Luc
the moth
I wanna RP y'all.
Just kidding.
INTRO:
- Hi! My name is Luc (Luke) and my pronouns are he/they!
- I have been RPing for 4-5 years now, and I enjoy all kinds of plots excluding constant horror/thriller (i.e. I'm not going to be in for an interactive Creepypasta or a slasher.). I usually stick towards fandoms. Keep reading to see them!
- I also just joined today (10/28/2021), so please forgive me if I seem like I have no idea what I'm doing. Its probably because I don't. qvq'
WHAT CAN I EXPECT FROM YOUR OCS/CANON INTERPRETATIONS?:
- I mainly RP men or people leaning towards the more masculine spectrum, but I don't mind RPing women/feminine leaning individuals. Its just normally not my preference.
- You can expect a lot of angst! Tis what characters are great for, is it not? >:} I am a whumper myself, so you can expect some hurt/comfort and fluff of course.
- Most of them (if not all) will be in the LGBTQIA+ community in some sense.
- If we're doing something in a fandom, I will probably have headcanons (h/c's) for each and every character. I try to do that to make them feel a bit more real and memorable. RPing with the same cookie-cutter canon character can be fun for some, but I know for others they'd like some more spice (me). (Of course, I'll run over the h/c's with you. Communication is key and I want to make sure you're okay with my interpretation of the character.)
Speaking of, here's my character list!
WHAT IS YOUR RESPONSE LENGTH AND ACTIVITY? DO YOU HAVE EXCERPTS OF YOUR WRITING I CAN READ OVER?:
- I consider myself to be literate to novella (200-2000+ words, depending on the scenario and what I'm getting back, of course). I look for my partners to be literate as well. I tend to adapt to my partner's writing style. Basically, what you give is what you get, starter excluded.
- I am a full time student and I tend to get overwhelmed easily. It can take me an hour or two to get a response out. I also hyperfixate and my motivation depends entirely on my partner, their responses, their characters, the plot, etc. Basically, if you write well and you have cool characters/canon interpretations then I'm your man.
- I do have excerpts! Here they are in their fatness lol:
WHAT ARE YOUR NEEDS, LIKES AND LIMITS? CURRENT HYPERFIXATION?:
- I need communication! Its fine if you can't respond every day or every week, just let me know! I'm not the type of person to constantly barrage you for a response. If there is something that you don't like within the RP, whether it be plot or character-wise, let me know! RP is supposed to be enjoyable, it shouldn't feel like a chore.
- I need realistic characters! Faults and imperfections are what make us human. Its what make characters shine.
- I like Canon x OC the most when it comes to pairings (I am the canon character).
- I like pretty stereotypical tropes: height differences, hardness v. softness, etc.
- Domesticity juxtaposed with a high-octane lifestyle is my jam. Think eating shwarma after saving the world.
- OOC talks! I love fangirling over things or getting excited whilst making characters and plots. You want to send me a meme or link some good fanfiction? Go for it.
- I like serious topics, and tend to impart those on my characters. I hope that you are fine with those as well. (Details can be in PMs, of course!)
- My limits are simple: Have your character act like a regular person, and if you are interested in sexual content LET ME KNOW. I have never done smut before. I am ace. Its just simply something I've never been interested enough to delve into. Does that mean I won't do it? No. All I request is slow burn and that there is plot, not just smut. (And also an understanding that I have no idea what I'm doing. Vanilla sex for now, please. No scat play or things of the sort.)
- If there are things that you are wondering that could be possibly triggering, LET ME KNOW. I don't have any triggers that I know of, but preface to me in PMs that there might be something.
My current fix is Bucky Barnes all the way. This is what I am almost desperately looking for and that one person to truly connect with.
WHAT FANDOMS/PAIRINGS DO YOU RP?:
- Too many, my friend. Too many...
(I RP the characters listed in spoilers, although everything is up for discussion. The pairings I have listed are my favorites, but we can discuss others in PMs.)
MOVIES/TV SHOWS:
- Marvel (MCU)
- Daredevil
- Doctor Who
- Star Wars
- Dune (2021)
- Alien (1979)
- Jurassic Park/World
- Lucifer
- Supernatural
- Outlander
- Transformers : Prime
- The Boys
- Invincible
- The Resident
- The Witcher
if someone would let me use flynn ryder (eugene fitzherbert) i would simply love you for forever
VIDEOGAMES:
- The Last of Us (1 & 2)
- Uncharted (1,2,3 & 4)
- The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
- Cyberpunk 2077
- Dishonored (1,2, DotO)
- Life is Strange (1,3)
- Mass Effect (1,2 & 3)
- Red Dead Redemption 2
- Dragon Age Inquisition
- Halo Franchise
ARE THERE ANY PLOTS/CHARACTERS THAT YOU PREFER?:
- Yes! Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Thor, and Steve Rogers are my go-to's for Marvel. Ten is my go-to for Doctor Who.
- In regards to plots, this is something I would like to discuss with my partner. I hope to craft one together that we can stick out for the long haul.
IF YOU'RE INTERESTED, PLEASE PRIVATE MESSAGE ME!
That's the only place I can guarantee I'll be able to check!
Thanks for reading, and I hope you have a great day!
Just kidding.
INTRO:
- Hi! My name is Luc (Luke) and my pronouns are he/they!
- I have been RPing for 4-5 years now, and I enjoy all kinds of plots excluding constant horror/thriller (i.e. I'm not going to be in for an interactive Creepypasta or a slasher.). I usually stick towards fandoms. Keep reading to see them!
- I also just joined today (10/28/2021), so please forgive me if I seem like I have no idea what I'm doing. Its probably because I don't. qvq'
WHAT CAN I EXPECT FROM YOUR OCS/CANON INTERPRETATIONS?:
- I mainly RP men or people leaning towards the more masculine spectrum, but I don't mind RPing women/feminine leaning individuals. Its just normally not my preference.
- You can expect a lot of angst! Tis what characters are great for, is it not? >:} I am a whumper myself, so you can expect some hurt/comfort and fluff of course.
- Most of them (if not all) will be in the LGBTQIA+ community in some sense.
- If we're doing something in a fandom, I will probably have headcanons (h/c's) for each and every character. I try to do that to make them feel a bit more real and memorable. RPing with the same cookie-cutter canon character can be fun for some, but I know for others they'd like some more spice (me). (Of course, I'll run over the h/c's with you. Communication is key and I want to make sure you're okay with my interpretation of the character.)
Speaking of, here's my character list!
WHAT IS YOUR RESPONSE LENGTH AND ACTIVITY? DO YOU HAVE EXCERPTS OF YOUR WRITING I CAN READ OVER?:
- I consider myself to be literate to novella (200-2000+ words, depending on the scenario and what I'm getting back, of course). I look for my partners to be literate as well. I tend to adapt to my partner's writing style. Basically, what you give is what you get, starter excluded.
- I am a full time student and I tend to get overwhelmed easily. It can take me an hour or two to get a response out. I also hyperfixate and my motivation depends entirely on my partner, their responses, their characters, the plot, etc. Basically, if you write well and you have cool characters/canon interpretations then I'm your man.
- I do have excerpts! Here they are in their fatness lol:
(context; this POV is of august, a transgender policeman in a fantasy Victorian London. he's been shot and an elf has taken him to her home to heal him. he's woken up rather confused.)
By all the twelve hells his vision was ablaze. The edges seethed like bubbling mercury, or the blacksmoke roughly exhaled by Her Majesty's dragons.
The ghost of the fire crackled phantom-like beside his tumbling thoughts; vainly his mind searched, neuronic limbs stretching forth into an expanse void of concept or wonder.
Really, he was trying to gather his thoughts; what remained anyway; it made him wonder why it was all so confusing to do so. What were these abstract brushstrokes and ideas running across his mind's eye?
It felt all too poetic; too unseemly. Too many adjectives and descriptors; too much vision and color, though the irony of it he supposed was that he could see none. Well, see. It required eyes — were they even open? His own?
August attempted it, a flex of his brows as if an exercise to test the muscle. Immediately there was sensation, the feeling of his forehead crinkling and a sudden flash that tore across his vision — or what lacked of it.
Instinctually he flinched, as if he were cruelly hit. The movement played his entire body, a rippling vibration from cellist to string that strung every sinew and tendon that exploded into a flurry of sparking fireworks. They, too, crackled like the dead fire and left a part of him rupturing on the way down.
A part of him? Yes, a body. He was a person. Wasn't he an idiot for not realizing? Yes; yes he was. Truly an imbecile. Enough to be put in the mad-house like the wretch who reared him.
The explosion happening in his body, or his side, perhaps, hadn't been forgotten. His eyes shot open and his mouth threw into a gape like a grounded fish. He gasped; the sound tapered quickly as his throat closed to a thin stretch to stop the action of breath. The mere movement evidently pained him, it snatched his face up into a wrinkled contortion: his brows furrowed and knitted together, eyes widened and reflexively watered, long legs drawn up into the fetal pose, arms bunching up and hands gnarling the air, clawing. (edited)
It was a basal action, one that one would do if alone, free from prying eyes and unscrupulous thoughts. Boiled down, it was truth. A true, honest reaction to a true, honest volume of feeling.
It wasn't like in the novels or the salacious newspaper stories that he, a salacious individual would indulge himself in, where the protagonist shrugs off bullets or hexes like a flimsy insult. There was a hole in him. A hole patched by a thread running through ragged flesh. A hole where there should never be one. Skin, muscle, and viscera that never should have felt air but did, and how he remembered that cool, stinging breeze like the exhale of the orc his gun killed.
Vaguely he could taste iron in the back of his throat. August's eyes had shut sometime during this writhing and he tore them open once more, the light from the morning entering through the pane dancing across his lids to remind him he had somewhere to be. Aware, awake, alive.
It brushed his mind up to the surface, now a willing participant waiting for someone to pull him up.
Evidently, he was wanted. for a sound emanated from somewhere in front of him. It left him curious, wondering who or what this someone or something could be, clearing his blurred vision with a shaky gaze until it settled on — he squinted. What — ? An elf — ?
She came into focus quickly, and he realized that it wasn't his aperture that had suddenly corrected, but rather she had neared. A touch to his chest, which he now recognized as bare, and for some reason that caused a bad feeling to flower quite violently in his breast.
The woman opposite him seemed composed, though her fine taffeta hair obscured what little he could already read. The light reflected from it and it sparkled like a prism; a chain of diamonds so lustrous and pure it was all he could do not to brush his fingers through the chandelier that sat atop her crown; to hear the chatter of whispering rhinestones as they pranced amongst one another. (edited)
Her porcelain hands were gentle, though one glance in her eyes and she was far from the meek, doll-like personality many other men would label her as. There was a hardness, a sheen that solidified around the orbs that refracted the light differently, as if she was also forcing it away.
Complex she was, a twisting Celtic knot or a never-ending fractal. One look he had paid her this day, and already he burned for answers to his questions. A yearning that tugged his soul first, heart second, and his body third. It was of the mind, which many philosophers (whom he absolutely detested: why a man would be held in high regard for shitting and packaging that shit with a bit of glitter and a fancy name like "Pharisaic" is beyond him) would argue is the most pure notion, and if he were more aware, he would have given that feeling some more thought, more concern. It was too early in whatever relationship this was to feel this amount of interest.
Besides, she looked like she wanted to cut his head off (albeit in the most concerned way).
Alas, these quaint feelings of boyish adoration didn't sink deep enough to irradiate the metastasizing dread that had grown in his gut, now wrapping around his spine. An expression of vague confusion crossed his face as the sinking feeling continued until there, a moment of terrible peaked suspense. The dread stabbed through his cerebellum and sparks fired as if his brain were a rapid pistons in an engine.
By gods, the scars man!
In whatever capacity was available to him in his weakened and painful state that he would never admit, he launched himself backward, as far away from the moondust elf as he could. He continued scrambling away like a frightened animal until his back slammed against the wall the fireplace also shared. The man felt a rupture once more, but paid no mind. His quarrel now was to cover his chest, hands splayed across his bosom and scars, and to find an excuse if this woman didn't know better already. (edited)
He was a police officer, was he not? The elf had said so as if in conformation.
Maybe he could spin it up as an infliction given by a particularly rabid criminal case. High on moongrass, too. Maybe featherind. Anything that would make her believe that this was not what she was seeing.
Fuck, shit.
Shit —
This was going to get out, wasn't it? It was. This elf. She would let the Yard know. She could even demand a price for it: demand he pay her continuously to keep the situation secure. It was already enough with the Sterlings. They weren't even apart of London anymore, somewhere up in Brexit or, better yet, Highgate, where their gravestones could grow illegible with moss.
He was dead to them in both reality and relationship. It helped that they didn't pay for a plot. He never expected them to.
Well, not in his name anyway.
But, by the hells, did it even really matter now?
The elf knew.
She had him on a leash, and the leash was his noose.
By all the twelve hells his vision was ablaze. The edges seethed like bubbling mercury, or the blacksmoke roughly exhaled by Her Majesty's dragons.
The ghost of the fire crackled phantom-like beside his tumbling thoughts; vainly his mind searched, neuronic limbs stretching forth into an expanse void of concept or wonder.
Really, he was trying to gather his thoughts; what remained anyway; it made him wonder why it was all so confusing to do so. What were these abstract brushstrokes and ideas running across his mind's eye?
It felt all too poetic; too unseemly. Too many adjectives and descriptors; too much vision and color, though the irony of it he supposed was that he could see none. Well, see. It required eyes — were they even open? His own?
August attempted it, a flex of his brows as if an exercise to test the muscle. Immediately there was sensation, the feeling of his forehead crinkling and a sudden flash that tore across his vision — or what lacked of it.
Instinctually he flinched, as if he were cruelly hit. The movement played his entire body, a rippling vibration from cellist to string that strung every sinew and tendon that exploded into a flurry of sparking fireworks. They, too, crackled like the dead fire and left a part of him rupturing on the way down.
A part of him? Yes, a body. He was a person. Wasn't he an idiot for not realizing? Yes; yes he was. Truly an imbecile. Enough to be put in the mad-house like the wretch who reared him.
The explosion happening in his body, or his side, perhaps, hadn't been forgotten. His eyes shot open and his mouth threw into a gape like a grounded fish. He gasped; the sound tapered quickly as his throat closed to a thin stretch to stop the action of breath. The mere movement evidently pained him, it snatched his face up into a wrinkled contortion: his brows furrowed and knitted together, eyes widened and reflexively watered, long legs drawn up into the fetal pose, arms bunching up and hands gnarling the air, clawing. (edited)
It was a basal action, one that one would do if alone, free from prying eyes and unscrupulous thoughts. Boiled down, it was truth. A true, honest reaction to a true, honest volume of feeling.
It wasn't like in the novels or the salacious newspaper stories that he, a salacious individual would indulge himself in, where the protagonist shrugs off bullets or hexes like a flimsy insult. There was a hole in him. A hole patched by a thread running through ragged flesh. A hole where there should never be one. Skin, muscle, and viscera that never should have felt air but did, and how he remembered that cool, stinging breeze like the exhale of the orc his gun killed.
Vaguely he could taste iron in the back of his throat. August's eyes had shut sometime during this writhing and he tore them open once more, the light from the morning entering through the pane dancing across his lids to remind him he had somewhere to be. Aware, awake, alive.
It brushed his mind up to the surface, now a willing participant waiting for someone to pull him up.
Evidently, he was wanted. for a sound emanated from somewhere in front of him. It left him curious, wondering who or what this someone or something could be, clearing his blurred vision with a shaky gaze until it settled on — he squinted. What — ? An elf — ?
She came into focus quickly, and he realized that it wasn't his aperture that had suddenly corrected, but rather she had neared. A touch to his chest, which he now recognized as bare, and for some reason that caused a bad feeling to flower quite violently in his breast.
The woman opposite him seemed composed, though her fine taffeta hair obscured what little he could already read. The light reflected from it and it sparkled like a prism; a chain of diamonds so lustrous and pure it was all he could do not to brush his fingers through the chandelier that sat atop her crown; to hear the chatter of whispering rhinestones as they pranced amongst one another. (edited)
Her porcelain hands were gentle, though one glance in her eyes and she was far from the meek, doll-like personality many other men would label her as. There was a hardness, a sheen that solidified around the orbs that refracted the light differently, as if she was also forcing it away.
Complex she was, a twisting Celtic knot or a never-ending fractal. One look he had paid her this day, and already he burned for answers to his questions. A yearning that tugged his soul first, heart second, and his body third. It was of the mind, which many philosophers (whom he absolutely detested: why a man would be held in high regard for shitting and packaging that shit with a bit of glitter and a fancy name like "Pharisaic" is beyond him) would argue is the most pure notion, and if he were more aware, he would have given that feeling some more thought, more concern. It was too early in whatever relationship this was to feel this amount of interest.
Besides, she looked like she wanted to cut his head off (albeit in the most concerned way).
Alas, these quaint feelings of boyish adoration didn't sink deep enough to irradiate the metastasizing dread that had grown in his gut, now wrapping around his spine. An expression of vague confusion crossed his face as the sinking feeling continued until there, a moment of terrible peaked suspense. The dread stabbed through his cerebellum and sparks fired as if his brain were a rapid pistons in an engine.
By gods, the scars man!
In whatever capacity was available to him in his weakened and painful state that he would never admit, he launched himself backward, as far away from the moondust elf as he could. He continued scrambling away like a frightened animal until his back slammed against the wall the fireplace also shared. The man felt a rupture once more, but paid no mind. His quarrel now was to cover his chest, hands splayed across his bosom and scars, and to find an excuse if this woman didn't know better already. (edited)
He was a police officer, was he not? The elf had said so as if in conformation.
Maybe he could spin it up as an infliction given by a particularly rabid criminal case. High on moongrass, too. Maybe featherind. Anything that would make her believe that this was not what she was seeing.
Fuck, shit.
Shit —
This was going to get out, wasn't it? It was. This elf. She would let the Yard know. She could even demand a price for it: demand he pay her continuously to keep the situation secure. It was already enough with the Sterlings. They weren't even apart of London anymore, somewhere up in Brexit or, better yet, Highgate, where their gravestones could grow illegible with moss.
He was dead to them in both reality and relationship. It helped that they didn't pay for a plot. He never expected them to.
Well, not in his name anyway.
But, by the hells, did it even really matter now?
The elf knew.
She had him on a leash, and the leash was his noose.
(context; MANDALORIAN SPOILERS (S2) takes place in the aftermath of S2, din is on tatooine searching for a bounty, and the bounty just referred to grogu as if he could be bought)
Rarely did Din get mad.
Sure, there were a few barfights he might've caused, some black eyes and broken bones; but he kept his emotions restrained. The Mandalorians, especially ones of the Death Watch, valued emotional restraint nearly as high as they did the helmet rule. Faintly, he could hear 'This is the Way.' echoing in his brain with a lilt that sounded like the Armorer's.
Osi'kyr, the Armorer.
Every time he landed on Nevarro to squeeze some bounties out of a concerned Greef, he feared he'd see the Armorer and they'd see him back with a stature that screamed disappointment and disapproval. They would label him a dar'tome, or worse, a dar'manda.
And it was true.
The first time he'd taken off his helmet in front of someone since he was a child, and it had been removed by another.
Sure, it was a bounty droid, but it held the same meaning. Something saw his face, knew the color of his hair and eyes in the way no one or thing was supposed to.
The rule that identified a member of his creed was shattered as if it had no meaning.
Then he did it for the kid, and the Empire saw his face, along with Mayfeld.
It didn't matter that he said he never saw his face, that he turned away when he offered the helmet; he was a breathing person who heard his voice without the filter, who saw the one uniqueness that called him 'different' in the shared brand of war.
And then he showed his face to the jetii.
If Din could've picked a more private place to show Grogu his face, he would have. But the jetii had sliced through the darktroopers like butter with his jetii'kad; he'd unveiled his face and Din knew he'd come to take the Child. (edited)
He'd come so close to crying that day.
And now, for the first time in two years, he had no purpose.
Throughout all his actions since his parents' deaths, he had served the creed.
He did bounties not for himself, but for the creed. He only took the bare minimum for the ship. He spent nothing on himself.
When he took the Child, he saw himself in him; A boy who was orphaned by the Empire. It was the only selfish thing he'd done.
Then the Armorer, in the end, saw how Grogu affected Din. Din didn't do reckless things as much anymore, he didn't threaten to kill Jawas over ship-parts or explode them into a bundle of clothes. He didn't cause a bar fights like he did on Maldo Kreis, he didn't hang off the side of the Crest and beat the osik out of a ravinak. He couldn't because his job now was to protect himself in order to protect the child.
So the Armorer made it his mission to deliver Grogu to his people.
Whether they knew that 'his people' were the jetii, he didn't know. He simply did what he was told.
Because it was always for the creed. It was never for himself.
Until he had to sacrifice himself for Grogu.
Wasn't this the paradox?
His mission was to deliver Grogu to his people, but to do so he had to take off his helmet, effectively saying 'sooran ni'jagyc' to the Death Watch's most prized rule. But wasn't he supposed to? He was supposed to lay his life down for his ad'ika. The Way was his life.
Wasn't this the same?
It didn't matter now, did it?
Grogu was still gone.
Din had done everything he had supposed to.
Why was he feeling such longing and pain, then?
Hadn't he done the right thing?
It was why his emotions escalated far past mad. Anger even. It was rage.
And the consequences didn't matter. He had no one to protect anymore. No reason to be careful.
Karimand was trivializing all he'd gone through for two years. This petty chakaar. Ge'hutuun.
Din didn't manhandle anyone, not unless he needed to.
He heard weird rules from other bounty hunters in the various cantinas he found himself in. Some were rougher to men; their excuse was 'treating him like one'. Some didn't lay their hands on women, treated them with 'respect'. It made no sense to Din, who's Mandalorian culture had no real difference between sexes other than who carried the child during pregnancy, and who thought 'respect' meant treating everyone with equal reverence because any types of hands could snap a neck.
It was why he was particularly rough with Karimand.
It was most likely they had experienced worse, if not, there was a first time for everything.
He knew that his face wasn't visible, but he was sure his anger was.
He flipped a switch that remotely disarmed the bomb, and in quick motions he was down from the ledge and in front of Karimand within a few seconds; he took her vibroblade and unsheathed it swiftly, shoving the blurred point at the bottom of her jaw while taking his other hand and gripping her hair.
It was rude, very rude. Usually, he wasn't this handsy.
But usually he wasn't mocked.
Did they not realize this wasn't the first time he heard this excuse?
He was tired of his hopes being dragged in the mud, the idea of this person lying to him—saying that they could get his ad'ika back was a constant spit in the face.
He just couldn't wait to put them in Carbonite.
"Ne'johaa," he hissed, voice seething like a sand wyrm.
He towered over her, well passing 6' with all of his gear. His beskar would at least be uncomfortably warm, but he didn't care if it was touching her.
He was tired of the endless excuses, the pleas and offers of money. There wasn't anything he wanted.
Din kept the vibroblade under their jaw as he kicked the bomb closer to Karimand, shoving the small beeping disc under her shoe. Din forced her foot down with his own until the bomb shallowly clicked and began to beep wildly as it had before.
He figured the situation was obvious, if they took their foot off the mine, it would explode.
It would at least let them know he wasn't above risking his own life.
When the realization of potentially losing a limb settled in, Din tossed Karimand's blade into the hollow scape of the dead canyon. The sounds of metal clashing against hard stone echoed faintly back as if a whispered mockery.
The Mandalorian walked behind his bounty, taking their arms and binding them at the wrists with magnetized cuffs that made a chunky click when secured.
He supposed this was easy enough.
But it was never easy, was it?
Din could feel the tricks Karimand had up their sleeves.
Rarely did Din get mad.
Sure, there were a few barfights he might've caused, some black eyes and broken bones; but he kept his emotions restrained. The Mandalorians, especially ones of the Death Watch, valued emotional restraint nearly as high as they did the helmet rule. Faintly, he could hear 'This is the Way.' echoing in his brain with a lilt that sounded like the Armorer's.
Osi'kyr, the Armorer.
Every time he landed on Nevarro to squeeze some bounties out of a concerned Greef, he feared he'd see the Armorer and they'd see him back with a stature that screamed disappointment and disapproval. They would label him a dar'tome, or worse, a dar'manda.
And it was true.
The first time he'd taken off his helmet in front of someone since he was a child, and it had been removed by another.
Sure, it was a bounty droid, but it held the same meaning. Something saw his face, knew the color of his hair and eyes in the way no one or thing was supposed to.
The rule that identified a member of his creed was shattered as if it had no meaning.
Then he did it for the kid, and the Empire saw his face, along with Mayfeld.
It didn't matter that he said he never saw his face, that he turned away when he offered the helmet; he was a breathing person who heard his voice without the filter, who saw the one uniqueness that called him 'different' in the shared brand of war.
And then he showed his face to the jetii.
If Din could've picked a more private place to show Grogu his face, he would have. But the jetii had sliced through the darktroopers like butter with his jetii'kad; he'd unveiled his face and Din knew he'd come to take the Child. (edited)
He'd come so close to crying that day.
And now, for the first time in two years, he had no purpose.
Throughout all his actions since his parents' deaths, he had served the creed.
He did bounties not for himself, but for the creed. He only took the bare minimum for the ship. He spent nothing on himself.
When he took the Child, he saw himself in him; A boy who was orphaned by the Empire. It was the only selfish thing he'd done.
Then the Armorer, in the end, saw how Grogu affected Din. Din didn't do reckless things as much anymore, he didn't threaten to kill Jawas over ship-parts or explode them into a bundle of clothes. He didn't cause a bar fights like he did on Maldo Kreis, he didn't hang off the side of the Crest and beat the osik out of a ravinak. He couldn't because his job now was to protect himself in order to protect the child.
So the Armorer made it his mission to deliver Grogu to his people.
Whether they knew that 'his people' were the jetii, he didn't know. He simply did what he was told.
Because it was always for the creed. It was never for himself.
Until he had to sacrifice himself for Grogu.
Wasn't this the paradox?
His mission was to deliver Grogu to his people, but to do so he had to take off his helmet, effectively saying 'sooran ni'jagyc' to the Death Watch's most prized rule. But wasn't he supposed to? He was supposed to lay his life down for his ad'ika. The Way was his life.
Wasn't this the same?
It didn't matter now, did it?
Grogu was still gone.
Din had done everything he had supposed to.
Why was he feeling such longing and pain, then?
Hadn't he done the right thing?
It was why his emotions escalated far past mad. Anger even. It was rage.
And the consequences didn't matter. He had no one to protect anymore. No reason to be careful.
Karimand was trivializing all he'd gone through for two years. This petty chakaar. Ge'hutuun.
Din didn't manhandle anyone, not unless he needed to.
He heard weird rules from other bounty hunters in the various cantinas he found himself in. Some were rougher to men; their excuse was 'treating him like one'. Some didn't lay their hands on women, treated them with 'respect'. It made no sense to Din, who's Mandalorian culture had no real difference between sexes other than who carried the child during pregnancy, and who thought 'respect' meant treating everyone with equal reverence because any types of hands could snap a neck.
It was why he was particularly rough with Karimand.
It was most likely they had experienced worse, if not, there was a first time for everything.
He knew that his face wasn't visible, but he was sure his anger was.
He flipped a switch that remotely disarmed the bomb, and in quick motions he was down from the ledge and in front of Karimand within a few seconds; he took her vibroblade and unsheathed it swiftly, shoving the blurred point at the bottom of her jaw while taking his other hand and gripping her hair.
It was rude, very rude. Usually, he wasn't this handsy.
But usually he wasn't mocked.
Did they not realize this wasn't the first time he heard this excuse?
He was tired of his hopes being dragged in the mud, the idea of this person lying to him—saying that they could get his ad'ika back was a constant spit in the face.
He just couldn't wait to put them in Carbonite.
"Ne'johaa," he hissed, voice seething like a sand wyrm.
He towered over her, well passing 6' with all of his gear. His beskar would at least be uncomfortably warm, but he didn't care if it was touching her.
He was tired of the endless excuses, the pleas and offers of money. There wasn't anything he wanted.
Din kept the vibroblade under their jaw as he kicked the bomb closer to Karimand, shoving the small beeping disc under her shoe. Din forced her foot down with his own until the bomb shallowly clicked and began to beep wildly as it had before.
He figured the situation was obvious, if they took their foot off the mine, it would explode.
It would at least let them know he wasn't above risking his own life.
When the realization of potentially losing a limb settled in, Din tossed Karimand's blade into the hollow scape of the dead canyon. The sounds of metal clashing against hard stone echoed faintly back as if a whispered mockery.
The Mandalorian walked behind his bounty, taking their arms and binding them at the wrists with magnetized cuffs that made a chunky click when secured.
He supposed this was easy enough.
But it was never easy, was it?
Din could feel the tricks Karimand had up their sleeves.
WHAT ARE YOUR NEEDS, LIKES AND LIMITS? CURRENT HYPERFIXATION?:
- I need communication! Its fine if you can't respond every day or every week, just let me know! I'm not the type of person to constantly barrage you for a response. If there is something that you don't like within the RP, whether it be plot or character-wise, let me know! RP is supposed to be enjoyable, it shouldn't feel like a chore.
- I need realistic characters! Faults and imperfections are what make us human. Its what make characters shine.
- I like Canon x OC the most when it comes to pairings (I am the canon character).
- I like pretty stereotypical tropes: height differences, hardness v. softness, etc.
- Domesticity juxtaposed with a high-octane lifestyle is my jam. Think eating shwarma after saving the world.
- OOC talks! I love fangirling over things or getting excited whilst making characters and plots. You want to send me a meme or link some good fanfiction? Go for it.
- I like serious topics, and tend to impart those on my characters. I hope that you are fine with those as well. (Details can be in PMs, of course!)
- My limits are simple: Have your character act like a regular person, and if you are interested in sexual content LET ME KNOW. I have never done smut before. I am ace. Its just simply something I've never been interested enough to delve into. Does that mean I won't do it? No. All I request is slow burn and that there is plot, not just smut. (And also an understanding that I have no idea what I'm doing. Vanilla sex for now, please. No scat play or things of the sort.)
- If there are things that you are wondering that could be possibly triggering, LET ME KNOW. I don't have any triggers that I know of, but preface to me in PMs that there might be something.
My current fix is Bucky Barnes all the way. This is what I am almost desperately looking for and that one person to truly connect with.
WHAT FANDOMS/PAIRINGS DO YOU RP?:
- Too many, my friend. Too many...
(I RP the characters listed in spoilers, although everything is up for discussion. The pairings I have listed are my favorites, but we can discuss others in PMs.)
MOVIES/TV SHOWS:
- Marvel (MCU)
Tony <3, Steve <3, Loki <3, Thor <3, Peter Parker (aged up ofc), Peter Quill, Bucky <3 <3, Dr. Strange, Eddie <3, Natasha, Yelena <3
Stony, Loki x OC, Thor x OC, Peter Parker x OC, Peter Quill x OC, Stucky, Bucky x OC, IronStrange, Symbrock, Natasha x OC, Yelena x OC
Stony, Loki x OC, Thor x OC, Peter Parker x OC, Peter Quill x OC, Stucky, Bucky x OC, IronStrange, Symbrock, Natasha x OC, Yelena x OC
Matt
Matt x OC
Matt x OC
Ten, Eleven
Ten x OC, Ten x Jack, Eleven x OC, Eleven x Jack
Ten x OC, Ten x Jack, Eleven x OC, Eleven x Jack
Din, Anakin
Din x OC, Din x Cobb, Anakin x OC
Din x OC, Din x Cobb, Anakin x OC
OCS
OCS
- Lucifer
Lucifer
Lucifer x OC
Lucifer x OC
Dean
Dean x OC
Dean x OC
Jaime
Jaime x OC
Jaime x OC
- The Boys
- Invincible
- The Resident
Conrad
Conrad x OC
Conrad x OC
Geralt
Geralt x Jaskier, Geralt x OC
Geralt x Jaskier, Geralt x OC
if someone would let me use flynn ryder (eugene fitzherbert) i would simply love you for forever
VIDEOGAMES:
- The Last of Us (1 & 2)
Joel, Ellie
Joel x OC, Ellie x Dina, Ellie x OC
Joel x OC, Ellie x Dina, Ellie x OC
Nathan
Nathan x Elena
Nathan x Elena
Geralt
Geralt x OC
Geralt x OC
OCS
Corvo
Corvo x OC
Corvo x OC
- Mass Effect (1,2 & 3)
Garrus
Garrus x OC
Garrus x OC
Arthur
Arthur x Charles, Arthur x OC
Arthur x Charles, Arthur x OC
Alistair
Alistair x OC
Alistair x OC
The Master Chief x OC
Spartan OC x OC (stuff needs to be discussed for this, heavy headcanons)
Spartan OC x OC (stuff needs to be discussed for this, heavy headcanons)
ARE THERE ANY PLOTS/CHARACTERS THAT YOU PREFER?:
- Yes! Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Thor, and Steve Rogers are my go-to's for Marvel. Ten is my go-to for Doctor Who.
- In regards to plots, this is something I would like to discuss with my partner. I hope to craft one together that we can stick out for the long haul.
IF YOU'RE INTERESTED, PLEASE PRIVATE MESSAGE ME!
That's the only place I can guarantee I'll be able to check!
Thanks for reading, and I hope you have a great day!
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