#Rust Resistant Blade | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

libbybee · 6 months ago

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A ROGUE'S TOUCH — SA

◜pairing: astarion ⨯ fem!rogue!reader ◜rating: MDNI 18+ ┊ wc: 2.8K ◜cw: porn without plot, masturbation [F], neck kissing, sweet-dirty talk, semi-public, overstimulation.

▹ summary. trapped in a goblin fortress, you and astarion stumble upon a locked door blocking your path. though you're inexperienced with lockpicking, astarion insists you try, offering a hands-on 'lesson' that quickly turns into a distraction.

A/N. english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

AO3 ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ PLAYLIST

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The air was dense in the goblin’s fortress with the smell of decay and their gross scent.

Every step you took echoed too loudly in the quiet silence of the hallway as you looked for a way to get out, making you almost tremble due to the fear of being discovered. Astarion was a silent, ghostlike presence beside you, with his hand near the hilt of his dagger to strike at any moment if necessary—always prepared. You envied how easy he made this all seem.

You both halted in front of a heavy wooden door, its iron reinforcements dark and covered in rust. It was imposing, with an ornate lock gleaming against the faint light cast by the candlelight.

“This should be the way forward.” He murmured while his crimson eyes narrowed, studying the lock. “Unfortunately, it's blocked. We’ll have to pick it.”

You looked at him. “We? I don’t know how to pick locks.”

He smiled arrogantly, his lips sharply as a blade. “Oh, but you'll learn. It's a skill every adventurer should master, darling. Besides…” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a delicate set of lockpicks and placing them into your open palm. “I insist.”

You glanced back the way you both came. The thought of learning now while someone—or something—may find you both made you feel more anxious. “This isn’t the time for—”

“Trust me. I’ll guide you.” His expression turned serious as he cut your words.

With a sigh, you crouched in front of the lock, feeling uncertain as you inserted the pick into its mechanism. The metal was harsh and unfamiliar in your hands, and you felt your mind block as you had no idea what you had to do. Behind you, Astarion kneeled close enough for you to feel his chest against your back, then he placed his hands on your hips to steady you.

“Relax, darling. You’re trembling.” He whispered against your ear; his voice close to you was enough to send a cool shiver down your neck. “Here. Let me show you.” He settled his left hand over yours, his fingers firm but kind as they enveloped yours around the lockpick. Slowly, he guided your hand, moving the pick precisely until a soft click occurred. Your movements felt fluid thanks to him, instinctive, like he could do this while sleeping.

Meanwhile, his other hand slid from your hip to your thigh as if trying to calm your nerves, trailing his fingers with a light touch that sent a tingling along your body. He lingered just for a moment before gliding inward to the delicate spot between your thighs. The pressure was subtle at first—a teasing drag of his fingertips that shifted into measured rubs over your pussy. He made the constant friction soft, and his breath remained steady, as if he weren’t just breaking the deadly tension of the moment only by touching you.

“You’ll feel a slight resistance—there, do you feel it?” His voice was a low murmur, velvety smooth and calm, while his fingers guided yours on the lockpick, moving with ease, coaxing the mechanism to yield. All this should have been instructional—his control, his preciseness—but his intentions betrayed him.

With the other hand, he shifted a bit higher to deftly undo the button of your trousers, slipping beneath the waistband of the slackened fabric with sinful fluidity. Just to find with his fingertips the delicate heat of your core against your panties, brushing with a feathery touch while still guiding your attempts. His stimulation seemed to mock the skill he demonstrated with the lock.

Your hips leaned involuntarily into his hand as your fingers stumbled with the lockpick. “Astarion—” You managed, with a tense tone of warning and plea.

“Shh,” he quieted you. “Pay attention, darling. This is important.”

A shudder ran through you. “How am I supposed to—”

“Focus?” He finished for you, his smirk clearly perceptible as he kept his stroking on you. “I wouldn’t want to make this too easy for you, now, would I?”

Your thighs clenched around his wrist, but he only scoffed at your futile attempt to stop him with a low tongue click. Dipping his fingers effortlessly beneath the final barrier of fabric, he found your clit and began tracing lazy circles around your bud. He made every movement the perfect combination of pressure and pattern, played with terrible skill for that moment, stripping away the fragile threads of focus you tried to cling to.

The tools trembled in your hands as the mechanism refused to cooperate; each time you thought you had the pin in place, his fingers rubbed harder and faster against your delicate clit. A sharp jolt of pleasure radiated through you, making your grip falter and the aching throbs he elicited sending your concentration scattering like leaves in a blustering breeze.

You slipped more of the lockpick in the lock while his other hand rested just over yours to 'guide' you. The brush of his cool fingertips on your knuckles was a stark contrast to the heat he was building in your pussy. He got lower, circling the entrance of your wet folds and tracing your slit to your clit again with infuriating slowness with his slender fingers, never giving you the satisfying sensation of more.

“Mmm, feel that?” He hummed lowly, his voice like a sensual caress against your ear, making you hold your breath when he finally pushed his middle finger inside. The intrusion slow and gradual.

You tried once more to adjust the angle as his finger curled within you to stroke your G-spot while using his thumb to massage your clit, coaxing your pelvis to rub involuntarily against his hand until your lips allowed a weak moan you barely managed to suppress.

A soft click echoed in the quiet hallway at the same time, but it wasn’t the one you were hoping for. The lock didn’t open—yet it gave another subtle shift, a hint of close to open but just out of reach.

“Ah, there it is. Feel how it responds?” He whispered. “It’s all about finding the right angle… and knowing when to push with the right touch.”

“Astarion!” You wailed quietly, tightening your grip on the lockpick in frustration.

“Yes, my sweet?” He purred with wicked satisfaction while he kept sinking his finger inside you. He was meticulous in that tortuous slowness, as if to intensify the sensation—each push deeper than the last, never fully withdrawing, only ever teasing you with a rhythm that made it impossible to think of anything but him.

“Am I distracting you?” His whispers were like a lover's touch against your ear, just low enough to be heard. His left hand moved to orient yours with an almost cruel precision, ensuring the lockpick remained poised at the exact angle needed. The parallel was impossible to ignore—the skilful manipulation of the lock imitated the careful stimulation he exerted on your pussy too well.

The cold, damp air of the fortress did nothing to diminish the heat flooding your body as his uninvited finger penetrated deeper inside you. It wasn’t just the intrusive pressure; it was the rhythm of each gradually increasing thrust that made everything else—everything else—fade into the background. Your walls clenched around him subconsciously, desperate but bound by the task at hand. The lock was still before you, and it felt a thousand times more impossible to manipulate; its intricate mechanism was a cold contrast against the warmth he was unleashing.

“I can’t—” You whispered, trembling with frustration and the torment he inflicted.

He chuckled lowly against the sensitive curve of your ear—that characteristic smell of his so close. Then you felt his lips when he planted a soft kiss on your neck, kissing over your pulse. “Oh, but you can,” he murmured, dulcet with a dangerous edge, more of a command than a guarantee. “All you need to do is focus, sweetheart… We’ll be here all night if you don’t.”

Before you could even think of anything else, a second finger plunged inside you with distressing slowness, stretching you further than before. The suddenness of it made the grip on the lockpick falter, and in a second, the tool slipped, falling with a soft clatter against the cold stone floor—a noise that rang out too loudly in the silence, mocking your failure.

His fingers inside you curled deeply to intentionally touch against that sweet, sensitive spot that made you jerk in response, pressing your hips into his hand. Your mind screamed at you to focus, but the feeling of being filled just by so little of him—how he was ruining you so, so easily—was enough to make you want more despite the circumstances.

The quiet atmosphere of your deadly situation was impossible to ignore; every sound, every movement, was amplified in this repugnant place. Yet the danger lurking in the shadows—of goblins, of discovery—disappeared, insignificant against the relentless storm he was creating within you. The fortress could collapse around you, and yet all you could think of was the feelings of your body and the way he manipulated your senses.

Panic twisted inside you as you pressed your hand against your mouth, trying to muffle the frustrated moans that slipped past your trembling lips. But even with your palm tightly pressed, the sound still quivered through your fingers.

His left hand shot out to seize your wrist and yanked your hand from your mouth. “Not a chance, love.”

You bit down hard on your lip, forcing yourself to steady the tremors in your hands as you reached down to retrieve the lockpick from the cold stone floor.

As your fingers closed around the lockpick again, you heard his voice. “My sweet, good girl…” His praise was syrupy, sweet. “You need to be more careful, darling; you’re rushing. Be patient… and it will open up to you, just like you want.”

All he said was simply meant to provoke you and keep you on edge, and you could feel the unnoticeable giggles radiating off him, knowing exactly how to needle you. Every part of him was a temptation—his touch, his voice, his nearness—all aimed at luring you further. But you weren’t giving in. Not now. You would finish this—despite him.

His fingers dug in even deeper, inching inside you with an excruciating pace. Each thrust seemed to draw a little more from you, his knuckles rubbing against your inner walls as he fucked you, stretching your entrance. His palm ground against your clit with every thrust—a hot, torturous, constant sensation. It was all you could feel, making your resolve shudder and your pelvis act defenceless against his attack.

A quick, focused motion brought your fingers back to the lockpick, pressing down with the right amount of force. Another click—a momentary release of tension, but not enough. The mechanism was still holding firm, teasing you with its near surrender.

“That’s it,” he murmured, so softly, so mocking, almost cruel in its dulcet tone. “You’re doing so well… but you need to be more gentle, darling. Focus.”

A curse hissed through your teeth, frustration pooling as you tried to steady your hands, but they faltered again. Behind you, he was watching with that infuriating smile still playing at the corners of his lips, with no kindness in his gaze and only cold satisfaction and desire.

And then he moved.

Instead of offering aid, he thrust into you with an angrier that made your channel clench roughly around him. Pulling each inch of his fingers from you, only to push back in quickly to the level of making lewd sounds despite your clothing as he kept curling his fingers.

“Trying to hurry through this, love?” He purred against your skin. “If you rush, you’ll only make it worse.” His thumb found your clit then again to start drawing tight, fast circles that had your lips parted in a breathless whimper before you could choke it back. He only smiled as if your weakness was the most delicious thing he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing.

He withdrew with slow elegance, only to slam back into you abruptly, pushing you closer to the edge with those relentless motions. The lock you’d been desperately trying to manipulate felt more distant with each passing second; each twist of the lockpick seemed more futile now, slipping through your fingers as the growing tension between your legs coiled tighter.

But then his other hand established yours again; the contrast was jarring. He guided it with an unexpected tenderness, positioning your fingers with precision, as if you were both playing a riskier game, the stakes higher than ever.

“You’re close.” Astarion murmured, a low growl as his fingers sped up. The strokes against your clit were like fire and ice in one—a storm of sensations that jolted through your cunt. The pressure inside you was building, unbearable, a crescendo that left you teetering.

“You’re so close, my love…” His voice was a throaty hum against your ear, brushing it with his lips. The heat of his breath lingered, teasing, coaxing, before he lowered his mouth to trail tender, messy kisses down your neck. His lips were soft, but the pressure increased as he pressed a sloppy kiss just beneath your jaw, then dragged his tongue across your skin.

A flicker of desire curled in your stomach as he nipped at your pulse, the warmth of his mouth contrasting with the cold air around you. Grazing his fangs lightly over the sensitive spot just beneath your ear before he licked a languid path up from the base of your neck, tasting you with an intensity that made you feel weaker.

“You’ve done so well…” he purred. “Don’t stop now.”

Your jaw clenched, a low tremor racing through your hips as they kept rubbing against his hand. You were desperate to stay focused and finish the task at hand, but the thrusts of his fingers and the stimulation on your clit sent waves of fiery heat through your core, making you ache with need. You could feel the lockpick slipping again, sliding out of your grip, threatened by the chaos swirling in your mind. It was an impossible challenge.

His other hand curled around your trembling fingers, the pressure of his grip forcing your hand to move, to continue. Your fingers shook as you slipped more of the pick into the door lock. His fingers—those long, skilled digits—pushed deeper, faster, finding a tempo that was both hard and euphoric.

Your body reacted without your consent, being consumed by the pleasure he was drawing from you. His thumb stimulated your clit with rapid, exasperating circles over your sensitive bud, just about driving you mad with desire. Your grip trembled as Astarion’s fingers curled with each swift thrust; he didn’t even give you a moment to adjust. He didn’t allow a single breath to escape your lips without pushing you closer to a breaking point, as his pace was unforgiving and fast, never slowing down.

And then, just as the lock felt completely impossible to open, your guided hands finally twisted it into place. You barely registered the decisive click, though; you were too caught up in the chaos of sensations until the pressure inside you exploded.

Your pussy convulsed and clenched around his fingers as you lowered your head and shut your eyes, while a sharp cry escaped your lips as your orgasm tore through you, crashing every nerve. Astarion didn’t stop, didn’t relent, keeping his rhythm as he milked every last spurt of your juices with his hand, keeping you pinned against his chest. Both with his hand now on your neck and his fingers working tirelessly between your thighs to prolong your release and make it last far longer.

Once it was settling over, your body and your legs still quivered in the aftermath, and you leaned firmly against him for support. His fingers remained inside you, savouring the way your walls fluttered and vibrated weakly around them, as if you were reluctant to let go. But he finally withdrew slowly, leaving you achingly aware of just how thoroughly he’d unravelled you.

“Bravo, my sweet,” he murmured, his tone a low, smug purr as he brought his lips teasingly to your ear. “You managed to unlock it. I’ll admit… I’m rather impressed.”

“You… you’re impossible.” You whispered harshly, breathless, while you gave him back his tools.

“And you’re adorable.” He replied smoothly, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek as he guarded them in his pocket.

You shot him a look that could kill him, your fingers trembling as you fumbled with the buttons of your trousers to quickly button them. “You could have done that in half the time…”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he said with a lazy shrug, straightening as he rose and offered you his hand. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You glared at his outstretched hand before begrudgingly taking it.

“Now,” he said as he helped you to your feet, “come along. We’ve wasted enough time.”

The faint sparkle in his eyes and the way his smirk lingered just a touch too long made you wonder if this had been his plan all along.

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theonottsbxtch · 16 days ago

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FOGGY MEMORIES PT 2 | MV1

an: hello party people we're back with the long awaited pt 2, sorry it took this long and hopefully the next part won't take this long. i just have so many ideas and so little time atm :(

wc: 5.7k

part one

GETTING OUT WAS IMPOSSIBLE

Or at least, it should have been.

Max had spent years operating under the agency’s iron grip, slipping between missions like a ghost, but never disappearing on his own terms. That wasn’t how it worked.

Agents didn’t leave. Not without clearance. Not without orders.

And yet, as the clock edged closer to seventeen hundred, Max knew, he had to go.

The piece of paper burned against his skin, tucked safely beneath his tactical vest, its weight heavier than it should have been.

This was reckless. Dangerous.

But he had no choice.

Slipping past security required precision.

He timed it perfectly.

The changing of the watch. The overlap in shift rotations. A blind spot in the cameras he’d memorised long ago, not because he’d ever planned on escaping, but because he didn’t like being watched either.

He moved like he was meant to be there, weaving through corridors, head down, posture relaxed. He passed two guards, neither gave him a second glance.

Then he was at the outer gates.

The clearance terminal glowed softly in the dim light, waiting for authentication.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a keycard he wasn’t supposed to have, and swiped it.

A second’s hesitation.

Then—

Access granted.

The gate slid open just enough for him to slip through.

And then he was gone.

By the time he reached the city, his pulse had settled into something even, but his mind hadn’t.

Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to cut his losses, to forget this before he made a mistake he couldn’t undo.

But then he thought of her.

The way she had looked at him, the way she had said "You already know."

The way she had known things he didn’t.

And he kept walking.

Towards the address.

Towards the answers.

The address led him to an old, disused train yard on the outskirts of the city. Rusted tracks stretched out beneath the dim evening light, the air thick with the scent of damp metal and oil. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Max kept his movements careful, scanning his surroundings as he approached the meeting point. A warehouse, half-collapsed, its walls lined with shattered windows and creeping vines.

He didn’t go inside. Instead, he stopped just short of the entrance, leaning back against a rusted container, arms folded, waiting.

He wasn’t stupid. She would come when she was ready.

And she did.

The blade pressed against his throat before he even heard her move.

Max exhaled through his nose, not tensing, not resisting. "You really need to stop greeting me like this."

A small, almost amused hum came from behind him. "I’ll consider it."

The knife lingered a second longer, then it was gone.

He turned just in time to see her step back, watching him with the same unreadable gaze as before.

She was different in the light. Still sharp, still composed, but softer around the edges, less shadow, more real.

But that didn’t mean she trusted him.

"Strip."

Max blinked. "What?"

She crossed her arms. "Take it off."

"Excuse me?"

She arched a brow, unimpressed. "Your gear. Your shirt. I need to be sure you’re not wired."

Max clenched his jaw. "You think I’m working for Christian?"

"I think Christian would have noticed you sneaking out. And if he did, he’d send you here for answers under his terms, not yours."

He didn’t argue. Because she was right.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Still, he sighed, rolling his shoulders before reluctantly pulling off his tactical vest, unzipping his jacket and shrugging it off.

When he reached for the hem of his shirt, he hesitated, just a second.

Her eyes didn’t waver.

Christ.

Scowling, he pulled it over his head, letting the cold air bite against his skin.

She stepped closer.

Max forced himself to stay still as her fingers brushed lightly over his ribs, over his collarbone, checking for any hidden wires or devices. It was methodical. Clinical.

But his skin still burned where she touched.

She must have felt the way his pulse jumped slightly beneath her fingertips, because her eyes flicked up to his. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

Then she stepped back, satisfied.

"Alright," she said simply.

Max exhaled, running a hand through his hair before pulling his shirt back on, shaking his head. "If you wanted me undressed, you could have just asked."

She huffed a quiet laugh. "Don’t push it."

He smirked, just a little. Then it faded.

Because now there was nothing left in the way.

No excuses. No distractions.

Just the questions burning in his skull.

He met her gaze.

"Who are you?"

She didn’t answer straight away.

Instead, she stepped closer, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.

Max held his ground, but something in his chest tightened, his breath coming shallower as the space between them disappeared.

Then—

Her hand came up, fingers light as they brushed against his cheek, a gentle caress that sent something sharp and electric tearing through him.

He froze.

"You look just as you did before," she murmured, her thumb tracing lightly along his cheekbone.

And then—

Pain.

A sudden, brutal onslaught of memories, crashing into him like a freight train, fracturing something deep in his skull.

Not the sterile, clinical flashes he’d had before.

These were different.

More intimate. More real.

A quiet moment in dim candlelight, their bodies exhausted from training, her fingers in his hair, a whispered joke between them, his own laughter soft and unfamiliar.

The feel of her back pressed against his, both of them moving in perfect unison, breathless and exhilarated after taking down their targets in perfect synchronisation.

The way she had once looked at him, not as an opponent, not as a stranger, but as something else entirely.

And then—

A promise.

One neither of them had kept.

Max gasped, staggering back a step, his breath ragged, his hands coming up to clutch his head as if that could stop it.

The memories flickered, blurred at the edges, slipping through his fingers like water. He couldn’t shape them exactly, couldn’t hold onto them before they disappeared into the void again.

But they were there.

And so was she.

Watching him.

Waiting.

Max swallowed, his voice hoarse when he finally managed to speak.

"What did they do to us?"

Her expression softened, just for a moment. Then she exhaled, shaking her head.

"What did they do to you, my love?"

Max’s stomach lurched.

The words were a gut punch, sending another ripple of wrongness through his already fractured mind. He knew that phrase. Knew the warmth in her voice, the weight of it, the way it curled around him like something familiar.

But it didn’t belong to this life.

It didn’t belong to him.

Did it?

He shook his head, throat tight. "Stop. Just, stop playing with me and tell me the truth."

She inhaled slowly, watching him carefully, then—

"You were born in the Netherlands, Max. That’s where we were raised. In an orphanage."

The world tilted slightly. His pulse roared in his ears.

"You’re lying."

She didn’t even flinch. "I was four when I got there. You were already there when I arrived, you were three. You used to follow me around, always getting into trouble, always dragging me into it. But you never let anyone hurt me. Not even the caretakers."

His breath came shorter now, fingers twitching at his sides. "No."

"Growing up, that turned into something else. A promise. That whatever happened, we’d stick together."

Flashes hit him again.

A tiny hand gripping his wrist. A voice, young and defiant, telling him to run.

"You’re lying," he whispered, but even he didn’t believe it now.

"You taught me how to fight before we even knew what a real fight was," she continued, voice steady. "We trained together. Always together. And then they took you, at 15."

Max’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Who?"

Her eyes darkened. "Them."

Something curdled in his stomach.

Then—

"The Netherlands?" His voice cracked slightly around the word. It felt foreign in his mouth, unfamiliar. He should remember it. If it were true, if any of this were true, then it should mean something.

But it was blank.

Erased.

She nodded. "It’s where you’re from."

His hands curled into fists. "Then why don’t I remember it?"

A ghost of a smile, sad, knowing. "Because they made you forget. And Christian—" She hesitated, just for a second. Then she met his eyes again, unwavering. "Christian never taught you Dutch or German, did he?"

Max stilled.

She tilted her head slightly. "You knew them already. But he taught you the useful languages instead, didn’t he?"

The floor beneath him might as well have cracked in two.

Because she was right.

Christian had taught him French. Spanish. Mandarin. Arabic.

All useful. All efficient.

But never Dutch. Never German. Never anything personal.

Max swallowed hard, his heart thudding against his ribs. "Who the hell am I?"

She stepped closer again, slow and deliberate, and for some reason, Max let her.

Her hand came up, gentler this time, fingertips just ghosting the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.

"You’re my Max," she said softly.

His chest tightened painfully.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to be that.

His. Hers.

Not Christian’s. Not the agency’s.

Just hers.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

His voice came hoarse. "How did you find me?"

Her expression flickered, something raw and weary crossing her features. "I’ve been searching for you ever since they took you."

Max swallowed, his throat dry. "Since I was fifteen?"

She nodded.

His mind whirred, working the numbers. "Fourteen years ago."

A long, exhausted exhale. Then—

"I got recruited by Austrian Intelligence."

His brows pulled together, confusion flashing across his face. "What?"

"They always knew my ulterior motive," she continued. "I was never just theirs. I worked for them, trained under them, but I never stopped looking for you."

Max stared at her, disoriented, the pieces still loose in his mind, still fighting against the block that had been drilled into him.

But one thing was clear.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

This wasn’t just another mission.

This was his life. His real life.

And she was the only person who knew the truth.

Max let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair, fingers gripping the strands as if he could somehow ground himself.

"You’re telling me," he said slowly, forcing the words out, "that while I was being trained to be a weapon, while I was following their orders, you were out there, looking for me?"

Her eyes softened, something achingly familiar in them. "Every second."

His throat tightened. He wasn’t sure why, but the weight of it, of her, was pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe.

She had spent fourteen years searching.

And he had spent fourteen years forgetting.

His fists clenched. "Why me?"

A ghost of a smile, small, barely there. "You know why."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he didn’t know anything, that this entire thing was impossible.

But the memories were clawing at him again.

Flashes of laughter in the dark. The feel of small fingers intertwined with his own. A whispered promise, spoken with the kind of certainty only they could have had.

A promise to never leave each other behind.

His stomach turned violently. "I don’t— I don’t know what to do with this."

She stepped closer, her presence steady, unwavering. "Yes, you do."

Max swallowed hard, pulse hammering. "So what next?"

She held his gaze.

And then—

"We run."

Max stared at her, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Run?"

She nodded, eyes sharp. "They’ll never let you go, Max. You know that, don’t you?"

He did.

Even before this, before her, he’d always known, deep down, that there was no retirement from this life. No clean exit. The agency didn’t train operatives just to let them walk away.

And yet, hearing it now, in this context, sent a cold dread curling in his stomach.

He swallowed hard. "Tell me everything."

She took a breath. "You were taken when you were fifteen. We always knew something was off at the orphanage, the people who came in and out, the way they watched us, the tests they made us do. But we were kids, we didn’t understand."

Max’s jaw tightened. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, something scratched at the surface. The distant echo of fluorescent lights. A man’s voice, clinical, detached. "He’s showing promise. We’ll take this one."

She continued. "When they took you, I fought. I tried to stop them. But I was just a sixteen year old girl, Max. They took you, and I couldn’t do anything."

His chest ached.

Sixteen. Alone. And she’d had no idea where he’d gone.

He clenched his fists. "And then?"

"I spent years looking. When I turned eighteen, Austrian Intelligence found me. I knew what they were when they approached, I knew what they wanted. But I didn’t care. I let them train me. I played their game. Because I knew it would get me closer to you."

Max exhaled slowly, trying to process it.

She had spent years searching, training, infiltrating, just to find him.

And all that time, he had been under Christian’s wing. Being shaped into the agency’s perfect operative. Forgetting.

He ran a hand down his face. "Fourteen years."

She nodded.

And for a moment, they just stood there. The weight of everything between them pressing down like a vice.

Then—

A slow, mocking clap.

Max’s blood ran cold.

The sound was deliberate, echoing through the abandoned train yard. Casual. Amused.

And then—

"Such a cute, bittersweet reunion."

Max turned sharply, already knowing who it was before his eyes landed on him.

Christian.

Standing a few metres away, gun in hand, aimed directly at her.

Christian sighed, shaking his head with the kind of disappointment a father might have for a reckless son. "Max," he said, almost pitying. "You should have known better."

Max didn’t move. His whole body was coiled tight, his mind screaming at him to think, to act, to do something. But Christian’s gun was still pointed at her, and that was enough to keep him rooted to the spot.

She was still. Calm. But Max could see the sharp calculation in her eyes. She was measuring the distance, considering her odds.

Christian smiled slightly, as if he knew. "I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. I knew there were gaps in the wipe, I’ve always known. But I didn’t think you’d really go looking for them. And I certainly didn’t think she’d be foolish enough to hand them back to you."

Max clenched his fists. "Why?" His voice was low, tight. "Why take me?"

Christian exhaled, almost looking bored. "Come on, Max. You were always meant for more than that orphanage. You were built for this life. You proved that the moment we took you in."

The words sent a cold shiver down Max’s spine. "Took me in," he echoed bitterly.

"Yes. Took you in. Made you. And look how well you turned out." Christian shifted slightly, tilting his head. "It’s a pity, really. If I’d known back then how attached you two were, if I’d known she’d spend fourteen whole years chasing you, I might’ve taken both of you."

Max’s breath caught in his throat.

Next to him, she stiffened ever so slightly, her jaw tightening.

Christian smirked. "Would’ve saved us all this trouble. But alas—"

His grip on the gun shifted slightly.

"Not that it matters. You’ll be coming back one way or another."

Max forced himself to stay still, his mind working frantically. "And if I don’t?"

Christian’s smirk widened. "You will." He tapped his temple. "You think we’d really let one of our most valuable operatives walk around without a failsafe?"

Max’s stomach twisted.

No.

No, he would’ve known. Wouldn’t he?

Christian hummed. "We know exactly where you are at all times, Max. And when we need you to stop thinking so hard—" His smirk sharpened. "Well. We have ways of dealing with that too."

Max felt sick.

There was a tracker in him.

A leash he hadn’t even known about.

He took a step back, his heart hammering. "What did you—"

A sharp hiss.

Christian’s words cut off, mid-sentence, mid-smirk, as a tranquilliser dart buried itself in his neck.

His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. He stumbled slightly, swaying as his body locked up, his limbs turning sluggish.

Max barely had time to react before he hit the ground.

She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath, "For fuck’s sake, Charles."

Max barely had time to register the name before she tilted her head back, looking up. Instinctively, he followed her gaze.

Perched on the rusting steel beams above them, a figure crouched with all the ease of someone who belonged in places they shouldn’t be. Brunette, lean but athletic, eyes glinting with amusement. He twirled a tranquilliser gun between his fingers, looking far too pleased with himself.

"I didn’t need saving," she called up.

"Yeah, you did," he called back, grinning, a french accent in his voice.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped.

Max tensed, fully expecting him to plummet to his death, but instead, the man twisted mid-air, landing gracefully in a crouch, like a damn cat.

He straightened, dusting himself off, before flashing a reckless, lopsided grin. "You’re welcome, by the way."

Max just stared. "Who the hell—"

The man extended a hand, all confidence. "Charles. Pleasure to finally meet you, mate."

Max didn’t shake it. "Right. And who exactly are you?"

Charles didn’t look remotely put off. If anything, he seemed delighted. He turned to her, jerking a thumb at Max. "He always this grumpy, or is it just me?"

She sighed. "Charles."

"What?" He grinned. "I’ve heard so much about this one, you can’t blame me for being a bit excited."

Max’s brows furrowed. "Heard?"

Charles smirked. "The Italians and Austrians are allies. We work together. And let me tell you, mate—" He clapped Max on the shoulder, far too familiar. "She talks about you all the time."

Max glanced at her. She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Charles."

Charles just waggled his eyebrows. "You’re welcome for the save, by the way. Again."

Charles rocked back on his heels, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just tranquillised a high-ranking operative. "By the way," he said casually, inspecting his nails, "I ran out of horse tranquilliser, so he’ll be up and awake in less than an hour. We should probably get going before he starts shooting."

Max scowled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You use horse tranquilliser?"

Charles shrugged. "What can I say? Some people can take it."

Max opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Charles reached for his hand.

Max instinctively snatched it back. "What the fuck are you—"

Charles grabbed it again, this time tighter, and dug his thumb into his wrist, pressing down with precise, practised pressure.

Max tensed. "Oi—"

Charles smirked as he felt what he was looking for. "Ah," he drawled. "There’s the beauty."

Max’s stomach twisted. "What?"

Charles lifted his gaze, grinning. "Tracker. It’s in your wrist. Probably buried deep, but it’s there."

Max yanked his hand back, skin crawling at the implication. He clenched his jaw. "And you knew that how?"

Charles waggled his eyebrows. "Because I’m good at my job, sweetheart."

She groaned. "Charles."

He flashed her an easy grin. "What? That really was a heartwarming reunion. I almost shed a tear."

She shot him a glare. "I will shoot you."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he quipped, then clapped his hands together. "Alright, lovebirds. Let’s move before Sleeping Beauty over there wakes up and starts ruining our evening."

They moved fast.

Max had been on the run before, had been on missions where staying ahead of the enemy was the only thing that mattered, but this was different. This time, he wasn’t just running. He was defecting.

Charles led the way, navigating the dark streets with an ease that suggested he’d done this a hundred times before. She was close behind him, her movements sharp and deliberate, scanning their surroundings constantly. Max stayed quiet, processing, recalibrating.

The tracker.

It was still inside him.

They needed to get it out, fast.

After a long, tense journey, they reached a nondescript building tucked away in the backstreets of the city. Max barely had time to catch his breath before Charles was shoving open a heavy steel door, leading them down a set of stairs into what looked like an underground medical facility.

Inside, a man was bent over a cluttered desk, rifling through medical equipment. He was older, mid-forties, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Freddie!" Charles called, grinning.

The man didn’t even look up. "I told you," he said flatly, "that is not my name."

"Dr Frederick," she corrected, shooting Charles a glare.

Charles waved a hand dismissively. "Details."

Dr Frederick finally glanced up, his gaze flicking between them. "What do you want?"

Charles clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder. "This one’s got a little problem with his wrist. Thought you might be able to help."

Dr Frederick adjusted his glasses. "No."

Charles groaned dramatically. "Freddie, please."

"It is not my name."

"But you’re so good at this stuff."

Dr Frederick gave him a deadpan look. "No."

Charles sighed, turning to Max. "See, this is the problem with the French. So much passion, so little willingness to help an old friend."

"Charles," Dr Frederick warned.

"Freddie," Charles countered, grinning. "Look, all I’m asking for is a little favour. A tiny bit of surgery. A minuscule extraction. Barely worth mentioning, really."

Dr Frederick pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," Charles said smugly, "you love me anyway."

Dr Frederick exhaled heavily, muttering something under his breath in Italian. Then, after a long pause, he finally said, "Fine. Sit."

Charles grinned victoriously. "I knew you couldn’t resist me."

Dr Frederick ignored him, turning to Max instead. "Give me your wrist."

Max sat stiffly on the medical table, jaw clenched as Dr Frederick adjusted the surgical instruments. The small underground clinic smelled of antiseptic and old paper, and the hum of a fluorescent light buzzed somewhere overhead.

"This will hurt," Frederick said bluntly, not offering any unnecessary comfort.

"Great," Max muttered. "Looking forward to it."

Frederick didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. Instead, he snapped on a pair of gloves and took Max’s wrist, pressing two fingers along the underside until he found what he was looking for.

"It’s deep," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Not standard placement. They didn’t want you finding it by accident."

Charles leaned against a counter, arms crossed, grinning like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. "Must feel great knowing you’ve been microchipped like a lost pet."

"Shut up, Charles," she and Max said at the same time.

Charles just smirked.

Frederick ignored them all, pressing a needle into Max’s skin. "Local anaesthetic," he said shortly. "I would offer general, but I assume you don’t have the time for that luxury."

Max barely had time to respond before the numbness spread, dulling the pain as Frederick made a precise incision.

He worked quickly, hands steady, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Max had been trained to handle pain, but even with the numbing agent, he felt the pressure, the unnatural tugging under his skin. He clenched his jaw, watching as Frederick extracted a small, black fragment of metal no bigger than a grain of rice.

The tracker.

It sat in the doctor’s palm, glinting under the sterile light.

"There it is," Frederick said, unimpressed.

"Well, that’s underwhelming," Charles remarked.

Frederick shot him a look. "Take it. Do whatever you want with it. Just get it away from here."

Charles took the chip between two fingers, inspecting it. "Oh, I’ve got ideas." He winked at her, then shoved the chip into his pocket and stretched. "Right, I’ll go drop this somewhere suitably inconvenient. Try not to get yourselves killed while I’m gone."

Max rolled his eyes. "Get out, Charles."

"Miss me already?" Charles grinned, then slipped out the door before anyone could respond.

The second he was gone, the tension shifted.

Frederick turned to Max, inspecting his stitched-up wrist. "It will hold, but don’t be reckless."

Max flexed his fingers, testing it. "No promises."

She sighed, then looked at Max. "We need a plan."

He nodded, already thinking. "Christian knows I’m gone. Even without the tracker, he’ll assume I’ve gone rogue. We don’t have long before they start closing in."

She folded her arms. "Then we hit first. Before they’re ready."

Max met her gaze, feeling the weight of everything between them, the past, the present, the war they were about to start.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s do it."

Without another thought she leaned over the makeshift surgical table and grabbed a map.

They spread out the battered old map across the metal table in Frederick’s back room, the edges curling with damp and age. She pointed to a marked facility near the Alps, tapping her finger twice on the paper.

“This is where the data Christian’s been collecting ends up. Not at HQ. Not at any of the supposed satellite sites. Here. Quiet. Off-grid. Guarded like hell.”

Max leaned over, brow furrowed. “And what’s there? Storage?”

She shook her head. “No. Processing. They’re not just collecting information, they’re rewriting it. It’s how they do the memory wipes.”

Max’s stomach twisted. “So that’s where they took me.”

She nodded once. “And every other little kid that was like us.”

Frederick hovered behind them, arms crossed, reluctant but clearly invested now. “It’s not a place you walk out of. You realise that, yes?”

Max didn’t look away from the map. “We’re not planning to walk. We’re planning to burn it down.”

She gave a small, humourless smile. “That’s the spirit.”

Frederick huffed. “You're both mad. And doomed.”

Max looked up at him. “Probably. But if they’re rewriting people, weaponising kids and erasing their lives, then someone’s got to stop it.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Then she reached into her jacket, pulled out a small flash drive, and slid it across the table.

“I’ve been gathering fragments of what I could. Locations. Transit logs. Staff names. It’s all encrypted, but someone like you,” she nodded at Frederick “can help us crack it.”

He looked at the drive like it was radioactive. “You just want to drag me deeper in, don’t you?”

“You’re already in,” Max said quietly. “You helped remove the chip. There’s no going back.”

Frederick groaned under his breath, rubbing his temples. “I hate all of you.”

She smirked. “That’s fair.”

Max stood, rolling his shoulders. “Right then. We need supplies. Weapons. A route in.”

“I know a guy,” she said. “He’s German. Paranoid as hell, but he owes me a favour. We’ll need to go through the mountains to find him.”

“And me?” Frederick said, still frowning.

“You stay here,” Max replied. “Crack the drive. Send us everything you find.”

Frederick muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bloody lunatics and how mac wasn’t his boss, but nodded all the same.

She folded the map, tucked it into her coat, then looked up at Max.

“You ready?”

He looked down at the fresh bandage on his wrist, then back at her, at the woman who had somehow ripped open the cracks in everything he thought he knew.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s finish what they started.”

The mountains loomed ahead, jagged against a sky bruised with early morning clouds. Their boots crunched over frostbitten ground as they trudged through narrow, twisting paths. Max hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on tech, drones, trackers, satellite feeds. Now, they were ghosts slipping through silence, guided only by memory and instinct.

She walked just ahead of him, wrapped in layers, her face half-shielded by a scarf. Even like this, she moved like she belonged to the shadows, alert, deliberate, never wasting a step.

“Remind me again,” Max said, breathing into his gloves, “why your paranoid German friend lives halfway up a mountain with no phone reception?”

“Because,” she said without turning, “he likes goats and hates people. You two might get on.”

They reached a stone cabin just as the sun broke weakly over the ridge. Smoke curled from the chimney, someone was home. She knocked once, then again in a strange rhythm. A pause. Then a scraping of metal bolts and the door opened a crack.

A rifle appeared before the face did.

She didn’t even flinch. “Nice to see you too, Nico.”

The barrel lowered slightly. “Thought you were dead.”

“Not yet. This is Max.”

Nico eyed him with a look that said don’t get comfortable. “British?”

“Sort of,” Max muttered.

With a grumble, Nico stepped aside. “Come in before the cold does worse than Christian ever could.”

Inside, the place was cluttered and warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and engine oil. Max kept his hands visible, noting the various weapons strewn across shelves and walls.

She got straight to it. “We need gear. Access tech. C4, comms, entry tools. Enough to storm a ghost facility buried in concrete and bad memories.”

Nico raised a brow. “And why, may I ask, would I ever help with that?”

“Because you owe me,” she said simply. “Prague. Eight years ago. You’d be dead if I hadn’t taken that bullet.”

He stared at her for a long time. Then muttered, “I strongly dislike you.”

She smiled. “Still not my problem.”

It took them three days to plan. Nico was paranoid, but meticulous. He handed Max blueprints, schematics, equipment lists. They worked late into the night, checking routes, escape plans, failsafes.

And on the second night, when Nico had gone to sleep, it was just her and Max sat near the fire, the weight of everything suspended for a while.

“You alright?” she asked softly, watching the flames flicker across his face.

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… this is a lot to process. You, all of this. I don’t know who I am without them, and I hate that.”

She reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You’re still you. The part they couldn’t reach. The part that found its way back to me.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The flames danced in her eyes, but it was the honesty there that undid him. Something shifted in his chest, cracked open.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “I think I’ve always known you.”

Her breath caught. Then she leaned in, slow, deliberate, giving him the chance to stop it.

He didn’t.

Their lips met gently at first, uncertain, like rediscovering something precious. Then it deepened, years of lost time catching fire between them. Her hands tangled in his jacket, his fingers at the nape of her neck. The kiss was quiet, but it said everything — I missed you. I remember. I’m yours.

When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she whispered, “we face it together.”

He nodded, his voice thick. “Together.”

The facility sat like a scar carved into the mountain, brutalist and grey, half-swallowed by snow and rock. From the ridge above, they watched the rotation of the patrols, three-man units, every eight minutes, armed to the teeth.

Max adjusted his earpiece, one of Nico’s designs, untraceable, short-range.

“Everyone in position?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Charles’ voice crackled in his ear. “Nico’s already moaning about the cold. Might shoot him just for warmth.”

“Piss off,” came Nico’s accented reply. “I’ve been up since four planting explosives. You want a warm seat, you can sit on the detonator.”

Max smirked faintly, but his focus didn’t waver. He turned to her, crouched beside him, dressed in black from head to boot, rifle resting against her shoulder.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “This is what we came for.”

Max leaned in, brushing his fingers against hers. “Just… don’t get yourself killed.”

She met his gaze, soft and fierce all at once. “You either.”

Then, too quick to overthink, he kissed her. It was rougher this time, urgent and breathless, the kind of kiss you give someone when you don’t know what the next hour holds. She clutched the front of his jacket, grounding herself in him, like for a moment the mission didn’t matter. Just them. Just this.

When they broke apart, she was already moving. “Let’s finish it.”

Chaos erupted within minutes of infiltration. Charles cut the lights with a grin in his voice, “Happy blackout, boys”, and the entire west wing went dark. Nico triggered the first explosion on a far wall, drawing the guards out like moths to a flame.

She and Max moved fast, ghosting through corridors, silent and lethal. Data cores, servers, security feeds, they planted charges on every last one.

In the heart of it all, Max found the processing room. The machines still buzzed, humming with stolen memories, rows of them, patient files, fragments of lives rewritten and buried. His own name flickered across a screen. Deleted. Rewritten. A lie.

He slammed the drive in. Copied what he could. Burned the rest.

Then he heard her.

A muffled shout through his earpiece. Gunfire.

Max’s blood ran cold.

He took off running, boots slamming down corridors slick with smoke and debris. Around the corner, through the shattered doorway, he found her, pinned by a soldier twice her size, blade at her side, one arm limp and bleeding.

She looked up, and for a moment, even in pain, she smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Max lunged. Took the bastard down with brutal efficiency, two hits and he didn’t get back up. Then he dropped to her side, hands already reaching for her.

“You’re hurt.”

She winced. “Just the arm. Got cocky.”

“You’re not allowed to die. Not after everything.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Then came the sound, heavy boots, radio chatter. Reinforcements.

Max’s breath caught. “They’re coming.”

She reached up, bloody fingers curling into his jacket. “Listen to me—”

A shadow moved behind the glass.

Gunfire cracked.

Blood splattered.

Her body jolted, eyes wide, and everything blurred.

Max caught her before she hit the ground.

“No—”

Then on the other side through of his earpiece he heard Charles, “Max, they’ve got me— Fuck” Charles’ voice crackled through the comms, ending in a sharp grunt.

The room was red.

And then—

Static.

End of comms.

PART THREE...

taglist: @angelluv16 @evalynkillgrave @fergalaxy @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @amyelevenn

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anaktoria-of-the-moon · 2 months ago

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The first time I saw the “empty spaces” tag (which was yesterday) I thought dolls were an extension of mech fiction, that they were heavily cyberaugmented people - muscle replaced with durable, flex-carbon synthweaves; skin substituted with thermal-resistant ceramic plating, with pliable polymer fabrics to fill the gaps and allow movement; joints made of silicon carbide and martensitic alloy, driven by motors that never die; a heart that beats three point six billion times a second, a tiny sun made of fissile material caged in a chassis of tantalum. Perfect eyes that see singular motes of dust a mile away and do not need wetting and will not yield to puncture or pressure. A face that can be anything - human, if you like, or a festival-goer’s animal god mask, or an ever-shifting screen, or a sheet of indifferent carbon steel to match the brutal and unchanging pace of your heartbeat, the augmented fearlessness of your modified brain.

And witches, I thought, were like pilots, and also engineers, the keepers and caretakers of the highly efficient dolls who served as their blades, their spies, their wings and eyes and ears. Witches I imagined were unassuming individuals who went unnoticed in the outside world, as unnoticed as their creations were not, and inside, in their lairs, donned helmets that sparked and flared with torrents of information - three point six billion times a second - enough to kill any regular person, but with a witch’s brain, shot through with silver threading and lovingly engineered through a homebrew of handmade viruses, all those data, all the eyes and ears and hands and sword-sharp legs, become as clear as the future to an oracle of old.

The dolls are marvels of outward engineering; the witches, their inward counterparts. While a doll might walk through a crowded square and cause all around it to flinch back in awe, or shock, or fear, while there is nothing quiet about the way a doll flickers (like frames caught in a flashbulb) a hundred meters at a time toward some unwitting target and slits their throat with unthinking and graceful precision and then vanishes before you know what has happened, before the splash of blood has time to hit the ground - while a doll is one you know you must fear - the witch is the true danger.

Because it is the witch who guides each doll; it is the witch who tells the infernal heart to keep beating, the eyes to keep seeking, who spends her nights polishing and adjusting and replacing each high-grade ceramic ball joint, who scrubs the white plating clean of rust-colored stains, who uses the blood money from each kill to buy ever better upgrades, for her own head as much as their forms. It is the witch who whispers nightmare into their iron skulls, and then, once they’ve had their fill of it, it is the witch who turns off their fears again and switches dirge for lullaby, so that she might go mad in their stead.

The dolls are the body, the heart. The witch is the mind and soul.

#dollposting #dolls #witches #empty spaces #mechposting #mechs #mecha #mech pilot #microfiction #cyberpunk #original fic

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lirotation · 6 months ago

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Astarion in Cyberpunk AU

POV: How you met him in Night City =P

You’re just another low-tier merc in Night City's meat grinder, same as any other. Sure, you smoke, you chug whatever synthalcohol gets your synapses sparking, maybe pop a little Black Lace now and then for kicks. But one thing you don’t do? Pick up joytoys from Jig-Jig. Nah, choom. Not your scene.

Until tonight's clusterfuck.

You were on a gig, dressed to fool the corpo crowd—chrome hidden under slick, expensive synth-leather. Playing at being one of Night City's untouchables. Then your optics lock onto him.

A joytoy, but not just any joytoy. Lux-grade. The kind of beauty that made your targeting systems glitch and your tits perk up. Picking him up wasn’t the plan—never the plan—but here you are, trying to blend in, figuring if all these suits are doing it, maybe you should too.

Preem bastard had a silver tongue worth more than his chrome, smooth like pre-War whiskey. He leaned in close, casually dropped the very intel you need - an exclusive corpo mixer, one hosting Kong Tao mid-level procurement officer - your target - fresh from Guangzhou. The two of you hit it off, chatting over overpriced drinks at the bar, and one thing led to another. His place.

Then you wake up.

Your choom on the other end of the link, screaming. Your brain feels like it’s been through a shredder. You’re sprawled out on some piss-stained mattress, butt naked, weapons gone.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You’ve been played. Conned. During a job, no less. Just your fucking luck.

Gotta escape before they rip you open, gotta figure out where the hell you are. But one thing’s for sure—you’re gonna find that pretty bastard, and when you do, he’s got a world of hurt coming his way. _______

Your head’s pounding, but you’ve been in tighter spots before. You force a reboot, running a quick scan. Typical corpo blacksite flophouse—The stink of blood, sweat, and bad decisions clings to the walls.

You find a rusted shard of metal and grip it tight. Better than nothing. You rigged the lock and slipped out of the room, the sound of your bare feet drowned out by the buzz of cheap fluorescents overhead.

The hall’s empty. Nobody watching the cams—amateurs. You find a storage room with your gear dumped in a corner like garbage. Your Militech pistol? Check. punknife? Check. Even your boots. Slipping them on feels like hugging an old friend.

Now clothed and armed, you should be bailing, cutting your losses. But the faint sound of muffled screams crawls under your skin, pulling you back into the fray.

You creep closer, the door half-open. Inside, him.

The joytoy. Astarion.

Strapped down like a Maelstrom test subject, neural wires spiderwebbing from his temples into some black-market brain-dance rig. The machine's whining like a dying cat, each pulse making him scream. Some chrome-headed ganger's working the controls, grinning like he's watching prime-time BD entertainment.

“Picked yourself a zero, didn't ya? No creds, no dirt—just a fucking merc with nothin’ to give. You are lucky boss is not in town.” the ganger sneers, twisting a dial, “What good’s a pretty face if it doesn’t deliver?”

Astarion convulses, tears streaking his otherwise flawless face, “I—tried,” he whispers. "Please, give me another chance.”

Something snaps in your gut. You’ve seen people broken, but this guy? He’s built to endure. Still, this is next-level fucked.

Your blade whispers through the air, clean and silent. The ganger drops, and you catch the falling remote and cut the power to the rig.

Astarion slumps, breathing shallow. You free him, pulling the wires from his skin. He flinches but doesn’t resist.

“Can you walk?” you ask, dragging him to his feet.

He groans but nods. “I’ve had worse.”

The two of you fight your way out, bullets and curses flying. By the time you hit the street, you’re out of breath and out of ammo, but alive. Barely.

You lean against a wall, wiping blood off your hands. “I should fucking gut you for this,” you say, leveling him with a glare.

Astarion chuckles, though it’s more pained than amused. “I’m flattered. But I was under orders, if that softens the blow.”

“Doesn’t,” you snap.

Still, you don’t hurt him. Just turn to leave, figuring he’ll disappear back into whatever pit he crawled out of. But when you glance back, he’s trailing behind you.

“What are you doing?” you snap again, tired and still on edge.

“I have nowhere else to go,” he says softly, eyes downcast, his voice a quiet plea.

“Not my problem,” you grumble, turning to keep walking.

“Wait,” he calls out, stepping closer. When you face him again, the vulnerability in his posture is tinged with a familiar, deliberate charm. His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “I could… make it up to you. I’m quite skilled at certain things”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That so? You think I’m just gonna take you in because you bat your lashes?”

“Not just because of that,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch the faint light. “I can be useful. I wasn't lying before, you know? the mixer? I can get you in.”

You pause, damn it he is beautiful. He shifts closer, his voice dipping into something silkier. “Let me stay, just for a while. I’ll keep out of your way. Or,” he adds, his smile sharpening ever so slightly, “if you’d rather, I could be very in your way. Whatever you prefer.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Fine. One screw-up, though, and you’re out. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” he purrs, bowing his head slightly. “You won’t regret this. I promise.”

As he falls into step beside you, you mutter under your breath. “Already regretting it.”

His soft chuckle is barely audible, but it lingers all the way home.

#astarion #bg3 fanart #bg3 #cyberpunk au #cyberpunk 2077 #illustration #digital painting

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howlingday · 7 months ago

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Jaune: (Holding rusted blade to Yang's neck)

Neo: (Doing the same, Glaring)

Yang: (Thinking) Do NOT say it. Resist the URGE. They will KILL YOU-

Yang: I see you decided to start dating again.

Yang: (Blades pressed closer) STUPID BRAIN!.

#rwby #marvel #spider man #the punisher #yang xiao long #jaune arc #neopolitan #silent knight

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mavlabajuri · 2 months ago

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What is Beskar? - A Breakdown

Beskar, also called Mandalorian iron, is a rare metal found only on Mandalore and its moon, Concordia. For Mandalorians, it's not just valued for its strength. Beskar is considered sacred, a holy material bound to identity, ancestry, and creed. The act of forging it is not merely a craft but a rite, performed by Mandalorian Armorers to bond warriors to their people through armor. Beskar is more than a metal: it represents resilience, heritage, culture, and soul.

Physical & Chemical Traits

Heat Resistance

What we know: Beskar can take direct hits from blasters and withstand lightsaber strikes without melting or deforming.

What that implies: It likely has an extraordinarily high melting point, higher even than tungsten (~3400°C). This places beskar among exotic, refractory metals or even unique energy-stabilized alloys. Canon also shows beskar resisting thermal shock (e.g., explosions) without shattering or fragmenting.

Durability & Toughness

“It’s beskar. It doesn’t dent.” - Medrit Vasur

What we know: It’s practically indestructible. Armor made of beskar resists slashes, blasterfire, lightsabers, crushing blows, and kinetic impacts. Even micronized forms can shatter bone.

What that implies: Beskar has immense toughness and impact dispersion. It doesn’t deflect energy like a shield; it spreads the impact across its surface. Think of it as a hybrid between metallic glass, Kevlar, and high-energy damping alloys. It doesn’t break, but the force still transfers to the wearer.

Malleability

“Mandalorians jealously guard their beskar-working skills and refuse to sell the formulas for any price.” - Imperial commentary on Mandalorian forging

What we know: Mandalorian smiths shape beskar into armor plates, wire, mesh, transparent film, foam, and even micronized particles.

What that implies: Beskar is incredibly workable when properly forged. Canon describes repeated folding (like Damascus steel), suggesting that its structural strength is enhanced through expert lamination and layering, a craft only mastered by Mandalorians.

Density & Weight

“Jaina examined her beskad; a blade forty-five centimeters long, maybe five or six centimeters wide, with a single cutting edge curving to a point—and much heavier than it looked, perhaps more than two kilos.” — Legacy of the Force: Invincible

What we know: “Full-density beskar” is heavier; alloyed forms with carbon or other materials are lighter but less durable.

What that implies: Pure beskar is likely denser than steel, possibly approaching the density of uranium or osmium. Alloying reduces weight and slightly lowers protective capacity. Export variants (like downgraded starships) use lighter, less refined beskar composites.

Corrosion Resistance

What we know: Beskar doesn’t tarnish, rust, or degrade over time, there’s no mention of upkeep for oxidation or weathering, even after centuries of use.

What that implies: It’s likely extremely corrosion-resistant, maybe through a naturally passivating surface layer (like titanium or stainless steel). That’s important for armor that’s expected to last generations, even in combat, salt air, or deep space.

Sound Signature

“Beskar had a sound like no other metal, all heavy dull solidity, no high tinny frequencies like durasteel when hit.” - Republic Commando: True Colors

What we know: When struck, beskar gives off a heavy, dull sound, different from the “tinny” sound of durasteel.

What that implies: This suggests high mass and excellent vibration damping. Materials that sound dull when struck often have lower resonance and greater ability to absorb kinetic energy, another point in favor of beskar spreading out impact forces instead of rebounding them.

Alloying Elements

“Anyway, this is top-grade beskar—full density, two percent ciridium, no fancy lamination or carbon-alloy.” - Kal Skirata

Known additives:

Ciridium (2%): A canon example from Skirata’s armor; Possibly a heat stabilizer or strengthener, unique to the gffa.

Carbon: Might lighten the material, increase flexibility, or improve strength (like real-word carbon steel).

The Shapes of Beskar

Plates - Ship hulls, traditional Mandalorian armor (beskar’gam)

Laminates - Layered armor, combining flexibility and protection

Wire/Mesh - Lightweight undersuits or integrated systems

Beskar-impregnated fabric - Beskar armorweave

Foam - Padding that still retains durability

Micronized particles - Used in crushgaunts

Transparent film - Rare; possibly used for HUDs or specialized optics

What’s in a Color?

"Armor colors and markings can indicate many things, from the clan or family to more ephemeral concepts such as state of mind or a particular mission." - Karen Traviss

Mandalorians don't just wear armor, they live in it. Beskar’gam is handed down, reforged, or remade, and each new generation adds their own mark. Painting one's armor is a declaration of individuality, experience, and lineage.

Cultural Significance

Declaration of identity: Some Mandalorian clans use distinct colors and markings to signify allegiance or heritage, including clan symbols or cultural symbols.

History and Feats: In some traditions, marks of honor, like jaig eyes, were painted on helmets to signify acts of bravery.

Expression and accomplishments: Sabine Wren, regularly painted and repainted her 500-year-old armor as both personal expression and symbolic evolution through her life’s stages and affiliations.

For Mandalorians, armor isn’t just armor, it’s a second skin. It's a visible oath to one of the six tenets of the Resol’nare: wearing beskar'gam. Choosing to paint one’s armor (or not to) says something.

Practical purposes: protection, camouflage, and preservation

While beskar is incredibly durable, painting it serves practical roles too, especially for older, heirloom and alloyed armor:

Corrosion control

Durasteel components, often used in place of beskar or to supplement it, can be vulnerable to environmental wear. Paint protects these surfaces from oxidation and corrosion, especially on long campaigns or in hostile conditions.

Camouflage & visibility

Mandalorians often operate in diverse terrain, paint lets them both blend in or intentionally stand out.

For stealth missions or ambushes, darker or terrain-matching colors can make a life-or-death difference.

Battle damage

A warrior's beskar'gam can take a hit, but it remembers every blow. Paint can mask surface damage, hide vulnerabilities, or maybe even accentuate past battlescars.

“The battles, the history, the blood all live within it. And the same goes for every Mandalorian.” - Sabine Wren

Painting Mandalorian armor isn’t merely cosmetic, it’s an ambulatory cultural mural, a testimony of paint and pigment. Every color, symbol, and stroke tells a story, and in true Mando fashion, it’s often one they’re not afraid to let you see coming.

K'oyacyi! // Mavla

If you have any comments, feedback, corrections or speculations, they are as always warmly welcomed!

#sorry din for showing ppl walloping you but it's for educational purposes #this is a bit more editorial than usual but I wanted to give it a go!#I know nothing about metallurgy beyond what google and wikipedia provides me #star wars #mandalorians #beskar'gam #beskar #mando'a #mandalorian culture #mandalorian language #mavla originals collection #the mandalorian #mandalorian #din djarin #mandalore #concordia #boba fett #captain rex #sabine wren

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sengardet · 4 months ago

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Gertrude’s Perilous Rescue

Gertrude moved in the afternoon with a sense of urgency, guided by the whispered rumors of a raid in a nearby kingdom. She crested a small hill and looked at the unfortunate kingdom below. Smoke rose from a battered gate and a few burning structures, and beyond them, she glimpsed at some marauders. They looked like gruff men, perhaps mercenaries or bandits, armed with crude weapons.

She closed in on her white steed, leaving the horse safely outside the gates. When she arrived at the outskirts of the town, she found the gates broken off their hinges, the great wooden doors scorched and splintered. Drawing her bastard sword, Gertrude willed her breathing to remain calm. Her slender fingers curled around the worn hilt. It was a heavy but familiar weight that she had practiced with a thousand times over.

Carefully, she pressed onward. One cluster of bandits stood near the church, intent on preventing those inside from escaping or receiving help. Gertrude noticed several terrified women inside, peering out through the heavy wooden doors that had been barricaded from the outside.

Her presence did not go unnoticed for long. A few raiders turned to regard her with sneering grins. Coarse laughter and mocking taunts greeted her. “Who is this staring us down? She looks like she’d fetch a decent price,” one bandit said, brandishing a rusted sword.

Gertrude straightened her stance. The gleam of her shiny breastplate seemed to be her only protection. “Leave this place,” she commanded. “I will not warn you again.”

The men laughed. “Look at this blonde little broad threatening us—thin as a reed!” shouted another. “I doubt you can lift that sword without snapping your wrists!”

She braced herself, stepping lightly to the side as one of the men lunged forward, swinging a chipped axe. Gertrude raised her bastard sword, parrying the blow in a shower of sparks. She used her momentum to strike across the man’s torso. He stumbled back, blood staining his ragged tunic.

They had not anticipated that the knight’s slight frame hid such power. A second bandit came at her with a short spear, hoping to catch her off-guard. Gertrude sidestepped with dancer-like grace, pivoting just enough to avoid the brunt of the strike before she brought her sword down in a swift arc. The flat of her blade met the side of his head with a dull thud, and the man collapsed.

Her chest heaved and quaked with exertion, each inhalation feeling almost too shallow. She resisted the urge to pause and catch her breath, mindful that more bandits were closing in, looking to find her limitations.

Luckily, the ferocity of her display alarmed the remaining raiders. Witnessing their comrades crumple in swift succession, many turned tail and fled, clearly not prepared to die for what they must have thought would be an easy conquest. Gertrude, panting, watched them retreat into the labyrinth of alleys before she sank to one knee in the middle of the square.

With an effort that made her legs tremble, she pushed to her feet and staggered inside, sword dragging behind her. She carefully maneuvered around the broken pieces of the door to find the two cowering women chained to the pews. At their feet lay torn hymn books. The sight of such cruelty rekindled Gertrude’s protective fury.

“Fear not, fair maidens,” she said breathlessly, her voice ragged from exertion. “I have come…to set you free.” Her large heart pressed into her lungs, making it a struggle to speak. Each word felt forced out through shallow, desperate breaths. “None…shall lay a hand on you now.”

The women seemed to press against one another in fear or shock as Gertrude drove the tip of her sword into the length of the chain lying at their feet, freeing them. Though her sword was lowered in a gesture of peace, fresh blood still dripped from its edge, forming tiny crimson droplets on the stone floor. Gertrude yearned to comfort them, to let them know that their nightmare was over, but her own exhaustion took hold. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she sank to the ground.

“I am Gertrude,” she managed, attempting a reassuring smile that wavered on her pale face. “A knight…trained to defend those…who cannot defend themselves.”

The maidens exchanged glances. Their faces bore the dirt and tears of apparent captivity. One, tall and dark-haired, wore a torn silk gown that might once have been a vibrant shade of green. Gertrude tried to meet her eyes, only with an unsettling emptiness. The tall damsel surveyed Gertrude’s exhausted form, taking in the trembling arms, the sweat-soaked forehead, and the frantic throb under her breastplate.

The woman let out a quiet scoff. It was not a sound of relief or gratitude. It was, instead, one of amusement—of mockery.

The dark-haired woman stepped forward, her bare foot nudging Gertrude’s shoulder with a surprising lack of empathy. “Weak as a kitten,” she hissed. “Some knight in shining armor.” Gertrude’s mind reeled. Weren’t these women prisoners? Everything she had just risked her life for, everything she had fought to protect—did they truly feel no relief at being rescued?

“I apologize, my lady, I pushed myself too far. I’m still getting the hang of this.” Gertrude let out in shame.

The shorter one with auburn hair crouched over Gertrude’s head, intrigued by the frantic quake of her chest. “Incredible,” she said in a hushed tone, pressing a hand against Gertrude’s breastplate. “Edria, Feel how her heart hammers!”

Terror settled in Gertrude’s mind, a deep, undeniable sense of wrongness. The tall damsel flicked her dark tresses over one shoulder with a sneer and leaned in, pushing her hand beneath the metal of her cuirass. Edria spoke no words, hovering over Gertrude with a predatory glint in her eyes.

“Elise, don’t kill her. I need to find out more.”

“More what?! unhand me!” Gertrude said, feeling fresh panic rising in her chest. Though her heart was already surging with adrenaline, now it pounded with renewed urgency. Soft hands carried her wrists into the folds of Elise’s thighs.

Edria reached behind her back and unfastened the clasps of her dress; the fabric slid down her body. The dress pooled at her feet, a discarded shroud, leaving her in nothing but her undergarments. Her deep bronze skin glistened with a fine layer of sweat.

The act startled Elise, her eyes widening in surprise as she watched Edria disrobe. But Edria’s gaze was unwavering, her tone going from elated to commanding.

“Keep quiet and be ready to take orders,” Elise nodded, her expression a mix of confusion and obedience as she awaited further instruction.

Edria’s fingers moved to the delicate fabric of her undergarments. She slid them down her legs and bared the tuft of dark hair that barely concealed her vulva, stepping out of them, holding them in her hands,

Edria twisted the panties into a makeshift gag; the fabric was taut and ready. She leaned over Gertrude, her hair falling in a dark curtain around them, and pressed the gag against Gertrude’s mouth. Gertrude’s eyes met hers, wide and filled with fear and curiosity. Edria held her gaze, her eyes cold, unyielding hazel, as she secured the gag behind Gertrude’s head. Gertrude could do nothing but groan in protest and swallow the taste of the woman’s body.

Still pinned and at their mercy, Gertrude could do nothing but resign to her fate when she felt the woman’s weight press firmly into her belly. She had no illusions of immediate escape. Yet she held onto the hope that somewhere, in some corner of this desecrated church, fate might intervene—or that her own intense will would find a way.

A single metallic snap reverberated against the church walls. Then another. Gertrude’s cuirass loosened, and Edria peeled it away, revealing the thin linen shirt beneath. The cloth did little to hide the violent slamming of Gertrude’s apex. Edria’s cool palm slipped beneath the linen with the cuirass entirely removed.

Gertrude clenched her teeth, trying to twist away, but her exhausted muscles wouldn’t respond with enough force. The sweat that slicked her skin made her feel clammy and weak, and the roaring of her pulse was deafening. She wondered if Edria could hear it, too.

Edria’s palm pressed against Gertrude’s sternum. The knight’s heart rammed powerfully against her. An expression of near-reverence flickered across Edria’s face. She increased the pressure slightly, just enough to feel the full might of Gertrude’s heartbeat. The rhythmic thuds echoed through her fingertips like thunder. There was something surreal about a heart so robust.

“Oh, she doesn’t like that,” Elise teased. “Look at her squirm.”

Edria gestured toward Elise’s hip. Elise nodded and covered Gertrude’s eyes with her hands. Gertrude groaned through her gag as a sharp pain slid up her sternum, a sensation like a blade slicing through her flesh.

As Elise’s hands lifted from Gertrude’s eyes, Edria seized the moment. Her fingers dug into the soft tissue, and with a hard tug, she tore away Gertrude’s sternum.

“Breathe for her,” Edria said, looking to Elise, who responded obediently. She sensed the woman’s hyper-focus and tension, watching her boss enjoy herself too much.

Edria reached in with her right hand, fingers splaying around the broad center of that beating organ, feeling it slide under her palm with slick warmth. The natural fluid around the heart made it slippery; the hunger of the panicking muscle made the dark purple coronary arteries bulge taut against her fingers in each contraction.

Elise smiled, and Edria grinned mischievously as Gertrude gasped in horror, face covered by the cruel, delicate kiss of life-saving breaths, her eyes going wide as her lungs filled. If only her hands could escape the folds of those deceptively soft thighs.

Each breath gave Gertrude the ability to let out pleasantly frightened and pleading whimpers while Edria’s left hand explored the soft crest and crept upward to where the two major vessels rose from the organ’s upper portion.

A curious light shone in her eyes as she tested their flexibility, pressing them gently to see how they would yield. She felt the surge of warm blood pulsing within each vessel, a pounding current that demanded space and freedom, desperately working to supply the woman’s body with enough blood to put up a fight.

As Edria constricted her fingers around them, she felt the knight and her heart jerk and flail beneath her. The ventricles bulged in a futile attempt to keep pumping blood through the now-shunted tubes. The distinct recesses of thick, bloated muscle twitched against her fingers. A faint quiver ran through Gertrude’s body when the woman began exploring the heart’s bulging exterior, tracing the curve of the ventricles.

Edria’s fingertips gleaned a tactile map of the warrior’s most vital organ; Its chambers swollen and exaggerated in size.

Desperation took over, and Gertrude’s body jerked in protest. Her back arched off the wooden floor, her fingers spasmed in their sweaty trap in a pathetic display of discomfort.

“It looks like it’s going to pop,” Elise said, looking at the red mass.

“It does, doesn’t it,” Edria responded,

Sensing Gertrude was moments from losing consciousness altogether, the woman slowly released the vessels, allowing blood to rush anew. The woman’s heart, seizing its chance to reclaim lost beats, kicked with a distressed force. It ballooned and pumped vigorously beneath the naked vixen’s palm, rising in a vigorous thud that knocked against her hand as if protesting the deprivation it had just endured.

“YES,” Edria yelled, naked body shivering and gasping, feeling that tension, that ferocity.

She pressed her palms together and splayed her fingers, covering as much of her heart’s surface as possible. Her thumb settled near the upper valves, beating in urgent, desperate pulses. At the same time, her other fingers curved around the bulging side, feeling the powerful contortions of the ventricles. She realized how intimately she was connected to Gertrude’s existence at that moment. Every spasm and every convulsion were a direct line to the warrior’s failing consciousness.

Edria’s hands slipped a fraction, forcing her to redistribute her weight. She dug her knee into the knight’s ribs, leaning her weight onto her outspread fingers. Beneath her palm, the heart’s frantic pounding began to lose its crisp cadence as she sank into its form. What had been a relentless, forceful drumming devolved into uneven, stuttering attempts to push blood where it needed to go. Each contraction grew fainter.

Sensation flooded Edreia’s hand—a deep, trembling vibration, like the final thrash of an animal caught in a snare. She could almost feel the life draining, slipping between the beats, each pulse weaker than the last. The heart firmed and softened, yet it couldn’t move, giving up.

Gertrude’s eyes, once so fierce, lost focus. A trembling exhalation left her lips in a thin rasp. The warrior’s chest no longer heaved with the same urgency; her limbs fell slack, and her head lolled to one side. Valyria, watching intently, felt the final flutter under her hand—the last feeble attempt at a heartbeat, a slight, faltering quiver that lacked the strength to complete its motion.

A flash of emerald light tore through the dusty hush of the ruined church. In the doorway stood a witch, her silhouette outlined by flickers of green lightning dancing around her hands. She wore a tattered, dark cloak, and her red eyes shone with a cold, otherworldly brilliance. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she shot dark energy across the church.

Magical chains—ghostly links that glowed with a deep, jade hue—materialized out of thin air. Edria and Elise, the two women who had tormented Gertrude only moments before, were caught mid-step as they tried to flee. They yelped in confusion as the spectral bonds coiled around their limbs, securing them in place before they could even think to run.

Caught off-guard, Edria gasped, struggling in vain. Elise hurled curses at the intruder, eyes flashing with impotent rage. But the witch paid them little heed. Her attention was fixed on the silent figure of the knight on the wooden floor.

The witch braced herself, one hand gently curling beneath the rippling, quivering organ, the other resting on top. The first touch surprised her: the tissue was pliant yet dense and heavy. Even without beating, the heart retained an underlying sense of power. She had never felt it like this in all her years with them.

As she began the initial compressions, her fingers sank slightly into the muscle with each push. There was a deep inner resistance. She felt the faint squelch of blood forced through still vessels, the slight unproductive ripple of tissue shifting around her hands. Every press was deliberate, almost intimate, as she tried to coax a rhythm back into Gertrude’s body.

Despite the dire circumstances, the tactile experience oddly mesmerized the witch. She could sense each groove, each valve, every contour of this heart. Feeling a human heart this directly, without the barrier of flesh and bone, was beyond anything she usually encountered.

She muttered an incantation, weaving her own energy through her palms. The runes that flared to life felt hot against her wrists, pulsing with the magic she directed. The witch concentrated on maintaining a steady rhythm: press, release, press, release. She felt the heart flatten slightly each time; blood gushed through the valves, then sprang back with a faint elasticity.

When it remained stubbornly still, she tried a different tactic. She drew a spark of power and discharged a lightning-like jolt into the muscle. Gertrude’s entire body jerked, and the witch felt the heart shill beneath her palms—but it did not resume beating.

She angled her top hand differently, letting her fingers curl around the thick left ventricle of Gertrude’s smooth, glossy heart. With a gentler, more persistent pressure, she massaged it. Each new squeeze sent a ripple along the ventricle walls. The witch could feel the dormant power that had once driven Gertrude’s unstoppable stamina.

One more spark—brighter, more potent than before—crackled between her hands. Gertrude’s back arched, her lungs expelling a breath in a ragged wheeze. This time, the heart didn’t just twitch; it convulsed. The witch felt the muscle stiffen in her grip, and for half a heartbeat, it felt alive again, truly alive, resisting her press. It contracted on its own, a weak but definite beat that throbbed beneath her palms.

“Come on,” she urged, pressing her free hand along the base of the organ to coax it upward. Even with her gentle hold, she felt how vulnerable it was—large, soft, and unprotected. She repeated the routine: a careful compression, a timed squeeze, another mild shock.

“That’s it,” she whispered, leaning closer. The heavy organ in her hands contracted again, then weakened again, trembling as if unsure of its next move. Gently, she laid her hand back onto the pulsing mass; she could feel every slippery contour sliding beneath her fingers in an intimate ripple. She dared to remove one palm, still watching the heart to ensure it didn’t regress. It continued beating—slowly at first, but with an undeniable resolve.

The contractions grew more substantial, the heart’s movements more pronounced. The witch could feel the organ’s vitality returning, its natural rhythm reasserting itself.

The witch withdrew her hand. “Good.” She turned her attention to Elise and Edria, who remained bound in flickering magical chains. She tightened their shackles with a lazy flick of her wrist. “Would it not be painful for my dear friend here, to see a young woman perish… You wouldn’t be alive.”

Elise scowled but bit back any retort. Edria looked away, guilt etched on her face. The witch pivoted, and the chains vanished abruptly. Edria stumbled, nearly falling, and the magical support vanished. Elise steadied her, but the pair shrank from the witch, realizing their freedom was as tenuous as her patience.

“Go!” the witch yelled. Elise and Edria bolted through the church entrance, half-falling over splintered wood and scattered rubble in their scramble to escape.

A weak contraction, then another. The massive heart began to shudder back to life. The witch continued to assist, her magic healing Gertrude’s soft sternal wall. The witch allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

As Gertrude’s heartbeat resumed, color returned to her cheeks in tentative blooms. Her body twitched again, a cough rattling through her throat. She made a feeble attempt to lift her head, though it lolled to the side. Her eyelids fluttered, a soft moan escaping her lips.

“Steady,” the witch whispered.

Gertrude’s consciousness wavered, though her pulse, now audible in the hush, kept a stronger cadence. Awareness leaked back into her mind with the force of a returning tide. The first thing she registered was her heart pounding again behind its newly restored barrier. The second was a voice above her.

“You truly flirt with disaster, darling; we didn’t free your kind for you to throw it all away,” the witch said. Her tone held an odd mixture of admonishment and concern. “In lands such as these, many would take one look at that heart of yours and exploit it—or destroy it.”

#dark cardiophilia #f/f #ryona #cardiophilia #heart torture #female heart

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pedros-mustache · 4 months ago

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nighthawks (20)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: 6k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, language, x fem!reader

a/n: wow - um, hey, guys. so after my year long hiatus, i am here. hello. i truthfully to not expect anyone to flock to this story again after how inconsistent i have been. but din & scout came to me fully formed almost four years ago, and i must finish the story within. you are, of course, welcome to come along for the ride. 💛

please forgive me if this is utter shite. it has been a long time since i wrote much of anything, so i am, as the kids say, pretty mid at this.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH

The wind whips and rages, stinging your cheeks with nettles of ice.

From the bowels of the Sunder, Din unearthed a paltry speeder, hardly big enough to hold you and him, let alone any apprehension. That barbed, scared part of you stayed behind, and there it will remain, buried beneath mounting layers of snow and the shadow of the Sunder . You are resolute now, sure in your finely-tuned senses. Your heart thumps against your ribcage: Ren-dell Cr-ik, Ren-dell Cr-ik.

By the stars, you’ll get the bastard if it is the last thing you do.

Hoth is exactly as your father said it would be: hostile, fierce. Downright predatory. A cold unlike anything you have ever known crawls beneath your outermost layers and settles on your skin like permafrost. The wind screams as it whistles through the frozen ends of your hair. If a decade-old rage did not simmer in your gut, you might feel the urge to shiver. Even so, you have a sneaking suspicion the planet has the means and the motive to end your life before Crik even gets the chance. If the cold doesn’t finish you first, then the Wampa (Maker forbid you should stumble across one) surely will.

You twist your fingers beneath the frosted metal of Din’s pauldrons. Figures the Sunder would come equipped with a single-rider speeder. Figures you’d end up behind Din on that bike, your face against his shoulder blade, your ass out for Hoth’s taking. Your leg muscles scream, pressed tight against Din’s hips.

The speeder races across the snow-covered landscape, current destination unfolding.

Crik’s fob blinks like a heartbeat from the sloped dash of the speeder. He’s here—on Hoth—breathing the same atmosphere, feeling the sting of the same snow. Though the fob confirms it, you can feel his slimy presence to the marrow of your bones. He is a phantom, caged in the corner of your mind, screaming in the shadows, shaking the iron bars which have kept him confined for so long. An hour more, a day longer, and the rusted door will swing open. You will stand face to face.

And he will be the first to fall.

Din tilts the speeder to the right, and you shift with the motion, leaning into the slant. With so few sentient lifeforms on Hoth, the options for where to begin your hunt are limited. Outpost Beta, Gamma Base—you could start at either but with rumblings of growing tension between the Rebels and the Empire, neither you or Din are sure a Rebel outpost is the best place to start. Hoth is too expansive to meander in the hopes of stumbling upon Crik, and without the aid of a heat signature, Din’s tracking tech does you a fat lot of good. You are left with the path of least resistance for now, even if it seems to you the least effective: find the closest cantina and ask around without raising suspicion. No self-respecting planet, sparsely populated or not, can get by without a cantina, and Din seems confident Hoth is sure to have at least one. You’ll start there and work your way out, carving through the snow and the ice and the bitter cold with your sheer determination and his iron fist.

“Cantina. Three klicks ahead.” Din’s voice filters through your ear, tinny and warped by ill-used ear pieces. “Karga found it.”

As the speeder darts across the frigid terrain, you rest your forehead against the back of Din’s helmet. You cannot afford to let your mind wander on this mission; there is precious time, precious energy, precious resources, and ruminating on previous conversations is wasteful. You push the thoughts of Mandalore, of your father’s proclamation of marriage, away. You must be single-minded, a sharp edged knife against the world and all in it.

The speeder angles upward over a rise, and you pull your head away from the chilled metal of the helmet. There, in the distance, a dark brown speck amidst the sparkling ice and snow: the cantina. It develops, blooming larger, unfurling, as the speeder draws closer.

Your temporary destination is a brown craggy rock set in the base of a larger hill, carved into an oblong mass. Discrete, easy to miss on a ship overhead as a simple geological formation, but the slate gray door etched in the center of the rock speaks otherwise. Laid in white stone above the door, small red lights blink in alternating patterns. If you thought it meant anything, you may pause and determine if the lights communicate anything other than a siren’s call.

Din brings the speeder to a halt alongside a four legged creature tied to a post beside the door. Snow tangles and matts between the animal’s blue-hued fur, and a rusted chain at the beast’s ankle jangles as a bitter wind gusts over the hilltop. The creature swings its head as you dismount, braying woefully, revealing a mouth of sawn-off teeth. Pockets of puss and blood line the animal’s jaw where its teeth should stand upright. You look away and check the blaster at your hip.

Din lifts Crik’s fob from the speeder, hides it within his pocket, then nods at you. “Let’s go.”

The door to the cantina slides open on a hiss, internal mechanisms excreting plumes of white-gray chemicals. You’re glad for the scarf wrapped around your nose and mouth. Chemicals aside, the cantina smells like shit. A foul odor hangs in the air, rotted flesh and spoiled meat. You cringe beneath your mask and steel yourself against the pervasive fumes as you follow Din through the scattered tables and chairs.

The cantina’s sole room is quiet save for the sound of the wind outside and a scanner beeping behind the curved bar. A few patrons, none of any interest to you, duck their heads as Din passes. You feel them shrink into themselves, and it is just as well. You have no time for them.

Only Crik.

Behind the counter, a lone man watches your approach. He braces both gloved hands against the bar, his brow knit in a tight frown. His eyes slide from Din to you then back again.

“You’re not from around here.” His voice is knotted and thick, as though he rarely speaks above a whisper.

Din looks over his shoulder, and you feel him look at you, nudging you forward with a pointed stare. Your mission, your bounty—Crik is all yours, and Din will not deny you the pleasure of taking him in by your own merit.

Pushing forward, you move to stand in front of Din. He towers over you, the breadth of his chest a comfort against your back. His hand, the one not resting on the counter, settles at your hip, fingers tucking around the grip of your holstered blaster.

“My partner and I… we are looking for someone willing to part with information in exchange for credits.”

The bartender’s frown deepens. “Credits won’t get you nowhere here.”

You expected as much, but refuse to let the momentary disappointment show on your face. You arch a brow. “Really? The brand new cycler rifle hanging on the wall there tells me otherwise.” The bartender does not glance in the direction of the weapon, but his eyes narrow. “We deal in credits, not weapons, but we are willing to be generous.”

Tilting his head back, the bartender studies you. “What makes you think I have what you need?”

A saccharine smile unwinds the terse pout of your lips. “Call it women’s intuition.”

The bartender huffs and drops his hands from the bar counter. “You can ask, but I can’t promise I have the answer.”

“That’s fine. Give us what you can.” It is the first time Din speaks in the dimly lit cantina. He is impatient in these middling moments, but you don’t mind them. You have always enjoyed the seemingly inconsequential decisions and conversations that ultimately propel you to bringing down a bounty. It is in the series of unknowns before the inevitable downfall of your mark that you find the greatest thrill.

Cocking his head to the side, the bartender shuffles for a room adjacent to the bar. You follow, two steps, three, then pause as the man orders the straggling customers to fend for themselves. Five minutes, he says. You inhale, swallowing the lump in your throat. Five minutes.

The storeroom of the cantina is reminiscent of the storeroom in which you first met the Mandalorian. The same cramped and crowded closet in a backwater cantina. The same smell of dust in the air and spice hidden within boxes. The same man, cloaked in gray, corded with power. If you had the time, you would pause to reflect on the change in you, the change in him, these past one-hundred-ten days, but as it stands: time is running thin.

“Before I tell you anything”—The bartender turns around from the door, leveling an accusatory finger at you—“you tell me who you are.”

“No.” Din stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands set firmly on his hips. “The deal is information for credits. That’s it.”

“But I—”

“No info, no credits.”

Any further protest sours on the man’s tongue. His lips curl upward. “Fine.” He crosses his arms, shoulders hunched inward. “What do you want to know?”

You resist the urge to glance at Din for approval. It has been a long time since you took the lead on a bounty. Since the disaster with Breeth, you have felt uncertain about your abilities as a bounty hunter. But Din stands beside you, patient in his silence, so you will your thumping heart to settle.

“What can you tell me about this man?”

Reading your cue, Din unearths Crik’s blinking fob from his pocket. He presses the center button, revealing a holographic image of Rendell Crik that rotates in a circle. Pale blue illuminates the chrome of Din’s helmet as the bartender studies the image.

The bartender raises a finger to his chin in thought. His eyes narrow. His lips purse. A flash of impatience tightens your chest. How long does it take to string a thought together, for Maker’s sake? You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I’ve heard tell…”

Impatience gives way to intrigue. You lean forward. “And?”

“About thirty klicks from here. There’s a camp.”

“What kind of camp?”

With a smirk, the man tilts his head. In his eye, a greedy twinkle. “That will cost you.”

Thud. The bartender’s back hits the wall, and a row of jars on a neighboring shelf clang as they jostle together. Din holds his forearm against the bartender’s neck. He angles the visor of his helm so that the bartender must look down, down into the face of destruction itself.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“I told you! A camp—thirty klicks away!”

Din leans in, his forearm pressing, pressing into the man’s neck. The bartender’s face contorts into a pained grimace. His ankles bang against the wall behind him as he struggles against Din’s grip. You hold your breath.

“That’s not enough.” Din’s voice is terse, the swipe of a whip against the ground. “You know more.”

Shaking his head, the bartender sputters. “Not much! Only rumors from the other bounty hunters!”

Din’s feet shuffle as he steps closer to the wall, pushing further into the man’s already limited space. A flush begins to rise from the base of the man’s neck. His eyes grow larger, wider, rounder as they bulge outward from the leathery flesh of his face.

“Only what? Say it!”

The bartender will be of no use to you dead or unwilling. You see the opportunity for information begin to fade like blood in a watery pool. Your five minutes are almost up.

Stepping forward, you place a hand on Din’s shoulder. He stills, and the man’s panicked eyes dart to you. He pants against Din’s forearm, sweat like a crown upon his brow.

“Tell me what you know of Rendell Crik and the camp,” you say, tone even, gaze soft. “And my partner won’t kill you.”

The bartender was not bluffing when he said thirty klicks to Crik’s camp.

By the time the speeder sputters to a stop behind a jagged outcrop of ice one klick away from the camp, you are sure the blood in your veins is frozen. Despite the layers covering you head to foot, a cold unlike anything you have ever known has melded to your bones, chilled the breath in your lungs, squeezed the life from your very soul. You are tired, bone weary from the frigid air and unrelenting wind.

Gods-teeth! Hardly a few hours into the hunt and already the elements have taken their toll. Your father’s warning rings loud in your ear: Hoth?! No one survives out there. Maybe he was right. Maybe, after everything that has transpired, Hoth is too much of a risk. After all, you have rekindled the relationship with your parents. Isn’t it enough to be returned to the family fold?

No, it’s not. So long as Jeelia’s space at the table your father carved with his own hand is empty, it will never be enough. You cannot stop now, not when you have come this far.

Leaning against the wide base of the ice block, you lift your head from the crook of your arm where you press your forehead into the dark and frigid abyss. Frost hangs at the end of your lashes. You blink, searching for Din and his stupid helmet between the swirling colors of gray sky and white snow. Panic grips the raw edges of your psyche, and for a moment, you are in Coruscant, alone and afraid.

But he is there, as he always is, beside you. He kneels at the edge of the ice block, one hand against the ice itself, the other tight around a pair of binoculars.

“So, what now?”

Din twists to look at you over his shoulder. Something in your face—perhaps the chapped skin at your cheeks, the glassy look that surely clouds your eyes—makes him turn away from the camp. He hooks the binoculars to his hip.

“First we eat something.”

You frown and sit up as Din shuffles through the contents of a pannier draped over the speeder. “I can go on. We don’t need to stop. Not when that guy said he heard from others that—”

“Forget what he said. We got the information we needed and we made it to the camp. Anything else he said was bullshit. Don’t let it fester.” Din passes you a cloth secured with a piece of twine. “Now eat. We won’t get to Crik on an empty stomach.”

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a triangle of tea-smoked silk bread. A lump forms in your throat. You skim your thumb across the flaky crust, layers of sugared and spiced silkwheat falling from the confection. Your favorite, your mother’s best recipe. Memories of afternoons beside the hearth, your fingers sticky with fresh dough, flood your mind.

“She gave it to me.” Din’s whisper cuts through your reverie. You look up to search the impassible gleam of his helm. “Before we left Inora. She said it was your favorite and I should keep it for the moment you need it most.”

With a rueful chuff, you tear off a corner of the bread. “Is this that moment?”

“You’re doubting yourself. I can see that much.”

You wince. His words ring true, clanging against the rising fear that clutches your throat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you cannot help but feel that your future rests in the outcome of this hunt. Is it worth it—to go on after catching Crik? Could you continue to skate through the stars on a whim and a prayer and the hope that you (or Din) don’t fall to a well-aimed blaster? Would the Mandalorian come with you if you asked him to shirk the Guild, or Mandalore, or his son?

You suppose the outcome of this hunt will answer the unanswerable.

You hesitate before putting the bread in your mouth. “Am I really so obvious?”

“Usually.” Din’s voice glows, as much a warmth to your core as any fire.

“I can hear your smile and I don’t like it.” Grin fading, you finish the silk bread. The flavor barely registers as you consider the hours before you. “I can do this,” you say.

“I know.” Din moves from his haunches to a crouch. He pulls his blaster from the holster at his side. “Ready?”

Ghosts of your mother’s tender touch seep through the bread cloth in your hand, warming you. Ghosts of your sister’s gentle spirit tangle within the memories dancing in your mind. Your mother, your sister—they urge you onward.

You shove the bread cloth in your pocket. “Ready.”

Crik’s alleged-camp sits square in the middle of fuck nowhere. It stands in contrast with the rest of its surroundings: a hastily built circle of tan buildings, each connected by long rectangular passageways, like a spider sinking in a glass of bantha milk. A flickering orange light emanates from the center of the compound, creating a halo over a godless palace.

Clearing your throat, you swipe the sleeve of your arm under your dripping nose. No more time to waste. No more moments of silence to descend into murky pits of the unknown. You told Din you were ready—and you are. Once and for all.

“What’s our plan?” You cock your head in the direction of the camp. “We can’t just waltz up and knock on the door.”

Din huffs in amusement. “Looks like some already tried.”

He passes you the heavy electrobinoculars. Pressing the lens to your eyes, you swing your gaze around the corner of the ice block. The world shifts to a hazy blue, lines of numbers and text bleeding across the top of and bottom of your vision, but you are able to make out the entrance of the camp in the distance. You zoom in.

A head on a spike. Bloated, black tongue hanging from a broken jaw. Blood frozen in thick streams that never reached the ground. Above, dangling from a watchtower, a body. Neck snapped, head bowed, indistinguishable. Swaying, gently twisting in the harsh wind.

You push the binoculars away. “So the plan?”

Din considers your question before pointing to the right side of the compound. “We go in that way. A service entrance from what I can tell. A carrier went in not too long ago. Crik seems to be stocking up for the long haul.”

Before you stop yourself, you mumble, “Not if I can help it.”

Din pierces you with a sharp look. “Now isn’t the time to get cocky.”

“I know. I just—”

“Take the binoculars again. Look up at the guard tower.” Ever the student, you do as he commands. “What do you see?”

“Guards.” You struggle to keep the bite out of your voice.

“How many?”

“At least four.”

“Count them.”

Irritation tightens your jaw, but you obey, pausing long enough to count each individual stalking the length of the compound. “Five. And that’s only outside.” You lower the binoculars and pass them back with a none-too-gentle slap to the hand. “Point taken.”

“Good. So we go in through the service entrance and work our way closer to Crik from there. But before we go any further”—Din wrestles with the chest plate beneath his cloak—“put this on.”

He offers his chest plate with little fanfare. It is merely a thing in his hand which he is presenting. The flight suit beneath his armor is dark. His uncovered chest rises and falls, patient, even breaths as he waits for you to accept the offering.

“What?” You balk, spreading your hands in a sign of rejection. “Absolutely not! That’s yours! What are you even thinking?”

“Take it, Scout.”

“Mando, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will.” Din grabs your hands, forcing them to wrap around the chilled metal. The outward facing side is cold, but the inside is still warm where it rested against his chest, where it covered his heart. “You will put it on and then maybe I will be able to fucking breathe through this thing.”

You look up, and not for the first time, you feel as though you are looking onto his naked face. The chest plate weighs heavy in your hands, but Din’s words weigh heavier. The warning signs posted around the camp are clear enough: this won’t be easy. It won’t be safe either. Din Djarin will do whatever it takes to get you the justice you so deserve. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, too.

You refuse to look at him as you press the chest plate to your body. He leans forward, reaching around your back to fold and adjust the clasps at either side. His touch is light. His movements are unsure. Reality hangs tenuous between you, fragile like thin glass. One wrong step, and Maker, you may break.

He pulls back, chest plate secure, and his fingertips skim the rough fabric of your trousers.

“Thanks.” Your whisper plumes in the air. You hold your hand to your armored chest.

He nods. And then he is moving, reaching for you, and you cannot help but reach for him too.

Your arms clutch his pauldrons, fingernails digging into the human flesh you find there. He is real. Right now he is real, and you are safe, and you can still touch him. Moisture lifts behind your eyes, but you push it down. There’s no time; not now.

“We’ll be fine.” You close your eyes, digging your teeth into the skin of your cheek to keep the mounting emotions at bay. “We will laugh about this on the other side.”

Hands clasped against either side of your face, Din presses his forehead to yours. “I lo—”

“No. Don’t say it.” You press your fingertips to his helm, to the shape of his mouth somewhere beneath layers of steel. “After. Tell me after.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay.” A single finger catches in your hair, and you wonder if he is memorizing you. “After.”

You are the first to move, rising from your crouch to a battle-ready stance.

By your rough estimate, the service entrance to the compound is one klick away. Five guards patrolling the perimeter, barely any natural formations to give you cover as you cross the terrain. With Din’s reduced armor, his black flight suit may as well be a beacon in this white tundra. You could go by foot and risk someone catching sight of Din’s flight suit, or you could use the speeder and take the chance that someone may hear the engine running as you approach.

You decide to go on foot. Between the unrelenting wind and drifting snow, you will pray to the Maker the patrolmen are shortsighted. Once you get closer to the service entrance itself, you will transition to a crawl. From there—

You’ll figure it out if you manage to make it that far.

At his behest, Din walks in front of you. He is bigger and therefore blocks more of the wind. His footfalls create an easy path for you to follow through the mounting snow. Both combined will make for a shorter trek.

Step after step, you trudge through the shin-deep blizzard. You clutch your scarf to your mouth, breathing hard as you slog.

“Forty yards then we crawl.” Din’s voice crackles through the earpiece snug in your left ear.

Large flakes of snow catch in your eyelashes when you glance up to the battlement. The camp widens as you draw nearer. A well-camouflaged cancer, you think. Tucked away in some remote corner of the universe, silent but deadly, growing with every passing day. Sickness oozes from every crack and crevice of the stone facade. You can practically smell it.

He’s there—in the camp—lounging or eating or fucking—and you are here, outside, waiting to strike.

Din lowers to his stomach when the camp’s shadow falls across his boots. Though the snowfall has picked up, adding another layer of cover, you can never be too careful. You follow his lead, crawling across the ground, using your knees and forearms to propel your movement.

Snow and ice gathers in the folds of your suit; the damp, moist feeling is quick to follow. The mineral-taste of fresh snow laden with atmospheric junk sours on your tongue. You spit, shaking your head free of the snow catching and freezing to your hair.

“Almost there.”

Your forearms ache, and you can feel the warm trickle of blood at your knee. Rugged ground beneath your arms and ice at every turn threatens to push you to injury before crossing the threshold of the camp. You suck in a breath and push forward.

Finally, the service entrance pokes through the thickening wall of snow. The hangar door stands open, and a pale yellow light attempts to pierce the unrelenting white of the landscape.

When Din stands, you too rise on quaking limbs. “The snow,” you gasp. “I think it helped.”

He checks his vambrace. “Sensors read an incoming blizzard. We got here at the right time.”

You could say something about the total whiteout surrounding you already being of help, but you save your breath.

Din holds his blaster close, gesturing to the one at your hip with the muzzle of his weapon. “Be ready,” he says. “Whoever, whatever—take it out.”

You nod.

He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more, and you think this would be the moment he could shed his helmet and kiss you. Man to woman. Human to human. You would readily accept the moment, bleed into his kiss, meld into his body, but—

He simply nods.

Turning, Din hugs the wall as he stalks the length of the empty hangar. You keep to his shadow, footsteps light and practiced. At the other side of the room, there is a door which must enter the sanctity of the camp itself. After skirting workbenches and mislaid tools, you reach it. Din tries the handle. It swings open.

Warmth billows from the corridor like the breath of hell. You squint against the firelight that swallows the hallway and the meeting room beyond. No time for hesitation; no time for adjustment. You squeeze your eyes open and shut and follow Din into the hallway wrapping around a communal hall.

The hall, square and narrow beneath a triangular roof, is void of life. A fire roars in the center of the room, logs piled high, flames licking out like demon tongues. You step quietly, studying the crates and barrels cluttered around the fire. No discernible features on any of the wooden boxes. Still, you doubt anyone will be feeding them to the fire anytime soon. The compound is too silent, too distracted. You feel it in the air, the false security of an incoming storm.

Only the storm is already here.

Din’s footfalls thud in the stone hallway. You grit your teeth, praying to the gods everyone is asleep or otherwise distracted. You are here for Crik and only Crik.

You curl your trigger finger against the blaster’s sear.

“Hey!”

A voice—behind you.

Twisting at the hip, you shoot before you see, but it does not matter. Din said whoever, whatever and you agree. If it takes Crik down, if it gets your sister the eternal rest she deserves, you will tear the camp to pieces with your bare hands.

Your shot hits the shoulder of a guard at the opposite end of the hallway. He grabs his wound, doubling over with a shout of pain and alarm. Din pushes past you, moving fast, his blaster holstered, his hands free. He grabs the guard before he can right himself. The guard looks up, eyes wild, mouth open to shout a warning signal.

But you are there before he can make a sound. Your blood runs hot. This is it. It is happening, unfolding before you in slow motion. Justice tastes sweet.

You cram the muzzle of your blaster in the slack-jawed guard’s mouth. His eyes drop to you, and he grunts, his tongue flailing against the barrel of your blaster. You shoot, you retreat, the body hits the ground as Din steps back.

Down the hall now—away from the fire and the body, into a darker part of the camp.

Music wafts from some secret corner of the compound. Din looks at you as if to ask the question: That way? You nod.

Your footsteps are the only sound as you follow the stonework of the compound’s hallways. The music, some lilting birdsong, grows louder, and your blood runs thicker, hungrier as Crick draws nearer.

Another guard steps out of a dark alcove, blaster raised. Din withdraws a throwing star from a compartment in his vambrace. He flicks it outward, catching the guard’s wrist. The blaster falls, and you scoop it from the ground. Din’s fist lands against the guard’s cheekbone. He falls back, holding his face in pain. You bring the blaster grip down on his temple.

Onward. The music pulses now, or maybe it is just your heartbeat. Your sister’s face floats before you, some ghostly image or vision that buoys you forward.

“Wait.” Din holds out his arm, and you nearly run into it.

You stand in the doorway of a new common area. Music spills into the hall. A singer you cannot see from your vantage point sings about love. Their voice lifts over the sound of conversation, each syllable a honeyed-tenor. The song builds, words of devotion and ardor, feelings of passion and desire. You do not allow yourself to fall prey to the heightening emotion; you keep your eyes fixed on the room within. On the man with the shaved head and the scar on his cheek.

The song hits its crescendo, the singer’s voice frozen in a high note.

Din snaps his fingers. “Now.”

Bursting into the room, you shoot blindly. You counted five men when in the doorway. Five of them, two of you. You like those odds.

Blasterfire pings in every corner. You drop, rolling across the floor to swing your leg outward against a pudgy man’s knee. He curses as he falls, and you bring your dagger to his neck. You slice without thought. Blood gushes over your hand, staining your fingers, but you press on, knocking the man to his side.

On the other side of the room, Din carves his way through Crik’s sycophants. He moves with ease, throwing his elbow, bending to a twist when a blaster shot arcs over his head. He is heading for Crik, and you are eager to get there with him.

A female Twi’lek crosses your path. She bares teeth sharpened to a point. You raise your dagger, and she lifts a shortsword, grinning.

She thrusts first, and you parry. You whirl on your heel, bringing your blade in a wide arc over your head and shoulders. The Twi’lek ducks and catches the back of your leg with the point of her sword. You clench your jaw, but do no more to let the pain show on your face. Lurching forward, you grab the back of a nearby chair. The Twi’lek pauses for breath, pauses to watch her surroundings, pauses to watch the blood that streams down your leg.

Big mistake.

You lift the chair in your hand and swing. It catches the Twi’lek in the stomach. She stumbles backward. You do not let go. You run, pushing against the Twi’lek with the seat of the chair. She frowns, fingers grabbing for the legs of the chair for some upperhand, but you push harder, forcing her across the floor until she hits the wall with a heavy thud. You drop the chair and bring your blaster up, eye level with your opponent.

“Fucking bitch,” she mutters.

You can’t help but grin. “Always.”

You slam your forehead against her face. Stars wash over your vision, but you feel her nose crack against your forehead.

Stumbling backward, you shake your head free of the immediate pain of the headbutt. The Twi’lek curses as she clutches her nose, blood dripping from beneath her fingers. She looks up at you, rage like a steel trap in her eyes.

She bolts. Blood flows from her nose, leaking onto the neck of her shirt, flinging in a shower of droplets onto the ground. Arms pumping, she advances on you. You stand your ground, dagger in one hand, blaster in the other.

You’ll take her down. You know you can.

You brace for impact, but the Twi’lek veers for the right. You frown, stepping back to adjust your position. Only she is up, in the air, jumping, her foot hitting off a support beam in the center of the room. She pounces, and she is flying, circling over you like a predator over prey.

Now it is you who is stumbling. You card backward, glancing from the incoming Twi’lek to Din, who advances on Crik with one of the remaining guards at his back. Crik strikes outward with a shortsword. He hits Din’s unarmored stomach, and Din stops his advance, pausing long enough to show a moment of pain.

Your attention slips. The Twi’lek descends. The hilt of her sword lands hard on the left side of your skull.

Pain explodes over your head in radiant bursts of light and fire. You fall, shouting out as you collapse. Your forearms break the fall as you catch yourself with whatever sense you have left, but you cannot rise to your feet. A bell clangs in your head; your mind feels sluggish. It is as if you have been rendered mute and immoveable. You have become a rock, and the stream of life flows all around you. The fight continues on, but you cannot join in.

Blood pools in your mouth. A tooth? Your tongue? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

Tears well in your eyes as the clanging continues. Your head feels heavy, and your stomach heaves against the pain. You wretch, and the revolt in your stomach pushes you on to your hands and knees. You vomit, and somewhere overhead the Twi’lek laughs.

“Yes,” she says. “Definitely a bitch.”

You stumble to your feet, eyes lazy as they swing from one side of the room to the other. You are underwater, surely. You cannot hear, and you cannot see, and you cannot think. You must be drowning. This is what drowning feels like.

You mumble something around a thick tongue. The Twi’lek cocks her head, laughing still. “What was that?” she asks. “I didn’t really hear you.”

There are two of her now, twins that ebb and flow like the tide, a double of evil. You cannot determine the true twin, the one who must have come first, but you see them both, and you hate them both, and that must be enough.

With a cry, you fall forward, your dagger pointed and at the ready. The Twi’lek catches you, but she does not catch your dagger, the one hidden beneath your sleeve. It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. You grit your teeth as you push harder, harder, until the hilt seems to disappear within her oozing and bleeding flesh.

She is silent as she falls, her eyes bouncing between yours. Blood rises to the corners of her mouth, and she gasps for breath. You drop to your knees with her as the life floods from her face. You place her head on the ground, and you hover over her, watching as her soul slips.

“Fuck-k-ing bii-tchh,” she gargles. Blood spills over her lips as she gags.

Gasping, sucking air into your throat and your lungs and your soul, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s never been a question.”

Her head lolls to the side.

You look up across the room to Din. He stands face to helmet, arm in arm, with Rendell Crik. Though your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, you cannot stop. He is near, at your fingertips. He is surrounded by the bodies of his stupid, oafish lackeys, and you are here, and he is held by the most powerful man on the planet.

You rise on shaking legs. You swipe your hand over your mouth. Rendell Crik fills your vision. You take one step forward.

A shot rings out.

The Mandalorian falls.

NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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sbjnirmalproducts1997 · 7 months ago

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Rotavator Blade SuperSeeder LJF Type 14x57 by SBJ Nirmal Products

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noneatnonedotcom · 3 months ago

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OP jaune but with a twist

pretty simple idea here, jaune was born at the same time the entire debacal with salem and the brothers was going down. having been the rusted knight he was technically a god. and protected the people of remnant from the brothers via the use of his sacred relics from the ever after. now every couple of generations a new Jaune is born into the world with no skills or knowledge but with the sacred relics to help deal with whatever bullshit the brothers are throwing at humanity this time. i.e jaune is an avatar of his more divine rusted knight self.

build under the cut

All The King’s Horses: (100CP) A godly being like you deserves a godly steed to travel, and while you may possess an Authority to do so already, another item may prove useful in some cases. For that, this legendary mount is yours to use. Able to break the speed of sound easily while protecting all passengers and possessing a small but effective amount of firepower to defend you when you need it. The exact aesthetic depends on you, maybe you want a flying horse or a small dragon or a vimana. Regardless, the specs will be the same. just as the rusted knight incarnates in remnant every once in a while so too does juniper his faithful steed. recent worship and legend paints it as a white horse so it will apear that way but the classic giant jackalope is also an option.

Fairy Weapon: (400CP) All of the Knights of the Round have their own special weapon. A magical sword, a enchanted bow, a special shield. These weapons are often crafted by the hands of the fairies themselves, creating immensely powerful weapons for the greatest protectors of Britain. Now you too have a legendary weapon in your hands, on the same level as things like Excalibur Galatine, Arondight or Lord Camelot. You might choose an enchanted sword that can unleash gigantic blasts of energy at will or a bow that fires a dozen shots for every single one you loose or even a flail that can command the wind as it slams into your foes. You could even have a magical prosthetic arm that unleashes blades and blasts of light on command."

crocea mors, a sword that can become a lance, it glows golden and increases all paramiters of the wielder to godlike proportions. (by two letter grades so if a E rank is 10 times peak human a normal human would be up to D rank which is 20.) including charisma and resistance to reality warping. (luck) it is also unbreakable.

Avalon: (400CP) "The legendary sheath of Excalibur, a copy of which now rests at your hip, though no one finds it strange that it does so. This sheath is an incredibly valuable artefact, as it bestows powerful regenerative abilities on you while at your side, allowing you to heal from almost any wound in minutes at most. Even if most of your body was vaporised, as long as your brain and a fair amount of the flesh and bone connected to it remained, you could restore yourself to normal in five minutes of healing. Avalon cannot heal brain wounds and you will die if it is destroyed, though the item also struggles to handle cursed wounds. Though it drains your energy, you can also activate the special power of the sheath, which will place you in the world of Avalon while you maintain it. While here, it is almost impossible to reach you and even dimension crossing effects will only work from insanely powerful users. Effectively, it lets you dodge away out of almost any effect in an instant. Notably, Avalon as a sheath will resize to fit any sword you wish to put into it."

Avalon representing the afterlife the rusted knight has made for humanity in the ever after to be with their families and loved ones. that being said eventually everyone sees the tree and reincarnates.

Battle Garments: (100CP) Having to battle creatures from myth and legend as your job is no excuse to not look fashionable while doing so. This is a set of clothes that fit you perfectly, are fashionable, flexible, self-repairing and strong as enchanted steel armor. Because if you’re going to kick ass, then do it in style.

sometimes appearing as actual armor sometimes as simple clothes the avatar of the rusted knight relies on his armor for much of his defense.

one thing of note, this jaune does not have ANY skill with the items he has with him. they tend to carry him through most of his battles early on. he always needs to be trained by the heroes of the current generation. so when jaune meets ruby rose on her way to exterminate some grimm she finds a very uncordinated man in a really nice pair of jeans and a hoodie with a bunny on it. just doing his best here.

being mortal is tough man.

basically he's the god of heroes on earth but he has no idea what he's doing. since he's got no powers he can work anywhere but this was just an excuse to show off stained glass jaune arc @weatherman667 @howlingday thoughts on the art?

#jaune arc #rwby #none rant #[email protected] fics #rwby au #lancaster rwby #au #ruby rose

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soylent-crocodile · 28 days ago

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Throatslitter (Monster)

(Throatslitter by anonymous)

(This is one of my favorite blade beasts, because from the start it was a monster that came with a story. You'll notice that unlike most blade beasts, this one has a head; I consider it to be both a sign of its strength and its independence.)

Among a city's thieves and burglars, there often exists the same story; a legendary knife capable of silencing any enemy with a single strike, a crucial asset in the most ambitious of heists. Carrying it will rocket you into wealth and infamy, but be warned. Once it's known that you have this dagger, every other criminal in the city will want it, and most will gladly have your head for it- if your ambition doesn't cost you everything first.

Some take these as tall tales, a warning about the risks of greed and fame among those who steal for a living. And while they are good parables, they are also describing something very real- throatslitter blade beasts. These massive serpentine monsters take the form of thieves' daggers, and use their telepathy and supernatural sense for gold to guide their wielders to great wealth. This is all a ruse to earn their trust, however; a throatslitter's ultimate pleasure in life comes from seeing those who carry it slain.

They use trickery and praise to encourage their wielder to chase greater and greater treasures; when the time is right, they have plenty of ways to lead their charge to doom. They may simply "fall" from their master's grip and clatter noisily across the floor, use their telepathy to alert and organize guards, or simply paralyze their master at an inopportune time with their Hold Monster spell-like ability, a tool they keep hidden from those who carry them. Its monster form is a last resort; if its "master" cottons on to the plan before their fate is sealed, a throatslitter is typically forced to take this form to finish them off lest the story spread. Otherwise, it is simply used to slither away as the throatslitter's erstwhile master is left paralyzed in the bottom of a moat, splattered on the ground with half a rope still in hand, or simply captured and doomed to the gallows.

This colossal silver snake has a head like rusted copper, no eyes, and a daggerlike point on the end of its tail.

Misc- CR13 NE Huge Magical Beast (Blade Beast, Shapechanger) HD16 Init:+8 Senses: Perception:+23 Darkvision 60ft, Goldsight 60ft Stats- Str:25(+7) Dex:18(+4) Con:17(+3) Int:22(+6) Wis:19(+4) Cha:18(+4) BAB:+16/+11/+6/+1 Space:15ft Reach:15ft Defense- HP:136(15d10+48) AC:30 (-2 Size, +4 Dexterity, +2 Deflection, +15 Natural Armor, +1 Dodge) Fort:+13 Ref:+14 Will:+9 CMD:39 Resist: Acid 10 Immunity: Poison Special Defenses: Vestigial Head, DR5/good, SR20 Offense- +2 Vorpal Slash +23/+18/+13/+8(1d10+9/19-20x3), Bite +21(2d8+10) CMB:+25 Speed:50ft, Swim 50ft, Climb 50ft Special Attacks: Feats- Improved Initiative, Spell Focus (Enchantment), Skill Focus (Diplomacy), Vital Strike, Critical Focus, Improved Vital Strike, Improved Critical (Slash), Dodge Skills- Appraise +22, Climb +26, Escape Artist +20, Knowledge (Dungeoneering, Engineering, Local, Nobility) +10, Perception +23, Sense Motive +20, Stealth +15, Swim +26 Spell-like Abilities- (Caster Level 16, Concentration +20) Deathwatch /constant Death Knell, Acid Spray (DC19) /at-will Hold Monster (DC20) 3/day Special Qualities- Blade Form, Compression, No Breath Ecology- Environment- Urban (Any) Languages- Common, Aklo Organization- Solitary Treasure- None Special Abilities- Blade Form (Su)- As a standard action, a blade beast can shift between beast form and the form of an enchanted weapon. A throatslitter’s weapon form is that of an intelligent +2 Vorpal Dagger with empathy, speech, telepathy 100ft, 60ft sight, 30ft darkvision, 30ft goldsight, a purpose of leading its master to doom, and the ability to cast Death Knell and Hold Monster 1/day. Goldsight (Su)- A throatslitter is aware of any gold and precious gemstones within 60ft of it, as though it had blindsight. Vestigial Head (Ex)- The head of a throatslitter’s beast form is unimportant to its anatomy. Effects that behead it simply remove its bite attack and do not kill it. Shrouded Blade (Su)- A throatslitter treats partial concealment like full concealment. In addition, wielders of its blade form get a +10 enchantment bonus on Sleight of Hand checks to conceal it.

#soylent original #monsters and races #blade beasts #homebrew #pathfinder #dnd #rogue

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impuredeeplove · 2 months ago

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THE DAUGHTER OF EVIL

The princess's jewelry box X original female character

SUMMARY: Elara the blacksmith rises up against the tyranny of Empress Ariana, turning pain into revolution.

Meanwhile, Ariana, enveloped in luxury and arrogance, ignores the storm brewing in her kingdom.

As revolution comes, two women discover that power comes at a price—and it will be paid in blood.

PROLOGUE: NOBODY CRIES FOR TYRANTS

The morning sun bathed Sacremisa's central square in golden hues, a cruel contrast to the horror unfolding below. Elara's crimson armor blazed like living embers, each polished metal plate reflecting light almost painfully. The air reeked—a nauseating blend of fresh blood, rotting fruit in the heat, and the acrid sweat of the gathered mob. The sea wind carried salt that mingled with the rusted guillotine's metallic bite, creating a symphony of horrors that left a bitter taste in Elara's mouth.

Her gloved fingers clenched her sword's hilt tight enough to leave permanent marks in the leather. Each heartbeat thundered in her ears like war drums, nearly drowning out the furious crowd's roar. Elara stood at the eye of this storm, the imposing figure in scarlet armor that all watched with mingled awe and fear.

Ariana was dragged toward the scaffold, her bare feet leaving bloody prints on the wooden steps. The magestone shackles screeched like breaking bones, their anti-magic runes glowing faintly against her raw wrists. The wind tousled what remained of her once-silver hair, now crudely shorn and whitened by despair.

"Look how the mighty empress crawls!" a man spat, hurling rotten fruit that struck Ariana's cheek with a wet smack. Fermented juice dripped down her face like grotesque tears.

A woman with burn scars shook her fists: "Blood for blood!

"Let her burn in hell as she burned our granaries!"

A chill ran down Elara's spine despite her armor's heat. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as Ariana faltered on the scaffold steps. The executioner—a brute whose scarred face mapped a lifetime of violence—wrenched the former empress forward by her slender arms.

"Don't resist, Your Majesty," he sneered, forcing her to kneel before the guillotine. The dark wood, stained by generations of executions, reeked of old blood and terror. Ariana lifted her chin, her rose-pink eyes—once famed for enchanting nations—locked on Elara with an intensity that made the warrior swallow hard.

Then Elara stepped forward, her combat boots echoing across the platform. The crowd fell silent instantly, as if someone had slit their throats. Even the wind seemed to pause."TODAY," her voice cannoned, making her armor plates vibrate, "TYRANNY ENDS!" The sun turned her scarlet armor to liquid fire. "For eight long years, we suffered under this woman's heel. We watched children starve while her feasts lasted weeks! Saw fathers die in mines to feed her greed!"

Rhe square erupted in agreement. Elara raised her fist, light glinting off her commander's bracer.

"But today," she continued, softening her voice to a near-whisper that still carried across the square, "today we plant seeds for a new dawn. Where no child will cry from hunger! Where no man will be whipped over unpaid taxes!"

The crowd roared, but Elara wasn't finished. A gesture silenced them again.

"Let this death warn all tyrants!" She pointed at Ariana, who still knelt, still watched her with those damnably knowing eyes. "The age of oppression dies with her!"

The response shook the earth: "EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! LIBERTY!"

The brown-haired - an important and dangerous ally ally - chose that moment to step forward, his smile sharp as the blade itself. He inclined his head slightly, fingers elegantly laced behind his back as if at a palace ball rather than an execution.

"Last words, Ariana?" His voice dripped poisoned honey. "Any final advice for your subjects? One last lie to tell?"

For a heartbeat, the deposed empress's rose-pink eyes gleamed as they once had. "I was Ariana of Sacremisa," she said, raising her chin despite the chains weighing her down. "First and last empress of this realm." Her cracked lips curved in a ghostly smile. "And you... will all be forgotten."

The executioner pulled the lever.For one terrible instant, the rusted mechanism jammed—a metallic screech that made the crowd hold its breath. Ariana laughed, the sound jagged as broken glass.

"Even your machines know I shouldn't kneel."

The brown-haired ally laughed first—a shrill, black-humored sound. The executioner cursed, hammering the mechanism. With a metallic groan, the blade fell.

The impact shook the entire scaffold. The blade severed with a wet thunk, and blood arced crimson, spattering the revolution's banners hung nearby. Red droplets slid down the fabric like tears, staining freedom's symbols with vengeance's price.

Ariana's head rolled past the basket, spinning until her lifeless eyes fixed on Elara, lips still twisted in that final defiant smirk. Her body remained upright for a breathless moment—refusing to acknowledge its end—before collapsing forward with a sickening thud.

Blood seeped between the scaffold planks, dripping rhythmically like a clock marking an era's end.

"TO THE PYRES WITH HER!" someone shrieked, brandishing a torch. The mob became a sea of contorted faces—some ecstatic, others hollow with relief. Vinegar and cheap beer mixed with iron in the air, creating an intoxicating vapor of liberation.

The masked ally approached. He stopped half a pace from Elara, rigid as a statue. Behind his black leather mask, his rose-pink eyes—so like Ariana's—were fixed on the severed head, pupils blown inhumanly wide.

Elara reached out, almost touching his arm, but hesitated at the last moment. "Are you all right?" she murmured, low enough for only him to hear.

He didn't answer immediately. When he finally moved, it was with a sleepwalker's lethargy. He knelt in the gore, hands visibly trembling as he reached for the silver hairpin that had fallen from Ariana's hair.

Elara crouched beside him, her armor creaking softly. "Leave it," she whispered. "She has nothing left to give you.

"His fingers closed around it with sudden fierceness, clutching it like a lifeline. For a long moment, he remained frozen, the hairpin pressed white-knuckled against his chest.

Elara placed her gloved hand over his, feeling the tremors wracking his body. "It's over," she said, her voice softer than she'd ever used in battle.

When he finally stood, his movements were uncoordinated—nearly stumbling. Elara steadied him with a hand at his elbow for a brief moment. He examined the pin one last time before tucking it inside his coat, over his heart, with near-reverent care.

His whole body shook, but when his eyes met Elara's, she saw more than grief—a dark, profound satisfaction that made her shiver. He gave the barest nod, an almost imperceptible gesture of gratitude, before retreating into the square's shadows.

The wind shifted, bringing clean sea salt to briefly cleanse the stench of death. Elara looked at her gloved hands—clean, yet forever stained.

As the sun blazed on her scarlet armor and the blood now watering revolution's seeds, a terrible truth took root:

This wasn't the end. It was only the first act of a far darker play.

#The princess's jewelry box #manwha #manhwa X reader #original character #webtoon x reader #Romance #webtoon romance

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