In the Underdark

d&d oc ladywhump commissioned by @silentlygo

content warnings: female whump, minor character death, graphic violence, blood, and brief mentions of nausea

—

Baenviir is not unfamiliar with the Underdark. She is half-drow, after all. Her dark blue skin is a testament to her heritage. Below the surface of the sunlit world, she knows what dangers to look out for. She treads lightly, her golden eyes peeled at all times. This is not her first time in the Underdark, and she prays it will not be her last.

She cannot confidently say the same for her current traveling companions, however. Her faction has tentatively formed an alliance with another group in an attempt to strengthen their numbers. They need all the help they can get if they hope to stand a chance against the new threat brewing in the Underdark. Still, she doesn’t exactly mix well with her new associates. She’s never been the most sociable or quick to trust, especially not down here where lives can be so easily snuffed out. It’s best not to grow attached.

And yet… Gaheris.

She tried to ignore the human man at first, but putting him out of her mind proved to be extraordinarily difficult considering how loud he was. Granted, you could never be truly loud in the Underdark if you wanted to stay safe, but Gaheris’ talkative manner pushed at the boundaries of safety. Most of the members of her group ignored him, signifying the divide between the two factions, but she once made the terrible mistake of muttering a sarcastic remark in response to one of his over-the-top attempts to unite the two parties. Upon hearing her speak, he immediately directed his efforts toward her, and she’s been stuck with him ever since.

The thing is, Gaheris isn’t a bad person. In fact, he’s rather obnoxiously noble. He’s not helpless, either, with his knight-status, gleaming armor, and longsword. She has no real reason to reject his acquaintance, and yet…

It’s the Underdark. Not exactly the best place to make new friends.

Baenviir may not be unfamiliar with the region as a whole, but she is a stranger to the caves her party is currently navigating. Her and Gaheris walk side-by-side down the path, situated somewhere near the center of the group, their weapons strapped to their belts and their packs slung over their shoulders. They’ve been traveling for days, and even though she would never admit it, she’s exhausted. 

Gaheris playfully nudges her shoulder. “Nothing like a pleasant stroll through some creepy caves to brighten the spirits, eh?”

Baenviir shoots him a glare, taking a step to the right to create some much needed distance between them. “Just wait until we come across a Beholder. That’ll really lighten the mood.”

The knight chuckles, amused. His green eyes glint in the dim light of the caverns. “Y’know, down here it feels more like we’re on vacation than anything. I mean, everyone we’ve met so far has been so hospitable.”

She snorts. “Yeah? Like the kobolds we ran into the other day?”

Gaheris grins. “Exactly!”

“One of them bit Valeheart’s calf like a rabid dog would,” she points out, cringing when she visualizes the nasty infection the human man is currently combating.

The knight falters slightly. “Well, we can’t all be winners.”

“You don’t mean that,” she says, well-aware of the goody-two-shoes morality hidden underneath his teasing.

“I don’t,” he admits, giving her a sideways smile, “I just like getting under your skin. I have to repay you for those drow lessons somehow!”

Baenviir hums in acknowledgement. It’s true he owes her for the kindness and attention she’s bestowed upon him. After all, she isn’t handing out drow language lessons to just anybody. He’s her only student. She doesn’t intend to make him pay her for her tutelage, however. She’s only helping him because she wants to. Besides, it gives her something to do.

She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can form words, a bloodcurdling scream echoes throughout the chamber. The sound stops her heart and sends chills rolling down her spine.

Immediately, her hands fly to her scythes, her fingers curling instinctively around the hilts as she scans her surroundings. She can’t pinpoint where the commotion is coming from at first, but, a moment later, an arrow soars over her head and lodges itself into a traveler behind her. The attackers must be charging from the front, then.

Gaheris unsheathes his sword, standing close beside her in a display of loyalty. He won’t leave her. Whatever threat comes, they’ll tackle it together.

In a matter of seconds, the previously peaceful cave descends into chaos, battle cries and magical blasts filling the air. Their travel formation immediately dissolves as enemies break through their ranks. Orcs, armed to the teeth and seemingly intent on slaughtering them all, rush forward. Baenviir grips her curled, poisoned-soaked blades and clenches her jaw, feet spread wide in a fighting stance. An enemy strikes down the party member in front of her, but before the orc can turn his attention to her, Gaheris slashes his sword across his abdomen, spilling his guts. Baenviir cuts his throat for good measure, ducking to the side to avoid being crushed when he topples to the ground.

She doesn’t spare a moment to gloat (she’s too much of a seasoned warrior to gloat). Spinning around, she lunges toward the nearest enemy, stabbing the orc in the thigh, making her howl in agony. She manages to land a punch, and the blow leaves Baenviir winded, forcing her to take a step back. Before her opponent can strike again, she slams both her blades into the orc’s chest. The metal sinks in deep, past cartilage and slipping between the bones of her ribs. Blood spills from the orc’s lips, and Baenviir rips her scythes free, her teeth bared in ferocity. The orc falls at her feet, and she moves on.  

Her golden eyes narrowed in determination, her heart pounding furiously, she searches for Gaheris in the mess of carnage. As she makes her way through the crowd, cutting anyone who comes too close as she steps over the wounded and dying, worry seeps through the cracks of her mental fortress. What if he’s already been slain?

Finally, she spots him several yards away, engaged in battle with two orcs, his expression twisted into a snarl. Before she can even start in his direction, a sword slashes his side, leaving a sizable dent in his armor. From where she stands, she can see his mouth fall open in a pained yell, but she can’t hear his voice over the clamor of battle.

Her pulse spikes, and she sprints forward, leaping onto the back of the orc who attacked her friend, slicing his neck. Her scythes dig so deep, she nearly decapitates him, his hot blood gushing onto her hands. Even though he’s dying, the orc manages to grab hold of her and throw her off. She lands on the rocky ground with a thud, grunting. One of her blades slips from her hands, and as she rolls over to reach for the handle, a heavy boot connects with her side. Pain blossoms across her ribs, and she groans. Curling into herself to protect herself from further damage, Baenviir awaits the next blow. 

It never comes.

She opens her eyes just in time to see Gaheris finish off the orc who attacked her, his longsword running him through. With a huff of effort and a boot planted against the orc’s protruding stomach, he wrenches his weapon free, staggering back as he does so. Baenviir snatches both her scythes and climbs to her feet, kicking the back of the orc’s knees to ensure he goes down.

Panting, she looks the knight in the eye, searching to see if he’s alright. He shrugs, gesturing to his wounded thigh. His leg armor has been penetrated, and red drips from the gash in his trousers. Baenviir’s stomach flips at the sight. He won’t be much use in a fight with an injury like that.

“Baenviir!”

The shout pulls her gaze from Gaheris’s wound to his face, which is alight with a primal fear that can only be found in the realm of death. His wide eyes are looking past her, so she spins around, and—

Another body slams into her own, knocking her back several feet. She trips over a dead body and loses her balance, her arms pinwheeling as she falls backwards. She faintly expects to land on the stone path, but instead she falls on uneven ground, her body tumbling fast down a slope that ends in darkness. Her heart drops into her stomach as she spins, completely out of control of her own movements, propelled down the steep embankment. Over the sound of blood rushing in her ears, she can hear Gaheris scream her name.

She crashes into a boulder, and pain explodes across her vision. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, and she’s out like a light.

—

When Baenviir wakes, she almost wishes she hadn’t. Her head aches like her skull has been split down the middle, a deep crevice in the bone that can never be mended. She’s dizzy even though she has yet to open her eyes, and she fears she’ll be sick if she dares to sneak a peek. Parting her lips, she sucks in a reedy breath. Her chest aches, even more so when her lungs expand. Her ribs must be bruised, if not fractured, from the battle and the ensuing fall. As she measures her own pulse, she takes stock, shifting ever so slightly. Her outer left forearm itches in a way she knows means she’s been cut, either on jagged rock or an enemy’s blade. Her right knee throbs as well. All in all, she’s a mess. She’s lucky to be alive.

Eventually, when she thinks she can stand to bear it, she opens her eyes. Her light of sight is black, stars sparking along the edges, and she grimaces as her stomach rolls. If she doesn’t want to throw up, she’ll have to take things slow.

Baenviir wills herself to be patient, suffering through minutes at a time, blinking repeatedly as her eyes adjust. She’s at the bottom of the embankment she was pushed down, further away from the faint light emanating from the crystals on the ceiling of the cave but not too far down to be trapped in total darkness. She can’t hear a single sound. The battle must be finished, then. She wonders who won. She assumes the orcs did, otherwise her party would’ve rescued her. Or maybe not. She would’ve assumed a missing person dead after a fight like that. Gaheris would’ve searched for her, though. He wouldn’t have left her behind. 

Unless he was dead.

Dread stirs within her at the thought, and she forces herself to sit up. She feels wretched, but she knows she can’t stay down here forever. She’ll die of dehydration or be devoured by some wild creature. Crawling onto her knees, she reaches around on the stone ground for her scythes. She has no hope of survival without them. Movement hurts her right knee, the cap bruised in the fall, but she grits her teeth and powers through, trying to cover as much ground as possible. Finally, several feet higher up on the slope, her fingers brush against the familiar hilt of her weapon. She heaves a sigh of relief and grips the blade tightly, hugging it to her chest. She finds its sister soon after.

Once she’s strapped her weapons to her belt, she attempts the feat of standing. Leaning against a stalagmite for support, she hoists herself up, wavering as she struggles to remain upright. Her body is weak and trembling, but after a moment or so, she’s steady enough where she won’t immediately pass out and fall on her ass. 

She takes a deep, slow breath, mentally preparing herself for the grueling climb up the slope back to the road, but an odd noise catches her off-guard. Pausing, she cocks her head to the side and listens. She hadn’t noticed it before, too distracted by her own pain and frantic search for her weapons, but a strange keening sound is coming from up ahead. It doesn’t sound like an animal. It sounds like a person. 

Baenviir starts in the direction of the noise, dread and hope both finding a place in her heart. Squinting in the darkness, she can make out the shape of a body lying at the bottom of the hill. Cautiously, she approaches, unsure if the figure is friend or foe.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” a male voice hisses, and her ears perk up. Could it be?

“Gaheris?” she whispers. 

The swearing stops. “Baenviir?”

She lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding and hobbles over to him. He looks like he just regained consciousness. He must’ve been knocked down the embankment as well, left for dead like she was. 

He smiles at her, struggling to sit upright. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”

Warmth blooms in her chest. She’s relieved that he didn’t abandon her and that he’s still kicking—for now, at least.

“You hurt?” she asks.

He leans against a boulder, groaning. “Always cutting to the chase.”

“You still have your weapon?”

He shrugs, but the motion seems to cause some discomfort, judging by his grimace. “Probably around here somewhere.”

Baenviir hums and crouches down beside him. His armor is dented in several spots, and his face is a mess of bruises, but her eyes gloss over those minor injuries. What really bothers her in the cut in his thigh, a deep gash that’s still oozing blood. 

“We gotta deal with this.” She reaches for his armor, unlatching the lower half and discarding the metal pieces before moving on to rip apart the seams of his pants, prying the fabric away from his skin.

Gaheris grunts, squirming. “Can I at least keep my clothes on?”

Ignoring his weak attempt at a joke, she takes the scraps of fabric and ties them together, wrapping them tightly around the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I don’t take care of this. Either that or die of infection.”

“What about you?” he asks, looking her over. “You hurt anywhere?”

“Nothing that’ll kill me,” she says, tying a knot that makes the knight wince. “But climbing back up that hill will be a challenge.”

“You’re telling me,” he grumbles, glaring up at the cave ceiling high above them. “Can’t wait to get out of this miserable place.”

Baenviir nods silently, sitting back on her heels. They need water, food, and medicine. Their packs were likely ransacked by whoever won the battle, but there might be something left on the road. Maybe they’ll find enough supplies to get them to the next settlement. If they’re lucky, they won’t die from their injuries.

“We shouldn’t wait any longer. We’ll only grow weaker by the minute.”

Gaheris frowns deeply at the thought of scaling the embankment. She can understand the sentiment. 

“C’mon. Let me help you up.” She extends her hand, but he waves her off.

“Don’t think I can stand,” he says, shifting to his hands and knees, “I’m gonna have to crawl.”

She purses her lips, wanting to argue. There’s no point, though. She can’t support his weight as well as her own. 

“Go slow,” she orders, “and keep a lookout for your sword.”

He grunts in assent, and she turns around, shuffling toward the hill.

As soon as she starts, she realizes she’s better off on all fours, her hands digging into the rock as she pushes herself up one step at a time. Her wounded knee sparks in protest, and her ribs creak with each inhale, but she grits her teeth and forces herself to continue. She has to do this if she wants to live. Every couple minutes, she glances over her shoulder at Gaheris to make sure he’s alright. If he slips and tumbles back down the hill, she doesn’t know what she’d do. He’s several feet below her, his limbs shaking from effort, and whenever she asks how he’s doing, he simply nods, too busy panting to speak properly. Will they have the energy to go on once they’ve reached the top? Or will they simply collapse?

Climbing the embankment takes significantly longer than it did for her to roll down it. By the time her fingers touch the dirt road, she’s soaked in sweat and suffering from a pounding headache. All of her muscles ache from exertion (likely a combination of the battle, her injuries, and the climb), and she flops over onto her back, closing her eyes. 

“Gaheris?” she asks, too tired to lean over the edge and see how far he’s come along. “You almost done?”

She doesn’t get a response, and as the minutes tick by, her concern grows. She begins to consider helping him up the rest of the way, but before she can will herself to move, the sound of heavy breathing indicates his arrival. With a heave, he rolls over next to her, his face pale and drawn. 

“Are you gonna faint?”

He makes an expression that seems to indicate he might, but after gulping down air like a dying man, a bit more color returns to his cheeks. 

“I…” he says, patting his sheath, “I found my sword.”

True enough, the weapon has been returned to its rightful place. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.” He wipes his brow, closing his eyes. “We should probably look around for leftover supplies.”

Baenviir turns her head and scans the road. She sees nothing but orc and human bodies. “We have time. Let’s just rest a minute.”

“For once, you have a good idea!” he exclaims, breathless, and despite herself, she laughs. Shifting to get into a more comfortable position on the ground, she allows her eyes to slip shut once again, her hands resting on the hilts of her blades. This won’t be their last time in the Underdark, not if she can help it. 

whumpster-dumpster:

Whumpee is forced into a sack and tossed into a river to drown

“No, no—let go of me!” the whumpee screams, thrashing desperately. Their wrists are cinched together with zip ties, the plastic digging into the soft skin of their forearms, but their legs are free, so they kick out with all their might.

“Cut it out,” the whumper grunts, holding the burlap sack open with one hand—their other hand is curled around the whumpee’s upper arm, trying to maneuver them into the bag. The whumpee digs their heels into the dirt, resisting like their life depends on it—and it does. Just a few paces away, the river rushes fast, deep and deadly. The whumper has finally decided to get rid of them once and for all.

“I said let go!” the whumpee shouts as loud as they can, hoping someone will hear their frantic cries and save them from their doom.

With a growl of frustration, the whumper loops one arm around their waist and picks them right up off the ground. 

“Put me down!” the whumpee yells, flailing wildly, but it’s too late. In a show of strength, the whumper dips them backward, tipping them over so they fall headfirst into the bag. The top of their skull bangs against the rocky embankment, and they’re momentarily stunned. Before they can gather their bearings, the whumper ties the other end of the sack shut. The world goes black. 

Panic overwhelms the whumpee’s senses. They struggle as hard as they can, but they can’t get the bag open. The whumper hoists them over their shoulder and starts to walk. 

“Please, no, no, you don’t have to do this!” the whumpee shrieks. “Please!”

The roar of the river grows louder. The whumpee is choking on their own breaths, sobbing. “Please, I’ll do anything, please don’t kill—!”

The whumpee’s sentence is cut off with a splash as they’re tossed into the river. The sack is almost instantly flooded, and they tumble in current, drowning in the cold, dark water.

Seasick

oc sickfic commissioned by @depression-vents

content warning: emeto

—

Elle has a history of trouble with boats. Ever since she was a little girl living in Queensland, she’s gotten terribly seasick. She used to think she’d get used to it eventually, living on the coast and all, but she’s never gotten her sea legs. As a result, she tries to avoid sailing at all costs, which can sometimes be difficult considering where she lives. Tasmania is an island, and her apartment in Hobart isn’t far from the ocean. She can find a boat almost everywhere she goes in the city. Avoiding ships isn’t exactly an easy feat when you’re surrounded by the sea.

Despite knowing how her body reacts to being on the water, Elle purchased two tickets for a river tour as a present for her girlfriend. When she told Jade about her plan, her girlfriend was reasonably concerned, but Elle reassured her that everything would be fine.

“River boats are slow,” she said, “and I’ll take Dramamine.”

Now they’re here, on the bottom floor of the double-decker boat, gliding down a green river surrounded by trees and beautiful mountains… but Elle can’t enjoy even a second of it because she was wrong. River boats don’t move slow, and she’s nauseous as hell. She’s broken out in a sweat, and her brown bangs are plastered to her sticky temple. She’s tugged off her denim jacket to drape it over the back of her wheelchair—the last thing she wants is to get a gross stain on her favorite article of clothing.

Jade is standing behind her, rubbing her back gently. “How are you feeling?”

Elle bites the inside of her bottom lip. “Not very good.”

“Do you want some water? I know you took motion sickness medication earlier, but I packed Pepto-Bismol too,” Jade says, already digging through her backpack.

“Some water might help,” Elle admits. She’s gripping the arms of her wheelchair with white knuckles, breathing carefully through her nose. She does not want to throw up on this ship. There’s a bucket sitting in her lap, courtesy the helpful steward, but she’d rather not have to use it. They’ve isolated themselves from the rest of the group, sheltered in the handicapped section by the engines where they can’t hear the tour guide. At least if she does vomit, they’re far enough away where they can throw the contents overboard without unwanted attention.

Jade hands her a water bottle, and Elle sips slowly. Her girlfriend leans against the railing beside her, running one hand through her hair soothingly. The wind blows a light mist over them from the waves every couple minutes, and Elle welcomes the distraction. Anything to keep her mind off her stomach.

“We shouldn’t have come,” Jade murmurs, looking past her toward the verdant hills. 

Elle frowns guiltily. “I thought for sure I’d be fine. I mean, I’ve never been on a river before.”

Her girlfriend’s fingers gently scratch her scalp. “Don’t feel bad, Elle, I’m not mad at you or anything. I’m just sorry you’re sick.”

“It’s not that bad,” she insists, trying to put on a convincing smile. “Honest. Don’t worry about me, just try to enjoy the ride.”

Jade doesn’t look like she believes her, and Elle deflates a little. She should’ve known better than to try and fool her. They’ve been together for too long for her girlfriend to fall for any sort of deceit.

“We’ve still got a couple hours to go,” Jade warns, setting her pack down by her feet on the deck. “You sure you can handle it?”

Elle forces a grin, but she’s sure it comes out more like a grimace. “Is that a challenge?”

Jade rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of smile on her lips. “No, it’s definitely not. You think I wanna clean up after you?”

“You won’t have to. I can take care of myself,” she replies. Jade squeezes her shoulder. 

“I know you can, baby,” she says softly, “Just hang in there.”

Elle nods, but at this point even small movements make her world spin. She’s acutely aware of the rocking of the boat and the instability underneath her. She’s put her wheelchair into park, but it still inches back and forward a bit. Closing her eyes, Elle tries to focus. She just needs to power through the pain. Her stomach churns like a washing machine on the highest possible setting, and saliva fills her mouth. Tentatively, she takes another drink of water. 

“Maybe Pepto-Bismol will help,” she finally says, opening her eyes and glancing over at Jade. “It might lessen the nausea at least?”

“Sure, babe.” Jade opens her pack and rips open the pill packet without hesitation, placing the pink tablets in Elle’s open palm.

It’s at this precise moment that Elle’s gut twists in that damning way. She drops the pills and clutches her bucket with both hands, doubling over and puking. It burns even though it’s mostly water, tears springing to her eyes. Jade pats her back, and Elle has never been more grateful that she tied her hair back in a ponytail that morning. She retches for longer than she’s comfortable with, but, eventually it ends. Sitting back up, she wipes her mouth with her forearm, and Jade takes the bucket from her lap, swiftly dumping the contents over the edge.

“Feel better?” she asks.

Elle frowns. “Not really. Still dizzy, but I don’t think I’m gonna be sick again.”

Jade offers a consoling smile. “That’s good, right? Here, I packed some breath mints.”

Elle gives her the side-eye as she retrieves the items from her bag. “You knew this was gonna happen, didn’t you? Before we left?”

Jade shrugs. “It’s better to always be prepared.”

Elle pops several mints onto her tongue and tries to eradicate the nasty, acidic taste of her stomach’s contents from her mouth. “Well, I guess I’m lucky to have you here.”

Jade playfully punches her shoulder. “You just figured that out now?”

“Shut up,” she laughs, still amused despite how shitty she feels. “You’re lucky I don’t try and kiss you right now.”

Jade snorts, throwing her head back. The breeze ruffles her blonde hair, and Elle watches her with a smile. Maybe the trip hasn’t been a total bust.

Superhero Interrogated

my hero academia oc whump commissioned by @everythingbaku

content warnings: torture, drugging, captivity, blood, very brief emeto mention

—

Waking is slow. Ren—bouncy, energetic, excitable Ren—is normally the first one up, rising with the sun while his husband grumbles about needing more sleep. Now, though, he feels sluggish and discombobulated, his eyelids impossibly heavy. Either he’s hungover from partying hard at a rager (unlikely, getting blackout drunk isn’t really his scene), or… something’s wrong with him.

Groaning, he cracks his eyes open. His vision is blurry, and the world is cast in black and white. Wincing, he turns his cheek away from the too-bright light, squinting at his surroundings. His tongue is dry, and he feels… off. It takes a moment for him to process the sensation, but when he does, his heart spikes.

He’s been drugged.

His awareness is quickly returning, and he realizes he’s not lying in his bed. No, he’s sitting in a chair, his wrists bound to the wooden arms, his ankles tied to the legs. His neck aches from his head being tipped back for however long he was out. When he lifts his head, the room spins and makes him woozy. He slams his eyes shut and takes several deep breaths until the feeling passes. When he no longer feels faint, he opens his eyes again to assess his situation.

Ren has been kidnapped. That much is obvious. He’s wearing his civilian clothes, so maybe whoever captured him doesn’t know he’s a hero. He’s a shapeshifter, so stealth is his trademark, but his inability to alter the color of his eyes (violet) and his hair (steel blue) sometimes makes him easy to detect. He’s been wearing colored contacts and a baseball cap to compensate, but… hopefully his cover hasn’t been blown.

He looks around the small concrete room, empty except for the chair he’s tied to and the led-lights shining overhead. He’s facing the door. It’s made out of heavy metal and doesn’t have a handle. The room he’s trapped in is more of a cell, really, and definitely not some amatuer goon’s basement.

“Shit,” Ren whispers to himself. He’s really gotten himself into trouble this time. 

He perks up at the sound of footsteps, much more alert now. Someone’s just outside the door—multiple people, if his hearing is right. There’s the sound of multiple bolts being unlatched, and then the door swings open.

Three large, burly men shuffle into the cell, all of them wearing masks, effectively concealing their identities. They’re decked out in protective gear, and Ren notes the weapons strapped to their belts. They must be professionals. Ren swallows. 

“Oh, good, you’re up,” one of them says, “Thought you might’ve overdosed. Hard to figure out how much to give you since you’re so tiny.”

Ren doesn’t validate the remark with a reply. Yeah, they’re not wrong. He’s not even five feet tall, and it sucks, but he can’t exactly help it, can he?

The cell is quiet for a minute or so. They seem to be waiting for him to speak, but he isn’t going to risk revealing anything incriminating. Finally, the goon who entered the room first, the tallest of them all, crosses his arms, taking a step toward him. 

“Nekozawa,” he says slowly, and Ren stiffens. So they do know who he is. He changed his surname to Bakugou after he got married, but he and Katsuki have kept their relationship under wraps to avoid public outcry. Nekozawa is his father’s name and the name everyone knows him by.

He blows a strand of long blue hair out of his eyes. So much for undercover.

“And who are you supposed to be?” he replies snippily, tugging on his wrists to test his restraints. No give. It doesn’t look like he’s gonna be escaping anytime soon.

“You know who we are.” The man moves closer, lifting one booted foot and planting it on the space between his legs—not on his crotch but on the seat of the chair. Close enough to be intimidating (and probably a shitty political statement), but Ren isn’t easily cowed.

Sure, he can be gentle, caring, and loving. He has a soft spot for sweets and pastel t-shirts. His husband sometimes likens him to a kitten, simultaneously teasing and flirting with him. All of these things are true, but he’s still a superhero. He’s a badass, and he’s going to make sure these guys know it.

“Can’t say I do.” He shrugs in disinterest. “I don’t think I’d want to know you, anyway. You guys apparently don’t know a thing about hospitality.”

The man’s lip curls in distaste. “You have infiltrated our organization and have been collecting intel for months. You know more than we can allow.”

“When you say ‘we,’ you mean your bosses, right? If they’re so concerned, why don’t they come talk to me themselves?” Ren suggests. He doubts he’ll get the chance to land his eyes on the higher-ups of the criminal organization he’s currently trying to take down, but he might as well give it a shot, right?

Before Ren can blink, the man’s fist collides with his face. His head is whipped to the side, and he sucks in a breath as his punched cheek throbs in pain.

“Our superiors don’t have time to deal with the likes of you,” the man hisses, kicking the chair back. Ren falls hard, knocking the base of his skull on the floor. Stars dance across his eyes, and he groans, his head pounding. Fuck.

He must lose track of time for a moment because the next time he can see properly, his chair has been picked back up and he’s facing the goons once more.

“What do you want?” Ren asks gruffly. He’s not going to give them anything, not in a million years, but it might do him some good to figure out their agenda. They’re all so… composed, despite their violence. They’re clearly used to dealing with prisoners. No tricking them into letting him go, then. 

“You’re going to tell us what you know,” the man who punched him demands, “and who you work for.”

Ren rolls his eyes, and the goon steps forward, fist clenched.

“I work for myself, thank you very much,” Ren quips, “Oh, and I’m not telling you shit.”

The hit comes, but he’s expecting it this time. Still, the blow to his already bruised cheek hurts twice as much as the first punch did. Stifling a noise of pain, he drops his chin to his chest. The coppery taste of blood quickly fills his mouth, and his tongue aches. He must’ve bit it.

A hand grabs a fistful of his long hair and yanks, forcing him to look up. The goon’s expression is unreadable, hidden behind his mask. “Will you cooperate or not?”

Ren grins, flashing his blood-stained teeth. “What do you think?”

The man lets go of his hair and steps away. Ren tips his head back, breathing heavily through his nose. He’s not as tough as he likes to pretend to be. Those closest to him know he’s a brave fighter who’s willing to die to protect his loved ones, and he has a public reputation as an advocate for civil rights. Still, he isn’t exactly eager to sacrifice himself or get hurt in any way. Living is pretty sweet—so is not being tortured, but it looks like it’s a little late for that now.

There’s an audible shuffle of heavy footsteps as the goons exit his cell, and the coor creaks as it swings shut. With a sigh of relief, Ren looks up—and he’s greeted by the sight of one lone man. Not everyone left the room, it seems. It’s the guy who didn’t speak earlier. He’s standing too close to Ren, his hands clasped behind his back.

Without a second of hesitation, Ren spits at him. The bloody projectile only makes it far enough to land on his shirt, unfortunately. Ren was aiming for his face. 

The man doesn’t flinch.

“Cute,” he drawls, not even glancing down to examine the stain. “But you don’t have to pretend anymore, Ren Nekozawa. It’s just you and me now.”

Ren arches an eyebrow. “What, are you supposed to be good cop or something?”

The man chuckles, a hint of smile curling his lips. “I’m not good cop.”

Unease washes over Ren like an uncomfortable sprinkle of rain, damp and chilling. He tries not to let it show. “Bad cop, then? You gonna hit me some more?”

The man looks up at the ceiling as if talking to himself. “My associate was simply the prelude. Most people break from just the threat of violence. We figured you’d be a little less forthcoming, so I tagged along. I guess you could say I’m the main course.”

Ren pulls on his bound arms reflexively, just a little, and laughs humorlessly. “You gonna tear off my fingernails?”

“Maybe,” the man muses, “but probably not. I doubt you’ll need that much coaxing. You’re not as defiant as you pretend to be.”

Insulted, Ren scowls. “You don’t know me.”

The man nods in concession and begins to circle him like a shark. Ren doesn’t follow his path of travel, simply continuing to glare straight ahead.

“It’s true we’ve never met, but I know people, and you’re easy to read.” He cards a hand through Ren’s hair and twirls a blue strand with his finger. “You’re compensating for your size and apparent vulnerability. It must be difficult, being such a weak hero.”

Ren twists his neck around, dislodging the man’s grip, and tries to bite at his fingers. His teeth clamp around empty air, but his attempt does get the man to back off. Much to his dismay, the guy doesn’t appear threatened in the slightest.

“You’re not even good at using your powers. You stick out like a sore thumb with your height, your hair, and those eyes,” he continues, standing directly in front of Ren now. He plucks a small, thin knife from his belt. “So vibrant. I could help you, y’know. Cut them out, and you’ll be much less identifiable.” He positions the point of the blade just above his pupil, so close that Ren doesn’t even dare to breathe.

“Then again, a boy with two missing eyes might be hard to miss.” With a flick of his wrist, the man cuts a shallow line right underneath his eye. Ren gasps, gritting his teeth. Blood streams down his cheek like a river of tears. 

“Fuck you,” he hisses, trying to maintain his bravado. His heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, and he’s gripping the arms of the chair with white knuckles. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared. He wishes Katsuki was here to protect him. So much for being a badass superhero.

The man hums, wiping the blood off the blade using the collar of Ren’s shirt. 

“There are two ways this can go,” he begins, retracting the knife and replacing it with a much larger one. Ren eyes the jagged blade warily. “You can drop the tough-guy façade and answer every question I ask you—”

“Fat fucking chance!” Ren interjects, snarling. The man raises one unimpressed brow. His mask only covers his eyes, leaving the rest of his face on display. Ren briefly wonders if his lack of concern for his identity is supposed to be an intimidation tactic. 

“Or,” the man continues, splaying one palm over Ren’s collarbones and pressing him flat against the chair’s back. With his other hand gripping the knife, he slashes down the front of Ren’s shirt, cutting open the fabric and the skin of his chest. Ren yelps. “I can make you talk.”

Panting, Ren looks down at the gash. Blood oozes from the wound, dripping down his sternum to his stomach. His insides churn at the sight. 

“So, Nekozawa,” he says amicably, as if he isn’t threatening to torture him, “What will it be?”

Ren squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. The work he’s been doing for the past couple months is important. The criminal organization he’s been spying on is guilty of abhorrent crimes and needs to be brought to justice. He thinks of the victims, past, present, and future. He thinks of his fellow heroes, all of whom are undoubtedly braver than him. He thinks of Katsuki, the love of his life. Katsuki would never surrender.

Ren opens his eyes and shoots his interrogator a defiant grin. “I’m not talking. You can try and make me, but it won’t work.”

The man smiles, as if that’s the answer he wanted to hear. “We’ll see, Nekozawa. We’ll see.”

—

Four hours later, Ren cracks.

It’s the knife in his shoulder that finally does it. The man digs the blade past muscle, all the way to bone, and twists. Ren screams, tears flowing freely.

“Who do you work for, Ren?” the interrogator asks for the upteenth time, calm as ever.

“I, I told you, I work a—” Ren begins, but then the knife twists again, and he shrieks: “Ah, Deku! Deku!”

The blade stills. 

“I work, I don’t, I don’t report to anybody,” Ren continues, unbearably ashamed of himself for the name drop. He held out for hours only to break now. “We sometimes work together. He’s not my boss or anything.”

“Not good enough, Nekozawa,” the man sighs, ripping the knife out of his shoulder. Ren yells, his expression contorted in anguish. Yanking the blade out hurt almost as much as the initial stab.

Groaning, he slumps in his chair. His entire body is covered in cuts, some shallow and some deep. His pale skin is coated in sticky blood, and he emptied his stomach a while ago. Drenched in sweat, exhausted and dehydrated, Ren is pushed past his limits. He never thought he would surrender even the tiniest bit of information, but here he is, giving in like a coward. Fresh tears leak from his eyes.

The man sheaths his blade and takes Ren’s chin in hand. “Does Deku know of your current operation?”

Ren exhales shakily and lies: “No.”

Deku is an incredibly powerful superhero. He went to school with Ren’s husband, Katsuki, and they were rivals for some time. Deku is too well known for undercover work and is much more suited for direct attacks. He’s taken out several outposts after Ren gave him names and locations. They’re not working together directly, but they both know of the danger said criminal organization poses. 

The man’s nails dig into his cheeks. “I don’t believe you.” He digs the thumb of his free hand into a deep gash in his side, and Ren’s mouth falls open in a wordless scream, his eyes rolling back. “Who else is involved?”

Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth from his bit tongue. “M’not… telling.”

The interrogator releases his chin and wraps his broad hand around his throat, squeezing tightly. Ren’s eyes fly open, and he struggles to breathe.

“I’ve been very patient,” the man begins, “And I appreciate what you’ve told me so far, but, frankly, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. Maybe I need to be more persuasive.”

Ren shakes his head a fraction of an inch, gaping like a fish out of water. He isn’t sure how much he can endure. He needs a break before he says something stupid. Black spots dance across his vision, and his lungs burn. Time passes impossibly long, and wet, sputtering gasps escape his lips. Eventually, just when he thinks he’s gonna pass out, the man releases his neck. Ren coughs, gulping down air, his vision blinded by tears. He feels so weak and pathetic. What kind of hero allows themselves to be caught and tortured? He doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself after this. If there even is an after. He doesn’t see any chance of escape, and what if no one rescues him?

Ren clenches his fists and steadies his breathing. He can’t lose hope. Katsuki will come for him. If not Katsuki, someone else. He won’t be left here to die. He just needs to hold out and keep his mouth shut.

The man returns to his side with a syringe in hand. He cocks his head and looks down at him with a faux-sympathetic smile. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Here, I’ve got something that’ll help you take your mind off it—and hopefully loosen your tongue.”

“No, no,” Ren protests, squirming in his bonds. He tries to crane his neck away from the needle, but the man grabs his hair and holds him still. Ren whimpers as the drugs are injected into his system, falling limp almost instantly. Whatever the interrogator has given him works fast, and the room begins to swirl. 

“Better, right?”The man pats his cheek, patronizing. “Now, about the data you collected. Mind sharing some names with me?”

Nausea washes over him in waves, and he squints against the lights. The cell is suddenly way too bright, and he moans. A fog settles over him, and he has a hard time remaining focused on his goal.

“What… what?” he mumbles.

The interrogator hums, frowning. “Might’ve given you too much there. It’s hard to determine the correct dose. I’m not used to administering to persons of such short stature.”

Ren isn’t listening, his attention shifting. He’s in so much pain. He just wants to be home with his husband, safe in bed, wrapped in his arms. What he wouldn’t give to see Katsuki’s face right now. 

The room rocks, and the interrogator stumbles. At first, Ren thinks it’s the drugs screwing with his vision and playing tricks on him, but then it happens again.

“Explosions…?” the man whispers, brows furrowed in confusion. 

Ren barks a laugh. Explosions! He’d recognize the sound anywhere. Katsuki is here!

He smiles at the interrogator, eyes bright. “You’re so fucked.”

Sprawled out on the floor of their cell, the hero is still reeling from a swift punch to the gut when the door is kicked open and all hell breaks loose. By the time they catch their breath and gather enough strength to lift their head, all of their captors are down for the count. Brows furrowed in confusion, the hero blinks away their blurry vision… only to be greeted by the sight of the villain standing before them in all of their nefarious glory.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” the villain drawls, crouching down to their level. The hero scrambles away, their bound hands shielding their bruised face in an instinctual defensive position.

The villain rolls their eyes. “Oh please, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve already been roughened up enough for my tastes.”

The hero frowns, incredulous, and flinches when their adversary gets too close. “You’re not?”

“No, and if you don’t believe me, you can wait for someone else to come and find you like this.”

The hero lowers their arms, their tensed shoulders relaxing minutely. “You’re… rescuing me?”

The villain sniffs. “Hardly. If anything, I’m salvaging my reputation. It would ruin my image if my nemesis were bested by such amateurs. Now, don’t struggle.”

Without saying anything further, the villain scoops them up, one arm hooked under their knees and the other curled around their back. The hero gasps in surprise, the room spinning in a dizzy blur. They might have a concussion.

Near boneless in the villain’s hold, the hero looks up at them as they’re carried out of the cell. “You’re gonna let me go?”

The villain hums. “For a price.”

The hero’s eyes narrow, not liking where this is going. “You’re asking for a ransom?”

“Have to pay the bills somehow, sweetheart.” The villain smirks down at them, and the hero bristles. 

Glaring fiercely, they squirm in upset, trying to break free from their hold. The villain tightens their grip, jostling them a bit, and the hero winces in pain as the movement agitates their numerous injuries. Still, they continue to glower at their unwanted savior.

The villain huffs. “Oh, don’t look so cross. The goons who kidnapped you were the ones who published the demands. I’m just claiming them as my own.”

In the hero’s opinion, the villain looks entirely too pleased with their scheme. Who would pay the ransom? The city? But the public needs the money! The hero claws at their enemy’s shirt, their fingers numb from their wrists being tied too tight with electrical cord. “You, you can’t.”

“I can. It’s not like anyone can stop me, least of all you. You’re quite helpless right now, if you haven’t realized,” the villain replies smoothly, cool eyes raking over their injured frame.

The hero pouts—unintentionally, of course. They’re just in so much pain, so weak from the countless beatings, and now innocent people are going to suffer for their ineptitude. They sniffle a bit and wipe their nose with their forearm.

The villain meets their gaze with an unreadable expression, and then, with a heavy sigh, concedes, “I can, but I might not. After all, I could be persuaded to release you, for free, as long as you make it clear to your adoring fans that I was the one who caught you. You play the part of the hapless victim so well, I’m sure they’ll believe you.”

The hero brightens a little.

The villain’s lips curl into a slow smile. “Would you like that, darling?”

The hero gives a weak nod, their eyes so heavy.

The villain’s smile turns into a smirk. “Use your words, dear. Say please.”

The hero glares for a second before remembering how utterly exhausted they are. They swallow their pride, and, in a low voice, whisper, “Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the villain chuckles, and the hero groans, eyes falling shut as they relax into the villain’s hold, forehead resting on their enemy’s shoulder. “Now, let’s get you to a hospital.”

A simple concept; the boys made a deal with one another whoever is to blush first loses AND has to do whatever the other says. Needless to say Sam isn’t doing too well for himself.

Grinning ear from ear Dean Winchester couldn’t wipe the amusement from his emerald gaze; cocking his head to the size. “Ooooh! Sammy…I think we’ve got a winner!” The hollering and celebration leaving those cocky lips only resulted in a huff from Sam.

“Shut up.”

Dean licked his lips leaning in; the grin only widening on that chiseled face of his. “What was that, Sammy?”

“Shut up.”

EDIT TYPE ; Scrap Writing ( from a Roleplay! )

WINCEST - NSFW - BOTTOM!SAM

—————————>

Hazel eyes locked onto Dean’s emerald gaze; Sam had to admit Dean was a damn Cheshire Cat when it came to words as well. Anything that fell off that perfect tongue of Dean’s just sent shivers through Sammy’s body. More specifically his groin. Were Winchesters just blessed with dirty talk? Dirty talk and blessed below the belt it seemed. God it felt so good to come, the young male continued to rock his hips riding out this pleasure. Thinking he’d just grind back into Dean, but that option came crashing down like an abandoned building. Brushing his white knuckles against Dean’s swollen lips Sam cocked his head to the side; a big ole grin plastering itself on his face.

“I could ride you all day, cowboy always has his favorite horse. Too bad mines already broken in,” just like his big brother; Sam had no way of stopping these remarks; it was as if they came naturally.

It almost made him chuckle; now he was the one with the references. Too bad it was a country song and Dean didn’t listen to country. Sam rather enjoyed country music; depending on the song and what mood he was in. Though he never got to play any around the impala—Dean would lose his shit if Sam played that within that confined vehicle. It would ‘poison’ her as Dean puts it.

As if to prove a point Sam pushed his hips down, easing himself down Dean’s member. His body squeezing the thick male within these slow movements; which were very unlike how Sam was earlier. Teasing, it had to be because Sam enjoyed teasing his big brother. As he was the one in charge and could go at any pace he liked. “Gonna ride you nice and slow, Dean. Like a slow happy trail ride.” He traced small circles in Dean’s stomach, working his hips down until Dean had been buried deep inside him.

“Mmm I could still walk last time, cowboy.”

Lights went off in his head thinking of how he could tease Dean; faintly he did remember Dean said something about making sure Sam couldn’t walk. Well, clearly he was walking, maybe not straight but still he was able to get around. A smirk played his lips, “I-I guess this cowboy isn’t good enough for such a role. Shame…” Sam’s hips came to a stop, though one hand removed itself from Dean’s shoulder, moving to wrap around his own aching member. “To think I thought you’d make a good cowboy. Guess I’ll just do it myself.”

// just some dirty writing for y’all //

(( another Lucifer supernatural crossover :) since y’all liked the last one ))

“Detective, listen to me, this is very important. I need you to release Sam Winchester. Don’t question me, just release him. Don’t ask questions, I’ll explain later,” None other than the Devil was speaking in hushed tones, the phone pressed against the side of his face. Barely even five feet away stood Dean Winchester, a gun aimed at his head. Dean had fought tooth and nail to get where he stood now, easily making his way through Maze—whom he did NOT kill. Bloody and bruised he found Lucifer chilling on a sofa sipping at a shot of whiskey.

Dean cleared his throat stepping closer, cocking the gun, “Release him and if, and only if, you leave him and I alone will I leave you alive. I want to hear the words fall from your lips, Lucifer.” The eldest Winchester spat, lips twitching with dissatisfaction, the last few days had not been kind to him. Anyone could see with how bloody and beaten he looked. Smelling strongly of iron.

Lucifer clenched his jaw hanging up the phone call, tossing the phone onto the sofa just feet away. His hands raised up showing he wasn’t armed. Would Dean shoot an unarmed man? No. But would Dean shoot the devil himself? Hell yeah he would. “I’m unarmed.”

Rolling his eyes Dean sneered, “I don’t give a rats ass what you are. You’re the devil being held up by a gun. Say those words and I just might leave here without putting a bullet between those pretty eyes of yours.” With that Dean took another step closer, holding the gun high at eye level to the devil.

“The detective and I solemnly swear to leave you and your beautiful haired brother alone.” Lucifer spoke calmly, “I’ll even escort you if need be.”

The Winchester couldn’t help but smirk softly, “You come running after us, it won’t be pretty. I’ll make your lives a living hell. No pun intended.”

Final sacrifice (Chapter 4)

Here’s chapter 4. Again a HUGE thanks to @queenjules907 for beta reading this. Cross posted in AO3 if you prefer to read it there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38372269/chapters/96170605

Hope you enjoy!

Final sacrifice

General synopsis: AU universe, in which removing your helmet is punished by death if the members of the covert esteem it so. Otherwise all canon compliant until E16 “The Rescue”, where Skywalker doesn’t show up but Din fights the Dark Troopers with the Darksaber. Din and Grogu, together, they find the covert, mostly as occurs in E5 of TBOBF. This fanfic takes off from where Din accepts Paz’s duel for the DarkSaber.

Relationships: Mando x Omera

Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu, Omera, Winta. Eventually Cara, Fennec, Boba Fett

Warnings: nothing major for this chapter, maybe a bit of angst.

Link to chapter 3

Link to chapter 5

Back in the barn after their day swimming, Din finally laid the tired baby in his crib for a nap. Just as he did so, he heard some soft footsteps on the barn’s porch.

-“Knock knock.”

He just couldn’t get over the sweetness of her voice, it was nothing he had heard before in the galaxy but he couldn’t but notice there was a sense of urgency in the way she spoke.

-“Come in.” He said softly, trying not to wake up Grogu.

Omera stepped into the barn to see the Mandalorian bending over the crib, gently covering the sleeping baby with a soft blanket. The fact that he paid special attention to his feet being well covered and tucked in with the blanket made her smile. But she suddenly remembered why she had come searching for the Mandalorian, and the sensation of urgency got hold again in her chest.

-“Mando, someone is out in the ponds. He wears armor like yours, except that it is blue. He hasn’t said a word or approached the village. We don’t dare come to him, we wanted to tell you first.”

Omera was shocked that Din remained impassive, as if he was expecting this other Mandalorian’s arrival. She saw how he gave one last look at the sleeping baby and gently caressed his cheek with his gloved thumb. Then turned to her.

-“I’ll come out to speak to him. Thank you Omera.”

Slowly he stepped out of the barn, moving past Omera to the exit. She wrung her hands nervously. Was this why he was worried about when he arrived? He didn’t look surprised by the presence of another one of his kind, here on Sorgan! She couldn’t possibly understand what all this was about and she stepped out of the barn to see Din walking slowly but surely towards this blue-armored Mandalorian. She remained frozen in place, and she didn’t dare move, taking in all the possible information she could gather from the scene she was witnessing.

Din arrived to face the unknown man, and after a couple of seconds of what looked like they were staring at each other, they greeted each other by grabbing each other’s forearms. She saw how Din looked down to his feet while the other Mandalorian gestured them to move into the forest, and they both disappeared among the trees.

—

Omera occupied herself doing tasks around the barn, keeping an ear out for the sleeping baby, in case he would wake up and worried about the absence of his protector. It took her by surprise when, when she looked up from a net she was repairing, she saw Din walking steadily towards the barn, with no sign of the other Mandalorian. He acknowledged her presence by giving her a brief vow of his head, and headed straight inside the barn, to see the baby still sleeping in his crib. Omera had followed, and was now gently holding the barn’s door frame.

-“He hasn’t even stirred since you left, he must have been exhausted from your morning together.”

Din couldn’t help but smile behind his visor. He then turned to Omera.

-“Could I— could we just sit together for a while, maybe over a drink?”

Shocked by his request, she straightened, taking a couple of seconds processing his words, trying to find his eyes through the transparent steel of his visor. “Over a drink?” she thought to herself. The time he was among them, after having beaten the raiders, he would never eat or drink in public. But she was quick to overcome her surprise and moved to gesture him to out of the barn.

-“Of course, let’s move to my hut, let the baby rest.”

Together they entered her home, and Omera invited him to sit on her small kitchen table while she poured two glasses or their traditional blue drink. She turned to the table where Din had sat, and after offering him one of the two glasses, she sat across the table facing the Mandalorian.

-“Thank you.” said the Mandalorian.

Din looked down at the glass, and took it gently, mindlessly swirling its contents within the glass. Omera mirrored his behavior, and then took a sip of the drink, hoping to give the Mandalorian a few minutes of silence, hoping that would allow him to get his ideas in order. After what felt like hours, Din put down the glass, and in a swift movement, raised his hands and pulled off his helmet. Omera was at a loss on how to react. Frozen by what was happening, she starred at him with eyes big open, lips slightly apart. He kept his gaze down during the whole process, avoiding all eye contact with Omera, and the glass of spotchka provided the perfect excuse. But she was still able to see his eyes were glassy and that he was blinking repeatedly. She guessed it could have been the exposure to the unfiltered light without the protection of his visor, although she had the feeling it had more to do to keeping his emotions in check. Keeping his eyes fixed on the glass, he strongly closed his eyes, as in pain, and took a sip of spotchka. As if the drink gave him the courage to admit what was going on, he set down again the glass and he looked at Omera through his eyelashes, unable to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time. Omera was taken aback from the beauty of Din’s eyes, but also all the pain they reflected. She reached across the table and took his hand, attempting to give solace to this man who was obviously badly hurting.

-“I will not beat around the bush” he finally said, breaking the silence while still keeping his gaze on the glass. “I’m extremely sorry to have to ask you a big favor.”

-“Anything.”

It took Din another deep breath and another sip of spotchka to find the courage to look Omera in the eyes. “I have to ask you to take the kid. The people who were hunting him are no longer… they will not be a problem any more. But I will be unable to continue caring for him— I know he’s happy here, and I can’t help but think…” His throat was getting dry by the minute, getting harder to talk. He swallowed hardly and tried to continue. “…I can’t help by think on your words to me last time we were here. He couldhave a good life here”.

-“My promise still stands, you know I would care for him as one of my own”.

Din lowered again his gaze, and to Omera’s horror, she saw one single tear running down his cheek. Din couldn’t continue, he was struggling for words, he wanted to say so much to Omera, but no words that came to his mind could possible convey how sad he was for leaving his child, and how grateful he was for what she was agreeing to do.

-“Please talk to me, Mandalorian. What happened?” Omera said, her words were full of anguish. This didn’t go unnoticed to Din, and gave him a bit of strength to continue talking, if it was only to give her even a bit of the peace she deserved.

-“Din… my name is Din.”

-“Din…” She couldn’t help but give him a painful smile, finally able to know his name. There were many times when she thought that this man, everyone referred to as “Mando” musthave a name. “Who was that man in the blue armor?”

-“ The mandalorian outside, he’s a member of my tribe. He came…” Din cleared his throat, giving him a brief pause to think on how to explain what was going on. He shook his head, as if changing his mind on how to proceed and restarted. “During my quest to find the child’s people, he got taken from me by the men that were after him. Many sacrifices needed to be made to get him back safely, and breaking my Creed was one of them.”

Din paused to find the right words. Omera waited patiently and once again took his hand. How could he possibly tell her what was about to happen to him? She deserved to know, but she didn’t deserve the pain that would go along with knowing the truth.

Omera couldn’t understand. Her grip on Din’s wrist tightened. Din could feel her distress, her unsaid questions. He lifted up his head to look straight into Omera’s eyes, with an intense gaze that he hadn’t been able to maintain until now.

-“Breaking my Creed… it doesn’t come without consequences. I have to leave with the man outside. I won’t be able to come back… I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry”. Din looked up to the ceiling, as if he there would find the correct words to use. He could feel his eyes welling up with tears again, but he refused to give in, he couldn’t, for her. He just wanted to keep Omera from suffering, she surely didn’t deserve to go through this.

-“I’m at peace with my clan’s decision on my fate, specially knowing that the child will be safe and loved here with you. But Grogu can’t come with me this time…” Din saw the surprise in Omera’s eyes. Of course, he hadn’t disclosed the kid’s name since their arrival.

-“During my quest, I found out his name. Grogu…” he continued while returning his gaze to the ceiling, trying harder than ever to keep the tears at bay.  “He’s a very special kid, he’s suffered and been through so much… more than anybody he deserves the peace he finds among your people. I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to take him. I can leave in peace.”

Omera couldn’t figure out if he was repeating this for himself or for her. Where was he off to that meant he couldn’t take the kid with him?

He stood up from the table, as Omera did the same. Din stood very still, only centimeters apart from her, keeping himself from taking her hand again and telling her the many things he needed to tell her. But telling her all he felt would be very egoistic. He shouldn’t be doing this for him, but for her. For her, he would keep his feelings to himself. It wouldn’t be fair to her to tell her his feelings for her at this point, and soon it wouldn’t matter much anyway. “Thank you… Thankyou, Omera”, he said finally. He put on the helmet and headed out of her hut, leaving her standing with her back to the door, staring incredulously into the emptiness of her hut.

whoever u are

u must be a star

because

I’ve been longing for u from too far

for far too long

nia be blogging

As the sun set across the San Francisco bay. The final rays of the sun danced on the water like a prima ballerina making her glorious final swan like moves at the end of a ballet. The phone rang and a slender hand with long crimson nails reaches for it. “Hello?” “I can’t wait” says a deep voice in a throaty tone. “I’ll be there shortly” purrs Kaydence sensually with a sly smile. As the smoke from her imported clove cigarette curled off her ruby red glossed lips. Kaydence uncrossed her sun kissed model like flawless legs to put on her black leather pumps. As she was leaning golden curls fell over her shoulder and touched her silken soft breast. She glanced out of her bedroom window as the last rays of the sun disappeared. She reached for the antique gold and pearl compact on her vanity. It was very old her mother had given it to her on her 18th birthday 300 years ago. She lined her sea blue eyes with black liner the night was young and it was time to play thought Kaydence as she snapped the compact shut.

She adjusted the hood on her floor length black velvet cloak and headed for the black limo waiting outside. The windows were tinted black Kaydence liked that it gave her the privacy she needed to do what it was in her nature to do. As the limo pulled in the large circular driveway the stained glass doors to the large mansion opened and a butler appeared. He opened the limo door and helped her out as he gestured her to go inside. As Kaydence entered the entryway the floor shimmered with fine white marble imported from Italy. The scent of roses lingered in the air. As the cherry wood doors of the drawing room opened a very muscular tanned gentleman stood in the doorway. He wore red silk pajama bottoms his hair was black as a ravens wing parted down the middle and feathered to his shoulders. He was clean shaved but the one thing she noticed about him was his steel blue eyes. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough’said Dreygon as he crossed the entryway to where she stood. Kaydence didn’t normally allow a human male to speak to her in such a rude manner. But there was something about this one that amused her. She found his arrogance and fire appealing.

She smiled in defiance as Dreygon took her roughly into his arms and kissed her hard with passion. Passion that went beyond human understanding. Kaydence felt his passion as his shaft hardened and pressed against her. She pushed him away roughly as she turned and walked to the stairway dropping her cloak as she walked. Dreygon was on fire with passion as he watched her in long black nylon gloves to her forearms and black leather pumps and nothing else ascend the staircase to his bedroom. He loved her firm perfect heart shaped ass he watched her hips sway side to side with every step it was all he could do not to take her right there on the staircase. He followed the scent of her perfume to where she lay on her stomach on his bed. The tips of her golden curls touching her perfect ass how he envied them. As he walked towards her, she rose from the bed and met him halfway across the room. She smiled a sly smile as she got on her knees before him and pulled at the drawstring on his pajamas. Before long her soft wet pink tongue found its way to the head of his penis she looked up as her tongue moved in a circular movement round and round the head of his penis. Dreygons eyes closed and his head dropped back as he released a throaty moan. Kaydence let her tongue slowly slide down the side of his shaft and back to the head, then down the other side and back.

Dreygon Grabbed the back of her head and started to move rapidly faster and faster till he felt his self fill her mouth. Kaydence looked up at him and smiled as she licked the corner of her mouth were a small amount had escaped. He couldn’t withhold any longer he shoved her into doggy position and roughly entered the velvet soft folds of her. Her eyes close as he took hold of her hips and started to pound her inner warm walls. Her breathing quickened deeper, faster as he started to move faster she felt her control slipping away she moaned deeply as he parted her legs wider and went deeper. Her thighs trembled, he felt the wetness within her and it drove him mad as he pounded her harder. She moaned louder, faster and in a mass of moans she couldn’t hold back any longer she exploded the heat of her explosion on the head of his penis made him explode as well. When it was over Dreygon lay on the floor on his side, watching her gather herself to leave. “Kaydence I feel compelled to ask you something. You have come time after time and never bit me why?” As Kaydence walked to the doorway of the bedroom, she stopped and look at him over her shoulder. “Maybe someday i will. When you are ready to walk eternity with me as mine forever” and with that Kaydence poofed into the night.

Notes:

Originally Published on my authors blog

November 11, 2014

Where I find someone that is not toxic ?

The stupidity of our society makes me numb

But…

Who we truly are?

An old post

Am I the only person who feels pressure from nothing?? What tf is going on rn? What I do, what I want, WHY. My heart is broken I’ve learned to live with that. But pressure from I don’t know NOTHING?? And nobody can help me?? That shit is fucking crazy. And of course I can’t do anything?? What I do. WHAT I FUCKING DO?? I can’t wait anymore… I am loosing my power…

~random night thoughs~

and everything is black..

Goodbye memories…

I have been trying to find a happy thought…

~anonymous

They really are..

We all have a story… Even a bad one… Even a good one…

¡ it’s so sad when you want to cry but you can’t ¡

Do you are the person you wanted to be?

So, I wanted to let my eyes rest from so much screen time today and started a journal. A little notebook I had laying around and some black ink. But I didn’t write a journal of my experiences, instead I wrote a journal from the perspective of one of my characters and her experience learning alchemy. 

At first it just seemed fun. I made some changes to my hand writing so it better suited her, made a first page saying “property of… and return to…” 

I started doing some world building as I figured out the basics of alchemy. 

As I wrote the world became bigger, early on in the journal she writes where to buy containers for potions, in doing so she draws a little map. On the map there is a diner and pub but instead of naming the pub it says “problem pub” and has a little drawing of a knife. 

Makes sense given at the time of writing this journal the character would have been captain of the guard, she isn’t going to know the name of every pub in the city but she will remember the pub somebody got stabbed in and in her personal journal make reference to it as such. 

It’s world building as I figure out the alchemy system and talk about the effects of different potions on different magical species. 

But it’s also character building as the information isn’t objective, there are comments in the margins about how she potions are similar to tea and both taste bad. About how magic shouldn’t be the solution to everything and she brainstorms for other possible solutions. 

On the second page there’s a comment about blaming Henry in the scenario that she were to spill potions on the king’s recipe book. 

Because the journal is written by a character I know not to be perfect, I don’t mind making mistakes and crossing them out. It gives the journal character. 

I highly suggest this as a cool exercise with the bonus of being able to use one of those many empty journals you have sitting around! 

As usual,  check out my book, stories I’ve written plus other social medias: here.

Hey! Would you like to learn about the character who wrote this journal (Elizabeth)? She shows up in my book series Dear Dragon, it’s available with the link above but if you don’t want to buy the book, I’m going to be doing ARCs soon for the second, so feel free to sign up under the ARC application form! Thanks a bunch and have fun writing!