#wait how many sides are in a hexagon

[duck-jamm]

bill ciper/stanford pines to stanford pines/fiddleford mcgucket to fiddleford mcgucket/stanley pines....... they're de-toxicing the yaoi

[fanaticsnail]

Mommy: Charlotte Cracker

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word count: 2,200+

Themes: Cracker x f!reader, gendered terms used, mdni, NSFW, 18+, smut, kink, Mommy x Baby (not related, just a kink), breast sucking, male masturbation, pre-established relationship, not much plot, feelings if you squint.

Notes: Just a 40+yo man needing some TLC from his partner.

Thump, thump, thump.

Heavy were the footfalls of the brass-buckled boots that stomped throughout the lengthy corridor. Each rhythmic clunk impacting the floor began to arrive all the nearer to your office door, prompting you to lull your head back on your shoulders and draw up your thumb and index fingers to massage your temples.

The energy radiating from beyond the door was already chock full of anxiety and agitation, hints of rage and anger simmering within their giant body. Fumes would be seeping from his ears if it could, that you were sure of. As soon as your door swung wide, you were greeted to the sight you had come to expect at least once a week within your office: an office not suited for the purpose you utilized it for.

Anger and rage weeped from his every pore, his face contorted in a gruff grimace and curling his scar up to a tight coil. Immediately as you made eye contact with him, he slammed the office door shut behind him with his lips curled back to bare his teeth at you.

Waiting in that thick silence, fury radiating from the crown of his purple hair and almost weeping smoke from his ears as he continued to bear his eyes into your own. All was halted at the extension of your arms stretched either side of your body and a single word spoken from your lips.

“Baby.”

His shoulders immediately dropped, head hung low as he dredged over to you like a man in mourning. Meeting your smaller frame with his thick thighs, he slunk to the ground on his knees and curled inwards of himself while burying his head against your stomach.

“Mommy.”

As your hand drew up to card through his purple locks, you reflected on how this relationship truly occurred between you and the larger man. Unsure of whether it truly began while you brought him an itinerary from your office regarding where his persons was to be required, or the way he sought out your touch while you served the Charlotte generals and children their evening meals, or some fantasy come to life when he whispered that name while expressing his gratitude for you aiding him in removing his armor and laying down his arms: that was your title to him.

No longer an au pair or an aid for Charlotte Linlin in caring for her many children in this situation, you were Charlotte Cracker’s mommy. Not mother, not mom, simply a larger man feeling comfortable enough in himself to need your nurture and care to shepherd him through his rage.

“What happened, baby?” you ask him softly, soothing his larger head as he nestled himself further into your embrace. “Want to tell mommy about it?” He shook his head, sniffling against your waist and whimpering into your touch. You clicked your tongue, backing away towards the corner of the room closest to the hexagonal bay window.

Several large pillows littered this space, often a corner of the room you made available for you to peer over the edge of the grounds while working away at scheduling education. As you slumped back onto the ground, Cracker draped himself over your body and buried his head in the chasms of your breasts.

“Alright, baby. Why don’t you just put your head in my lap, hm?” you cooed down at the ten foot giant. He nodded his head and leaned into your touch as you turned him to face upwards on your lap. As he turned, the large belt of biscuits rolled with several crumbs falling onto the plush pillows below him. This had you click your tongue in disappointment, which prompted Cracker’s eyes to follow your gaze.

“Sorry, mommy,” he whispered hurriedly, sheepishly removing his belt and brushing down the pillows to scatter the crumbs beside the pillows. You hummed at him, slowly sitting back with your legs flat in front of you. Patting your thighs once more, you couldn’t help as Cracker eagerly placed his head and the tops of his shoulders within your lap.

Your hands immediately went back to soothe over his purple hair, rolling it back to reveal his forehead. Gently soothing over his scar, you felt him wince at your touch. His oversensitivity upon receiving such a gentle expression never ceased to amaze you, no matter how often you and he would enjoy time together.

“Want me to stop, baby?” Your question caused his eyes to round innocently up at you while tilting his head back to meet your gaze further. His pouty protest had you purse your lips in empathetic sorrow.

Leaning down and pressing your lips to his forehead, you felt him whimper and shudder beneath your touch. Humming down at him, you remove your lips and un-arch yourself while gazing down at him.

“C-Can I-...? Can we-...?” Cracker stuttered, attempting to catch himself as he hoped you would fill in the rest of his statement. You smile down at him, nodding as you raised your hands and reached for your shirt.

As your hands began to unclasp each of the front buttons on your shirt, he unbuttoned the waistband of his pants and began shimmying them down to reveal his half-mast cock. As soon as you popped the remaining clasp, you reached into your shirt and cupped your breasts, rolling them over the front of the uniform to spill out in front of him.

With a small bounce to the mounds of flesh, you chuckled as Cracker’s cock immediately sprung completely to life. Shimmying up a little further, he looked up through his lengthy eyelashes and asked permission with his gaze to touch your breasts. With no more than a soft smile and a nod, he slowly reached with one hand towards your breast as the other reached down to stroke his cock.

Starting at the tip, he rolled the velvety skin back and forth while applying more pressure as he raised it back to his tip. His cock twitched and pulsed in his hand, the pink tip leaking with precum as he molded the flesh of your breasts beneath his palm.

“So pretty, baby,” you coo down at him, moving down to cradle his head on your lap and draw him closer to your chest. “Doing so good for me. Open your mouth?”

Cracker maintained eye contact and parted his lips, lulling out his tongue and moving his lips closer to your areola. Giving a tentative flick of his tongue over your pebbled bud, he moved to fully latch his lips against your breast while molding the other in his hand.

“Oh, good boy,” you praised him, holding his head firmer against your chest and pushing more of your breast into his mouth. “I didn't even have to ask, and you just knew what to do. So good, baby.”

He whimpered into your embrace, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows while bucking up into his hand. Moving from long and languid strokes to heavier pumps, he whined and groaned into your breasts while swirling his tongue over your nipple.

Your breath caught in your throat as he flattened his tongue and ground the porous surface against the center of your nipple. He released your nipple from his firm latch with a pop, spreading his saliva over your bud by flicking and kissing the pert bud.

“Oh, so good, baby,” you whine at him as you feel the pleasure electrify from your nipple straight to your abdomen. “Doing so good for Mommy. Keep stroking that cock for me?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Cracker whined, thumbing over the cock head and collecting his precum on the pad of his digit. You reached down, clasping his forearm and aiding him in setting the pace to pump his shaft.

“Little bit slower, baby. We don't want you to make a mess too quickly, do we?” Your warm voice poured from your lips like honey, Cracker whining into your chest before relatching against your nipple while rolling the other in your nipple in his thumb and forefingers.

His voice choked out a groan, feeling closer to the edge than he truly wanted to be in your arms presently. He always wanted to make you proud. He couldn't truly put a reason as to why.

Charlotte Cracker always felt in control. He used his ability to make his sweet biscuits fight for him, wore armor to protect his body from harm, and learned battle prowess from his older siblings. With you, the au pair for his younger siblings and the aid in daily routine for him and the others, he felt safe enough to relinquish that control over to you.

He felt safe with you.

He felt secure with you.

He felt loved with you.

Each time he spoke his woes onto you, your ear and smile would always be warm and welcoming for him. You were that nurture he never felt from his mother, his father, his step parents, and his advisors. You were that security blanket engulfing him in a secure embrace of ultimate care.

Your love is what had him fucking his fist to your memory. Your love was what had him muffling his moans with the back of his hand while he reached that pinnacle of abandon and threw himself off of it. Your love was what had him sheepishly approach you for the first time and had him seek out this arrangement, should you find yourself willing.

Your love is what had him beginning to hone in on that precipice of pleasure as you guided his fist up and down on his cock. The first bubbles of cum began falling from the slit at the tip of his cock. Everything was so warm, so caring, and so extremely filled with love, Cracker couldn't hold himself back from that edge any longer.

Moaning freely on your breast, he choked back a hefty mewl as his belly tensed in a clenched ball. His heavy balls sucked up into his abdomen as he began to feel the first waves of his bliss crash over him.

“M-Mommy-!” he shouted out as he fully succumbed to that edge.

“-I’m right here, baby,” you reassured him, aiding him in continuing the tempo he set as he pushed past that edge and toppled over. “You're safe, you're good, and you're doing so well, baby. Cum for me?”

“Mgnhmnm-! F-fuck-... Aaah-, cumming-!” Cracker whimpered out. Hot bursts of his release sprouted from his slit and coated his stomach with his bliss. His muscles tensed and his fist clenched around his cock, but his lips were only always soft and gentle against your breasts.

Hot coils of bliss shot over his dewy skin, staining his bare abs and the top of his shirt with his seed. His back arched as he rode through that high to the end, almost forcing himself through that painted overstimulation if not to do you proud. He moaned out each soft moan to coincide with his release, unclenching his eyes to seek out your own as he championed his way through it.

Stilling his hips and his motions, he flopped his body lazily within your cradle and panted up at you. You smiled down, leaning over and pressing your lips to his brow in a sweet gesture of acceptance and support.

“Baby,” you whisper down at him, prompting him to whimper in response, “Let's get you cleaned up, and I'll brush your hair for you while you tell me about your day.”

In his vulnerable state, Cracker felt like he could cry at that thought. Stiffing his upper lip, he forced back that sob that bubbled in his throat while nodding his head.

“That sounds good, right, baby?” you reaffirmed down at him, gently moving your hand from his forearm to cup his cheek. He furrowed his brows and leaned into your touch, closing his eyes as his lip quivered.

“You…” he began, his words catching behind his lips as he struggled with the boiling emotions ever growing, “...You’d do that for me?”

“Baby, of course I will,” you hummed at him with all of the emotion you could muster for him, “Consider my schedule clear, and my entire attention yours. Whatever you need of me, from me, or with me,” you raise his head up to you and cradle his face within your palms.

“I'm yours,” you affirm him, pressing your head against his and closing your eyes, “You can use me for anything you need.”

“Even if I just want to sit with you?” Cracker asked, turning to lean on his side and searching your eyes with his own. “Even to just hear about your day and listen to your voice.”

“Of course, baby,” you hum towards Cracker and gently brush your nose against his. “Anything you need, I'm yours.”

After cleaning up his former release and redressing yourselves, Cracker continued to sit and half doze off the longer you spoke. He was so comfortable with you, he could barely tolerate the prospect of fleeing from your side and returning to his duties.

For now, he could hear the hum in your tone, the warmth in your fable, and your heart carved in the corner of the universe meant just for him.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @ane5e

🎶Happy Birthday to Me 🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[csolarstorm]

The Eternal Flower Files: Sacred Geometry

Eternal Flower Floette is the mysterious, special Floette that AZ inherited from his late mother. It wields a strange, ancient red flower that holds terrifying power:

"Terrifying energy is concealed within its ominous flower, but Floette still swings it about innocently." (UltraMoon)

So. What is the Eternal Flower?

We associate flowers with the cycle of life in general - they bloom, they wilt, and then the plant grows again. When it comes to the symbolism around Eternal Flower, we see this theme of "life, death, and rebirth" over and over, likely referring to Floette's resurrection.

Flowers are a prominent symbol in Sacred Geometry. In some New Age beliefs, the ancient Flower of Life pattern symbolizes life, death, and rebirth, as well as the interconnected universe. The pattern maps onto the Eternal Flower pretty well.

Eternal Flower model from The Models Resource.

Certainly Eternal Flower Floette is powerful and significant in the lore, but this connection might suggest that the Eternal Flower itself has broader powers than just destroying things.

Many flower symbols are drawn with overlapping circles, which represent a continuous, eternal cycle. When writing about the Flower of Life, people often compare the progression of each phase of the pattern to cell division. What Pokemon do we know that represents cells?

Source: Flower of Life Construction, image by Tomruen

Another major flower symbol is the triquetra, an ancient trinity symbol that comes from three overlapping circles. (Shown in the third phase of the Flower of Life diagram.) The Eternal Flower is made up of three triquetrae, really emphasizing the number three:

In many Christian denominations, the triquetra symbolizes the Holy Trinity. In Celtic tradition, the triquetra, or the trinity knot, can, again symbolize the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. There is also a stylized triquetra on either side of AZ's Ultimate Weapon:

My approximation of the Ultimate Weapon symbol.

This is yet another connection between the Eternal Flower and the Ultimate Weapon - besides the fact that it blooms into a giant version of the Eternal Flower. Did AZ use the power of the Eternal Flower to build the Ultimate Weapon?

The Flower of Life pattern also seems to point to a strong relationship between Eternal Flower Floette and Zygarde. It's actually an effective symbol for Zygarde, considering how people compare the phases of the Flower of Life to cell division. Also, each individual bloom in the of the Flower of Life pattern is hexagonal.

Zygarde pic from Bulbapedia.

Every inch of Zygarde is a hexagon. Imagine, each of them as a continuing Flower of Life pattern the same way a palace wall is covered with it.

If Xerneas and Yveltal symbolize life and death, then Zygarde fittingly represents rebirth, as a collection of cells that can take a number of forms. This also fits the title "Z-A" which many fans have taken to mean "the end, and a new beginning". That begs the question: what is beginning? What is being reborn?

...

Check out my theory that Zygarde used to be the Tree of Life, as well as my other posts about Pokemon Legends: Z-A here:

Xerneas and Yveltal are Fungi: Let Me Explain

Poll: What Does the Λ in Legends Z-A Symbolize?

Pokemon Legends Z-A: What Is the Λ?

Aaah, it's an A! Is the A in Z-A the Tree of Life?

How much longer am I going to have to wait for a freakin' Unova remake?!

[nitewrighter]

I'm new to tumblr and don't really know how to do these ask things but can i request more shippy interactions? i really like how you write them

Oh thanks!! You didn't really specify a ship so I'm just gonna go hodgepodge here :)

----

Zenyatta: Lúcio, I was delighted to hear omnicode on your most EP.

Lúcio: I've been listening to DJ Moog Phatty for a long time, it was an honor to finally collab with her!

Zenyatta: Indeed, and the lyrics leave quite an impression...

Lúcio: *short laugh* Uh, what do you mean? What lyrics?

Zenyatta: ...do you not know what she was saying?

Lúcio: I thought it was just, like... feedback beatboxing?

Zenyatta: *clearly embarrassed now* Oh... oh my....

Lúcio: Wait, what's she saying on the track!?

----

Mei: ...so if we have a liter of water and a liter of ice...

Zarya: *slowly* The water will weigh more... because... it is denser?

Mei: Right! The hydrogen bonds between the H20 molecules in a solid form create a larger space between them in a hexagonal formation! That's why ice floats, and that's also why snowflakes all have six sides or points! *pause* Sorry, I forgot what your original question was.

Zarya: ...I, too, have forgotten.

Mei: Sorry, sometimes I get excited and--uhm...

Zarya: It is fine. I like hearing you talk.

----

[If Symmetra has her Gardener skin equipped]

Pharah: Didn't take you for the type to get her hands dirty~.

Symmetra: You'll find I'm capable of many things.

---

Ana: I shouldn't be nanoboosting you all the time, Reinhardt. I don't know if your heart can take it.

Reinhardt: Ana, the one thing my heart couldn't take, is you nano-boosting another.

Ana: *scoff* Melodramatic old fool...

----

[During setup on Eichenwalde if Genji has his royal guard skin equipped and Mercy has her witch or mage skin equipped]

Genji: Be on the lookout, ma'am. There have been reports of fell witchcraft in the area. Evil sorcerers could be anywhere...

Mercy: Oh my! I'm so glad I have a strapping kingdom guard to protect me!

[seud-luachmhor]

Nice to wake up to see so many red hexagons and so many tories names crossed off the bingo sheet. Even if I'm not sure how well Labour being the majoirty party will go this side of the border, as least the tories have been kept at bay. (I may or may not have cheered when Douglas Ross lost. 🥳 Joanna Cherry losing her seat was the only SNP loss I was happy to see, too)

Still waiting to hear from D&G and whatevers happened with the count that's been called a "shambles". Dumfries & Galloway sitting at 58.5% and Dumfriesshire at 61.7% for turnouts, so wonder if it's been a close call and that's triggered a recount? Exciting times if the tories have lost their grip, though would make sense, would say the demographic in the area has changed in the last few years.

Looking across the water, Sinn Féin taking the majority is another win. Maybe star trek tng was right about the Irish unification of 2024. 🤔

[rjalker]

I don't speak Italian :(

Translation by @el-the-cell:

Yesterday the Great Circle came to inspect the State Prison for his seventh yearly visit, asking me for the seventh time:

"The prisoner insist on supporting his absurd lie?" "You know very well that you are tall, as well as long and wide." "Lie! Measure my height, then, I shall believe you!"

It's been seven years, and I'm still in prison, but I keep existing, in the hope that these memories of mine could let a class of rebels arise, that refuse to live in a limited dimensionality, which for the clarity of you, inhabitants of space, I will call "flatland".

Credits shown:

FLATLAND from the fantasy novel of many dimensions by Edwin A. Abbot Film-making by Michele Emmer

Imagine a vast sheet of paper on the surface of which shadows with luminous contours move without being able to lift or dip. Straight lines, triangles, squares, hexagons and other geometrical shapes. This way you will have a correct enough idea of my country and of my compatriots. However we are not able to see anything of all that. Nothing is visible for us, except straight lines. I shall demonstrate why right away.

Let's take an equilateral triangle. If you, inhabitants of space sink your eye to the level on which it lays, it will, bit by bit, cease to appear as a shape, to appear as a straight line. Well, that is exactly what we see in Flatland when an acquaintance approaches us.

"Good morning, my dear!" "It's a pleasure to see you again!" "Is everyone doing well?" "Please give my regards to your lady!" "Goodbye!"

-How do you recognise each other?- You will ask. I shall take my time to answer you later.

Allow me to talk about the climate and the accommodations in my country. As with you, so with us there are four cardinal points: north, south, east and west. Since there isn't a sun, or other celestial bodies, it is for us impossible to determine which way the north is with the usual method. We od have our own system, though. Here, a natural law dictates that there shall be a constant attraction towards the south. And this attraction constitutes our compass. In the cities we are guided by the houses, of which the roofs are always pointing towards the north, to protect us from rainfall. The rain further helps with orientation, as it alway comes from the north. In the countryside, where there are no houses, the trees can serve as a guide, with the points always facing north. But if you happen, like it happened to me, to walk on a perfectly deserted plain, you'll be forced to stay still for hours, waiting for rain.

But let us go back to the problem of inhabitants. The inhabitants of Flatland. Our women are straight lines. Soldiers and workmen, which are our inferior classes, are isosceles triangles. Our bourgeoisie consists of equilaterals, namely triangles with equal sides. Our professionals and gentlemen are squares (class to which I, myself, belong to), and five sided shapes. Immediately above that comes aristocracy, that begins with six-sided shapes and goes on until the many-sided ones, awarded with the honorary title of "polygonal". When the number of sides becomes so great, and the size of the sides so small, a shape becomes indistinguishable from a circle. That is how you become part of the sacerdotal order, or the order of circulars: the uppermost class. In our social order, a natural law dictates that the male son shall have one more side than the father, thus climbing the ladder of nobility. This way the son of a square is a pentagon, the son of a pentagon is a hexagon, and so on. It is not that way for soldiers and workers. The son of an isosceles will always be an isosceles. I remember one time when two isosceles parents brought an equilateral into the world. It was reason to celebrate for hundreds of metres! But the newborn, recognised as "regular", was immediately taken from the despairing parents. An equilateral without offspring was summoned by the congress of the Great Circles.

"Equilateral bachelor, at your command" "You shall adopt the newborn equilateral!"

Held under oath, the new father pledged to never allow the adopted child to see his parents ever again. He now belonged to a superior class.

(Isosceles triangles gather in a house)

"We no longer accept abuses!" "Let's bring down the unjust laws!" "No one will be able to stop us!"

The acute-angled hoi polloi managed, in some to their seditions, to find leaders capable of making the Wisdom of the Circles their superior strength and numerical advantage.

"Isosceles! United, we will win!"

But the polygons manage almost always manage to stifle the sedition in the bud.

"We need to convince the leaders of the uprising to accept to partake in a discussion." "I'll tell the medics to stand ready."

The isosceles, leader of the rebels, is induced into entering one of the State Hospitals, to undergo an accurate medical examination.

(Hexagonal medic, in a German accent:)

"How is an artificial expansion possible? Thanks to a perfect surgery, the isosceles - made regular and innocuous - is thus allowed to become part of the privileged classes."

This way, the hapless mob of isosceles, deprived of their leadership, will let themselves be stabbed by a small group of their brethren, hired by the Great Circle and kept ready in the State Forts, in case of emergency.

"Soldiers, the fatherland calls!" "Ready for inspection! Present, arms! Attention! Right face! Forward March! Present, arms! Forward March!"

"Fire! Fire!"

"Fire! Fire! Fire! Wipe 'em all out! Exterminate them!"

"Fire! Fire!"

In our annals there are no less than 120 revolutions. And they all ended like this.

Some very important figures in Flatland are women. Being straight lines, They are basically invisible for us, inhabitants of the two dimensional world. A law forces them to constantly move their back part, so that we, flat beings, can see them when they arrive. Their character is ever-changing, and they get angry very easily. Since their end part is very sharp, it is not advisable to start a discussion with them in the streets.

"Please, do give way. I am in a hurry. Move aside!" "Actually, I am as well. And I arrived before you." "I'm not in the mood to waste time. Move!" "My lady, you offend me. I don't understand." "My patience has a limit!" line stabs isosceles triangle

As we have well understood, being touched by a furious woman can be very dangerous in Flatland. When we notice a woman passing through the street, we, the men, are all very careful not to cross her, or make her nervous. Our women's changing nature often causes real family tragedies. It's not rare that a woman gone crazy will exterminate her whole family, husband and children first.

"Enough, I'm sick of being at your services! I want to leave, I want my own freedom!"

An insane woman that wanders through the city immediately results in the intervention of soldiers, who are forced to eliminate her.

"Enough, go away! Stop! I'm sick of this!" "Let's get away, quick! She's dangerous." "Halt! That's enough."

Women are not a joke. Despite this, our supreme rulers, the Circles, are profoundly attracted to women. Especially the most beautiful and corrupted ones.

"Did you see that Let's follow them."

Dancing is one of the most beloved activities by circles, and all the people of flatland. And without women, what kind of dancing would it be?

A very delicate geometric problem for us, inhabitants of the flat world, a problem that inhabitants of space don't even imagine, is how to recognise each other in the street. One method consists of going around the other shape, touching gently side against side, in order to understand what shape we have encountered. We must be very careful. A brusque movement - a simple touching of the edge - can cause immediate death. But what I the reason for our problem? It's an issue of plane geometry. If I, a square, encounter another geometric shape, I'll see (as opposed to you, inhabitants of space) nothing but lines. It can be very difficult to distinguish who I have in front of me, based on what I see. I could even fail to recognise a woman.

Another big problem in my country are irregulars: geometrical shapes with unequal sides. They have difficult relationships with everyone. They can't get a job. Nobody wants anything to do with them. Even their parents don't want them.

"Just leave." "We've had enough of the problems you cause us."

Thus, the irregulars vent their anger of excluded and different on whoever first happens to be in range, causing the intervention of soldiers, who are only waiting for an excuse to intervene.

"He's dangerous! Eliminate him! Immediately!"

There is no doubt that the irregulars live very unhappy lives in flatland. But we, on the other hand, must defend our geometric regularity. Does something similar, if I may say so, not happen in your spacial world?

Years ago the fashion of colouring your sides spread in our world. Everyone competed to show off the most dazzling colours. Even the soldiers put on their dress uniforms.

The time has come that I, the square, protagonist of this tale, explain why I am in prison, where I receive the periodic visits of the Great Circle, where he invariably asks me:

"Do you still insist on your absurd lies?" "I cannot do otherwise. You know it well." "Then you shall remain in prison." "I will retain the memory of what I had the occasion to see."

And what I lived through, was the greatest adventure of my life. It began inside my house, where I live with my three sons - pentagons - (According to the law of flatland, children have one side more than their parents) with the servants - triangles of various shapes - with my wife and my son, some of the servants and two grandsons (hexagons, obviously). Then, one night, I was coming home from a tiring day. As usual, I was welcomed by my wife, and by one of my grandsons, who was drawn to geometry.

"Grandpa, you taught me that in our world length and width exist: the directions in which anything expands. Therefore if I want to calculate the surface area of a square, with a side length of, let's say, three, you'll need exactly nine little squares of unitary length. The area is three squared, which equals nine. Then why couldn't you give a meaning to the expression 'three to the power of three'?"

"Oh, nonsense! Go to sleep, I'm tired."

And I retreated to my room. I could not have predicted that I would be so soon and so spectacularly proven wrong. In the middle of the night I was woken, together with my wife, from a loud noise. I ordered my wife to return to her room. The loud noise announced the visit, dream or reality, of a being that I have since then considered sacred: the divine sphere.

The sphere. Only later I understood what it was. It had descended to visit my world. To visit us, beings unworthy and incapable of contemplating it. Obviously, I couldn't understand or see that I had a three-dimensional object in front of me, which showed on the plane of my world, what you would call a section of its shape. I did not understand it until the sphere decided to let me rise with it into space as you know it. Since that moment, I have seen things that I can not even begin to describe, for my word is unsuitable. And taken by the thrill of space, I threw myself into the analogy. But if really three dimensional objects do exist, why not think about not only about three to the third, but also about three to the fourth, why not see the cube - yes, it is divine - but in four dimensions? And seeing the sphere as well, in four dimensions? Even though I am now in prison, where I will remain forever, for trying to convince my too unworthy compatriots of the existence of space, I thank the divine sphere, that allowed me to see, or maybe dream, for a moment, the wonders of infinite space.

[thessalian]

Thess vs The Demos Strike Back

I find myself at liberty tonight and all of a sudden I have downloaded twenty new demos, plus the couple I still had left. Hopefully I'm not boring anybody. Just ... I like celebrating indie games in my own small way. The AAA games with the huge-ass budgets can take care of themselves. I will give the indie stuff the attention I feel they deserve - well, as best as I can, anyway. Sure, a lot of it is puzzle games etc, but c'mon - they're not as exciting as big flashy ARPGs or shooters, but we don't always want that! So here we go (with a break for a trip to the shops and a bath).

Tiny Tales: Hidden Object - Not much to write home about, and honestly more of a "find the difference" puzzle game than hidden object exactly, so it feels a little disingenuous, but it does more or less what it sets out to do. It's definitely worth looking at if you like that sort of thing. I'm personally more straight-up hidden object or messing-with-the-set-dressing puzzle games than find the difference, though.

Blood Bar Tycoon - bar management simulator, but with vampires. Low-priority, but still a little more interesting, particularly considering extra mechanics like ... well, frankly getting your vampire minions to feed on human customers so they don't starve to death.

PrimRows - it's kind of a sudoku thing, with a few extra rules and mechanics, and flowers instead of numbers. Randomised flowers, so it's not so much as getting the board perfect, but getting as many points as possible. Interesting, at least.

Mushroom Picnic Party - if I get sick of cats? Mushroom hidden object! It's cute, and I like it. Honestly, I kind of like those ones that are just "FIND THE THINGS" more than I do the ones that try to have a story. If I want a hidden object game, I really just want to find objects, y'know?

6-Sided Stories - Meh. It's kind of a puzzle game, but a little overly simplistic ... at least in the demo. It'll go lower on the list until I can find out whether there's more than just "flip whatever hexagons need flipping".

Fix This House - Sort of a puzzle game, sort of a house-builder. Like, very simplistic house-builder. You get pieces of a house and have to figure out how they go together. Controls are a little iffy in terms of camera settings, but something that probably belongs in a mid-position "maybe" on my list.

CraftCraft: Fantasy Merchant Simulator - This one's a merchant / crafting sim that really focuses on the crafting element. There's a lot of moving parts and mechanical tweaking, rather than just Click The Thing To Create. Which is a good thing sometimes, but not going to be a Forever Zen game, really. Still makes the list; it's amusing and interestingly, probable-hyperfocus fiddly. Though I might change my mind if they keep hiding the Quit key. (Also the dev has made a few more games and they all have demos, so playing demos is getting me more demos.)

Critter Cafe - Okay, this is another one that when the demo ended, I went, "Wait nooooooooo!" This one is another cafe simulator time management game, with puzzles and exploration and decorating and creature collector with some interesting Zen-platformer mechanics. And the character creator is adorable. I want this one.

That's probably enough for one day / evening. More tomorrow. For now, tidy up the wish list again, and start to wind it down for the night. I feel a little better, but that might have to do with having used my air fryer for the first time. It's a good one, though I will want a larger one when I have more kitchen.

[insomniamamma]

Ribbons & Wings: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/n: I started this on a night of heavy snow followed by blistering cold. I have seen the northern lights, once in Alaska and once in in western New York state. Set between after "Rain" around the same time as "Clean Dirt." I may revise the timeline as I see fit. As with everything else in this AU, this can stand alone. Reader is nicknamed "Artichoke" and "Prickle." Ships and Kings is a game that persists through my Prospect fics,. Cross DND with chess played on a hexagonal board.  As with any game there are house rules that vary. Kevva’s Flick is a highly contested (and some claim illegal) move in Ships and Kings.

Warnings: Language. Anxiety. Food mentions. Mentions of old injuries. Snowball fights?

          "--all ships in northern quadrant be advised boost is not recommended at this time. Hold tight if you are able--next pickup is in 10.25 cycles--"

         "What does that mean?" asks Cee,          "Understood, drop-com, we'll see you on the other side--"          "Ezra, what does that mean?" You hear the rising panic in Cee's voice and reach for the thrower you keep stashed under your bunk.          "There's a storm coming," says Ezra, "Might close our take-off window."          "So we're stranded." Says Cee. She stands and gets in Ezra's face, "You told me this wouldn't happen."          "I can't control the weather, Birdie," says Ezra, "We launch into a blizzard and there's a chance we break up."          "Fuck--"          "How long?" You ask and they both snap their heads around as if they've forgotten you're there, "If we get grounded how long are we here?"          "You heard the man," says Ezra, "10.25 cycles."          "That's two hands," you say, "We can make that. We'll be fucking sick of Bitz-bars  but we've got enough margin."          "What if we boost now? Minimum checks--"          "C'mere," says Ezra, he sits on the edge of his crash couch and Cee takes her place beside him, "You too. Let me show you something." Ezra plops his battered data pad into Cee's waiting hands, she holds it so he can manipulate the touch screen. You hunker behind Cee, peering over her shoulder, hunched in the confines of the pod.          "I'm getting the same info yon freighter's getting from the weather sat, about a sixteenth delayed," says Ezra. He zooms into the northern quadrant where the pod rests near a large, frozen over lake.          "Ooo-oooh," says Cee, face pinched with worry, "That's bad. If that's from a sixteenth ago--"          "Conditions are likely worse by now."          "What are we looking at, Ez?" You ask.          "The lines are wind direction, the color scale is speed. We take off now, our boost curve takes us through the worst of it, right at the point of maximum dynamic pressure."          "That could tumble us."          "Could do worse than that," says Ezra, "Big gust could crumple us like a beer can."          "But if we miss the sling--"          "Artichoke's right," says Ezra, "We've got rations for at least 15. More if we stretch it."          "If worse comes to worse we can do some ice fishing," you say.          "Bleee-arrgh," Cee makes a wretching sound. You were harvesting the spiker fish for their odd, metal-rich navigation organs and you'd cooked one over the camp fire just to see what the meat tasted like. "That was like licking a battery terminal."          "Lick many battery terminals, Little Bird?" Cee laughs.          "Spend enough time in a pod and you'll do just about anything for fun."          "The spiker wasn't that bad," you say. Ezra and Cee look at you with mixed horror and fascination, "I've had worse things in my mouth."          "Didn't need to know that," says Cee.

         We best power down what we don't need, said Ezra, and the three of you began a systems check. Reading off the things you were each responsible for when getting ready to drop or boost. Proximity radar and chute pyro-batts were obvious. Local comms. External lighting. Scrubbers. You sure about the scrubbers? Air's fine, it's just cold, we can reverse the aft vents and draw heat off the RTG baffles.          "We're only talking two hands," you say, "Between the reserve tanks and the scrubbers we should be fine," and Ezra gives you a flat-eyed look that means you've strayed somewhere you're not supposed to be just yet.          "Two hands have a way of becoming more,"says Ezra, "We take what care we can. Clear?"          "Sure. Clear."

         The pod sounds strange half powered down. You don't notice the faint clicks and chirps of the guidance computer until it's offline. In your head you know it'll boot back up just fine, but it still feels deeply wrong having it off. Same with the Baas converter, all the hardware that does the thinking for you. The wind moans through the trees outside, a low warbling wail that resonates through the pod. You and Cee exchange glances. She's got her music player on, but her eyes are big and dark and scared, and you don't like this any more than she does. There's no snow on Falnost but wind is something you understand, driving sand before it that can etch windows, it never happened to any of your livestock, you and your father and brothers were too careful for that, but you'd hear stories about pink skeletons, stripped of flesh but still fresh enough to ooze from their marrow.          "We'll be fine," says Ezra, "We're stable." Eventually you drift into an uneasy sleep. There's nothing else to do.

          "We've definitely missed the window," says Ezra, confirming what you expected, "But we might as well have fun little while we're here, right?" You are barely awake, sipping fake coffee from a pouch.          "Fun?"          "Snow, stupid!" Says Cee, she's already wriggling her way into her thermal gear, "It snowed like crazy overnight! We can bury ourselves in it! We can make a snow fort! Let's go!" You smile, but you feel it curdle, you know what snow is, you've seen vids, and the way Ezra is looking at you you can tell that he knows, he knows you've never seen snow, never felt it for yourself, and you can't look at him. There is so much you don't know. You start suiting up out of habit, thermal gear for a cold world, outer layers for batt-assisted heating--          "Hey," says Ezra, "You okay, Prickle?"          "Sure."          "I know they didn't--"          "Yeah, yeah, we didn't have snow there. We didn't have RAIN there. We'd get a little bit of hard frost come winter but that doesn't count--"          "Easy," says Ezra, "Easy. Cee's just over excited." He nods towards the open hatch now venting your hard-won warmth. Cee's voice comes faint from outside, you guys coming or what? "She hasn't had much chance to play in the snow."          You exit the pod into a new world. The gravelly shores of yesterday are blanketed in white, the branches of the feather-trees droop in low arcs, burdened with snow. You can feel the snow collapse when you step in it, hear it, a small crumping sound beneath your boots, you turn towards Ezra, smiling and something frigid and granular and wet splatters against the nape of your neck, and you whirl, reaching for the thrower your left on the pod and Cee's laughing, her cheeks pink with the cold.          "Gotcha!" She crows and bends down, sinks her hands into the blanket of white. You smile. This might be your first snow but you know mischief when you see it. You scoop up two handfuls of snow and squish them together, noting the give and push-back as it compresses down even as you aim for your crewmate's head. You miss by an Ephrate mile, and her next shot catches you mid-chest. For every shot you land she gets in at least three, and at last you scoop up and armload of snow and start chasing her round the back of a huge feather-tree, and Cee throws up her arms in defense and splutters laughter when you dump it on her.          The two of you pause, laughing and out of breath, Cee's cheeks and nose flaming pink.          "Cee? Artichoke?" Ezra's voice peals out from the pod , "By your silence I am assuming you are up to no good and I will act accordingly."          "He's so goofy," says Cee, and grins at you, "Allies?"          "Yeah. Let's get him." Cee bends and starts making snowballs. Ammo dump, she whispers and you nod. Right.          "Cee? Prickle?" Cee leans around the tree trunk and yells.          "Come and find us old man!"          "Old man," you hear him mutter and Cee giggles. She knows just where to poke and how much pressure to apply, "You think you're so hard to track leaving boot prints in the snow--" Ezra rounds the tree trunk and you paste him, snowballs exploding all over his suit. You try not to aim for his head. Cee has no such compunctions. One of her snowballs catches him right in the face, and he shakes his head, snow caught in his mustache, wipes the snow out of his eyes--          "--Oh," he looks past you and Cee, his eyes wide, white limned, "Oh Kevva what's that?!" You turn your head to the dark undergrowth and there's the whine of a discharged thrower over your head and you barely register Ezra's laugh before you and Cee are buried in a shower of snow from above.

         You splutter and swipe snow out of your eyes, out of the open neck-hole of your suit. Cee shakes her head, a brief, indignant halo of flakes ringing her flushed face. Ezra howls laughter. He's bent double, face red, eyes squinched shut.          "You shoulda seen your faces--" he wheezes.          "That was cheating!" says Cee, "No fair--"          "That was tactics! That was strateegery--" Ezra takes a bad step and overbalances, flails his arm out and falls on his ass in the snow.          "That was Kevva's Flick!" You say and grin. Kevva's Flick is a marginally legal move in Ships and Kings, the kind of thing that will get you stuffed out an airlock if you try it in the wrong company. A badly missed stealth roll followed by a natural sixteen means that your opponent can flick one of your pieces off the board like dislodging and errant piece of lint. The only reason you even know about it is because Ezra pulled it on Cee and they spent the next eighth arguing and wasting precious bandwidth looking up the legality of the move over the drop-net. Cee throws back her head and laughs, bright and clear. Ez crawfishes in the snow and then manages to heave himself upright.          "Hmmm," says Ezra, narrows his eyes, but his dimpled smile gives him away, "I know where you sleep, little bird."          "I know where you sleep too," says Cee, "Call truce?" A hard gust bends the tops of the feather trees, sending snow down in slow whorls, a low moaning sound that makes the nape of your neck prickle.          "We should get back inside," you say, "Wind's gonna pick up."          "Truce," says Ezra, and flashes you a smile, "Let's get on in before our C5 friend freezes solid." You trace your tracks back to the pod, landing struts buried in white, it's uglier angles and dents covered over.          "Oh hey!" Says Cee, "We can make snow angels!" You and Ezra look at each other, but before you can say anything, Cee is stomping out into the wide expanse of unbroken white.          "It's easy, see?" She flops down on her back in the drifted snow and fans her arms and legs.          "We called 'em phoenixes back home," you say, and pull Cee to her feet, careful not to step in the wing shaped marks she's left behind, "Once things settled after a storm we'd draw pictures in the dust."            You take a few steps so you don't mess up Cee's snow angel and flop down yourself. It feels different. Not like the dust that would puff up in your eyes and stick to your skin but the motion is the same, cloud laden sky instead of the screaming bright stars back home. Cee offers her hand and pulls you up.          "Not bad, dirt-farmer," she says, "You do one, Ez.          "If I must." Ezra takes a few steps and drops into the snow like a felled tree, makes his own pattern beside yours and Cee's.          "I'm somewhat lacking in the wing department," says Ezra, "If I'm to be an angel--"          "Hold up," says Cee. She wanders away from Ezra, back towards the dark of the trees and roots around, finds a fallen limb, some feather-needles still clinging to it.          "My ass is getting awfully cold, little bird,"          "Stay still," says Cee, using the branch like a paint brush. "There." She casts the stick aside and offers her hand. She pulls Ezra up and turns him around so he can see her handiwork, a feathered wing traced in the snow, fanning out from the shortened arc at his right side.          "See?"          "Yeah. I see." Ezra pulls Cee against his chest, she stiffens, then lets herself be hugged, her arms creeping around his middle.          "S'okay, Birdie," he murmurs into her hair and you turn away, embarrassed, feeling like you've seen something you shouldn't. The next gust of wind comes with a raft of blown snow, rough and cold against your cheeks. You bend down and draw your name in the snow with an outstretched finger and think of how very far you are from Falnost, the only one in your family to make it up out of the well and see snow.            "Come on in before you freeze," calls Ezra, he stands at the ramp and waves, "The snow'll be here tomorrow." You smile.          "Yeah. I suppose it will."

         "Hey! Hey wake up!" Cee's voice cuts into your dreams, harsh and breathy and urgent and you are reaching for the thrower beneath your crash-couch before your eyes can unstick themselves.          "Whuzzit birdie--" Ezra's sleep befuddled voice murmurs someplace to your left          "Come on!" says Cee, and she's climbing into her gear, green witch-light shines through the pod's small, rounded windows, "You've got to see!" You pull on your thermal gear and follow her out the door and down the ramp, still half asleep.          "What is this?"          "I don't know," says Cee, her hand finds yours and the sky writhes overhead, shivering bands of green like curtains, like incandescent ribbons, dimming and shifting and brightening, columns that ascend into the dark, stars muted behind them. No sound at all, a silent ignition, silver-green edged in red. You feel Ezra fetch up beside you, his hand finding yours.          "What am I looking at, Ez?" He squeezes your fingers.          "It's an aurora," he says, "I think. I've never seen one before. Just vids."          "It's so quiet," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper without even thinking.          "It is," says Ezra. There is no sound at all associated with the shifting columns, the world gone so still that you can hear your crewmates breathing, hear the soft sussurration of your own pulse. You pull your eyes away from the churning sky to look at your friends’ faces, Cee smiles, wide and open, her pale hair frosted green, eyes alight. Ezra's face is a study in naked wonder, and it's like you’re seeing him for the first time, no spacer's charm, no worldly confidence, just him smiling up at the sky. You squeeze their hands and they squeeze back.

[beabnormal24]

wrote a little thing and I'm feeling proud of it. I won't give any context whatsoever so just let your imagination run with it however you want.

There was a park near his house that used to be the courtyard of a convent, once, with tiled columns and hexagon gardens and vines climbing up the walls, like green rivers trying to reach back to their spring, against the time and the space and the current of it all. His dad used to take them every Sunday afternoon, cracking a joke about keeping the spirituality of it, even though he had never been one for religion himself, always frowning at the Tv screen when the pope came up on television, as if he could do the sign of the cross with his left hand just out of spite to him.  His sisters got excited each time, wore their best braids for it, bright pink caps and chequered blue tablecloths to lay on the grass.  Oscar, to his credit, mostly liked it for the comfort of a pleasant routine. They always chose the same spot, so they all walked behind their father with equal steps, trailing like diligent duckling until he stopped and deemed the moment right to get comfortable and take a seat for the story.  The wall on the opposite side of their usual piece of garden had been breached by a hole ever since Oscar could remember, red bricks rippling at the edges, falling open to reveal a perfect inlet for vines to take over, for swallows to make their nests and snake slither away from prying hands of way too curious kids.  His father always started with an interesting observation, impressed by the peculiarity of the wall, the cavity between the two sides. when the technique was only widespread around the 60’s.  “Perhaps there were passages for the nuns to run away,” he joked, chuckling to himself as the girls followed. Oscar never laughed. “God especially knows how much some of them really didn’t want to stay there.”  He always used that as an excuse to tell them a story, one they had listened to so many times that Oscar could recount the right pauses even with his eyes closed and his ears covered, but still his sisters couldn’t wait to hear again and again. A story about a nun who was actually forced to become one, who was once a girl who fell in love with a boy that her father did not approve of.  A young girl who stole a kiss and was constrained into an eternity in the convent to redeem herself from a single mistake, as if something as fickle as a kiss would be enough to change a destiny.  “A friend of mine said that the hole was made by his lover after she came here, who traveled through the steppes and followed dry rivers to come hereevery third Sunday night of the month, climbed between the vines and got stung by the bees just to steal another kiss.” His father would say, and his sisters would sigh in excitement, staring at the wall as if the boy could appear behind it from a moment to the other.  Sometimes, Oscar wonders if they still believe it, if they ever go back to the park and look at the wall and imagine what it would be like to live the rest of their lives as a consequence of their mistakes.  Oscar stopped believing in it at eight years old, when his father’s shoes disappeared from next the door and he would only come to pick him up from swimming lessons one weekend a month, with a car that smelled of new leather and a radio that only worked when it wasn’t raining.  When Oscar learnt that holes in the walls could come from stories of anger, too. 

[milkywaygg]

The Cosmas REVAMP (Chapter 2)

After saying goodbye to Nora, desperate to leave her alone to stay on her good side, Linnie left the building as he dug around in his pants pocket, feeling his heart drop slightly as the normally sitting bottle spray was not there. Once he had left the building, Linnie turned and hid in the corner of the building to take his phone out of his bag, shuffling the many textbooks that he had brought with him. Turning it on, he clicked on his twin sister, Daisy’s, contact information and sent her a message, hoping that he wasn’t too late.

Daisy? Are you still awake?

Nah. Just cramming for this stupid history test tomorrow. Why?

You wouldn’t mind picking me up, would you? I really don’t think I should fly home by myself. I left my pepperspray at home.

You don’t have your wand on you? Can’t you teleport home?

I don’t have my license yet. I have to re-take the test remember?

Right right. Yea, gimmie a min to find my wand. I’d take the car but mom and dad are asleep, hence why they didn’t blow up ur phone given how late it is lol.

I know I know. I’m sorry. I just lost track of time and…I met someone.

Oooo you don’t say? I’ll be there in 2 mins, then you’ve got some tea to spill, Mister!

Laughing slightly, Linnie kept himself hidden as he shoved the few books that he had pulled out back in his bag, careful not to let any of them smash his wand. He sighed somewhat disappointedly at his wand as his mind replayed all the failed practical exams he had faced, due to being somewhat magically inferior to most of the student population. While Daisy was able to teleport on her first try on exam day, Linnie hadn’t managed at all, and when given a second chance, he teleported with an arm and a leg missing, literally. He also remembered what happened earlier that day during class, where the baby had shrunk him accidentally, and he was left squealing in the corner until his teacher had helped him. With every lesson, Linnie felt a wave of laughter overwhelm him as he failed every spell and counter spell, despite knowing everything in theory. He knew the wand movements, he knew the correct incantations, but somehow..it never turned out in his favor.

Catching him off guard, a loud POOF suddenly appeared in front of him, forcing Linnie to clutch his chest and fall backwards. Daisy, a tall girl with shoulder-length green hair and hexagon shaped glasses behind her pastel green eyes, smirked slightly as she helped her brother out.

“You just can’t stay outta trouble, can you?”, she said jokingly, “What are you doing back here? I expected you near the front door or something.”

‘I-I-I just didn’t want anyone to see me, and try to rob me. I-I forgot my stuff back at the house.”

“Rob us? Shit, if they robbed us, I would have been like, wait? We got money?”, Daisy laughed, grabbing his wand out as she grabbed Linnie’s arm, “Now come on. Wouldn’t want to keep mom and dad worried.”

Linnie felt as if his body were being crushed as Daisy teleported him and herself back towards their bedrooms, split into two different sides. Both sides had a desk for school stuff against the lime green walls, and Daisy’s laptop illuminated her agricultural studies and history textbooks that were lied around, alongside papers and pens. The twins’ beds stood next to each other in the middle of the room, while a single lamp shined in the corner. Linnie tossed his backpack onto his bed and took a seat on the desk, resting his arm a bit as Daisy smiled at him.

“Sooo…you gonna tell me about this mystery woman?”, Daisy pried, making Linnie squirm slightly.

“Well, it wasn’t a date or anything. She just looked so sad and I thought maybe she wanted someone to talk to.”

“Uh huh…”, Daisy said, urging Linnie to go into more detail. “What’s she look like? She got a name.”

“She had this curly, cyan hair and was wearing a letterman jacket, kind of like how all the football players wear?”, Linnie started to explain, but grew worried as Daisy’s smile started to fade, “What? What’s the matter?”

“Not Nora Cosma.”

“Um…yes..her. Why?”

“Linnie, lemme ask you something.”, Daisy asked, rubbing her temples slightly. Of all the people he could have interacted with tonight, he chose her?! “Do you know her well?”

“Not really. I mean, we do have AP Literature together, and occasionally I’ll watch her play before we go perform with the band for half time. Why?”

“Ehhh…I think you should be careful around her, Lin.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well…she’s not exactly student of the year, if you catch my drift.”, Daisy shrugged, re-counting the last few interactions with Nora. “You know how I was late to first period this morning? That bitch shoved me in the locker in the men’s room, and everyone thought I was some sort of pervert. Thanks to her, I’ve got detention for the next two weeks. Thank the stars I didn’t get suspended.”

“Did mom and dad get upset at you?”

“They did until I told them what happened. Mom’s gonna make a call to the school in the morning about it.”, Daisy sighed, “But anyways, I don’t think Nora’s the type of person you want to be associated with.”

“Oh dear. I wish I would have know all that happened to you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you fault. Just please..”, Daisy pleaded, “If you do get involved with her, please please be careful. I don’t think she’s going to treat you right if you do get with her. I mean, you saw what she did to me, and I’ve overheard her a million times about how weak she thinks men are, so..”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I think she’s taken already.”, Linnie shrugged, “She was on her phone most of the time I was there and looked like she was texting someone, so I’m not sure. I-I wasn’t going to get with her or anything, but I just wanted to make sure she as doing ok.”

“Damn Linnie, you’re a better person than me. If that were me, I’d have let her suffer.”, Daisy said, “Anyways, I gotta get back to my studying. Let me know if the light disturbs you.”

“Really quick, Daisy? Can I ask you a question?”, Linnie asked softly, shuffling in his seat. Daisy nodded. “Do you um…think I’m stupid?”

“What? No! Why would you ask that? Are you crazy?”, Daisy asked, the question sending her into shocked, “Why? Did she call you stupid. Why I outta-“

“No no no! Please! She didn’t say anything to me, I promise!”, Linnie said, his voice getting somewhat high pitched, “No. It’s just…I’ve been thinking about all those practical tests that I keep messing up and today I had a bit of an accident in class.”

“What happened?���

“Well, you know that daycare class I keep asking you to join me in…Dina, that baby that I mentor, accidentally got a hold of Mr. Langston’s wand today and shrunk me with it, and well, you know I’m still struggling to transform correctly, so I had to try not to get eaten by this giant cockroach while the rest of the class searched for the wand.”

“Ooo ouch! Are you ok? Did she hurt you?”

“Not on purpose. The poor dear. She felt so bad and didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Yikes. See, that’s why I prefer pets over babies and children. They can’t use wands like we can.”

“Well I know, but I don’t know. I love cats and dogs but taking care of children just makes me feel extra warm inside. I don’t know. Just…I’m not mad at Dina or anything. It was just an accident after all. It’s just..sometimes I think I’m too dependent on other people to come and send me. I’m just wondering if I’m stupid or weak.”

“Ha! You’re not stupid or weak by any means! Hell, you always make the best grades in history and literature, since you aren’t waving a magic wand or anything. You’re crazy good at theories and stuff, and it takes an incredibly amount of patience to babysit and care for those children they way you do and never ask in return.”, Daisy said, smiling at Linnie, who seemed to perk up a little bit, “Just..the practical part of school just takes time to develop, and everyone develops at a different speed. Some people are born incredibly powerful while others have to wait a while longer. You’re so patient with everyone else, but sometimes, I think you forget to be patient with yourself.”

“I know, but it’s so much easier said that done. I really don’t know how you do it, Daisy.”

“Just takes time. Just know that if you need help, I’ve got your back, and I’m not gonna let anyone mess with you..ever. Now, you should probably get some sleep. We gotta be up bright and early for this stupid test.” Linnie smiled at his sister thankfully as he moved his backpack from the bed to his desk chair, before changing into his pajamas and settling into bed, scrolling mindlessly on his phone before eventually zonking out, tuning out his sister’s typing on her computer. Though he still tossed and turned as he continued to think about everything that had happened at school and the coffee shop, he eventually let his sister’s words soothe him through the night, lucky that he was born a twin.

[ghostfan3]

As I am currently in the process of writing my final exams. So I did have a bit of the time off to relax before them so I finished writing story about sparring sessions between Willow and Tublades. I indicated when the new part of story starts so older part can be skip.

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Here is a link to post that started this:

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Tublades powerful attack was stop at last moment by barrier of blue hexagons. Dispite Arthur using "King's Shield" to block opening attack, Willow was still push a bit back by sheer force of the charge. She quickly recovered to block incoming blitz of slashes. White hair girl keep more defensive stance and block attack with the shield and parry the other attacks with Arthur's blade. She waited for small opening and when it happened, she hit Tublades in the head with the shield. The knight stumbled backwards stunned. Willow used it to put distance between them again as she jump back.

The Pokémon and trainer circle around eachother, each watching the other waiting to saw who takes the initiative.

Willow have to admit Tublades was not only super strong but also astonishingly train. She could feel her hand pulls in pain. Each time the tall knight strike, recoil of the attack would be feel in her arm, mostly her wrist. Aegislash hands start to glow in purple colour that soon transferred to girls hand. Swords eye look at its trainer, as she nodded in gratitude. It was true that Aegislash could suck the live energy from person who hold it, but also share it with one it find worthy. Soon the numbing pain stopped. Ofcourse fighting with pokémon was much different from using normal swords but have many perks if someone know what to do.

Soon Tublades got impatient and charge again. But this time ghost specialist had a plan. She swing Arthur in horizontal line sending a wave of purple energy from night slash under Ceruledge legs, making the hunter stumble. Using this opportunity Willow charges forward and with all her strength rams her shield into Tublades hoping it's enough to push him to the ground.

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

This was successful maneuver as Tublades falls to the ground. Before he could shake off the shock from the impact, Willow was already standing there keeping sword to his neck. Unfortunately white hair girl undermine just how strong the tall knight really was. Swiftly Tublades sweep her feet from under her. Purple eye girl fall to the ground with thud. In last moment Willow manage to block incoming blade as she now struggle to shove pokémon off her. A purple glow in her hand return as Arthur share his energy again. With new found strength she manage to push the fiery sword a bit, before she used her shield to block second attack. Tublades was trying to put one of his swords to her neck to make her surrender. He again hit the shield hard hoping that recoil will forced it out of girl's hand. In moment this struggle took place between the two, Willow let go of the Arthur. The Aegislash float unnoticed into a position on the side. Before hunter could noticed this it was too late. As ghostly sword already charge his attack.

-"Flash Cannon now!"- tall knight was knock out of the ghost specialist by powerful beam of light.

Willow used this moment to quickly get up. Arthur quickly return to her hand. She tightly grip the hilt of her pokémon ,as he wrapped his ribbon like arms around her hand. Tublades needed a moment to shake off the effect of "Flash Cannon". He was breathing heavily, so was Willow as they once again assumed battle positions and stared to circle eachother.

The purple eye girl didn't take her eyes off opposite Ceruledge. He was strong, really strong. She will need a good plan to win and she better thing of the one quickly.

She dodge once again Tublades charge. Only this time she was to slow, as pain erupted from her side. She looked down only to see torn up clothes and scarlet red mark inside them. Good thing was that temperature of the knight's blades imidiatly close off the wound. Still it hurt like hell. She was given no time to recover, as using this opportunity Ceruledge attack again. This time slicing her arm. Arthur seeing this turn of events used "King's Shield" to give his trainer time to reclaim her composure.

As the blue barrier faded, ghost specialist was ready to give her all. Her mobility and strength was greatly reduced by the receive wounds. She was also getting noticeable tired. But she could also tell that fiery knight was also stumbling with his steps. With knowledge that neither of them could go much longer, she decided to put everything on the line with this final plan. White hair girl run straight at tall Ceruledge. She throw her arm to the side letting Arthur move freely. Willow ram her opponent with the shield, as Aegislash was attacking with his blade. Now Tublades needed to defend himself against two opponents at one.

-"Shadow claw!"-Arthur's blade got enveloped in dark purple energy before forming sword with sharp claws resembling a hand at the end. The ghostly sword used it to greatly damage Ceruledge. Using this distraction Willow with all her strengt hit the knight in the head. Shield connect whit hearable clank.Tublades stumble back before counterattacking the girl using his flames to push her back. What followed was an exchange of blows. With her shield Willow manage to chip at Tublades Armor leaving few cracks. While Tublades swords slashed, cut and burned the girl. Exploiting her weakened state hunter manage to slash Willow's cheek before pushing her to the ground. Ghost specialist looked at looming figure.

-"Let's end this.... Arthur discharge fully charged Flash Cannon!"- What Tublades didn't know was that while he and Willow exchange the blows, Arthur fly above him and was gathering energy to unleash powerful beam attack.

Rampart as well Willow's other pokémons who watch on the side, needed to look away though to powerful light that was emitted when Flash Canno got unleashed. After few moments everything went back to normal. Tublades was laying on the ground, the heat of the blast left some parts of his armour steaming. Spirals in his eyes show that he fainted. Willow groaned in victory before flipping back to the ground. She giggle uncontrollable as all the adrenaline got drained from her. It was a good match. With help from the Warden she slowly got up. While Rampart was helping his brother to stand back up too. She nodded in thanks to alpha pokémon.

-"It was good match, you are really strong opponent Tublades. I bet if you took this seriously and used all your strength I wouldn't be able to win.... I think I wait up with challenging any of you further....."-she hissed quietly when wound on her side flare up. She held out her hand for a shake. Tublades meet her hand with now retracted sword. Both of them noded in acknowledgement of eachother strength.-"Let's get patch up and eat something...my treat..."

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

Willow definitely wouldn't have won if Tublades was taking this seriously and didn't hold back. But I imagine he wouldn't try to kill his friend in sparring session 😅

Yeah I'm not good at writing fight scenes but I tried my best. I'm also not familiar with MHS game or mechanics in it, so I wrote Tublades attacks as more general ones. Still I hope it was good.

@skylertheminish I hope you content with way I wrote your boy. I tried my best so I hope you liked it.

[el-the-cell]

Hi OP. I read your tags, so I took the liberty to translate it for you, since I'm italian, and really like flatland, and translating. If you want i can send you a version with time stamps.

Yesterday the Great Circle came to inspect the State Prison for his seventh yearly visit, asking me for the seventh time:

"The prisoner insist on supporting his absurd lie?" "You know very well that you are tall, as well as long and wide." "Lie! Measure my height, then, I shall believe you!"

It's been seven years, and I'm still in prison, but I keep existing, in the hope that these memories of mine could let a class of rebels arise, that refuse to live in a limited dimensionality, which for the clarity of you, inhabitants of space, I will call "flatland".

Credits shown:

FLATLAND from the fantasy novel of many dimensions by Edwin A. Abbot Film-making by Michele Emmer

Imagine a vast sheet of paper on the surface of which shadows with luminous contours move without being able to lift or dip. Straight lines, triangles, squares, hexagons and other geometrical shapes. This way you will have a correct enough idea of my country and of my compatriots. However we are not able to see anything of all that. Nothing is visible for us, except straight lines. I shall demonstrate why right away.

Let's take an equilateral triangle. If you, inhabitants of space sink your eye to the level on which it lays, it will, bit by bit, cease to appear as a shape, to appear as a straight line. Well, that is exactly what we see in Flatland when an acquaintance approaches us.

"Good morning, my dear!" "It's a pleasure to see you again!" "Is everyone doing well?" "Please give my regards to your lady!" "Goodbye!"

-How do you recognise each other?- You will ask. I shall take my time to answer you later.

Allow me to talk about the climate and the accommodations in my country. As with you, so with us there are four cardinal points: north, south, east and west. Since there isn't a sun, or other celestial bodies, it is for us impossible to determine which way the north is with the usual method. We od have our own system, though. Here, a natural law dictates that there shall be a constant attraction towards the south. And this attraction constitutes our compass. In the cities we are guided by the houses, of which the roofs are always pointing towards the north, to protect us from rainfall. The rain further helps with orientation, as it alway comes from the north. In the countryside, where there are no houses, the trees can serve as a guide, with the points always facing north. But if you happen, like it happened to me, to walk on a perfectly deserted plain, you'll be forced to stay still for hours, waiting for rain.

But let us go back to the problem of inhabitants. The inhabitants of Flatland. Our women are straight lines. Soldiers and workmen, which are our inferior classes, are isosceles triangles. Our bourgeoisie consists of equilaterals, namely triangles with equal sides. Our professionals and gentlemen are squares (class to which I, myself, belong to), and five sided shapes. Immediately above that comes aristocracy, that begins with six-sided shapes and goes on until the many-sided ones, awarded with the honorary title of "polygonal". When the number of sides becomes so great, and the size of the sides so small, a shape becomes indistinguishable from a circle. That is how you become part of the sacerdotal order, or the order of circulars: the uppermost class. In our social order, a natural law dictates that the male son shall have one more side than the father, thus climbing the ladder of nobility. This way the son of a square is a pentagon, the son of a pentagon is a hexagon, and so on. It is not that way for soldiers and workers. The son of an isosceles will always be an isosceles. I remember one time when two isosceles parents brought an equilateral into the world. It was reason to celebrate for hundreds of metres! But the newborn, recognised as "regular", was immediately taken from the despairing parents. An equilateral without offspring was summoned by the congress of the Great Circles.

"Equilateral bachelor, at your command" "You shall adopt the newborn equilateral!"

Held under oath, the new father pledged to never allow the adopted child to see his parents ever again. He now belonged to a superior class.

(Isosceles triangles gather in a house)

"We no longer accept abuses!" "Let's bring down the unjust laws!" "No one will be able to stop us!"

The acute-angled hoi polloi managed, in some to their seditions, to find leaders capable of making the Wisdom of the Circles their superior strength and numerical advantage.

"Isosceles! United, we will win!"

But the polygons manage almost always manage to stifle the sedition in the bud.

"We need to convince the leaders of the uprising to accept to partake in a discussion." "I'll tell the medics to stand ready."

The isosceles, leader of the rebels, is induced into entering one of the State Hospitals, to undergo an accurate medical examination.

(Hexagonal medic, in a German accent:)

"How is an artificial expansion possible? Thanks to a perfect surgery, the isosceles - made regular and innocuous - is thus allowed to become part of the privileged classes."

This way, the hapless mob of isosceles, deprived of their leadership, will let themselves be stabbed by a small group of their brethren, hired by the Great Circle and kept ready in the State Forts, in case of emergency.

"Soldiers, the fatherland calls!" "Ready for inspection! Present, arms! Attention! Right face! Forward March! Present, arms! Forward March!"

"Fire! Fire!"

"Fire! Fire! Fire! Wipe 'em all out! Exterminate them!"

"Fire! Fire!"

In our annals there are no less than 120 revolutions. And they all ended like this.

Some very important figures in Flatland are women. Being straight lines, They are basically invisible for us, inhabitants of the two dimensional world. A law forces them to constantly move their back part, so that we, flat beings, can see them when they arrive. Their character is ever-changing, and they get angry very easily. Since their end part is very sharp, it is not advisable to start a discussion with them in the streets.

"Please, do give way. I am in a hurry. Move aside!" "Actually, I am as well. And I arrived before you." "I'm not in the mood to waste time. Move!" "My lady, you offend me. I don't understand." "My patience has a limit!" line stabs isosceles triangle

As we have well understood, being touched by a furious woman can be very dangerous in Flatland. When we notice a woman passing through the street, we, the men, are all very careful not to cross her, or make her nervous. Our women's changing nature often causes real family tragedies. It's not rare that a woman gone crazy will exterminate her whole family, husband and children first.

"Enough, I'm sick of being at your services! I want to leave, I want my own freedom!"

An insane woman that wanders through the city immediately results in the intervention of soldiers, who are forced to eliminate her.

"Enough, go away! Stop! I'm sick of this!" "Let's get away, quick! She's dangerous." "Halt! That's enough."

Women are not a joke. Despite this, our supreme rulers, the Circles, are profoundly attracted to women. Especially the most beautiful and corrupted ones.

"Did you see that Let's follow them."

Dancing is one of the most beloved activities by circles, and all the people of flatland. And without women, what kind of dancing would it be?

A very delicate geometric problem for us, inhabitants of the flat world, a problem that inhabitants of space don't even imagine, is how to recognise each other in the street. One method consists of going around the other shape, touching gently side against side, in order to understand what shape we have encountered. We must be very careful. A brusque movement - a simple touching of the edge - can cause immediate death. But what I the reason for our problem? It's an issue of plane geometry. If I, a square, encounter another geometric shape, I'll see (as opposed to you, inhabitants of space) nothing but lines. It can be very difficult to distinguish who I have in front of me, based on what I see. I could even fail to recognise a woman.

Another big problem in my country are irregulars: geometrical shapes with unequal sides. They have difficult relationships with everyone. They can't get a job. Nobody wants anything to do with them. Even their parents don't want them.

"Just leave." "We've had enough of the problems you cause us."

Thus, the irregulars vent their anger of excluded and different on whoever first happens to be in range, causing the intervention of soldiers, who are only waiting for an excuse to intervene.

"He's dangerous! Eliminate him! Immediately!"

There is no doubt that the irregulars live very unhappy lives in flatland. But we, on the other hand, must defend our geometric regularity. Does something similar, if I may say so, not happen in your spacial world?

Years ago the fashion of colouring your sides spread in our world. Everyone competed to show off the most dazzling colours. Even the soldiers put on their dress uniforms.

The time has come that I, the square, protagonist of this tale, explain why I am in prison, where I receive the periodic visits of the Great Circle, where he invariably asks me:

"Do you still insist on your absurd lies?" "I cannot do otherwise. You know it well." "Then you shall remain in prison." "I will retain the memory of what I had the occasion to see."

And what I lived through, was the greatest adventure of my life. It began inside my house, where I live with my three sons - pentagons - (According to the law of flatland, children have one side more than their parents) with the servants - triangles of various shapes - with my wife and my son, some of the servants and two grandsons (hexagons, obviously). Then, one night, I was coming home from a tiring day. As usual, I was welcomed by my wife, and by one of my grandsons, who was drawn to geometry.

"Grandpa, you taught me that in our world length and width exist: the directions in which anything expands. Therefore if I want to calculate the surface area of a square, with a side length of, let's say, three, you'll need exactly nine little squares of unitary length. The area is three squared, which equals nine. Then why couldn't you give a meaning to the expression 'three to the power of three'?"

"Oh, nonsense! Go to sleep, I'm tired."

And I retreated to my room. I could not have predicted that I would be so soon and so spectacularly proven wrong. In the middle of the night I was woken, together with my wife, from a loud noise. I ordered my wife to return to her room. The loud noise announced the visit, dream or reality, of a being that I have since then considered sacred: the divine sphere.

The sphere. Only later I understood what it was. It had descended to visit my world. To visit us, beings unworthy and incapable of contemplating it. Obviously, I couldn't understand or see that I had a three-dimensional object in front of me, which showed on the plane of my world, what you would call a section of its shape. I did not understand it until the sphere decided to let me rise with it into space as you know it. Since that moment, I have seen things that I can not even begin to describe, for my word is unsuitable. And taken by the thrill of space, I threw myself into the analogy. But if really three dimensional objects do exist, why not think about not only about three to the third, but also about three to the fourth, why not see the cube - yes, it is divine - but in four dimensions? And seeing the sphere as well, in four dimensions? Even though I am now in prison, where I will remain forever, for trying to convince my too unworthy compatriots of the existence of space, I thank the divine sphere, that allowed me to see, or maybe dream, for a moment, the wonders of infinite space.

THE STOP MOTION RENDITION OF FLATLAND RELEASED IN 1982 THATS ENTIRELY IN ITALIAN

[destinysbounty]

HELLO i am in your inbox because your post about ninjago cycles made me drop my phone, ive literally been thinking about this idea forever!

around when i watched s8, i literally started reading the entire show as one big time loop because of all the repetition and cycles in the show. i dont know if that phrasing holds true, but i think the idea itself holds up

i think what really drives the entire cycle of the show is the need for balance. i interpret ninjago the place as created by fsm to be a reflection of his worldviews: dragon vs oni; good vs evil; light vs dark. the fact that the overlord keeps coming back, and his descendants will have to keep fighting him is a part of a larger system put in place (accidentally or purposefully) by fsm. when one person is defeated, a power vaccuum appears that HAS to be filled, usually by a new villain

basically, balance is the mechanism by which all these cycles come to pass. its kind of a law of physics in ninjago, good will always win, but evil can never really lose. everyone has to keep repeating history, personal and global because the world literally will bend itself in order to achieve that balance.

(i hope this makes sense i wrote it very quickly lmao) thank you sooooo much for bringing up cycle symbolism in the show,,,, once you start looking for it its everywhere!

(Here's the cycle post in reference)

Thank you for sending this ask! I apologize for the belated response, but I wanted to wait to respond until I had the chance to get ahold of some screenshots that would be relevant to this discussion. With that out of the way, let's get into the meat of the issue!

First off, you are absolutely right! I think the circle motif represents a few key themes: balance, as you mentioned; recursion; and inheritance. And all of those things, in a way, tie back into the show's interpretation of destiny and the way fate is baked into almost every aspect of the story.

Balance is the most obvious interpretation, of course, and perhaps the most compelling. Like, not just because the circle is by design an incredibly balanced shape, simultaneously having infinite sides yet at the same time only one. But also because there are so many instances of circles appearing in the way in which the balance between light and dark is visually represented within the series - especially with regard to the creation mythology.

(On an unrelated note, I think it's actually kind of a cool detail how the FSM is represented as a grey being - not Oni of darkness, not dragon of light, but something in between. The child of both worlds.)

The world was created by the FSM, and while I can't remember if it was ever outright stated, I think there's enough evidence to at least assume spinjitzu was used alongside the Golden Weapons to create Ninjago (I'm happy to elaborate on this if asked!)

On this note of balance, I also think it's worth noting the attention drawn to the splitting of circles. As seen above, with the creation of the Dark Island, but also with the Battle Between Brothers! Now, I'm definitely overthinking this, but bear with me for a sec.

The Monastery of Spinjitzu is, quite iconically, arguably circular in shape. Well, it's really more of a hexagon, but you get my drift. And the sons of the FSM, each representing light and dark, were friends for a long time. But when Garmadon finally succumbed to the venom's influence and was banished to the Underworld, a crevice was torn into the ground, splitting that circle - and likewise splitting the two brothers in the process.

And again! The Lloyd v Garmadon fight in sesaon 8! Despite loving each other very deeply, they have both been forced into conflict by the forces of destiny time and again. Lloyd knows the drill at this point. "I've saved you once, I'll save you again." The fight itself takes place in a circular structure - the Kryptarium Prison panopticon. Lloyd enters this fight assuming the established cycle of fighting and redeeming his father will be reinforced. But when Lloyd is thrown through the wall, thereby breaking through the prison's circular structure, so too is this cycle broken as well (and with it like half the bones in Lloyd's body as well as his heart).

And of course, we can't forget the most iconic example - when the FSM created the Dark Island, banishing the Overlord and his Stone Army for the protection of the world he created, the circular continent was split in two. The destruction of the circle.

The destruction of the circle is also how the Oni are introduced in Mystake's story - the dragon creates a circle, and the Oni destroys it.

So to recap: a circle is balance, balance is stability and unity, and the dissolution of the circle is the loss of stability.

That in itself is a cycle - creating something, destroying it, creating it again.

Kinda like the show itself, in a constant loop of the world facing ruin and building itself back up again and again. Like how the Overlord can never truly be defeated, dying and coming back like the ebb and flow of the tide. Like the snake eating its own tail, a cycle feeding itself endlessly. Like how a circle has infinite sides.

That's interesting enough as it is, right? Just wait! It goes deeper!

As mentioned before, the FSM arguably created Ninjago to some extent using spinjitzu. Spinjitzu, which is both a martial art and a lifestyle that utilizes circular motion to create a tornado around the user. The quintessential example of the circle motif. Spinjitzu is quite literally the foundation of the show's identity and worldbuilding. This show is, on both a narrative and a meta level, built on the concept of circles. And according to the Core shorts, one of its principle values includes balance.

Which, in the end, boils back to what you were saying about how cycles are a law of reality in Ninjago. I agree!

If I have my lore right and Ninjago was created through spinjitzu in some degree or another, then that means it was created through circular motion. The world was made spinning. The world was made as one big cycle. So to some extent, I do definitely think that good and evil must constantly fight. If the world isn't constantly repeating itself, if this cycle of recursion ever stops, then the world will stop spinning. And what happens when the world stops spinning?

Chaos, as I'm sure you can imagine.

Although, we also have to consider that the Overlord said "there will be peace in the dark". Now, since he is a villain and also the embodiment of darkness itself we should take his words with a grain of salt, but it definitely raises the question of what it would look like if darkness or light truly did prevail over the other, or if such a thing is even possible in the first place. Will there be peace in the dark? Or does the Overlord have an arguably more compelling motivation - that is, as an immortal being incapable of death, locked in an eternal limbo between victory and defeat, he knows that the only way this deathless hell will end is if the balance is destroyed and the universe falls to pieces. Maybe that's what the Overlord means by 'peace in the dark'. That theory has a lot of holes in it, of course, but I'm certainly intrigued by what that would mean for the Overlord's character. This might also hint at the origins of Darkley's, but that's a weird little tinfoil-hat tangent that we're not gonna worry about right now.

Now, I mentioned earlier that there are three main themes that the circle motif draws on: balance, recursion, and inheritance. And those three themes all tie into destiny somehow. So far, we've talked about balance and recursion - how history must keep repeating itself, how the whole world must remain in eternal conflict between light and dark or else the circle will dissolve and chaos will reign. But what about inheritance?

This is the fun part, but also a bit obvious. First, inheritance comes through elemental powers - not only because powers are passed on from person to person, as well as the legacies of those powers, but also because the elements of creation all tie back to the Green Ninja. They all manifest in him, and while the other ninja are capable of wielding those powers independently they all tie back to Lloyd in the end. Like convection cells but instead of circulating wind currents it's magical powers.

And, of course, I'm not the first person to comment on how elemental powers can be seen as a metaphor for generational trauma, and how each character inherits the legacy and loss of prior generations vicariously through their powers. Other people have elaborated on this idea far more eloquently than I ever could. But it's still worth mentioning in this discussion, so here we are.

And!! Then you've got things like the Yin-Yang Eclipse (which, imo, didn't look much like the Yin-Yang symbol at all. It looked more like a funky Z if you ask me). With Yang telling Cole to "close the circle" - the curse of the Airjitzu Temple requires that someone always remain behind as the master of the house. Yang needed Cole to take his place as the temple's new prisoner. He needed Cole to complete the cycle of inheritance. He needed Cole to close the circle.

And that right there is the base essence of this show, isn't it? Closing the circle. Completing the cycle. The sins of the father laid upon the son. History repeating itself. Repetition and recursion.

This all pertains to destiny in ways I hope are quite apparent at this point. The scholars in the Cloud Kingdom write destiny. They choose what happens. They designed the Prophecy of the Green Ninja. Perhaps they're doing all this, perhaps they're putting the ninja through all this trauma and suffering, perhaps they're creating this history and this world to be endlessly recursive, in an effort to maintain the balance and protect the universe from spiraling out of control. Or maybe they're just doing it to get their sick kicks. Who knows? We've only seen the Cloud Kingdom for like one whole episode so at this point who's to say.

But a bit more blatantly to the point, according to Lloyd in 2.12 "Return of the Overlord" the below images show the symbol for destiny. And what do you see??? Circles!!!!!!!! Circles as unity! Circles as balance! And in the latter image, circles represented through colors, which denote their roles in destiny and likewise the powers they inherited from their ancestors! It's circles all the way down!!!!

Oh and before I go, here's some food for thought. The Overlord once said that "destruction comes from the eternal struggle between light and dark." And Oni have the power of destruction. Garmadon, once he's reached his true potential, is powered by conflict. "It's the fight that fuels him." Which does seem to corroborate with what we know about the Overlord himself - as Misako said, "where there is light, there must also be darkness." Conflict creates darkness, and darkness creates conflict, just as light creates shadow.

God, I'm losing my mind over this. Balance is the struggle between light and dark. Destruction is a byproduct of this struggle. Destruction causes darkness. Darkness plays a pivotal role in the existence of the balance. The balance is creating itself. The cycle ultimately cycles back in on its own self. We've come full circle. It's the freakin' ouroboros! The snake eating its own tail! Endless consumption with infinite return! Circular motion causing its own endless perpetuity!! It's a fight you can never truly win but also can't lose, because the existence of conflict creates conflict, and without conflict there cannot be peace! You cannot escape from the cycle because you are the cycle!

So, to conclude:

Thanks again for the ask! <3 God I sure hope this rant made at least a teensy bit of sense.

[jangofctts]

Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one) 

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to. 

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.    

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you— 

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.           

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible. 

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here. 

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction. 

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.” 

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning. 

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.” 

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either… 

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.  

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.  

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow. 

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.  

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are. 

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?” 

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it. 

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”  

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”        

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you. 

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.   

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air. 

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.  

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter. 

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.     

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more. 

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.     

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.” 

Touching. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…   

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow. 

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“ 

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.” 

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.   

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen. 

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor. 

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.” 

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three. 

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand. 

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop. 

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.  

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.   

You scowl. “It’s fine.” 

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose. 

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums. 

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”  

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face. 

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.   

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep. 

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.” 

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.  

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin. 

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.    

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.   

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward. 

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.” 

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw. 

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers. 

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”   

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not. 

Whatever.       

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare. 

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.    

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need. 

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp. 

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.  

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”  

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.    

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet. 

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away. 

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off. 

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.  

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no. 

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head. 

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat.  Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts. 

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter. 

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise. 

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans. 

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world. 

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull  as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.      

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.  

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

[beskarberry]

Garden of Ishtar

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 9

(The Mandalorian x f!reader) (+18)

"The Universe has a strange way of granting wishes"

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Rating: holy shit Explicit

Word count: 15.8k

Content warnings: SEX POLLEN + BREEDING KINK + PREGNANCY KINK with an extra kinky twist! (Dubcon/use of mind altering substances by non-sentient creature/ovipos) Side kinks: dom/alpha, praise, begging, denial, overstim, bonus somnophila. Obvious favorites of p in v, finger blasting, oral f receiving, multiple orgasms and then some. Big gooey heaps of fluff to make up for all the filth. I tried.

A/N: Weird shit happens in space, and this chapter is no exception. This is the most kinks I've crammed into one chapter, almost zero story progression whatsoever, it's just smutty smut the whole way though. Good luck and may the force be with you because you're gonna need it.

“Well, which one do you want?”

“You pick.”

“Fuck no, I picked the last one, you can pick the next.”

It was a bright, lovely, sunshiny day on the forest moon of Endor, the fine weather a stark contrast from how it had been when you had landed. You had opened the access ramps on the Crest to get some fresh air circulating while you made preparations to head towards your next target, but you had to pick a target first.

On a supply crate that you had pushed into the middle of the cabin like a dining room table sat three little pucks, their bounties still as mysterious as they had been when you had wantonly pulled them off of Karga’s countertop. As far as you were concerned it was Din’s turn to pick, and though death was just an occupational hazard in your line of work, there had been too many brushes with the reaper during your last hunt for you to be comfortable picking again.

Leaning against the wide open doorframe you took a deep breath of the fresh, rain-scrubbed air, letting it fill your lungs and clear your head. It was a little humid, though it might have been the nicest day you had seen in a long time. Outside on the dampish grass the foundling was chasing some kind of pretty insect, hopping about trying to catch the elusive critter. It was good for him to get a chance to stretch his legs, no matter how short they were, and you giggled at his antics when he tripped and fell. He squealed and rolled through the grass before he was bounding after another fluttering creature. Without the violent storms the mini-moon was peaceful, serene almost, and in another lifetime maybe you would have settled down here; though you couldn’t imagine being anything besides a hunter. I wonder if that will ever change.

“Really, cyare, you pick.” Sitting across from you, Din was cleaning the last bit of mud from his armor, the thick muck having long dried into a chunky, flaky mess. Everything but the plate he had in his hands now shimmered like spilled mercury over his chest and shoulders, catching the dappled sunbeams that filtered in through the open doors. Your argument over who got to pick the next puck had ground to a stand still, and you were getting frustrated, but not frustrated enough that you would yield.

“It’s not my turn, it’s your turn.” He just shook his head, diligently scrubbing the dirt from the details of the mudhorn on his pauldron without realizing the irony of his efforts. He set the cleaned metal to his shoulder, the clack of its fasteners echoing faintly in the open hold. The Mandalorian sat up straight, leaning his helmeted head against the hull wall and patting his knees, expectantly waiting for you to make your choice. Something about his armored appearance gave you a stupid idea, and you sauntered up to him with a cocky grin. “I’ll fight’cha for it.”

“You’ll what?” The black gloss of his visor tilted sharply, as though you had just grown a second head.

“Fight me! Loser has to pick the puck.” You kicked the tips of his boots and brought your fists up, playfully making soft, slow jabs towards him. He huffed, like he wasn’t used to you having bright ideas by now.

“I’m not going to fight you, cyar’ika, just pick a damn puck already.”

“Them's fightin’ words.” Your knuckles went pap pap pap in quick succession against the hexagonal indent on his chest. “What’re’ya afraid you’re gonna lose?”

He lazily swatted at you, barely even trying to block your attack. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ha! As if!” You whipped your head forward, sending the beskar you wore on your crown sliding down over your eyes, letting the quicksilver flash of its curved surfaces tell him you meant business. Your jabs got a little meaner, though if you hit him too much harder his own beskar would probably break your fingers. Between his metal plates were a few soft spots, and you honed in on them with sneaky digits. Din jerked visibly when you got the one right under his chest piece, and a swift arm came up and caught your next offence. “Ohoho, so you are awake, I was beginning to think you had fallen asleep on me.”

“I’m not going to hit you.” His words came through his modulator like gravel, irritated that you would even think he would lay a hand on you. Shrugging, you knocked him right in the forehead with the heel of your palm, making his helmet clonk against the durasteel. The next jab you threw was caught and thrown back to you, him tossing your fist away. You went for him again, but when he grabbed both your fists you were pushed back with the force of him rising from his seat. He marched you backwards and shoved you away, then brought his vambraces up in a defensive block, ready for the next attack.

You took one last glance at the foundling, who was sitting sweetly in the grassy meadow, absently trying to catch motes of pollen that were floating by, before launching into your assault. Your fists stung at him with reckless abandon, not enough to actually hurt either of you, though he probably wouldn’t have felt it anyway under his pile of armor. Mando blocked everything you hurled at him, making good on his promise not to hit you, but that was taking all the fun out of it. “Come on, rust bucket, stand up for yourself!” He took everything you gave, deflecting every thrown fist and slowly inching his way closer to you until you were taking steps back to open up your jabs.

“You really want me to fight you? Fine.” He barked, whacking your next punch away. You jumped back to dodge a rapid slew of hook shots, cackling like a lunatic that you had gotten your wish granted.

“Yes! Come on, big boy, fight me! Let’s go! I’m gonna kick your- ass!” Din lunged at you, tackling you like a linebacker and throwing you against the wall. Cornered, you snapped your head forward and rang his bell, disorienting him enough that you could drop out of his grasp and dash out between his legs. He turned on you in an instant, and you made ‘come at me bro’ hands at him before he was on you again. He swiped with a left hook, chuffing you lightly on the shoulder while you socked him back; though you weren’t nearly as gentle, stinging your knuckles on his unyielding iron.

A bandoliered boot went for your shins, and you stomped back at it, kicking sideways at the plates of his thighs. You hopped, switched legs, and spun a roundhouse straight into the side of his gut. On anyone else it would have been a crippling blow, but your Mandalorian grabbed your lifted ankle and hauled you to him, using your own weight against you to palm your sternum and flip you on your back. The wind was knocked from your lungs when you hit the floor, but not enough that you didn’t get a knee up as he tried to pin you under him, and you kicked up into his gut and flipped him over your head; the sound of his armor hitting the ground ringing loud and ugly.

You kicked up and tossed yourself backwards in the same spring, putting you over top of his breastplate. Throwing your knees back you locked his arms under your ankles, straddling his chest so you could hold his helmet down. “That all you got?”

“You wish!” Din squirmed and kneed you in the ass, tossing you off of him. You rolled away and scrambled to your feet, narrowly avoiding another flying tackle. The cabin of the Crest wasn’t giving you much space to work with, and you hauled ass down down the ramp before he could catch you again. “Oh now you want me to chase you, ner riduur?” He hollered, swinging his arms wide in a challenging stance.

You turned and wiggled your ass at him, slapping yourself tauntingly before the sound of armored thunder had you running for cover. You ran past the foundling on the ground, braking quickly next to him to pat his head before his father was upon you, and you missed being snatched by the skin of your teeth.

Hopping back a few paces you put up your dukes, and this time the beskar took the bait. The Mandalorian threw punches left and right, more forceful than he had started with but not enough to actually hurt. You took a few blows to your forearms and shoulders before lashing out with a wild throw. The sound of fists on metal echoed against the tree trunks that surrounded the sunny meadow while you took on the mighty warrior, though armor was kicking your ass for him, and you nearly dashed yourself to pieces on the plate of his chest.

“Had enough yet?”

You roared in response and threw your whole body at him, making quick jabs at the meat of his sides where his armor was thinnest. He keeled sideways, dropped himself into a crouch, and lunged, tackling you to the ground. Damn it! Time to fight dirty! You pulled an arm free of his grasp and grabbed his cloak, throwing it over his helmet and wrapping it up tight, temporarily blinding him. He sat up to try and unravel the fabric from his face, and in that split second you grabbed the backs of his knees and yanked, flopping him back down onto his back. The pinner had become the pin-ee, and you squashed yourself up between his legs and thrust into his groin, making him keen in surprise.

“You’re mine, bantha-butt!” Tangled in the cloak he squirmed under you until he was free of your trap, giving you a confused head tilt at your position. You hooked your arms under his knees and ground yourself up against his ass, making him grunt underneath you before he wrapped his legs around your middle and rolled, throwing you down onto the ground. Both of you grappled for dominance, rolling and tossing each other through the soft, dampish grass until you were on top of him again, straddling his waist.

“That’s better.” He hummed, grabbing your wrists and pulling you down to him where he could wrap his arms around your writhing form. “You’re mine, you little womp rat.”

“Nuh uh! You’re under me, that means I win, chumbucket.” You threw your weight around, trying to coax one more good roll out of the two of you, but he had you in his clutches. A dark, lecherous laugh reverberated in your ear, and you felt him rut up against your crotch to demand your complacency. Between your legs the faintest outline of his shaft slotted against you, fitting so well against the cradle of your body that it really might have been made just for you; but you grabbed his shoulders and pushed him harder into the grass. “Not in front of the foundling, you big horndog.”

“Says the one riding me.” A soft, leather-clad hand left your captured shoulders to slide your mask up and brush the grass from your hair, gently tucking a stray lock behind your ear; and you pressed your face into his palm as it passed back down. The rumble in his chest went right through your legs up your spine until your cheeks blushed under his thumbs. “Mesh’la…”

Something twitched under you, and as much as you would like to indulge him, sass came to you more naturally. “Is this why you didn’t wanna fight me?” You rolled your hips over his, giving him a tantalizing tease. “Gets you all fired up?”

His helmet rolled, trying to avoid your skull-boring gaze. “Maybe…”

“Well maybe when we get into hyperspace we can do something about that, but not until that one has gone to bed.”

Ahead of you the foundling was laying back in the grass, watching his adopted parents with big googly eyes. Din followed your gaze, and the two of you made stupid little waves at your child. Beans waved back and stood up, teetering over to the pair of you on his little stubby legs. You laid against the breadth of your mate’s chest and reached for the goofy green baby, who happily ran into your arms.

“Heya, Goob! What’cha up to, huh? Catchin’ bugs?” You sat up and leaned back, ignoring the heavy hands that laid on your thighs while you chatted with the foundling. The baby gibbered and told you all about his fun in the sun, but under you the slow gyration of hips was starting to get distracting. “Beans, tell your dad to stop being naughty.”

“Me? You started this.”

“Bah! I don’t start things, I only finish them.” Under you your beskar burdened buddy sighed and let his head fall back into the grass, shaking it back and forth at your foolishness. You hefted the foundling up in the air, making him squeal in delight, and the sweet sounds of his laughter gave you a better idea. “You know what? I bet he would like to pick a puck!”

“Thank the fucking stars, does that mean we can get going?”

“Yeah yeah fussbucket come on. You’re so damn impatient!” You made one last amorous swirl of your hips before leaping up from your man, running with the baby high above your head as you dashed circles around the ship. It was good for both of you to spend time together that wasn’t just on the trail, and you treasured the few moments of comfort you got to have as a pack between hunts. You ran a few more laps before flying up the ramp to where Mando had already beaten you there, and you plopped the baby down on the makeshift table where the pucks had miraculously survived your wrassling. “Ok buddy boy, can you pick a puckie for me?”

The baby tossed his arms in the air and squeaked like he would rather go for another round of flight simulator, but you plopped down on the ground in front of him and pointed at the pucks again. He tilted his head, making his airplane ears flop akimbo. The foundling looked down at the pucks, back up to you, and then -slapped- the one in the middle as hard as he could. The pucks projector fired up and glowed ghostly blue in front of the child’s wondrous eyes, and he tried to grab at the thing showing in its center.

The holo must be malfunctioning, maybe the baby hit it too hard, but the picture wasn’t of a face, or even a person for that matter; it was something round, egg shaped almost. Beside you, your Mandalorian was making the same confused head tilts that you were, and he tapped a leather finger to the puck’s button, turning it off and on again, but the same image remained. “That can’t be right, have you ever seen one like this?”

You shook your head, puzzled by the purplish object that floated before you. Maybe it was some kind of stone or seed, or even an egg like its shape suggested. The pucknotes had a counter next to the ovoid, indicating that more credits would be rewarded for the quantity of items procured. Besides a description of the item and the indicator, the puck notes had one last useful tidbit of information, the last known location:

Hoth.

“Wait, Hoth? There’s nothing on Hoth! You sure this thing’s not fucked up?” Din shrugged, making his plates clack before he got up and started getting the ship around, closing ramps and scooting crates back into place. “Shit balls of hell, alright! Fucking Hoth it is.” You’d been to Hoth maybe all of two times chasing down the stupidest, most idiotic bounties, and not once had you seen anything of value there. “Of course it has to be somewhere cold, we already did cold. One of those fucking pucks better go to a goddamn beach or something or I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“You sure you haven’t already? I mean,” Din stopped rearranging the furniture to swagger up to you, catching your hand in his own. “You did try to fight with a Mandalorian.”

“Bah! And I’d do it again, too, you’re not that intimidating.” Playfully you tried to take your hand back, but he was a professional bounty hunter, and he didn’t let his captures get away so easily. Thick, leatherbound fingers laced themselves between your own, and your other arm was taken hostage and brought to his shoulder so he could rest a heavy palm on your hip unhindered. You let your hand wander up his pauldron to the edge of his helmet, sneaking a finger between the metal and the man to toy with his curls. The hand on your waist pulled you closer, and he gently pressed his helmet to your brow.

“Riduur’ika,” He purred, making the cool beskar rumble against your skin. “You don’t think I’m… intimidating!?” The arm against your waist hugged you tight while the other twirled you around in a circle, and you made some kind of undignified squeak as you were dipped low. Parallel to the ship's floor, you clawed at his cowl as if he would drop you, though his grip was stronger than beskar. You caught the reflection of your own wild eyes as his visor tilted to meet your gaze. “How about now?”

Safe in his arms, you snorted a laugh and stuffed your hands under his helmet to pick the latches free and toss the heavy thing off, ignoring the sound of it rolling away from you while you kissed your husband. The Mandalorian’s warm, soft lips against your own muffled the few stray giggles that tried to escape your mouth, tickled by not only his romance but also his mustache. Those dark chocolate eyes of his met your own, and the edges of his cheeks rolled right up into them with a dazzling smile. Maker help you.

“Din! Where the hell did you pick that up from?” A warm laugh reverberated against you before he was pushing his lips to yours in another fiery kiss.

“Saw it in a holovid once, some kind of… courtship ritual, I think. I’ve, uh, always wanted to t-try it…” His wavering baritone trailed off with a hint of embarrassment, and you couldn’t help but snicker.

“‘Courtship ritual’, huh? Golly gee willikers, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were flirting with me.”

His cheeks flushed pink, “Is it working?”

“Mmm… no.”

The gorgeous smile on his scruffy face was replaced with a scowl a mile wide, but you laughed and kissed at it anyway. You heard him inhale sharply when you started to push your tongue past his lips, and he met yours with his own. Without parting, he slowly stood the pair of you back up, and you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders to pull him even closer.

Free from the muck of the forest floor that had clung to his armor, or the stygian waters of the river soaking his cloak, the familiar scent of him had returned. Rich and smokey, sweat and leather and blast plasma and the faintest remnants of the fresher soap you adored. The spice of him saturated your lungs and drenched your heart with the promise of his eternal company, giving you that delightfully warm and gooey feeling that he alone could give.

You pulled your lips from his and kissed at his cheeks and the tip of his angular nose before grabbing the sides of his head and bringing his brow back to yours. He almost fought you over it, torn between wanting his lips against your skin and the joy of you indulging in his sacred inheritance. Either way, the stubborn little ‘patu’ that peeped up from the floor had you both pulling away to bring the foundling into your arms, you were a clan of three, after all.

It would take a few jumps to make it to your next destination, and if she could speak, the Razor Crest would tell you how glad she was for your company as she carried you through the stars. There had been a time in the old ship’s life where she had only known silence, save for the screams of captured bounties, her hull had been nearly barren with only her captain for comfort. But then the foundling had come into her Mandalorian’s life, and the sweet sounds of a child’s laughter warmed her steel heart, amplified tenfold by the starsongs you brought with you when you had arrived as well.

Like a serenade written to the stars themselves the three of you flowed through her ironsides, a triple-part harmony that reverberated from the top of her transparisteel dome to the depths of her cantankerous stardrive. The chimes of the navigation panel had gone unheard while the streaking stars spiralled around the old dropper, her passengers fully engrossed with each other's company. There was so much laughter now, between stories told and songs sang high, the starcraft’s walls nearly rang with mirth.

The jokes you would tell, as terrible as they often were, made the Crest’s captain smile so often now; his scruffy cheeks going right up into his eyes whenever he flashed those pearly whites. He was so sweet, so gentle when the beskar was lifted from him, as if a new man was made every time the armor fell away. The oath of riddurok had given him such a gift, the gift of touch, and he relished in it at every turn; pressing kisses to the faces of the two he loved most.

And when it was time to rest, hidden away in the little sleeping alcove the three of you laid, wrapped more tightly together than any captured quarry. Below the howl of the hyperdrive engine, so faint it was almost like a secret, would come the sound of your starsongs. For your boys alone would you let yourself remember the rhymes of timelost sailors, sang low and slow to ease them to sleep. The foundling usually blacked right out on the first verses, but your unarmored husband would grapple with the pull of sleep for as long as he could, just to hear your voice.

When you dropped out of hyperspace the uncaring iceball called Hoth dominated your view, nearly blinding you with its glaring white surface. Your captain flew the Crest over the snowy expanse, looking for any sign of life or even a point of interest, but the ice fields seemed to stretch on forever between snow covered steppes. You had to pull your visor down just to be able to look out the window, and you attempted to cycle its settings as if that would do you any good, but everything came back as solid colors as far as the eye could see.

“This is bullshit, there’s nothing down there.” In your palm the bounty puck glowed faintly, making a liar out of you; but you ignored it to watch a herd of large, bipedal herbivores making their way along a mountainous ridge. The Crest put the animals in the rear view quicker than you would have liked, and you leaned against the transparisteel with a huff. In your lap the foundling was watching joyfully out the window, seemingly undeterred by the blinding snow. You started trying to get the baby rearranged when you saw the fob flash erratically before going back to lazy blinks. “Din wait! I think we passed it!”

“Passed what? I don’t see anything.” Below you the vast expanse was flat as a fresh pressed sheet, only dotted here and there with specks of icy blue.

“Circle around!” You tucked the foundling under your arm and unbuckled yourself from your seat to squish into the narrow space between Din’s armrest and the dashboard so he could see the fob for himself. He slowed the mighty metal bird down as slow as she would go and flew her in a wide circle back towards the way you’d come in.

Flash… flash… flash flash flASHFLAsh flash… flash…

“You see that? There gotta be something down there, maybe it’s under the snow. Take us down, captain!” In the corner of your eye you caught the slightest jostle of his helmet, though it could have just as easily been the rocking of the ship that made his head move, but you knew better. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, captain.” The poorly veiled cheekiness in his voice was met with a loving suckerpunch against the side of his pauldron. You’d completely failed to learn your lesson about the bite of beskar, and you hissed at the iron’s sting on your knuckles. The Crest floated down gently, her engines kicking up flurries of crisp white snow over the broad expanse. The moment the landing struts had locked into place your armored companion was grabbing for your wrist. “That’s why you shouldn’t try to fight me, mesh’la.”

“Bite me.”

A soft thumbpad brushed gently against your reddening knuckles, making you wince just slightly. The black gloss of his single eye slowly coasted up to meet your own, then cocked sideways. “Looks like I already did.” With his other hand he lifted the edge of his helmet just enough to press the softest kiss to the back of your hand, and though his sweetness made your heart thunder against its cage, the wry upturn of his lips almost made you want to punch him again.

Under your arm the foundling squirmed and cooed, and you brushed your captured hand along the edge of your husband’s bristly jaw before pulling the child around to your chest so you could both look out the window. The alabaster plains stretched out in all directions like the Dune Sea of Tatooine, nothing for miles.

“Din I think this fob is busted, and probably the puck too, there’s fuckall out-”

*-crik- c-c-crrrack craack!-*

Something snap-crackle-popped outside the ship, like the sound of suspension cables breaking. High pitched creaks between deep, almost gutterel booms. Ice.

“Cyare… don’t… move.” The armored monolith was frozen solid, more frozen than the ice underneath you apparently. Not even the sound of his modulated breathing could be heard in the stillness of the flightdeck.

*...cricckckcick..creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak……cruUNCH!-*

The ship lurched, a vicious gash splitting the ice below you. You lurched with it, your heart leaping to your throat as your arms squished the baby tight. A gloved hand shot from the steering controls to steady you.

*-k-k-reaaaak thuddduddudud… crRONCH!-*

“Oh fuck.”

*….CrAcK-!*

The Crest tilted nose-first into the growing abyss, and your oathsworn had only a split second to haul you and the foundling into his seat before the old girl was hurtling through the breach.

For a moment you were in free fall, a canyon of aquamarine flying past the window, darkening with every passing second. It felt like slow motion, your legs becoming weightless while the rest of you was anchored to the pilots seat.

*-ka-RuNcH!-*

Rigid muscle and beskar enveloped you as the Razor hit the ground, metal crunching and screeching with the impact. Your deathgrip on the foundling was only matched by the armored grasp around you, keeping the two of you locked safely to Din’s chest. Bulbs flickered and wires sparked in the waning light of the flight deck, though your eyes were so tightly screwed shut you didn’t notice. You took a cautious breath, only now aware that you had been holding it before wrenching an eye open. Beskar dominated your view, the heavy helmet of your husband pressed tightly to your face.

“Are you ok?” came a modulated whisper.

“Yeah, are you?” He nodded against you, and you peeled yourselves apart to inspect the foundling that was encased between your chests. Baby Beans chirruped and ogled at his fussing buir, the two of you knocking into each other while you both checked him for damage. When he’d passed both your inspections you glanced around the cockpit, though you guessed from the sound of the impact most of the damage would be down below.

You practically needed a crowbar to get Din’s arms off of you, his protector’s instinct running at full bore to guard his clan, but you managed to weasel out of his iron grasp. Frigid air gusted up through the ladder hole before you’d even crossed the short distance to the drophatch, making you shudder. Below, the force of the impact had torn the Razor’s walls asunder, breaking apart her riveted seams. Icy wind blew in through the gashes, freezing the mist that sprang from your eyes.

“Oh, my poor Lady…” You whispered, your heart aching from seeing your ship so wounded. Heavy boots made their way down the ladder behind you, and you turned to your oathsworn, “Can… can we fix this?”

“We can try, but you need something warmer.” Stoic as the day you met, Mando strode to the bent lockers and forced his way in, pulling out a heavy parka and draping it around your shoulders. The cold weather garb was entirely too big for you, but it snuggled around you like a warm hug, blocking out the frigid breeze. In your arms the foundling peeped out from the collar, just enough to watch his papa without getting too chilly.

Din was elbow deep in another wrecked cabinet, scrounging up whatever tools he could find to repair the damage. You joined him at the growing pile, holding onto the child with one arm and trying to pick a portable welder up with the other. Hands too full, you ducked into the oversized parka and worked to stuff the baby up under your shirt, cinching your belt under his butt so he wouldn’t fall out. There, stay warm you little fart.

It took a while for the two of you to make enough progress on the broken bird to get her closed up again, but many hands make the work lighter. Ship repair had been your very first duty when you went starborne, and your hands remembered how to bend durasteel to your will, though you would probably need to get to an actual mechanic if you were going to be star-worthy again.

Occasionally you caught the tilt of your Mandalorian’s visor when you fired up the welder or cranked a ratchet against a stubborn bolt, snapping away from you when you’d shoot him a sly wink. Once the cabin was passable, it was time to work on the exterior, but you swatted at Din’s occupied mitts, demanding that the two of you take a rest beforehand. His back cracked when he stood up straight, and though he wouldn’t admit it, a break was a good idea.

“Do you have a kettle or something I can make hot water in? I think I saw a canister of broth we can heat up.” Your repair work on the hull must have been pretty damn efficient, because the parka was beginning to get warm, and you started to shrug it off when you heard the rackety sound of something clattering to the floor.

“B-buir’ika?” Behind you, Din had dropped a heavy tool and was staring at you with that black hole gaze of his.

“Boo-ear-eeka? What does- oh!” You glanced down at yourself and laughed, your tunic protruding with a large, rounded tummy. “Chilly beans!” Bending forward, you pulled your collar down so your oathsworn could see the half-lidded eyes of the cozy foundling hidden below the swell of your breasts. “I didn’t want him to get cold.”

When you looked up from the babe’s sweet face, your armored husband had silently crossed the length of the hold and was nervously reaching towards you, his hands hovering over the lumpy shape in your middle. Gently he set his palms to where the child was bundled, slowly gliding over the taut fabric and making you flush crimson. Din did a double take on your cherry-red face and pulled away, muttering an apology and hastily returning to his duty as kettle-fetcher.

When you’d gotten the foundling out of your shirt and the thin soup heated, you sat down on your regular eating crate with your crew. The three of you took your break quietly since eating or drinking in your presence still made Din a little embarrassed, but between his timidness and the awkward term of endearment the tension in the cabin was so thick you could cut it with a vibro. He usually pressed his back to yours, but now he was hunched over his bowl of broth, sipping silently.

When your cup was empty you got up from your seat, pressed a kiss to each of your boy’s heads, and got your tools around to work on the outside of the Crest. You were garbed and out the exit before Din could protest, though you wouldn’t have listened anyway if he did. Once the ramp closed behind you, you took a deep breath of the glacial air, letting it clear your head. Shore leave was a luxury you rarely got to indulge in during your early years, and your love of having your boots on the ground only got stronger as the years went by.

The basin you had crashed into sprawled beneath the ice sheet high above your head, supported by enormous pillars of frozen water. This had probably been a lake once, or even a small sea, but when the water drained it left behind the frozen aquifer you now found yourself stuck in. High above you the light from where you had fallen through the ice cast frosty sunbeams through the falling snow, faintly illuminating the mythical columns in cobalt and turquoise hues.

Your boots crunched through the ancient permafrost as you made your rounds, taking a mental checklist of the Razor’s damage. Her keel had taken the brunt of the impact, but one of her wingtips was pretty busted up, a twisted panel sending sparks into the cerulean cathedral that would probably take two people to fix.

Out of curiosity you pulled the blinker from somewhere in your parka, relieved to see that it was indeed flashing. If you had thrown your crew to the depths of Niflheim on a busted fob you might never forgive yourself. You wondered what the acoustics would be like in the icy cavern, but the threat of bringing the fragile ice sheet down around your ears kept you quiet. Holding the fob up, you made a wide circle around the ship, trying to pinpoint which way the blinks were fastest. This way… You cast a quick glance over your shoulder at the Crest with her ramps still closed, and started towards your quarry.

~

In the ship's durasteel depths, Din sighed and groaned, unsure how to feel. He hated not being next to you, but he respected you enough to know you might need some space after… that. He tried to distract himself by wiping off the foundling’s mush-mouth with the edge of his cloak, but that almost made things worse. Our foundling.

Everything about The Way encouraged the safety and procreation of younglings, and not only as a riduur but also an Alor he should be fathering many children with you to recover Mandalore’s losses. But you had said you weren’t ready, and he honored your wishes, but even so, his heart ached with the desire to see you filled with his warriors.

He knew he shouldn’t, but that was suddenly all he could imagine, you round and glowing and full…

“Damn it.” He could feel his face flush red, and the honeyglow seeped through his bones all the way down to his guts, forcing him to pull his helmet back on just to regain his composure. When the visor was back over his eyes, he glanced down at the foundling, who was making some kind of face up at him. “This is your fault.”

“Patu!”

~

The Crest was a good distance behind you now, the edges of her wings partially obscured by the ice, but not quite out of eyeshot. The air was stagnant so far below the surface, the cold of it sitting heavy in your lungs and freezing inside your nose. Aside from the towers of frost and fallen snow, the cavern was empty. Enormous, but empty. This fucking fob, there’s nothing here. You were half tempted to chuck the hunk of garbage away or stomp it out, take the loss just to get the fuck out of here, when you felt a subtle breeze waft over you.

You were too far from the breach for it to be coming from above you, and you held perfectly still, trying to determine its source. Too faint, you bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, chucking it high above you and watching the way it fell. That way! Suddenly excited to play Arctic Explorer, you hustled to find the source of the breeze.

Twice more you used the snow as a compass until you were at a colossal glacier, the size of it easily big enough to swallow a large starship. A splotch of dark blue stood out against the ivory, and as you got closer you saw it was a fissure in the ice, a tunnel of some kind. Maybe this is where the water went. The air coming out of it was making your parka flap around you while you held up the fob: flashflashflash. Whatever it is you were tracking had to be down there, and you brushed ice crystals off of your faceplate to flip through your extrasensory settings until thermal flickered to life.

Warm. The air coming out of the tunnel was warm, though only by a few degrees more; not enough to thaw your bones, but enough to register on your visor. You stepped forward, tucking your head into the tunnel. Dark as the depths of an ocean and just as blue, the frozen tube stretched away, darker and darker until it turned to void. Stepping just inside the entrance, you flailed when your boots nearly lost traction.

This is dangerous, I don’t know what’s in there. A gust of air blasted around you as if to warn you away. Could be anything, maybe I should wait for- Ah FUCK!

The thought was knocked from your skull when your boots slipped out from under you and you slid ass over teakettle down the icy channel, vanishing into the dark.

~

The inside of the Crest was immaculate, more ship-shape that she had been in a long time. Din had to keep busy, after the repairs were given another once-over and you still hadn’t returned he had started reshelving all the tools and cookware, and only when the last thing left to do was mop did he give up his endeavors. Where the hell is she? He was getting anxious, more so than he usually was. His hands fidgeted with the strap that crossed his chest, thumbing at each of the slugs in line. She should be back by now.

What if she’s hurt? His hands froze on the leather, his breath catching in his chest. He knew you were capable, but what if something got you, or you fell or… or…

“Kid, let’s go.” The ‘what ifs’ that drained out of his thoughts and down his throat turned to bile in the pit of his stomach, and he had to do something about it. She can be as mad at me as she wants, I don’t care, I just need to know she’s safe. Quickly he grabbed a few supplies, loading up his rucksack with rehearsed precision: bacta, shovel, thermos, jet pack, munitions, rations. The foundling gibbered while his papa wrapped him up in a heavy blanket before setting him in his pram. I’m coming, cyare!

~

The slip-and-slide you had gotten yourself into wooshed past your ears, and you could only curl in a ball to protect yourself as you hurtled through the chasm of ice. The violet hue coming through your visor slowly turned to warmer tones as the temperature steadily increased. You struggled to grab a vibro off of your belt as you spun through the dark, but the singing dagger only scraped against the solid ice, the permafrost so old and strong that not even steel could cut it.

Under you the angle changed sharply, tossing you on your ass over another slope before you were falling through the air. You tucked and rolled when you hit the ground, desperately trying not to get your neck broken. Skittering to a halt, you cautiously let yourself uncurl, but what your eyes saw made you think you had landed on your head.

“Woah.”

~

The top of the Crest was still damaged, though Mando knew you had left with the intent to do repairs. Not up there. Your footprints circled around the old ship in a few loops before heading off into the cavern. Fuck, where did she go? The prints from your shoes still glowed faintly with residual heat on his visor, and he checked on the foundling’s comfort one more time before following your trail.

~

The Universe has a strange way of granting wishes.

Crystalline gravel crunched underfoot as you approached the beach you had landed in front of. Mineral-rich water bubbled and boiled in front of you with volcanic heat, steaming up the chamber you now found yourself in. The thick, viscous ooze was so leden with salts that its edges were caked with jagged deposits that lapped against the sides of tall, crested structures that almost resembled a reef. The subterranean coral ranged in size and height from just below your knees to easily three times your height, almost brushing the stalactites that hung from the vaulted ceiling.

You wished you had a holo-corder or data cube handy, because there was no way anybody had been here before, though maybe for good reason. The colors on your visor ranged from bright yellow to teal to hot motherfuckin’ pink, and you lifted your faceplate up to wipe at the sweat that was beading on your brow. The vibrancy of the reef without your sensors was even more garish in person, caught in the radiant light that seemed to drip from the ceiling on the tails of glow worms.

The ground under your boots sounded like glass breaking as you wandered through the cavern, spellbound by the sprawling grove. It took a herculean effort to bring your gaze down to the fob in your hand: FLASHFLASHFLASH! You held the tracker high, doing a little spin to try and locate the target, letting your feet walk on their own. Maybe the coral is the target? Stopping at a particular orange staghorn, you held the fob to its spongy flesh, nope, not this one…

From fan to tube to spiraling tower you walked, holding the fob up to each one in turn, waiting for a solid link. The reef thickened as you moved away from the lagoon, growing in taller and thicker clusters until you had to scrape your way between them to continue. Under your parka you were sweating like a quacta, but the spiny polyps on some of the branches could easily scratch you without it as you wormed your way between them. The crystalline gravel under you started to make a different noise, from a crunchacrunch to a squishasquash. Beneath your boots, long, dark purple roots were growing, pulsating with the fluid that flowed through their veins. Eww…

~

The silence of the cerulean cathedral weighed heavy on Mando's audio processors, more so than the stillness of the air. He was in full hunter mode, following your tracks to where you were hopefully safe and sound, though if he let himself think anything else he worried he might have a full blown panic attack. No, can’t think about that. Find the quarry, find your wife. Don’t think about her being hurt, or lost or scared or…

From the open pram a chirruping coo echoed softly between the towering pillars of ice, bringing Din’s attention to his son. Though the foundling looked alright, the tips of his ears were turning the faintest shade of blue. Din pulled his cloak off, though he needed it just as much in the sub-zero space, his foundling always came first. The fabric heaped out of the pram, almost covering the child completely. If she were here, would she put the baby in her shirt again to keep him warm?

Suddenly he didn’t need his cloak, the fire in his chest surging out to burn at his ribs and scald his cheeks. He stopped, shaking his head at the embarrassment that sprouted from his scorched insides. You’ve got it bad, Djarin. Your tracks had lost their heat, but he could still clearly see your footprints in the snow, and a flood of determination spurred him on. Find the quarry.

~

The dark purple roots lead you to a grove of anemone shaped corals, their thick tentacles reaching for the jagged sky. At the center of their radials sat a fat, lumpy bulb, protected by fleshy limbs. Draped between the spires, more of the icky veins hung like vines, throbbing and pulsing with whatever goo they were filled with.

Touching the blinker to the closest arm, the flashing red light went solid, bingo! “This is it!” Your excited voice would have echoed in the chamber that you had fallen from, but the sponges soaked up your words. You’d left the puck back on the Crest, but you remember you were here for some kind of shape, eggish or stone like, but the waving arms arched upwards into bare, knobbly tips. Fruitless.

That left the pod in the center, probably some kind of seed in the bottom of its pistil. Gonna have to cut my way though. You turned your attention to the viney spires that blocked your path to the center and pulled a vibro from your now sweat-soaked parka. Cautiously, and without turning on the thrummer, you touched the blade to the creeping flesh.

Your knife sank easily, and the fluid that filled the tentacles oozed readily out over the steel. Oooooh, pretty! Though it was mostly clear, the syrup gleamed with a holographic, oily shine, looking like a melted rainbow as it seeped through the wound. The open gash quickly grew new vines that slimed their way around their host trunk, pulsating with goop. Weird.

What hit you next was the smell, an intoxicating sweetness like honey on fruit sitting out on a hot summer day. If the anemone was poisonous, it had a devilish way of attracting its prey, whatever that might be, because the temptation to lick your knife clean became almost overwhelming. That is the stupidest goddamn idea you’ve ever had, get cuttin’, damn it! You hacked and slashed your way to the center, trying to out-cut the regrowth; but the scent quickly made you feel hazy. You reached out to grab one of the arms for support, your cloudy head threatening to toss you on your ass, and the serpentine buds tried to coil around your wrists. Sonofabitch! Fuck off ya big vegetable. Just… just a little further.

~

“Of course this is where she went.” Standing at the crack in the ice, Mando was pacing back and forth with his hands stabbed to his hips. Your tracks ended abruptly at the fissure, and the slick surface told him you had probably slipped and fell into the dark, and he was going to have to jump down after you. The hole stretched far away through the ice, so far that not even his full helmet’s array of sensors could detect the bottom. He rested a boot on the icy surface, giving it an experimental slip. If he fell down the hole as well, he would be no good to either of you.

Every protective instinct told him to jump, go in after you, get you to safety, but his hunter instincts knew better. Fishing the trencher from his bag, he sat down at the entrance and tucked the shovel under his knees, pointy side out. He pulled the foundling’s crib into his lap and carefully started the slide. The shovel blade screeched against the tunnel, and though it couldn’t break the ice it would at least slow him down as he scraped his way through the dark.

~

You were dizzy, the coral’s perfume making you falter. Your goal was so close, but in your haze you were starting to get tangled in the vines that laced through the anemone's arms, and it wasn’t long before they were tangled around your own outstretched limbs. Stupid fern, ger’off me! Yanking against the tendrils only seemed to make things worse, and soon your legs were being caught up as well. Fuckin’shit’it’all. Progress to the core stopped completely, and you stood a moment to catch your breath. Fucksake, this shit is strong! You knew you weren’t moving, but even dazed you could feel something snaking around your boots, and you kicked at the movement, horrified to find that you couldn’t. Shit balls of fucking hell!

The slimy vines coiled around your legs, and you fought valiantly to cut them away, but the more you cut the more seemed to grow like hydras from the anemone's wounds. They were up to your knees, then your waist, and the weight of them started to pull on you until you were dragged to the ground. Struggling in their grasp, they tightened on your arms until you could only writhe like an insect caught in a spiders web. You started to scream, but the creeping thing stuffed itself up under your faceplate and plunged into your mouth.

Something warm and wet oozed between your teeth, and you bit down on the assaulting tendril, only to flood your mouth with more of the sweet syrup. Even in your panic you were taken aback by the taste of it, sweet and rich, almost ambrosial, and a wildly primal instinct told you that you wanted more. Around your limbs the vines were not constricting, merely holding you down, and you took another cautious gulp of the nectar. Your fear began to subside, though in the back of your mind you knew it shouldn’t; you were in a subterranean hellscape, far away from your partner, with some bullshit plant keeping you hostage, but maybe one more taste wouldn’t hurt...

You sucked at the intruder, delighted to find it give you more of the tasty substance, the flavor of it settling warm and snuggly in your belly. Closing your eyes you lapped away, enjoying the hazy, almost drunken feeling that was washing over you. It was blissful and comforting, even wrapped up in the living spires you couldn’t be bothered to care as long as you got to have more.

Something slithered up around your legs and waist, but caught up in the ambrosia you paid it no mind until it was worming its way into the waistband of your pants. Your trousers were pulled down around the tops of your boots, and though the sweltering volcanic atmosphere was making you sweat, the heat burning between your legs almost made the air feel cold. The sudden change in temperature reeled you back to reality, and you tried to spit the vine out while you squirmed in the hydra’s grasp. Another gush of nectar leaked over your tongue, and you greedily sucked it down, feeling another wave of cozy fogginess settle in your head.

Not even the sweetness on your lips could distract you from the feeling of something slimeing its way between your legs, leaving a trail of slick around your entrance. The goop tingled, leaving the same warm and wet feeling behind that it was leaving in your throat. Maker help you it felt good, though some distant instinct screamed to you that it shouldn’t, but you couldn’t hear it if you wanted to. Your back arched, driving your hips against the coils between your thighs, chasing the sensation.

The hydra’s arms pushed their way inside you, many thin strands that sqirmed and writhed, working to stretch you wider. Their efforts slicked past your clit, rubbing the tantalizing ooze around the sensitive little nub while they opened you up. Your hips rocked on their own, though in your captured state you were nearly helpless to chase your own high, but the coral’s limbs worked you up for you. Inside you could feel them, sliding past each other in the warm slick in tandem with the rubbing on your aching clit making you obscenely wetter.

You cried out around the knob still in your mouth as a thicker arm started to push up into you, gliding through the slick nectar. The smaller vines coiled around the newcomer, spiraling up its length as it started to pump in and out of your dripping cunt, adding ridges to the smooth length. Fuck it’s thick! The ties on your legs held you in place as the tendril fucked itself into you, twisting and slimeing around your insides. Hot streams of juice, both yours and the hydra’s, coursed down your thighs almost embarrassingly fast, and you choked and gasped around the spigot while you came.

As if it was emboldened by your orgasm the tentacle surged up into you, leaking what felt like gallons of the wonderful, mind numbing nectar into your fluttering cunt until it was pouring out of you. It thrust against your cervix, dragging the smaller tips around the sensitive muscle. More of the threadlike tendrils tried to push in with the larger one, plucking at your clit and folds and playing you like a sinful harp.

The sensation of it all stoked fire in your core until it was nearly burning you alive, and you gladly let the blaze consume you as the devious creature fucked you stupid. Warm juice practically gushed out of you when you came again, squirting all over the arms that held you captive. Your legs were pulled further apart, anything to open you up to fit more of the sneaky devils in you until you were stretched as wide as you would go, the girth of the serpentis shaft pushing against the bones of your hips from the inside.

Slicked thoroughly, the widest arm rolled against the muscle that protected your womb, and even in your lust-drunk state you could feel it pouring its juices into you. The smaller tendrils followed the nectar up into you where no cock could ever reach, teasing at the rim of the protective coil until it started to relax. More pushed past the ring of muscle until you could feel it gaping, holding you open against the large, blunt tip.

The thrusting stopped, and you mewled sinfully around the vine between your teeth, begging it not to, oh fuck please don’t stop! Whatever aphrodisiac you had been pumped full of was screaming for more more more! Your body hungered for more release, as if you hadn’t drenched the surrounding reef underneath you. You flickered an eye open, but the way your back was curved gave you no vantage of the scene below your waist, but you could see the central pod you had so valiantly tried, and failed, to reach.

From a hole in its top grew the amorphophallus that was filling you so deliciously, and you watched in horror as it pulsed something bulbous up its length. The bulge got closer until it disappeared from your line of view, but it wasn’t long before you felt it, something big pushing against your entrance. You cried out against the gag, but you were held steadfast as the rounded thing forced its way inside you.

The width of it knocked against your hip bones until it was past their crest, and you clenched as best you could around the delicious stretch until you felt something you’ve never felt before. You’ve been fingered, you’ve been fucked and loved and filled to capacity, but the weight of something being deposited in your belly was something wonderfully new. The heft of it felt good, filling and wholesome, though the feeling of terror was still trying to permeate your hazy mind, telling you to run, as if you could. Your hands were bound to your sides, but you wanted to rub at your belly and feel what had been put there. The press of another orb teased at your entrance, and you bucked your hips at it, encouraging another fill.

So good! The unknown object settled in your womb next to the first, the size of them pressing against the back of your abdominal wall, any more and you would be showing. A third bulge made itself known, and you seized your coils around it, letting it bring you to release with its stretch. You came around the vines, and the hydra wormed another pod past your cervix, riding with you through your high. A fourth, a fifth, sixth! You forced an eye open, and the swell of your stomach was visible over the curves of your breasts. Fuuuuck, any more and you really might be fit to burst.

Three more times you were gloriously stretched and drained, the exertion of so many orgasms nearly causing you to faint, but you would do so gladly in your heightened state. One more for good measure pulsed into your swollen belly before the vines receded, and the bindings on your arms and legs withered and died. Gloriously spent, you laid on the ground in a pool of nectar and juices, weakly tugging the vine from your mouth so you could gasp for air. With shaking arms you tried to pry yourself free of the dried tendrils, but the nectar that still filled you felt so good that you almost didn’t want to move, lest it drain out.

The first thing you noticed when the effects began to fade was how much the skin on your abdomen hurt, it felt tight, and you weakly brought a hand up to feel it. Maker above! Your belly was full, and you poked at your protruding middle, feeling the pods inside you slosh around in the devious nectar. Warm goo poured out between your legs, making your eyes roll back from the heat. Through your cloudy mind you thought you heard something, something far away that sounded like shouting. The shouts got closer, and you could almost swear it sounded like your name. Maybe it was.

“Tra’laar!” That was definitely your name, though it sounded distant and fuzzy. You tried to call out to the voice, only to cough up more of the sweet syrup that lined your throat. The taste of it was still as delicious as it had been from the beginning, and another blaze of heat coasted down your spine and made your guts clench and your belly jiggle. Licking your lips you called again, this time with enough force to actually make noise, and the sound of corals being torn apart as something barreled through the reef towards you made itself known.

“Tra-” Mando skittered to a halt somewhere beside you, the sound of your gifted name snagging in his mouth. There you were on the cavern floor, covered in dead vines and some kind of goo, but the most distressing sight of all was your sudden pregnancy. Cautiously he approached you and started untangling your arms and legs, trying to clear the offending tentacles away. He kneeled beside you, his armored hands hovering over your rounded shape. “Riduur’ika? Wh- what happened to you?!” His voice was shaking, barely a whisper coming through his modulator.

“Heeeyyy~” You purred, still buzzed on the herbal wine that had soaked every nerve in your body. “Babe… I think… um. I think there’s something… i-inside… me?”

“Well I can see that!” There was some kind of tone to his voice, wedged somewhere between anger and fear and maybe just a sprinkle of desire. “What did this to you?!”

“I dunno... that wiggly thingie got all up in my bisnatch.” You rubbed at your eyes, trying to get some clarity while your armored companion stressed himself to a frenzy. Mama-hen Mando’s fretting started to make you giggle, and the jostling of your laughs had your tummy jiggling with its fullness. Above you your oathsworn was horrified, but all you could see was his silly visor and his twitchy hands. “Prob’bly need to do something about it, don’t we?”

“Fucking hell, cyare! Yes we need to get whatever that is out of you!” He sounded really upset now, panicked even, and you shook your head trying to shake the daze. You started to sit up, but the weight of your womb made it a struggle. “Hey take it easy! Here, let me help you.” His protector instincts kicked in, and he was wrapping himself up around you to raise you to a seated position. You couldn’t help the way you rubbed at your tummy, still riding the high of the juice that coated your cunt and thighs and stuck to the back of your throat. I wonder if I can bottle this up and sell it.

A soft leather hand placed itself on your swell, moving over your taut skin with a featherlight touch. “This isn’t right,” you heard him say, “I should be the one filling your belly, not some fucking vegetable!”

Stupid chuckles burst out your mouth and made you snort, “Pfft… babe are you jealous some fruit by the foot knocked your girl up?”

“Damn it all yes I’m jealous! Of course I am, I'm your husband! And why aren’t you more upset? You almost look like you’re enjoying this!” You ignored him to swipe a finger through the goop on your leg and bring it up to your lips, slurping noisily at the colorful syrup.

“It’s this stuff, it’s tasty! You should try it!” The snap of his visor told you he wasn’t going to indulge you, but his gentle touch was pressing carefully under the drop of your belly, and you could see him watching the way it wiggled. “Bah, you like this don’t you? Don’t lie to me, bucketboy.”

“No!... Well… maybe a little.” He shook his head, trying not to be disoriented by the same daze you were. “We’re getting this out of you right now! Can you sit up? Get on your knees?” He guided you up off your butt and onto your haunches, the weight of your middle lurching forward from the motion, swaying under you. “Stars above, mesh’la, I-I don’t know how to f-feel about this…” He trailed off, torn between seeing you swollen full and knowing damn well whatever it was could probably kill you. “You’re beautiful…”

“Ha, I knew you liked this, now c’mon and get this fucker out of me, yeah?” How the actual fuck were you supposed to do that? Your partner pulled his gloves off and went for the obvious route, sliding his long, calloused fingers up inside your sopping cunt with a curse. Three of his devious digits went up without a hitch in your overstretched state, teasing around to get a feel of you.

“I didn’t know you stretched this wide, cyare, does… does this feel good?”

You shot him a sideways glare, letting your lips turn up in a mischievous sneer. “Ye-yeah, feels amazing.” the ambrosia was still making you sex crazed, and even with your legs covered in your own arousal you could tell there was still more to give. “Din..?”

“I’m right here, buir’ika, I’ve got you.” He scootched back behind you, wrapping one arm in between your breasts and your belly to hold you in place while he hunted through your slick folds. Din had become an expert at finding that naughty patch of nerves behind your clit that had your muscles tightening around his strong hands in seconds, and you let him work your ecstasy right back up. “That’s it, mesh’la, fucking stars I can feel you, you’re close! Come for me, that’s it, that’s a good girl.”

He pressed his helmeted head against your own, burying the sharp edge of the beskar in the meat of your shoulder while you tightened around him. His other arm pressed down on your swell, and the force of your orgasm squeezed something out of your belly and through your channel, rubbing deliciously against your walls as it passed into his waiting hand.

The seed pod that practically popped out of you was a dark purple egg-shaped thing with swirls of green and blue, matching the description of the bounty puck to a tee. Mando brought the thing around for you to see, rubbing at your side encouragingly. It shimmered in the eerie light of the cavern only briefly before it withered in his hand and flaked away on the volcanic breeze. Gone.

“Um, Mando…” You whispered, feeling a weird mix of arousal and fear ooze down your thoat with the unicorn slime, “I think if we’re gonna get them back to the ship, I think they have to, um, fuck... stay…

“Absolutely not! What if they poison you? What if they break open or s-something and kill you?”

“But the bounty-”

“Fuck the bounty!” He roared, “Fuck everything! I can’t lose you, cyare! I… I won’t, especially for a handful of credits.” The desperation that clawed at his voice stung your heart, but you were determined not to fail in your mission, no matter how creepy it was.

“Din,” you hummed, trying to calm him down, “I’m ok, really! Maybe a little mess- Oh~!” The Mandalorian’s fingers slid right back up your weeping cunt, fucking into you mercilously. His rough fingers slid easily through the slick, and he made up for the lack of friction with sheer determination. “Ah! Ah Din! Din yes! Oh yes!!!” High as a kite you went, coming all over his persistent thrusts. His grip tightened on your middle, and another pod escaped your womb.

“I told you to stop trying to fight me.” Oh fuck he’s using that voice! Dark and husky right in your ear, searing electricity over your flesh and blowing up your ovaries. The voice of a hunter, the voice of an alpha, whether he knew it or not. The timbre of it vibrated so low and strong you couldn’t help but whine against the beskar pressed to your face. “You’re going to stop arguing and you’re going to be a good girl and let me fuck you empty so I can fill you right back up. You’re mine, MY riduur, and the only thing that should be inside you is me!” His command flooded with raw power, and you blasted out another pod or two at his words alone.

You were gone, soaked to the core with desire until all you could do was moan into the armor that held you steady. Bonelessly you gave him everything you had, drenching his arms and knees with your holographic slick. Determined as ever, your armored protector pumped into you, cupping your whole pussy in his palm while he stuffed you with his fingers. When you’d rocketed the fifth seed out, you nearly fainted in his arms, drained of all your energy. Your mind was fuzzy, but you could almost pick up the sound of a question making its way over the roaring blood in your ears. “Huh?”

“How many more?” You shook your head, and a furious growl reverberated against your skull. His soaked hand slid out of you and shook itself somewhere nearby, sending melted rainbow goo flying. When the arm coiled around your belly left you, you nearly toppled, but he caught you swiftly. “Drink.” Metal was pressed to your lips, and the broth you had abandoned earlier graced your syrup-coated throat. You’d never been so thirsty, chugging it down until you were coughing, and the hand that held you reached up to cup your jaw, imploring you to swallow.

When the thermos left your lips, you leaned back against your heavily armored partner, letting his beskar hold you up. You were tired of the appetizer that was his fingers, and your swollen belly hungered for the real deal. You needed him. “Dindin… please… please I want your cock!” The body behind you couldn’t go any stiffer, and you felt his clothed erection rub against the curve of your ass. “I know you’re hard, fuck me, please?”

“Not til you’ve done as you're told.” His rasping voice was edged with heavy breaths, whether from the effort of claiming your clutch or trying not to cum in his pants you couldn’t be sure, but it sounded fucking hot as hell either way. Plated arms wrapped around you again, and you were pulled backwards into his lap with your knees thrown over his legs. He prodded your belly, trying to get a count of how many more orgasms he was going to give you. “Four… maybe five…”

Din went for your clit, spinning tight, vicious circles around the engorged nub and making you scream. “D-D-Din!!! Oh yeees! F-fuck me! Please p-please I-I want you in me!” He only hummed against you, rubbing his groin up against your ass to tease you while you came again. He stuffed an ungloved hand up your shirt to find your breasts, tugging and pinching at the sensitive buds until he could feel you shaking in his grasp and pleading for his thick, girthy cock to plow into you and scramble your guts even more than they already were.

For you he was taking charge of the situation, being the anchor you needed to get through this, but behind his faceless armor he was trying not to lose his goddamn mind at the sight of you. Where you sat on him he could grind himself against your soft thighs, and even through the layers of duraweave he could easily imagine himself sliding his length through your slick heat, drenching himself in your cum. Filling that belly. “Come for me again, cyar’ika.” He had to distract himself from his perverted thoughts, though that was becoming an impossible chore. Here you were in his arms, looking like some kind of glowing goddess with your womb as heavy as it was, and he cursed the Universe for giving him exactly what he’d wished for.

Damnation flowed through his modulator at the sound of your begging. “Is that right, cyare? You want me to stuff my cock in this soaked pussy of yours? You’re gonna have to earn it.” He was conflicted about talking to you in such a way, but something about the way he was speaking to you made your muscles clench around his fingers while you moaned against his armor. “You like it when I f-fuck you like this? I know you love these hands, cyar’ika, but if you want me to give you my cock you’re gonna have to come! Come so I can fuck that beatiful belly of yours full!”

Maybe he was talking to himself more than you, but you whined in his arms nonetheless as your walls squeezed and flooded. Another hot wave of slick coated his wrist, and he tossed the seedpod away, diving right back in for the next. His strong palm kneaded at your tummy, taking another count, two, maybe three more. He knew he should still be worried, terrified even, but damn it if he wasn’t harder than beskar. His cock was straining against the inside of his pant leg, desperate to grant his own desires.

“D-Din… w-wait…” He almost didn’t hear you, the thunder of his heartbeat roaring as loud as it was in his helmet, but your wobby arm came back around and patted his leg. “Th-thermos…” The canister was at your lips in a heartbeat, but you pushed it away. “C… Catch…”

Oh! The broth was poured out into the massive puddle under you, whatever, might as well add soup to the mix. He prodded your guts once more, palpating the hard lumps that still sat inside you, two left? “Cyare, that’s it, almost done. Come on, come all over my fucking fingers so I can b-bury my cock in you where it belongs!” You cried into the armor, heat searing from where he was pressed against you to your fluttering muscles to bare down on his fingers with your impending final climax. Dark, sultry praises rasped out of his modulator, so close to your ear you could feel the heat of his breath. “That’s it, ner riduur, one more and you can have my cock. One more and I'll stuff you with my own seed. You want that? Come for me so I can fill you up and breed you like I know you want me to!”

You nodded against him, making some kind of affirmation noise, but the last pod would be the toughest to pull, and he need to make you cum your fucking brains out if he was going to get it. He stopped his thrusts to tease at your stretched walls, rubbing his calloused fingertips against your slicked core. “What was that, riddur’ika? I can’t hear you.”

“Y-yes Din, please…” You were breathless, your words dryer than a desert as they scratched their way past your chapped lips. He laughed darkly against you, reminding you that you should probably stop teaching him new tricks.

“Yes what?”

“Breed me! Din please you big fucking jerk pump me full! I wanna be full of you!”

The cold metal of the thermos was pressed to your folds, making you cry out from the sting of it, but a hot fingertip groped at your clit, spinning one last mindblowing orgasm out of you that nearly rendered you unconscious. The metallic plonk that came from between your legs told you the pod had been captured, hopefully with enough of the nectar to keep it from drying out. Hunting is stupid. Din’s dry hand dug into the flesh of your stomach, searching for any more of the bullshit you had been filled with.

“There. Are you ok, cyar’ika?” Something like a nod wobbled your head, though the darkness coming in around the edges of your eyes told you that might be a lie. “You did so well! It’s all over now, let’s get you back up to the- cyar’ika stay with me!” Limply you laid against him, ignoring his exhausted pleas to slump against the rock hard tent pushing against your ass, trying to get him to make good on his word. You’d never been so spent in your life, as if you’d squirted out your very soul. Blinking your eyes open, you hazily saw the tilted visor of your oathsworn and shot him a lecherous grin.

“You gonna fuck me now like you said you would?”

Mando was rarely as grateful for his armor as he was right now, the cold, emotionless beskar hiding his sweat soaked face and lust-drunk eyes. The way you were watching his visor made him think you could hear the cogwheels in his head spinning out of control. Yes, yes a thousand times yes! Beautiful creature of the stars, more wondrous than any constellation. Her cunt is so perfect, so warm and wet and beautiful and literally gushing with her arousal, just begging for me to fill it. To fill her, Her womb is open, ready and waiting for my seed to be planted, a fertile haven for my younglings. They’ll be so strong, born with daggers in their teeth and songs in their hearts. I want to see her filled. I need to!

“No.” His reply barked dryly through his modulator, chewing on the sound of his denial. “We need to get out of here right now in case that fucking thing decides it wants to go for round two.” The arms that held you together wrapped around your back and under your knees, lifting you gently away from the mess. Weakly you held onto his neck, barely aware of the reef as it passed you by. Staring up at him through tired, tear-washed lashes you were filled with warmth, though not the heat you had felt from the hydra’s nectar. Better than that. Still, though the pleasant sensation was thrumming in your heart and your cunt, you were a bit peeved that he wasn’t going to give you what you’d begged for.

“You suck”

“I know.” The back of his mind roared with desire from hearing you literally beg for him to fuck you full, making his cock throb painfully against his duraweave. Keep it together, Djarin. Stars above he didn’t want to, he wanted to make good on the filthy promises he had poured over you, but there was no telling what else was lurking in the reef. He had to get you to safety, get you to the ship, and maybe then he could indulge himself. Mark you as his territory from the inside. Shaky fingers dug up under the edge of his helmet, and the feel of your skin against his face made him halt. “What is it, ner cyare’se?”

“You’re… you’re a good man. And a good dad.” The Mandalorian froze solid at that one, cocking his visor at you sharply. A new pull made itself known in his chest, something tugging on his heartstrings. Your eyes were closed, having long since given up the ghost as you started to fade away, and it took massive effort for you to drag them back open to see him. “Even if you do fucking suck s’metimes. You take good care’a me, ‘n Beans too, we’re v’ry lucky to have you.” Your words slurred, and you tried to lick your lips to get them to cooperate, but only found more of the ambrosia stuck to your face. You wouldn’t be cognizant much longer. “Thank you, Din.”

His name being spoken by you was more addictive than any spice, and paired with the praise you were whispering against his metal he nearly melted right down to the ground with you. That was all he ever wanted to be. A good man, a good husband, a good buir. Honeyglow flooded his bones, soft and warm and gentle, the polar opposite of the beskar he was covered in. He felt you curl a lock of his hair around in your fingers, the gentle tug on his scalp making him rumble. The life of a hunter was fucked up, to be sure, but as long as he had you and his son, it was bearable.

You kissed at the chest plate you were pressed to, the one that hid the embodiment of your vows safely next to his heart. He pressed his helmet to your brow, and the way you hummed against him in his arms made him want to run back to the Crest where you could have some privacy and peel his armor away, give you what you had so desperately begged him for. Maybe it was the way you were laying so limply against his cuirass, but you seemed so small to him in that moment, like without him wrapped around your body you would dissipate on the volcanic breeze like the pods had. Protect her.

“You’re… welcome.”

Your fucked-out face nuzzled against him, and he couldn’t help but hug you even tighter, making the scent of you coast up under the edge of his armor. It was different, fragrant and succulent though it was probably the juice that still clung to your legs and face. The scent of you was still there, just enhanced by the aroma, made stronger. He took a deep breath of you before continuing through the reef, almost tripping over a low coral when he wavered. Wavered? Why am I wavering?

The sound of a deep, indulgent inhale caught your ears, and you flickered an eye open to see him burrowing the front of his helmet in the fabric covering your breasts. Against you his chest ballooned fully, holding the scent of you in his lungs until it stuttered through his modulator with a curse. You giggled weakly, “Smells good, don’t it?” A low grumble made the plates against you vibrate, telling you the siren scent of the anemone was seeping into his brain. “If you think it smells good you should see how good it tastes! Try some n’ then get’cher self some sloppy seconds, I know you wanna~”

“No! The last thing we need is for me to get caught up in whatever the hell pumped you full of… quarries.” The imagery of that made you chuckle, silly, stupid laughs that bounced off his armor. He was practically jogging now, though you could feel him stumble through the stoney gravel every once in a while as the perfume of the anemone grove started to sink into his synapses. “We’re almost out of here, just a little further…”

“Bah, alright party pooper. I’ll getcha when we get back aboard.”

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

You curled against him, feeling his arms go somehow even tighter. The living fortress that was your Mandalorian carried you with declining ease through the reef, and you could tell from the engine purring away under his armor that he was not nearly as composed as he sounded. One more poke, for good measure. “I love you, Din.”

“And I you, cyare.” His response came out a little cold, but only because he was desperately trying not to melt away into the same puddle of goo you had been turned into. Again you whispered his name, gliding through his ears like a song, and his heart ached to kiss you, to taste the flesh that hugged his Creed-sworn secret so well. He hadn’t heard it in so long before you came, and though his old alor knew it, it was forbidden, meaningless. But coming from you it was powerful, strong enough to bring him to his knees if they weren’t so busy wading through hell and highwater.

Vaguely you were aware of your egress, though most of it flickered in and out of your lust-lost mind. The warmth of the cavern fell away to be replaced with the cold, rushing air of the tunnel as you rocketed back up to the basin. Maybe you were dreaming of the sound of boots crunching through snow, or the soft gibbering of the founding, you couldn’t be sure, but it was pleasant nonetheless. You heard words being spoken from time to time as well, all of them muddied and faint. Maybe they were Basic, maybe Mando’a, but all of them sounded like they cared. Like every syllable and intonation humming through the iron on your cheek was spoken for you alone.

Your Mandalorian carried you diligently back to your broken chariot, trying his best to make small talk with the foundling as he floated along behind. The child seemed worried at the state of his adopted parents, And Din rattled off every reassurance that he could think of, but his legs were starting to weaken from the scent of the nectar so close to his helmet. He marched on through the glacial basin almost on autopilot until the Razor came into view. Warm air sent flurries of snow around him and his crew as the ramp fell open, and blearily he made his way inside.

He had to do something about the state of the two of you, but his knees locked and froze him to the spot, demanding he take a moment to breathe. There it was again, the fruity, summery scent of you that made his dick throb. Damn it all. Shaky steps hauled him through the cabin, and he laid you down on the little cot you both shared. He needed to get your soaked clothes off, but in order to do that he would have to get out of his own armor first. He shrugged off the helmet, though the metal had been protecting him from the temptation of you more than he realized, and the heat that gooped its way through his body from the pungency of your scent nearly threw him to the floor.

Din punched the buttons on his vambrace, closing up the foundling for the night whether he was ready for bed or not. Sorry kid. He peeled his armor away, setting the beskar aside and tossing the soaked fabric into the fresher. Next came your own clothes, and at first he worried he might wake you. Stars knew you needed the rest, but you made no indication that you even knew he was there.

Your limbs flopped like jelly while he tore off your clothes to be chucked into the fresher along with his until you were beautifully naked. Spread like a feast before him on the narrow bed, he couldn’t help but lick his lips. Little shimmers here and there told him that you were still coated in the hydra’s goo, and his first thought was to grab a washcloth to clean you up, but you stretched your lovely arms and made the splashes of color dance like melted candy on your skin, making his mouth water at the sight and giving him a much better idea. Maybe just… just a taste.

~

The faint whirring of the Crests innards caught your attention, and you came back to consciousness with agonizing slowness. You were laying on your bedroll, tucked safely away in the durasteel depths of your ship, though you weren’t sure if it was dark or if you still had your eyes closed. Warm fog settled in your head and wafted through your bones, a mindless comfort that left you blissfully numb. It could have been whatever the hydra had left in you, or more likely, it was whatever activity was going on below your waist. Your breath hitched in your throat, surprising you, but not as surprising as the stars that flashed behind your eyes. “Ah~!”

From between your legs a lusty groan shot right up your cunt and made you fist your hands in the plush fabric underneath you while you came. How is there anything left!? A broad tongue lapped at your clit, slurping away at the remnants of the nectar that coated your folds. The smooth muscle dragged itself through your slit, drinking in everything you were giving before sliding right back to that sensitive little bud to tease circles around it.

“Mesh’la.. I’m.. I’m sorry, I c-couldn’t help it, you taste so good~” The Mandalorian’s baritone rocked you to your core, and another flick of his tongue had you coming all over his face again. “P-please… forgive me.”

“F-f-forgive? Bahh… I told ya it was good, now get lickin’, bucket boy.” You tangled a hand in his curls, pushing him back down to enjoy his just desserts. His tongue fucked into you with reckless abandon, hungry and desperate for the taste of you. He dug his arms under your thighs and forced your mound as tightly up against his face as he could, and you heard him gasp for air between gulps. Exhaustion and pleasure tugged your eyes back closed, and you teetered in and out of consciousness, being brought back to the realm of the living with each fresh wave of ecstasy. Something rhythmic moved against your leg, the muscles in his shoulder thrumming away at something well out of sight. Is he jerking off?

In his hand he was going to town on his aching shaft, using the glittering goo that still flowed readily from your gloriously wet pussy to coat himself in. The coral’s effect had been burrowing into his brain stem from the moment he could smell it, calling to him like some kind of siren; but finally getting to taste it was an otherworldly experience. You had been through enough for one hunt, and though he craved release like a sex crazed animal he would happily content himself with just getting a taste of the ambrosial sweetness while you relaxed.

It hadn’t taken him long to coax the rainbow juices from your stretched folds, and even less time to slick himself with it. For a brief moment he thought he would just lap enough from your wellspring to get himself off, but soon he found himself unable to tear his face away from your delicious cunt, slurping away at the honeyed slick until he was nearly drowning in it. He dragged the colorful fluid around the tip of his cock, almost creaming himself right then and there with the warm tingly sensation that dribbled down his length.

Stars above you were juicy, wet and engorged against his frenzied tongue, though the rest of your body was boneless against him. He didn’t mind holding your legs up on his shoulders while he lovingly cleaned the nectar from the core of your body, in fact he was delighted to be of service. Lost in his indulgences he almost didn’t feel you tug on his hair, bringing his eyes up to meet your own.

“You… you can… in me… please... “ Nothing remained of your shattered mind, but you almost felt bad that he was trying to take care of himself when you were right there, ready and waiting. He shook his head against your leaking slit, dragging himself up for air to answer you, making the hazy emergency lights of the cabin sparkle in the wetness that covered his mouth and chin.

“I shouldn’t, you need to… to rest… ”

“Should’a thought about that before you started tonguin' me. Now get up here and fuck me like you said you would!”

You were starting to wonder if he liked being bossed around, because he growled against your core and yanked you back towards him, burying himself balls deep in one swift thrust. His wet mouth crashed against your own, giving you a taste of your own medicine. Fuck he wasn’t kidding, that’s delcious! He thrust into you with ragged strokes, messy and out of time. Muscular arms wrapped around your body, flooding your senses with the combined scent of him and the intoxicating perfume of the sunken grove.

Din hugged you close to his sweaty chest, digging fingers into the back of your head and the swell of your ass so he could rocket into your wonderous coils, punching the blunt tip of his cock against your tired cervix. His kisses were frantic but messy, all tongue and teeth and heated breaths as if you could do any better. You were almost surprised that you could feel him as stretched out as you were, but the spear of a Mandalorian was nothing to be scoffed at. The girthy thing rutted against your walls, bottoming out with every desperate thrust.

“Not… gonna… last… much... “ He choked on his own words, making a half dozen more ragged thrusts before blasting you full of his cum, painting your walls with his seed. The ring of muscle fluttered against his weeping tip, almost like a tongue that was greedily sucking his cum into your depths. That’s the only seeds she should be filled with, he thought blearily, my seed. His hips twitched against you, giving a few more staggered thrusts to milk himself to completion in your forgiving heat.

Din was panting, driven nearly to exhaustion by the effort of making good on his promises to fuck you senseless. Under him your own breath was stuttered, your chest crushed by his weight. He coiled his arms around you and rolled you both sideways, using the last of his strength to tuck you up under his arm and lay your head on his chest. You murmured something fondly against him as he lazily threaded his fingers through your hair, brushing it out of your face as best he could, but the soft breathing against his skin told him you probably didn’t notice. Soft kisses danced over your face, more for his enjoyment than your own, a fact made apparent by the cutest little snore in his ears. Sleep well, my love. And thank you. For everything.

He could lay there forever, with the weight of you on his chest and the hot slick sliding down his thighs, if he died right then and there he would die a very happy man. His fingers tried valiantly to run themselves down the curve of your spine, but there was no energy left in his body to power them, and he let them rest in the dip of your hips. Your breaths came slowly, a gentle rise and fall that heated his skin where you were pressed tightly against the crook of his neck. Din kissed your forehead again before tangling his limbs around you and burying his nose in your hair. Tomorrow we can get the exterior fixed, the inside is warm enough for now.

A gentle smile tugged at the edges of his lips, making his whiskers catch your hair. And maybe if it’s too cold for the foundling, she’ll keep him in her shirt again. Din couldn’t help but hum at the thought, you all cute and round, even if it was only temporary. By marriage you were a buir to his foundling, as truly as you would be if you had sworn the Creed, but the thought of you carrying his own flesh-and-blood ad’ika was the guiltiest pleasure he could imagine. Now that he knew what you would look like all full and heavy he could more easily indulge those devious thoughts. It was probably wrong to recall the image of you laying on that vibrant nest of tentacles, glowing and radiant and full. And in need. Needing me to care for her.

He wouldn’t admit it, and he knew you were tough enough to take care of yourself as long as you didn’t go sliding down any mysterious chasms, but he loved being needed by you. He loved that the name you had screamed for in that sunken grove was his, that you needed him to rescue you, needed him to pull the pods from your belly. Needed him to breed you. He could hear you in his mind again, you desperately begging him to fill your womb with his warriors, but you had only done so while drunk on the hydra’s wine. Was there any truth to it? Probably not, he’d practically demanded that you beg for it.

But what if there was?

Tired fingers pulled you impossibly closer to him, as if to invite you to sleep in his ribcage, curled up next to his heart. You grumbled in your sleep, murmuring something about tater tots before letting loose a beastly snore. The Mandalorian rolled his eyes, that’s her, that’s my mesh’la, my cyare, my riduur.

And maybe, when the time is right, when the bounties have been collected and the universe doesn’t seem so hostile. Maybe when we find another convert, or even just start one of our own. Someday, maybe...

Maybe I can call her my buir’ika as well.

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[the-trash-eating-llama]

Warm greetings once again! It has been a fairly long time since my last update, but not wiþout good reason.

So, I hope you like chapter 4!

And so they each climbed in, Nemandi first, which allowed them time for their eyes to adjust. Unlike what Nemandi expected, which was precisely nothing, the room he entered was rather bright, a low hum permeated the air. The humming lights were attached to the ceiling, which was covered in six sided shapes, which made up all of the designs on the walls too.

“Woah” was about all Nemandi could conjure in way of words, due to never experiencing such patterns before. So many sides, and yet, they all fit together perfectly, it was mesmerizing, not to mention the lights. The lights followed complex patterns found all throughout the space, bouncing soft honey yellow lights off of every surface.

“I suppose you have some more questions?” Ventured the bird, now standing next to the boy, who jumped as his mind had been melted by the scenery around him.

“Yes, what are these patterns and how did this get here?” “Well, these shapes are hexagons, and they belong to the Varnarmenn; who you will meet soon if they ever plan to do their job.” Responded Gripur, now tapping their claw on the ground to accentuate that they were waiting for something.

And as if on queue, Nemandi’s next question was answered, for the shiny doors he had not noticed previously slid open with impossible smoothness, followed by a small ding that rang throughout the small corridor they seemed to exist in.

Out from the door chirped a small voice. “Greetings Gripur, I see you found a new friend!” The voice was attached to a small bird, about the size of the boy’s hands put together, which seemed covered head to talon in red feathers. Atop the bird’s head was a small acorn, just big enough to serve as a warrior’s helm, and probably blocked nothing more than a toothpick, but left Nemandi uneasy on what he’d regularly face if even a small fast bird needed armor on at all times.

“Warm greetings Rauður, this is Nemandi, they will be staying under my care until I can arm them to protect themself. How is your fletching?” “Oh good, you know how the weather makes my feathers, perfect for arrows. Does the little one have pronouns I should use?” Replied the song bird, which caught Nemandi off guard, they were accustomed to being called he, but the only other ones they knew were they & she. “They is fine for now.” They quickly deduced, if they could arm themself with knowledge from a library of some kind, they could get some answers, and some time to think was really necessary right now.

“Well sweet chick, we have plenty to choose from, and here, you need only worry about yourself.” Cooed the red bird, pulling a clipboard from behind their wing. “First we must mark where you can stay, then what you can expect here, and I suspect, find you some work to do. As for now, one step at a time.”

The bird pointed at Gripur with their free wing, “I expect a full report of this mission, fine good job on watching the fledgling, they don’t even seem to be scratched, so I put it on you to give them a space to sleep and train, we need every wing we can muster against the coming winter.” “Yes sir, you’ll love to hear this one, I found a child of frost.”

Stopped. Everything stopped. Even the air seemed to freeze. Rauður looked at the eagle, up and down, and mouthed “Are. You. Sure.” but the eagle didn’t even flinch. They just stood there peering down and waiting for a response.

Nemandi wasn’t quite paying full attention up until that point, finding it difficult to focus after their recent events, but the icy atmosphere cut through them like butter.

Finally, Rauður glanced at Nemandi, catching them in what felt like an instant transmission of a life’s worth of grief. How could they possibly have made such a transgression? They felt on the verge of melting, but did not once blink, if not more than out of sheer shock.

After a good ten seconds, the small red bird moved their attention back to Gripur. “I hope you're right.” Whispered Rauður, clearly emotionally disturbed, something had broken them, and Nemandi suspected that it involved a child of frost.

“Now, with that, I leave Nemandi to you, Gripur, enjoy your flight.” The red bird chirped almost crackly, flying away before another word was spoken.

After two counts of silence, the eagle stretched their wings and head, clicking their tongue to mark the end of the awkwardness. “Well, I’m sorry I forgot to mention that, but some of those you shall meet will hold a disposition upon first sight. You hold some power that we once knew long ago, but that sounds like a tomorrow talk, how about lunch first? Or perhaps a nap. I know a place, just follow me.”

“Yes, some food and sleep would be lovely, thank you.” Croaked the child, now tired from their experience, hungry at the prospect of lunch, and disoriented from, well, many things, but as Gripur suggested, tomorrow would hold on to that for them.

And ðats all she wrote! Or what I wrote anyway, I hope you enjoyed!

I drew big inspiration from MindCrank on Ao3, @wanderingsins , @cannibalcanid , and of course @decoysender .

Progress report: I am close to finishing chapter 5, and have no interest in slowing down. I give it about a week.

I hope you all a safe winter, and if my hopes fall on deaf ears, I shall wait for you wiþ open arms, and wish you a quiet drift.

All ðe best,

Llama

Hey, I've finished ðe 1st and second chapters of my new book. I'm posting ðem boþ here, as I can't find where I posted ðe first one when I first made it.

I will be tagging ðis post as "llama writes" from now on, for ease of access.

On wiþ ðe reading!

As all things go, it was quiet. The season was autumn, the usual browns and greens of dirt and moss that often blanketed the forest gave way to spectacular oranges yellows and reds. Yes. Reds.

The red of a new flower, the red of a fallen leaf, and the red of painted wood. Nestled in between the exposed roots of trees long since fallen, lay a door, red as a dying sunset, circular in nature, with a shiny brass doorknob, protruding from the bottom of this now horizontal birch tree. How quaint.

And as it were, this was not just any fallen tree, nor just any door. No, this was the house of a woman, and no ordinary woman mind you, as she was possibly the toughest woman to ever dare live, for she harbored a curse. This, is her story.

Once, a very long time ago, the woman was but a boy, who carried water in a bucket for his mother, who needed that water for her bread. The bread was not easy to bake, it could take swaths of time to make one handful, but it was always necessary to have some, for it was never eaten immediately. The bread was used to make pies that could last for weeks.

The boy never understood why his mother would spend so much effort on making bread she never ate, as it was for the boy’s sister, who would bring the meat home. After a long day of hunting, she would carry the meat back home and have her mother put them in the pies, and eat some leftover soup with bread on the side.

The boy on a bright day walked down the dirt road, into the local hunting forest, through the brush, over a small creek of stones, and plopped down on a stump of a recently fallen ash tree, and pondered. He liked pondering, he found, the time he spent on that stump was often his most favorite time awake. Certainly better than carrying heavy buckets of water, he would think to himself.

But eventually, we all tire of the questions we have going unanswered, so after spending some time out there, a kindly tree near his spot would drop a leaf on his head, to tell him to go back home, and so he would. And he would ask his tired mother about his questions on the way of it all, and he would get told he spent too much time questioning the way of things and not enough time submitting to their forces. And then he would ask his wise sister about the general way of it all, and she would simply describe how things worked and what would happen if, but the boy never did find interest in the what will, only the why.

And so, he would find himself walking along those trees the next time he awoke, slumped on his stump, stumped by the general way of things. But this is not where the story ends, merely begins.

For, you see, one day, the winds began to change.

The boy, after a long day of carrying his bucket, he asked his mother why the leaves were a new colour, and his mother, who had not seen the trees that week, looked through the small window in her work house, and right jumped out of her skin. The leaves had changed, but much sooner than she would have hoped.

The mother took a moment to calm herself, for now was the hardest day of her year, autumn. Now, to most, autumn is but sweaters and scarves, but to her home, it was death.

The mother told her boy to get some rest, and take an extra blanket with him, for it would be a long night. The boy had little concept of night, but knew it was the part you slept through. So off he went to bed, wrapped in not only his sleep clothes and soft white fur blanket, but also in a new musk ox blanket handwoven by his sister to keep even the bitterest of frost out.

The boy slept well, but when he awoke, did not find a usual sight. Unlike the often bright window sill he was used to, spilling light all over the interior of his small room, it was dark, as if someone had draped blankets over his window, like his sister would do if the wind started to pick up and throw rocks at their house. The boy never did like those nights.

So the boy thought to himself that perhaps the time he was asleep was long enough to see, or rather miss, the beginning and end of a nasty storm. Reasonable as this conclusion was, when the boy reached out to remove the blanket, he only felt glass, as there was no blanket, and there was no storm.

For the boy had long since understood day, it was time for him to understand night.

With a sudden creak from nearby, the boy was awake, but had yet to see, for the room was blanketed in darkness.

“Hello?” He asked to no one in particular, and much to his chagrin, they answered.

“Greetings fine fellow, how may the night find you?” They boy gasped and tried to sit upright in his covers, but unfortunately could barely even squirm.

“Who are you, and what’s going on!?” Wherever the boy thought the voice could have come from, he certainly did not expect a quite large eagle.

“I am your friend, and you are being attacked.” Spoke the eagle, which was very impressive for such a bird.

“Why can’t I move!?” Cried the boy, trying his best to kick, punch, sit up, or much of anything.

“Now you’re supposed to introduce yourself to me, but I suppose that will have to wait for other circumstances.” Announced the eagle, which then jumped on the bed and turned away from the boy, stopping the boy from seeing what little he could of his room.

“Please, help me!” The boy wailed, but the bird hushed him with what can only be described as a ksssssst before a second entity emerged into the room, this time from the closet instead of the shadows.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the fowl.” Grumbled a voice most grumpily.

“Fyrirboði, how did I guess.” The eagle retorted, it was clear to the boy these two had a history, and he was in the middle of it.

“I wouldn’t doubt your tracking skills for a second, although I can tell you lack a partner still.” The grumpy grumbler grumbled, grumbly.

“My private life is no longer of your concern, and your presence here proves your assertion false.” The eagle defended, which puzzled the boy even more, who were these two, and why were they having such an argument in his bedroom?

“Of course, I simply wished to hear it from you, as you never do own up to your own words.” Fyrirboði stated, a statement that implied a long history indeed.

“Now leave Fyrirboði, I have no need to see you ever again.” Croaked the eagle, clearly on the edge of their limit.

“And that is where you are wrong, but I will heed your request, I always do.” And with a sudden decline of tension in the room, Fyrirboði was gone.

“Can I speak now?” The boy asked the bird, who now faced the boy with tears in their eyes.

“Yes you may, but please stay seated.” And as if the boy’s body thawed from ice instantly, he could move once again.

“What was all that, and what is going on!?” The child once again asked of the eagle.

“My name is Gripur, and I can be trusted, now as you can see, you are no longer safe here, and we must move.” Cawed the bird, answering absolutely zero of what the boy just asked.

“Oh, and before I forget,” continued Gripur. “What is it I shall call you?”

“Nemandi, and I need to tell mother about this.” Replied the boy, dazed and confused from the current situation.

“Well, Nemandi, you are the only one currently in this house, so I suggest we leave it before you disappear too.” Gripur described, leaving Nemandi with not only a degree of emotional whiplash, but also a full bucket of worry. At this rate, Nemandi might need a second bucket, or at least two trips.

“Outside, I can do that.” Nemandi agreed, finally.

“Good.” Replied Gripur. “Because we face more than old rivals tonight.”

So, how did you like it? I just finished it, so any criticism I can get would be helpful.

@decoysender @tangerineflavouredduck @mag150cul-de-sac @cannibalcanid @bigmeatpete69420 @illululusion @lovelythenabeana

Ðank you guys for inspiration!

And I will see you soon wiþ my next chapter.