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octuscle · 1 month

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Makeover

Mortimer not only had a shitty old-fashioned name, he was also simply shitty and old-fashioned. His clothes were actually often inherited from his father and grandfather. His speech was affected. And yet he was nothing but a small and insignificant clerk at the tax office. Totally career-minded. A pedant. A pain in the ass. Like his father. Like his grandfather.

But Mortimer was also a lickspittle and a pussyfoot. He never had the guts to provoke any kind of trouble with big taxpayers. Trouble only meant more work. But with small private individuals and small businesses, he loved to torment them when checking their tax returns. Especially those who didn't have a tax advisor had beads of sweat on their foreheads just holding his letter in their hands. And when they opened it and read it, they turned pale. Mortimer could almost jerk off at the thought. In fact, his little cock got hard at the thought.

The punks from the tattoo parlor were outstanding victims. The tax return was probably largely correct. But it was full of minor formal errors and implausibilities that could have been overlooked. But that was no fun for Mortimer. So he bombarded the owner of the studio with questions and requests to submit additional documents. As I said, the tax authorities would gain no further advantage from this. But Mortimer was able to exercise his little bit of power. But this time he would regret it. Bitterly regret it.

The conversation with his superior had been unpleasant. Pete, the owner of the tattoo studio, had made an official complaint. For arbitrariness, abuse of authority and a few other things. Probably one of the perverts who were his customers was a crooked lawyer, Mortimer thought. He didn't have much to fear from his boss. One crow didn't peck out another crow's eye. Nevertheless, he had been ordered to make a personal appearance at the tattoo parlor to clear up the loose ends. What a humiliation. He would get revenge for that too.

The studio smelled of tobacco smoke, leather, sweat, whiskey and disinfectant. A terrible combination that almost made Mortimer want to vomit. He went through the documents he had in front of him. No chance, everything was correct. Still, there had to be something. And quickly. It was Friday morning, he wanted to have his report written by 2 p.m. at the latest and leave for the weekend. The employees all looked like freaks. He asked Pete for all the employment contracts from the last 20 years. Pete looked at Mortimer… With piercing blue eyes. He took Mortimer's chin very firmly in his tattooed calloused hand, almost stroking Mortimer's face with the other. And then he moved his hand slowly towards his crotch. And then he gripped Mortimer's balls firmly. "Listen, you office boy! Everything is fine here. Got it?" The grip on his balls did not loosen. But his erection became painful. Mortimer nods. The grip loosened. Mortimer packed up his things. At the office, he would report the store to a friend from the health department. Pete had made a big mistake.

It was almost 11:30 when Mortimer arrived at the tax office. Lunchtime. People were running along the corridors and streaming towards the canteen. Mortimer actually wanted to eat straight away. But the call to the health department was more important. He had almost reached his office when his boss stood in his way. "So, all the problems with the tattoo artist sorted?" Mortimer was just about to answer when his boss laughed. "Mortimer, I wouldn't have put it past you. You and a piercing? Did you get that pierced to appease the taxman? Well, because it's Friday. But Monday without it again, please."

Mortimer turned pale. Yes, there had been something on his lower lip. He felt carefully. A cone protruded from his lower lip. One was through his nasal septum. And under the cone was something else under his lower lip. In a panic, Mortimer ran to the washrooms. He looked in the mirror. He looked like a freak! He no longer even noticed that he was unshaven. Mortimer reached for his cell phone and tried to call Pete's tattoo studio. Only an answering machine. Mortimer ran into his office and put on a face mask. He told colleagues who came by that he wasn't feeling well and wanted to protect them. They wished him a speedy recovery. But it didn't get any better. Mortimer nervously drummed his fingers on his desk and wondered what he should do. Then he noticed the tattoos on his knuckles. "Fuck" and "Yeah". In Gothic letters. Mortimer ran back to the washrooms. And threw up.

He didn't actually have to call in sick. He would have finished work in an hour anyway. But he had to get out of here. Immediately. He walked to the bus stop. It was a warm spring day. Nevertheless, Mortimer drove to Oxford Street first thing and bought a pair of gloves in the first store he saw. Should he go to the tattooist? But not now. The streets were full of people. And he looked like a freak. No, off home. And tomorrow at the crack of dawn to see that asshole Pete.

Something was different in his apartment. There was a half-full ashtray on the coffee table. And the fridge was full of beer. Surprisingly, this didn't strike Mortimer as odd at all. He took a beer, lit a cigarette and threw himself onto the sofa. What a terrible day. He began to cry with self-pity. And he fell asleep crying.

It was already dark outside when Mortimer woke up. The beer was warm and stale. But Mortimer finished it. The fag had fallen out of his hand as he fell asleep and had left another burn mark on the shabby old leather sofa. Mortimer burped. He was drunk and stoned. The piercings in his nipples felt good. Mortimer began to wank. He squirted on his Sex Pistol T-shirt. And fell asleep again.

The next morning, Mortimer woke up with an insane hangover. His apartment was a mess. Full ashtrays, empty beer cans, dirty clothes. What the hell had happened here? Mortimer collected the garbage while still half asleep and put the bin bags outside in the hallway. He had to pee. No, he had to piss. He went into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. He ran his tattooed hands through his greasy hair. He urgently needed to go to the hairdresser again. But first he had to piss and then take a shower. He pulled his 20-centimeter cock out of his no longer completely clean underpants. The scrotal ladder clacked as he did so. And the mighty Prince Albert shone in the light of the bathroom lamp. Mortimer felt dizzy.

Yes, the first thing he wanted to do was go and see Pete. But for some reason, his apartment was a mess. Mortimer took a shower first. He had to admit that the feeling of the piercings in his nipples, scrotum and cock was very sensual. But the steel had to come off. And he also had to do something about the tattoos. His fingers and the backs of his hands were covered in tattoos. He hadn't even seen his back and neck yet. When he felt clean again, Mortimer collected the dirty laundry. He made the beds fresh. He wanted to turn on the washing machine. But it was gone. Not just the washing machine, but the whole alcove. His bathroom was somehow smaller. And there was no washing machine or dryer. Mortimer stuffed the washing into an IKEA bag that he didn't know where it had come from. He collected the rest of the garbage. He washed the dirty dishes, because his dishwasher in his much smaller kitchen was also gone. It was almost 4 p.m. when it was finally clean and tidy again. Mortimer was satisfied. All he had been able to find in the way of clean laundry was a shiny red Adidas tracksuit, a pair of white Calvin Klein shorts, a white fine-rib undergarment, white socks and white sneakers. He looked silly. But it should be enough for a visit to the laundrette. He took the dirty laundry and the garbage bags and left the apartment.

The hallway smelled of cold tobacco smoke, beer and piss. The walls were covered in graffiti. From time to time, the roar of violent arguments could be heard from the apartments. Shit, this is a crazy dream, Mortimer thought to himself. This must be a crazy dream. The elevator was broken. So he walked the eight floors to the laundry room. Thank God there was a free machine. Mortimer took a laundry token out of his trouser pocket. He stuffed his dirty laundry into the machine. Damn it, he didn't have any detergent. A skinhead was sitting on one of the rickety plastic chairs under the no-smoking sign, reading a sports magazine and smoking. "Excuse me, could I borrow some washing powder from you?" Mortimer wanted to ask. But he said "Oi, sorry mate, could I nick some washing powder off ya? And a fag while you're at it?" The skinhead looked at Mortimer. He licked his lips. "Got yer tongue pierced too, you dirty pig?" Mortimer stuck out his tongue. And the skinhead took his cock out of his bleached jeans. "Then get on your knees and earn both!"

The skinhead only had a modest PA. Nevertheless, it was a pleasure for Mortimer to work his cheesy boner with his tongue. The skinhead steered his head into his curls with a firm grip. From time to time he pulled Mortimer's head far back into his neck and snotted in his face. Mortimer's cock built a tent in his pants. The skinhead squirted down his throat. Mortimer squirted into his pants. And the washing machine rumbled. ""Oi, cunt, fancy a proper haircut? Can't see any of them sick tattoos on your skull." Mortimer took a quick breath. What was happening here? He was standing in a full-weight tracksuit in the laundry room of a public housing complex, had just swallowed a skinhead's sperm and now wanted to get a haircut from the skinhead? Shit, how had he ended up in this situation? "I'm in 639, got beer and fags. Bring the rest, mate!"

The laundry didn't get really clean in the old washing machines. Mortimer threw everything onto his unmade bed. His apartment was a mess. But it was his home. And he was about to get a free haircut. Mortimer was rolling a cigarette when Liam knocked. He had brought the rest with him. The rest was a long hair clipper, a wet razor, shaving foam. And three buddies who couldn't wait to piss on the freshly shaved bald head.

Monday morning. Pete had asked Mo to take the missing documents to the tax office. Mo had actually worked at the tax office in the past. He knew his way around there. But he had been fired because Pete had allegedly bribed him to be gracious during the tax audit. In return, he had gotten some piercings and tattoos for free. But that was a hell of a long time ago. Now Mo was one of the most talented piercers in town. In the hottest studio in town. Actually, Mo could have afforded something better than the shabby place in the run-down high-rise complex a long time ago. But leaving his mates in the lurch? Not for the life of him!

Hot tf pic by @ki-kink

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #inked man #leather tf #skinhead tf #forced tf #revange tf #ai image

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wroteclassicaly · 1 year

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hope you had a good nap k <3 you did such a good job last time with eddie and steve painting reader's face and ruining her makeup. but tbh now i wanna ruin HIS makeup!! riding eddie's face and squirting all over him sounds like so much fun rn :(

OKAY, soooooo — this idea popped into my head almost immediately after I read your ask! I hope this is okay? It turned into something of my own weird muse, haha. We love dirty riding/messy time to ruin that boy, don’t we? All support for it in this household!

Summary: Eddie tries out a new look for a show. He wanted it to be intense, but that doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Warnings: Language, NSFW, oral sex, face riding, vaginal fingering, small p*ss kink (mentioned only), mirror play, handsy Eddie, hair pulling, and squirting.

A/N: This is unedited, so I’m sorry if it looks awful because of that. I wanted to get this out for the rest of y’all too, and I was inspired! The imagery I have of what I was picturing as Eddie’s look… fuuuuuck me 🤤

When your boyfriend of seven months stated that he had a surprise for you, what is currently standing in your eye-line is not the statement you’d expected. Corroded Coffin was playing a bar in Indianapolis tonight — their second gig there that actually accumulated a decent crowd. And Eddie had been right all along — a bigger, more Metropolitan city opened doorways to the metal scene, something a hick town in Indiana never could. He wanted to really fix up, make himself look as intense as possible. He’d been gone with Robin since early in the afternoon, only telling you he was getting his hair permed for the show and his nails painted.

It wasn’t unusual for him to get a manicure with Robin, the ladies in the salon used to Eddie and his eccentric fashions. Everyone heard about the metal scene, the punk fashion, but in Hawkins it wasn’t welcomed, especially after Eddie would leave the parlor and receive several stray insults from one hillbilly to the next. He didn’t mind it though, he got to wave his freshly done nails with a doubled down bird. His favorite wave.

You liked that he had formed a quick companionship with Robin, solidifying his place in the group (and your heart) not long after everything with Vecna.

You’re so completely lost in your thoughts, eyes glazed over with the haze of fascination and want, that you aren’t aware Eddie is stepping closer until you can smell his Old Spice and see what he meant in regards to stamping a statement on your conscious (and unconscious mind).

“Holy fuck…”

That stubble bitten mouth pulls away to reveal a milky white smirk. His chocolate eyes, dusted with a blood red layer of shadow, long lashes elongated by a mascara wand, and a charcoal wing swiping out carefully, sharply — widen comically, enhanced impossibly wider. A silver sword dangles from his ear — you note. He’d apparently remembered he’d had it pierced and decided to indulge. His fresh perm is soft and silky looking, the product still settled into the locks.

You gulp onto a dry choke, his outfit what really makes your knees jello, a throb automatically smacking you in between your legs.

“Yeah?” You hear the slight crunch of leather as he backs up to give you a twirl, his ass well rounded in the acid wash denim, his chain swaying, wallet resting against a cheek beneath the denim pocket. He blinks those lashes and winks at you, making you physically clench your legs together. “You like it sweetheart? S’ a lot, I know.”

His inky colored nails, his signature chunky rings clad on those deliciously sinful fingers, they slip along the tightened corset that’s wrapped around his slender waist, stopping short below his nipples to help showcase the cut off crop of mesh that dangles around his neckline, covering what the corset doesn’t. His tattoos veiled, but visible, as if they’re entities peeking out to play. His combat boots that are still smeared with his own blood from the Upside Down are laced over his feet. You stumble all around your words, tongue lolling, mouth pooling with saliva. Eddie filters a fingertip beneath your chin, leaning down beneath the glow of his bedroom lamplight. “It’s a hit then?”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Eddie Munson has that effect on you. “How long did your makeup take you? You can do it again before tonight, right?”

His enriching brows frown, a silly grin pressing the lines of his mouth. “Could do it all in the car. Everything but the wings.” He wiggles his defined digits to lay emphasis for his question. “Why, baby? What’s goin’ on in this head of yours? You’re running a little bit on empty tonight, huh?”

“So it’s not a big deal?”

“It’s not a big deal if what?” He waves his hand as if he’s taking a bow, awaiting your answer.

However, he doesn’t need any confirmation, your desperation, accelerated breathing, and tightening of your thigh muscles give you away. Not to mention your blown to hell pupils. He still wants to tease you a little, dangle you. You’re his best audience member, and he wants to spin you on his finger and work you to the bone until you’re begging and panting for him to hurt you a little harder. You lean into his touch — a natural instinct that runs deeper than breathing.

His cigarette stained breath is speckled with hints of cinnamon gum, his plush lips barely caressing yours, pulling them open and hovering a top his as he speaks with a fucked out rasp. He’s just as gone. His hands reach between you two and he finds your clasped hands (you didn’t realize you’d done that, nails having left marks behind in your palms), placing them onto his simple belt buckle. “What should I do with my little groupie, hmm? Make her suck me off, leave her wet all night?”

You mewl at that, suddenly finding speech capabilities. “No!”

“Or… maybe my sweetheart needs me to unzip my jeans and bend her over the dresser so I can claim that nice little pussy. Want it to sting every time you move at the bar, baby? No one will hear it when you whimper because of me.”

He’s already swelling against your palm, helping you undo his belt to release some tension and gain a bit of friction. His fingers cup your neck’s nape, draping down your back like a winding vine, tapping an invisible beat only he knows. You’re arching into him, your flimsy sweats and t-shirt too heavy and too hot. You aren’t even ready for the event tonight, but it’s a good thing. And as Eddie knees you into his bed until you’re falling back onto the mattress — you’re downright fucking grateful.

He’s your rockstar and you’re his instrument, and dammit to hell if he can’t play you to make you sing for him. The mesh is tickling the backs of your thighs, his pick chain dragging with his heaving breaths, your hands finding purchase in it to grip on every inhale. His lids are closed, a caressing explosion of red and black smudged together. His cheeks are soaked in red, mouth plump and swollen, your creamy cum soaking his chin, glistening when he’s turning his head to shimmy in a particular deep lick. His hands are squishing the doughy flesh that surrounds his head, your thighs spread wide, his curls tickling.

“Eds… oh, baby. So good with your fucking mouth.” You’re trying not to rock, to ruin his makeup completely beyond repair, but the man is just as insatiable, and you did ask for this.

His nose nudges your clit and he inhales like a fucking wild animal, nuzzling the tuft of slick curls scattered across your cunt. He could have the devil’s eyes — hell, with his caramel irises shattered to a thin ring, alike to your unraveling sanity, his pupils make him look like a beast, called upon by your heat. He blinks those wet lashes and you see his fingers travel up your cunt, spreading your labia, smearing what wetness he gathers from that — across your sternum and over your breasts, leaving a heavy handed smack to each one. His deep voice latches onto that cove that keeps you connected during this time, being so far outer limits. You already are prepared for him to motion with a hand on your neck, turning your gaze to yourself perched on his face, staring back at you from the stand alone mirror he’d gotten.

The perfect view. He’d dubbed it.

It’s a sight too erotic for you to contain the wanton cry that slithers off your scorched tongue. Your legs thump under a sporadic heat, and Eddie wiggles his fingers against your collar bone, breaking away with a string of your arousal connected to his mouth. He suckles it with an appreciative moan. “See yourself sitting on your throne, baby? This was what you wanted, what you needed, right?”

“Eddie, love you so much. I can’t —“

His fingers dip into the motions with his tongue, circling your opening before they dip inside, being sucked in with wet welcome. Your eyes close, then open with every harsh squelch that echoes in the small room. There’s a familiar twist that’s attacking your navel and you’re aware exactly what it is. You start to shake your head and rise off the stimulation. “Eds… too much, m’ gonna — and your outfit…”

He’s like a giddy boy at Christmas, a Cheshire smirk causing him to pull his ruined face from your cunt, pressing a few kisses to your thigh.

“You’re gonna…? Piss on me or squirt? Can’t say I’d mind either way.” You tighten around his fingers and bounce yourself onto the thick digits, that spongy spot ignited by the stimulation.

“I’ll ruin your shirt, maybe your pants, baby—“

God help you when you look at his loving gaze staring directly back at you. His makeup is absolutely demolished, perspiration and your essence smearing it around his cheeks. He’s shining with you, sampling your taste off his mouth. His chest is heaving wildly, breaths choppy. You can practically swallow his fucking words.

“No one’s gonna know that it’s not sweat, sweetheart. I’ll be wearing you all night.”

And he curls those gifted treasures, coaxing you forward, his tongue licking where his fingers meet, all the way to your clit, before he closes his lips around it. You come undone, that firestorm urge seizing your insides and beckoning you into oblivion. You shout his name so loudly that you’re sure everyone can hear. He presses you into him with a hard jostle, and your translucent cream spills from you, drenching your boyfriend, your thighs trembling, hands fisting into his hair. He helps you ride it through, moaning lowly as the spray floods his face, his own hips arching off the bed.

You’re still trembling when his fingers slide out of you, cum following them, stringing to Eddie’s fingers in a shimmery web, and he greedily laps you up once more, tugging you beside him with a softness that only he is capable of, rubbing your back to help calm you. You help him clean his face with your discarded shirt, his hand finding your breast and stroking absentmindedly along your nipple as if it were a chord he was playing. You sigh happily, looking at him. You’re so in love it’s disgusting.

“You’re a mess, Munson.” You find yourself giggling.

He shrugs. “Nectar of the gods, baby. Nectar of my goddess. A goddess who is gonna have to help me redo all this.” He motions to his face and you nod.

“I am your most devoted groupie, Eddie Munson.”

~*~

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determinate-negation · 4 months

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“I had known Sigmund Freud, that great and austere spirit who, more than any other in our time, deepened and broadened our knowledge of the soul of man. When in Vienna, he was still appraised and opposed as an obstinate and difficult intellectual hermit. A fanatic for truth while yet fully cognizant of the limits of all truths, (once he said to me, "Absolute truth is as impossible as to obtain as absolute zero temperature,") he had estranged himself from the University and its academic scruples by his imperturbable venturing into heretofore unexplored and timidly avoided zones of the upper-nether realm of instincts, the very sphere on which the epoch had set a solemn taboo.

Unconsciously the optimistic-liberal world sensed that the well-spring psychology of this uncompromising mind utterly undermined its thesis of gradual suppression of the instincts by "reason" and "progress," that he menaced its method of ignoring whatever was uncomfortable by his relentless technique of disclosure. However, it was not merely the University nor the clique of old-school neurologists who resisted this inconvenient "outsider." It was the whole old world, the mind of another day, the "proprieties," it was the entire epoch that feared the unveiler in him. A medical boycott against him slowly took form and his practice dwindled; but as his theses and even the boldest of his theories were scientifically irrefutable they tried, Viennese fashion, to dispose of his theory of dreams by means of irony or by lightly distorting it to a humorous parlor game. Once a week a faithful group visited the solitary man and at those evening discussions the new science of psychoanalysis was molded into form. Long before I grasped the implications of the intellectual revolution which slowly shaped itself from Freud's first fundamental labors, I had yielded to the moral strength and steadfastness of this extaordinary man. Here, at last, was a man of science, the exemplar of a young man's dreams, prudent of statement until he had positive proof, but unshakable against the opposition of the world once he was satisfied that his hypothesis had become a valid certainty.

Here was a man of the most modest personal demands but ready to battle for every tenet of his teaching and faithful unto death to the immanent truth of the theories which he vindicated. A more intellectually intrepid person could not be imagined; Freud always dared to express what he thought even if he knew that his straight, positive declaration might disturb and distress; he never sought an easy way out by making even perfunctory concessions.”

Stefan Zweig, The World of Yesterday

#freud #true!#mine #zweig

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leeyu-ri · 23 days

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Mint Choco | k.sn

Genre: fluff

W/C: 1.4k

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*

The sun was shining brightly as you and your boyfriend, Sunoo, strolled down the bustling streets of your favorite neighborhood. It was the perfect day for a sweet treat, and both of you had agreed that ice cream was the way to go. You couldn't help but smile as you walked hand in hand, the warm breeze ruffling your hair and the sound of laughter filling the air.

Sunoo's excitement was palpable as you approached the charming little ice cream parlor. It was one of those old-fashioned places with a striped awning and a cheerful sign that read "Sweet Treats." Sunoo had been talking about getting ice cream all day, and you knew exactly why. He had a particular fondness for mint chocolate chip, a flavor you weren't too keen on.

As you entered the parlor, the cool air and the sweet scent of freshly made waffle cones greeted you. The walls were lined with colorful tubs of ice cream, each one more tempting than the last. Sunoo's eyes lit up as he scanned the options, and you could already see him zeroing in on his beloved mint choco.

"Come on, you have to try it this time," Sunoo said, his voice filled with determination as he pulled you towards the counter. "I promise you'll like it."

You sighed, knowing how stubborn he could be when it came to his favorite things. "Sunoo, you know I'm not a fan of mint choco. It tastes like toothpaste."

He pouted, giving you those puppy dog eyes that always melted your resolve. "Please, just one bite. For me?"

You couldn't resist him when he looked at you like that. Reluctantly, you nodded. "Fine, one bite. But if I don't like it, you're getting me something else."

Sunoo's face lit up with a triumphant smile. "Deal!"

He quickly ordered a scoop of mint chocolate chip in a waffle cone and a scoop of your favorite flavor, strawberry, in a cup. As you waited for your orders, Sunoo's excitement was contagious, and you found yourself looking forward to trying the ice cream, if only to see him so happy.

When the ice cream was ready, Sunoo handed you the cup of strawberry and held up his cone of mint choco triumphantly. "Ready for the best ice cream experience of your life?"

You rolled your eyes playfully but couldn't help but smile. "Let's see about that."

Sunoo scooped up a generous bite of his mint choco and held it out to you. "Open wide!"

With a mix of reluctance and curiosity, you opened your mouth and let him feed you the spoonful. The cold, creamy texture hit your tongue first, followed by the refreshing mint flavor and the rich chocolate chips. To your surprise, it wasn't as bad as you remembered. In fact, it was quite enjoyable.

You chewed thoughtfully and then swallowed, looking at Sunoo with raised eyebrows. "Okay, it's not bad."

Sunoo's eyes sparkled with delight. "See? I knew you'd like it!"

Before you could respond, he leaned in and planted a sweet, tender kiss on your lips. It was a kiss filled with happiness and affection, and it made your heart flutter. His lips were cool from the ice cream, and you tasted the faint hint of mint and chocolate, which made the kiss all the more memorable.

When he pulled back, you were both smiling, your faces inches apart. "You always know how to make things better," you said softly.

"And you make everything worth it," he replied, his voice just as gentle.

As you continued enjoying your ice cream, Sunoo couldn’t help but tease you. "I told you mint choco was amazing. Maybe next time you'll trust my impeccable taste."

You chuckled and nudged him playfully. "Impeccable taste? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. One good flavor doesn't make you an ice cream connoisseur."

Sunoo gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "How dare you question my refined palate! I'll have you know I have an excellent track record with ice cream."

"Sure, sure," you teased back. "But remember the time you insisted that vanilla with ketchup was a gourmet combo?"

He winced, recalling the failed experiment. "Okay, I'll admit that was a misstep. But mint choco is different, and you liked it!"

"I did, didn't I?" you admitted with a smile, taking another bite of your strawberry ice cream. "But don't think that means I'll be switching my favorite flavor anytime soon."

Sunoo grinned mischievously. "We'll see about that. Maybe I'll convert you to mint choco one scoop at a time."

"You're welcome to try," you replied, matching his playful tone. "But don't get too confident."

The two of you continued to banter back and forth, the conversation filled with laughter and light-hearted teasing. You felt a warm sense of contentment as you shared these moments with Sunoo, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other's company.

After finishing your ice cream, you decided to take a leisurely walk through the nearby park. The path was lined with blooming flowers, and the gentle rustling of leaves created a soothing backdrop. Sunoo held your hand as you strolled, occasionally swinging your intertwined fingers and pointing out interesting sights along the way.

"Look at that squirrel," he said, nodding towards a fluffy-tailed creature darting up a tree. "It's probably searching for more mint choco lovers to join its secret squirrel ice cream club."

You giggled, shaking your head. "You and your mint choco obsession. I wouldn't be surprised if you started a club yourself."

"Not a bad idea," he mused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "But you'd be my first recruit. We could have matching mint choco uniforms and everything."

"Oh no, count me out," you laughed. "I'm sticking to strawberry."

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the park, you found a cozy bench overlooking a serene pond. You both sat down, and Sunoo wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. The world seemed to slow down as you watched the ducks glide across the water, and you felt a deep sense of peace.

"You know," Sunoo said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "I'm really glad we did this today. It's been perfect."

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with affection. "Me too, Sunoo. Thank you for making it special."

He leaned down and pressed another sweet kiss to your lips, this one lingering a bit longer, filled with tenderness and warmth. When he pulled back, his eyes held a soft, loving gaze that made your heart flutter.

"Let's make a promise," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To always find time for moments like these, no matter how busy life gets."

You smiled, your heart brimming with love and happiness. "I promise."

As the sky darkened and the stars began to twinkle above, you sat there in each other's arms, savoring the magic of the evening. The memory of the ice cream parlor, the playful banter, and the sweet kisses would stay with you, a cherished reminder of the love and joy you shared with Sunoo. And while you might not become a full-fledged mint choco convert, you knew that trying new things with him by your side made every experience sweeter.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*

#kim sunoo #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enha sunoo #enhypen sunoo #sunoo #sunoo kim #enhypen

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the-lonelybarricade · 10 months

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Queen of Thieves - Chapter 1

Summary: A fulfillment of this prompt from @sjmkinkmeme. A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023 Day 1: Night Triumphant and the Stars Eternal

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“The game is very simple.”

A crowd of males gathered around the long wooden table. Some were standing, gripping their large metal tankards as they stared on with wary curiosity. Others had sprawled themselves on the tavern’s benches or propped themselves against the wooden beams, occupying every empty space that offered a decent view, effectively boxing Feyre into the scent of stale sweat and ale. The smell burned her nostrils, but given that her family lived in one of the spare rooms above the seedy tavern, it was a scent she was used to ignoring.

Feyre pushed her deck of cards across the table, to the male that had originally piqued her interest. He was a sailor—and not the type that usually frequented these taverns. A merchant sailor, one who worked for the High Lord, if the Night Court emblem embossed into the buttons of his navy jacket was anything to go by.

His kind usually slipped past the docks and stayed at the inns on the other side of the Sidra, where the rooms were more expensive but were met with the promise that the sheets had been cleaned since their last use. Given that this tavern charged its spare rooms by the hour, and its occupants hardly stayed through the night, Feyre had a feeling he was here for something other than clean sheets.

And if she couldn’t win money off of him through cards, then she could always work for it the old fashioned way.

“Shuffle the deck, then cut it as many times as you want. Once you’re satisfied, pick a card from the top. I’ll tell you what it is.”

The sailor narrowed his eyes. “I suppose all the cards are identical.”

Around him, the drunken males shifted. Some of them had seen her play this game before, and wore smirks that said they were excited to see someone else lose their money—which they would later be heckling her for. Others looked disapproving, suspecting some trick. Sometimes, that disapproval was directed towards the male falling into her trap. Usually, it was directed towards her.

Feyre tipped her chin. “Have a look. They’re ordinary cards.”

With slow, methodical examination, the sailor spread the cards face up over the table, allowing the tavern to witness the numbers and symbols that were standard of any deck.

The sailor paused. “These are not ordinary cards.” He pressed a finger to one of the face cards, Night Triumphant, to admire the portrait of a male crowned in stars. “These are hand painted.”

“All card sets are hand painted,” Feyre countered.

“No,” he was frowning. “I mean, yes, they are. But these were painted by you, weren’t they?”

She straightened a bit. No one had ever noticed that much about her cards. “How could you tell?”

“There’s a smudge of paint on your cheek,” the sailor said with a soft laugh. “And I doubt a female reduced to these parlor tricks could afford a deck of such fine artistry, otherwise. You’re either a thief, or you’re very talented.”

Maybe she was a very talented thief.

Her cheeks were beginning to burn. “I may have painted the cards, but they’re identical at the back. I won’t be able to tell which is which.”

The sailor smirked. With a graceful swipe of his hand, he arranged the cards back into a pile and pushed them back across the table.

“For my peace of mind, allow us to play with my own deck.”

“Fine.”

She watched him draw a collection of cards from his breast pocket. Unlike her own deck, these cards were almost certainly rigged. Which meant that he would bet with greater confidence.

Feyre smiled. “Cut the deck, then.”

He arched his brow. “You don’t want to see my cards? They could be a different set than you’re used to.”

She studied the back of the cards, marking their glossy, onyx surface and the serpent that coiled around the border.

“I recognize a Night Court deck when I see one.”

Now, it was the sailor’s turn to smile. “Very impressive.”

The tavern went quiet as they watched the sailor slide his fingers along the edges of the cards. She could see his lips moving, counting some metric in his head, before he paused and lifted the deck at its midway point. He placed the lower pile of cards on the top of the stack, then cut it twice more, each move seemingly well-calculated.

Finally, he looked across at Feyre, and he lifted a card from the top.

“I’m feeling generous,” he said. “I’ll give you five marks if you can guess it in under three tries.”

“How about ten marks if I can guess it in one?”

He pitched his voice low, just like his eyes, which trailed from her face to her breasts, and lower. “And what do I get when you guess wrong?”

“Ten marks, the same from me.”

Feyre didn’t have ten marks to spare, and from the way the sailor laughed in response, she could tell he knew it. And that he would demand something different, if she couldn’t pay her debt.

“Let’s make it twenty, then.”

Maybe he was hoping she would lose and he could force her to go back with him on his ship. She almost didn’t hate the idea. Seeing the world outside of Velaris, never worrying where her next meal was coming from, chasing the sea and sky and never looking back. If that freedom could be gained from fucking a male a few times each night, she couldn’t imagine it would be any less pleasant than sharing a filthy matress on the floor with her two sisters.

“Deal.”

She could scent the magic before she felt the subtle tingle on her skin. A small, delicate whorl etched itself onto her forearm, connecting to the pattern of blue-black swirls that stretched to her fingers like an intricate lace glove. A tribute to the many, many bargains she had made under this very roof.

They were a permanent mark of her poverty, and the things she’d needed to sacrifice to keep her family alive. Feyre was almost—almost—tempted to guess wrong, if only so she could go with him on his ship and spare another bargain from ever marring her skin.

“The Cauldron of Fate,” Feyre said, sitting back proudly on the bench. “A rare card. I’ve heard they’re hardly ever used outside of the playing halls for High Lords and their sons.” She cocked her head. “Did you steal it?”

The sailor’s face had slackened. A drunk male clamped a hand onto his shoulder, leaning to see the card before he howled, “No fucking way!”

A murmur swept through the tavern, though very few people were celebrating on Feyre’s behalf. Most of them were now likely contemplating how they’d win, or steal, the money off her.

“20 marks, please,” Feyre said with a slow smile.

“You cheated.”

“How?” She crossed her arms. “I didn’t touch your cards. Though, if there’s an issue, I’m sure the High Lord would be plenty interested to know how you came about—”

He whipped the money onto the table as he abruptly stood up. There was a dark look on his face that made Feyre edge back in her seat, just a bit.

“Thieving halfbreed whore,” he spat, swiping his tankard from the table and storming towards the door.

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, though she could feel the smooth curve of her ears burning as the eyes of the tavern turned their attention to her, to the features that marked her as other, even among the lesser fae. Feyre quickly pocketed the money and rose from the bench, elbowing her way through the crowd. She grit her teeth as she shouldered their passing jeers.

“Not gonna stay for another game, sweetheart?”

“Looking for more coin? I’ll give you another 10 if you let me take you upstairs. I’ve never had a halfbreed before”

Someone groped at her, and she yelped as she stumbled forward, into a male who spilled his tankard all over the front of her shirt. The ale had left him swaying and he only grumbled some nonsense about Feyre buying him a new drink before she was able to sidestep him, too, and quickly disappear up the stairs.

Their room was at the very top of the tavern, in the cramped attic that was as far away from the drinking and fucking as they could possibly get. They paid a reduced fee, since this room was hardly big enough to rent to customers looking for a quick fuck, and had otherwise just been used for storage.

Elain and Nesta were nowhere to be seen, which was just as well since they would likely have something to say about the stench of ale. She’d bathe in the Sidra tomorrow. For now, Feyre just wanted to hide the coin she’d won and go to bed without thinking about the tavern-goers or the spiteful sailor.

The wind clashed heavily against the sea, scattering white-foam tips across the surface of the inky water. It chopped against the shoreline in persistent, arrhythmic assaults, occasionally crashing into the rocks so violently that it sent the salt water skywards. The mist rained down over Feyre, clinging to her skin, the salt beginning to sting—just slightly—as it was agitated by a cool, whipping gust of air.

Feyre wondered why she didn’t come to the shore more often, especially when it was storming. The world was so alive here. The churning water and the hissing wind and the screaming gulls. It all rushed past her, crisp against her cheeks, tangling in her hair. She could breathe up here. So far away from the cramped attic she had fallen asleep in, where the air was stale and leached with the scent of mold and alcohol.

By the sea, nothing could contain her.

She leapt from the cliff face, stretching her arms to feel the rushing air as the water surged towards her. She laughed, though the sound was quickly torn away before it reached her ears. Then, just as she was about to greet the roiling surface, large membranous wings snapped out from behind her back, pulling her upwards until she was soaring towards the gray sky.

A lock of blue-black hair fell into her eyes. She reached up with an unfamiliar brown hand to push it out of the way. Ferye jolted a bit, to realize that she wasn’t in her own body. This was someone else, flying over the ocean, and the joy she felt building in her chest was not her own. This was someone who was drawn to the sea. Someone who was sharing this moment with her, lending this feeling of freedom that she had never known existed until she tasted the skies.

Feyre wondered if she should have let the sailor win, afterall.

#Feysand #Feysandweek2023 #Feysandweek #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Queen of Thieves

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hapan-in-exile · 2 months

Text

Volume 4 - Post #4: Say goodbye to the old me

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by dindooku

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 5.6K (fourth post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

_______________________________

IV. “Hey! Watch it! I–oh…I, um…” the Trandoshan’s words died on his lips the moment he looked up to discover who he’d bumped into.

The Mandalorian hated working on Coruscant. It was noisy, crowded, and endlessly labyrinthian. Most of the filters in his helmet were rendered useless due to the sheer number of life forms in such close proximity. Continuous vehicle traffic across every level of the city overloaded his motion sensors.

The frenetic energy of the megalopolis set him on edge.

But what Mando really hated, what he absolutely loathed, was visiting the Uscru District. It was all the worst parts about a place like Daiyu—gambling dens, night clubs, garish neon lights, vendors shouting, the flashing, stochastic holograms—made somehow worse because it was repacked for gawking tourists.

Acrobats hung from cables crisscrossing overhead, their lithe bodies shimmering, while street musicians played for coins. Instrument cases littered the walkway, and goods were hawked on the pavement.

He felt uncentered. The next idiot who tripped over him to stare slack-jawed at some fucking juggler was getting bodied.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Mando couldn’t afford the delay.

The Mandalorian turned onto Daring Way, toward the sky bridge that would take him to the Floating World. Tourists liked to keep to well-lit thoroughfares, so the foot traffic here was sparser, and he made better time. Soon, the soft, glowing lights of the pleasure quarter came into view.

Music spilled out from decadent parlors where the doors and windows had been flung open to lure passersby. Beings of every gender and species could be seen lounging, sprawled out on display, wearing little more than scraps of fabric and gaudy jewels.

Each house catered to a different clientele, their specialty made known by the facade of the building or else the costumes worn by hosts welcoming their clients inside.

Most tourists never entered the brothels of the Floating World. They just came to take in the scene and watch the crowd, which was a sight in itself. Amongst the extravagant fashions and decor of the houses, many visitors donned elaborate masks or robes to conceal their identities.

So the Mandalorian was surprised to discover that the Dark Garden had no hosts waiting in the doorway and nothing on display in the windows. Instead, they were closed, sealed tight behind intricately carved black shutters.

The whole building was black. Its gleaming stone exterior looked more like a palatial mansion than a pleasure house.

The woman stationed behind the desk in the entryway was also dressed in black. It was a stark contrast to her pale pink skin, white-blond hair, and nearly colorless gray eyes. She looked up at him from between two onyx vases overflowing with vibrant red blossoms that matched her painted lips.

“Welcome, sir. We appreciate your business. Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I’m not in need of your…services. I’ve come to see Mistress Anassa. She’ll know why I’m here.”

“Mistress Anassa is very busy,” she smiled apologetically. “Her clients book months in advance. I cannot promise she will have time to—”

He slid several gold peggats across the highly polished surface of the reception desk.

“Tell her a Mandalorian is waiting. I’ll be here until she finds the time.”

“Very well, sir. Please come with me.”

She led him through a dark passage to a lounge filled with curved sofas and circular ottomans, where clients–some wearing masks, others with their faces bared–sat huddled in conversation, drinking from elegant carafes or smoking ornate water pipes.

The hostess directed him to an alcove beneath a cluster of illuminated, floating orbs.

“Can I offer the Mandalorian anything while he waits? Company, perhaps?” She lowered her voice as she leaned in to place a pillow behind his back. “We cater to every desire here.”

“My desire,” he said evenly, “is for solitude.”

“As you like,” she smiled again, leaving him to wait for Mistress Anassa.

But he was conspicuous sitting alone, and it wasn’t long before another hostess dressed in black strode toward him. She walked over on towering heels he imagined Thuli would have loved, to see if the Mandalorian was in need of attention.

She artfully placed one of the gilt carafes onto the lacquered table beside him and poured a drink. “May I offer the gentleman anything else?”

Her voice was as supple as her corsetted leather dress.

“No. Thank you, I–”

The sight of two luminous violet eyes caught him by surprise, and his heart stuttered. He turned sharply to see a woman entering the parlor. On second glance, she looked nothing like Thulindhara. But the eyes were unmistakable—their iridescent sheen, how they glowed bright like full moons. She was Hapan.

“Perhaps the Mandalorian sees something to his liking?”

It wasn’t her, yet the thrill that rose inside him didn’t ebb. It clutched the breath from his lungs and twisted his stomach into knots.

Mando knew he would miss her, but he hadn’t expected to feel her absence as a physical pain.

“No,” he said. “Thank you. But, no. I’m here to see Mistress Anassa.”

He watched as the woman who wasn’t Thuli walked up to a Keshiri couple at the bar, gesturing them to follow her down a long corridor hidden behind a pair of lush velvet curtains.

Beside him, the hostess offered the drink she’d poured, and he accepted it. Not for the sake of politeness but because he felt compelled to hold something in his hands. Sensing his discomposure, she looked meaningfully towards the curtains as they fell back into place and whispered, “They say to lie with a Hapan is to open the door to heaven.”

The Mandalorian had heard that said many times and always dismissed it as a self-serving rumor. He didn’t pay for sex, but mercenaries loved to talk about how they would spend their take on Hapan courtesans. The most expensive pussy in the galaxy, they said. Once you’re between her thighs, you’ll forget your own name.

Now, Mando understood the truth of these stories. Well…he hadn’t forgotten his name, but she did taste like heaven.

For most of his life, sex had been about release. Lust was simply another physical need. Like hunger or sleep, he met those needs for the sake of his body. When a woman felt so inclined, he obliged—helmet sealed, armor intact—and let her take what satisfaction she could find.

With Thuli, he learned that sex could be something beyond physical pleasure. They shared a connection unlike anything he’d experienced. Real intimacy. Mando hadn’t kissed a woman since…he’d barely been a man. Still a child, really.

To be with Thulani, naked and vulnerable as he had never been before, was not about release. It was fulfillment. Satisfaction of body and soul. And, yes, part of that was being between her thighs.

In the abstract, he’d been a little intimidated, but in the moment, it had felt entirely natural. He wanted to linger over her every curve, to put his mouth over every inch of her body, and he had loved all of it—the way she tasted, her fingers tugging at his hair, how her hips lifted with his touch.

It made him feel powerful in a way he hadn’t expected, drinking her in until she was soaked and breathless under his tongue.

Then, a door had opened—a door between their consciousness, when he’d felt her pleasure cresting through his body, rippling over his skin in waves that matched the stroking of his fingers. She’d lost all control, and his whole being suffused with her ecstasy, so intensely passionate that he saw stars behind his eyes. Maybe it was heaven?

Thulani’s trick was making people believe in her openness, yet Mando recognized how rigidly she held herself in check. He sensed the wild, fierce nature in her heart that she constrained. It made him feel both immeasurably powerful and deeply gratified to be the one who made her unravel.

“The Mandalorian asked for me?”

A woman in a crisply tailored black suit stood before him. He did not immediately recognize her species, but the horns that spiraled around her long, folded ears and convex nose reminded him of a dray goat.

“You’re Mistress Anasssa? The proprietor of this…establishment.”

“Mmm, the Mandalorian is polite for a mercenary,” she sat beside him on the bench and reached out with slender fingers (no hooves) to take the glass from between his hands. It struck him at once how artfully the gesture was both sensual and dominating. “In answer to your question…” she drank deeply. “Yes. The gentleman would be wise not to let the crystal and chandeliers fool him. This is a dungeon. And I am its master.”

“I see.” It was all he could think to say. “Boss Set’ki said you’d be expecting me.”

“My apologies. I was otherwise occupied when the Mandalorian arrived.” She looked at the untouched carafe on the table. “I am sorry my vintage is not to his taste. And none of my ladies, either, I hear. If it is males he prefers, the gentleman need only—”

“That is beyond my purpose, Mistress Anassa. I’m here on business.”

“I doubt the Mandalorian would burden himself with such formality if he intended to capture me,” the mistress smiled curiously. “What is his business?”

“I’m interested in one of your clients.”

She scoffed. “The gentleman must realize discretion is an essential tenet of my profession. Why would I betray my client to help him?”

“Because Set’ki owes me a debt. And while you may be the master of this dungeon, your master is Boss Set’ki.”

Her features became resolute. “Then let us discuss this matter in private.”

The Mistress rose and walked toward the velvet curtains. Mando followed her down the long corridor until she stopped before a door with gold flowers embossed along its hinges.

She placed a tasseled fob against the keypad. “I hope the Mandalorian will appreciate that it is to everyone’s benefit if he appears to be another of my clients?”

“Very well,” he said and stepped inside.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected. The black walls did not surprise him, but the abundance of those same red flowers, blooming from vases and wall hangings did. They matched the illuminated floor tiles that pulsed with crimson light.

Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished to accommodate the…equipment. There was a saltire cross with a rack of whips and paddles positioned beside it and a polished steel beam with manacles chained to its post. A length of rope dangled from one of the ceiling beams overhead. Instead of a bed, a quilted leather couch sat in a far corner of the room.

Plastered across one of the walls was a diagram of knots with cautionary notes about circulation and nerve damage.

“I’m sure the Mandalorian must be very accomplished at tying knots,” Mistress Anassa said from over his shoulder.

“I prefer cuffs.”

“Mmm…” He felt her eyes rake over him with heightened interest. “I have never met a Mandalorian before, but I begin to see why you inspire so much fascination. The armor, the brute force, stalking, capture, imprisonment—all potent themes for bondage role play.”

“I am Mandalorian. Violence is my trade. Weapons are part of my religion.” Mando turned to face her. “I’m not playing a game, Mistress.”

He could tell Anassa enjoyed hearing him call her that.

“Of course. Though I’m sure someone has offered to suck your cock in exchange for their freedom. Can you honestly say their begging has never aroused you?”

Her tone was frank, not seductive. A businesswoman appraising a commodity.

“I think the Mistress has a false impression about the sorts of people I’m sent to collect.”

At that, she laughed. “Still…I see the appeal. If you’re ever interested in a new line of work, I believe the Mandalorian and I could make a great deal of money together.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mando recalled that Thulani had said much the same thing. A Mandalorian would make good coin at one of those Keyorin brothels.

He suddenly wondered if this was something Thuli might enjoy. Bondage? Role play? The clamps and paddles didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he wouldn’t be opposed to tying her up if that’s what she wanted.

Mando looked at the steel beam, and his mind couldn’t help but stray towards fantasies of throwing her over it and fucking her senseless.

“About your client, Mistress Anassa.”

“What is it you wish to know?”

“This man, Ronan Carr,” he took the holo-puck from his pocket and activated its profile. “I’m told he makes use of your services when his wife is out of town.”

Mistress Anassa schooled her features, but it was too late. He’d seen the look of panic cross her eyes the instant she recognized the man’s face.

“The Senator will be leaving on a diplomatic mission. Does Carr have an appointment scheduled for her departure?”

The Mandalorian suspected that Ronan Carr had an appointment booked for later that day. He’d been following Carr for the past week. Yesterday, the man had reserved an entire hotel floor under a false name and given his personal assistant the night off.

“He does,” the Mistress confirmed. “But I won’t help you. Boss Set’ki may kill me for my refusal. I will accept that punishment. A political assassination would condemn every soul under my care. That I will not accept.”

“I have no intention of killing Ronan Carr,” he assured her. “It’s information I want.”

“I suppose that is his trade,” her eyes weighed the Mandalorian, and she dropped the artful persona. “You won’t harm him? No kidnapping or torture?”

“If those are your terms, then I will agree. I only want to talk to him.”

“What if I have other terms?” The Mistress asked shrewdly.

“Name them.”

“I don’t want any of my people harmed.”

He nodded. “Do you know who you’ll send?”

“Yes, there are a few he favors.”

“Then give me some token or signal. But tell no one of this.”

She paused before coming to a decision. “I will go with them tonight. To ensure all will be as you promise.”

“These are your terms?”

“He’s a good client,” she waved her well-manicured hand vaguely, “And if word got out? If he thought I’d helped you?”

“Ronan Carr won’t risk the Senator discovering his…hobbies.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Here,” he pulled out a folded wallet and handed it to her. “To compensate for your loss of business. Though I expect a man with his proclivities should be back before long.”

“Thank you,” she gave him a curt bow. “You know where to find him?”

“Carr has gone to great lengths to conceal his plans, but yes, I know where he’ll be tonight.” And without really intending to, the Mandalorian said, “His desires make him weak.”

Mando was surprised at the scorn in his voice. Surprised to hear himself say that. Did he believe desire made him weak? His desire for Thuli?

It certainly made it difficult to concentrate. How many times did he think about her each day?

Maker, if he was being honest…he woke up thinking about Thulani, and the thought seemed to last all day. He worried about whether she was safe. He’d make some stray observation and imagine her reaction. He saw something beautiful in a window and wondered if she would like it.

When he lay inside the sleeping compartment alone, surrounded by her scent, he thought of Thuli’s mouth on him, those delicate fingers stroking his cock, and his body ached. He could not bring himself off without thinking about her.

Mistress Anassa looked at him with genuine sympathy as though she could sense his turmoil.

“Shame is Ronan Carr’s weakness,” she said. “If he were honest about his desires, you would have no power over him. His wife might even oblige. But shame feeds arousal. Maybe you can understand that?”

“Excuse me?”

Shame. Was that at the root of his sudden anger? The Mandalorian was not ashamed of his relationship with Thuli. He did not believe she made him weak.

But he did feel shame about his own selfish cowardice. That in her absence, he’d realized how deeply he cared for her, and it killed him knowing he could never say those words.

Why? Because they gave her power over him? No. Whether he said the words or not, didn’t change his feelings. But to say them aloud would be a promise. One he couldn’t make.

She’d met him on those terms, yet he felt ashamed he couldn’t give her more. She deserved better than a man who could not share his name or his face or his life with her. It would always come back to that.

“Shame is one of the most effective tools of repression,” Mistress Anassa shrugged. “But repression simply fuels temptation. Temptation transforms into desire. Desire generates more shame.”

Anassa opened a hidden panel in the wall and beckoned him forward. Lightly placing her fingers over a wooden slat, she slid it open, and a pinhole of light pierced through the room. The muffled sounds of moaning grew louder.

Gesturing toward the peephole, she said, “It’s only when we embrace our desires that we become free of this endless cycle.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, the Mandalorian looked. What he saw was the Keshiri couple from the parlor. The man was fully clothed, on all fours, hands and knees braced against the ground. His partner was naked, splayed on his back, while the Hapan woman fucked her roughly from behind with a strap-on.

“They were honest with each other about their desires. Now, it creates a bond rather than a wedge.”

Mando hadn’t anticipated that visiting a sex dungeon would prompt so much soul-searching. His eyes strayed back to the peephole, towards the Keshiri in the throws of climax, eyes shut tight as though she might die from ecstasy.

While he felt ashamed that he could not tell Thulani he loved her, he could at least ensure she felt loved. When he worshipped her body, when he fulfilled her desires, when he made her unravel—she would know the depth of his feelings.

“I’ve heard it said that true Mandalorians do not remove their armor. Perhaps the gentleman prefers to watch?”

He pulled the slot closed. “I’ve seen enough.”

**********

One thing the Mandalorian did appreciate about Coruscant was the simplicity of bribing government officials. As with any vast bureaucracy, front line New Republic workers like the port operatives were overlooked and underpaid.

Flush with cash from Ryun Vos, Mando was able to dock under fake tabs at a shipyard centrally located in a safe and discreet area. Money made all things possible on Coruscant.

“Please tell me something in that bag is fried?” Nito moaned as the Mandalorian stepped inside the Razor Crest.

“I got some of everything, so your odds are good.”

The Ardennian was sitting at a makeshift table of stacked cargo containers with the Child seated in his lap. He had his mechanic’s apron on while the kid was stripped to his breechcloth. And they were both covered in paint.

“There better be a bath planned for after this,” Mando growled, reaching to wipe the Child’s talons clean with a take-out napkin.

“What? Yeah. Sorry,” Nito said dimly. “Yes! Oil bread. And rice balls! Fuck yeah!”

The Mandalorian thought vaguely that Thulani would try to curb Nito’s swearing, but he only had so much paternal energy left in him today, and he needed it for the baby.

Mando pulled the fried bread out of reach and replaced it with the box of bean pods. “Hey, kid, you need to eat at least five of these.”

His enormous ears wilted in disappointment.

“How’s the programming going?” Mando asked, searching for the sweet and sour broth.

Nito shoved a rice ball in his mouth and swallowed it whole. “Do you have any idea how complex a unified operating system for an industrial plant—with residential facilities can be?”

“No,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m paying you.”

“Paying me in more than dumplings, I hope.” Nito laughed cheerily. “Assuming it’s the Imperial coding language, I think it is…”

“We’re going to find out tonight.”

“You got Carr?”

“I know how to get to him,” Mando said. “We leave in three hours. Spend at least one of those cleaning up the kid.”

“Okay. Okay.”

The Mandalorian was relieved to have such a tidy solution for Ronan Carr. It wasn’t in his nature to wait for reconnaissance or planning. He was a blunt instrument—brute force, as Mistress Anassa had said. But Nito proved that hacking the man’s communicator could be useful. Coruscant was not the Outer Rim. Best to be cautious here.

Months ago, he would have stormed the hotel, shoved a blaster in Carr’s face, and broken the man’s fingers until he talked. Now, when Mando considered this approach, the crew from Dark Garden weighed on his conscience. Not everything needs to end in a shoot-out, Thuli had chided him. She wasn’t even here, yet her memory was wringing these little bits of decency from him.

Nito snapped his fingers in front of Mando’s viewplate. “You in there?”

“What?” He shook his head.

“You’ve been staring at those dumplings for an eternity. I want to eat them.”

Mando passed the container.

“I was telling you about this utter stroke of genius I had.” The Ardennian lifted the kid onto the table and pulled something out from his apron pocket. “So, he’s green, right? Well, I painted his face. And when I put on the bonnet…See! He’s Mirialan.”

Underneath the paint splatters, Mando recognized the geometric facial markings.

“That’s–that is pretty genius.”

Nito beamed. Thuli told him things would be easier with the kids if he put in a little effort. So far, it was working.

“I mean, he hates having his ears tucked, but it’s only temporary, buddy. Just to keep you safe.”

The Child squirmed and pounded his fists against his thighs.

Mando had to suppress a laugh. “Bean pods and bonnets. Guess you got it pretty rough, kid.”

The baby stopped mid-tantrum to glare at the Mandalorian.

“Anyway,” Nito went on. “We had the paint out, so I found some packing paper…and look what he made.”

Mando tilted his head and squinted, “It’s a…bantha?”

“It’s the Razor Crest,” Nito snorted.

“If you say so.”

The kid squealed until Mando handed him a meat pie.

“I miss her too, you know.”

“What?”

“Fish dumplings are Thuli’s favorite,” Nito said quietly. “It’s hard not to miss her when she makes everything so…” he shrugged, “cozy when she’s around.”

The Mandalorian nodded. “You heard from her today?”

His heart twisted painfully in anticipation. It did every day when he asked that question. But he knew she must have checked in that morning. Nito would be inconsolable if she hadn’t.

“Yeah, I got the signal.”

Good. She's alive. Hopefully safe. “We’ll see her soon,” Mando assured them. “We’re stocked up on supplies, weapons, equipment. Once we get what we need from Carr, we can make a course for Lakaran.”

“Did you get a gift to bring her now that you guys are, you know, sleeping together?”

The Mandalorian choked on his soup. The steel jaw of his helmet caught him painfully on the lip, and he had to pound his chest a few times before he could breathe again. “Did she–ahem–did she say something…about…?”

“Didn’t have to,” Nito waved a furry hand. “For months, you’ve both just wreaked of longing and frustration. Then you came back and smelled…satisfied. Pretty logical conclusion.”

“You can smell that?”

“Oh yeah! It’s kind of funny that humans can’t since all of your emotions get communicated through hormones and sweat glands.”

Mando shook his head again. “I’m not entirely comfortable talking about this,” he sighed. “But while we’re on the subject, there are some…things I should…we should probably…discuss before we leave to find Carr.”

“What? Like, sex stuff?”

The Mandalorian groaned. Where do I even start…?

**********

The hotel Ronan Carr had booked was elegant enough for his aristocratic tastes while also offering the assurance of privacy. There was a separate entrance and elevator for the penthouse floor so he could avoid bumping into anyone from his social circle—or his wife’s senatorial colleagues—in the lobby.

Mando opted to gain entry from the roof.

“You hear something?” One of the bodyguards asked.

But just as their partner began to answer, the Mandalorian slipped behind him and placed a blade to the man’s throat. In an instant, he had grabbed the guard’s wrist and raised his blaster. Mando shot the other bodyguard before they could cry out in warning.

To stage this right, the knife needed to go in at just the right angle. But the man continued to struggle under Mando’s grip, trying to break free from his hold. The guard tried everything—stomping on the Mandalorian’s foot, slamming his head against the Beskar, thrusting his shoulders against Mando’s arm around his neck.

The bounty hunter might as well be a statue for all the give there was in his frame. The guard’s death was inevitable, but he refused to make peace with it.

Mando hooked his leg around the man’s ankle and sent them both hurtling toward the ground. The force of impact drove the knife into the guard’s throat.

A wet splatter hit his view plate when the man coughed blood onto the Mandalorian’s helmet. Yet he still fought. Hands flailed blindly until Mando drove the blade deeper, severing the spinal cord. And finally, the fingers clawing at his wrists fell limp.

He rolled the bodyguard onto his back and returned the blaster to the man’s right hand. Should be enough to cover my tracks.

Mistress Anassa had left the south-facing balcony doors unlocked, just as he instructed. They slid open with a soft rolling hush before he made his way silently through the suite. She was waiting for him in the study, hunched over a display monitor.

“You look a sight,” she arched an eyebrow at him. “Can I get you a towel?”

“No.” The blood was war paint. It would make what came next that much easier. "I staged the guards. You can claim a fight broke out, and you had to get your people to safety."

Anassa cleared her throat and nodded. It was the first time he’d seen her unsettled. “The false name on the hotel reservation avoids a paper trail, but I can’t decide whether Carr realizes Set’ki is tracking all of this.”

“Do you record him every time?”

She glared at Mando. “No, but I had a feeling my master wanted some insurance. I don’t expect Ronan Carr will be making any future appointments with Dark Garden after tonight.”

Involving Set’ki and Anassa—at all—was an unnecessary risk. The Mandalorian had done it to ensure the safety of her employees, and he didn’t feel any remorse about the Mistress’s bottom line.

“Tell them to leave the room.”

She crossed her arms with a frustrated sigh. “I know I don’t have a say in any of this, but it shouldn’t go unspoken, this is a gross violation of my professional ethics.”

“You’re arguing ethics after admitting to blackmail?”

“Those restraints are intended to aid his submission. He needs to feel safe to surrender control. And instead, you’ve co-opted them for violence.”

Mando huffed. “Are you referring to the silk scarves tied around his wrists and ankles?”

“The type of restraints are irrelevant. Bondage is a kink that depends on trust. It’s a choice to be helpless. Consent is based entirely on trust. This is a violation of trust. I feel the weight of what this will do to his psyche, and I ask you to acknowledge that before you step inside that room.”

The Mandalorian couldn’t fathom why she was looking to him to absolve her guilt.

“And I told you, violence is my profession. Get—your people—out.”

From the display screen, Mando watched as the Mistress entered the bedroom. Her sudden presence startled the other women, but she quickly ushered them into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

When he was confident they were gone, the bounty hunter opened the bedroom door. The first thing he did was drape a towel over Set’ki’s camera. Mando didn’t want any record of his presence on Coruscant.

He approached the chair Carr was bound to without bothering to stifle his footsteps. The man had a sensory deprivation mask covering his eyes and ears. He hadn’t sensed the ladies from Dark Garden leave the room, and he was becoming agitated, sitting in a puddle of urine, confused as to why they didn’t end the session.

Ronan Carr paid to be tied down and tickled until he pissed himself. The kink wasn’t inherently sexual. It didn’t make him hard. He didn’t come, and nobody brought him to completion. The tickling made him laugh and his muscles spasm, and eventually, the stress on his pelvic floor emptied his bladder.

Then, he slept for ten hours. It simply…relaxed the man.

“Whoa!” Nito said when the Mandalorian explained this. “So it’s like getting a massage? But, like, a really extreme massage.”

It wasn’t not sexual…he paid to be tickled by beautiful women, after all.

As he ripped the mask off, Mando tried not to think about Anassa’s sanctimonious pleading. He felt no remorse for Ronan Carr, either.

The bounty hunter unholstered his blaster and pointed it in the man’s face so it was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. On cue, Carr jumped, recoiling in terror at the sight of the Mandalorian.

“Don’t cry for help," Mando said, his voice cold and stern. "You don’t want anyone coming through that door to find you like this, do you?”

Ronan Carr shook his head.

“Good. Do what I say, and I won’t have to hurt you,” he growled. “Tell me you understand.”

Ronan Carr took a deep, steadying breath. “I understand.” The man’s voice quavered, but he didn’t panic. Some people became paralyzed with fear and that made interrogation harder. If Carr could keep it together, this would be over quickly.

“Untie yourself.”

Despite Mistress Anassa’s speech about trust and surrender, her words were meaningless sentiment. Ronan Carr had never given up control. The scarves were tied with enough slack that he could easily lift his hands over the headrest and pull free the knots at his wrists. After that, he only needed to lean forward to release his ankles.

“Where is everyone?” Carr asked nervously, massaging his wrists.

The man was wiry, more muscular than the bounty hunter expected from someone who spent his life behind a desk. Intimidation was his best tactic to keep Carr in check. Use of physical force would only complicate things. And he made a deal with Anassa.

“You don’t need to know what I did with them. Worry about yourself.”

After a lifetime of doing this work, Mando knew most people’s imagination was far darker than any threat he could make. The man looked at the blood splattered across his helmet, and all the color drained from Ronan Carr’s face.

“What is it you want?”

“I need something, and you’re the person who can get it for me.”

“My wife—”

“This has nothing to do with the Senator. And it doesn’t have to. You give me what I want, and she won’t discover what you get up to under the name ‘Kirk Satu.’” Carr’s eyes went wide with horror. “The piss play makes for an awkward conversation, but I think all the bank transfers will be harder to explain.”

Now, he had the man’s full attention. “What do you want?”

“First, I want you to put some clothes on. Meet me in the study when you’re ready.”

The man’s suit hung neatly from the bathroom door, yet he stared at the garment like it might transform into a torture device.

“You’re not—you aren’t going to lock me in?”

“We both know you won’t run,” Mando said. “You’re going to do what I tell you. Then you can forget all about this.”

The look on Carr’s face when he walked into the study made it clear this encounter would haunt him for some time.

“Is your communicator on?” Nito asked from behind his data-pad. “Your real one. Not the burner?”

“What?” Ronan Carr stammered. “I��yes.” When the notification bell chimed, he pulled the device out from his pocket.

“Okay, read me the security code.”

“Wait! This is about work? You want something from the Archives?”

Carr looked between Nito and the Mandalorian.

“You do realize the New Republic Library doesn’t store any military or intelligence records. This is not…what could you possibly need that isn’t already publicly available?”

Mando thrust his blaster in the man’s face. “Ask me about my business again and see what happens to you.”

“The security code?” Nito drolled.

Mando grabbed the communicator from Carr and handed it to the Ardennian.

“I’m just…we have a records request system online…”

“For redacted documents!” Nito howled. “If you guys just uploaded everything onto the Net, you could enjoy your tickle party and we wouldn’t be here.”

Ronan Carr’s face turned scarlet. “It’s our responsibility to make sure sensitive information doesn’t fall into the hands of…criminals.”

What a fucking hypocrite. “Can we hurry this up?” Mando barked. The fact that the bodyguards in the foyer hadn’t burst into the penthouse meant that Mistress Anassa had done her part. But their luck wouldn’t last long.

“Well, it’s not my fault the file structure isn’t intuitive,” Nito looked at Ronan Carr with disgust. “And you call yourself an Archivist?”

“I–I don’t oversee information architecture.”

“Ah! Okay…security question for the download. What is the name of your first pet?”

When Nito had the files he needed, Mando thrust a disc into Carr’s hands.

“What—?”

“I lied when I said this didn’t involve your wife. That’s for her. From a former Rebel fighter, Ubaa Dir. Remember the name. The next time you hear it, give the Senator that disc. You’ll know when.”

“How will I explain—”

“You’d rather explain the sex workers and money laundering? Figure–it—out,” Mando snapped, and Ronan Carr jumped.

This time, the Mandalorian did lock him inside the bedroom.

He found Mistress Anassa in the living room, offering the Child sugar cubes from an abandoned tea service tray.

"I'm done here," Mando said, watching as the kid delightedly crunched the crystals between his teeth. "He's unharmed, as per the terms of our deal. Are you satisfied?"

"Very," she smiled serenely at him. "I thought I'd be spending the night cleaning brain matter off the walls. Instead, I got to play with an adorable baby."

Anassa lifted the Child from her hip and handed him back to the Mandalorian.

"You still want me to bind and gag you?" Mando asked. "I could just lock you inside, like I did with Carr?"

"No," she shook her head. "I've got to sell this if there's a chance I can retain his trust. And he'll need a witness to help explain what happened to the guards." Mistress Anassa looked thoughtfully at the Mandalorian. "When life hands you an opportunity, it's best to seize it with both hands."

"Very well." Mando reached for the plush, decorative rope tying back the curtains—he could at least ensure that she was comfortable.

"Speaking of which," the Mistress grinned. "I do hope you'll reconsider my offer. There are a number of ways we could leverage your particular talents at the Dark Garden."

The Mandalorian offered her a chair.

"After listening to the ruthlessness in your voice saying, You're going to give me what I want..." she shivered rather theatrically. "Fear is a very potent form of arousal. I'm confident we could find clients looking for nothing more than degradation."

The audacity of her proposal impressed him, and his mouth quirked into a begrudging smile beneath the Beskar helmet.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said.

"And what knots do you plan to use?"

Mando huffed—not quite a laugh. This was beginning to feel like an audition. "A bowline. But I can use a hitch knot if you prefer?"

"Merely professional curiosity," Mistress Anassa grinned, sitting in the armchair as though it were a throne. "Do you have a suggestion for the gag?"

The Mandalorian cocked his head, "Give me your necktie."

He wasn't entirely comfortable with how much keen interest lit up her face. A businesswoman through and through.

She hurriedly fished something out of her suit pocket. "Take my card. You're a working father, after all. It pays to be flexible when there are mouths to feed."

****************

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #5: Wish You Were Here!

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#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #star wars smut

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like-a-bantha · 1 year

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Checkmate

Summary: Maybe you're not the best at dejarik, but you do know your way around a chess board. In the absence of a board, you'll make due with your imagination. (Alternate title: Two dorks play chess, maybe they’ll kiss?)

Pairing: Tech/Gender Neutral Reader (no Y/N, no descriptions of reader's appearance other than being shorter than Tech)

Rating: G

Warnings: None! Just some brotherly teasing and good old fashioned chess.

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: This is silly and short and not Busted Hyperdrive (it's coming, I promise!) but I couldn't rest until I got this out of my system. It's my first non-platonic fic so if it sounds a little strange, I offer my sincerest 'my bad's. I'm also not a chess master, so if you're just here for the chess you're probably not gonna dig this. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and feel free to leave some feedback! <3

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

It started a few months back when you all had some downtime at Cid’s. You entered the parlor to find her grumbling to herself as she attempted to fix the dejarik table, now temporarily out of commission after taking one too many frustrated blows. You’d all been off-world when it finally kicked the bucket, but Cid’s grumpy tone while recounting the incident paired with the large dent was all the evidence you needed. The Trandoshan, feeling particularly charitable, offered a small handful of credits if they were able to patch up the abused machine. Taking it as a challenge, Tech finished the repairs within the hour, even going as far as to fix the nasty dent. You and Omega waited patiently for the table to be revived so she could teach you how to play, explaining the rules and pieces over a carton of mantell mix. You nod along, half-understanding how the game works but knowing full well you’re about to make a fool of yourself.

“I am finished.” Tech announces, slipping his tools back into their respective slots on his belt as he stands. He’s nearly knocked over by his little sister in her mad dash to the table, waving you over as if you’re not just a few steps behind her.

Nevertheless, you laugh and pick up the pace, thanking Tech as you take your seat. Omega pushes a few buttons and the table begins humming to life. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not gonna go easy on me?”

Without missing a beat, Tech answers the question for her. “She will not.” He pulls a chair over to the table, knowing exactly what’s about to happen even if Omega denies the claim.

Three games later and both clones are sporting rather smug looks; Omega’s for pride in her strategizing skills, and Tech’s for being right in his claim. Not one to be a sore loser, you thank her as you stand from the table, “That was fun, but I think I’ll stick to the version I played back home. You wanna take over for me, Tech?”

“I wanna hear about your version!” Omega perks up, interested in a variation of her favorite game. You glance over to Tech, who hasn’t taken the now empty seat, his head just barely cocked to the side in question as he wordlessly awaits your explanation.

You stand, looking between them for a second before returning to your seat, a sigh slipping through your grin. With that, you dive straight into your description of the game, detail matching Omega’s earlier lesson. Both of them listen intently, asking questions that you happily answer. Tech glances down at his datapad every so often, you can’t seem to fight back a smile when you realize he’s been taking notes. Once you finish your explanation he sets it back down on the table while Omega looks at you expectantly, as if waiting for you to pull a full chess set out of thin air to give them both a demonstration.

“That sounds fun! Can we play?” Omega asks, eager to try her hand at a new strategy game.

“If we can find a set, I’d love to! But they’re pretty hard to come by outside of my planet.” You try to put on a hopeful smile, now regretting mentioning it in the first place as her own smile slowly fades. “I mean, technically you don’t need one,” this grabs both of their attention, “but it will be a little tougher.”

“You can play without the board? Or the pieces?” Omega asks, clearly skeptical as you said it was a board game. Tech, on the other hand, seems intrigued.

“Y’know how I said there’s a notation system?”

“Are you suggesting the game can be played verbally?” Tech reaches for his datapad; checking his notes, you figure.

“It’s possible! When the Empire showed up in my city and forced us out we didn’t have time to grab the fun stuff – mostly just, like, food and water.” You almost cringe a little, talking about your past isn’t really your forte. “We got bored, we played in our heads and called out our moves. It took some getting used to, but it’s still fun!”

“Fascinating.”

“You guys wanna give it a go?” Omega seems a little unsure but excited enough to jump into a practice round.

Despite her hesitation, Omega did surprisingly well. She even managed to beat you in the third game. And, unsurprisingly, Tech played like a natural, instantly picking up the game that took you months to master. You managed to beat him in your first game, but the next two were easy wins for him. If you were playing against your friends back home you might’ve gotten a little competitive, but the proud smile that crept onto your face after the first game has yet to fade. Later on, after the rest of the batch returned to the parlor, you sat back and listened to Tech and Omega’s gripping game – too enthralled to tell either of them that it will most likely end in a stalemate.

Hunter took a seat next to you at the bar, when his gaze shifts from Tech and Omega to you with a quirked brow you let out a quiet chuckle. “They’re playing chess.” He huffs, amused as the two of you watch their game in silence.

Soon, it becomes a favorite pastime among the three of you. Omega has tried to get her other brothers to join in to no avail, none of them seem to enjoy it nearly as much as the three of you. After a little digging, Tech finds a slew of archived games from your home planet and studies them intently. Whenever you find yourselves on a supply run off-world, you and Tech volunteer yourselves every time to search for a real set. What started off as a wild porg chase turns into a sort of tradition and, strangely enough, you find yourself looking forward to supply runs.

You’re counting ration bars and bandages after a too-long mission for Cid, most of your stock depleted, while Omega takes another study break to play a few rounds of chess with you. Hunter makes the call to stop on Boonta to refuel and restock, knowing the second you return to Ord Mantell you’ll be sent off on another mission. This time, when the Marauder touches down in a dingy space port, no one bothers asking who will be heading to the market.

Omega hums in thought, absently fiddling with her datapad as you wait for her next, and most likely last, move. She’s got you cornered, your only possible escape is Kb7 but she’s still got her Queen, and you’re out of pawns to promote. Her eyes light up. “Rook to b3! Checkmate!”

“I forgot about the rook!” You laugh, impressed at how she’s improved. “Good game, Omega, that’s four wins in a row!”

“It’s all about the strategy.” She beams triumphantly.

“Yeah? How about you strategize some homework,” you laugh, standing to leave, “then maybe we can play on a real board later.”

The girl’s laughs are suddenly interrupted by Wrecker’s booming voice calling your name from the cockpit, followed by a loud, “Your boyfriend’s waiting!” You just roll your eyes, Omega tries to suppress a giggle as she puts on her best studious face, her eyes locked on her datapad.

When you pass him on your way out, a barely noticeable blush on your cheeks, Wrecker lets out a barking laugh. You shoot him a look, but this only draws another laugh from the gentle giant. “Keep that up and I’ll make sure to stock up on those blue ration bars you hate.” That does the trick. Letting out a victorious laugh of your own at his silence, you make your way down the ramp where Tech patiently waits. “Ready?”

He clears his throat quietly, storing his datapad before he begins leading the way to the market. “After you.”

“Oh, how kind of you. E4.” You laugh, you two always tend to walk a little slower on supply runs.

“I assumed you would like the advantage after losing our last match.” Tech simply states, his impartial facade cracking when you shoot him an incredulous look. “E6.” His smile is barely visible, but you manage to catch a glimpse before he fixes his gaze on the path ahead. The two of you focused on the game as you navigate the city streets.

“Rook to B5.” You’re about to reach the forty-eighth move of the game with no clear end in sight as you approach the bustling market. “Did you wanna split up? I have to grab rations and stuff for the medkits.”

“Rook to A8.” He pauses for a moment. “I will accompany you.”

“Cool. Rook to D2.” You glance around the market, hiding your grin. You spot a vendor selling rations by the crate, buying wholesale might save you all some trouble. “Let’s check that stall first.”

“Very well. H6.”

You make your way through the crowd, now quickly calling your moves back and forth. Barely ten feet from the stall, you realize stocking up on rations would mean fewer supply runs and your mind starts to race. Suddenly, your pace is even slower than before and you’re losing focus on your mental image of the match. When you make an obviously thoughtless move, losing your knight, Tech stops in his tracks, turning to face you. “Are you alright? That was a terrible move.”

“Huh?” All of your focus has been diverted to quickly concocting an excuse that the genius would find believable. You can’t bring yourself to look away from the vendor’s stall. “Oh, yeah. They- uh, it looks like they only have the blue ones. You guys hate the blue ones, right?”

Tech’s brows furrow behind his yellow-tinted lenses. Maybe he didn’t buy the excuse but it certainly confused him. “I have no preference, nor do the others to my knowledge. Wrecker doesn’t like them, but he will manage.” You can feel his eyes on you, studying you, and you wished he would look literally anywhere else. “You’ve mentioned preferring them, however.”

“Let’s just look around a little more, maybe we can find someplace with more variety.” You turn to walk further into the market but he catches your wrist, his grip is loose but it brings you to a halt.

“Would I be correct in my presumption that you are attempting to under-stock our supplies to continue our regular supply runs?” You’re glad you haven’t turned to face him, your eyes are wide and your cheeks flushed, and he’s still holding onto your wrist as if you’d run away if he let go. You can’t think of anything to say, clearly you’re not great at excuses so you just stand there hoping he’ll just drop it.

You let out a heavy sigh, turning around to just barely face him, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, Tech. Sorry. I just…” You trail off, maybe now he might let it be, you’ll grab the crate of blue ration bars and be on your way.

“You don’t need to apologize.” His tone softens, you’ve never heard him sound so gentle. Your cheeks feel like they’re burning and he’s still holding onto you. “If we are unable to find a chess set today, I’m positive I can make one to your standards.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until it came out in a choked laugh. The chess set. Right. You make a mental note to not let Wrecker’s teasing get to your head. Cheeks slowly reverting to a normal temperature, you finally turn to face him with a bashful smile and the concern in his eyes begins to dissipate. “Thanks, Tech. That’d be nice.”

He returns your smile. “I will need your input, of course.” His gaze falls a bit and you see a flash of panic in his eyes before he quickly releases his grip on your wrist. Quickly bringing that same hand up to adjust his goggles, he clears his throat, now looking at anything but you. “G5.”

Your head drops with a laugh, nudging him with an elbow as you start towards the stall. “C’mon, let’s go buy a month's supply of ration bars Wrecker will hate.” As the tension fades from your body you find yourself able to focus on the game again. “Oh, and thanks for the pawn. Rook to H6.”

You were right, wholesale is way cheaper. Much heavier, too. After you find a med supply stall that’s somewhat reasonably priced, Tech offers to take the crate and you hand it over with almost no objection.

“Would you still like to look around for a chess set?” Tech asks, lowering the crate a bit so you can rest your pack on top while you fill it with rolls of bandages and tubes of bacta.

You pause, your hands resting atop the pack that rests atop the crate in Tech’s arms; your brows furrowed in thought, you absently chew on your lip as you consider his question. You look up to find him watching you intently, and, rather than avert your gaze from his, you smile and shake your head. “Nah, I think I’d like one you make much better.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something but seems to decide against it, simply responding with an equally warm smile.

You return your attention to your pack, making sure it’s shut securely before swinging it over an arm as Tech readjusts his grip on the crate. Letting out a content sigh, you both begin making your way out of the market. “Your turn.”

“Ah, yes.” He thinks for a moment, it’s anyone's game now since you came back from your earlier blunder. Waiting until you’ve left the crowded area, he calls his move. “King to F7.”

“Running away from me?” You joke, unable to suppress a giggle when Tech looks at you with mock exasperation. “What? Queen to B7.” He instantly realizes what that move means, but you can’t help but give him a deviously smug smile. “Check.”

“Interesting.” He ponders his next move, absently attempting to adjust his goggles only to realize he’s still holding the crate. You watch on as he shifts it around, trying to balance it enough to free his right hand momentarily.

“Okay, okay, hold on, just… look at me.” You place a hand on his fidgeting arm, all movement coming to a stop. You stand on your tiptoes, reaching up to gently slide his goggles back into place, careful not to touch the lenses. Your breath catches when you make sure you didn’t accidentally leave behind any fingerprints and finally see the intensity in his eyes. He’s completely still, as if he would scare you away with any sudden movement. You can’t help but freeze as well, hands still gently resting on the frame of his goggles. When you wobble a bit on unsteady tiptoes, your fingertips just barely graze his cheekbones and his lips part in a silent gasp and, oh god, now you’re looking at his lips. Eyes, look at his eyes, that’ll help, you think, so you look back to his eyes and catch them flicking back up from your lips, or maybe the ground, maybe he’s just really into dirt these days, and now you’re starting to get dizzy. You retreat rather abruptly, your heels meeting the ground with a quiet thud, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other on his forearm to keep from falling over. After overthinking some more, both hands come to rest unnaturally at your side, wide eyes trying to focus on anything that isn’t him but ultimately failing. His gaze hasn’t left you, his expression unchanged. Deciding you should say anything, literally any words to break this tension that you created, you clear your throat and give a shaky, “Any better?”

He just stares for a moment. You’ve never seen him this flustered – or flustered at all – and now you’re really about to panic, your mind playing a loop of oh maker, I broke Tech. You’re about to release a minimum of one hundred apologies when it seems he’s finally returned to his body. “King to G8.” As if nothing happened. As if he can still win after such a pitiful move.

“Oh, Tech, I’m so sorry.” You look up at him, guilt dripping from your words.

He shakes his head, readjusting the crate one last time before finally just setting it on the ground for a moment. “No need to apologize, I have been wondering for some time if my feelings were reciprocated.” When your eyes widen in shock, he decides to clarify. “Romantic feelings. Towards you.”

“No yeah, I got that.” You shake your head, a pleasantly confused smile somewhat replacing the shock on your face.

“You appear to be confused, is my conclusion incorrect?” Now it’s his turn to internally panic, second-guessing himself for what appears to be the first time.

He looks confused when you let out a short, nervous laugh. “No, you’re correct. Romantic feelings are very much reciprocated.” You take a tiny step closer, leaving little room between the two of you, returning to your tiptoes. Tech, ever the genius, takes the hint; first bringing a hand to your waist to steady you before closing the distance, your lips meeting in a sweet kiss as he brings a tentative hand up to gently cup your cheek.

When you finally part, returning to ground level once again though still in his embrace, he cocks his head to the side. “May I ask, then, why did you apologize?”

You laugh, your forehead bumping the chest plate of his armor before once again meeting his gaze. “Rook to C8.” You reach up for the shortest, sweetest peck of a kiss. “Checkmate.”

A/N pt.2: If that wasn't the cheesiest thing I've ever written, I don't know what is - Alexa, play Yuck! by Charli XCX. This was so fun to write! Thank you so much for reading! <3

#the bad batch #the bad batch x reader #tech x reader #tech x you #tech tbb #hunter tbb #wrecker tbb #omega tbb

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 5 months

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diasomnia ice-cream parlor au doodles

[Referencing this post!]

Hello, yes, I’ve been thinking about the Diasomnia ice-cream parlor AU again 🍨🍦 I guess I must have been really hungry lately www

I see them as offering not just ice-cream, bur also variants like gelato, shaved ice, milkshakes, etc. (They can afford it with support from the Draconia royal family’s funds 😂) The focus here will be ice-cream though, just because that’s Malleus’s favorite.

Imagine walking in and not knowing what to order (there’s so much to choose from!), so you ask the staff to pick something for you… (Yes, I’ve thought about this way too much and now I’m going to shovel this at you—)

Malleus strikes me as a very traditional and old-fashioned guy, so I’d see him falling back on ol’ reliable. You can’t go wrong with a classic sugar cone and a healthy scoop on top!

He recommends mint chocolate chip because it adds an additional pleasant cooling sensation to the actual coldness of ice-cream. Malleus is fond of the flavor himself; it’s great for cooling down a mouth that’s hot from breathing flames!

You’re brave if you accept anything Lilia hands you… You ask him what this is (the ice-cream looks… discolored in some places, and there’s all this weird stuff jutting out from it; is that a piece of lettuce???). He just winks at you and calls it “Lilia-chan’s Super Cute ⭐️ Special”, featuring a bunch of “unique” flavors he created himself.

It comes served in a cup because it’s easier to eat it while walking that way. For Lilia, who is a well-seasoned traveler, foods that are able to be eaten on the go are a plus!

Silver picks out a waffle bowl (it resembles a sturdy bird’s nest) and encourages you to try a lot of different things. It’ll help you to gain an appreciation for the new and unfamiliar! With how wide the waffle bowl is and how many flavors and toppings are in there, this can be good for sharing with friends from all over.

The particular version featured in the doodle has three kinds of ice-cream, each one representing one of the three Good Fairies. A pink flavor, a blue flavor, and a green flavor—maybe rose or strawberry, blueberry or cotton candy, and pistachio? It’s a very naturey palate.

His animal friends have helped with the ingredients; there’s honey drizzled on top, as well as crushed nuts. Freshly picked berries and edible flowers garnish the bowl too—oh, and we can’t forget a generous chunk of honeycomb!

… I don’t know much about Kingdom Hearts, but I’ve heard that Silver resembles Riku from KH?? So maybe Silver can offer some sea salt ice-cream too as a throwback 😂

… Was anyone surprised by this? No? No.

Sebek chose a tall parfait glass for serving so that the dessert can be as tall as possible. It’s a matcha and ube soft serve, swirled high. The green is Diasomnia’s color, and the purple is meant to be the color of the underside of Malleus’s cape. (Sebek wanted to include black ice-cream to for the Draconia royal color, but couldn’t find a good flavor.)

Art isn’t his forte, but Sebek did his best to “recreate the imposing, elegant image of wakasama” in his dessert. The cherry on top, flanked by two conical chocolate pieces, are meant to be Malleus and his horns. The wafer poking out is supposed to “enhance the young master’s presence”. All the other things are extra details in an effort to make the ice-cream larger than life: candied fruit peels arranged in a line (to resemble the spines on a dragon’s tail), mochi balls (“magestones”) piled to one side, and a chocolate biscuit stick + wafer that, together, look like Malleus’s staff.

Sebek tried really hard! … He will aggressively try to sell you on this item.

If you’re really hungry or with a large group, why not go for the Diasomnia Family Fundae? It’s their take on a sundae, served in a glass boat. There’s a whole banana, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and three maraschino cherries! The bramble is made of dark chocolate.

Each student is represented by one scoop and a little candy or chocolate that helps to characterize the boy (horns, bat wings, lightning bolt, or sword). Sebek is a lemon-like sherbet, befitting of his loud, in-your-face personality. Lilia is a bright red berry flavor (strawberries, cherries, cranberries, etc.), like his favorite red juices, deep and complex. Silver is vanilla bean, pure, simple, and earnest. (He could also be a subtle lavender flavor, since that's a flower known to ease you into sleep.) And Malleus… well, that scoop is a pitch black, but the flavor is something you can’t quite place your tongue on. It’s a mystery, just like he is! (Maybe the shop changes the flavor every now and again. They can run a promo where if you guess the right flavor combo for that particular week’s Malleus scoop, they give you a discount or a free cone.)

A lot of chocolate sauce is dripping down from the Malleus scoop; this is because the sauce is supposed to be his “blot”. The bottom three scoops—Lilia, Sebek, and Silver—are blanketed by the chocolate thorns as a reference to how those three were sentenced to sleep.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Malleus Draconia #Diasomnia #twst AU #twisted wonderland AU #AU #notes from the writing raven #my art #Lilia Vanrouge #Silver #Sebek Zigvolt #spoilers #Kingdom Hearts #KH Riku #Kingdom Hearts Riku #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst

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lothirielswandc · 8 months

Text

WE ALL PRETEND TO BE THE HEROES ON THE GOOD SIDE [VILLAIN, Ch. I]

Read on AO3 here!

— W A Y N E M A N O R —

The crescent moon was weak. The night’s soft smirk was useless against the shadows that slithered across the magnificent lawn. Blood-red skies were the only true light left; the death of the day.

Raven’s fingers trailed along the cool stone step. It was smooth; marble, not concrete. Knowing Alfred Pennyworth, the steps were probably clean enough to eat on, let alone sit on.

Warm gold light pooled across the steps as the doors creaked open. A shadow crept across the stone.

“Are you nervous?” the shadow asked. The voice was soft and deep. It’s usual demanding undertone was gone.

He sat down on the step beside her. Pine filled the air. Their knees brushed together. A small, delightful tremor ran through her body at the slightest touch.

His hand sought hers, quick to envelope it in warmth.

Raven shrugged, “A little, I suppose.”

“You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“You think I’m concerned for myself?” Raven met his emerald gaze. The green was darker in the dim light, its depths fathomless.

“I’ve met Constantine before,” he said.

Raven looked back at the dying sky. The blood was seeping away, fading to black. The birth of the night. Dread pooled in her stomach. Constantine had made his feelings clear before tonight.

‘He’s a menace! Everything that comes out of his mouth is an insult or a critique. He doesn't know the first thing about putting someone before himself.

‘I don't approve, love.’

His hand squeezing her made Raven look back.

“We don't have to do this if you don't want to,” he said.

Raven was shaking her head before he finished his sentence. “No. You’ve wanted to do this since we left. Besides, your mom is a part of your life.”

If Raven canceled, she feared that would send the wrong message. Looking cowardly wasn't her concern. Raven would not come between Talia al Ghul and her only son.

The heavy double doors opened once more. Alfred cleared his throat, “Master Wayne, Miss Roth, it's time.”

They stood as the butler added, “Last chance to run for the hills if need be.”

“Is that what you recommend, Alfred?” Raven smiled.

“I certainly would if I were you, Miss Roth.”

“Not funny, Pennyworth.” The stark utter beside Raven made Alfred chuckle.

They climbed the steps together. Light from inside chased the remnants of the night away. A hand stretched out towards Raven as she hesitated at the door.

“Ready to meet my parents?” Damian said.

Raven’s fingers slipped back into his, where they belonged. “As long as you can take mine.”

“Please. Zatanna’s infatuated with me,” Damian rolled his eyes.

“And King Shark still thinks you taste delicious,” she added.

“I prefer to keep that kind of commentary between us and no one else.”

They passed Alfred at the door and slipped inside. Raven didn't miss how the butler’s eyebrows were raised to his hairline.

Everyone had a baffled look on their faces recently. Raven always assumed it was because of her and her weirdness. Nowadays, she couldn't tell who the stare was meant for.

Damian’s hand held hers as they walked. The old-fashioned oil lamps along the walls filled the great entrance hall with warmth. Damian’s skin shone like bronze in the golden glow. He walked without the slightest hesitation; he didn't fear whatever the evening held.

“Depending on how the evening goes, I’ll tell them to do a closed casket,” Dick Grayson’s voice traveled across the parlor.

Dick stood at the bottom of the elegant staircase. Raven’s eyes started to travel down to Dick’s arm in a sling — she forced herself to look away. She focused on Koriand’r instead, who towered over Dick and everyone else. Kory’s great mane of curls shimmered like hungry flames as she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“I’m so happy for you! Meeting the parents is quite a show of intimacy, I’ve heard,” said Kory, clasping her hands together. Her tone made it sound like a compliment.

“Yeah, got that right,” Dick muttered. He shot what almost seemed like a questioning look at Damian.

Raven glanced at her shoes. She knew it was sudden. It had only been a week since they had returned from Europe. They stayed at Wayne Manor ever since.

In terms of gossip, a scandal probably lurked around the corner. But it was Batman’s family. As famous as they were, Bruce Wayne liked privacy. He kept to himself.

Catwoman was a different story.

“I’m truly joyful that you both have this,” Kory beamed at Raven and Damian. Her glowing green eyes settled on Raven, “and I’m happy we have more ties to one another. That we’ll always be connected…”

If we’re not connected by the Titans, Raven finished her sentence silently. Raven still hadn't forgotten the conversation Kory and Zatanna had in her head about whether the Titans were a good fit for Raven. Or, rather, if Raven was a good fit for them .

“You’ll have to tell me how tonight goes at our next double date!” Kory said. “Maybe we’ll get fondue…? I’ve heard mini-golf is a popular pastime!”

Dick stifled a laugh as Damian’s face froze with horror, “That sounds like a great idea, babe.”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Miss Roth? Your death awaits — ahem , excuse me. I have a toad in my throat. Your dinner party awaits.”

Damian glared at the butler.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Raven said. She resisted the urge for her lips to curve up and failed.

They followed Alfred down a gothic-style corridor. The scent of expensive wood polish and old-fashioned oil lamps simmered in the air.

Alfred slowed his pace, lingering at Raven’s unoccupied side. His voice dropped to a murmur, “If, by some particular matter, you must leave early tonight due to unforeseen difficulties, I have arranged a rope outside the far right window of the room, for a quick departure.”

“Pennyworth!”

“All in jest, little master, all in jest,” Alfred raised a gloved hand to cover his mouth from Damian’s sight and mouthed the words, no it's not .

“You know I can teleport, right?” said Raven.

“Yes. And Mr. Wayne is Batman. And I punched Superman in the face. We all have our talents, Miss Roth. But it’s best to have backup plans.” Alfred faced forward after that, resuming his quick pace ahead.

Raven glanced at Damian. He frowned at the butler’s back.

“You pay him enough, right?” she asked.

“I have my own townhouse in Paris,” Alfred said.

Damian sighed.

They reached the double doors to their doom — the dining room (Alfred’s commentary was wearing off on her). The butler paused at the entrance, casting one last pointed look at Raven.

“Open the door, Pennyworth,” Damian said.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Azarath Metrion Zinthos.”

“That's three, little master. Not one.”

It took all of Raven’s willpower not to laugh on the spot. She squeezed Damian’s hand, feeling his deep urge to not obey Alfred.

So stubborn . Raven turned away from Alfred. She leaned up on her toes and whispered in Damian’s ear, “You know I’ll still find you attractive if you're nice to him.”

The deep force of opposition emitted from him wavered, but it was still intact.

“I could show you how attractive I think you are…later,” her lips brushed against the bottom of his earlobe, “if you behave.”

“Please,” Damian blurted the word.

Raven sank back onto her heels. When she faced Alfred, he was staring at her like he had just witnessed divine interference.

“You truly are magical, Miss Roth.”

“I know.”

Alfred bowed his head. “I hope you survive. You’d make an interesting addition to this family.”

He turned away and threw the double doors open wide.

Dining room was a modest description. Dining hall fit better. A long table was stretched beneath a massive map of Gotham on the high ceilings. Long enough to house all of the children Bruce Wayne had adopted.

Three were already seated at the table.

Raven let Damian lead as she took them in. Bruce and Selina Kyle sat side by side along the edge. Selina’s gaze trickled down Raven. It always lingered at the gem embedded to her forehead, which Raven tried to hide lately with bangs. Her eyes sliced across the rest of her, as if preparing quips critiquing her fashion choice and goth tendencies.

Raven’s eyes shifted to the head of the table, where an even more penetrating stare cut across the room.

“My son,” Talia al Ghul rose like the night seeping up to embrace the moon. She moved across the room swifter than a light breeze towards Damian.

Raven stood awkwardly to the side as Talia enveloped him in a warm embrace. She stared over his shoulder at Raven.

“Hi,” Raven said.

Talia parted from Damian and stood before her. Gorgeous didn't begin to do her justice. Models would’ve felt self-conscious in Talia’s wake, dressed in a green gown perfect for a red carpet appearance. Familiar bronze skin shone beneath the chandelier, completely scarless. The Lazarus Pit’s work, no doubt.

“So,” Talia’s eyes, a shade of green Raven knew well, seared into her. “You’re the demon girl.”

Read on AO3 here

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