#we aren’t safe either. things said on here have become ongoing jokes in conversation or vocal stims

[badlydrawnstarwars]

i hope we are not just a gimmick tumblr blog to you but also an active threat to your everyday vocabulary and speech patterns as well

[jangofctts]

Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit 

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

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

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

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

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

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

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

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

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster. 

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever.

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

Maybe. 

                                                       -=-=-=-

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

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                 -=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show. 

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t matter at this point…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eh.    

Could be worse. 

At least you aren’t dead. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.” 

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

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

Damn it.  

                                                     -=-=-=-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Boy—“

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

You wince. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Poor guy…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not if they take you by surprise.” 

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

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

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

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

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

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

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

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

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

“She isn’t made of glass.” 

“She is still recovering—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here you are—asphyxiating.   

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

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

“Din—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk? 

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

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

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

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

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

“Take me like you mean it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

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

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

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

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

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

“Paz—“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish I could kiss you.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

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

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

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

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

“Cant see anything either, right?” 

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

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

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

“You need a haircut, vod.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din’s kiss is devouring—  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Neither will your arrogance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug it off.    

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

“You love her, don't you?” 

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak 

or’dinni--dumbass idiot 

vod--brother/comrade 

tag list: 

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

[yadds]

Heyyyy so guess who’s not dead!  Anyway, for anyone that’s interested, I’ve decided that I’m not posting ongoing works until I’m done with them then will post as I’m editing.  Sorry!  However, I do have an excerpt that I like a bit that can stand alone, so here it is!  Also, despite the sexual nature of the initial conversation, this is pre-starker and isn’t really much about sex.

Minor background info: Tony has come back from the dead and is still with Pepper but they’re having issues.  Meanwhile, the Starker bromance is developing and they hang out quite a bit.  

____________________________________________________________________

“Spit or swallow?” Peter asked out of the blue as they sat on the couch watching reality tv. 

Tony’s eyebrows were about to climb right into his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Spit or swallow?” he repeated, over enunciating. “What are your thoughts?”

“Just to be clear, we’re talking about…” Tony trailed off slowly. 

“You know, bjs. Blowies. I’m sure you’ve gotten one once or twice,” Peter said with a roll of his eyes, tossing several pieces of popcorn into his mouth. 

“Yeah, might have happened on a rare occasion,” Tony responded dryly. “Well, honestly I can take it or leave it on the receiving end, doesn’t make that much of a difference to me.”

Peter’s head tilted back and forth, considering, before shrugging. 

“When giving though, I generally don’t like either. Don’t get me wrong, I love going down on people and making them feel good, but I prefer if they don’t finish in my mouth. Obviously I’ve done it before and may very well do it again so I guess I’d probably say swallow? It’s already there, so why make a mess?”

Peter’s attention was now fully on Tony, the TV forgotten in the background. Tony glanced over and smiled wryly when he saw his gaping mouth and red cheeks. “What’s with the stunned mullet impression? Did you not literally just ask that question? Am I going senile already?”

Peter cleared his throat and turned back to face the tv again. “Uh, yeah, I uh I did ask. But I was thinking more on the receiving end - I wasn’t expecting you to talk about giving.”

One of Tony’s brows crept back up. “Oh? And why is that? Because you think I’m a selfish asshole in bed as well or because you think I’m shy?”

Peter shook his head quickly, not catching the amused tilt of Tony’s lips. “No, no of course not! I just didn’t know that you, uh, you know, partake, in partners of the, uh, male persuasion?” If Peter shoveled any more popcorn into his mouth after the desperate handful he just shoved in there, he was going to suffocate. 

“Huh,” Tony said thoughtfully. Had they really never talked about this before? “Well, weird phrasing aside (because that was weird, kid, what’s up with that?), I thought it was pretty common knowledge that I was bisexual.”

Peter shook his head again, glancing back Tony’s way. “Nope, definitely not. At least not in any of the articles or interviews online. I mean, yeah, there are a few sources that mention the possibility of you not being completely straight, but they all sound like speculation.” 

Tony was speechless for a minute. He watched Peter notice the extended silence and seem to realize what he just said, curling forward and burying his face in his hands, ears bright red.

 He finally gathered enough wits to say, “Well, then I guess it was just common knowledge among people who actually know me. SI probably paid off the men I slept with - because heaven forbid the infamous playboy figurehead be seen with a man back in the day. I honestly never paid attention to what exactly was in the press, just made sure I was in it. If I’d known, I definitely would have been more blatantly obvious.” 

He was quiet again for about five seconds before he pulled his leg up on the couch and fully turned towards Peter. “I’m sorry, I tried, but I can’t just let this go. I knew you were a big fan, but sounds like you’ve really done your research, Pete.” He couldn’t drop the shit-eating grin on his face. 

Peter flopped all the way forward, shoving his face into his knees, groaning. “Can we not do this?” he whined. It only took another ten seconds of pointed silence before Peter broke. “Ugh, okay, so I may have had a crush on you when I was younger,” he admitted. “A teeny tiny, definitely not life-consuming, crush.”

Tony laughed. “And when was this?” 

“I don’t know, it started when I was like 13 probably.”

“And you thought you should google my sexuality to see if, what, you had a chance with the guy four times your age that you’d never meet?” Tony didn’t think he’d been this amused in a long time.  

Peter sat back up and peeked at him just to throw him a glare. “Yes, because thirteen year olds are so logical, especially when it comes to hormonal urges.”

“Never would have pegged you for being into older men.”

“Really? Because most people aren’t surprised - I apparently just radiate ‘twink with a daddy kink’,” Peter said matter-of-factly. 

Tony choked, coughing loudly. “I’m sorry, did you just, in a roundabout way, call me a Daddy? In a way that has nothing to do with my daughter?”

“I- can we talk about something else now?” Peter squeaked. 

“That...is probably a good idea,” Tony agreed, feeling his own cheeks heat. 

They both stared very intently at the TV, trying to think of anything else. 

After a while, Peter spoke up. “Why would you do it again?”

“What?” Tony asked, confused. 

“Sorry, I’m back on the spit or swallow question,” Peter explained. 

Now it was Tony’s turn to groan. “I thought we were talking about something else.”

“Yeah, something that’s not my personal and very embarrassing past. Now that I have the question, I can’t think of anything else.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Fine. So why would I do what again, exactly? Give a blow job?”

“Well, I mean, that too, considering that you’re still with Pepper and I’m 99.9999% sure she doesn’t have the right equipment for that. But I was talking about spitting or swallowing. Why would you do either? You said you don’t like it.”

“Relationships are about compromise Pete, even in the bedroom. And I don’t hate it when I’m in the mood for it.”

“What a ringing endorsement,” Peter said flatly. “Yeah, there’s gotta be some compromise, but that should be more along the lines of maybe trying new things that you may not have done on your own but are open to. Doing something you definitively, straight up don’t like in bed should not be one of them.”

Tony looked at Peter, perplexed. “I...don’t even know what to say to that. When did you become an expert in this?”

Peter shrugged. “You’d be surprised how much of my time as Spiderman is spent just lending an ear when people are having a hard time. And sex and relationships come up a lot because I guess it’s easier to talk to a random person in a mask than to someone you know. I try to just listen and not to give advice most of the time, since I’m not an expert and everyone’s situation is different, but sometimes people are in circumstances that are dangerous, emotionally and mentally. So I took a couple relationship health and psychology classes my freshman year in college and read up on some of these things to know what to say.”

Tony’s heart warmed, hearing how earnestly Peter wanted to help people. He smiled softly. “Never thought you’d use that on Tony Stark, did you?” he joked. 

Peter scoffed. “Please, you were like, the poster child for a lot of these issues. I like to think you’ve finally gotten wiser in your ‘old age’, but I’ve mentally given you several high-handed pep talks.”

Tony was taken aback. “Oh? And what was the subject of these pep talks?”

“Mostly self-worth and your complete lack of it.”

Tony chuckled again. “Well maybe you haven’t heard, but I actually have an unrealistically high opinion of myself, kid.”

“Yeah, do you think that if you keep talking about it loudly enough, you might start believing it?” Peter asked, eyebrow raised.

“Excuse me?  I am one of the richest, smartest people on the damn planet.  I single-handedly created a superhero while a prisoner in a cave.  I created clean energy that can power the planet and I’m pretty sure I’m damn close to being able to end poverty,” Tony rebuked, getting irritated.

“I know, so why do you still feel like it’s not enough?” Peter asked with a shrug, pointedly not looking at him.  “All those amazing accomplishments, things no one else would be able to do, but how often do you think about that instead of the few mistakes you’ve made?”

Tony crossed his arms.  “Get out of my fucking head, kid,” he grunted.

Peter turned to him with a grin.  “You think I should change my degree plan and become a shrink?”

“Definitely not.  You’re pretty much done anyway and I need you in my labs, not consoling lunatics like me.”

Peter reeled back exaggeratedly.  “You’re quite presumptuous, Mr. Stark, assuming I’ll be working for you.”

“You’d better,” Tony insisted.

“Is that a threat?” Peter asked cheekily.

“Definitely.”

Laughing, Peter settled back into the cushions and resumed his popcorn eating.

After several minutes of watching TV in silence, Peter turned back to Tony.  “You know I still think you’re just as amazing as you try to say you are, right?”

Glancing at Peter out of the corner of his eye, he shook his head at Peter’s earnest expression.  “No clue why,” he said wryly.  “But yeah, I know.  Thanks, kid,” Tony said, smile soft as his hand came up to grip the back of Peter’s neck before pulling him into a hug.

Tony cleared his throat and sat back before saying gruffly, “Now shut up and watch...whatever the hell it is you’re making me watch.”

Peter snorted but kept his mouth shut.  And as he settled more comfortably under Tony’s arm, his back pressed up against Tony’s side as Tony’s arm draped across Peter’s chest, Tony had to wonder if this is one of the things Pepper had been talking about.

But as he felt the warmth of Peter pressed against him, felt the soft rise and fall of his breathing, felt the proof that Peter was alive and safe, Tony shook away the thought.

_____________________________________________________________________

So I’m starting to see a pattern - I tend to write like hell during the fall and winter and not during the summer at all. So apparently I have an off-season lol.  Hopefully the pattern continues for the next few months and I can get a few projects finished!

[maskeddevera]

I’m going to write a line by line analysis about the Fjord and Jester scene from last night. I had a bad day earlier this week, and the whole episode yesterday made me so happy, and this scene was beautiful, so I’m going to gush about it a bit. This whole episode really turned my week around (with the caveat that I went to bed so missed the final monster introduction.)

First of all, to set the scene, Jester has been struggling (but playing it off) ever since the spell stole a few years of her life earlier in the day. Fjord has been struggling because he realizes he didn’t even try to do anything to protect her, and the spell took a lot, and it could have been so much worse. He goes to her door, I think, mostly to confess that he feels badly that he wasn’t there for her and also vaguely aware that he might share his fear that they might not get that chance to deal with his baggage.

[Fjord knocks on her door.]

JESTER: Hello?

Jester is surprised. They often have heartfelt conversations, but Fjord doesn’t usually visit her room.

FJORD: Um, I was really worried about you...when you fell.

He just comes out with it...here’s the main thing, it was scary to see her fall.

JESTER:  Yeah...

It was also scary for her, too.

[heavy eye contact]

FJORD:  This suddenly feels far more serious than I thought it might be.

I’m not sure if here he is talking here about visiting the north or initiating this conversation -- but either way, he laughs. He’s nervous.

JESTER:  I know. I can’t get the image out of my head...it’s scary.

Fjord gives Jester space to share. Like he said he would, he will listen to her. By initiating this conversation, she feels safe telling him that the image of the city that is haunting her.

FJORD:  What do you think will happen?

An open-ended question for Jester. Again, letting her share her thoughts and fears...wanting to know what she thinks.

JESTER:  I think if they bring it back, it will, um...it will absorb everything it can.

She sees the possibilities and how dangerous it could become.

JESTER [continued]: It felt like all of the people that lived there, like -- like they were part of the city now, like they could never escape. It felt like hell. It felt -- like torment.

She feels this so hard. It’s eating her up inside.

FJORD: And we have to stop it, right?

Fjord acknowledges that with that information they need to stop it--as a team, but you can see that he is still struggling with his concern for her.

JESTER:  Yeah.

FJORD: I -- I may have an, uh, a problem. Uh...

The problem is he loves Jester and is worried that he would lose her. The problem is he feels like he wasn’t there for her. The problem is he is so scared.

JESTER [softly]: What is it?

Suddenly Jester is focusing on him, worried about what Fjord’s problem might be.

FJORD [continued]: I saw you standing on that pillar, and -- it was the first time where I kept myself from trying to stop something that was happening to you, and I didn’t do anything, and it’s--it’s bothered me.

Fjord feels like he screwed up and let her down. He feels like he could have lost her because he hesitated. Like he could still lose her if he hesitates.

JESTER: You couldn’t have done anything, Fjord. It was in my head, you know?

Jester isn’t sure why he’s beating himself up about this one - he didn’t even know what was happening.

FJORD: Uh. Yes.

I just like how he whispers the “yes,” like he knows it isn’t rational, but he still feels it.

FJORD: I don’t want you to gamble with yourself. I--I know we were playing, and it didn’t seem like much, and--it seems to have exacted a pretty serious toll. All I’m saying is, I just--I want you to be careful as we do this--I don’t think we’ll be the spectators that we thought we might be.

Here it is. Why he truly came time. He doesn’t want her to endanger herself. It’s a constant of not wanting her to be hurt or worse. He is starting to realize that they are involved deeper than they thought that they would be.

JESTER: Okay.

She listens.

FJORD: I want to come out of this and be able to go back to the sea, and go back to Nicodranus, and go back to where it’s warm and not f*ckin’ freezing, and...

Here the dream is stated. The happy ending. The sea, Nicodranus...her home, he’s imagining them returning together. A happy ending for both of them.

JESTER: Me too.

She is nodding. Same page. They have talked about this before, being together in a calmer time and place...some day. He is encouraged by her agreement.

FJORD: I just don’t know if that’s--I don’t feel as optimistic now.

More fears laid on the table. Maybe they won’t get there.

JESTER: Me neither. But...I’ll try to be safe. And you should, too.

She worries about losing the happy ending as well. She worries about his safety as well. He smiles when she shows concern for him.

JESTER [continued]: But if it comes down to it, if -- if it means stopping that Thing...I want to stop That Thing.

This decision is so important for Jester, and I love this for her ongoing arc. I also just really like that both clerics have this quest now. #TeamClerics

FJORD: I told your mother I would look after you.

So what I love about this sentence is Fjord absolutely takes his promise to Marion Lavorre very seriously, but that’s not why he says this to Jester. Yes, I do think he sees it as a vow (I love all the meta takes I have seen floating around about this being one of Fjord’s first steps into paladin territory), but what he is really doing here is the Fjord thing in which he uses others as a proxy for his feelings. So when Jester says she might endanger herself for the greater good, and he implies that her mother would be devastated if he had to tell her that something had happened to Jester, mostly he is thinking about how he would be devastated if anything happened to Jester.

JESTER: We’ll be fine, Fjord. We always are.

Jester attempts to reassure him and re-establish how they are a team. You can tell he isn’t fully reassured. And then he says what he really meant when he said “I told your mother I would look after you...”

FJORD: I care very much for you.

His voice in this moment...so real. Notice he still doesn’t use the word love, a token bit of holding back, but love is what is coming from him, and she hears it.

JESTER:  Really?

Her trembling voice...all of the signs, and she thought maybe especially with recent events, but she wasn’t sure if she was reading into the gift and the eye contact and the pauses...she is so hopeful here. He nods, and takes a deep breath, and he just wants so badly to take the next step, but he is scared.

JESTER: Is it because I have chiseled cheekbones now?

She says this to break the moment because she feels his hesitation, and also because she’s self-conscious about what happened today. And it’s the best thing that can happen because when they are silly Fjord forgets to be all in his head and nervous.

FJORD: It’s the longer horns...

He’s joking, but also he always seems to find her strength to be the most attractive physical characteristic about her, so of course he picks the horns to compliment.

JESTER: Yeah, it really does it, doesn’t it?

FJORD: Yeah...gives you an intimidating look.

The truth is he was intimidated before the horns got longer. He wants to kiss her so much, so he pulls her in and asks...

FJORD [continued]:  Can I kiss you?

Jester is delighted. She thought even if she wasn’t imagining things that this wouldn’t come any time soon. She shyly nods her agreement, and they kiss. I like how he nods and smiles, too, before kissing her -- he’s so relieved that she said yes!

FJORD: I don’t-- I don’t know how this will go. But I can’t promise that I’m going to let you just throw yourself at this thing. I don’t think I can do that.

This confession--he has made it to her before in a different way. Fjord will support her up to the point in which she could get hurt or die, and no more. And I also like how he always frames this confession as somewhat selfish, although it isn’t, because part of the reasoning is that he needs her. Also I think he is holding her this whole time because he never says that he lets her go.

JESTER:  I don’t have an argument.

She is fine with him serving as her protector. She’s giddy. Maybe they kiss here quickly again? In any case...

JESTER: Kissing is a lot more fun when you’re not dying.

FJORD: Or, and, not when you’re underwater, drowning.

JESTER: Yeah, yeah...that’s what I mean.

FJORD: Umhmm.

After their first real kiss, they talk about their “other” first kiss - Fjord attempting to save her life. And we see here that while Jester previously wondered if it “counted” or not, it meant something to Fjord too and that he also saw it as a kiss, although it wasn’t the most ideal circumstance. And perhaps that is why they never spoke about it before, because it was easier to leave it in that nebulous area of maybe it meant something more.

JESTER: I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.

While this statement works for Jester, giddy and flustered, I think it also works for Laura who 100% was not expecting any of this to happen in this session.

FJORD: I’ve wanted to do it for a while...I’m kind of a big coward.

And now that it’s out there, now that she let him kiss him, he feels like he can tell her about how his fears held him back.

JESTER:  No, Fjord, you’re very brave.

Jester will always support Fjord and hype him up.

FJORD: I am very brave, aren’t I?

Being brave is facing your fears.

JESTER: Umhm.

FJORD:  I feel a bit...better.

This is what love is. Things can still be dark but your loved one lifts you up. He looks at her to gauge how she feels.

JESTER:  Me too.

[FJORD & JESTER overlapping voices as they teasingly discuss whether they really have to fight this city.]

FJORD:  We can get cats and just flee...

As mentioned in my other post, I think Fjord is discussing acquiring moorbounders, not attempting to abscond with Caleb’s fey cats. Again, this dream is the one about them leaving it all behind together.

JESTER:  We have to fight it.

FJORD: All right. I’ll see you in the morning.

JESTER: Okay.

FJORD:  Goodnight.

JESTER: Goodnight, Fjord.

[Jester goes to hold her little unicorn, falling asleep holding it. Fjord doesn’t sleep much.]

I just love this final image -- Jester now certain that the unicorn figurine means what she hoped it meant (and hopefully not breaking it in the night). Fjord keyed up and turned on and thinking about the conversation over and over, because he surprised himself with his choices but it went well, better than he ever expected.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 15: The Storm

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Valdas and Isseya come to collect Nadya as a witness for Adrian’s trial. Tired of things being out of her control, she takes matters into her own hands with Kamilah.

WARNING: this chapter contains explicit sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

In everyone else’s defense she is just as surprised as they are by her howling laughter.

Not really the reaction one would be expected to have after getting another heaping pile of bad news on top of the garbage landfill that’s become her life recently. But the brain works in mysterious ways.

Lily, the only one even remotely qualified to try and dissect the strange being Nadya’s found herself becoming, pulls her close with a glare at the intruders. She looks rapidly between Valdas and Isseya — can’t seem to figure out which one she wants to direct her hatred at more.

“Yeah well since that’s not happening I guess you can take your leave. Buh-bye now.”

They don’t move. Literally — from here it looks like they aren’t even breathing. It makes Nadya’s skin crawl; just another weird emotion in the unstable bowl of soup inside her.

Valdas removes his sunglasses — sunglasses, underground, when he can’t even go into the sunlight; the mark of the douchebag — and cocks them in the dip of his silken dress shirt.

“This isn’t a voluntary matter. Even if it were I’m rather surprised you wouldn’t want to leap to Raines’ aid.”

His flippant tone helps Nadya calm her laughter enough to compose herself.

“Adrian’s — I mean that means he’s alive. That does mean he’s alive, right?” His curt nod makes her feel weak in the knees. “And Kamilah…?”

“If you keep standing here fretting there are no guarantees. On both the lives of your friends and your own.” Isseya yawns as she says it; like this entire ordeal bores her.

To Nadya’s surprise it’s Jax who steps around — places himself between her and the other vampires.

He reaches for the sword at his back; lets it rest on the hilt. “Is that a threat?”

The couple laugh in sync. Isseya rolls her eyes. “When we threaten you, pet —”

And witnessing such speed again makes Nadya sweat — reminds her of Isseya’s nails digging into her neck. Makes her practically crush herself against the safety of Lily’s side.

Valdas holds Jax several inches off the ground. Just enough for his boots to scrape by with the promise and denial of stability. He struggles to pry the man’s hand from his throat. Lashes out with fangs and red eyes that show no sign of deterring Valdas in the slightest.

“— you’ll know it.” He finishes his partner’s sentence. Opens his hold like one might a machine for Jax to fall and walks at a human pace back so Isseya can wrap herself around his arm.

Jax rubs his throat and makes a real move for his katana. Behind him Maricruz looks ready to jump one — or both — of them from behind.

Isseya rolls her eyes.

“Are you all really so foolish? Or is it that you hate your grimy lives down here so much that you’d use us as a way to set you free of it?”

Maricruz actually growls. “¡No mames! Shut up if you know what’s good for you.”

But before the Clanless can make a move Nadya rushes out with her arms extended.

“Don’t! Jax… don’t. You don’t know who they are.”

He scoffs. “I don’t need to. I know their type.”

“No, you don’t,” and she lowers her voice, “they’ll kill you. Just stop.” But before any more quips can spark the blaze she gives a glare to the Trinity. “Insulting my friends is probably not the best way to get me to go with you. I want to help Adrian — but they’re not wrong either. So talk.”

They look at one another without a word. Maybe two thousand years with someone erases the boundaries of language — or maybe they’re actually telepathic. The second thought feels intrusive and upsetting so Nadya pushes it aside with all her might.

“We will be happy to explain on the way.” Valdas says finally. “Is that enough of a compromise?”

Not even close, Nadya thinks, but if her stubbornness is what makes the difference between Adrian living and dying she’ll never forgive herself for sticking to her scruples.

Then Lily’s at her arm and interlaces their fingers. “No way she’s going with you creeps alone. I’m coming with.”

“Hell no.”

Mari appears at her side in a blur with a concerned frown. She cups her girlfriend’s cheek and Lily leans into it with a tiny smile.

“She’s my best friend. I’ll be fine.”

“Friend or not, mi amor, walking into a Council trial is suicide for the likes of us.”

Lily falters slightly — as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. “Oh.”

Jax agrees. “As it is I’m still deciding if we’re going to let you leave here at all.” Did he not just almost die for saying that stuff? Nadya doesn’t even try anymore. “The Council can’t know where we are. Not after everything we’ve done to make this place safe.”

“I don’t know which is more amusing,” croons Isseya, “that you think you could stop us or that you think we care about your menial cluster of vagabonds. You swarm like insects hiding in plain sight and call yourselves hidden.”

Her scorn dies with Valdas’ stare. “What my beloved means is that your existence; your little hidey-hole, is inconsequential to us. We are here on behalf of the Council — not as part of it.”

“Then promise not to tell the Council the location of the Shadow Den,” demands Nadya, “it’s that simple.”

Because she knows Lily and her humor she’s glad that Valdas answers, gaze locked with Jax’s, before she has the chance to make a joke about a measuring contest.

“Very well. If we’re through wasting time, then, ladies?”

The Trinity and their luxury look more suited to a runway in Paris than the Spartan lives of those in the Shadow Den. It’s no wonder every conversation stops and any witnesses stare openly while their leader and his deputy, along with the strange human girl, head towards the exit closest to the city center.

Maricruz steals Lily for one more goodbye — not a last one, just one more — with an embrace that could break bones and a kiss filled with so much longing that even Valdas looks away after several seconds.

All Nadya can think is why she didn’t do that to Kamilah when she thought it might really be the last, and not just one more.

Jax rests his hand on Nadya’s shoulder; makes her flinch briefly and actually seems remorseful over it.

“Lily knows how to contact us. The second anything seems fishy you run like hell, got it?”

“I think I know how to deal with vampires by now. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“As I seem to recall you were being locked in a dungeon at your first rodeo.”

She huffs.

“Well I’ve learned a lot since then.”

A strange look comes over him; concern, maybe? She’s not used to it being directed her way so it throws her off her game.

“I hope so,” he replies, “but from everything I’ve seen so far…”

“Watch how you finish that.”

“Stop — please just listen, will you? Any vampire you meet is going to be stronger, smarter, faster than you. That’s just the way it works. But you can’t let that stay your hand and keep you from fighting. You have to try — even if the chances are slim to none. ‘Slim’ is better than ‘impossible’ in my book.”

She thinks back to his readiness to threaten Valdas — not just once but twice and that following nearly having his head ripped off his neck. It sucks to admit but he kinda-sorta has a point.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling inside her chest; makes Nadya frown down at her shoes before she can muster up the words.

“I’m not strong enough. You said it yourself — I’m just a human.”

“Hey, humans have been a thorn in our sides since the dawn of time, or civilization, or whatever.” He squeezes her again and she can feel it; the power lurking beneath his skin — and the restraint he shows with it, too. “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

“It’s more than that, Jax. It’s —”

“Stop.”

He interrupts her curtly. Makes her have to look him in the eyes before carrying on. “When I asked Espinoza how all that went down with Lily you know what she told me? She said that the same human who let herself be captured and rescued looked a vampire right in the eyes — looked Council member Adrian Raines right in the eyes — and told him that she wasn’t taking no for an answer. I don’t see that human right now — but I saw her back at the train station. And she’s probably shown up other times too — whenever her friends have needed her.

“We all need something to fight for. For me it’s everyone in the Shadow Den; everyone forced into a life on the run with no say in their lives. For you, Nadya, it seems like it’s your friends. So if thinking about your friends gives you the balls to tell the Council to ‘fuck off’ then start putting together a photo album or something, you know? Whatever it takes.”

Whatever it takes. The tightness in her chest isn’t gone but it’s definitely easier to breathe. Was he actually being… nice to her? Telling her how she needed to find the strength to help her friend a Clan Leader?

She makes a mental note to buy a lotto ticket when they’re back on the surface.

“You were a motivational speaker before you were Turned,” she teases, “weren’t you?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. I bet there’s a self-help book hidden in the back corner of every bookstore. What’s it called… ooh, I bet it’s something like —”

He stops her with a hand over her mouth but the mirth in his eyes is genuine. Jax may not find it nearly as funny but at least he’s not glaring at her any longer. And honestly his advice is comforting. Enough to help her find the strength to turn around and join the vampires by the service stairwell towards the subway above.

“Be safe.” Lily says to Jax and throws one last parting kiss at Mari.

The Trinity has had enough of their sentiments. Evidenced by the groan of the metal handle under Isseya’s grip. “Come. A car will be waiting for us.”

With Isseya at the lead and Valdas behind them the four begin the winding path up into the world.

Lily holds her hand the whole way — and she couldn’t ask for a better best friend.

The driver steps out onto the curb and opens their door. The rush of noise and light takes a second to get used to but it soothes Nadya like a long-lost home. Thunder rumbles up above, bounces off every building around them in a drumming tune.

She looks around the crowded sidewalk — turning this way and that to get her bearings — but quickly realizes she doesn’t have to and ducks her head to see where Valdas and Isseya remain seated.

“What’s going on? I thought you were taking us to Adrian’s trial.”

“The Council requires all those giving testimony to be in their personal hands at least twenty-four hours before proceeding,” Valdas states with boredom. Beside him Isseya picks up her vibrating phone from her lap and answers with a sultry purr.

“Impatience is an ugly thing, Priya. We’ve just finished dropping them off. You’ve saved me the blond one, haven’t you?”

Nadya recoils in disgust at Priya’s name. “That answers who you’re staying with, then.”

While his partner continues making demands on the phone Valdas gives a lazy salute to the pair of them.

“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Nadya. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night.”

She doesn’t get the chance to respond — the driver slams the door practically in her face and when he peels away from the curb at least half a dozen taxi horns screech in protest to his blatant disrespect of the rules of the road.

That’s when the skies open up; slowly and then all at once. The first drop that tickles Nadya’s nose is soon joined by another, then another, and then the storm blankets New York in a sheet of water.

Lily breathes in the night and rain with a stretch and gusto. “God I missed this! And good riddance! I don’t know if I could have spent a whole day with them.” She looks around for the street intersections — tries to place where they are. “So… you know where we’re going, right? And is it like… safe for someone like me? Because I’m kinda hungry — if you know what I mean.”

“You know, I think I do.” There’s teasing behind her sarcasm. Nadya jerks her head to the glossy black doors of the skyscraper they were dropped in front of. “Let’s get inside.”

Lily cranes her neck up and up with awe. Nadya, though — she’s grown familiar with the view. It’s even better up top.

The same security guard lazes around at the same desk. Stops not-so-sneakily watching The Crown and the Flame on his phone as Nadya approaches.

“Haven’t seen you in some time, Miss Al Jamil.”

“Hi Doug.” She greets back and offers her best and most innocent smile. “Would you hate me if I said I left my key at the office?”

Doug gives a jovial, if exasperated, sigh. “I could never hate you, dear. I just wish you’d be honest with me and say you lost it again so we can change the code. You know how she values her privacy.” He looks over his glasses at Lily with a trained, if borderline retired, scrutiny. “Can’t say I’ve ever met you before little lady but judgin’ by that hair your name is Lily.”

“Uh — yeah…?” Lily gives Nadya a wary look that makes the guard chuckle.

“Miss Al Jamil’s told me all about you. Next time you gotta go through the proper channels though, you know that.”

Nadya nods. “I promise. It was… a sort of last-minute thing. She’ll be okay with it.”

“Welp, still gotta have you sign her in.” He taps a clipboard on the ledge in front of him and Nadya hastily writes in Lily’s name. “You gals planning on going out before dawn?”

“Yeah—no thanks.” Lily seems positively disgusted at the thought.

Nadya elbows her gently. “No, but thank you for checking.”

Doug types up Lily’s name on the computer and hits a button on the underside of his large obsidian desk. Behind him the glass doors click and begin to open automatically. He tips his hat off to them.

“Have a good evening Miss Al Jamil, and friend Lily!”

“You too, pal.”

“See you tomorrow Doug.”

Once they’re clear of the lobby, elevator button alight and calling one down, Lily gives Nadya a light shove.

“Dude!”

“What? And ow!”

“I was sort of making fun of you when I went on about your fancy life but… dude.”

“This isn’t me. This is the people I know.”

Lily takes in the luxury of the atrium around them with awe she doesn’t even try to contain. “Still… it’s a step up from a broken fire escape ladder and homophobic neighbors.”

They enter the elevator together and Lily’s whistle when she hits the ‘P’ for penthouse doesn’t go unheard.

Her eyes flick upwards to the building name in large gold block-letters on the far wall. She holds the gaze of ‘AHMANET FINANCIAL’ until the doors close them off.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Gerard has the door open before she can even give Lily the low-down on what to expect.

She greets him with a wide and genuine smile; it quickly falters when she sees him hastily dab at his eyes with his pocket hanky.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?” She hovers her hands over his arms, doesn’t know how to help but wants to, and then finds herself in a crushing hug. He smells of fresh baking with just a hint of mothballs. Like how someone’s grandpa is supposed to smell in an ideal world.

“Forgive my impropriety, Miss,” his voice wavers both with emotion and his age, “I promised I’d hold myself intact. But seeing you unharmed after everything that happened…”

Nadya squeezes him tight. Didn’t know how much she needed the comforting touch of another human being after all that’s happened until that moment.

“I’m okay, Gerard. And I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

She introduces Lily — the butler looks ready to reaffirm his ‘stiff upper lip’ mentality but Lily doesn’t give him the chance and greets him in a hug of her own. She’s told him enough about how much she missed her friend that he doesn’t particularly mind.

“I only expected Miss Nadya here — but let me get you something to warm your bones.” Gerard pauses and shakes his head; laughs at himself. “Silly me. Well — you know what I mean.”

But when he goes to lead them into the kitchen Nadya stops — looks around the penthouse with haste to try and find some small indication Kamilah’s been there.

Stupid butler keeps everything spotless, though. No, she doesn’t think he’s stupid. But a little mess never hurt anyone.

Then a weathered hand on her shoulder makes her jump a mile.

“Lady Kamilah’s gone up for a swim,” Gerard whispers in her ear, “lots on her mind — you know how she can be.”

Nadya nods; resigns herself to waiting for Kamilah… again.

“I’ll give her some time then…”

But he stops her from turning around. Fixes Nadya with a stern look.

“I rather think you should go to her instead.”

“But —”

“Don’t worry about Miss Lily. She’s in good hands. You and Lady Kamilah need one another right now, I should think. Could do you both some good.”

She’d never say it — but she needs you, say Gerard’s eyes. Nadya finds herself hugging him again before rushing out the back balcony door and into the rain.

When she was thirteen Nadya’s mother forced her to go to a two-week sleepaway camp in the mountains. It was something her mom had done as a young girl with her sister, and something her cousins had been doing since they were old enough to beg for the chance.

Nadya was never an outdoors-y person though, and dreaded every hour of her summer up until the time when she was watching her mother drive down the gravel road; leaving her behind.

She learned a lot of things at that camp — all of them useless in the long run but seemed so vital and important while there. And she only looked forward to one thing: the pool. Unfortunately that summer—the summer of her thirteenth year—Colorado had never seen so much rain.

“Why can’t we go in when it’s raining?” Asked every girl in the same whining preteen voice.

And the counselors would always reply with the same stern tone of an adult. “Because it isn’t about the rain, it’s about the lightning. That would be quite a shock in the end!” And the adults would laugh at their glorious joke and move on to something else entirely.

But every time it rained, even when there wasn’t a bolt of lightning in sight, Nadya would lean against the windowsill of the dining cabin and stare at the pool with a sigh of longing.

Though the rain tries to diminish the bright city lights it only makes everything look glassy. It clings to Nadya’s glasses and runs down in trails — she has to squint to see but can make her way up well enough.

The sight of Kamilah laying spread-eagled on the dark surface of the pool reminds her of that camp; the rules of the water driven home in her skull.

“Kamilah!”

The woman’s hair spreads in inky tendrils just under the surface of the water. Nadya stands soaked to the bone and shivering yet Kamilah’s eternal beauty is as still as it is naked.

Nadya’s voice cracks when she calls out again. “Kamilah!”

Through the rain she thinks she might catch the vampire’s eyes opening but doesn’t have a chance to call out again. Suddenly there’s a hand around her throat and she’s pinned to the stone wall near the stairs.

The corner of the brick is sharp and digs into her back and the press of Kamilah’s grasp against her neck is a hundred lifetimes of pressure keeping her from breathing. She forces her eyes up; wants to take into her memory the sight of Kamilah’s bare body but what use will it have if she’s not alive to remember it?

Kamilah’s eyes are dark and hazy. She looks both at Nadya and through her. No fangs in sight. Her hair clings soaked to her shoulders.

When she tries to say Kamilah’s name again nothing comes out. She doesn’t choke — just simply can’t find the word. What is a name compared to the creature of beauty in front of her? Instead her words surprise even her.

“I’m here. It’s okay.”

Like a golem brought to life without a purpose Kamilah stares vacant. Her hand falls back to her side; allows Nadya to take a large gulp of air and taste the salt of the rain on her tongue.

“I’m here,” she repeats; doesn’t know where or how or if to touch Kamilah in her fragile state but if she’s right, if Kamilah’s having her own response to being thrust into the void with nothing to cling to, then she’ll risk her life a hundred times over to stop her from falling.

Nadya delicately cups Kamilah’s cheeks. The rain looks like teardrops falling down her curved expression. Nadya knows better. “I’m here,” again, “I’m here… I’m here for you I swear. I’m not going anywhere ever again a-and I’m… I’m here Kamilah so—so please just… just know I’ve got you. I’ve got you — I’ve got you.”

The first time she kisses Kamilah it’s not like any of her dreams at all. Taking into account some of her more recent nightmares though… well it’s bittersweet.

It’s like kissing a statue — cradling the Venus de Milo in her hands and hoping she might have the magical affinity to turn the marble into flesh. She doesn’t stop — hopes she’s doing the right thing somewhere in the back of her mind.

Hopes—prays—that she’s right. That the rain is only acting as a curtain. That Kamilah might feel the sa—

The stone melts away and soft lips begin to kiss back. First with gentle touches. Trying to understand what’s happening, who they are — discovering something for the first time in thousands of years.

Like a waltz Kamilah steps back and Nadya moves with her — desperate to seek out her mouth, her taste. And to get away from the brick digging into her back.

Her hands rest chastely on the vampire’s bare hips. Electricity sparking in every touch and threatening to gather its own thundercloud over their heads.

This time when their eyes meet she knows Kamilah is looking at her. Not just that — but deep into her soul with that slight tick in her perfect brow and those plush lips turned down. Confusion, retaliation, denial beginning to bubble up to the surface.

Nadya doesn’t think she’d be able to survive Kamilah retreating. Her heart couldn’t take it.

“I’m here.” She whispers; a final plea. I’m here. See me. Have me. I’m yours.

Kamilah’s reply is almost lost in the howling wind.

“If you truly knew what you’re asking for…”

“Stop —” she pushes a rain-slicked palm across Kamilah’s head to move her hair out of her eyes, “— don’t. I’m here, that’s all. I’m here.”

There’s rueful regret in the way Kamilah’s expression softens — in the way her eyes roam over Nadya’s desperate face to try and latch onto one single speck of hesitation or regret and use it as a way to push them apart.

She doesn’t find any. So she leans forward and meets their lips. Marble on flesh, eternity on youth. Nadya doesn’t spare a thought to yielding.

The path back to the penthouse is a struggle not only because Nadya is clumsy even when she’s paying attention but also because sometimes movement requires pulling away — and neither of them can be fussed with a concept so awful — so impossible. Now that they’ve discovered what it feels like to kiss one another they have the same singular thought that means they have to catch up on every time they could have—should have, would have—done this before.

At this rate it might be more than Nadya’s oxygen-starved brain can handle. She’s okay with that.

Then her clothes go from sopping wet and a mild nuisance to utterly please-get-off-me and Kamilah, somehow developing a psychic tendency between the pool and the doorway, agrees. Tears her shirt quite literally off except for one lone short sleeve.

Well as long as it isn’t in the way.

The same strong grip finds her jeans and Nadya finds enough of herself to reach down and cover those hands with her own. “C-Carefu—hh,” she tries; can’t exactly manage to speak with the way Kamilah intends to suck her soul out through her mouth. But the point is made; because when her zipper catches on soaked-through denim Kamilah rips it hard enough for the clink of metal to sound off in the distance.

Nadya fumbles for purchase on anything when Kamilah’s cold hands dig into her bottoms. Find the scalding heat between her folds and drag the soft tips of her nails along Nadya’s clit. It’s too much unreleased tension at once for Nadya to even think about trying to keep her voice down but there Kamilah is ready to drink up every decibel like the best wine in the world.

The door jamb digs into her back; makes Nadya arch her spine as much as she can with a whine of complaint — until there’s no doorway under her hand, rather a pillow instead, and the soft press of a mattress bends with her and takes Nadya from Cloud Nine to Heaven itself.

Three miracles happen at once.

The first is a crack of lightning against the window-wall of Nadya’s room. Gerard’s kept the curtains pulled back — knows she likes seeing the city at night to help her fall asleep. The brightness blinds her now but who needs sight when she can feel—touch—taste all that’s atop her.

The second is the tentative exploration and press of Kamilah’s fingers inside her. Cold as ice yet slick with her arousal Nadya keens loud, unabashed. Suddenly wishes she hadn’t said a thing about the jeans because they’re too tight—too cold—they need to be gone.

And the third scares her; Kamilah pulling away and the rush of air in her lungs making her dizzy but the vampiress holds herself just out of reach of a ravishing. She looks down at her prone, human form and suddenly Nadya wants to cover up — hide in the darkness and away from the omniscient quality of Kamilah’s eyes. She can see herself reflected back in them and she looks…

With a cocked head Kamilah crooks one finger inside her and Nadya stops caring what she looks like. Settles instead on how incomparable this right here is to any ridiculous notion her imagination may have had before because the real thing is leagues better. Leagues.

With desperate, high-pitched noises Nadya tries to shimmy her hips on the bedspread. Either to strip or encourage Kamilah to keep with the ripping of the clothes.

She doesn’t. Just bends her other finger and draws a lazy circle with the pad of her thumb that Nadya weeps for.

Time might keep going around them but it certainly doesn’t mean a whole lot. The world outside the confines of the bed, through the door and out of the building where Adrian isn’t safe and her friends mourn their losses and plotters of evil lurk in the shadows — it surrounds them and it’s still important but it just doesn't seem to matter.

Not when the dexterous goddess above her maneuvers a third finger in the continued pursuit of exploring all the ways to drive Nadya absolutely wild.

Kamilah’s nail scrapes along her clit again — sends shocks of pleasure-bordered-pain that she would howl into the air above them if familiar lips weren’t suddenly suffocating her.

Oh my god oh my god ohmygod — Is she saying it out loud? Does it really matter? Because Kamilah isn’t stopping and Nadya doesn’t want her to stop — not ever. Wants the rest of her life to be frozen in this exact moment in time until Death comes a-knocking.

She’s digging her fingertips into Kamilah’s back; writhing underneath her with wordless sounds and the imprint of lightning behind her closed eyelids. Everything hurts only because it’s too much and that’s the best way to be.

Slowly Kamilah peels her lips away — replaces it with a steady but soft grip on Nadya’s jaw. Her forefinger strokes along the damp curve of her human cheek.

Nadya tries not to think about the vulnerability of the moment. Of how Kamilah can see her clear as day yet she has to squint in the black to try and make out the woman’s expression — to know if she’s doing something right.

Don’t grow tired after this… Don’t become bored of me.

The hand tilts Nadya’s jaw. Urges her to the side to expose the pounding veins in her neck.

There’s a small bit of rational Nadya left in her brain and she sets off the bells and whistles while screaming with a bullhorn. Stop! Danger! Alert! Vampire!! VAMPIRE!!! She doesn’t know whether it wants her to stop or to get Kamilah to stop but it nearly wins — nearly convinces her to take a metaphorical step back and turn back to better things like kissing. Kissing was excellent.

Instead, and in contrast to everything safe, she holds her breath — closes her eyes. Lets Kamilah take the lead (like she hasn’t been already?) because not only does she deserve to be eaten if this is what everything has been leading to but she trusts the woman above her.

She trusts her with her blood. With her life.

Despite the pool of molten pleasure she’s drowning in Nadya can’t help but tense when Kamilah descends on her neck. Readies herself the only way she knows how — thinks of all the times she’s had shots or stitches in her life and tries to put them all together at once and imagines that is what being bitten by a vampire feels like.

Being bitten by a vampire feels extremely soft, actually. Then she realizes she’s not being bitten at all but instead just kissed somewhere new.

Her pulse thunders under Kamilah’s lips; trying to stop it only makes her heart race faster, her blood pump harder. Then there’s a hot breath and warm scrape that makes her cringe but Kamilah’s teeth stay blunt on her skin. The warmth of her tongue drags along goosebumps and makes Nadya briefly consider passing out to stop herself from having the opportunity to do something embarrassing.

Below her belt Kamilah’s fingers begin to move faster. Slick and sticky; warmed to the inside of Nadya’s body and eager for something very nearly in sight. She trails kisses mouthed along the human’s sweaty neck. There’s something building up inside her — but doesn’t that something mean there might be an end?

God, please never let this end. Please.

Faster and faster — there’s no way a human would be able to match that speed and if she could form words she’d accuse Kamilah of cheating. Lucky for her Nadya can’t form words. Legs trembling in oscillating waves; so violent she’s fearful of actually kicking the woman then in such small movements her muscles strain with the effort.

Kamilah’s lips stop at their goal. Playfully nip the lobe of Nadya’s ear before she noses the shell with a cat-like purr.

Desperately Nadya tries to turn her head, feels that something with one foot off of the cliff; wants to see the look in Kamilah’s eyes — or vice versa.

She’s one strangled breath away from begging for the woman’s attention when there’s a sigh in her ear. Kamilah’s voice is dark and somehow forbidden. It rasps heavy on her heart and brings up a literal geyser of emotions — all wordless in nature — that lock her limbs and god they hurt but she never wants them to go away.

“I’m here,” whispers Kamilah, “I’ve got you.”

Yes, Nadya has cried more in the last few days then she has in her entire life and yes she’s pretty tired of it. But when she literally sobs her release with shuddering hips and thighs clenching around Kamilah’s hand she doesn’t mind one bit.

Doesn’t mind the light, torturous way the woman peppers kisses down her neck to her heart hammering between her sweat-slicked breasts and kisses there, too. Right on the flat of her sternum. Piercing it like a knife to the heart.

Kamilah rides her through her orgasm like she’s taming a beast — shushes Nadya’s fumbled failed attempts at words and caresses her soaked hair with a free hand. Playfully (maybe, because there has to be some torture technique achingly similar and if anyone would know it, Kamilah would) flicks Nadya’s clit with lazy strokes of her thumb until it’s no longer an aftershock but the pain of going too hard for too long and being too exhausted to get the good things going.

When Kamilah speaks again the calm demand of her tone is gone; replaced by something that maybe—possibly—once upon a time could have been called affection.

Even now—especially now—she’s just not sure.

“I’ve got you, Nadya.”

Like a trigger pulled exhaustion falls down on her chest in a weight. Makes it hard to breathe, think, do anything other than curl into herself as tightly as she can and press against Kamilah’s solid presence.

Something that sounds vaguely like “stay” rolls off her tongue tasting of heavy cotton. Kamilah shushes her and mindlessly Nadya obeys.

“I’m here…”

The dark that claims her is warm; inviting.

Kamilah kisses her forehead.

“I’ve got you.”

[christianmenatwork]

Friendship A Must Not a Want-Selah46-CMAW134

S

  I have a couple devotions I want to share with you on the topic of friendship but first I want to share you some of my thoughts.

I was recently contacted by David Smith who I interviewed in episode 86 about his book “Who’s Got Your Back” about the importance of friendships for men. He was very concerned as I am about the negative this pandemic has had on men due to the fact that men aren’t meeting together in friendship and are very isolated. David and I are working on scheduling a conversation on this topic for a future podcast.

I’ve been working from home primarily but recently was able to catch up in person with a friend and he opened up to me and asked me to pray for something going on in his life. It occurred to me that would not have happened on the phone or on a Zoom call.

I’m working with the leaders at my church to have a one day men’s retreat at my home later this summer because I know how much men need this. They need to physically get together with other men who are believers in Christ.

My wife and I just heard a presentation at our church about the Alpha project. The purpose of this is to invite unbelievers to your home to go through a video series about the big questions of life and to have safe nonjudgmental conversations. We plan to lead an Alpha group and to start our invitation list with our neighbors.

I believe we are in the end times and I believe all of us desperately need solid, real, meaningful relationships in a few key areas. First we need to be close to God. For those of that are married we need to be close to our wives. We need to be close to a few brothers in Christ and finally we need to have friendships with unbelievers that will lead to increasing their awareness of Christ and coming to salvation. Each of these relationships are unique but they all share at least one thing in common: none of them happen by accident. They require intentional, ongoing persistent action on our part.

I want to challenge you to think about each of these critical relationships: God, your wife, your brothers in Christ and unbelievers in your life.  What is the current status of these relationships for you? What is God calling you to do to improve on these? And finally, take a moment to ponder on what these could look like, how your life, the lives of these other people and those affected by your relationships would be different if each of these relationships were better, were more closely in line with Gods will. And think about how, when you see each of these people in heaven, might that meeting be different as a result of changes you make now while here on earth.

  Ok, now I want to share with you 2 devotions on this topic from some familiar sources. The first Is from Brian Biggers

From Lambs Chapel In Burlington, NC, found at tlcalive.com. The second is from Justin Camps Wire devotional for men, found at wire for men.com

  The Power of Friendship

  As iron sharpens iron, so a man sharpens the countenance of his friend.

Proverbs 27:17

    There are very few things as dear as a true friend. The kind you can talk openly to, you can call at any time for help and you truly enjoy being around. Genuine friendship is one of the greatest gifts God ever gave us. However, as good as all of those benefits are, it is in this verse that we find the true God given purpose of friendship. The Divine purpose of a friend is to "sharpen us". The picture in this verse hearkens back to a day gone by when a man would use two swords to sharpen each other. He would place the blades at an appropriate angle against one another and then he would slide blade against blade to sharpen them both. They needed each other to do for each other what they could not do by themselves. A blade cannot sharpen itself. Rare is the person that can grow spiritually, relationally, mentally and morally all by themselves. Our creator so designed us that we need other people to press us on to our destiny in Him. A friend that refuses to sharpen you, one that will never confront you over issues that need to be dealt with in your life is no friend at all. If someone refuses to "do surgery" on you where it is needed, find you another friend. The Bible says that "faithful are the wounds of a friend". When Dr. Graham told me that I had cancer on my neck and that she was going to cut it out, I didn't get offended at her and distance myself from her. I knew she was going to hurt me in order to help me. That is a true friend. They love you too much to let a cancer of hatred, bitterness, selfishness, addiction or anything else destructive to go unchallenged in you. Do you have a true friend like that? It might be a spouse, a child, a coworker or a neighbor. But, blessed is one who has a true friend that cares more about you and your family's wellbeing than about never offending you. Receive their sharpening!  Two swords that will never grind against one another are useless to sharpen. However, two swords that come at each other head on will not sharpen either. They will destroy each other. A true friend has only one goal in confrontation. That is the wellbeing of you and your family. There is no desire to inflict pain just to watch you suffer. Today many "friendships" are toxic. They actually leave people worse for the relationship. I would encourage you to distance yourself from people that do not "sharpen you", rather they have a detrimental effect on you. A "friend" that is not causing you to grow in grace is a poor investment of your valuable time and emotional energy. The Bible is very clear that a friend will make you a better person for being in that relationship. Have the courage to invest your life in a few close friends that are going where you want to go in life and become "iron sharpening iron" to one another. We may have many acquaintances in our journey, but we really need one or two true friends that will cause us to be much better people because our paths crossed. Pray that God will give you such a friend. Pray that God will make you such a friend.

    Father, I thank you for the people that you have placed around me that have made me better by the relationship. Let me be to someone the "iron" that they need to be who you created them to be.

  With Whom Do You Gather?

[ 1 min read ★ ]

      For where two or three are gathered . . . 

there am I among them—Matthew 18:20

    We men often find it hard to gather with other men in Christian community. Calendars are full: “I just don’t have time for one more thing.” Pride is high: “I’m good . . . I’m doing fine on my own.” Aversion to vulnerability is strong: “Oh, man . . . I’m just not that good at opening up.” If we are followers of our King, Jesus Christ, though, we must gather—“not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some” (Hebrews 10:25).

  But . . . why? Why is community so important for men? Well, a couple reasons. “Two are better than one,” Scripture tells us—we are stronger, less vulnerable, together(Ecclesiastes 4:9).

  “For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up” (Ecclesiastes 4:10).

  Even more important, though, Jesus tells us that he is uniquely present when we gather in his name (Matthew 18:20). You see, God the Holy Spirit dwells within each follower of Jesus. (John 14:17) Therefore, when we gather, the power of the Spirit flows from one to another and back. When we gather, the work of God is done: confessions are made; sins are repented; love and compassion are expressed; hearts are healed; encouragement is given; lives are transformed. Men are lifted up, up out of sin and rebellion, into life and identity and calling. Work is done that just cannot be done in isolation.

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Demario at Lowe’s who loaded up some topsoil in my vehicle. I was feeling kind of guilty for watching him load my car and so started thanking him and joking saying I would do the work on the other end and he said “all work is good Sir”

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So the people asked him, saying, “What shall we do then?” He answered and said to them, “He who has two tunics, let him give to him who has none; and he who has food, let him do likewise.” Then tax collectors also came to be baptized, and said to him, “Teacher, what shall we do?” And he said to them, “Collect no more than what is appointed for you.” Likewise the soldiers asked him, saying, “And what shall we do?” So he said to them, “Do not intimidate anyone or accuse falsely, and be content with your wages.”

Luke 3:10-14

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From Ben LaCorte

Ask questions.  See book "Tactics" by Greg Koukl. He says to leave a stone in their shoe.

  H - John Shirey - Time Management

Stephen Covey's book "First Things First" talked about everything we do is in 1 of 4 quadrants, either urgent or not urgent and important or not important.  Quadrant 1, important and urgent needs to be managed. Quadrant 2, important and not urgent, is where we should spend most of our time. Quadrant 3, urgent and not important you want to avoid and learn to say no.  Quadrant, not urgent and not important should be minimized.

Check out this episode!