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padawan-snack-packer · 3 days ago

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[You Give Them a Hug — Clones Edition]

🚨 HUG HEADCANONS DISCLAIMER (aka: why are my feelings doing this??) 🚨

Hey friend!! Just a heads-up before you dive headfirst into the Clone Hugpocalypse:

This is:

✨For fun.✨

✨For feelings.✨

✨For healing my (and maybe your) inner sad clone child.✨

These headcanons are lovingly crafted with:

Unhealthy amounts of affection for emotionally constipated space soldiers,

Absolutely zero canon accuracy unless it serves The Bit™,

The kind of hugs that won’t fix everything, but they’ll try really hard, and

That sweet spot between “haha this is silly” and “WHY AM I SOBBING AT 3AM OVER A MAN NAMED WAXER???”

We’re here to give the boys hugs they deserved but never got, be unreasonably specific about emotional reactions to surprise cuddles, make jokes, get soft, get feral, maybe cry into our caf a little, and fill the galaxy with therapy via physical affection.

So if you’re:

Down for some clone comfort chaos,

Cool with affectionate nonsense,

And not too fussed about blending humor with trauma like a Force-sensitive emotional smoothie…

WELCOME!!! Let’s hug some broken war brothers and watch their brains blue screen in real time!!!!🫂💙

Rex

You approach him after a mission, he's mid-debrief with Commander Cody, all business—and you just wrap your arms around him.

Short-circuits like a protocol droid in a thunderstorm.

“Uh. Uh. Uh. Are you—hugging? Is that allowed? Wait—is this a prank??”

Freezes completely. He has been shot at, crushed under debris, and chased by a Zillow Beast, but THIS? THIS IS NEW.

But once he realizes you’re being sincere?

He hugs you back with this awkward, hesitant little pat on the back.

…Then his whole body melts just a little.

Won’t admit it, but he thinks about that hug for days. Constantly.

The next time you do it, he hugs back properly. Arm around your waist. Soft smile. You can hear the PTSD unclench.

Fives

“OH???”

You hug him and he immediately goes full dramatic soap opera romance novel mode.

“Oh cyare, I never thought I’d feel joy again!” dips you back like you’re on a dance floor in a 1940s holo-drama

Spinning you around is highly likely.

“What was that for?” “Just felt like it.” “Well, prepare to be hugged back so hard you question physics.”

Keeps score. “I hugged you for longer. That’s 10 points to me.”

Will start randomly leaning on you just so you'll initiate hugs. Professional cuddler. Certified clingy. No takebacks.

Echo

Hugging Echo is like trying to hug a very anxious piece of military-grade toast the first time.

He stiffens IMMEDIATELY. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Just internal.exe has stopped working.

You pull away and he’s like: “Wait. No. That was… actually kinda nice.”

Next time you hug him, he’s prepared. It’s still a little awkward, but he softens into it and gives you a little squeeze back.

One time he rested his chin on your shoulder and made a soft noise. You almost died from the gentle.

Eventually becomes the kind of guy to hug you in private but also glare at anyone else who dares look at you like "NO TOUCHING. THIS ONE'S MINE."

Jesse

You hug Jesse? Oh you are in for smug bastard energy.

“Ohoho, so someone likes me.”

Immediately picks you up.

Spinning is almost guaranteed.

“I am your favorite clone now. It’s science.”

Will initiate revenge hugs at the most inconvenient times. In the middle of a strategy briefing? “Come here, you adorable tactical disaster.”

Says things like “how dare you be so huggable, this is sabotage.”

Secretly very soft. Like, he’ll rest his forehead against yours before a mission and say “come back to me, alright?”

Kix

You hug him? You just activated his Care Mode™.

He immediately assumes you need comfort and goes into medic boyfriend mode:

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you bleeding internally? Let me check your vitals.”

“Kix, I just wanted to hug you.”

“…OH. Then never mind. But also drink water.”

Once he realizes it’s casual affection, he gets very warm and smiley.

Gives amazing hugs back. Firm, grounding, with the faint smell of bacta and caf.

Will gently guide your head to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat and a very quiet “you mean a lot to me, you know.”

Hardcase

INSTANT EXCITEMENT. “A HUG?? FOR ME???!!”

He picks you up. He spins you. He almost knocks over two troopers and a crate.

“DOES THIS MEAN I GET TO HUG YOU WHENEVER I WANT NOW?!”

He's so tall and enthusiastic it’s like hugging a golden retriever on steroids.

Will randomly run up to you, yell “HUG ATTACK!!” and tackle-hug you like a joyful missile.

Gives the kind of hugs that lift you off the ground, squeeze all your sadness out, and refill you with explosive energy.

“You looked sad, so I brought you a hug and also six different kinds of rations because I wasn’t sure which flavor helps feelings.”

Dogma

You hug Dogma and he freezes like a booted droid.

“W-what…what is this? Is this allowed? Is this a breach of protocol?”

You say “I just wanted to,” and he blushes so hard it looks like he’s overheating.

Tries to salute while you’re hugging him.

Very stiff at first, but once he realizes you’re safe, not joking, and this isn’t a punishment or test—he melts.

His return hug is so careful, like he’s worried he’ll break you.

Won’t initiate a hug himself, but he leans in now. He always leans in.

Cody

You sneak-hug Commander Cody while he’s organizing intel.

“Is this an ambush?” “Yup.” “…Accepted.”

He doesn’t show emotion often, but he likes you. A lot. So he lets his guard down.

Low-key one of the best huggers. Solid, warm, comforting.

The kind of hug that says I will keep you safe until the end of time.

After the first time, he starts greeting you with shoulder squeezes that slowly evolve into full-on hugs.

If anyone walks in: “They tripped. Onto me. It’s fine. Shut up, Waxer.”

Waxer

You hug Waxer and this man straight up breaks like a brittle cookie under a warm cup of caf.

Shocked Pikachu face at first. Like he fully does not know what’s happening.

He blinks. Looks down at your arms. Then at you. Then back at your arms like “Do they know I’m just a clone?”

You don’t let go. You just keep hugging him. And he just… leans in. Slowly. Carefully.

It’s gentle. It’s soft. It’s the first time in weeks he’s remembered he’s a person, not a number.

Murmurs something like: “...Thanks. That’s... rare.”

From that moment on, you are family.

Starts giving you surprise hugs. Especially when you least expect it.

You hand him ammo? Hug.

You fall asleep on the transport? Blanket + hug.

You stub your toe? “This calls for a hug AND a bandage.”

Secretly knits little stuffed Tooka dolls for orphan kids and denies it violently if caught.

If you ever say “you deserve love too,” he cries. Quietly. In the hallway.

Boil

You go to hug Boil and he IMMEDIATELY does the grumpy-cop reaction. “Whoa whoa whoa what are you doing—what is this—are you bleeding?”

Arms locked at his sides like you’re hugging a parking meter.

“Did Waxer put you up to this? This feels like a Waxer thing.”

You say, “No, I just wanted to hug you.”

And he shuts down like a battle droid hit with a logic loop.

“...Oh.”

He slowly, hesitantly raises one hand and pats your back like he’s diffusing a bomb.

One week later: He initiates a hug by awkwardly standing next to you and saying “Hey, if you need to do... that again or whatever, I guess I got a minute.”

Turns into hug tsundere. Grumbles the whole time but pulls you closer anyway.

You overhear him telling someone else: “No, I don’t like hugs. I just let them because they’re small and emotionally fragile.”

Meanwhile, he’s actively spooning you during downtime.

If anyone hurts you, Boil becomes a one-man war crime.

“No one touches my squishy little hug-friend but me. Got it?”

Bonus: The Domino Squad Bros (Before Umbara… RIP)

Hevy: Hugs you like a linebacker. Back pats that rattle your spine. Somehow always smells like gun oil and joy.

Cutup: Tries to tickle you mid-hug. Laughs so hard you both fall over. Says “awww, is someone getting attached?” while being the clingiest man alive.

Droidbait: Turns into a red-faced mess and blurts “I THINK I’M IN LOVE—wait no I mean um cool hug yeah.”

Echo (pre-ARC): Gives the kind of hugs that are more like gentle head rests. Hides his face in your neck and says “thanks. I needed that.” Your heart? Gone.

Bonus: Wolffe Pack Edition

Commander Wolffe

Hugging Wolffe is like hugging a brick wall with abandonment issues.

You approach him after a mission—he’s grumpy, bruised, barking orders—and you just wrap your arms around him.

And he’s like: “...what the hell is happening?”

FREEZES COMPLETELY. Arms stiff at his sides. Helmet still on. All systems shutting down. Internal monologue: “okay. okay. they are touching me. what do I do. do I arrest them. do I hug back. am I allowed to like this. oh no it’s nice. abort mission.”

Eventually—very slowly—his arms come up. He hugs you back like a tired, grouchy lion.

But then? You hear this tiny, low little exhale. Like he’s been holding his breath for 20 years and just remembered how to breathe. That hug heals him on a spiritual level.

Says absolutely nothing about it afterward. But his hand lingers on your back just a second longer than necessary the next time you walk past.

Sinker

“HEYOOOOO IS THAT A HUG I SEE??”

Immediately all in.

You don’t even finish initiating the hug before he scoops you into a bear hug so powerful your bones shift alignment.

Spins you around. Shakes you. Shouts “WE’RE FRIENDS NOW FOREVER YOU KNOW THAT RIGHT??”

Is 5000% a hugger by nature. Just never thought he was allowed to do it in the army.

Now that you’ve started it? You’ve unlocked the floodgates. Expect surprise hugs, one-armed shoulder squeezes, lifting-you-off-your-feet hugs, “hey I missed you for 5 minutes so here’s a hug” hugs—

Dangerously affectionate golden retriever energy.

Will absolutely start a “HUG THE ENTIRE BATTALION” campaign if left unsupervised.

Boost

You go to hug Boost, and his first reaction is: “...Are you sick?”

Then: “Wait. Are you dying?? Is this a goodbye hug?? DO YOU HAVE A FATAL WOUND??”

You reassure him it’s just a hug because you care about him.

He immediately does a 180. “Awwwwwwwwwwww! You care about me??? Of course you do, I’m awesome!! C’mere!!”

Picks you up like a child and swings you side to side while yelling “I’M LOVED! I’M LOVED!!!”

Absolutely insufferable in the most lovable way.

Starts initiating random sneak attack hugs. Behind crates. In line for food. Mid-mission. “Time for your daily emotional support clamp! HUGGED!!”

Tells Wolffe you hugged him and Wolffe just walks away immediately.

Comet

You hug Comet and he goes completely still.

Not in a “what is this” way. More like a “oh… oh no I need this and I didn’t know” way.

Arms go around you slowly, almost reverently. He’s warm and solid and still smells like blaster oil and ration bars.

He says quietly: “...Thanks. Been a rough one.”

Doesn’t let go right away.

He’s the kind of person who holds a hug like he thinks it’ll keep you both grounded. Like if he lets go, the galaxy will fall apart.

After that first one, he’ll give you real, deep hugs when you both need grounding. Doesn’t say much. Just holds on and lets the silence do the work.

Also becomes your Official Debrief Cuddle Buddy. End of long day? “You look like you need five minutes of hug.” And you always, always do.

🐺 BONUS: Wolffe Pack Group Hug Edition

You try to hug them all at once.

This is chaos.

Sinker lifts you and tries to twirl you.

Boost yells “PILE ON!!” and launches himself at the group like a very affectionate missile.

Wolffe is stuck in the middle of a dogpile of affection, looking like he wants to die and also maybe cry.

“Why. Are we. Touching this much.”

Comet somehow ends up holding Boost in a princess carry.

At one point Sinker tries to start a “hug chant.” It does not catch on. (Except with Boost. It echoes for 12 hours.)

Wolffe says nothing for days. Then randomly, at 3am, grumbles: “...That was kinda nice.”

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angelseraphines · 23 hours ago

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ೃ⁀➷ let me love you like a woman ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ obi-wan kenobi x tatooine!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! this story takes place following the events of revenge of the sith, where obi-wan kenobi is in exile on tatooine. i hope you enjoy reading! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ the sun was high, an oppressive white orb hanging in a sky bleached of all color, and the scorching sand outside your family’s shop shimmered akin to heated glass. mos espa breathed slow in the midday lull, its usual clamor hushed beneath the burden of the heat. only the fools or the desperate braved the streets now, those with credits to chase, or errands to run, or no home worth hiding in.

˚ ༘♡ you were behind the counter alone, the air inside dry but not quite suffocating, cooled just enough by the old condenser hissing gently in the corner. your mother had gone to barter for oils at the distillery two stalls down, and the shop, lined with bolts of cloth, spools of thread, sun-bleached leather satchels and imported moisture filters, rested in your care for the day.

˚ ༘♡ you wore ivory-white, the fabric was gauzy, sheer in the sleeves and hem, trimmed with pale gold thread and small mother-of-pearl beads that clicked when you moved. the heat was no match for the thin layers, and you relished the lightness, how it made you feel almost unreal, like some desert mirage wafting through your family’s simple walls. and you knew how you looked. it wasn’t vanity, it was fact. your skin gleamed in the sun, your hair loose, a sheen of sweat catching along your collarbone where it dipped into your dress. you knew what the boys in the square whispered when they saw you. you simply didn’t care.

˚ ༘♡ but him. he was different.

˚ ༘♡ you knew the shape of him before you saw it. of middling height, cloaked in rough robes that hadn’t been tailored in years, boots worn to the sole. he moved like a man who did not want to be perceived, who took no pride in posture, who walked with a quietness that only came from someone who had spent too long alone.

˚ ༘♡ the old wooden chime rattled as the door creaked open, and when you looked up from the counter, there he was. kenobi.

˚ ༘♡ you had only ever heard him addressed like that, “mr. kenobi,” when your father was being formal, or just “kenobi,” in the clipped, disinterested tones of market vendors who didn’t care much for names unless they owed you money. no one knew much about him. he lived past the edge of the dune sea, near the cliffs, in one of the carved-out stone huts that had belonged to the miners before the sands took them. he kept to himself. came down once or twice a month, sometimes less. bought little, said even less. no family, no friends, no history anyone could confirm. only a man with tired eyes and sun-leathered skin, who worked part-time at the meat station carving carcasses with a precision that never quite fit the rest of his appearance.

˚ ༘♡ “kenobi,” you said with a soft smile, brushing the wisps of your hair back and standing straighter. not too formal. not too familiar. merely enough to catch his eye.

˚ ༘♡ his gaze lifted slowly. beneath the shadow of his hood, his face was the same as always, quiet, drawn, unreadable. but something in the eyes flickered. pale blue. duller than they used to be, you imagined, but still sharp beneath the troubles within. not unkind. just… unreachable.

˚ ༘♡ “miss,” he said, voice low. dry, like gravel turned over in a hand. he nodded once in greeting, then looked to the shelves.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t speak immediately. didn’t rush him. you’d learned, over the past year or so, when he’d happen to appear, that he hated questions. hated chatter. but he never left without a word if you were the one behind the counter. there was something in your presence, something in your voice, or your serenity, or perhaps just your curiosity, that he never quite refused.

˚ ༘♡ “looking for anything in particular?” you asked, letting the hem of your sleeve drift along the counter’s edge. the fabric glimmered softly in the light.

˚ ༘♡ he hesitated, and then, with a slight shift of his hand, pulled a list from his pocket. creased. small. you stepped forward to take it, brushing your fingers over his as you did, feigning casualness. his hand jerked slightly at the contact, not violent, but startled. like he hadn’t expected warmth.

˚ ༘♡ you pretended not to notice.

˚ ༘♡ the list was simple. thread. canisters for water storage. a replacement coil for a condenser unit. nothing lavish. nothing even remotely indulgent. all of it mundane, all of it necessary. the kind of list made by someone who spent most of his days thinking only about survival.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced at it, then back at him. “we’ve got most of this. thread’s in the back, though. i’ll have to grab it for you.”

˚ ༘♡ he nodded again. “thank you.”

˚ ༘♡ no smile. no change in his expression. but he was still watching you, and that was enough to provoke something in your heart.

˚ ༘♡ you moved through the curtains behind the counter and into the backroom, biting your lip, the heat following you like a second skin. he was handsome, even if the desert had worn him down. handsome in a way that wasn’t youthful or polished, but weary. carved from stone. a man who had suffered something he would never speak of aloud. and yet… you couldn’t help it. every time he came in, something in you stirred like a story waiting to be told.

˚ ༘♡ you returned with the thread, letting the beads on your sleeves chime faintly as you walked. “this’ll hold for repairs,” you said, setting the spool down gently before him. “strong, too. doesn’t fray.”

˚ ༘♡ he picked it up, turned it once in his hand. “that’ll do.”

˚ ༘♡ he did not compliment you. he did not flirt, or even linger. but when your eyes met his again, there was something behind them. recognition. a kind of restrained gentleness. and beneath that, you sensed it again, the weight of something vast and terrible. the sorrow of a man who had lost everything but was alive enough to feel the ache.

˚ ༘♡ “how’s the station?” you asked, more softly this time.

˚ ༘♡ “untroubled.”

˚ ༘♡ you veered your head. “you don’t like questions, do you?”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw tightened. then, after a pause, “no.”

˚ ༘♡ you smiled at that. “i’ll remember that.”

˚ ༘♡ and for the briefest moment, his gaze did not look away. it stayed on yours, searching, tired, cautious. but not cold.

˚ ༘♡ you gave him the total. he paid in imperial credits, all properly counted. he did not make excuses or offer barter, simply accepted the number as it was. and when he turned to leave, you let your voice follow him, softer than before.

˚ ༘♡ “come back sooner next time, sir. i get bored with the scorching sand and uncivilized creatures as company.”

˚ ༘♡ he paused at the door. the light framed him in gold. he did not look back.

˚ ༘♡ yet you saw it, the barest incline of his head. like acknowledgment. like thanks.

˚ ༘♡ and then he was gone.

˚ ༘♡ you waited five full minutes.

˚ ༘♡ five minutes of pretending to rearrange the baskets. five minutes of glancing at the empty street beyond the shutters. five minutes of pretending you were not already gathering your courage like folds of your sheer skirt, not already bracing yourself for something unwise. no one had come by. the heat still reigned. your mother was still at the distillery, your father still at the hangar. and kenobi, he was already disappearing into the blinding light beyond the plaza, heading out toward the low hills of sand that marked the beginning of nowhere.

˚ ༘♡ so you did something reckless.

˚ ༘♡ you flipped the “closed” sign, ducked beneath the counter, and slipped out the side door. you didn’t lock it. you didn’t leave a note. you simply went.

˚ ༘♡ sand tugged at your slippers, the wind catching at the hem of your gauzy dress, turning it into streamers of white and gold behind you. your shawl fluttered loosely over your shoulders as you picked your way through the narrow alley behind the shop and emerged into the outskirts of mos espa. no one saw. or if they did, no one cared. maybe they thought you were off to visit a friend. or chasing someone. which, in a way, was true.

˚ ༘♡ kenobi was far ahead by then, a lone figure drifting over the dunes, headed away from the town like a ghost returning to its tomb. he moved steadily, not fast, not slow, just with the practiced gait of someone who had made this journey too many times to count. he didn’t notice you.

˚ ༘♡ you followed at a distance, heart loud in your chest, half expecting him to turn around at any moment and catch you in the act. but he never did. he just kept walking. farther and farther from civilization, from stalls and shouting and spice-sellers and moisture farmers, from everything that tied you to the world you knew.

˚ ༘♡ you had always wondered what he did out here. the hermit beyond the dune sea, they called him. stay away, your parents had said. men like that don’t come to town unless they need something. and you don’t want to know what they’ve done to end up that way.

˚ ༘♡ but you had wanted to know. desperately.

˚ ༘♡ the ground rose gently beneath your feet as you climbed the low ridge where he had gone. by now, the market was a distant haze. here, the world was empty and gold, a vast stretch of sand and sky. the atmosphere was thick. only the wind moved.

˚ ༘♡ and then you saw him.

˚ ༘♡ he was just the crest, sitting beside a cluster of jagged rock formations, his cloak drawn around him, not to guard from cold, but perhaps to guard from memory. his shoulders were hunched forward slightly, his hands clasped. his face was turned away from the sun, but you could see the line of his jaw, the vague downward curve of his mouth. and for the first time, you saw not just mystery, not merely enigmatic allure or rugged charm.

˚ ༘♡ you saw sorrow.

˚ ༘♡ not simple grief. devastation. the kind of sadness that hollowed out the soul. that silenced men. that turned warriors into wraiths.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t cry. he didn’t move. but the look on his face…

˚ ༘♡ something ached in you.

˚ ༘♡ he looked like he was listening to something no one else could hear. like he was waiting for a voice that would never come. the wind stirred the edges of his cloak and rustled his uncut, auburn hair, but he remained still. so still, you almost believed he was made of stone.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t step closer. you stayed hidden behind the rocks, breath caught in your throat, unsure what you had expected but knowing it hadn’t been this.

˚ ༘♡ you thought you’d find answers.

˚ ༘♡ you found a man grieving something far too large to speak aloud.

˚ ༘♡ and it made your heart twist, not out of pity, but something else. the same thing you’d felt when he touched your hand in the shop. the same thing you felt whenever his eyes flicked over your face, too quickly to be anything but deliberate.

˚ ༘♡ you whispered, barely loud enough for the wind to carry.

˚ ༘♡ “…what happened to you?”

˚ ༘♡ but he didn’t hear. or maybe he did, and he just had nothing left to say.

˚ ༘♡ you stayed there, beneath the twin suns, watching the man the galaxy had long since forgotten.

˚ ༘♡ and for the first time, you understood why he lived alone. why he spoke so little. why your parents had warned you away.

˚ ༘♡ not because he was dangerous.

˚ ༘♡ but because he was broken. and maybe he was beyond repair, too far gone in desolation to be saved.

˚ ༘♡ and yet, even now, especially now, something in you ached to try.

˚ ༘♡ you weren’t even trying to get closer. not really. you only meant to shift your footing, to find a better place to crouch, to watch without being seen, to satisfy the reckless ache in your chest without pushing your luck.

˚ ༘♡ but the sand beneath the ridge was loose. your slipper grated against the coarse sand. your ankle contorted. and before you could catch yourself, the ground rushed up fast and sharp beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you landed hard on the side of your knee, right against an outcrop of jagged rock hidden beneath the dune’s surface. pain seared red-hot through your leg, a tearing, ugly kind of pain that wasn’t just a scrape, it dug in, sharp enough to punch the breath from your lungs and make your vision bloom black around the edges.

˚ ༘♡ you gasped, and then you cried out. it wasn’t a scream, a sound ripped straight from your throat, raw and involuntary and sharp with pain.

˚ ༘♡ you clutched your leg, hand stained crimson against blood already seeping through the fabric. the gash was deep, slashing through the muscle in a way that made your stomach churn. the kind of wound that wasn’t going to clot on its own.

˚ ༘♡ and before you could even attempt to rise, before you could hide the stupid, childish mistake you’d just made, you heard it.

˚ ༘♡ footsteps. brisk. precise. heavy against the sand.

˚ ༘♡ you looked up, expecting fury. expecting a storm.

˚ ༘♡ you found him.

˚ ༘♡ kenobi stood over you, robes whipping in the wind, cerulean eyes fixed on yours with something unreadable in their pale depths. not anger. not exactly. something taut. something pulled tight between alarm and discretion.

˚ ༘♡ you opened your mouth to explain, to apologize, to say anything.

˚ ༘♡ but then he knelt.

˚ ༘♡ “let me see it,” he said, already pulling a fold of his outer robe free, already reaching for your injured leg.

˚ ༘♡ you blinked, stunned.

˚ ༘♡ “what…?”

˚ ༘♡ “you’re bleeding,” he said flatly. not unkindly. focused. “deeply.”

˚ ༘♡ “i didn’t mean to… i was only trying to…” you winced, teeth clenched as his fingers found the edge of the torn fabric. “i’m sorry. i know i shouldn’t have followed you, i wanted…”

˚ ༘♡ “stop talking.” it wasn’t cruel. it was the voice of a man who had seen worse than this. much worse. his hands were steady, rough-palmed but gentle, and his brow furrowed with concentration as he pressed the fabric to the wound. “you’re going into shock. breathe slowly.”

˚ ༘♡ you did. because something about the way he said it left no room for refusal.

˚ ༘♡ the blood was soaking fast, and you saw the frown that flickered across his face. you weren’t imagining the tension in his shoulders, the way he exhaled through his nose, as if trying to smother the heat beneath his skin.

˚ ༘♡ “does it hurt here?” he asked, fingers trailing just above the torn edge. your leg jerked involuntarily.

˚ ༘♡ “yes,” you hissed. “sorry… yes.”

˚ ༘♡ “don’t apologize.” his voice was soothing now. almost soft. “try and relax.”

˚ ༘♡ he tore another strip of cloth from his robe. his fingers worked fast, binding it tight with an efficiency that betrayed a history you didn’t know, of medpacs and battlefield wounds and makeshift triage in places far from here. he tied it off. it wasn’t pretty. but it was secure.

˚ ༘♡ you watched him as he leaned back, hands braced beside your leg, his head angled only narrowly.

˚ ༘♡ his hair was tangled with sweat. his jaw unshaven. and yet there was something beautiful about the way he looked at you in that instance, not as a burden. not as a foolish girl who trespassed where she didn’t belong. but as a person. as someone in pain. as someone he wanted to help.

˚ ༘♡ “…you’re not angry?” you asked, your voice barely above the wind.

˚ ༘♡ he blinked. the corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. more like surprise.

˚ ༘♡ “no,” he said, finally. “but you shouldn’t have followed me.”

˚ ༘♡ “i know.”

˚ ༘♡ “this isn’t a place for…”

“for what?” your eyes held his. “for stupid girls who ask too many questions?”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw flexed.

˚ ༘♡ “for people who haven’t seen war,” he said, after a long pause. “for people who still think the world is kind.”

˚ ༘♡ the words landed more forceful than you expected. but you didn’t look away.

˚ ༘♡ “i don’t think the world is kind,” you said.

˚ ༘♡ his gaze dipped. to your wound. to the vermillion blood leaking between the translucent fabric. to your dress, white and gilded, stained now with desert dust and red.

˚ ༘♡ “…you should go home,” he said. “once you can walk.”

˚ ༘♡ but he didn’t move. neither did you.

˚ ༘♡ you were too close now. his hands hovered near your leg. his knee brushed yours through the fabric. and the wind had grown quieter, the sun slanting low, washing him in the rays of the sun akin to the ruins of a statue no one had dared to bury.

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed, heart suddenly loud.

˚ ༘♡ “you live out here all alone,” you said, barely a whisper. “why?”

˚ ༘♡ his eyes didn’t meet yours. not yet. but the silence between you bent beneath the weight of the question.

˚ ༘♡ and for the first time, you saw it again, the sorrow. raw and endless. buried beneath a mask of duty. something sacred that had been shattered and never remade.

˚ ༘♡ “because i have to,” he said.

˚ ༘♡ and you understood, even if you didn’t know why.

˚ ༘♡ nonetheless, you said delicately, “you don’t have to be alone forever.”

˚ ༘♡ and this time, when his eyes locked onto yours, they stayed.

˚ ༘♡ you sat beneath the long shadow of the ridge, your leg bound in rough cloth and streaked with red, the sting of it slowly dulling into something hot and deep. the pain was real, but it had altered, muted by the ache that now pierced somewhere else entirely. somewhere beneath your ribs.

˚ ༘♡ kenobi hadn’t spoken again. not after he’d wrapped your leg. not after he’d said you should go. he had simply sat beside you, silent and distant, the wind tousling his hair as if to remind you how far from home you’d come. his body was still, posture controlled, but his thoughts, his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. you could feel it, heavy in the air between you. he was somewhere else entirely. somewhere you couldn’t reach.

˚ ༘♡ and yet, you tried.

˚ ༘♡ “you don’t have to be so distant,” you murmured finally, the words fragile in the vast quiet of the desert. “i know you didn’t ask me to follow you. i know it was stupid. but i’m not sorry.”

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t turn to face you. but his hands, those steady, calloused hands, curled somewhat in his lap.

˚ ༘♡ you looked down at your leg, at the blood soaking through his robe’s fabric. “i just wanted to know why you always look so… so sad. why you never talk to anyone. why you disappear.”

˚ ༘♡ kenobi gave no answer.

˚ ༘♡ “but now i see it’s more than that,” you said, your voice straining with emotion you didn’t fully understand. “you look like someone who’s been through something no one else could survive.”

˚ ༘♡ his shoulders grew rigid.

˚ ༘♡ and finally, he turned. not quickly. not sharply. but slowly, as though it pained him to meet your gaze.

˚ ༘♡ when he did, you almost wished he hadn’t. because the misery in his expression was unbearable. not cruel. not angry. but filled with something older than grief. remorse. resolve. restraint. something carved into the marrow of a man who had once been something else, someone else, and had buried that self in the sand years ago.

˚ ༘♡ “you shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “you don’t understand what you’re walking into.”

˚ ༘♡ “then help me understand,” you said. “i’m not afraid of you.”

˚ ༘♡ “you should be.”

˚ ༘♡ “why?” your voice cracked. “you’re not like the others. not like the ones who leer at me in the market, or spit at the sand because i won’t smile for them. they scare me. but you…”

˚ ༘♡ he cut you off, gently. “i am not what you think i am.”

˚ ༘♡ “you’re kind. and you didn’t have to be. not to me.”

˚ ༘♡ “that doesn’t make me good.”

˚ ༘♡ “then tell me what does.” your voice caught as your fingers clutched your gown, crumpling the sheer fabric where it pooled around your knee. “tell me why you live out here like a ghost. why everyone calls you the hermit. why you look at the horizon like you’re waiting to die.”

˚ ༘♡ he flinched. it was slight. but it was there.

˚ ༘♡ you softened then. not out of pity. out of wanting. wanting to be let in. wanting him to let himself speak. just once.

˚ ༘♡ but instead, he exhaled, long and slow, and stood. his shadow fell over you. he looked taller when he did. broader. older.

˚ ༘♡ more like a myth than a man.

˚ ༘♡ “you’re young,” he said, not unkindly. “you see what you want to see. you believe that there’s good in everyone. you think… because i helped you, that it means something.”

˚ ༘♡ you looked up at him, chin lifted, defiant even through the pain.

˚ ༘♡ “it does mean something.”

˚ ༘♡ his expression ebbed scarcely. not from anger. from something closer to sorrow.

˚ ༘♡ “i can’t give you the answers you’re looking for,” he said. “there are things i’ve done, things i’ve seen, that no one should have to carry. i’ve buried people i loved. failed people who depended on me. i’ve lived through the fall of something that once stood for peace, and watched it crumble into war and ruin. and every day since then, i’ve woken up alone. because that is what i deserve.”

˚ ༘♡ the solemnity that followed was deafening.

˚ ༘♡ you blinked hard, your throat tightening.

˚ ༘♡ “that’s not true.”

˚ ༘♡ “you don’t know me.”

˚ ༘♡ “i see you.”

˚ ༘♡ “no,” he said, quieter now. “you see a man who held your hand when you were bleeding. you see someone who speaks warmly because he’s forgotten how to shout. but that doesn’t make me righteous. it makes me tired.”

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed, heart stinging in a way your knee didn’t.

˚ ༘♡ “i still trust you, kenobi.”

˚ ༘♡ he closed his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ the wind moved between you again. the sand danced in lazy spirals around his boots. and when he opened them, he looked at you, not as a stranger, not as a young girl , but as someone he wished had never stepped into his life. not because he didn’t want you there.

˚ ༘♡ but because he couldn’t bear it.

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll take you back,” he said. “when your leg stops bleeding.”

˚ ༘♡ you started to nod, but he kept speaking.

˚ ༘♡ and then,” he said, voice stripped of everything but control, “you’ll forget me.”

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught.

˚ ༘♡ “kenobi…”

˚ ༘♡ “you’ll go home. you’ll tell your mother you slipped on a rock. you’ll forget my face. you’ll forget this place. and the next time someone says my name in town, you won’t look up.”

˚ ༘♡ you shook your head slowly, eyes glassy.

˚ ༘♡ “i can’t…”

˚ ༘♡ “you must.” his voice didn’t rise, but it grew sharper. not callous, never callous, but firm, like he was building a wall between you and him brick by brick, and hating himself for every one. “you deserve to be happy. to care for someone who isn’t carrying the end of the galaxy in his guilt and shame.”

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t respond. couldn’t. not with words.

˚ ༘♡ so you just looked at him, body trembling, pain blooming somewhere far deeper than the wound in your knee.

˚ ༘♡ and he looked at you, too.

˚ ༘♡ as though he wanted to remember you.

˚ ༘♡ just once.

˚ ༘♡ before he had to let you go.

a/n: this is my official trial to be the kenobi fanfiction writer for tumblr!! please let me know if you have anymore requests for obi-wan kenobi, he is definitely my favorite star wars character!!! 🤍

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dimlylittorch · 19 hours ago

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Coming right up :3

My Masterlist🌱

Din Djarin x pre-op!transmasc!reader

18+ drabble MDNI

small synopsis: he can’t verbalize his feelings. you can’t take a fucking hint. (2.6k)

Din never fancied himself a particularly loving man. Then again, he can’t remember a time he had the opportunity to show his love to another person. It started small- his feelings for you. He started to notice how he felt his mood improve when he saw your smile. Or how his cock started to swell whenever you gave him even the briefest of touches. It would be embarrassing.. if you ever bothered to notice.

It was really starting to annoy him at this point. Sure, maybe he wasn’t the best flirt. He couldn’t exactly show you his face, which would surely have his want for you written all over it. But at this point, he’d gone as far as brushing past you when there was plenty of room to not touch you. Or leaning in closer during conversation. And every damn time, you just batted your eyelashes sweetly like you usually would, no change in your demeanor.

There was one time. One time where he caught you flustered. The two of you had been looking through different crates in the cargo area, and the ship caught a little turbulence. Next thing you know, you had fallen into his lap, the both of you on the floor up against the wall. The two of you stared at each other for a long moment before you slowly slipped off of him, your cheeks hot and gaze avoidant. You barely spoke to him for the rest of that day, but he didn’t mind. He was still reveling in the feeling of you in his lap.

He didn’t know what else to do. How else to show you. Saying it wasn’t really an option. He knew he wouldn’t be able to say it right- he’d probably scare you off somehow. He just wished you understood. And how he wished you were there at night. Fucking his hand roughly, closing his eyes and trying to imagine what you’d feel like. Warm, wet- loving. He knew your boycunt would be the best he’d ever had. He needed you, oh so badly.

—

Meanwhile, you were harboring a crush on the Mandalorian himself. He was well built under his beskar armor, catching glimpses of his body every now and then. But you knew he’d never like you back. He was so kind and caring for you. You weren’t exactly the epitome of beauty or handsomeness. He was so.. perfect. But not perfect in a flawless way. Perfect in a human way. He had so many flaws- and they perfectly came together to create this beautiful man. Christ. You were head over heels.

It was embarrassing, really. You’d watch him while he worked, follow him around wherever he went like a lost puppy. You knew you annoyed him- you must annoy him, right? You didn’t even know why he let you stay with him. He was too kind. That was it. That had to be it. Generous and stoic.. the kind of man you’d never have. If only it were different.

You worked hard at night to stay silent. Stuffing your boycunt with your fingers, wishing- pleading that it was him instead. Imagining opening your eyes and he’d be standing in your doorway, ready to take over for you. Or sit back and watch. Whatever made him happy. You knew he was big from his outline that showed whenever he was changing out of his armor. The thought of having him.. fuck.

—

It became clear to Din that nothing was going to happen between the two of you unless it was.. nudged in the right direction. He had been trying to plan something- some scenario that forces the two of you to be close together. He came up with nothing. But, it seemed like the maker had heard his prayers. He had just caught a bounty, bringing him onto the ship and emptying his pockets before freezing him.

Din dropped the contents of the man’s pockets on a table, gesturing for you to go through them while he finished up putting the carbonite slab away. Sifting through the contents on the table, a small smile crossed your lips when you found a little vial. “Hey Mando” you say softly, picking up the vial and looking at it. “It’s a little flower.”

Din looks over his shoulder with a grunt before walking over, leaning down to look at the flower. But for a moment, his eyes were glued to how cute you were when you smiled. “I can see that.” He murmurs, a hint of amusement in his tone. He turns his back to you, looking over at the items scattered on the table with a hum. “Not much.” He mutters.

You gently uncork the small vial, letting the flower fall into your palm. You lean down to sniff it, a content smile on your lips. “I see why he took it. It’s beautiful.”

Din glances back at you, his eyes widening when he sees the flower in your hand and up to your nose. “Maker- have you lost your mind?” He grunts, pulling your hand away from your nose. “You don’t even know what it is. And you’re smelling it?”

His sharp tone sends a jolt through you, and you feel your cheeks heating up from embarrassment. And.. that familiar sting behind your eyes. Fuck- were you crying?

When Din looks over at you and sees a few tears fall from your eyes, he’s at a loss. “Are you..?” He starts to say, watching how you try to wipe your eyes.

“I- I don’t know” you choke out, shaking your head. “You’re just- you’re mad at me.”

Din sighs softly, grabbing the small flower from your hand and examining it. “Wait here.” He murmurs as he takes it over to a scanner, reading about what, if any, effects it has on a person. When he walks back over, his helmet is tilted down as he gazed at your tear stained cheeks. “It amplifies whatever emotions you’re feeling.” He says quietly. “So if you feel.. embarrassed..” he trails off.

“I’d be crying.” You sigh. “Which I am.”

He hums thoughtfully, slowly reaching up to wipe away one of your tears with his gloved hand. “You could be feeling something worse.” He says softly.

You tense at his touch, and your eyes meet his visor. Fuck. Fuck- this was not good. One touch? One touch and your pussy started to clench, your heart racing. This is beyond embarrassing. You try to stay still, not reacting to his touch.. but maker it’s hard. He was so.. tall. And broad. And his voice was low and comforting. Did he have facial hair? Probably. God you wonder how he’d feel between- no. No- no. Not now, not ever.

You swallow thickly, shifting your gaze downcast. “Yeah.” You say faintly, gently backing away from his touch. “I should.. go lie down. Wait for it to wear off.”

He paused as you started to walk away, his eyes flitting over your form. “What’s wrong?” He says suddenly, his voice tense. Of course, as perceptive as ever, he could see the change in your demeanor.

You freeze at the sound of his voice, his tone sending a shiver down your spine. “Just- emotional.” You say quickly in response. “I probably just need to go cry more.”

He slowly walks up to you, moving to stand in front of you. “You’re lying, mesh’la.” He murmurs, ever so gently following you as you move to rest against the wall.

You refuse to look into his visor, looking off to the side. He can definitely see it now- the heat radiating from your cheeks, the heavy breathing. You liked him. He melted you into a little puddle. Normally you could hide it.. but not now.

When you refuse to look up at him, he places one arm on the wall above your head, slowly leaning down to where you were facing. “Is there something more interesting than me, cyare?” He whispers lowly.

He saw how your thighs squeezed together desperately, trying to relieve the deep ache in your core. He gently let his free hand fall to your stomach, rubbing a slow circle. “I know you need me.” He says quietly. “You’ve made me wait.. so long, mesh’la. Too kriffing long.”

—

Din didn’t hesitate to scoop you up, bringing you into his room and placing you on his cot. He’d been forced to wait for this moment- and now you were all his. He wasn’t going to waste it. He quickly discarded his beskar, tossing it aside without a care in the world. His eyes never left your form as you sat on your knees on his bed, shyly looking up at him as he undressed. A small smile formed on his lips when he saw how your hand shifted in between your legs- not rubbing or moving, just resting. Trying to keep yourself sane.

When you started to rock against your hand, that’s when he knew he was in for trouble. You were too fucking pretty like that. His sweet boy, practically begging for him. “Mando” you whispered pleadingly, your cheeks hot and body restless. “Please.”

Eventually Din was left in nothing but his briefs and his helmet. His body was beautiful. Toned, littered with scars.. fuck. He really was perfect. “Cyar’ika” he says faintly as he looks down at you, gently reaching forward to cup your chin with his hand- skin on skin. Finally.

It didn’t take long for you to grab onto him, pulling him onto the bed and assaulting his chest with more kisses than he’d ever even experienced. He is stunned into silence at how wanting you are of him, your lips touching every inch of skin you can find, your hands roaming over his form. “Fuck” you breathed out, running your fingers through his chest hair. “You’re perfect.”

He groans at your words, reaching up to brush his fingers past your hair. “One flower” he murmurs as he lets his hands wander your form, kneading your flesh. “One flower was all it took.” He sighs as you kiss along his pecs. He manages to peel your top off, and when he does you hear his soft hum behind his helmet. “I wish I could kiss you, cyare.” He says lowly, his fingers trailing along your chest as he rests his helmet against your forehead.

You let out a soft breath at the contact, your eyes fluttering closed. “I can keep my eyes closed.” You say faintly, your hand slipping onto his thigh in reassurance. “If.. if that’s what you’d want.” You say softly, eyes still closed. Waiting for him.

He adored you. Fuck, he really did adore you. So gentle. So caring. You didn’t beg to see his face. To feel his lips. You offered to sacrifice your sight just for his comfort. The thought of not being able to use one of his senses in any scenario.. maker. It’s the kindest thing anyone has ever offered him. You trusted him with your life. Your body. Your soul.

He sucks in a breath, squeezing your hand in confirmation. “Don’t fear the dark.” He whispers softly, followed by the noise of his helmet being removed. “It’s only me.” He says comfortingly.

You nod, keeping your eyes closed. A smile quickly crossed your lips when he guided your hands up to his face, allowing you to feel. Your hands copped his cheeks, feeling his facial hair. Your fingers traced over his nose, around his eyes.. his lips. “You feel beautiful.” You whisper softly.

You feel beautiful. Fuck. You always knew just how to stab his heart over and over again. The sweetest little thing you were. He suddenly leans forward, his lips meeting your own in a deep and loving kiss. You can’t help but whimper as he moves over you, guiding you to lay back on his bed. Feeling his skin against your own was a blessing in of itself.. but his lips. You never could have imagined how soft they were.

“Maker..” he murmurs lowly, and his unmodulated voice makes you gasp slightly. It was softer. Human. He smiles at your reaction, and you can feel it as he starts to kiss along your jawline. “Should’ve done this a while ago.” He mutters, his fingers slipping between your thighs.

You suck in a sharp breath from his touch, but his words make you pause for a moment. “I never thought you’d..” you murmur faintly. “I’m sorry.” You whisper before kissing his cheek.

He shakes his head, gently leaning into your lips. “I have you now.” He says like a prayer. Like he’s thanking the maker himself. “That’s all that matters.”

—

He knew it. He knew he was right. Your boycunt was the most perfect thing to ever grace the galaxy. And he had the honor of touching him. Of pleasing you. “oh fuck” he grunts, his hands on your hips as he makes you ride his face. “Maker- good boy.”

You had been hesitant at first. It amused him, really. His sweet boy thinking he could suffocate him. Even if he did- he’d die a happy man. “Shit- shit” you gasp out, trying to keep yourself steady as he made your hips grind against his tongue. “Baby- please” you whine.

“I know, mesh’la” he hums as he works overtime on your pussy, occasionally slapping your ass to encourage you further. “Feels too kriffing good, hm?”

Now- this moment would’ve been perfect for Din. But there was one slight problem. Maker, he wanted to see your eyes. He’d only ever seen them through that tinted visor. He wants to see their full color, how bright they are- how they light up when he sucks on your clit just right. He needed to gaze up at you, just to find you gazing back down at him.

—

He loved having you like this. On your back, underneath him, his cock slipping into your tight hole. But something felt wrong. Your head was tilted off to the side, eyes squeezed closed. Nothing to ground you. Nothing to keep you steady. “Cyar’ika” he says faintly, leaning forward to kiss your neck. “Open your eyes.”

Your brow furrows, and you still underneath him. “Mando?” You whisper. “No- no, I can’t-“ you start to say.

“I need your eyes on mine.” He says softly, cupping your cheeks. “Please, cyare.”

You let out a faint breath, and he slipped his hand down to circle your clit. “Your creed.” You say weakly.

Feeling his kisses along your neck, you tilt your head, letting out a contented sigh that made his cock twitch. “My creed.. is between me and the maker.” He says faintly. “He’s not here. You are. Look at me, mesh’la.”

You hesitate before slowly opening your eyes. It takes a moment for them to adjust in the dimly lit room, but once your eyes meet his own you gasp. You knew it. You knew he would be absolutely gorgeous under that helmet. “Look at you..” you whisper faintly, sitting up and completely forgetting that need that had been clawing at your stomach. You were flooded with adoration. Love. That damned flower. “Look at you-“ you repeat again, your eyes a little wide.

A small smirk formed on his lips as he looked at you, a blush beginning to show on his cheeks. “I’m not that-“ he starts to say, but you quickly cut him off with a kiss, making him moan.

“Billions of stars in the galaxy” you murmur as you pull back, taking a moment to look over his features. “And they all pale in comparison to you.”

He stares at you for a moment, and slowly a smile grows on his lips. “I’m supposed to be seducing you, here.” He grins to himself before pinning you to the bed, giggles erupting from your lips.

hi guys!! this is my first ever din djarin fic :3 i hope you enjoyed! notes, reblogs and comments are also so so appreciated <3

din djarin can't flirt

when he likes someone he just fixes, provides, and makes space. he'll fix their ship/ gear without saying anything, slide over any extra rations, and always will save a seat.

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virahaus · 2 days ago

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“Master! Happy to see you’re still in one piece,” Anakin teased lightly, trying to disperse the lump on his throat with humour as Obi-Wan liked to do. He really did take from his Master. Obi-Wan turned in his direction, opening his eyes and blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision. Anakin took a step closer, worried that maybe the new meds were messing with Obi-Wan’s eyesight. He would have to report it to Kix if— “Hello there, beautiful boy.” Obi-Wan purred, voice at bit wobbly and clearly out of it, but smiling suggestively up at Anakin. Anakin froze. - Or, what happens when Obi-Wan gets high on painkillers.

Forgot to post this here!! My fic for this years's edition of the @topwan-obikin fest is up. Thank you to the amazing @tideswept who helped me out with this fic and was such an amazing beta (and friend)!! Can't thank you enough, dear *hugs*.

Hope you like it!! Let me know <33

Painkiller high, Words: 4,477

more info under the cut!

Fandom: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types

Warnings: No Archive Warning Applies

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex, CT-6116 | Kix, CC-2224 | Cody

Tags: Established Relationship, Banter, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, Love Confessions, Painkillers, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Canon Divergence - Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008), Obi-Wan is high on pain medication, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi Loves Anakin Skywalker, Worried Anakin Skywalker, ahsoka getting traumatised by her dads on main, Anakin Skywalker Loves Obi-Wan Kenobi, Fluff and Humor, Attempt at Humor

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wileycap · 11 months ago

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AITA for striking my (M43) son (M20) when he rejected me as his father?

I understand that the title might have you thinking the worst, but please hear me out.

I didn't have a relationship with my son for basically all his life. This was due to my circumstances at the time: I went through a major personal tragedy and was severely injured, to the point of being on life support. To this day I have a lot of issues with my health.

I recently reconnected with my son. I immediately invited him to meet my boss (M92), in hopes that I could set him up with a job opportunity. I feel that this is significant. As far as I know, my son has been working in menial jobs in agriculture, but then apparently chose to leave that life and - to my shock - join a criminal syndicate.

I felt as if getting a good government job would be a way to turn over a new leaf in his life, especially given his past. However, he immediately became combative. I attempted to give him some guidance in managing his emotions, but he rejected that as well.

I'm sad to say that the argument became physical. Some blows were exchanged, but in the end, I was angry enough to strike him. I immediately felt very bad, and decided to offer him the government job on the spot. He rejected me again, and chose to leave very abruptly. I haven't had any contact with him since.

So, AITA?

Edit: Yes, I admit that to call it striking him was an understatement. To clarify, I cut off his hand.

Edit: However, I feel like it should be stated that I myself am a quadruple amputee and we have excellent healthcare.

Edit: I did not immediately identify myself as his father when we met. I think this was my mistake. I think he would have been much more receptive of my message had I done so. As it stands I only told him of our relationship after I had struck him.

Edit: My wife is not in the picture. To my knowledge she passed before his birth.

#star wars crack #star wars #darth vader #luke skywalker #empire strikes back #star wars fic #aita #this weekend i was ill and laid around reading unhinged and quite possibly made up stories on the internet #i think somebody else has definitely written something exactly like this #but i'm proud of the “she passed before his birth” joke #tw narcissistic parent

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rae-gar-targaryen · 9 months ago

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darling, how could i fear any hurricane? [qimir/the stranger x force sensitive!reader]

Summary: Neither the backwater planet you’d chosen for yourself, nor the sanctity of your own mind, is safe from the nightly visitations of your dream stranger. Is he real, or just another trick of the mind? And what of the power he promises? Desire, he’d spoken of. Desire, desire, desire…

Pairing: Qimir/The Stranger x Force-Sensitive!reader [my reader is written ambiguously, but as with all of my reader inserts are written with a Latina!reader in mind]

Warnings: 18+ please – fingering, dry humping, the brief mention of choking, Qimir being a seductive motherfucker, relatively minor smut, all things considered. The briefest descriptions of violence; reader has female anatomy.

Word Count: 5.7k of sinful soliloquy and definitely no manipulation. No, you want this power, don’t you??

A/N: Breaking my writing drought with this. I don’t know if it’s any good, and no one asked for it. But I’m glad to be sharing my writing again. Please be gentle!! Also, if you’ve ever read my Mandalorian x princess!reader fic, there’s an easter egg in here for you!

The verdant planet of Vorduun was known for very little – A small, outer-world, far from the shiny Core planets that boast chrome, progress, and bureaucracy. Lush plantlife, a fertile place with brimming riverbanks, and jungles teeming and thrumming to life with flora and fauna at the turn of the seasons. Off the edge of the map. Off the edge of the world. A perfect place to hide.

To lose yourself.

And the night is stifling, to say the least. Of all the Vorduunian summers you’d endured in your self-isolation, this one had to be the worst. The months’ long deluge of spring rains had made for a stiflingly humid summer, the green jungle steaming with sticky heat. If a saving grace was to be found in the swelter, it was that the night skies were unlike everything you’d ever beheld – a far cry from the fluorescent pollution endemic of your years on Courscant.

Tonight's Vorduunian sky is no exception – a clear expanse of rich velvet, stars like diamonds crushed into the smooth folds of the expansive sky. Twinkling and winking richly down at you through the gaping slats of the shack you now called home.

You twist, a serpent in your own threadbare bedsheets, attempting to find comfort in the sticky summer heat of the planet, chasing the elusive promise of coolness as you flip your pillow to the other side with a huff.

Kind of a sick game, if you thought about it. That if you weren’t running from something, you were chasing something else.

At present? Chasing a good night’s rest. Preferably dreamless, if you were honest. Your dreams of late are plagued with all sorts of incomprehensible flashes, feelings of being watched, feverish and hazy. Your subconscious’s foreboding certainty that if you’d only just turn around, you’d be met with a face that was not your own -– the disquieting sense of something, or someone, lurking just around a corner. Sprinting down echoing hallways with promises, greatness, a warrior's oath, all just out of reach, certain that if you’d slowed your pace, whatever was pursuing you might just snatch you, an unseen stranger.

Other nights, the dreams were different – the unflinching and unchanging grin set in a mask of metalloid teeth, baring themselves at you . Of ever-watchful eyes judging, as you forced yourself through training drills. The disapproving shake of your Master’s head, his disappointment palpable and always, always directed at only you . The seizing terror of being dropped into combat with no saber – of being skewered through by an unseen shadow with a red plasma blade. Of walls closing in on you. Of the Knights whom you had once considered your friends turning their backs on you while you fought tooth and nail. Of your lungs filled with your unreleased screams – of terror or frustration, you weren’t sure – pulling you down beneath the surface of your failure until you drowned in the disappointment of others’ unfulfilled expectations. Of hands on an unseen body tinkering with phials of something, producing poisonous concoctions of sickly green that the unseen stranger dripped down your throat, pouring them past your lips with sure, warm fingers pressing on your tongue. You swore you could feel the poison upon your waking, the phantom feeling of liquid shredding your veins with horrific heat, your heart thundering.

Other nights the dreams were different yet, still. Of shadows shedding their inky cloak to reveal hands that caressed. Of hands that held you and wiped your tears. Of thorns falling from vines – leaving what once had pricked and scratched you to now soothe with velvety softness as the vines wound their way around your wrists, tugging you into an unseen embrace with whispers of promises humming in your ears like the tufty wings of insects. And you would go willingly. Of the warm breath of another in your ear, their body warm behind you, distinct in its softness from that of the sunwarmed cliffs the two of you would watch the sunset from, just you and your unseen stranger. Of those same metalloid teeth melting into a radiant smile of brilliant white, beheld in a sharp jaw – the critique of disapproving masters replaced by his balmy, sublime approval.

Of the tease and taste of his cinnamon lips brushing your own, the fluttering fan of lashes along the peaks of your cheekbones. Of warm, wan whispers of want , desire , soothing your ears. Of warm, fine-boned, assured hands atop your own, guiding yours in a sensuous glide along your own skin. Promises of m ore, more, more as silken lips slipped their way along the column of your throat – your hitching gasps met with his rumbling hums of satisfaction that lasted in your ears for the duration of the following day. Of the gentle lapping of water over smooth-rocked shores, a hand grasping yours with a promise of power. Yet again of more, more, more, if you’d just … Well, you weren’t sure.

What you were sure of was that it had been weeks of these dreams. Your exhaustion was tugging at the corners of your reality, manifesting itself into silly mistakes – a slipped knife while cutting your meals, or the prickling feeling of someone watching from the dark corner of your room. At times, you weren’t sure what was real and what was dreamscape. A slow descent into madness, torment that felt justified, somehow –-

This purgatory was clearly your penance for your failure. To atone for the fact that you could never be more than what you are now – a former padawan cast out of a renowned Order, thanks in part to her own passions and propensities, roiling rages, and lilting lust. A warrior stripped of all pomp and credential. A blistering reminder of something never to be, of someone you could never be.

And so here you were. Piteous and exiled in the jungles of Vorduun with no one other than your occasional unseen dream stranger for company. And what of tonight? Had you slept? Were you asleep? The hazy jungle heat made it impossible to tell. When your days consist of the same, tedious routine maintenance to your little corner of jungle, purely isolated, save for irregular treks to the nearest settlement to barter … And when you tossed and turned your nights away in fitful fugue states of half-awake melded with oppressive dreams – well, who was to say what was really real?

The ghost of a touch along your exposed shoulder didn’t merit a response … Until it happened again. Causing you to sit bolt upright in bed, eyes tracking the room for any disturbance – seen or unseen.

That prickle, so like static rippling across your skin couldn’t be the Force. No, no. It was the trickle of sweat down the back of your neck, and nothing else. What reason would you have to feel the Force here, now?

Just another heated night, just another heated dream….

And now, were your eyes deceiving you, or were the shadows in the corner of your room were moving, swirling into shape as a well-toned arm emerges from the darkness, raised in a gesture of … peace? And the rest of him follows, stepping into the muted illumination from your single gaslamp that sputters in the corner of your room, casting his shadow along the opposite wall, sinuous and slinking as he slowly approaches.

You spring from your bed, eyes darting to the loose slat in your floor where you housed your ill-used saber, quickly considering the relative size of your room and how many steps it would take him to reach you, arms outstretched, to snuff the life from you before you could call the blade to your hand .

His eyes track yours, clocking the floorboard, before placing both hands up in front of him now, a plea –

“You don’t need that,” he murmurs, taking a tentative step toward you. And whether it was the room that shrank around you both, or that was just his presence in your space – so unused to anyone but you – you weren’t sure.

“Need what?” Play dumb, and he won't have any reason to harm you, leaving you an opportunity to strike. Your favorite trick, a minor deception for a tactical advantage.

He steps into the dim, flickering light of the gas lamp, a mild smirk blooming along his full lips, the lamplight warming his skin.

“Your Jedi weapon.”

You glance once more between the loose floorboard and the man slowly approaching you, cocking your head as his features became revealed to you, your mind tickling with recognition as you noted the sharp angle of his jaw and the baleful, syrupy darkness of his eyes –

“You,” you breathe. “I know your face.”

“Do you?” His eyes meet yours, searching.

Yes. You had a good memory for faces, and his you had seen a few times before. Your trips to the nearest settlement every tenday for the open-air market to barter what you had cultivated from the land around your ramshackle home for fruit, thread, and other goods you didn’t often come by on your own. You had seen him at a stall selling tinctures and other apothecary-type goods. You’d never approached, of course. Hadn’t had a need for burn creams or toxins. But there was no denying the swooping lock of hair that would curtain over his eyes, the sharp angle of his features. The way his eyes would track the movement of the market, hawkish, despite the seeming ineffectual haze in them…

A minor deception, you now realize. But for what tactical advantage?

“The chemist from the bazaar,” you reply.

His lips quirk at your realization – the bud of the smirk now unfurling into a full smile.

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for, warrior,” he stands before you now, hands still lightly held up in a gesture of peace. “That’s good… A nice surprise ,” his voice taking on an almost-purr of satisfaction.

You pause, lips parting lightly. What could he mean by that?

“Qimir,” he gestures to himself by way of introduction.

Qimir. Likely not his real name. Still, you ponder, an interesting choice. Qimir. Like Chimaera, something ancient and unknowable. A monstrous creature signifying the parable of illusion – the promise of something only too impossible to achieve. You wonder if he knew what his “name” sounded like when he’d picked it.

And you hope your face hasn’t betrayed your whirring thoughts as you continue your assessment, hoping to keep a sweep of neutrality across your features as you address him again.

“If you say so. Business must be slow if you’re here to rob me, poisoner. I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed,” your eyes flit around the relatively bare bedroom, gesturing with your chin to the equally Spartan main room of your little ramshackle cabin. “Not much here of value.”

He crosses one foot over the other as he takes a step to orbit you, almost swordsmanlike. As though he were preparing to duel. You mirror his step, your back to your bed now, facing your doorway. His body between yours and your exit.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he brings a finger to his chin as if in ponderment. “You’re here, after all. And why would I give you my name, show you my face, if I intended to rob you?”

“Why you do anything means nothing to me,” you bite, “and you’ll have to forgive my manners if I don’t feel like giving you my name. Leave, now , while I let you leave, Qimir.”

His eyes sweep your form, note your weight on the balls of your feet, bracing for a fight. You probably have weapons other than your laser sword stashed away, if he had to guess . He takes a tentative step toward you, a low chuckle escaping him at the fire in your eyes, trying not to smile any wider than he has already, to give away his pleased impression of your fury.

“I know who you are,” you blink at his statement, trying not to let the surprise show on your face. “You don't have anything to fear from me, little Jedi.”

“I am no Jedi,” you snipped, rolling your eyes at the insolence of the man before you. If he cared at all about your rude display, Qimir said nothing.

“I am more than aware of that, too,” he murmured, his voice like silk in your ears as he takes yet another small step toward you, invading your space, close enough to breathe your air, a hair’s breadth from touch.

Too close. You flex your fingers, calling your lightsaber from its hiding place under your loose floorboard into the palm of your hand in a flash, the cool metal meeting your palm like an old friend, a sense of relief. You surge forward into Qimir’s space, pressing the hilt of the saber into his abdomen.

“If you know so much, then you also know you shouldn’t have come,” you snarl. “I don’t know if you didn't take the hint, here at the edge of the world, but I don't take kindly to uninvited guests.”

“You did invite me, little viper,” he insists, his voice never losing its even, dulcet quality.

At your furrowed brow, he gently brings his fingertips to brush the bare skin of your wrist that’s pressing the hilt of your lightsaber into his stomach. A familiar, prickling ripple bursts across your skin, causing goosebumps to stipple your arms. So familiar. So like the feel of lips from your unseen stranger. So like the Force.

The dark eyes that met yours in the low light of your room were familiar for more than just an observation in passing at the market.

“Y-you,” you gasp, the realization causing your chest to seize, to clench your teeth in the wave of seething anger. “You’ve been … in my head … for months …”

He cocks his head at you, watching the emotions process along your face. He had seen your fears and failures, your heart’s greatest desires. He had seen it all …

“The quickest way to your heart,” he reasons. “Through your head. So you’ll have to forgive my intrusion. I wanted to know you.” Sweet words meant to soothe.

You aren’t sure if that makes it any better. Perhaps the reasoning makes it worse.

“So like a poisoner,” you level his gaze with a steely one of your own. “To try to slip through the cracks unseen. But I know the quickest way to your heart.”

“You do?” He seems surprised at your rejoinder. As if he hadn’t expected you to play. To be so quick of wit as you were of reflex.

“Between your fourth and fifth rib,” you hum, your voice taking on an almost-seductive tone – a contradiction to the reminder of you pressing the hilt of the saber into him, precisely where you mean to.

“I appreciate a good threat. Clever,” he smiles, placating. “But there’s no need for that, little warrior. After all… I wouldn't leave you to the dark, not like they did,” he assures, brushing his fingertips against the bare skin of your wrist, so lightly you would’ve thought you’d imagined it. Using the contact to connect to you through the Force once more – your shared memories dancing behind one another’s eyes. Of your fellow Padawans succeeding while your Master only saw failure. Of the dazzlingly white smile of your classmate with the bronze skin and twists in his hair, his yellow lightsaber flashing as you drilled together, his smile fading to frown with the rest of his features as you had used the Force to push him away a bit too hard – rage bubbling to the surface – in direct violation of your training ordinances. Of your departure from Coruscant, no one to bid you goodbye, not even your training partner who had once called himself your friend.

You make to turn your head, to break contact with his dark, glimmering, all-seeing eyes. Like tar pits, drawing you ever deeper. His other hand catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, drawing you back to his gaze, an orbit you cannot escape. Would you even want to?

“And do you believe you would have belonged? The Jedi are deceivers. They deal in abandonment … cloaked in empty platitudes,” he trails his index finger along the curve of your jawline, an almost illusory brush of his skin against yours – the whisper of a touch, as though to illustrate the point. “The wisp of a promise, like spun sugar. Sweet, but false, their promises of righteousness. Of importance.”

Your lips part, catching the barest bit of his thumb as it does so, your eyes now searching his, seeking motive.

“And what do you offer instead? That's what this is, right? An offer?”

He smiles wider now, nodding in the barest acknowledgment. As though you’ve finally asked the right question.

“I … make the intangible tangible.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning …” his hand leaves the curve of your jaw to touch his fingertips to your temple, pressing, rendering a vision to your mind. And what Force magic was this? To make you see beyond your own eye’s sight. Foresight? An illusion? A vision? A memory? A promise or a deception?

Whatever it is, you see it so clearly – an uninhabited plant roaring with ocean as far as your eyeline can perceive. Waves lapping gently along grey-stoned shores. Moss-covered alcoves where you sit with him, your stranger, the sunset warming your skin as he caresses your face, your hair, whispering praises just beyond your mind’s own comprehension into your ear – the tone sinful, syrupy. His arms securing you in the night as you rest, no more dreams of abandonment.

Warmth, endless warmth… as his lips trail the shell of your ear, down your neck, bestowing belief of besotted brushes of lips. Adroit affection aimed right at the heart of you.

“Hmmm … meaning …. Your feelings, your power, your talent all working, to manifest toward something real. Something you want.” His hand leaves your temple and rests on your shoulder, taking advantage of your state of ponderment to gently guide you, ever mindful of the still-unlit lightsaber pressed to his stomach, leading away from your bed to the wall just next to the adjacent doorframe, the patient waltz of a waiting predator. He brings his hand to rest on the wall, next to your head.

“Something I want,” you reply dreamily, coming back to yourself just enough to realize what he’d said, exhaling through your nose in an indignant little huff. “In exchange for … ?”

“Tell me something,” he replies, lithely lilting around your question with one of his own, flexing his fingers where they rest on the wall. “Why are you no Jedi?”

“I … abjured,” you admit, a bit too primly, the lightsaber now feeling like an unbearable weight in your palm at your words, the weight of choices – both your own and those of whom purported to teach you. To guide you to something greater. Was it as he said? Were their promises so meaningless? “Broke my oath,” you suck your lower lip between your teeth, pausing before daring to meet his gaze again. “I couldn’t … suppress how they wanted me to. I didn’t want to fail anymore. I was so tired of failing. So, I … abjured. I was weak.”

Your eyes meet his once more at your admission, yours shining with unshed tears waiting to fall like stars. Shimmering promises to slip down your cheeks, unkept and unchecked. Your fingers fumbled, seemingly of their own accord, unwilling to hold the weight, the threat, of the saber against him any longer. The hilt clattered to the floor, a clanging finality to punctuate your words. And when was the last time you had been so honest, so vulnerable with another?

How … unlike you.

“Not weak,” he cups your cheeks with both hands, fine-boned thumbs tracing the peaks of your cheeks, as though to wipe away your unshed tears. “The same as me. Power searching for its other half. An unwaning, unflickering flame.”

Your unseen stranger, now seen, takes your hands in his, the buzz of the Force still tingling across your skin at his words, at the recognition of his power.

“You asked what I want. You want the same as me, and I the same as you. A companion . A partner. Unlike them, I won't judge you for your feelings. Won’t judge you for your power … You want – I can feel it rippling across your skin,” he closes his eyes, cocking his head, shivering as though to illustrate the point. “... Mmm, and I want, too. We can want together. If you'd let us.”

The flickering light of your room seemed to dim in tandem with his syrupy words, cloying and dripping like honey into golden nettle tea. The swirling honeytar of his eyes appraising you as the Force connection prickled with hazy heat between your bodies and the damnable musk of the jungle air.

You press yourself further into the wall he’d leaned you against, tilting your chin to appraise him in kind, searching for veracity in his words. Something more substantial than the “spun sugar” he’d accused the Jedi of weaving.

As though he could sense your trepidation before it could cross your face, he placed a hand on your hip, the contact searing you through the thin fabric of your tank top.

“They kicked you out because you feel. I'd never do that. I want you to feel … to feel power. To feel what you’re capable of. Of what it can become. Rage. Fear. Loss. Desire. Train with me, you’ll feel it all. I want you to feel it all … to feel me.”

Desire, he had spoken of. The gentle roll of his low voice over the syllables echoing perfectly in your ears. Desire, desire, desire. That desire, so like venom snaking its way through your blood, hot and purposeful. An all-consuming burn through your blood, befitting of a poisoner as he.

“You felt it, didn’t you? When I came in,” he iterates, somewhere south of a plea. “All. That. Power.” The hand not resting on your hip comes to cup your face once more. “I can teach you.”

You had read somewhere once, in the Archives, about creatures on long-abandoned planets with the ability to draw their prey in through vanity. The flash of feathers. Or shiny scales. Big, baleful eyes, perhaps. Only to sink their teeth in once their intended had come too close.

You draw in a breath, searching his pleasing face for any sign of a tell. Of the flicker of eyes that would signify deception. Of hidden fangs beneath his beautiful, full lips. Of anything that would bely his true intentions behind your Force connection. You swept your eyes across broad, defined shoulders, down toned, muscled arms exposed through his sleeveless shift. A warriors’ weapon wrapped in a pleasing package, to be sure. But … with no discernable hint of false suggestion.

You shift your weight once more onto the balls of your feet, away from the wall and into him . Continuing your appraisal as you tilt your head, allowing the scent of his skin – the tang of sweat from the humid jungle air commingling with something sharp and clean – to wash over you.

You invade his space now, leaning into the hand that grips your hip and the other that cradles your head, boldly brushing your lips along his with the barest hint of touch, feeling his lips smile against yours.

You whisper, your lips silken against his, “Tell me, poisoner … You seduce me with lies, is that it? You wish for me to call you Master? Forsake all else to worship at your altar?”

You catch the flash in his eyes as the word “seduce” leaves your lips.

“I haven't lied to you,” his voice is a hum. An attempt to provide reassurance as he couples them with what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His fingers travel from your hip to trail your ribs, a partial embrace.

“Do you consider not telling the entire truth to be a lie?”

“Have I shown you any lies? No. Just dreams. The promise of what could be. What I –,” he pauses, “– we could be. I cannot fabricate the Force, little warrior. Everything you feel tonight is you . It’s me. What more could you want? ”

Your once-steely resolve is crumbling under the weight of his insinuation … "everything you feel tonight” – the honey in his words sweet to your ears, you wonder fleetingly if he'd be even sweeter on your tongue.

And he knew you, didn’t he? By his own admission, he’d seen your faults and flaws for months … your desires. And he had shown you promises, premonitions, predilections… a future of power. And if there is power in two hemispheres – one of sweltering heat, one of blistering ice. Which were you? And which was he?

Together you would surely melt…

“No more rules, little warrior,” he sighs, “just the power of two.” He slides his lips across yours, purposeful, before capturing your lower lip between his teeth, nipping once before releasing, admiring the way your expression flickered from defiance to desire before surging forward, pressing you back into the wall as his lips capture yours.

He swallows your gasp, bringing his fingers to wrap loosely around your neck while his other hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt.

You break from his kiss with a gasp between swollen, bitten lips. But he gives you no reprieve, his lips trailing to your neck, where he sets about pressing hot-mouthed kisses. Molten lava flooding the column of your throat, chased with the scrape of nipping teeth. Soothe and scrape. Push and pull. Give, give, give, take.

You thread your fingers through the silken hair tucked behind his ears, tugging him from his ministrations on your neck and forcing him to meet your eyes – to see if the blaze of want you felt scorching your skin was reflected in the liquid coal, ready to ignite.

His lips twist into a smirk at your insistent tugging; if he was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. His face the perfect picture of pleasure.

“What would we do with it?” You inquire, “This power?”

“Hmmm,” he pretended to ponder, suddenly scooping you, a brief lift as he crossed the short distance to your bed, seating himself with you on his lap. No concession of dominance; merely placing you precisely where he means to. To allow you to feel him beneath you.

“What would you like to do, little warrior, hm?” His fingers flicked the thin straps of your flimsy sleep shirt, exposing your shoulders, leaning forward to trail his lips along the now-bared expanse of your shoulder, your collar bones, your neck, his eyes glancing up to watch your face as he went. “Make them pay? Take what’s yours?”

His hands feel their way down your form, down your sides, along your hips, the skin of his palms rasping against the smooth expanse of your thighs has his fine-boned fingers make their way beneath the loose fabric of the cropped pants you sleep in, dangerously close to the precipice of your desire , urging you to move. Guiding your hips in a rhythmic glide in his lap.

You gasp at his attentions, at the combination of his promises and the heady feel of his skin along yours, bringing your hands to grip his biceps – desperately seeking a way to anchor yourself.

And if it’s his poison that will bring you to the edge, would you regret it? You were starting to believe you could never regret him , not at the feel of his chest pressed against yours, the toned muscle beneath your fingers. His sharp angles caressing your soft curves, replacing the lonely ache in your bones with the lovely heat of him, both his promises and his attentions.

His mouth was keyed and intentional in its work of you, with pressed kisses like flower petals blooming along the skin of your neck, followed by the scraping thorns of his teeth. Brutish and beautiful, as his fine-boned fingers crept to the inside of your thighs, rubbing along your clothed center, intensifying the ache you felt. He shifts your weight in his lap, causing your legs to spread wider, straddling him lowly as he tugs the offending fabric aside, guiding your hips into a roll over his clothed lap and his growing hardness. Manifesting his delight at the choked gasp you emitted in the form of a teasing little buck of his hips, guiding you down as he guided himself up, delighting in the sharp gasps that met his ears as he continues to sway you to his rhythm.

“Desire isn't a sin, little warrior,” he breathes the words into your mouth, lips a hairs’ breadth apart, the better to swallow your moans. “What we feel feeds our connection to the Force, gives you strength ... If you know how. Let me show you. Touch me.”

It was as though electricity was crackling, popping beneath your fingertips as you took his instruction and began to explore the expanse of his body, slipping your hands beneath his tunic to feel the silken heat of his firm torso, the ache within you mounting at the heady combination of the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips – so long since you’d touched another, been touched – and his hardness between the cleft of your thighs. Smoldering, low-heat burned along your skin and beneath your fingertips. Or was it his fingers that were doing the burning? It was hard to tell where he ended and you began, one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you bodily into him, an infinite loop of power and pleasure.

As you continue to touch him, you could feel it – his connection to the force, strong, volatile, like lightning striking the ocean – crackling and formidable like the man who contained it.

And Qimir – you had long since given up trying to determine if it was, in fact, his real name – rewards you with a gift of his own, the velvet rumble of a groan of pleasure emanating from his throat at your touch. A sound of syrup and satisfaction.

Pleased that you could garner such a reaction from a being as powerful as he, you smile, boldly meeting his lips with a kiss, opening your mouth with a gasp, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth, to taste the zip of power that he had determined in his moths of observation was just you, a torrent of citrus drizzle, bold and sweet.

Reluctantly, he parts his lips from yours, ducking his head to tug the straps of your top down with his teeth, exposing your breasts to the heated air of the room. And if your desire at the repeated rolling of his hips beneath yours wasn’t enough to do you in, you figured this might. Bathing in the celestial feel the press his lips to your nipple, tongue swirling over the peaking flesh. Pleased at the goosebumps that erupt now in the wake of his attention.

While he continues to tease your breasts with tongue and teeth, Qimir guides his other hand along your thighs, slipping his practiced fingers beneath your shorts, delighting in the wetness he was met with, basking in the jolting shiver the motion elicited from you, at the friction of his fingers rubbing along the seam of you – causing you to wiggle, to roll your hips into his touch.

And oh, as he slips his fingers inside of you, your eyes roll back, tilting your head to allow Qimir to admire the curving, elegant slope of exposed throat – prey before a predator, gasping at the pleasure he wrought. Breathless. If you thought he was teasing you before, his fingers inside of you were their own type of mocking punishment, well aware of his effect on you and the way your cunt throbs as he strokes inside of you. You could do nothing but wriggle your hips, whimpering piteously and attempting to roll your hips to follow his fingers as they work you, as this crescendo builds.

“Say you’ll be mine, warrior, and you can have it.” he promises. A new oath. One you’d never forsake. For him, you’d never turn, never abjure. Not so long as his touch made stars erupt behind your eyes, not so long as his lips dripped syrup promises down your throat.

Kissing you once more, golden and slow, molten and revelatory as he works his fingers inside of you, your thighs parting to accommodate him. His thumb rolls repeated brushes over your clit, delighting in the starshine burst as you reached your peak, a broken little moan that sounded suspiciously like the word “master,” passing your lips in a keening sigh.

You regard him through bleary, closing eyes and the warm, citrus haze of your orgasm as he slips his fingers from you, guiding you down to recline in your bed, stroking your hair as he does so, lulling you as a lover would.

“Sleep, warrior,” his velvet voice meets your ears, lyrical and lilting. “I’ll be back for you.”

And like each night before that one, his figure slips from you… as though he was never there. It wasn’t a dream, was it? It was hard to tell after months of this teasing game. After his promises built so much only to guide you to this release.

And in the silvery light of the jungle’s dawn, you awoke with that very question on your lips, met with the sight of your saber placed gently on your little bedside table as opposed to its usual hiding spot. You wake to the sweet afterache of something between your thighs, to the scraped marks of teeth along the expanse of your neck.

And to the promise of something – of a future of power and partnership. If only you’d be so bold as to accept it. As you eyed the saber, you recalled the prickle of his Force power along your skin, increasing with his proximity. And by the time he arrived to meet you again, you knew what your answer would be …

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jedi-starbird · 1 year ago

Text

A happier galaxy where the disaster lineage is somewhat less on fire constantly and senior padawan Obi-wan has developed a fixation on Mandalorians:

Sometimes Feemor regretted just how much he had given away when he had spent 5 expensive months bribing a traumatised Obi-wan to call him brother when he was 14. His dignity, for one, his access codes and shadow cloaking techniques, another. So he had a very dignified reaction when he was awoken to the shine of his younger brother's eyes in the dark at the foot of his bed. "I wou-stop screaming it's just me-I would like a Mandalorian. How do I procure one?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

Obi-wan scowled as if Feemor was being difficult, he wasn't, he wasn't quite awake enough for that yet. "You're a shadow, you're supposed to know things."

Ah, if being a shadow granted you the secrets of the universe instead of just a great many planetary governments, Feemor wouldn't spend so much time wondering what dark rituals Dooku had committed to result in Qui-gon Jinn. (He already knew what regular rituals Qui-gon had committed to result in Obi-wan)

"I know that I'm about to punt you out of my room right now."

"...My birthday is coming up, I believe I deserve compensation for all the traumas."

Obi-wan's eyes were very big now. Feemor sighed. He flopped back down into bed. He resisted the urge to pull his blankets back up and roll over. 'Oh sure when it's time to see mind healers everything's fine but now-'

"Shouldn't you be asking Master then?"

"Master would not approve of how I plan to use the Mandalorian."

He squinted at Obi-wan for a long moment. Obi-wan stared back. He did some quick mental maths and tried not to feel old. Eh. Fine. Feemor swung his legs out of bed. "You had me at 'Master wouldn't approve'."

"Do you think I could get one by walking into little Keldabe and asking very nicely?"

As it turns out, yes he could. A few too many in fact, apparently Jedi, their ancestral enemy, in the Mando district attracted attention, who knew? Feemor knew, Feemor would have known if only he had been properly awake when this semblence of a plan was proposed. He stalked through the cantina towards Obi-wan who was leaning slightly forwards against a pillar, ah...speaking, to a Mandalorian with painted orange armour while surrounded by a larger crowd of Mandos. At least they seem mostly amused. He ignored the youngers squawk as he yanked the back of his robes so that he moved away from the Mandalorian and spun him around.

"You cannot solve centuries of animosity by batting your eyelashes."

"I'm not batting my eyelashes " Obi-wan sniffed," I'm shaking my ass, there's decidedly more effort involved."

"I miss when I was an only child." Feemor sighed deeply. He used the force to scruff the neck of Obi-wan's robes and dangle him slightly in the air. He ignored the shouting from beside him and bowed politely to the staring Mandos. "My apologies for the disturbance, this will not happ-" He considered his brother who was now yelling out his personal comm code with a wink. " Please excuse us, this very probably will happen again, we shall workshop it. May the force be with you all."

I don't have a fully planned AU but it is Codywan!!! cause I love those bitches but have some more dialogue I came up with for this AU. I'm imagining them both as like 20-23, Obi's close to knighthood. He's still a padawan for this because I think him causing Qui-gon headaches is funny. Feemor fully thinks this complicated courtship dance Obi's created is funny, he likes studying his little brother like a bug, he just wasn't prepared for him to just waltz into little kelbade and start hitting on people, though he really should have been.

Hand wavy timeline with Jaster alive but the clones are still clones, Jango was kidnapped and held in stasis or something, Jaster claimed them as Mandos. This is really just about Obi's first and biggest diplomatic achivement being friendly Jedi-Mando relations purely cause he was in his thot era. This also somehow saves the galaxy from the sith.

I like to imagine that Cody's brothers recorded that little exchange between Fee and Obi on their helmets and uploaded it online where it went viral on MandoNet before going viral galaxywide because wait holy shit is that a Jedi saying that????. Qui-gon gets called in for a very weird meeting where the council's like ok so the entire holonet has seen your padawan being horny on main but also this is like the biggest jump in our diplomatic relationship with the Mandos in centuries so like can we keep this up somehow? This results in Obi-wan being holonet famous, first through vode recordings but then he starts a space tumblr and twitter account and he's famous now. Then his friends and other jedi start accounts because wait we're allowed to do that? and those become big as well and this is literally the best PR the jedi have had in hundreds of years. the holonet loves them. the sith are fuming.

Obi-wan, scoffing: What were they gonna do? Shoot me? Feemor: Yes. Obi-wan: I don't believe in blasters. Bly: ...like as a concept...? Obi-wan: No, spiritually.

Obi-wan: I'm sure there's a nice Mandalorian we can find for you Feemor: I'm not sure those 2 words belong together Obi-wan: No of course not, we can't find a nice one, then they'd be all alone, we need to find an absolute bastard of one so that you two match :)

Obi-wan: Oh so Master gets to take in pathetic life forms but I don't? This one's already domesticated! Wolffe: Debatable. Feemor: Cody's a person! Not a stray tooka! Obi-wan: Master takes in stray people all the time! That's how he got me!

Qui-gon: How do you explain this behaviour Padawan ? Obi-wan: The force pushed me towards the Mandalorians Master, it was quite insistent on me developing better relations with them given our difficult history. Feemor: Fascinating, please do elaborate, I'd love to hear the theological implications of a force-assigned kink.

#yes i will put jedi on social media into everything #i think early 20s menace obi wan with equally menace cody is so good #cody looks at this ginger twink and is like oh theres definitely something wrong with him but he amuses me so hes allowed to stay #cody: obi wan has 57 mental illnesses and is banned from most public spaces how can i not fuck him?#star wars #obi wan kenobi #feemor #codywan #commander cody #feemor and obi wan #jedi order #disaster lineage #star wars fic

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sinsofsummers · 2 years ago

Text

push & pull

5.7k | din djarin x f!reader

summary: after convincing him to help you hide from the guild, you teach mando how to enjoy himself. this is the way. warnings: smut (duh), 18+, mdni. canon-typical violence, but otherwise it's super canon divergent. din is a touch-starved virgin, soft touches, lap-sitting, the helmet stays on, mask kink, din does lots of whimpering, experienced!reader, mutual masturbation, virginity loss (m), praise kink, creampie, brief aftercare at the end. note: look me in the eye and tell me he wouldn't crumble at the thought of skin-to-skin contact. yeah. you can't. anyways this is so long and so self-indulgent. pls forgive me. if mando takes his helmet off by the end of this, mind ur business this is sooooo not canon. note p.2: i'm so sorry this took so long but i was hungover. also this was not meant to be this long. so count this as a big fat thank you for 1.4k as well as my bday present to you guys (for my bday.) impaired editing i apologize.

With the light of both suns in your eyes, forcing you to blink the spots from your vision, you brushed a hand across your forehead. The dry, dusty atmosphere of Tatooine was no joke, and you scowled under the cloth you'd brought with you to cover your mouth and nose.

"Figures," you mumbled to yourself, looking down to see a small pile of sand building on the tops of your boots, the wind blowing it into place. "Why would anyone choose to live here?"

Of course, you weren't looking for a resident; you were looking for a fugitive. The infamous Mandalorion, no less. You'd been given less-than-satisfactory information on the bounty hunter and the reasons for such a high reward for his capture, but it wasn't like you had much choice than to accept the job. Despite what you told yourself, you did actually need the money.

That was before you'd figured out that everyone else in the Guild had been tasked with the same job, turning a high stakes bounty hunting gig into a near-definite suicide mission. Something you didn't want anything to do with.

But alas, here you stood, practically sinking into the hot Tatooine desert. You had to keep shifting your weight to keep at least one foot above the surface. You never knew when you'd have to make a quick getaway. There were still a handful of Guild members left that presented a challenge to collecting your bounty, and of course they were the most dangerous ones.

You kicked a foot forward and watched the sand shift, cursing the trouble that was inevitably on its way. You'd managed to bribe your way to Tatooine, where the Mandalorian was apparently hiding from the Guild. And if you had found the Mandalorian, there was almost no possibility that the others hadn't found him.

Because, if you were being honest with yourself—the one task you excelled in—being a bounty hunter wasn't exactly something you were good at. In fact, you were far from it. With luck and just enough anxiety to keep your feet moving, you'd floundered your way through three years in the Guild, searching for a way out just as quickly as you'd begged for a way in.

So you'd gotten yourself into this mess. Wasn't that how it normally went, though? Quick decision-making skills weren't necessarily a blessing if the decisions you made would determine your chances of living past thirty (spoiler: the chances were significantly slimmer).

You rubbed the dust out of your eyes once more and saw some movement in the distance, the subtle glint of beskar blinking toward you as it reflected the sunlight. Gotcha, you murmured inwardly. The Mandalorian was here, and you were going to get him. Not to turn him in, no; you held no loyalty to the Guild and its cult-like policies.

This job was an escape mission. If he could stay hidden, maybe he had room for one more. You'd cut a deal.

There had to be something you could offer him, if not your skills in combat, or stealth, or—

Or simply human mobility, you groaned inwardly as you felt your ankle roll underneath you, the sand softer than you'd anticipated. It'll be a good day when I leave this damn place.

—

It was a wonder that the two of you had survived. You'd hardly gotten the chance to give your proposal before he was aiming his blaster at you, and then at the Guild members that showed up in droves behind you. It was all you could do to get out of the way, knowing you'd be hopeless in the fight.

Now, with their bodies scattered around your feet, the Mandalorian standing a few feet from you with his chest heaving, and his beloved ship somehow still functional, you had your chance.

"You're not...very good at this," he said, the helmet masking his voice in a way that made it scratch along the insides of your ears as it traveled to your brain. "You do know that?" he asked, but it sounded more like an accidental insult than a real question.

You threw your hands up, letting them fall heavily to your sides. "Yeah, I told you that," you scoffed. "That's why I'm asking to go with you. Wherever you're headed."

His head tilted, the beskar shining in the setting suns, and you wondered what his eyes looked like under that helmet. Would they be sparkling with mirth or lined with mockery?

"I thought you were kidding," he said sheepishly, shifting his weight. "To get me to underestimate you." He looked like the picture of careful relaxation, although his blaster was still held tightly in both hands, poised in case he needed to aim and fire.

You couldn't help the exasperation in your tone as you lifted your head to the sky, squeezing your eyes shut and placing a curled fist over your eyes. "Why would I do that when I don't want to turn you in?"

He didn't answer.

"You know that there's only two ways out of this, right?" He still didn't answer you, just held his blaster taut and his head tilted to the side, so you continued. "You killed every Guild member that's left. Now it's just you and I. If I don't bring you in—which I'm not exactly dying to do—those rich fucks that are more powerful than us are gonna come find us."

"Find you," he corrected. "Why would I want to add another target to my ship?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, they probably will. But that's only part of the first option. Either they come for me, and you leave me here, and I die—also something I'm not particularly thrilled to think about—or the two of us..." you gestured with your hands to imitate the pair of you getting on the Razor Crest and flying away from Tatooine and its dusty expanse of a landscape.

"Could be a third option," he said quietly, "if you think about it." He lifted his blaster until it was lined up with your chest. "I might just kill you and cut my losses."

Fear might have struck you, but you didn't have the energy to entertain the panic unspooling in your chest. "That wouldn't be very humanitarian of you. Besides," you insisted, hands lifting to portray the image of surrender, "I'm light. I'm quiet. I won't stay with you longer than I need to. Once you get me off this planet, I'll find a place for you to drop me off."

He didn't answer for a moment.

"Literally," you pushed once more, "you can open the back door and push me out for all I care. I just want out of the Guild and all their dumb shit."

You'd known Mandalorians to be quiet, pious, and ruthless, but something about the way his helmet betrayed no hint to what he was thinking or how he might respond...it made you more anxious than you'd ever been in your life. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm. "Well...you're not coming with me. Ship's full."

"Your ship?" you said, incredulous. "That thing would be gone without me."

"Damn luck, that was." His voice had gone hard, but his body was still.

This was...partially true. Your mind flashed with a memory of the way you'd accidentally pulled the trigger on one of your blasters, effectively stunning the last Guild member who'd been attempting to strap explosives to the hull of the Crest. It was the only good thing that you'd done all day.

You curled your lip, annoyance rippling off you in waves. Lifting a middle finger in front of the helmet, you scowled. Hope he can see this under all that beskar, you snarled inwardly. "Still counts."

With a soft huff that you could hear come from under his helmet, the Mandalorian lowered his blaster. "One jump into hyperspace. The first little space rock that's big enough to stand on—"

"Perfect," you interrupted firmly. "I'll be out of you...armor...soon enough."

—

You'd missed your stop about three years ago. One jump into hyperspace had turned into four, and then ten, and...now you had your own spot to rest your head at night on the Razor Crest.

On that first day, you hadn't known the Mandalorian—"Din Djarin," he'd introduced himself reluctantly one day—was still traveling with Grogu, the sweet child that had begun his journey across the galaxy, hiding from the Guild. But you'd quickly decided it was nice to have another partner in crime, to interact with whenever Din was in the middle of one of his quiet days.

As the days had turned into months, and subsequently into years, the inability to meet Din face-to-face had become less frustrating, although sometimes you wished you could sneak a glance at his hands, or his wrists, or something that might resemble the human underneath the armor.

Once in awhile, deliciously, you could tilt your head just the right way and look forward at him when he was in the cockpit, his helmet pulling away from the cloth under his armor. Between helmet and armor, a sliver of golden skin would glimmer back at you, just begging to be touched. Of course, you never gave in to your silent desires.

This was not the Mandalorian way; you knew this well. Even when you felt his head turned toward you, even when you were sure his hands were reaching for you when you needed his help climbing somewhere, you kept your distance.

Well, for as long as you could. Until he forced your hand.

It wasn't long before you were unable to keep your hands away from him; going up and down the ladder on the Crest, or climbing over the occasional boulder on the routes you walked along when forced to take a respite on an unknown planet. His gloves were always rough in your grip, but you couldn't ignore the way his hands seemed to squeeze yours, tighter than might have been necessary.

And you'd begun letting your hands linger on the beskar of his armor for moments longer than you should—his helmet, tracing the indented curves of the spot where his cheekbones rested underneath, or on his chestplate, where you swore you could feel him lean into you, as if pressing your hands closer and closer to his skin beneath the armor.

You stood beside him as he sat in the chair in the cockpit, guiding the Razor Crest through the galaxy once more, aiming for some undisclosed location he'd neglected to tell you. He usually did things like that; you'd learned not to be offended by his unbreakable instinct to keep things to himself.

It hadn't occurred to you just how long he'd been wearing that helmet until you looked toward him again and noticed the soft curl of a few brown strands of hair that crept from the edges, kissing the back of his neck. They were short strands, but they were long enough to wink up at you as they curled around each other, begging to be touched.

"Din?" you asked, hoping to distract yourself from the thought.

He didn't look at you, but he tilted his head in your direction, just a centimeter. It was enough.

"Why'd you let me stay with you?" you gripped your hands together, as if they had a mind of their own and couldn't be trusted to remain at your sides. "I was horrible at any aspect of being a bounty hunter."

You were used to the way that it always took him a few seconds to answer, coming up with an evenly-expressed response. This, of course, gave you more time to stare at the tendrils spilling from the edges of his helmet.

"You were a risk," he admitted with a shrug, the helmet (of course) not betrayed anything. His voice was calm, even as he continued softly. "I have a particular...proclivity for picking up foundlings," he said with a tilt of his head toward Grogu, who cooed at the mention of him.

You lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not a foundling, though."

If you could have seen his eyes, you were almost positive that they'd be giving you a look that said, are you sure? Instead, he only spoke in his perpetually smooth voice. "You were lost, though, mesh'la."

You still weren't sure what each word in Mando'a meant—he'd been dropping a few words here and there, as if he knew you couldn't interpret them—but you blushed all the same. Before you knew it, your hands were releasing their grip on one another and reaching up to comb through the curls at the base of his neck.

They were softer than you'd imagined; smooth and thick in your grip. "Alright," you said gently, "maybe I was. I never got to thank you, you know."

Your hands were moving on their accord now, silently twirling the curls around the tips of your fingers. You were used to his silent, immobile exterior, so you didn't think he'd be able to feel the way you pressed your hand to the back of his neck. He'd never said anything before that gave the impression that he was aware of your ministrations, so when he leaned back into your touch then, something strong and addiction bloomed in your gut.

When he spoke, you were surprised to hear how shaky his voice was. After three years of hearing nothing but steady syllables fall from his masked lips, you nearly flinched at the stutter in his voice.

"Thank me?" he said quietly. "For..." you could have sworn you felt his heartbeat flutter rapidly in his neck when he trailed off. "For what?"

You pulled your hand away, pretending not to notice the way he shuddered at the loss of touch, his shoulders slumping as if in a pained relaxation. You hid your smirk. "You're not seriously asking that, right? Without you, I'd probably be dead by now." Or worse, you reflected with a quiet pang in your chest.

Din's response was quick this time, an unusual—but not unwelcome—surprise. "And without your perfectly timed luck, I might be without a ship." His voice was thick, trembling with something that might have sounded like desire had it been someone else speaking.

You didn't even think Din had the capacity to know something as heavy as desire. Well, not that he was incapable of feeling desire, just...you'd never thought about what he might do if he did feel it. Would he shove the temptations down, destined to die in the corners of his mind and body?

Your cheeks warmed at your next thought. Perhaps he took care of it himself in the dead of night on the Razor Crest, or on those mysteriously long patrol walks that he insisted on doing alone.

"Yeah, well..." your answer was pitiful and you knew it. But you were too busy looking at the way his body was slumped in his seat, facing forward despite every limb beginning to turn toward you, as if you were a magnetic beacon.

His fingers twitched in his gloves, angling toward you just as his knees began to do the same thing. "Will you..." he trailed off, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Mesh'la," he breathed, and he leaned to the side, as if his shoulder was chasing your touch. "Put it back."

You were going to ask what he meant, but you didn't have to. Even with his helmet on, you could practically see the pleading in his body language. Here he was, a devout Mandalorian, begging you to put your hands back on him.

"Please," he said quietly, almost a question. It sounded so unlike him that you wondered briefly if he'd been killed and replaced with an imposter. But by the way that his hand trembled as he took his focus away from flying the Crest and moved it toward you...this was Din.

"You...okay?" you asked, but you obliged his request in return, replacing your hand at the base of his neck. You watched in an unfurling dizzying sense of satisfaction as he reached up his own gloved hand to cover yours, squeezing it gently. "Din," you started, but he shook his head.

"I've never disobeyed the Way of the Mandalore," he said, his voice muffled under the mask. You strained your eyes, wishing you could see beneath the beskar. "I've never wanted to. Not before..." he brought your hand around to rest on his chestplate, and you could feel the pressure of his chest leaning into your touch. "Not before I knew what it might feel like to want someone like this."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull your hand away. "You...what?"

His head tilted down. "For once, I don't know how to manage this." He stood up, and suddenly he was towering over you, the cloth under his armor making your fingers itch to tear it off. "How do I manage this?"

"I..." you couldn't hide your shock. "I don't know. It's...isn't it against your religion? It's not the Way."

Din shook his head. "No, it's not." He spread his hand down your wrist and extended it toward your own chest, the leather of his glove seeping into your skin. "But I've also never told anyone my name. Never heard it spoken since I was a child."

You swallowed roughly. "So?"

He huffed a chuckle. Lifting your hands to his helmet, he let your fingers find the divots of the beskar. You didn't miss the way his chest shuddered with a stuttering breath at your touch. "So," he said, "to hell with the Way. For tonight, at least. I need to know you in every way I wish I could."

Such a harrowing request, given the circumstances. But you couldn't stop your hands from tracing the lines of his masked face. "Din..."

"Please." His voice cracked over the single syllable, and it was all you needed.

To hell with the Way, your thoughts echoed his words, and you nodded softly. "Alright," you acquiesced. With one look down, you saw the tent growing in his pants, sending a spike of desire down your spine, settling in your core. "How'll you have me?" you asked.

He let out a soft noise that sounded like a whimper. "Any way that I can," he choked out, his hand returning to your wrist and enclosing it in his grip. "I'll have you any way you'll have me."

You could hardly speak, so you didn't. With a gentle nudge, you pushed him back into his seat. When he sat back, his legs fell open; there was an inviting space between them.

Standing in the spot, just inches from his face, you stared into the black mass of his helmet, hoping you'd get a glimpse of his face. Of course, you knew he would only go as far as he wanted to. If the mask was destined to remain, then...so be it.

With your eyes on his, you moved his hands to your waist, pressing them to your skin and enjoying the feeling of his leather against your body.

He shook his head. "Take them off," he said, again with that whimpering voice. "Please."

You nodded wordlessly and shed his hands of the barriers, heat pooling in your core at the sight of long, thick fingers, his skin finally exposed to you. Returning his hands to your waist, you tilted your head back at the sensation. You were never going to forget what his skin felt against yours.

The melody of shuddering breaths that fell from his lips was unreal, and you wanted to soak up every second of it. Without more than a second thought, you slid your legs over his, straddling his hips and pressing your chest to his chestplate. His hands remained on your waist, but he let them wander, curling them around to cup your ass.

The feeling of his hands on your body made you unconsciously roll your hips forward, which released a strangled moan from his lips. "Oh, god," he mumbled. "Mesh'la, please take it off."

You paused. Your hands fell to your lap, and your eyes were wider than saucers in the reflection of his helmet. "What?"

He picked up your hands in his own, the rub of skin against skin an intoxicating intimacy. "Please," he begged. "If I'm going to touch you like this, I need to see you, cyar'ika. Nothing in the way."

You were going to argue further, but you couldn't ignore the pulsing need that was clouding your thoughts, the same need that pushed your hips further down into his lap. It was impossible to miss the way his cock twitched against your clit, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

“Are you—”

“Don’t fuckin’ ask me if I’m sure,” he begged, and he squeezed your hips under his hands. “Never been more sure, mesh’la.”

This time it was your turn to let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, more to bolster your own confidence than his own. His resolve was clearly rather strong in this matter, and nothing would change his mind.

With a hand on either side of the helmet, you gently pulled it up and away from his face, hardly able to believe that he’d agreed to let you rid him of his every barrier. For a moment, as each inch of skin was revealed to you, you caught yourself frantically wondering what he might look like.

Would he look like anyone else? Would he look familiar to you in that way that only lovers can? Or would he be hiding a deformed brow bone or an abnormally small nose or a crude smile?

Of course, you shouldn’t have even worried. When the helmet lifted off of his head and you let it fall to the floor with a hard thud, you smiled at the face that blinked back at you in wonder. With those brown strands that were just long enough to hang down over his forehead, and the matching brown eyes that twinkled with the moonlight in his pupils, Din Djarin was exquisite.

“I knew it,” you hummed, your eyes tracing every line on his face, every strand of hair that clung charmingly to his forehead.

His response was a strangled moan, and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord when you dragged a finger along his jaw, then the hooked line of his nose. “Knew what?”

“I knew you’d be one of the pretty ones,” you grinned, and you leaned down to press your lips to his, swallowing his groan of ecstasy.

You drank it down like the sweetest liquor, the sound pulling your own moan from your chest. His lips were chapped and dry from lack of care, but his mouth was warm and wet and his tongue was deliciously shy as he darted it towards yours. His hands stuttered as they pressed further up your chest and felt for your breasts. You weren’t sure how long he’d last; his chest was already heaving.

“Din,” you pulled back with a grin. “Din,” you repeated when his eyes remained closed. “Thought you wanted to look at me?”

“I do,” he said, his voice choking in his throat. “I do, mesh’la, I just…I think I might come in my damn suit if I look at those lips too long.”

You cooed, letting a hand search for the roots of his hair, finding a home on his scalp. You curled your fingers in the strands and watched his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw go slack, and felt his hips buck up into yours. “You’re so sensitive, baby,” you hummed, your mind running wild with thoughts of what this could mean.

“Never been touched like this,” he mumbled, voice cracking again. “Feels perfect, mesh’la.”

“I need you to look at me, Din,” you nodded. “It’ll keep feeling good, I promise. I just need you to look at me.”

When his eyes opened, you could have fallen apart right there at the sight of his glassy brown depths. His lip quivered and you almost thought he’d cry, but then he was letting his hand fall from your chest to your waistband, trailing his thumb along the skin there. “Can I?” he asked gently.

Nodding, you stood up. “Just keep breathing, pretty boy,” you said softly. “I’ll make you feel good. Show you just how good it can be.” You guided his hands to your waist and let him pull your pants to your ankles, revealing the front of your glistening slit to him.

Din was just starting to understand the drug-like effects of physical touch, so you weren’t surprised when he leaned forward, fell to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the soft skin of your stomach, breathing deeply as if he were a zealot bent to pray at the altar.

“C’mere,” you whispered, though unable to hide the growing smirk on your face. There seemed to be nothing more addicting than the sight of the Mandalorian on his knees before you. “Sit back down for me, baby,” you said, tilting his chin up to look at you. “Take those pants off, they look awfully restricting.”

He nodded quickly and obeyed, slipping his pants down to his knees as he sat back on his chair. It was downright sinful—the beskar on his chest but his helmet removed and his cock springing free, the tip red and angry and leaking. “Please,” he begged. “I—”

“I know,” you breathed, stepping closer to him. “We’re gonna make each other feel good now, yeah?”

Din nodded once more, his eyes fluttering shut. “Please, please.”

Well, how were you going to deny him then?

You straddled him once more, your clit throbbing at the sight of his cock underneath you. But rather than shock him with the feeling of your pussy milking him for all he was worth, you hovered over him, just enough that the head of his cock lay just an inch from your entrance.

“Mesh’la,” he begged, “please don’t tease. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good, I swear to everything I’ve ever believed in—”

A finger pressed to his lips, you shook your head. “I know,” you repeated. “Deep breaths for me, Din.”

He inhaled sharply and shoved his breath out of his chest. For a moment, his eyes cleared.

“Good,” you encouraged him, relishing in the look of his wide eyes at the praise. “Such a pretty boy, baby.” You moved his hand to your core, guiding his fingers to your clit. “Rub little circles for me, baby. Make me feel good and I’ll make you feel good.”

He obliged quickly, rubbing tentative circles to your clit in a way that had you smiling gently, loving the sacrilege you were participating in. “Is that g—oh!”

Din’s question was interrupted by your hand reaching down to grip his cock, delivering a quick stroke and making his hips stutter. He tried his best to lift his hips from the chair, clearly aiming for your entrance, but one hand on the beskar on his chest had him sitting back.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, “just like that. Just touch me for a while.”

Ever the gentleman, Din kept his eyes on you and his hand on your pussy, pulling sweet sounds from your lips just as you wrecked him beneath you. Your thumb slid against his tip and he almost came; you could tell by the way his breath caught in his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, lip trapped between his teeth.

You wanted his fingers to wander toward your dripping entrance, but you knew he might not last long enough for any more foreplay. Next time, you thought smugly.

Now…now you needed him inside you.

“Gentle, baby,” you reminded him when he gripped your hip too tightly. You didn’t want to tell him you enjoyed the near-bruising strength; that would be for another time. You could already see that you were close to losing him, and you weren’t going to end this experience without riding him until the both of you saw stars. “One more deep breath, yeah?”

He was a mess of tumbling words in Mando’a that you didn’t understand, and his brow was furiously furrowed, as if it was taking all of his focus not to come on your hand. As a matter of fact, it probably was taking all of his focus. “Please, mesh’la,” he said again.

You wondered briefly if you’d begin answering that now; treating it as your name. Mesh’la.

“Deep breath, baby,” you reminded him, and when he obeyed, you sank your hips towards his. The tip of his cock slid in with no resistance; you were wetter than you’d ever been in your life. “Good boy,” you moaned as you kept your hand on his neck, softly cupping the underside of his jaw to look at you. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

The stretch of his cock inside you was delicious, and pleasure licked sharply at your insides, begging for a quick release. You knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together much longer based on the whimpers that still crumbled from his throat, broken and jagged.

“So fuckin’ pretty?” he repeated, his voice a high squeak. He gripped your hips and threw his head back. “So fuckin’ pretty for you?”

Your breath rushed out of your chest in a strong blow and you had to take a deep breath yourself to calm down. “All for me, Din, that’s it,” you continued, and you lifted your hips up. Dropping them back into his lap, you soaked up the feeling of being filled so completely by his cock. With every shred of patience left in your body, you pushed your lips back to his and tasted his moans on his tongue.

His hips began lifting into your own, the only clue you’d get to his desperation for more. Without a word, you began moving faster, more rhythmically, as you bounced gently on his cock. With the base of his cock pulsing against your clit at every drop of your hips, you were approaching that edge quicker and quicker. “Din,” you moaned, “baby, I’m gonna—”

“Please,” he said, “I want you to feel good, mesh’la. Use me, please, use me, please…”

You were sure your brain short circuited. With no more patience left in your bones, you picked up the pace and chased your own orgasm, knowing he wasn’t far behind. With every squelch of your pussy on his cock, your moans became less coherent, and you leaned your head forward against his neck.

Pulling back to press a kiss to his jaw, you felt his loins tense beneath you. Something nearly snapped inside you at the sound and sight and sensation of his pleasure so close to release; at the knowledge that it was you who had done this to him. “Good,” you mumbled against his jaw, getting closer to his ear. “Pretty boy, just for me,” you mumbled.

Din’s chest tightened and his moans became longer and more high-pitched, true whimpers if you’d ever heard one. “Mesh’la,” he begged, “Mesh’la, I—”

You dipped your head down and, while grinding your hips back and forth on his cock at a feverish pace, you darted your tongue out to his neck. Licking a stripe from the crevice of his neck to the spot just behind the soft part of his ear, you groaned in his ear as you crumbled on him, releasing the tension in your body as you came hard.

Din was ruined beneath you, with his neck bobbing and his eyes shut, his head thrown back. Mouth opened in a wide moan, his voice broken over the sound, you felt his release sink into your fluttering walls. He let out a deep cry of words that you didn’t recognize, but you blushed all the same. With the way that his eyes glossed over when he said it, you were sure it was something that reeked of sin and sweat and sacrilege.

“So good,” you mumbled again, “you’ve done so good for me, Din.” Your face tucked itself into the crook of his neck, and you inhaled the heady scent that belonged only to him. You sat motionless on his lap, but you could still feel his head pulse inside you at the overstimulation. “Did that feel good?” you asked, your hand reaching up to smooth down his hair comfortingly.

He let out a breathless laugh. “If this is sin, I’ll want more of it,” he replied, his arms snaking around your middle to tug your chest closer to him. “I’ll never know how to thank you,” he finished, sighing deeply. His eyes twinkled at you when you pulled away to look at him.

You shook your head. “No need,” you assured him. “Just catch your breath, brave Mandalorian. Then we’ll talk.”

He nodded, his eyelids growing heavier with the expense of energy now catching up with him. His cock had grown soft inside you, but he made no move to lift you from him. “I did well?” he asked. This wasn’t surprising; you’d known him to be quietly confident, but the Mandalorian was never one to pass up the opportunity for someone to reassure his talents.

You grinned and leaned forward to press your lips to his hooked nose, fighting the urge to nip at it with your teeth. Next time, you reminded yourself. “You did well,” you nodded. “Feeling okay?”

He splayed his hands on your back and inhaled near your chest, his face buried into the soft skin of your breasts. “Never better,” he reassured you, rubbing his hands along your spine. “So sweet to me, baby,” he murmured, repeating your own affection back to you.

The two of you remained like that, just wrapped together in a mess of limbs and sweat and come mingling together. When he began to wince with the overstimulation, you lifted off of his cock but remained in his lap. You pulled back and leaned your forehead against his. You watched his lips, plump and sitting perfectly, waiting to be kissed again.

“What does mesh’la mean?” you asked instead, the word strange and unfamiliar on your tongue.

He looked at you for a long time, bringing a finger up to trace the line of your mouth. “Put your lips on mine again and I’ll teach you,” he offered casually, as if his pupils weren’t still blown wide, his eyelashes still fluttering from the power of his release.

You smirked. “This is the Way, huh?”

For once in his life, Din Djarin smiled at you. “This is the Way.”

tysm for reading! so glad to be back, i'm sorry if the smut scene seemed rushed and out of pace! again: i was hungover. pls forgive. lemme know what you think!

adding tags here cause i'm going grocery shopping at 8:30pm BYEEEE

this is a good morning fic for @thetriumphantpanda and the aftercare bit at the end was specifically for @cavillscurls i know u crave it girl

the rest of the taggies: @mingiast @iluvurfather @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @darkroastjoel @tightjeansjavi @chaotic-mystery @dinsdjrn @huffle-punk @tommymilllers @milly-louise @struig @butiknewyoudlinger @alejaa-a @worhols @thegreat-annamaria @easaud @country2212 @sleepdeprived-feelalived @pertinentpostmortem @lailaispunk

#din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #virgin!din djarin #din djarin x experienced!reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian #star wars #star wars smut #star wars fic

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citrusbunnies · 3 months ago

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currently at the stage in a hyperfixation cycle where im shaking old hyperfixations trying to make dopamine fall out, does anyone have any fic recs for skyrim, world of warcraft, star wars esp the tcw era, dc, danny phantom, avengers, spiderman, overwatch, lotr and the hobbit, bg3 or ghost bc TvT

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paracosm-draw · 3 days ago

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Slave AU continuation !

I think it'll be a collection of little snippets and drawings to go with it ☀️

---

"How old are you, Ahnakin ?"

The young man raises his head from his plate, mouth full with his third portion of rehydrated protein powder. It's the only meal they have on the ship and since cooking doesn't like Obi-Wan or maybe it's the other way around, it'll have to do until their next stop. They're pretty awful to be honest, so Anakin is either really polite, either really hungry. The Jedi bets on the second one. Despite his generally toned shape, he's still awfully skinny in Obi-Wan's opinion. He looks starved and he probably is. So when he finishes his third portion and doesn't dare ask for more, starring at Obi-Wan's half-empty plate instead, the Jedi pushes it to him.

"Eat."

Anakin raises an eyebrow at him but makes no move to take it. He gauges him like some vicious trap is going to close up on him as soon as he will touch it. Obi-Wan suppresses a sigh.

"You can take all of it. I'm not hungry anymore and I wouldn't want to waste it."

It's a lie. But it seems to do the trick. He doesn't think Anakin has ever wasted something in his life.

"So ?" He asks again, when Anakin's plate is cleaner than when he got it out of the cupboard. "How old are you ?"

Anakin gives him a look and leans back against the back of the bench. With the way he spreads his legs and stretches his arms above his head, Obi-Wan is grateful for the spare clothes he accepted to put on. When he's done, he puts his hands on his belly with a satisfied sigh and tilts his head to the side. He looks like he's getting more comfortable in his presence but Obi-Wan has a lot of experience in reading people. His false casualness is betrayed by the tension in his shoulders and the slight drumming of his fingers. He still doesn't trust him, but that's fine, he can work with that.

"You know, you're getting better." Anakin finally says, not answering his question at all.

The intense, piercing stare is back. Obi-Wan tries not to squirm under it, readjusting the collar of his tunic to keep a hold on himself.

"Better at what ?"

"At saying my name." Anakin smirks.

"Oh. Well, I'm glad." Obi-Wan replies, feeling himself blush slightly when Anakin leans forward to put his elbows on the table, looking straight at him.

"So, what can I do for you ?" He then asks out of the blue. It takes Obi-Wan off guard.

"I'm sorry ?"

Anakin opens his arms and shrugs.

"Why am I here ? Why did you take me ? To do your chores ? For entertainment ? For pleasure ?"

Obi-Wan can feel the blush spread from his cheekbones to his neck at Anakin's blunt words.

"What...?"

"I mean you're a bit old." Anakin continues like he was talking about the weather. "But I've had worse, and you're still pretty hot for your age, so..."

For all he'd been praised about his legendary eloquence, Obi-Wan is rendered speechless by what Anakin is implying.

"I would never- I would never asked that from you." He says, horrified.

Instead of looking relieved like Obi-Wan thought he should, Anakin frowns like he had offended him.

"Am I not to your taste ? I'm supposed to be pretty attractive by human standards."

"It's not- That's not what I meant." Obi-Wan actually splutters and winces at his own awkwardness. "You're quite... Lovely. But I didn't free you for any of this."

Anakin looks genuinely confused. He chews at his bottom lip for a while, starring at him like he's some sort of complicated puzzle to solve.

"So, why did you free me, then ?" He finally asks. "Why me and not the others ?"

Obi-Wan sighs quietly. He doesn't really know himself if he's being honest.

"The... The Force wanted it. I think."

"The Force ?" Anakin looks even more confused. Confused but curious. Obi-Wan believes it is time for a talk.

"Have you ever heard of the Jedi, Anakin ?"

#obikin slave AU #obikin au #obikin #obikin fic #snippet #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #anakin x obi wan #obi wan x anakin #star wars fic #star wars

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padawan-snack-packer · 2 days ago

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[You Give Them a Hug — Bad Batch (+ Omega!) Edition]

(aka: You broke them. And now they’re in love with you forever.)

So you peeps seemed to love the Clones Edition over here, so here is the Bad Batch version of it!!!

⚠️ TW: Not Canon. Just Vibes. ⚠️

This post contains: – Excessive hugging. – Deeply non-canon affection. – Clones feeling emotions they were not properly equipped to process. – A concerning lack of military professionalism. – Irreversible softness.

If you're looking for canon compliance, emotional restraint, or literally any kind of plot... you're in the wrong galaxy, sweetheart.

This is just me projecting unhinged love onto traumatized war orphans with muscles.

Proceed at your own risk. Hug responsibly. 💥🤗💥

Hunter

You hug Hunter and he just… stops functioning.

Like you initiated it mid-mission and this man has full-on emotion-induced lag.

“...Why’d you do that?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Loading Hunter.exe

He gives you this soft, stunned look like he didn’t know he needed physical affection until just now.

His return hug is slow, careful, warm. His arms wrap around your back and he doesn’t squeeze—he holds.

Stays silent for a moment. Then a low murmur: “...thanks. I needed that.”

From that point on, it’s Hunter Hug Radar Mode™.

You’re sad? He’s already moving.

You’re happy? Hug.

You yawned vaguely near him? “You look tired. C’mere.”

Somehow always smells like leather, dirt, and safety. It's like hugging your childhood treehouse and a protective panther.

Wrecker

OH.

OH YOU’RE IN FOR IT NOW.

You hug Wrecker and he goes FULL GOLDEN RETRIEVER MELTDOWN.

“AWwwwWWWWWWW!!! C’mere!!!”

Picks you up. Swings you. Spins you around until you’re dizzy and giggling and possibly concussed.

His hugs are LIFE-THREATENINGLY STRONG. Like being hit with a loving freight train.

“You’re the best! I’m gonna hug you every day forever now!!”

Immediately makes you a “You Hugged Wrecker” award out of scrap metal. It has glitter glue.

He initiates hugs constantly now. If you don’t hug him back fast enough, he starts whining like a sad bantha.

Tells Crosshair about the hug with tears in his eyes. Crosshair pretends not to care.

“They hugged me, man. Me!! WRECKER!!”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t start crying again.”

Tech

You hug Tech and it’s like hugging a 3D-printed anxiety machine.

Freezes.

“Wh—what are you doing? Is this…physical bonding? Are you malfunctioning? Am I??”

Absolutely stiff as a board. One arm hovers near your back like he's trying to remember what humans do.

You explain it’s just a hug. Tech mutters: “Hmmm. Fascinating. Increases oxytocin. Improves cardiovascular health. Reduces cortisol. Hm.”

But then you do it again.

And he goes quiet.

Softer.

Then his hands gently rest on your back and he melts like butter under a Tatooine sun.

You pull away and he clears his throat 14 times and then gives you a 12-slide presentation on “the measurable benefits of repeat physical affection among squadmates (with graphs).”

Secretly loves it. Won’t say it, but builds you a hug simulator in case he’s unavailable.

Crosshair

Oh.

OH YOU BRAVE, BRAVE FOOL.

You hug Crosshair and it’s like hugging a sniper rifle possessed by the ghost of unresolved trauma.

“...What the kriff are you doing?”

Arms at his sides. Staring down at you like you're a wild animal. Clearly thinking “kill or cuddle?”

You say “just hugging you.” And he just…blinks. Once. Twice.

Then you feel it: the tiniest shift. He leans in. One hand—just one—lands gently at your waist.

It’s not a full hug. It’s not even half a hug.

It’s 0.5 seconds of fragile vulnerability.

Then he pulls back and growls “Don’t make a big deal out of it.” …But his ears are pink. And he doesn’t move away from you for the rest of the day.

Later that week, you find a ration bar left on your bunk. It’s the good flavor.

Written in Sharpie on the wrapper: "Since you like touching people. Here's something to touch your mouth." (he tried)

Echo

Echo is a man held together by trauma, stubbornness, and like...two screws and a charging port.

You hug Echo and it’s like hugging a haunted vending machine with trust issues.

He doesn’t react at first. Just stiffens. Hard. Like his brain didn’t even register this as an available interaction option.

“...Why?” he asks, very quietly. Not suspicious. Not annoyed. Just… genuinely confused. Like he doesn’t think people do that to him anymore.

You say, “Because you deserve it.” And he. Short circuits.

It’s all in the eyes. That distant, shell-shocked clone stare goes soft. And sad. You get half a breath of “I don’t—” before his voice goes hoarse and he just leans in.

One arm—cold metal, whirring servos—wraps around you. The other presses tight, his hand fisting in the back of your shirt like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

His forehead rests on your shoulder. You feel him exhale. And it’s the sound of a man finally letting go of a weight he’s carried since the Citadel.

When he pulls back, his face is unreadable. But he says “...Thanks,” with such quiet, aching sincerity it wrecks you for 48 hours.

The next time you get hurt, Echo’s at your side before the medic droid.

He doesn’t hug you again right away. But he touches your shoulder now. Bumps your arm. Stays close.

Then one day—randomly, silently—he hugs you first. No words. Just that same warm, quiet grip. Like saying: I’m still here. And so are you.

Omega

YOU HUG OMEGA??

SHE SHRIEKS WITH GLEE AND TACKLES YOU LIKE A TINY STAR-WARS THEMED KOALA.

“HUG TIME!!!”

Wraps every limb around you like she’s a baby monkey and you’re a tree.

Refuses to let go for 10 minutes. It’s warm. It’s pure. It’s the most healing hug in galactic history.

Immediately declares you her “hug buddy.”

Makes you a friendship bracelet with “❤️ HUGS THUGS 4 LIFE ❤️” on it.

Tries to get the rest of the squad to join in. “Group hug! Come on! HUNTAH YOU’RE NOT TA COOL FOR LOVE.”

Eventually becomes hug ambassador. Sneak attacks everyone until the whole squad is touch-positive.

Hunter now does “the forehead touch.” Wrecker hugs everyone at breakfast. Tech nods politely and lets her sit in his lap. Crosshair lets her hug him while muttering “don’t tell anyone.”

🧸 BONUS: Bad Batch Group Hug™

You say “GROUP HUG” and Wrecker YEETS HIMSELF AT YOU FIRST.

Omega screams “YESSSS!!” and jumps on like a koala.

Tech mutters “Oh no it’s happening again” and gets absorbed into the chaos.

Crosshair stands two meters away looking like a feral cat. But you hold out your hand and he sighs, grumbles, and slinks in like he’s being drafted into a cult.

It’s warm. It’s slightly sweaty. Someone’s armor is digging into your hip. But everyone’s breathing slows down. There’s peace.

You say “I love you guys” and Hunter goes silent. Then softly replies: “Yeah. You too.”

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pretchatta · 27 days ago

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Family Dinner

After Ezra builds his lightsaber, the Ghost crew introduce him to the celebratory tradition that has evolved over the years, growing with each new member that joined the Spectres. It's one they're all too happy to add Ezra to – and he has a perfect addition of his own.

I wrote this three years ago (!!) for the @legacy-rebelsfanzine fanzine and was waiting to post it until after I received my copy. Unfortunately that never happened so I never posted it, but (spoiler alert) I'm coming back to writing and right now have a couple of pieces I'm sitting on for exchanges. This means I'm chomping at the bit to post something, so I figured it was finally time I shared this outside of the zine. Enjoy!

The delightful illustrations were all drawn by @wachie

you can also read, kudos and comment on AO3! ->

---

Ezra held his breath as he waited for his master to pass judgement on his newly-built lightsaber.

"Well, it's different," Kanan said finally, "but that seems about right for you. Go for it."

He handed the unorthodox hilt back to his Padawan and, holding it apprehensively out in front of him, Ezra ignited the blade. With a snap-hiss, the blue beam of energy came to life, its glow illuminating the Ghost's common area and reflecting in five pairs of awestruck eyes. The whole crew gazed at it and the boy holding it with a mixture of pride and reverence.

"I think this deserves a celebration," Hera murmured, breaking the silence.

Kanan gave her a knowing look, a grin playing at his lips. "Our usual?"

"Let's see what Ezra wants," she said, mirroring his smile. She turned to Ezra to explain, "It's become a tradition on this ship to mark special occasions with a particular meal, but since this is your achievement, is there something you would like? Something to celebrate the day you built your lightsaber?"

"Well..." Ezra stared thoughtfully at his still-lit lightsaber for a moment, a crease forming between his eyebrows. He seemed to come to a conclusion and thumbed the switch to retract the blade, dimming the light in the room back to its usual levels. "When I was a kid and my parents were making their broadcasts, there was a stew we'd have after each one. I remember it had these dumplings on top and when we made it, they'd let me make the dumplings. It was our tradition."

"A traditional stew, huh?" Zeb asked with a grin. "I think we're having our usual, Hera."

Ezra quirked an eyebrow at him. "You have the same thing?"

"Not with dumplings."

"Not yet," Sabine corrected, a glint in her eye.

It's our own special kind of stew," Hera explained to him. "It's changed a lot over the years, but it started when I first set out to fight the Empire. Whenever I had a few spare credits I'd treat myself to fresh produce – whatever the local market had. I'd slice it up and fry it to add some flavour and texture to the usual rations. Each time someone joined my crew, it changed."

"It always went cold quickly, so I turned it into a broth," Kanan said.

"And it was vegetarian," Zeb added with a grimace.

Hera turned to him with a frown. "We couldn't afford meat regularly until you joined us," she pointed out.

"Somehow it was still lacking flavour when you picked me up, so I was the one to add spices," Sabine chipped in.

Hera smiled. "It improved each time."

"And your dumplings will make a great addition," Kanan told Ezra. "They should cook in the broth, and with them we won't even need to supplement it with rations any more."

Hera picked up her datapad and moved to stand in front of her crew. "It sounds like we need to make a market trip."

There was no need for everyone to go, but no-one wanted to stay behind – not even Chopper. Once everyone was out, Hera locked up the Ghost behind them as Zeb led the way to Kothal. Kanan hung back to walk with her behind the kids, and she slipped her hand into his and gave him a smile of thanks. The soft look he gave her in return warmed her heart.

Something had changed in him since he'd taken Ezra to that Temple, and something had changed in Ezra too. They had both come back different – calmer, more sure of themselves, more comfortable in their roles as Jedi Master and Padawan. She'd always done her best to support Kanan, but she knew Ezra and the Jedi Temple could give him something she had never been able to. However, the look in his eyes reminded her that she gave him something just as important.

The market wasn't overly busy this late in the day. They split up in order to find everything – and therefore get back for dinner – faster. Zeb went to a local butcher's stall with Chopper not far behind, and Sabine said something about running low on a few of her spices. Ezra seemed to be looking with interest at a selection of baking ingredients, so Hera left him to it and went to her favourite fresh produce stand.

Hera knew she was here for vegetables but the display of imported meilooruns did look good… She turned to ask Kanan if they had the credits for one, but he wasn't behind her where she had expected. A search of nearby stalls found him only a few metres away, wearing–

"Kanan," she called, incredulity colouring her voice, "is that a 'kiss the cook' apron?"

"What do you think?" he asked, giving her a roguish wink.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hold back a grin. She allowed herself one meiloorun as she bought the vegetables, and then went to round up her crew.

Surprisingly, Chopper was the first she came across, and he seemed to be in a very good mood. She assumed he'd been looking at the displays of mechanical oils again. Zeb was next, who had managed to haggle an extra steak into his bag, and then Sabine, who had been about to wander over to a dye stall. Kanan fetched a suspiciously flour-covered Ezra and then she was leading the way back to the Ghost after yet another successful supply run.

Cooking began as soon as they returned, with everyone eager to eat. Kanan made a start on the broth, with Hera by his side slicing the vegetables. Sabine brought the pestle and mortar out to start grinding her spices as Zeb sharpened his steak knives. Kanan helped Ezra get ready to make his dumplings, and Hera saw what looked like a pang of nostalgia pass over the boy's face as he laid out his bowls in a very specific way.

The sounds that filled the galley were almost like music; the steady chop of Hera's knife, the sizzle of Zeb's pan, the scrape of Sabine's pestle and the gentle simmer of Kanan's broth. It didn't take long for some amazing smells to start wafting around the small space either.

"Hey, Ezra," Sabine called over the noise. "Have you ever had bisawa paste before?"

An array of jars and pots were open on the counter in front of her, the contents of which she was carefully measuring into a bowl. The one currently in her hand was filled with a bright green paste.

"Nope," Ezra replied, looking at the contents of the jar with interest. "What is it?"

Instead of replying, she used a spoon to scoop some out and offer it to him. "You should try some!"

Behind her, Zeb's ears pricked up with interest as he started to carefully transfer the contents of his pan into the broth. "Yeah, kid, try some, it's really good!"

"Okay," Ezra said, shrugging as his curiosity got the better of him.

He let Sabine feed him the mouthful of paste. It was as she removed the spoon and her eyes lit up with mischief that he realised his mistake – his tongue was burning. It was too late to stop himself from swallowing. The heat spread throughout his mouth and down his throat. Ezra felt his face flush and his eyes start to water.

He let out a pained groan. "Sabine!"

She tipped her head back and cackled with laughter. He lunged towards her, intending to wipe his floury hands on her in retribution, but Sabine was too fast. She ducked nimbly under his outstretched arms, still laughing. The galley wasn't very big, and as his vision blurred with tears he stumbled into the back of someone.

"Hey!" Zeb complained as Ezra knocked him.

Ezra started to wonder if his vengeance on Sabine could wait until after he found some water, but was distracted by the sight of the perfect white handprint on Zeb's back. Sabine noticed too, and they both burst into laughter together.

Zeb realised he was the butt of their joke, but fortunately for all Hera stepped in before the situation could escalate.

Ezra, get yourself a glass of water," she said calmly, "and Zeb, now's a good time to lay the table."

She wasn't sure if it was her or their hungry stomachs that made them obey, but her crew did as they were told. She left Kanan to stir the last of the vegetables into the broth as she went to check on Ezra. He was mostly recovered from his first encounter with bisawa, and while she had sympathy from him, every crewmember had at some point been subjected to Sabine's "taste test". It was part of the tradition now.

Soon, they were all sitting down together, rubbing elbows in the cramped space of the galley. Kanan served them each a bowl of warm, rich stew, but remained standing.

"Congratulations, Ezra," he began with a smile. "Finding a kyber crystal and constructing your lightsaber is an important step on your path to being a Jedi; we're all proud of you."

Ezra's face warmed at the attention. "Thanks," he mumbled. "Though I wouldn't have even made it this far without you."

"He's right, love," Hera said. "This isn't just about Ezra's achievement – you're a great teacher for him."

"The best," Ezra agreed.

"To Ezra and Kanan!" Sabine toasted.

"Yeah, yeah," Zeb said. "Can we eat now? The smell is making my mouth water."

With a laugh, they all set about eating their stew. It was delicious. As they ate, each person found themself thinking the same thing: sure, the meal had been perfect before, but just like their crew, it was even better with Ezra's addition.

#star wars rebels #ghost crew #ezra bridger #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #sabine wren #zeb orrelios #chopper #c1-10p #space family #rebels #star wars #star wars fic #swr fic #pretchwritta #fic #legacy zine

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