#ARM System on Modules

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

baby daddy (j.t.)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: Some blood and stuff

Word Count: 7.1k

A/N: I'll be so honest, this was way better in my head lol my execution needs work because aint no way this is 7k words and im still not satisfied perhaps this would be best as a series? but tbh i dont think i can write much more than this

It's based on this post from @batbusiness-schooldropout

"Alright, who the hell snitched?"

Jason stormed into the Batcave, helmet tucked under his arm, pissed.

Tim barely looked up from the Batcomputer, "What are you talking about?"

Jason gestured wildly, "I just had a fun little run-in with a couple of GCPD officers who very politely informed me that I have an outstanding legal matter that needs my attention. Which is news to me because I don’t exactly file taxes or have jury duty, so what the hell are they trying to pull?"

Tim blinked, "You have a warrant?"

"That’s what I’m asking you!" Jason snapped.

Tim, now curious, spun back to the screen, "Alright, let’s check."

He typed in Red Hood and cross-checked it with Gotham’s legal system. A few minor infractions came up—nothing serious—but then…

There it was.

Tim frowned, "Huh."

Jason narrowed his eyes, "What?"

"It’s… not a warrant," Tim said slowly, "It’s a summons."

Jason crossed his arms, "For what?"

Tim clicked on the file. A scanned document popped up, the words 'LEGAL NOTICE' at the top.

"Looks like someone filed you as a legal guardian," Tim muttered, "Gotham’s courts have been trying to notify you for a while now. They probably flagged it to GCPD just to get it on your radar."

Jason scoffed, "Guardian? Of who?"

Tim clicked again, "A kid named Aria (L/N)."

Jason frowned, "That name means nothing to me."

Tim went still.

Jason’s stomach sank, "...What?"

Tim very slowly turned the screen toward him.

Jason stared.

Child’s Name: Aria (L/N) Mother: (Y/N) (L/N) Father: Red Hood

His brain just stopped working.

Dick, passing by with his coffee, glanced at the screen, "Oh, damn. Jay, you finally settling down?"

Jason whipped around to glare at him, "I don’t know this woman! I don’t have a kid!"

"Legally, you do." Tim pointed out.

Jason turned back to the screen, rubbing his temples, "Why is my life like this?"

Tim scrolled further, "Looks like the mother put your name down instead of the real father’s. And since Gotham courts don’t do DNA tests without permission from both parents… that guy got screwed out of custody."

Jason clenched his jaw, "And now they’re trying to find me because I’m on record as the dad."

Tim squinted at the file, then choked.

Jason looked at him warily, "...What?"

Tim covered his mouth, trying so hard not to laugh, "There's a comments section."

Jason leaned over his shoulder, eyes scanning the document. Then he saw it.

Additional Comments: "He kept the helmet on the whole time."

The Cave went dead silent.

Jason stared. Tim bit his lip. Dick was turning red trying not to lose it.

Then—

Tim wheezed.

Dick howled.

Jason smacked his forehead against the Batcomputer, "I hate everything."

He then exhaled sharply, cutting off his mental breakdown before muttering, "Okay. Fine. I’ll go find the mother and figure this out."

Dick snickered, "Tell Aria Daddy’s coming home."

Jason threw a batarang at him.

***

"Hi, honey, I'm home."

The distorted, robotic voice from his helmet made you freeze in place. Your pulse thundered in your ears, dread settling like a stone in your stomach. You knew exactly why the Red Hood was in your apartment.

You turned slowly, keeping your hands in sight as if that would make a difference, "Please, don't. My daughter is in the next room. She only has me."

"Don't you mean our daughter?" He bit out, sarcasm cutting through the voice modulator.

Despite whatever anger he held toward you, he hesitated, feeling pity. You must have looked terrified.

"I'm not here to hurt you," He said after a beat, "I just want an explanation."

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm, "Her father is an asshole. I couldn’t let him have any rights over her, so I wrote your name down on all her documents. Gotham has no way of verifying, so they just had to take my word for it."

You met his gaze, your voice steady despite the situation, "I’m sorry if I made things complicated for you, but this was the only way I knew to keep his hands off her."

Jason exhaled sharply, shifting his weight, "How long did you think this would go unnoticed?"

You hesitated before answering, "Well… 'our' daughter turned five last month, so I figured you weren't going to find out anytime soon. Guess I was wrong."

You knew of Red Hood. You knew what he stood for. No matter what, he would never hurt a child. Ever. And if the rumors about him were true, then he would realize that you had only been acting in Aria’s best interest.

He studied you, the lenses of his helmet unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his scrutiny. This was an invasion of privacy—probably illegal, even—but instead of anger, he seemed... intrigued. You weren’t what he expected. You were clever, maybe even reckless, but clearly devoted to your daughter.

And—if he was being honest—pretty. Definitely pretty.

"Why me?" He finally asked, "Why not any of the other Bats?"

You shrugged, "Of all of them, you seemed like the least likely for civil court to track down." That much was true—any time someone tried to drag Red Hood into Gotham’s legal system, he either ignored it or laughed in their face before firing a warning shot.

"You're also the scariest, aside from Batman. And I didn’t want him getting any ideas about recruiting Aria for his next child vigilante project once Robin retires again." You smirked, "Lastly, having a baby daddy without a no-kill rule seemed like a great way to keep that deadbeat asshole far, far away from us."

Jason flat-out laughed at that. The sound, even through the voice modulator, carried warmth.

"You make an excellent argument," He admitted.

You relaxed slightly, "I am sorry. If I knew it was going to bother you, I never would have done it."

He shrugged, completely unbothered, "Doesn’t bother me. You were doing right by your kid. I can respect that."

Relief washed over you, and you smiled. You didn’t push the conversation further—if he wanted to be taken off her documents, he’d ask.

Instead, he surprised you.

"Can I meet her?"

Your breath caught, "Who? Aria?"

"I mean, legally, she’s my kid, right? That means I have visitation rights."

Apprehension prickled at the edges of your mind. Had you just swapped out one danger for another? You had gone to great lengths to keep Aria safe from one man—had you unknowingly invited another into her life?

Jason seemed to sense your hesitation. "You can say no," He said, almost gently, "But I just found out I have a daughter today. I’d like to meet the girl who made you pull a stunt this reckless and brave."

You could say no. You probably should say no.

And yet, as you looked at the masked man standing in your too-small living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

"...Okay," You said at last, "But you might want to take off the mask. She scares easy."

Jason chuckled, low and amused. You half-expected him to refuse, to make some offhanded comment before declining the invitation and leaving, but instead, you heard the soft click as he unlocked his helmet and pulled it off.

Dark, slightly messy hair with a single white streak. Stormy blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones and full lips.

"Wow," You breathed before you could stop yourself.

He raised a brow.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warming, "I can see where our daughter gets her good looks from."

Jason snorted, shaking his head.

"Aria, honey!" You called, turning toward her room, "Come out for a second, please!"

The door creaked open, followed by the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet. Aria emerged in a pink tutu, a plastic wand in her hands, and a sparkly tiara perched on her head.

She blinked up at Jason with wide, curious eyes.

"This is Mommy’s friend, Red Hood," You told her, "He wanted to say hi."

Aria beamed, "Hi, Mr. Hood!" She grabbed the edges of her tutu and curtsied, just like the princesses in her favorite cartoons.

You glanced at Jason. His expression had softened, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. For a man who had probably seen the worst the world had to offer, he looked completely in awe.

Jason, the Red Hood—the most terrifying name in Gotham’s underworld—cleared his throat, gripping his helmet a little tighter.

"Uh. Hi there." He said, voice definitely shaking.

You bit your lip, looking down to hide your smile.

This huge crime lord, who had probably seen more murders tonight than you had in your entire life, was nervous talking to a five-year-old.

Aria giggled, "You talk funny."

Jason blinked, "I do?"

She nodded, "Your voice is all rumbly! Like Batman!"

Jason made a very undignified sound, "I am nothing like Batman, princess."

Aria gasped dramatically, "You know Batman?!"

***

Jason didn’t know exactly how he ended up in this position.

After that first meeting with Aria, he’d been more than ready to let you both get back to your lives. You had only put his name down as Aria's father to scare off her real father; he had no place here.

And yet.

When he found himself alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling, or in the rare moments of silence while working on cars, his mind drifted. He’d think about Aria—her wide, innocent eyes staring up at him, the way she had curtsied like a damn princess, completely unafraid of the man Gotham whispered about in fear.

An unfamiliar squeeze tugged at his heart.

He had a daughter.

And the more he thought about her, the more he wanted to protect her—to keep that innocence untouched, to make sure she was safe and happy. He wanted to be a father.

Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to you.

You hadn't spoken for long, but somehow, you’d managed to stick in his mind. Despite it being the end of the day, exhaustion tugging at you, there had been a light in your eyes—something warm, something alive. He found himself drawn to it.

The confidence in your posture, the way you had no trouble meeting his eyes, the sheer sass you had thrown his way despite knowing exactly who he was. And above all, the love and protectiveness you had for Aria.

You were nothing like anyone he had ever met before.

A couple of days later, he found himself knocking at your door again.

He had told himself it was just to check on Aria after a Joker attack. That was reasonable, right? He had to make sure she was safe. That’s all it was.

You had offered him dinner. He declined.

Then, a couple of days after that, he found himself there again—this time after a Poison Ivy incident.

You offered him dinner again.

This time, he obliged.

That night, he sat at your dinner table with you and Aria, listening as she excitedly told him about school. He learned about your job, about the little details of your life, and—much to his amusement—was introduced to what Aria called the greatest meal in the entire world.

Hello Kitty-shaped pasta.

He raised a brow at you.

You shrugged, "It’s expensive, but it makes her happy."

Jason huffed a small laugh, "What’s the special occasion?"

Aria beamed, practically vibrating in her seat.

"I got made line leader today!" She announced proudly.

You glanced at her with a mix of amusement and pride, eyes warm, "It’s a big deal."

Jason turned to Aria, his chest tightening at the way she puffed herself up with pride. Without thinking, he reached out and ruffled her hair like it was second nature.

"Good job, princess," He murmured.

Her entire face lit up.

And just like that, Jason Todd was done for.

It had been two months since Jason first met the both of you, and now, sitting at the dinner table, he was experiencing his first real parental crisis.

It was obvious that Aria was in a bad mood.

She barely touched her food, half-heartedly pushing it around her plate. Even when you suggested ordering takeout—usually a foolproof way to lift her spirits—she just shook her head. You and Jason exchanged a concerned glance over her head.

Something was clearly wrong.

You sighed, resigning yourself to the hope that she’d tell you before bed or at least over breakfast tomorrow.

"I'm just gonna go take a shower, do you mind?" You asked, gesturing toward Aria.

Jason didn’t hesitate before nodding.

You smiled gratefully, pressing a kiss to Aria’s crown before leaning over and doing the same to Jason.

A month ago, that would’ve made him jump out of his skin. Now, after two months of shared dinners—some planned, others happening more naturally—he only sat there, heart racing in his chest, pretending that wasn’t the highlight of his day.

When he heard the shower turn on, he turned to Aria with a mischievous grin.

"Okay, Mom’s in the shower. What do you say to ice cream for dinner?"

Jason liked to pretend you had no idea whenever he and Aria snuck ice cream together. But ever since he convinced you to let him make homemade ice cream with protein shakes and sneaky healthy ingredients, you had stopped putting up much of a fight. Besides, he wasn’t exactly subtle. If he didn’t outright tell you, the dirty dishes in the sink were more than enough of a giveaway.

More than anything, though, he just wanted Aria to eat something.

But tonight, instead of the excited little gasp she usually gave, Aria just frowned.

"Mommy doesn’t like that."

"Princess," He said more gently, shifting in his seat, "is something wrong? You love ice cream. And Mom made one of your favorites tonight, but you’re not eating, and…" His voice softened, "That makes me sad."

Aria hesitated for a few seconds before pushing her plate away and sliding off her chair. Jason tensed, heart thudding slightly faster. Shit, did I upset her? Is she about to cry?

But she didn’t.

Instead, she ran off, returning moments later with her pink Barbie backpack. She unzipped it and rifled through its contents before pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper and handing it to him.

Jason smoothed the paper out.

And felt his stomach drop.

Daddy-Daughter Day!

"My teacher told us to give it to our parents," Aria said quietly, her lip trembling, "So our daddies can come visit one day."

She fidgeted, looking down at her hands.

"But… I don’t have a daddy."

And just like that, Jason Todd’s heart broke in two.

***

When you came out of the shower, towel-drying your hair and now dressed in your pajamas, you immediately looked around for Aria.

"She didn’t really want to eat, so I just put her to bed," Jason informed you.

You sighed, sinking into a chair at the dining table, "Do you think I should call her teacher tomorrow and ask if something happened? Maybe someone was being mean to her at school?"

Wordlessly, Jason slid a folded piece of paper across the table toward you. You furrowed your brows and picked it up, unfolding it to read.

Your face immediately darkened.

"This can’t be right!" You hissed, voice sharp with anger. "I thought schools had outfashioned practices like this! What happened to inclusivity and all that crap? What about kids with two moms? Or no parents at all? I’m calling up the school. I’m gonna be a full-blown Karen. I’m gonna—"

"(Y/N)—"

"No, Jason, this isn’t okay!"

Despite your fury, you kept your voice down for Aria’s sake. Jason wasn’t sure if you were about to explode or just strain your vocal cords with your whispered screams. But then, just as suddenly as your anger had flared, you seemed to fizzle out.

You slumped back into your chair, rubbing your face with trembling hands.

"I’ve done everything I can to make sure Aria never feels the absence of a father," You murmured.

"I’ve tried. I’ve—" Your voice cracked.

You let out a shaky breath and shielded your face with your hands, "My poor baby. I can’t believe she held onto this all day without telling me."

Jason think twice before he pulled you into his arms, letting you rest your head against his neck as you composed yourself.

After a moment, he spoke, "Look, I know it might not be the same, but… I was thinking. What if I attended the event with Aria?"

You stiffened, then slowly pulled back, meeting his eyes. Your expression wasn’t hopeful—it was guarded.

Jason’s stomach soured.

"Jay, I know we’ve been having a good time lately, but you can’t do that to Aria," You said, shaking your head, "If you go to this event as her dad, she’s going to see you as that. And you can’t—you can’t do that to her."

Jason swallowed hard. His voice was quieter when he asked, "What if I wanted to? To be seen as her dad? Would that really be so terrible?"

You didn’t answer.

You just stood up from the table and walked away.

Jason almost would have laughed at how much you resembled Aria in that moment if he didn't feel his stomach sinking to his feet.

But just like Aria, you also came back.

Clutched in your hands was a camera. You placed it in front of him, watching as he stared at you with unsure eyes.

"I record all of Aria’s school events," You said softly. "Don’t miss a second of it."

Jason blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

Before you could react, he grabbed you and twirled you around the kitchen.

You let out a surprised squeal before bursting into giggles, clinging onto his shoulders. But then, realization hit.

You were definitely not wearing a bra.

Your giggles faded, and Jason froze as well, both of you suddenly very aware of how close you were. You stared at each other, identical blushes creeping up your cheeks.

You cleared your throat.

"You can—um—you can put me down now."

***

It was almost comical how small the classroom was.

Jason had to duck his head to step inside, barely squeezing through the low doorframe. The room was packed—about fifteen other dads crammed into tiny plastic chairs that looked like they could barely support one ass cheek. Jason didn’t even bother trying. Instead, he just lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs as he settled in.

The dads around him nodded politely as they all waited for the teachers to finish setting up and taking attendance.

"I don’t think I’ve seen you around before," A man beside him said, shifting his son in his lap, "I’m David."

"Jason," He replied, shaking his hand with a firm but polite grip.

"This is Harry," David continued, gesturing to the little boy who peeked up at Jason shyly before quickly burying his face in his dad’s shirt. Jason chuckled.

"So, which one’s yours?"

Jason glanced across the room, "Over there, in the book corner."

David followed his gaze. In the far corner, a little girl in denim dungarees rifled through a stack of picture books with a very serious expression, clearly determined to find a specific one. Jason had picked out her outfit today—he’d even let her wear the tiara she refused to take off, despite your insistence that it was an inside toy.

No doubt, she was making a mess that her poor teacher would have to clean up later.

David frowned, "Who?"

"The one with the tiara," Jason said.

David's confusion deepened, "Aria?"

Jason’s brows furrowed, "Yeah."

"Aria (L/N)?"

"Yes."

David blinked, "I—I didn’t know you were—I thought (Y/N) was single."

Jason’s expression darkened. A phantom of a scowl flickered across his face before he forced himself to relax. He wasn’t about to scare off the other parents at an event that was supposed to be important for Aria.

"She isn’t," He said simply.

David paled, "Oh. Uh—sorry." He quickly bowed his head, clearly embarrassed.

Jason smirked, barely hiding his haughty attitude. So what if he told a little white lie? It wouldn’t do any harm for Dave—or Dan, or whatever his name was—to keep his sights off you.

Really, you deserved better than some average, boring guy who probably filed his taxes early and grilled chicken without seasoning. Someone like that wouldn’t know how to handle you. He wouldn’t know how to make you laugh when you were stressed, wouldn’t know how to handle your sass, wouldn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.

No, you needed someone confident. Someone strong. Someone who could protect you and Aria. Someone with a soft side, sure, but also someone who wasn’t afraid to fight for you. Someone who would go to hell and back if it meant keeping you both safe.

Someone like…

Oh.

Jason's smirk faltered for half a second before he recovered, clearing his throat and forcing himself to focus on Aria, who was still knee-deep in her book hunt.

Well. That was something to unpack later.

***

"Now, all together, everyone! On the count of three—one, two, three!" the teacher announced cheerfully.

A chorus of tiny voices rang out.

"I love you, Dad!"

It was loud, chaotic, a jumble of high-pitched shouts that somehow blended into something warm and sweet. Parents chuckled, kids giggled, the room filled with laughter and joy.

But Jason’s heart sank.

While the other kids beamed up at their fathers, Aria clutched the handmade card in tight fists, her knuckles white. She kept her head down, lip wobbling, shoulders trembling as she struggled to say the words.

Jason knelt in front of her, his heart twisting. God, she’s so small. Both of her tiny hands barely covered his palm as he gently took them in his own.

"You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, Aria," He told her softly, "I’m not going to force you to do anything. Just know that I love you very much, princess. That’s enough for me."

She finally looked up at him, somehow seeming even smaller despite the fact that he was kneeling. Her big, glassy doe eyes searched his face.

"You really love me?" She asked in the quietest whisper.

"More than anything, baby."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, before he could think about the weight they carried. About what it might mean for a little girl who had spent her whole life without a father.

For a moment, she just stared at him. Jason barely had time to register the emotion in her eyes before she launched herself at him, tiny arms wrapping tightly around his neck. She burrowed against him, her small frame pressing against his chest as she whispered into his ear—

"I love you, Daddy."

Jason felt his breath catch in his throat.

Oh. Oh.

He squeezed her tighter, pressing his face into her soft curls, "I love you too, princess," He murmured, voice thick with something he wasn’t ready to name.

And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd felt like he belonged.

***

Aria had been absolutely beaming after Daddy-Daughter Day, her excitement carrying her through the evening—especially since Jason had taken her to the park afterward. She had barely managed to get through telling you about her day, slurring her words sleepily as you tucked her into bed.

You pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, smoothing down her hair before stepping away, only to find Jason waiting for you in the doorway.

You smiled at him, reaching for his hand and leading him back to the living room. Without a word, you poured him a glass of wine, knowing that, even though he wouldn’t admit it, the day at her kindergarten had probably exhausted him. The proof was in the way he let out an almost comically heavy sigh the second he sank onto the couch.

You settled beside him, resting your head on his shoulder like it belonged there, both of you staring at the very much off television in comfortable silence.

“She has a lot of energy, doesn’t she?” You murmured, amused.

Jason huffed out a laugh, “Yeah. I like to think I’m somewhat athletic, but Aria put me to shame today.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly to look up at him, “Thanks for going today. It meant a lot to her. And to me, too.”

There was a beat of silence before Jason reached for your hand, his fingers threading through yours like second nature. His grip was warm, grounding.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

Living in Gotham, you considered yourself one of the lucky ones.

Sure, you weren’t immune to the constant calamities that plagued the city, but you had managed to avoid being caught in the worst of them. Your bank had never been robbed while you were there. You had never been held hostage. You were one of the few people left who had never fallen victim to Joker venom.

Sure, your house had been broken into before—before Aria—but you were never home when it happened.

Really, you should’ve known your luck was going to run out eventually.

You had gotten too comfortable with Jason’s late-night visits, so when the knock came at your door, you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t check the peephole. You didn’t ask who it was. You just…opened it.

Rookie mistake.

The man standing on the other side was a stranger. Tall. Built. And he made no effort to conceal the gun in his pocket.

Your blood went cold.

A smirk curled at his lips, sending goosebumps crawling up your skin. Your throat tightened.

“Hello, sweetheart. Did your baby daddy stop by?”

Your voice barely came out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man tsked, stepping forward, making you instinctively press yourself against the doorframe.

“Now, now. Don’t lie,” He murmured, “It won’t end well for you—or the little runt back there.”

Your heart stopped.

Aria.

Terror clawed at your chest, your breath shuddering. Tears burned your eyes.

“Please,” You whispered, “Don’t hurt her. She’s just a child.”

“The child of the infamous Red Hood.” He tilted his head mockingly, “You can’t possibly think that means nothing.”

You shook your head violently, “She doesn’t know anything. I don’t know anything. Please.”

Your hands were iron on the doorknob, but it meant nothing.

With a single sharp shove, he flung the door open.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

***

Jason had been having a good night.

He had just finished his patrol and was on his way to your place, eager to see you and Aria. Maybe he’d bring her some hot chocolate, tuck her into bed, and spend the rest of the night with you, pretending—for just a little while—that the world outside didn’t exist.

Then he saw the door.

Wide open.

His blood ran cold.

Jason didn’t think—he moved. Gun drawn, he stormed inside, heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. The second he stepped into the apartment, his stomach dropped.

The place was trashed.

Aria’s toys were scattered across the floor, your coffee table overturned, and the framed pictures on the wall had been knocked down, the glass shattered.

There had been a struggle.

Jason’s throat tightened as his eyes landed on a streak of blood smeared across the hardwood floor.

His world tilted.

No. No, no, no, NO.

His hands shook, but his grip on his gun only tightened. His pulse was pounding in his ears, deafening, drowning out everything but the rage that ignited in his chest like an explosion.

His vision blurred with fury.

Someone took you. Someone took Aria.

His family.

Jason turned sharply and stormed out of the apartment, his movements lethal and precise. He going to hunt down the bastards who thought they could take his girls and live to tell the tale.

They were going to pay.

***

"I need you to find two missing people."

That was the first thing out of Jason’s mouth the second he entered the cave. His urgency didn’t seem apparent enough to anyone, judging by the way Dick and Bruce didn’t even look up from sparring.

Tim, who didn’t bother glancing away from the Batcomputer, simply asked, “Who?”

“(Y/N) and Aria (L/N).”

At this, Dick perked up, “Your fake baby mama and kid? She might not be missing, Little Wing. Maybe she’s just at Superman’s baby shower.”

Dick wasn’t expecting boisterous laughter, but at least a huff of breath or a chuckle would have been appreciated. Instead, he suddenly found himself grabbed by the collar, yanked forward until he was forced to look Jason in the eye.

Jason’s expression was thunderous—fury on the surface, but something even more unsettling lurked underneath.

“The mother of my child and my daughter are missing, and you want to make jokes?”

Dick raised a brow, forcing himself to stay calm, “I thought you didn’t know them?”

Jason’s grip tightened for a second before he let go, stepping back. His voice was low, unwavering.

“I do now.”

***

The world felt like it was spinning in slow motion. Every breath was a struggle, your head pounding from the blow you’d taken earlier, your body screaming in pain with every movement. You tried to focus, tried to tell yourself it was going to be okay—that Aria was okay—but you weren’t okay.

You had been firm in your resolve, refusing to reveal anything about the Red Hood, willing to die on the hill that you knew nothing. But you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it up. So far, they had only hurt you—because when they had turned to Aria, demanding answers, she had wailed and sobbed until she peed herself. The memory made tears well in your eyes.

Your poor girl might walk out of this untouched, but she wouldn’t leave unscathed. This would haunt her for years to come.

And you knew—the second they turned back toward her, the second they so much as raised a hand in her direction—you would break. It didn’t matter how much you loved Jason. You couldn’t, wouldn’t, ever put anyone above Aria’s safety.

Her terrified little eyes stayed locked on you, watching as a trail of blood ran down the side of your face.

Then the door slammed open.

The sound echoed in the empty space, sharp and deafening. Your body tensed, your breath catching in your throat. The man holding you captive turned toward the entrance, a sneer curling his lips.

“Well, well,” He drawled, his voice sickeningly amused. “Looks like Daddy's finally joined us for the party.”

Your heart leaped in your chest. But you couldn’t show it. Not when Aria was still in danger.

With the momentary distraction, she crawled into your lap, and despite the blinding pain searing through your body, you pulled her in. She trembled against you, clutching onto you as if her life depended on it—and in a way, it did. You shielded her, wrapping your arms around her tiny frame, covering her eyes with your bloody hand.

You whispered sweet nothings into her ear, pressing weak kisses to her temple, hoping—praying—that it would be enough to comfort her.

Then came the first gunshot.

You didn’t dare look. You knew what was happening. You could hear it in the crack of bone, the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor, the sharp gasps of dying men. Jason was swift. Merciless. Tearing through the people who had dared to lay a hand on you and his daughter.

He was here.

He was going to save you.

Another body collapsed nearby, and your breath hitched. You felt yourself slipping, your limbs numb, your eyelids growing heavier by the second.

Then, his voice cut through the haze—low and desperate, but still gentle.

“Sweetheart?”

You wanted to look up at him, to reach for him, but your body was betraying you. Your vision blurred, the pain making it impossible to move.

His hand cupped your face, his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you. You tried to focus on that, tried to hold on.

“Talk to me, baby,” He murmured, his voice tight with worry.

But you couldn’t. You could barely breathe. The only thing keeping you tethered to consciousness was the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder—the scent of Jason, of safety, of home.

You felt him shift, carefully lifting you into his arms, cradling you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You instinctively leaned into him, letting his presence surround you.

Aria clung to him just as tightly, her tiny voice muffled against his chest.

“Daddy!”

Despite everything, despite the agony consuming your body, your heart swelled at hearing her call him that. When had she started calling him Dad?

Then Jason’s fingers brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. His voice was softer now, almost breaking.

“Stay with me, sweetheart.”

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his—those intense, unwavering blue eyes that had pinned you to your place the first time you had met in your apartment.

That day you had been apprehensive at best when he had asked to meet Aria, second guessing every choice you made but in the end choosing to follow your gut when it said it had a good feeling about him.

Now, you were sure of it.

“Jason,” You rasped, barely above a whisper. His head snapped down toward you instantly, his grip tightening as if he were afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“I need you to promise me something,” You murmured, your breath shallow, your chest tight.

His brows furrowed. “Anything,” He said, but the hesitance in his voice told you he already knew where this was going.

“I need you to promise…” You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to keep going, “If something happens to me… you’ll take care of Aria. Promise me, Jay.”

He froze.

For the first time since he’d stormed in, tearing through your captors like an avenging angel, he looked terrified.

His lips parted, but no words came out. You could see the battle raging inside him—the part of him that refused to believe he could lose you and the part that was too afraid not to make that promise.

“Don’t you dare say that,” He finally whispered, voice trembling, “I’m not losing you. I won’t—”

“Promise me,” You urged. You barely had the strength to grip his jacket, but you pulled weakly at the fabric anyway, needing him to understand.

His eyes glistened with unshed tears, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. But he wasn’t crying. Not yet.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he swallowed hard and nodded.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” He swore, his voice breaking. “I won’t let her grow up without you. I promise.”

The relief that washed over you was instant. Even as your vision darkened at the edges, even as your body started to give out, you felt… safe. At peace.

With your last burst of strength, you reached for Aria’s tiny hand, wrapping it in your weak grasp. You gave her a faint squeeze, managing the smallest of smiles.

“I love you,” You whispered, barely loud enough to be heard, “Both of you.”

Jason's breath hitched. His grip around you tightened, as if he could physically keep you here, tethered to him, to Aria, to the life he couldn't bear to lose.

“No, no, sweetheart—stay with me," He pleaded, his voice cracking, raw with panic. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, "You don’t get to say that like it’s the last time. You don’t—Please (Y/N)—" His voice broke completely, and for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd was afraid.

Because he knew what loss felt like. Knew it too well.

And he couldn't—wouldn't—survive losing you too.

Aria let out a whimper, squeezing your fingers with her tiny hand. "Mommy?" Her voice was so small, so scared, and it shattered something inside him.

He shifted you in his arms, holding you closer, keeping you upright even though your body was limp.

“I love you too, sweetheart," he whispered, but the words felt hollow, like a plea rather than a promise.

Aria began to sob loudly, little hands grabbing at your sleeve, trying to shake you awake, “Mommy, wake up! Please!”

Her wails were raw, desperate, but Jason had to hold her back, had to keep her from accidentally hurting you any further. His grip on her was gentle but firm, even as his own body trembled with barely restrained terror.

He buried his face in her hair, biting back the sob threatening to claw its way out of his throat. He held you tighter, as if he could physically keep your soul tethered to him, as if just holding you close would stop the light from fading from your eyes.

He had never felt this helpless.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the man who had clawed his way back from the grave, who had survived horrors most people couldn’t even imagine—he was useless when it mattered most.

He was holding the broken pieces of this family.

A family that had been good, that had been safe before he came into the picture. A family that had welcomed him with open arms, treated him as though he had never been missing in the first place.

And what had he done in return?

He had ruined it.

He had brought his war, his bloodstained hands, his cursed existence into your lives, and now you were paying the price for it.

If he had never been selfish enough to stay, to want this, to think—even for a second—that he could have something good, that he could deserve you, this never would have happened.

This was his fault.

It was always his fault.

His mother’s betrayal. His death. His resurrection. The people he killed. The people he couldn’t save.

And now you.

Jason clenched his jaw, his breath coming out in ragged, uneven gasps. His heart slammed against his ribs as guilt and fury warred inside him. His hands, hands that had broken men, hands that had torn Gotham’s underworld apart, could do nothing but hold onto the only two people in the world who had ever made him feel like he was worth something.

But what was he worth now?

What good was he if he couldn’t even protect the people he loved?

Jason let out a shaking breath, pressing a kiss to Aria’s head, squeezing his eyes shut as he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

He never should have stayed.

***

Jason kept his head down as he exited your hospital room, feeling his heart break under the weight of his own resolve—to stay away from both of you.

He spotted his father waiting at the reception, handling the paperwork and payment. As much as Jason felt like the lowest he had ever been and didn’t want anyone to see him like this, he was a little relieved. At least Bruce was here. At least he could leave knowing you were taken care of. He could go home, lock himself in his apartment, and spend the next few weeks trying to forget you. Trying to convince himself that he had been an idiot for ever thinking he had a place in your family.

Because thanks to him, your family had almost been destroyed.

With his head down, he walked up to Bruce, hands stuffed in his pockets. His father gave him a sympathetic pat on the back, but Jason didn’t want to talk. If he opened his mouth now, if he let himself breathe wrong, he knew the lump in his throat would break, and the tears would come pouring out.

"Daddy!"

The sound of Aria’s voice snapped his head up just in time for her to crash into him, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a desperate grip. Before he could even think, he was holding her, hugging her tight, feeling her little body shake.

"Daddy, don’t leave! Mommy and I need you! Please don’t go!"

Jason looked at her tear-streaked face and felt something deep inside himself crack. He beat himself up for even considering walking away. How could he? How could he leave while you were still lying in a hospital bed? How could he abandon Aria when she needed him most?

His baby girl.

She needed him. And the truth was—he needed her just as much. He needed both of you.

Right then and there, he made a promise to himself. He would protect you both more than anything. He would love you both more than anything. And he would stop at nothing to make sure you were happy and safe.

Pressing his nose against Aria’s wet cheek, he kissed away her tears, "I’m not going anywhere, princess. Daddy’s not going anywhere."

He stole a glance at Bruce, who gave him a small smile and a nod. With a steadier heart, he carried Aria back to your hospital room.

The second she saw you, Aria gasped, "Mommy!"

You gave Jason a tired smile from your place on the bed, the cut on your lip making it painful to do so, but you still reached out for his hand.

"I thought you would’ve left, wallowing in your guilt. Your masochistic streak and all that," You teased softly.

Jason let out a shaky breath, giving you a glassy-eyed smile before pressing another kiss to Aria’s temple.

"Our girl knows how to keep me grounded."

You grinned at that, exhaustion clear in your features but warmth shining in your eyes.

"She’s her father’s daughter, alright."

***

State of New Jersey Department of Family and Child Services Official Adoption Certificate

This document certifies that on 17/03/2025, Jason Peter Todd has legally adopted Aria (L/N), hereafter known as Aria Todd, and is recognized as her father with all parental rights and responsibilities.

Adoptive Parent: Jason Peter Todd Child’s Name (Amended): Aria Todd Birth Mother: (Y/N) Todd Previous Father Listed: Red Hood (Alias) — Amended

Additional Comments: "I’m not the stepdad. I’m the dad who stepped up." — Jason Todd

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

DC Taglist:

@tchatso

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

@tadpole-san

@isawachickeninatree

@uxavity

@battlenix

@capricorn-stark

@evermoore580

@dumbbitchgalore

@fuckingjinkies

@some-lovely-day

@that-one-fangirl69

@el-hrts

[bortalis]

My concepts for the development progress of an Iterators Puppet

-my ideas below

-Feasibility Study  

[1]: First autonomous control module, any instruction to be given must be done manually through physical means (the keys), outputs were shown through the screen. A very primitive system, however, did its job proving the greater machine concept was achievable. While it does look like a lens above the monitor, this was a simple status gauge for benchmarking.

-Prototyping and Development  

[2]: Now with the capability to wirelessly and audibly communicate to receive instructions and inputs. The system was no longer directly integrated into the facility, and resided on the first instance of an iterator's arm. This was considered a feat due to the complications with isolating the control module from the rest of the iterators components, while keeping processing power. A permanent connection/umbilical was needed to sustain life and function though. 

To “talk” back, they were crafted with multidimensional projectors, the mobile arm allowing the angles and variance for this projection. Only later into development were advanced speakers installed for optimized understanding, however the extra computing power required to synthesize proper speech was found to strain the contained module, so this function had rare use in the end.

[3]: At this point there was a change in perspective in the project. What once were machines to simply compute and simulate, were now planned to be the home, caregiver, and providers. The further the project came to fruition the more religious importance was placed upon these “random gods”. From this stance not only did the puppets have to manage and control their facilities, they had to communicate with the people and priests. To represent benevolent beings who will bring their end and salvation. In this process iterators began to take a more humanoid shape, to better reflect their parents. Development was focused on compacting the puppet closer to the size of an ancient for this purpose. This stage was the first to incorporate a cloak/clothing into their design considerations, to further akin themselves in looks. The cloak would hide the iterators' engineered bodies and give a body to their silhouette. 

[4]: As bioengineering and mechanics were rapidly progressing due to the void fluid revolution, this allowed plenty of margin for developing the outer design of the iterator puppets. This prototype was the first to incorporate limbs for the purpose of body language. This was another step in the drive to give a body to their random gods.

-Final Iterations

[5]: First generation iterators had the final redesign of puppet bodies. Far different from their first designs, they are fully humanoid. Their bodies are shaped to be organic and as full of life as they could at the time. Their center of sapience has fully settled within their body, as can be seen as their unconscious use of limbs without the direct intention for communication. This can also see how they manage their work, where many of the functions (which can be done with just an internal request) are operated through physical gestures of their limbs. Their puppet chambers also allow for full comprehensive projection, where many of their working monitors are displayed. It is seen how iterators prefer to utilize their traversal arm to transfer between the current working projection window.

These designs were hardy and nearly self-sufficient, only requiring minimal power from their umbilical to charge. (However was still limited in the terms of internal power production, for this first generation extensive batteries sufficed)

[6]: Later generation not only incorporated advanced bioengineering internally, but externally. While still a hardened shell, their body plates have been incorporated into the organics of the puppet, maintaining the protective requirements while barely leaving a trace of hinges or plates. This “soft” skin had drawbacks, such as reduced durability to the first generations, this was offset by the greatly enhanced repair speeds and capability this type of skin allowed.

Internal power generation was implemented into these late generation models. If the case arose, the Puppet could be disconnected from their umbilical and still be conscious from an undefined period of time. (However this would limit the operating capacity of the puppet when running self sufficiently) This greatly eased maintenance works, as the Puppet could still run the greater facility wirelessly while work was done on the chamber, arm or whatever as needed.

[forlinx]

System on Module Manufacturer

SoM manufacturers offer various types of SoMs and help customers quickly develop and deploy their applications.

Choosing the right SoM for your application requires considering factors such as processor type, memory capacity, software support, and development tools.

When selecting a SoM manufacturer, it is important to consider aspects such as supply capability, technical support, and after-sales service. Read More:

[madaboutmunson]

Tag, You’re It

For the dailydrabble prompt 'Tag, You're It' by @strangerthingswritersguild

Ao3 Link

“No-no-no Sheepies. Eddie doesn’t do sports,” Eddie drawled lying back on the grassy hillside and pulling his sunglasses over his eyes.

There was a collective groan from the kids.

“It’s not even sports,” Dustin complained, “It’s more like...uh...like capturing a castle.”

“Capturing a castle?” Eddie scoffed, peering over the top of his sunglasses. “Aren’t you all a little old to be chasing one another around in a field, defending a tree stump?” He was aware of how hypocritical this was, only a few weekends ago he had been charging around a forest defending a tree stump of his own, albeit in character.

A frustrated blush rose to Mike’s face, “It’s not like that. It’s timed and-and there's a prize. Well two. And if you capture the stump you add a rule.”

“A prize?” Eddie yawned and leaned back on his hands on the grass.

“You’re not selling this,” Lucas huffed at Mike.

“Sinclair’s right you’re not. Be Gone!” Eddie sighed wearily and waved them away.

“Come on Eddie it’s embarrassing out there, the girls have Steve on their team,” Dustin whined.

“He’s only playing to spite me,” Mike grumbled folding his arms.

“He asked if we wanted some help, and genius Mike here laughed and said he had too much hairspray in to be on the boy’s team,” Lucas griped, “Now he’s kicking our ass, especially with his stupid rules.”

“Stupid rules?” Eddie asked with a deeper sigh. He was not interested in the game itself but he figured they weren’t moving, so he might as well get the gossip.

“Every time he gets the stump he makes up a rule so none of us can tag him,” Mike scowled.

“Huh? You can make up a rule that you can’t be tagged? Sounds like a glaring pit fall in the rules system here,” Eddie chuckled.

“No. He’ll say we can only tag him if we compliment him, or tell him he’s the best, or sing, or something,” Lucas added.

“Sounds pretty easy to me?” Eddie said looking between the three high-schoolers pausing for them, but its clear all the running had put their brains out to lunch, “Just say the thing.”

“NO WAY!” They yelled in unison.

“If you wanna win, sometimes you gotta swallow your pride guys. Now if you could stop casting your shadows so I can catch some rays, and take your putrid aromas with you, that would be splendid. Thanks.”

The three of them huddled up. Eddie could hear them muttering.

“What if we got you some beers?” Dustin asked, “Or a new D&D module?”

“Where are you pipsqueaks gonna get alcohol from?” Eddie laughed.

“The Christmas stash my mom has, she won’t notice anything is missing, Nancy, has taken a whole vodka bottle from it before,” Mike replied.

Eddie sat up, “I’m listening. Why do you wanna win so badly anyway?”

“At first it was for a bag of candy and who gets to choose the next film at the movies, but now we just really wanna beat Steve, he’s mocking us out there.”

Eddie peeked around the trio and true enough Steve Harrington looked pretty damn pleased with himself, and pretty damn cute. He was wearing very fitted athletic shorts and a snug white tank top that clung to his broad shoulders, as anyone in their right mind would being doing that close to Steve, sweat patches making it almost translucent in places, with his chest hair poking out the top. If that wasn't bad enough he was celebrating by flexing his muscles to mock the boys. Eddie took a deep inhale of breath, because he didn't realise he had been holding it.

“Alright, I’ll win it for you, but I don’t wanna hear a peep out you three begging me for shit the rest of the summer. Got it?”

They nodded in unison as Eddie got up, dusted off his denim cutoffs and tank top and pushed his sunglasses into his hair.

“Let’s take down a King,” Eddie grinned with malevolence.

Steve frowned as they approached the field again, “Munson? You joining us?”

“Yeah, thought I’d even the teams out. I heard the numbers were uneven?”

“And you’re the one to bring balance to the game?” Steve asked raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Eddie said confidently, with his hands on his hips.

A laugh bubbled out of Steve getting louder until he was doubled over.

Eddie’s lip twitched, but he keeps his cool, “Well are we playing or what?”

The teams spaced out, and Eddie flexed his fingers, and bolted for the stump as soon as Robin blew the whistle.

His team mates flanked him but each of them fell, tackled by Max, El, and Erica.

Just as Eddie was about to leap for the stump Harrington beats him to it.

“Freeze!” Robin shouted and Eddie sneered at being stuck in place, “Go ahead, Steve.”

Harrington tapped his chin thoughtfully, “You can only tag me if you recite me a poem.”

There was a collective groan, but Eddie grinned.

“Ok unfreeze,” Robin called out, and Eddie hopped up on the stump crowding Steve.

“Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet,” he said smoothly before looking over Steve, “But not as sweet as you big boy.”

Steve didn’t budge, looked confused at Eddie.

“Stump is Eddie’s,” Robin officiated.

“No that’s didn’t even rhyme properly!” Steve complained at Robin.

“Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme,” Eddie smirked.

“Yeah it does!” Steve frowned.

“Steve I made my ruling. Eddie gets the stump, and the longer you stand there whining the more time you waste. You’ve got less than five minutes left.”

Steve huffed down his nose and stomped back to his starting position on the field.

“Eddie, your rule?”

“Uh that’s easy you have to tell me I’m real pretty.” He smiled wide and batted his eyelashes, as the girls rolled their eyes.

Robin shook her head but blew the whistle anyway. The others charged towards the stump. Harrington was way too fast for anyone to get there before him, and he slapped Eddie’s leg with his hand.

“Tag, stump’s mine,” Steve said.

Eddie looked down on him with glee, “Uh-uh you gotta say it.”

Steve’s face was a picture, contorting with effort as he looked up at Eddie, “YOUREREALPRETTY” he said quickly and weirdly loudly.

Eddie tossed his hair with his hand, “I didn’t know you cared Harrington.” Steve blushed hard. He smiled toothily and hopped down from the stump sauntering back to his starting position with no complaint, he knew the clock was ticking.

“What are you doing?” Dustin said through gritted teeth, “You said you’d win.”

“Oh but I am,” Eddie smirked and gestured to a confused looking Steve and Robin tapping her watch at him.

“Ok! Ok. It’s hard to think of one. Alright! Geez! You have to say...uh...you have to say I’m the smartest man in the universe.” Steve said and gathered up the girls for a huddle and pointed at Eddie.

Robin blew the whistle, and Eddie nimbly dodged the flying tackles from the girls. They were fast, but Eddie had that feral energy coursing through him now. He got to the foot of the stump and spanked Steve’s backside. “Tag,” he said slyly and grabbed onto Steve’s hips to hoist himself up onto the stump.

He looked right into Steve’s eyes, “It’s my stump, smartest man in the universe,” punctuating his words with a wink.

Steve didn’t say anything, just stared, dropped off the stump, and went back to the starting position. Eddie knew he’d rattled him and the next thing Steve wouldn’t do. No way.

“Eddie! Rule?” Robin said a little exasperated

“A kiss,” Eddie said.

“No way there are kids here!” Robin said.

“I didn’t say they had to kiss me directly, they can blow me a kiss”

Robin turned to the kids. They were all yelling at her about the time and didn’t seem to care.

“Alright, but for the record, I’m against this” she reluctantly blew the whistle, and just like Eddie predicted Steve was thrown, he was tackling the boys hoping one of the girls would head for the stump but they wouldn’t go for it.

Eddie looked smug, striking a mock-heroic pose as he flexed his much smaller, toned muscles with theatrical pride, fully aware of the irony. He grinned to himself, already picturing how he was going to be sipping cocktails on the porch tonight. His thoughts were broken by an angry Erica screaming, “Just do it sailor man! Go over there and blow that long haired freak a kiss!”

“We’ve only got ten seconds left!” Max complained shoving Mike to the floor.

“Yes Steve I don’t want to watch the same movie all summer,” El said.

The boys understood the assignment and made kissy noises at Steve to mock him.

Eddie rocked on his heels with a huge smile as he watched the last few seconds tick down.

Until he felt a slap on his hand and he was confronted with a furious Steve

Eddie raised his eyebrows with confidence, “Well Howdy there Big b-“

And before he knew what was happening, he heard a collective gasp and “Steve’s stump! That’s time, come on nerds,” Robin added.

Eddie felt pressure on his lips, heat on the sides of his face. Steve was kissing him and was grabbing his face. He was rendered speechless. Steve smiled. Eddie suddenly felt hands on his shoulders as he was pushed off the stump and landed on his ass with a thud, almost as hard as his heart was hammering in his chest.

He could hear the boys complaining and the girls cheering. He shrugged at them in apology, heart pounding and face burning, trying to suppress the chaos spiralling in his chest from that kiss. He pulled down his sunglasses and quickly tried to walk back to his van, before he had a public crisis.

He was nearly at his sanctuary when he heard the rapid footsteps on the gravel path behind him, “Hey! Wait up!”

Eddie’s stomach dropped to the depths of the abyss, twisting with something hot and familiar. Dread, maybe, or anticipation. He couldn't tell. He could run, but that would look worse. He stopped and turned on his heel.

“You didn’t shake my hand,” Steve frowned a little out of breath.

“What?” was all Eddie could manage.

“We beat you, we're supposed to shake hands after. No hard feelings. Sportspersonship stuff.” Steve tried again, extending his hand towards Eddie.

“Oh, yeah. No hard feelings here. It was literally just tag, man. You’re good.” Eddie laughed it off, eager to get away.

“You won’t shake my hand? Is it because of what I did?” Steve asked and Eddie could hear the shame in his voice, and he couldn’t have that. Not with those sad puppy dog eyes looking so wounded at him.

“Look. I set the rule. You just wanted the win real bad,” Eddie said, trying to sound breezy, though his voice wavered just enough to betray the heat still lingering on his cheeks. "It’s not a problem,” Eddie said and extended his hand.

Steve's smile brightened as they shook on it but as Eddie tried to let go, he found Steve gripping his hand tightly.

“You okay, Steve?” he asked and found himself pulled flush with Steve’s chest, their faces an inch apart. As they collided he was met with the full Harrington experience. The beauty marks, the crooked smile, the flecks of gold in his eyes, the soft swoop of his hair, the heat from his body, and that scent of sun lotion, cologne and sweat. It's enough for him to forcefully replant his feet, so he didn't collapse with how overwhelmed he felt.

“I would have done it sooner without a crowd,” Steve said gently.

“Shook my hand?” Eddie asked nervously, confused but he knew what Steve was getting at.

“If you ever want one again just give me a call,” Steve smirked, leaving a frazzled Eddie standing slack-jawed as he jogged back to the others.

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 6

(part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5)

I catch a glimpse of the Pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes are wild, panicked, with the glaze of just having been torn out of herself.

For a moment, as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She reaches out with an emaciated arm, fast as lightning, and takes hold of my wrist in an iron grip.

She moves her lips, at first unable to form words, unable to remember how to use human speech organs.

"Do your job," she says, slowly, deliberately, as if that singular command is the only thing in the universe that matters.

Something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips into catatonia. Her grip loosens and her fingers trail away.

Something has gone terribly wrong in this last engagement.

Alarms blare and booted feet thunder past me.

My own feet join the cacophony.

I have a job to do.

The Pilot is alive and she is now the responsibility of the med team.

My responsibility is the Machine.

Do your job.

The words echo in my head as I sprint the remaining distance to the vestibule.

A tech tries to stop me, he says something I don't quite process. I shove past him and am greeted by a scene out of a nightmare.

Morrigan's hatch has been severed, the emergency release pyros having been triggered. The parts of her hull visible to the vestibule are pitted and blackened. I can't even find the stencilled lettering of her factory designated identifier, just an ugly hole torn open by an incendiary.

Inside, the cockpit is a mess of fire suppressant and crash gel. Indicator lights form a constellation of blinking red and half of the display panels, the half that still work, flash an endless stream of error messages.

Everything reeks of ammonia and ozone and scorched metal.

"Me or Morrigan could get dead in the next engagement."

The nonchalance with which those words had been delivered caught me off guard when they were spoken. Morrigan and Her Pilot are untouchable. They were supposed to be untouchable.

Do your job.

I begin to strip as fast as humanly possible. I need to get in there. I need to know that she is alive.

The tech that tried to stop me grabs my arm. You can't go in there, the reactor has not been stabilized.

I tear myself from his grip.

I have a job to do, I say with a snarl.

Something in my expression, my bared teeth, my feral eyes, convinces him to leave me be. He stands down, hands raised in surrender. He could call security, but by the time they get here, I'll already be jacked in, and it will be too late for them to do anything.

Do your job. Do your job. Do your job.

My job is information recovery and analysis.

My job is to save as much as I can.

I need to save Her.

One of the cameras spots me and the others focus on me in panicked motion. The one nearest to me has a cracked lens and the iris flutters open and closed, unable to focus.

The cradle has been mangled nearly beyond recognition. They had to physically cut the Pilot out of Her, neither of them willing to let go of the other. The still operable mechanisms of it jerk erratically, trying vainly to reconfigure for me. Her neural interface port reaches towards me desperately.

I scrabble to Her, pressing myself into the cradle. The shorn, inoperable pieces dig painfully into my flesh. The neural insertion is not gentle, the plug scrapes painfully against my skin before it finds the jack and shoves roughly into me.

"I'm here," I tell Her as the link is established.

It's bad.

It's worse than I feared.

Reactor housing is damaged. System failsafes are vainly attempting to stabilize it while ground crews work as fast at they can towards a purge of the system.

Her processor core… fuck. My mind struggles to make sense of the telemetry stream. Multiple processor modules fractured. Unstable resonance modes. Positron avalanche. System collapse imminent.

My breath catches and my heart pounds in my chest.

She is dying.

Do your job.

The umbilical data lines aren't receiving, rogue processes are preventing access to primary communication channels. I work furiously to establish auxiliary paths for the data transfer. In fits and starts, the data recorder begins streaming into the facility mainframe.

There is a problem.

The data repository is meant for telemetry and battle space recordings. If I attempted to back up her core personality engrams, everything that makes her who she is, the data would get scrubbed and purged faster than I could back them up elsewhere.

There isn't time to set up an alternate backup repository.

- PILOT STATUS?

"She's safe," I tell Her. “You completed your mission. Your Pilot… Our Pilot is safe.”

- ENGINEER STATUS?

"Status is… not good…"

- PLEASE DO NOT CRY.

Fuck.

I drag my hand over my face, smearing the tears gathering in my eyes.

Now that the data is streaming there is nothing I can do but feel her die as I lie in her embrace.

I can not conceive a reality in which I exist without her.

And the Pilot. The Pilot will not survive, not with half of who she is destroyed.

"The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?"

Do your job.

Save Her.

Save. Her.

I know this system. I know it more intimately than anyone alive.

There *is* one data connection I haven't considered. There *is* one piece of external storage currently connected.

Shit.

I act.

I open up a new interface in my hud. Morrigan's attention fixes on me, on the calculations I'm running through my head and I can feel Her dawning horror over the link.

Neural bleed. It works both ways.

All neural rigs are designed to facilitate data transfer between an organic brain and a mechanical one. Mine is no exception. Mine hasn't undergone all the upgrades needed for a pilot's full sensorium, but the core neural interface is the same.

If I disable safety overrides, if I bypass the data buffers, I can download her personality engrams directly into my prefrontal cortex.

I have no idea what that will do to me.

Exceptional synchrony and neuro-elasticity. That's what my intake assessments had said all those years ago. I was in the upper quintile among all pilot candidates. Maybe that was my downfall. Maybe that's why I washed out.

Maybe that's why I'm here now, contemplating this singularly desperate act.

Maybe that's why my neural bleed with Her has been so deep. Maybe there is something in me that is in tune with Them.

But as far as I know, no one has ever attempted anything like this. It could very well kill me.

But the thought of living without Her is more terrifying than the prospect of dying. It's more terrifying than what might happen to me if this works.

Morrigan pleads with me.

- STOP.

"No. I can't stop," I reply. "I need you."

- NO.

"Yes, I do," I tell her. "Your Pilot needs you."

I can feel Her emotional flinch over the link. I have the one piece of leverage I need, and She knows it.

"Wouldn't you give anything, sacrifice anything to see her again?"

It's a dirty trick, I know it is, playing off that one connection, her deepest, most intimate connection. Maybe I mean something to Her, but She and the Pilot were made for each other in the most literal sense.

And I suddenly realize that I am doing this as much for the Pilot as any of us. That surprises me. As much as I have tried to distance myself from other human beings, I became entangled with her the moment I opened myself up to Morrigan.

I would never be able to face her if I didn't do everything in my power to save the Machine.

A processor module fails outright. The system struggles to reallocate resources, but submodules throughout the entire system are strained to their limit.

There isn't any time left and She knows it.

She sullenly acedes.

We begin working in concert, me working to disable safety protocols in my rig, Her working to isolate and distill Her core personality patterns into something that can be handled by the bandwidth of the interface.

An alarm pings over the link. Reactor purge in progress. Power fluctuations spike all over her systems. Her processor power distribution subsystem is completely fucked. It won't be able to keep up with current activity levels as the whole system switches over to umbilical power.

Out of time.

I engage the final override, by mind suddenly open to hers, the neural link unbuffered, unfiltered.

Her mind presses in on me and I glimpse the full sensorium. I feel all of her pain and fear and anguish at what she is about to do to me.

My fingers tingle before they go numb.

"Do it," I command her.

- I LOVE YOU.

Data transfer initiates.

This isn't neural bleed.

This is a flood.

My body convulses.

I taste something coppery in my mouth.

Someone somewhere screams.

The scream is mine.

My rig isn't built for this. My body isn't conditioned for this.

Every nerve in me blazes white hot.

My vision tunnels as auras bloom like bruises on the skin of reality.

Shouts of alarm call from outside the cockpit.

A face resolves itself, and for a moment I think it's Her.

The Pilot.

A Priestess.

An Angel.

No.

It.

It is one of the techs.

Then a medic.

More shouting.

Get her out of there!

Every muscle in my body clenches painfully.

I can barely breathe.

Cut her loose!

No.

It's not done yet. It's not enough.

It's too much.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

I can't.

I can't stop. Not yet.

Do your job.

Save Her.

My body convulses once again, and I pass into oblivion.

(next)

~~~

@digitalsymbiote @g1ngan1nja @thriron @ephemeral-arcanist @mias-domain @justasleepykitten @powder-of-infinity @valkayrieactual @chaosmagetwin @assigned-stupid-at-birth @avalanchenouveau @rtfmx9 @femgineerasolution @ibleedelectric @gd-s451 @brieflybitten

[villainsoftheweek]

no disintegrations.

explicit. 18+ only. - 3.5k+ - Din Djarin x f!reader

content: power imbalance, forbidden, mask kink, glove kink, smut, brat taming, spanking, degradation, praise, dirty talk, name kink, secret affair, dom!Din

a gilded girl plays with fire, and the Mandalorian burns through every vow to touch her.

It’s almost impressive — how little your father trusts anyone.

Except him, supposedly.

Not his advisors. Not his guards. Not even the blood-soaked mercenaries he sends out into the undercity to collect debts and leave warnings. Only the man in beskar. That’s what he calls him. Never by name.

Just the Mandalorian.

A silent blade. A shadow bound in steel. Hired to protect the only thing the old bastard actually gives a damn about: you.

You’re not supposed to know that, of course. You’re just the daughter. A pretty trinket to display, a bargaining chip wrapped in silk and guarded like cargo. But you heard the deal. Overheard it echoing through the comm wall late one night, static humming like breath between the words.

Your father’s voice, clipped and cruel:

“If she’s touched, she’s dead. If she’s killed, you’re dead. Do your job.”

And then the Mandalorian’s, low and composed beneath the modulator:

“No disintegrations. I know.”

That was weeks ago.

Now he lingers in the palace halls like a specter — never speaking unless necessary, never eating with the staff, never straying far from your side. He guards your door like death itself, stands motionless at the end of corridors, follows your steps with that slow, predatory grace that makes your skin burn under your robes.

He’s not friendly.

But you try anyway.

It doesn’t stop you from testing the limits eventually. You begin to leave your bedroom door cracked at night, knowing exactly where he’ll be standing. Bathe with the curtains flung wide, steam rising into the open air, the curve of your wet shoulder catching the moonlight. You saunter past him in barely-there silks, your perfume sweet and pointed, pretending not to notice how his visor tracks your every movement like a targeting system.

Sometimes you talk to him — just to fill the silence. Or because you like the way he doesn’t answer.

You’ve at least learned his true name, though you refuse to use it.

“You don’t blink,” you tease one night, sipping from a crystal glass as you lean against your doorway. “Do you even have eyes under there?”

Nothing.

“Maybe you’re a droid,” you hum, drawing closer, barefoot and bare-legged. “Or maybe you just don’t want me to see the way you look at me.”

Still nothing.

But he shifts — barely. A subtle shift in stance. A tightening across his shoulders, like a wolf scenting blood.

You smile — too sweet to be innocent.

“Scared you’d want me if you took the helmet off?”

That gets him.

He turns — sharp, sudden.

You see it, then. The snap of his restraint. The hint of heat beneath the armor. The danger.

And your heart skips.

Good.

You want him to break. You want to watch the man beneath the steel crawl out, teeth bared, control snapped. You want to be the one who makes him fall.

It almost happens three nights before you run.

You’ve just stepped in from the balcony, rain-slick and flushed. The silk of your robe clings damp to your thighs, hair dripping onto your bare collarbone. You’d gone out to clear your head, forgotten your datapad in the rush. When you turn back to retrieve it, the room is dark.

And he’s there.

Not outside your door.

Inside.

Where he’s explicitly not supposed to be.

He doesn’t move when you enter. Just stands there in the shadow, visor reflecting the faint city glow from the window.

“You left this,” Din says, holding out your datapad like it offends him.

But his voice is off. Rougher. Lower. The kind of sound someone makes when they’ve been trying very hard not to feel something.

Your breath hitches.

Because he’s not acting like a bodyguard now. Not standing with arms crossed and stance wide. He’s waiting.

He watched you on that balcony. You know it.

And the way the visor dips — not to your face, but to the damp silk plastered to your chest — tells you everything.

That isn’t protocol.

That’s hunger.

“Were you watching me again?” you ask softly.

Silence.

You let the robe fall from one shoulder. A bare slip of skin.

“You can come closer if you want.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” he rasps.

“But you are.”

You step toward him — careful, slow, as if approaching something wild. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. Behind that bucket. All those long silences. All that breathing.”

He flinches.

You smile.

“And you know what?” you whisper, so close now you can smell the heat of metal and leather and man beneath the beskar. “I think you like the way I act. I think you want to be the one who finally shuts me up.”

A crack in the air between you. Not sound. Not movement. Just tension — pulled taut.

His hand twitches at his side.

You don’t know if he’s going to shove you away or slam you into the nearest surface and fuck you breathless.

But then he speaks. Low. Gravel-sharp.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You tilt your head.

“Try me.”

He steps back. Just one step.

Enough to remind you he still has control.

Barely.

And that’s the night you decide to run.

Because if he’s that close to snapping, then the only thing left is to make him chase.

You wait for a moonless night.

The kind that eats shadows and silences even the stars. The palace rests in its false peace, marbled corridors hushed beneath layers of silk and secrets. But beneath that stillness — power coils. Waiting.

The guards are useless. One slumps against the wall, already drifting into spice-dreams. The other hums along to music no one else hears, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he watches lights shift across the marble. Neither of them notices you pass.

But he will.

You’re not fleeing — not really. You’re summoning.

No comm. No shoes. Just bare skin beneath your robe — thin, translucent, tied loosely at your waist. The silk breathes with every step you take, cool air teasing your body, nipples peaking beneath the fabric. You left your door open just enough. You wore the perfume he lingers near when you pass. You knew he’d watch you leave.

You wanted him to.

You slip through a half-forgotten servant’s tunnel that smells of dust and age and things once hidden. Your breath fogs in the chill. The floor bites at your feet, and still you walk — faster, pulse rising, until you’re through the last gate and into the city’s night.

Below you, the city burns violet — neon slashing through fog, music trembling in the air like a held breath. You move through it like a ghost, drawn higher and higher until you reach a narrow skybridge suspended over nothing. No lights. No witnesses. Just wind, steel, and the hush before the storm.

You wait.

And he comes within minutes.

You don’t hear him. You never do.

But you feel the instant he arrives.

The air shifts. Pressure builds. Electricity gathers like heat behind your skin. Then — he's on you.

A gloved hand snatches your arm and spins you. Your back slams against the wall, the impact stealing your breath. His hand pins your wrist high above your head. The other curls around your throat — not tight, just there. Anchoring you. Claiming you. Feeling your pulse beneath his gloved hand.

The night pulses around you. His armor gleams like a beast's hide in the dark.

His visor lowers to your face.

“What the kriff are you doing out here?” he growls, voice low and dangerous through the modulator.

You smile, lips parted, chest rising fast.

“Mando,” you whisper, sweet and sacrilegious. “Did you miss me that quickly?”

His fingers tighten. Just a little.

He goes still.

Utterly still.

The kind of stillness that lives right before impact.

His grip on your throat flexes. You feel the beat of your own blood thrum against his palm.

“Do you think this is a game?” he snarls.

You tilt your head, lips grazing the edge of his glove. “I think you’re the one playing. All that armor. All that control. Always watching. Never touching. What are you afraid of?”

His silence is a loaded weapon.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he rasps.

You look up at him. Daring. Trembling beneath his touch.

“Then show me.”

He breaks.

A sound rips out of him — half snarl, half groan — and then you're spun, face pressed to cold duracrete, silk robe torn up around your hips. The breeze licks at your thighs. You brace yourself against the wall, breath caught, heart hammering.

He’s behind you in a heartbeat, crowding into your space. Heat radiates off his armor. The press of him is overwhelming, chest to your back, knees spreading your legs with deliberate force.

“This what you wanted?” he growls, grinding against you. You wonder if he’s hard, straining behind the tight beskar he always wears. “To tempt me? To run just far enough I’d have to chase you?”

“I’m not helpless,” you pant.

“No. You’re reckless.”

His hand falls across your ass with a sharp slap, and you jolt forward, gasping — a pitiful sound that breaks off into an even more pitiful moan.

Another follows. Then another — measured, rhythmic, sending heat coursing through your spine.

Your knees buckle. Your thighs tremble.

“Wanted my attention so badly?” he mutters, voice fraying at the edges. “You have it — you should say thank you.”

“Than —”

You’re cut off by his next movement. He shifts, and his hand slides between your thighs — testing, parting, finding.

You're soaked.

A low curse crackles through his modulator.

“Didn’t think you’d actually take the bait,” you gasp, hips tilting into his touch.

“Oh, I saw you. The robe. The scent. Leaving your door cracked — like an invitation.” His fingers thrust inside you, still gloved, slow and devastating. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut. “You’ve been aching for this.”

Your body answers him — grinding, needy, beyond pride. You ride his hand shamelessly.

“You act like you’re above it,” you breathe. “But you want me.”

His breath catches.

Then — armor shifts. Belt unclasps. The thick sound of fabric and gear moving.

And then — he thrusts into you.

One long, brutal motion.

You cry out, voice caught between shock and ecstasy.

He presses deeper, until you’re full — stretched, trembling, your body gripping him like a vice.

“Stars,” he hisses, voice wrecked.

He sets a rhythm — hard, driving, relentless. Every thrust slams you into the wall, his grip bruising your hip, his chest pressed flush to your back. There’s no gentleness here, only raw need, only him.

“Say it,” he growls against your ear. “Say my name.”

You moan, already close. “What?”

“Not ‘Mando.’ My name. You know it for a reason.”

Your voice cracks. “Din —”

“Again,” he orders, subtle desperation of his own behind his words.

“Din — fuck — Din, please —”

He groans like it guts him. One hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back, the mouth of his helmet hovering near your ear. His rhythm breaks — grows erratic, wild.

“Been watching you for weeks,” he pants. “Knowing I shouldn’t. Couldn’t. But you just kept pushing.”

Your walls flutter around him, tight and pulsing, and his grip tightens on your waist.

“Wanted you like this,” he groans. “Just like this.”

You’re nearly there — clenching, unraveling, eyes wet and mouth slack.

Then — you shatter.

Your orgasm rips through you like plasma, hot and bright. Your body convulses, hips jerking, moans punched from your lungs as you squeeze down hard around him.

That’s all it takes.

Din curses — shouts your name — and buries himself deep, grinding into you with a desperate, final thrust. His entire body locks. You feel him pulse inside you, release hitting him so hard he trembles. He clutches your hips, muscles trembling with the force of it, groaning into the crook of your neck through the mask he always wears.

It’s not quiet.

It’s not clean.

It’s messy, and loud, and real. And it’s everything.

He stays inside you for a moment after he finishes, his hand still clamped over your mouth, your body limp against the wall — breathing ragged, heart thunderous, your pulse echoing in the shell of your ears like the tail end of a battle drum.

You both exist in the aftermath like it’s the eye of a storm—still, suspended, unbearably charged.

Then slowly, he exhales. A sound barely audible through the modulator, but weighted. He withdraws from you with care, as though afraid the separation might break something delicate. And maybe it does. You sway, boneless, and he catches you before gravity can take you, easing you back into his arms. One hand cups your hip. The other steadies your chin, tilting your face up to him. The robe slinks down over your thighs again, hiding the bruised heat he left behind.

You expect reprimand. Expect that familiar clipped edge to return to his voice.

But he says nothing.

Instead, he just steps closer and lifts you effortlessly into his arms.

You let him.

One arm under your knees, the other beneath your shoulders. His chest is a broad, immovable wall of beskar against your side — but you press your cheek to it anyway and listen. Not to the city’s chaos, thrumming far below in its neon haze and filth, but to him. To that impossible stillness he wears like a second skin. A silence not empty, but watching. Weighing. Holy, in its way.

He carries you like you’re something worth protecting. Like he didn’t just ruin you against a wall. Like you’re fragile. Precious.

You shouldn’t like it.

But maker, you do.

By the time he reaches your quarters, the palace is a memory behind you. The door hisses open. The lock chimes. He crosses the threshold without a word and takes you straight to your bed. He lays you down gently, and you lie there — legs still weak, chest still fluttering — as he disappears across the room.

The moment he’s gone you want him to take a place by your side again. Fortunately, his absence isn’t for long.

He returns with a cloth, steam still curling faintly from it.

You want to say something sharp. Something clever. But the words tangle in your throat when he kneels beside you and touches your skin with that cloth — warm, damp, careful.

He starts at your inner thighs. Cleans away what’s left of both of you. You watch him work, hands gloved but reverent. Not clinical. Not cold.

Tender.

You shift. The robe parts again. Your knees open a little, baring yourself.

He stills.

“You’re not going to punish me again?” you murmur, voice low and silk-soft. “For making you chase?”

His helmet tilts slightly up toward you — you can feel his eyes burning into you.

“You’re lucky I did,” he says.

You hum. “It didn’t feel like luck when your fingers were around my throat.”

A pause.

His breath hitches. The cloth trembles. Then he sets it aside.

You let your knees fall fully open.

“I liked it,” you whisper. “But I liked when you held me more.”

Something in him breaks then. Silently. Irrevocably.

He moves — slow, deliberate. His hands slide under the hem of your robe, pushing it higher. His touch lingers on your hips, your waist, up your ribs. And then he speaks — low, quiet:

“Let me take it off.”

You blink. “What?”

He shifts back on his knees. Reaches up to his own armor.

“The plating. Not the helmet,” he clarifies. “Just…I want to feel you.”

You don’t answer. Just nod. A breathless little thing. Because yes. Yes, you want that too.

You watch, rapt, as he unfastens each piece. The chest plate first, then the pauldrons. His gauntlets. His gloves. His fingers are deft but not rushed. And each piece, once removed, makes him more real.

Not just a myth wrapped in beskar.

A man.

By the time his torso is bare, you’re aching.

He kneels over you again, bare skin against your thighs now, heat meeting heat. You reach up and trace along his ribs, feel the lines of old scars beneath your fingers. He shudders at your touch.

“You don’t have to be careful,” you whisper.

He lowers himself. His bare chest brushes your breasts — cool skin to flushed heat — as he enters you again.

Slow.

Deep.

You gasp. He groans.

The world narrows to the way his body molds to yours, the way his hips roll forward with perfect, devastating precision. Every thrust is deliberate. Devotional.

He doesn’t fuck you like he did against the wall.

He makes love to you like he’s never done it before. Like he’s terrified of doing it wrong. Like he’s trying to memorize you — every twitch, every breath, every helpless sound you give him. Every flutter and squeeze of your wet heat around him.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper.

Arms looped around his neck, your mouth presses to the edge of his helmet.

“Harder,” you plead, soft and aching. “Please.”

He obliges.

Not with brute force. With intensity.

He thrusts into you like he’s anchoring something — like his whole self might unravel if he stops. Your name breaks from his mouth in pieces. Ragged. Holy.

When you come, it’s with a full-body cry. A shattering bloom behind your ribs. You clamp around him, arms trembling, gasping out his name.

He curses — a low, broken thing — and follows you over the edge, hips jerking, spilling inside you with a groan torn from the very center of him. His body bows over yours, twitching, spent.

But he stays inside you.

Buried deep. As if leaving you empty would kill him.

Eventually, he shifts — but only to pull you into him, his bare skin warm and damp against yours, one arm around your waist, the other braced under your shoulders. Your leg remains hooked over his hip.

You touch his helmet again, trailing your fingers along its curve. The only armor he keeps between you.

“You should stay,” you murmur eventually, afraid of the answer you’re certain will come.

It doesn’t.

He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t leave either.

You wake slowly in the golden light of the morning, tangled in the silk sheets, one leg draped over his hip still.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Who he is.

Only the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm anchors you.

Then the cold kiss of beskar reminds you.

He never took off the helmet.

Even in sleep, he doesn’t let his guard down completely. His arm is heavy around your waist, fingers curled possessively against your spine. You shift slightly, hips brushing his.

He’s already hard again.

You smile, drowsy and wicked.

“You’re insatiable,” you whisper. “Or is that just for me?”

He doesn’t answer. But his hand tightens, just slightly. As if your voice dragged him from the edge of sleep.

You lean closer, your breath brushing the edge of his helmet.

“I wouldn’t mind a morning fuck, you know,” you whisper, lips grazing beskar. “Could pretend last night was just a dream. Do it all over again.”

He groans — low and warning.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not until —

A sound.

Footsteps. Just outside your door.

Both of you freeze.

The hand on your back shifts instantly to your mouth — firm, silencing. His entire body goes still, coiled like a spring.

You hear voices.

Too muffled to make out — two guards. Routine patrol.

One of them laughs. Something about a locked room and “spoiled princesses who sleeps through anything.”

The other’s steps pause — too close.

Din’s head tilts toward the door, every instinct bristling. He’s already calculating: escape routes, shadows to vanish into, how to grab you and disappear before the door opens.

You know that stillness.

The one that means he’ll kill if he has to.

But the footsteps move on.

Fading.

The moment passes.

Still, he doesn’t relax.

His hand slips from your mouth — slowly, with just enough pressure to remind you who’s in control.

You exhale.

And grin.

“You were going to kill them,” you whisper against his visor. “For almost catching you in my bed.”

He growls — quiet but unmistakable. “You’re too loud.”

“You’re the one who made me scream last night.”

Silence.

Then —

He rolls you onto your back with a single, fluid motion. His knee between your thighs, body above yours, his weight pressing you down.

His helmet dips close. You can’t see his eyes. But you feel them.

“I should leave,” he mutters.

“You won’t.”

You press your hips up against him, slow and teasing.

And even though the danger’s passed, he still doesn’t move.

That same tension lingers.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Something closer to inevitability.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says.

You reach up. Run a fingertip along the edge of his helmet.

“And you’re still here.”

His breath shudders.

Then he slips from the bed, fast and silent, collecting each piece of his armor like a ghost retreating into shadow.

He doesn't speak again.

Not as he fastens his vambraces.

Not as he returns his gloves to his hands, despite the desperation to feel your skin beneath his fingertips again.

Not even when you say, softly:

“Come back tonight.”

He pauses in the doorway. Doesn’t turn.

Just says: “Lock the door.”

And vanishes.

MASTERLIST.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Steve’s Station

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

If you ever find yourself on the run from the more reputable institutions of the universe, you may be prevailed upon to make your way to a little known star base called “Steve’s Station” in the Cambra system.

Designated as the haven of the underworld, Steve’s Station operates outside the boundaries of all official governing bodies and interplanetary enforcement organizations. It operates as a safe haven at one point or another for every criminal, terrorist, extremist, and other shadowy group that seeks to cause unlawful conduct across the universe.

Normally a station that housed so many unsavory characters would hardly survive a day given the tenacity for grudges its patrons held. It was only through the simple governing of the stations founder, a human known only as “Steve”, that the station was able to not only operate but actively thrive as a hub of underworld activity.

Originally founded some thirty years prior, the human Steve had saved up his life savings to by a third generation mobile station. With only four docking arms and two cargo holds, the third generation stations were largely overlooked as they were the smallest of mobile stations. What did make it more desirable was the fact that it’s smaller size allowed it to make system to system jumps. Even more beneficial was that its core housings could be upgraded and replaced to increase the size of the station if one had the credits.

With the majority of civilized systems already having an overflow of star bases and stations, cutting into the market there would neigh impossible. So Steve instead set course for the Cambra system; a little known and uncharted region of space that barely shows up on star charts save for a pair of skull and bones. This did not dissuade Steve however as he was always of the opportunistic nature.

Forty jumps later and Steve was setting up shop when his first customer came in.

A battered Benaren smuggler had just barely escaped from the authorities and made a blind jump. With his engines all but destroyed from the jump he would have been left to rot had it not been for Steve’s station.

Much to the surprise of the Benaren Steve asked no questions on how the damage came about so long as he followed the station rules.

1.       Pay on time.

2.       Keep your feuds at the door.

3.       Don’t start trouble, lest you want troubles of your own.

Within a short while the smuggler’s ship was repaired and ready to go again. The Benaren paid in full for the repairs and went on their way.

Now that may of well had been the end of Steve’s story had it not been for how connected the criminal underworld was. Not more than three weeks later another group of wayward outcasts and lowlifes stop by the station for use of its quality services.

From there the station’s reputation became wildly known as every criminal, pirate, smuggler, rogue ai and wayward warlord found their way to Steve’s Station to call it home. The wealth being generated from the constant traffic of ships and cargo allowed the station to quickly grow in size as Steve was able to purchase more parts and modules to be included.

Within the first ten years it went it nearly doubled in size, and in another five it was the size of a first 7th generation star base complete with over fifty docking ports and repair bays, sixteen cargo holds for storage, two dozen habitability compartments for stores and clubs, and a fuel depot capable of supplying an entire fleet.

The sheer volume of different factions and cultures using the station facilities would have rapidly devolved into rampant infighting and destruction were it not for the quiet hand of Steve. Patrons kept their animosity at the door unless they wanted to lose access to the safe harbor Steve’s station held. Storage and repair bays were expensive to maintain and were often prime targets for rivals within their own territories, so they were more than happy to maintain a truce while on Steve Station for their own benefit.

At least, that is what the smart ones were willing to abide by.  

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

“Give us the access codes and this can all be over.”

The Jinari leaned down and grabbed hold of the human’s head. He lifted it up so the mauled human could see him through his one good eye as the other was well and good swollen shut from the beating his men had given him the moment prior.

Before them lay the one and only human “Steve”; founder of Steve station and currently their captive as they continued with their hostile takeover of the station. Jinari’s group had long wanted to make a name for themselves and by taking control of such a hub of underworld activity they could gain vast amounts of credits to finance their own operations.

It had been easy to breach the station’s control bridge as security was light. The guards had grown lax with the fear of Steve’s displeasure keeping many of the patron’s inline. They’d been dead in moments with the door breached not long after.

Steve had been understandably uncooperative with handing over his access codes that gave full control of the station; so Jinari’s men had proceed with some aggressive interrogation tactics to loosen him.

Steve looked up at Jinari; spitting out a glob of blood on to his shoe and grinned.

“It won’t do you any good you know.”

Jinari’s good mood quickly evaporated as he watched the human Steve begin to laugh.

“You broke the third rule,” he laughed, “you aren’t going to make it out of here alive.”

Before Jinari could ask what the human meant a loud bark of several weapons came from outside the control room followed. The rest of his crew turned their guns on the open doorway as the sound of several heavy footfalls began to draw closer.

“You’ve got one chance,” a deep rattling voice came from outside, “so I want you idiots in there to listen well.”

“Release. The. Human. Steve.” Another voice came in with thick robotic overtones.

“An jus may’be, we lets you go with your bits intact!” One more voice came with a throaty chuckle at the end.

The door to the control room was suddenly ripped open from its frame and the figures entered the room.

“That’s….you’re….” one of Jinari’s crew stammered as the first figure came into view. A towering mass of muscle and bone covered in thick black armor plating.

“Gur, leader of the Black Reavers.”

Gur grinned as his name was spoken with such fear.

Besides him stood an equally tall cybernetic body or polished metal and spikes. It was called “Cybrosis”, the rogue AI responsible for the collapse of three economic zones via hacking and alterations of monetary values.

On the opposite side of Gur stood a squat brutish Ularen decorated with skulls and bones of its victims. This unfortunate figure was Gobsnob, the assassin infamous for decapitating the Hybren prince during his own coronation then escaping with the severed head. Many believed one of the heads mounted on his armor was the prince’s head.

“Let Steve go, and we’ll let you live.” Gur spoke with a calm, collected voice.

Jinari’s eyes darted between the figures now blocking escape from the control room. There were even more waiting patiently in the outside hallway all armed to the teeth. In fear he drew his gun and pointed the muzzle at Steve’s head.

“What makes this flesh sack so special?” He shouted at the group. “It’s just one human! We don’t need him to run this place!”

“Correction.” Cybrosis remarked. “He. Is. The Only. One. Who Can. Run. This. Station.”

“WHY?!” Jianri demanded.

“He makes me laugh!” Gobsnob chuckled.

When the answer did not dissuade Jinari Gur spoke up and pointed at him.

“Deals changed. Whoever kills this stupid metal brain gets to walk free.”

Cybrosis turned to glare at Gur at the remark but said nothing. Jinari laughed and pushed the muzzle deeper against Steve’s head.

“You think my own crew would-“

The bark of an auto-blaster ran out and Jinari collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood and bone. His ribcage now cracked wide open from the blaster fire that tore into his back.

Those gathered turned to see one of Jinari’s crew holding the smoking gun before dropping it to the ground and raising their hands.

“I can go free now, yes?” they stammered.

Gur smiled and reached for something in his pocket. “Nah, I lied.”

Before any of Jinari’s crew could react Gur pulled out a thick barrel cannon from his coat and fired a slug at the thug closest to Steve. The barrel slug slammed the thug back into the wall with enough force to turn him into an art piece.

After that the station patrons who had been waiting outside stormed into the room and quickly subdued the rest of the thugs. They barely had time to get off a round before they were torn to pieces. In some cases quite literally as Gobsnob got ahold of one of them and began beating them to death with their own dismembered arm.

Gur slowly walked forward and helped Steve into the command chair at the center of the room.

“Glad you guys made it.” Steve laughed through bloody teeth. “Was starting to think you’d give me up to that nobhead.”

Gur shook his head. “They broke the rules.” He said calmly, wiping a stain of blood off his boot on Jinari’s twitching corpse. “And here you don’t last long if you break the rules.”

Steve smiled and switched on the com channel for station wide broadcast.

“Attention station,” Steve said calmly, “All possessions belonging to the former Jinari and his crew are now forfeited. Patrons may claim them as they wish for redistribution.”

A low rumble of cheers could be heard echoing down the halls as the denizens of the station began a free-for-all on the would-be takers belongings.  Steve was not finished though.

“Additionally, a free month’s worth of supplies and repairs to the loveable bastards that came to my rescue.”

Even more cheers erupted from those gathered in the control room as they carried off Steve to the nearest bar for celebration.

[alioopshi]

I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about all the nuance surrounding the name “Murderbot” in the books vs what we’ve seen so far in the first two episodes of the show. I’ve seen a couple other people referencing this difference too, but I haven’t seen an explanation anywhere and I felt compelled to write it

below the cut are detailed descriptions of events at the beginning of episode 1 of Murderbot, and several parts of All Systems Red, plus a little bit of commentary and an even smaller amount of analysis and speculation

In the show, the very first scene depicts SecUnit standing guard in a large group of humans, just finishing up a mining contract. Via voice over, SecUnit tells us that right now, it has to follow humans’ orders because if not, it’ll get its brain fried by the governor module. But not for much longer, because it’s been working on something. Some of the human workers, who are celebrating the end of the contract, approach SecUnit and begin harassing it, discussing how it must follow their commands. They tell it to raise its arm, and they use a blowtorch to burn SecUnit’s armored hand. They stop before causing enough damage to SecUnit to incur a fine from the company. After being left alone, SecUnit then enacts the plan it has been working on. With a “here goes nothing” and the risk of death and dismemberment if the plan doesn’t work, it disables the governor module’s ability to administer punishments for disobeying orders. SecUnit is shocked and amazed that it works. It then decides the first thing it needs to do is give itself a name, and after discarding a few ideas, it changes its own designation from its original serial number to “Murderbot.”

(which, side note, the end of the opening scene kind of makes me laugh because buddy, without any context, the name Murderbot is not any better than Freedom Unit or Security Bot or whatever the other options were. they’re all absolutely TERRIBLE names lmao)

This is quite the departure from what happens in the books. At the beginning, our protagonist does not have a name for itself at all. It just refers to SecUnits in general as “murderbots.” The lowercase-m “murderbots” is meant to be derogatory, in the same way it uses the term “sexbots” as a derogatory term for ComfortUnits. So, it’s a bit of a misunderstanding when Gurathin later reveals that “it calls itself Murderbot.” It does not pick Murderbot to be its name by choice! It is outraged at the invasion of privacy and also profoundly uncomfortable with being called that. From that point on, the PresAux humans only ever refer to it as SecUnit (and in later books it only ever introduces itself to new people as SecUnit). It isn’t until the very last line of the first book that it refers to itself as capital-M Murderbot. Throughout the entire rest of the series, uses of the name Murderbot are very rare, and most happen in its own internal monologue.

For the TV show only folks: you may come across some book-readers who primarily refer to SecUnit as SecUnit, and avoid using the name Murderbot (myself included) as much as possible. This is why. Book!Unit really really hates being called Murderbot by other people. The avoidance of the name Murderbot is coming from a place of empathy, not a place of disrespect/ignorance of SecUnit’s chosen name (I could see this being a logical conclusion if you’ve only seen the show). (atp I’m kinda leaning towards calling book!Unit “SecUnit” and the tv!Unit “Murderbot,” we’ll see, since the re-designation at the end of the opening scene definitely gives “this is the name I’m choosing for myself because it’s what I want” vibes that are completely absent from the book.)

I don’t think the show is necessarily wrong or that the book is necessarily better! they’re just very different in my eyes. I’m curious to see whether the derogatory lowercase-m “murderbots” gets used at all in the show, and whether it’s used by SecUnit or by any humans, and whether it’s used before or after the “it calls itself Murderbot” reveal. I said in another post that the show has left me wanting for the nuance that is present in the books, and I think some of the complexity surrounding its name could be introduced if Gurathin first reveals that “it calls itself Murderbot,” and then afterwards one of the hostile parties tells SecUnit “you’re nothing but a murderbot,” especially if this gets tied in with the mystery of SecUnit’s corrupted memory we glimpsed in the show.

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Adult SFF Books Bracket: Round 2

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Murderbot Diaries series (All Systems Red, Artificial Condition, Rogue Protocol, Exit Strategy, Network Effect, Fugitive Telemetry, System Collapse, and other stories) by Martha Wells

Endorsement from submitter: "Asexual and agender main character. In later books side characters are revealed to be in poly relationship."

"As a heartless killing machine, I was a complete failure."

In a corporate-dominated space-faring future, planetary missions must be approved and supplied by the Company. For their own safety, exploratory teams are accompanied by Company-supplied security androids. But in a society where contracts are awarded to the lowest bidder, safety isn’t a primary concern.

On a distant planet, a team of scientists is conducting surface tests, shadowed by their Company-supplied ‘droid--a self-aware SecUnit that has hacked its own governor module and refers to itself (though never out loud) as “Murderbot.” Scornful of humans, Murderbot wants is to be left alone long enough to figure out who it is, but when a neighboring mission goes dark, it's up to the scientists and Murderbot to get to the truth.

Science fiction, novella, series, adult

The Masquerade Series (The Traitor Baru Cormorant, The Monster Baru Cormorant, The Tyrant Baru Cormorant) by Seth Dickinson

Tomorrow, on the beach, Baru Cormorant will look up from the sand of her home and see red sails on the horizon.

The Empire of Masks is coming, armed with coin and ink, doctrine and compass, soap and lies. They’ll conquer Baru’s island, rewrite her culture, criminalize her customs, and dispose of one of her fathers. But Baru is patient. She’ll swallow her hate, prove her talent, and join the Masquerade. She will learn the secrets of empire. She’ll be exactly what they need. And she’ll claw her way high enough up the rungs of power to set her people free.

In a final test of her loyalty, the Masquerade will send Baru to bring order to distant Aurdwynn, a snakepit of rebels, informants, and seditious dukes. Aurdwynn kills everyone who tries to rule it. To survive, Baru will need to untangle this land’s intricate web of treachery - and conceal her attraction to the dangerously fascinating Duchess Tain Hu.

But Baru is a savant in games of power, as ruthless in her tactics as she is fixated on her goals. In the calculus of her schemes, all ledgers must be balanced, and the price of liberation paid in full.

Fantasy, epic fantasy, politics, secondary world, series, adult

[mostly-marvel-musings]

You weren’t supposed to hear that, Tony - Part 3

A/N: Alright Part 3 is here for y’all! Leave a heart or comment if you’ve enjoyed reading it!

Pairing: Young! Tony Stark x F! Reader

Warning: Fluff.

Here's Part 1 and Part 2 - They can be read as stand-alone!!

.

It was one of those golden afternoons at the Stark estate—the kind where the sun poured through the bay windows like honey, and the scent of espresso and chaos lingered in the air.

Tony was in the study with Howard. You and Maria sat just outside the doors on the velvet settee, pretending not to eavesdrop.

You were absolutely eavesdropping. Maria was already three giggles in.

“—I’m just saying,” came Tony’s voice, slightly defensive, “that if someone had told me the Tesla coil wasn’t meant to be dismantled in under five minutes, I might not have electrocuted myself. Again.”

Howard snorted. “You’re lucky you didn’t fry your last three brain cells.”

“I have at least six,” Tony countered. “Probably seven. Seven genius cells.”

From the corner of the room, Jarvis cleared his throat politely, polishing a silver tray with mild judgment. “Sir, if I may, genius cells typically do not ignite the billiard table with a screwdriver and bravado.”

Tony squinted. “Okay, that was once. And in my defense, no one said the felt was flammable.”

Howard laughed so hard he nearly dropped his bourbon.

You nudged Maria, whispering, “Should we tell them we’re listening?”

She grinned wickedly. “Absolutely not. I want to hear what other idiocies my son considers self-defense.”

Inside the study, Tony groaned. “You know, you’re all obsessed with reminding me of my failures. What about my achievements? The miniature arc modulator prototype I built?”

Howard raised a brow. “The one that caught fire and triggered the fire suppression system?”

Tony looked offended. “It worked for eight seconds!”

Jarvis stepped forward, unbothered. “Indeed, sir. A record-breaking interval before an explosion. Shall I frame the soot-stained lab coat as memorabilia?”

Tony flopped dramatically into a chair. “You’re all against me.”

Outside the door, you let out a laugh you couldn’t quite suppress.

Silence.

Then: “Wait—how long have you been listening?!” Tony’s voice rose an octave.

Maria called sweetly, “Since the Tesla coil. But don’t worry, darling, we only laughed when you deserved it.”

You peeked your head in, beaming. “So… constantly.”

Tony pointed at you, betrayed. “You were on my side!”

“I was beside you,” you corrected, walking into the study with mock sympathy. “Big difference.”

He turned to Jarvis, desperate. “Jarv, back me up here.”

Jarvis—without missing a beat—replied, “If I must, Master Tony. You did, after all, manage to recalibrate the espresso machine without setting it ablaze this morning. A feat worthy of a standing ovation.”

Tony perked up. “Thank you!”

Jarvis added, “Though I believe that was after Miss Y/N showed you which button not to push.”

You raised a finger. “The one labeled ‘steam cannon.’”

Tony groaned. Maria patted your shoulder proudly. “She’s already better at managing him than I ever was.”

Howard just sat there chuckling, looking between you and Tony like a man seeing a prophecy unfold. “You’re doomed, son. She’s got your number.”

Tony leaned back with a dramatic sigh, hand over his heart. “You all think you’re so clever. But I’m onto you. Roasting me is just a cover. You adore me.”

You crossed your arms with a grin. “We do. That’s why we mock you with love.”

Maria leaned in. “That’s how you know you’re one of us.”

Jarvis, now pouring tea, added dryly, “It’s also how we maintain our sanity.”

Tony finally cracked a smile and looked at you—the one person who could out-sass, out-smart, and out-love him on any given day. “Alright. Fine. I accept my fate. Roast away, beloved traitors. But just know—someday, I’ll invent something that saves all your butts, and then I’ll never let you forget it.”

Howard raised a brow. “Someday, sure. After you stop setting the kitchen on fire.”

“I was making crème brûlée!”

“You were using a flamethrower.”

And as the laughter filled the Stark house like warmth itself, Tony caught your eye and mouthed, “Worth it.”

Because if being the butt of the joke meant you were smiling at him like that?

He’d gladly get roasted every day of the week.

.

Later that evening, after Howard retreated to the library muttering about “teaching that boy how to use a proper soldering iron” and Maria went off in search of her wine glass (last seen in the piano room, suspiciously near the cat), you and Tony stole away upstairs to his room.

The house quieted around you—just the creak of old floorboards and the soft hum of the estate settling for the night.

You were curled up on his window seat, legs tucked under you, while Tony flopped beside you, his head landing squarely in your lap like a very expensive, very smug golden retriever.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop roasting me?” he mumbled.

You stroked your fingers through his hair. “Not a chance.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me. I’m in too deep.”

He turned his head to look up at you. “Yeah, you are,” he said, quieter this time. “But so am I. You know that, right?”

Your fingers paused.

“I know,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes softened, none of the usual showboating, no clever comebacks. Just that rare kind of Tony Stark quiet that only surfaced when it was real.

“I used to think being loved meant impressing people,” he said. “But you don’t care about all that. You just… see me.”

You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “Always.”

Unbeknownst to you both, down the hallway just outside the cracked door, Maria stood with her arms crossed, smiling so hard it might’ve cracked her face. Howard, beside her, blinked once.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

Maria bumped her shoulder into his. “You are damned, but yes. He did good.”

Howard looked at his son, utterly wrapped around you, more human than they’d ever seen him and nodded, slowly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, gruff voice thick. “For once, he didn’t blow it.”

Maria wiped at the corner of her eye, totally-not-tearing-up thank-you-very-much. “He didn’t just not blow it. He found someone who knows where the steam cannon button is and still sticks around.”

Howard smirked. “Then it’s settled. She’s the one.”

“Obviously,” Maria said. “I knew before she finished her first roast.”

And with that, they padded off down the hallway like two extremely smug parents who knew their work here was done for tonight.

[scrimplications]

@jedijune week one — survive

a padawan and a master share a final moment during the early hours of the jedi purge.

tw: brief suicidal ideation

unnamed moon

thabeska system

19BBY

The clearing stinks of burnt plastoid and death by the time Cheppi scrambles over the last ridge and tumbles down through the briars and scraggly pines to find her master, laid out like a king to be entombed beneath a rocky outcropping.

He stinks of death, too. The not-quite-there-yet kind.

Gasping, heaving, she hauls herself upright on trembling arms. The still air seems to war with the abject chaos in her mind, the silence dizzyingly oppressive where moments ago there was only heartbeats and blasterfire.

Her master is not moving. Kneeling like a mourner, getting to her feet seems an insurmountable task. She wants to cry. She wants to lie down with him and not exist. She wants to dig herself deep into the earth and disappear. She wants to fight. Scream. Run.

She crawls.

On bruised knees, she crawls as a supplicant witness to his side. Master Vokam’s slow, staccato breaths move his broad chest up and down and up and down when Cheppi throws herself over him, gripping at his tunics like a child.

“Master. Master, please.”

Her voice comes out all cracked and hoarse, broken by the sudden violence and the mad dash through the trees and the overwhelming sense of something ending, of everything ending. Right now. Today.

“Master. Get up. Please. They’re gonna-”

They. How quickly she turned them to faceless soldiers in her mind, white armor painted orange like sunsets and sand and amber, each pattern so familiar, her lightsaber carving through plastoid and flesh and bone like it was nothing—

Pressing her face against her master’s swiftly-failing body, Cheppi bites her tongue and lets chaos consume her mind for a single, breathless moment, and then; Exhale.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

Master Vokam’s big, firm hand is heavy on her back, spanning the width of her shoulders with ease.

“Well done, Cheppi. Well done, padawan.”

Under each word, a slow wet gurgling sound. She's heard it before, holding the hands of dying troopers. It seems so loud in this empty, quiet clearing.

“Master. Please.”

She isn’t sure what it is she’s pleading for, but the burning in her chest is growing stronger and master Vokam’s eyes are unfocused when she lifts her head to see him properly.

“My lightsaber, Cheppi.”

“No, master, you can’t fight-”

A sigh. More of that awful gurgling.

“I'm not going to.”

Horrible understanding lances through her the moment she places the hilt in his palm, and the look in his eyes makes her breath hitch with a grief so massive she has to shove it far away to fight the temptation of turning her blade inward and leaving the galaxy at her master’s side. He senses her struggle, gentles his tone, shakes his head minutely.

“No, my girl. Not today.” Master Vokam struggles to lift his weapon, strain in every line of his old, wise face. “Not like this.”

“Yes, master,” she answers, because what other answer is there? What else could she ever say to him?

The blade, as blue as the winter sky over them, ignites above her shoulder. She does not flinch. She knows what comes next. I'm not ready, she wants to say. I can't. I'm not ready.

His answer seems to float into her mind; You’re going to have to be.

“By the right of the Council, by the will of the Force-”

Far away in the treeline, helmet-modulated voices. Her time is up. Her time will always be up, from this moment on.

When master Vokam grasps her braid and cuts it with one swift, labored motion, Cheppi hides her sob in the sound of the blade. Master Vokam must hear anyway, because when he looks at her for what they both know will be the final time, the urgency in his eyes mingles with love and pride and faith so strong it aches.

“Rise, Jedi Knight.”

She does not look back.

[chaoticace2005]

Spiders, their senses, and Angel Dust implications

I already screamed to @xxqueenofdragonsxx about this but figured I’d put it out there because I was doing research and I can’t stop thinking about it.

While we don’t know how canon it is to the show, this does have some implications for fanfics and is fun to consider.

Spiders don’t have ears. Or noses. Or tongues.

People have already made jokes about Angel’s lack of a nose, but it tracks with that fact. We also don’t see his ears, although we have seen his tongue (which, given he isn’t an actual spider there can be some allowances made.) Yes, he doesn’t have pedipalps to act as a substitution for his nose/tongue, but that isn’t the only place they can smell/taste things.

It’s their legs/feet(?). Their legs and bodies have sensory hair cells that allows them to detect vibrations in the air, as well as changes in electrical fields (which… Vox and Alastor implications? Can Angel sense them.) Humans hear via sensory hair cells too, but those are concentrated in the cochlea of the inner ear and surrounded by the outer/middle ear system (eardrum, etc.) Spiders don’t have that. They also have chemoreceptors that can smell and taste things.

Now, as someone who didn’t know much about spiders it’s cool to think about in terms of a character with some spider-like characteristics. But then I thought about this other aspect of Angel

His clothing

More specifically his constant usage of gloves/long sleeves/boots. We know he hates his spider feet, and yeah, the usage of gloves and his blazer can be to fit his style, but it’s also fun to think that maybe him wearing them is an active attempt to reduce sensory input? He’d still get some vibration input because the fabric won’t block everything, but it won’t be as direct. But since spider sensory organs aren’t localized like humans are, this could essentially be the equivalent of wearing a headphones. (Also do you really want to taste every single thing you touch?)

Which brings me to the second order of business: when he DOESNT wear his gloves. We do see him have to be bare for the camera, and if you consider him wearing clothes as a way of sensory modulation, he could essentially be forced to get all that input. Sensory overload would already be so ways in a place with so many sounds, lights, smells, etc. but imagine if you also have to do that when not used to such a level of exposure?

In humans there’s a condition called hyperacusis, which is basically a reduced pain and discomfort threshold to sounds. Some everyday ones can cause pain. Some neurodivergent people also have sensory sensitivities like that, in both cases sometimes headphones can help to reduce input.

The thing is though, if you constantly wear them you’re reducing your own threshold. It’s not recommended for people with hyperacusis to wear earplugs all the time because it makes them even more sensitive when not wearing them.

So, if you apply the same principle here, there is even more reason to consider the idea Angel would have some level of overstimulation just from not having his clothes on, combine that with the work environment, what he has to do, and the emotional turmoil of it all and that just makes it worse.

Which… with me anyways I’ve found when I’m too overloaded my brain tends to nope out and dissociate. So that could be what happens to Angel as well.

Then, there is one time outside of the studio we see him with uncovered arms and that’s the battle at the hotel.

Here, he’s wearing gloves but his arms are exposed. So it could be said that he’s allowing himself access to more input while also not overwhelming himself. He still has a buffer with the gloves on, but he also has heightened awareness for things around him.

Again, the amount of this actually being applicable in canon is hard to say. Sense we don’t know how spidery Angel really is (since again, he does have a tongue) and what level of research went into that aspect of their character designs. But I think it’s a fun thing to consider.

So uhhh… yeah. Totally normal about this all as someone who totally isn’t interested in audiology, hyperfixating on hazbin hotel, and neurodivergent myself.

(Update: there is now a fic)

[aconfusedkitten]

Snippet Sunday

In theory, it shouldn't be hard to find a power module that's compatible with Aventurine's systems.

There are hundreds, if not thousands of broken androids scattered across the city, and one of them is bound to have the right parts. Even if Aventurine is an older – or newer, really – model, he can't be the only one of his kind. Statistically speaking, that would be highly unlikely.

Or at least, that's what Veritas keeps telling himself.

In reality, he's never met an android like Aventurine before. In reality, Veritas has never met anyone so utterly human before.

Because how else is he supposed to describe him?

“Where to find another power module,” Veritas mumbles absently.

His eyes flicker around his makeshift workshop. Parts scattered across every available space, two cots set up in the corner – topped with their cloaks instead of a blanket, but that was a luxury he couldn't afford – and scarce, battered walls that would hopefully keep them safe for as long as they stayed here.

No matter what precautions Veritas takes, it will never be safe to leave Aventurine here alone.

Not when he still hasn't woken up. Not when there's still a goddamn hole where his eye should be. Not when his body – his lively, always moving body – is limp in Veritas’ arms, never responding when Veritas tries to fix his circuits, and-

Not when the world still wants Aventurine dead for doing nothing at all.

[saturnsorbits]

Android AU where you purchase a discounted and broken Bakugo model.

He’s got limited movement in his right arm, a faulty ocular system and a series of burns that cover one side of his face and have made the middle of his chest all melted and tacky - the synthetic skin warped like scarred flesh, but he works well enough.

It’s nice, having him around. You cook together. Watch movies. Go on picnics. Hike. Dine out. Visit aquariums and museums. It doesn’t take long for people to start assuming…

Husband. Boyfriend. Fiancé. It’s all thrown round. An endearing misunderstanding that never garners more than a blush, or at least it was, until the feelings started.

It’s a growing debate, if the androids can feel like humans can, but you find yourself at his mercy anyway. You fall for him slowly, but definitely, lost to him in all of the ways you’d never thought possible.

You bottle it, lock it in your chest even when it becomes too much taking you in a choke hold and then one day, you just… Burst.

Ducking under the rail of the park, you cross the wood-chips and toss yourself to the curved rubber seat of the swing. Beyond the small park is the ocean - a small slither of wide open blue that crashes against the walls of the sea barrier before you.

This was your place, just your place and now, now you’re sharing it with him.

He sits on your left, pushing himself with the balls of his feet. In the shadow of the street light with his synthetic blonde spikes spilling over his forehead, he almost feels like a lover - like something more than he can be. ‘I like it here.’

‘I know.’ Bakugo turns, smirks. The social module downloaded into his brain makes it look perfect, tells him the exact angle his lips should stretch to for the chosen effect.

‘There’s something about the sea being so close, it’s…’

‘Calming.’

‘Yeah.’ You sigh, glancing over to Bakugo careful not to look too long. ‘It’s calming.’

‘You wanna know why?’

‘Sure.’

‘My search says it’s due to the broad nature of the sound, as it hits your ear...' He taps your tragus. 'It creates a deep tonal noise, which due to its processing ease in the brain creates a soothing effect.'

'Huh.' It’s strange, hearing him talk like this. Usually, he’s so informal, so blunt and matter of fact it’s strange when all of that wiring in his head kicks back in and has him talking like… Well like a robot.

‘Did it again, didn’t I?’

You chuckle. ‘Sometimes you just talk like we’re worlds apart.’

‘Sorry. I -.’

‘No, no…’ You smile, softly, before reaching over and resting your palm on his thigh.

Bakugo blinks, looking down at the hand wrapping his leg. Gingerly, he accepts it. Entwining his fingers with yours, he squeezes. ‘I…’ His voice is a whisper. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Katsuki.’

Squeezing softly, Bakugo doesn’t lift his gaze when he talks. 'I don't love you.'

You laugh, the cold air stinging your teeth. ‘I don’t love you.’ It’s a half-truth, the emotion caught in your chest might not yet be love, but it’s too close to it for comfort. ‘You don’t have to love me.’

Bakugo breathes deep despite not needing to. ‘I - I don’t feel -.’

You cut him off, eyes wide, a softeness already burrowing into your expression. You can’t imagine what’s it’s like, to be filled with a thing you were born never to have - to be coming alive for the first time. ‘Katsuki… You do. I know that you’re more than just a robot… More than -‘

‘No.’ Bakugo tightens his grip on your hand, flicking his eyes up to meet yours. ‘I can - I do feel…’ He corrects. ‘I just don’t feel for you what you feel for me.’

[decembermidnight]

Bad Attitude

Summary: While on patrol duty, you chase a suspect starship but end up crashing on a freezing planet. Its pilot, a Mandalorian, rescues you, but he doesn't like your attitude towards him and makes sure you understand who is in charge.

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader

Word count: 6.1k

Warnings: smut, 18+ mdni, teasing, dom!din, brat!reader, brat tamer!din, Din is really an asshole here lol, improper use of the darksaber, lots of dirty talk, oral (m receiving), breath play, choking, fingering, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, degradation kink, praise kink, creampie

A/N: Loosely based on The Passenger episode and super canon divergent. I just had fun having nasty thoughts! Reblogs and comments are always welcome!! Hope you enjoy it!

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Masterlist - Read on Ao3

You… You really did have to follow that ship on this forsaken planet, didn't you?

You couldn't just listen to your partner Carson for once when he warned you to let it go.

Chasing that Razor Crest despite the bad weather on Maldo Kreis was not the smartest idea. Not smart at all, in fact. 

You were only supposed to ask the pilot why his ship was in the proximity of that prison, Bothan-5, when that officer was killed, but he ran away as soon as he heard that name. You immediately started recklessly chasing that old piece of junk in the hostile atmosphere of this awful, unwelcoming planet, and next thing you know your Starfighter crashed, compromising the integrity of the hatch, you’re cut off from your partner and you’ll likely freeze to death before he can come rescue you. Could it get any worse?

It turns out it can.

Just when you switch the radio off, resigned to accept the unavoidable fate, your eyes seem to catch something dark in the snowstorm. At first you assume it’s just your mind playing tricks on you, but when you take a better look, you see it - there’s a dark figure approaching your ship. It must be him - the Razor Crest pilot. As he gets closer, you notice he’s wearing armour, a Mandalorian armour, and you’ve heard the stories about those deadly warriors. You probably made him angry with your insistent pursuit and now he might be killing you so as not to leave witnesses.

You are so fucked. This is the worst day of your life, and also the last.

He lifts the damaged hatch of your ship and looks at you, exposing you to the freezing air of the blizzard. You stare back at him - his broad figure completely towers over yours, but you try not to look intimidated by him.

"Razor Crest, is that you?" you say in a secure tone, wanting to appear tough.

"Yeah." the modulated voice answers as you feel his dark visor lingering on your figure.

"Came here to finish the job?" you try to sneakily grab your blaster in a desperate attempt to defend your life, determined not to die without fighting, or at least, not without trying. 

"Not if you don't try anything stupid like that. Put it down." says in an authoritative tone, his right hand instinctively goes on the holster of his blaster. You quickly realise this is not the moment for heroism if you want to survive. 

"Don't give me orders. I'm a New Republic officer." you reply firmly.

He scoffs and shakes his head in disdain.

"Dear officer, take a good look around. This frozen tomb doesn't look like New Republic territory to me." he goads you "Now quit it and let's go to my ship."

"Who says I want to come with you?"

"Come on, I’m freezing my ass off, for fuck’s sake." he loses no time in ripping your seatbelt and life support system off your body before grabbing you and carrying you over on his shoulder.

"Put me down! You're so rude!" you protest and try to kick him, but he blocks your legs in the tight grasp of his free arm, immobilising you.

"So far I've been more kind than you deserve. If you keep acting like that, I'll show you how rude I can be." his grip is firm and strong as he gives a warning squeeze to your thigh.

You do not want to admit it, but you feel a thrill of excitement at that - he doesn’t care about the fact that you're a law enforcer, he’s treating you like the scum he’s used to. He probably wants to trade your life for his freedom with Carson later - you’re his hostage now.

When you reach his ship, he finally puts you down. You take off your helmet and look at the Mandalorian that so unceremoniously saved you from certain death earlier.

You realise how much taller than you he is, his armour making him even broader than what he already is. Your eyes can't help lingering on his body in wonder at how strong he must be, how the shiny beskar perfectly completes his thick masculine figure, only adding to his already imposing stance, perfectly concealing his body, making him massive and statuesque. His suit is tight around the arms, you can see the outline of his thick, strong biceps. If only he wasn’t a criminal, if only you weren’t a New Republic officer, if only he wasn’t a complete cunt…

"You done?" a low, baritonal voice interrupts your dirty thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you raise a brow.

"I asked if you're done checking me out."

“What?! I wasn’t-” you lie and you both know it. You do not feel so cold anymore, your cheeks feel hot all of a sudden.

“Yeah. Sure.” the asshole teases as he rests against the wall of his ship, looking at you with crossed arms.

“You hurt?” he then asks.

“No, I’m fine.”

"Good. Let's go up to the cockpit, then. It's warmer up there." 

He climbs up the ladder and when the door closes behind him, you take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself, and follow him. 

When you get in the small room, you find him sitting in the pilot chair facing the windshield with crossed arms and legs spread wide. You settle on his side, standing with crossed arms and gaze fixed on his body. He’s as still and silent as a statue, unreadable under that helmet - is he really relaxed as he wants you to think, or is he carefully studying you? 

"Don't look at me that way." says without moving a muscle.

"How?"

"Same way you've been looking at me since we got on the ship."

"What are you implying?"

"Don't act like you don't know." he turns towards you and stands up, making you imperceptibly startle. He looks imposing and menacing, his helmet slightly tilted observing you.

"You don't trust me one bit, do you?" he scoffs and shakes his head.

"You assaulted that prison and killed that poor man. He was a New Republic officer, just like me. Why should I trust you?”

“Because I didn’t do it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“What will you do when you find out I was right all along?” the way he doesn’t lose his cool is fascinating, to a degree.

"You’re not. If you were innocent, you wouldn’t have run away and we wouldn't be here now."

He tilts his helmet to the side once again as he looks at you. His gaze and his confidence make you feel hot and uncomfortable at the same time - you wouldn’t want to give out the undeniable way his stoic charm is affecting you, but you hate the way he's been treating you.

"Yeah, we wouldn't be here." he lets out in an allusive tone as he walks one single step forward while you take one back, ending up against the wall. He's so damn tall and broad and… and you're getting so wet. 

You look into his dark visor, feeling his gaze lingering on your body. You can feel the tension, the atmosphere in the cockpit becoming unbearable. It's getting hard to breathe, heat radiating from both of your bodies as you never stop looking at each other. While his sight is unreadable, yours is unmistakably libidinous, your heart pounding in your chest and your pussy throbbing with need, but you're both too proud to surrender first.

"I guess not. You coward." you let out in a far too flirtatious way as you look at him with shameless lust.

"What did you just call me?!" he rasps, sounding so provocative. 

"Coward. That's what you are. Running away from me when I was chasing you and taking me hostage when I was so vulnerable.”

“Shut up.”

“So big and tough in your shiny armour, but you run away as soon as you see a New Republic patrol. I should have just shot you when I had the chance. At least I wouldn’t be sharing this ship with a coward.”

“I said shut up.” 

“What now, Mandalorian? What do you plan to do now that you've kidnapped me? Are you gonna prove me wrong?" you’re wondering if you got too far when he gets dangerously close to you, his menacing figure towering over yours as he grips a handful of your hair, forcing your gaze into his dark visor.

"Do I have to stick my cock in your mouth to make you shut up?"

A flame of lust instantly traverses your body. You feel your blood boiling, making you feel hot and flustered, reason and common sense leaving you at the mercy of a primal, carnal instinct.

"I bet you don't have the balls to do it." you goad him with a smirk on your face.

Oh, you shouldn't have said that, yet you did, and what's worse is that you don't regret it. 

You look at him with shameless desire clouding your eyes, internally cursing at the helmet that can't and won't let you see his reaction to your provocation, waiting for his next move.

You keep your lustful gaze locked on his visor as his hand swiftly unfastens his belt and the zip of his pants. His grip on your hair tightens even more as he pushes you on your knees, immediately sticking his hard, thick cock in your mouth and fuck, the sound he makes. It's worth crashing on a desolated planet and being scolded afterwards. It's guttural and desperate, astonished at how good your poisonous mouth feels when you take him in and your tongue gently swirls around his tip, instead of spitting mean words at him. You keep eye contact as you let the shaft slide in your mouth and coat it generously in your saliva, his head tilted back as he lets out breathy sighs of pleasure.

"You. You need to learn how to fucking behave. Shut up when I tell you to. You have to stop taunting me. Fuck. Is this what you wanted?" 

He takes your head away from his cock to let you answer.

“You’re not as much of a coward as I thought you were.” you tease.

“You are still talking?!” exclaims as he pushes your head towards his cock once again, staying still as he uses your mouth for his pleasure, violently forcing all of his length down your throat. When he rips you away from it, you gasp for breath.

"You look so good like this. On your knees, choking on my cock, finally shutting the fuck up like a good girl." he growls, pleased.

Just as you want more of it, your mouth going towards it once again, his grip on your hair turns to steel and stops you there. You look up to him from your kneeled position and see him shaking his head.

“Why? Are you close already?” you taunt him as he tucks his cock back in his pants.

"Oh, it will take you way more than that to make me come, officer." says as he makes you stand up.

“Bet you want me to prove you wrong so badly. Bet you want to come in my m-” you stop mid sentence as he starts to unzip your flight suit while he pushes you towards the control panel of his ship, making you sit on it and trapping you there with his beskar body, your legs instinctively spread open for him to fit between them.

“Yeah? Go on. What were you saying?” he goads you as his hand slips inside of the thin pants you're wearing under the suit, teasing your clit from outside your underwear.

“I-I was s-saying that - that-” you gasp when his hand finds its way into your panties and reaches your slit.

"Ooh, what do we have here?" exclaims in taunting wonder. His beskar helmet is only a few centimetres distant from your face "Acting all cocky and arrogant before, but damn, feel how wet you are. Bet no one ever made you this wet, officer. Stars, you're dripping for me. All of this just from sucking my cock?" says in a husky voice as two of his thick, gloved fingers slide inside of you.

You grit your teeth in a desperate attempt to hide the way this is making you feel, not wanting to give him satisfaction, but your body is slowly surrendering to him and betraying you, your cunt involuntarily clamping around his fingers, revealing how his words are, in fact, effective on you.

"Oh, I bet you feel so good and you sound so sweet when you moan for me. Feel how hot and tight you are." he keeps teasing you. 

Resisting him is getting near impossible. By now he knows how badly you want it.

"Listen to what we’re gonna do now. You're gonna come on my fingers like a good girl and then I'll fuck you until your partner comes to rescue you."

You can't help it anymore and let out a moan at how sensual his voice sounds as he says those things to you, at the thought of getting fucked by him, all while his fingers keep sliding inside and outside of you, making your cunt spasm around them.

"Oh, I knew it. Damn, such a sweet girl." he rasps as he takes his fingers out.

"What the fuck?!" you snap at him when he does, making him chuckle at your reaction.

"Hey, calm down officer." he teases your lips with his gloved fingers soaked in your arousal. 

You instinctively suck the leather and taste yourself on his fingers, licking them sensually as you look at him in the visor. He hums in pleasure seeing that and goes on playing with your mouth, entranced by the way your tongue swirls around them, until he takes them out and presses his middle finger on your bottom lip.

"Bite." he simply orders and you obey, taking the hem of his glove between your teeth to let his hand slip out of the glove. It's huge compared to yours, callous and veiny and masculine. You hum as it starts trailing down your body and feel the warm trail it leaves on the delicate skin of your neck as he caresses it, your own hands holding tight to the commands of the ship, propping you up to offer yourself to his touch. You can feel his eyes looking at your body from behind the dark visor as his hand slips in your flight suit once again, groping your breast from outside your shirt, his thumb playing with one of your hardened nipples, your back arched and chest puffed out to make it look fuller. You moan loudly when he slides his fingers in your panties and back inside of you. 

"Stars - so fucking wet. I bet your cunt is so beautiful. Spread your legs for me. You're making me so fucking hard." he keeps up the pace and also starts to rub your clit with his thumb, making the pleasure you’re feeling unable to hide and you surrender to him, panting heavily as your eyes cross and roll in delight.

"Really? Eyes rolling, officer?" he taunts you.

"F-fuck y-you-" you rasp with half closed eyes, your sentence gets interrupted as he hooks his fingers, touching something devastating inside of you, making him scoff when he sees the way you squeeze your eyes shut and arch your back, your mouth wide open to let out obscene moans.

"What? Do you want me to stop?" he provokes you.

"Don't you fucking dare." you manage to let out in a barely audible sigh.

He immediately grabs your neck, not liking the way you undermine his authority.

"Careful now, officer." he growls.

You moan back in response at how much you like this - being put back into place, the Mandlaorian reminding you who is in control. You hold tight to his sides, digging your nails in his flight suit as he just pushes you further against the control panel with his body.

You’re a panting mess and you feel so close, so damn close to your orgasm. You beg he won’t stop as you wrap your legs around him. He feels by the irregular, ragged way you're breathing and the way your muscles go rigid around him that you're close.

"What? Coming already?” he chuckles “I will let you just because I want to fuck you so badly. Now come, my dear officer. Come for me."

You pant straight into his helmet when you hear him calling you like that, fogging it where his mouth would be. His hand pushes you over the edge and you moan loudly as he makes you come around his fingers, your hands holding tight to his neck, bringing him down towards you. Your back arches, chest rubbing against his armour and you roll your head back until it hits the transparisteel of the windshield behind you. Your nails scratch him hard and your legs’ grip becomes even tighter, his upper body now trapped in your grasp.

He grabs your chin with his other hand and forces you to look at him in the visor.

"Yes - yes, yes. Like this. Good girl." he growls between his teeth, looking at you as you struggle to keep your gaze on him, your eyes wanting to roll up in pleasure.

He lets you ride your high, never stopping those astounding moves of his hand, making you feel so satisfied, but so guilty and humiliated at the same time.

As the orgasm gradually fades out, your grip on his body loosens.

He takes out his hand right in front of your eyes and, Maker, it's soaking wet, glistening in your arousal. You’re both embarrassed and aroused when you see how wet and yielding you got for him as soon as he started touching you. 

"Damn, officer. How am I going to-"

You don't even let him finish, you've taken his hand in yours and start sucking his fingers. He lets out a satisfied hum when you do that. You clean them thoroughly, sensually massaging his digits with your tongue, humming as you hear him cursing between his teeth in a foreign language.

Once he’s satisfied, he takes them out of your avid mouth.

"Now strip for me, officer. I bet you look so hot under that uniform."

"Forget it." you tease him.

"Too bad you didn't obey me when I asked so nicely."

In an instant his hands start ripping the flight suit off your body as you're kicking out of your boots at the same time. It's rushed, brutal and wild, the both of you completely taken over by lust. His hands linger on your sides, giving you goosebumps and making you sigh when he lifts the thermal shirt off your body and you hold on tight to the panel when he hooks his fingers in the hem of your pants and pulls everything down and away from your body, leaving you completely naked in front of him.

“You look… Good without your uniform on, officer.” he is pleased looking at your naked body. “Wonder if I could say the same about you, Mandalorian.” “You’ll have to use your imagination."

“Are you even a real Mandalorian? Maybe you stole this armour, or maybe you bought it off some Jawas.” you mock him.

"Come here and I’ll show you." he simply says as he sits back on his chair, legs spread wide and a visible bulge in his pants.

Just as you get close to him, he takes out one of his weapons, a strange sword without a blade, and begins to trace your nipple with the hilt. You start to breathe heavily and you can feel your nipple getting harder by the second, your eyes carefully following his movements as he descends ever so slowly, teasing you, trailing your stomach and then your lower belly, stopping right in front of your cunt, driving you crazy, your legs spreading for him, begging for some friction. He softly brushes your lips, carefully avoiding your clit to tease you further, until he finally touches it. The sudden contact of the hilt with your sensitive clit makes you shudder and let out a whimper.

"Don't. Move." he orders as he continues to touch you with that weapon, rubbing it against your clit, producing obscene, wet sounds at the contact. You try to stay as still as you can as he plays with that dangerous weapon so close to your most delicate spot. You beg he'd go faster, you wish you could ride it and come all over it, as pathetic as it sounds, but no, he doesn't want that. He wants to take his time to tease you, getting you nice and wet as he plays with you like you're his toy.

He stands up, towering over you.

"Stick your tongue out."

You immediately do and he starts to trace your mouth with the hilt.

"This is the Darksaber. Whoever wields it can rule all of Mandalore, and you're licking it after I've used it to give you pleasure. Feel how wet you’ve made it. How does that make you feel?"

“Like you should sit down on that chair and take out that cock. Touch yourself while I lick your Darksaber clean, Mandalorian.”

He grunts as you push him back on his chair. He immediately unzips his pants to take his throbbing cock out as you keep licking his weapon clean, pleased at the sight of his erection in his hand.

"Touch yourself for me, Mando" you order him as you trace your tongue on the hilt.

"Enough of that." he grabs you by the hair and pushes you on your knees, forcing you to suck his cock. In a swift movement he grabs the Darksaber with his two hands, using it as leverage to keep your head down, forcing his entire cock into your throat, making you startle at the sudden lack of air.

"You don't get to give me orders." he growls before freeing you from his grasp to let you breathe. You gasp for air and look at him, panting.

Maker, he's so dangerous. He could kill you in one second if he wanted to, and you've never, never been wetter than this, playing this dangerous, twisted game with a deadly warrior.

He gives you a few seconds to breathe and then he's back at it, using his weapon to make you choke on his cock.

"Do you understand? I can do whatever I want to you." he releases you once again. There are tears in the corner of your eyes but that doesn't stop him from doing that one more time.

"You're so fucking pretty, but you also need someone to tame you. You've found the right man. Is that what you were looking for, officer? Someone to tame that bad temper?" he says and releases you one more time. You gasp for air as one tear sheds down your cheek.

"Come here. I'll fuck that bad attitude out of you." he orders as he puts the Darksaber away.

This. This is what you've always been craving, what you always wanted.

You slowly rise from the cold floor, your hands on his thighs as you can't stop looking at each other with longing desire. You straddle him, shaking in anticipation as you sink on his body guided by his hands on your hips, letting his cock slowly slide inside of you. The both of you moan as his cock splits you open for him, making him feel how hot and welcoming you are. You both let out a long, satisfied sigh, his voice is dark and sensual and you spasm around his throbbing cock, heavily aroused to finally have him inside of you.

“Mando, let me see if you're only good with words now."

“Din. I want to hear you screaming my name when I’ll make you come on my cock, officer.”

“You’re pretty confident in your abilities, Mandalorian.”

“Your mouth might say otherwise, but your body agrees with me.” he's so arrogant and full of himself, his confidence is making you wet.

“It does” you concede “you feel good, Din.” you purr in his neck, and he grunts when he hears how sweet your voice can be as you whisper his name while you have his cock buried inside of you. You start riding him slowly, looking at him in the visor as you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, enjoying every single moment of it, letting him almost slip out, only to let him back inside of you. He lets out sighs of satisfaction that drive you insane and only want to make you increase your rhythm but no, not yet, you want to make him pay for the way he's been treating you.

“If I had known my cock would have been enough to tame your bad temper, I’d have fucked you earlier.”

“What about yours, Din? What should I do about you being an asshole to me?” you say as you pull him out of you, making him grunt.

“Fuck. Put it back in.” 

“Not so fast. I want you to behave. Beg for it.” 

“You know I could just take you anytime I want, right?” “I do. But where would the fun be?”

He hums in pleasure as you take his drenched cock in your hand and start to slowly stroke it right in front of your cunt, moaning in his neck just to get him even more aroused.

“Fuck. You’re good at this.” he whimpers.

You start to slide it between your folds, the both of you moaning in arousal.

“Dank Farrik, d-do you want me to die?” he growls, subjugated by your teasing. “I want you to behave.” you whisper in a heady groan as you keep rolling your hips and rubbing your pussy on his cock. “F-fuck. I want to be inside of you so badly.”

“Say it.”

He sighs and pauses, taking a good look at the tip of his cock teasing your entrance.

“Please.” 

“Please what?” you ask, biting your lip in pleasure.

“Please put my cock back inside of you, officer.” there's a hint of annoyance in his voice when he surrenders and sees your satisfied smirk.

“Good.” you whisper gasping against his helmet as you slowly slide his cock deep back inside of you. 

That’s the moment when he digs his fingers in your hips and starts jackhammering you, making you scream as he said he would, your hands clawing on his shoulders.

“Who do you think you are? Do you think you can taunt me? I’m a Mandalorian. A bounty hunter. Bet you’ve never been fucked so good, officer. I’m gonna give you this cock so hard, you’ll never forget about me. You’ll be touching yourself thinking about me for the rest of your life. Thinking about the Mandalorian Din Djarin who fucked your brains out on Maldo Kreis.”

The way he's fucking hard and rough into you as he says those things in an angry, husky voice is pleasurably devastating and addicting, having you moan frantically as your body is held still by his strong hands.

"Oh, fuck, Din, don't stop. Don't stop!" you let out in a desperate cry.

"Do you want to come on my cock, officer? Let me hear it. I want to hear you beg for it."

"Please, please Din, make me come on your cock." you drawl, subjugated by lust.

"Mmm - you sound so hot when you beg for me. Keep going and I won't stop."

"Please! I've never been fucked like this, Din." your heart is racing, your breathing is getting laboured and feel the orgasm approaching “I'm so close, Din, so fucking close. Please, don’t stop."

"Come, officer. Keep riding my cock and come on it. I want to hear you scream my name." 

"Oh, Din!" you scream his name as the overwhelming force of the orgasm washes over you, a white blaze of bliss making you lose control, uncontrollably spasming and sensually moaning as he doesn't stop giving it to you, groaning in pleasure when he feels how tight and wet you get around him when you come on his dick.

"That's it. That's my good girl." he grunts as he lets you ride your orgasm.

His rhythm slows down as you come back from your high, his hands still firmly on your hips, guiding you, making you slowly grind your pussy against his cock, the cockpit full of your pants.

"Ready for round two, officer?"

He doesn’t even wait for your response, your mind still fogged by the astonishing orgasm he just gave you.

He gets up from the chair and in a second he turns you around, your body slammed against the control panel and the windshield, your wrists held up high by his hand. Your legs are shaking and you can't really seem to stand on your feet properly.

You couldn't possibly be ready for him slamming his dick inside of you all at once, so hard that air leaves your lungs in an exhale. You'd curse at him, but you can't articulate words as he is fucking you so violently, his strong hand on your hip keeping you still. If you thought he was fucking you hard earlier, it's nothing compared to now - feeling all the power of his body giving it to you wild and raw is pleasurably devastating. You couldn't possibly have imagined that what he gave you earlier was merely foreplay for him, just a little tease before making sure you knew who is really in charge and how hard he can fuck you. He was just letting you have a small taste of what would happen after, wanting you to get ready for him, nice and wet and stretched open for his thick cock to split you in half. He grabs a fistful of your hair and you feel his helmet close to your ear.

"What? You're out of breath already? I'm just getting started, officer." he slides it out almost completely and slams it back in so hard you roll your eyes in pleasure.

"Look at you. Loving this dick so much you're rolling your eyes. Gonna fuck you so hard, you'll learn how to fucking behave." 

You can't do anything besides taking his cock and letting out choked moans.

"Still regret being stuck here with me? Tell me. Do you still think I'm a coward?" he growls in between thrusts.

You can barely drawl a moan in response and he chuckles.

"Yeah, I don't think so. You can't even speak." he mocks you as he pounds into you harder and harder, devastating you, reducing you to a pathetic, moaning mess.

"Who knows if the snow storm has stopped and your partner is looking for you. What if he sees you getting fucked like this?"

You know it's wrong, but the thought turns you on so much that you clench around him, and he feels it.

"Oh, you'd like it? Officer, what do we have here? A little whore?" you hear his dark chuckle as he grips your throat with his hand, bringing you closer to him - the hot, naked skin of your back against his cold beskar armour as he never stops railing you. 

Getting called like that in other circumstances, by any other person in the galaxy, would have caused you to shoot them immediately, but now, oh, did that turn you on.

"You like being called that way, don't you? Whore." he whispers softly in your ear, and it drives you insane despite how much you're trying to hide it. He feels your body getting rigid, the vibrations of your throat choking a moan, the way you bite your lip trying not to let one sound out, and you can bet he's loving every second of it. 

His other hand starts to rub your clit and that's when you fucking lose it - your mouth opens wide and lets out a loud groan of pleasure.

"Tell me you're my whore and I'll give you the best orgasm of your life."

You hesitate - his request is so degrading, but you want it at the same time. He can sense your indecisiveness and stops drawing circles on your clit and starts going around it, carefully avoiding it.

"N-no. Don't stop. It's unfair!" you whimper.

"Say it."

You try to relieve the ache between your legs by bringing a hand there, but he is quick to stop you and block your wrist behind your back, immobilising you as if you were one of his bounties, getting you even more aroused, so much, in fact, that you let out another groan.

"Don't make me handcuff you." he growls sensually and you immediately picture him fighting criminals every day, used to manhandling thugs and being a badass and you get even more aroused at the thought, and decide to give him whatever he wants.

You mumble those words, barely audible, ashamed but at the same time yielding, desperately and pathetically wanting him to give you what you so achingly crave, in a way that only he can provide. A need that you never even realised existed before he brought you into the highest dimension of pleasure.

"What? I didn't hear you."

"I am your whore." you whisper, annihilated.

"Good girl. Say it again. Louder this time."

"I am your whore, Din! Please, please make me come like this!" you surrender to him completely, defeated by your very body refusing to let this slip away.

"That's my girl. You asked so nicely, I'm gonna give it to you." you hear the satisfaction in his voice as he immediately starts to rub your clit again, driving you close to the edge in no time, your cunt getting tighter in anticipation.

“Shit, I want to come inside of you. I'm so fucking close, officer. You’re gonna patrol the outer rim, flying your Starfighter while my cum drips down your beautiful cunt. You’re gonna feel that and you will think of me the entire time.” he rasps in your ear as you feel his body pushing you further into the transparisteel and then over the edge, making you come screaming his name once again rolling your eyes over your lids, desperately begging him to come inside of you.

His groans get louder and louder as he comes. You feel his is cock pulsing and twitching, thrusting into you, wanting to go as deep as it can go, filling you with his hot release as you clamp erratically around him.

Both of your bodies are spent as you come back from your high, the sound of your laboured breathing fills the cockpit.

"Hey" he pants "keep it inside now. I don't want to see a single drop going to waste. Are we clear?"

You nod and he slips out of you slowly as you obey his order, keeping his release inside of you as you get dressed, feeling it drip between your legs as he walks you back to your ship.

Carson is already there - he has fixed the minor damages your X-wing had sustained when you crashed in the snow, confident in the fact that you found shelter somewhere and that you’re safe and will be back soon.

What he did not expect is for you to show up with the Mandalorian by your side, though.

"Can I have a few words with you?" he asks with a raised brow.

You nod and walk a few steps away from Din, going behind your ship to have some privacy.

"He saved my life." you regretfully admit before he even has a chance to speak, expecting a scolding.

"Listen. I run the tabs on the Razor Crest. It seems like your new friend has an arrest warrant on him for the abduction of a prisoner." he pauses briefly and lets out a sigh "But he has also captured three wanted culprits and tried to save the Lieutenant's life."

"I'd say we let him go this time. I really don't want to file a report about what happened. I hate doing that."

"Is that so?" he asks sarcastically.

"These are trying times, come on."

Carson raises his brow once again, looking at you and then at the armoured menace standing a few steps away from him.

“Fine.” he shrugs, not wanting to dig deeper with regards to your change of mind towards the Mandalorian, then gets back to his ship.

You jump in your X-wing, but before closing the hatch and taking off, you address Din one more time.

"We're even now, Din Djarin. See you next time, and don't get caught."

[clockwayswrites]

We Will Mend

*whistles innocently*

Part... 1?

Puck = Danny

CW: Under negotiated kink, mild choking

“What?” Jason asked, the question harsh through the modulation of the helmet.

Puck just tilted his head a little. The white hair was finally long enough to move slightly with the motion.

“I’m not a fucking piece of art, stop staring.”

Puck snorted and stepped in enough to close and lock the door. “You’re a masterpiece, Boss, don’t let them say otherwise.”

“Did you hit your head again?” Jason asked. He knew it was unkind to point out the scar that still showed fresh and pink through the covering of white hair, but he wasn’t feeling kind right then.

“Didn’t hit it the first time,” Puck said, apparently undeterred by Jason’s harsh tone.

He crossed the room, silent in his steps even though the floor was designed to make noise. Jason would have to do something better. For the moment though, he let Puck work to pull him and the heavy oak chair back from his desk.

Then he watched Puck make neat piles of the mess of papers and files and set them aside crossing each other off to the side. Puck turned and hopped up onto the desk, sitting where Jason’s pile of infuriating work had been. He had to get the rights for the new building transferred over properly and then get—

“Fuck me.”

Jason’s planning screeched to a halt like one of the trams derailing dramatically off an elevated T-line— fiery explosion of the cars below and all.

“What?”

“Fuck me,” Puck repeated like the request wasn’t completely insane. “You’re stressed, but you’re so stressed that you won’t fight someone because you’re afraid of going too far. So fuck me. Get it out of your system. I can take the bruises.”

“You can take the bruises,” Jason repeated incredulously.

“Yes. And I think you need to give them,” Puck said. “It’s why you don’t ever go to a prostitute, you’re worried about ruining your good reputation with them. You can’t have anyone at home either, there’s no way they would put up with the hours you work. But I’m already here and willing. You take care of me so let me take care of you.”

Jason was quite for a long moment, not sure of what to say. The best he could come up with is, “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, probably. It comes with the territory, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m offering,” Puck said with a little shrug. He braced his hands and leaned back, making his body one long line.

There was no denying that Puck was attractive. He was a slight thing, sure, but it was all muscles and scars. He didn’t try to hide the scars away either. His arms and half his sides were bare in the muscle tee that Puck wore. Scars of all sorts crossed his skin, telling a story that Jason tried not to read.

In one fluid motion, Jason shot up from his chair and leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of Puck’s thighs. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Puck met the dark lenses of the helmet without flinching. “I’m asking you to fuck me already. Mark me up. Make a mess of me. Use me. Just get the fuck on—”

The words cut off sharply as Jason wrapped a hand around Puck’s throat and squeezed just enough for it to be uncomfortable. Jason could feel Puck swallow, but didn’t have too much time to think on it with how Puck strained against the hand so that he could wrap his leg’s around Jason’s waist and pull.

“There,” Puck whispered throat bobbing against Jason’s fingers, “isn’t that better? Doesn’t it feel good to let loose?”

The worst of it was that it did feel better— that Puck was right. Something dangerous and hungry stirred low in Jason’s gut as he watched Puck arched like that under his hand.

“I can take the bruises.”

Jason hoped Puck was right.