"by the light of the moon, it'll be alright"

🌕✨ 24 • she/her • bi 🌌🌙 WARNING: I do repost +18 content

[darthmaulification]

Requests? 👀 I think I have an idea...

May I request something with Reader and Din who have been traveling together for a while and grown close, and they find Luke and Grogu so Din is able to see him again. But, while they visit, Reader learns from Luke that she's also a force sensitive, and Luke offers for her to stay and train with him...But she doesn't want to leave Din. Refuses to, even.

A/N: i fully support saying Fuck Canon and reuniting our favorite little green bean with his dad, so this ain’t just a visit, this is a child custody case. 👏😤

also, i love the idea of some force sensitive people going like... their entire lives not realizing that they’re force sensitive. like it only ever manifests as being really able to literally feel others’ emotions or something, so they just think they’re exceedingly talented empaths.💀

also also, this is some of my best writing??? this turned out SO GOOD??? i am very happy with this. 😌💕 that’s why it took a bit to get this one out, sorry for the wait, anon! (and everybody else lmao)

also also also, to those of you that have sent me a request, i am working on all of them to the best of my ability! i hope to have at least two (2) more done by the end of this week. 👍

hope you enjoy! 💗💗

content: a tasteful dusting of angst, sad man din :’(, force-sensitive!reader, gn!reader, din and reader are SO in love but also don’t know how to tell each other, also you’ve somehow never seen din’s face yet, so face reveal!, luke is that friendly stoner that offers you chips when you’re upset, G R O G U 💗, please no one bully me on my absolutely butchered descriptions of star wars planets/locations and how the force works💀, HAPPY ENDING ALWAYS 😤

word count: 4,639

“What if he’s not there?” The stifling silence is broken tenderly, when Din’s low, naturally melodious voice crackles through his helmet, and you look over at him. He’s not facing you, acting as though he’s focused completely on piloting the Slave I to Lothal, but you know better, and you know he knows too. The pure heartache underlying his tone is so obvious in his words, he probably fears the despondency will somehow show on his face despite you being unable to see it. 

Your gaze wanders the sleek, sterling silver of his beskar helmet, the pride of any Mandalorian who wears one. If the unique, eye-catching piece of armor wasn’t covering Din’s face, you wonder if you’d be able to see if the pain is written across his face, if his jaw is tight, if he looks sunken, distant. The mystery of the mask makes you ponder this every day since the Jedi took Grogu, since Din honored his mission and handed him over.

You’ve thought this ever since the moment Din finally surfaced after an agonizingly long week of screaming, cursing, and unrelenting, tremendous grief. He had spent a week drowning in his own personal Hell, one that tore him to pieces and left him ruined. You find yourself thinking back to that a lot every time you look at that silver beskar helmet and hear the whispers of the howling wail that Din released when you held him in your arms, after he’d drunken his liver half to Hell. Such a haunting sound can come from a person when their entire world has been destroyed.

The dark memory begins to manifest on the peripherals of your mind, so you brush it back into the shadows with a small shake of you head. Your eyes move from Din’s helmet to his tense, gloved hands. They’re gripping the sterling wheel so tight the leather strains on his knuckles. You picture holding hands with him (a rare something done a smattering of times, each instance leaving butterflies in your stomach) and lacing your fingers with his. You want to link yourself to him again, but after losing... Grogu, it hurts to say his name... it feels as though Din may never want anyone close to him again.

The thought makes your heart pang.

But things are about to change, you’re sure of it. Lothal, your destination, promises it. And Boba, who would never lie about the intel he obtained (especially to Din or you, especially about this), promised it as well the moment he told you both:

Grogu is on Lothal.

Din had nearly wept.

Drawing yourself from your thoughts, you reach and place a hand on Din’s shoulder. Sure, the beskar pauldron is cool under your palm, but the man beneath the armor is so inherently caring and sensitive, the warmth of him seeps through. He turns his head to you, looking at your hand, at your thumb that runs the edge of the beskar. Your eyes travel the vastness of his dark T-visor, searching for where his eyes may be below. Briefly, you wonder what color they are...

“He will be. I just know it.” You respond in a low murmur, sliding your thumb one last time before you peel your hand from Din’s shoulder. It’s like your fingers ache to leave him, the way your limb wants to protest reminds you of magnets, and the stubborn bond between two of them. You sit back in the co-pilot’s chair and you notice that something lighter begins to creep up on the poignant melancholy that has been swirling in the room. It feels like it’s brightening the room, lifting the atmosphere. A chill raises goosebumps on your skin.

Hope, you think. This is hope.

~

The Slave I snaps out of hyperspace, and the suddenness of Lothal’s stationary beige and cerulean replacing the brightness of streaking stars is nearly jarring. Din steers the ship, and it goes careening to the planet, beginning the descent onto it’s grassy surface. You can feel your pulse in your throat, nearly overwhelmed by the swirl of emotions that permeate the cockpit. Din’s completely silent and still, but his presence is loud, ringing in the air.

He is skirting the edge of making the entrance through Lothal’s wispy atmosphere too dangerous, and when the ship rumbles at another too-quick dip, it’s only the blinking alarm that seems to shake Din from his tense stupor. You watch wordlessly as he corrects the error, and settles the Slave I into a gradual decline, and you see how it pains him to go slower, to take more time. 

“Boba said the Jedi would be at the temple.” Din says this to the both of you, unnecessarily reminding you in order to assure himself. You nod and offer him a smile, despite him being turned away from you.

“He’ll be there, Din.” You reply, and neither of you are talking about Luke Skywalker. The ship trembles one last time, and then it’s gliding smoothly through Lothal’s airspace. Clouds wisp past the domed windshield, breaking apart to reveal rolling, grassy plains that stretch to the horizon in every direction. To the east, the shore of a freshwater sea peeks from over the skyline, and to the north, the tipped summits of the Jedi Temple beckons.

Thoughts race through your mind, some come as far as settling on your tongue, but none reach past your lips. There’s no words you can say that would ease the tension Din and you feel, nothing can quell the anxiousness. Din pushes the Slave I into a faster speed, towards the temple in the distance, engines roaring.

A stone settles in your belly, one that reminds you of everything that could be lost if Boba is somehow wrong about this. It chills you, the thought of them not being there, makes your heart ache painfully. You miss Grogu, how tiny he is, how sweet, his adorable eyes... You need to see him again, hold him, sing him a lullaby to sleep like you did every night for him.

But if he isn’t here... You’d lose him all over again. Din would lose him all over again. And Din certainly knows it too, in the way he’s so tightly clenching the steering wheel.

You’re not sure if he’d be able to survive the loss for a second time.

~

When the Jedi Temple comes fully into view, you have to admit it’s quite impressive. A massive, cone-shaped mountain sits amidst a whole entourage of smaller ones, looking as though it’s been pushed up from the surface. The ground surrounding it’s rocky base is raised and cracked, creating an incline around the circumference.

Din lands the Slave I in near record time, almost recklessly. The moment the ship settles into rest, you and Din leap up from your seats before the engines have even fully shut down. Normally, Din would do one last check of the controls and such, but he’s pulsing with so much anticipation he’s already running out of the cockpit. You’re barely able to keep up with him, and it never ceases to amaze you how fast Din can move for being such a mass of beskar and muscle.

When the loading bay door eases open, a slightly cool breeze floats in, bringing with it the smell of faint petrichor and dust. Din immediately bolts down the door, rushing out into the prairie. You follow hastily, the tall grass tickling your legs, and you reach Din’s side. He’s hardly paying attention to you, may not even notice you there, because he’s so focused desperately looking for any sign of life.

“He’s here somewhere, he’s got to be here.” The last, stressed word Din utters sounds all at once furious and dejected. He paces out a few more yards, scanning every direction for any possible sign of someone other than the two of you. You do the same, spinning on your heel, eyes searching. Oddly, you feel that you need to go further west, like something is tugging you there.

“Din. That way.” You point to one of the smaller mountains, the one that has large boulders scattered around it. His whips in your direction, then to where you’re pointing, then back to you. He jogs over to you, the inky black of his T-visor locked intently on your face. His gaze searches you for a few long seconds, almost making you squirm. 

“Why?” He asks curiously, head turning back to the unassuming mountain. You roll your eyes good-naturedly and gesture to the vast, empty grasslands all around you and Din.

“Does it really matter? He could be anywhere.” You say, starting to fast walk in the direction that pulls you to it. An unfamiliar yet not foreign feeling starts to bubble in your chest, almost like you’re trying to remember a word, but it sits on the tip of your tongue. The grass swishes around your boots, and you shout over your shoulder, “I just have a feeling!”

And you start to run, wind whipping through your hair. It feels like you have a taut piece of string tied around your torso that urges you to go faster, like you’ve been to this place before, that you know it. Of course, that’s illogical, you’ve never been to Lothal before, let alone the Jedi Temple. But as you approach the top of the steady incline you’d been running up, where the base of the mountain starts just past in, the feeling grows in your chest. You slow to a walk, panting slightly, each step forward making that invisible string feel tighter and tighter.

When your line of vision makes it over the crest of the small hill, the weird feeling inside you wails, alongside the pounding beating of your heart. There, standing in the middle of a small, dusty clearing, is a hooded figure. You freeze, and when Din reaches your side, he does to, pants catching in his throat.

“Thought you’d find us eventually.” The hooded figure says, voice easy, and a metal hand emerges from his cloak to pull back the hood. A headful of wheat brown hair and a winning smile greets you, and Luke Skywalker stands before you in the flesh, just as Boba had said. Din wastes no time, stalking towards him until he’s only several paces away.

“I want him back.” He says, a hot anger rising in his voice, and he’s bristling like a loth-cat ready to pounce. If Luke senses the hostility, he doesn’t react in the slightest, nor does he say anything about it. Instead, the young Jedi just smiles and unfurls his other arm, revealing a very familiar, very excited round-eyed baby. You gasp, and it feels like time just stops.

“Never said you couldn’t.” Luke replies and Grogu leaps from his arm, squealing and gurgling like a madman, making a beeline to his dad. Din’s knees shake slightly, before he collapses to the ground just as the green bean makes it to him and Din swoops him into a hug. Grogu shrieks with joy, tiny hands smacking and grabbing Din wherever.

“Ad’ika.” The choked, teary, crackly croak from Din makes has everything moving again, like it all feels real.

The fallout emotions nearly has your knees buckling out from beneath you, like the sky itself fell on top of you with all it’s weight. So many feelings flurry around you and in you that it’s impossible to stop the tears from springing into your eyes and blurring your vision. But radiant, splendid happiness rises above all else, pulling a laugh from your throat. At this, Grogu glances over at you and coos.

“Green bean, is this a dream?” You can’t stop smiling, the pull almost causing your cheeks to ache, and you rush over to Din and Grogu. You sink to the ground next to them, lost in the glossy black of Grogu’s eyes. He starts up squealing again, squirming until you bring a hand up and caress his little head.

“Hi, baby boy. We missed you so much.” You say, tears finally rolling down your cheeks in fat droplets that catch on your chin. Grogu coos and purrs, leaning into your touch, his big ears twitching. You look over at Din, still grinning widely in spite of the tears.

“Told you.” You laugh, nudging him slightly in the arm with your elbow, reaching up to finally wipe at your face with the back of your hand. Din shakes his head slightly, exhaling a small laugh as he scratches at Grogu’s ears with his fingertips, the way you both know the baby likes it.

“Shouldn’t doubt you.” He replies, a peculiar thickness in his voice, and he looks over at you, the light reflecting off the visor. Somehow, the gaze feels more tender than it’s ever been before, more personal, like the helmet isn’t there. The thought makes your heart flutter in your chest and you find yourself thinking about his eyes again. You smother it, forcing instead a gentle smile. Thankfully, the other man there coughs gently to avert attention. Din and you stand up, both facing the Jedi.

“Thank you.” You speak first, the words breathy, and you say it again, “Thank you.”

Luke shrugs easily, hands clasped together in front of him, resting just below his belt. He glances between you and Din, though he oddly sets his sights mostly on you. Luke’s lips quirks downwards ever so slightly, and his brows furrow together, gaze very obviously analyzing.

“Did you sense us?” He asks, and both Din and you are taken aback. Din shares a look with you before he addresses Luke, “No. We got intel.”

It’s spoken a bit like a leading question (which it is), but Luke doesn’t seem to notice, or he does and just doesn’t care. Instead, he only shakes his head and points back in the direction of the Slave I.

“You both were wise to come to the temple, but I was masking our presences,” Luke tilts his head at Grogu, “But you were able to search us out anyways.”

The blonde points at you, a wiry look in his eyes, and it completely befuddles you.

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking to Din quizzically before you look back at Luke. The Jedi suddenly has this peculiar look on his face, a mix half way between genuine shock and amusement. The latter definitely overshadows the two because now Luke has this huge, lopsided grin sprawling across his face.

“Do you really not know?” He asks in earnest, but there’s so much gaiety seeping into his tone you almost mistake him for mocking you. Your confusion grows and somehow, his grin does to.

“I don’t understand...” You mutter, eyebrows knitting together and your gaze turns wary. Din also shifts slightly, more alert, but before either of you can really react any further, Luke throws back his head and laughs jovially. He shakes his head in apparent bewilderment and when his gaze meets yours again, it’s friendly and warm, but piercing.

“My friend,” Luke starts, bright and chuckling, “You are one with the Force.”

Your jaw drops. Din takes a step back in shock. Luke continues talking.

“Really strange how you’ve never noticed— or been noticed— before.” Luke walks forward until he’s standing directly in front of you, so close he’s almost blocking the entirety of your vision. Kindly warmth radiates off him in waves, not quite like the sunshine Din is, but more like a fire, a kindling flame fueled by his sense of ambition, his drive. Luke Skywalker lives a life that is set in motion, he is empowered by it.

“Oh, that’s interesting.” The expression in the Jedi’s ocean blue eyes suddenly changes to one of realization and knowing. He grins boyishly and before you can question him, Luke snatches both of your hands in his and you feel it.

It’s like a pulsing energy suddenly springs to life around you, the shock of it sucks the air from your lungs. It feels like it should be visible, but your eyes aren’t seeing anything, but it’s tangible and there nonetheless. Where you and Luke hold hands, it’s the strongest, and you realize that that energy is emitting from him, but it’s also radiating off of you.

You release Luke’s hands with a strangled gasp and the feeling drastically dissipates, but your fingertips still tingle. You gape like a fish out of water, thoughts racing and eyes darting between Din and Luke.

“I don’t— I’m— That’s crazy.” You manage to choke out. A shuffle and clink of leather and armor from your side turns your head to Din, whose stepping closer to you.

“That’s how you knew where to go,” Din says softly, “How you’ve always known where to go.”

Every time you’ve ever correctly guided him and Grogu somewhere, even though you’d never been to the place yourself, flashes through your mind. You think back on the times that you chose the correct hideaway in every pinch, how each person you knew to avoid turned out to be an enemy. You’d always just thought you had really good intuition, and maybe a little bit of dumb luck, but you realize that you felt that weird pull each time. You glance over at Luke, wide eyed.

“Really?” The whispered word comes out slightly hoarse and suddenly your throat feels dry. The Jedi nods, his blue eyes twinkling with a rising mirth.

“Feels like a tug, doesn’t it?” He asks cheekily, and all you can manage yourself to do is nod dumbly, too shocked by the information to say anything else. Din places his free hand gently on your shoulder, making you startle. He’s looking at you dead on, suddenly very serious.

“You never knew?” His voice is hard, rigid like it goes when he feels betrayed, and it makes a pit open up in the bottom of your stomach. The last thing you want— ever — is to live in a world where Din thinks you’ve taken his trust, his name, and returned each blessing by having lied to him. To betray a Mandalorian is bad, to betray Din would be even worse. You shake your head wildly, trying to formulate a sentence, but the words die on your tongue.

“No! Never, I’m— I never knew.” You just barely prevent yourself from rambling and maybe it’s how frazzled and desperate you are, and maybe it’s fear, but small tears start to form at the corners of your eyes. Din’s hand is still on your shoulder, and it stays there for the duration of his stare stays on you. Your eyes search him in turn, begging every part of him to believe you. 

“Cyare.” After what seems like an eternity, Din finally speaks and it’s so different, so tender, it’s like he’s become a entirely other man. Somehow, this assures you, lights a blush on your face, and you have the sneaking suspicion that every thing has been forgiven. Din’s hand leaves your shoulder and he looks over at Luke.

“... What now?” He asks lowly, and it’s the question you wish that he shouldn’t have to ask. Curse the Empire, the force-seekers, the galaxy at large. You shift, nervous, and the pit in your stomach returns. Luke’s eyes go distant, like he’s lost in a memory.

“Well... it’s undoubtedly risky for two inexperienced Force users to travel without the protection of a Jedi, and extremely dangerous, and probably improper of me to allow, but...” Luke trails off, but the glimmer reappears in his eyes and you’re struck with how ardently his ambition seeps into every aspect of his being. Since when has Luke Skywalker followed the rules? He seems to be thinking that too, with how he winks at you.

“I say it’s now what you make of it. I won’t bother you anymore, unless you ask, and it’ll be the same for other Jedi as well. But only Jedi.” Luke ends on a grave, yet logical note, one that carries a very heavy, but very real implication. For as much influence he may have with swaying other Jedi to not bother you, Din, or Grogu, Luke cannot promise the complacency of force-seekers. Nor can he of Sith.

“I won’t let anything happen to them. Not while my heart still beats with warm blood.” Din says with unflappable conviction, and you know he means it. Din has fought to near death for another before, his compassionate soul commands it, so there’s no doubt that he’ll do it again. It makes your heart swell with how eager he is to keep you and Grogu safe, how willing he is.

“Of course.” Luke dips his head respectfully, hands reaching up to throw his hood back over his head. He sets to leave, you realize, so before he turns away fully, you grab his hand. Briefly, the tingling returns but you ignore it.

“Thank you, Luke Skywalker.” You mean each word and hope you give them all the reverence they deserve. Luke’s stunning blue eyes, deep and mysterious like the ocean, shine with the mirth that you’re beginning to believe is unique to him. He dips his head again, squeezing your knuckles gently.

“You are very welcome.” He says and lets go, pivoting on his heel to walk the grassy plain, his cloak swaying in the breeze. He maneuvers around boulders and rocky deposits before he disappears behind the dip of a hill. You know you may never see him again, pondering that over the faint roar of a speeder powering up, that you may be on your own with your newfound knowledge. Maybe you should have gone with him, to train, to be useful. Grogu is reunited with Din, that was the original purpose of this mission. It didn’t necessarily mean you needed to be with Din.

“Do you... want to go with him?” The way Din’s quiet voice sounds like a yell when he voices your exact thoughts is startling. You almost can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you do anyways, heart aching and eyes misty. Briefly, you meet Grogu’s gaze, but that is far too much for you to handle. You focus on Din’s visor.

“Should I?” You ask, thinking of all the practical, logical reasons you should, ignoring the emotional reasons why you shouldn’t. Din sets down Grogu, who happily begins to play with the dirt, and plants himself firmly in front of you, the tips of his boots nearly touching yours. His presence commands your fully attention and you give it willingly, even though Din feels like he has the heat of the sun behind him. You haven’t broken contact with that blasted T-visor, not even when the tears start to roll all over again.

“Cyare.” He whispers that same word again, even more tender, and this time he cups your cheek. His hand feels like strength and power, like all of his success and skill. Din smooths his thumb over the crest of your cheekbone, smearing the wet line of tears as he does. He caresses you for a moment longer, and you revel in the touch. You’ve yearned for this for as long as you’ve known him.

“I want to show you something.” Din says and his hand leaves your face feeling cold and bare against the breeze. Your eyes flit away from the glass of his visor when you see his other hand raise as well, both dipping to hook fingers under his...

“Din!” You yelp, staring in horror as he breaks his Creed, and oh my Maker, Din, what are you doing?

His helmet is off. You want to look away, should look away, but Din’s eyes are so captivating, and full of love, that you’re glued to them. Beautiful, nut brown— Din has brown eyes!— you don’t realize you’re crying until Din and his wonderful eyes are blurry, like he’s behind a waterfall. The hand returns to your face, cradling your cheek it it’s warm palm.

“Cyare, it’s okay.” Din says and Stars, his voice isn’t muffled by the static of the vocoder, no longer accompanied by the inorganic crackling. It’s rich and fuller, but it’s still melodious and low and gentle, Din’s voice. You choke back another sob, reaching up to cup Din’s cheek in turn, hand shaking like you believe it’s all a cruel illusion, that your hand will touch cold beskar instead.

But it doesn’t, and your palm meets warm, soft tan flesh that’s slightly prickly from facial hair he hasn’t shaved. Din registers the touch and smiles, and your heart soars at the feeling of the tendons moving beneath your fingers and the absolutely breathtaking sight before you.

“You have beautiful eyes. And smile. And hair.” You blubber, taking the chance to really look at the mess of dark brown locks Din has on the top of his head, some strands plastered to his glistening forehead. His smile brightens, doesn’t grow exactly, and it is perfect. You giggle wetly, sniffling as a smile of your own blooms on your face.

“Glad you like it... I’ve been wanting to show you for a long time.” He confesses, his thumb rubbing against the soft of your cheek, exploring each bump, dip, and plain. You feel a small flush start to rise on your face, no doubt tinting your cheeks with a soft heat. You swallow.

“Really?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper, and you search Din’s eyes, an oddly foreign feeling considering you’re used to the industrial dark tint of T-visor glass. He nods and hums in affirmation, and you feel the rumble beneath your hand. That’s when you realize he’d been inching closer, his face at least. He’s so close now, you can nearly see yourself in his eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” Din asks, mostly absentmindedly but also a bit sheepishly, and his breath is hot on your chin.

Maker.

“Yes.” You manage to say before your brain completely fizzles out and you lose yourself in the sensation of Din’s gentle lips against yours. He is so incredibly warm and soft, if not a bit pokey from his stubble, but perfect all the same. He kisses you like you’re a butterfly’s wing, delicate to the touch, something he needs to be careful with. Din doesn’t implore you to open your mouth, doesn’t deepen it, only kisses with moving, languid lips.

It dissolves so naturally too, a gentle pulling away at the bottom lip when you and Din finally part for a breath of air. You feel just as starry-eyed as he looks, face glazed over with a peacefulness you’re able to reach out and feel for yourself. You prod at the air of content the encases Din, and it swirls around you in response.

“That was amazing.” You say, your hand finally falling from his face to seek his hand. It finds it and his fingers encapsulate yours in a shell of gentle-veiled strength. Din chuckles in his throat and the laugh, uninhibited by his helmet, reverberates in your soul.

“It was my first one.” He replies and it minorly surprises you, but then you remember exactly why it’s his first and the shock disappears. Deciding not to dwell on the laws of his Creed, you focus instead on the unity he feels with you to trust and love you enough to hold you close enough to kiss.

“Well,” You wink at him, “It was very good.”

The small, honey-like smile returns again, stealing your breath away with it’s simple beauty. It fits his face so perfectly, compliments each one of his features. You squeeze his hand, then he does the same, and it’s equal parts sacred and silly.

“Can we kiss again?” You both ask at the same time.

[darthmaulification]

for the request, something involving darth maul and alien senses? maybe he likes to look at reader in a nearly dark room where they can't see how fond his expression is but he can still see them clearly, or how his hearing and smelling is far more acute than a humans.

A/N: ... so... back to the regularly scheduled program... totally doesn’t feel like a very strange 180...

my last posts/reblogs have been very political, so if you didn’t follow me for that sort of thing, i get it, but also this is my blog, and i’m politically active irl, and politics are dumb but important, especially with what’s been going on in america.

it’s rough on my mental health and general wellbeing, so i tried to distract myself by finishing up this request from... months ago. oops. 😬

hope you enjoy! kiitos! 💗

content: fluff/general, gn!reader, alien biology (sight and smell/taste), established relationship, stranded in space, slightly suggestive, sharing a bed

word count: 1,849

sight

In an instant, the ship is plunged into darkness.

It’s disorienting, almost dizzying, the way that in one moment you could see, and the next you couldn’t. The lights that went out were the ship’s last, the old space freighter that Maul and you... co-opted having taken some damage in the skirmish with the Weequay pirates that once controlled it. Launching into hyperspace in this rust bucket had been a poor decision, you surmised, and you thought of Maul who absolutely knew you were right when you previously advised him not to.

Now, the ship, with Maul and you trapped within it’s metal walls, floats somewhere in deep space, so deep there’s no visible stars, far away from any planet...

And in complete, utter darkness. The pitch black feels consuming, oppressive, and you blink rapidly but nothing changes— only the warmth on your eyeballs shifts. There’s a shuffle of fabric and metal clanking from somewhere around you, and you swivel your head in the direction you think the noise came from.

“Maul?” You call out, taking a single, tentative step because before the ship had lost full power, you had been unlucky enough to be up from the copilots chair and halfway across the cockpit. He doesn’t reply, there’s no other noise, and you strain to listen— practically hearing the blood pump in your veins, your own breathing, your heartbeat. Everything is amplified with your sense of sight stripped, everything is practically tangible.

“Maul?” You say his name again, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his silence, eyes darting uselessly and seeing nothing. It also feels as though your voice sounds louder in the inky blackness, reverberates more effectively off hidden metal walls. Maker, it’s impressive— This isn’t your average, everyday darkness— this is advanced darkness. You frown, shuffling and almost stumbling over your own feet.

“Maul, I’m serious. You better not be mes—” Two large, warm hands grab each of your forearms and pulls a small shriek from your lips. Heart racing, Maul responds with a low chuckle— from directly in front of you— and his presence, the heat of him, becomes so prominent it’s almost overwhelming. Your thoughts go wild: How long has he been there? How was he so quiet? How did he know exactly where you—

“Easy, my dear.” He purrs, teasingly, and one of his hands releases your arm, and you tense lightly when it reappears at your hip. You’re quick to relax, especially when Maul’s thumb rubs circles over your pants, occasionally hooks in your belt loop. Lips curling up in a quirked smile, your brows furrow when Maul chuckles under his breath.

“Maker, you are cruel!” You laugh, reaching up and smacking his chest, though your aim is off and you think you clip the edge his shoulder instead. It’s at that moment— your hands clumsily grasping at his chest, his tunic, fingers splaying and toying— that you look up, and in the infinite shadows you’re able to see one thing— or technically two:

Maul’s eyes.

Yes, his eyes— twin yellow orbs sitting directly where his eyeline would be when he stands, twin flames in the dark. They glow, the fiery yellows and oranges stand out against the inky backdrop, superimposed via the right of soft, amber light that emits from them. Of course— Dathomir, Zabraks, night vision.

“Hello.” Maul drawls, and he blinks, the phantasmal flames of his irises disappearing for a split second, then reappearing— his pupils ablaze. Mirth dances in them, his expression so clearly that mix of smug and prideful he gets when he’s acting mischievous.

“Hi.” You reply softly, smiling when Maul cups your cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing along your bottom lip. He lightly lifts your chin, tilting your head side to side curiously, toying with you like a Loth cat would it’s prey. His blistering gaze goes dewy, his eyelids falling halfway and skewing the glow. Maul’s warm thumb passes your lips again, and this time you kiss it. You can see the smile in his stare.

“Mm... how screwed do you think we are?” You inquire, half serious, half-joking, mostly because you’re too lost in the tenderness to really care. Maul shrugs under your palms, and his eyes close (again) then open (again) and it’s so visceral how you’re able to watch them flicker— Like candle lights or will-o’-the-wisps.

“Decently. Savage might know where we are.” Maul deadpans, and you know you’ll both have plenty of time to somewhat panic later (especially when the cold of space starts to seep at the ship), but for now you’re able to find solace in each other. Maul leans in and kisses your smiling cheek, then pulls back and turns towards the transparisteel canopy of the cockpit. Just beyond the glass, the inky black of starless infinity sits in wait.

“Well, then...” You start, taking a couple cautious steps towards Maul and his blistering eyes, “That just means we have some... us time.”

Although you can’t see it, Maul’s face splits into a wolfish grin, and as you reach his arms, it grows and reaches his eyes which flash like a supernova. Maul seizes you by your waist in the darkness, and a squeal escapes you when he lifts you up into his arms. Then, a heated kiss is pressed to your collar bone, teeth pulling and gnashing at the fabric of your shirt as Maul’s frenzied lips pull away.

“Oh, indeed.” And his mouth then falls on yours, all tongue and passion with hardly any care for the world. Your face warms, and you succumb to the heat of Maul, all his shadows, and his twin flames.

~

scent (+ taste)

The balcony curtains sway gently in the breeze, the soft rose light of early morning on Mandalore spilling into the suite. Sunbeams touch your closed eyes, and with a groan, you turn and dig your face into the plush pillow beneath your head. Silken sheets and a soft mattress beckon you back to the clutches of sleep, but besides you, your lover stirs as well.

Maul groans, then sighs low out his nose with a deep exhale, and then goes quiet. You smile into your pillow, not bothering to open your eyes to see that Maul’s awake, his stare on you. It’s so strong, even after just waking, that you can feel it prickle your skin. Goosebumps raise, hairs stand on end, and the bed dips as Maul purrs, “Good morning, my dear.”

Two warm hands press on your back, kneading your muscles and gliding up and down your spine. You make a noncommittal noise, opting to play the long game that both you and Maul enjoy. When you don’t offer any further response, Maul growls lightly and in your head you can practically see the pout of a sneer on his face.

“Good morning, my dear.” Maul repeats with a bit more force, though there’s no bite to his words. Testing your luck, you make a soft grunt again and Maul’s hands freeze on your sides, then squeeze your plush. It’s the long game, the fun one that all too often you and Maul play— pushing boundaries and pressing buttons. Anything to ruffle each other’s feathers, all in good fun of course.

Maul catches on soon enough, because then the wetness of a tongue slides it’s way up the center of your back to your earlobe, leaving a slick trail in it’s wake.

“Maul!” You cry out his name with a muffled laugh into the pillow, arching your back at the sensation, and jokingly squeal, “Gross!”

“Wake up then, my dear, my love— my light of lights.” Maul growls playfully, his nose pressed on your hairline, nuzzling and nipping at your ear. One of his horns grazes the side of your head, catching in your hair, and then the weirdest sensation of air pulling upwards causes you to tense. Maul then sighs, his breath warm on your skin, and then another suck of air, then an exhale, and it’s then you realize Maul is sniffing you.

“What are you doing?” You ask for clarification, shivering when Maul drags his nose deeper into your hair, nuzzles, and inhales deeply. The goosebumps on your skin spread, the feeling ticklish and odd, but not entirely unwelcome. Especially because Maul seems to be enjoying what he’s doing, hence his satisfied purrs and the slight grin you can practically see on his face.

“You smell nice.” Maul replies simply, dragging his nose the length of the column of your neck. He settles at the junction of your jaw, nuzzling in deeper, the small horn at his temple brushing against your earlobe. It pokes your skin, and you smile, but then you think about what he’s said, and your brow furrows.

“I probably smell like sleep and ‘in need of a shower’.” You speak through giggles, tilting your head best you can into the pillow to allow Maul better access to your neck. He hums in reply, nipping and sniffing at the skin under your jaw, his nose pressed along your pulsing jugular. By now, he’s near completely atop you, his hands plastered at your sides, holding himself above you. It takes some effort, but you manage to roll over on to your back, shuffling within the silk sheets.

“Mm... I disagree. You smell like you— Which is to say, like desire, heaven, and ambrosia.” Maul murmurs, lowering himself so that his muscular body is almost flush with yours, acting like a living weighted blanket. One of his arms slithers under your waist, tugging you up slightly as his hand plants firm on your side.

“Really now?” You sigh, eyes fluttering shut when Maul’s warm lips plant lazy, wet kisses on your neck, traveling down to your collar bones where he sucks a mark on the center of your chest. Maul can’t seem to get enough of you, his mouth and nose wild in their mission to mark and claim and scent every inch of skin he can reach. Minutes pass of just Maul sniffing you down, rubbing his scent on you, licking, biting, kissing. By the time he answers, your head is fuzzy with arousal, and you can barely open your eyes to stare all dewy-eyed up at him.

That wicked, wolfish grin on that crimson face of his greets you, as do Maul’s molten eyes. You watch his tongue lackadaisically glide over his lips, wetting them. Maul looks ravaged, wild-eyed and dizzying, practically drunk off your scent. Behind him, the light of the morning casts a glow around his head and makes his crown of horns look like a halo.

“You render me insatiable.” Maul growls, and then his head dips back to your body, nose to the skin above your heart where he smells you, and your heartbeat, and the blood that pulses in your veins and runs hot in your flesh. A gasp escapes you, arms drawing him in to the aura of you— all good, all pure, and outside the sun is beaming, and the breeze carries the essence of you and Maul to the heavens.

[beardedmrbean]

[nathanielbuildsatesseract]

This is what having auditory processing issues is like.

[ellewantsrevenge]

aadam jacobs's archive

[tura23]

I love it when someone shares their obsession.

[catoswound-moved]

you cant even begin poems with "i will sodomise and facef uck you" anymore. because of woke .

[queixumes]

[unquietgravekeeper]

Holy fuck

[foone]

[six31]

I vaguely recall discourse about the dictionary pulling it's punches when it came to writing the definition for whatever latin verb means 'face-fuck' because 'to be the recipient of oral sex' is clean and true but doesn't come close enough to describing what the word means.

[foone]

Yeah, Catullus gets censored a lot! I suspect a bit of it is just that we often get this idea of poets and poetry as... Light and fluffy?

Probably just because of what gets taught in schools. You end up getting the impression that a poems are about one of

Being sad

Walking through nature

Being sad whilst walking through nature.

Which is a slightly reductive take on a whole fucking medium.

Anyway, Catullus was less the stereotypical "upper class guy with a lot of education who loves nature and being depressed" sort of poet and is more to the "battle rapper" end of poetry.

He's got multiple poems that are basically diss tracks. This is exactly why Poem 16 (this one) comes straight out the gate with "I AM GOING TO BUTTFUCK AND FACEFUCK YOU" (lowercase letters wouldn't be developed for a few hundred more years, by definition everything Catullus wrote was in ALL UPPERCASE): Catullus is directing this poem at Marcus Furius Bibaculus (Bibaculus to his friends), who had an affair with Juventius: a woman Catullus had a (possibly unrequited) love for. In fact, this sort of reputation is part of what Catullus is saying. He's like "oh, you think I'm some weak pansy faggot because I'm a poet? Let's see how you feel after I shove my huge* manly dick up all your holes, bitch."

Anyway the whole reason I was supposed to be replying is to talk about how Latin is an amazing language to swear in. They've got some very fun words like irrumo, ittumare which means basically "to fuck someone's mouth", but in a single word. Face-fuck is really the best translation English has, and that's two words.

Plus Latin is an infected language! He didn't just say "face fuck", he said the first person singular future active indicative of "face fuck".

Irrumabo is a single word that packs all this info into its infected form. It's not just "what" (face fucking), it's who and when and how.

Who: me, singular. "We" are not going to face fuck you, I, personally, and going to face fuck you.

When: in the future. This is a thing that's going to happen. Latin has multiple moods for this, the indicative, imperative, and subjunctive.

He doesn't use the subjunctive, which'd mean "I hope I facefuck you: it'd be great if someday I get to face fuck you".

He doesn't use the imperative, which is for stating commands. He's not saying "get facefucked, idiot".

He uses the indicative. This is for stating facts. He's saying this as just a thing that will happen. As surely as the sun will rise tomorrow... I will facefuck you.

It's also active not passive, which means it's not "you will be facefucked by me". It's active, meaning it's "I am going to facefuck you".

The word is also derived from the word for teats? As in, it meant something like suckling?

Catullus is saying you're going to suck his cock like a baby feeding from their mother, and he's going to make you do this. This is just a thing that is going to happen.

And he says that all in ONE SINGLE WORD.

Latin is a lovely language for this sort of thing.

(there's also a lot of fascinating stuff about the second line of the poem: he calls Aurelius as pathicus, and Furius a cinaedus. These mean slightly different things! Translating them as "cocksucker" and "butt boy" is definitely one way to do it, but there's more to say about this, but this post is already way too long)

Anyway, while "first poet to ever get his bone on" is highly inaccurate (Sappho was centuries earlier! You think a woman who was so gay she gave us two of our words for WLW didn't BONE?), he definitely was one of the poets who most noticeably Absolutely Fucked and he made sure you knew it.

* he wouldn't have said "huge", this is a localization for our culture. The ancient romans thought big dicks were ugly, unrefined, and comical. (They borrowed this from the ancient greeks, incidentally)

[stereotype-embodier]

I must know if the original Latin was also written in a dick shape

[foone]

sadly not. Latin has a lot of fun tricks you can do with word order (because it's inflected, you can move words around for emphasis) and typography, but it wasn't penis-shaped originally.

that's a good way to localize it to english, though. Catullus 16 is 100% a poem about how Big* Catullus's dick is. * metaphorically, you understand. He's say he's got Big Dick Energy, not a literally big dick, because that wouldn't have worked for his culture.

[ouroborealis-charnivore]

@official-penis-posts ancient penis posting

[ariaste]

"[...]who had an affair with Juventius: a woman Catullus had a (possibly unrequited) love for."

Correction: Juventius was a Local Twink that Catullus had the hots for and who definitely snubbed him and flounced off with someone else. Catullus' on-again-off-again girlfriend was Lesbia. Scholars disagree about which poem Furius and Aurelius teased him about that made him write Poem 16 -- could have been either 5 (about Lesbia) or 48 (about Juventius).

This is an important point because people need to know that All Roman Men Are Messy Bisexuals (and if they're not, then all their friends think that's super weird and kind of perverted).

[bubterknife]

i exist and i love you

[moonlightnyx]

The way this made me tear up 🥹

[insert-witty-user-name-here]

[starknstarwars]

Me opening up the half-finished draft of my ‘narratively creative’ Conclave fanfic:

[depsidase]

[radioactiverats]

Starscream x cybertronian!reader

It’s one of those days and you can’t stop thinking. You can count on Starscream to wipe your processor blank <3

18+ 🌶️

———

You’re getting ready for recharge, having made your best efforts to wait up for Starscream, but no longer able to stay online - when a large, warm frame presses up against your back. You shiver as warm ex-vents gust over the back of your neck cabling, and a pair of large servos snake up to hold your hips in place - but even as you’re prevented from turning around, you already know who it is.

“The mission went well, I take it?” You say.

“Mm,” Starscream murmurs, tugging you closer. He dips his helm to nose at the base of your jaw, and you gasp as his glossa darts out to lick the sensory net there.

Starscream had been busy as of late - Megatron had been ramping up the pressure on the high command, and Starscream had borne the brunt of it. It had kept him away from you, sometimes for days at a time - and now, it seemed that the distance had affected him as much as it did you. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for niceties, eager to catch up on intimacy with you instead.

You tilt your helm up, allowing him better access to your neck cables as you lay your smaller servos over his. His engines rumble with approval, mouth dragging wetly, sinfully over the sensitive section of cabling that meets your shoulder. It feels good to press yourself against Starscream’s warmth - his frame is lithe, as seekers are, but he still dwarfs you entirely - you allow yourself to bask in that long-lost sense of safety that he always brings you.

Finally, he allows you to turn around, but doesn’t allow you a moment’s respite before his lips are on yours, servos roaming across your back. A few kliks later, however, it becomes apparent that something’s wrong. He breaks the kiss even as you whine in complaint, drawing back to gauge your expression with a concerned frown. “What is it?”

Frag.

Where do you even begin to explain, when you’re not even sure what the problem is? You want this as much as he does - you’ve spent countless nights tossing and turning in your shared berth, acutely feeling the empty space beside you.

But today of all days simply had to be one of those times where you’d groggily been thrown from recharge, still disoriented by dreams even though you no longer remembered them - and the unsettled feeling would simply take root in your processor like a black hole, its gravitational field drawing out the most insidious of your anxieties until you were drowning in a spiral of your own thoughts. On days like this, you would wryly wonder how your processor wasn’t visibly smoking yet - you simply couldn’t stop your racing thoughts, and the only way to stop it would be to cut the day short with an early recharge, coupled with a prayer that tomorrow would be better.

There you go, getting lost in your thoughts again. You shake your helm, trying to rid yourself of the thoughts clawing at the edges of your processor - and when you cycle your optics open, Starscream’s still gazing at you. Concern is evident on his faceplate, but you watch helplessly as something shutters in his optics - presumably stowing his emotions away at your presumed rejection of his advances.

He takes care of you, he always does - and perhaps it was a habit that came with his position as SIC, but you know that he’s briskly deconstructing his emotions, filing them away to tackle whatever issue was bothering you. You know he means well - he’d always been a bot to solve your problems rather than offer comfort. But right now, he doesn’t know that closing his emotions off, putting distance between you to help with whatever this was, was utterly unbearable to you.

His servos tighten briefly on your hips before withdrawing slightly. The rasp of his voice is carefully neutral. “Tell me if you don’t want this-”

“No!" You burst out, servos shooting out to slam over his - over your plates, you feel his elegant fingers twitch in surprise as you desperately try to stop him from pulling away. “I do.”

“Then-?”

You look down, shamefaced. How, indeed, do you go about explaining what’s happening in your processor without embarrassing yourself? Without looking like a weakling?

Defeatedly, you lean forwards to plunk your helm against Starscream’s chassis. “I don’t know,” You say glumly. “I just sometimes get like this.”

The frustration in your voice tugs painfully at Starscream’s spark - one of his servos settle at the base of your spinal strut, the other cradling your helm, holding you close. “Like what?”

“Just… can’t stop thinking.”

Your servos tighten into fists, angry at yourself for ruining the happiness of this hard-won moment. However, Starscream doesn’t let you spiral for long - quick as a flash, his steady servos gently but insistently work to uncurl your stiff fingers from where they’d been digging into the sensitive plates of your palms.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, raising your trembling servo to his lips, dotting gentle kisses along your knuckles. “Just say the word, and I’ll make it so you think of nothing but us.”

Immediately, your racing thoughts descend like a tidal wave. You want this. Want it so badly. But what if you ruin it midway? Are you ruining the mood, putting distance between you even before you begin? As if sensing your inner struggle, Starscream’s EM field nudges gently against yours, disrupting the onslaught - and you melt into the merge with a sigh, the sincerity of his affections blanketing you in a cocoon of warmth.

Your disruptive thoughts begin to thaw, enough for you to realize you're spiralling again. Why not just give in, when Starscream is offering so freely?

“Please,” You whisper, and Starscream’s satisfied growl reverberates through his frame and into yours before he’s claiming your lips in a bruising kiss.

———

It’s clear that Starscream’s been pent up, judging by the punishing pace he sets. Every snap of his hips has you seeing stars as he pounds into your ceiling node. His unrelenting pace doesn’t allow you time to linger on your thoughts - it’s rough, it’s quick, it’s exactly what you need.

For a while, your processor is wiped wondrously blank. You do nothing but feel as your sensors sing to life, Starscream watching intently as your faceplate contorts with pleasure.

It's some time later before you realize you're not really there. Apparently having drifted off without even knowing - your sensors so overwhelmed with sensation that you feel like you’ve reached the ceiling of your pleasure, ever teetering yet unable to fall over the edge. Sensation plateauing into a flatline, the initial blessed blankness of your processor becomes a whiteboard on which your thoughts begin to form again in haphazard scribbles. Distantly, you’re aware of the pleasure that buzzes through your frame - but it feels like you’re not really there to experience it firsthand, as if a dampener had been installed over your sensory nets. Your processor races and races, how you could have, should have done better, how you’re not enough, how you're somehow ruining everything. You nearly sob in frustration as you find yourself unable to reach your peak, your need to get lost in physical sensation ironically pulling you further and further from overload, further and further from Starscream.

Starscream must have noticed that he was losing you. With a snarl, he bites savagely into your neck cables, fangs piercing through to draw energon. You buck against him with a cry, at the delicious flash of pain that shocks you right back into your frame, struck all at once by the sensation of heat - energon searing through your lines and the burn of Starscream’s plates against yours. “Stay with me,” he growls, but as your optics meet his, he seems to understand that there’s something else you need.

You squeal as he effortlessly hauls you up to sit astride his lap. Gravity has you sinking even further down on his spike, and you need a klik to ex-vent weakly against his chassis, frame twitching as his biolights brush over the sensitive walls of your valve. Starscream gathers you close, crooning low in his vocaliser - a frequency which helps to quiet your swirling anxieties some.

Instead of resuming a punishing pace like you expected, he slows down, gently guiding the movement of your hips over his spike. On his lap like this, his large servos wandering warmly over your frame, there’s no escape fro the overwhelming desire in his EM field to claim, to protect.

“Do you feel me?” Starscream murmurs.

His movements are slow and purposeful, carefully, patiently reawakening the sensitive sensors that line your callipers. You moan weakly as he presses closer, glossa laving tenderly over the bite in your neck cables. His strength prevents you from just sliding down the entirety of his spike, controlling the pace at which you lower yourself - forcing your sensors to process every inch of his spike as it strokes deep inside you, to take every flare of pleasure up your spinal strut.

Starscream doesn’t appear to be in any rush now - lazily basking in the intimacy of being close to you, inside you - enjoying your molten heat around him in favour of rushing to a conclusion. Under his careful ministrations, your gasps become layered with static, the snap of your charge loud in your audials.

Your charge had been building for a while now, crackling across your frame with nowhere to go. “Starscream,” You slur, static glitching your vocaliser. “Please, I need, I need…”

“Need to overload, do you?” Starscream croons. “Poor thing. Don’t worry, I have you.”

His hips snap up as your intake falls open in a soundless cry - hard and fast again, pushing you higher and higher - then, without warning, he pinches a major cable in your neck, interrupting your charge as he simultaneously transfers a potent dose of his own charge onto your frame.

For a fraction of a nanoklik, your charge reroutes - and smashes right into itself.

Your vision whites out as you’re utterly blindsided by overload. You might have screamed, you’re not sure - the intensity of cascading pleasure has you writhing on Starscream’s spike, fragmented cries of his designation tearing from your vocaliser.

He doesn’t let up, hips slamming unrelentingly into yours even as your vocaliser pitches into a whine from overstimulation - until he’s overloading inside you with a snarl, grinding his spike against your abused ceiling node as he fills you with his transfluid.

For a few nanokliks, all that fills the room is the sound of your ragged ex-vents. At last, your processor is blessedly, blissfully blank. Starscream gathers you to his chassis, stroking your helm as you both come down from your high.

“Rest,” he murmurs. “l'll be here when you wake up."

[moonlightnyx]

I need this in my life 😩

[pipopuck]

is this anything

[moonlightnyx]

I need to remember this for everytime I look in the mirror 😭

[dataglitch]

Photocards set I did for TFCON Chicago a while last year :D This was the first set, second set was already posted. Planning on doing at least a TFP sometime!!

[dataglitch]

I LIVE!!! I've been busy so here's some of the photocards done for TFCON LA! <3 Getting more stuff done soon, need to catch up on things uwu

[patricia-taxxon]

i love explaining the etymology of the word "rickroll" because the story starts with "ok, so at one point 4chan applied a filter to everyone's posts that changed the word egg to duck"

[maple-cloak]

[wrenanigans]

[croaksac]

grandfather....

[lovelornparagraphs]

middle-earth's finest simps ♡

✧ includes: boromir, aragorn, eomer, and faramir

✧ warnings: tooth rotting fluff, hurt/comfort, protective male characters, physical affection, pet names, domestic intimacy, lotr-style courtship, canon-typical mentions of war, no smut.

wc: 1.6k

lord of the rings x fem!reader

✧ Boromir

Boromir loves fiercely.

Not cautiously. Not halfway. When he gives someone his heart, he gives all of it.

Boromir would be protective without being overbearing, always placing himself between you and danger before he even realizes he's doing it. If a storm rolled in during travel, his cloak would somehow end up around your shoulders while he insisted he wasn't cold.

He adores physical affection.

A hand on your back while walking through crowded streets. Your arm linked with his. Pulling you closer beside a campfire when the nights grow cold.

His love language is acts of service.

Your saddle needs repairing? Done.

You're exhausted after a long day's ride? Somehow dinner is already cooking over the fire.

Your sword needs sharpening? He already handled it.

Boromir is proud of you.

Not in a possessive way—he simply never misses an opportunity to tell others how capable, brave, or clever you are.

"You should have seen her."

Those words become very common.

After difficult battles, he seeks you out first.

The noise of victory celebrations fades away the moment he spots you across the camp.

Only then does he finally relax.

Only then does he know everything is alright.

At night, when the Fellowship sleeps, he often sits beside you beneath the stars, quietly speaking of home.

Of white towers, the wind over the walls, the things he hopes to protect.

And somehow, eventually, those dreams begin including you.

Being upset around Boromir is almost impossible to hide.

Boromir notices immediately.

The slight tremble in your voice. The way you stop talking. The way your eyes avoid his.

The second he realizes something is wrong, his entire focus shifts to you.

"Come here."

Not spoken as a request, but as a gentle command.

Before you know it, you're tucked against his chest beneath his cloak while he wraps both arms around you.

Boromir doesn't always know the perfect thing to say.

But he knows how to stay.

How to sit beside you, how to hold you, how to make you feel less alone.

When you're crying, he'll rest his cheek against your hair and let you hide your face against his shoulder.

His pet names are warm and affectionate:

"Little dove."

"Sweetheart."

"My lady."

And occasionally, when it's just the two of you:

"My heart."

When you need him...like, need him—need him. You want to be as close to him as possible.

That means sitting in his lap by the fire while he tells you how important you are to him—stroking your back gently.

✧ Aragorn

Being loved by Aragorn feels like home.

He isn't flashy with affection. In fact, some people might mistake him for distant at first.

But his love runs deep and steady.

Aragorn notices everything.

When you're tired, worried, skipped a meal, even when you're pretending to be fine.

You rarely have to ask for anything because he's already noticed before you speak.

His affection appears in small moments.

A blanket draped over your shoulders while you sleep.

A warm cup placed beside you during a cold watch.

His hand finding yours beneath a table.

He teaches you things. How to identify healing herbs. How to read tracks left on forest paths. How to listen to the language of birds and wind.

Traveling beside him feels like wandering through old legends.

There are evenings spent beneath ancient trees, listening to stories older than kingdoms.

Mornings filled with mist and birdsong. Long rides beneath endless skies.

Aragorn isn't overly possessive. He trusts you completely.

But if someone threatens you? The Ranger disappears.

The future King emerges. And that is a terrifying thing to witness.

Late at night, when the world is quiet, he speaks softly about the future.

Not kingdoms...but a home.

A life where he can wake beside you and not fear losing you to war.

Aragorn is quiet comfort. The kind that settles around you like a stream.

If you're upset, he doesn't immediately ask questions. Instead, he'll simply appear beside you.

Offering his presence first.

Words second.

Sometimes he'll sit with you beneath a tree in complete silence.

His shoulder brushing yours and his hand loosely holding yours.

Waiting until you're ready.

Aragorn is very good at grounding people. When your thoughts begin racing, he'll gently redirect your attention.

"Listen."

The wind through the leaves. A birdsong nearby. The water rippling.

Slowly bringing you back to the present.

When you're overwhelmed, he often presses his forehead lightly against yours.

A small, intimate gesture that feels somehow more comforting than a hundred words.

Pet names tend to be softer and older:

"My dear."

"Beloved."

"Meleth nin" (my love).

When you're exhausted, he becomes almost impossible to separate from.

You fall asleep beside a campfire? You'll wake with his cloak around you.

Your head somehow resting against his shoulder. His arm carefully positioned so you stayed warm through the night.

✧ Èomer

Éomer falls in love the same way he rides into battle.

Entirely...without hesitation.

Life in Rohan means freedom. Open skies and golden grasslands.

The thunder of horses across endless fields.

And he wants to share all of it with you.

Horse rides become dates. Not gentle strolls.

Full speed races across the plains while both of you laugh into the wind. He's playful in ways people don't expect.

"Race me."

A teasing smile.

"Again."

"No excuses this time."

He's also surprisingly affectionate.

His arm around your shoulders. Pulling you onto his lap during feasts. Brushing kisses against your forehead when he thinks nobody is watching.

Family matters deeply to him. So once he loves you, you're part of his people.

When worries weigh heavily on him, he seeks comfort in your presence.

Sometimes that means talking.

Sometimes it means sitting together beneath the stars while his hand remains wrapped around yours.

He loves seeing you wear colors of Rohan. The sight never fails to make him smile.

And every time he returns safely from battle, his first thought is finding you. His second is holding you.

Éomer acts tough....until you're upset.

Then suddenly he's all soft edges.

If somebody hurt your feelings? He's offended on your behalf.

Genuinely offended.

"Who said that?"

You can practically see him preparing for battle.

Éomer isn't naturally gifted with emotional conversations.

His instinct is to fix things.

So when he can't fix your sadness, he settles for staying close.

Very close.

Expect strong arms around your shoulders. Expect being pulled against his side. Expect him refusing to let you sit alone.

When you're particularly clingy, he'll grin and tease you.

"Comfortable there?"

As you're practically attached to him.

But the truth?

He's delighted. His favorite place for you is nearby.

His pet names feel very Rohirrim:

"Little bird."

"Bright one."

"Golden girl." (especially if sunlight catches your hair)

And if you're half asleep after a long ride?

He absolutely carries you.

No discussion.

You wake up wrapped in blankets while he's looking entirely too pleased with himself.

✧ faramir

Being loved by Faramir feels sooo safe.

Like sunlight filtering through leaves.

Unlike his brother, Faramir tends to keep his emotions hidden from most people.

But never from you. You become the person who sees every side of him.

The thoughtful scholar...the brave captain.

The dreamer who spends far too much time gazing at the stars.

Faramir loves conversations.

Long ones...

The kind that begin at sunset and somehow continue until dawn.

He wants to know your thoughts. Your fears. Your hopes. Every story you've never told anyone else.

Books become shared experiences.

So do songs.

So do quiet afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing together.

He's incredibly attentive. If you mention liking a flower once, he'll remember. If you mention a favorite poem, he'll find a copy. If you have a difficult day, he'll notice before you say a word.

His affection is soft but constant.

Brushing your knuckles with his thumb.

Pressing a kiss to your hand.

Resting his forehead against yours after long separations.

Faramir never makes you feel like an obligation. Never makes you feel forgotten.

When he looks at you, you have his complete attention. And perhaps the most beautiful thing about loving him is this:

For someone who has spent so much of his life overlooked, misunderstood, or compared to others—

he never makes you feel anything less than cherished.

Faramir is devastatingly gentle.

When you're upset, he treats your feelings as though they're glass.

If you start crying, he immediately takes your hands in his.

Both of them. Holding them securely while giving you his full attention.

His expression softens instantly.

"There is no need to hide from me."

And somehow that makes you cry even harder.

Faramir listens...truly listens.

Not waiting for his turn to speak and not trying to solve everything.

Simply hearing you.

When you need reassurance, he'll brush his thumb across your knuckles and remind you of every good thing he sees in you.

Every brave thing.

Every kind thing.

Every beautiful thing.

His pet names are incredibly sweet:

"Sweetling."

"Beloved."

"Fair one."

And occasionally...

"My star."

If you've had a difficult day, you'll often find him reading beside you while your head rests in his lap.

One hand turning pages. The other absentmindedly combing through your hair.

Neither of you speaking. Neither of you needing to.

Just enjoying the rare peace of being together.

✧ Fellowship bonus

— Boromir is a soft, silent lover. He'll hold you, sure. But he's not going to talk much while doing it. That's just his love language.

— Aragorn quietly makes room for you beside him. He's not loud with his affection, his body language on the other hand is.

— Éomer acts smug for five minutes and then cuddles you. Teasing banter between you two is only natural.

— Faramir was already halfway through comforting you before you realized you needed comfort.

MY WORK IS MY OWN AND I HAVE OWNERSHIP OF MY CREATIONS. DO NOT STEAL, COPY OR REPOST!

[lovelornparagraphs]

Reading the hobbit rn and I just finished Riddles in the Dark, so what about something at Beorn's place? Something cozy (been stressed with classes but everything causes me stress lol) would be nice :)

cozy bear hug ♡

✧ warnings: none, really ♡ just lots of comfort, protective!beorn, cozy domestic fluff, animal companions, and soft found-family feelings, platonic but not so platonic hcs.

✧ wc: 751

beorn x fem!reader

Living at Beorn's house is one of the strangest and safest things that has ever happened to you.

Beorn is not good with people. He knows this.

...you know this.

Everyone knows this.

Which means most of your days are filled with long silences that somehow never feel uncomfortable.

At first, he barely speaks to you.

He'll simply appear beside you like a mountain that learned how to walk. You'll be carrying a basket of eggs and suddenly—

"Careful."

One word...then he's gone again.

He worries about you constantly but has absolutely no idea how to express it.

Instead of asking if you're cold, you'll wake up to an extra blanket folded neatly beside your bed.

Instead of asking if you're hungry, you'll find fresh bread, honey, and warm milk waiting on the table.

Instead of saying he missed you, he'll mutter—

"You were gone longer than usual."

When you first arrive, he seems intimidating.

Huge, gruff and stern.

But after a while, you realize he's secretly watching over you almost every second of the day.

If you wander into the woods alone, somehow he always knows.

If you trip and scrape your knee, he appears before you've even finished standing back up.

If a storm rolls in, every shutter in the house is already secured before you've noticed the clouds.

He's awkward when you're upset.

Absolutely terrible at it.

You'll be sitting quietly after a difficult day.

Beorn notices.

Beorn panics internally.

Cause what does one do with sad humans?

Eventually he sits beside you. Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours yet far enough that you won't feel trapped.

Then he grumbles:

"The bees made too much honey."

You blink.

"What?"

"Too much honey."

He sets an entire jar in your lap.

His version of emotional support.

He secretly likes listening to you talk.

He'd never admit it.

But while he's working, feeding animals, repairing fences, or chopping wood, he's listening.

Every word.

You'll start rambling about something completely random and think he's ignoring you. Then three weeks later he'll mention a tiny detail you thought he'd forgotten.

The animals adore you. Which makes Beorn quietly pleased.

His dogs nap beside you. His horses follow you around. The sheep crowd around your legs whenever you're outside.

Beorn acts like this means nothing.

Inside, however, he's very proud.

During winter evenings, you'll sit near the fire while he works on tools or carves wood.

Sometimes neither of you speak for hours.

The crackling fire fills the room. Snow taps softly against the windows.

His enormous dogs are sprawled across the floor.

And somehow, for the first time in a long time, your mind feels quiet.

If you have nightmares, he notices immediately.

The next morning you'll look tired.

He'll narrow his eyes.

"Didn't sleep."

It's not a question and before you can answer, he's already making breakfast.

A larger breakfast than usual.

His logic is simple.

Bad sleep...more food.

He's protective in a very animal sort of way.

Not possessive, nor controlling.

Just watchful.

When strangers visit the house, he positions himself between them and you without thinking.

His body naturally becomes a shield. He doesn't even realize he's doing it.

Physical affection is rare. Not because he dislikes it but because he's uncertain.

He worries he'll be too rough.

Too large...

So the first time you lean your head against his shoulder, he freezes completely.

Utterly still...like a startled bear.

You think you've made him uncomfortable.

Then, very carefully, he shifts so you're more comfortable.

And stays that way until you fall asleep.

Sometimes, when the world feels too loud and too heavy, you'll find him outside with the animals.

You'll sit beside him and say nothing.

Just exist together.

And Beorn understands that better than most people ever could.

No expectations or explanations.

Just his quiet company.

And though he'd never say it aloud, not in a thousand years, Beorn eventually comes to think of you as something precious.

Like his home, the bees, and the woods he protects.

Something gentle that somehow found its way into his life.

Something worth guarding (in which he puts his life on the line for without even realizing)

So when you smile at him across the kitchen table, warm honey on fresh bread and sunlight pouring through the windows, his expression softens for just a moment.

And in Beorn's world, that's practically an "I care about you." ♡

this had me crying TEARS

MY WORK IS MY OWN AND I HAVE OWNERSHIP OF MY CREATIONS. DO NOT STEAL, COPY OR REPOST!

[seraphimaa]

your writing scratches such a phenomenal itch in my brain omg . throws all my hypothetical money at you . can i please request some drift x human reader , maybe reader is reading the kama sutra and drift takes it off them mistaking it for a spiritual text and instead gets an eyeful of illustrated sex positions ... or something like that !! big fan love your writing !! no worries if this prompt doesnt spark joy , please have a great week :D

Drift x f!Reader

Studying a gag gift you never threw out helps you both reach new spiritual heights

Tysm! 🥹 you’re too kind. I shall spend it all on hypothetical goodies I don’t need.

Definitely don’t know what happened to this one. The voices guided me and they’re never right. Hope you like it anyway. If not I’ll give you a hypothetical refund xD

“A religious text? A spiritual guide?” He’s brushing a servo over the cover of the book plucked from your shelf.

You know you should be an adult. Tell him to put it down. He’s good.

“Oh, that? Yeah. Really sacred.” It wasn’t. It was a gag gift from old friends. You smiled remembering the way they cackled when you’d opened it at the Christmas party. You’d asked for a self help book and apparently after complaining enough about your boring sex life with your ex, they’d decided this was all the help you needed.

He hums, clutching it like something precious. “Ah. I did not know you were interested seeking personal enlightenment.”

You fight a snort, pretending to clear your throat. “Yup. That’s me. There’s a real ecstasy in reaching new spiritual heights.”

Drift gives you a surprised look, nodding in complete agreement, as if finding a new respect for you. You are a terrible person.

“Wow I am very impressed. And this has helped you?” Nope. It had become a coaster for all the wine you sobbed into after the inevitable breakup, then had gathered dust on the back of a shelf. Why did you even still have it?

You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “Oh. No. I’ve never actually read it. It’s a partner based discipline. You can’t practice it alone”

His plates bristle, door wings flaring. “And you’ve never had anyone to follow it with you?”

When you shake your head he is full of pity. “Well may I read it? I could study up on it and we could practice it together?”

Say no. You should say no. You’re the worst person in the universe. “Sure, Drift. Study up. I’m sure you’ll feel very enlightened.”

It’s 3 days later that you find yourself in Swerves. The alcohol he’s managed to procure was close enough in colour and taste to a Merlot to drink but with an acidic enough aftertaste to remind you a Merlot it was definitely not. You sat it at a corner table, small to accommodate your size, scrolling on your datapad, definitely not reading heinous smut in public spaces.

you had almost forgotten about your encounter with drift entirely. It was hard to make friends on an alien vessel, and it didn’t help that you are who you are as a person. Didn’t mean to be this way but you can’t help it. You just don’t know how to be vulnerable or embarrassed and so you cope with bad jokes and deflection and let it haunt you while you cringe in bed at night.

Drift was a good person. The best. He always tried to be kind to you and make you feel involved from the first day you came on the ship. Invited you to mediate every day. You’d gone once and couldn’t cope with the awkward silence. Had to break it every few minutes. He wasn’t even annoyed, just smiled and humoured you. Tagged you in the crew chat with things you thought would be interesting. You never remembered to reply. Gave you a heads up when an activity was being organised. You often bedrotted instead and apologised the next day. You didn’t deserve his patience.

You blink out your wallowing as someone eases themselves to sit across from you. You almost throw yourself onto the table to close the screen.

“I read your guide.” He’s got that gentle, easy smile he always does.

“Oh.” You can’t help yourself. You should die in a fire. “Do you feel enlightened?”

The mech hums, as if searching for words. “Indeed. I have never studied a spiritual text like that before. It contained quite inventive philosophies and flexible practices.”

“Huh.” You don’t know what to say. Drift is too principled, too virtuous to be entertaining your awful attempt at goading. He’s still got that attentive easy smile, you’re sure a complete parallel to your confused gaping.

He’s waiting for you to say something more. “Did you…read all of it?”

“Of course. It was a recommendation from a trusted friend.” You want to crawl under the table until serve sweeps you out with the broom.

“That’s…I. I mean.” He gives you a concerned look.

“Are you alright?” You shake your head then nod.

“So we could start tomorrow? It would be an honour to guide you to the ecstasy of new spiritual heights. That’s how you put it, yes?”

That’s what does it. This will be read out to you when you go to hell. Bad bad bad.

“Drift that was the Kama Sutra. It is and I’m so sorry I made you read it. I thought it would be funny but you believed me and I’m a terrible person and I’ll burn in hell for lying to you. I’m really sorry.” It comes out like one long word and a mech at the bar coughs and you glance over to see Swerve has stopped mid polish of the cup in his hands.

Drifts face doesn’t change. He doesn’t look horrified or angry. He isn’t throwing you out the airlock.

“Hm. I object.”

You shouldn’t be angry. You’re the bad guy in this situation, but what the hell does that even mean. You’re scanning for the best way to slide past him without making a scene and crawl back into your bed and never come out.

You stand, clutching your datapad to your chest and commit to the plan. You hear Drift calling your name and think he’s going to let you get to the crawling like a sad bug part, hoping maybe a stray ped will happen to find you under it. There’s a pair clanking towards you from behind and you pray to something that it’s your lucky day.

It’s not. It’s drift. He’s crouching in front of you to block the way. You glare up at him.

“No. Let me wallow. Stop it. Oppression.” You wail as he lifts you up and carries you. He’s entering his suite and dropping you softly onto the floor, dropping to sit across from you.

You cross your arms, pouting and refusing to look at him. You can’t.

“You’ve really never read it have you? It’s very obvious.” You bristle. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“You know you’d really benefit from reading it. You should give it a chance. I think you need the wisdom inside. It would loosen you up. help you enjoy yourself more.”

“Excuse me.” Ok. You deserve this. It doesn’t mean it’s not rude. “Are you calling me stale and inflexible?”

He blinks, searching for his words again.

“Hey. I’ll have you know I’m plenty flexible. I can do fun sex stuff with people. I just choose not to. It’s a choice. I happen to like missionary and doggy. They’re fun. I’m fun.”

He frowns. “That’s not where I saw this going.”

You interrupt him. “And you know what Drift, I’m a horrible horrible stink person but you aren’t. Don’t tell me how to have sex. You’re supposed to be the good one here. You should be ashamed, stooping to my level. What are you thinking?”

You’re in the right here. Know it. You’ve accepted you’re just a degenerate asshole but Drift isn’t and it doesn’t suit him.

“Love is necessary to satisfy the mind, ethics to satisfy the conscience, and spiritual seeking for peace of soul.“

You shut up and frown at him. “Huh?”

“You have misunderstood me. I did not intend to cause any offence. I was simply attempting to convey that I can tell you have not read the text as you referred to it as…” you feel yourself die inside as his optics light. “Ah yes. ‘A book for horny degenerates just about sex positions’. I believe that’s how you phrased it, yes?”

“It is.”

He laughs, the sound uncomfortably fond and kind. “How can you say that when you’ve never read it?”

You shrug.

“You understand it was written by a Hindu, that’s one of your Earth religions, philosopher. It is a holistic and spiritual guide to love, affection, and sexuality. A lot of the text teaches about living with and honouring one’s desires and seductive drive. It emphasises the need practice them in a way that reduces harm to themselves and others and promotes a moral and spiritual existence while doing so. It has some beautiful words on the importance of not suppressing your sexual needs or feeling shame around them. Around the harm of forcing abstinence and in turn denying pleasure. Denying yourself.”

The fire is ebbing and you raise an eyebrow. Oh. “To be for real with you, I thought it was just wacko positions to fuck in.”

Drift’s smile is a little strained but nonetheless genuine. “You mean positions that target and stimulate erogenous zones that amplify gratification? Yes it has those too.”

You snort, trying not to blush. Definitely not a conversation you foresaw having with Drift out of your gooning fantasies.

“Wow Drift, you dirty talker. Don’t you know you’re not meant to discuss gratification amplifying erogenous zones until the 3rd date?” He chuckles, shaking his helm.

“Well, how are we to practice it together if I can’t discuss it?” It’s posed casually, like it’s a normal thing to say.

You balk, mouth opening and shutting.

“Huh.”

He’s smiling. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Who is this guy and what did he do with drift? Or maybe you just never had as good of a read on his as you thought you did. You like this drift though. This drift is really hot. Well, hotter than normal. Didn’t know that was possible.

“Is that not what we had agreed? You can back out if you’ve changed your mind.

Your smile is manic and unhinged. You shake your head.

He continues. “Of course some of it is outdated, old script usually is. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a lot of content I found deeply interesting. A lot to find great wisdom in it I’m eager to trial.” He’s hitting the panel on his arm, plates hissing as he mass shifts.

You can’t remember actually seeing him use it before. Can think of a few times seeing other mechs doing so but never for you. Never like this. He’s smaller, sure, but still so much bigger than you in a way that has your neck tingling with pinkness you’re sure is spreading to your face.

He’s sitting back on his knees, looking at you like waiting for permission.

You lean forward towards him, mustering a grin. “Oh yeah? Like what? I shall be your humble student.”

Thats all the permission he needs and he’s crawling forward, gently pushing you down and you let him, back meeting the floor. You stare up at him, breathing hard and mind racing. God this has to be a dream. You’ve wanted him for so long. Imagined everything late at night with just your hand as a substitute but here he was staring back at you from above.

“a man never succeeds in winning a girl without a great deal of talking.” He looks up, humming. “I feel we speak a lot. I always enjoy our conversations. Do you?”

You just nod, eyes flicking, unable to meet his but unable to look away. “Yeah. I like talking to you.”

He beams, dipping his helm down to meet your head and all you can see are his eyes. Blue blue blue. He shifts, nuzzling at your nape.

“Prohibition arouses desire and suggests stratagems for satisfying it. Could it be that this was your stratagem all along. That you’ve longed for this too? Hoped it would lead to this.” The embarrassment doesn’t rear at his words, drowning in the heat pulsing in your core. You nod again and he rewards your honesty with a nip at your pulse, pulling a whimper as your thighs shift against each other.

His little love bites travel down the centre of your chest, then stomach, and he nuzzles again into the soft flesh between your hips, tilting so his chin rests on it to look at you. You can’t look away from his heated stare, his digits hooked into the band of your pants and underwear.

“Without eroticism, the mind becomes restless and unsatisfied. Do you think we can satisfy each other and find peace together?” The “yes” that leaves you is too breathy and too desperate. Fuck you need this so bad. He nods in agreement, glossa sliding from one hip to the other as he slides down your bottoms and you frantically toe off your shoes and socks to help.

Now bare below the waist, you feel suddenly shy, legs held to hide your drooling core. He notices, servos wrapping gently around your ankles without prying. Just holding you. Letting your hammering heart find its rhythm again.

“You know what my favourite wisdom was? One I think is all too accurate to you?” Nodding again. Please.

“However bashful or angry a woman may be she never disregards a man's kneeling at her feet.” He purrs, gently pulling a leg up to him and you don’t resist. He licks a stripe up your sole. From any normal guy you’d be logging that as ammo later, but you remind yourself they don’t have feet like yours. This is an exploration for him.

Thoughts cut short as he begins to leave wet kisses up your ankle, your thigh, and your panting, whining like a dog when he nips the apex, pulling your other knee to the side. It flops eagerly before you can overthink it and you see his optics flare, glued to the now leaking slit of soft flesh. His thumbs are tugging you apart and the intensity with which he’s studying you has you almost crawling out your skin. He leans close, face almost pressed into you, and vents hard, a groan escaping him and you feel too exposed, too vulnerable as your legs try to shut. He lets them, tilting his helm and moving his optics to your flushed face.

“Kama is the enjoyment of seeing, tasting and smelling, assisted by the mind together with the soul. Please. Can I taste you?”

You fold your arms, head turning to the side. Don’t know how to deal with the genuine softness in his eyes. You nod anyway.

He nuzzles into your thigh again, coaxing you to relax before his nose nudges against your clit, glossa flicking along the side of a sloppy lip, and your head thumps against the floor, thrown back and eyes screwed shut. He uses his thumbs to part you again and you feel him lapping a stripe from ass to clit, swirling it over the sensitive nub that has your legs jerking.

his entire intake is around you, glossa burying deep, devouring you and an animalistic keen is filling the air as your legs clamp hard around his helm, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.

He groans against you, the scent and taste of your sex filling every sense. He could drown in you if you let him.

Your first orgasm hits you like a freight train and your legs tense, digging into the finials adorning his head hard enough that you know it’ll bruise. Whole body shuddering with a pathetic chorus of whines, you ride out the last of the peak against his smiling mouth, glossa pulling from your entrance to lap at the juices drooling from you.

you push up to your elbows, panting and shaking. He’s smiling up at you, smug but not cruel. You stare back like a rabbit in headlights.

Hadn’t expected it to feel that good. Didn’t know it could. He’s crawling over you and your mouth falls open without input as he leans his helm back against your own head. He’s also venting fast, mouth still sheen and slick with you. When he leans in, your breath catches as his lips find yours and your tongue seeks his own. You can taste yourself on him, the kiss awkward and clumsy. Feels weird to kiss a mouth so much bigger than your own. With the size of his glossa, it’s filling you and almost brushing your throat. Holy shit.

He pulls away, face finding your neck to vent there, breathing you into him.

“Drift.” You hate the way it falls out of you. He just wants to hear you say his name like that all the time. “Fuck. That was…drift.”

“I’ve envisioned this so many times. I thought I was going mad, losing myself.” His plates hiss and he’s grinding his now exposed spike into the floor right between your legs.

“I needed to know. Thought even just a taste of you would scratch the itch. That you would stop haunting me. Now I know what is true.” You would snort and tell him to shut up if you had a brain but right now, you just try to hook your legs over his frame and pull him closer. He vents hard, face strained and you whimper as his spike nudges against your heat.

“That I think I will finally know what peace feels like melding with you. Two sparks, souls, entwined. One.”

You’re trying to babble a response, little more than “yes” and “please” like a mantra as he sinks forward and his spike meets resistance against your fluttering walls. You’re trying so hard to accommodate him. Accept him in as his tapered head begs for entry.

He grunts, feeling your heat sink around him like a vice and swears his spark is floating somewhere out of him. Your mewls fill his processor and he can’t seem to cool his frame, plating opened wide and vents whirring.

He’s only half way into you when tip meets flesh and he realises even as small as he feels, he’s filling all of you. You’re doing so well, eyes rolled back and back arched to open yourself and he swears he has seen nothing as holy before.

Knows he can’t last lost. Can feel your pulse beating around him. Can feel the flesh of you milking against him. Is too scared to move, a forlorn fear he will be rejected if he dares give up what he’s taken. Can’t stop himself and does it anyway. Pulls out, eyes watching the stretch of you around him and the dew on his now exposed shaft. Sinks in again and lets his helm fall, redirecting it to the space near your shoulder to not crush you under it.

Feels your hands pawing and scrabbling on his nape and back. Lets his hips continue to rise, again and again and bask in the beauty of your body pulling him back in.

He hears you cumming again, trying to announce it to him and unable to string the words together. The way your body bows and tenses, cunt clenching so hard around him he sees stars has him following you to that high place. Let’s himself rest against your womb and give himself to you completely.

You doubt you’re ever going to catch your breath again. You can feel him finally easing out and it leaves an empty void inside of you. Both between your legs and somewhere deeper you don’t want to think about. He’s stroking your face, wiping the tears, and speaking something to you so softly you can’t register over the buzzing in your ears. Feels like you’re floating.

When you eventually try to stand to pull on your pants, you come back to the ground. Your legs, everything, is shaking too much. You refuse to look at him when he immediately comes to your aid, helping you dress.

“I don’t know what to do now.” He hums, giving you a curious look.

“Perhaps I could carry you back to recharge. Resting would be sensible.”

You sigh, playing with a loose seam near your ankle.

“But what about tomorrow? And the next day?” He doesn’t understand what to say to that.

“Now it’s done, you’ve had your ‘taste’, I don’t want things to be weird.” You don’t want to lose him. Don’t want this to have messed up the one connection you have.

“I’m scared when I wake up tomorrow and see you again it’ll all be different.”

He nods, considering your words.

“Everything is in flux. Nothing stays the same forever. I think this could be a nice change.”

You want to cry. Vulnerable and exhausted.

“And you could always sleep here. Then when you wake up it’ll be as it was.” You look at him with too much hope.

“Really?”

He nods, pulling you up to carry you over to his berth. You let your head fall onto his shoulder. When was the last time you’d been carried like this? As a child? It’s nice.

“I really liked that. I really like you.” Hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud. He’s placing you down, crawling up beside you. Curling round you, calm and warm. You let your eyes close.

His digits run through your hair, vents blowing against you and internals humming like the purr of a cat.

“I really like you too. I’d give myself to you. Mind, body, soul. You need only ever ask it of me.” You smile, heart heavy.

“So does that mean you’ll teach me all those kinky positions too?” He laughs.

“Well I am curious to test this flexibility you take such apparent pride in. I’d love nothing more.”

He waits for a response, but when none comes, he realises you’re already gone. He spends a while playing with your hair and watching the rise and fall of your chest before following. Will always follow. His spark wouldn’t allow anything else.

[garashir]

hey friends where is that picture of boromir with the gondor flag except its a pride flag?

[lesbiansforboromir]

Couldn’t find it so I made another because you’re right that it’s a crime and it’s definitely my duty to remedy it