#I think they work better as a matched set

[prentissmultiverse]

Behind Fogged Windows

On a rainy night, you (fem!reader) and Emily Prentiss find yourselves tangled in the charged space of a parked car, where unspoken tensions finally come to a head. tw: smut, power dynamics, mention of death

(words: 4895)

The hum of the SUV engine filled the tense silence, a low, steady drone that matched the rain tapping against the windshield. Emily’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles taut and pale in the glow of the dashboard lights. Her eyes were locked on the road ahead, jaw set in a way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist.

You turned your gaze back to the passenger side window, counting raindrops as they streaked across the glass, smearing the passing streetlights into watery streaks of gold and white. Anything to keep your mind off the weight of the silence between you. But it was impossible to ignore the occasional scoff that escaped Emily's lips or the way her fingers flexed against the wheel every now and then, betraying the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.

You didn’t need her to say it. You already knew what she was thinking. You’d seen the anger flash in her dark eyes when your hand collided with the unsub’s face earlier, and the sharp edge of her voice when she pulled you aside afterward still echoed in your ears.

“You crossed the line, and you know it.”

And you did. But standing in that suffocating basement, staring at the lifeless bodies of three more women, three more victims who looked just like you, the rage had swallowed you whole. The unsub’s smug grin had been the match, and you, the kindling. You hadn’t even realized what you were doing until the sting of the punch echoed against the concrete walls.

Now, Emily wouldn’t even look at you.

Another sigh from her side of the car. This one was heavier, laced with something you couldn’t quite place, frustration, maybe, or disappointment. It cut deeper than the silence, leaving you restless in your seat.

“Emily,” you finally said, your voice soft, testing the waters.

Nothing.

“Emily, I—”

“Not now,” she interrupted, her tone clipped and final. Her fingers tightened on the wheel as the SUV turned onto the long stretch of highway that led to Quantico. “Just… not now.”

Her words silenced you, but they didn’t ease the tension. If anything, the chasm between you seemed to widen, leaving you grasping for something—anything—that might bridge it.

You stole a glance at her out of the corner of your eye. The sharp angles of her face were cast in shadows, her focus unwavering as the windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm against the rain. She looked impossibly composed, but you knew better. You’d worked alongside her long enough to know when the cracks were there, even if she kept them well hidden.

“I couldn’t just stand there,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Her scoff was sharp this time, cutting through the low rumble of the engine. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” you pressed, unable to keep the frustration from creeping into your voice. “We’re supposed to just sit back and let him—?”

“The point,” she snapped, finally tearing her eyes from the road to glare at you, “is that you let your emotions take over. You compromised yourself, and you compromised the team.”

Her words hit harder than you expected, but you refused to back down. “He killed seven women, Emily. Seven. And they—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your seat. “They all looked like me.”

For a moment, her expression softened, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same steely resolve she always wore when she was trying to keep her own emotions in check. She looked away, focusing on the road again, and the silence returned, heavier than before.

You turned back to the window, blinking away the sting in your eyes as the rain blurred the world outside. Minutes stretched into miles, each one heavier than the last. The distance between you felt unbearable, but neither of you seemed willing to cross it.

Then, as the SUV passed under the dim glow of an overpass, you felt it—a brief, almost imperceptible brush of her hand against yours where it rested on the center console. It was fleeting, so light you might have imagined it, but it sent a jolt through you all the same.

You glanced at her, heart pounding, but her gaze was fixed on the road, her expression unreadable.

The faint touch lingered like a phantom, sparking something between you that you couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. You thought about saying something—an apology, an explanation, anything to chip away at the wall between you—but the words caught in your throat. You settled for stealing another glance at her, hoping to find a clue in the sharp line of her jaw or the tight set of her lips.

Nothing.

“I get it, you know,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure she even heard you until her grip on the wheel faltered, the car veering just enough for her to correct it with a light pull.

Her scoff came next, brittle and full of disbelief. “Do you?”

“Yes,” you shot back, louder this time. “I get why you’re mad. I get why I shouldn’t have done it. But don’t stand there and act like you wouldn’t have felt the same way if it was you.”

Her laugh was humorless, a sharp exhale that cut through the cabin like a blade. “This isn’t about what I would feel. It’s about what I would do. And I wouldn’t risk everything we’ve worked for just to feel better for five seconds.”

Her words were cold, calculated, but there was something underneath them—something raw and unspoken that made your heart twist.

“That’s not fair,” you said finally, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

Emily’s eyes snapped to you, sharp and full of fire. “Don’t you dare.”

For a moment, the tension between you was a living thing, crackling in the air like the storm outside. The rain had picked up, pounding against the roof and drowning out everything but the sound of your shallow breaths.

But then her gaze softened—just a fraction—and she turned back to the road, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “You can’t just lose control like that, not in this job. Not ever.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words died on your lips. She was right, of course. You’d let your emotions take over, and it had put everything at risk—your career, your credibility, even her trust.

But beneath her anger, you could see something else now. Something deeper. Something she wasn’t saying.

The rain continued to beat against the windshield as the SUV approached a red light. Emily slowed to a stop, her hands gripping the wheel like it was the only thing anchoring her. You turned to face her fully, the soft glow of the streetlights catching on her profile.

“I’m sorry,” you said finally, your voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she said, cutting you off. Her voice was softer now. She still wouldn’t look at you. As the light turned green, she hesitated, her foot hovering over the pedal. For a moment, you thought she might say something, but then she shook her head and pressed forward, the car lurching back into motion.

The hum of the engine returned, a quiet backdrop to the sound of the rain drumming hard against the roof. The occasional flash of lightning lit up the interior of the SUV, casting fleeting shadows over Emily’s sharp profile. Her silence wasn’t as sharp as before, but it was no less weighted. It pressed against you, the unspoken words between you vibrating like a taut string.

You shifted in your seat, the leather cool beneath you, and risked another glance at her. Her dark eyes locked with yours, and for the first time that night, she didn’t look angry. She looked… conflicted. The storm outside had nothing on the tempest swirling in her eyes.

“What?” she asked finally, her voice low, almost a growl. The word wasn’t as biting as you expected, but it carried enough heat to send a shiver down your spine.

“I—” You hesitated, searching her face for something—permission, maybe, or understanding. “I just… I’m not good at holding it in. Not like you.”

Her jaw tensed, and she looked away again, but you caught the flicker of something in her expression before she turned. Something vulnerable. “That’s not an excuse,” she muttered, but there was less venom in her tone now.

“I’m not trying to excuse it,” you said quickly, leaning slightly toward her. The space between you felt unbearably wide, and the need to close it—to reach her—was almost overwhelming. “I’m trying to explain.”

She exhaled sharply, her grip on the wheel tightening again. “You don’t need to explain. I already know why you did it. I know what you were feeling.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. You weren’t sure if she meant to say them aloud, but the way her throat worked as she swallowed told you she hadn’t planned to.

The SUV slowed as she pulled into an empty rest stop, the rain shimmering under the flickering fluorescent lights. She threw the car into park and turned off the engine.

Finally, she turned to face you, and the look in her eyes stole the breath from your lungs. There was still anger there, but it was layered with something else now—something darker, more intimate. The way her gaze swept over your face, lingering on your lips for just a fraction of a second too long, made your skin tingle.

“You’re always so in control,”  you said softly, breaking the quiet. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you immediately regretted it when her jaw tightened.

Her laugh was low and bitter, barely more than a breath. “Is that what you think?” she asked. Her voice was calmer now, but there was an edge to it, like a wire pulled taut and ready to snap.

“Isn’t it true?” you pressed, unable to ignore the question burning in your chest. “You never let anything get to you. You’re always composed, always one step ahead. It’s like nothing fazes you.”

 “You think I’m in control?” she repeated, her voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

You nodded, your throat suddenly dry under the weight of her gaze. “You make it seem effortless.”

For a moment, she just stared at you, her dark eyes unreadable. Then she exhaled sharply and leaned back in her seat, her hand moving to rake through her hair. The movement was uncharacteristically unguarded, almost vulnerable.

“I’m not in control,” she said finally, her voice low but steady. “Not when it comes to you.”

Her admission sent a jolt through your chest, your heart thudding painfully as her words hung in the air.

“Emily…” You said her name carefully, as if speaking it too loudly might shatter the fragile moment.

“You don’t get it,” she continued, cutting you off. “Every time you’re close, every time you look at me like that—” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard, her eyes darting away. “I have to fight every instinct I have not to—”

She stopped abruptly, her teeth clenching as she turned back to face the windshield. Her fingers dug into the edge of the console now, and the sight of it made your chest tighten.

“Not to what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Her jaw worked as she clenched it, the tension radiating off her like heat. “Not to touch you,” she said finally, her voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “Not to cross a line I can’t uncross.”

The raw honesty in her tone made your breath hitch. The woman who always seemed untouchable, unshakable, was unraveling right in front of you, and it made your pulse race in a way you couldn’t control. “I know what I want…”

 Her lips parted like she was about to say something, but she stopped herself, looking away sharply.  “You’re playing with fire,” she said finally, her tone measured, deliberate. “And I don’t think you’re ready for what happens if you get burned.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs as her words sank in. The warning in her voice should have scared you, should have made you pull back—but instead, it only drew you closer.

“Maybe I want to get burned,” you murmured, your voice trembling but steady enough to hold her gaze.

Her eyes darkened, and her grip on the console tightened. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

“Don’t I?” you challenged, leaning closer, the space between you shrinking. “Maybe it’s okay to lose control sometimes. Maybe it’s okay to—” You hesitated, searching her face for a sign, for anything that might give you courage. “To cross that line.”

Her head snapped toward you, her eyes narrowing as her jaw tightened. “You don’t get it. This isn’t just about what you want. It’s about what I can’t have. What I shouldn’t…” she said, her voice sharp, almost acusatory.

“You shouldn’t want me, I shouldn't want you...,” you interrupted softly, your voice trembling just enough to betray the emotions churning inside you. “I know that. I know all the reasons why this is wrong – b-but I want you, too…” you said quickly, shaking your head.

The silence that followed was deafening. Her gaze bore into you, unrelenting and intense, and you could see the war she was waging with herself. The lines around her mouth softened, but the tension in her shoulders remained, like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff and couldn’t decide whether to fall or pull herself back.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, her fingers flexing against the console. Her eyes darted to yours again, and this time, they were filled with something raw and unguarded.

Her jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as she fought for control. For a long moment, she didn’t move, didn’t speak, and the silence between you grew heavier with every passing second. Then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, she shifted in her seat, reaching down to adjust the lever at her side.

The click of the seat sliding back was deafening in the quiet car. She leaned back, her shoulders pressing against the seat as she settled into the new space, her dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that pinned you in place. She didn’t say a word, but the command was clear in the way her hands rested on her thighs, her fingers twitching like she was daring you to make the next move.

You swallowed hard, the weight of her gaze almost unbearable as you unbuckled your seatbelt and shifted toward her. Her hands were on you the moment you were close enough. Her strength was intoxicating, her presence overwhelming, and before you knew it, you were straddling her lap, her hands settling on your waist like they’d been there a thousand times before. The leather seat creaked beneath you, the only sound aside from the rain and your shallow breaths.

“Look at me,” she said, her voice quiet but laced with steel.

You did, your gaze locking onto hers as her hands slid up your sides, her touch measured and deliberate, as though she was reminding you—reminding herself—that she was still the one in control here. Her eyes were dark, her pupils blown wide, but there was no hesitation in them, no sign of the internal war you’d seen earlier.

“Do you know why I don’t let myself lose control?” she asked, her voice low and deliberate, her hands tightening slightly on your waist.

You shook your head, unable to find the words, too caught up in the intensity of her gaze and the steady, deliberate way her thumbs brushed against your ribs.

“Because when I do,” she continued, her tone soft but carrying the weight of an unspoken promise, “I don’t stop. I don’t hold back.”

The meaning behind her words settled over you, sending a shiver down your spine. Her grip on you shifted, her hands sliding lower, her fingers splaying across your thighs as she leaned in closer, her breath warm against your cheek.

“You think you’re ready for that?” she asked, her voice a quiet challenge, her lips so close to yours now that it was almost unbearable.

“I know I am,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.

Her lips curved, her approval subtle but unmistakable as her hands slid up, tracing the curve of your waist with a possessive, measured touch. The warmth of her palms seeped through the thin fabric of your shirt, leaving your skin tingling in their wake. “We’ll see,” she murmured, her voice low and laced with a dangerous kind of promise that sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

Her eyes locked onto yours, her gaze heavy with control and desire. The warmth of her hands seeped through your shirt as her fingers skimmed up your waist, deliberate in their exploration. “You’re so sure of yourself,” she murmured, her voice a low hum that vibrated in the space between you. “Let’s see if that holds.”

Her lips met yours with a commanding force, the kiss deep and unyielding, stealing the breath from your lungs. Her fingers slipped under the fabric of your shirt, her touch firm and purposeful as she mapped the bare skin of your ribs. The heat of her palms lingered wherever she touched, drawing soft gasps from you as your hands clutched her shoulders for balance.

Her lips left yours, trailing down your jawline, the scrape of her teeth against your pulse making your breath stutter. A soft sound escaped you—a gasp you couldn’t hold back—and she paused just long enough for her lips to curve into a faint smirk against your skin.

“You like that,” she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction, the words rolling over you like silk. “Good.”

The creak of the leather seat beneath you was sharp against the muffled rhythm of the rain now falling in earnest. The windows around you had begun to fog, blurring the outside world into nothingness. Her lips pressed to the spot just below your ear, lingering there with unhurried confidence, while her hands moved with certainty. One hand slipped higher, her fingers brushing the curve of your breast, teasing without fully giving in.

Her other hand at your waist slipped lower, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. She paused, her gaze snapping back to yours, her dark eyes piercing through the haze between you.

“You’re going to let me, aren’t you?” The question wasn’t really a question, her voice carrying a weight that made refusal impossible.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice trembling, the answer pulled from somewhere deep inside you.

Her gaze locked onto yours, dark and unrelenting, holding you captive in the charged space between you. The hand under your shirt slid even higher, the rough pad of her thumb finding your nipple through the lace of your bra. She pressed just enough to elicit a gasp from you, her touch precise as she began to circle, testing your sensitivity with each deliberate motion.

“Let’s get this out of the way,” she murmured, her voice low and commanding, her hands tugging at the hem of your shirt. You lifted your arms instinctively, allowing her to pull the fabric over your head in one fluid motion. She paused for a moment, her dark eyes roving over your exposed skin with an intensity that left your heart racing.

Her fingers found the clasp of your bra, and with practiced ease, she unhooked it, sliding the straps down your arms. The lace fell away, and the cool air of the car brushed against your heated skin, making you shiver under her gaze.

Her hand returned, cupping you fully now, her thumb brushing over your bare nipple in a slow, deliberate motion. The sensation sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your stomach, your body arching slightly into her touch. Her other hand settled on your waist, holding you steady, grounding you as her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured, her voice soft but filled with an authority that made the compliment hit deeper. Her thumb rolled over your nipple again, firmer this time, coaxing a breathless sound from you that she caught with a satisfied hum.

The hand on your hip moved with purpose, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants and brushing against your damp underwear with a deliberate slowness that made your breath hitch. The heat of her palm burned into you, her touch igniting a fire in your core as her fingers traced the edge of the thin fabric, the only barrier between you and her touch.

Each pass was maddeningly light, the barest graze that left your hips shifting instinctively toward her, chasing the contact. The smirk tugging at her lips was both infuriating and intoxicating, her dominance evident, taking her time to watch every quiver of your body under her hands.

"You're already shaking," she murmured, her voice low and dripping with satisfaction, her thumb brushing a line that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. Her teasing was intentional, her restraint designed to unravel you inch by inch, as if she could sense the tension coiling tighter in your stomach.

Her lips found yours again, her kiss more commanding this time. She nipped at your bottom lip before deepening it, her tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that matched the way her fingers moved, stroking just enough to make your hips lift involuntarily toward her touch.

Emily leaned back slightly against the driver’s seat, her dark eyes fixed on you with a teasing intensity. “Impatient, aren’t you?” she murmured, her voice low and edged with dark amusement. Her lips brushed against yours as she spoke, the faintest contact that left you chasing her for more. She let the question linger, savoring the way your breath hitched when her fingers finally slipped beneath the last barrier of fabric, brushing against the slick heat that betrayed how much you needed her.

Her movements were slow, maddeningly precise, her fingers exploring every sensitive spot as if committing a map to memory. Your breathing became shallow, uneven, and when her touch finally found the place that made your body arch instinctively, she paused, testing. Her smirk deepened at your stuttered moan as she circled her fingers, slowly, deliberately, before pushing two fingers inside you. The pressure of her thumb on your nub increased just enough to draw a gasp from you.

Emily’s eyes werr locked with yours, her fingers never faltering in their rhythm as her free hand slid up your back, pulling you closer until her breath ghosted over your ear. “Go on,” she murmured, her voice a velvet command, low and rough enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Ride my fingers. Show me how much you want this.”

Her grip on your hip tightened, guiding you as she pressed her hand more firmly against you. The angle changed just enough to draw a sharp gasp from your lips, your body moving instinctively to meet her. Your fingers dug into her shoulders, seeking some anchor as the steady, insistent rhythm of her touch threatened to overwhelm you.

“That’s it,” Emily murmured, her voice dripping with encouragement as her eyes never left your face, dark and intent. “Take what you need.”

Her fingers moved in perfect synchronization with your movements, their pace matching the urgency you set. Each roll of your hips sent jolts of pleasure coursing through you, your breath coming in ragged bursts. Emily’s low hum vibrated against your chest, her hand on your hip holding you steady as you lost yourself in the sensations.

“You’re doing so well,” she whispered, her words melting into a kiss against your jawline, her lips brushing against your skin in a way that made your movements falter for just a moment. She didn’t let up, didn’t waver, her fingers coaxing you, urging you to keep going. “Don’t stop now. I want to feel you come apart for me.”

The sound you made was swallowed by her lips, the kiss deep and consuming as her other hand skimmed over your bare skin. Her touch was unhurried, deliberate, her palm warm as it traced the curve of your side before finding your breast again. Her thumb and forefinger brushed over your nipple with a precision that drew a soft, involuntary cry from you, her movements synchronizing perfectly with the rhythm of her hand and your hips below.

“You feel so good,” she murmured, her voice low and filled with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine. Her lips brushed against your jaw as she spoke, the intimacy of her praise wrapping around you like a cocoon. The words were soft, almost a secret, meant only for you as she continued to unravel you piece by piece.

Her fingers below shifted as your movements became more urgent, her touch becoming more insistent, her pace quickening just enough to coax another moan from your lips. You clinged to her as your body arched into her touch, unable to resist the tension building with each precise movement. She tilted her head slightly, her breath warm against your skin as her lips traveled lower, leaving a line of kisses along the curve of your neck. Each press of her lips was slow, deliberate, designed to set your skin aflame.

“You’re such a good girl for me,” she purred into your ear, the words like molten heat. Her voice was rich, the approval in her tone unmistakable as her fingers moved with unwavering confidence, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. She drank in every gasp, every tremble, every moan, her hold on you steady and unyielding, as she guides you to ride her hand.

The praise sent a rush of heat through you, your body arching against hers as she took you higher. The fogged windows turned the world outside into a blur, all your focus narrowed to the way her fingers moved inside you, the way her lips claimed every sound you made. Her fingers pressed deeper now, her movements steady and confident.

Her lips found the curve of your neck, her teeth grazing lightly before pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. The contrast of her gentleness there and the unrelenting rhythm of her hand and your rolling hips left you reeling, every nerve in your body alight.

“You’re doing so well,” she murmured. The praise hit you with a force that made your chest tighten, your stomach fluttering as you arched closer to her, seeking more, needing more.

Your nails dug into the fabric of her shirt as you clung to her, barely able to keep yourself steady. She responded with a low hum of approval.

“Emily —” her name fell from your lips, broken and pleading, your voice trembling with need. She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her dark eyes locking onto yours.

“Come on,” she urged softly, her breath warm against your temple. “I want to feel you. Let me take care of you. Let go for me,” she said, her tone firm but filled with an intimacy that stole the air from your lungs.

Her words were a command and a promise all at once, her fingers pressing just right as the tension that had been building within you finally snapped. The world blurred at the edges as your body arched against hers, a strangled cry escaping you as waves of pleasure crashed through you, each stronger than the last. You fell apart in her arms, she held you through it, her touch never faltering, her kisses a steady anchor in the storm.

You collapsed against her, your forehead resting on her shoulder as you tried to catch your breath, your heart racing so hard you thought it might burst. But she didn’t let you go, her arms wrapping around you securely, holding you as though you were something precious.

Her lips pressed softly against your temple, the tenderness of the gesture a stark contrast to the intensity of what had just passed between you. “You’re safe,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing, her hand rubbing gentle circles into your back.

Even as your body trembled with aftershocks, the warmth of her embrace grounded you, a silent reassurance that she wouldn’t let you drift away. You closed your eyes, melting into her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself surrender completely.

The rain outside had intensified, now battering the windows in rhythmic drumming that matched the pulse still thrumming in your veins. The fog had settled over the glass, blurring the world outside as if it was a dream—fuzzy, indistinct, just like the space between you two now.

[604to647]

The Might of the Realm

8.9K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Summary: Din Djarin, General to your father’s army, finds himself in the gladiator arena of a foreign planet fighting for the success of your diplomatic mission.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Established secret relationship (they are stupid in love), Mando'a nicknames (mesh'la, cyar'ika, cyare), the helmet comes off but reader is blindfolded, bath sex, fingering, unprotected PiV (Star Wars is made up and in space, so we pretend it's fine). A wee bit of angst if you squint.

A/N: Written for @beefrobeefcal's The Glandolorian challenge! This is the same AU that I imagined for my Kiss It Better drabble, with the same Princess!reader: set post Season 3, Carson Teva has dispatched Din to a New Republic stronghold planet to train and strengthen their armies; he becomes their General and falls in love with the realm's princess. I imagine this story to take place before Kiss It Better, when they are still sneaking around 🥰.

Many moons before another General (🤭) came on the scene, I outlined a long story for this AU that I'm not sure I'll ever write, so kindly forgive my self indulgent word count - I really took advantage of this challenge for a chance to write these two 🥰 Struggled a bit with the Dieter Bravo reference, but I think I found something that works (Thank you to @morallyinept for your invaluable character dialogue database!) Also got inspired by someone's Gladiator II premier look and snuck in one (1) The Princess Bride reference 🤭 / Dividers by @saradika-graphics

“No.”

“Princess, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, Din.  We came to pay our respects to the new rule and to affirm that our established trade routes through Flavin 5’s space will remain intact.  We did not come to be participate in some archaic gladiatorial fighting match to assert dominance.”

Even through the blankness of Din’s visor you can tell he’s amused by your hiss of a retort but is holding back his reaction.  His stoic and impassive demeanor normally reserved for others, you know that if he’s being less than fully direct with you it’s for one of two reasons: 1) he doesn’t want to lie or 2) he doesn’t want to risk your ire.  You suppose it’s the latter in this case, and that thought alone is reason enough for you to calm your emotional response to this predicament and reassess.

Taking a deep breath, you rest one hand on your hip and mimic a stance you’ve seen your fearsome General make many times; with your other you gesture at Din to present his argument for voluntarily sending your guard, the top lieutenants of the army he commands, into a battle arena on foreign soil.

“Mesh’la, I know your instinct is to protect your people, but you know as well as I that our troops, and especially the men who have been deemed fit to accompany you on this diplomatic mission, are more than capable of handling themselves in any combat situation.”

Din almost chuckles at the way you tilt your pretty head ready to interrupt, his feisty cyar’ika; he continues hurriedly, but with the calm confidence he knows you respond to, “You diligently studied Flavian traditions and history before embarking on this trip – you yourself taught me all I know of these people.  Despite the new ruling family’s decision to resurrect this ancient custom, what is your sense of these people?  Do they seem barbaric?  Cruel for cruelty’s sake?  This isn’t the Petranaki arena on Geonosis.”

You would roll your eyes at Din’s perfectly level-headed analysis, if you didn’t consider his strategic and tactical mind one of his most attractive qualities; Din’s shrewd ability to consider all angles of any situation is one of your army’s greatest strengths, and one that never fails to weaken you at the knees.  He’s taking this situation as seriously as you need him to, and so, you consider your answer carefully - working through your thoughts out aloud, “No, they are not a cruel people – and you’re right, these gladiatorial games were never about execution or spectacle like they were on Geonosis.  The ancient Flavian events were meant to bring the people, no matter class or station, together to be entertained, usually in celebration.”

“Do you think that tradition is being respected?  Or do you suspect some hidden agenda?”

You remunerate on this, thinking back to the new Flavian royal family you met earlier today, “No.  I believe them to be sincere.  Their purpose in resurrecting this historic custom is, I think, to build a connection with their people.  Participating in the gladiator match would be a show a respect for the Flavian people and a celebration of the new royal family.”  You take a deep breath, “So, we should participate.”

“I agree completely, Princess.”

This time you do roll your eyes at Din, but there’s no arrogance in your expression, “Fine.  But Din, just because there’s no ill intent does not mean there isn’t risk.  We don’t know what to expect from such a fight – there hasn’t been one like it held in centuries.  Who knows what opponents our men would face in the arena?”

“No matter who or what our troops are pitted against tomorrow, Princess, there is no doubt in my mind that they will be able to handle it.”

Nodding thoughtfully, you have to agree, Din did train them himself after all, “I believe it.  Especially since they will have their fearless General there to lead them.”

“No.”

“Din, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, mesh’la.  I cannot leave you unprotected and without guard in the Royal Box,” huffs Din.

Stepping into Din’s space, you lay your hands on the shiny beskar that sits across his expansive chest, swearing you can feel it vibrate beneath your gentle palm from his thundering heartbeat; tipping yourself towards the great warrior before you, you feel his big, gloved hands move to your waist to steady you just as you knew they would.  Giving Din your most innocuous expression, you coo, “There is no need for me to have a protective guard if we deem the Flavian royals to be of honourable intent; if it is safe enough for our soldiers to participate in the gladiatorial games, then it is safe enough for me to be alone in the Royal Box.”

Din’s smile at your cleverness and persuasive tactics is hidden beneath his helmet, but he’s yet not ready to show you he’s given in so he remains as silent and cold as the armour he wears.

You use this opportunity to loop one arm around your hulking General’s neck to bring him closer to you still, your free hand takes one of his from your waist and brings it up to his helmet in a silent request.  The familiar click of Din’s helmet unlocking is the only invitation you need - using your nose to lift the brim of his helmet slightly above his strong jaw so you can find his plush lips with your own, you feel the hint of a smile against your pout before you deepen the kiss.  Opening to let Din lick into your mouth, you melt against the hard metal that represents everything he is to you: extraordinary, flawless, indestructible.

And such a good kisser, letting loose a soft whimper you nearly miss Din chuckle something against your lips.

“What’s that, General?” you sigh dreamily.

“I said, Princess, I saw what you did there, and that was NOT the way,” chastising with no actual bite, Din lowers and relocks his helmet.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” flashing him that breathtaking smile of yours that always makes him forget himself, “I’m only following the logic you already agreed to.  Grogu and I will be fine watching you showcase the might of our realm from the safety of our spectator seats tomorrow.”

“Grogu will be with me in the fighting area.”

“No.”

“Cyar’ika, he will be fine.”

“He’s just a baby, Din!”

“And a Mandalorian apprentice.  You’ve seen what a formidable fighter he’s already grown to be.”

And so on, and so forth – the two of you, the General and his Princess, spiritedly discussing and debating matters that affect your realm.  The thought crosses your mind, not for the first time, that when you ascend the throne after your father you will need a ruling partner who challenges you like this: one who makes you wiser and forces you to expand your horizons, but trusts your compassion and tender heart, and who you trust to keep you and your kingdom safe.  And as you always do when this thought naturally lends itself to an image of Din by your side, tall and proud as your King consort, you push it away as far as you can.  It hurts too much to imagine something that seems to materialize so clearly and happily, as if it could actually become a reality, when you know it could never be.

The crowd in the arena is deafening.  Already amped from the opening entertainment acts, they’re now cheering loud, calling for the main event.

Sitting front row in the Royal Box, you scan over the floor of the arena – knowing that it’s unlikely, but still hoping for a flash of silver beskar from behind one of the gates that line the sides of the arena floor, behind which lay the holding areas for the gladiator fighters selected for today’s match.  Once or twice, you think you spy the sunlight catch something shiny from beneath the stands, but before you can look more closely, someone from the Flavian royal family will engage your attention.  Though your mind never strays far from Din and his, your men, you cannot forget yourself or your role - your purpose for being in this arena today: you’re here to secure the continued prosperity your kingdom and strengthen your realm’s relationship with a long-standing ally. 

If you’re honest, despite the trepidation that sits heavily atop your heart, you cannot help but be affected by the electricity of your environment.  The stadium thrums and pulses with the excitement of thousands of Flavian citizens who have come out in the hot sun to partake in today’s festivities – you see children of all ages waving noisemakers and colourful flags, men and women young and old already cheering for who they anticipate to be today’s victors.  Based on the chatter in your tent, the news of your General fighting today has spread like wildfire through the city – very few Flavians have ever seen a Mandalorian, never mind have the privilege of seeing one fight; today was going to be a day they remember for the rest of their lives.  As for your companions in the Royal Box, you’re happy to see that your and Din’s assessment had been accurate – there is no underlying bloodlust or malevolent show of power associated with these fights, everything is only in good fun; your royal cohorts are all in splendid moods, showing genuine enthusiasm akin to the original spirit of the same games put on by their ancestors.

You’re just chatting amiably with the new Flavian king about having some of the wonderful Flavian wine and fruit you’ve enjoyed in the tent sent up to your room later, when a fanfare of trumpets echoes throughout the stadium announcing the start of today’s fight.  The crowd quiets to a soft buzzing as the amphitheatre’s speakers announce the entrance of your fighters; the volume rises again as the audience goes wild when the might of your realm runs in through the gladiator’s entrance.  You can’t help but beam, chest bursting with pride at the impression they make on the Flavian crowd – a big, broad Mandalorian General, towering in his stance and intimidating in his majestic armour, flanked by your guard: five of the strongest, most formidable soldiers from your father’s army. 

You spy Grogu before the Flavian royals do, but it’s only because you know where to look.  A perch for him has been attached to the side of his father’s jet pack so he can remain secure at Din’s shoulder during combat, but have the flexibility to jump off and join the fray if needed.  The instant the Flavian prince spots him, he excitedly points him out to the others – and you take great pride in informing your hosts that they, in fact, have the honour of seeing two Mandalorians today.

With only a few moments before their opponents arrive in the arena, you take a closer look at your fighting contingent – they have been outfitted with Flavian weapons (swords, blasters, electro shields), the standard issue armament of your kingdom they normally carry nowhere in sight; the only exception is of course Din, who carries the gladiatorial weapons like the others and all of his usual weaponry – you chuckle to yourself, imagining the poor Flavian weapons master who tried to strip a Mandalorian of his religion.

A loud voice announcing the incoming fighters for Flavin 5 jerks you back to the scene before you.  The crowd thunders as a squadron of battle droids nearly a hundred strong marches into the arena, each carrying varying sized blasters or blaster rifles in addition to their own swords, a few wielding double ended electro staffs.  You barely have time to fret over how outnumbered Din and your troops are before the king is rising in his seat and giving the ceremonial hand gesture for the fight to begin.

You hear your General shout quick, decisive commands and his trusty men move swiftly into the desired formation, electro shields lit up and expanded in one coordinated movement.  They advance as a team, strong and sure, every aim of their blasters true – each man practiced at covering the comrades at their sides as the droids begin shooting back.

When your men are close enough to the front line of the remaining droids, the intimidating battle cry you hear emanating from Din’s helmet is repeated in response at tenfold the volume by his men, a signal to shift fluidly into a tiered offensive formation that you recognize from watching their training on the palace grounds at home.

The legion moves with precision and speed, the crouched soldiers providing the impenetrable shielding needed by the men who stand tall as a precision sniper team that can’t be touched; your Mandalorian the tallest, unphased by the droid fire that bounces harmlessly off his beskar armour.

The formation is far more effective than the static positions of the droids and in almost no time at all, your fighters have driven the remaining thirty or so droids back towards the entrance gate.  Answering another roared order, your contingent springs apart with an unrivalled ferocity to attack the remaining droids via direct combat.

Din cuts down mechanical fighter after mechanical fighter, mowing through the defensive lines of the Flavian droids that have none of his agility and lighting quick reflexes, bolstered by his trusted troops at his back who move with the confidence of men who have been trained by the best, used to fighting with the best.

Grogu has left his father, jumping from his perch onto and over droids with lightening speed - they shoot at him with their blasters only to miss their fast-moving green target every time and take each other out instead.

You watch their every move with bated breath – every bolt that connects with your realm’s armour quickens your breath, the clashing sounds of weapon on weapon too loud in your ears, and each hit or wound sustained by one of your men jolts a phantom pain through your own body.

When the last droid soldier falls, your men, your man, stand victorious at the epicenter of the arena; bloodied, exhausted to the point that the heaving of their chest plates can be seen from the Royal Box… but all standing.

You can hardly believe it - your heart exploding with pride, tears nearly springing from your eyes in relief.  Looking to your hosts, you half expect them to congratulate you and acknowledge the victory of your fighters, but instead, you see them still engaged with the scene before them, eyes trained on the arena floor.

They smile with genuine excitement and anticipation, and your eyes snap back to Din and your soldiers at the sound of the brassy, melodic fanfare now being played throughout the stadium.  The crowd rises to its feet with an ear-splitting roar as the orchestral horns continue to crescendo, announcing the coming of something.

You glance at the Flavian prince, his face alight with boyish joy – he’s excited in an almost childish way and when he sees you looking at him, he beams and points to one of the gates that’s now opening, voice elated, “Cliff beasts!”

Cliff beasts?!? You stand from your seat and rush to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing and leaning as far as you can so you can see what new challenger is about to enter the arena.  You gasp when you see it – a woolly beast larger than Din and his men combined, trotting out into the arena on four stubby but powerful legs.  A magnificent horn, the length of which must span at least half of the creature’s massive body protrudes from its snout, thick and battle ready. 

A mudhorn??  Of all the beasts to have entered the arena, what where the chances it would be the beast of Din’s clan signet?  For a moment, you’re alarmed that maybe there have been unseen machinations at play and you’ve been blind to it all – that you’ve somehow failed in your diplomatic duties, failing your kingdom, your men, Din. 

You study the Flavian prince who’s now proclaiming to his father, the king, “These cliff beasts are so large!”  The two of them are enthusiastically waving and gesturing to the other attendees in the Royal Box, their chatter is of wonderment and genuine amazement at the sight of this creature that they’ve never before beheld on their planet - you conclude, with relief, that it has to be a coincidence.  Wait, what did he mean – these? 

Peering down into the arena again you see a second, smaller mudhorn ambling behind the first.  A parent and its child!  Your heart tightens, imagining how scared the two creatures have to be and how fiercely the adult will fight in order to protect its young.  You catch Din’s visor pointed up at you from the arena floor and you know that he understands the distressed expression of your face perfectly.

Immediately, your General gathers his men and lays out his strategy – unknowable to the crowds of the arena, but you can read Din clear as day: he won’t cause harm to another living creature if he doesn’t have to.

Din and his soldiers slowly fan out, purposefully ignoring the young calf while surrounding the adult mudhorn.  As expected, the mudhorn charges in attack.  Trying to blink as little as possible for fear of missing anything, you watch wide-eyed as your men deftly leap and roll out of the path of the stampeding animal.  When the mudhorn stops and turns back towards the perceived threat to its young, the soldiers surround it again – rocking on the balls of their feet ready to evade its charge again.  They aren’t always as lucky or fast enough – you cry out in anguish whenever the Mudhorn makes contact, sending your guard flying, landing with a sickening thud on the arena floor from the force of the impact.  The crowd gasps in worry, cheering louder than ever when your men get up to rejoin their brethren in repeating the same maneuver over and over.

Din’s plan is working, the mudhorn is getting tired. 

Part of you is relieved, the other hopes that its fatigue doesn’t make the creature desperate; though your men are still standing, you don’t know if any of them can sustain more injury to their bodies – an increasing danger that only grows as Din and your soldiers begin tightening the proverbial noose.  You spy Din protracting his fibercord whip from his vambrace by hand only seconds before he does what you suddenly realize he’s going to do.  The mudhorn is pawing at the ground, exhausted and angry while your men surround it, now each only about an arm’s length away, when Din uses a jetpack blast to leap onto its back - throwing the whipcord around its horn and pulling back on his makeshift reins.  The other men scatter and the crowd screams as your General rides the wildly bucking animal around the arena.  At their General’s direction, your men are now divided between two tasks: half shoot at the galloping beast that unwillingly bears their fearless leader and his son, their blaster bolts a distraction but doing little to the mudhorn’s tough hide; the remaining men tasked with capturing and restraining the calf – the seemingly easier task. 

Heart nearly in your throat, you watch as Grogu climbs down the front of his father’s arm and onto the mudhorn, quickly crawling to the top of its head where the massive horn joins the creature’s skull.  With one of his little green hands holding onto the cord his father holds taut and the other placed directly on the mudhorn’s woolly head, you see Grogu close his eyes in concentration.  Gradually, the mudhorn’s steps slow and its movements around the arena become unsteady, then wobbly, before it finally teeters and crashes onto its side fast asleep.  Din jumps off just in time to avoid being crushed by the animal’s huge body - Grogu does a dramatic flip into the air at the same time and lands perfectly in his father’s waiting arms.  The crowd roars its approval. 

The Flavian royals next to you are on their feet, clapping and cheering with astonishment and admiration – congratulating you on the victory of your men and thanking you for the fantastic show you’ve provided them today.  Clasping your hands in appreciation, they heartedly assure you that the documents confirming your planet’s trade routes will be completed and delivered to you tomorrow. 

You express your appreciation before turning your attention back towards the arena, heart full - relieved and proud of the men still on the fighting floor.  You have to admit they make quite the sight waving to the cheering crowds while standing next to a sleeping mudhorn, two of your lieutenants holding a makeshift leash with a smaller mudhorn standing docile at its end.  To the admiring masses, the large beast was subdued by these men, the might of your realm, but you know the truth.  You blow a little kiss to Grogu who pretends to catch it in his little hand before waving back, happy but somewhat tired.

Even with his helmet on you can read Din’s expression as he looks up to the Royal Box.  Where is my kiss, mesh’la?

You smile back a playful smirk just for the unseen eyes behind the dark T-visor.  Later.

You pace in the large, ornamental suite that your hosts have graciously provided – it’s beautiful, a true testament to Flavian luxury and craftsmanship, but you have no attention to spare for its finery.  Not when you’re straining your ears to listen for footsteps coming down the hall, eyes continuing to dart towards your door as if for some reason you may have missed hearing them come.

“Princess…”

Your lady’s maids, Olivia and Serine, pace right along with you, following your tracks around the grand room.  They’re as exhausted as you are, but you know their hearts to be as determined as your own; you give them the most indulgent look you can muster and any plea to ask you to rest dies on their lips.  The three of you continue to take turns listening intently for the telltale sounds of a soldiers’ march.

Finally, you hear something.  Faint but purposeful footsteps walking in synchronicity – the herald of well-trained soldiers with an intended destination.  Perked, you look to your faithful companions with renewed vigor and sprint to your door, flinging it open without grace and hurrying into the dimly lit hallway.

They’re still far enough down the hall that you have some time, even with your hastened steps, to study how your men appear to be faring; you know that when you ask, they will insist they are fine so not to worry you.

Two of your country’s finest are limping slightly, one of your lieutenants and a captain.  Your other lieutenant is walking fine, but he has a nasty gash on his forearm, dripped, half dried blood wrapping around his wrist like a terrible bracelet.  The armour of your realm that the legion proudly wears has taken a beating, covered in evidence of today’s bout – marked, dirty and bloodied, but none of the men themselves appear to be grievously injured.

But it’s the man at the front of the pack that you study the most sincerely.  Din’s gait is not too unfamiliar for you to suspect he’s hiding any serious injury - he would know better than that.  After the battle on the Fields of Planoor he had learned not to conceal his injuries from you, that you were so familiar with his body and the way it moves, you would know something was wrong without a single word from him.  As Din stalks towards your group, you can feel the hot gaze from behind his visor assessing you just as you assess him; your General holds himself a bit straighter, his massive frame puffing in pride.  He bears no sign of serious injury, a little sigh of relief escapes your lips as you continue to run down the hall, Olivia and Serine hot on your heels.  But his back is probably killing him.

The men stop to a coordinated halt as you reach them; their weapons sheathed, they each raise their left fists to their chests and bow, “Princess.”

You wave your hands in a graceful but frantic manner, dismissing this need for formality, “Please.  Are you okay?  Is everyone alright?”

Reaching for Grogu, your heart settles a little when he climbs down from his secured perch on his father’s shoulder and leaps into your arms.  Fussing over him, you check his fuzzy green ears and sweet face for injuries; when you run your hands over his limbs and body to do the same, he coos and giggles as if being tickled.  Resting your palm against the security of the beskar rondel he wears beneath his tunic, you exhale in contented relief and place a long kiss to his head.  He’s okay.

Those same words are now being echoed out loud in the low modulated rasp of the voice you trust most in this galaxy, “He’s okay, Princess.  Not a scratch on him, the little womp rat.  The Lieutenant could do with some fresh dressings for his arm, but the rest of us are fine – a bit banged up and tired, but nothing a warm bath and a good night’s rest can’t fix.”

Knowing that Din’s helmet will give nothing away, you study the faces of your countrymen, trying to ascertain if their beloved General is downplaying the damage for your sake.  Finding no deception in their eyes, and knowing that they know you would know, you relent, “Have you eaten?”

“We were given sustenance after our victory.”

You raise your eyebrow at this, suspecting that Din’s words answer only for his men, but not necessarily himself.  Nodding, you give your final charge for the evening, “Olivia, Serine, please kindly see our brave soldiers to their rooms, run their baths and tend to them as needed.”

Your ladies-in-waiting curtsey in assent at your words and intuitively, Olivia extends her arms for Grogu – there are no secrets between you and your closest companions.  Din nods at her and she takes her favourite little green playmate into her arms, happy to help clean him and put him to bed tonight while his father is otherwise occupied.

Din turns to face his men – similarly, there are no secrets between the General and his most trusted squadron, men who love their princess with an unyielding loyalty that rivals only his own.  Your father’s soldiers salute their esteemed leader, bidding their Princess and General goodnight before following Olivia and Serine to their assigned quarters.

Silently, you take Din’s hand and lead him back down the hallway to your room, careful not to hurry should he be much battered and sore, though the urgency in your chest is nearly bubbling over.  Your concern appears to have been unfounded because as soon as the door to your room shuts, Din sweeps you into his arms with a force that takes your breath away - crushing you to his chest so tightly that you can feel him deflate beneath the hard beskar as he exhales his own long held sigh of relief.

You chuckle, “You would have thought that I was the one fighting cliff beasts in the arena today.”

“Cliff beasts?” Din tilts his head quizzically at you.

“I’ll tell you later.  Right now, let’s get you out of your armour,” your fingers slide under his pauldrons, feeling for the familiar release mechanism.

“Cyar’ika, if you wanted to have your way with me, you only had to ask - you didn’t need to send me into a fight arena with a mudhorn,” jokes Din, wincing slightly from the stretch of his muscles as they contract and relax with the weight of his armour being lifted from his aching body.

You cluck your tongue in playful disapproval, even as you continue to make quick work of removing the rest of Din’s armour.  With now practiced precision, you lift off his chest plates and the attachment frame, unhook his jetpack, unclip his cape, slide off his vambraces, unstrap his thigh plates, unlace his boots, unbuckle his belt, unzip his flight suit.  The ceremony of this process is one you will never tire of, nor is its significance lost on you. 

Din, a Mandalorian, willingly lets you touch his armour and remove it from his body – trusting your delicate hands with his most precious property: the physical embodiment of his honour and creed, the very symbol of his people.  Not only that, but he allows you to strip him of protection and reveal his vulnerability to you, exposing him and his softness – he exists as the man beneath the beskar for you and you only.  You’re the most privileged being in the galaxy – the weight of Din’s trust in you is something you will never take for granted.

When Din stands before you in only his boxers and helmet, you begin your study of his body in earnest.  Dancing your fingers across his hard and tanned chest, you trace old scars in order to separate them from new marks; palming his torso and checking his thick arms with the same careful hands.  Rounding your warrior, you continue your roaming examination over his muscular back and listen intently for any change in Din’s breathing when you press down on his tense shoulders – relieved when you hear him groan in satisfaction instead of pain.  As you’re lightly scraping your nails over his wide thighs you hear the telltale unclicking of Din’s helmet – he beckons you.

Rising to meet his lowering face, you use your thumbs to lift the brim of Din’s helmet slightly, always keeping your eyes closed so you don’t see any of his face – not for the world would you betray Din’s trust.  Mouth finding his easily, you kiss Din gingerly – unsure of what injuries he may have sustained beneath his helmet; lightly pecking his soft pout and pressing restrained affection to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going to break, cyare,” Din grins as if he’s reading your mind.

Snapping down his helmet with a bit more force than necessary, you peer up into the black horizonal stripe of his visor and sniffle, “I can see some big bruises starting to form over your abdomen and on the back of your thighs.  And the muscles of your arms and back are overstrained and need to loosen or you’re going to be more sore tomorrow than you already will be.”  The emotions you held in all day now start to spill over your lash line; dropping your head, you cry softly at the toll today’s events have taken on your strong man’s body and how he bears it without complaint.  Contrite and indebted that he sustained these injuries at the behest of your kingdom - your behest, for you. 

Din gathers you in his arms and pulls you flush to his chest, tilting back his helmet again he kisses you lovingly, devotedly – with every stroke of his tongue, every nibble of your lips, he reminds you that it is not only his duty, but his honour to serve your kingdom, to serve you.  He would do anything for you, without you ever having to bid it.  It is not in him to deny you anything, his heart’s desire is to give you everything.

“I love you, Princess.”

“I love you, General.”

Not without some difficulty, you pull yourself out of Din’s embrace and lead him to the suite’s fresher, running the taps of the large tub and scenting the water with fragrant, healing oils.

“I can do that, mesh’la,” one of Din’s large meaty hands covers yours as you test the temperature of the water.

Shaking your head shyly, you bring that hand up to your lips and kiss its calloused knuckles, “Please. Let me serve you, Din.”

“That is not befitting of a princess.”

“I am not like other princesses.”

Tilting your chin up with two of his thick fingers, you can feel the smile behind Din’s next words, “No, you are not.  There is no one like you in the galaxy.”

“And I’m yours.”

The helmet, never having been relocked, is lifted again and Din sweeps you into a passionate, hungry kiss, different than the reassuring and devoted kisses of earlier – deeper, greedier.

“Get in the tub, Din,” you murmur against his lips while you can, before you forget your task and give yourself over to him completely.

Chuckling, Din can only acquiesce whenever he hears a direct request from your mouth – he never hears you command him as his sovereign, only ever as his love.  No matter – he would obey either way.  Stripping off his boxers, helmet still on, Din slips into the steamy water of the deep soaker tub, letting out a heady groan at the way all his muscles relax in reaction to the sudden heat against his rough skin. 

With a soft footedness that still surprises Din, so used to picking up every little sound with his helmet’s acoustic sensors, you reappear suddenly with a small tray table bearing various Flavian fruits and wine for Din and a thin silk scarf for you.

“I know you didn’t eat after the match,” you say matter-of-factly when Din tilts his helmet in question.  Neither did you.

“Will you join me, cyar’ika?”

“Of course, my love,” you begin to disrobe, perfectly understanding the double meaning of your General’s question.

Though he’s seen and worshipped your naked form more times that you can count, there’s always something about being unable to see the eyes that devour you which makes you shy.  Able to detect the rise in temperature of your face, your bashfulness amuses Din to no end – if only you could see his own expression; every time Din sees you bare before him is like the first time, he thinks you might even laugh at the slack jawed, awestruck expression hidden by his helmet – if Mandalorians were to believe in a literal afterlife, then Din could well be deemed a heretic for he’s sure he’s already seen heaven.

Stepping in the tub, careful not to trip over Din’s strong legs, you settle on your knees in the water near his feet; taking the wash towel from the side of the tub, you lather it up with your own luxurious cleanser, the scent of which you know Din loves and begin to wash his body.  With great care and affection, you wash and massage Din’s feet, calves and thick thighs, the two of you quietly chatting about your individual perspectives on what transpired in the arena today as you move up his body with your loving touch.

Din groans when you wash his groin area, and you smirk and pretend to throw him a look of disapproval even as you stroke his fast-hardening cock with the washcloth.

“Cyare…” he strains.

“Hmmmm?” Humming, you shimmy to straddle his lap and innocently begin to wash his hard chest and tree trunk arms.

“You’re teasing…”

“Not at all, I’m cleaning,” you giggle.  Rising onto your knees, you lean over Din’s mountainous shoulder to clean his back, dangling your wet, supple breasts right at helmet visor level.  Definitely teasing. 

Two can play at this game. Din’s modulator muffles his snicker as he makes sure you’re entirely engrossed in your task of scrubbing his back, concentrating adorably so that you don’t notice when his big paws reach for your chest, groping and kneading the pillowy flesh with hardly any warning.

You squeal and grind down on Din’s cock - in retaliation he zeros in on your already pert nipples, rough fingers roll and pinch, flick and tug your pretty peaks until you forget your work and bury your face into his shoulder, completely lost to the pleasure that only the General can give you.

“Din,” your voice a soft whimper, needy yet still regal and melodic, “… you have to…”

“What do I have to do, Princess?”

His teasing tone makes you gush; this man knows exactly what he’s doing – you try to claw back some semblance of control over the situation, “You need to let me tend to any injuries you may have sustained under your helmet.  And let me wash your hair.”

“Oh, do I?” 

Nodding in earnest with your eyebrows raised, “Yes, and then you have to rest.  Your body needs it.”

“My body needs you, mesh’la.”

Leaning back, your eyes follow the trail of your fingers as they rake down the smooth skin of Din’s broad chest, slowing over the various long-healed scars whose tales of origin you know by heart, you prepare yourself to argue your way.  But the truth is, you don’t want your way – you need Din, too.  Here on Flavin 5, there is no fear of getting caught, no need for hurried kisses or fleeting touches – the two of you have time.  Time to enjoy one another.  Time to let your hearts run rampant with affection and want.

Tomorrow morning is the last morning you can wake lazily in Din’s arms, like any other couple waking to just another day in the rest of your lives together.  Tomorrow you will return home and your love for your steady warrior will once again need to be tucked away close to your heart, safe from the prying eyes of the kingdom. 

So, you don’t argue.

“Injuries first, General.”

“I have none, Princess.”  You can feel Din’s shit eating grin radiating from behind the beskar.

Grinding down a little on Din’s hardening length as a warning, “I should like to see for myself, thanks.”

“Of course, mesh’la.  I would see you satisfied.”  Though still smirking, it’s with enormous feeling that Din picks up the scarf from the side table and with his practiced hand, covers your eyes; wrapping the silk around your head twice before tying it securely.  He doesn’t ask you if you can see, knowing that if you could you would volunteer it.  Sitting prettily with your hands clasped together, you wait for the welcomed sound of Din’s helmet being lifted and set down where you scarf previously lay.

Heart full, your hands reach out to gently touch Din’s face, fingers tracing over the most intimate part of the man you love.  His jaw relaxes as you stroke though his facial hair and his plush lips curl as your thumb brushes over them.  Din’s strong nose feels unbroken, thank goodness – your gentle kiss to the tip earns you a breathy chuckle that tickles your throat.  Mapping the strong lines of his forehead, you discover your first wound at Din’s hairline – the soft curls of his brown (or so you’re told) hair already matted and sticking with dried blood.  When your fingers caress Din’s temple, you find a small superficial cut by his left eye, and your heart tightens further upon feeling a nastier slice on the apple of his cheek.  Even without seeing and Din giving away no hint of tenderness at your touch, you’re sure there are bruises starting to form on the face you love.

Though you’ve never seen it, you know Din’s face – positive that you could pick it out of a crowd as surely as you could your own in a mirror.  It’s the face of the strongest warrior you’ve ever known, one whose honour and integrity is as unbreakable as the beskar armour that covers his body.  A protector who fights without fail to defend the weak, uphold justice, and push back against tyranny and corruption – no matter how hard something may be or the risk to his own self, the man who bears this face will never back down, always standing up for what’s right.  It’s the face of a man who loves fiercely – loves his Creed, his people, his duty, his son, his woman.  You.  You know the face of this man, the man who owns your heart, your body, your soul - wholly and completely.

You wash this face, carefully cleaning your discoveries.  Then, before you wash his hair, you cradle Din’s head delicately and check for bumps and scrapes, sighing in relief when you find none.  Lathering up a generous amount of your shampoo, you distribute it through Din’s curls, massaging his scalp as he groans in approval.  Your smile at the sound could melt even the steeliest warrior’s heart, Din is sure – it melts his.

When his hair is rinsed and face pat dry, salve applied to his wounds, you attempt to get Din to eat from the food on the tray.

“After, Princess,” Din’s voice somehow lower than when it’s filtered through his modulator.

“After what?” you pretend to be confused.

“After I have what I’m truly hungry for,” you can feel the sides of his face lift beneath your hands as the curve of his mouth pulls up into a wicked grin.

You flash him what you think is a mirroring smirk, “And what is that, General?”

Din takes an excruciating long time trailing his fingers featherlike down the column of your throat as an answer.  His massive hand skate over your naked breasts, pinky pretending to be caught on your pert nipple before catching up with its brethren that have moved on to tickling your soft tummy.  When his hand finally dips below the water, it’s no more hurried, no less teasing – knuckling down the front of you, his hand so big and wide, his thumb and baby finger stretch to slowly stroke along the apex of your thighs at the same time with no additional effort at all.  You quiver at your warrior’s languid and gentle touch – that these same hands are trained for weapons and brutality is not lost on you; how lucky are you to be able to feel them as they are now, so close to where you need them, reverent and worshipful.  Hands meant for building up and protecting, instead of tearing down and destroying - and yet you know them capable of both - and moreover, that they can and will do both to you. 

Leaning forward to press your lips tenderly to Din’s, you whisper, “Promise you’ll eat after?”

He knows the condition of the ask is empty - you need him as much as he does you, both of you hungry for more than the food your empty stomachs growl for.  The worry you felt for your Mandalorian every second he was in the arena today has morphed into a blazing desire now that you have him secure once again in your loving arms; even when he was facing blaster fire or the murderous glare of a mudhorn today, Din’s thoughts never strayed far from the moment he could return to your warm embrace.

But he plays along, because he knows you need to hear it, “I promise, cyare.” And then, because your well being is always as much on the forefront of his mind as his is yours, Din adds, “As long as you eat with me.”

“Promise.  Now touch me please, Din,” you’re trembling, not just from want but need, a need for the reassurance that he’s here safe, that the violence you saw in the arena did not touch him.

Even if he had not pledged his fealty to your kingdom, Din would submit to your request, to you – if it were up to him, he would spend the remainder of his days catering to your every whim, carrying out your will, doing anything and everything necessary to ensure your happiness.

He parts your folds with his fingers, finding you slick and ready for him.  As Din glides his thick digits along your seam, your soft moans fill the steamy room, “Ohhh Din, yes right there, please.”

“Such a polite little princess, isn’t she?” hums Din, loving how responsive you always are for him.  He kisses down your neck, nipping at your shoulder as you come to a rest against his chest.  You’re shuddering from the way he’s stroking your pussy, swirling infuriatingly at your needy hole but never dipping inside, teasing you with long broad swipes up to your clit.

Pressing his thumb against your already slippery nub, Din takes advantage of your lack of sight and surprises you by dipping his head down to take one of your breasts in his mouth at the same time – you cry out from this sudden double attack, body trying to run.

The old bounty hunter in him activated, Din chuckles and increases the pressure of his hand on your pulsing clit, and with his free hand, he holds you firm by the nape of your neck - face now buried deep in your cleavage, biting and sucking every bit of soft flesh his mouth can find.  Rolling your pert nipple between his teeth, he seals his lips over the sensitive peak and murmurs, “I got you, mesh’la.  Let me make you feel good.”

At his sure words, you immediately relax and willingly giving yourself over to your warrior, sighing in surrender as he worships you with his fingers and his mouth.  This is the only time that you allow yourself to be covetous of what is not rightfully yours – Din’s face you may know without having ever seen, but the lascivious sight of what he looks like when he loses himself in your pleasure remains a mystery.  You secretly long to see it – wishing to know how dark his eyes burn, how his lips wet and plump, how his brow might furrow or relax in reaction to your whines and whimpers. 

If you were his riduur – no.  No, you can’t let yourself go down that path of longing, it only ends in heartbreak. 

As if he can sense that your mind has started to wander, Din slips two of his thick fingers deep in your heat and curls them, beckoning you back to him.  You fly right back into the moment and to the space of devotion that he holds just for you, gasping for air at the stretch of his welcomed intrusion.

“Need to get you ready for my cock, cyare,” purrs your Mandalorian, bringing you back fully and binding your heart to his in the here and now.

Nodding almost mindlessly, you crash your mouth to Din’s.  The kiss is desperate, needy for so many reasons – your tongues licking and chasing, dancing to the song of perfect pleasure that strums along the electric current that connects you.  Din feverishly conducts the symphony of your body – grand upward motions of his fingers in your cunt send waves of bliss that crescendo through your core; the sweeping of his lips against yours keeps you in tempo with his own urgency; his rolling downward gestures on your clit coils the band below your belly tighter and tighter.

No one can play you like Din can – beneath the beskar armour he’s a master musician, lover.  Like the weapons he so deftly wields and handles, your body is an instrument he knows intimately – every shift, slight change or tensing is noted and adjusted for so he can optimize performance, maximize your pleasure.  Din knows you’re going to come before you do by the key in which your breath hitches, the cadence of your fluttering walls.

“Come for me, Princess,” he growls, biting down on your plush bottom lip.  Now it’s your turn to obey – you come with an arch of your back and a chorus sung to your General’s name, Din, Din, Din, Din.

Here you can be as loud for as long as you want and Din can fuck you through your high for as long as you need, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean only when your cunt is complacent enough to release him, “Always taste so sweet, cyar’ika.”  You sigh at the filthy sounds of another forbidden sight you long, lust for.

Lips finding his again, you taste yourself on Din’s tongue and tease, “I thought we were eating after.”

This time it’s Din’s turn to act coy, repeating your question from earlier with a knowing smirk against your pout, “After what?”

In response, you reach between your bodies and even without the benefit of sight, easily find Din’s hard, throbbing cock.  Stroking his length with your delicate hands, you lift to line him up with your entrance and wordlessly sink down, “After you come, General.”

“As you wish, Princess,” Din groans at the way your pussy hugs him.  When you feel him shift beneath you to plant his feet on the bottom of the tub, you stop Din with a hand on his wide chest and shake your head, “You’re tired and your body needs rest, my love.  Let me do the work.”

Big, loving hands come up to cradle your head and a playful but reverent tone accompanies Din’s protest, “A General’s duty is to serve his Princess.”  You tilt into his paw and nuzzle; your Mandalorian’s affectionate touch and the feeling of fullness combine in making you compliant.  Leaning in close you ghost over Din’s lips, “Together then.”

Half awestruck, half groaning in agreement, Din slides his hands back down your soft body to come to a rest on your waist, holding you gentle and secure, “Together.”

It’s easy to find the perfect rhythm, your bodies already so in tune with one another.  Din’s slow upward thrusts meet your lighter bounces halfway, causing the water of your bath to ripple and splash against the sides of the tub.  It’s tender and patient until it isn’t – with no communication other than your soft whinnying and Din’s grunts and heavy breathing, your tempo and intensity remain matched, building together. 

Always together.  How you love being together with your Mandalorian.  How you love him.

You press yourself to Din, the rise and fall of his chest grounding you as your hips work in tandem with his.  Arms snaking around his neck, you cling to the General as your joint movements become more fervent and passionate, the water now choppy from your lovemaking.

Together.  Everything is better when you’re together.  You were able to get through today, together.

Love, relief and gratitude flood your pleasure wracked body as you crawl up Din’s broad mountain frame to find his lips.  Latching your mouth to your Mandalorian’s, you kiss him heady and desperate.  Every press of your plush and swollen pout thankful for his survival, of today’s fight and of all the fights that came before today so that he could come into your life.  A thank you to maybe that same mystical force that gives Grogu his unexplainable powers, for making the man that fills you so full at the moment the warrior, the father, the man is.  Thankful that he loves you.  For all of him.

Din meets every brush of your lips with the same devotion, somehow able to read the emotion behind your eyes without seeing them - the same way you’re able to read him even when he’s hidden behind his helmet.  He himself grateful for bringing his son and your countrymen back to you safe, for being the one to give you what you needed for the success of your mission.  A thank you to that same power than runs in his son’s veins and makes him a warrior far stronger than Din could ever be, for bringing him to you.  Grateful that a woman as regal, compassionate, and kind as you saw past his hard armoured exterior to the man beneath and holds him in your esteem.  And in your heart.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” Din growls with a deep rumble of his chest that echoes off the walls.  I love you.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” you cry back in the perfect pronunciation that Din taught you.  I love you.

Neither of you able to hold back your love for one another nor the crest of your bodies any longer – coming together, lyrical song sung loud and shameless.  The Princess and the General have nothing to hide here, tonight.

Later, after you’ve each eaten and drank your fill of Falvian fruits and wine, and you’ve massaged and kneaded Din’s sore muscles until you’re satisfied with the way his aches have melted away, Din guides you, still blindfolded, out of the cooled bath to the bed.

With Din protectively hovering over your naked body ready to take you again, you realize that as thankful as you’ve been feeling, you haven’t actually acknowledged those sentiments out loud to the man to whom you owe everything, “Thank you, Din.  Thank you for being the might of the realm.”

Though he knows you cannot see them, Din’s eyes fill with a love he hopes he can properly convey in other ways, “No need to thank me, cyar’ika, it will always be my honour to fight for you.  You must know - you are the might of the realm.  The realm prospers and remains strong because its Princess is brave, smart, good.  You’re everything, mesh’la.  You’re my might – I can only do the things I can because I do them for you.  I would do anything for you.”

You feel the scarf you wear across your eyes dampen as it absorbs your tears, “I know, Din.”  Happy, content, you welcome your General between your legs once more; and with the rare luxury of time and freedom that the two of you have been gifted tonight, you know it won’t be the last time.

[ravers8fantasy]

once you open hc request again can you do doc Louis plezz

Wahey doc louis lets gooo, so sorry if these lwk suck I got major writers+art block and my creativity has just disappeared 😭 also i was tired when I made this so if you see any mistakes then IM SOSOOS SORRY!! anyway uh i hope u enjoy my....

☆Doc louis head canons!!☆

Owns a small boxing gym that he opened after he retired from professional boxing.

Also spends most of his time there its like a second home for him, he even sleeps there sometimes.

I dont think he would be in a relationship with anyone, I like to think that because he was focused on his boxing career he could never find the time for that kinda stuff.

Theres a bunch of old commercials with doc when he was in his prime. He is a little embarrased about them because the humor is outdated and cheesy.

Hates the one where he had to sing about chocolate flavoured milk. He only did it because he thought he would get the brand's chocolate milk free for life (spoiler he didnt😔).

I headcanon that he got into boxing because he used to see the matches with his dad as a kid and it inspired him

Hides his chocolate bars in the most obscure places so people dont go eating them (mac...also hippo, dont think you can sneak out of this one.), he also keeps one on him at all times.

Speaking of Mac, Doc see's himself as a farther figure for him and sees himself in Mac. (father and son duo frfr) studied all the boxers move sets so he could teach Mac better.

Before Mac came along, he used to go and watch a couple of matches and reminisce about old times.

Still has unresolved beef with some of his 'enemies' he made during his time with the W.B.V.A, sends hate paragraphs via fax machine whenever he is bored.

He literally can say anything and it will sound like an inspirational quote. Like imagine one of those silly inspirational facebook posts and its just "whats your favourite flower... Mines chocolate🤤"

Mainly listens to a mix of blues jazz and 80s hip hop, but is open to listening to other genres as well.

One time tried to show Mac his old bboy skills but straight up just collapsed in on himself on the floor.

Instead of reaching for the bottle after a hard day he will treat himself to a chocolate cake.

Doc first invented the star punch as an emergency move he would pull out from when all seemed lost. The version Mac was taught was a refined and changed version which better suited the new generation of boxing.

☆ *:..｡o♬**:..｡o♬**:..｡o♬**:..｡o♬**:..｡o♬*ﾟ ☆

Okok thats all!! I really wanted to do smth with the star punch, this headcanon is probably just a lil idea i will work on😭😭 I hoped you enjoyed!!!

[ssentimentals]

Hii <33 can i req 38 from hurt prompts with mingyu?

Love your writing! 💕

hi <33 thank you, that's so sweet! thank you for requesting! 💜 hopefully you will like it!

hurt prompt: 'don't yell at me.'

sometimes emotions run high and there simply is not enough time to let the steam off in a healthy way; sometimes you can't help but let your frustrations climb up high in your throat and spill out in form of harsh, petty, very not pretty words that you always end up regretting afterwards.

'we should stop this now,' mingyu interrupts your rant, keeping his voice calm and collected even though you can tell that he's shaking with anger. 'before it escalates. it's no good for either of us. let's just come back to this tomorrow, okay?'

the notion of just leaving this now sets you aflame. you don't feel like you contain all of these emotions within you till tomorrow; not when they are practically burning you up from inside. and mingyu's calm voice only sets you off even more, because his calmness doesn't match the tornado inside you and before you can even think it through, you're practically shouting: 'kim mingyu, we are talking about this now or we are not talking about it at all!'

your sense comes back to you only when you hear his icy tone which she never uses with you: 'don't yell at me.'

you blink, breathing heavily. it feels like your heart is about to jump out of your chest with how hard it's beating but mingyu's tone serves as a cold shower, cooling you down. you open your mouth, but mingyu interrupts: 'if you're about to yell again, i will leave. baby, i love you, but we are not speaking to each other like that.'

which is - fair. it takes an incredible effort to compose yourself, but you manage to wriggle out sharp: 'i'm sorry', which didn't sound very sincere, but you tried at least. mingyu watches silently as you battle with yourself and then hits you with the words that shatter your heart: 'this is not us. you and i, we don't talk like that. we are never like that with each other.'

it works better than anything else would have - you stop pacing and stare at him dejectedly. this time when you apologize, it's quiet and sincere and mingyu nods, knowing you mean every word. 'tomorrow sounds good,' you whisper, not knowing how to face your emotions or mingyu right now. 'i'll call.' and then you add: 'this is not us.'

he nods. before leaving, mingyu steps closer and gently kisses your forehead - an action that brings tears to your eyes. 'i'll be waiting for the call, babe. we are better than this, okay? we'll figure it out tomorrow.'

you nod, hoping and praying to god that he is correct.

a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini

[artytaeh]

I couldn't tell if I was. Blaise girly before but DANG he's actually kinda.....

no because hear me out this man's love seems silent at first, but as soon as you pick up on his little acts of love it's actually so clear, so loud!

blaise was raised by a woman, and i don't see mrs. zabini being one to suffer for love; such a thing transmitted some values to blaise: one, there's always someone out there that will appreciate you, even if this one didn't work out; two, happiness can't (won't, and doesn't) depend on a romantic partner.

even though blaise won't be one to endlessly suffer of romantic love, he will put his best effort on doing whatever he can to make things happen, or end, with the best terms. blaise definitely isn't the type to regret, because he makes sure to leave situations with a peaceful mindset— he did whatever he could; if it didn't end well, then it wasn't supposed to happen that way.

that being said, it's not that blaise doesn't feel. he does; however, he's someone with a certain level of practicality and rationality on these situations. why suffer, if there's nothing to regret, nothing else to do about it? he might be sad, and he will grief for a short moment, before moving on.

i can see blaise being friends with some ex-girlfriends and flings. this king seeks PEACE, and sometimes to achieve it, you have to give the correct closure. so, yes; genuinely a friendly acquaintance of his previous relationships.

however, i don't think that blaise puts such an heavy value on the title girlfriend. it doesn't have to be the one, the girl he'll marry; if blaise has a crush on her, if things are reciprocal and there's a good chemistry going on, then hell yeah, let's date! blaise doesn't have a problem over breaking up, if he perceives the relationship as something that, no matter what, won't be able to develop into something that makes him happy, makes you happy, and doesn't become toxic.

chill guy. i think that blaise has such a good self-esteem! he's momma's beloved boy; mrs. zabini raised a young man capable of take accountability for his bullshit, but also a boy who knows his worth.

i develop this on a draft that has headcanons about slytherin boys in quidditch settings, but blaise doesn't get that pissy over losing a match. if anything, it only makes him more determined to find a strategy and play even better next time.

so, babes... making him jealous? that's a huge turn off. blaise doesn't have the patience for petty, childish games like these, people testing his love for them. blaise wouldn't make you jealous either; trust, tranquility, a gentle love that sounds like waves greeting the shore— that's how it must be for him.

( short extra, but uhm, rizz. idc, blaise is so smooth. side-eyes and gives nasty looks to other male quidditch players, but to them ladies? damn ladies, you know you look FINE. good game, good game— and goes to their celebration parties if he's invited to them by female quidditch players. )

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

"No!"

Michael's sharp cry had Gerry springing out of their bed in an instant, stumbling for only a second before following Michael's voice and charging into the loo. "What happened? What's wrong?" he gasped, clutching the door and frantically looking around for what was wrong. Michael didn't answer him, simply turned to look at him with wide watery eyes, and revealed exactly what was wrong. "Oh."

Michael had given himself bangs. And not very well.

"They look awful," Michael said mournfully, turning back to the mirror. "I thought they'd look cute but they look so bad. I fucked up."

"Oh, Michael, love," Gerry sighed, relief crashing over him and nearly taking him to his knees. Instead he stepped forward and came up behind Michael, wrapping his arms around his middle. He rose up on his tiptoes to set his chin on Michael's shoulder, examining his new fringe in the mirror. They were too short, that was clear, too blunt and not enough to frame his forehead. "What brought this on?"

"I don't know. Existential dread?" Michael shrugged unhappily, also staring at himself in the mirror. "I just wanted to try it, and now I've ruined them."

"First of all, it's hair. It'll grow back." Gerry paused to kiss Michael's cheek, amused even in the face of Michael's dramatics. "Second, you have no one to impress but me, and I'm stupidly in love with you already so it doesn't matter how you look." Michael sniffed, but tilted his head towards Gerry, leaning closer in his arms. "Third, you can't stop there. Your fringe just needs more work and it'll look a lot better, I promise."

"I'm never touching my hair with scissors again," Michael swore, pulling away from Gerry to turn and brace himself on the countertop. "I'm going right back to bed and not leaving until this grows out."

Gerry just shook his head, stepping forward into Michael's space. "You're not doing that, love, I'd miss you too much." He lifted up on his tiptoes again and brushed Michael's chopped hair back, kissing his forehead and taking a moment to bask in the love and affection he felt. "Let me fix them?"

Michael sighed, his breath brushing across Gerry's face, his eyes soft and heavy. "I suppose you can't make them worse," he grumbled, curling down towards Gerry like he was drawn in to him. Gerry couldn't stop himself from smiling up at him mischievously.

"I mean, I could buzz them off. Just‒" he made a noise like an electric razor and moved his hand like he was cutting a swath through Michael's hair. Michael's face fell in comical dismay. "Could give you an undercut while I'm at it."

Michael shook his head, a smile finally breaking onto his face. "I'm not brave enough for an undercut."

"But you're brave enough to cut your fringe without a second thought?" Gerry teased, reaching for the scissors next to the sink. "Listen, if you ever want an undercut, let me know. I'll shave the side of my head too. We'll match."

"That'll look better on one of us, and it's not me." Michael sunk down to sit on the lowered toilet lid, tilting his head towards Gerry and closing his eyes peacefully. Gerry carefully sectioned his long hair back, keeping several front pieces hanging in place. With careful snips, he trimmed them away, shorter and shorter until they framed Michael's face. He expanded on what Michael had done over his forehead, thinning it out and extending it to the sides, layering it so it didn't look quite so short. He wasn't an expert in hair cutting by any means, but he was an expert on Michael and the best way to flatter his beautiful face.

When he was done, Gerry genuinely did think Michael looked much better. He ran his fingers through Michael's bangs, fluffing them up to his satisfaction. "Okay, that's better." Michael immediately sprang to his feet and whirled to look in the mirror, his fidgety fingers coming up to arrange the strands himself, fussy and nervous until he finally pulled back with an incredulous look on his face.

"You did it," he breathed in wonder. "You fixed them."

"Told you, they just needed more work." Gerry ducked down to pick up the longer strands he had snipped, coiling the bright blonde lengths in his palm. He wondered if it would be weird to incorporate that into his art somehow, if Michael would be okay with that. He'd ask later. "Watch your step, I need to sweep up your trimmings."

"No, you're not." Michael's sudden words had Gerry's head shooting up in shock, but his surprise quickly melted away when he caught sight of Michael's expression. Oh. "I'm taking you right back to bed and absolutely ravishing you now," Michael proclaimed, stepping over the mess at his feet to get right into Gerry's space, intention obvious. "As thanks for fixing my hair."

"You don't have‒ I don't need‒" Gerry stumbled over his words, trying to express that he didn't fix Michael's hair simply so he could get sex from him. Michael just shook his head, no doubt reading his mind and figuring that out for himself.

"It's just an excuse, my love," he assured him, resting his long arms on Gerry's shoulders. "I am grateful to you for what you did, but I would want to fuck you regardless. Because I love you, and also you're standing shirtless in front of me. How could I not?"

Gerry blushed, charmed and mollified by Michael's words. His hands rose to settle on Michael's hips, pushing his shirt up to feel the warm skin underneath. Now that he knew it wasn't wholly reciprocal, he was very interested in Michael's offer. Of course he was. "I didn't really think that," he muttered, hoping to smooth things over before it became an issue. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Oh, Gerry." Michael ducked his head, kissing him so sweetly. "I love you. And I appreciate that. I really do." His hands slid from his shoulders down his back, past his hips to his thighs, gripping him tightly. Gerry got the hint and jumped up, caught in Michael's grip with his legs around his hips as the kiss continued, deepening as Michael carried them back into their room. "Now, can I make love to you?"

"Yes, please."

[chaisarinawat]

Chai went utterly still as he confessed that he was happy to be with P'Dan, in work settings and non-work settings, hoping that he wasn't overstepping his boundaries. When he saw the small smile appear on Dan's face though, he relaxed considerably - as long as P'Dan wasn't mad at him or disgusted with him or trying to push him away again, he'd be fine. And seeing his boss smile at him had the young assistant's heart beating even faster, because Dan was so handsome when he smiled. It was such a rare sight to see too, since his boss usually wore a stern or nondescript expression.

Dan reached out to brush Chai's cheek with his hand, after Chai had indicated he was comfortable with P'Dan touching him. Then, Dan's hand slowly fell to where Chai was resting his own, touching each one of his fingers.

"Is this okay?"

Chai nodded, feeling warm all over. Dan asking him, making sure - it was so considerate. Something Chai didn't have in his past relationship. P'Korn just did what he wanted, whenever he wanted, leaving Chai with a sense of dread whenever the man tried to reach for him. But Dan asking permission was just another reminder at how different his boss was to the other kinds of men that attempted to touch Chai, filling him with nothing but respect towards the man.

He allowed Dan to explore his hand, touching the palm and the veins and his fingers, before his boss spoke again.

"Thank you, for giving me a chance to prove myself. I - wanted you to know I care about you and although you said you do have feelings for me, too, I'd - I'd like to give you time. To think about things. To make sure how you feel. I'm not going to rush you and I want you to take your time. Until you're ready to give me your answer. Whatever it maybe in the end. I'd be very happy to stay friends. I hope you'll let me help you once in a while and if you need advice or anything at all, just know you can talk to me."

Chai stared up at Dan in wonder, his eyes wide and shining with hope as a small smile stretched across his face. Everything that Dan was saying was warming Chai's heart. Giving him time to let him think, not rushing him, reminding him that he cared - even saying he'd be happy if they remained friends. He was approaching Chai like a proper Phi, another person who Chai felt like he could trust and rely on, allowing him the space and time to think about what he wanted without having a fear of Dan being angry or mad at him.

"I'd like that Phi," Chai said, squeezing Dan's hands. "I like that a lot. I want to try that with you." The younger assistant glanced down at their connected hands, noticing how Dan's grip was firm enough so that they wouldn't be released, but not rough or forceful, his actions matching his words well. "I hope you know you can talk to me too, about anything Phi."

As Chai finished his sentence, he felt his throat tighten and soon a light yawn escaped him. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and when he opened them again they were a little droopy. He had slept for a few hours, but it hadn't been enough and he was still tired.

"Are you sleepy? You should probably go back to sleep. I - should probably move back to my bed, huh?"

Chai nodded at Dan's question. "Yeah, Phi. We should sleep. You sound a lot better but you're still recovering, and rest will be good for you. Stay here, in my bed. I'll move over to yours. Or..." Chai grew quiet, gazing down again at how Dan's hands were clasping his. They had been sleeping on the same bed before, and it had been fine. Chai slept in the same bed as his friend P'War, and it was fine. Neither of them really had to move.

"Let's just both sleep here?" Chai suggested shyly. He truly meant 'sleep', and figured that with how considerate Dan was being the other would understand that it wasn't some kind of code for anything else. Chai already felt comfortable with P'Dan after their conversation, and he knew that Dan wouldn't do anything that would go back on his word. "Lie down Phi. I'll sleep next to you."

Chai lowered himself from his seated position into one where he was lying down, careful not to do anything to separate his hand from Dan's. The mattress was soft and the blanket he slipped into was still warm, making it the perfect condition for him to sleep. His droopy eyes slipped close as he huddled next to Dan, glad to have a body beside him - he had gotten used to it since War moved in, and he found it much easier to sleep when he wasn't alone. "Goodnight Phi." Chai whispered to the other in the darkness, drifting off into dreamland with a smile on his face and with P'Dan's hand holding onto his.

END

Chai's nervousness was growing, becoming apparent with every passing second after his confession to Dan. He was waiting for the other to shut him down, or re-establish their boundaries as boss and assistant, or even tell him they needed to suppress their feelings for one another because it was an inappropriate situation. Chai didn't know what he was scared of more - putting his heart on the line again, or being outright rejected.

Or maybe, he was scared of something else. Chai's second job was nothing like what he did for Dan - but he needed to be there, otherwise khun Debt Collector... he'd just keep adding more to the money Chai owed. Chai had promised to work for the man until his debt was cleared, and his job involved being touched and enjoyed by men - if Dan found out... Chai was sure he'd feel disgusted with him. And so Chai was hesitating, wanting this development with Dan to happen, but finding himself held back for a multitude of reasons. His past abuse with P'Korn, his current boss-assistant relationship with the man he liked, and his predicament of being employed at The Playroom.

"Nong. Can - I touch you?"

Dan's hand reached out, pausing mid-air before making contact with Chai's skin. The young assistant nodded his consent, no longer afraid of Dan's touch, having become familiar with the feeling of closeness with him these past couple of days.

"Look at me…"

Chai's eyes drifted up to Dan's, the younger man still tentative as to the status of their relationship at the moment as he waited for his boss to continue talking.

"Please, don't say things just because… Just because you feel you have to. I - told you I like you because I want to be honest with you. I'm not expecting you to reciprocate… I want you to be true to what you feel… I want you to be genuine… I want you to be happy… And not worried. Or scared. I - never want you to be scared of me ever again…"

Chai felt his heart soften at those words. They were so tender, and genuine, and kind - words that Chai hadn't heard from anyone he was interested in. His friends of course were amazing - P'Rachi and P'War and P'Aisoon, they all showed their love and support for Chai in various ways, and he adored and loved each and every one of them in return - but romantically, it was a different story. P'Korn hadn't even told Chai such things - about wanting him to be happy, about wanting him not to worry, or be scared. Hearing Dan say specifically that he didn't want Chai to ever be scared of him again was how the younger man knew the other wasn't trying to play with him like P'Korn had. Dan was... he was nothing like Chai's ex. He was the total opposite.

"I want to be honest too P'Dan," Chai said. "That's why I told you everything, about how I'm feeling. And I'm not scared of you anymore. I was happy to work with you these past few days - b-but I'm also really happy to just be with you, Phi. And not just for work." Chai told him, leaning closer. "You wanted to touch me, Phi?" He asked softly. "You can. You can touch me."

[atamascolily]

Prior to meeting Shang, the Vapewiz had carved out a pretty good equilibrium for himself, indulging his sadism in ways that still allowed him to feel like a good (or at least, not actively harmful) person. But gradually, he's had to start confronting the fact that even this measure of indulgence has undesirable consequences. Sha Wu Sheng – a man who at one point attempted to redeem himself – was emotionally broken and then killed. Lin's old master died in the process. Mie Tian Hai very nearly destroyed the world, and who knows what else could happen if Lin keeps chasing bigger fish. We're reaching a point where, if things keep up as they've been going, the Vape Wizard will become undeniably villainous. And I'm not sure he's comfortable with that. Or I might just be projecting. There are two ways to interpret the Enigmatic Gale, and while they both have their charms, they're also both mutually exclusive to one another. On the one hand, if there's a gooey moral center hiding within that sharp and glittery exterior of his, it means that we're up for some interesting pathos in the future. However, this also comes at an unbearable cost in that it likely require that Lin stop being the Enigmatic Gale someday. And we can't have that! The Enigmatic Gale is the heart of adventure, an endless fount of easy yuks at the expense of megalomaniacs with sword fetishes. But on the other hand, if the show keeps operating at its current level of sharpness – and I wouldn't want it to not be this smart – it can't keep letting Lin off the hook forever. He's an incorrigibly selfish asshole, but he's just such a fun asshole, so I love him even though I know that he would never love someone else as he is now. Lin Xue Ya is likely the embodiment of Gen Urobuchi's dark side, his power to sympathize with sadists and the pleasure that he gains from digging into the depths of the human heart. Unfortunately for this side of himself, it coexists with a strong moral center (represented by Shang Bu Huan) and equally strong sympathy for those victimized by history. The conflict between these two tendencies manifests throughout all of the Butcher's work. Despite their alliance of convenience – and my desire for a more permanent one – either Shang's or Lin's side will be forced to give way in their battle on the terrain of this show's soul. Oh well, I'll just try to enjoy the action while it lasts. I anticipate that it'll at least throw me through a few good loops before the journey is over. --Gabriella Ekens reviewing Thunderbolt Fantasy S2x6-7 for Anime News Network.

[louwhose]

Zelink Week 2024 | Day 6 | Ocarina of Time| Sealed Fate

They're so tragic but is there any other way their story could have gone? But the differences between the one who holds hope that brings about the doom it intended to stop and the one who has lived through that fallen world but has only one final hope to fix it.

@zelinkcommunity

[kateis-cakeis]

rewatching bbc merlin really has me like buzzing in my mind with so many thoughts. Like I'm kinda watching it backwards atm going from S5 to S4, I think I will jump around 3, 2, and 1 but just,,,, there is so much especially in S5 that makes me !!!!!!!

Honestly, I feel like this fandom has to give the writers more credit. Like they did a damn good job, and to me, it's such a good tragedy. Especially how S5 plays out, it takes everything and just tears you down, and down, and down. It's perfect, perfect with flaws! But still perfect

[archivedsorrow]

( @sleeplesswork )

silver hair, teal eyes; that was all that was on ivan's mind lately. he couldn't explain it. everywhere he went in the garden, he was looking for him, consciously or not, he was always drawn to wherever till was. he wanted to know everything about him. he wanted to understand him. he knew the sort of enviroment till came from; it wasn't too different from his own. so... how? how did he keep that spark in him, how come he didn't succumb to the system yet when... it obviously carried consequences? not once had he witnessed till be taken away to solitary, not once had he witnessed extra restraints having to be used on him in specific. sometimes it was ivan's fault, sometimes it wasn't. it more often than not was ivan's fault.

and yet. none of the provocations really yielded any answers. till still remained as much as an enigma as the first time he saw him. ivan finally concluded... he needed something bigger. but how were he, a lone boy, to come to such means that weren't simple bickering and scuffles, to try and pull something extraordinary out of another?

the answer came to him later that night, when he went towards a corner of the anakt garden that he hadn't been to much yet. he's found flaws in the system before and exploited them in different places, but he wondered if this one had something, too... a twisted smile curled his lips upwards once he found himself staring at the glitchy wall. ivan felt over the cracks in the otherwise pristine display of what was the garden itself, a perfect, splitting image of earth... like a paradise. but the boy had long since learned that it was anything but.

he paused then, glancing over his shoulder. all the flowers that were nearby had been meticulously crushed and stomped over, torn at the stems as ivan had been practically obsessed with destroying them. it was one final glance to reassure himself that he wasn't followed or watched by anyone, before he pulled at what seemed to be a tear in the very fabric of reality. it made an uncomfortable, screeching sound, one that had him flinching slightly, but before he knew it, he was staring into a gaping maw of what appeared to be a cave. where did this lead?

as he fearlessly stepped forth, the cold of the ground beneath his feet was a jarring contrast to the warm grass of anakt garden. ivan stepped over dirt and stone alike, sliding his palm along the wall as he walked in a whimsical manner. the darkness was oddly comforting, as compared to the bright, too bright lights of the garden. he only paused once he heard growling. did something live here? his steps grew lighter, more careful, as he followed after the strange sounds. it was then, that he saw it. that creature, of a shape that reminded him of those his father's men owned. two headed and drooling, baring sharp fangs. he never quite knew what they were, other than they were used to rip apart those that didn't pay their debts to father promptly enough.

it noticed him, he knew. of course it did. “ ... ” they were staring into each other's eyes, and ivan was surprised to see the beast not attack him immediatelly... but then he saw— the collars around both of its necks... just like till. he recalled his father's bodyguards throwing hunks of meat at these creatures and they always gulped them down happily. he wondered if this one was hungry, too; it was drooling, almost shaking as it stared ivan down. he couldn't fathom what purpose this one served, why it was hidden away behind the walls of the garden that was supposed to be a peaceful, safe paradise. he turned his back to it, heading back towards the garden, and subsequently, his room. he'd have to find it some snack.

he'd found some scraps from his dinner, gathered them up and quickly went back to where he came from, always mindful of not being seen. he was quite pleased to see that none of their caretakers that were up at night seemed to notice anything, so ivan's path remained clear. he made a quick trip back towards that hellish creature he saw earlier, hands outstretched with the offerings he brought. it quickly perked up and began panting... was it... excited? ivan quirked one of his brows upwards, committing this behavior to memory. it was no longer growling at him, ivan no longer felt like he wasn't allowed to approach it any further. with some caution, he threw the first bit of food towards it. it happily gobbled it up... and so he repeated that a few more times, until he had nothing left on his hands.

that wegyein then trotted over to the raven-haired boy on its own, causing him to tense up for one fleeting moment. “ mm... ” he hummed idly, carefully pressing his palm to one of its snouts. was it thankful? he remembered always being told to say thank you! to the cooks when they were handing out food to the children. with no further regard to his own well-being, ivan slipped his fingertips over the creature's teeth, even slipping them between some of the bigger gaps. he wondered... how till would react to this thing?

he left the animal with that thought, etched deeply into his mind. other than giving it a silent promise that he'd come visit it every so often, it was all he could think about, head buzzing with countless possibly scenarios of what-ifs where he imagined till standing up to an alien creature that appeared so feral. so of course. the next day, that was exactly the sort of scenario he had to set up.

during their mandatory playtime, he noticed till trying to weave a flower crown. that seemed to be the new hit thing amidst the children, everyone was doing it lately. he wasn't even that bad if ivan were to be honest— but something still bothered him about the other children's ignorance towards what those flowers actually were ( so why did you never tell them? ).

“ hey! ” he exclaimed, rushing over towards the fair-haired boy and snatching the flower crown he'd been working on this whole time. “ hahaha, you want it back? you're gonna have to catch me! ” and with that taunt, he immediatelly bolted towards his newfound secret place from last night.

[adore-gregor]

ugh there it goes

[omarwolaeth]

thinking 'bout how the lads interact with what the bracelets represent, especially in their decks

[chaoswillcalmusdown]

i'm genuinely filled with a sense of despair bc work starts back up tomorrow and i just do not want to go. i want to run away. i want to go awol.

[ssspringroll]

i hate you, weird blocky parts of the droom mesh. i cant wait for you to be died ♥

[nightacquainted]

Fanvid of Beauty and the Beast set to "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx