#trade mark tattoo

[adashofginger]

"He ain't at Kinkos, but he printin' in them sweatpants."

T.h.u.g. (trade) | Todrick Hall

Model: Mark Rector

[dead-end-draws]

WOF tribe Merchant/Trading booth concepts:

Hey folks! This one was the recent winner of this WOF poll, so here’s my concept art that headcannons trading in Pyrrhia.

Read below cut for close-ups of the individual booths + the thought process / headcannons behind the design choices: 👇

Skywings: The Sky Kingdom’s mountain ranges provide plenty of pasture for raising sheep. As such, Skywing shepherds benefit from traveling to sell their wool, dyes, fabric, and woven tapestries. Many of these merchant tables also include herbs grown exclusively in the mountains, or ibex drinking horns that can be strapped on a dragon’s shoulder & carried in flight.

Along with goods, Skywing merchants may offer sewing services to fix tears, burn marks, or other fabric damage. They are sought out for their quality clothing, and most fabric across Pyrria originated from a Skywing’s talons.

Mudwings: Mudwings’ abundant food & cooking skills are envied almost anywhere in Pyrrhia. Their swamps have fertile soil, responsible for hosting diverse crops which can be purchased as produce at merchant stalls. For those lucky enough to find a traveling Mudwing merchant, the promise of a delicious dish can be whipped up and served at the stall in no time. Along with produce goods, Mudwings sell weaved baskets, spices, and cooking ware.

Sandwings: Sandwing booths offer luxuries of the desert: It’s most common to find accessories such as gold carved jewelry or musical instruments such as drums, lyres, & mandolins for sale. Though, even more sought out across Pyrrhia is Sandwing tattoos/piercings, which are done within the merchant areas. Ink etchings on papyrus paper are stationed outside their tents to showcase designs. All which can be selected, and poked into the skin with a tapping stick and plant dye ink by a trained talon.

Seawings: SeaWings sell a variety of ocean related goods; taking a share in the fish market with Icewings. Outside of food, there are den decorations like driftwood carvings, accessories such as seashell & pearl jewelry, and rope nets weaved by expert Seawing sailors. Some Seawings even sell fishing equipment, canoes, or offer sailor knot tying instructions to curious dragon buyers.

Nightwings: During the war, it was near impossible to find a Nightwing merchant. Most refused to participate in merchant territory, mostly as a way to keep up with their tribe’s mysterious nature.

Though in the more shady, unground parts of the market you can buy from a huge selection of obsidian weaponry, the sharpest in Pyrrhia. No one knew initially how Nightwings smithed so many weapons, or why, until their secret volcano kingdom and the intention to invade the rainforest was discovered. Then forging armor & weapons became clear. Along with a vast armory, for the right price, some Nightwing merchants offer Prophecies & Nightwing Literature (not always guaranteed to always be reliable) and assassin services as well (very reliable).

Rainwings: Though Rainwings haven’t been part of Pyrrhia trading for years, they have a vast hold on dragon medicine. An apothecary of herbs, salves, and remedies are all offered for various ailments due to the rainforest’s abundant resources. Along with medicinal goods, many Rainwings are fruit vendors, promising to any hesitant meat-eating dragons that such an array of flavors isn’t to be missed. Though, their fruit selling pitches often fall flat to most other predominantly meat-eating tribes.

Icewings: Icewings have everything a dragon could need to brace the cold, with a selection of goods only found in the most frigid regions of Pyrrhia. Furs, bone jewelry, and fresh fish (thanks to frost breath) are served on ice. Though Icewings themselves don’t require fur to withstand the cold, it’s considered fashionable and common in upper ranks to wear fur as a status symbol. Since metal is hard to smith without fire & in cold temperatures, fur and bone are more accessible to Icewings for clothing statements.

[gremlingottoosilly]

would monster!könig brand wifey? maybe a tattoo of his name instead bcs branding would hurt too much :(

He looks at your skin and you can almost picture him thinking about the branding. You saw it on a few other pets when you're actually allowed to nest with them - burn marks, bites, nasty scars that looks like they were hurting like hell while inflicted. You didn't want anything like this - Konig is bitey enough with you, all the bruises and suction marks from his tentacles framing you like his property without anything that would hurt too much. Still, you heard Kruger -- the nasty fucking dullahan that you hate(mostly because he was allowed to touch you and fuck you and mark you like you belonged to him, every time you didn't have eggs. The fucker actually made you beg Konig to breed you more, to never leave your tummy empty. maybe, it was his plan all along) was talking about branding you. You were property of the colonel, after all, not some whore he was temporarily using for the sake of dumping his eggs. Konig loved you, as much as a monster could even love a pathetic display like you - and he didn't want to trade you with any other dumb recruit who might think that your absence of permanent marks means you're free to be taken by everyone. You beg him and you plead with him, acting like the best fucking girl he ever had - you only barely managed to make him agree to a tattoo. It still hurts like hell, a big mark on your thigh - his name with a little tentacle flowing around it. Horangi made the design - he was taking the doodling and tattooing as a hobby before the monster outbreak, and he still enjoys doing it while he has time. Especially when his little mate and tiny tigers aren't distracting him...too much.

[bangaveragewhitewine]

seventeen again

Eddie Munson x Reader 

At a Hawkins house party, you find yourself stolen away from the throng with the theatre nerd who played the bad boy part oh so well. You always found yourselves together back then, drawn together by the universe. You look up at the perfect night sky and sigh. Yeah, you prefer it now, like this.

word count: 1.4k

contents: Eddie and Reader are in their late twenties/thirty in this. All very mild and sweet. Some kissing, some yearning (past). I’m (as always) in my feelings. GN!Reader. Reader sits on Eddie’s lap. If you so choose, you can read this as Eddie and Reader being parents if that’s your thing (it’s implied that some of The Party are parents).

note: Well, it’s been a while! I’ve wanted to write something for so long and I just couldn’t. This came from nowhere, a blank page that filled itself. I hope you enjoy it, even a little bit! Thank you @specialagentmonkey for reading over this! Dividers by @saradika-graphics

1995

A light breeze cuts through the muggy night air, not quite cool enough to make you shiver but you’re glad for the worn denim wrapped around you. You are grateful too for the body behind you, keeping you warm as you pass a joint and a beer back and forth. 

You feel seventeen again; a Hawkins house party, stolen away from the throng with the theatre nerd who played the bad boy part oh so well. You always found yourselves together back then, drawn together by the universe; paired up for a project or pulled together from the peripheries at parties and hangs to shoot the shit, trading gossip and blowing smoke rings. Just friends. Just friends until neither of you could keep pretending that it was enough.  The ‘will we, won’t we’, ‘should we, we shouldn’t, god I want to’ fear of ruining a blossoming friendship has long been put to bed and locked in with a ring on your finger, a home together. A life together. You look up at the perfect night sky and sigh. Yeah, you prefer it now, like this.

Ever the drama club kid, never missing his cue, Eddie drops a sweet kiss onto your shoulder and lets his chin rest there for a moment. 

The sounds of the party going on without you bleed through the open kitchen windows, reaching you on the shady back patio sharing a lawn chair. The music and Dustin Henderson’s pitchy delighted laugh, loud voices and Robin’s cackling joy. It is everything you missed.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Eddie asks, breath tickling your neck.

You rest your head back, tilted to look up at him. “You. Us.”

A syrup-slow smile spreads across his face, making his dimples deeper behind his dark stubble and crinkling the lines around his eyes. Your bodies are both softer and stronger now; you know every wrinkle and tattoo, every stretch mark, scar and freckle. You both know the ticklish spots and where the stress and tension settle and twinge. Behind the smile lines and the extra ink, Eddie is unmistakably the same boy you fell in love years ago.

“Yeah? Sap. You’re sitting there smiling to yourself, thinkin’ about me? Me? You like me or somethin’?”

Pleasantly cross-faded, his teasing makes you feel warm and giggly which makes his smile wider and more fond. 

“Mmm, yeah. You’re kinda cute…”

Eddie’s arms tighten around you and he dips his head to press your lips together, both smiling and lovesick. It’s hard to keep up the charade when you look so pretty under the porch light. 

Heads together, you both settle into the content silence that comes with being together for over a decade. Eddie makes a small noise of thanks as you pass him the bottle of beer you have been sharing. It’s wet with condensation, and the beer is not as cold as you wish it was. You will grab two more from the fridge when rejoin the party. Not yet, but soon. This is enough for now. Your friends have not come to drag you back inside yet but you both know the clock is ticking. There is still plenty of cake to eat and drinking games to play. There are a few shots left on the disposable cameras lying around the kitchen counters and side tables, they will not go to waste.

Despite how much Eddie likes attention, basking in the spotlight and the thrill of applause, something about his thirtieth birthday party caused a few more ‘where’s the birthday boy gone?’ moments than expected when he slipped away for quiet moments alone or with one of the assembled Party.

Dustin had basked in that pocket of quality time with Eddie sitting together on the front porch, promising another Hellfire Weekend soon before this one had even ended. There’s a one-shot planned for tomorrow which will be fueled by caffeine and breakfast sandwiches and so much Advil. Nancy let herself be tempted away with a single celebratory cigarette and after that, Max needed her own break from the men reverting to their boyhood squabbling. She steered Eddie out to walk around the garden, sharing an edible and getting a little bit sappy about how far they had come from neighbouring trailers in Forest Hills - though neither of them would ever admit it. (Well, Eddie would but Max would punch him in the arm about it). 

Gladly and graciously, you took your turn at last. Eddie’s hand found yours in the melee and you let yourself be stolen away for a moment to check in and indulge in some nostalgia, and make out just a little bit in the shadowy backyard of El and Mike’s house. You had never been brave enough back then, on nights a little like this, to dream that Eddie would actually ever kiss you like you wanted him to, let alone make a move to break the tension that sparked between you like that dud lighter you used to carry. Eddie had borrowed and burned himself on that neon pink Bic more times than you could even remember, cursing like a sailor every time. When you were doubled over laughing at his expense, he used to feel dizzy with how bad he wanted you, how making you laugh and smile made him sick with the swirling butterflies in his gut. 

It all started with a warm shared beer and joint on someone’s pool deck. Once you had that first kiss, it was hard to stop. He was there to kiss you after you walked across the stage without him at graduation. He was ready for the inevitable parting of ways, all too aware of how ready you were to leave Hawkins, but you stayed and waited for him through everything. You stayed and you were there next to Wayne to cheer and holler when he thrust that diploma into the air a year later, and you kissed him with tears on your face when he came to find you in the crowd.

Eddie squeezes you a little tighter, his own thoughts about the past and the present, your future, turning around in his head too. 

The sky above you twinkles endlessly. This might be one of the things you miss the most. You’re far from the light pollution in the city and it’s nice to stargaze for a while as you sit together on a sun chair built for one. You’re staying with Wayne for the next few days before you head back to reality, back to the fixer-upper house in the suburbs of a city a couple of hundred miles away; his backyard is perfect for stargazing and it was worth the trip just for that. 

“Are you having a good time?” you ask, toying with the springy coil of a curl that lies against his neck.

Eddie nods, looking up at you. You are prettier than any star he could gaze at.

“Mmhm, the best,” he says, his voice quiet but laden with sincerity.  

Eddie used to think that once he got out of Hawkins he would never ever come back. He thought he would sail out of there with two fingers up to the town he grew up in, eyes on the road ahead. Wayne would have understood why, but he was glad that his boy changed his mind. Neither of you thought that you would be back here for a party with your variety pack of friends, all of whom had scattered across the country to begin and build their own lives. No one had flaked or faltered to say ‘yes!’ to the invitation to Eddie’s birthday, booking plane tickets and wrangling partners and spouses and kids for a trip home to Hawkins to celebrate their DM, their bandmate, their friend. 

Said friends have missed him too much to let him skip out on the party a moment longer. You can hear the commotion and in a moment the backdoor will swing open and Mike and Lucas will wolf whistle and tease and insist you both rejoin the party. But your eyes stay fixed on Eddie.

You can see a shred of lingering bewilderment in his eyes; everything turned out okay, better than okay. Your lips press against his for a moment before you wrap yourself around him, nose against his neck into that heady blend of spicy cologne and sweat and smoke.

“Happy Birthday, Eddie.” 

Thank you for reading! Reblogs, comments and likes are cherished and adored 💜

[buddie-fic-recs-this-way]

what are your fav buddie au’s? i’m looking for like cute/ mild angst but with a happy ending? for reference i like the au’s where neither one of them is a firefighter, like they’re a chef or a barista or a teacher, stuff like that! but i also like when one of them is a firefighter and one isn’t! honestly im not picky i’m just on a “fluff buddie getting together au” kick right now lol!!!❤️❤️❤️

well you have come to the right place! au's my most beloved. i'm also known as the au queen 😂 (since i'm combining these asks, i'll put which one's are angsty) i tried to stick to more “normal jobs” so i hope these are what y’all are looking for <33 as always if anyone else has other recs, please feel free to add them!

pick a star on the dark horizon (follow the light) Bob_loblaws_lawblog @bi-buckrights (army buddie/angsty)

winner takes it all buddiefication (pumpkincreamcoldbrew) | (hockey buck/baseball player eddie/ light angst)

now our love lives in the radio | heartbeatdiaz @loserdiaz (college au/ radio host buck/ fluffy)

traded | Princessfbi @princessfbi (hockey buck/ bartender eddie/ light angst)

falling for you (when you're miles away) | MonsterRae1 @monsterrae1 (long distance relationship/ buck is a course teacher for LAFD/ angst)

cordolia verse (bakery au) | MonsterRae1 @monsterrae1 (baker!eddie/barista!buck/ fluff)

kiss me before it's over (if only for a minute) | Bob_loblaws_lawblog @bi-buckrights (baseball buddie/light angst)

come love, | colonoscopys (business man buck meets bodyguard eddie/ angsty)

don't play games (come my way) | letmetellyouaboutmyfeels @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (buisnessmen buddie/light angst)

a wednesday in a café (i watched it begin again) | MonsterRae1 @monsterrae1 (nurse!eddie/firefighter buck/coffee shop au/fluff)

made your mark on me (a golden tattoo) | heartbeatdiaz @loserdiaz (tattoo artist!eddie/fluffy)

wastin' my time when it was always you |heartbeatdiaz @loserdiaz (childhood friends to lovers/navy seal buck/angsty)

eyes like sinking ships (in waters so inviting) |heartbeatdiaz @loserdiaz (lifeguard!buck/more fluff than angst)

falling slowly; sing your melody (i’ll sing it loud) |Princessfbi @princessfbi (musician!buck/bodyguard!eddie/angsty)

hearts, hooves, and healing | mansikka @redlightsandicedtea (neither are firefighters/horse sanctuary/fluffy)

your name is written in the sand | lecornergirl @clusterbuck (lifeguard!buck/fluffy)

let my ink stain your pages |letmetellyouaboutmyfeels @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (author!buck/detective!eddie/fluff & angst)

steppin' into fate | r_holland @onward--upward (hockey buddie/fluff & angst)

i don't mind waiting (if it's for you) | Princessfbi @princessfbi (detective!eddie/bartender!buck/angsty)

a picture is worth a thousand words (but love is undefinable) |extasiswings, letmetellyouaboutmyfeels @extasiswings @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (model!buck/photographer!eddie)

teardrops could be bottled | Princessfbi @princessfbi (model!buck/photographer!eddie)

string of hearts...| ReallySmartLadyMarieCurie (plant shop owner buck/firefighter eddie/fluff)

what if you're someone i just want around... |ReallySmartLadyMarieCurie (boxer!eddie/firefighter buck/angsty)

pin me to the wall, i'm an art piece | whiskis @angela-feelstoomuch (models buddie/fluff & angst)

cowboys, jorts and building shit |Ineedapuppyandsomevodka (houseflipper!buck/carpenter!eddie/fluffy) @ineedapuppyandsomevodka

frequent flyer | whileyouresleeping @whileyoursleeping (eddie is a firefighter/buck is not/fluff)

coastlines | browney3dgirl6 (surfer-shopowner!eddie/firefighter buck/ agnsty) a lil self promo; i would list more but 99% of what i write is au's like this 😅 if you want me to make a separate post of all of them, just lmk 🫶🏻)

[virtualgirladvance]

If i was of the fae I would trade or steal tattoos/marks/scars/etc off of people

[wishmaster]

Hey wishy! I’ve been bullied my hole life for being an out and proud gay guy. I’m as femme as they come, singing showtunes and prancing my way through life. I was wondering though. I’ve always thought about how the other, straighter half live. So, like could you turn me into an obnoxious straight dude. Whose whole personality is about be anti woke and straight?

straighter half

Barely out of high school now you ooze douche bag jock. Your ripped body every girl's dream. Though spending the summer at the homestead in the south wasn't your ideal at least you get one last hurrah with all the pussy you missed out on before graduation.

You reek from the chores you did today, you decide to go to the gym keep the stench alive. Hey Billy Ray, one of your ex girls said as you left you ignore her looking to trade her in for a better piece of ass in the big city. She's still pissed you broke it off and decides tp pants you, putting your bare ass on display, reveal a pride flag tattooed on your ass thanks to yours truly. Suddenly you're furious, ain't having no god damn woke faggot shit on me and in your new dumbass way yo look for the stupidest ways to get it off.

You grab your gun hellbent to find out who put that there.

You spit your chewing Tobacco and hop in your truck, heading out to raise hell while your girl shames you on the socials, by the time you make it into town, you're a disgrace for having that filth on your body

You go as far as fucking a girl in front of your buddies just to prove you ain't no fag, but you've been marked. It's too late, the life you lived was over ruined my some dumb ass tattoo. that night you end it all feeling the shame you brought on your family even though that wasn't who you were.

When you awoke, you found you were your old bubbly self, the memories embedded in your mind of the antiwoke straight dick still haunted your mind as you head outside, spitting tobacco from you mouth as your cute hillbilly boyfriends came in from tending to your family farm. You're so happy you grew up in an accepting family that don't care if you're a fag or not.

[hobisstar]

scratches |short jjk headcanon

just a little something about jungkooks love for you scratching him

•personally i think kook absolutely loves to show off your scratches

•but with the business he is in, he needs to constantly get them covered

•he always say

• ‘Scratch me so i can wear proof of your release’

•that is something that he absolutely will proudly wear

• alittle too proud though

• ‘jungkook i told your back can not look like this! people will start to assume things,’

•thats what his make up stylist will say to him

• he shrugs each time but he knows how difficult it is to cover them.

•some look like you are a werewolf and tried to kill him

•some look like kitten scratches

•some look like bear attacks

• one time there was definitely an nail indentation on his back and the makeup team was extremely shocked

•another time it led to his lower back

•glad he was wearing long black clothing

• he wants to get your scratches tattooed somewhere on his sleeve

• he gets your scratches youll get his hickeys

•fair trade

•hes very particular about your scratches too

• its weird but he only wants them on his back

•one time it was on his shoulders and he was a little sad

• he felt as though you didnt full cum when you explained to him that you were scared to keep scratching at his back

•leaving so many marks you know its such a hassle to cover

•especially the deeper ones

•moral of the story is he wants all of your scratches

•never hold back on them claws girlies

—————————————————

happy thanksgiving my babes! this is just something i wanted to write for you guys! honestly im thinking of taking a break till maybe January or february? just so you know i can focus on myself and mental health. im fine, yes, but still need a reboot lol.

happy holidays!

hobisstar signing off! 🫶🏽🤝🏽

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Let's Hear it for the Humphead Wrasse

The humphead wrasse, Cheilinus undulatus, is also known as the Māori wrasse, Napoleon wrasse, or the blue- tooth grouper. They can usually be found around coral reefs and steep rocky cliffs in the Indo-Pacific, particularly on the east coast of Africa, the west coast of India, and the tropical waters of southeast Asia and the Great Barrier Reef.

The Māori wrasse gets its name from the distinctive markings that adults carry. Males are blue-green or purple, while females are more often red or orange. Both have unique patterns of lines and dots covering their heads, and stripes running down the rest of their body; early researchers compared the patterns on their heads to the tattoos traditionally used by the Māori people. In addition to its striking coloration, C. undulatus is also known for being the largest member of the wrasse family. Males can reach up to 2 m (6.5 ft) long and weigh up to 180 kg (396 lbs), while females tend to be smaller. Males also have a large 'hump' on their foreheads, hence the name humphead wrasse.

Another feature of note in C. undulatus is the set of large teeth fused into a parrot-like beak. They use this beak to predate upon hard-shelled animals like mollusks, urchins, sea stars, and crustaceans. On occasion, they also feed on smaller fish and moray eels. Due to their size, adults have very few natural predators aside from sharks, but larvae and small juveniles are more often opportunistically hunted by other fish.

Like many coral reef fish, the humphead wrasse is a protogynous hermaphrodite. This means that most individuals begin life as a female, and become male later in life-- known as 'super males', they are larger than males who did not transition. Individuals first become sexually mature at 5-7 years old, and females begin transitioning to male at 9-12 years old. Spawning occurs a few times a year, and during this period over a hundred adults can congregate in an area. The female releases about 20 eggs into the water column, where they are fertilized by her chosen partner. Three to four weeks later, the eggs hatch and the larvae migrate to the nearby reef.

Conservation status: C. undulatus is considered Endangered by the IUCN. Populations have declined due to overfishing and by-catch mortalities, loss of their food sources, habitat destruction, and capture of juveniles for the aquarium trade.

If you send me proof that you’ve made a donation to UNRWA or another organization benefiting Palestinians– including esim donations– I’ll make art of any animal of your choosing.

Photos

Andrew J. Green

Lluís Masuet

George Ryschkewitsch

[eatommo]

Like Real People Do [d.d]

Summary: You and Mando have a history of broken hearts and are both looking for a place to land in the galaxy you live in, but you'll always have each other.

A/n: Not beta'd! mistakes are my own! and look a Hozier song to a Pedro fic what's new! I love this. I hope you do too! 6.2k

Cw: Canon typical violence, mentions of human trafficking, use of weapons, mutual pining, discussions of loss, discussions of war, brief mentions of grief, Reader is from Alderaan (trauma that comes from that), the reader has some of my tattoos because we love a self-insert, broken glass, pubic hair?, unprotected p in v, mentions of marking, hickeys, mentions of oral sex m/f receiving, fingering, the helmet stays on, breeding kink if you squint, as always touched starved Din, themes involving depression and loss, takes place post season 3 but has a flash back to season 1, I probably missed something but let me know!

It had been ages since you’d seen him. You’re not sure how many rotations, but not a day has passed that you didn’t think about him.  But there, just passing the entrance to the trading post, his shiny beskar helmet flashes over the crowd.  

You put your head down, looking at the spare parts you were hoping to auction off for some measly credits at a holiday festival for some caf and to help you hopefully buy some piece of junk craft to get you off this dusty and dry planet.  

Maybe you’ll be lucky and you can slink away, and evade an awkward reunion all altogether.  You found an outcropping and a small table covered in different smoked meats and small roasted animals.  

You try to sell the fact that you look busy while you think about the last time you spoke to him.  Your conversation about the rebel symbol marred into your skin with black ink, Cara had done it herself, and you’d helped her put the very same symbol on her cheek. The pain felt good, it mirrored the grief that felt immeasurable and it almost felt like a release of all of the terrible thoughts of your family’s final moments.  Had your family suffered? Did they even know what was coming for them?  

You were young and had just gotten off the planet in search of something greater, a higher purpose. Something to believe in, and the empire stole everything you’d ever known in one simple explosion. 

It had handed you a purpose, for a time. Working with the rebellion, standing with your Princess, and fighting and punishing the Empire for the loss of Alderaan.  Cara and you were hiding out on Sorgan after leaving your post as shock troopers. You were in the fresher when they started to tousle outside, you expected some gruff Klatoonian who she sharked in a bet, as it often was.  Instead, she lies on her belly, a blaster pointed at a chrome-covered Mandalorian, who is lying on his back with a weapon drawn.

The only thing that holds your attention is a little green baby holding a cup of soup, mirroring your amusement waddling up next to you.  

He coos, looking between you and his companion like he expects you to save him.  “Sorry bud, I’m with her.” 

An aggravated harsh pant cuts you off, “Stay away from him.” The blaster shifts to you, but you raise your hands and keep an even temper.  He looks between the two of you, who clearly have no intention or idea what he is in possession of, and offers to buy the two of your dinner.  

He didn’t speak much at first, but as you and Cara drank away a flagon of spotchka and you shared your interest in his ship, having to grow up around the rebel's fleet and wanting to see such an old military craft, he offered to show you.  

“It’s a short walk, the kid is falling asleep in your lap anyway.”  You look down at the little wrinkled green monster, blinking slowly with his massive eyes as you stroke his ears, you can’t help but fawn over him.  

“I can’t believe they’re hunting a baby.”  Whispering, as you feel the warmth of his tiny body, heartbroken at the idea of an imperial remnant looking for children.  

“He is older than I am.” His surprisingly playful voice almost startled you, he’d been quietly walking by your side as you carried the little guy nestled into your chest.

“He’s” you struggle to find words, but you can feel an energy emanating from the little creature in your arms “magnificent.” 

The Mandalorian hums lowly, agreeing with you.   There’s a pause for a few moments while you look over at him, “Did you find a lot of purpose? With the rebellion?” 

It's your turn to be broody, “For a time.” Suddenly feeling subconscious you speak a little bit more quietly, “Just waiting for the next thing to believe in I guess.” You sigh, gazing down into the dark black ink just above your rebel stripes, “It feels like I could keep fighting forever, but hearing all this, seeing such a small child threatened by the same evil as I was, it feels like I already have.” You’re not sure if he understands you,  or even what side of the war he stood on.  

“You feel like there’s reasons to fight.” He looks down into the baby drifting to sleep in your clutches.  “But afraid that you have no fight left.”  You half expect him to be criticizing you.  Mandalorians have lost almost as much as you have, but are warriors by nature and have fought and continue to be feared across the galaxy as mercenaries and bounty hunters.  His voice is soft, and understanding, as if processing his words himself. 

 You spot the ship ahead, falling silent in your admiration you trudge through the leaves and sticks that have fallen from the ship clearing its landing.  The ramp hisses as it falls open to welcome its pilot, but you stop outside to admire the twin engines and their decades-long wear and tear.  

Walking around the ship to admire her heavy laser cannons and her yellow markings.  He watches you with a quiet but proud silence, as you eventually shuffle up the ramp to set the little one into a floating pram.  Your eye catches a glimpse of a carbonite freezing chamber, and a little anxious butterfly seems to stir in your belly, how much do you trust him?  

“I always thought I’d die looking for a bounty when I got too old, too slow, or just in plain luck.”  You turn heel to face him, heartbeat clipping unsteadily in your chest, but you raise an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.  He hesitates and sets himself on top of one of the shipping containers. “But protecting this child has made me dream of a life I never thought I could fight for.” 

You can feel your body soften at his confession, cursing yourself for thinking lowly of a man whose been nothing but kind and trusting of you.  “I’m sure it's lonely.” You take a small but calculated breath, “He is lucky to have you.” The smile is soft, and you try to reassure him despite yourself. 

He looks at you standing but a few steps away from him, and nods, “I’m just as lucky.” 

The bustle of the holiday market slows to accommodate him, traversing through the stalls as all shapes and sizes scurry out of his way.  You swear to yourself, turning away and buying some meat you can’t afford.  When you hear your modulated name fall out of his mouth like a prayer, soft and delicate.  He steers around the crowd, veering right into your path as a child walks in front of you blowing bubbles from the straw of a festive drink.  

The Mandalorian approaches you with purpose, his walk deliberate and commanding as if everyone in the vicinity answers to him.  “Mando.” you smile briefly, warmth heating your cheeks, and the never-fading crush you have on this man skipping around your belly.  “Hi.” 

His gaze stays fixed as he reaches for your arm, touching a patch of ink that not only is new to him but you completely forgot about.  His glove runs over it and when it doesn’t smear it might’ve made his knees buckle. “The Crest.” 

You peer into the helmet, glad to have him near you again, and realizing how much you missed hearing his voice, a rush of blood washes over your cheeks again.  “Yeah,” you fumble around doubting your reasons for getting that tattoo in the first place, “I’ve been adding a couple of ships that are important to me.” 

You hear a small noise but are unable to determine the emotion behind it, “I was hoping to see you on Nevarro,”  your heart rate picks up in your chest, and of course, his helmet picks it up, “the last few times.” 

“I’ve been moving around, looking for something new.” There’s a sleepy squeal coming from his satchel, “is that?” He swings it around to the front and opens the top of the bag to reveal your favorite green forehead. “Handsome man! I’ve missed you little mudscuffer.” 

Mando chuckles under his breath as you pull the baby from his confines and offer him a piece of the meat you just bought. He swallows it down greedily.  “I swear he eats. He just woke up.” 

You smile and give him a playful look, “Is daddy feeding you enough munchkin?” You hand the baby another strip, Mando is glad you don’t see him adjusting his pants as the word daddy slips between your lips innocently, “Don't worry I’ll get you something sweet too.” 

Mando rests his hands on his hips, and shakes his head in mock defeat, “He’s not gonna want to leave.” He follows at your back as you carry the child through the marketplace, sometimes letting his palm rest on your back to keep close to you.  

He would not be one to admit but seeing you carry the child around reminds him of the times on Sorgan, of the weeks you spent together and his floundering inability to court you.  Even now the way you look at him has him hiding behind his beskar helm like a foolish schoolgirl.  

“He doesn’t have to, are you here for business?” You cast a look over your shoulder, “He can stay with me while you take care of whatever you need.” You find a stall selling some fruity overpriced drink for the planetary holiday. 

You look into your bag, coming up just a few credits short, and cursing at yourself.  Starting to walk away, “I’ve got it.” He cuts in front of you while gripping your shoulder and standing over the top of you, handing more than enough credits to the man in exchange for two drinks.  

Yet another blush creeps into your cheeks, “No need to spoil me.”  You offer the child his drink and he snatches it away from you eagerly with a screech.

“I want to.” That causes your brows to knit together and a deep ache below your belt to settle and warm. 

You sip away at the luxuriously sweet drink, wishing you could at least share it with him. “I have a room at an inn,” you offer, “or we could go back to the Crest, and catch up.” 

You lean against one of the walls so that you don’t accidentally traverse even further from his bounty.  “I don’t have the crest.” 

Your drink turns to ash in your mouth, “What? Is she in disrepair? I’m sure Karga-“ 

“It’s rubble on the planet Tython.” He’s sad, of course he is, but his hand finds the mark on your skin again, and you can’t help but mull over the memories, the connection you shared on that ship eviscerated. 

“I’m so sorry.” You let your head hang low, remembering how many conversations you shared hoping he’d invite you aboard as crew.  “I loved that ship. I mean not as much as you I’m sure.” 

He chuckles, thumb brushing over the silhouette as he speaks, “You don’t happen to know how to rewire an N-1 starfighter engine?”  

“I’m sure I could look at it, but I don’t think I’d be much help. Where the hell did you find one?” You’re a bumbling mess, wanting so eagerly for him to scoop you off this planet like he had before, but also knowing your heart couldn’t bear to watch him leave a third time.  

“I didn’t think so but I have no idea what you’ve been up to and-“ he pauses, stopping himself to watch you take a sip of the drink after licking some whipped cream off of the straw.  

“And?” You prompt him to continue, but he stares between you and the child who have matching bright red tongues and are both sporting some whipped cream out of the corners of your mouths.  

You catch a hint of strain in his voice, “We can rest at your place for a while. He’s due for a nap.” You squint at him a little, easily reading his stiff body language and the change of subject.  

At the word nap, the baby babbles away while chewing on the straw of his drink, “There’s a lot of sugar in this, so we might have to wait it out.”  

Mando lets out an exasperated sigh, “What have you gotten us into.” You’re both sitting on the floor of a modest single room with the little one taking turns climbing up and over the two of you.  

“You bought it,” raising your hands in defense, smile splitting ear to ear,  “I was going to split one with him.”  You reach out to try to grab his surprisingly quick body but he darts away with a giggle.  

“He’ll crash, eventually.” You could hear him talk about the baby for hours,  to sit with him and watch the two of them play together always felt like a treat on its own. “Get down from there.” 

“He’s fine, this place is a dump anyway.” You smirk over your shoulder as he climbs up onto your bed, rolling around and giggling half to himself while chewing on the mythosaur skull pendant around his neck. 

“How did you end up here?” Your face falls a little, but he’s kind, and soft, and you can tell he doesn’t want to pry but his curiosity is getting the best of him.  

“I was tracking a bunch of smugglers, the republic got word that they were hauling children to Canto Bight, and exporting them maker knows where.” You continue, trying to keep your breath even, “Cara had asked me as a favor, but I had a run-in with a group of pirates who saw my stripes and stole my ship.” 

“Does she know?” He shuffles closer to you, folding his knees in so that he can run a hand soothingly across the skin of your leg.  

“I don’t know,” You clear the tightness in your throat, “At least I don’t think so.” You find the words pouring out of you as if he is comforting you into realizing something you’ve been fighting for a long time.  “I don’t think I can fight like this anymore, and I don’t know how to tell her that.” 

He is quiet, giving a simple solemn nod, before pulling the rising phoenix from his back, and laying it on the floor.  He scoots closer to you, settling next to you as you both lean against the foot of your bed.  His beskar shoulder plate is cold on your cheek, as you lean against him, seeking reassurance you haven’t felt in so long.  

Silently a tear falls down your face, and as if prompted by his little superpowers the baby, climbs into your lap nuzzling your cheek and touching your face gently with a warm hand.  There are a lot of things this child is capable of, things you can’t begin to understand, over a lifetime that is marred with more violence and confusion than you will likely ever know existed. When he touches you, you can feel his pain and loss, but he also shares with you a joy and unfathomable curiosity over the smallest things he remembers.  

“I can’t take you on the N-1,” his voice startles you out of your stupor with the baby, “but if you’ll give me a few days, I’ll be back to pick you up, and you can stay with us on Nevarro until you find somewhere else, something else to do.” 

Your breath is shaking, and you’re not even sure the last time you felt safe enough to cry.  A small piece of you wants to run because that's what you've been doing for these last 10 or so years of your life.  Running from the Empire, running after them, and then running from yourself.  “I don’t think I could.” 

“Why not?” he reaches for your shaking hand, setting his gloved hand on top of yours, driving the energy in the room with the ease of piloting a speeder bike.  

“You’re a family, he has a routine, you’ve settled into this beautiful life that you’ve worked tirelessly for.  I couldn’t impose.” You try your best to sound strong like you’ve got a plan ahead of you, and the idea of not being around the two of them doesn't make your heart ache. 

He hums, and for a moment your cry is less of confusion and more out of pain.  His hand is gone from yours, and the lack of his warmth feels like a slap into reality, as you pinch your eyes shut to stop yourself from being embarrassed even further. 

You jump.  There's a much larger warm hand caressing your cheek, and turning your head into the dark stare of his visor.  You can see the tanned skin of his wrist as he turns your face slightly, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “It is the greatest mistake of my life leaving you on Sorgan.” 

You sniffle, the words sorting through the emotional fog of your brain, searching the blank emotionless canvas of metal for a hint of human connection, a flutter of an eyelash, anything.  You can’t find anything, until you hear the faint sound of his breath from beneath his mask, stuttering and insecure, his chest rising and falling like he’s fighting a battle with his own emotions.  

You feel it again, a swell in your chest of love and admiration and then you feel the tiny claws digging into the skin of your bicep. You look down at the tiny man as he steps between where your chests are separated by mere inches, “Could I have her come and get us?” You’re quiet as a loth cat, voice heady and rough. “I don’t think I could watch you go.” 

He lets the little one settle into his lap after a moment, this time you can hear relief and a half-broken smile in his tone, “Let’s just wait until he falls asleep, I’ll go to the ship and send a transmission.  I’ll come back with his pram, and then where we go. You go.” 

You clear your throat again, wanting so desperately for this to be real and aching to touch him.  “Okay.” your voice barely makes a squeak, he pressed the cold beskar helm to your temple.  

Wondering if he feels as raw as you, you place your hand on top of his suppressing the need to comment on how large it is, and tangle your fingers with his.  You stare at his hand, tanned and massive and warm. Human. You fold your legs in on themselves and shift your body so that you may properly look at him. 

The glove sits in his lap, and he looks so imposing in this tiny half-furnished room, polished and chrome in the dingy and ill-lit space you've called ‘home’ for these last few cycles.  You take his other hand, and look up to see if he’s going to stop you, but he is still and silent, so you slip the glove off his hand.  You trace from the tip of his middle finger, down his palm and up towards the pulse point of his wrist. 

He shudders beneath your touch, thankful for the mask to hide the crimson flush of his cheeks. He’s never had the opportunity to enjoy a tenderness like this, to feel his pulse quicken and the nervous butterflies he’s heard described during love stories on a holodrama.  It’s terrifying, he feels like he could vomit, but the way your delicate fingers trace circles over the palm of his hand makes him want to run his hands over every last inch of your body until he knows it inside and out like his blaster. 

The child settles into his lap, leaning his head against your arm as his head and eyes grow heavier with sleep.  “Why don’t we walk to your ship together?”  

Your eyes are bright, and he can tell by your posture that you feel better, but he can’t stop the audible grumble, not ready to let you or even your hand slip from his.  He nods and swallows harshly to clear his throat, “Alright.”

You walk across the market again, and the crowd parts before the two of you except this time you are holding onto his hand, and rather than trying to avoid his gaze like every other soul walking the market, you cling to his him trying to suppress the smirk curling the corners of your mouth.  

Nevarro has changed so much, you spend the first few days just getting accustomed to the new layout of the town.  Dropping the child, ‘Grogu’ (it took a while but it grew on you) at school, and then going to spend time in the market picking up some rations and some of the seasonal veg you’ve been coaxing into the little one’s belly.  

The domestic bliss that comes with living with Mando is both welcome and intoxicating.  You’re awake at odd hours of the night, talking and sharing stories about Jawas and your run-ins with Ewoks,  and sharing your dreams and hopes for the galaxy.  

He shares stories about Mandalore, about visiting there for the first time and bathing in the healing waters, about Bo Katan seeing a Mythasaur alive. All things you heard about as a young child, and symbols that brought hope and purpose to the entire creed were real and were aiding to heal the planet and its inhabitants. 

Then there were times when you both laid on the floor, watching the little one interact with a metal sphere, using his magic to hover it just out of your grasp and giggling himself to a peaceful sleep.  You’d lay together, wrapped in the comfort and protection of his house, and stare at the little man as he sleeps occasionally peaking into the reflection of yourself in his helmet, and blushing when you catch your own heart racing.

You want to tell him how you crave to be with him, how addicting his presence and his mind are to you, but you’re afraid.  Afraid to move too fast, to step over his barriers, but also knowing that each second without knowing the softness of his mouth is torture. 

The first time you see him in his sleep clothes, a plain dark green shirt with three buttons on the top and loose-fitting black canvas pants, no metal aside from his helmet, you choke on your cup of Jawa juice.   He’s large even without the metal beefing up his silhouette, his back broad and the fabric thin enough for you to see his muscles move as he opens a drawer for silverware. Even treating yourself to a glimpse of his waist and the way it tapers to his ass and hips.  

It’s become more common, in fact when he gets home, he almost immediately strips out of the armor in favor of something more casual and comfortable.  

Tonight the energy is different. The kid passes out early and you’re soaking a pot you used for dinner in the sink when he emerges out of his room.  You hear his footsteps, but they’re muted and soft, he’s barefoot. As you glance over your shoulder as he offers you a glass from his bedroom you see he’s in briefs, (the house is admittedly warmer as the seasons change) but the shock is plain as day as you turn so quickly away the glass slips from your hand and shatters on the floor. But the image of his chest spattered with hair that trailed down his soft belly and into the top of his black undergarments. 

You both are silent for  a moment, hoping the noise isn’t loud enough to wake the baby, in his silence you swear, “Kriff, don’t move I’ll get a broom.” You shy away, looking to the ground for a safe path.  

He cuts you off arm darting in front of you to halt your movement,  “I’ll get it.” His hand comes to rest on your hip stalling your movements with his warm palm. 

His other hand reaches out and before you can grumble in discontent he's lifting you onto the counter. You sit there, flustered with your hands tucked between your thighs as he fiddles with the control of his helmet flicking through to see which would help him find the scattered pieces of glass the best.  

It's moments, but it feels like an eternity as he searches for a broom, sweeping the glass into a neat pile before discarding it into the bin silently.  He settles between your legs, silent as a mouse.  

“I'm sorry.” You smile sheepishly, struggling to maintain eye contact as he hovers in front of you, inches separating your face, and if it were any cooler you would’ve fogged the front of his mask with your breath. 

He chuckles dryly, “Don’t be, I’ll take it as a compliment.”  His posture is full of confidence, but also comfortable and relaxed.  You long to touch him, to run your hand over his chest and abdomen, to feel the muscles shift in his back as he- “Mesh’la?” 

You blink yourself out of a daze, “You should, you’re so handsome.”  He braces his hands on the counter next to your hips and leans ever closer.

“Yeah?” His voice is hot like a pant, stroking a fire in the room that neither of you are able to ignore any longer. 

“Yeah.” You smirk at him, emboldened and smoothing your hands up the strong plains of his arms, squeezing lightly around the muscles of his biceps.  You let your foot run across his calf, urging him closer to your body, his hands find your waist, firm but careful as his thumbs stroke the skin just below your breasts.  You curse yourself for even bothering with a bra band.  

“I like having you here.” His head tilts, you can almost see the gears turning in his brain as he continues, “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” He uses his strength to pull you a little closer to him, so with each breath your chests touch and your core is flush to his abdomen.  “Having you in my kitchen, sitting on my counter looking so pretty, so-” He swipes the hair off your shoulder exposing your neck and throat, “edible.” 

Any chance you had of playing it cool is gone, you want nothing more than to bend to his will.  His hand disappears from your side, and he tangles it in your hair, using it to fix your eyes to his through the helm, as he strokes your cheek with his thumb.  You feel completely safe, but there’s something about him thats dangerous, hungry even, and it makes your skin damp with sweat.

He sounds like he’s in agony, like each passing moment without consuming you is torture, and you ache for him in a way that astonishes you, embarrasses you, not even sure that you could stand on your own two feet.  

“I need you.” He whispers, breath uneven almost a growl, “Tonight. Now.” He reaches between your legs, letting his fingers ghost over you ever so gently, as if asking, no begging, for permission.

You swallow hard, his helmet tilts, admiring you, and you hardly manage to stutter a yes.  Part of you expects him to be quick, tearing at your clothes and taking you right here in the kitchen. 

 He doesn’t.

 He goes slow, letting the crest of his helmet fall to rest on your forehead, taking his time to caress your hips, tracing up your sides and taking your shirt with it.  His hands are warm, but bring goosebumps to your skin as he touches you, hands squeezing your breasts and rubbing your nipple.  You keen, pressing desperately against his hands.  You lean in, placing a kiss to his collarbone, gentle and moving slow so he may stop you if he wants, but he drops his shoulder and tilts his head to expose his neck.  

You kiss his collarbone again, letting your tongue dart out to taste his skin, he’s vibrating beneath you. Trembling as you kiss the hollow of his throat and nibble at the skin of his neck.  You run your hands down his chest, basking in the intimacy and living for the scent of his skin.

He lifts you in a fluid motion, whisking you out of the kitchen and into his modest bedroom.  Laying you on the bed, he runs his hands down your legs and removes your pants.  You blush, unable to hide your arousal but noticing the prominent tent in his briefs, your mouth waters and you get to consider getting on your knees for him briefly.  

He’s faster than you, and not thinking about himself.  Ripping your underwear from your body and running the tip of his index fingers through your folds. “All this for me?” He circles your entrance, gathering your slick before brushing across your clit with leg-shaking precision.  

You chase his touch, the pleasure coating your tongue and fogging your brain even more than you can put into words. You beg for him to get closer, to press your bodies together until you weren't sure you'd ever part.

You're expecting to feel shorted by the absence of his mouth on yours.  No taste of him, and not getting to hear his words directly from his mouth, but his touch is consuming.  Like he's worshiping and waking each cell with caresses and adoration that's as palpable in the air as his sheets were soft on your back.  

There are noises, words you think, that he is muttering between each supple squeeze and tease, words you've heard him say before but their meaning is only now defined by his actions.  

Love.  He loves you.  You can feel it in the heat of his hands as he spreads your legs apart and admires the way you part for him, and he sinks two fingers into your fluttering pussy, pushing up and stroking something dangerous. 

His erection is nestled against your leg, and he shifts his hips with every twist of his fingers for a few moments, pressed between your bodies he feels a glimmer of relief with a groan, as much as he wants to bathe you in attention, he thinks that if he waits any longer his heart might give out before the best part.  “Mesh’la,” he twists his fingers as if to be sure you're listening, “Please.” 

“Yes,” you nod, swallowing harshly as he slips free of his underwear, cock springing free of its confines.  You gawk, unabashedly, as he did to you just moments ago. He's large, intact, leaning slightly to his left, and the skin is tanned brown, slightly darker than the rest of his body, thick and weeping out of the brilliantly flushed pink tip, the base adorned with sparse but dark hair that trails up to his navel deliciously.   When he steps between your legs and lets it rest on your abdomen to press your forehead together again, you feel its heady weight against you and stoop so low as to beg, “Please.”

You're echoing each other's moans as he grinds against your folds, coating himself in your slick before sinking into you in a single brutally slow thrust. When he bottoms out, you do your best not to squeak as the girth of his member breaks you open, it doesn't hurt, rather it feels like you've both waited an eternity to come to this very moment, euphoric and fulfilling the needs of your body and soul.  

He grinds his pelvis against yours letting his hand shift to cup your cheek, staring at you, he hopes somehow you can sense it. How he is barely able to stop passing between the pout of your lips and the deep pleading look in your eyes, begging him for the same thing his heart is calling for.   He could weep, having finally shorn the armor to dedicate himself to you, because the truth is, all you needed was to ask. He would've dropped his creed, everything he had achieved, and the meek life he'd planned for himself to grovel at your feet for the rest of his human life.  

Devotion, that's what it was called.  He had felt at many moments of his life that he was in the right place, blessing along his journeys that started out as miracles, friends, familial bonds he didn't think he deserved.  It felt misplaced, the little blessings that had entered his life so quickly that he swore they had to have been accidents. It had taken losing the child and abandoning you on that god-forsaken planet, for him to reflect, and to realize that the life he deserved was not determined by some blasters and an army, nor his home planet.  He had the life he wanted in his palms once, and watched it slip through his fingers with the charred remains of his ship.  His grip tightened instinctively, twisting the sheet in his fist. 

It was you.  You were the representation of all of the things he wanted but never thought he deserved.  A family, a place to call home, and you even had committed something as passing as his ship to your skin with a permanence that scared him.  

Here your skin was warm, surrounding him, nurturing him, squeezing him, and his mind was trying so hard to be a person, not a machine, loving someone else for the first time.  

He found the words, he said it to you, over and over with his pelvis angled just right as he ground his hips into you.

He was throbbing inside of you, you could feel the slick slide and pulse of him with each thrust. The pleasure was so intense you were whimpering and mewling beneath him, wetness smearing onto your thighs and running on the sheets below.

You've had sex before of course, and now you seriously doubt you've been doing it right. You kiss at the hollow of his throat, and in response he hunches over you, arms on either side of your head, animalistic yet praising affirmations go straight to the building heat in your core.  

You let your hands, come up to his back digging your nails into his skin.  He moans in shock as his thrusts grow more frenzied, spurred on by the bite of pain at his back.  He reaches between you and circles your clit with his thumb, pulling you headfirst into your orgasm.  You're body goes taught and relaxes all at once, the pleasure blinding you as your vision goes white and each tilt of his hips makes you stutter out an overstimulated moan. 

The fluttering of your sex around him would be enough to send over the edge but as you catch your breath you begin to beg for him to finish inside you.  He does, still feeling you shivering through the after waves of your own, as he groans and revels through the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, complete with curled toes and a knuckle-popping grip on the sheets.  He’s still looking at you, the rise of fall of your chests bumping into each other and your breath fogging the front of his helmet so much that when you kissed right over his eye, he could see the imprint of your lips for just a passing moment. 

“I can’t believe we waited so long.”  You chuckle, all smiles but looking as dazed and spent as he felt. A shiver coming over him as the small sounds cause you to tighten slightly around him as he softens, his body incredible sensitive. 

“I’ll spend the rest of our life making up for it.”  You note the sound of him speaking through the grit of his teeth, and do your best to lie still, not wishing to be parted just yet.

Months later, you’re married in a private ceremony in front of friends and his brothers and sisters of the clan.  It's quick, and everything you had expected of a warrior’s wedding.  You get the mudhorn symbol tattooed into the skin nestled behind your ear, wearing it proudly and with your vows you are made a family, a clan of three in front of all the important people you care about. 

You’d be remiss if what had you most excited isn’t the filthy promises he’s made to you about that night, taking his helmet off and kissing you everywhere he can for as long as he wishes.  Promising to leave a mark over your new clan sigil as he marks the rest of your body for him, as you’ve done to him many times over. You get to admire his face and the most handsome man in the galaxy who kneels before you with reverence and vows to take care of you with more than just his words. 

[dailyadventureprompts]

Mystery: Oh, How the Iron Coffin Hungers!

There's been a rash of graverobberies across the kingdom that have the authorities suspecting necromancy. For their part, the necromancer's guild has nothing to do with these crimes and is willing to hire your party to help clear their name. The investigation will lead you to through tombs, black markets, and haunted crossroads of the realm, as it becomes clear the culprits are seeking far more than coin or corpses at the bottom of those defiled graves.

Clues & Complications:

A missing body is usually a dead giveaway that a necromancer has been involved in a grave robbery, as most criminals only care about grabbing what valuables they can and wouldn't result to bodysnatching unless someone was going to pay them for it. How unusual then when a few of the bodies begin turning up days after they were exhumed, one in an abandoned cellar, one on the side of the road, and one in a completely different town, which may give a hint as to the culprit's movements.

Working for necromancers has its benefits, the guild is aware of the habits of the corpse trade (only in a theoretical sense, you understand, yes?) and can use their magic to extract information from the cadavers. Strangely enough it appears all the corpses bear the marks of previous magical questioning, hinting that it might be information the robbers were after, not flesh or treasure.

The bodies all belong to minor gentry or well-to-do merchants, the ideal targets for graverobbers who don't mind breaking into a tomb or fussing with a trap (both of which the party might have to do during their investigation) if it means access to better plunder. If the party press deeper however they'll notice a recurring symbol, on a ring or a tattoo or etched into the gravemarker, resembling the crudest sketch of a jawbone.

Just like it seems the party is getting answers, the corpses they've been trailing sit up and lunge for the nearest individual's throat, transformed by dark power into a rampaging ghoul. Chaos ensues as this awakening occurs not just with those corpses that have already been found, but also with those that were previously undiscovered as well as a half dozen or more random bodies scattered across the countryside. Though they seem too possessed with hunger to be capable of speech, if the party manage to restrain one of the ghouls and sate its unholy hunger, they may just get the last few clues they're looking for.

Background: In life all of the bodies belonged to a secret society known as the jawbone club, a bad pun on one of the first mystical objects they'd obtained; a crude weapon made from the skull fragment of some great beast, unearthed on one of their founder's estates by some adventurers clearing a nest of monsters.

Their association started a few generations before as a mostly innocent affair, a nameless but exclusive social lodge where those in the know could smoke and gamble and make the sort of back room deals that occupy much of the energy of the idly wealthy. Those who took an interest in the jawbone realized that whoever held it had greater luck in their personal affairs, in no small part because of the unlucky and sometimes disastrous circumstances that would befall their rivals. They became secretive, an inner circle within the lodge that took on more authority as their powers grew, understanding emerging that if they fed their blood to the jawbone it would grant them power.

Power does not spring from nowhere however, as the weapon was infact an artifact dedicated to the ghoul-saint Doresain, the avatar of a hungry and terrible demon god who was in turn feeding on the hungry ambitions of the inner circle. Unconscious impulses became whispers became visions, as the tithe of blood raised to sacrifices of flesh and fingers, because what was letting the razor teeth of some dead beast scar your body if it meant your hateful old uncle suddenly took ill just after rewriting his will to leave you his fortune.

Things came to a head with Catiro Wayte, the youngest and least favored son of a large noble family. The Wayte clan owned land and mills aplenty and were no strangers to ambition, Catrio and his siblings were practically weaned on it. So when the opportunity came to take hold of his fortune at the price of only a little pain Catrio was only too happy to pay it, and keep on paying so long as he had blood to let and skin to scar. After they'd come to understand what it could do the Jawbone Club had made rules about how often its members could make use of the artifact, fearing not only discovery but one of their number growing in power above the others. Catrio begged, bartered, and blackmailed to jump the line every time he could, hacking away a little more of himself each time, not giving his wounds time to heal up between sacrifices.

One night, when the itch of pride and avarice overwhelmed the pain in his infected flesh Catrio broke into the jawbone's sanctum. It was too late when the others found him in the morning , he'd carved open his belly looking for more of himself to cut away and had died with the artifact buried in his guts. Such heedless sacrifice opened a door for the ravenous hunger of the gnawing god, transforming Catrio's corpse into its mouthpiece, hungry and cruel. For all their resources the Jawbone club were unable to slay their former friend, instead sealing him in the lodge's basement and later an iron coffin they had constructed. They had a select number of their most trusted find a place to entomb Catrio's body (along with the bone it still clutched) in some unknown location and swore all the rest to secrecy, dissolving the jawbone club and swearing never to speak of it for the rest of their days.

The Culprit & The Consequences:

Catrio left much behind on that night he met his end, including a commonborn mistress and a daughter named Heliana only a few years old. One could theoretically source his ambition to his desire to make a place for them in the world, but that would be making things far too simple.  Unrecognized by her father’s family and cut off from Catrio’s support Heliana and her mother ended up scraping to get by, with her ending up in the gravemaking trade out of one part practicality, one part wistful desire to perhaps one day find where her father was buried.

after nearly four decades after she and her mother were forced out on the street, Heliana’s crime spree began when by chance she found the first of the Jawbone marked graves. Remembering the stories her mother had told her about the club and its excesses, It took only a little convincing to have her fellow undertakers help her unearth the body, and a few charms learned from a travelling death priest to get the cadaver talking.  After that it was just a matter of asking which corpse knew what, tracing her way through the postmortem ranks of the Jawbone club until she found out what had happened to her father and where his body lay. 

Originally, all Heliana had wanted to do was give her father a proper burial alongside her some years dead mother, as she was told was always his wish. Plans changed when her father began to speak to her within the iron coffin after she’d unearthed it from its secret hiding space. Through the magic of the ghoul-saint he knew her, knew of her hungry years, and of the long dormant pride and ambition he’d handed down to her along with his blood: a desire to be recognized no matter the cost. He whispered a plan into her mind, a way for him to return to life and use the artifact he still carried to make everything as it should be. Naturally when they caught her agreeing with the corpse, most of Heliana’s muscle deserted her, and might give your party a much needed lead in their tall tales.

The animation of the other jawbone club members as ghouls was only a warning sign, a byproduct of Heliana breaking through the outermost layer of the iron coffin’s wards in preparation of something far more calamitous. Her father’s plan (or rather, the thing wearing her father like a mask) is to have Heliana burn the iron coffin along with her mother's bones in a ritual pyre at the heart of the Wayte estate. Catrio’s spirit will be free, devour the grounds (and his unwelcoming family) and use the power of the jawbone artifact to remake them all as they should be, with him as lord of the manor, united with his lover and child.  While she’s more than willing to even the score with the people who denied her birth and threw her mother out on the street, why Heliana doesn't suspect is the horde of flesh eating undead and other malign spirits that will be unleashed should the ritual be allowed to finish.  

Art 1 Art 2

[oddclan-askblog]

More slig stuff plus lore below the cut (there is a lot.)

Slig growth differences: 

free sligs can see well and do not need goggles. They maintain their lower set of mandibles which are used to feed food into their moths as well as taste. Teen sligs steel guns, ammo, and goggles from older sligs when they're not looking. While most of this goes to new escapees sometimes cool stuff "slips through". Teens don't really need any of it, they're seldom allowed to fight or raid. It all just looks really cool so of course they snag it. 

Adult tribal sligs new or original, are expected to leave the old gear behind in favor of copper jewelry and tattoos. Some keep their old gear but most move on. 

Slave sligs are blinded and their lower set of mandibles are removed while they're young. This makes tough food harder to eat and disincentives them from fleeing the factories in adult life. Additionally their tails are bound and cut short making movement without pants very painful. 

Occasionally baby Sligs are smuggled to freedom but very very rarely. Rescuing a squawking sadistic slug is quite difficult compared to a mud egg. 

New blood: 

Slaves who try to become free can not enter the community at will. They are required to bring their weapons and gear (unloaded), whatever they can snatch food wise, and must mark themselves to show their commitment. A mark consists of a very obvious "X" across the head or chest, anything hidden is likely to be missed and the latter will be shot on site. The X must be scarred over by the time they arrive unarmed. 

When this policy was first implemented there was a lot of success and their numbers grew by the day. Once the cartels caught on the deserters thinned out significantly. Recourses have dwindled. Some suggested the policy be changed so marks could be carved across other parts of the body, so as to be more hidden. Treun will not allow it he wants the mark to be obvious.  

Village life: 

There is only one above ground settlement left in Oddworld, the rest are numerous connected by a maze of caves. Escapees are allowed to congregate at the aboveground settlement but no further. Any interaction from the other clans require natives from above or below meeting in the middle. A free queen is rumored to exist but this has never been verified. The sanctuaries constant need for new support and supplies suggests otherwise. 

Sligs live minimalist lifestyles, their tents are woven fabric with leaf littered over the top to blend in with the ground. Each member hunts and gathers together for the clan. Trade with mudokon allow for the acquisition of new art and the occasional tattoo. Muds are not allowed into specially marked sections of the slig tunnels. 

Underground is more complicated, most of the smaller settlements are only three to ten homes strong. The inhabitants feed on cave mosses when desperate but otherwise eat off of dead animals swept into the caverns. Their homes are short dead end tunnels dug into a horizontal "s" shape. A flood room is built into the lower curve so excess water stays in the front half of the home. At the high point of the second curve a long vertical tunnel is dug up toward the bedrooms and other chambers. 

Almost everything is made of some form of clay with fabric and food being stored indoors. Rotten food and waste are disposed of ahead of the village by several kilometers so it flows down current come the storm. Sligs responsible for this travel on specific days of the week. In the interim, trash is carefully sorted and clutter is discouraged. 

The Catacombs: 

Under the swamps lie the ruined Slig cities and shrines. Tunnels and hidden enclaves dug deep into the earth over thousands of years weave a beautiful and dangerous tapestry out of the rock. They can be navigated and shrines can still be accessed but doing so requires careful effort. The biggest danger below is not getting stuck, crushed, or lost, its drowning. Rain is hazardous and inconsistent from above, mountain melt, swamp mog, and anything small enough to drag under, will flood even the largest chasms. 

Bells and bridges connect the highest non flooding point of the caverns. They are specially designed with grooves on their exterior so they will ring as the rain pours. If one can not make it to a bridge above, death is assured. 

The deepest settlements have specially dug water drain offs and bastions so other caverns remain safe. Many ancient cities and statues are closed off by collapsed tunnels or completely submerged underwater. All point to a powerful past where queens warred for power and free sligs thrived in abundance. 

Some areas are inaccessible due to toxic gas which can spread to other caverns if opened. Sligs have a variety of ways for assessing the danger of rooms ahead. Birds are the old-school method, less preferred given the scarcity of food. Repurposed gear can be used especially gas detectors if stolen.

The most common method is tying a trained rat to a string and allowing it to skitter through a small opening. The opening will be closed momentarily with food occasionally added in. The short string keeps the animal close by, its breathing and squeaking being an indicator if the environment is unsafe. If the rat stops squeaking all together the chamber has no oxygen. If the chirps are frantic and it begins scratching at the lid the room is toxic. If all is normal the room is safe. When the results are in the string will be pulled like a leash and the pet returned. This keeps the sligs and their fuzzy buddies alive without wasting resources or much time. 

As Ratz serve a vital role their is much cave art and carvings in their honor. Indeed it seems even ancient sligs understood these creatures genius. Rats and Mize are bred and sold across slig territory for looks, colors, size, and sometimes food. Other Odd races would find this disgusting but Sligs could give less of a damn about their opinions.

Beliefs: 

Sligs are not religious or particularly spiritual at present, they are mostly focused on day to day survival. Some settlements are zealous in their practices and preach their own version of a coming end time. A world borne anew from a great ancient flood where only the most steadfast are saved! Treun blows these isolated settlements off, his people are experiencing enough pain as is. Wouldn't help to preach of imminent death even if most would ignore the rapture too. 

[mothpawbs]

random, but do you have any headcanons about the dragonets of destiny?

indeed i do! i've been obsessed with the dod since i read the first book (IN 2012!!!) so i've had a lot of time to think about them. mostly i have design headcanons though, since it's harder for me to think up personality/character headcanons, but here's a short list!

CLAY

i headcanon mudwing bigwings as having tattoos of their troop's talonprints on their wings, so he has the other dod's talons on his

he has to wear a leg brace after the dragonbite viper wound, as he has permanent joint/nerve damage and some muscle atrophy

also, he became interested in medicine while being treated for the viper bite, and enjoys it as a way he can protect those he loves without hurting others <3

he and sunny are also enjoying learning to cook together!

TSUNAMI

she may have coral's colors, but she bears a striking resemblance to gill. she also has pink accents, as i headcanon that as a major trait in the seawing royal family

she wears a shell earring in one ear to remember her seawing family. i don't think she'd enjoy wearing pearl strings, they would get in the way too much

has nightmares not only about killing gill, but about being restrained and unable to protect the other dod. i think being chained to a rock while glory was going to be killed/fighting in the arena did a number on her.

is the big protective den mama of the jade mountain winglets. no getting past her to her students!

GLORY

dull scales, but that helps her blend into shadows more than other rainwings, who are used to hiding in the splendor of the rainforest, while she learned from hiding in a cave.

is trying really hard to connect to her heritage. this includes attending lessons with friends and dragonet classes to learn rainwing crafts and skills. she likes trying out different fruits.

i think it would be neat if she made a co-council of rainwings and nightwings for leading both tribes, and had a nightwing ruler alongside her. who that would be, idk.

has been working with a lot of queens to establish trade agreements and things, which gives her a lot of hot goss on the other royal happenings. i think her favorite to work with would have been glacier before she died.

STARFLIGHT

WEARS GLASSES!! had terrible eyesight growing up, the guardians managed to get some glasses for him from one of the other Talons. still wears tinted glasses after he was blinded, even though his eyes were inucleated, because the weight is comforting

also has black teardrop scales next to his eyes, which would have been silver if he'd hatched under three moons

autism incarnate

ends up teaching science classes at jma, with fatespeaker handling the library while he's teaching

SUNNY

i need her to have brown colorpointing and black freckles and stars on her wings you don't understand

dune put two and two together on thorn being so cagey about her boyfriend and quickly realized sunny is a hybrid. lied to the other guardians and said 'oh some sandwings just look like that. yeah see even blister has black markings. oh the tail? uhhh her egg was damaged or something idk'

sunny was really like a daughter to dune, not just because she's a sandwing but because she's thorn's kid

she has a LOT of hobbies, and wants to learn how to do everything! she's pretty good at drawing and cooking

aroace!! and probably some range of nonbinary as well

[notmyneighbor]

r&d | yog sothoth x female reader

rating | explicit

part 4/?

words | 3.2k

cw | witchcraft, minor blood/injury

ao3 link

taglist | @jazminetoad @kaislashes @lakeside-paradise @paxispax @luvvsxn @barbatoss-bitch @moody-mod

You’re never quite sure where to look when you see Lilith.

The tattooed series of eyes repeat down her face in patterns that are fairly obvious as being false, but behind that veil covering the upper part of the first floor resident’s face, you know the real ones hide. You wonder what color the irises might be; if the entire orb is not milky, clouded and seemingly blind while some magical ability helps her see much further than your own ordinary ones ever could.

Yog certainly seems to think so, anyway. The narrowed, snakelike pupils peeking between his own golden variety spare you a quick glance as you stand outside the sisters’ apartment door, one that might have meant to be reassuring or dubious or cautious. Perhaps all three.

“She might not be able to help us,” he reminds you, hesitating before knocking. “And even if she is willing and able, she definitely won’t do it for free.”

“I know. But I don’t see that we have any other choice. We need help.” You can’t believe you’d fallen for Afton’s trap for a fourth time, yet there you had been, mind still fuzzy, unable to cling to your memories of this alternate realm, only to find yourself tricked into returning once more under the false guise of a psychological health trial. The surge of memories had been staggering this time, making you stumble and nearly collapse in the guard booth. It had taken you long moments to recover, and encountering your first doppelganger version of your vampire companion hadn’t made you feel any more secure. Their appearance was identical, but of course there was none of the familiar affection in his greeting. You’d known instantly it wasn’t him, all the while hoping the real one would appear sooner rather than later.

And then he was there. Barely waiting for the door to unlock before shoving his way through and taking you in his arms, only to urge you to follow him, to see about striking a deal with the resident witch. She might be able to transport both of you at will, giving you a surprise advantage over Afton. What would happen after that still wasn’t clear. But you had to try. You don’t think it’s good for your health to keep being injected with that mysterious glowing substance; don’t like the deception and the evil trades between the doctor and his counterpart in this other plane of reality. They had to be stopped.

At the last moment Yog’s hand diverts from the wooden door to touch your cheek. “I hate having to give up time with you that might be spent more pleasantly,” he murmurs.

“I know. I do, too.”

His lips press against yours, and you can feel the fingers on your skin start to tremble with the effort of restraining himself, keeping the kiss brief and chaste. Then he swiftly turns his attention back to the barrier marked 1-04 and knocks on it, firmly and rapidly.

It does not take long for the door to shift, the features of Anazareth Anazarel greeting the pair of you. She has the same full, plush lips as her sibling, but there the similarities starkly end. Her eyes are dusted in glittery cotton candy pink, the hue of her skin a much healthier shade than her sister’s pallor. Her toffee hair is nearly coiffed into a tidy wave and the color of her horns compliments the makeup she’s painted her face with and the gauzy, shimmery gown clutching her curvaceous form.

Her eyes slide open to regard you and the vampire, each look careful and considering. “Yes?”

“We’re here to see Lilith.”

“We’re not expecting visitors today.”

“Let them in, Ana.”

Lilith’s voice drifts into the hallway, but you still can’t view the witch from the narrow gap the curse maker has created.

Anazareth frowns, but relents, pulling the door open further to allow you to enter. The bloodsucker enters first, his eyes sweeping the room for any possible danger before gesturing for you to follow with a quick flick of his fingers.

The scent of incense greets you strongly as you cross the threshold. The interior of the apartment is as different from Yog’s as night and day. The living room is furnished in plush pouf chairs. An artificial hearth decorated with lit candles lines the opposite wall, the source of the heavy fragrance wedged between two of them, the ceramic jar holding several smoking reeds. There are a pair of tables piled high with books, crystals and a mortar and pestle and many jars filled with powders and liquids. A pentacle that looks permanently burnt into the floorboards draws the eye to the room’s center, and a beaded curtain draped across the opening of the hallway obscures what other things might lie beyond.

“You may go, Ana. I wish to speak to these guests alone.”

Anazareth’s lips press into a thin line of disapproval but she follows her sister’s wishes, disappearing behind the curtain.

The witch occupies one of the soft looking chairs, a long chain with a many faceted stone dangling from one hand. It moves in a steady circle, as if driven by some unseen force. She hums thoughtfully and it immediately stills. “The vampire I know. You, I do not.” Her face turns in your direction. “You don’t belong here. To this realm. Yet here you are. Can you explain?”

You shuffle your feet nervously. Her voice is so melodic, so captivating. You wonder if there is magic being laid over those utterances; a kind of spell being cast, compelling you to answer. “I come from another plane of reality. A man called William Afton keeps injecting me with something from this astral realm, something that he was given by Orcus Dis Pater in exchange for the doppelganger technology.” You pause to take a breath, grateful for the warmth of the hand Yog rests along your spine. “We’re trying to stop them, to protect both our realities. We were wondering if you would be able to send me back at will. And transport Yog as well. I was able to take back something with me, once; some jewelry that I carried. But touching him does not allow me to bring him back. So we need your help,” you finish a little breathlessly.

“Come closer,” the witch beckons.

You hesitate, looking to the vampire for guidance. He nods, but you can see the tension in his shoulders as they stiffen.

You move until you’re standing beside the seated woman. She tips her head up, but you still can see nothing beneath the tight clutch of the fabric over her eyes. “Give me your hand.”

You obey, holding it out to her as if you were to shake hers in greeting. She immediately grasps it, turning it over before her thumb slides over the inside of your wrist, stroking over the thin blue branching veins visible beneath the skin. Her fingernails are painted a deep shade of garnet that is so dark it is nearly black, the varnished laquer catching the lights of the candelabra above. “There is something in your blood that should not be there.”

You nod. “That’s it. The glowing stuff that Orcus gives to Afton. We don’t really know where the source is.”

“And you, vampire. Come here.” She releases her grip on you and it seems as if you can still feel the touch lingering, a strange, tingling kind of heat flaring along the joint.

The second floor resident does not look best pleased to be ordered around; he’s been scowling ever since Lilith had touched you. Yet still he acquiesces, closing the distance with a confident, brisk stride. He doesn’t wait for the request to offer his hand, instead shoving back his shirt sleeve and thrusting his upper extremity in her direction. She repeats the same process she had used on you, then nods and he withdraws his arm.

“There is some of that substance in you as well. Faint traces. Like an echo. But you are not a source.”

“I’ve not been able to find it in anyone else. I would have tasted it for certain. I’ve never sampled it in any species of victim, until I fed from…” He lets his voice trail off, looking a little embarrassed.

“So we truly don’t know the origins of that elixir. You would need to follow the skinner. Trail his hunt. Dangerous, even for you, bloodsucker,” she cautions. “Perhaps too risky. But there might be another way yet to achieve what you seek.”

“I’m listening.” Yog folds his arms across his chest.

“The substance in this traveler. If we could extract the otherworlder’s blood, I might be able to create a spell to open a portal.”

“Extract it how, precisely?” The vampire’s fangs seat on his bottom lip, his other teeth gritted.

Lilith’s own pair, hers much more like sewing needles, the eye teeth sharp and slender, flash brightly against her darkly painted lips. “A simple cut will suffice. Perhaps at the wrist would be best.” She taps a fingernail along the sleeve of her black gown thoughtfully. “The substance is clearly what brings her here, its eventual depletion pulling her back. We need a similar method for you, vampire. Something from this realm that will draw you back to it, after a time.”

“Can’t he just feed from me? Or you could inject him with some of my blood?”

Lilith shakes her head at your suggestions, the earrings dripping near her cheeks jingling softly. “It would not work, I can assure you. The proper concentration required is unknown. It is not a pure ingredient any longer, now that it is in your bloodstream; the potency and efficacy has undoubtedly been affected. We must resort to other means. I’ll need something from you, Yog.”

His features darken with wariness. “Like what?”

The witch’s lips twitch in a brief smirk. “Nothing that will tax you to donate. I can create a binding spell with some of your hair. With the proper flame it will eventually be consumed, becoming ash. When it has all transformed, you will be drawn back here. It will not last long, so you will need to use your time there wisely.”

“Then what? What happens next?” He presses.

“Then, if I am successful, the pair of you will be able to travel through the newly created portal together. I cannot vouch for how long that gap between worlds will last. Mere minutes, most likely. I would need much more of the substance in its purest form to make something longer lasting.”

Your russett haired companion frowns, then nods. “An experiment, then. A trial run.”

“But you will lose your advantage over Afton if you are seen. You will need to be very cautious, evening walker.”

“How do we determine where we end up on the other side?”

“You can’t, precisely; not yet, anyway. The door guardian will naturally be recalled back to her body, and you along beside her, given the proximity of the spell I’m creating. There must be an enchantment of some sort that pulls her here to this specific location. We’ll need to establish what that is and recreate its counterpart on the other side. Now that I know of its existence, I can aid in that endeavor.”

The vampire makes a low growl. “I do not like all these what ifs and maybes. There are too many unknowns.”

Lilith laughs, a sound that is like wind chimes striking together. “You sought my help, as I recall.”

“I’m doing this to help all of us,” Yog spits back at her. “You might think your magic keeps you safe, but it doesn’t. The doppels are growing stronger. And if Afton and Orcus manage to move armies of them across the borders of our worlds…”

The amusement instantly fades from the witch’s lips. “Alright, bloodsucker. You’ve made your point. Now let me make mine. Namely, payment. What are you offering for this service? As you can imagine, the cost will be very steep.”

“What do you want?” This time you decide to speak.

“Oh, young mortal. What a dangerous query that is.”

“Careful,” Yog hisses under his breath.

“You’re protective of this one, aren’t you? A fierce wolf guarding a pup.”

“What of it?”

She shakes her head, the maroon tinted tresses swaying back and forth. “It might be an advantage. Or it may prove fatal. Only time will tell.”

“So what is your price?”

The seated woman runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “What indeed. I think I shall present it like this: Since there is no guarantee of the success of this venture, you may use my services without cost this time. But if it is successful, and you seek my help again, you must give me whatever I name.”

Yog scoffs. “Absolutely not. No deal.”

Lilith’s ebony lace adorned shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. “It matters not to me. Again, I am not the one so desperate.”

“Yog,” you whisper.

“Give us a moment.” His fingers curl around your upper arm and he brings you closer to the door. You’re willing to bet the witch can hear every word spoken. It’s not that far from her, and she does have supernatural powers, after all.

“I don’t like this. She’s up to something. No one gives anything away for free. That condition of payment later leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“What choice do we have, though?”

Yog sighs heavily. “I don’t know. I’ve wracked my brain trying to come up with another, but this is all I could conjure.”

You inhale deeply, trying to gather your courage. “Then we do it.”

“Are you sure?” His fingers tuck under your chin, lifting it slightly.

“I trust you.”

“I trust you, too. Lilith, not so much.” He heaves another sigh, letting his hand drop. “Alright. We’ll do it.”

He leads you back to the seated resident.

“Have you decided?”

“We have. We accept your terms.”

Lilith grins, revealing the full set of razor sharp looking teeth. “Excellent. Then let’s begin, before the source you’re carrying dwindles any further.”

The witch stands, somehow rising gracefully from that low position, and begins rearranging things on one of the tables. A wicked looking knife with a jeweled handle appears and you feel your pulse race. Yog’s fingers thread through yours and he squeezes gently.

Lilith reaches for one of the locks curling near the nape of the vampire’s neck, sawing it off with the blade and quickly winding a thread around it. She places it inside a glass dish and sets it aside.

“I’ll cast the spell to ignite the flame after this. Let me see your wrist again.”

You swallow thickly, offering it to her.

The knife moves quickly, a serpent’s silver tongue flicking out and slicing neatly along your fragile skin. Your blood immediately spills forth, the crimson flow tainted by the obvious syrup of Afton’s mysterious substance. It’s caught inside a shallow bowl pressed beneath your forearm, the fluid collecting until she nods in satisfaction and she speaks to the vampire. “Your turn to lend services again, bloodsucker. Reseal the flesh.”

Yog’s nostrils have flared at the scent of your lifeforce, his bruised eyes hollowed with hunger and desire. He’s still gentle when he manipulates your limb, his tongue sliding along the blood trail and his mouth sucking at the laceration. A fire instantly builds in your core, mirroring his desire. The sooty lashes flutter in rapture, a soft moan of regret escaping when he releases you, the cut now a dry red line marking your skin.

“Good. The flame is lit and the circle is prepared.” Lilith finishes murmuring her spell near the bound clump of Yog’s hair and a purple flame appears, scentless and smokeless as it begins to gnaw away at the rust colored strands. She gestures to the pentacle that is now outlined in your blood and Orcus’ stolen gift. The smell of brimstone overpowers the incense and you can feel heat being generated at the symbol’s center. “What are you waiting for? Go, before it dissipates. I’ll keep watch over your corporeal form,” she directs at the vampire.

Yog’s fingers grip yours tightly now. He leans to brush a rough kiss against your mouth. “Ready?”

You don’t think you truly are, but you nod.

“Remember your promise,” Lilith’s voice calls as the vampire escorts you inside of the circle. “Remember our deal.”

The heat intensifies. Your hair lifts in an invisible breeze. Your eyes meet Yog’s.

Then the world goes dark.

***

You awaken to find yourself strapped to a chair.

For a moment, the disorientation overwhelms you, preventing you from trying to struggle against your bonds. How had you gotten here? Where even is here?

Then a face appears above yours; one that should be frightening, but isn’t. The golden eyes are kind, frantically searching to see if you’re harmed, the fingers moving over your restrained limbs gentle.

“Yog,” you whisper.

“You remember me?” He freezes, the hope thick in his voice. “You remember it all?”

“My mind feels fuzzy, like it’s stuffed with cotton, but…yes. Yes, I remember you.”

“I’ll get you out. Maybe I can…” The vampire’s face lifts, his eyes focusing on the camera mounted on the wall. A sudden dark cloud wafts across the room, obscuring the lens. “Lilith’s not the only one with supernatural abilities,” he murmurs, sounding a little smug. “Hopefully I haven’t been spotted yet.”

He again reaches for one of the metal bands encircling your wrist but you halt him quickly.

“You can’t. Afton will know, if I’m freed. I have to keep playing along. So I can go back again. See you,” your voice softens with affection.

The vampire hesitates. “I don’t like seeing you bound like this. Because of that monster—”

“—It worked, Yog. We did it. We got you here. And I remember now.”

“Yeah, we did it,” he agrees, his voice husky. “I’m just worried about what comes next. What compensation Lilith will demand. We need to find that anchor she spoke of. I need to figure out the source. And we need to determine how we’re going to stop Afton and Orcus.”

“We’ll do it. Together.” You pause, swallowing, trying to work moisture into your mouth. “I’m so dizzy,” you murmur. “Throat feels like sandpaper.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, brushing back some of the hair that’s fallen across your face. “It’s that damn stuff he injects you with.” He rubs his thumb over your bottom lip. “I don’t want him hurting you anymore. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop him. Whatever it takes,” he repeats vehemently.

“Yog, you should hide, in case they come in once they notice the camera feed is dead while you’re waiting for Lilith’s spell to wear off.”

“They won’t see me,” he assures you. “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.” He bends to kiss your mouth, tongue tapping gently against yours, and then he moves away, sighing and brooding beside you one moment, gone the next.

[lumpywhump]

a lab whumpee having a number branded or tattooed onto their skin. Maybe it's a high number and whumpee is left wondering how many people suffered like them. Maybe it's a low number and whumpee is worried that the scientists will mess up with how little experience they have. Is whumpee regularly traded off to different labs, each one engraving their own number onto whumpee? How does caretaker feel about seeing something that added to dehumanizing their friend? How does whumpee feel about the mark? Do they proudly show it off, showing what they're stronger than? Or do they hide it, and make sure no one ever knows? Is it someone whumpee can hide it easily? Is it on their back or on their face? Their shoulder or their neck?

[quinnred]

The Lorperor are the tall and semi-quadrupedal relatives of the Manavan people, hailing originally from the warm plains of Deiroa. They are famed for their speed and elegance as well as their strange beauty. Their long necks support a pair of crest-horns which can be docked, bound, and re-grown to suit the aesthetics of each Pride's (family) culture. 

Common Lorperor will paint their pale faces with various, generally near-red, markings to define their lineage, profession, or personal expression. Masters of a pride may have massive horn-crest which are intricately painted to evoke a god or a primal  force that they are supposed to embody. 

The most well known Lorperian culture are those of the raiders from the Deiroan Empire who are of pure white skin and black hair, and bound their horn-crest into a single spade shaped crest. Instead of paint, they have their Pride symbols and lineage tattooed upon the crest, and over time add more symbols based on notable success.  Unfortunately the Lorperor of the Deiroan Empire paint a poor  image of the species to most, with their raiders killing and stealing from many of the other peoples with great numbers and heinous ferocity.

Lorperor prides are generally large families ruled by a patriarch or matriarch known as a Pride Master. They have to often contest their place against rivals and up-start relatives either with poetic duels or violent combat trial, with only the strongest or most clever ruling the pride. If an old Master is usurped, the new one will cull young offspring of their predecessor to ensure their own lineage, which are commonly submitted to this fate by their mothers. In some cases, a mother will risk temporary leave of the pride until their child is old enough to be considered useful and beyond the cull.  Prides will usually avoid other prides until seasonal festivals where youngsters can mingle in hopes of meeting a lover or Masters can boast and discuss issues with each other, trading secrets and knowledge. 

The Lorperor are primarily carnivorous in their dietary choices, either snacking on smaller animals or hunting larger prey as a group. Hunters will wipe away their paint and replace it with camouflage with only a colourful dot or stripe to present hunting role. They are normally armed with spears and bows, while the strongest member will wield special hooks that they use to grapple and takedown prey for a final strike. They will chew on specific roots and spices, but nearly all Lorperor will choose meat over vegetation.  

The Lorperor have a complicated relationship with the other Speaking-Peoples. The common Lorperor groups will rarely interact with their smaller, more colourful bipedal Manavan cousins due to respecting bounds over generations. Some groups intermingle more readily, to the point of hybrid children existing named "Lormen", often either appearing like a colourful hornless Lorperor or a subtly horned and paler Manava. In the times before the Deiomachy (the God-War) the Lorperor were occasionally picked by the gods to be their messengers due to their speed.