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starryevermore · 5 months

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my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand ✧ azriel

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pairing: azriel x vanserra!fem!reader

summary: azriel tries to fix the mess he made. you almost let him.

word count: 4,529

warnings?: angst city™ bitch, dual povs, threats of death, traumatic childbirth, azriel begging for forgiveness, open ending, there will be no other parts to this, not proofread

PART ONE

As the only daughter of Autumn, your relationship with your brothers was quite different than their relationships with each other. You were no threat to the throne. A female could never be High Lord. Yet, that did not let you free from Beron’s iron tight grip on his family and their perception by Prythian. The only thing a female was good for was marrying well and producing children. If you ever proved yourself to be an embarrassment to the Vanserra family, you learned the limitless bounds of the former High Lord’s wrath. Your brothers would be there to help mend you, offering comfort in the best ways they could. It wasn’t much, but it meant a lot to you.

It damn near broke your heart when you realized you had to leave them behind to be with your mate. Beron would never—ever—allow you to be mated to an Illyrian brute. Knowing that your brothers would only be hurt if you told them, you decided that Eris was the best option in confiding your plan to run. Together, you left a note saying that you were leaving to be with your mate and he helped you cross Autumn’s border. You prayed to the Mother that Beron was not too cruel to him, or your other brothers, when he discovered your disappearance. You knew you would likely not see them again, and you hoped they might forgive you for that. Then everything Under the Mountain happened—you were trapped in Velaris for fifty years, all too aware that you would never find out if they did.

That was the one blessing, you supposed, of returning to the Autumn Court all these decades later. With Beron gone and Eris as High Lord, it was easy to fall back in with your family. Though Eris was ready to march down to the Night Court and burn Azriel where he stood, and your other brothers were ready to follow, things calmed down in the end. The rage still simmered, hovering just below the surface. All it would take was one wrong move by the Night Court and any alliances Eris had previously forged would go up in smoke.

Despite your request for no further correspondence, the Night Court continued to periodically reach out to you. Mostly Feyre because she had been your friend, but occasionally Rhys who would inquire about the status of your pregnancy. Though he never said it outright, you knew it was to find out if your babe had wings. His motives, you were unsure. Was it out of concern for your wellbeing? You recalled how panicked he had been during Feyre’s pregnancy. Perhaps he was worried about you for your sake. A larger part of you thought it was out of concern for his brother. That if your babe had wings, then it would mean you would surely die. And if you were to die, could you find it in your heart to let your mate be by your side one last time? Your skin itched at the thought of Azriel anywhere near your babe.

Truthfully, you didn’t know. Whenever your healer, a kind elderly fae named Brigid, would ask if you wanted to know, you would always decline. You didn’t want to experience your pregnancy knowing there was an expiration date. You wanted to live it, to enjoy it. Because Nesta could not bargain with the Cauldron any longer. Not even her, in all her power, could save you. You would rather spend your final days healing from Azriel’s betrayal and preparing for the birth of your child than worry about the inevitable.

Besides, you were worried that the loyal shadow wound up wrist would run to Azriel at the first sign of harm to you.

Eris was not fond of that choice. He was certain that he could find a way to save your life should it come down to it. You were less convinced. But he was a prideful male, and you had learned long ago to not get in the way of a male’s ego. If he wanted to be delusional, so be it. That didn’t mean you had to feed into those delusions.

Today, however, was a day of celebration. The Fall Equinox had come and so the Forest House was alive with fae from across the courts. The Night Court wasn’t present—hadn’t even been extended an invitation, if Eris was to be believed. You admired his loyalty to you, but you knew the Night Court was not an enemy to be made. To be their ally was to be protected. In a land still wrought from the effects of Amarantha and the King of Hybern, it would be too costly to be making enemies of a court so powerful.

You ignored those concerns today, trying to focus on the festivities. It was hard to enjoy them. You were at the end of your pregnancy. Brigid had warned against your attendance, arguing that you needed to rest. But you were stubborn like your brothers. If you wanted one more night of revelry, you should have it.

That was, ultimately, your downfall.

You were dancing with one of your brothers, Crispin. Or, at the very least, dancing the best you could. You were sure it looked pathetic—a far cry from the elegance Beron beat into you. You were having too much fun to care. So much fun, you almost missed the pain shooting through.

You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips. Crispin froze, extending his arms out to help steady you. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Do you need to sit?”

“The babe—there’s something wrong with the babe,” you manage, keeling over from the pain.

“Give me one godsdamned reason not to gut you where you stand.”

Azriel barely glanced up at the male in his house. It was only a matter of time, he mused, before one of your brothers came for him. For some reason, Lucien hadn’t been particularly high on the list he made, ranking the likelihood of each brother to come breaking down the door. Mostly because Lucien spent most of his time in the mortal lands, far away from news of what Azriel had done. But, eventually, all word gets out.

“Because I deserve a more painful death than gutting me would provide.”

Lucien’s hand wound itself in Azriel’s hair, yanking it back. A blade pressed against his throat. “Damned right you do. She was always too fucking good for you.”

“I know.”

“Do you know how many males would kill for a mate as kind as her? Do you know how many males begged Beron for her hand? You are lucky she ever spared you the time of day,” Lucien hissed.

Again, Azriel said, “I know.”

And he did. Mother above, he did. Every day of the last nine months, Azriel had been kicking himself for treating you the way he did. How had he misread all of the signs? Why did he let his anxieties, his worries of not being good enough for you, cloud his judgment? Azriel found himself wishing he could turn back time, stop himself from ruining the best thing he ever had.

Now, he was left in the dark. His friends scarcely spoke to him. Ever since Feyre and Rhys learned of his accusations, word spread among the Inner Circle. Cassian looked at him like he didn’t even know his brother. Mor sneered the first time she saw him. Amren hadn’t said a word to him. And Nesta…He was sure she was going to rip his wings off and throw him off the House of Wind. Even Elain looked at him as if he were a monster. Sometimes, though, Feyre would fill him in on the few replies you sent to her letters. And if he asked pathetically enough, Rhys would send you inquiries about your wellbeing. Those never got a reply.

Azriel almost wished he had a mission to go on to distract himself. To able to take his pain out on another helpless soul. But Rhys had barred him from his work. A punishment for his actions, Azriel was sure. Rhysand would never call it that. Always said something about giving Azriel time to reflect. But Azriel was tired of reflecting. Reflection wouldn’t undo what he did. Reflection wouldn’t bring you back.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a male,” Lucien spat. “Hybern should have killed you. It would have spared the rest of us from your waste of a life.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. It would have killed you, he was sure, if he had died. But at least you would know he loved you. At least you wouldn’t be aching because your mate proved he didn’t trust you. You wouldn’t have your babe, but at least you could be assured that Azriel would never accuse you of infidelity.

“Have you seen her?” Azriel croaked.

Lucien released his hold on Azriel’s hair. He fell forward, but didn’t turn to face the male. He could hear Lucien’s snarl as he said, “Color me surprised when I return from the mortal lands to learn from Elain that you cast my sister aside, made her leave her home, because you refused to listen to her. You’re lucky that Eris answered my letter with haste, explaining she was safe in Autumn. Consider yourself even luckier that the High Lord made me wait to come here before I got that answer. Do you have any idea how far she had to travel on foot? You made a pregnant female—your mate—travel through Winter alone.”

Azriel held back his sob.

“A farmer had to be the one to bring her to Forest House. She would have died if not for his kindness.” Lucien’s hand curled around Azriel’s throat, his nails digging in. “Their blood would have been on your hands if they did.”

“I-I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t—”

Hurt,a shadow whispered. Azriel’s head snapped up. He wrenched himself out of Lucien’s death grip, searching for the shadow he hadn’t seen in months. Most of the others had stuck around, hissing their disapproval in his ear. But he knew one had gone missing, prayed to the Mother that it was making sure you were safe when he couldn’t. Come quick.

“What?” Azriel breathed out. No. No. It couldn’t mean you. You were safe, in Autumn. You were under your brothers’ protection. No harm should ever befall you there. None…Unless—

She’s hurt. The babe is stuck. Come—quick.

Azriel jumped out of his seat, moving faster than he had in months. This couldn’t be. The babe didn’t have wings. Surely, if the babe had wings, you would have told Rhysand. You would have told someone. Unless, you didn’t know. He had to get to you. He had to see you.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“She’s gone into labor,” he managed. The room felt like it was spinning. Was he about to lose you forever? No. No, he couldn’t handle that. He could handle you alive, hating him forever. But to lose you like this…For you to not know how deeply sorry he was, he couldn’t live with that. He would sooner follow you in death than live in a world without you. “The babe has wings.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “They’ll kill you if you go. They’ll make me look like mercy.”

“I-I need to get Madja. She has experience with this. I need to give her a shot.” Azriel sniffed, praying the tears wouldn’t fall. Not now. “Even if she never lets me see the babe, I need to do everything in my power to give them a chance to live.”

Azriel half-expected Lucien to drive his dagger into his heart. Instead, his lip curled. “Go. Before I change my mind. I’ll warn my brothers of your arrival. They will welcome Madja’s help. But whatever they decide to do with you, I will not interfere.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

“I know. But…thank you.”

Your screams do not sound like your own. It sounded like, felt like, it was coming from someone else. Nothing about this, truthfully, felt like it was happening to you. You were vaguely aware of your mother on your right side, Eris on your left. Brigid was between your legs, trying to help the babe into a proper birthing position. Somewhere beyond the closed, oak door you could hear your brothers Crispin and Heath shouting at someone. Oh, you hoped they were terrorizing the servants.

“You’re alright, my love,” your mother was saying as she stroked your hair, “you’re doing so well.”

Your scream was your only response. Fuck. You had never experienced pain quite like this before. Not even Beron’s flames compared to this. It was a miracle you hadn’t passed out yet. Though, the thought of shutting your eyes and closing out the rest of the world was quite tempting. No. You needed to stay strong. If not for yourself, then for your babe. You had to give her a fighting chance.

Her. You were so certain your babe was a female. Brigid had never told you, because you had never asked. If you had known, the gender or the status of wings, you would want to tell Azriel. It would be the one thing, you were certain, that would break your resolve. You weren’t sure if you ever wanted the shadowsinger back into your life, but…Well, he had always want a babe that looked just like you. A little princess to dote on. To show how to fly.

Another scream ripped through you. It felt like your soul was being torn out. Like sharp talons raked down your body, gripping at your essence, ready to take you back to the Mother. You wouldn’t go back. Not until your babe was born. After that…If the Mother wanted you, she could take you. Your babe would be in safe hands with your family.

Desperately, you tried to search out for the shadow that not left your side in nine months. It had become a source of comfort. Its cold nature soothed the flames of Autumn burning inside of you. It reminded you of home. But when your eyes flicked to your wrist, then down your arm, it was gone. How long had it been gone? Why did it abandon you when you finally needed it? Where did it—

Something slammed against the oaken door.

Eris’s head snapped up to glare at the wood. “What in the Cauldron is happening out there?” he hissed.

“Go, check,” your mother said. “We need to keep this room as calm as possible. If your brothers are picking fights out there, then they’ll only make it worse. She cannot afford any unwarranted stress.”

Eris gave a tight nod and stepped away from your side. He didn’t even make it halfway across the room before the door slammed open, the wood splintering. A body hit the floor. Your vision was too blurred to make out who, or the person who stepped over him, approaching your bed. That is, until she was close enough for you to recognize the all-too-familiar face.

“Madja?” you managed. “How—”

“He brought me here,” she said, stepping in between your legs. Brigid made room for you, taking the opportunity to move away to grab some fresh towels. Madja tutted at the sight of you, then got to work.

“I don’t want him here!” The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

You barely caught Madja glancing over to the fallen figure. In the haze, you finally recognized the wings. Azriel. He was here. Your breath caught. That was why the shadow had left you. It had gone to find him. Was it out of loyalty to its master? Or was it out of concern for you? A little shadow escaped from Azriel, speeding back to you. The cold thing stroked your face, as if to comfort you, to apologize for leaving you alone.

Azriel’s head lifted. You were grateful you couldn’t see the hurt in his eyes. Crispin and Heath each grabbed an arm, dragging your mate back up to his feet. Though you all knew he could easily fight them off, he didn’t make a single move. Purple was already beginning to blossom on his exposed bits of skin. Had that been why you heard your brother’s shouting?

Too pained to stand the look of him, you focused back on Madja. “Better or worse than Feyre?” Your voice was tight. It took every bit of your energy to not roar in pain.

“The babe is starting to come out, but her wings are stuck,” she said. “We’ll have to break bones to get her out.”

“Mine or hers?” you nearly cried.

“Both.” Madja glanced up at you. She masked her sorrow well, but you saw through it. You knew the next thing she was going to say, and you knew your answer, too. “I don’t know that I can save you both.”

“Her. Save her.”

“NO!” Azriel shouted.

You barely processed Eris’s body slamming into Azriel. He let out a low groan at the contact. If you weren’t already in so much pain, you would have been able to feel how much that hurt through the bond. You wondered how much Azriel could feel. For the last nine months, you had kept your end closed. But after going into labor, it took too much effort to push him away.

“You are the last godsdamned person who gets to make decisions about her,” Eris hissed. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you in the fucking dungeon—”

“I already gave him the whole speech, brother.”

Lucien? How did he get here? How did he know?

Azriel ignored your brothers. To Madja, he pleaded, “Give her a chance—both of them a chance.”

Eris’s fist landed square on Azriel’s jaw. “Don’t even look in her fucking direction.”

“All of you, out!” your mother shouted. The males all froze in place. “What did I say about removing unnecessary stress? Eris, take him to the library and let him stay there until this is over. The rest of you, make yourselves useful.”

Your attention turned back to Madja, ignoring the sulking males, as her cold hand touched your knee. “We have to make a decision, dear.”

From the corner of your eye, you watched as Azriel stiffened. He wouldn’t be pleased with you, you were sure. And perhaps it was cruel to subject him to the cold pain of losing a mate. But that was mercy compared to what he did to you.

To Madja, you said, “Do what you must.”

Azriel stared at the oak doors of the library. Eris and Lucien had been left at his guards while Crispin and Heath disappeared to gather more supplies for Madja and Brigid. He paid them and their snarls no mind. Nothing could distract him from your wails of pain echoing through Forest House. Every inch of him, every fiber of his being, called for him to go to you. To be by your side. It was only your words that kept him still.

“I don’t want him here!”

Five words was all it took for you to rip Azriel’s heart out. How you did it so succinctly, struck him right to the core, when it took an illogical rant from him to break yours was a mystery to him. Worse yet, Azriel wasn’t sure you were even aware of what you were saying. You looked like you were barely processing Madja’s appearance. Did you truly want him gone?

Visions of your near-lifeless eyes looking at him flashed through his mind. He was going to lose you today. Was it a kinder fate for you to die than live in a world with him? Would things be different if he hadn’t fucked things up so spectacularly? Azriel imagined you in your shared home, your family—the Inner Circle—surrounding you. Love for you would be in the air, not contempt for him. Would that have been enough to save you?

He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. Your family—the Vanserras—loved you, too. Perhaps more than the Inner Circle. While his family was content to ignore his existence, yours was willing to strike him down where he stood for even deigning to show his face in Autumn. He was sure Crispin and Heath would have actually killed him if they hadn’t drove his body through the door first.

Azriel flinched as another scream ripped down the halls.

“Don’t act like this is painful to you,” Eris snarled.

Azriel managed to lift a glare to him. “I can feel everything she does. If she is hurting, so am I.”

“That mattered little to you when you accused her of being a whore,” Lucien said.

“And I will regret to the day I die. I will spend the rest of my days atoning for what I did.” Azriel lifted his chin. “But would killing me save her?”

Eris stepped closer to him. “Don’t even pretend to care about her. Where have you been these last nine months? Where were you when her morning sickness left her unable to leave the bed for days, unable to keep anything down? When she would go to Brigid for updates on the babe? When she couldn’t even pick out things for a nursery because the perfect one was left behind in the Night Court?”

He jerked like he had been slapped. Sometimes, he could still feel the sting of Feyre hitting him. Until today, she had been the only one brave enough to hurt him for what he did. Azriel would take every beating, though, if it meant you would live.

Azriel opened his mouth to respond, but fell short. Silence rung through Forest House. Your screams—they had stopped. The cries of a babe did not fill their place. He tugged desperately at the bond, hoping to feel your pull. Nothing. There was nothing.

No.

No, he couldn’t lose you.

No.

Against his better judgment, Azriel fled from the library. He raced down the hall, the eldest and youngest Vanserra hot on his heels. He needed to see you. He needed to know that you still lived. Perhaps you were asleep. Birth was exhausting. Azriel remembered Feyre slept for hours after having Nyx. Perhaps you were doing the same. But then why wasn’t the babe crying?

The door was ajar when he reached it. It took little effort to push it open, to open himself to the scene on the other side. On the far side of the room, Madja and Brigid had the babe. A beautiful little girl. His beautiful little girl. Azriel’s eyes flicked back to you. Your mother was covering your body with a blanket. Were you truly sleeping? No, you were too still, even by fae standards. Your chest didn’t rise. Your eyelids didn’t flutter.

Azriel’s gaze fell to your limp hand hanging from the edge of the bed. He sank to his knees, reaching for it. He half-expected Eris or Lucien to rip him away, to throw back back over the border. But no one touched him.

“Let him mourn,” he heard your mother say.

“He doesn’t deserve it.” Whether that was Eris or Lucien, he wasn’t sure.

“It matters little what he deserves now.”

You couldn’t be gone. You couldn’t be. Somewhere beyond, a faint cry rang through the room. A weight lifted off his chest. At least the babe survived. At least Madja managed that. But…None of that mattered if you weren’t here, too. None of it mattered if you couldn’t hold her.

A hand touched his shoulder. He lifted his head to stare up at your mother. “Her name is Bronwyn.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“We’re going to take her to a wet nurse. But…you may stay for as long as you like. Ignore my sons. They are in pain, too.”

“Thank you,” he said again.

Silence filled the room again. Azriel was certain he was alone again, until he heard padding of footsteps along the wooden floor. He didn’t have to look up to know it was Madja.

“She could still live. It is not…It is not the worst birth I have seen. I have seen weaker women pull through from more horrible circumstances.”

“Why do you tell me this?”

“We believe, when people are in this state of limbo, they can still our world. Talk to her. You might be able to pull her back.”

“She wouldn’t come back for me.”

“Then why did she nearly tell her mother to come get you?” Madja patted his shoulder. “Food for thought. Do as you wish, Spymaster. I will be back to check on her later.”

Azriel did not move for three days and three nights. Despite what Madja had said, he couldn’t find any words to share with you. Everything felt wrong. What was he supposed to say? Apologies would scarcely suffice. Should he beg? It was tempting, but he wasn’t sure his pathetic snifflings would return you, either.

Every so often, your mother would come in, Bronwyn in her arms. She would lay the babe on your chest and coo about how much she was growing already. Lucien would come in to tell you about what he had been doing in the mortal lands. Eris was rant about the politics of being a newly minted High Lord. Heath would talk about the latest book he had read. Crispin came once—sobbed about how he should have realized what was happening, should have gotten you help sooner.

Everyone else had something to say. Something more moving, more earth-shattering, than whatever grovel he would wretch up.

But on the fourth morning, as the morning sunlight began to stream onto you, he lifted himself from his knees. There was just enough space beside you that he could curl up to. It cramped his wings, but he was willing to ignore the pain.

“I should have cherished you,” he whispered. His throat was tight. “I should have trusted you. I do, trust you I mean. Before you, I never knew unconditional love. Even through the last few centuries together, it still boggled my mind that you could look at me and find something worth loving. When I came home that day, I was so scared that you had finally found something better. It will never excuse what I did.”

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Come back, my wildfire. Not for me. I could spend the rest of my life making up for that mistake, but it would never be enough to warrant your forgiveness. But your family…They shouldn’t be hurt because of what I did. Come back for them. Come back for Bronwyn. Come back, and you will never have to see me again unless you so wish it. Just…live.”

Azriel’s eyes squeezed shut. He felt wetness drip down his face, onto your soft skin where his face was pressed. “Please, live.”

Your eyes opened.

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truevedicastrology · 7 months

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Uranus in the Houses

A Spark of Unpredictability

Uranus, the planet of revolution and innovation, adds a dash of unpredictability wherever it lands in your birth chart. Let's explore how it ignites change and disrupts the status quo in each house:

1st House: The Maverick

Forget fitting in! You're a natural-born trendsetter, drawn to the avant-garde and expressing yourself authentically. Embracing your quirks, even if they shock others, is key to unlocking your full potential.

2nd House: The Unconventional Earner

Get ready for surprises in your finances! Uranus might bring sudden windfalls or unexpected losses, prompting you to break free from traditional wealth accumulation methods. Embrace innovative ideas and unconventional ventures.

3rd House: The Quick-Witted Communicator

Communication sparks fly! You have a knack for expressing yourself in unexpected ways, sometimes shocking others with your wit and sharp insights. Embrace intellectual challenges and explore diverse perspectives.

4th House: The Unconventional Home

Your home life is anything but ordinary! Expect sudden changes in your living situation or unconventional family dynamics. Embrace the opportunity to build a unique and authentic haven.

5th House: The Rebellious Creator

Your creativity thrives on breaking the rules! You're drawn to avant-garde forms of expression and unexpected romantic encounters. Embrace your uniqueness and challenge conventional notions of love and pleasure.

6th House: The Unorthodox Work Ethic

You disrupt the traditional work environment! You might embrace unconventional methods, challenge authority, or switch careers unexpectedly. Embrace innovation and find a work space that allows you to be your authentic self.

7th House: The Unpredictable Partner

Relationships take an excitingly unpredictable turn with Uranus. You might attract unconventional partners or experience sudden changes in your partnerships. Embrace open communication and respect for individual freedom.

8th House: The Transformational Journey

Expect unexpected transformations in your personal power and finances. You might experience sudden inheritances or losses, prompting deep personal growth. Embrace the power of change and learn to let go.

9th House: The Globe-Trotting Explorer

Embrace adventure! Uranus fuels your wanderlust and desire for unconventional travel experiences. You might be drawn to exploring hidden knowledge or challenging traditional beliefs. Embrace open-mindedness and diverse perspectives.

10th House: The Unlikely Star

Your career path is anything but predictable! You might experience sudden success, unexpected career changes, or unconventional leadership styles. Embrace innovation and find a career that allows you to express your unique vision.

11th House: The Social Revolutionary

You attract like-minded rebels and dreamers! Your friendships challenge the status quo and inspire social change. Embrace collaboration and use your network to make a difference.

12th House: The Intuitive Visionary

Uranus awakens your hidden potential and psychic abilities. You might experience sudden flashes of insight or unconventional spiritual experiences. Embrace introspection and connect to your inner wisdom.

Remember, Uranus' influence is just one piece of your unique astrological puzzle. Embrace the spark of unpredictability it brings and use it to forge your own extraordinary path!

Follow our Facebook page Mage Magic Touch for personal consultations https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61565561190268

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rvsqualitycertificationspvtltd · 9 months

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Titanium Alloys

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emilystheories · 2 months

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How HOFAS set up

Nesta Archeron to be High Queen of Prythian.

A theory.

ACOTAR and CC3 spoilers ahead.

[art by Gabrielle Ragusi]

A connection to Theia.

In HOFAS, we finally learn about Theia; the original High Queen of Prythian.

Interestingly, Queen Theia was depicted as holding and wearing the Dread Trove items — this was a symbol of her rule.

Evidently, this is just like Nesta.

[art by mistilteinnart]

We also witness Theia’s backstory: that she stood next to the Daglan’s throne, serving at their side “for a century.”

This is near identical to the vision Lanthys (a confirmed Daglan member) showed Nesta in ACOSF. That just like Theia, Nesta could serve at the side of the Daglan, and ensure their rule.

Interestingly, Lanthys even refers to Nesta as “Queen of Queens.”

And, just as Queen Theia used the Dread Trove to overthrow the Daglan, so too did Nesta, when she used Ataraxia (part of the “new” Dread Trove) to slay Lanthys.

The parallels between the two are stark.

[art by luverihu]

Gwydion.

In the past, I had theorised that Bryce Quinlan would be High Queen of Prythian; that she was the most eligible to rule, given her Starborn lineage, and her possession of Gwydion — the sword of the High King and Queen.

This was actually canon (or at least heavily implied). Bryce could indeed claim the High Queen title.

But, she didn’t.

Instead, Bryce handed Gwydion to Nesta, citing the importance of Nesta’s tattoo: the eight-pointed star, and the symbol of the Starborn Fae.

Nesta is now the owner of Gwydion; the sword of the High King and High Queen of Prythian.

The royal sword.

Passed on from one queen to the next.

[art by nearixx]

But, that’s not Nesta’s only claim to the throne.

As mentioned previously, in ACOSF, Nesta forged her own blades — a new Dread Trove.

Amren looked at Nesta’s ‘Made’ weapons and declared that if Rhys used them, he could “set himself up as High King.”

That each of these blades, including Ataraxia, is a “kingmaker.”

But the blades don’t belong to Rhys.

They belong to Nesta.

[art by gessueter]

In fact, the 'Made' weapons actively resisted Rhys’s presence.

Which brings us to another hint…

Rhys vs Nesta.

Some argue that Rhys has the greatest claim to High King of Prythian. Given his lineage (and what was revealed in HOFAS), they may be right.

It’s almost as if SJM is setting up both Nesta and Rhys as potential rulers.

A High Queen vs High King.

This is in line with what is said in HOFAS; that a Fae Queen vs a Fae King rivalry is “history repeating itself.”

Perhaps this is why SJM is continuing the rivalry and tension between Nesta and Rhys, despite them making amends towards the end of ACOSF.

[art by book_s150]

This is further exemplified in the HOFAS (Ember and Randall) bonus chapter.

We see Nesta making decisions on her own (to give the Mask to Bryce) without consulting Rhys or anyone else.

We see Nesta declare that she doesn’t answer to Rhys or Feyre.

And Ember watches on as Rhys assesses the “challenge” in Nesta’s expression — that to Rhys, Nesta is a “worthy opponent.”

But, as SJM typically likes to write about women coming into power, I believe Nesta will win the High Queen title at the end of the day.

After all, Nesta has been repeatedly foreshadowed as a queen throughout the entire series. Feyre even refers to Nesta as a “queen without a throne.”

[art by natserpiece]

However, I don’t think Nesta will come into the High Queen position randomly. Instead, two things have to occur:

Something bad needs to happen to the entirety of Prythian (perhaps whatever Koschei has planned…), causing a last-resort need for a queen to unite under.

Or, tensions with the Inner Circle will continue to grow, and Nesta will leave the Night Court.

But, where would Nesta go?

The Dusk Court.

Or, what is otherwise known as the Prison Island.

Which in HOFAS, was explicitly said to be a “royal territory.”

And was regarded as the “sanctuary” of the High Queen.

That is to say, Nesta being both High Lady of Dusk and High Queen isn’t just a pipe dream.

Canonically, it’s suggested to be the same thing.

(Fun possibility #1: perhaps the Dusk Court will be ‘removed’ from Prythian and will gain independence— that way, Nesta will be High Lady and Queen of Dusk, and Rhysand, or someone else, will be King of Prythian).

Thematically, it makes sense.

As we know, the courts of Prythian are thematically organised, and work in tandem with their opposing courts.

Summer and Winter.

Autumn and Spring.

Night and Day.

Which leaves, Dawn and Dusk.

The Dawn Court is associated with healing powers. To further corroborate this, firstlight (in the Crescent City world) has the capacity to heal.

‘First light’ means dawn.

In the Crescent City world, the opposite of ‘firstlight’ is ‘secondlight’ — the power made upon someone’s death.

If the opposite of dawn (firstlight, healing) is dusk (secondlight…?), does this mean that the Dusk Court is associated with death?

It would make sense: dawn signals the start of the day and new beginnings, whereas dusk signals the end.

And whose powers most closely align with death?

Nesta Archeron’s.

The court of the Valkyries, too.

If this theory is true, I have no doubt that the Valkyries will follow Nesta to the Dusk Court as well, setting up their own domain, completely separate to the Illyrians.

This likely explains the pegasus foreshadowing in ACOSF, as the pegasus’s originated from the Dusk Court.

[art by kelly.vieir.a]

I also believe that the Valkyries will expand their ranks, not only recruiting more priestesses, but also:

Merrill: with her “twilight” coloured eyes (twilight is another word for dusk).

Mor: whose family once owned the Dusk Court, long ago (also lending itself to a Mor x Emerie book).

And another important connection: Bryce Quinlan.

With the introduction of “thin places,” HOFAS made clear that Avallen Island and the Prison Island (Dusk Court) are innately connected, despite being worlds apart.

If Bryce is in Avallen, then it makes sense that Nesta is residing on the Prison Island — side by side.

And, as Bryce still has the Horn on her back (coupled with Nesta having the Harp), perhaps their friendship will continue.

(Fun possibility #2: No one is more connected to the pegasus’s than Bryce, and I can’t see her passing up the opportunity to join an all-female, pegasus-led warrior group. Perhaps a cameo is in store…).

[art by paint faery]

In conclusion:

All hail Queen Nesta Archeron.

[art by artinelysian]

#acotar theory #acotar #nesta archeron #pro nesta #pro nesta archeron #high queen nesta #sjm multiverse #crescent city #sjm theory

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 7 months

Note

Marrying Thor but being in love with Loki. Have her go to Loki’s room at wedding night so he can finish what his brother failed to…if yu know what i mean

Old work I dug from my wip, I hope you enjoy it <3

Warnings: 18+, smut, infidelity, oral (f receiving)

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Sometimes, life doesn’t go according to plan. Sometimes, it rains and you have to wear a cloak over the pretty dress you wanted to wear that day. Sometimes, you get a terrible headache and have to go to bed early. Sometimes, for political reasons, you have to put duty before heart matters.

One is the heir to the throne, the future king…and the other one is the king of your heart.

Your father had forged this arrangement with Odin in secret, with hopes of uniting realms. Though such alliances through marriage were nothing new, neither you nor Thor had been consulted beforehand. You were quick to voice your displeasure to your respective parents, but they didn’t care. You and Thor were going to marry.

Your future husband didn’t care too much. Duty was duty.

Loki, however, had a different perspective. When the news of the marriage got to his ears, he was furious.

He didn’t show up to the marriage, which was expected and better that way. No one wants to see the person they love marrying another.

After the ceremony, you snuck out of Thor’s quarters and ventured to Loki’s. You were mindful of the guards all around the palace, knowing that if you were seen there would be consequences.

You knocked on his door, your fist delicate against the thick wood. You could hear some shuffling, followed by footsteps coming to the door. He was out of his day clothes and wearing a dark green soft, silk shirt and lounge pants.

The corner of his mouth curled into a smirk when he saw you in your delicate robe and hair undone, cascading down your back in loose waves caused by your wedding hairstyle. ‘’What do we have here? The future queen of Asgard sneaking from her dear husband’s bed on her wedding night. Marital troubles already?’’

You fought the envy to roll your eyes at his remark. ‘’I braved the guards to see you, don’t leaving me standing in the corridor.’’

Loki stepped aside and you walked in, closing the door behind you. Inside, everything looked the same as it always did; the bed was perfectly made, the thick curtains were shut and shielding the room from the glow of the moon, and the desk was stacked with parchment papers and bits of used charcoal.

‘’Don’t you have better things to do than clandestinely visit your dear husband’s brother in the middle of the night?’’ Loki's voice was laced with a bitter edge as he spoke, his back turned to you as he walked back to the velvet green couch he was sitting on before you interrupted his reading.

You couldn't help but respond with a touch of sarcasm, trying to break through the tension that hung in the room. ‘’Like listening to Thor’s snores that could make a trumpet sound quiet?’’

You walked over to the couch and took a seat beside him with your back against the cushioned armrest. It wasn’t very lady-like to sit with your feet on the couch, but no one was there to scold you. The red silk of your robe contrasted with the jewel tone of the couch, a silent reminder that you shouldn’t be there. Red was Thor’s color.

‘’How was the bedding ceremony?’’ The prince set the book he was reading on the table, his head turned from you to hide how he truly felt about the thought of you and Thor having sex.

Shifting uncomfortably, you casted your eyes down. ‘’Can we not talk about that—’’

Loki ghosted his hand slowly up your ankle, shin, then stopped right below your knee. ‘’Does he touch you like I do?’’

The answer was easy.

You wouldn’t call Thor selfish, but when it came to sex, his performances weren’t what you would expect from a god. The rumors were true, even a good dick doesn’t guarantee you good sex. No foreplay or any kind of fun, just plain old missionary…for five minutes. The liters of Asgardian Ale he had drank during the wedding celebration were possible to blame for that terrible experience. Hopefully it won’t always be like that.

With Loki, sex was completely different. He knew your body like the back of his hand, the exact ways that had your back aching and screaming. And there was a connection that just wasn't there with Thor.

You shook your head.

Loki laughed, genuinely amused from hearing of his brother's incompetence. ‘’You have no idea how hilarious it is. Thor, the mighty God of Thunder and heir to the throne, failed to satisfy his wife on his wedding night.’’

‘’I knew it would amuse you. Knowing there’s something you’re more skilled at than him.’’

A sly smirk played on the prince’s lips, flattered by your compliment. ‘’Tell me more.’’

‘’Don’t be greedy.’’ Your eyes longed on him, how beautiful he looked in the glow of the lamp.

‘’Me?’’ Loki leaned back on the couch, his eyes gleaming mischievously in the dim light. ‘’The only thing I’m greedy for is sitting right in front of me and wearing a color that’s far too overpowering for her complexion.’’

His words only strengthened your guilt for taking the hand of a man you didn't love. It was killing you inside to know you'll never get to hold Loki's hand arm in the gardens or kiss him in front of the inhabitants of Asgard.

Turning a blind eye to your new marital status, you let your fingers glide down along the lapel of your robe, and traced teasingly the seam of your belt-tie. ‘’Shall I take it off?’’ you said in a near whisper.

‘’And what of your new husband?’’

‘’He’s sleeping until morning.’’ You pulled at the belt-tie and undid the knot, letting the silk slowly fall and expose your breasts.

A silent growl caught in Loki's throat. He's mouthed and worshiped those so many times, yet he was still in awe every time you undressed.

Without withdrawing his eyes from you, he made the robe vanish with a snap of his fingers, leaving you completely bare on his emerald green couch. ‘’Green looks better on you.’’ He delicately grabbed your ankles, and spread your legs before crawling between them.

A sigh left your lips when he kissed the insides of your thighs, giving attention to what had been neglected in Thor’s quarters. Loki was right, no man touched you like he did. He looked up at you as he kissed higher and higher on your skin, making the situation more sensual. You bit down your lip when he

placed a loving kiss against your sensitive clit, and grip his dark curls as his tongue swirled and suckled your sensitive bud.

‘’Ahh, Loki!’’

His name was the only one on your tongue, echoing through the wall of his bed chamber and down the corridor.

—

Marvel taglist: @xenasolos @chrizzierbsstuff @ayamenimthiriel @alina02 @turtleshavesoulmates @staygoldsquatchling02 @daemonslittlebitch @wetwilliam02 @haileyismoo @manofworm @rhydianissuperior @supersanelyromantic @nicangel13 @mxxny-lupin @sweeterheartxamerica @viridwityy @izzy-laufeyson @kenzi-woycehoski @arunaposeidondottie @liidiaaag @katsukis1wife @amithesimpoffandoms @acornacreacure @chaotic-fangirl-blog @hawkegfs @mommyruuetrue @youdontneedtoknowthisinformation @aabananaa @starrrslove @angeliod @nmedina8611 @1stevelacyfan @yourfavdummy @laylasbunbunny @slytherhoes @pedrosprincess @luvvtxinityy @Eddiefrickenmunson @wandaswigglywoos @mikaelsonsstuff @tcddszn @skyesthebomb @a1mzcruml3y @red1culous @popeheywardssecretgf @kattybug @loverofdrewstarkey @sl4sh3rfuck3r @luci1fer @dingus0401 @idontknowwhatimdoing777 @nomorespahgetti @bloodyhw @papayaboyluvr @slytherinambitious @t-candy @adaydreamaway08 @johannelis2302nely @lynbubble @straberryshortcake143 @mymultiveres @hopeurokays @not-liah @beth-gallagher22 @lonelywitchv2 @lausley336 @arinexeisnotworking @rubyliquor @Danniackerman @angelxxrose @angelxxrose @upwritingallnight @cruzgrecia @evelestrange @sunnysunny133696 @aesthetixhoe @hoeforsirius @secretsthathauntus @sarcasm-and-stiles @buckyswhxre @niktwazny303

All and more taglist: @kenqki @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis @katherinejess @rafesgirlstuff @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson imagine #loki x reader #loki marvel #loki odinson #marvel #marvel imagine

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superficialdomina · 9 months

Text

Fray (Into Submission, Part 4)

Part 3: Lost

Series masterlist

AN: An Avengers training session gives you a chance to show Loki how fun it would be to let you win.

As always, an enormous thank you to @acidcasualties for making this whole series happen. Special thanks to @lokisgoodgirl for checking the accuracy of my swordplay!

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: 18+; minors DNI. Thirsty with some reminiscing, but nothing explicit in this one. Inaccurate descriptions of combat training. Mostly just lurid descriptions of Loki's smoking hot bod in workout wear, with a touch of plot development.

Days. You hadn’t seen him in days.

There were hints of him; you knew he was still in the Tower. You’d heard his voice a couple of times, and yesterday when you’d stepped into the elevator you could smell that he’d been there minutes before. But he’d upped his avoidance game. It made you sad, and a little afraid.

The look of anguish he’d worn as he’d cast you out of his apartment remained etched in your memory, leaving the subtle ache of guilt in your chest. Had you gone too far?

You mulled it over as you pulled on your gym gear. Loki might still refuse to talk to you this morning, but you were confident that you would at least see him. After several of your coworkers had missed Saturday afternoon’s impromptu training session, Rogers had rescheduled for first thing Monday morning, with strongly worded insistence that everyone be in attendance. His WhatsApp message didn’t quite single Loki out by name, but none of you was in any doubt about its intended target.

The spacious training hall gleamed with the sunlight that streamed through the large 26th story windows, casting a warm glow on the polished mats. The luxury of the Tower was as prominent here as on every other floor. The gym was loaded with state-of-the-art equipment and comprehensive accessories, all meticulously maintained - as though getting your arse kicked by a handful of superheroes would hurt less because there wasn’t a speck of dust on the yoga mats, you thought wryly. You peered hopefully around the room as you entered. I just need to know that he’s OK, you told yourself.

Loki and Thor were sparring hand-to-hand in the open rink, the soft thudding of their bare feet resonating as they moved around one another. Occasional grunts carried as one of the pair landed a strike. Despite Thor’s size advantage, they were evenly matched; Loki was always a fraction faster, seeming to know exactly where Thor would move next, as though each step were choreographed and practiced to perfection. Observing them was like watching an ancient dance. Which is exactly what it is, you thought, momentarily awed. A fierce, millennium-old dance.

Thor’s bare chest, though impressive, was still somehow less appealing than Loki’s lithe form, clad in workout wear that clung tightly to his broad back. You let your eyes blatantly traverse him. His elegant ankles smoothed into perfectly sculpted calf muscles; his Godly hamstrings flexed under the hem of his training shorts, which in turn restrained his flawlessly rounded glutes. His body was utterly splendid. A delight of form and function, forged by centuries of practice and power. A work of art.

If he would just put that phenomenal dedication and discipline to good use in service to you…

“Time!” Rogers called loudly, and the brothers stepped back, arms lowered, chests heaving. Thor clapped Loki on the back amicably, and for the briefest moment, you saw Loki wince. The small movement made your blood run hot.

Pain.

“Three minutes, everyone!” Rogers continued, before consulting the pairs listed in the complicated run sheet on his ridiculous clipboard. “Two and eight,” he began. “Three and twelve. Four and… Sixteen.”

You groaned inwardly, pushing thoughts of your recalcitrant conquest from your mind. The Black Widow. Not exactly a leisurely start to the morning, then.

“Come on, sixteen,” Natasha laughed. “Show me what you’ve got.”

The room filled with the sounds of Avengers in practice: thudding boots, wordless shouts, the familiar hum of mutual respect and collective, focused power. As you sparred, you began to relax into the collaborative energy, muscle memory activating as your training partner led with her familiar fighting style. Nat feinted here, and you responded there; the two of you were strong, and graceful, and -

Thump. You landed flat on your back on the hard mat. Again. At least this time you’d seen it coming. Your body just… didn’t move that way. Or that fast.

“You’re getting better,” Nat insisted as she hauled you to your feet. “You almost avoided that one.”

“I saw what you were doing,” you agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “I just couldn’t do anything to stop you.”

“They rarely can,” she winked, as Steve’s obnoxious whistle sounded again.

“Drinks!” he shouted, “then re-pair for weapons.” He returned to his spreadsheet, muttering numbers to himself, as you reached for your water bottle and your thoughts – and eyes – returned to Loki.

He was sauntering towards the group with Bucky, shoulders thrown back in haughty masculinity, animatedly wiping sweat from his brow with his sinewy forearm. Whore, you thought lustily. They looked almost amicable. You gazed at him, curious; confused. He seemed… fine? Loki caught you watching him and gave you a wink. A wink. Almost like…

Like old times, you thought. What is going on?

You turned away, chugging water, then wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He seems fine. Was it real? If he was truly so nonchalant, why the vanishing act over the past few days?

You were still standing there, bemused, when the team began to pair off again. In your distracted state, you’d missed the next call. Who…?

Only one person remained by your side, and his imperious gaze left you in no doubt as to your next partner.

Loki.

You moved together to one end of the training mats. This close, you could see the fine trails of fresh sweat across his bare shoulders; smell the sweet scent of it heavy around you when he raised his arms to pull his curls back into a messy plait. You imagined the saltiness of it gathered in the valleys of his muscular, sinewy body, with which you had so recently become better acquainted; the way it would pool and concentrate in the deep hollow of his jugular notch.

I could make you sweat like that.

He continued to smirk at you mischievously as he moved into position, as grandiose and egomaniacal as ever. “Short swords, Agent?” he drawled, a short, thick blade appearing in each hand with a flicker of green.

“Just one, Laufeyson!” Rogers shouted, before you could respond. Loki raised an eyebrow at you, flirting with the idea of arguing; but he wordlessly vanished the weapon on his left.

“You didn’t want to lend that to me?”

“Darling, they are hundreds of years old,” he drawled coolly. “I don’t lend them to anyone.” Turning to fetch a training sword, you hid a smile at his words. Had he forgiven you?

Or he’s just feeling cocky.

The gym’s practice swords were hung neatly at the far wall. You tried to pick one that was long enough to be effective, but not so long as to be cumbersome. It was highly irrelevant; he was faster, stronger, and infinitely more skilful than you. You selected a narrow doge sword that at least felt comfortable in your grip.

The gym echoed with the ring of steel on steel as your peers sparred. How many rounds had it been? Each time you lasted barely a minute before he outdid you, the sharp edges of his blade finding their mark at your shoulder, your thigh, and once, your collar bone. Despite your budding fatigue, you found yourself mesmerised by him. He wielded the ancient sword with harmony and fluidity, so fluent was he in its unwritten language, so familiar with its little quirks. Like an old lover, you thought madly, as you struggled to steady the vibrations of the blade with each parry and clash.

His weapon whistled again; this time the flat of his blade struck your hand, and you dropped your own sword. He stepped back to patiently wait for you to ready yourself again.

His fitness was phenomenal - you were breathing hard, your arms burning, and he barely seemed to have slowed. The smirk he’d given you earlier was once again pasted across his beautiful, pretentious face. Patient, but smug.

“Where have you been, Loki?” you asked as you retrieved your weapon, buying time to catch your breath. Dammit, your knuckles stung; you hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“Here and there,” he replied easily. No denial this time. “Are you ready?”

“I was worried about you.”

“If you mean that you feared for my safety, I am most able to defend myself.”

“That’s not what I meant.” For a second you thought you saw a flicker of vulnerability return to his features. If you did, it was quickly swallowed by his traditional haughty confidence. “I just… Well, as long as you’re OK.” Ready, you lifted your blade - and a thought occurred to you.

The timing had to be perfect; if he hadn’t been looking directly at your mouth, he might have missed it. Provocatively raking your eyes down over his long body, you bit your lower lip, and gave a tiny, breathy moan.

It was horribly overdone, but it worked. Loki hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening, and you took advantage of his momentary distraction to slip below his guard; the steel of your sword captured his, and you pushed - hard. There was the harsh sing of metal-on-metal as you slid down the blade, checking his weapon against his chest. His move was forfeit. He stepped backwards off the edge of the mat, losing his balance - and you pinned him against the wall.

You pressed your body into his, your mediocre blade below his chin, and carefully assessed his face. Was he irritated by your trick? If anything, he seemed… amused.

“That,” he said lightly, looking down at you over his long, regal nose, “was an interesting tactic.”

“You know what they say,” you muttered, still breathing hard. “If you can’t beat them…”

“I dare say it would not be widely effective,” he added.

“More than you think, perhaps.”

And then you noticed it: the slight flush to his cheeks, which could be excused by the workout. The twitch of a muscle at the corner of his jaw. The feel of his perfect cock swelling slowly under his training shorts.

Not amused… Aroused.

Loki knew the moment you’d realised his state of mind. Or rather, state of body.

You’d opened your mouth in mock astonishment, your eyes bright with barely contained glee.

“Are you enjoying this?” you had asked, quietly delighted. The crossed swords had still been pressed unrelentingly against his chest, his blade locked tight under yours. It made his pulse quicken pleasantly.

Loki had given a small, wordless huff, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. In truth, he’d found it highly enjoyable; your control, your audacity, your erotically mischievous little decoy. His own powerlessness. But how could he admit that to you?

The sounds of water splashing off bathroom tile brought him back to the present. Gingerly, he stepped under the heavy jets; steam enveloped him. Lathered soap formed clouds of bubbles that washed away the training-hall grime, the sticky salt that clung to his skin like a fragrance. The precious soreness that assured him that he had worked for this. That he had earned it.

How could he admit that to you? The question turned over in his mind like the soap in his hands, slippery and fraught. It should be simple, really; the evidence was laid bare before him, stripped of illusion and ego in the privacy of his mind. The chamber. The Genuflexa. The young man, beautifully bound. The way your body had risen in his mind's eye to bring him undone, not just then but so many times since…

He let the water run through his long hair, raking his fingernails to help it penetrate all the way to his scalp. He liked the way their sharpness felt on the sensitive skin.

… And in counterpoint, the betrayals of his youth. The early memories of hurt and rejection that had sown the seeds of distrust. The expectations of masculinity and dominance, and the familiarity of the long-worn mask.

Loki lifted his chin to shake the heavy, saturated mass of slick curls out behind him, squeezing the last of the water from it. He thought of you; of how much he would like to tend to your sore muscles, to soothe the bruises you would surely have sustained in combat today. To gently run his fingertips over your scalp, and hear you sigh with contentment.

There was only one sensible question, he decided as he stepped from the lustrous shower recess. Steam was clearing to reveal his glistening face in the bathroom mirror. Did he trust you?

He dried his hands, and picked up his cell phone.

Alright, Agent. Prove me wrong.

Almost immediately, he received your reply. The tone of it sent a little shiver down Loki’s spine.

9pm, my apartment. Be punctual.

Before he could interrogate his feelings about it, his phone gave another gentle ping.

Wear your cape.

Tags: @lokisgoodgirl @acidcasualties @infinitystoner @lady-rose-moon @coldnique @thomase1 @kats72 @holymultiplefandomsbatman @tomlugirl @lokisninerealms @missmushroomsstuff @ladyloki3 @fandxmslxt69 @sinsandguilt @sarahscribbles @lunarnights95 @meowmeow-motherfucker @simplyholl @divine-knight-hand @gigglingtiggerv2 @eleniblue @loz-3 @redfoxwritesstuff @wolfsmom1 @beksib @nyx2021 @lokischambermaid

#sub!loki/femdom!reader #sub loki #loki fic

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writers-potion · 4 months

Text

Writing Weapons (6): Magical Weapons and Warfare

Material, Size and Shape

Solid, natural material like stone, wood or bone. The boen can be from a ritually sacrificed animal, a human ancestor/sacrifice, a hero or a saint, or a slain enemy.

Crystal or precious or semi-precious stone: good at storing and intensifying magical energy.

Elonged shape, like a wand or staff. May be disguised as an everyday elonged object like a pen or a walking stick.

Can be of any size, smaller objects often disguised as everyday objects; large, stationary magical items (like a statue) can be a landmark everyone knows about

A religious connection, like the weapon being sacred to a goddess, blessed in a temple, manufactured by monks, forged by a god, bestowed to the hero by a deity, etc.

Inherited through generations

It can only be given, not obtained via force or theft.

The manufacture of the weapon involves a ritual and a sacrifice.

How It Works

The use of a magical weapon is seldom purely physical - there must be a mental effect, like the user concentrating, casting a spell, or being born of a certain bloodline.

The damage incurred by a magical weapon may be invisible

Damage caused by a magical weapon may only be felt by the victim after a lag, when it's too late to seek help.

The weapon may affect the target's mind rather than the body (robbing the person of the will to live, love, or fight)

Many magical weapons are element-specific (like fire, water, air, etc.)

The weapon may be capable of hitting hidden targets

The user needs magic training (like directing energy, mental focus, power raising) to use the weapon. Otherwise, the magic of the weapon might kill him.

Charging and Cleansing

A magical weapon often needs to be magically fuelled ("charged") to be used.

This can be by a certain person, at a certain location, involving (religious) rituals, perhaps even involving sacrifices.

Sometimes, the weapon may be charged by leaving it lying in running water, or exposed to sunlight or the light of a full moon.

After use, the weapon may need to be cleansed. The ritual to cleanse the weapon can be equal to the ritual used to charge the weapon.

Fictional Complications

The weapon only works for a specific period after being charged.

The weapon only works in the hand of certain people - male virgin, post-menopausal crones, etc.

The weapon depends on the user's attitudes and beliefs. What if the weapon only works for someone who is free from fear, or has an unshakable faith in the fact that the Earth is flat?

The weapon only works if the user know the true name of the victim

The weapon only works if the user is in a state of altered consciousness - they cannot be waken up.

It takes time for the user to wake the weapon up and direct herwill at the desired outcome.

Magic requires extreme concentration, which can be difficult to get in the middle of a raging battle.

The weapon ay work only in the presence of a certain element (water, airm eath, fire)

How to Defeat a Magician

For the magician, the primary weapon is his mind, and the ability to concentrate in order to channel his/her powers to the target.

If your MC is a magician, show how he recites his spells (so that he'll be able to cast them correctly under stress) and undergoes mental strength exercises.

The best time to attack a magician would be right after she finishes casting a difficult spell and suffering the aftermaths (momentary lack of power, mental sluggishness, etc.)

Magic in Warfare

There may be a single magician serving as an advisor to the commander-in-chief, or each legion might have their own magician, with different specializations.

There may be specialized magician units, like engineering or medical units. Groups of magician-soldiers are also plausible.

Magicians can fill the role of consultants, astrologers, prophets, psychologists and priests. They determine an auspicious date for battle, bless the banners and all for the favor of the gods.

Magicians can create protective spells which deflect bullets, arrows and sword blows. They may even invent a device that places shields on the wearer.

Protection or healing spells may take time to carry out, which means only the elite or the most valued soldiers will be given the previllege - this can cause resentment and lead to interesting dynamics betwen men who are desperate to survive battle.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 11 months

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Trunk or Treat with The Yandere Student Council Pt. I

Based Off the OCs in this Post

“Alright everyone let’s start talking about ideas!”

“Uhm do you mean ideas for what to do with Halloween coming?”

“Oh no darling, we always do a Trunk or Treat kind of thing.”

“We are talking about our costumes.”

As bizarre as it sounds the college’s students look forward to the costumes of the student council

Allowed to enjoy whatever festivity that comes with their choice

For reference they share that last year they had a ‘kiss–in–the–coffin’ booth for their shared vampire costumes

“J-j-just so you know the kisses were on the cheek only!”

“I didn’t ask but okay.”

It set the precedent for this year to be just amazing if not better

“Since we have you now (Y/n) we should have something special that welcomes you in!”

“I-i-i-i think that’s a great idea.”

“I’m all for it too!”

Despite your protests, in fear of being singled out by their fans your haters they forge on

“They won’t be bothering you. Not on my watch.”

“You say that but–”

“Seriously (Y/n) believe us! We’ll make sure there won’t be any problems.”

“And if there are we will kill them.”

“What?!”

“Joking. Joking.”

They’re not

Anyway it was decided on that the council will be Ghostly Royalty

Which makes costumes really easy or so you thought

According to Min, quite a large part of the budget went into your costumes

“Pick your jaw up (Y/n)! This is the best part! You don’t think we get this big of a budget without showing off, do you?”

“Still…it feels a bit overkill…especially when I don’t have a fan base at all.”

“Ohhh that’s what you think–ow!”

“Roman, always such an optimistic chatterbox. Always saying things that are not true.”

Lucoa takes the role of the king naturally

Spencer is forcefully given the role of the queen

Min takes the role of the dungeon master, despite his meek character

Roman takes the role of an advisor

Gil as a duke

June as a duchess

“Wait so what am I?”

“Our dragon.”

“What?!”

“We wanted to put a spin on the old system!”

“But that isn’t really accurate…nor does it really fit the ghost royalty theme.”

“.....”

“....”

“So? We’re doing fantasy ghosts then.”

In your opinion, it's just an excuse to make your costume as ridiculous as they please

“This is an early draft of your costume.”

“What!? Wait where are the actual clothes? I’m just seeing gold necklaces and bangles.”

“...That was the idea.”

“I’m not wearing that if there aren’t actual clothes underneath there.”

“...But it will ruin the integrity of the design and disrupt the choreography and–”

“Then hide it under the gold! I’m not going to be half-naked for the entire school.”

“...I will consult the President.”

You owed him a favor after that

Saying you agreed to this as an honorary member

But when you’re not having to fight Gill on your costume designs

You are helping the others

“June…this is just a dress.”

“Right, it’s a perfect occasion to wear it. And don’t my hips feel and look great.”

Adjusting the golden belt meant to hang off his waist you try to ignore how his poses requires that he touch you in some way shape or form

“Well yeah but don’t you feel like your fans would want you in something else?”

“Oh baby! You don’t have to worry, they love this sort of thing.”

And helping with their research

“Roman I know you never seem to run out of ideas to hang out but why a medieval diner?”

“It's for research! By the way, how do you like the food? I made sure the critiques were as positive as they could get.”

“Roman.”

“Yes?”

“Why did that waitress, compliment our relationship?”

“OMG they brought another plate of bread and for free? So cool.”

“Roman!”

Or helping organize their booths

“So Spencer what are you going for?”

“A kind of dunk tank except it drops on me.”

“Oh okay….this says that you’re not actually using water but…oil?”

“Yeah Lucoa suggested I show off my scars and muscles.”

“Wait you have those?”

“Hahaha very funny but seriously give me your opinion.”

“Oh wow….yeah, I think they’ll like it…no they’ll love it.”

“Oh really? Well, thanks!”

As if he didn’t already know

But eventually as the date comes closer it comes time to focus on your booth

But it seems that as an honorary member you don’t get to have much control over your own booth

Or any decision involving your event

“Hey Min what are you building over there?”

“Oh this is the art for your exhibit. Lucoa put me in charge of matching the gold from your costume to the setting around there.”

“Aw thanks can I help?”

“N-n-no!”

“Oh.”

“S-s-s-sorry the President gave us explicit instructions not to include you in the making of it. I’m r-r-r-r-really so sorry!”

“It’s fine Min, don’t worry about it.”

It’s just so apparent how little you would be included in your own activity no one really bothered to hide that fact from you

“Hey Gill this meeting on your calendar, I don’t remember getting your usual reminder for it.”

“That is because you are not invited to it.”

“Don’t be sad (Y/n)~Afterwards we can just come visit you after.”

“No no that’s okay I’ll just take the day off then. Catch up on homework.”

“Aw~ Don’t be like that we’ll come over to your house after.”

“No I’m not sad. I’m going to be happily doing my homework alone!”

“Putting that on our private calendar: Going to (Y/n)’s house an hour after the meeting.”

At the end of the day you’re just as surprised when the event begins and they shove you in the room under the stage with nothing but a warning not to move from the chair you’re in:

Part 2

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prolix-yuy · 8 months

Text

Beautiful Release

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: You and Din have an agreement. Simple, clean, easy. But not this time.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, IT'S PEGGING DIN TIME! Anal sex (m receiving), rough sex, sex toys, fingering (m receiving), handjob, frottage, blowjob, swallowing, cumshot, mentions of oral sex (f receiving), mild dubcon (Reader isn't aware of Din's mental state and stops the session to re-negotiate boundaries), painful sex, sex as self-flagellation, hurt/comfort.

Notes: Welcome to my addition to the Peg That Middle Aged Man Event 2024! This idea had been bumping around in my brain and this gave me the perfect excuse to write it. Thanks @wannab-urs for organizing this event, making the gorgeous banners, and giving me a chance to live my fantasies after S3 gave us the most delicious kneeling restrained Din image. I will never forget it, it's burned into my brain forever.

Set after S2 and before The Book of Boba Fett.

Cross-posted on AO3

He’s come to you before, but never like this.

Din always treats your encounters like serendipity, but from the first time you’ve known how far from the truth that is. He finds ways to drift into your path, tilting his helmet like he never expected you to be at this spaceport, which you prefer for its discretion, or in this cantina, which serves a hell of a barium fizz. The niceties always devolve into the silent request, which you never fail to fulfill.

But now, there’s a holomessage blinking on your control panel.

Send me your coordinates. Usual encoding.

It’s brisk, cold, mostly to protect you both, but even then something’s off. He’s never admitted to seeking you out. Something stirs deep in your stomach, consulting the encoding slug he gave you ages ago in case you ever needed him. Funny, the first time you’d use it would be because you think he needs you.

Your winding relationship with Din Djarin began at the business end of a blaster, but you can’t fault him for that. The ship you were flying then had all the hallmarks of a slaver vessel, but when he found your crew of rebel sympathizers he lowered his weapon. One escort and a few short-lived conversations later, and you’d forged a razor-thin alliance.

Your paths wound their way across and through each other for over a year, and in that time Din warmed to you. He gave you his name, his allegiances, his contacts if needed. In return you forged documents and built jammers for his ramshackle ship. Mutually beneficial, and after a time pleasantly warm. His laugh always surprised you, a low chuckle when you turned a phrase just right on him.

And the kid! The curious little gremlin that had been accompanying him more in recent times did help to smooth the rough spots. Grogu’s presence always brightened your days, brief moments of pure joy from his tireless antics. Din seemed to be ever the exasperated protector, but when he tucked Grogu into his arm his aura glowed.

However, the times when Din “stumbled” upon you with seemingly no purpose had little to do with play dates or trades. Well, maybe only in the most euphemistic sense.

It was on a cargo run - cargo being more frightened people fleeing under the guise of your fake shipping business - that Din first encountered what would bring him back to you time and time again. There was a man among the stowaways who took an interest in you, the feeling mutual. He wound his way around like a lothcat in heat, and when you whispered how you might be able to pass the time he enthusiastically agreed.

You weren’t much of an exhibitionist, but the ship wasn’t meant for privacy. So when Din happened upon you bending the man over a cargo crate, your strap slickly splitting him open as he moaned behind your clamped hand, you did feel some mild embarrassment. You weren’t sure how long he watched you thrust into the other man, but the little cough that alerted you to his presence made you turn and take him in.

He was clearly affected, hand gripping his belt as the other clenched by his side. Fascinating. The Mandalorian had surprises in store.

The man garbled about sucking Din’s cock, letting the Mando cum on his face while you pounded his tight hole, but you stuck your fingers in his mouth and picked up your rhythm again. You’d met other Mandalorians in your travels, but Din’s particular religion was much stricter than most. He might take hefty offense if you assumed any of the armor could come off. Instead you let him watch without comment as your companion came all over the side of the cargo crate, soothing him through the aftershocks. As you cleaned him up you noticed your audience fled, and you determined never to speak of this.

It would take two months for Din to come to you.

“People like this?” he asked when you showed him your strap and assortment of attachments. You shrugged, picking out the one you secretly thought he’d enjoy.

“Some do, some don’t. It’s just one of many things I like,” you said, leaning against your bedroom wall as he filled the small space with restless energy. “I’m sure you like plenty of things too.”

There it was. The little roll of the shoulders and flex of a hand that told you Din wasn’t as inexperienced as some would believe.

“Never tried something like this,” he mumbled, and you smiled under the knowledge that he was nervous. Din Djarin, feared throughout the galaxy, and dearer friend than you ever expected, had something he wanted and didn't know how to ask for.

“Would you like to try it?” you said, taking the last barrier away. He tilted the helmet down, fingers restless on his hip.

“Yes.”

That first night you didn’t fuck him, though by the end he was so close to begging you almost came from the sound. Instead you opened him up with your fingers, got him used to the feeling of fullness and how to connect it to pleasure, while he laid on your bed and gripped the sheets so hard you thought he’d rip them. His pants bunched across his thighs, you got to admire the cords of muscle rippling as you made him shake and choke. His cock, velvety and weeping on his stomach, made your mouth water, but you only offered to suck it when he was just on the precipice. Your hot mouth wrapping around his head, two clever fingers stroking his prostate, tipped him over into bliss as he shouted his completion. Pride swelled in your chest at his belabored breath, chestplate heaving and thighs quivering on either side of your head.

When you returned from cleaning up he was already dressed again, despite your protests to wait and let you ease him down from this new experience. He thanked you, awkwardly, and left quickly. Lying in the same bed that night, still smelling of him, you reasoned with yourself. He probably had a lot of feelings to sort out, both around his pleasure and the fact that you gave it to him. You hoped he trusted you enough to know you’d be discreet. And, as your fingers slid into your underwear, you hoped he’d seek you out again.

It was only a week before you were at the same spaceport again, his heavy boots clanking up your ramp. You tried to hide your own nerves, but when Din stood before you and let the visor drag up and down your body, a delicious grin crept onto your face.

“Ready to try more?”

Indeed he was.

He enters your ship without preamble, a brief flit of concern clouding your features at how quickly he disarmed your security measures. You weren’t expecting him for another hour. He must have jumped to get to you.

It’s thrilling, to know the Mandalorian’s need is so great.

But when he enters and closes the door behind him, the energy is…off. Not seductive, teasing, edged like the other times. No, he’s holding his body so tight and so still. There’s nothing aggressive in it, but you glimpse why his enemies fear him. Without a face, and with so much obscuring the flesh beneath, you’re not sure when he’ll strike.

He catches you rummaging through your drawer, the strap in your hand. Assessing, you give him a gentler smile than usual, hands visible, softening your stance.

“Hello, Din.”

He nods, quickly, unbuckling his belt and yanking his cape free. Both fall to the floor carelessly. You press on.

“How about you tell me what you want?” you say, watching him carefully as he opens his pants plaquet. The mouthwatering strip of skin you covet peeks from beneath his top.

“Just need…need this,” he says, and while naturally a man of few words you’d taught him to be more vocal in this respect.

“Okay, Din. How about you kneel on the bed and we start there?” Your voice lowers into a soothing register, reaching for his arm.

“No,” he almost shouts, startling your hand back. He recovers. “No, I want…” You can practically hear him licking his lips on a sigh, slowing himself down. “Can you sit against the headboard?”

Brows raised, you nod. He’s never ridden you before, always preferring to let you take him from behind or on his back. Pulling the strap-on over your leggings, you settle against the headboard and wait for him. He doesn’t take long, kneeling on the bed briefly in contemplation before swinging over your lap. Shucking his pants half down his legs, you can’t resist a giggle.

“Might be better to take them off,” you tease, letting your hands lay featherlight on his hips. A huff crackles through the vocoder but he doesn’t move to disrobe further.

“I’ll open you up a bit first,” you say, one hand reaching for lube while the other snakes its way to his hole. You encounter surprising slickness, but he’s nowhere as warmed up as you get him.

“S’okay, I took care of it,” he mumbles, both hands coming up to grip the headboard above your head. Slicking lube on the dildo, you move to finger him enough to ease your way in.

“Just a little more…”

“I’m fine.”

The curt retort snaps your face to the helmet, now more of a cowled chin and shining halo of beskar above your head. There’s something bubbling uncomfortably under the surface, something you feel the need to drag out by the scruff of the neck, but it’s Din. You never talk feelings with Din. Frankly, you barely talk at all during, or after, any of your nights together.

“Sorry,” he breathes, forcing relaxation. “I’m ready. Please.”

Your eyes linger for a moment longer, then you circle the base of your cock in waiting.

He descends slowly, gritted breaths and sharp blasts of air from his nose echoing above you. You watch the strain in his thighs as he sinks and sinks, his cock only half-hard against his stomach. Leaving a hand on one hip, you stroke soothing paths up and down his lower back, watching for discomfort. Instead he’s marble around you, coiled, body not releasing as usual. Normally when you fuck him he dissolves, rolling his hips back onto you and choking out praises of how good you feel.

None of that comes. He meets the base of your cock and immediately slides back up at an almost punishing pace. He can’t be that acclimated yet, and his pained hisses and grunts only make that more apparent.

“Din, slow down,” you request, hands firmer on his hips to try and even his pace. If he heard you he says nothing, now slamming his hips down on your cock. “Din,” you beseech again, nails starting to dig in. His grunts grow to growls, something from the heat of battle, your headboard creaking from his crushing grip.

Clarity overtakes you, the shudder of his stomach and forceful downstrokes only getting more intense. There wasn’t pleasure in this. Something is eating up Din inside and he’s trying to fuck it out of himself. And he’s using you to do that.

“Din Djarin, STOP.”

The echo of your voice, strong and steely, finally brings Din to a stop with your cock buried deep in his ass. His chest heaves in front of you, limbs quivering from the exertion, but he’s as still as he can be. Gripping his chestplate, you push him back enough to look him in the visor, your anger righteously reflected back.

“You don’t punish yourself with my cock,” you order, teeth clenched and seething. “Do you think so little of me, that I’d just let you rip yourself to shreds without a word?”

Din freezes, but this time you know it’s shame. If you were in a clearer headspace you might have tried reassurance, or asked him to lay beside you and talk about what’s destroying him, but you’re just too upset.

“Is that all you come to me for?” you spit out, knuckles aching from gripping his armor. He’s silent for long enough that you consider throwing him out before he speaks.

“Something happened. And I just want to…be empty. To not think about it every moment.” He leans forward and your visage warps as he presses his forehead to the crown of your head. The anger thrums but starts to ebb as he folds around you. “I didn’t know where else to go. You’ve always taken care of me. More than I deserve.”

The sadness in his voice is palpable, and even with your mouth still sour from his deception you find the compassion to wrap your arms around his middle. The chestplate presses into your cheek, a metronome for Din’s slowing breaths.

“If you have any care in your heart for me, don’t ever do that again,” you grit out. Din’s breath catches.

“I care for you,” he says, and a door in your heart you never realized was cracked widens for Din’s admission.

“I care for you too, you karking asshole, which is why I want you to say something instead of trying to hate fuck your feelings out.”

Din’s chest begins to shake again, but you’re sure it’s laughter this time. You manage a giggle of your own, letting him lean back and look at you again. The motion shifts your cock in him, and his sharp sigh arches your brow.

“If you wanted to forget, you could have just told me,” you say, rolling your hips sensuously up into his clenching hole. Din’s head drops back, grip tightening on the headboard again as you grind into him.

“Please,” he begs, so soft and vulnerable you can’t help but give him what he needs.

Slowly you press up into him, guiding his hips to rock on your cock. You love the feel of his ass in your hands, well muscled and perfect for grabbing, manhandling him just enough to show he can let go. He follows your direction reluctantly at first, but as you plant your feet and start thrusting with more range he loosens. You can feel it in his arms, holding on to the headboard for dear life, and the building rhythm of his hips meeting yours. For a man whose life is violence, you never want to bring that into your sessions. But a light swat on one asscheek pulls the most delicious moan from deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, bearing down on you even more. Tilting your hips, you arch his back enough that you’re sure to hit his prostate on the next thrust.

“Maker!”

There it is.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper. Waiting a moment, you zero in on that perfect spot inside him and hit it with every one of your thrusts. “Do you feel that? Feel how good I’m fucking you?”

“Yes, fuck,” Din curses, one hand flitting down to squeeze the base of his cock. He’s at full attention now, head bobbing against your stomach. You swell with pride that he’s having to stave off his orgasm so quickly, but you’ll be the one to make those decisions now.

“All I want you to think about is how good you feel,” you purr, tugging his hand away and replacing it with your own. You long for his skin against yours, so you pull up your shirt to skim the head of his cock against your soft belly. He chokes, stuttering away but he’s trapped between your hand and thighs.

“Wait, Maker, I’ll cum if you…” he garbles, but his body keeps meeting your grinds. You shush him gently, stroking from base to tip and smearing precum over the head.

“You will, but only when I let you. You know I’ll make it good for you, make nothing but this pleasure you’re feeling fill that head of yours.” His rapid nod almost knocks you in the head with the beskar, but he manages to tuck into your neck instead. The helmet is a shocking cool against your skin, but the act of burrowing into you must be rewarded. Bringing your arms around him, you press along the length of his body, trapping his cock between.

“I’m gonna pound into this tight ass until you cum all over us. You like that?” The wail Din lets out shoots heat to your cunt, wishing more than anything that you’d opted for a toy that gave you a little stimulation too. Instead you hammer fast and hard, barely pulling out. Your hips and thighs burn with exertion at his bulk on top of you, but he’s frantically bouncing back and rutting his cock into the wet mess your bodies make.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, and you’re not sure if it’s the vocoder but you think his voice sounds watery. “Please, cyar’ika, don’t stop.”

Cupping the back of his neck, damp with sweat, you whisper, “I’ve got you.”

With a handful of final pumps you’re coated in his cum, sliding around your belly as he seizes over and over. Pressing deep, you hold strong against his shuddering body as he finishes. Each weakening thrust draws him down on you, heavier and loose-limbed.

The armor makes it hard to find the soft spots, so you take to kneading the back of his neck and palming his spine. Before his last aftershock, you urge him higher on his knees so you can slip your cock out - slowly, so as not to shock his jellying body. Easing him down, you hold his head in the crook of your neck and settle him on your lap. His hands slide down from the headboard to your shoulders.

Then you hear it. A tiny sniff, then another. You can’t pretend you didn’t notice them so close to your ear. So you gather the broad man in your arms and hold him. His hands don’t know where to rest, finally winding loosely around your lower back.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” you tell him again, and the sniffing starts to recede. His body, however, slumps against yours, and it takes all of your strength not to start giggling.

You fucked the Mandalorian right to sleep. Bravo to you.

When Din finally stirs, a deep rumble in his throat, it’s been almost an hour. Your toes are half numb and you’re dying to shift into any other position, but much like a lothcat falling asleep on your lap, you couldn’t bear to move Din. Especially when he started snoring, one of the most endearing and hilarious sounds you’d ever heard him make.

In the time he slept you wondered what happened. What terrible thing hollowed him out and haunts him. Something keeps him up at night, if the depth of his sleep is any indication. Recent, possibly. Traumatic.

Your breath caught in your throat. If something happened to Grogu you know he would have told you. You ask after him all the time, teasing that you’ll be his Auntie (Din always says he has plenty of them across the galaxy).

Had you seen the Razor Crest fly up? Where was that old bird anyway?

What happened in the time since Din last saw you?

The cycle of possibilities always ends the same. Maybe he cares for you in some way, but not enough for you to ask. No matter how much you want to.

A shift on your lap alerts you to Din waking, kneading his shoulders and neck lightly to alert him to your presence. He’s never slept with you before, but it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that he’s quick to draw at unexpected circumstances. Of which this one definitely is.

“What…” Din croaks, and if not for the helmet you would have offered him water.

“It’s okay, you’re on my ship. You’re okay.”

It takes Din another minute to realize what’s happened. Him, half naked on your lap with your strap pressing against his ass. You, covered in drying cum beneath him. In a flash he’s swinging his leg off your lap, attempting to stand but obviously they’ve gone as numb as yours because he stumbles and crashes out of sight.

“Oh kriff, are you…?” you start to ask, but as quick as he’s out of sight he pops back up again, tugging up his pants and tucking himself away.

“Sorry, that was…I didn’t mean to…do that.”

All of the heaviness and anger and lust fizzles away to laughter as you try to suppress the ridiculousness of the moment. After a moment of indigent head tilting Din’s shoulder also shake, chuckles fuzzing out of the vocoder.

“Oh Maker, what an understatement that is,” you sigh, wiping your stomach with the edge of your bedsheets. Din visibly cringes, hands on his hips.

“Sorry for the mess,” he apologizes, but you wave it off.

“I’ve had much worse, believe me,” you shoot back. Clean enough, you sit on the edge of the bed and look up at the inscrutable man.

“Want to talk about it?”

Din’s stance shifts, helmet tipping down for a moment before coming back to your face.

“...Not yet.”

You hum and nod. “Well, you know how to find me if you do.”

Din nods. “Thank you.”

As he picks up his effects you shimmy off the harness at the foot of the bed, mentally ticking through the steps to clean everything. Din watches you set it down, stilling until your eyes come back to him.

“It gives you pleasure as well?” he asks, which raises one of your eyebrows.

“I mean, about as much as rhythmically hitting your hips against someone can do.” His posture changes into something hard to decipher, so you continue. “I’ve got a few that do more for me, but it depends on the person I’m with. Comfort, boundaries. As you’re well aware.” You gesture to the armor, his chin tucking down to look at it.

“So you’ve never cum with me?” he asks, and a sudden feverish heat blooms under your skin. Din has a sex appeal you appreciate, but have never acted on beyond what he’s asked for. Now, something’s changed so dizzyingly fast you’re scrambling.

“Well, you’re pretty spent after our sessions. And you leave quickly. I don’t ask for more than you can give.”

Din takes a step towards you, putting his belt and cloak back down.

“What do you ask of other people you fuck?”

Your heart hammers in your chest. How can he turn the tables so quickly and spectacularly? Trying to gain the upper hand, you pull a confident face on and speak as breezily as possible.

“Most can’t get it up twice after I fuck them within an inch of their life, so fingers, tongues, toys, any and all of the above are excellent ways to repay the favor.”

He’s even closer now, and the facade is barely holding up. It’s like the vulnerability he showed you can’t possibly be returned.

“You’ve never asked me,” he says, and you can’t believe there’s a note of regret in his voice. The bed hits the back of your legs, and you steady your voice even though those words make your pussy throb.

“I didn’t think it was allowed.” Your voice drops low as Din steps into your space.

“Difficult, but not forbidden.” Din’s hands come to your shoulders. “Sit down, please.”

Your knees fold so fast you bounce on the bed, looking up at him. He joins you on one knee, hands coming to rest on your thighs.

“I broke my Creed. I would do it again, for the exact same reason, but now that makes me an apostate.” His hands come to the helmet, thumbs tucking underneath the lip.

“Din, what happened?”

He pauses, and you swear you can feel his gaze through that smoky visor.

“Close your eyes.”

Darkness surrounds you, then a hiss and a thunk.

Then the voice of a man you care for, unfiltered and bare.

“I’m not ready for anyone to see my face. But I want this, with you. If you can forgive me.”

You could be dreaming still. It would make just as much sense.

“I forgive you, Din. But just this once,” you sneak in at the end just to hear how melodic his laugh sounds. Then his hand splays over your stomach and urges you to lie back.

“I hope you don’t mind teaching me this. I don’t have much experience,” he says, fire licking through your body as he tugs your leggings and underwear off.

“Don’t worry, you’re a quick learner,” you say breathily.

And when he finally kisses you, sweet with your musk on his tongue and your orgasm dripping from his fingers, you teach him how to do that as well.

END

"I need some distraction Oh a beautiful release Memories seep from my veins Let me be empty Oh and weightless and maybe I'll find some peace tonight.

Sarah McLachlan, Angel (yeah I know I used the sad dog song)

#PMAMC 2024 #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #prolix fics

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