#i own a green ring. yall wanna know whos been using green hearts around me?

[rudylloyd]

having a brain moment rn

[jangofctts]

Thing for Trouble (boba fett x fem!reader x din djarin) (part one) (part two) (part three) (part four)

Rated: explicit 18+

word count: 7.6k

warnings: threesome, smut, thigh riding, oral female receiving, handjobs, unprotected sex (dont be a deadbeat, wrap that shCMEAT), light choking, throne fucking, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampies, pet names, sub? din? more likely than you think (also lmk if I missed any tags!)    

a/n: yall im sorry this is such garbage but kjkwejh here we be. I hOPE YOU ENJOY THE CIRCUS. thank you to everyone who’s encouraged this so COME GET YALLS MANDO MEAT  

There isn’t much when he it comes to Tatooine and fun things to do. There’s pod acing, drinking, Sabaac tourneys, more podracing, gambling and scavenging. Unless there’s a festival or some wild event, you’re stuck with boredom and whatever you can scrounge up for fun in the palace. 

Now, don’t get it wrong—if you had it your way, you’d spend every waking hour trialing behind Boba, but you don’t want to smother. Fennec too—while you enjoy her company, you know that half of the reason she sticks around is Boba’s order for your protection. Kinda ruins the fun when you know she probably only tolerates you because she’s being paid to. Eh whatever—doesn’t stop you from tagging along on as she runs errands in town—besides, today you actually have a reason to be here instead of loitering like a lost puppy. 

Fennec tells you to be safe and com her the second trouble rears its ugly head and disappears into the weapons shop—muttering about her prized rifle being jammed or something. You don’t know, all you hear is that you have the entire afternoon to yourself to hunt down your oh so elusive prize. Star cherries.    

The markets are always vibrant. Jam packed with people from each and every corner of the galaxy, hundreds of booths and stalls selling their wares that varies from foods to jewelry to even bounty services. Tempting as is it is to peruse the sparkly rows of dainty necklaces and rings or inspect the vast array of beige ponchos and manilla undershirts—you have a purpose. A once a year chance you refuse to let go to waste.   

The shabby booth is tucked near the end of the street, the mountain of the little red fruits looking comical compared to the withered old lady who sits beside them. She flashes you a gap-toothed smile, the crowfeet wrinkles surrounding her eyes scrunch with the movement. “Ah! I was wondering when you’d show, dear.” 

“Hello, Mrs. Feraan,” you greet, bending at the was it to kiss her wrinkly cheek. The old vender was one of the first kind souls you met here when you arrived on Tatooine. In return for a couple compliments or an offer to be the lab rat to test her new recipes for pie or tarts, she hooks you up with the best of the cherries—handpicked with love. “How’s business today?”

She waves her hand in dismissal, her silver rings glinting in the sun. “Same as always, child.”

Eventually you work your way through the pleasantries and a couple, long winded tangents. The sort that only old people can flawlessly spin and keep you engaged. Trials and tribulations to earn your prize—you don’t mind sacrificing a couple hours.

Finally you’re allowed to walk away—cherries in hand and exceedingly eager for your sweet snack. Unfortunately, suffering through Mrs. Feraan’s old childhood laments is not the only bump in the road you have to face.       

Granted, it is your fault—not looking where your feet are taking you—

Your temple crashes into something agonizingly hard. You swear you hear a quiet bonk when your skull collides with the mystery material and fucking hell—you probably have a concussion from the force of it. 

Unbothered by your probable brain injury, you’re far more concerned with the cherries spilling onto the ground and so, as you flail and dramatically topple over—the brunt of your fall is cushioned by your shoulder. Something pops and yeah, ok, maybe you just tore a ligament but—kriffing worth it for the cherries you miraculously saved from their dusty graves.     

Your temper flares as you spot the dirty brown boots pointed in your direction. Maneuvering yourself up so you don’t also get trampled by the crowd, you bare your teeth and put on your best impression of a terrifying force of nature despite the fact you’ve been knocked flat on your ass. “What the fuck—“

The words shrivel up and die upon your tongue as your eyes slide up the stranger’s legs, broad shoulders sporting the shiny armor that twinkles in the midday suns. They then settle on an all too familiar helmet. Well, sorta—you’re familiar with a certain red and green one, not the equivalent of a wearable disco ball.

You squint as the stranger’s head dips to look at you crumpled at his feet. You dust yourself off and point an accusing finger. “Fuck is your problem standing in the middle of the road?”

The stranger quirks their head. “You ran into me—maybe you should watch where you’re stepping.”

The raspy voice is a striking sound. Mellow and silky even as it passes through the vocoder and dresses it in static charm. Some of your anger melts away—maybe this is the friend Boba was talking about—it’d make sense. They’re wearing the same type of armor…  

You shake your head and shove down your pride. You don’t think Boba would appreciate you chewing his ear off. “Sorry—you’re right.”

As you readjust your clothes and precious cherries you introduce yourself with a tiny smile. Yet just as you're about to ask him his name he interjects with a step forward. You flinch away but all he does is sweep back a strand of hair from your forehead, revealing a little nick in the skin. You hiss as his fingertips scrape against it--great, an actual head wound. “Are you alright?”

Maker—here you are, after yelling at him and he finds it in him to be compassionate. You wave away his concerns. “Y-yeah--peachy.” 

He apologizes with a dip of his head and words soaked in regret and fuck--now you feel bad. You wrack through your brain and search for last ditch attempts to fix this little mishap and settle with a half baked idea. It’s dumb--but hey, if it works, it works.  

“Seriously, it’s fine. But I mean, if you’re so worried, how about you walk me home and we call it even?” You propose, sticking out your hand to seal the deal. If your assumptions are right, he’d just be tailing you the whole way home anyway. “I’m headed towards the palace, so if it’s not too much out of your way then—“

He hesitates and interrupts by taking your hand. “Alright. Deal.” 

You smile. “Lovely.” 

On the return trip, Din is quiet—tells you his name and responds to your conversation fillers with interested hums—but other than that he remains on the silent end. Intriguing with a rounded softness unlike the armor he wears--a man of mystery much like  a certain someone who awaits you back home. Well--Din is less grumpy--by a long shot...but still. It’s easy to spot some of their shared similarities.  

                                        -=-=-=-

Upon arriving at the castle you part ways with Din before he reaches the throne room--you’re not too excited about showing off your new battle scar yet and while it was an accident, making an entrance with Din will make it far too easy to link the injury with him. Besides, you don’t wanna risk scaring off your new friend if Boba decides to showcase that tightly sealed lid of anger and brutality. 

Instead you take the long way around the palace. Soon, muffled voices carry through the long corridors, growing louder as you work your way back from the kitchens. You round the corner, catching glimpses of Boba and your new friend through the pillars that prop up the low ceiling. You don’t meant to spy, but you do so anyway, hesitant on interrupting.     

That is...until Boba cocks his head to the side and settles his eyes onto the pillar you hide behind. “It seems we have a little shadow with us today.” 

You suck in a breath as your heart skips in a thrumming pace. Boba addresses you by name and crooks his fingers in a lazy motion for you to step out into the light—revealing yourself to the small party of two. “Come here, little one.”

The low light catches off of Din’s helmet with a glittering sparkle when he swivels his head. The tiny, warped figure of yourself reflects in mirror-like pieces of smelted beskar as his shoulders pull tight with recognition. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile that threatens to crack across your face at bay. Boba is no fool—he excels in the subtleties of shifting eyes and clenched fists to hide anxiety or closely guarded information—sickeningly familiar with your own quirks and tells, but—  

There’s no reason to reveal Din’s little secret—not yet. Boba called him a friend but you truly have no clue what the depths of that word entailed. Friend could mean anything from a casual acquaintance, to an old childhood bond, and or anything in between. You sigh and brush past him, mentally congratulating yourself for keeping a cool mask of indifference etched into your features. If Din wants to open that can of worms then so be it—you weren’t the one offering to walk random people home. 

You step onto the dais and slide your free hand into Boba’s outstretched palm. The worn leather tickles up your forearm and locks over your elbow, silently demanding you to sit on his lap. There’s plenty of room to both sit on the throne but no—Boba prefers you tucked against the cool metal of his cuirass. You grunt as the bowl of star cherries you cradle dangerously dips when Boba adjusts your weight over his thighs.  

His fingers pull back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear and then spider along your jawline. The ends of his mouth quirk as Boba pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, capturing your undivided attention. “I don’t like it when you lurk in the shadows, little one. You’re allowed to listen.

You huff. “I know—but lurking is fun.”

Boba releases your chin with a scoff. “Foolish, girl.” You dip your chin with a sheepish grin as heat rushes to your cheeks. You briefly forget about the tiny nick adorning your right temple, the only thing you were trying to keep hidden—but Boba is all too quick to notice. “What is this?”

He pushes your hair out of the way of the cut, inspects it, then curls his fingers around your jaw to demand an answer. You refuse to let your eyes wander over to Din—what a dead giveaway that would be—and instead muster up enough courage to hold the weight of his stare. 

“I tripped at the markets,” you say—not a complete lie. “It’s just a little scratch—no biggie.”

Boba squints in suspicion and grumbles a soft hm. You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh—he won’t argue about it right now. Not a battle worth his while when you’re keen on keeping the full truth behind a wall of teeth and anxieties. Boba’s hand falls away, gestures to Din who still stands stiffer than a stature, then lays it over the golden armrest. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our guest—“

Din tips his head in acknowledgement. 

“The rightful ruler of Mandalore,” Boba continues. “Din Djarin.” 

Din Djarin…despite already knowing his name (or half of it, at least) you like the way it rolls off the tongue—like how it’s seemingly made to be repeated and carved into the walls of some ancient script. Your knowledge on all things Mandalorian is…limited to say the least but you know enough about the rumors. 

“Isn’t Mandalore supposed to be haunted?” You don’t mean for your words to be a pointy jab to the ribs but regardless, it strikes a tender chord within the Mandalorian. You wince as Din shifts his weight and clenches his palm—a long story. “Sorry—I—I’m sure your home is lovely, all I know about it are dumb ghost stories about evil wizards and laser swords.” 

The blood under your cheeks burn red hot. Great. Not only are you a complete bantha brain, you’ve also managed to sound like an impudent child. Boba soothes a thumb over your thigh as you curl into yourself—bastard. He thinks this is funny.        

“It’s not my home,” Din responds, albeit tentatively. “Never been.”

Your brows furrow. Alrighty then.  

Boba snorts and shakes his head. He mutters something in Mando’a and lazily waves his hand, dismissing the line of conversation entirely. It was turning into a dumpster fire anyway—   

With a slow exhale, you remove yourself from the discussion and instead tuck your head under Boba’s chin. The beskar is cold against your cheek but it feels nice against the sweltering midday heat.  

Their conversation fades in and out as you rest your head over Boba’s cuirass, listlessly picking through the bowl of fruit for the ripest ones. You sigh—the next cherry you bring up to your lips is intercepted as Boba’s hand clamps around your wrist and redirects it into his own mouth. You don’t find it in you to be grumpy about the stolen treat when Boba’s tongue slides over your sticky fingers. Still holding your wrist captive, he sucks the tip of your thumb into the warm heat of his mouth and curls his tongue around the digit. Your index finger is given the same treatment before your hand is returned. The beginnings of arousal spark to life below your belly, and fuck—that shouldn’t have been so…so…hot. 

Din’s smoky baritone fades into background noise as the entirety of your attention zero’s in on Boba’s mouth. You purse your lips and suck in a shaky breath, then return your hand to the bowl to fish out another fruit. You don’t need any guidance this time around as you bring the cherry to his mouth—the crimson juice spilling down your palm and part of your arm as his teeth pierce the fragile skin. You breath hitches as Boba dips his head, catching the bead of liquid running down your arm with the tip of his tongue, then swiping s a slow trail up, and over the lines of your palm. He plants a careful kiss there, then breaks away. 

Before you have the chance to reach for another one, Boba plucks a cherry from the bowl and rests it against the seam of your lisp, inviting you to partake in this little game he’s created. A wicked smirk curls over his mouth as you accept—the tart flavor of the fruit spilling over your tastebuds as you chew and swallow. A little wine escapes you as his leather-clad thumb rolls over your bottom lip, bushes past the barrier of your teeth and seats the digit into your mouth—all the way down to the third knuckle. 

You hardly notice the moment Din’s voice tapers off into silence—much too enraptured with the taste of leather and the smooth feel of it over your tongue. You gag slightly when Boba’s thumb reaches the back of your throat, then retreats just as slow. The string of saliva that still connects the digit to your wet mouth, drips over your chin and part of your lip, eliciting a jagged, echoey breath that crackles through Din’s vocoder. 

Boba grins—something that better belongs on a sneering jackal just about to pounce on unsuspecting prey with needle sharp talons, rather than his face. His eyes drift up to address his guest. “Do you see something you like, Mand’alor?”

Din’s head jerks, averting his gaze to anywhere but the throne. He murmurs a weak apology and shifts his weight to his other leg—acting as if he were to look at you a second time, it’d burn him to a crisp or force him to confront Boba Fett’s wrath. Obviously, neither thing would happen, but Din still remains unsure with his foothold in this situation.   

“I see how you look at her,” Boba drawls—not an accusation, just a statement brought to light. Boba’s hand drops to your thigh, the warm weight of it resting just past your knee as Din swallows his nerves and returns his gaze. “It’s alright—a pretty little thing like her is bound to turn heads.” 

A blush hotter than wildfire licks up your cheeks as Din nods in agreement. “She’s beautiful…you’re a lucky man.”

Boba’s grip on your thigh hoards you closer to his chest. He is and he’s fully aware of that fact, but there’s no need to admit such a thing when it’s so blatantly obvious. A lull in the conversation creates a palpable tension—nervous energy and a choice to let this is fade into nonexistence or…or breathe life into that flickering ember of unsaid desires.     

Your heart leaps into your throat when Boba shatters the silence and addresses you. “You’re awfully quiet, princess…what do you think?”

He’s placing whatever this is into your hand and leaving you to call the shots. You’ve always been a troublemaker and there’s no will or way as to why you’d stop now. You look between your lover and Din as a smile curls over your face. “I think…if he’s so interested—why not give him a show? After all, he did bring me home—he deserves some reimbursement for the trouble.”

Boba’s shoulders jolt with a chuckle. “How chivalrous.” You shiver as he strokes the back of his finger down your cheek. “Fine, as you wish, little one—go play.” 

Giddy excitement bubbles through your chest as Boba offers Din to take a seat on the edge of the dais. Din still has an option to escape, to slip through the cracks and pretend this never happened—but stars, you hope he stays. Din takes a step forward, then another—and another until he’s standing before the throne. He studies the raised edge and gingerly takes a seat. 

You abandon your bowl of cherries onto the forearm of the throne and slip off Boba’s lap. You drift over to Din, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as they rest over his thigh plating. He’s purposefully avoiding your eye as you kneel beside him—still locked onto that niggling fear that this could be some sort of trick or test in resolve.      

Smiling sweetly, you skate your hand over his knuckles—guiding his large palm to your waist and then under and up your loose shirt and bra. Din mutters a curse as you place his palm over your breast. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Pleased with his reaction, you peel off your shirt and bra, breath hitching as Din pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “Same—I think…”

With a bit more bravery backing his movements, Din pulls away briefly, shucks off his gloves and encompasses both your breasts. They’re warm and calloused, riddled with silvery scars that stand out against his brown skin, a storybook of past battles—won and lost—all equally important to the fibers of his being that stitch him together into a whole. His hand whispers down the length of your ribcage, no doubt feeling the thrum of your heart beating wildly against the cartilage and bone. It tickles over the swell of your hips then—        

“You said you wanted to give him a show,” Boba drawls behind you, a sharp twinge of hostility lacing his words. “So enjoy the show, Mand’alor, ’nd keep your hands to yourself."

Din recoils at the verbal reprimand and drops his hands speedier than a flash of lightning. You frown and throw a glare over your shoulder. Bastard. Boba quirks a brow and runs his thumb over his lip, the edged sparkle in his dark eyes taunting you into challenging him. You huff and turn a cold shoulder. 

“Sorry, Din,” you purr, scrounging up any and all back up plans to keep you both entertained. “Seems my king isn’t as generous I thought.”

Din withers a bit at the catty remark, keeping his lips sealed tight as Boba growls your name in warning. You don’t pay him any mind. 

You puff up your cheeks and release the air in a steady stream, as your eyes scrape over Din’s armored thigh. Ok—you can work with that. It wouldn’t be breaking any rules…not technically. You step away, paw at your waistband and let the breezy fabric pool over around your ankles, your underwear quickly joining the pile. 

Now bare, you return to Din’s side, his careful inhale distorted into choppy static as you straddle his thigh. He lifts both hands, intending to grab at your waist, but pauses midair. No touching. You lips tilt with a smirk as he clenches his fists and pins his hands to the cool stone instead, an attempt to curb that urge to reach for you. His shoulders knit together when you mold your hand in the gap between his shoulder pauldron and cuirass to give yourself some sort of balance—obviously not used to a soft touch.  

You lower yourself and hiss through clenched teeth. It’s fucking freezing. Goosebumps rush up each limb as the wet warmth of your cunt meets the frigid beskar—the chill much colder than you initially expected. It’s one thing to touch the beskar with an open palm and another thing entirely to feel against such an intimate part of yourself. Din’s visor drops to look between your legs as you give your hips an experimental roll. 

It’s different. You’re used to hardened muscle and fabric, or your own fingers while pleasuring yourself. Your breath hitches as Din’s thigh twitches, the smelted seam of the cuisse bumping against your throbbing clit. 

“Sorry,” Din mumbles, “Didn’t mean—“

“It’s ok,” you smile, rocking your hips to ease into the sensation. “Just surprised me.”

The pace you set is slow, careful not to overwork your nerves as your arousal blooms and metastasizes like simmering coals low in your groin. With each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh, the beskar begins to warm to the temperature of your skin—the wetness between your thighs abating the friction and making the surface slippery. A low gasp escapes you once you find the right ridge and angle that just grinds perfectly against your aching clit. Your fingers dig into the cowl of Din’s cloak. 

“Shit—feels good.” Like your voice and little moans jumpstart Din’s ability to move, his large hand drifts to the front of his trousers—an already sizable bulge tenting the dark brown fabric. You squeak as Din's leg jolts for a second time, a burst of dizzying ecstasy wracking up your spine with the choppy movement. 

You suck in another raspy breath as your attention drops to his hand that cups his cock and palms himself through his trousers. You chew your bottom lip and clench your fist gripping his cowl, still gyrating your hips over the beska as Din hooks his thumb into his waistband and pulls them down, slow as molasses. 

Fucking hell—he’s bigger than you initially imagined. Flushed a rosy brown, and half hard already, twitching as Din wraps his fingers around the thick length. Din lifts his head, gauging your interest or disapproval—but kriff—who the fuck would ever be unhappy with that sorta heat he’s packing? You bite your bottom lip, scouring your brain for ideas to convince Boba into letting you taste Din—but your plotting is abruptly cut short. 

Boba sits up and off the throne, his presence looming over your shoulder as he lowers to one knee. You shiver and arch your neck, exposing more of your vulnerable throat as Boba runs the fingertip of his pointer finger down the side of your cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, princess?”  

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as Boba opens his palm and cradles your jaw. You groan and roll your head back onto your shoulders as Boba snakes one hand around your hip and jolts you forward and down—disrupting the slow rock with a catastrophic interference. Unrefined bolts of plasma shoot up your spine as desire licks up thighs—you need more. 

Boba dips his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You grunt when his teeth sink into your flesh, worrying a bruise into your skin. Boba laves his tongue over the throbbing area, then licks a wet trail up to the shell of your ear, all the while you continue to grind on Din’s thigh. Boba nibbles your earlobe and whispers your name—the sound sweeter than any symphony could ever hope to make. Like smoke over deep water or the surging crackle of energy just before a thunderstorm high up in the mountains. 

“You’re allowed to touch…” he says with a rough chuckle. “Go on.”

Your noise of agreement is quickly muffled as Boba interrupts you with a feverish kiss—all open mouthed and breathless as his tongue curls around yours. Your chest heaves for precious air as Boba retreats just as abruptly as it began. With a satisfied smirk ghosting over his lips, he taps you below the chin and returns to his throne to continue observing.         

Dropping your eyes between Din’s legs, his cock, hardened to its full glory and held casually in his  calloused hand, is truly a sight. Your pulse thrums in your ears as Din rolls his wrist and pumps his length, the velvety skin shifting over what looks like fucking beskar underneath. It strains towards his navel as you watch with wide eyes, mesmerized with the way he touches himself. 

Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you touch your hand to his wrist.  Din shudders like your skin is made of sizzling embers that’s broken off the tail end of shooting star—like you’re something too luminous and dangerous to be handled by someone like him. You lift your gaze, smiling into that darkened void of the visor and gracing him with a toothy smile. “Will you let me touch you, Din?”

He nods and utters a breathy yes. 

Fuck yeah.    

Din sucks in a stuttered breath when your hand circles around his thick length. His hips jolt into your palm as you slide your fist to the base then all the way back up. Precum beads over the tip, dribbling down and coating your knuckles with sticky wetness. It eases some of that friction as you fall into an easy rhythm, matching your rocking hips with each pump of his cock. 

Din’s stuttered moans fill the small space between you, dragging you closer to your release that’s suddenly so close. He whines as you abandon his length to chase after your high, your arousal leaking from your center and dripping down the sides of the beskar. Din takes his cock into his hands, fisting himself to your little show of breathy wines and rough jerking of your hips over his thigh. 

Din says your name attached with a broken moan and it’s over—    

Everything seizes up tighter than a jaw clamp as your tumble off that jagged peak of searing, white hot pleasure. It’s raw, sparking off like a blade to metal, burning you from the inside out as you cum. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It feels like he did. Maker—the cool beskar against your throbbing clit is like you’ve been thrown to the mercies of an electrical surge. 

It doesn’t help either that Din is still pumping his length, hips stuttering as he brings himself to his own euphoric high. The air in your lungs seizes when a fragile groan, light and airy passes through the vocoder. Din rocks his hips into his fist, once—twice and then he’s throbbing and cumming into his hand. Hot ropes of his release splatter up his chest plate and parts of your thighs, his helmet nearly knocking into you as he hunches foreword from the intensity of it.     

Too exhausted to keep yourself upright, you smash your cheek against his cuirass, involuntarily twitching as the last little waves of pleasure prickle through the rest of your nerves. You whine as you watch Din move his hand to collect some of your wetness coating his thigh. He brings two fingers stained with your slick to the lip of his helmet, pushes it up with his thumb just far enough to sink the two digits into his mouth. He groans out a quiet fuck, and repeats the action, swiping his fingers through the mess you’ve made and feeding it to himself. Your cunt clenches as you catch a sliver of his pink tongue that twists between his thick fingers.   

He groans and rolls his head back onto his shoulders. “Please—can I taste you? Fuck—I-I need my mouth on you.” 

Stars—the mere idea of it stokes the dwindling flames into a blaze of want. You look up at Boba and puff out your bottom lip. Pouting and begging hardly ever gets you what you want under normal circumstances—Boba Fett is more stubborn than a rancor—but you hope just this once he’ll be lenient.   

Boba holds out his gloved hand—summoning you to his lap without a lick of protest on your end. Din however makes a sound akin to a whimper when you leave him. Boba gathers you in his arms for the second time, the leather a strange sensation as it spiders down your ribcage and around your hips. You can feel his hardness poking into your backside once you settle against him—his chest plate a cold shock to your naked flesh. You shiver and bury your nose into the crook of his neck, poking your tongue out to taste him. Boba’s cock twitches under you as your teeth sink into him with a cheeky nip.   

“Is that what you want, little one?” Boba rumbles in question. His right hand glides lower, grabbing a handful of your thigh and squeezing. You groan and keen out a whine of affirmation. 

Boba cocks his head towards Din. “Well? You’ve got your wish—don’t keep her waiting.” 

Din shakily stands—hesitating with removing his helmet for enough time that you notice the silence that follows. The vocoder crackles as Din sighs. “Do you trust her?”

“With my life.” Boba states it without a second thought. Your heart twists, golden light spilling from  your lungs and staining your insides with devotion and fuzzy affection. You press a soft kiss over Boba’s jaw.   

“Is she…” Din speaks a word in Mando’a you have no hope to decipher—either no direct translation or he’s purposefully left you in the dark. 

Based on the way Boba almost imperceptibly tenses, you guess the latter. Boba responds with a grunt and an unsure dip of the chin. The answer is complicated—that much you can gather…you push it to the back of you brain for now. 

Din nods, inhales, and steels his nerves. Plastering his hands around the shiny helmet, he tugs it off with a slow reveal of dark, patchy facial, plush lips and wavy brown hair that falls around his olive skin. And oh, his eyes—soft chestnut brown eyes that hold such ache within them—lost things, broken bones, wearing his wounds like decoration upon his chest. Forged in the flames of war, risen from the ashes with murder and mercy rolled into one.      

You wish him a kinder future. One that doesn’t end with pain and a blaze of an unchecked wildfire—the same way how all heroes end up as martyrs.  

Though—right now—you can be the beginning of softer things for Din. You smile and invite him closer, a vortex of anxiety peppered with arousal as his eyes flit over your naked body. He sets his helmet to the side with care and drifts to the foot of the throne—fuck, he’s broad. Why hadn’t you noticed that before?   

Your mental berating is severed when cool air meets the wet heat of your cunt as Boba hooks your thighs over his knees, spreading you wide as far as your hips allow. Din’s unfiltered moan at the sigh of you, sends a volt of electricity through every vein. Din lowers himself to one knee, and then the other, shuffling between yours and Boba’s legs. 

“Can I touch?” He asks, soft brows raising in question. 

Boba lazily raises two fingers in a motion of permission. Your chest tightens at the sight of Din’s boyish grin—warm palms settling over the sharp bend of your knees. His thumbs trace soothing circles over the skin and right as Din decides to swoop down, Boba catches him by the hair atop his head and yanks. Din grunts—the long, arched line of his neck a tempting sight as he swallows. “No marks.” Din’s jaw clenches, but nonetheless, he agrees to Boba’s command. 

Boba hums in satisfaction and untangles his fingers from the mess of Din’s soft curls. Din’s brows pinch together for half a tick but smooth out in the next breath. No use being irritated—especially right now.   

As directed, Din leaves not a scratch. Instead he scrapes the blunt edges of his teeth along the insides of your thighs, threatening to catch soft flesh between them—but he knows better than to act on the urge. He laves his warm tongue over each freckle or blemish he finds, leaving no patch of skin undiscovered as licks a steady trail to his prize. Din mouths a warm kiss over the crease of your thigh, and smooths his calloused hands over your hips, settling for a moment to trace little circles with his thumbs onto the soft protrusion of bone there. Seemingly satisfied, he then shifts them closer to your aching cunt. His hot breath fans over your cunt as he uses his thumbs to glide through your folds, almost curious with his exploration. He makes a little hum of appreciation low in his throat when the pads of his thumbs part your soaking folds.    

You whimper and bury your face into the crook of Boba’s neck, his warm palms a much needed comfort as they tickle down your ribcage, then sweep back up to cup your tits. You cry and arch— Din’s tongue is scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up to your clit. Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through your abdomen. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—kriff. 

Fuck, you need more.   

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are transfigured and molded into a vicious loop—beginning with those adoring brown eyes, the color of freshly tilled earth and the warmth of sunlight over dappled aspen leaves in the balmy summer afternoons. It ends with soft lips—rose petal pink with devotion crystallizing in his mouth like sugar—madness and uncertainty and lovesick desire is all that he is and you’re not sure if you’ll come out of this unscathed.    

He sinks two deliciously thick fingers into your clenching hole and curls them, only to retract them a moment later to shovel more of your wetness onto his tongue—as if simply using his mouth wasn’t enough for him. Like he needs to savor every drop of your arousal like the golden ambrosia the gods feast upon in their palaces of cloud and endless twilight. 

That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade away like a hand through fog—but you’re going nowhere. You’d stay here, suspended in time forever if the choice were up to you. 

You whine and arch off Boba’s chest plate as Din strokes and curls his fingertips, plucking little gasps and moans from you easier than breathing. He zeros in on that little spot that makes your leg go all jittery and forces out high pitched mewls that echo through the throne room. You’re careening towards another high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure. 

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

Your release zips through your body like a flash flood—quick and fatal that leaves you gasping for air and struggling not to let your head dip below the waves. Your high seeps into each limb until they feel heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to work through the muddled thought and remember where exactly you are. You groan and toss your head back as Din keeps going.    

“Another one—let me—“ He moans, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go so he can devour more of you. You can feel the mixture of saliva and your own arousal dripping down your cunt and over your thighs, some of it pooling on the throne or onto the floor. Your thighs shake as Din pushes you towards another high.        

You squeak as Boba’s palm sweeps up your sternum, locking his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. The tip of his nose nuzzles into your cheek—silently demanding a well earned kiss as his hips rock into your ass, grinding his cock for the barest scrap of friction. You moan into his mouth as Din doubles his efforts, raw and bordering that serrated edge of overstimulation and ecstasy.  

Goosebumps rush over your arm as Boba places his lips right beside the shell of your ear. You feel the sticky heat of his breath fan over your throat and shoulder, and the way his lips skim your ear when they move to form the syllables of his words. “Such a filthy princess…”

You clench around Din’s fingers and moan a half garbled, “Boba—“ 

His weathered palm encompasses the entirety of your breast, rolling your pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “If only you could see yourself…dripping all over my throne and another man’s tongue.” Boba clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Depraved creature—cum for your rightful king.” 

Wildfire chars your insides as it begins in your core and sweeps through your body. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you buck and squirm in their arms—no mercy as the prickly waves of your orgasm make you hypersensitive to each touch. Even the hold on your hip, while innocent in nature, is blistering as if you suffered from a fever. You shudder as a salty tear rolls down your cheek. Boba catches it with his tongue as your ears pick up Din’s raspy praise—thanking you while spattering reverent kisses up your thighs. 

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you do spot the apparent wetness soaking through the front of Din’s trousers. Fuck—he—he came again while eating you out. You whimper and rest the back of your head over Boba’s shoulder.  

Your belly flinches under his scratchy facial hair as Din travels up, seizing and worshiping every inch he’s freely given before intercepted. He catches your nipple between your teeth, tugs a bit then moves to the other, lavishing equal attention with adoring lips and sweet whispers. When he reaches your collarbone, you’re boxed in against his chest plate and Boba’s. A blush blooms under your cheeks hotter than stare fire as Din gingerly sucks your earlobe into his mouth and breathes out a muted moan of your name—committing the very essence of you to his memory for the rest of his days. 

Your heart squeezes tight like a clenched fist when he mumbles another thank you. Plucking up a smidge of courage, he risks planting a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. You blink—despite the sweetness of the gesture you wince as Boba snarls a curt phrase in Mando’a. Din peels himself away with a minuscule frown and slinks away.          

Yet before you have the chance to remedy the situation of wounded pride and territorial jealousy—Boba tightens his hold on your hips and flips you both, so that now your back is smashed against the seat of the throne, a bit crumpled and sorta folded in half. Your hips hang off the edge as Boba holds the majority of your weight, grinding his clothed cock between the apex of your thighs. 

“Don’t forget, princess—” Boba barks, slithering a hand up the column of your throat. You breath hitches as he lightly presses his palm down. “—what belongs to me.”

Reaching between you, he slides his gloved fingers through your slick folds and sinks two of them inside of your clenching center. You jolt as his thumb scrubs over your clit, still sensitive and edging towards too much. 

“You want me to fuck you here?” He asks, shifting his hold to grip your jaw instead—the rounds of his fingertips digging firmly into the flesh and bone. “Say it.”      

You gasp and scrabble weakly at Boba’s shoulders as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. “Please, Boba! Please fuck me—I need it.” 

Boba folds over you, his breath fanning hot and hungry against your cheek. He devours your mouth with a discordant edge, like he’s trying to prove to the entire galaxy you are unmistakably his despite the fact you’re already wound so tightly around his fingers. Boba wrenches himself free and tears at his robe and trousers to free his thick length, leaking and flushed a rosy brown at the tip. He doesn’t keep either of you waiting as he removes his fingers and replaces them with something bigger.       

You both groan as he lines himself up with your entrance and sinks into you, a delicious stretch that leaves you shivering beneath him. “Fuck—so wet for me.”

The first roll of his hips makes an obscene noise that showers shame down your throat, but it’s quickly kicked to the back of your brain as he slams back into your cunt—obliterating all thoughts save for him. Boba’s lip curls over his teeth as he claws at your thighs and yanks them over his shoulder, crushing you even further between the throne and the weight of his body. Each stroke is a liquid fire, tearing you apart at the seems while at the same time stitching you back together and leaving your body begging for more. Like this, it’s as if he’s reaching the deepest part of you, pounding into your cunt and hitting every nerve with deadly precision. Your legs prickle with the stretch as you squirm beneath him, stuck with the brunt of rough thrusts and violent stamina with nowhere to go.   

“Bein’ such a good girl for me." He hums into the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulders. He sucks a mark there and tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of you neck, forcing you into a steeper arch. “Maker, you look so fuckin’ pretty stretched around my cock.”

Your walls clench tight around him as you dig your nails into the fabric of his cowl. You voice cracks with airy moans—attempting to work through the haze of lust and respond. All that tumbles from your lips is a pathetic whine of his name—so close to that precipice again.    

The friction of each thrust scraping against your clit, the way he fills you and the possessive hand curled over your throat. You wiggle an arm between your bodies and rub the little bundle of nerves in a frenzied half-circle. You wheeze as Boba increases the pressure over your throat. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands as devastating ripples begin to spark through your core, a live wire an inch away from a puddle of water. “Tell me—“

“You! It’s you—“ You sob, desperate for another release only he can give. “I’m yours—“

Boba snickers and gives your throat another squeeze. “Cum on my cock.” 

There we go. 

You seize and cry out, violent shivers forcing your back to arch high off the throne and into his chest plate. It tears through your being, quick and deadly through your core, spreading to every nerve and shredding through it with molten pleasure. Boba’s voice is a gravelly scrape that vibrates next to your ear, sprinting towards his own deserved euphoria. Your climax still boiling through your blood, is dragged out as Boba continues thrusting—an endless echo that leaves you incredibly oversensitive sore. For the next few moments, his thrusts are too sharp, the grip he has on you too abrasive—but then he’s cumming too. A couple more rough jabs and then he’s seating himself deep inside your cunt, his warm release coating your insides with thick ropes. 

You’re panting breaths fill the air between you, settling like fresh snow over a silent wood. By the time Boba pulls out, leaving behind a sticky trail of his cum and your arousal over the throne, you’re toeing the line of hazy unconsciousness. 

“Such a good girl,” Boba praises, threading fingers through hair and tracing the lines of your face. The the soft drone of his voice mixed with Din’s gentle baritone, murmuring something you don’t catch, casts a dreamy haze over your reality. You’re not afraid that this could back fire and blow up in your face—to move inches from two serrated blades, each seeking for a taste of blood and flesh, is always a risk. But yet, the calloused hands and the sweetness of brown eyes reach through chaos and silence to offer you salvation. You take it with a smile. 

You should invite Din over more often…you think, as you slip into content sleep. 

taglist: @goldafterglow @djxrxn @velvetmel0n @steeeeeeeviebb   @stargazingcarol @ohiobluetip @anxiety-riddled-mando @absurdthirst @thesoftdumbass @huliabitch @max--phillips @silverfish-kingdom @krissology @teaofpeaches @pettyprocrastination @nelba @beskars @jango-fettish @corrupt-fvcker @maybege @auty-ren @legally-a-bastard @bigdickdindjarin @thesparkleslugs @cryptid-candy @mandowhorian @pascaliprincess @mitchi-c @vesperstalksclones @cmakars @cptnbvcks @whewchiles @leias-left-hair-bun @astrochellie @angryares @rise-my-angel @stardust-galaxies @phoenixhalliwell @samhollandssweaters @blue-writes-a03 @hdlynnslibrary @darthadeline @calamity-queen @luxurybeskar @justanotherblonde23 @book-hoardingdragon @fahrenheit-not @princessxkenobi @skdubbs @ben-is-a-hoe @3strogen @chasingdreamer @weebblossom @bobaandthefetts​

sorry if I missed you AH!!!!

[deaddovecoterie]

butterflies

marinette dupain cheng x adrien agreste || ladybug x chat noir

fandom: miraculous ladybug

rating: T (maybe R to be safe for next chp? ahaha jk jk,,, unless?,,,) 

word count: 1.8k

genre: angst. just pure angst. maybe fluff if you squint real hard

warning(s): swearing, vaguely unedited, blood mention

a/n: heyyyy :DD im back on my writing bullshit with my favourite personnnn (guess who) @whoseblogsthis cause me and this talented mf co-wrote this :’) ky i just wanna know what it feels like to carry every ff we write together on your back because of my linguistic incompetence. anyway this is my first mlb fic so i hope yall like it i guess !!

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“...Bystanders have not been hurt, although Paris’ superheroes have not made an appearance yet…”

There was unrest among the students of Francoise Dupont High School as Adrien listened to his friends talk quietly amongst one another. Thunder rumbled in the distance as heavy, chilling rain poured down from the skies. There was a gloomy eeriness that clung to the air, a quiet that made the high schoolers feel like they were just waiting for something to shatter the silence. Grey clouds were collecting, casting the city in shadow-like darkness. 

Another Akuma attack had been reported yet again. The Parisian superheroes were more than glad to help out, but it was obvious they were tiring: their moves became sloppier, their conversations shorter, and their patience thinner. 

Adrien listened to the chatter exchanged between Alya and Nino, while Marinette remained quiet. She looked tired, which really wasn’t that uncommon, but her fatigue seemed to spill into all of her activities. She had less “pep in her step,” as Alya had said, and her eyes weren’t nearly as bright as they used to be. Not that he meant to pay attention to such things, of course, but it was hard to not notice. Even Chloe, who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but herself, had laid off on the harassment. Adrien chalked up his attentiveness to Marinette as nothing more than being a good, concerned friend, but as of late that excuse was becoming harder to sell, even to himself.

It started about four months ago when they came back from summer break. Everyone had gone back to school and while Adrien was physically there, he was mentally absent. Kagami had just gone abroad for school again after they’d broken things off. He would have liked to say it was a mutual breakup, but she was the one who brought it up. Kagami was wise beyond her years so when she told him that his heart wasn’t in the relationship, he knew she was right. He expected his first heartbreak to be gut-wrenching, but it wasn’t. He felt sad, sure, but not in the way that leaves you paralyzed in bed for weeks on end. At the time, he wondered why that was, but the answer was obvious: Marinette. 

When he got to school, it was almost as if she could see the gloomy cloud over his head. She was there for him when no one else seemed to notice, her stuttering and fumbling hardly present in their conversation. In the beginning, he felt almost guilty for confiding in her. It would’ve been ignorant of him to believe she didn’t have problems of her own (who didn’t?), but it was a fact known by many that Marinette Dupain-Chang was one to do whatever she could to help the people she cared for. 

It was then that he noticed it: the butterflies. It was like a tsunami of anxiety, excitement, and shyness all rolled into one whenever she did anything: the way her hair moved in the breeze, her clear laugh that dared him to smile, but most of all, her kindness. Marinette was one of those people that you couldn’t hate. She was that person who helped others even when no one was looking. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help himself when he started falling for her every move. 

She didn’t know, probably never would, but she had him whipped. 

The blonde was snapped back into reality when his best friend nudged him: “You coming?” Nino’s brow arched in question.

He looked across the street, where his bodyguard was waiting for him, standing by the driver’s side door of the sleek black Audi. Though it’s been the same car since Adrien was like thirteen, it still looked brand new. 

“I forgot my homework,” he said to Nino, calling out to his bodyguard to repeat the same thing. With a barely discernible nod of approval from the bodyguard, Adrien turned back toward the school doors.

Adrien grumbled as he jogged away from his friend group: “Well, Nadia, Paris’ superheroes happen to have vaguely normal lives too if you weren’t aware.”

Plagg floated up from Adrien’s pant pocket and did circles around his owner’s head. “You put too much faith in humans, they don’t think about that kinda stuff. To them, you and Ladybug are untouchable.”

“Yeah, well we’re not,” he mumbled frustratedly. He pressed his palms into his eyes tiredly and took a deep breath before dropping his arms back down to his sides. 

“Plagg claws out,” he muttered. 

Plagg liked to think he knew his miraculous holder quite well. Despite the kwami’s demeanour and seeming distaste toward anything non-cheese related, he did have feelings. Yes, he loved cheese, but he also loved Adrien. He had spent the last two years with Adrien, and he knew something was terribly wrong with his owner. 

He’d ask later. The cat-like kwami entered the ring miraculous, and with that, Adrien Agreste was gone, replaced by Chat Noir. 

The leather-clad hero headed toward the disaster zone, the rain not doing anything to help his vision. He landed on a rooftop near the Akuma attack and swiftly surveyed the scene. Upon not seeing Ladybug anywhere, Chat Noir sent a quick message to Ladybug, highlighting the damage, before swooping in to hold off the Akuma.

xXx

To put it simply, Marinette was struggling. It had been the fifth Akuma attack that week and after two years of being Ladybug, her excuses were becoming weaker and weaker as time went on. Adrien’s abrupt exit was odd, but she didn’t have time to think about it as she felt the ground shake slightly. It didn’t matter how exhausted she was, she couldn’t put off her duties any longer. 

“I uhm, I forgot I had a question for Miss Bustier. I’m going to go see if she’s still around and I’ll uh just stay here until Ladybug and Chat Noir get everything taken care of!” she flashed her friends a thumbs up and with that, she ran back inside the school, toward the locker room. She opened her tiny purse in order for Tikki to emerge. “This is bullshit,” she muttered to herself. 

Tikki gasped in shock. “Marinette!”

“Sorry,” she mumbled half-heartedly, “You wouldn’t happen to care if I maybe just happened to not show up and let Chat handle it?” 

The glare that the small kwami sent her way told her otherwise. “Something about this one tells me that you’ll need all the help you can get,” she told her owner. 

Her stomach twisted with anxiety, both confusion and shock washing over her face. Tikki had never talked about the dangers of an Akuma before, which alarmed Marinette. Shit.

“Tikki, spots on.” 

Ladybug swung with all her might as her trusty yoyo grabbed onto buildings and chimneys, the sounds of destruction nearing. A black blur, undoubtedly Chat, streaked the cloudy, grey sky as an akumatized villain screeched out. Her eyes skimmed over the cobblestone streets in front of her, but nothing could prepare her for the screams of terror and bloodied civilians that scattered the scene below. 

Her feet had only touched down on the ground for a second when she heard him. 

“Nice of you to drop in,” Chat purred, startling her. “You’re late,” he added, his voice icier than expected. 

“Cry about it,” Ladybug responded coldly. 

“Meowch m’lady,” he said in mock hurt. 

“Sorry,” she muttered to her partner as she took him in. His blonde silky hair was plastered to his head from the pouring rain, the droplets permeating the black leather. If the suit wasn’t skin-tight before, it certainly was now. She had to tear her eyes away from the sight of him, her sensibility screaming at her to focus while her eyes wanted nothing more than to drink in every inch of him.

Literally what the fuck, she said to herself. Now was no time to pine for her partner. 

The Akuma that stood before her was physically underwhelming in stature, but her clothing made up for it. The girl in front of them held herself at around 5’3 and couldn’t be more than 18, but her wicked smirk sent a chill through her spine. The girl was clad in an array of green from forest, sage, to mossy shades, the dress that adorned her body looking like that straight from greek mythology. It was made up of grand silks, almost entrancing Ladybug and Chat with the way that the fabric moved like rippling water. It was ethereal, really, but the closer she looked at it the deadlier it became. 

From around the waist and shoulders, long strips of silk floated behind her like the snakes on the head of Medusa. They almost seemed to bend to her will, the fabric defying gravity. Not only were pieces of the dress floating, but so was her long dark hair. In her hand was a staff made from tree trunk like material. Resting atop her head was an obsidian black crown with spikes the length of Ladybug’s hand. 

After looking around at the already distraught state of the street, their evaluation was over: she was not going to be another walk in the park.

“Shit,” Chat breathed out. It was at that moment that the villain opened her mouth to address both the heroes and bystanders. 

“Citizens of Paris, I am Gi Mágissa. I am not here to compromise with your heroes. Others in the past have failed to retrieve what Hawk Moth desires, but I will not: today will be the day that you remember as the fall of Ladybug and Chat Noir.” Her voice resonated as if it was echoing off the walls. She shifted her gaze to the left, her eyes locking with the two of them. 

“Give me your miraculous and I may decide to spare you and your city,” she said in a dangerously low voice. Her voice was smooth, yet it cut right through the two partners like a freezing wind in the dead of winter. Under any other circumstances, her words would be humorous, cheesy even, but this was not like anything else they faced.

Chat laughed as his trademarked smirk appeared. “Funny, because I don’t remember agreeing to that,” he said in mock thoughtfulness, almost like he was trying to recall a memory.

“Chat,” Ladybug hissed, “I’m starting to get the feeling that you won’t be able to joke your way out of this one,”

“C’mon m’lady, live a little.” 

“Yeah, well I might not be alive to do so if you keep being an idiot.” Ladybug could feel the frustration rising in her as Chat continued to appear so casual and relaxed. How could he not sense that this was so much worse than before?

Chat turned to her and she could finally see his eyes. Despite his outward appearance, she saw the nervousness in his gaze. There was almost a buzz in the air, a metallic smell that made them wrinkle their noses: blood, iron maybe. 

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.” 

[graunenskaix]

The Ring || Murphy Heacanon

For Verse 5

Okay soooo this is going to be a long one. I want to write a self para of what I -NOTE ME SPECIFICALLY- imagine Murphy went through up on The Ring. We know he went into a coma, that he broke Emori’s heart, and kept to himself away from the gang. So I’m just trying to piece together things for myself and my partners. I have tried to touch on his relationship with each of the characters up there for plotting purposes. Hense the length, but I threw a read more in there for yall. 

                                                - 3 weeks in -

Starving. It was the only word that Murphy could think of to describe how they were all feeling right about now. Monty, Harper and Raven had taken to trying to solve the algae culture issue. And Echo had been teaching the rest of them some Grounder meditation techniques that her people had used in the mountains to sustain themselves... or something like that, he wasn’t really listening on the first class.  Instead his mind was roaming the Ark in a light he had not seen it in. He used to hate this place, he still did. His rumbling stomached echoed that notion. 

He’d begun exploring in the few hours he could muster the energy each day. Emori has often helping Raven or learning from her, and he found their friendship kind of heartwarming. Like maybe his introducing them might help soothe the hurt he’d caused Raven. One day he came into the common room and everyone was already seated.       “Well this looks ... ominous.” He says half joking, though anxiety begun to spread through him like a wild fire. Why did he feel his fight of flight instincts kicking in.      “No luck on the Farm?” He asks Monty with none of his usual snark, he was trying to be genuine in case something really was brewing.  “Actually, it’s going really well.” Raven said with a nod for him to come and sit with them.         “Okay, so why is everyone looking like someone died?” He asks feeling the flames of anxiety rage     “Because they might.” Emori says, almost snapping. “They want you to try the newest culture John.”  Her tone told him she wasn’t fully on board, but there wasn’t exactly the same level of protest he’d put up in Becca’s Lab for her. 

John didn’t really need to hear anything else that was going to be said. They’d all talked about it without him. Made up their minds that he would be the best fit for a lab rat.     “I mean I know we joke about how hard I am to kill, but this is low.” He says to the group he had lived up here once with. Not as their friend, but he’d thought that maybe now...    “Everyone around here has been doing things to help get us set up for the next five years.” Bellamy decided to chime in now.  “You disappear for the whole day and we have no clue what you’re doing. Is it helpful?”        “Hey I come to the group meetings, I help when I’m asked. I’m exploring the ship. Seeing if I can find any food.” They all looked at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He could never do something nice for the sake of it right?       “Regardless, everyone here has jobs they’ve taken on and we can’t risk them getting... Sick” The King had spoken. That was his story and they would all stick to it. He knew there was no point in arguing. He took the bowl of Algae in the middle of the table and looked around at everyone.        “And you all wonder why I want to be alone.” He says, not physically able to bring himself to look at Emori. How could she let this happen? She placed her hand on his shoulder, as he begun to eat the rancid green soup. 

      “It tastes like shit.” He says bluntly, and Emori’s hand dropped. Well... so much for unconditional support.  “But it’s edible so thats-” He trailed off as he felt what he’d thought was his fear at first, but his throat was literally closing. He looked at Monty first and shook his head, but he knew this was probably going to be the end of him. His gripped his throat, and stood up, hoping it might allow more air to his lungs. The others moved around him and tried to tell him it was going to be okay, in amongst medical jargon he couldn’t hear over the thumping of his ears. And then everything went dark, the last thing he heard was the thud of his skull on the floor. 

                                              - 4 weeks in - He had been living through replayed, miserable, memories for the past few days. But before he could move he could hear. They were worried about him, but every now and then he heard glimpses of what he took to be the truth.   ‘if he doesn’t make it what do we do?’    ‘float the body, start over on the crops.’   ‘we can’t float him.’      ‘We should bury him when we get back down to the ground.’      ‘Do I need to explain how hard it would be to preserve a corpse for that long up here? The power it would take isn’t worth it.’    ‘but then what will we eat?’   And conversation would go back to the nonsensical jargon he couldn’t understand. But those moments that he could... they stuck with him. He didn’t know who was speaking, but his mind would replay the conversations testing different people with different speaking roles. Either way it was a miserable show to play out in his head on repeat. When he started coming to, Emori rushed to find Raven and Monty. Everyone fussed over him and checked his vitals, but physically they wouldn’t find any damage. It was mentally that he had been seriously wounded. 

                                              - 8 months in -

His socializing became less and less, and Emori grew tired of waiting for him to feel like doing anything fun... or anything at all for that matter. She left him and this only fueled his downward spiral. Bellamy started bringing food to Murphy once the farms were sewn, and Murphy eventually told Bellamy about the reason he decided living away from the rest of them was for the best.    “I know you feel phased out, or like you’re not one of us but you are”  Bellamy protested.        “Yeah until there’s another recipe for disaster, that you all need a test subject for. No thanks.” He had been trying and failing to push past the paranoia he’d been feeling. His lone wandering of the halls wasn’t helping his mind either. Memories were scattered in various rooms and views, Even with his supposed friends up here, Murphy felt more alone than ever, which was saying something after his stint in the bunker. 

                                                         - 1 year in - 

He still has made no effort to contact the other’s, though he does sometimes venture into the common area, to return his food trays. He would occasionally bump into the other’s there, but his life was devoted solely to going through every single room that he could find his way into. When returning his tray one day Echo approached him.   ‘Hey John, can we talk a moment?’          “Do we have to?” He replies sarcastically, to which she laughed. This caused a small smile of his own, but he swallowed it down pretty fast.    ‘Bellamy is really worried about you. So am I... I just want you to know, I didn’t like that they chose you. I Volunteered in your place but -”        “But your Bellamy’s girlfriend so that wasn’t an option.” He interjected. But from the look on her face he felt a pang of guilt, he’d wounded her. Echo had always been nice enough to him.          “I’m sorry.” He says genuinely, to which she nods in thanks.   ‘Just promise me you’re keeping your meditation up.’        “Sure thing.” He says, not confirming that he had, nor promising he would, but he had been is he was honest. She smiled and gave him another nod, waving as she backed away and headed off. He turned with a slight smile, a slight glimmer of hope that this wouldn’t be the worst four years of his life if he could speckle it with positive interactions like that. 

                                               - 2 years in -

Monty begun delivering food for a while, he promised there were no new recipes.       “So how’s Harper?” Murphy asked in one of the rare occasions that they bumped into one another.   ‘Are you asking because you care or because you want to try hitting on her again?’       “I was delirious are you really going to hold that against me?” He asks with a chuckle, Monty wasn’t laughing however, so he stopped.      “Okay look I’m sorry for what I said, I don’t exactly remember it so I can’t be more specific than that.”  He adds trying to be nice about it.    ‘Yeah well do us a favour and stay out here so we all know where to avoid.’ Monty says bitterly, but Murphy can tell he’s just trying to be assertive.       “Message received... though you’ve been bringing me food for a while now so you can’t hate me that much.” Murphy points out as he swallowed a large chunk of .. something that Monty had brought.    ‘Bellamy needed a rest from your attitude. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t want to give up on you. This was purely so he would take a break.’       “Then why hasn’t anyone different been doing it? Surely if you hated me as much as you’re saying, right now? You wouldn’t be the only one doing it.” Monty tried to remain cold, but Murphy could see he was at that point of giving up the ghost.    ‘Okay fine. I came to ask if you would come back. You aren’t the worst all the time. I lost Jasper to his own mind. I don’t want to loose you to yours.’  Okay that got to him.  His throat flexed closed for a moment, making him gag on his latest mouthful.       “Uh... Thanks.. Monty.” He says slowly trying to comprehend what the other was saying.       “But I ... “ He didn’t know what to say.  “I’m really sorry. About trying to kill him that time. He was a good dude in the end, and so are you. I’m not quite at the point where I wanna blow my brains out. But don’t be a stranger okay?” He finishes the sentence with a sincere smile. Monty didn’t smile however.   ‘Okay. Well that’s all I came to check on. See ya round.’   Maybe he didn’t know what to say either, but whatever it was Monty hurried off  with a wave behind him. 

                                                     - 3 years and 193 days in -

John hadn’t heard from Emori in a year, at least. Yet here she was, standing in the middle of his doorway with a look that told him he was in trouble.       “Well hi.” He says casually, though he rushed his brain to be sure he hadn’t upset her when they last parted.     ‘John we need to talk.’      “We’ve already had this talk what else do you have to say? You just wanna rip my heart out a little more?”  He went from zero to one hundred in a matter of seconds. It was like he was his old self again. Bitter to everyone and easy to set off.     ‘John I think I might have been pregnant. but I mean... space, so you know, it didn’t take. But I just thought I should tell you.’ She says it so casually but he hears nothing past ‘i was pregnant’.        “And what you’re just telling me this now? That would have to have been a year ago, unless -” His eyes and nostrils flare in anger as the concept forms in his head, but she interjects - ‘No I haven’t slept with anyone else don’t be ridiculous.’  The anger subsides but he is most definitely hurt. They all knew they couldn’t have children while they were up here. But he hadn’t realized pregnancy could even happen.          “I...don’t really know what I’m supposed to say. Why are you telling me this now?” He asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.    ‘Because I’m sad John. And I miss having you here to talk about things with. Why don’t you just come back already?’  She sounded pained saying it. He wanted more than anything than to bridge the gap between them right now. But he couldn’t feel his legs.        “I’m sorry.... I’ll come for dinners once a week or something. But I’m getting on fine out here on my own. I can think here... It was too crowded over there. Why don’t you just move closer to me if you miss me so much?” He was still bitter about the amount of times she had blown him off for something that came up with Raven or Monty.   ‘I think it’s best if you don’t, if I’m being honest.’ Her tone was so detached that it was like John’s heart was being torn in two all over again.      “Right... okay. Well thanks for coming to tell me the worst things I’ve heard in a few years. Here I was thinking this year couldn’t get any worse. Goes to show what I know I guess.” His tone matched her’s in coldness. He wasn’t going to let her in again any time soon.       “If that’s all, you can go.” He turns away from her so he doesn’t have to watch her leave like last time.     ‘I’m sorry John, really. I wish things could have been different... but you can’t or won’t change, and I can’t handle waiting for it any more.’ The entire sentence was painful and redundant at this point. He wanted her gone. He needed to be alone.       “So leave then.” He says growing irritated. Once she’d left he threw the cup he’d been focusing on, against the wall. He kicked his table over before falling down onto his bed. He gripped his hair and tugged some of it out as he muffled a scream. The darkness took over him for a year or so. He moved further out on the ring from everyone, only going in for food which he would take in bulk against Monty’s protests. Never more than he was supposed to have, but enough for a few weeks at a time. No one bothered him, no one tried bringing him back in. As far as he knew they were moving on without him. He would see them in another year or so when Raven had them ready to go home. And then he’d find somewhere in the valley to hold up on his own until something better came along. 

                                                     - 5 years and 42 days in -

Murphy was living back in his original room, waiting for the message that they were ready to go. He could hear the banging of metal and Ravens yells of frustration as she tried and tried again to get things set for their return trip. Bellamy had told him that she was facing problems, and there was going to be a bit of a delay. Murphy had requested that Bellamy send her to him that day, against Bellamy’s warnings that she wouldn’t like leaving her work, Murphy assured him she wouldn’t be long.     ‘I’m really not in the mood for your bullshit Murphy, what the hell do you want?’  He heard Raven before she’d even finished opening his door.       “Hey, calm down. Like I told Bellamy, I won’t take up too much of your precious time. I just wanted to know how you are, make sure you’re not gonna fry your brain trying to get us home because you feel you owe it to us.”    ‘I do. I said I could get us back down to the ground. And you’re taking up time I could be spending figuring this out, so get to the real point. Fast.’ she interrupted him folding her arms and looking at him with her trademark glare. He stood there for a moment as if those words were sinking in, then her pursed his lips and swallowed.       “Right so I can’t care about anyone right?” He asks genuinely looking a little wounded. She just continued to glare before spitting ‘no you definitely care about yourself... but that’s about it.’        “Fine.” He says feeling wounded, “I found a bunch of things around the ring, they’re in the box, maybe something might be useful. Help yourself.” He adds, that wounded feeling turning into anger. Why did no one think he could do anything or care about anyone but himself. He’d cared about Raven, Emori, Bellamy... he’d felt like he and Monty had bonded when they were getting the rocket fuel. But anytime he felt he’d made progress, one of them would snatch that progress away from him and then wonder why he wasn’t “making and effort”.  Raven stood and looked through the box, she took a few things and examined them.    ‘Well at least this visit wasn’t entirely pointless.’ She says taking the things she’d picked up and heading for the door. She paused and looked back at him, maybe sensing she’d been hard on him.    ‘Thanks, Murphy.’ she says giving him a nod before leaving. It’s not as though he’d expected her to welcome his visit with open arms, he knew how she preferred to deal with him. But still, they hadn’t seen each other in years, he thought maybe her aversion to him might have eased. Apparently not. He gave her a nod and went back to reading and waiting. She would get him when they were ready. He was in no rush to be crammed into the rocket with everyone, so the longer it took her the better in his opinion. But that mood wouldn’t last long either. 

                                                            - 6 years in -

Things had fallen back into the same routine that the group had started with up here. Murphy kept to himself, occasionally Echo would come an train with him for a little while. Bellamy tried to encourage his learning the moves whenever he visited, and every now and then Murphy would try to catch him off guard. This was one of those days.  He managed to get one up on Bellamy, sneaking behind him before charging him, jumping on his back. The other grunted and Murphy grinned,      “What’s wrong Bellamy? You wanted me to train right? It’s what I’m doing.” He teased in the other’s ear before being slammed against a steel door. He fell to the floor winded    ‘alright, but if I win, you come back to the crew.’  Bellamy offered, as per usual. John rolls his eyes and his head shakes itself,        “No deal.” Murphy says pushing himself back to his feet.  “Too many rules... and besides, there’s no one to disappoint around here.” He points out, looking at Bellamy incredulously, as if this should have been obvious.  Bellamy took a deep breath and was about to start in on a lecture, but he only got Murphy’s name out before a fist connected with his jaw. Murphy bounced on his heels a little and smirks to himself.   ‘Good punch.’ The other says to which Murphy nods and confirms,   “Oh yeah?” he continued to bounce on his feet while Bellamy rubbed his jaw.   ‘yeah, if you shifted your weight when you punch it might actually hurt... do you know what I think your problem is?’  It was a question Murphy had heard many times in his life, but not for a few years now, though that was for other reasons of course.     “Oh this should be good.” He says rolling his eyes.    ‘You like to be the hero, accept up here there are no heroes.’ He was circling Murphy now, and the younger male was trying to hear him out, but the next sentence had him loosing his temper:    ‘You’re afraid to become worthless again’ He hadn’t chosen to let that get under his skin, the punch Murphy threw was entirely involuntary but swift, it connected with a thud, but Bellamy blocked his next punch and shoved him against the glass, overlooking their Barron planet. While Bellamy continued on about how he didn’t think Murphy was worthless, John saw something approaching the ground. A ship, a ship that wasn’t theirs and wasn’t a part of the old Ark.       “Bellamy look.” He says, but his arm is twisted and Bellamy demands Murphy says he isn’t worthless. “I’m not kidding you look!” He reiterated, and this time the other clearly saw the ship, because his grip immediately loosened. The older straightened him up and looked him in the eye,   ‘let’s go.’ He insisted, gripping Murphy’s shoulder to look him in the eye and communicate silently that there was no arguing this time, Murphy was going to have to rejoin the crew.