you, too.”

They gave him a soft smile and leaned against him again, resting their head on his chest. Hancock pressed a kiss to the top of their head and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. “You really are gonna be the death of me someday, you know?” The emotional whiplash was worth the quiet laugh they let out. Even more so when they pulled back and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a wide grin on both of their faces.