#yes I know it's a helmet but i like drawing the eyes like that

[flicker-away]

god tamer is so cool and this brush is so fun to use for shading

lined and lineless because i don't really like one or the other more

[siro-cyll]

I'm having a very normal time trying to figure out how to draw a distressed space engineer and his constantly changing face

(old hyperfixation coming back lets GOOOOOOO)

[comatosebunny09]

warning(s): period talk, innuendos, pet names, mild language, silliness, drabble, sylus being a sweetheart and also a perv notes: something quick and silly i wrote after my friend drove 30 minutes just to get me cookies. might continue this. thank you so much for reading, sug!

“Sylus!” you alert through the quiet static of his cell.

Despite the sleep in his eyes, he sits up, alarmed by the urgency of your voice. “What’s up, sweetheart?” he husks, voice croaky as his sheets slide down his naked torso.

“I need a favor.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Groans low and throaty, knowing no good will come from this.

“What kind of favor?” He almost regrets asking when there’s a pause on your end. He lifts a brow, awaiting your response with bated breath.

You chuckle nervously. Sylus pictures you sheepishly rubbing the nape of your neck. “My period just came on a couple days ago.”

“Yeah?” he croaks, pitching himself back onto his pillows, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He’s thrilled you’ve grown so comfortable with him. Really, he is. But he has yet to see where this is going. Doesn’t understand why it requires you to wake him up before his alarm.

“Yeah. It’s kicking my ass.”

He envisions you making a retching face, holding your stomach dramatically, and the thought of it makes his lips crook with a smile.

“You sound like you’re managing just fine, kitten.”

You scoff.

Sylus’ shoulders shake with a quiet laugh.

“How can I help?” He doesn’t need an answer, already scrolling through the catalog of his mind for ways to assuage your discomfort. Heating pads. Pamprin. Cinnamon tea. An orgasm or two. Maybe some choco—

“I need chocolate.” There it is! The ulterior motive he’s been waiting for.

Sylus groans again, squinting at the bright, blue light emitted by his phone as he draws it away from his ear to scroll through his food delivery apps. The things he does for you…

“What kind?” Never mind the fact that you could easily acquire chocolate yourself. He’s the most considerate boyfriend; he swears it.

You chuckle again, its anxious undertones making his thumb freeze over his screen and his eyes narrow. “Sweetie—”

“Don’t be mad.”

Sylus sighs, sitting up in his bed once more. He contemplates being upset just to spite you. Doesn’t like it when you beat around the bush. He swings his legs over the edge of his bed, mentally preparing to be up earlier than expected. “What. Kind?” he pressures.

“Ya know those chocolate chip cookies you bought me that one time? From that bakery near the—”

“Docks, yes. What about them?” His blood suddenly turns to ice in his veins. God dammit. Now he’s catching on.

“Well, I know they’re about to close. And you’re closer to them than I am. It'll be too late by the time I make it over there, so—”

“Already on it,” Sylus reveals over the rustling of fabric.

He pours himself into something casual, his motorcycle keys already jangling in his hand. You could’ve just asked outright from the beginning. The man would give you the world in a hand-basket if he could.

A shaky, relieved sound leaves your lips. “Thanks, Sy. Sorry if I’m inconveniencing you.”

His chest pulls. He would flick you if he could. You’re never an inconvenience despite the hour or day.

“Not at all, sweetheart. I was about to get up, anyway. But remember,” Sylus drawls all smug, disappearing into his underground garage. “I don’t work for free.”

He could swear he heard your butthole clench at the implication.

He chuckles gutturally, shoving his cell into his jacket. Throws his leg over his bike, the engine rattling to life. He tightens the chinstrap of his helmet after sliding it on, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips skyward whilst the garage door slowly yawns open.

And as he zips through the barren streets in pursuit of that bakery at the edge of town, he contemplates all the ways you can repay him for his altruism.

When you’re off your period, of course.

[ferrstappen]

primero llegó verstappen l MV1

a/n: MONACO by Bad Bunny. that's it that's the tweet. this isn't very long and its all over the place but I hope you like it <3

summary: Suddenly, Max isn't annoyed about being featured in a music video.

Max couldn't stop staring at himself in the mirror of a tent full of outfits, cameras and people moving from one place to another. In his mind he already did enough promo for the team, more than enough after being crowned World Champion for the third time and a huge contributor to the comfortable win of the Constructors Championship as well.

Maybe appearing in a music video was where he draw the line?

He wouldn't have an issue if it was him on his fireproofs doing a couple of laps in some closed circuits, maybe even some hot laps, but having to pose next to his RB19, wearing a faux leather jacket and showing one of his TAG Heuer Monaco Titan, because he was a walking billboard, was a little too much on his books, especially as a make up artist mixed different shades of some foundation, and Max was trying really hard not to take offense after he told him "his dark circles were incredibly hard to conceal".

Here he was doing favors and in return was being offended by his lack of sleep and naturally pale complexion.

He almost laughed after noticing Checo staring at himself in the mirror, the same confused and uncomfortable look on his face, and the same tight jacket as they contemplated the marina from above.

In conclusion, yes, this was well above his paycheck. Max also wouldn't deny he didn't thrill on the presence of paparazzi in quiet Monaco. granted, they were looking for the big star who was doing some shots around the city, walking hand in hand with his model girlfriend, but he could still make out some yelling for him and Checo.

Then, his day took a turn.

Some crew members wearing headphones and what he assumed were the assistants approached him and Checo, telling them this wouldn't take long since all they had to do was walk around the car, get in and out of the car, with and without the helmet, all while blasting the song.

A very catchy and good song that mentioned he was the first one to cross the finish line. At least he couldn't complain about that.

But he was internally complaining when, once again, he found himself on the make up chair with the same make up artist who had a problem with his dark circles, but this time the place was much different.

A sharp suit and this time a heavy Patek Philippe on his wrist as he walked inside the Casino of Monte Carlo. Now he was greeted by Bad Bunny himself, who thanked him many many times for being a part of this, and in return Max thanked him for even thinking of him for his song. They fell into a comfortable conversations about cars when the singer motioned for two girls to come over, one Max recognized as Kendall Jenner, the other he didn't know but was eager to.

"Max, this is mi novia, Kendall, and this is her friend (y/n). They're doing some stuff on the background, don't they look incredible?"

Max swore the designer dress you were wearing was painted on you, because there was no way it could fit so perfectly on your body, with a couple of stray hairs adorning your face and long eyelashes accentuating your eyes.

"It's so nice to meet you, I'm such a big fan of motorsport," you stretched your hand and it caught Max off guard, not really knowing what to do.

So he panicked and gave you a weird handshake before lifting your hand to his lips and leaving a kiss, and he had never felt more like a creep, but he noticed you blushing and a giggle leaving your lips.

You wanted to add something when the crew called everyone to start shooting, Benito and Kendall leading the way, and the only thing Max thought of doing was to offer you his arm which you gladly accepted.

The song was blasting as everyone pretended to talk and surround the roulette, but you and Max weren't pretending to laugh or to talk.

He even left Checo by himself, he'd forgive him eventually.

"I'm pretty sure the camera is on us in this moment," you told him through gritted teeth, trying to keep a perfect smile.

"What should we do?" Max asked, trying to hide his smile while doing his best to give you his best seductive stare.

You knew he was flirting with you and it was surprising. After seeing him on screens and social media you figured he'd be cocky, not having any trouble flirting with women every weekend on different countries, figuring out a way with foreign languages, but you never pictured him as a giddy, easily flushed, good for banter man, and the only thing you wanted was to leave this shoot and have him show you the city, dressed to the nines and maybe pretending to be cold in the end so he could put his jacket over your shoulders, and that way you could see him with just a white shirt and undone tie.

But you were getting a bit ahead of yourself, especially when you heard the director yell cut and tell you and Max to pay attention to the instructions, earning you the glare of everyone in the room.

"Ey, cabrón, que se están enamorando, déjalos solos!" Hey, they're falling in love, leave them alone. Those were Benito's words.

And God, was he right.

[smuddee-papabear]

Thinking of a dragon that's hoard is entirely made up of knights who came to slay him and were all fucked out of their minds instead. (male dragon X male reader)

Just imagine you're a knight sent to slay a dragon who has killed an unholy amount of your fellow knights. You're not feeling too great about your chances but you weren't given a choice by your king, who just wants the beast's horns mounted above his throne.

You found the cave easily, even getting in was a breeze, but instead of piles of jewels and other fineries you see a good chunk of half or fully naked men lounging casually.

You're almost too shocked to notice the unmistakable feeling of something looming behind you. But notice it you do.

Whirling around isn't an option. A large clawed hand curls around your torso as a single claw slips your helmet off. Hot breath hits your newly exposed neck.

"Hello little knight. Did the king send me another treasure for my hoard?"

The men in the cave turn at the voice, and with heavy shock you realize that you recognize several of them. A blonde man lounging nude next to a natural pool was the very knight sent out before you.

His knowing smile does nothing to ease your confusion.

The dragon lets out a low growl as he turns you around. "Look at me little one."

You brace your sword for an attack but the creature stuns all action from you. His emerald scales seem to glitter in the dappled light, massive curled horns framing the sharp face lowered to stare back at you. There's an elegant grace to his poised musculature; powerful but sleek.

His body is long and slender. It's nothing like the stocky build you were expecting to encounter. Lost in awe you almost miss the sound of your sword clattering upon the stones.

His amber eyes crinkle as if in amusement. There's an animalistic playfulness in them that holds you hostage. "Quite a lovely little trinket you are. Come, we'll get those awful chunks of metal from your body so I may see you properly."

Before you can object you're scooped up in those massive claws and taken to a smaller pocket in the cave out of view to the others. You were back to complete confusion.

Dragons were supposed to like treasure, gold and jewels and silver, not knights.

Your armor is removed with a delicate and practiced air. This was most definitely not the first time the dragon unclothed a human knight.

Stripped bare you suddenly feel self conscious. The way the dragon's gaze trails every curve, every scar and blemish, causes a fire to burn across your skin.

A low rumble fills the cavern. "Yes, you will make a fine addition to my hoard."

Movement draws your eyes to the dragon's lower legs. A spear tipped cock was unsheathing, already dripping to the stones. It was small for his size but still massive compared to yourself.

Was he expecting you to take that? You figured it would end up splitting you in two. Again before you can protest you are firmly pressed into the fur lined bed.

His long tongue trails down, the warmth giving you goosebumps as it travels over your sternum to your belly and even lower. A whine slips from your lips as your own cock hardens in response. The dragon lets out a rumble.

Something slides to your ass. For a moment you panic, thinking it to be the dragon's cock already, and twist to see. It's not his penis.

You realize it's a claw, worn down to a dull point for safety. As your entrance is teased you fight against you own thoughts. You shouldn't enjoy this! You should be slaying the beast!

But you can't deny the warm weight that settles in your lower stomach, the barely contained whimpers. Many knights have lovers but you chose not to. You wanted to be fully dedicated to your training. Unfortunately that didn't mean that you didn't feel the urges, it just meant you never acted on them before.

And now you are so desperate to feel it that your orders are slipping from your mind.

Your dragon licks and teases until you're shaking. Once you're a begging mess he pulls his claw back and positions his cock. You moan as it goes in.

It's so large it burns but not in a way that makes you want to stop. In, in in, until he bottoms out. You never thought you'd feel this full. Your dragon waits until your muscles ease to start a steady pace.

His rumbles combine with your groans. You scramble to grab ahold of him, finding his forearms, and arch your back. New sensations wipe the last of your concerns from your mind.

"Ple-please-!" Your breathy whisper causes your dragon to shudder. From the side of your vision you see his pupils blow out.

No longer gentle, you dragon's eyes roll up as his hips buck the thick penis into your hole over and over. The calm pace turns into a fever pitch. You squirm from the overwhelming pleasure rolling over you in thundering waves.

You feel a climax building and with a breathy gasp white ropes shoot out onto your dragon's scales and your own belly. That only encourages him more.

He takes quite a few more minutes, amazing minutes, to cum himself. A roar shakes the cavern.

Your dragon doesn't collapse on you so much as lays down but his weight still bears down strong. Both of you are breathing hard.

"The claiming process is long, trinket. I need to be sure it properly sticks." Your chest heaves in anticipation. A few hours, the rest of the day, you weren't sure how long long was but you find yourself too cock drunk to care. The dragon's tongue laps your chest again.

In the end, "long" is a three day haze of pleasure and climaxes. Being sent to slay the dragon, you decide, was the best thing to happen to you.

[mokulule]

The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached - Part 14

Let's just ignore I've updated this story three days in a row, @ailithnight asked me to make them cry, so we're giving the challenge a shot. This was written today and may very well have typos. Also it literally can't go on like this, I have work tomorrow.

First | Masterlist

Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Fandom: DP x DC Summary:

Danny is just trying to build a portal home, becoming a thief was just an unfortunate side effect of that goal. Now if only this vigilante family would just leave him alone. Especially Red Hood - the semi retired crime lord whose ghost-like presence keeps drawing Danny to him.

Jason had called ahead to let them know he was coming to the cave and then promptly turned off his comms again. He didn’t need to hear their questions. Not on comms. It was bad enough he had to face them. 

He drove into the cave, his resolve the only thing keeping him from turning right around. Everyone but Bruce were in their civvies at this point. Jason shouldn’t be so surprised Bruce had called it a night. Not after ghost jumping off a roof in front of them. 

Bruce did care, and Jason could tell himself that now without poison dripping into his ear about how it was only to keep his little soldiers at the top of their game. He was too exhausted to appreciate the missing put at the moment, he just wanted to go home and try to forget for a moment that Ghost had left again, but he had to do this. 

Dick was sitting with an arm around Tim on the meeting table. Tim looked wrecked - good, he thought grimly and immediately felt guilty. He didn’t even have the pit to blame and yes Jason was angry about what had happened tonight, but really he was just as angry at himself. Jason might have tried to make them understand that Ghost needed help, but he’d done a poor job of it and they didn’t hear his grief for themselves. 

They hadn’t felt Ghost’s terror in their electricity trap, his desperate fight to control his panic, they hadn’t felt it as he fell or the shock of pain as he landed. They hadn’t felt the panic reach a fever pitch and then utter silence.

They hadn’t been 50 yards away on another building, running, because they knew something terrible was about to happen. They weren’t the ones who thought they might have already been too late even as they caught him out of the air. 

But Ghost had been alive. He’d been breathing. Panicked, but breathing, yet still utter silence. 

Jason had been terrified. 

And yes he was angry. He should have never let it get so far even in his desperation. They needed to stop chasing him. It wasn’t working. 

It had nearly cost him his life. 

He was a fucking burglar, not a rogue! He wasn’t a murderer who would kill someone if he wasn’t stopped. They should have never used this level of force. They never would have used this level of force if it wasn’t for Jason and his erratic behavior. It was on Jason, not Tim who was a seventeen year old kid just trying to keep this cursed family together. 

Damian was sitting at the meeting table a few seats away from where Tim and Dick were sitting on the table and for him to willingly be that close to Tim without any needle-ing commentary it was practically the equivalent of a hug. 

Jason sighed, then pulled off his helmet and left it on the bike. He couldn’t hide behind the safety of its smooth surface, not for this. He walked over to the meeting table, knowing it would draw the rest over there.

Damian took one look at him, with that sharp judgment that was always in his eyes. “You let him get away.” Jason grit his teeth, refusing to rise to what was just an observation, but it had been a trying night and it was tempting to snap, that he didn’t let him do anything. 

“His powers returned,” he said finally, carefully even-toned.

Tim looked up shortly at that and Dick squeezed his shoulder. Normally, Tim would have been on that detail like a hawk. How long did it last? Did the powers return gradually or all at once? Were there other adverse effects? And probably more questions Jason had not even thought to consider because that was just Tim. Now, Tim was silent.

“Jason?” Bruce asked carefully from somewhere to Jason’s left. Jason couldn’t look at him. Last time they’d been this close Jason had almost shot him. 

Stephanie and Cass joined Tim and Dick to sit on the table, and Damian allowed Cass’ hand in his hair only because she could kick his ass six ways ’til Sunday. Duke was the last to join their loose circle standing to Jason’s right. 

Jason didn’t have any excuses left. He even saw Alfred standing a ways further by the wall. Everyone was here. Babs was definitely still on comms with Bruce, even if the cowl was pulled back. 

He tried to take a steadying breath without being too obvious about it. He probably failed, horribly. 

“You have to leave Ghost to me.”

“Jay… you’ve not exactly…” Dick said carefully, the only one willing to even go near the fact that Jason should be the last person to go after Ghost. That he had been far from rational about the whole thing. That he was invested, personally more than they could even guess. 

“I need-“ Jason looked to the ceiling, breathing for just a moment, before looking down again. “I need you to trust me on this, to let me handle it. What happened tonight… it cannot happen again.” 

He clenched his hands, gathered every shred of courage, then looked to Bruce. 

“Dad, please…” He ignored the gasps from his siblings, from shock or outrage that he of all people pulled this card, maybe both, it didn’t matter. Jason only had eyes for Bruce’s stunned face, for the way his jaw tightened and his eyes were moist under pained brows. He only had ears for the way Bruce’s voice broke partway as he said: “Of course, Jaylad.”

“Thank you,” Jason whispered, afraid his voice would fail him if he spoke any louder. He held Bruce’s gaze with his as he said it, because he deserved to know how much that meant to him. The urge to go over to Bruce was strong, to see if his dad would hug him if given the chance - he thought he would, but that, that would be too much, and the pit would be back in a couple of days. 

Jason couldn’t handle any more tonight. 

He gave Bruce a tight nod and turned to leave, avoiding looking at the reactions of his siblings. 

Out the corner of his eyes as he left, he absently noted the purple backpack he’d stolen from Ghost sitting by the evidence board and that metal cylinder, Ghost had left behind the night Jason had met him, sitting on a shelf amongst other knickknacks. 

In the back of his mind an idea was taking shape, but he'd only realize that the next day.

-

I made myself cry writing this, that happens very rarely. Jason has had a really bad day, but it was the father-son feelings that did me in.

I do not know when I will update next time, the chapter this part belongs to is like 2/3rds done now, but it's the middle I need to fill out. Oh well, I'm enjoying the writing bug while it lasts. Update: Next

[multifandomfanficss]

Never Listen To Venkman

Egon Spengler x Reader

(With platonic!Peter Venkman)

Prompt: When you and Peter are left alone to experiment with a suspicious, blue, viscous slime, things go south and Egon comes home to you having a paranormal induced panic attack.

Warnings: panic attacks, autistic meltdowns, sensory issues, detailed descriptions of sensory issues, feeling uncomfortable in one’s own skin.

A/N: Back in my Ghostbusters era. It is contractually obligated that I must re-obsess every time a new movie comes out. I’ve loved Egon since I was a little kid. I can’t believe I’ve never written for him. The italics are flashbacks. This is crossposted on my AO3 adriansglasses.

The reader is intended to be autistic, but can be read any way you’d like. Anyone is allowed to relate and see themselves in the reader wether they’re autistic or not!

You were sitting at your desk with in your small shared lab with Egon in the firehouse when you heard footsteps. You thought you had been home alone until Peter walked in.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were going on a double date with Winston while Ray and Egon were at the movie.” You questioned him, putting down your pen. You had been taking notes on a new kind of slime the boys had found. It was different from the other slime they’d found last month when Vigo was trying to take over. While Vigo’s slime was pink in color, this slime was blue and had a more viscous consistency.

“Oscar had a fever, so Dana and I decided to cancel. She thinks he’s getting his first tooth.” Peter smiles. Despite the jokes he’s made and the amount of times he’s said he was nowhere near ready to be a father, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t happy being back with Dana again and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love Oscar just as much as he loved her.

“Did Winston still go?” You ask.

“Oh, yeah. He’s probably back in her apartment with the bed rocking as we speak. No way he’s coming home tonight.” Peter laughed at his own joke as you cringe.

“You’re disgusting.” You roll your eyes.

“What are you up to tonight? Got a hot date with a slime? Not too different from your usual dating life.” He chuckles.

“You’re such a dick, Venkman. I figured while everybody was out tonight I’d try to find out SOMETHING about this new slime. Egon and I have been studying it for two days and we have literally nothing.” You gesture to the blue goo on your desk.

“Do you need help?” He asks.

“Are you offering to help me on your night off?” You ask, shocked.

“I’ve got nothing better to do.” Peter shrugs.

“Are you gonna take it seriously?” You hesitate.

“I’m always serious!” Peter bluffs. Peter was never serious. Egon was always serious. His bluntness and black and white thinking had always been a comfort to you. He wasn’t some puzzle you had to figure out. He just was. Being with him wasn’t a guessing game the same way it was with Peter.

“Somehow that’s hard to believe, but I could really use your expertise in parapsychology, so I’ll say yes.” You sigh. You know this probably isn’t the best idea, but Peter knows more about this topic than you do. You’d be stupid to reject his help.

“If you’ll be the subject, I’ll run the experiment.” He says, taking out the helmet with wires.

“Okay.” You agree. Once the helmet is on you should be connected to a series of machines able to read the energy of your emotions, as well as the slime itself, giving you a more direct connection without touching. Peter starts asking you a series of questions, trying to draw different emotional responses.

“Think of a time when you were happy, really happy.” He prompts. Your mind, wandered around the room, trying to think of something, when your eyes landed on Egon’s book sitting on his desk.

It made you think of the first time you realized you had deep feelings for him. While you’d always thought he was attractive, you realized your feelings were deeper than you thought, far beyond a harmless little crush, one day when he let you borrow his book. As you read his notes in the margins you were able to analyze things like him, see the world through his eyes. You saw how his brain connected and processed things. You always liked the person he’d shown you, but writing in the margins is different. When you take notes in a book, you’re not putting on a mask for people to see. Notes in the margins are just for you. There’re your unfiltered thoughts. Seeing who Egon was when nobody was watching was different. He was funny, smart, deep, curious, not as confident as he pretended to be; he didn’t censor himself in his books. He wasn’t quiet in his books. Reading his margins felt intimate.

“You’re thinking about Spengler, aren’t you?” Venkman teases.

“Why would you say that?” You look at him, embarrassed.

“Because you’re in loooooove!” Peter mocks.

“Can we change the subject?” You practically beg.

“Think of a moment where you were uncomfortable.” Peter prompts.

“This conversation.” You fiddle with your fingers.

“No, really. I wanna see how it reacts to discomfort.”

“Fine.” You sigh. You think back to one of your many lab accidents. Working in a lab with sensory issues is never easy and that was something you and Egon both struggled with.

You think back to the day when you superglued your fingers shut by accident. You got them apart, but you couldn’t get the the residue off. You started to hyperventilate, on the verge of tears. You wanted to hit your hands on things, but you knew that wouldn’t help. You couldn’t peel off the glue without peeling off your skin.

“What’s wrong?” Egon looked at you puzzled, and a bit worried.

“Superglue! I- I- I can’t get it off!” You shake your hands, violently, your whole body is tensed up.

Egon quickly takes a bottle out from his desk drawer and runs over to you. He grabs your hands.

“Look at me, (Y/N). It’s okay. I’ll take off all the residue.” He promises, giving you a soft smile. Despite not liking seeing you in such discomfort, he forces the smile to help calm you down. He begins to massage the liquid from the bottle onto your fingers with a rag.

“See, it’s okay. It’s coming off.” He continues to speak softly, calming you.

“What is that stuff?” You ask.

“I wish I could say it’s some sort of fancy, scientific, protective disinfectant, but as it so happens it’s only nail polish remover.” You both chuckle quietly. “Janine gave it to me the last time I got superglue on something and couldn’t get it off.” He smiles down at your hands, still focused on getting the last little bit off.

“This slime is so different from the mood slime. I thought I saw it let go of a bubble, but it’s mostly doing nothing. I think it might be dead. I think it might be time to bury it in the backyard.” Peter begins to fake sob.

“Knock it off.” You laugh. “What backyard? This is Manhattan!”

“You should try touching it.” Peter suggests.

“Egon, said I should under no circumstances touch it directly, especially while he’s not here.” You inform him.

“Well Egon, is being overprotective. Nothing bad happened when everyone else touched the pink slime and I accidentally ate green slime once.” Venkman says.

“What do you mean accidentally?” You ask.

“It was our first mission. Slimer ran through me. It was a whole thing. I think you should touch it… You might be able to figure out what it is before Spengler gets back…” He tries to change your mind.

“You’re sure there were no serious side effects from touching the other slimes?” You ask, hesitantly. Egon would be annoyed if he found out you went against his pleas to keep your hands away from the plasma, but you wanted to impress him.

“Nothing serious. I grew an extra pinky, but they cut it off.” He jokes.

“Haha, very funny, Venkman.” You roll your eyes.

“Fine.” You sigh, taking a deep breath before plunging your hand into the blue viscous goo. “Oh…This is literally fine.” You feel no effect, but when your heart rate picks up you realize you spoke too soon. You fall onto the floor, knocking over the slime. You feel like your heart is racing, like it could beat out of your chest and you can’t suck enough air into your lungs. You’re terrified.

“(Y/N)!” Peter yells, rushing to the floor to help you. He tries to touch the the hand not covered in blue slime, but you push him away, sobbing. You don’t want him anywhere near you. You’re slipping away from reality into a deep state of panic and paranoia.

“Please! No!” You sob. It’s the only thing you can manage to get out. You barley recognize Peter anymore. He doesn’t feel like a friend. He feels like a threat.

“Honestly, the movie was quite terrible. Ray stopped for a 99 cent pizza on the corner. What did you- (Y/N)?!” Egon speaks as he enters the room, cutting himself off when he notices you’re in distress.

“Pete, what happened?!” Egon questions once he sees Venkman.

“We were doing an experiment and they touched the goo and they just started freaking out. They won’t let me near them.” Peter tells him, obviously shaken. You hear the two men, but you don’t process them. It’s like you’re underwater.

“This is different from their usual sensory issues. I think they’re having a panic attack.” Egon kneels in front of you. “(Y/N), you’re okay. You’re safe. You’re in the firehouse. I’m here.” He tells you slowly.

“I- I can’t breathe!” You gasp for air.

“Your lungs are expanding and contracting at a rate too fast for your body to intake oxygen. I need you to try to breathe slow and deep with me. In…and out. Nice and slow.” He prompts. “Peter, I need latex gloves and towels.” Venkman could have made multiple jokes about Egon’s command, but looking at you this way made him uneasy. It wasn’t the right time. After being handed the gloves, Egon slipped them on and got to work cleaning off your slime covered arm. You begin to sob, overwhelmed by the feeling of the slime, the latex gloves, and the towel. It was difficult to handle on top of your panic attack. “Peter, we need to get them into the decontamination shower.”

“No!” You gasp between sobs.

“Come, on. I’ll go with you. We can get all the plasma off of you.” Egon speaks softly, but with a gentle urgency, as he tries to coax you to the shower. You shake your head no. “Are you against touch right now?” He asks.

“They did not like when I touched them.” Venkman warns.

“Only you-“ You break out in a sob. It doesn’t even cross your mind that you may be offending Peter by only wanting Egon. Luckily he’s not offended. Egon begins to take off his glove to provide skin to skin contact on the arm not drenched in slime in an effort to comfort you.

“Aren’t you worried about getting that stuff on you?” Venkman questions, worried Egon will shutdown like you.

“I’m getting in the decontamination shower anyway.” Egon shrugs, turning to you. He takes your hand in his, softly rubbing the top with his thumb.

“But- but your clothes will get all wet!” You sob. You knew Egon had his own sensory issues. You’d often have to help him when his long sleeves would get wet during experiments. It would drive him crazy. He avoided puddles like the plague and always had an umbrella nearby.

“Try not to worry about me right now. I just want you to focus on your breathing. I can always change my clothes.” He smiles. While it hurts him to see you so distressed, he was happy to know you cared about his comfort. “Let’s go shower. You can’t leave all that slime on you. I believe it’s worsening your mental state.” You nod, still crying.

“I’ll get them under the shower, I’ll need you to turn it on. Make sure not to touch the slime. I got a minuscule amount on my finger and it’s making me rather anxious. I can only imagine what this amount is doing to them.” Egon tells Peter. He helps you to stand, walking your trembling form over to the shower. “There we go. Just a few more steps. You’re doing wonderfully, (Y/N).” Egon softly attempts to comfort you.

Once you’re under the shower head, Venkman turns it on. Both you and Egon jolt at the sudden water pressure. He tightens both his jaw and his grip on you, holding his eyes shut tight. He can’t stand the feeling of his wet clothes against his body, but he’s brave for you. Once adjusted to the water, Egon begins to wash the slime off your body with care. Peter leaves to go upstairs and get you some towels. You feel the panic and paranoia start to leave your body. Despite still being incredibly anxious, you were starting to phase out of your slime induced panic attack. You lean against Egon, struggling to hold your own body weight. Maybe you’ll be more embarrassed tomorrow, but right now you just needed to be held. You were craving pressure on your body. You felt as if you would float off the ground if you weren’t held down. Egon wraps his arms around you, bringing you closer. He places a kiss on your forehead before placing his chin on top of your head. You snuggled into his chest, finding his pulse. You didn’t have the time or the bandwidth in your brain to think about what the kiss meant. You just wanted to be close to him.

“You’re okay, (Y/N). You’re safe.” Egon tells you. You’re not sure if it’s for your benefit or his. It’s for both, really.

You’re quiet for most of the night, unable to bring yourself to speak. Egon doesn’t mind. He thinks a verbal shutdown is more than understandable after the night you’ve had. After the shower, you follow Egon around the fire station. You don’t want to be alone right now. He doesn’t mind. He puts out some of his clothes for you to wear; pajama pants and one of his soft sweaters. He goes to leave the room for you to change, but you stop him.

“Can- can we just like? Turn around?” You ask. “I’m sorry. If you’re uncomfortable, that’s okay. I just really don’t wanna be alone right now.” You voice is hoarse from crying.

“Of course.” He smiles, turning around.

“I’m decent.” He informs you after a minute of rustling.

“Me too.” You tell him and you both turn around.

“I’m sorry.” You tell him, near tears again. You feel awful for how tonight went. This was supposed to be the boys’ day off. Egon gives you a sad look.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You were just trying to help. Venkman told me he put you up to it anyway.” Egon sighs.

“I probably shouldn’t have listened to him.” You let out a sad chuckle, one tear slipping past you, down your cheek. You wipe it quickly.

“Never listen to Venkman.” Egon gives a sad laugh.

“At least we figured out what the slime does… Egon, can I ask you a question?” You hesitate.

“Well, you just did, but yes.” He smiles, joking to lighten the mood. You smile at him.

“Why did you do all that? You took off your gloves, putting yourself at risk and then you put yourself through sensory hell just to get me cleaned up.” You question him.

“Isn’t it obvious? (Y/N), I care about you.” You look at him, thinking about the tone in his words. You can’t quite decipher it, but there’s something else there. Is it possible he could feel the same way about you that you feel about him? “You should get some sleep.” He interrupts your thoughts. “If you’d rather not be alone, you may sleep in my room tonight. I would find it beneficial to monitor you overnight to watch for long lasting effects, anyway.” He adds.

“Only if that’s okay with you.” You hesitate.

“Of course it’s okay with me. I just suggested it.” He smiles.

Once you’re settled into bed, Egon turns off the lights and climbs in next to you.

“Egon, I’m still anxious.” You blurt out into the dark.

“Do you need pressure?” He asks.

“Yes.” You say, hoping he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t seem to mind, as he scoops you into his arms. You cuddle into his chest, surrounded by him, surrounded by safety. You know this should be weird, but it doesn’t feel weird. As Egon kisses the top of your forehead again, bidding you goodnight, you wonder what this all means. You wonder what you are to each other. You feel you’ve crossed the line as friends, but you’re too tired and too awkward and too anxious to talk about labels. You and Egon never quite fit into boxes as people anyway. Your relationship didn’t need to either. Whatever this was between you was comforting. It was safe and it was going to help you sleep tonight.

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

Sway The Stars Which Dazzle Like Pearls

Pairing: Din Djarin x female!reader

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Warnings: reader is mute due to trauma that isn't specified and uses sign language taught to her by Din, everything in italics is being signed.

A/N: I feel like I haven't written anything in forever and I was worried about not being able to get this done in time and that if I did that it wouldn't be good enough anyway. But, here it is, good or bad. If I got anything wrong as far as communicating via sign language, let me know so I can do better! My fic for the Summer Lovin' 2024 writing challenge. @pedgito @chaotic-mystery

The planet they land on seems to have an eternal night, a never ending full moon and black sand beaches. Here, the stars reflect perfectly in the still waters, a mirror image of the galaxy spread out above. She walks down the Razor Crest's ramp silently, assessing these surroundings with a sharp eye.

He watches her squat down on her haunches to scoop up a handful of the dark sand, crushing it around between her fingers like she's feeling for the quality of an expensive fabric woven on a far off planet. Her face gives little away of what she is thinking.

Din doesn't know much about her past, about what happened before he found her stowed away on the Crest and petrified of her own shadow after his (first) explosive departure from Nevarro, the tiny green kid in tow.

All he knows is that she can't talk. The words are there, he can see them tumbling around behind her eyes, but they seem to get clogged up in her throat, like a gummed up hyperdrive. So he'd started teaching her to sign.

Her footsteps crunch the gravel-sand as she makes her way over to his side, brushing her hands together to clean off the excess sand but some grains still cling to the creases between her fingers, almost sparkling in the moonlight like jewelry. She pins him with a questioning gaze and signs

'Why?'

"Why what?" he motions backs and she fumbles another word, face scrunched in frustration until she finds her rhythm

'Why are we here? Bounty?"

Din shakes his head, considering what he would call this little excursion between jobs before he replies with

"Pitstop, for fun"

"You do fun?" she pulls her mouth into a smirk, pleased at her little joke.

Din tries not to sigh. He's glad they can communicate so freely now, it's light-years better than their rough early days where any movement to sudden or big had her flinching away violently. But he has no idea how she learned to put so much sarcasm into her gestures. Not that he minds now. Anything is better than seeing that unfiltered terror in her eyes.

"Come" he turns and takes a step toward the gently lapping waters edge but doesn't hear her follow, he turns back with a questioning tilt of his helmet

"What is it?" she asks, expression concerned, still rooted in place

"Something good" he assures

"Promise?"

"Yes."

When they reach the water, the ship and the sleeping green child inside it are only a few yards away, a hulking silhouette jutting out of the otherwise flat landscape.

Pulling off his gloves and tucking them safely away, Din crouches down, the toes of his boots touching the water. His companion mimics him, watching carefully as he slowly submerges his hands in the water before carefully feeling around in the wet sand below.

She taps her knuckles into the soft place just below his beskar pauldron, knowing from unfortunate experience not to catch the armor with her bare hands, furrowing her brows when he turns to look at her, seeing her ask

"What are you looking for?"

"Just wait" Din says aloud and she leans back to sit properly on the ground, still curiously watching him dig around, one of her own hands drawing meaningless shapes in the sand beside her.

It takes him a few tries before he finds it, a small orb made and shaped by time and natural forces until it was washed ashore, waiting to be found.

Sitting back beside her, Din holds out his find nestled in the palm of his hand. It stands out stark white and shining in the odd moonlight.

She signs something he doesn't recognize at first, she watches him for a moment, waiting, and then tries again

"Diamond"

"No, pearl" he says out loud and signs it once, twice, then watches her repeat the motion.

The first few times are uncertain as her eyes dart between her hands and his, studying the movement he makes which shapes this new word. Then a couple more times, each with more confidence until

"Pearl" she signs, grinning over at him

"Good" Din smiles beneath his helmet, holding out the pearl to her, an offering.

"Mine?" she quirks a brow at him, still uneasy with receiving things she doesn't feel she has earned.

Din just watches her, hand outstretched and waiting patiently for her to accept this small gratitude.

Eventually, with the barest brush of her fingertips across his naked palm, she takes the pearl. Holding it reverently, worry flashing across her face before she curls her hand around the gifted treasure.

Din had learned to sit with silence long before he met her, so he turns his head out toward the water, then upward just a little, like he's watching the stars.

He isn't. He is giving her the privacy to feel those sometimes tumultuous emotions that come with receiving a gift.

She frowns at her closed fist, lips pulled down in a deep scowl. If her eyes look a bit glossy, she would never admit it. There's a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, a roiling feeling that urges her to not accept this. Not to trust.

But she can see the Mandalorian from the corner of her eye, pretending to watch the stars, nervously rubbing the tips of his fingers together and smearing the gritty sand there until it sloughs off and back onto the beach.

Her courage feels like a finite thing, urgently flopping around in her chest like a gasping fish on land. She leans over closer to the Mandalorian, sees his helmet shift but not quite turn fully toward her as she wraps her arms around his bicep, the pauldron on his shoulder cold even through her shirt.

Hugging him feels like a monumental leap, her cheek pressed against the mudhorn sigil on his beskar shoulder. Her courage has waned and she feels weak, vulnerable, but the little pearl clutched in her hand reminds her that it isn't gone for good.

That it is okay to lean into her companion, her friend, who seems like a forever sturdy rock in the storm that has eclipsed her life.

Awkwardly, arms still wrapped around her Mandalorian's arm, she tells him

"Thank you."

Din makes a sound of acknowledgement, smiling gently beneath his helmet and watching her from the corner of his eye. Her face seems content and his chest constricts in pride, to see that he has hopefully earned her trust enough for her to relax in his presence.

"You're not even looking at the stars" she softly accuses, leaning forward to fully grab his attention

"Neither are you" he retorts.

She huffs a small laugh, tilting her head and raising a hand slowly toward the smooth metal cheek of his helmet. She guides him so they are face to face. Sort of.

They stare, her watching the reflection of the stars in the visor of his helmet, wondering just a little if his eyes are bright beneath all this beskar. If he's looking at her as gratefully as she is him.

Din watches her face, unsure about the hand she has on his helmet, but far more distracted with trying to decipher her expression. Joy seems too big, maybe contentment?

Either way, neither one of them is watching the stars turn above them, a precious pearl clutched between them, a symbol of more. Of hope.

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura

muses - part one - next

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader Word Count: 2.8k Rating: Mature (mostly Soap being Soap) Warnings: please see this post for notes about this reader character Also on Ao3.

An artist meets her muse, and a solider meets his.

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

Author's Note: THE PROMISED FIC. I really hope y'all enjoy this one, I've been teasing it since March and I have so many plans. This fic has a special place in my heart because it's drawing heavily from my college days--my bachelor's degree is in fine arts, and I have a lot of fond memories of many hours in the studio both as a student and as a model.

I expect this series will also have a looser timeline than my Neighbors series, so I'm open to suggestion in terms of scene ideas! I already have plenty, but if I know my mutuals, y'all might have some good ones as well. No promises I'll write them, but you never know.

Thanks everyone for your patience, and I hope you'll look forward to where this fic goes!!

[feyburner]

Some fluffy jaytim please? 🥺

Using this as an excuse to posted a belated wip wednesday. My jaytim text au has hit 12k, I’m kms.

*

« tim

i mean. yes? my condolences but youre like the biggest softie i know

Jay »

Excuse me?

« tim

oh bud. lol

Jay »

I am not?

« tim

ok :)

except you kind of are. and thats including dick even

Jay »

The fuck

« tim

this cant possibly come as a shock to you

it is your whole thing

Jay »

My whole

WHat ? It is not. Wtf. My whole thing is like

Fucking people up and shit

Red hood?? Bang bang fuck you batman and so on?

« tim

well that was a great you impression

so kudos for that

and ill grant that im drawing from a limited pool

so, to be fair, compared to the average person or panda rehabilitator youre maybe not the biggest marshmallow around

is that seriously how you spell marshmallow? i could’ve sworn it was marshmellow. anyway

compared to the people i know?

i have terrible news.

Jay »

Fuck you. Superman. Superman Junior.

The little one. Not the one who hates my guts

« tim

?? kon doesnt hate your guts??

Jay »

No he does.

I know bc of the time he looked me in the eyes and said “Hey dude, I hate your guts.”

« tim

he likes to joke

Jay »

And then he said “I am not joking. If you ever hurt Rob again I will make a soup in your stupid crime hat with your intestines.”

« tim

jesus christ?

Jay »

Yeah it honestly kind of stung. My helmet isnt that stupid.

Cloneboys cool though.

I’m glad you have someone like that in your corner.

[lordprettyflackotara]

dollhouse || jeff the killer || bonus part

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+ tw: spanking, jeff has a daddy kink, slapping, jeff’s just a sadistic asshole in this one, blood, brief description of gore

a/n: what’s this?! a double feature in one day?! yeah fuckers yall got the bonus part! i apologize for the delay my mind stayed lagging. i hope you all enjoyed the mini series <3

“This is our last chance. Dont fuck it up!” You hissed.

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Oh yes because taking out the target is sooo hard. I think I may cry,” He barked sarcastically. Slender had given you both one final chance to right your wrongs. Your last mission had ended with one too many news channels showing the camera footage of you and Jeff escaping the hospital. Nothing too identifying could be found of course, detectives puzzled on how Jeff was able to paint the walls and leave no fingerprints behind.

Little did they know the culprit had burned off his fingerprints ages ago. You crossed your arms, frowning. “The motorcycle was the best thing Ben could find on such short notice?” You asked. Jeff shoved his motorcycle helmet on, reving up the engine. “You are always welcome to walk doll,” He snickered. You stomped over to the motorcycle, shoving your own helmet over your head. You mocked him under your breath, throwing your legs over the seat. You couldn’t decide which was worse, dying at the hands of Jeff driving a motorcycle or being tortured to death by Slender.

As the motorcycle roared to life, you began to wonder just how bad Slender torturing you to death would be.

It was no secret you and Jeff were an item. The two of you were the obnoxious married couple of the mansion, terrorizing not only everyone around you but each other. There was a guarantee if you both were in the same room that you’d bicker until you’d go upstairs and fuck the anger out. It made the other residents sick. Sometimes they’d place bets on who would win the fight. Other times they’d high tail out of the room if you both entered. You’d argue with Jeff until your very last breath and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Slenderman was not happy with either of you. His alternative was having you both dress up as scarecrows to defend his garden in a hundred degree heat. You both agreed to this mission without hesitation. It should’ve been simple enough, killing the newspaper chief who insisted on covering the story. As you wrapped your arms around Jeff from behind, you realized you never really knew how easy a mission was going to be with Jeff coming along. To you, Jeff was an anger filled imbecile who thought with his rage and not his mind. And to Jeff, you were a smart mouthed bitch who talked too much. The two of you together versus anyone else was a lethal combo.

It was around two in the morning when you both arrived to the house, parking the motorcycle blocks away as to not draw attention from the loud sounds. You grabbed your knife, following Jeff’s lead as he picked the lock to the back door. It was moments like these, when Jeff had shut the fuck up, that you were attracted to him the most. Once he picked the lock you both crept inside, watching each others backs. It was always unpredictable, home murders. There was always the chance the owner had a dog or some kind of pet to try to protect its person. Then there was always the possibility of an alarm system, an investment the chief of this newspaper company should’ve seriously considered.

You both scanned the kitchen and living room. Due to the time you guessed he was asleep, like most humans were. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, the ticking of the old grandfather clock the only audible sound. That was, until you reached the main hallway. Thankfully for you and Jeff the chief lived alone, providing them with zero additional witnesses to send to hell. His soft snores alerted you of where he was located. Jeff slid in first, crouching down to the floor on the left side of the bed. You went to take the right, a loud creaking floorboard alerting the newspaper editor awake. He shot up out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat that was laying by his nightstand.

“I knew you’d come for me! You witch!” He hissed. You were caught off guard, his sudden alertness causing you to take a step back. He jumped off of the bed, attempting to swing his bat at you. You barely managed to dodge the attack, Jeff’s arm wrapping around the editors chest. “Surprise bitch. Bet you thought i’d let you kill my girl huh? Fucking stupid asshole,” Jeff snarled. He brought his knife to the editors neck, slicing his throat open in a quick and fluid motion. The crimson paint sprayed out of him, washing over you like a rainfall. It splattered onto your face and body, the editors body slumping to the floor. You frowned as you looked down at your jacket. “Are you deadass Jeffrey? I just got this!” You barked. Jeff raised his eyebrows.

“Are you kidding me? I just saved your life!” He argued. You glared at the dead editor, a pool of his blood forming at both of your shoes. “Oh great. Now it’s on my new heels too. You’re going to have to replace these!” You spat. Jeff threw his hands in the air dramatically. “Oh cmon it’s just a little bit of blood. You’re telling me you can’t handle blood?” Jeff questioned. You crossed your arms, clenching your jaw. “I can handle blood Jeffrey but my tory burch heels cannot,” You gritted through your teeth. Jeff twirled his knife around in his fingers lazily, clearly unamused. “Maybe get better shoes then. Not my fault you made this mission a fashion show,” He replied dryly. You grabbed him by his hoodie, shoving him back onto the bed.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, you know that? You’re such a fucking dick! I can’t stand you,” You snarled. You crawled on top of you, straddling him as he relaxed against the mattress. “You look pretty hot covered in blood babe, remind me to soak you in it more often,” Jeff grinned. You rose your hand, delivering a sharp slap to his cheek. Jeff’s cocky expression fell, his gaze hardening. “Oh that’s how you wanna play? Fine,” He huffed. He flipped the two of you over, his fingers wrapping around your throat. His grip restricted your airway, a smile spreading across your lips. “You pain addicted bitch. I’ll show you pain,” Jeff growled. He flipped up your skirt, before throwing you over his knees. He delivered a sharp slap to your ass, a painful whine escaping your lips.

“Fucking count them or i’ll leave you to get off on the dead guys dick,” Jeff spat. He delivered another smack, a shock of pain electrical as it went down your spine. “One,” You let out lowly. He slapped your other cheek as hard as he could. He grinned sadistically as your skin turned a dark red. He wondered if he could get it to bruise. “Two,” You whimpered. Jeff’s hand strayed from the mounds of your ass, exploring your drenched panties. “This wet from me abusing you? You really are a pain slut,” He snickered. He delivered three more spanks, your body shuddering in pain as you counted them all. Tears had welt up in your eyes, your body tense as he yanked your panties down your legs.

“Awe don’t cry doll. I’m no where done with you yet,” He purred. Roughly he shoved two fingers inside of you, keeping you bent over his lap. He refused to curl his fingers, his slender digits just barely brushing against your g spot. “J-Jeff I need more,” You whined. With his spare hand Jeff delivered another smack to your ass, causing your waterline to finally flood with tears. “Well you’re not calling the shots, are you babe? Now shut the fuck up and take what I give you,” He snarled. You were a whimpering mess, the slightest touch of your abused skin making you cringe in pain. But Jeff’s fingers. His long and thick fingers. They filled up your cunt so nicely, so good. “What do we say when I make you feel good?” Jeff asked. Your mouth was running dry, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Thank you,” You mewled. He grabbed a handful of your hair, roughly yanking you towards him. “Call me daddy bitch,” He growled. Your gaze met his dark obsidian eyes, that were determined to see you squirm. “Thank you daddy,” You whined. Jeff released your hair, shoving you back to your original position. You could feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your body hanging on to every little thrust Jeff made inside of you with his fingers. “S-s-so close,” You stuttered. Jeff delivered more harsh smacks to your ass, sadistically chuckling as you whimpered. “Go on then! Be my little painslut and cum,” He huffed. With one final slap you came around his fingers, humiliated as goosebumps spread across your skin from the cold air.

He flipped you around as he pleased, treating you like you were his fuckable ragdoll. “Go on doll, do that thing I like,” He instructed. You grabbed your ankles, placing both of them almost completely behind your head. As Jeff undid his belt he delivered a sharp slap to your clit, causing you to audibly whine. “You sure are a noisy little bitch, aren’t ya?” He asked tauntingly. He wiped away some of your tears, the splattered blood staining his thumb. Lazily he slapped the head of his cock against your folds, before slamming himself into you. You gasped as he quickly began to snap his lips into yours. “I know you can handle it. Your cunt is begging me for more, so fucking tight,” Jeff grunted. He rutted into you like he was in heat.

He pressed down against your thighs, sinking your body into the mattress. His grip was tight you knew bruises were forming, the unholy noises vibrating off of the victims walls. He pounded into your cunt like he despised you and the ground you walked on. You were so addicting, so mesmerizing. He muttered your name as he slammed into you. You held onto your legs, Jeff’s cock so deep inside of you that you were seeing stars. He delivered a sharp slap to your cheek, before roughly grabbing your face. He forced your lips to pucker out like a fish, an evil grin spread across his lips. “Such a stupid fucking whore,” He panted. You hardly had time to process the pain, his cock abusing your g spot perfectly.

You gripped onto his hoodie, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. “Fucking shit, Jeff!” You moaned. You came undone on his cock, squirting profusely over his bottom half. Jeff groaned your name as he came inside of you, his seed painting your inner walls. You both were panting messes, the sound of car doors shutting catching your attention. “Fucking hell,” Jeff grunted. He slid off of the bed, fixing his pants as he looked outside. “The neighbors called the cops on us. Goddammit. Let’s go,” Jeff growled. You shoved your panties on, the two of you running out of the back door of the house. You ran like your life depended on it, ready to go home.

\/

“What’d they do again?” Ben asked. He munched on some kettle popcorn as he floated beside Slenderman. The two were in his office, watching you and Jeff pretend to be scarecrows to defend his garden. “Besides terrorizing my existence they left semen at the scene of the crime. Both of their identities are going to be traced,” Slenderman sighed. He ignored the irritating sound of Ben munching loudly. The blonde had decided to be in ghost form today, allowing him to float carelessly.

“Gross. Hey boss, is there a particular reason you partnered them together in the first place?” Ben asked. They watched as you and Jeff tried to fight with pitchforks, both of you sweating in the relentless heat. “They’re the only individuals in this mansion that’ll love one another. If not for my pairing Jeff would have gotten his fan girl pregnant by now,” He replied. The supernatural creature straightened his back, pausing for a moment. “If Jeff unfortunately reproduces I cannot handle a carbon copy,” Slenderman elaborated. Ben fell upwards, flying around his head. “Oh I see boss! You played matchmaker. Good for you! I always wondered what you did for fun,” Ben chuckled. If Slenderman had eyebrows, he would’ve raised them.

The two watched you launch yourself at Jeff, both of you dressed in ridiculous farm clothes.

“Hey boss you wanna set me up with somebody next?”

“Watch yourself Ben.”

“Yes sir.”

[2frosty4you]

Hiii! If reqs are open, can I request for all the mercs finding out teen merc reader grew up with very neglectful parents, and is basically a mother to her younger siblings? The only reason she even took up a job as a mercenary is so she can pay the bills for her little brothers and sisters, since her parents are too busy using their money on drugs:/

Mercs find out teen!reader takes sole care of her siblings [Platonic

| All mercs & GN!Reader Platonic | 826 words | Masterlist | Ask/Request |

Hardest thing about this was actually getting a name for it :cry:

╔═════════════════╗

Scout

✧ He says he relates, but in reality he doesn't. His family was filled with successful boys (fatherless) and his mother who they all loved. He sent his paychecks to her every time.

✧ When you explained that you had to take care of your siblings from a younger age over the campfire he became quiet.

✧ Doesn't make a joke, but the awkward air was getting to him.

"so.. how many siblings ya got?"

✧ He only says this to break the ice

✧ After a while he understands why you're always on calls with people, always away on ceasefire and always take any off days you can get (hardly any)

Soldier

"AN AMERICAN CARETAKER SHOULD NOT INTAKE DRUGS FROM THE FRENCH!!"

✧ He's trying, but not hard enough

✧ He offers you one of his extra helmets and his raccoons. He cares for you like a strange rabid dog you found on the street.

✧ Shares his food with you, gives his loyalty to your brothers and sisters with a goofy salute.

✧ Don’t let him meet your siblings unless you want him to get them to dig a trench around your house

Pyro

".. mph?"

✧ They don't understand why your parents aren't using their own money.

✧ They don't understand a lot of what you explained

✧ They'll begin to offer any candies they have to you, not like they weren't already. Protects you a lot on the battlefield and draws pictures for you and your siblings (mostly balloonicorn) 

✧ Would like to meet your siblings though, they've got plushies to share 100%

Heavy

✧ He pats you on the back and nods, he didn't need to mother/father a group of kids but having no father made his family's life harder.

✧ Teaches you some night hearty meals that could feed a battalion

✧ Also teaches you self defense, even if you know it already it's never enough (heavy tells you that like :nerd: )

✧ Also makes you sit and have some time to yourself, he's your 'father' now. No ifs, buts or whys

Engineer

"pardon."

✧ He says, frying pan in hand as he was cooking breakfast. Staring at you like he was going to kill a set of parents.

✧ Tries to keep you safer on the battlefield, not wanting you to suffer more than your family has done to you.

✧ Teaches you to cook, like heavy 

✧ Cooks breakfast for you first, and when you have a rough time its 100% only you getting proper meal.

✧ Will drive you to your family's house, and stand there like a guard as you let him meet your brothers.

✧ Probably would build little contraptions for them and help tutor them.

✧ Loves you like family, including your siblings (not your parents, not at all)

Demoman

✧ He's drunk when you tell him this, he raises his bottle and spits out

"aye, fuck ya parents"

✧ He passes out immediately

✧ If he's sober when you mention it again he's going to be more caring(slightly) and since hes always at least tipsy he'll offer you his bombs like a drug dealer.

✧ If you say yes he'll blow up them and their crackhouse.

✧ Is on the fence about meeting your siblings, he doesn't really want your brothers seeing a drunk, half-blind Scot stumbling around.

Medic

✧ His eye twitches, a large insane smile on his face as he turns to you while having his elbows deep in the corpse of the enemy heavy.

"Did I mishear you?"

✧ He removes his hands from the corpse and comes over to you shaking you like crazy. Ranting about how a teenager shouldn't be caring for small children and asking if you had symptoms for any mental issues.

✧ He's insane, I'm not gonna sugar coat it.

✧ But he is smart and teaches you how to do some basic first aid

'no medic I'm not going to remove any appendices please stop cutting into scout'

✧ Wants to meet your sisters, offers them to play with his birds and offers up some plushies

'MEDIC DON'T GIVE THEM SYRINGES' 'and PLEASE put away the baboon heart'

Sniper

✧ Asks for you to repeat what you muttered and then offers to 'get rid' of your parents (sniper put down the rifle.. and the jarate)

✧ Drives you back and to your family home, is uncomfortable around small children so he's going to 100% either stay in his truck or be leaning against it the whole time.

✧ Don't worry he didn't bring any jarate with him.. Just don't check the truck (please) 

✧ But if he mentions taking care of birds your siblings demand to see them, so they get along well

Spy

✧ He will assassinate them, won't tell you, but it'll be suspicious when your mother dies from an overdoses while having and obvious bullet hole through her chest

✧ Look, he wasn't a father to scout but he'll be a father for you. Better than your last father at least, and a little better than he was to scout.

✧ Teach your siblings french 100%, you won't know until they start speaking it and you're left dumbfounded.

╚═════════════════╝

Posted 1.03.2024 if you see any typos or anything pls tell me!!

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐒𝐒.

DAY EIGHT OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: cult au + “do you like it when i bleed for you?”

pairing: cult leader!din djarin x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni

summary: din initiates you into the cult.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: dubcon (power imbalance), manipulation, innocence kink, corruption kink, blood/blood kink, blowjob, soft dom!din kinda

Your eyes follow the man in armor in front of you. 

It’s just you and him, no one else. No one to hear you scream or beg while you are initiated. He removes the plates of his arms one by one, the majority of his armor staying along with his helmet. There’s a fire burning behind him. The flickering orange and yellow bathes his armor in light and you stare, mesmerized by how shadows deepen all around his armor. 

“You can’t leave after this,” he says, voice modulated. “You will be one of us.” 

“Can I see your face then?” you ask innocently, batting his eyes at him. He tilts his head, observing your soft smile and clutched thighs. You want to see him. Be with him. He had been protecting you for years, looking out for you, teaching you the way and how to live a happy life. He’d told you once, how he cared for you, but couldn’t give you a name or show you his face until you were properly initiated. That was the creed. 

He stills for a moment. You see the tension building in his muscles and doubt begins to swirl in your chest. You want to please him and the thought of saying something that might upset him makes your stomach churn.

“Yes,” he answers finally, every word pronounced carefully. “I don’t show my face to anyone though, I want you to remember that and know how special you are to me. Understood?” 

You nod and he shakes his head, “Use your words mesh’la. Use my name, it’s Din.” 

“Yes, Din,” you answer. Your cheeks warm up. His name hits your tongue just right, as if your mouth is made to repeat his name over and over again. 

Satisfied, he nods and pulls out a sharp dagger from his waist. The gleam catches your eye and your pulse quickens. You have no idea how the initiation works, your excitement courses through your veins, and pounds in your ears. His visor reflects your wide-eyed expression. 

“On your knees,” he says. 

You quickly obey, ignoring how the stone scrapes your skin. He displays his forearm, bringing the sharp edge of the dagger to his skin. Din cuts himself slowly, blood trickling instantly from the long wound. Your heart jumps, eyes going wide. You almost feel a cut of your own tingling over your forearm and it pains you to see him bleeding. 

But also, you know this is not something he does for everyone. 

Your pupils dilate, mouth flooding with saliva with the prospect of pressing your lips against the crimson blood. 

“Repeat after me,” he says, drawing you away from your disrespectful thoughts. You nod. The blood ebbs like spiderwebs across his skin, coiling around his bare wrist and dripping from his fingers to the cold stone ground. 

He begins, voice soft and words slow, “I swear on my name and the names of the ancestors. . .” 

 “I swear on my name and the names of the ancestors. . .” you repeat dutifully. 

“that I shall walk the way of the mand’alore. . .” 

“that I shall walk the way of the mand’alore. . .” 

 “and the words of the creed shall be forever forged in my heart.” 

 “and the words of the creed shall be forever forged in my heart. . .” 

“This is the way.” 

“This is the way.” 

He curls two bloody fingers under your chin and tilts your head further up. You feel the warmth of his essence on your skin, the scent of iron filling your nostrils. “Do you like it when I bleed for you?”

“Yes,” you answer without thought, feeling the blood moving down your neck, following the path between your breasts. He slightly bends his knees, leaning over you as he tugs your bottom lip down with his thumb. You exhale when he smears the tender flesh with his blood, marking you, and you taste him. 

He sighs, “Maker, I can’t wait to ruin you.” 

Din pulls away and you lick the blood from your lips. Oddly enough he tastes sweet to you, even though you know it’s impossible. Your eyes drop to the front of his pants where he unzips himself, your mouth goes dry at the size of his hard cock. He’s not too long, but the thickness of it is enough for you to shudder with pleasure. 

“Have you ever sucked cock before?” he asks, coming closer and tracing your lips with his bloody fingers. Insticeticly, you part your lips and he slips them inside, he groans as you swirl your tongue, cleaning him off. 

“No,” you answer. “It never seemed that appealing to me.”

“How about now?” 

The drop of his voice, the rasp beneath the words, all of it makes your mind go completely blank. Silent. You swallow around his fingers. He withdraws his fingers, “It’s very tempting,” you breathe out, tongue swiping over your bottom lip. 

Din ignores your answer, “Open your mouth. Wide,” he groans and when you do, he pushes himself inch by inch into your mouth. Tears build in your eyes and he cradles the side of your face with one hand, keeping you still. He doesn’t stop until you’re choking around him, a moan echoing from underneath the helmet. 

Tears fall one by one as he begins to thrust his hips, burying his cock down your throat with every move. You brace yourself by placing your palm on his thighs. The muscles bulge underneath your hands. Arousal pools between your legs. He’s using you just like you wanted, owning you and making you yours. 

“That’s it. You’re doing so well,” his head tilts back, pushing you down until your nose is buried within the dark curls. You can barely breathe. The mixture of precome and blood heavy on your tongue. You feel him pulse as your throat convulses around him, then he pulls back, a growl reaching your ears. “My sweet girl, always so eager to please.” 

Din pulls out slowly and you can feel the slickness on your tongue. His hand slides from your chin up the side of your head. His rough thumb traces your lower lip. You can feel his gaze like a brand on your skin. he takes a deep breath and exhales before taking himself into his hand. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, precome glistening beautifully at the slit. 

Before he can command it, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue. He fists himself before spilling his hot cum all over your lips and chin, dripping down your face. His moans and whimpers are beautiful, a sight only you’re allowed to see. 

There’s so much of it, his cock continuously twitches and throbs in his hand. He ruins you, just like he promised. Staining you with his seed. Your insides clench when you imagine Din coming inside instead of on your face. 

When he’s finished, he tucks himself back into his pants and reaches for his helmet. 

“As promised,” he says, voice hoarse, scratching your ears just right. 

You finally see the real face of the man in armor.

And he’s beautiful.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: D&D Part 7

Alien DM: Can you explain something to me? Human Necromancer: What is it? Alien: Why is your sub class a seamstress? Human Necromancer: You ever wonder why I remove the limbs of every foe we’ve defeated. Human Paladin: Because you pledged your soul to the darkness leaving me pondering why I have left you alive for this long? Human Necromancer: Close but not quite. Human Necromancer: My raise the dead skill allows me to raise one undead creature at a time as a thrall. Human Necromancer: It does not however specify the size of said creature. Human Artificer: Oh my gods…. Alien DM: What? Human Artificer: Is that why you wanted my bag of holding?!!?? Alien DM: What does that mean? What is happening? Human Artificer: He’s been stitching the limbs together to form a single creature. Alien DM: *Realization kicks in* Alien DM: *Turns to necromancer* How big is your creature? Human Necromancer: By last count three miles long and all of it very grabby. Human Paladin: *Vomits* Human Artificer: So you call it out of my bag when you need it? Human Necromancer: Pretty much. Human Necromancer: I call it “Little Bessie”. ------------------

Alien DM: Metal gates slam down from the ceiling, trapping your party in a narrow corridor. Alien DM: You hear the sound of heavy footsteps towards you and from the shadows emerges the dark lord Drakholm himself. Alien DM: His fiery red eyes look down at you all through his corrupted helm. Alien DM: “I have waited-“ Human Wizard: Question. Alien DM: What? Human Wizard: I would like to ask a quick question. Alien DM: You are cutting the dark lord’s speech off before it has even begun. Human Paladin: It is rude. Human Rogue: The man has killed, like, a thousand people. Human Rogue: Do we really care if we’re rude to him? We’re here to kill him! Human Paladin: Good point. Fuck’m them. Alien DM: *Sighs* Fine, what is your question? Human Wizard: Are these metal gates solid gates or a portcullis? Alien DM: It is a portcullis. Human Wizard: I cast Acid Splash through the metal bars and directly at the dark lord as he is giving his speech. Alien DM: You…..what? Human Rogue: No, no; he’s got a point here. Human Rogue: What kind of villain would expect someone to interrupt his big monologue? Alien DM: I guess….roll for it. *Rolls dice, and passes* Alien DM: You fire a glob of acid at the dark lord as he is giving his speech. Alien DM: He was entirely unprepared for the attack and the glob hits him right in the face passing through the opening in his helmet. Alien DM: He lets out the briefest of screams before his head is reduced to a pile of mush. Human Paladin: I am surprised with how easy that was. Alien DM: I hate you all…..so….so very much. ---------------------------------

Alien Shop Keeper: That’ll be seventeen gold pieces. Human Paladin: That’s robbery! Alien Shop Keeper: Those area my prices. Human Rogue: You know that paladins kill the sinful, right? Alien Shop Keeper: So? Human Rogue: Robbery is considered a sin. Human Paladin: *Draws sword* Alien Shop Keeper: Oh no… ------------------------------------- Alien DM: Suddenly, a group of bandits leap from the bushes! Human Druid: I cast mold earth and turn the dirt underneath them to quicksand. Alien DM: *Rolls dice, fails* Alien DM: Well…..not how I expected that encounter to end. Alien DM: Are you going to bring them up to interrogate? Human Druid: In another three minutes. Alien DM: But these bandits can only hold their breath for one minute. Human Druid: You heard what I said. ---------------------------------- Human Wizard: I cast fireball! Alien DM: The fireball direct hits against the enemy troll in the center of town. Human Wizard: YES! Alien DM: It does absolutely no damage however as it is a rock troll. Human Wizard: Oh. Alien DM: The flames roll off it harmlessly and catch several surrounding buildings on fire. Human Wizard: Oh hell….. Alien DM: The citizens of the buildings run out in fear only to be picked up by rock troll and eaten. Human Wizard: Jesus Christ!!! Alien DM: And then the puppies wander into the street. Human Wizard: For fucks sake just kill my character now and spare the puppies! --------------------------------------------- Human Artificer: BEHOLD! Human Artificer: *Removes shroud* My latest invention! Alien Rogue: What is it? Human Artificer: The ultimate undead fighting weapon! Alien Priest: Interesting, how does it work? Human Artificer: Within this sphere is a small amount of explosive powder mixed with blessed salt. Human Artificer: When the charge goes off it sends breaches the secondary holy water cylinder and sprays the entire area with holy water and blessed sand. Alien Priest: So you’ve made. Human Artificer: A HOLY HANDGRENADE!!!!! --------------------------------------------- Alien DM: The monstrous dragon roars causing the nearby mountains to shake and shatter. Human Warlock: I throw the bag of pebbles I have been holding into its mouth. Alien DM: Really? That’s it? Human Warlock: I also despell the shrinking charm I had placed on the pebbles. Alien DM: Wait, they were shrunk? Alien DM: What was their original size? Human Warlock: Boulders. Human Warlock: They were the size of boulders. Alien DM: *Defeat sigh* Alien DM: *Rolls dice and fails again* Alien DM: The pebbles rapidly expand in the dragon’s throat, suffocating the dragon and killing it. Human Warlock: I roll to skin the dragon! Alien DM: Of course you do. ----------------------------------------- Alien DM: What is the point of having these elaborate boss fights if you keep killing them with simple spells? Human Rogue: Well, you can always say it is not allowed. Alien DM: Wait, what? Human Paladin: Yeah; you can say if something is allowed or not. Human Paladin: The DM has that kind of power. Alien DM: I DO!?!?!?!?!!? Human Warlock: Wait……what do you think DM stands for? Alien DM: It stands for something? Human Wizard: “Dungeon” “Master” Alien DM: 0_0

[stormberry-12]

faceless // P4: are you ugly? ~ charles leclerc x reader

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!driver!reader

includes/authors notes: language, lack of equal rights/ gender equality, readers an unknown figure in the races, fem!reader's gender assumed as male, use of "y/n".

Bold Italics are the past.

Normal Italics are thoughts.

summary: "There is a new mysterious driver on the grid. Nobody knows who he is, the only thing we know is that he races for Red Bull with the number 66. Other drivers call him the faceless driver for none have ever seen his face or heard him speak. The faceless driver is a legend in the making and even giving Lewis Hamilton and Max Verstappen a run for their money…”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you sat alone in a medical room, sure you had wanted to reveal your identity eventually but this was too much to handle all in one day. You could sense the awkwardness of the doctors who had come to perform tests on you, they were polite but curt. A nice nurse offered you some tissues but no one uttered more than 5 words to you, probably still processing it themselves.

You pulled out your phone, there was no doubt Charles knew, he was out of his car even before you were, probably watching televised on hundreds of screens around him. 

He hadn't tried to contact you. 

You didn't blame him.

However, you did have hundreds of notifications from other people and F1 Instagram pages tagging your private account and spreading the news worldwide.

A knock on the door frame made you jump, "You're free to go miss, as long as you have no more neck pain."

"Thank you," you replied, not looking the doctor in the eyes, and climbing out of the bed.

"Take the pain meds twice a day, for your wrist and neck, don't over-exert yourself. Have a good day."

'Have a good day.'

You walked out of the medical center with your belongings, walking to the parking lot, not planning on going back to the Red Bull garage. You couldn't care less what Christian thought about this whole thing and would probably receive a very heavily worded email from him later tonight.

The sky was dark, you must have been in there for a while. The lights from the posts shone down on the many expensive cars that the drivers had driven to the race.

Charles's car was gone.

"Fuck me," you cursed, the tears had returned along with shooting pain up the side of your neck. You called an Uber, waiting in the crisp air and wiping the tears off your face. The world seemed wobbly as you scanned your surroundings, letting reality hit harder and harder every time you thought about the day you just had.

You looked across the parking lot to see Yuki getting into his car. He shot you a small smile and wave. "Fuck is a fun word. And you have a cool helmet by the way,"

"YUKIII!" Pierre screamed, running over to the car drawing both of your attention. "I'm driving,"

"No!"

"Yes."

They argued for about 20 seconds before Yuki hopped in the passenger seat. Pierre then noticed you, giving you a thumbs up and a knowing smile before hopping in the car.

God, word spread fast. 

You and Charles settled onto the couch, cozy blankets draped over your laps, snuggled up next to each other. Tonight's choice? The Office. It was a show you both adored, somehow whenever you watched it it always managed to lift your spirit. With a bowl of popcorn between your legs, you hit play, and the familiar theme song filled the room. You nestled into Charles's side, feeling the comforting warmth of his presence.

"Guess what, I have flaws. What are they? Oh, I don't know. I sing in the shower. Sometimes I spend too much time volunteering. Occasionally I'll hit somebody with my car. So sue me." Michael Scott's voice rang from the speakers.

"Oh my god," Charles chuckled. "I can't with this show,"

As the credits rolled, you turned to Charles, a contented smile playing on his lips. "I love nights like this," you whispered.

"Me too," Charles replied, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Especially when I'm with you."

The door to your apartment creaked as you opened it slowly, the hum of the airconditioning filled your ears and and hit you with a cold blast that sent shivers down your spine. You tossed your backpack on the floor and braced yourself for all of the outcomes that could happen next.

'What if he breaks up with me?' Flashed in the back of your mind as one of the possibilities that made your stomach ache. He was sitting on the couch, gaze not leaving the TV, but you could see his shoulders tense as your footsteps entered the room.

"Charles, we need to talk," you said softly, your voice barely audible over the blasting TV and loud voices outside the thin wall. 

He ignored you coldly, grabbing his plate off the side table and walking towards the kitchen. 

"Oh come on, Charles! Jesus, listen to me, I can explain!" you cried, following him around the apartment until he finally turned to face you, his eyes were broken. 

"Explain..."

"Yes-"

"Explain? You've been racing alongside me all this time, pretending to be just another driver, while I've been completely in the dark about who you are! You lied to me!" he spoke, voice cracking and eyes watering.

"Charles I-"

"Like holy shit!" Charles's voice trembled as he continued to word vomit his feelings like he always did. "You were the faceless driver. The one everyone speculated about, and-"

"Charles, I didn't want to lie to you. I just... I never wanted my identity to overshadow my abilities on the track. I wanted to be known for my skill, not my gender or boyfriend's name." You sighed heavily, hands trembling slightly, head pounding.

"You didn't think I deserved to know? We're in a relationship, Y/n. We're supposed to trust each other!" Charles's voice grew louder, his words cutting through the air, making you feel small.

"It was in my contract Charles, I couldn't tell anyone-"

"Why would you sign your life away like that? Red Bull was taking advantage of you but you were too stupid and blinded by all the secrets you had to keep-" he hissed.

"Oh my god! Why are you being such a dick? I came up with half my contract rules, I didn't want to tell anybody!" you held your neck as it ached.

"You told Lando,"

"No, I didn't. I never meant for him to find out!" you yelled, well tried to, as you found it harder and harder to catch your breath. "And do not bring Lando into this, he's your teammate and friend-"

"But he knew before I did! He kept secrets from me too," he complained. "And you had your little waves out on track and everything, don't bring Lando into this my ass. I hate how you realized you could trust him but couldn't think of anyone else in your life that you might be able to trust. Someone who might deserve to know. Was there no one else Y/n? No one else that you spent hours of the day with, that had trusted you with all of his problems? No one that loved you so much and would support you no matter what-"

"Charles-" you choked out, guilt overtaking you.

"This is so wild, I can't believe this day is real," he mumbled and you weren't sure if he was referencing the fact that you were a driver or the fact that you had left him in the dark and damaged the strong relationship you had. Probably both.

You sighed and rubbed a hand over your face, you felt like you were going to puke. You pushed past Charles and shuffled to the bathroom slamming the door behind you. You heard Charles call after you but his words were drowned out by the pounding and ringing in your ears. 

As you leaned over the toilet vomiting you felt your hair being pulled away from your face and a hand placed firmly on your back. You knelt there for a while, his fingertips traced up and down your spine until you pulled away to splash your face with water.

You slid back down to the floor leaning against the sink. You hugged your knees to your chest, not wanting to feel the cold tiles on the back of your legs any longer, as your boyfriend sat across from you quietly. Charles hesitated, his eyes locked with yours. The weight of the words you yelled at each other hung heavy in the air. His foot grazed yours softly and you both looked down at your matching socks that you un-intentionally wore on the same day.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah. They told me I didn't have a concussion..."

"That's bullshit. And the wrist?"

You looked down at your bandaged hand, "Sprained."

He hummed in acknowledgment, "They did a shit job at that too, can a re-wrap it for you?"

You nodded and he skooted closer, taking your arm gently in his hands. He unwrapped the tenser bandage around your wrist and you winced, Charles whispered an apology, examining your bruises and swelling.

"Jesus, love," he wrapped the bandage around you once more, neat and tidy, securing it tightly. He looked up meeting your eyes with an unreadable expression, fingers still grazing your bandaged wrist. "Lando had more than one secret he was keeping from me,"

"What?" you croaked.

Charles closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, "He's leaving. His contract was only for a year to try out a new team..."

You stared at Charles in shock before he continued. "He misses Mclaren, and of course Zack misses him. So yeah," Charles laughed but no humor filled his face, "I'll be saying goodbye to yet another awesome teammate that I've considered a brother."

"I'm so sorry Charlie," you whispered, linking your hand with his. You knew how hard it was for him when Carlos left, they didn't speak as much anymore, and you could always see the pain in Charles' eyes whenever Carlos brushed him off with a rushed wave in the paddock.

"God, I've got to stop being so sensitive and annoying," He sighed.

"No, your empathy, understanding, and awareness are some of my favorite things about you," you smiled softly at his blush.

"But I wasn't very understanding to you," he whispered and you felt your heart pinch.

You were about to respond, countering his statement with the truth that you were so terribly sorry and pissed at yourself for everything, when your phone rang pulling you from the moment. Looking down at the screen you stared at Christian Horner's name as it buzzed.

previous part // next part

[decembermidnight]

The sweetest reward

Summary: You take care of the Mandalorian when he comes back after a wearying hunt.

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: no plot - just smut, 18+ MDNI, Dom!Din, sub!reader, thigh riding, mutual masturbation, teasing, body worship, cock worship, praise kink, mando'a speaking kink, masculinity kink (I guess?), creampie

GIF by @thefrogdalorian

A/N: The inspiration came from this beautiful gif set made by @thefrogdalorian 💕 I kinda got Ner Mircet'ad vibes while writing this (Din's old armour, the Mando'a dirty talk...) so feel free to check that out too! See the end for Mando'a translations. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

Masterlist - Read on Ao3

The Mandalorian is comfortably slouching on the makeshift seat made up of ammo boxes and blankets in the hull of the ship, his legs spread wide, tired after his last hunt.

He's still holding the pulse rifle in his hands after unhooking it from the strap on his back. The mere vision of it sends a spark straight to your core.

Warrior, bounty hunter, beroya.

Strong, brave, fearless.

You could observe him for hours in reverential adoration as he cleans his weapons and armour, but the need for him is too strong and aching.

He tilts his helmet towards you when he acknowledges your presence. You, in turn, greet him with a sweet smile and he immediately lays his rifle down when he sees you after so many days.

You look breathtaking wearing nothing but a thin, silk robe that barely covers you, leaving nothing to imagination. 

As you get close to him, he takes his gloves off. He wants to get lost in you, in the softness of your skin, in your delicate beauty after so many days of nothing but dirty cantinas and ugly mugs.

He doesn't say a word when you stop right in front of him and his hands start caressing your thighs, finally something warm and giving after knowing nothing but blasters and knives for what felt so long.

He loses no time in grabbing you by the waist and making you sit in his lap.

His hands immediately start to wander, caressing your body, making you feel worshiped under his gentle touch.

You stay there, arms wrapped around his broad shoulders as his hands give you goosebumps all over your body, making you hum and claw your fingers in his cape as he's reminded how soft you are and how much he missed holding you in his arms. The smooth fabric of your silk robe feels so precious to his hands, nothing like he's used to.

As his hand trails once again up your thigh, you instinctively spread your legs for him to touch your needy cunt. You get flustered when his hand slides up under your robe and softly caresses your tummy as his thumb slowly, painfully slowly glides down, teasing your lips. He lets out a long and aroused hum when he notices you are not wearing panties.

"P-please" you sigh, incredibly turned on already.

His thumb moves towards your clit and brushes it once, feeling how wet you are for him already. He doesn't go on, though, making you whimper.

"Already so wet for me and I've barely touched you" he chuckles "you missed me, didn't you?" says in a low, husky voice as he draws a few circles on your clit.

"Mmm - yes. Missed you so much. I want you." you mumble in bliss as he gives you pleasure with his expert fingers that know you like no other in the galaxy.

"You gotta earn it, mesh'la. You know that, right?"

“Yes - y-yes, my warrior.” you can barely stutter as you sink in his shoulder.

"Good girl." he praises you as he caresses your face, keeping you there, in his lap, taking all the time in the galaxy to worship your curves while hearing your sweet moans and looking at your aroused expression. Your eyes cross and roll as his thick fingers alternate drawing circles on your clit and thrusting inside of you. He can feel by the way you clamp around him and the way you breathe how much your body wants him, but he doesn't want you to get anywhere close to an orgasm, not yet, he wants to give you pleasure and to build it slowly, to get you nice and ready for when he can no longer contain himself.

"Ride my thigh like the needy thing that you are, show me how much you want it." 

You immediately comply and straddle his thigh. Your body slightly jerks at the contact of the cold plate with your heated core - a detail that he does not miss, tilting his helmet slightly as you adjust yourself.

"Good girl. Like this." he encourages you as you begin to roll your hips and give yourself pleasure using his beskar armour. There's something about coating his precious Mandalorian armour in your arousal, using it for such a depraved, sacrilegious purpose that makes you feel even more eager and turned on.

"I want you, ner beroya. Please, let me ride you. I'm gonna take really good care of you." you pant in between heady moans, your eyes half closed as your swollen, needy clit rubs against the embossment of the plate.

"Yeah? You will?" he passes his thumb on your lips.

You nod mindlessly, smiling as you keep riding his thigh plate, pleasure slowly building up and making your whole body tremble with lust. You softly bite his finger as you let out heady groans that make him throb in his pants in anticipation. The sinful way your stiff nipples peek out from your skimpy robe is making it hard for him to resist.

"Then come here and show me." he grabs you by the waist and pulls you towards his body, making you straddle him. You feel hot and flustered and let out a gasp at that sudden movement, at him manhandling you as if you were weightless.

"Go on." he tilts his helmet to the side, his gaze locked on you.

As you start unzipping his pants, his hands unfasten the thin robe tie and you can hear him choking a grunt when the fabric parts and shows him your naked body underneath. His hand trails your inner thigh, making you gasp and gulp until his thumb reaches your clit. Your head rolls back and you let out a loud moan when he does that.

"Hey. Don't stop." he says in a cold, firm voice, as opposed to the throbbing, rock hard erection still trapped in his pants.

"S-sorry, ner beroya." you drawl in a moan as you resume your movements.

Once you free his cock, you start stroking it delicately, barely brushing it with your fingers. It twitches uncontrollably when he feels the delicate touch of your hand. It's painfully hard and veiny, hot in your hand and so sensitive as he didn't dare touching himself while he was away, saving all of his load for you. He stifles a whimper, the sound of it barely picked up by the modulator as he tries to keep his cool and appear impassive while never stopping touching your clit.

You try to lift your hips to go sit on his cock but the firm grip of his hands around your waist keeps you there.

"Please. Please, I want you inside me. Please, my warrior, let me ride you." you plead desperately.

He lets out an aroused hum and you feel his cock throbbing in your hand. He surely loves to hear you beg for him.

"Ner kotyc verd, I'm gonna take really good care of you" you say in a husky voice as you spread a drop of precum across his tip with your thumb, making him choke a grunt as you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter "I'll be so, so good to you. Ni lidiba gar." your voice is so seductive as you say it. The way you're teasing his cock as you plead for him in his native language is driving him insane, making him rabid like a beast. He has to have you, now.

"Dank Farrik. K'olar. I want to fuck you." he rasps in a broken voice, impatient to bury himself inside of you, bringing you right over his dick and undressing you, letting your robe fall on the floor.

You slowly sink down on his cock and you both let out a long, satisfied moan when you feel it pleasurably stretching your tight, needy walls with his thick girth.

You start to ride it slowly and smoothly, letting his already drenched cock slip out almost completely, leaving just the tip inside of you before welcoming it back in. You move your body sensually, looking so charming and entracing for his pleasure. You grab his hands and place them on your breasts. He follows your lead splendidly, without ever overriding you, trusting you and the gradually increasing rhythm you're setting.

Fuck - it's so perfect. You're so turned on at the idea of being the sweetest reward, the most beautiful thing to come back to, the best part of being a bounty hunter. You want it to be memorable, you want this every single time he comes back. He doesn't often let you ride him, so you want him to understand how pleasurable it can be, as used as he is to take everything he wants the way he wants. You want him to know how delightful it can be to just rest and let you take care of everything. You want him to burst while he looks at you.

His warm, naked hands start to wander all over your body to touch your hips, your waist, your breasts, making you groan and sigh. You hear his low, modulated moans as you feel his cock deliciously gliding in and out of you, entranced at how good it feels to be on top of him after a hunt. He's still dirty and tired but couldn't wait to fuck you. You love smelling his raw masculine scent, the dirt on his clothes and the burnt smell from his guns, all while admiring the sight below you - a deadly Mandalorian in full armour enjoying the way you're taking the stress out of him, enjoying the way you're riding his cock after so many days of lone hunting. He has always been in control, always on top or behind you, completely overwhelmed by the testosterone from the hunt of his bounties, needing your cunt to let it all out, leaving you wrecked, shaking and leaking with his cum afterwards, but this time is different. This time you're in control, and he relishes the way you're taking care of his needs, letting you handle everything.

"Look at you…" he whispers "So beautiful while you ride my cock, damn." he rasps.

"I love it." you sigh mindlessly.

"I see it. Keep - keep going." says, almost imploring you.

The sounds you are making are obscene - your cunt is drenched and dripping with juices and each time you bounce on his dick you can hear it squelching as it sucks it in avidly, clamping around it as if it can never have enough of it. Shit, you're getting dangerously close to your orgasm.

"Hey. You're c-close, I can feel it." he stutters.

"I am. I am, ner beroya."

"Don't come yet. Hold it there for me, mesh'la." his order has the opposite effect, making your cunt spasm even harder around him. A whimper escapes from your lips.

"No. Not yet. You get so tight when you're close. Let me - let me enjoy it."

"M-my warrior - missed you. Missed you so much. Please, let me - l-let come on your cock." you beg him sensually in between moans, overwhelmed by pleasure.

“So, so fucking tight.” he grunts when he hears you plead like that, when he feels your cunt getting tighter, your chest heaving in front of him. His mind gets dizzy at the way you're squeezing around him, bringing him dangerously on the edge, too.

"M-mesh'la, shit, I'm-" he whimpers, the grip of his hands on your waist gets firmer.

"Come inside me, my warrior."

The Mandalorian wouldn't want it to be over so soon, but he can't help it when he sees how much you want it and how you’re begging for him to fill you with his load.

"Mesh'la. Come. N-now." he stutters, trying not to burst inside of you immediately, not before he's satisfied you first.

Hearing him begging for you to come like that draws the orgasm out of you. You completely lose control as you come hard around him, going on riding him as you feel his seed spurting inside of you and dripping down your cunt causing a mess of fluids between your legs and drenching his pants, your voices moaning loudly filling the hull of the Razor Crest for those few seconds of pure, astounding bliss.

You slow down the rhythm as the orgasm fades out and you rest your heated forehead on his beskar helmet, the both of you panting heavily as you hold on tight to each other.

"You… you have been so good, cyar'ika." says in a ragged voice as he starts to rub your clit again, lubricated by both your sleek and his cum. "You deserve another."

His expert thumb circles your swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves in such a perfect way that you feel ready for another immense wave of pleasure, gripping the cape on his shoulders tight in your hands.

"Copaani haa'taylir tug'yc. Ke'dinui ni. Jate, bid mesh'la." he whispers as he drives you over the edge once again, making you uncontrollably scream and tremble, your eyes rolling up as this astounding second orgasm obliterates you. He grunts when he feels how tight you get around his spent, sensitive cock, still hard for you.

You collapse in his arms and he holds you there, your face buried in his neck while he's still inside of you.

Mando’a translations: I have used mandocreator.com as reference

Beroya = bounty hunter

Ner = my/mine

Mesh’la = beautiful

Ner kotyc verd = my strong warrior

Ni lidiba gar = I need you

K’olar = come here

Cyar'ika = darling

Copaani haa'taylir tug'yc. Ke'dinui ni. Jate, bid mesh'la = I want to see it again. Give it to me. Good, so beautiful.