#because you’ve seen his eyes behind the visor

[shepscapades]

SHEP

DRAW MORE SLEEPY XISUMA

AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

(no pressure of <3)

ANYTHING FOR YOU ANONYMOUS

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

Familiar & Unfamiliar

din djarin x female!reader

warning: attempted sexual assault (not by our boy mando, and i don’t describe it in depth the furthest it goes is non-consensual kissing), light smut, angst then comfort, then fluff fluff fluff, identity theft, mentions of slave trade, canon violence, dom!din trying hard to be sub!din for you, he doesn’t succeed for long

word count: 4,174

Summary: You travel the galaxy with a Mandalorian who is much softer than his impenetrable beskar would lead others to believe. He leaves you with his son to search for a Quarry, but it’s not the Mando you’ve come to know and love who returns to you.

“It shouldn’t take long.” Mando hummed as he collected his gear from his weapon’s storage. You sat cross legged on the Razor Crest’s floor with the child in your lap. His small green hand played with the small, metal ball he seemed to always find. Your hand stroked his ears only stopping to push the ball away from his mouth when he began to try and chew on it. Mando turned around to stare down at you. “Will you be alright here?”

After traveling with the Mandalorian for the last two months, babysitting and completing repairs on the ship, you had finally grown accustomed to the silver beskar covered man. Initially it had been difficult for you to even look at the man for longer than a second⏤ too intimidated by the black t-shape visor that stared back at you. However, joining him had been your only option at the time, an act of self preservation, so you had to push your fear aside. Luckily, you had quickly learned that though the metal he was covered in was impossible to penetrate, the man underneath was as soft as they come.

You learned that the solemn, silent, and dangerous facade Mando wore was more or less an interpretation of what people saw. Yes, he was dangerous. You had seen him wrestle quarries three time his size and come out unscathed, but you had also seen him humming a song under his breath while giving the child a bath. You had seen Mando go out of his way to purchase you a new pair of boots in the market simply because he noticed your discomfort with your current pair. The brief times you felt his touch, a brush against your arm or a hand on your back, it was soft and comforting. His eyes were impossible to see behind his helmet, but you could feel the care in his gaze. Having Mando’s attention on you felt like safety.

Mando called out your name and you blinked in surprise. “Oh, um, yeah! We’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“I shouldn’t be gone long. Days at most.” He reassured before you could even ask. You stood up and Mando drifted closer⏤ his gloved hand reached out brush the child’s head. Mando chuckled when his son cooed and giggled in response. You heard a long time ago that the best judge of a person’s character was how they treated animals and children. Mando passed that test with flying colors. “You remember the rules?”

“Hmm, no running with scissors?” You joked. Mando tilted his head and you chuckled. “Don’t open the Razor Crest’s ramp for anyone but you, and if I do have to leave for some emergency, get to a crowded spot with plenty of witnesses and talk to no one. Not until you come for us.”

Mando nodded in approval. He gave the child’s head one last pet along the ears and as his hand pulled away you felt his leather covered fingers drag down the length of your bare arm. Heat crept up the back of your neck and you prayed to any deity that was listening that Mando hadn’t heard the hitch in your breath. You were not attracted to your metal armored Mandalorian employer and friend. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. 

Without another word, Mando made his way to the back of the cargo hold. He opened the ramp before heading down and you called out for him to be careful. Mando glanced over his shoulder, at you and the child, and you waved. You stood at the cargo hold’s edge as Mando pressed a button on his gauntlet and the ramp began to rise. As the metal door rose, you stared at the mandalorian’s back until the ramp cut him off from sight.

Din was more distracted than usual and he told himself it wasn’t because of the newest addition to the Razor Crest. It obviously wasn’t because of you. No, he was just busy with all the bounties he was juggling and the stress of trying to find the child’s people. Then the added dilemma of his current quarry. Already he had been on the flesh trader’s trail for three days. Three full days. That was nothing in comparison to past hunts that would take him weeks on end, but Din found his patience wearing very, very thin.

“Are you ready yet, mate?” A voice asked through the closed door. 

Din had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. His only lead came from a mercenary who was hunting an Inner Rim politician that had come all the way out here to participate in the slave trade. It was the only access Din would have to get into the market to find his quarry and it came at a cost. Din glanced down at the helmet held in his hands. It was an oddly shaped red thing from Kaleesh culture. His new mercenary partner made it very clear that if he walked in as a Mandalorian everything would be lost. On any normal bounty Din would’ve risked it anyways. There was very little in the galaxy that could coax him out of his armor, leave him bare to the world, but a child in danger did it. 

A mother had come to him after he searched for a lead in the local cantina on his first night. She had fallen to her knees in front of him and begged for his help⏤ she offered everything she owned and more in return. Her only child, an eleven year old little girl, had been stolen away from her. Dragged to the flesh market to be sold. Din swore to her that he’d bring her back. On his word as a Mandalorian, she would be reunited with her daughter. He just wasn’t allowed to do it looking like a Mandalorian.

“Seriously, mate, we’re going to be late!” Trigg, the mercenary, barked once more.

Din settled the helmet over his head and shifted uncomfortably. It didn’t fit quite like his real one did, but it was tight enough that he wasn’t worried about it falling off in the heat of battle. For a second, he just stared at himself in the mirror. Red armor of cloth and leather covered every inch of his skin, black gloves pulled on tight, and his oddly shaped helmet covered his face entirely. Din hated it more than anything. But, the sooner he saved the girl and caught his quarry, the sooner he could return to his ship. Return to the child and you.

“I’ll be right out.” Din called back. He settled all his beskar armor pieces into the tarp bag he had borrowed from the child’s mother. It was her home they were using as a base of sorts. Din hid the bag in the closet of the room behind a stack of boxes. It made him anxious to leave his armor behind, but he forced himself to step away and open the door.

Trigg stood in the hall wearing his own personal gear. The blond man had scars from a raking claw on the side of his head leaving those patches with sparse hair. His arms were crossed over his chest and he stared at Din in a mix of annoyance and impatience. “Finally. Did you have to do your hair?”

“It’s you we’re waiting on now.” Din replied dryly as he marched past the man to the door.

The sooner, the better.

Night had fallen for the third night of Mando being gone. It was too soon for you to be worried about him, but a ball of anxiety still sat in your gut. He had been away for longer periods of time before. The longest thus far being three weeks. You were mumbling a soft song under your breath as you rocked the child to sleep. When his eyes drifted close, you carefully set him in the hammock above Mando’s bunk and tucked a blanket around him. 

When you were certain that the kid was settled, you drifted toward the fresher to get ready for bed yourself. You wondered what it would take to convince Mando to pick up a bounty on a planet with an ocean soon. Going from the lava plains of Nevarro to the deserts of Tatooine and now this dusty Outer Rim world was bleak. You missed water. You had grown up near a river on your homeworld and spent a decent amount of time there. It wasn’t until you saw dry planet after dry planet that you truly began to appreciate natural bodies of water.

You shrugged out of your clothes, tossing them aside, and slid into a pair of shorts and one of Mando’s shirts. It had been borrowed early on in your travels and now it belonged more to you than it did him. The dark shirt was large enough to cover most of your shorts. You had been in the middle of washing your face when you heard the tell tale sound of the ramp. Quickly, you grabbed a towel and dried your face while rushing out of the fresher.

Mando was walking up the ramp just as you entered the cargo hold and you shot him a smile, “Hey, Mando.” He came to a sudden stop. You glanced around but saw no evidence of a quarry behind or near him. Had they gotten away? “What happened with the quarry?”

The Mandalorian crossed his arms and a nervous energy settled over your skin. The way he stood just seemed…off. And, the silence that surrounded him wasn’t the usual comfortable quiet you had grown used to. Mando’s helmet tilted some, as if his eyes were raking over your form, and you tugged on the bottom of your shirt anxiously. This was an outfit you wore to sleep every night on the Razor Crest, but right now was the first time you felt uncomfortable having it on around Mando.

“Are you⏤Are you injured?” You asked.

Mando strolled closer to you. Another bit of him that wasn’t right⏤ his gait. As you tried to gather your thoughts, he came to a stop right in front of you. Nearly chest to chest. A lump had formed in your throat, mouth dry, and you tried to swallow it down. Being around Mando always made your stomach feel as if it were filled with butterflies, made your heart race out of your chest, made an addicting warmth pool in your core. 

That was not how you felt right now.

Your hand reached out, as quickly as you could manage it, and slammed against the lock button of Mando’s bunk. The metal door slid down. It clicked into place, and the Mandalorian in front of you grabbed you by the throat and shoved you back until you slammed into the Razor Crest’s wall. You clawed at the familiar, gloved hand tightening around your throat as a low, unfamiliar chuckle rumbled through the modulator.

“What’s wrong, baby?” A voice that did not belong to your Mandalorian asked. “Aren’t you happy to see me? You were a minute ago.”

“Wh⏤Who⏤” You tried to spit out but you could barely breathe let alone form words.

“I’m your Mandalorian, baby.” The cruel laugh coming out from behind the t-shape visor you found comfort in felt so very wrong. He yanked you off the wall and released your throat. You managed to gasp a single breath of air before he backhanded you across the face hard enough to see stars. You fell to your knees and elbows roughly, a cry of pain leaving your lips, but you struggled to find a weapon of any kind. “That’s right. Crawl away, baby. Run. I’m a Mandalorian who likes to hunt, and now you’re my prey. How’s that sound?”

Your hand found a screwdriver, lying off to the side where you had been working on something under the floorboard earlier, just as he kicked you in the side to flip you over. The imposter knelt on the ground over you and you tried to stab him where only the flight suit sat. Unfortunately, he turned fast enough that the screwdriver struck beskar and did absolutely nothing. He laughed once more as you gave up the attack to try and slip away, but he grabbed your hands by the wrist and pinned you to the ground. The imposter sat on top of your thighs, kneeling over you, and you were forced to stare at your reflection in Mando’s armor.

It would be a bold faced lie for you to say you hadn’t daydreamed about having the beskar armor on top of you⏤ the weight of it pressing into you in every delicious way you could think of. But not like this. Not with a stranger inside of it. 

“Who knew the ship came with such a pretty little whore.” The imposter hummed. He shifted your arms so he could pin both your wrists with one hand. With his other, he grasped the bottom of the beskar helmet and pulled it off.  The man’s eyes were a piercing blue. Cold and cruel. Blond hair covered his scalp except on the side of his head where the scars of what looked like claw marks sat. He tossed the helmet aside and gave you a sickening grin. “Is that what you’re here for? You keep the Mandalorian’s bed warm? Let him fuck you when he’s done with a hunt?”

“Get the kriff off of me!” You struggled against his grip, against his touch, but nothing seemed to deter him from using his other hand to run over your body. You screamed until you were hoarse and when you cried out for Mando the man sitting on top of you just laughed. Faintly, you could hear frantic tapping behind Mando’s bunk door and fear struck you. Was the child awake? He wouldn’t be able to unlock the door from inside you didn’t think. 

It seemed the imposter was too immersed in you to hear the sound. 

“How about this,” The man leaned closer into your space, “I get a quick taste of you now, and then, once we’re up and in hyperspace, I’ll fuck you better than your Mando ever could, yeah?”

His lips crashed down on yours roughly. You tried to turn your face away, but the imposter bit down on your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Between the metallic taste of your blood on your tongue and the smell of his rancid breath you were going to be sick. You gasped in pain and he took advantage by shoving his tongue into your mouth. He pressed his hips down into you, grinding against your stomach now, and the feel of his erection pressing into you made a horrified sob slip form you. It seemed to only spurn him on further. He let go of one of your hands to grasp at the waistband of your pants.

The sound of sprinting footsteps made the imposter sit up and you were barely able to register what was happening when a body dressed in red leather slammed into the beskar covered imposter⏤ both men falling away. Taking advantage of your freedom, you scrambled back as quickly as you could. The stranger dressed in red, wearing an oddly shaped helmet that covered his face, had a hand wrapped around the imposter’s throat while his other fist pounded away at the man’s face. Grunts of anger filled the air with every blow thrown and the imposter fought back only for a moment before his body went slack.

You scrambled away further but your back hit a metal crate sitting in the cargo hold. It shifted slightly and the sound made the stranger sit up and spin around. You gasped⏤panicked. Heart still racing. The imposter laid motionless. His face bruised, broken, and bloody beyond all recognition. You were breathing hard, trying to suck in more air as the air you did get brought no relief. The stranger jumped up, motions smooth and agile, and rushed to you. A cry of fear left you as you tried to pathetically jump up, but his hands wrapped around you. Soft, but firm. A comforting weight.

“It’s me. It’s me. You’re safe, mesh’la.” A familiar voice came out of the unfamiliar mask. The bright red and angry shapes still jarring to look at and you tried to struggle away. He pulled away to rip off his gloves. One hand came to rest on the side of your face, while the other lifted the red helmet just enough to reveal a jaw covered in dark scruff and lips. “Listen to me, mesh’la. You’re safe. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s me. I’m here.”

You were still shaking, your entire body threatening to tremble into pieces, but your breaths were beginning to grow controlled. The warm hand on your face was grounding. It was familiar. You couldn't see the man’s eyes, but you could feel his soft gaze. Safe. You felt safe.

“M⏤Mando?” You gasped.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I’m here, mesh’la. You’re safe now.”

You broke into an uncontrollable sob, unable to bite it back, and Mando didn’t hesitate to pull you into his arms. The coarse, red armor you buried your face into felt unfamiliar, but the strong arms that wrapped around you felt right.

For the first time, Din felt uncomfortable in his helmet. It smelled of the spice that Trigg disgustingly chewed on. He couldn’t even bring himself to pull his armor on. It left him in a pair of plain sweats and shirt. After setting you in his bunk, the child curled into your side, he had stripped the mercenary out of his beskar and thrown the piece of shit into the carbonite freezer.

The job had gone so well then so bad. Din found the young Rodian child and killed his quarry. He’d only get half the bounty with the flesh trader dead, but something was better than nothing. The moment he returned the girl to her mother his heart had stopped when he realized his armor was missing. Din had sprinted to the Razor Crest, faster than he had ever run, and still he hadn’t come soon enough. 

Din stepped out of the fresher. The Razor Crest was in hyperspace and the cargo hold was dark. The only light spilling from the open door behind him. The sound of whimpering filled the otherwise silent space around him. Din hurried to the bunk to see you tossing and turning. He scooped the child up and set him in the hammock before crawling in to try and calm you.

He called out your name, bare hands on your shoulders, and when your eyes snapped open, thanks to his visor, he could see clearly the way panic and fear filled them. You screamed and began to swing at him. His helmet. It was his helmet. Without thinking, Din ripped his helmet off and threw it out of the bunk. Din pulled you into his arms again, pressing your face to his shoulder, and whispered reassurances.

“It’s me, Mesh’la. It’s me. I’m sorry. I was wearing the helmet. You’re safe, I promise.”

“Mando?” You breathed. He buried his hand in your hair and pulled you tighter into his chest. As if the two of you weren’t already tangled together in the small confines of his bunk. “I’m sorry I hit you⏤”

“It didn’t hurt. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you alone. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” Din didn’t know which emotion waged in him the most⏤ guilt or anger. They were neck and neck. You took in a deep shaky breath and your hot breath on his neck made him sigh in relief. You were safe in his arms. Din rubbed your back and the question fell out before he could hold it back. “Did he… Mesh’la, did⏤”

“No.” You whispered. “You got here just in time.”

Din could feel tears soaking into his shirt. When the tears stopped, Din coaxed you out of the bunk and onto the cargo hold floor. He grabbed a first aid kit and rushed back so you weren’t left alone for too long. The only light still came from the open door of the fresher and he sat so his back was to it. The dim light illuminated your features and it was like a spotlight to the injuries you sported. He had told you that you could open your eyes. With the way you sat, it’d be too dim for you to see his face, but you said you didn’t want to risk it. 

He let his fingers trace the forming bruise surrounding your right eye. It trailed down to brush against the torn skin of your lower lip. Dank farrik. That kriffing fucker had bit you. He could see the outline of teeth. Din’s jaw clenched. He grabbed a bit of bacta and rubbed it gently into the forming bruise. He was going to do the same for your lower lip when you stopped him.

“Did I hurt you?” He blurted.

“No, no. Not that.” You mumbled. “Can I… Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything, mesh’la. Anything.”

“Can you kiss me?” You asked. Din was certain he had misheard you. It was why he sat in silence. He was trying to puzzle out what it was you had actually said. You spoke again, nervous, “You don’t have to. I⏤I…”

“You want me to…kiss you?”

You nodded. Eyes still closed lightly. “I know it’s dumb. It⏤ I just don’t want to feel his lips anymore. I don’t want the taste of him on me.”

“That’s not dumb, mesh’la.” 

Din settled one of his hands on the side of your face. His thumb caressed the soft skin of your cheek. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Din began to lean in. He didn’t want to startle you. He wanted to give you every opportunity to pull away if you needed to. Din would be lying to himself, again, if he said he hadn’t imagined the way your lips would feel on him. But not like this. He hated that these were the circumstances, but there wasn’t a single thing Din wouldn’t do for you if you asked.

His nose brushed against yours. Din was close enough that he could feel your lips part. He waited one second more before pressing his lips softly against yours. One of your hands lifted to tangle in his hair and a simple gesture shouldn’t make him feel so hot under his skin. The kiss was slow and tender. Din was terrified to press too hard and bring you pain. The injury to your lower lip still so fresh. And after what you had just suffered through, he wanted you to have all the control. If you needed to use him to rid yourself of that nightmare, to erase the memory that bastard left on your lips, then he would. 

Your tongue brushed against his lower lip, tracing it, and he parted his lips for you giving you room to explore him. Maker, the taste of you was so sweet. It took every single ounce of Din’s self control to not deepen the moment even further. The kiss grew almost frantic. A hand in his hair and another at the back of his neck to pull him into you. You pulled back just enough to suck in a sharp breath before your lips was back on his and Din lost his battle for self control.

He wrapped his other arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap. Din was caught off guard when you pushed down to press yourself against his already hard cock, but it was a welcome surprise. He grabbed your hips, hands tightening into the soft skin there, and grinded into you. You moaned into his mouth and Din pulled away briefly so he could press open mouth kisses along your jaw then down your neck until he reached your shoulder. Thoughtlessly, he bit down, wanting to leave evidence of himself on you, and you let out a sharp gasp while grinding into him again. Din ran his tongue against the bite soothingly. 

Din’s hands slipped under your shirt and he desperately let his lips find yours once more. His tongue slipped past your lips, but then he tasted it. The sharp, metallic tang of blood. Din pulled back quickly realizing his plan to let you run the show had gone to shit. Both of you were breathless. 

“Are you okay, mesh’la??” He pulled one hand away from your hip to touch your face. His thumb brushed against your lower lip and in the dim light he could see the tint of red. 

“Thank you.” You breathed. You leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss that missed and only landed on the corner of his lips. Then you leaned your head on his shoulder and just took slow breaths. Din let his knuckles drag up and down your spine. He could feel your entire body going limp as you melted into his hold. You mumbled, “Thank you, Mando.”

“Din.” He replied, but he didn’t know if you had already fallen asleep or not. “Call me Din.”

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Day 5- mask kink with adrian chase ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

kinktober masterlist

Adrian’s hands roamed your body, his mouth clashing with yours. You let out a moan when he bit your lip, causing him to let out a chuckle against your mouth.

He began to take off the rest of his suit, peeling it off, while you took off your own clothes.

You had been harboring this secret ever since you found out he was vigilante, and you hated to admit it, but seeing him in the mask, taking out bad guys was the hottest thing you think you’ve ever seen in your life. You glanced over at the mask on the nightstand before turning your attention back to him.

He let out an audible groan at the sight of your naked body, and it never failed to have him hard in seconds.

“Goddamn. Swear, one day babe, you’re gonna kill me.”

You giggled at him, moving to kiss his lips again. His hands went to your cheeks, and he hovered on top of you, you leaning against the pillow.

He began to take off his boxers when you said his name, causing him to look at you with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“I uhm… I had this idea.”

“Okay. Like what kind of idea?”

“A sexy one.”

He looked even more intrigued now, waiting for this idea.

“You should… keep it on.”

“Huh?” He asked, swallowing the lump in his throat, if you were thinking what he was thinking you meant, he’d jump up and down. “Keep what on?”

“The mask.”

His lips quirked up at that, eyes widening behind his glasses. “Holy shit. I think that made me even harder than I was.”

You laughed at him again, watching him scramble off the bed and go towards the dresser, putting it over his head and looking at you.

“So?”

“You look hot.”

He smiled underneath his mask, making his way back onto the bed. You were glad that you could at least see his eyes behind his visor, giving you some sort of vision.

“Babe, I have to say, this is the hottest idea you’ve ever had.” He told you, taking off his boxers, you smiling up at him while his cock was lined up at your entrance.

“I’m-“ you paused to gasp, gripping his shoulders while he slowly pushed into your warm walls. “Glad you liked it”. You breathed out.

“Of course I do. We might actually have to do this more.” He murmured, letting out a low groan when he finally bottomed out, feeling your nails leave crescent shaped marks in his back, his helmet hitting your neck.

“I was scared you wouldn’t like it.” You admitted to him, him moving away so that he could look down at you again.

He snickered at that. “Babe, have you even met me? I’m up for anything at this point. Especially this.”

“Good. Because you look so goddamn good in your mask.” You pressed a kiss to where his nose would be, making him let out a breathy laugh.

[alltheirdamn]

Chapter 1: Opening Day

Series summary: You've seen it all as the team's lead photographer. You're in the tunnel before the games, on the sidelines for each inning, and always around the players. When Frankie Morales is called up for the new season, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you can't quite explain. Chapter summary: It's opening day at Petco Park, and you finally meet the team's new star catcher. Rating: 18+ (Eventual smut) Word Count: 5k Tags: Triple Frontier AU, OFC! character described as having red hair and freckles, meet-cute, two big dummies bound to catch feelings, mutual pining, slow burn, future smut, duel pov, baseball terminology, etc. A/N: Hi!!! Well, welcome to the series! I'm really excited to share this lil story with you all. I've never really written an OC! before, so hopefully I don't totally butcher it. Anyway, I'm a bit nervous but please enjoy!

Masterlist | Baseball 101

Point. Click. 

Point. Click. 

The camera shutter echoes through the stadium tunnel as you settle into your usual game-day routine. It’s your third year on the media team for the Padres, and you’re beyond eager for the new season to begin. Nothing beats the thrill of baseball season, and it definitely doesn’t suck when an endless array of beautiful men in tight polyester uniforms surrounds you.

Perched on the ground, you angle your camera down the tunnel to capture the boys as they arrive. Benny Miller, the team’s starting shortstop, waltzes through the hall after a few managers get their head start. He’s got on his usual athleisure wear, a workout bag slung over his back, and his blonde hair tousled in a way that’s both messy and intentional.

Point. Click. 

“Welcome back, Benny,” you say, your camera angled a bit higher to adjust to his height.

“Hey to you too, Red,” he grins. 

America’s heartthrob, you think.

Not far behind him is his brother, Will—or Ironhead, as they all call him. He’s been a vet on the team for nearly five years and is one of the top left-handed pitchers in the league. No doubt, with last season's standings, he’ll take them far this year. He’s got the best ERA out of any team in the National League, and his brotherly dynamic with Benny is unmatched. The only difference between Will and Benny, though, is their personalities. Where Benny is outgoing—and a bit flirtatious—Will is reserved and collected. He’s the voice of reason and the glue that holds the entire time together. 

“Hey, Will!” 

You snap a quick photo, all too aware of how much he hates the attention. He gives you a subtle nod and continues down the tunnel behind Benny. 

Santiago Garcia is the next to make his entrance, his infectious smile perfect for a candid moment. Santi was the rookie outfielder last year, securing himself a spot in the All-Star Game with his defensive playing in center field against the stronger teams. You’ve never seen such an arm on someone, and the way he commands the field is wildly impressive. His gigantic ego and self-assurance are also quite impressive and sometimes a bit aggravating. But, you let it slide. He’s a sweet man through and through and has, thankfully, never hit on you. 

Unlike the majority of the sports world. 

Especially when it comes to women working in the media industry. 

You’re convinced Santi has some sort of sixth sense for the camera because the moment you line up for the shot, he’s already sporting a wide grin directed straight at you. 

“Hola, Red,” he says, waving in your direction.

“You know I have a real name, right?” You toss back.

“Whatever you say, Red.”

You roll your eyes as he walks past you, chuckling to yourself as you scroll through the photos logged into your camera. Making a mental note of which to select for the social media posts, you realign the camera back to eye level and squint through the lens. 

The team's newest addition walks straight down the tunnel, with his head low and eyes covered by the visor of his ballcap. Francisco Morales had been called up from triple just a week before opening day. You hadn’t read up much on him or his stats, but you know he’s done quite the work as the catcher for the El Paso Chihuahuas. There had been talks of who they’d have replacing Tom Davis after his season-ending injury last year, and Francisco was their best prospect. 

“Welcome to the team, Francisco!” You holler before snapping a photo.

He barely glances up, but you catch a rosy tint coloring the tanned skin of his face and a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. He’s dressed far differently than the other boys: loose khaki pants, a basic cotton shirt, and a suede bomber jacket. He doesn’t even carry a bag with him, just a plastic bottle of water gripped tightly in one very large hand. 

You’ve been with the team long enough to know his personality is far more reserved than the rest, a bit sheepish and uncomfortable, even. Maybe that’s just the game-day jitters getting to him. 

“Can I get one of you looking at the camera?” You ask before adding a polite please at the end.

He hesitates but ultimately obliges. Through the camera lens, you meet his eyes—the soft, warm brown of his irises boring into you so intensely it causes you to falter over the shutter button. Like any baseball player, he’s got that signature scruffy face, with a distinct mustache over his plush lips and a patchy beard covering his jaw. Despite his introverted demeanor, Francisco steals the air from your lungs just from a simple glance. It’s as if he’s giving you this one moment to capture who he is, and you take it without hesitation.

Point. Click.

“Thank you, Francisco. Good luck today!”

You’re acutely aware of how shaky your voice is, which is unusual given that he hasn’t even spoken to you. 

“Frankie,” he offers as he walks past.

The raspy low pitch of his voice reverbs inside your head, and you only manage to nod in agreement to his wishes. 

Frankie. You can do that. 

**

“So, what are your predictions for game one?” Ryan asks, nudging you slightly.

You’re both crouched behind home plate shooting pre-game warmup photos, the volume in the stadium growing as more fans trickle in. You switch out your sim card and set up your camera for action shots, too focused on getting the right angle of the outfielders to respond. 

Ryan has been your partner in crime on the media team since the start, and both of you got hired right out of college. While you focus more on the game-day action, Ryan usually tends to the off-day social media posts and team engagement with fans. It’s a fair trade-off, plus you’re far more invested in the sport than Ryan is ever willing to admit.

“Hellllooo?” He waves a hand in front of your camera lens.

“I don’t like giving predictions, Ryan. You know that,” you grumble.

“You and your weird superstitions, Red.”

“It’s not weird,” you counter. “Don’t you ever pay attention to the broadcasting curse? If I say something aloud, it’s bound to go the other way, and my hopes will be crushed.”

Ryan adjusts the focus on his lens, shrugging absently at your argument. 

“It’s the first game. Even if they lose today, there’s still six months left in the season.”

“No one wants to lose their first game.”

“You care too much,” he says, but there’s a lightness in his tone.

He knows you care more than you let on. Baseball has been something ingrained in you since you were just a kid. Your dad spent the greater half of his life as the pitching coach for UCLA, dragging you to nearly every game of the season since before you could even walk. You were raised sitting in the dugout with a handful of sunflower seeds in your hand and a baseball cap covering your red hair. Being a part of a baseball team in some capacity had always been in your future, but after your dad passed away when you were just starting college, you centered your entire life around it. You threw yourself into photography, taking every chance at capturing moments that could give you just a second of nostalgia. The photos weren’t just for school, a baseball team, or a social media page… they were for you. It was your way of coping. The longer you could stay on the field, the longer you could live in that bubble of the past. 

Your dad was gone, but you still had baseball. And you’d never give it up. 

“Think Morales is gonna make his mark on the team?” Ryan asks, steering the subject in a different direction.

You tense up, locked on the memory of Frankie’s big brown eyes. There’s something about him that skyrockets your heart rate, and you aren’t sure if it’s in a good way. You search the field for those dark curls, looking at everybody on the field,  trying to spot him during the warmup. Crestfallen, you give up your search and resume snapping photos.

“I think he’ll do just fine,” you say dismissively.

“His batting average in the minors was insane,” Ryan rambles. “Just hopes it sticks here in the big leagues. You know how it is sometimes.”

You did know. Too often, have you seen star minor league players appear on the big stage and choke. Something about Frankie Morales makes you believe he won’t end up like that. There was something in his eyes that told you otherwise, a seriousness that showed this game meant something to him. 

You liked that. 

“Where’s your station for the game?” Ryan asks.

“First base. I might have to step into the bullpen for some shots if they let me.”

“I’m sure the boys will love that,” he teases.

“Oh, fuck off. They’re harmless.”

“I don’t know, Red. I see the way they look at you.”

You deadpan, giving him an icy stare. None of the boys thought of you that way, and you didn’t think of them differently. This was a job. They played the game; you took the photos. 

That was the end of it. 

“I think you’re seeing things,” you argue.

“I mean, Benny is giving you fuck me eyes from across the field right now,” Ryan shrugs.

You steal a glance out to the in-field to find Ryan is, in fact, correct. With his free hand, Benny tosses you a flirtatious wave before throwing the ball back to Santi across the field. 

“He flirts with everyone,” you say pointedly. “Did you see how many girls he brought back to his hotel rooms last season?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind adding one more.”

You punch Ryan in the arm, clearly annoyed with his pushy behavior toward the subject. Grabbing your equipment bag from the ground, you toss him a quick finger and haul your stuff down to the media room under the stadium. 

**

Frankie isn’t in the right mindset when the National Anthem concludes before the game. He’s not one to get nervous before playing, but something about seeing Petco Park sold out for opening day has him fidgeting. The only saving grace is having Santi playing alongside him. 

He and Santi met back in college, playing together from Sophomore year until Senior year when they got drafted to different teams. Santi was selected in the third round by the Houston Astros and was traded a year later to the Padres. Frankie got drafted by the Padres right away in the fifth round. He spent the last four years in the minors, just waiting to get called up.

Now, the moment is here, and he’s terrified.

Frankie doesn’t like to admit it often, but he holds himself to a higher standard. He’s fucked up in life a few times, and it’s cost him his happiness. He doesn’t want to fuck up now. Not when the entire world is watching. 

“Estás bien?” Santi asks Frankie as they head into the dugout. 

“I’m fine,” Frankie says, but his tone says otherwise. 

There’s a haze over his mind, a fog he can’t shake. Santi claps him on the back, giving him a comforting smile.

“It’s just first-game nerves, Catfish. It’ll pass after the first at-bat.”

Frankie doesn’t respond. He’s got a lump in his throat, and he can’t quite swallow it. The last thing he wants to do is disappoint his closest friend—or the team. He can’t be a disappointment. He has to be good. He has to be the best. 

He has to prove himself.

Frankie runs out onto the field, securing his catcher's mask over his face. The weight of his gear feels like a comforting anchor, leveraging him to keep his mind focused. There’s a roar from the crowd as he takes his place behind home base, and the applause and cheers only make things worse. He’s under the lights, he’s got thousands watching, and this is his one shot. 

The first pitch comes fast, a sinker that falls perfectly into his glove. Strike one. Will is on the mound, his face stoic and focused on the batter standing to the right of Frankie. There’s still some trust to gain between them both, and Frankie hopes he proves himself today. Will throws a slider next, down low and right past the bat. 

Strike two. 

Like a well-rehearsed dance, Frankie and Will waltz between batters. An easy one, two, three, and they’re out of the top of the first. Frankie runs alongside Will as they head toward the dugout, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

“Great job out there, Morales,” Will says. “Welcome to the show.”

“Thanks, Miller. You’re solid on the mound. Those sliders are insane,” Frankie commends. 

“Gotta keep them on their toes. Now, get ready for the bottom of the inning. Show them what you can do out there.”

As Frankie steps into the dugout, he nearly collides with a body nestled into the corner of the steps. Her red hair is tousled into a ponytail, the bill of her Padres ball cap shielding her eyes from the setting sun.

“Shit, sorry,” she mumbles, stepping out of the way.

He recognizes her from earlier, the media girl in the tunnel. Frankie was so wrapped up in his thoughts earlier he hadn’t noticed how beautiful she was: bright eyes, a gentle smile, and a face covered in freckles. 

“All good,” he huffs, too flustered to choke out any more words.

“You look good out there,” she smiles. 

Frankie runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, no doubt looking a mess. He needs to focus—needs to move—but he can’t seem to make his way past her. 

“Be careful with Akin’s pitches,” she adds. “He tends to throw his fastballs up in the corner of the zone.”

“Thanks,” Frankie nods. He’s surprised at how much she pays attention.

“Yo! Catfish!” Santi calls from down in the dugout. “Get your ass over here now.”

“I’m assuming you’re Catfish?” She asks.

“Unfortunately,” Frankie grumbles. “Sorry, I’m just gonna go see what he wants.”

“It’s all good. I’m moving down to first base, so I’ll be out of the way.” 

She rises to her feet and gives Frankie one final smile before stepping onto the dirt. Frankie watches as she walks away, her ponytail swinging behind her with every step. 

Focus. 

**

Halfway through the batting order, you’re already onto your next sim card. You usually space out the amount of footage you take, but the game is electric. The Padres are up three to zero, thanks to a home run from Benny—obviously—and a few quick plays made by Santi and Chris Holmes. 

With two outs in the sixth, Frankie is up to bat. His first plate appearance was abysmal, with a groundout to third base. You saw his shoulders slumped as he walked off the field; he didn’t take it lightly. It’s just the first game, you tell yourself. He’ll do just fine. 

Akin throws the first pitch, a fastball, just as you expect. Frankie takes the strike and readjusts himself for the next pitch. It’s outside the zone, and he tracks it carefully. You hold your breath as he hits a full count, three balls, two strikes… and wait. Akin places a screwball down low, but Frankie manages to get a piece of it and sends it sailing into center field for a double. You startle yourself with how loud you cheer, watching his muscled body run past first and onto second base. You’re so caught up in watching him you forget to snap a photo.  

You scold yourself for missing the opportunity to capture his first hit for the team. Why are you so fixated on him? None of the other guys have ever caused you to miss a shot; no one has ever tripped you up this badly. But Frankie… there’s just something about him. He’s not self-assured like the rest. He’s not cocky in the slightest. Honestly, he looked terrified when you ran into him after the top of the first inning. Before your mind starts wandering off, you check the settings on your camera and return to shooting footage. 

The team wins five to zero. Fireworks sparkle through the night sky as the stadium begins to clear out, and you start to return to the dugout. Benny and Will are in a tight embrace as you step under the awning, your camera gear slung over your back. 

“Great win, boys,” you say, giving them each a high five. 

“Did you ever doubt us?” Benny teases, giving you a smug grin. 

“Not for a minute.”

The Miller brothers make their way down into the clubhouse, leaving you standing alone in the dugout. You peel off your ballcap and remove your ponytail, letting your hair fall down your shoulders. 

“Thanks for the advice on Akin.”

The voice startles you, and you search through the shadows to find Frankie sitting alone at the end of the bench. He’s got his glove resting beside him and his bat propped between his feet. He should be celebrating with the team down in the clubhouse, yet he’s here by himself under the stadium lights and swirling shadows. 

“I’ve got plenty more if you ever need it,” you tell him. 

Frankie doesn’t respond, but his eyes stay locked on yours. The stadium lights illuminate the rich chocolate inside his irises, making it nearly impossible to look anywhere else. 

“Shouldn’t you be with the team?” You wonder. “I’m sure they’re all celebrating the first win of the season.”

“Just wanted some time alone, I guess. Soak it all in, you know?”

You walk toward him, cautious on whether or not to get any closer. You aren’t sure if he even wants company, but you can’t seem to steer yourself away. 

“Was it everything you hoped for?” You ask. 

“It could’ve been better.”

Frankie moves his glove into his lap, offering you a space beside him on the bench. Though you feel reluctant, something inside you forces your legs to move. You want to be nearer to him, to get close enough to see past this wall he’s built up. You’re used to some players being quiet and shy, like Will. At least with Will, though, he’s fun when there’s no stress on his shoulders. He relaxes a bit from time to time and lets his guard down. Something you’ve yet to see with Frankie. 

Sliding onto the bench beside him, you adjust your camera into your lap and lay your ballcap over your knee. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Frankie’s head tilt slightly, his eyes trained on your legs. There’s still a healthy gap between you both, yet the warmth of his body swarms around you. 

“Are you with the team full-time?” He asks. 

You glance at him, studying the way his hair curls around his ears and at the base of his neck. There’s a tension in his jaw that flexes under his beard, a simple twitch that happens after every time he speaks. Despite the timid exterior, you can’t help but to notice the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. 

“Mostly just for home games,” you explain. “I only really travel with the team if they invite me on the road. They like having extra media presence for the bigger series, and whatnot. If I could be at every game, I absolutely would. Sitting on the sidelines beats having to watch it on the TV or listening to the radio.”

Frankie nods along as you talk, his lips pursed as if he’s thinking of what to say. Avoiding any more awkward silence, you flick on your camera and scroll through the photos, presenting him with a few you’d taken during his first appearance at the plate. His arm brushes yours slightly as he leans in closer, staring at the photo far longer than you expect. 

“I kind of fucked up and forgot to take a photo of you after that double in sixth,” you admit. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” he shakes his head. “I like this one.”

It’s a photo of him swinging at a curveball, his bat posed perfectly in the center of the box, and his muscular thighs flexed under his pinstripe uniform. You have to admit, it is a good shot—and he looks amazing mid-swing. Your eyes flick up to his, realizing he’s already looking at you. Thank God for the shadows inside the dugout, or else Frankie would see the way your face warms at his words. You don’t ever share your footage with the guys until it’s posted on the social media pages, but it feels different with Frankie. It strangely feels nice. 

“I feel like an asshole, I don’t think I’ve even asked for your name,” he says. 

“The guy’s normally just call me Red,” you shrug. 

“But that’s not your name.”

You tell him your name, and listen to his gentle voice echo it back. It’s rare you hear your name nowadays. Everyone just refers to you as ‘Red’, like it’s who you are. It doesn’t bother you, necessarily, but finally hearing someone acknowledge you makes your stomach flip. Frankie’s eyes never leave yours, and you realize how close you both have gotten. His leg is pressed against yours, and you can still faintly smell the turf on his uniform. He must notice it, too, because he clears his throat and shifts his legs inward. Shutting your camera off, you let it rest in your lap between your hands. There’s a quiet buzz between your bodies, a comfortable cocoon of shared silence that seems to swell with each passing second. 

“I, um, I should probably head down there with the guys,” Frankie says after a while. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry if I kept you too long.”

Frankie rises from the bench, his thick fingers wrapping around the neck of his bat. He offers you a hand, and you shrink under his height as you move to stand. 

“I didn’t mind the company.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face, just an easy curve of his lips as he stares at you a moment longer. You should move. You should definitely move. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Frankie,” you say. “Great job out there tonight.”

“Thank you.” He says your name, again, emphasizing it as if to prove a point. A gentle reminder that you’re more than just a nickname. 

**

“What took you so long, Catfish?” Santi yells from across the clubhouse. 

He’s already showered and got on his casual clothes for the drive home, something Frankie should have been doing. Instead, he had been helplessly wasting time sitting next to the photographer he had seen around all day. 

Frankie tears his baseball cap off his head, tossing it into his locker as he unbuttons his uniform. He’s still mentally picking apart the day—what he did wrong, what he could improve on—but in each thought, her shiny red hair and doe eyes make a reappearance. Shaking his head, he strips off his undershirt and searches through his stall for a fresh one. 

“Got to chatting with the team photographer,” he says, shrugging the shirt over his chest.

Santi leans against the locker stall, his mouth quirked up in a teasing grin. Frankie already knows what he’s going to say, and he regrets ever mentioning it. 

“Distracted by Red, huh?” Santi teases. “She’s got that affect.”

“She’s not distracting,” Frankie defends. “She just came down to show me some of the pictures she took, and we talked a bit. That’s all.” 

He hopes his clipped words are enough to steer Santi away from the conversation, but Santi can see right through him. 

“Red never shows anyone her photos. None of us ever see what she’s got on that camera until they’re online.”

For some reason, Frankie loves knowing he’s the exception. He saw the way she lit up as she scrolled through the footage, clearly proud of her work. Hell, he doesn’t even care she missed his big play. She spent that time in the dugout with him while his mind was a mess, and gave him a reprieve from the clouded thoughts that the game left him with. Was it awful that he was only looking forward to tomorrow’s game so he could see her again? 

“Maybe she feels bad for me, I don’t know,” Frankie huffs.

He slips on his jacket and runs a hand through his hair before putting on his hat. Santi watches him suspiciously, tracking the tense movements Frankie makes as he gathers his stuff to leave. 

“She’s a nice girl, you know, and she knows her shit, too. Hell, half the guys have tried to grab her attention the last few years, and she’s never been interested.”

“What makes you think she’s interested in me?” 

“I don’t know,” Santi drawls out the words. “Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight.”

Frankie rolls his eyes, shoving past Santi and out of the clubhouse. He steers clear of the other guys as they walk together out to their cars. No one has said much to him yet, and he’s okay with it. Frankie knows he’s the new guy and it’ll take some time for everyone to warm up to him. The only person that seems to be welcoming so far, was Red. Maybe that’s just who she was, but Frankie found himself working Santi’s words over and over inside his head. Red never shows anyone her photos. What made Frankie so special, then? Was he right to think she felt bad for him? If she hadn’t been interested in anyone else, then why did she spend that time with him? 

The apartment is pitch black when Frankie opens the door. Flicking on the lights, he takes in the empty space. Moving boxes scatter the hallway, leading into the renovated kitchen. Frankie barely got the keys to his new place in San Diego two days ago, leaving him little time to settle in before opening day. After this series he’ll be on the road for a week, without any time to get acclimated. Traveling never bothered him, but he wished he could just stop and breathe for one minute. You wanted this, he reminds himself. He’s worked too hard the last several years to let this opportunity pass. The boxes can wait, at least for now.

Tossing his jacket onto the back of the sofa, Frankie slumps against the cushions, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s been itching to look at his phone since he left the stadium, but he held off. Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight. Digging out his phone from his pocket, Frankie opens Instagram and refreshes the page. Sure enough, the media team already made a post-game slideshow…with Frankie’s at-bat being the first photo. 

The same one he told her he liked the most. 

His thumb hovers over the post as he debates whether or not to look at the rest. He’s already got his one photo, there wouldn’t be any need to give fans more. Yet, as he slides his thumb left over the screen, there’s another photo of himself—from the pre-game walk through the tunnel. Even though his eyes are staring directly into the camera, he knows that wasn’t what he was looking at. His entire focus had been on the girl behind the camera. 

Frankie opens the team’s Instagram page and scrolls through the ‘following’ tab, searching for her name. It’s just innocent curiosity, that’s all it is, but as he finds her name down the list, he’s tempted to press the button. The blue Follow button taunts him, begging him to make the move. Her profile picture is a simple mirror shot, half her face covered by her camera. He wants to see more, like this odd desperation to know her past the lens she hides behind. Before he talks his way out of it, Frankie taps Follow, and sends his phone sailing across the room. It hits the carpet with a soft thud, and sits there silent on the ground. He tips his head back against the couch, pitching the bridge of his nose. God, he feels stupid. 

A soft buzz resounds through the room. Frankie slides his eyes toward his phone, seeing the carpet illuminated by the screen. Just a coincidence, he thinks. Despite the denial he spews inside his mind, he moves from the couch to retrieve his phone. 

Red has accepted your follow request. 

Red started following you. 

Frankie stares at the screen with a stupid grin on his face. He scrolls through her page, finding a surplus of photographs of the stadium, the beach, and a few cityscape shots from various cities. There isn’t a single photo of her, though. He studies each photo, wondering what she saw through the lens of the camera, wishing he could see just one of her face. As he makes his way down her page, a message notification pops onto the screen. 

Red: I hope it’s okay I posted that photo of you. 

Frankie: Absolutely. 

Red: Ok, good. I liked it, too. 

Frankie: Santi told me you don’t show anyone your photos. 

Red: Of course he did. LOL. I’m just protective over my work. I like to keep things private.

Frankie: Why’d you show them to me? 

Frankie watches as text bubbles appear and disappear over and over for at least a minute. He half considers turning his phone off for the night to avoid her response. He shouldn’t care why she showed him, but the thought of it would keep him up all night, wondering why he was deserving of it and not anyone else. His phone buzzes in his hands, and Frankie quickly opens the message. 

Red: I don’t know. You’re the only person I really felt like sharing it with. 

Frankie: I feel honored. Any time you want to share them, I’m always around. 

Red: I’m holding you to that. 

Frankie thinks of a million things to reply with, but his fingers don’t move; all he can think about is seeing her again tomorrow.

[pedropascallme]

Not Allowed

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!Reader 

Summary: “You let the hush wash over you again, loosely closing your eyes to find the confidence to ask your next question. ‘What about sex?’”

Warnings: Discussions of sex, allusions to masturbation, nothing detailed or graphic. If I missed anything please let me know!

AN: This is part five of Stupid For You!!

Soundtrack: Not Allowed by TV Girl

“You’ve been hiding this from me!”

You were two weeks into your journey when you had found the bottle of T’iil T’iil. Packed tightly in the back of a cabinet you had started to organize out of the ennui of hyperspace, you hadn’t realized what you had come across until you blew the dust off of the label. The bottle had to have been at least a decade old—you could barely even find T’iil T’iil anymore, not after the destruction of Alderaan. You’d seen cheap replacements, but they weren’t ever made of the actual T’iil T’iil plant and you had never had the real thing. It was worth too much to be kept unopened in the Crest any longer, and you had brought your discovery to Din in the cockpit with faux outrage.

“Do you know how much this is worth, Din? Do you know how much more fun we could have if we opened this?” You presented the bottle of liquor to him, holding it by the neck and placing a hand underneath to steady it. 

“Tastes terrible.” He paid no mind to your excitement, visor directed towards the navcomp. 

“But it’ll get us so, so drunk.”

“So?”

“So then I’d have an excuse to not reorganize your ship.” You raised an eyebrow, hoping that somehow the promise of ceasing your type A activities would convince him to let you open the bottle. He turned toward you, and you wiggled your raised brow.

“Go ahead.” He returned his attention to navigating. You grinned and tore the cork off the bottle, watching the brown liquid bubble from years of pent-up carbonation. Almost unthinking, you took a swig directly from the container, letting it burn your throat as you swallowed before emitting an overdramatic sound of content and refreshment. You sat behind Din, examining the liquor and taking occasional sips. A buzz set in almost immediately, and you very quickly became aware that you had barely any alcohol in your time with Din; drinking alone was never fun, and he couldn’t eat, let alone drink with you around because there was no hole for a straw in his helmet. 

“Din,” you tried to get his attention, “Din, drink with me.” The alcohol was partially to blame for your sudden informality, your increased confidence around him, but after the attention you had received from him the other day—attention which you had not seen the likes of since—you felt it was only fair to throw caution to the wind.

“Helmet.” Was his only response.

“I’ll close my eyes. Whenever you want a drink, I’ll close my eyes.” You didn’t want to sound like you were begging, and definitely didn’t want him to think you were pressuring him into anything, but there came a point where you felt he should know that this far into your time together you wouldn’t make him break his Creed. Not to mention all the loopholes you had figured out. 

The only sound for a following few minutes were the quiet hisses and beeps coming from the control panel, paired with your small gulps of T’iil T’iil. 

“Close your eyes.” Din stood up, reaching out to you for the bottle. You did as instructed, screwing your eyes shut and letting him take the glass from you, placing your hands over your closed eyes to emphasize the respect you had for his privacy. You heard the hiss of his helmet coming off, and then the wet sound of liquid hitting his mouth.

“Open.” For a moment you considered opening your mouth, sticking out your tongue just to see how he would react, but you shook the thought off as heightened lust from inebriation. You opened your eyes to see Din’s helmet already back in place.

“You get in and out of that fast.” You took the bottle back from him.

“I didn’t take it off.”

“But you drank?”

“I can push it up over my chin.”

“I can’t see your chin?”

“No.” You fell silent after that. Not wanting to push anymore. You continued the motions of closing your eyes when he wanted more to drink, teasing him lightly, then experiencing a lull. Repeat. 

You don’t know when you really felt the liquor hit you; in all honesty it probably had you comfortably tipsy by your second sip, anything after that pushing you towards full-on intoxication. You were in good spirits and good company: you watched the stars rush towards you and over the ship from where you sat, admiring the reflection of the light on the cockpit. You had gotten closer to Din in the last hour, legs occasionally brushing each other’s. At some point his hand settled on your thigh, and you leaned into his touch slightly—not enough to put your full weight onto him, but enough that you could feel the warmth of each other’s bodies. 

“When will you be able to take your helmet off?” You picked at the cork covering the now nearly empty bottle.

“Whenever I want.”

“But you have to be alone.”

“Yes.”

“What if you get married?” 

“Then I could take it off.”

“But only in front of your wife.”

“Only in front of my riduur.”

“Is that Mando’a for wife?”

“Spouse, husband, wife. It’s a catchall.”

“Oh.” You let the hush wash over you again, loosely closing your eyes to find the confidence to ask your next question. “What about sex?” You worried you were crossing a line. You had no way of knowing where you stood with him these days; the gloved hand on your thigh and the tension in the air only creating a more convoluted atmosphere. 

“What about sex, mesh’la?” You could hear the amusement in his voice.

“How do Mandalorians…I mean…” Even drunk, you felt a blush creeping over your cheeks in response to the topic you yourself had brought up.

“How do Mandalorians have sex?” He finished your thought. You nodded. “Same as most humans and humanoids.” 

“But the helmet—”

“It comes off.”

“But what if they’re not your, your, uh…riduur?” Your drunken state did you no favor when it came to pronouncing the foreign word.

“Then the helmet stays on.”

“But then you can’t kiss.” You were deeply interested in this concept, if only because of the nights you had spent imagining Din above you. There was a tinge of disappointment that came with the idea that Din had never been kissed, even more disappointment in knowing you’d never be able to kiss him under the circumstances of your relationship as it stood now.

“Kissing isn’t necessary.”

“But you don’t feel any connection without kissing!” You were enthusiastic.

“There’s plenty of connection.” You heard him laugh at his own words, your eyes going wide at his phrasing as a smile made its way across your face.

“B—Din! But you’ve never kissed anybody, then.” You grabbed at his arm, completely ignoring the voice in your head that told you to tone it down.

“I have.”

“How?”

“Before I took the Creed.”

“So you were a kid! That doesn’t count. That’s like the kid and his frogs…” You giggled at the comparison.

“Well then, no. I’ve never kissed anybody.”

“But you’ve had sex...?”

“I’ve had plenty of experiences.”

“So, yes, you have had sex?”

“Yes.”

“With who?”

“Nobody I remember. Not sure they’d remember me either.”

“I find that hard to believe.” The implication of your words was coupled with a shadow of lust that had fallen over your eyes.

“Why’s that?” He looked down at you. All you could do was laugh at yourself, at this entire situation. Your interactions with Din had progressed from small grunts and nods to this in a matter of weeks—your hand ran over his bicep, thumb occasionally coming into contact with his pauldron as you held yourself up now only inches away from his body—and it made a delicious knot form in your stomach. 

“I just think it would be hard to forget bedding a Mandalorian.” You sighed. “I certainly wouldn’t forget it.” You felt his hand squeeze your thigh, and you finally took the opportunity to fully rest yourself on him, putting your head on his shoulder. The conversation stopped, neither of you wanting to ruin what you had started and both of you trying to listen to the voice in the back of your mind telling you to quit while you were ahead. The drunker side of you wanted to keep pushing, see where further dialogue could lead you and if it would be like everything you stayed up fantasizing about. Your sliver of a sober side, however, hounded you to settle down and consider the hangover you would be dealing with tomorrow, not to mention the shame that might come with it. 

“I think I’m—I’m tired…” You whispered to Din from your position beside him. He didn’t respond, and you took it upon yourself to slowly detangle your body from his. You shuffled toward the ladder, eyelids drooping and feet heavy as you attempted to carry yourself to your bunk with the dignity of someone who was at least a little sober. 

“Sleep well.” You heard Din’s voice through your clouded thoughts of “right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.” 

“You too.” You slurred, finding your footing on the ladder. “I would…I’d kiss you, mesh’la.” You muttered to Din before lowering yourself out of the cockpit. He leaned back in his seat, absentmindedly tracing his thumb over the palm he had wrapped over your leg and embracing the warmth that had permeated the leather of his glove.

We wanna talk about sex but we're not allowed Well, we may not like it but you better learn how 'Cause it's your turn now

Tag list <3

@queerponcho @abbygraceasd @sanscas @amberpanda99

[httpiastri]

my little race winner – cn21

clement is there to cheer you on after your first f3 win.

genre: fluff

pairing: gender neutral f3 driver!reader x boyfriend!clement novalak

warnings: none

requested: yes!

author’s note: clement makes me weak in my knees… anyways let’s pretend there isn’t only like 40 minutes between the f3 and f2 feature on sunday hehe. and also, the use of “little” doesn’t necessarily have to describe the reader being small. i would cry (happy tears) if clement called me little even though i’m almost his height 🤭

f2/f3 masterlist

few feelings beat the feeling of winning a race.

especially when the race has been long, competitive, and more strategic than usual. especially when it's your first ever win in formula 3, in your first year of competing in the series.

today in silverstone, where formula 1 first started some 70 years ago, you've taken the win in the feature race of the weekend. starting from p8, you didn't have any big expectations, but you hoped for a good race and some points for the championship. despite losing positions in the first few laps, you worked your way up and – with some help from perfectly timed safety cars – you were able to overtake the leader with just a few laps to go.

and the feelings exploding in your chest as you went past the finish line before anyone else were unlike anything you’d witnessed before.

standing up on the front of your car, you raise your arms in the air as the cheers grow louder. your teammate gabriel bortoleto finished just behind you in second place, and he comes up right next to you and helps you down before patting your back. "great race, congrats!" he says, his smile visible even through the open visor of his helmet.

"you too!" you tell him, returning the smile before you both make your way over to your team members waiting for you at the fence.

you pull off your helmet as you watch gabriel go along the crowd first. he is lucky to have kept his helmet on, because not only does he get hugs and back rubs; several of the mechanics insist on slapping the top of his helmet as he passes. you hoped they would go easier on you, but being the winner of the race, they all celebrate you even louder and harder. you hug them all tightly, thanking them for their great work, before stopping a few seconds extra with your trainer who has a full-on speech prepared for you.

you assumed your trained would be the last person in line to congratulate you, but just as you part from hugging him again, you feel a new hand on your shoulder. there is something about the touch, something that feels familiar – you'd felt this hand on you thousands of times. you know instantly who it belongs to.

your mouth drops in surprise once you turn your head to the side, watching as your boyfriend flashes you the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. you throw yourself onto him, your arms draping around his neck. "hey," he starts, pulling away just a little bit to look into your eyes. "great race!"

"did you see it all?" you ask, followed by a squeal when he nods. you pull him back into your embrace. "i'm so happy! so so so so so happy!"

as he holds you close, clement starts to place chaste kisses on your cheek and down your neck, the combination of his lips and the feeling of his stubble against your skin making you squirm in his hold. "you should be, you’re amazing." you lean back a little, taking his face into your hands. "i mean, i'm not sure what you did in turn fifteen in the first lap, you could've just taken the inside and- ouch!"

you pinch his cheeks jokingly when he starts tormenting you, wanting to stop the strings of critique flowing from his mouth. "you suck," you tease, sticking your tongue out at him.

"oh, please, you love me."

his eyes twinkle with his smile, the white long-sleeve trident shirt hugs his muscles in just the right places while his racing suit hangs at his hips, and he looks far too good for someone who's just about to go sweat down an entire car for the next hour or so. how could you possibly stay upset with him?

you nod, reaching forward to place a quick kiss to his lips. "i do. and you love me too, i hope? despite my failures in lap one?"

a laugh bubbles from his chest. "most definitely." he gives you one more kiss before he looks at something right behind you. "i think they're calling for you. the podium awaits, and so on..."

you look back to see a worker waving for you to hurry up, so you turn back to your boyfriend. "oh. i'll see you after your race, then?"

he pulls you in for one last hug, pressing yet another kiss to your cheek. "my little race winner. i'm so proud," he whispers, and a slight blush spreads across your face at his words. once you part, he playfully pushes your shoulders towards the worker, not wanting you to hold up the ceremony anymore.

even more people congratulate you as you make your way through the building and towards the podium, but your mind is still stuck on something, and someone, else. you’ve managed to win your first ever race in f3, and to have clement by your side as you did it? how did you ever get so lucky?

few feelings beat the feeling of winning a race. but the feeling of standing on the podium, looking down at the crowd and making eye contact with clement, who's smiling like an idiot and cheering loudest of them all? that feeling's got to be in the top 3, at the very least.

[brewsterispunkk]

FIND YOU AGAIN

pairing: mando x reader

WC: 1.5k

rating/warnings: none yet

summary: “i will look for you in every lifetime, until we finally stay” or, the beginning of it all

a/n: heyyyy. so i’ve had this in the works for forever. i’m so happy to finally share it with you. this chaoter is mostly exposition!

series masterlist

PART ONE: a long time ago, in agalaxy far, far away

i. the beginning

You freeze in place in your seat at the dusty cantina when he walks in, commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

You’ve never seen a mandalorian before. Not a real one, anyway.

You grew up on Corellia, scavenging the streets of the bustling industrial planet. Naturally, you’ve seen a few pieces of stolen and ancient beskar through the years, but never a full set. Never full beskar armor.

If you weren’t so scared, you would ogle the imposing man like everyone else in the cantina.

You’d been licking your wounds, deciding to day-drink in the local cantina.

You knew it would be only a matter of time until Aven sends one of his goons again after you to collect what he’s owed.

The cut on your cheek from the last time he’d threatened you stings in response. You wince. If you were anywhere else in the galaxy, on a planet like Coruscant, it’d be easy to disappear into the masses. Here, though, it’s nearly impossible. You’re backed into a corner. Maybe a mandalorian is better than the Twi’lek and Zabrak Aven sends to do his dirty work. At least this will be clean.

Your breath freezes in your throat when the Mandalorian comes to a stop on the barstool next to you.

Shit, you think. This is it.

For a moment, you allow yourself to think of all you wish you could’ve done. How much of the galaxy you wanted to see before your life ended. Now, you’d be spending the rest of it in carbonite.

You take a shaky breath as the beskar-clad bounty hunter sits on the stool beside you.

“Okay,” you turn to him. “I won’t put up a fight.”

His helmet tilts toward you as you address him. You gaze into the black of the t-shaped visor.

“I know you’re here for me. I didn’t pay—I get it. But, please, can I say goodbye to someone first?”

His helmet tilts to the side at your words.

“I won’t try to run, I promise.”

“You—“

The words die in his throat as the doors to the cantina swing open. You freeze as the three men you’ve come to recognize as part of Aven’s circle storm in.

There’s the two usual suspects: the twi’lek and Zarback, plus a new man, a human with a scar and an eyepatch.

Their eyes scan through the room and stop on you.

Fuck, maybe the Mandalorian wasn’t sent to get you.

Panic rises in you as they begin to make their way toward you.

Maybe you will die today.

“Get up,” you barely have time to register the deep, modulated voice before a gloved hand is pulling you to your feet roughly.

“Eyes forward, hands behind your back,” he orders. “Now.”

You’re dumbstruck: what the hell is going on? But, you obey. It’s your best bet.

Wordlessly, he clips metal handcuffs around your wrists behind your back, grabbing them with one hand. The Mandalorian shoves you forward roughly.

“Walk.”

You do, tripping over your feet. Your eyes find Aven’s goons at the door, their own eyes watching your exchange with the Mandalorian. They look as confused as you feel.

“That’s right, don’t even think about running,” the Mandalorian pulls you backward toward his chest, the corner of his helmet kissing your cheek. “Because I will catch you.”

You shiver and nod as he pushes you out of the cantina and into the hot, dry Jakku sun.

- -

You take the job because you’re on the run, and you need to get the hell off of Jakku.

Once you leave the cantina, the Mandalorian leads you roughly to the back of the building, coming to a stop in an alley.

Without saying a word, he turns you around and unlocks the cuffs that bind your wrists.

You rub them tenderly. The metal-covered man comes to stand in front of you.

“Those were the men after you, I take it?” He asks.

You furrow your eyebrows and nod.

“I—yeah. What was that?”

“You looked like you could use the help,” he shrugs.

You blanch.

“Well, thanks,” you blink. “But, I don’t know if you’ve done more than delay the inevitable. I’ll be dead by the end of the week if I don’t get off this rock.”

He tilts his head, causing the silver of his helmet to glint in the sun. You sigh.

“I owe this guy—Aven—some money. A lot of money, actually. Then last week, he tried to get me to pay in…other ways. He didn’t take it well when I refused him.”

It was terrible. Your skin crawled just remembering the way his eyes raked over your body when you’d gone to make one of your monthly payments.

“Hm,” the Mandalorian hums.

“So, thanks, but,” you deflate, not knowing how to finish that sentence.

“What if,” he begins, his voice nothing more than a modulated grumble. “You owe me one.”

“I’m sorry?” You ask.

“I helped you out. You owe me a favor.”

“I’d be happy to return it, uh, sir,” you say, tripping over what to call him. “But, you don’t have much time to cash it in.”

“I need help. On my ship.”

“On your…ship?” You ask, heart leaping.

This could be it. Your ticket off of this planet, your freedom.

“I-I’m not a mechanic. I’m a scavenger, I can’t—“

“You good with kids?”

“—what?”

“Kids. You good with them?”

You blink, lost for words. This is …bizarre. A Mandalorian—one that just dragged you out of your favorite cantina—is asking you for …childcare? It’s so comical you almost laugh.

“I guess?”

“I need someone to watch my kid while I work. Travel with me. I can’t keep an eye on him and hunt at the same time.”

“You have a kid?”

He nods.

You stare at the impassive face of his mask and wonder. You’re at a crossroads: do you accept whatever fate Aven has planned for you, or put your future in the hands of a man you’ve only just met?

“Will you take the job?”

You take a breath, before closing your eyes tight.

You open them, and nod.

- -

“He’s …yours?”

The baby is green. The baby is green.

He has big, endless, black eyes and a little button nose situated under. His forehead is wrinkled, and he smiled under clawed hands. He’s …cute. Albeit in a strange way.

You have never before seen a life form even remotely like him. It’s fascinating. What is he doing with a Mandalorian?

“He’s adopted.”

You chuckle at the awkward admission.

The Mandalorian—or, Mando, as he told you to call him—is holding the baby at his hip, in the cockpit of his ship, the Razor Crest. What will be your home for the foreseeable future.

He’s given you the tour already.

The ship is old—pre-empire, but it gets the job done. It’s small, but you’ve never needed much space to live. You’ve never had much space to live. This is just fine.

There’s one bunk. Not ideal, but again: you’ve lived in much worse. He told you that you can take shifts sleeping, that way the kid will always have someone up if he needs it.

The way he cares for the kid is… heart-warming. It seems almost strange: a man so big and hulking, capable of causing so much damage, being so gentle with such a helpless creature. It makes you wonder why he’s trusting you, someone he just met, to care for him.

“He have a name?” You ask, looking at him. The kid just stares at you with big eyes and coos, nonsense coming out.

“Uh…no,” Mando replies. “I usually just call him ‘kid.’”

You’re taken aback, but nod nonetheless.

“Alright. ‘Kid’ it is.”

Mando nods and sets the baby down in his hovering crib.

“Do you…need to retrieve anything before we leave?”

You shake your head and fold your hands in front of you.

“Everything I can own I keep on me. I’ve never had the need for more.”

Mando is silent at that and nods.

“Before,” he says after a moment of silence. “You said there was someone you wanted to say goodbye to. Do you—“

“No,” you interrupt a little too sharply. “I mean, no. There’s nobody.”

For a moment, he looks at you, and you wonder how a visor can hold so much emotion. He stares at you like he can see right through you. And maybe he can under that helmet. Either way, it makes you squirm.

You clear your throat.

“So we can, uhm,” you sit down near one of the windows in the cockpit. “We can leave whenever.”

The mandalorian just nods and goes to prepare for take-off.

Later, before the ship makes the jump to hyperspace, you watch as Jakku fades into a sandy dot in space.

You’re struck with the strange feeling the rest of your life is about to begin

[no1sexymansimp]

His guardian angel

‘Note to self; Never owe shit to Bain’ you thought to yourself for the seventh time since you grabbed the emergency bag and floored it on your motorbike. Luckily since seemingly the entirety of the police force was at the robbery you didn’t have to avoid any attempt to stop you for the obvious speeding. 

You had owed Bain a favour after he essentially blackmailed you. As a nurse you had taken the hippocratic oath, you had taken the vows to heart; “I will abstain from all intentional wrong-doing and harm”, and you did. You helped the worst of humanity because you had to. You sucked it up, packed it away and ignored the guilt of the job. Of declaring the time of death of a sweet little girl to her family just minutes before having to care fo the intoxicated driver that took her life. God may judge you for what you did to that monster but his sins will far outweigh your own.

You was sloppy in my execution, leaving behind evidence, making you the main suspect and you would’ve been convicted if it wasn’t for him. Bain had made an offer you couldn’t refuse. To clear you of your actions and prove your “innocence” on the condition that you supply medical equipment and help to the Payday gang whenever needed.

That brings us to where you are now, flooring down a highway with Bain yelling the whole way, directing you to a vacant alleyway near the bank before you threw yourself off your bike and ran to the back of the building not even taking the time to remove the your helmet.

“Alright gang, Doc’s here. I’m sending them to the security room. Do not shoot” Bain chimes in after you duck through a broken window. 

Despite Bain’s clear instructions, the moment you entered the security room you immediately get a face, well more like visor, full of pistol and see two of the most goofiest looking masks you’ve ever seen. This barely lasted a few seconds before Bain quickly responses again

“That’s them, Jacket. Do not kill them” The one with the goofiest looking rubber chicken mask you’ve ever seen lowered his gun slightly

You paid no mind to this as you immediately snapped your attention to the one slouched and bleeding heavily, ‘Hoxton’ your mind supplies. You promptly assess his injuries, sliding off the emergency medical bag off your should and unpacking the necessary equipment within minutes. Multiple deep lacerations, 3 gunshot wounds and most likely blunt force trauma to the head judging from the excessive bleeding pouring from under his mask. You reach up to remove the aforementioned mask, being stopped by a hand snatching your wrist and yanking it away. You looked back to see Jacket staring at you, tightening his grip on your wrist and the pistol in his other hand.

“I just need to remove his mask to check for head injuries and for a possible concussion”, he loosened his grip slightly, “You can guard the door to keep everyone else away” and with that he stood guard by the door and you could continue your work.

You resume removing his mask before beginning to attend to his other injures to improve his breathing, as you removed it he groaned and slowly blinked into consciousness. You doused some gauze in rubbing alcohol before pressing it into the gun wound in his leg, you felt slightly bad since you knew this hurts like a motherfucker but you just put that feeling into another box in the back of your mind.

While you continue to clean and wrap his wounds you ask him questions, keeping him awake and checking for a concussion.

“Can you tell me your name hun?” You tightly wrap the wound on his thigh, continuing on to the next injury

“It’s Hoxton- fuck- you’re the Doc Bain mentioned?” He tried to pull himself to a more up right position but you rested your hand on his shoulder lightly pushing him back to his original position without taking your eyes off what you were doing

You continue with the questions as you worked your way through the injuries, “The one and only, what do you remember doing before I got here”

“Fixing that stupid fucking piece of shit drill” He chuckled despite groaning immediately afterwards after aggravating his injuries. 

His speech was slightly slurred although he doesn’t have a concussion, lucky him.

You reached up to tilt his head in order to gain better access to his head injury, softly holding the connecting area of his jaw and his throat. You reach over to grab another alcohol wipe before you notice him nodding off. As soon as you noticed, you softly tap his face until he woke again.

“‘Cmon love, you need to stay awake. We’re almost done alright?” You clean the laceration on his head as gently as you can, “Name something you can see”

He went silent for a moment before laughing to himself, “An angel” 

You’ve been beside enough people on their death bed to recognize the distant and serene expression he had. The same look patients had when they’re beckoned to the afterlife by a guardian angel, a loved one sometimes patients have even mentioned seeing the grim reaper. You weren’t going to let him die, not that easily. You still owe it to Bain and by God were you going to repay it.

In a moment of sheer panic and desperation you roughly grab his jaw and flicked your visor up forcing him to make eye contact with you 

“NO. Do not follow the angel. You are mine. Not theirs. Mine. You don’t get to leave, you are stuck with me and I chose when you die, alright?” You hold Hoxton a bit closer and subconsciously leaned in closer to inspect his expression, watching his expression shift from serene to a look of almost child-like giddiness 

His speech became more slurred as he was fighting to stay conscious, “But they’re soooo preettty n’ waaarrm” 

“I don’t care, they can’t have you. They have no claim over you. Do you understand?”, Words kept falling out of your mouth due to how anxious you were

He said nothing but nodded along anyways, his eyes were dilated, ears bright red and you tuck two fingers underneath his jaw to check his heart rate. It was beginning to spike up, most likely due to adrenaline. 

Hoxton was honesty fucking confused when he first awoke to a stranger in a biker fit and after years of being touch starved, kinda just basked in your undivided attention as you tended to his injuries while he was too out of it to think properly. It was probably the severe blood loss convincing him to shoot his shot while he had the chance since despite Bain mentioning you in passing often you were never seen in the safe house nor had anyone ever met you, well till now at least. 

He had not expected such a visceral reaction when he called you an angel, but he’d be a filthy fucking liar if he said your words didn’t have an affect on him. His words caught in his throat while he stared into your eyes, admiring how your eyes narrow and how your brows and nose scrunched as you stared into his soul. 

While you finished cleaning his wound and wrapping it up while he just listened as your words replay in his head like a loop. It was a constant repeat of you staking your claim on him. He’s probably lost it, with years of bloodshed, stress and head injuries he was probably more fucked in the head then he’d like to admit. At the end of the day was he really that far gone if you’d lay your claim on him first. It was only fair if he was yours then you were rightfully his as well. 

He tuned out his teammates and Bain while you helped transfer him to the escape van when the heist was done. After hauling him into the back, you were about to return back to your bike but was interrupted when he grabbed you again. 

“Everything fuckin hurts” 

“I know, hun. There’s meds at the safehouse and we can properly treat your injuries there”, While you spoke you tried to get out of his hold to get to your bike, but he kept groaning in pain whenever he moved. 

A bleeding heart brought you into this situation, a strong sense of empathy being your achille’s heel. Even though you both were going to the same location, you now felt guilty for “leaving” him. With a sigh you turned around and called to the rest of the gang

“Anyone know how to ride a bike?”

Immediately another heister, ‘Sydney’ from what you overheard, perked up, “Abso-fucking-lutely” and caught the keys you threw in her direction barely giving her a second before pulling your helmet off to toss to her. While Sydney already had a mask, she cant drive around with that shit out unless she wanted to drag the entire police force with her. You return while Hoxton continues to stare at you while you try to keep him conscious during the trip

You settle in the back of the van next to him while he continued to hold onto you. His guardian angel

[serenofroses]

a follow up to this snippet: here. apart of the Ania and Jadus' mini ficlets of their first meeting.

note: this is canon divergent heavy for imperial agent.

Ania glanced over from the terminal to the sound of fingers knocked against the desk's hard surface and came face to face with the Keeper.

It was a late night at the Intelligence base, she was supposed to be home by now but instead she stayed behind to finish up her work for the day. She wasn’t really alone as there were few agents around starting their night shift or falling behind on their reports within the HQ and few probe droids were patrolling the hallway.

Ania stood to her feet with a nod, "Sir."

“Agent.” The Keeper greeted with a stoic look.

“Sir, I know my shift was supposed to end not long ago but I–”

The Keeper raised his hand to cut her off, "Doesn't matter, Agent."

Ania could tell the Keeper looked exhausted--the long hours were tedious for some, but the Watchers were on the next level. Though, her senses gave away an impression that the Keeper was... disturbed by something on his mind.

"Finish up here because you're needed elsewhere."

This sounded vague. Her instincts were right, something was definitely bothering the Keeper.

Ania tilted her head with a confused look, "Needed for what, sir?"

"An urgent matter." The Keeper said in a resigned voice after a hesitated pause.

"I don't understand--a matter, sir?"

Before the Keeper could reply to her, the two were interrupted by sounds of heavy boots against the polished floor. Ania's red eyes drifted upon the Horizon Guard approached towards them.

She recognised the black and gold embossed uniform–she had seen them accompanied one of the known Emperor's Heirs before. And they were here earlier today.

'They were one of Darth Jadus' personal minions, aren't they', she wondered quietly.

She noticed the way the Keeper glanced over his shoulder to the masked individual briefly albeit annoyed.

The guard stood silently still, poised with arms behind, visor fixated onto the agent attentively. And the way they stared really unnerves her.

"Agent Nevrakis." the guard spoke in a monotone voice.

"I thought I told Lord Jadus that she's not ready for this." The Keeper interject.

"The Master had warned that you must not object against their biddings." The guard reminded the old man of the warning delivered to him.

Ania started to become confused bybthis, "What's going on?"

The masked guard turned their attention back to the young woman, "The Master has requested for your presence immediately. They sent me here to personally escort you to them."

Ania had a difficulty trying to understand what the guard was saying to her as the mask was blocking her vision of lipreading.

The Keeper was quick to step in and interpret for her, “Darth Jadus wants to speak with you.” he explained, “You will proceed to their chambers for an audience.”

Ania stared in disbelief over this strange development. Darth Jadus wants to speak to her…? She doesn’t understand why–she was only new to Imperial Intelligence. She was nobody important here.

Surely this was a mistake, right?

“I fail to understand, why me?” she prodded for answers, “Why would Jadus want to talk to me?”

"That assignment report of yours had caused quite a stir amongst the higher ups. Darth Jadus was well aware of your assessment." he explained.

Ania felt her throat go dry, dreading this particular development coming after she was sent to track down a rogue agent within the home region, who in turn, revealed to be an inactive sleeper agent for the now silent Emperor.

"I made a mistake, didn't I?"

"No. You haven't." The Keeper shook his head, "It would seem Jadus wanted to reward you appropriately for your success.” He continued.

That was... odd?

“I see.”

She, then exhaled sharply, set to switch off the terminal and flicked the lamp off.

“You’ve met Darth Jadus,” he reminded her of the early meeting where she delivered her mission report and caught them in the middle of a heated argument, “Experienced their power. I suggest that you treat them with respect and do as they ask. You best get moving, you shouldn't dawdle around for long.”

"Understood." She affirmed with a small nod after she was done packing up for the night. The masked guard waited on the agent to get ready and turned around to walk up the stairs.

The Keeper then grabbed Ania's arm stopping her midway. Ania looked over to the Keeper and watched him leaned down to her face.

“For what it's worth--" he said in a whispered tone for her to lipread clearly, away from the earshot of others within the room, "--I tried to shield you from this. But it seems it was unavoidable.”

Ania could tell the Keeper was afraid. Possibly afraid for what Jadus could do with her.

"I advise you'll keep your wits and your head down. I'd rather not lose any more agents to Jadus' ."

Ania was alarmed by this comment. Was he referring to the rumours of agents who had went AWOL or disappeared after meeting the Sith? The rumours had been spread within the Intelligence for weeks since she started.

‘Beware of Darth Jadus–you must be cautious with that one. Their power is immense. Just keep your head up and don’t despair, shield your mind from them.’

Her father’s warning was still fresh on her mind since the day she left to enrol into Intelligence academy.

"Yes, sir. I'll keep that mind in that mind." Ania mouthed quietly for the Keeper to hear, heeding his advice.

The Keeper released his grip from her arm, "Be careful. I will see you in the morning at 0800 sharp. You best get going."

Ania glanced over to the masked guard waiting by the doorway as they beckoned for the agent to follow like they're on timed schedule to escort her to Darth Jadus.

She gulped nervously. What could go wrong?

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Omnivore: Part Two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Summary: A case personal for Hotch pops up when The Reaper comes back into his life. He stopped killing for ten years only to resurface when the Detective on the original case dies.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

It sucks beyond compare but The Reaper struck again before nightfall. Another couple fell victim and because it's so recent, you don't need to touch anything to see what happened. The male driver, Arthur, was stabbed repeatedly while the female passenger, Diane, was shot in the backseat.

Ghost cars pass you by on the highway until Arthur's car comes around the bend. Almost immediately, you see police sirens right behind him causing Arthur to pull over. Instead of a policeman getting out of the car, The Reaper does. He's wearing cop clothing to keep up the ruse but the same black mask sits upon his face. Those same hazel eyes stare right back at you with the same menacing look.

Arthur and Diane never saw him coming. She tried to get away and escaped to the backseat where she was shot to death.

"Another couple that's much older this time. One was shot and the other was stabbed. There's no reason I can see to stop here."

"He pretended to be a cop and pulled them over. I saw the police sirens behind them," you say.

Hotch inspects Arthur and sees a watch on his wrist that doesn't belong to him. It's too small for his wrist and there is already another watch on his other wrist.

"He left Nina's watch."

"What did he take?"

"His wedding ring."

"Their names are Arthur and Diane Lanessa. They were coming home from the Elks where they played bingo twice a week."

"It looks like he went through her purse."

"Any idea what he was looking for?"

Hotch notices something in the visor above the steering wheel and with a gloved hand, he lowers it. A picture of a family falls out with the word "Fate?" written in blood across the front.

"The question mark is new," Rossi comments.

"It's for us. He's saying it's not fate. He's saying we had ten years to save them, and that these latest ones are on us."

"You got all that from one question mark? That's impressive."

"I may know him better than I've let on."

"What does that mean?" you ask.

"It means that there is a profile on The Reaper."

"I thought we were called off before we had one."

"We were. I had just started the profile and then he stopped killing, so officially we were done. I kept coming back to it over the years and I worked on it alone."

"You never shared it with anyone?"

"I know I'm always preaching that profiling is a collaborative effort, but this one wasn't. If there was a chance I was wrong, I was gonna head us in the wrong direction."

"Do you feel like it's right now?"

"The more I see it, the more accurate I think it may be."

"Then we need to hear it."

Sergeant Mike is more than happy to gather his men and women so that Hotch can give the profile. Since he's the only one who knows it, he's the only one who is doing the talking.

"The Reaper fits a profile we refer to as an Omnivore. Unlike most serial killers, an omnivore doesn't target a specific victim type. Although he tends to focus on his younger female victims with his knife, he essentially is a predator who will kill anyone."

"Why is he so democratic?"

"Because his kills aren't just about his victims. He needs recognition. He needs us to know. It's why he drew those symbols and the placement of prior victims' possessions on other ones--it's all for us."

"Why?"

"Simple. Power. The Shaunessy letter is the clearest example of this. He manipulated Tom into literally surrendering to him. The burden was too much to bear. In a very real sense, Tom was the reaper's twenty-second victim."

"Like BTK killer, Dennis Rader, The Reaper is extremely disciplined. In his everyday life, this will very likely make him so inflexible that he can't keep close relationships or work closely with others," Rossi adds.

"I believe our killer has another interest that may give us our best opportunity to catch him. The Reaper's last victim was an older woman. He killed her quickly with a single shot. He spent more time with his prior victim who was younger because he stabbed her forty-six times."

"Why?" Mike asks.

"He pays special attention to his younger female victims, and his weapon of choice with them is the knife which is a substitute instrument for bodily penetration. The younger they are, the more time he spends with them. I think our guy is a hebephile. It's someone who's attracted to adolescent post-pubescent children like teenagers. Look for men with access to authority like high school teachers, counselors, coaches, and anyone who's been charged with sex crimes against teenage girls in the last ten years. That's all for now. Thank you."

Emily motions for Hotch to come into the conference room, so you and Rossi follow him over there.

"Garcia can't find Foyet."

"I've got nothing, sir," she says over speakerphone.

"What do you mean?"

"He's gone. I mean, he's completely off the grid."

"How is that possible?"

"Nine months after he was released from the hospital, he quit his job, sold his car, closed his bank accounts, and canceled his credit cards, cell phone, apartment, everything. He has no paper, thus he has no trail. I can't find him because he's gone."

"If I was almost killed by a serial killer and found out that killer has never been caught, I'd want to stay hidden, too. He's probably scared," you say.

"It's more than that. Even dead people stay on the grid for decades. Take it from me, erasing yourself like this is extremely difficult. It takes commitment. You'd have to be willing to cut every tie of everything and everyone you've ever known in your entire life. It's like killing yourself. I gotta say, this is impressive."

"Can you blame him? Foyet's the only living person who knows what The Reaper looks like, and he's still out there."

"It doesn't change the fact that we still need to find him."

"I'll keep looking," Penelope says.

"Garcia, we don't have much time."

"I know, sir."

"He would have to completely isolate himself. He's totally alone. That couldn't have been easy. He must have talked to someone to do all that."

"I think I might know someone. Stand by."

Hotch thinks it's best to talk to the reporter that came by earlier, so he sets a meeting with him since he loves to write about this story. Roy Coulson found George for the book he was writing. They kept in touch over the years even though Goerge wouldn't give his phone number out. He'd only give one of his aliases out since George had multiple made to keep himself hidden from The Reaper.

Only Hotch and Rossi went to talk to him so as to not scare him. George isn't too fond of having two FBI agents visiting him but he knew they were coming sooner or later. All those years ago, George was going to propose to his girlfriend at the restaurant but got cold feet at the last minute. The ring was still in his pocket when The Reaper approached them. He claimed he was lost and had one of those sightseeing booklets in his hands.

George was looking at it when he stabbed him. He couldn't move as The Reaper killed his girlfriend. When The Reaper took George's glasses, he should have left them on the next victim but didn't. He held onto them for the past eleven years. George has been living with the possibility that The Reaper could have a special interest in George since he was attacked.

Hotch is surprised that The Reaper hasn't made any kind of contact, but George has a bunch of different residences under different names that he moves between randomly. The Reaper likes to get people in their cars so he takes the bus. He's gone to great lengths to make sure that he doesn't get attacked again.

Hotch offered to relocate him to someplace safer but Boston is George's home. It's the one thing he promised himself he'd never let The Reaper take from him. George handed over the list of residences regardless of his fears, and Hotch promised him that he would catch him this time.

When you heard about what happened between the two men, something stuck in the back of your mind that you couldn't get rid of. Even when you and Spencer are back in the hotel room to get ready for bed, you can't stop thinking about the case. Spencer is in the bathroom brushing his teeth while you pace the length of the hotel room while biting your nails. Spencer spits out the toothpaste and pops his head out of the bathroom.

"Okay, you've been pacing for the last half hour. What's wrong?"

"There's something about this case that bothers me."

"What is it?"

"The Reaper killed all of these people and suddenly stopped for decades, right? George was the only person who was left alive by him. Doesn't it strike you as odd that The Reaper stopped killing when there is one victim alive? The Reaper doesn't leave victims alive. He's gotten away with killing for this long, so why now? If he had killed George, then we wouldn't be closer to catching him."

"What are you saying?"

You stop and think for a moment before shaking your head.

"I don't know," you mutter and continue to pace.

You're not sure what went down with Hotch after speaking with George, but news of another crime surfaces. Instead of a couple in a car on the side of the road, it's a bus-load of people at a bus station. There are seven victims that The Reaper left behind. The energy you see is the same as the other two crime scenes you visited, but you're not getting anything from The Reaper. He's still as closed off as the first time you connected with him. The only thing you can get off him is that he's cocky and arrogant. He wants to stay hidden, and you think back to what you said to Spencer an hour ago.

Isn't it weird that The Reaper is hidden from everyone and can't be caught, and George did everything to erase himself from the world?

Not only did The Reaper kill seven people, but he also left three numbers on the windows written in blood--1422, 201, and 1488--and "No Deal" at the end. You're not sure what that's about, but seeing Hotch's angry reaction, he does.

"There are six bodies, not including the driver. He put them all down with a gun before finishing them off with his knife."

"I found Arthur Lanessa's wedding ring," Hotch says and points to the driver's hand.

"What did he take?" you ask.

"Does it matter?"

Hotch leaves the bus angrily, and you and Rossi follow after him.

"What's going on with you?"

"He called me tonight at my hotel and offered me the deal."

"What did you say?"

"I hung up on him, and then he did this."

"You think this is your fault?" you ask.

"It is."

Rossi nods once and removes his gun so he can hand it to Hotch. He knows exactly what Rossi is telling him to do and scoffs. He has unshed tears in his eyes that he refuses to let fall.

"Here, use mine. You've convinced me. You hung up on him. You practically killed them yourself. Go ahead, get it over with. Don't worry about us. We'll get this guy without you."

"Dave, I had ten years to do something about it."

"Hotch, do you think I blame myself for every victim who was killed because I may have known something about it? I see death every day and the bad things people do, but I don't blame myself for it. If I did, I wouldn't be in this line of work. I'd be dead."

"She's right. Look, Shaunessy made the deal and the killings stopped. He closed the case and sent the BAU away. For ten years, you worked on other cases. Active cases."

"I kept coming back to this one. I kept coming back to this profile."

"Hey, I was retired. Should I blame myself for every victim who got killed while I was on my book tour? Look, if you want to end up like Shaunessy and Gideon by blaming yourself for everything, go ahead. But that voice in your head is not your conscience, it's your ego. This isn't about us, Aaron, it's about the bad guys. That's why we profile them. It's their fault. We're just guys doing a job. When we stop doing it, someone else will. Trust me. I know."

"You can put that away," Hotch says about the gun.

"You sure?" Rossi smirks.

"It's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

"My wife always said I had a flair for the dramatic."

"Which one?" you smirk.

"All of them."

"Hotch, think of it this way. I still have a lot to learn from you. There is no way I'd let you fall down the rabbit hole before I do," you chuckle.

"Thanks," Hotch smiles.

x

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[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Seven point Five.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C     

word count: 4 K   

chapter summary: Din's foster father, always quick with axioms, had this to say about being face-down: don’t forget, your ass is wide-open, kid. 

warnings:  head injury, severe bodily injury, blood, sexual abuse, physical abuse, violence towards women, torture, allusion to rape, enmeshed misogyny, Mando'a and English cursing    

You Were Marked: Masterlist    

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter  

Din awoke to find himself completely disoriented with his head and neck in terrible pain.  His first instinct was to panic, but he took a shallow breath — which was all he seemed to be able to manage — and remembered to follow the steps his buir, his foster father, taught him. 

What can you see?  The quick answer to that was fuck-all but he wasn’t sure if that was because his visor had no power or if it was nighttime. 

What can you hear?  What he could hear were whispered voices.  The voices were shrill and panicky and sounded like women.  Three, perhaps four.  They seemed to be behind him, but close by. 

What can you feel?  This was easy: he felt like hammered shit, and he believed he meant that literally.  To be more specific: he was face-down, on the ground, more than likely under a tree, since it seemed a knobby root was poking his upper thigh.  His foster father, always quick with axioms, had this to say about being face-down: don’t forget, your ass is wide-open, kid.  His head was splitting with pain, and it seemed as if there was a heavy sofa lying on him, pinning him to the ground.  Why the shab a large sofa would be anywhere near where he happened to be made no sense whatsoever, but then very little made sense to Din anymore. 

Din started to lift his arm, to check on his helmet settings, when he felt a hand gently push his arm back down.  “Be still, Bounty Hunter,” quietly said one of the voices. 

“Marathel?” asked Din, confused. 

“No … no.  She is still in the Hold.” 

Din groaned.  Everything must have gone wrong, and he must have fucked up royally.  “Olba?” 

“Yes, it’s me.  No, don’t move, you were hit very hard with the marchwyl.” 

“Is that the big hammer?” 

“Yes.  It dented your helmet, split your skull, and addled your brain.  You’ve been mostly sleeping all day.”   

The only thing to dent beskar is … beskar, thought Din.  That hammer is made of beskar.  How did it get here? “Did you …” 

“No, Bounty Hunter, we did not remove your helmet.  You were very adamant about that during the moments you were awake.  I did reach under your helmet, though, to dress the wound as best I could.” 

“Why can’t I move?” 

“You were fighting us when we were trying to help you. There are three women sitting on you.” 

“Could they … not?”  Olba motioned for her companions to get off Din, and with her help, Din slowly got to a sitting position.  “Thank you for tending to me.”  Din checked his helmet and found that the vision function on his visor was completely knocked out, and it was full dark now.   

“Where is the child, Bounty Hunter?” asked Olba. 

Grogu! Haar’chak! How could I forget?  Din began to struggle up, but Olba held him down. 

“Be still, Bounty Hunter!  Is the child in your flying ship?” 

“How did you know …” 

“Times I have been outside the Hold, I have seen you and the child with Marathel.   She must have been so happy to care for a little one again.” 

“She … she was.”  Din tried to raise the comm.link on his helmet, but it seemed his helmet no longer functioned at all.  “I must … must check on the kid … I need to get Marathel …” Din tried to stand, but he had no sense of balance, and his head was pounding fit to explode.  He fell back down to his hip. 

“You need to rest, Bounty Hunter …” 

“I need to get in there and get Marathel out!” 

“You can’t.  You can’t, Bounty Hunter.” 

Din swallowed, which made his head throb painfully into his jaw. Any tears that might have threatened his eyes remained there by sheer will. “They’re going to kill her, aren’t they?” 

Olba sighed.  “No, not directly.  But she will die from … what they do to her when they make her a Belwhyn.” Olba spit out this last word with disgust. 

Din got up to his knees, but still could not stand.  He looked down at the ground, his fingers tearing at the grass beneath his hands. “I can’t let them do that.”  Olba put her arm around Din’s shaking shoulders. “I can’t let her sacrifice herself, Olba.” 

Everything she has ever done was out of love, thought Olba.  How she must love you and the child.  “Bounty Hunter … do you have healers where you come from?” 

Din sat back on his heels with a groan.  “Doctors, medics, yes.”  

“If … if we can get her out, will you take her with you?”  The other women tittered at this in protest, but Olba shushed them.  “We can get her, you can take her to a healer, and she might survive.  If not … you will take her to somewhere beautiful, so that she may die in peace, with you and the child, away from this hell place.  Will you do that?” 

“You have my word.”  Frith help her, please keep her alive. “But … can you also get that hammer?” 

“The hammer?” 

“It belongs to my people, Olba.  It is made of the same metal as my armor.  It has no place here.” Olba looked at Din, frowning.  “Please, our beskar was stolen from us, we must have it back.” 

One of the other women leaned forward.  “Olba, we cannot!  The Elders would strip us dead!” 

Olba took a deep breath, and said to the woman, “Are we not already dead, Tymfy?  We are Diwhyns.  We are nothing anymore. If they kill me, my only regret is that they would get pleasure from doing so.”  To Din, Olba said, “I will do my best.  Stay here.  If we can get Marathel out, we will bring her to you.  The hammer, too.  Frith help us all.” 

Din nodded weakly. “Thank you.”  His eyes had adjusted to the dark some by this time, and he looked at the older woman.  She had removed her veil, and her hair was dark, curly, threaded through with grey.  Her eyes were dark and filled with a lifetime of sadness.  “Olba, tell me … are you Marathel’s mother?” 

Olba dropped her eyes and shook her head.  “No.  She is ap Bishop, I am ap Captain.”  What does that mean? wondered Din.  “But I was at her birth, and her mother died as Marathel was born.”  Din could just see her tears fall in the darkness.   “I was her mam in all ways that mattered.”  Olba stood.  “You stay here, we will bring her out if we can.  If not … I will close the door.”  The women moved in a small, somber group to the heavy door. 

“How long will it be?” asked Din.  “When will you bring her out?” 

“When they’re done with her.”  The women disappeared inside. 

Din no longer had a sense of time.  Between his head wound and the damage to his helmet, time stretched out and compressed in a completely non-linear way.  His concussion and his apparently addled brain came up with the phrase time has gone wibbly-wobbly, not that he really understood what the ever-loving kriff that meant.  He knew that he slept some — or just passed out, really — as he leaned up against the tree, but he spent most of his waiting-time staring, unblinkingly, at the heavy, ajar door, willing it to open more.   

Din thought briefly, several times, about running to check on Grogu, but he feared that the moment he would leave would be the exact moment the women would reappear.  He felt certain that Grogu was relatively okay.  The kid probably had eaten all the rations, including the secret stash.  He had told Grogu in no uncertain terms to not come out of the ship, but Grogu had never been one to follow directions, except in the case of his beloved Mahr. 

Please stay patient, kid, I’m doing my best here, and we can only wait.  There is no other way. 

He had heard two bursts of activity inside the Hold walls: once to call the young children in from the garden, and once when Diwhyns were called to come to the round building.  Din hoped that the second call meant the end to whatever was happening to Marathel.  Olba refused to elaborate what would happen there, but Din had too much knowledge of how brutal people could be.  He had no idea what a Belwhyn was, but he knew it must be a horrible thing. 

He tried to keep his mind clear and ready for what may come.  Instead, he wondered if he should have made a trip back to the ship just to get some weapons … at least his favorite blaster.   

He wished he’d gone to reassure Grogu, just to see him, and just to get reassurance himself that everything might be okay. 

He wished he’d removed his helmet as Marathel had requested — what honor was there in denying a woman like her, when all she wanted was a simple kindness? Instead, he had volunteered so quickly to have a chance to just … fuck her when he knew, he knew, she was not fully in her own mind and body.  What kind of Creed permitted that? What kind of honorable man did that? 

He wondered why Rodanthe had left Marathel when she did, where she was now, if she knew that Marathel was suffering now, alone.  Damn you, Rodanthe, she begged you for one more day, and you abandoned her.  Did you think I could be a substitute for the love and affection Marathel deserves?  Did you know what Marathel intended to do today? 

He wondered why he didn’t anticipate Marathel’s actions, why he could only stand there like a hu’tuun when osik went sideways, why he didn’t consider that the bounty wasn’t for the damn eggs at all, but for her.   

He cursed himself for getting besotted with her in the first place, for letting his dick get in the way of protecting his asset, for allowing Grogu to run the damn hunt when the kid held on to the woman’s ankle that very first afternoon, begging Din to let them stay at the hut. 

Din’s head began pounding again, and what vision he had was getting wavy around the edges.  He had to get Marathel and get the Crest in the air soon, otherwise he wouldn’t be fit to handle getting the ship into hyperspace. 

Focus, focus, focus.  The door will open, or the door will close.  Until one of those things happens, you just need to be ready. 

He could not stop his mind from wondering, however: what if that door closes? 

The thought nearly brought Din back down prone to the ground.  If that door closes, then … He could not carry on with that line of thinking.  He closed his eyes against the throbbing in his skull; he flexed his fingers to keep blood flowing into his hands.  He breathed in, he breathed out, he breathed … 

“Bounty Hunter!” A sharp whisper came from just behind the door.  “Help us!” 

Din leapt to his feet and ran to the door, head injury forgotten, and he pushed open the door just enough to let the four women back through.  Each woman held a corner of a woven blanket, and in the middle of the blanket lay a still female form, wrapped in red shrouds from head to foot.  Din dropped to one knee and gathered the shrouded woman in his arms, knowing just by the woman’s shape and weight that it was Marathel.  “Oh, mesh’la,” breathed Din, but Marathel neither moved nor made a sound.  Din got back to his feet, turned, and ran as fast as he could manage through the woods back to the Crest, leaving the women to follow. 

The four women were nearly as fast and nimble running as Marathel.  Each one came up short, though, as they arrived at the Crest; Din had already set the ramp to lower by the time they caught up with him, and he began running up even before the ramp hit the ground.  The outer hatch opened, spilling light into the clearing, momentarily blinding everyone, and in the middle of the doorway was Grogu, calling out, “Patu! Patu!  Mahr!  Mahr!” 

“Gangway, Grogu!” shouted Din as he carried Marathel into the ship’s narrow side passage.   Olba, braver than the rest, was on his heels; the other three women were reticent to come up the ramp into the strange metal hulk before them, as well as approach the little child who had large ears and happened to be green.  “Where should I put her, Olba?” 

“Somewhere she can have privacy, Bounty Hunter … some dignity.” 

Din slapped the control to open the tiny room he used as sleeping quarters, leaving a bright red handprint on the metal wall, stopping him in his tracks.  He looked down at Marathel in his arms, now visible under the garish bright light.  His initial assumption that she was wrapped in red shrouds had been incorrect; as he shifted her, the pleats of the fabric around her shifted as well, revealing that the shrouds were the same blue of the veils she had been wearing earlier … and were now soaked with blood.  Din couldn’t help it; he gasped at the sight of her and how much she resembled the floating body of his dream.  He moved slightly to his left to allow Olba access into the little room, and one of Marathel’s braids slipped out and hung down towards the floor, leaving tiny drops of blood as it swung back and forth.   

“This will suffice, Bounty Hunter.  Hurry, lay her down here.”  Din squeezed into the room and followed Olba’s instructions, laying Marathel’s limp form on his sleeping pad on the floor.  Marathel made a low whine, the first sign she had made that she still lived.  Din reached to remove the shroud from her face, but Olba stopped him.  “Roll her over; she cannot be on her back.” 

Din began to shift Marathel, and her cries became more intense, her features only slightly obscured by the veil on her face, stuck to her skin with her blood.  He got her over on her stomach, and Olba gently turned Marathel’s face away from Din.  “Scissors,” she said.  Din looked up at Olba; Olba was holding her hand out to the other three veiled women who huddled in the doorway.  One handed a pair of scissors to Olba, who used them to cut the shrouds off Marathel’s back down to her waist.  As Olba peeled back the fabric – now resembling the wings of flesh from Din’s nightmare -- Din could see one reason for all the blood: she had been whipped mercilessly, and her skin, her magnificent flawless skin, was split laterally practically every half-inch from the base of her neck down to her lower back, and probably beyond, but Olba was not willing to expose her Marathel any more in front of the armored man.  Blood slowly seeped from every split, unceasingly, without clotting. 

Din let out a shuddering breath.  “M��mwch ha’laa,” he whispered. 

Olba looked up at Din, surprised by hearing her Oldtalk spoken by the Bounty Hunter.  “You need to step out now; let us do our best by her.”

Din swallowed.  “What can I do to help you?” 

“Gather anything we can use as bandages, any water and toweling that we may have.  We will do what we can as quickly as we can, so that you may leave here, and get her help.  And put the child somewhere; this is something no child should ever see.” 

Din nodded and opened the storage bins in his quarters that he knew had towels.  He didn’t have many — he never had needed many — but he handed them over, as well as his one spare set of sheets.  Then he left the room, in search of anything else that would be useful, including the bin that held a pitiful few bacta sheets, spray, and injections.  He doubted that the women would even have heard of bacta, much less knowing how to use it.  He searched out all spare clean fabric on the ship that would be appropriate for bandages, of which he had precious little — another thing that he was always meaning to do; he should have more in the way of first aid now that he had Grogu. 

As if on cue, Grogu came up to him, holding out a soft blanket from his pram.  Din knelt, and stroked Grogu’s ear with the back of his glove, not wanting to transfer blood to the boy.  Din’s voice stuck in his throat for a moment before he could speak. “No, Grogu, I can’t let you do that … that’s your favorite blanket.  Marathel wouldn’t want you to give up your favorite blanket.  I need you to go back to the cockpit and wait there.  The women need to help her, and I need to help them right now.  Please, buddy, you’ve been so brave, can you be brave a little longer?”  Grogu’s ears drooped, but he nodded, and turned to the ladder, hopping up in two bounds, dragging the blanket.  Din shut the cockpit hatch for good measure.   

He turned back to his sleeping quarters, and left the fabric he could find, along with what water he could spare, next to the open door.  Through the doorway, he could see one bare foot and ankle, the pale skin somehow even more white than he remembered.   

One of the women stepped out, without her veil.  She was a pretty woman, wearing a gown of green, her blond hair streaked with white.  Her light brown eyes were narrow with disdain as she looked up at the much taller man before her.  “I have what you asked for,” she said.  She reached into one of bags the women brought with them and handed the large beskar hammer to Din.   

The hammer was forged in one large piece, and had a long handle, as long as Din’s forearm and hand. The heavy head was flat on one side and pointed on the other.  The flat end was smeared with blood, and there were splashes of blood on the handle.  Din supposed he should be thankful that the Captain’s flunky didn’t use the pointy end to cave his head in. 

“You should know, Bounty Hunter, that hammer was not only used to bash your skull, but to destroy Marathel’s hands.  The under-Captain smashed every one of her fingers, one at a time.   Make sure to return your stolen hammer to your people.” The scorn in the woman’s voice was unmistakable, and she returned to Marathel’s side. 

 Din unclenched his hands from around the handle, which was now marked with his handprints in Marathel’s blood.  He turned robotically and stepped back down the passageway to where he stored his weapons cache, placing the hammer within.  Din looked at his gloves, saturated with blood, and he stripped them off, leaving them on the floor, but blood had soaked through, staining his bare skin.  Over his shoulder, he could hear the women speaking. 

“Did they … did they use the Dilimgau?” 

Din lifted his head.  What the shab is a Dilimgau? 

“They did.  Hold her leg higher ….” 

Why do they have to hold her leg higher?  What are they doing to her? 

“Hold her still … I’m so sorry, my little Godynferth …” Din turned at Olba’s use of Marathel’s pet name for Grogu when he heard Marathel’s ragged scream fill the air, and the four women cried out as well, as if trying to take some of the burden of pain away from Marathel.  He took several steps back at the sound; the scream was even worse than the shriek Marathel uttered when she lost Rodanthe.  This scream was filled with the greatest pain anyone should have to endure and still live, and Din hoped, he wished, he begged whatever holy entity there ever was or ever could be that Marathel somehow survive whatever caused her to scream like that.   He held his breath as the scream continued and finally faded into a low wail before ceasing.  There was a clunk of metal hitting metal, and the women wept for a few moments before Olba spoke again.  “Hurry now, she needs our help, not our tears.”   

Olba’s words spurred Din back to action.  Hurrying to the door — but not looking within — he said, “What else can I get you?” 

A different woman stood up and filled the doorway.  “Come no closer, Bounty Hunter,” she said, her voice filled with hate and spite directed at Din, and he was sure he understood why.   The woman, wearing the same color blue as Marathel, removed her veil and untied her sash.  She had hair of purest white and eyes of pale blue that were red with tears.  “Have you no other fabric, Bounty Hunter?  Blankets?  Anything?” 

“No.  You have …” The woman looked at him with disgust and reproach, turned her back, and appeared to be cutting away whatever she was wearing under her gown.  Din saw a flash of white as she tore the undergarment over her head and off.  “Look in the bin just to your left.  All my spare clothes are in there.  Take whatever will work.”  Din stepped back, leaning against the ladder, letting his head throb for a few moments before he remembered he needed to get the Crest running before he could lift off.  He climbed the ladder and opened the cockpit door.  Grogu was right behind it.  “Gangway, Grogu,” he said listlessly.  He gently pushed Grogu to the side so he could enter the cockpit, and automatically placed the child in the rear seat.  “Stay there.  Don’t leave the cockpit.  Mind me, now.”  Grogu dropped his head to his chest, curled his little arms around his knees, and remained silent.  Din set the switches and levers, priming the engines for a quick takeoff.  One of the propulsion units made a grinding noise, and Din punched the gauge, breaking the cover over the dial.  He felt rage threatening to overtake him, and he gripped the edge of the control panel with his bare fingers until his knuckles turned white.   

Olba’s voice came from below.  “Bounty Hunter?” 

Din jumped from his seat and leapt down from the cockpit, ignoring the ladder.  His bad knee protested the rough landing, but he ignored it.  All four women stood before him, without veils or sashes, and two of them had ripped the bottom foot or so from the hems of their gowns.  All four had bloodstained hands and clothing, and all four looked as hopeless as he felt. The hatred in three of the women’s eyes was unmistakable in its vehemence, and he knew that it was directed at him, and that as far as the women were concerned, he was to blame for Marathel’s plight, even obliquely.  “Marathel …?” 

Olba took a breath.   She had no hatred in her eyes, only that certain weariness that comes with continuous suffering and sadness. “She lives, for now.  She has ia’chau leaves on her wounds, but they are not working very well.  She … will not stop bleeding.  Still, keep the leaves soaking in water and replace them as they fall apart.  If nothing else, it will slow the blood flow.” 

“I will.  I know of her … condition.” 

“You must know beautiful places, coming from somewhere else.”  Olba was openly weeping now.  “You promised me.  Tell her I loved her as my own.” 

“I will, Olba, and … thank you.” 

“Go now.  We must get back before we are discovered missing.” 

Three of the four women turned to leave, save for the one in blue, who was glaring at Din in fury.  She bared her teeth and snarled, “Her blood is on your hands.  Our blood, too, for we are good as dead, bringing you the hammer you demanded.”    The woman in blue spit with startling accuracy on Din’s right boot, throwing a bloodied rag-wrapped object at his feet, making a heavy thump against the metal floor.   The women then left the ship, their bare feet sliding on the steep ramp.  Din raised the ramp and shut the hull door.  He took a deep breath and cast a quick look at whatever the woman in blue had thrown at him, then at the open door where Marathel lay motionless.  Her bare feet, facing downward, were in view.  Not now, you hu’tuun.  Get flying.  Din quickly ascended the ladder and hoped the women were clear, because he was taking off right the shab now. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

[popcornforone]

Petals

Chapter 1 of Womps Tattoos

Master list

Go back in time to 2018 me. No tattoos, no real knowledge of who Pedro Pascal is… today I’m looking forward to getting my 5th tattoo, one of Dins mask on my right leg. I am so excited for it. & so I started to write this because I believe it is cannon that Din is covered in Tattoos.

This is an out of universe Din, but characters from The Mandalorian are included in this. I know some of you don’t like that but I wanted to put Din in a different universe. He’s still our Tiny Shiny Tin Din. This may at some point turn into chapters.

Synopsis: After your first successful mission, it is tradition to get a tattoo which can be added to going forward, so you go to Womps after a colleagues recommendation, & get a lot more than just some ink.

Word count:4800

Warnings: DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! Mentions of war & rebellion & death & trauma, this is just setting the world up mainly. Pining & hero status. Smutt will come later.

As always thank you all for the read my loves it’s really appreciated. All feed back is welcome.

“Mission complete” echos through your head set as you hear the last hostage has been taken to safety. Your first covert mission is complete & you sigh in relief that it went relatively smoothly. No one died & your job of scouting for the team & checking everyone’s welfare & status has gone well. It’s tradition that on your first mission you take a back seat to see how everything works, next time you will be on the second wave of attack going in as back up ready to help survivors &, if needs be, to take shots that will save others.

It is also tradition to start your tattoo after your first mission. It can be your choice what you go for, but it needs to be something that can be added too. Lots of the guys go for stars or bullets or a tally chart, simple & easy. But you want something that can grow much like you have since you’ve been given this second chance in life & have been brought up to live this life. You want a Tulip head on your right shoulder, which going forward you can add petals, stems & other flowers & floral decorations to it. You are blooming with your new purpose in life, so you think your growing tattoo should do the same.

“Womps is the best place to go to get your tattoo” Paz announces as you talk getting off the hanger. He’s been here for the last 8 years & is proud of the teeth his tiger on his back is growing. Today he lead the mission so he will be adding a cub to his tiger in the next few days. “The guy who runs it doesn’t say much, wears a hood & dark glasses all the time when he’s not actually tattooing, no one really sees his face, but he is one of our most decorated members of the team. He never got a tattoo at all, until he single handedly won the battle of Dantooine & then he…” he pauses. You are from Dantooine you know about the battle & the power struggle & the silver knight who concurred the insurgents who rebelled. You saw him in silver look down at you as you cowered in fear protecting your parents from the battle, the courage you’d displayed in your earlier exploits had disappeared. Paz can see your eyes thinking, even from behind your visor to obscure your face. “… well let’s just say he is a walking gallery now, he felt a grate sense of responsibility for what he did & since then he’s captured every moment & memory he has in ink. He brought the shop to make sure he could complete the tattoos on his body, but he learnt along the way. He now makes more of a living from body art then he does as a mercenary.”

“If this is who I think it’s about, is it true that no one has ever seen his back tattoo?” You ask stepping into the chemical pod for decontamination, nothing is getting into the base. “Nope no one, Rumour has it he was inspired by something for it, he is waiting for inspiration to strike again before he reveals it.”Paz giggles as you walk back to your rooms ready to remove your masks “I mean it’s all gossip, but we do miss him on some of our medium size missions, maybe one day when your more experienced & make point on a large mission, you will get to work with him, but in the mean time, his tattoos will do for now”. Paz parts to his bunk & so do you, finally able to remove your visor & mask. You know your face needs concealing for this job & it is for everybodys safety, however once you make a first wave your will receive a full helmet to wear, your mould is already cast ready for this. You only have to cover your face on base & everyone here has an alias. You could have met Paz in real life multiple times & never known it. You only have a number at the moment, your alias will eventually present itself to you.

You leave your bunk & check the availability at Womps. There’s a box you can tick for first time missions which you do. They know where most of their business comes from. There’s availability tonight at 9pm to be initiated. It says to make sure you eat 2hours before & to bring water with you. You don’t even check the name of who’s tattooing you, this place is recommended & comes with its own mythology, you request without hesitation the appointment. You leave & head out into the real world, in your normal clothes. All the other people just casually walking past of you. How many of them are familiar faces & voices that you know, but also have no idea if they are. You go to your home & eat before contacting your father to tell him about your mission. He’s now elderly & being looked after by your two younger sisters, while you live this new life & provide for the family. You miss them & you mourn your mother who died shortly after the battle & rebellion but that & your previous down hill spiral inspired you to be the person that you are today.

Womps is a short speeders ride away, at the back of the city, in a dimly lit shadowy area. Manoeuvring the Speeder is a bit of a challenge with all the people moseying around, looking in shops, carrying on their everyday life, having no idea exactly what you have done & what you will become. Reaching the tattoo place is a mission on its own, but you are pleasantly surprised when you get there. It’s not as run down as you had imagined in your mind. Green lights of every shade illuminate the shops sign. All the outside looks like it’s coated in beskar, the silver & tin gleaming & reflecting back at you. You automatically feel at home here, the vibe matches yours & you know already that you are looking forward to frequenting here on future occasions.

When you walk in there is a small little dum serise droid which leaps up & starts fussing about & runs into a counter a few time. “All right, all right” you hear come from the back. A lady with frizzy hair walks out, in rougher clothes torn through clearly her love of work, graft & craft that she is proud to were. “Now who do we have here?” The beam on her face as she looks you up & down & try’s to work you out & what you’re going to want. “Hi, I’m the 9pm?” You reply. “Oh I know that, I know that” she smirks “I’m Peli, I’m the face of the business as well you know, the main guy doesn’t show anyone his face, hell I’ve only seen it once & he screamed at me for 4 days afterwards.” She laughs & then sees the concerned look on your face “oooh don’t worry sweety, it’s okay, it just means he will keep his hood up & glasses on all the time he is looking at you, however those brown eyes, oooh once you see them, no eyes will ever look the same” your so intrigued as to who this man is but Peli gives you no time to think or dream. “You need to fill out these 3 forms of consent & then I’ll take you though, have you had an idea as to what you want your covert tattoo to be?” She asks as she leans on the counter while you sign your life away.

“I’m feeling a tulip, just starting with the head & the outline & then slowly creating a beautiful floral piece that goes down my shoulder & back” you say as the droid rushes up to you with a mask which you look at confused “aww ain’t that pretty, floral, he doesn’t often do such feline items but i know his outlining will be fantastic” Peli check over the paperwork & counter signs. “Now as your part of the covert, this is so he doesn’t see your face, as your tattoo will be on the top of your shoulder, once he isn’t facing you, you can remove it, but I’m sure you know the rules about privacy all to well. To me you’re just a happy friendly customer, im happy to see your face, but to him you are part of his creed, be it the first mission like today or your last, so please respect his rules.” You nod, the rules are important, you don’t want to break them even if you aren’t on the base. You slowly put the mask on, it’s black but light & has eye holes so you can see where you are going & Peli leads you into his tattoo room. “Fresh meet Mando” she shouts as she pushes you through the door frame & leaves you in the room alone.

Ornate frogs decorate the top of the walls, guns & weapons take pride of place on the shelves along with several helmets & visors, all damaged. Letters from those whose lives he has made better pinned across the ceiling, which has a huge Mythosaur painted across it, half in silver, the other in dark green. The work bench is tidy, ready to go & so is the bench for you to sit on while he creates his art, except for one little thing. At the end of the bench is this small creature almost child like, sitting there in a brown robe. It’s eating macaroons, but is getting them out of the packet on the snack table & using the force to get them. You make a little gasp noise & the creature turns around & coos at you. “Hello buddy, you okay” you walk across to him & kneel next to him stroking his head which makes him smile & his ears twitch. His hand raises to touch your face as those big eyes look into yours.

“He likes you” comes a gruff voice from behind, one full of sorrow, but also feels a bit lustful. You quickly stand up & turn around. Standing before you is a towering man, wearing black & silver robes, sleeveless so you can see all of his tattoos trailing up & down his arms, his clothing is tight, you can see all of his abs, a chest so well defined. His mercenary boots still worn above his ripped jeans & his outer robe is hodded so it covers part of his face. Big mirror reflective glasses cover his eyes & a bandanna is around his mouth. You can see his necklaces handing outside of him robes too. “Sorry I didn’t mean to disturb him, he’s just a sweet little…” “Womp rat” the man says, “that was my name for him until he joined my clan, I rescued him & now he is mine to teach. His name is Grogu” Grogu responds to his dad. “Hi Grogu, I’m…” but your remember what Peli said “I’m 8944, m1, I’ve yet to be give a proper covert name yet” you smile. The man sighs, seeing that you & Grogu already have a strong connection, & he uses the force to get a macaroon for you to eat as well. “I’m Din” the man finally says after sighing watching Grogu use the force for food.

He picks up Grogu who automatically try’s to start taking off his hood “no buddy, we have guests, you need to go with Aunt Peli okay” Grogu then coos & looks across at you who is still smiling at the child & then looks back at Din & he garbles something, Din then sighs, looks back at you & then Grogu, “maybe, but only time will tell.” Peli then walks in & takes Grogu & the child & I wave at each other goodbye. “Sorry about that, he’s young & gets up to mischief. Please take a seat on the bench.” Din points at the seating bench where the child had just sat, & you wipe a few crumbs away before you sit down.

“So first mission,” Din says as he starts to prepare what he needs to tattoo you. “Congratulations, I’m guessing if the missions keep going well, we will keep seeing each other” Din is smiling behind his bandanna covering his mouth, something about you seems familiar. “Yea first of many, you came highly recommended by Paz, he’s training me” “he’s still going?” Din cackles, “I told him to give it up this year, he has a boy now, he needs to take things a little slower now he has responsibilities, but he always was married to his work” Din sits down on a stool & scoots across the room to you. He’s in line with you & he grabs your hand. For hands that are so large & firm, he makes beautiful find art. He hold yours with both of his.

“Before we start, & I know it’s tradition, but these tattoos aren’t for everyone. Just because it’s what people do, doesn’t mean that it’s for you. I want to make sure that you are aware of that. Do you understand what I am saying” his rough tones to his voice also have a calming influence on you. A soothing manner to this dark mysterious man who kills. “Yes Din I do, I have a small tattoo from back home else where, but I want this” Din then leans over & grabs his sketch book & flicks through a few pages before showing you a small simple tulip outline. “This is what I propose to start with, this way, if you don’t enjoy this you still have a completed tattoo, no one will judge you badly, but you will still have something to show for it” it’s such a simple outline that Din has drawn, but it’s exactly what you want, it’s like he some how knew. “Let’s get to it Din” you say with a smile, you know it will sting, but it will so be worth it.

“Take off your shirt, & your right bra strap. I need you to sit on the bench for me facing away from me” Din lifts up part of the front of the bench, so you can lean on it to keep still while he tattoos you. “Once your face away from me, you can take off your mask, but I need you to keep it close incase I need you to put them on at any moment” “yes Din” you unbutton your green shirt & put it to the side & slide off your right black bra strap. Din then starts to braid your long sleek black hair as you sit down & face away from him, & remove your face mask. “It’s easier if i do this, it makes you more comfortable with me & it also makes sure your hair isn’t in my way” every time Din accidentally touches your skin, it gives you goosebumps, ones of desire, never has just a man’s voice made you feel so much. The damp cloth he uses is cold, enough to numb your skin but not make you over react.

“Ready? Last chance?”Din whispers into your ear softly as you hear the vibrations from the needle. You notice his large over sized glasses are now on the table next to you. The temptation to turn around is huge but you know the rules, it’s not fair on either of you if you do that. “Yes Din I am” you sigh & then you gasp slightly as the needle breaks through the skin & into your flesh. The first few pricks always hurt the most, but after that the sensation of the pain is incredible. Almost soothing despite its sting. “Still good?” Din asks as he dips the needle into more paint. “Keep going.” Your shoulders relax as Din really starts work on your tulip outline.

“So why did you join the covert, you’re not from around here?” Din asks a few minutes into his creations. “I’m from Dantooine” Din stops, for a second as you say that. Clearly he was there as his sigh is very deep, you can feel the sorrow in his tone. “Did you lose anyone?” He asks softly before returning to doing your tattoo. “Not directly, we were lucky, however due to the memories of the revolution my mothers health took a turn, she was stressed & emotionally ruined & never got over it & then…” “you don’t need to say anymore, unless you want to 8944” Din interrupts, clearly hearing your voice strain a little. “What happened was atrocious for both sides, however there is now peace & a government that listens to its people & respects their vote.” “My father & my two younger sisters are still there, helping rebuilding their lives & the planet, but I wanted to contribute more that just that, so I came here to Theed & joined the covert to try & find my clan & place in the galaxy. I used to fly & build speeders back home & organise races which picked up a lot of attention so my skills when I applied to join the covert were really appreciated & that I’d be a valued asset to the team.”

“Was there a moment during the revolution that made you want to leave, or did you hide & were you safe?” Din asks as he starts work on the next petal, admiring how smooth your skin is & how relaxed you are as he creates his art. He slides his hood down as he’s starting to over heat & lowers his bandanna so it’s not across his mouth. If you turned around now his face is uncovered & youd see his big brown eyes & a smile that would make everyone swoon if they were able to see it.

“I had to protect my family & business but I knew I wasn’t ready for war, but there was this moment of vulnerability after my earlier courage, when I saw the silver knight. He wore all his beskar & just glanced at me & all I remember were his words which were*Talent without training…” but as you complete the sentence he says it in unison “…is nothing”. We both pause, the hum of the needle stops & I hear his breath catch.

“Were you from the upper side of the market by the lake?” He asks “yesssss” your reply is drawn out from nerves you’re suddenly very tense. His empty hand cups your chin & positions your face to look at the nearest helmet, the one that’s gleaming, the one that looks like it is ready to be worn at any given second. “I am the silver knight” he finishes & you shiver & start to well up.

“Din you saved us. You single handedly ended the war, you protected so many people, you saw so many atrocities, how can I ever repay you, silver knight I am in your service, I am yours” you pledge your allegiance on the spot to the silver knight. This Mandalorian changed & saved your life & made you a better person & now a man who is capable of doing horrific things, is delicately & softly tattooing your back like he’s just a normal guy. “save your pledge for the covert” Din replies when he returns to his senses, he is having his own moment trying to place you exactly, but he thinks he knows who you truely are. “they need you more than I do” “but the world needs you fighting it’s battles Din, your the best at what you do. What you did for my people, we will always be grateful for” you start rambling again in a nervous energy & Din shhhhs you. “Petal please, calm down, it’s okay, maybe when you come back to the next part of the tattoo we can discuss it a little more. Because I need you to understand something about me…” Din states as he starts work on the top of stem of your tulip “I’m not a good person & I think that mission made me even worse or better, but as long as you have peace & are happy on Dantooine now, then we can save that chat for another day” his tone is husky & his breathing is fast but his hands & crafting as still so delicate that you almost forgot that you were being tattooed. “Yes Mando” you reply. You can’t see him smile behind you but if you could, it would be the biggest smile you’ve seen in years on anyone’s face, he loves it when people call him that.

He asks you about your family & how you are finding the covert & life now you’re here in Theed, which is different from your home world. It’s just simple small talk but you feel each little bit of information you give, you gain more trust with him, it’s like he’s testing to see if you are going to make it or not. He feels comfortable & connected with you as he finalises the last few lines on your stem.

“Right I think we are done but I need you to not freak out at what I’m about to do okay, do you trust me?” Din asks as he puts the needle down “I’ve trusted you with my life Din before, I’m sure this will…. Ahhhhhhh” you’re interrupted as cool water is poured over your fresh tattoo to clean it & it stings & it makes you gasp. “What was that?” You screech. “Water…” “yes I worked that part out Sherlock but why…” “if you’d let me finish…” he tuts & you gasp as a bit more is dabbed onto you this time “water from the living waters of Mandalor, where everything is forgiven & we are re born.” He says calmly. “By going on a mission today you are on your journey, to joining our covert & pledging yourself to this life for a minimum 5 year period. Part of your new life is a rebirth so it’s only right that I should christen your tattoo with some of our water.” This all makes sense now & you appreciate the small gesture from Din. It does make you feel more like you belong to this group of people now, a more spiritual connection.

“I need you to close your eyes for a few minutes while i position you by the mirror so you can see the flower & what I propose to do going forward” Din says & you immediately shut your eyes tight & feel the bench be wheeled slightly ready for you to turn your head so you can see what he’s done. Din looks at you with your eyes shut & he goes to grab his glasses but he sees your bottom lip quiver slightly, from excitement at seeing your new tattoo. His thumb trails across your chin as he turns your head & he watching all the tension rise in your body at his touch. He knows now what Grogu saw in you. Grogu from your stroke of him to Din then holding his child, knows that this is a deeply personal connection & one that he knows he will relish each time your name appears on his list of clients. He wants his hands to flow across your skin more than the ink & for all of a few seconds he think of kissing you to sooth away the past pain that the two of you have. But he is a man of honour & of his creed & covert. He will ask you for your consent whenever he touches you be it for tattooing, kissing or anything further that may blossom between you.

You can feel his fingers as they move your face to the right place. You also notice your face still has nothing on. He’s not covered it. As much as your eyes are shut he can see all your features. Maybe this is a test to see if you dare to look upon the silver knight in all his glory. But you remain strong & keep your eyes shut, scrunching them so you don’t even sneak a little peak. “Open your eyes” Din whispers in your ear. It’s a deep & shallow whisper, making every nerve in your body leap to attention, you had no idea Din was even kneeling next to you. You hear him move & you look back at the mirror facing you. Your Tulips outline is beautiful, crisp & neat, like it was about to be animated by Disney for its next princess story. You are in love with it & you can’t wait to see how far it grows along with you over the next few years. It’s only then you realise Dins hood is up over his head & he’s facing the other way so he can’t see your eyes glistening in delight at your new ink.

“I’m guessing by the silence & gasps you like it” Din states as he put his glasses on & you yourself reach for your face mask “Din this is wonderful, I can’t wait to add to this, I’m looking forward to my next mission to see what you will add next.” You say & then put your face mask on. He glance as you do this & you voice muffles slightly so he turns back around, face covered once again, hood up. Looking all moody & broad. “First tattoos are on the house” he says “just make sure you come back to me for the rest of your flower & I’ll know if you don’t” he chuckles. You roll your eyes at him under your mask. “Din you’re the only man I trust to make this even more beautiful, your hands work magic, thank you”. You say & you put your green shirt back on & Din discusses the after care with you as it’s his job to do so.

“Well thank you very much Din. This has been a day I will never forget” you say as you ready yourself to leave “yea first missions & tattoos are a big step…” “actually…” you interrupt which stops him in his tracks. If you could see his eyes you’d see they were livid that you interrupt him “I met my hero today, you. Without you I wouldn’t be here or know peace for my people so thank you” you walk back towards Din & clutch both his hands as a promise. “When my time comes I will pledge allegiance to your covert” Din is taken a back by this but before he can protest, as you are on your way out saying good bye to Peli, Grogu & her droids.

“Since when are the first tattoos free Mando?” Peli screeches after she watches you ride off on your speeder. “They aren’t, but she’s the reason I’m here, she has no idea who she is, & I want her to just think that she’s normal for a small amount of time” Din says, his hood coming down as he tidied up & then picks up Grogu so he’s back on the bench. “Why who is she?” Peli ask “she the flower that cures all” Din declares. Peli looks confused & then it clicks… “oooh wow no wonder Grogu wanted to come see you both & not stay with me”.

You admire your tattoo when you get back home & take a picture to send to your family. It’s only then that you realise your hair is still braided, from when Din did it at the start. You go to undo it but you don’t, you leave it. While your tattoo heals, this braid will remind you for as long as you have it, about those delicate hands the silver knight has as he looked through your soul & made you at ease. This will be your calming influence going forwards. That the man who was your safety & salvation is now in your life. What you have no idea of is how what you did that day helped shape both your lives as to what they are now.

Chapter 2

[jacktorrancekinny]

(cw:nsfw)

[CHECK FAILURE]

“Can I have fuck with you?”

If Kim had not been mentally reeling from the failure of his own tongue and lips, he might have watched Lely’s face, and seen an interesting progression of expressions.

He first thought it was a joke, but Kim’s wide eyes and sudden sweat and immediate regret on the choice of words immediately convinced him that it could only be earnest. If Kim had been any smoother, Lely would have told him to fuck off, because obviously, he was just being messed with. But that was the worst proposition Lely had ever heard.

It intrigued him.

And there were a hundred reasons not to.

‘It would compromise the integrity of the investigation. The armor situation brings up a lot of questions. It would be in the same room she died. You might give something away and you might become a suspect. Are you even emotionally ready for that? You’re too drunk to get it up. Too drunk to make good decisions!”

All of that, casually brushed away by a second voice. “Yeah, but, sex!”

And to that, everything else went, “Fair enough.”

Lely slammed back the rest of his drink, shrugged, and stood up.

“No, I apologize, that was very dumb, I’m not in my right–” the officer was reeling back.

“You coming?” he asked. He put on his helmet as he stood up. It hid his smirk as he watched Officer Kitsuragi go red at the ears and stutter into nothingness.

.

“If you thought that meant the armor coming off, you’d be wrong.” Lely began working off the codpiece, though.

“No, believe me, I am more than fine with that–”

.

“You keep looking out the window.”

Lely inclined his head slightly. He was thankful that his face was covered. Kim’s hair was tousled all over his head, his glasses on the nightstand.

“Nothing’s going to come through there. We’re safe.”

“People might peer in, though.” Lely shivered as a stripe was licked up his length. “I think. Windows were a scam. They were always for people to look in.”

“You never enjoy the view?”

“Only the one in front of me.”

Kim snorted. Even though Lely was wearing the helmet, Kim’s face was somehow just as unreadable, almost alien.

.

Lely had to restrain himself from sighing as he heard another glassy ‘ping’. “Stop flicking the armor.”

“How could I resist?” Ping!

“Okay, enough,” Lely said, with no real bite behind his words. He unwrapped his scarf, and tied it around Kim’s wrists, restraining them in front of him. “You’re under arrest, officer.”

“On the other side of the law. I never thought it would come to this.”

“You should have known. Being a fucking faggot and all.”

“All you’ve done is stick your cock in my mouth,” Kim said, wriggling against his loose bonds.

“Same as a girl’s mouth.”

“Well, your ass is the same as a girl’s ass,” Kim said, shrugged, and gave a very small smile.

Lely didn’t know why that made him feel hot underneath the ceramic.

.

“Alright. Get out.”

“Can I keep the scarf?”

Lely looked up. Through his gridded visor, he could see the semi-hopeful look on the man’s face.

“Why?”

“It’s cold.”

Lely had a soft memory of a blonde woman, hair as yellow as that scarf. “Can I borrow your scarf?” “Why?” “It’s cold.” “Should have worn a coat.”

He bit his lip. “Yeah. Sure.”

He slammed the door behind him.

On the other side, Kim pulled the woolen scarf to his face. It smelled faintly of sweat and booze, and metallic twang.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he muttered to himself.

its a right of passage.

also this probably isnt canon but it is funny

[nyxoz]

Miss you sex after Eddie comes back from tour

Rockstar!Eddie x You

Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Smut, Oral Sex (F), Vaginal fingering, P in V sex, Swearing, Semi-Public Sex, Unprotected Sex, Rockstar AU.

*

Corroded Coffin's final show of their national tour is in Indianapolis. 

It has been three months since you’ve seen Eddie. You visited him once in New York but other than that you’ve lived off letters and the occasional phone call when you can both get a chance. 

You’ve missed him more than you could have imagined. You sleep in the shirts he left behind, spray your pillow with his cologne, and use his body wash just so you can feel close to him. You have pictures of him stuck to your wall and your fridge and in your purse. There’s one in the sun visor of your car too. All the letters he’s sent are in a shoe box under your bed, you read over them on the days that you really miss him. 

You and the crew, Dustin, Steve, and Robin pile into Steve’s car and make the few hours' drive to Indianapolis. The drive is anything but uneventful. First off, Dustin discovers he gets car sick and proceeds to puke in a bag for the first hour, you guys end up stopping for 20 minutes so he can catch his breath. Secondly, about one and a half hours in you get a flat tire and spend the next 45 minutes sitting on the side of the highway trying to change it. Thirdly, Steve made you listen to French language tapes the whole way because he’s recently met a French girl and wants to impress her. 

So, to say you’re happy when you see the venue come into view is an understatement. 

Because of your extremely eventual drive, you don’t get to the show until ten minutes before it’s starting. By the time you find a park and get inside the venue, the opening band is saying goodbye and announcing Eddie and his crew on stage. You wanted to see Eddie before they went on stage, you wanted to jump in his arms and hug and kiss him hello and wish him luck. But now you’re stuck watching him from the VIP section wishing you could touch him. 

The show goes fast, you’re screaming and yelling the lyrics to every song. Jumping up and down with Robin and doing air guitar with Dustin. 

As Eddie and the band take their final bow on stage, you and the others are ushered by Gillian, a member of Corroded Coffin’s team, (because they have a team now which is still insane to you) and are taken backstage. 

The room they’ve left you in is actually a locker room. They’re playing at a football stadium, so the locker room has become the post-show party ground. 

There are tables with food and drink lining the walls and people you don’t recognise mingling around you. Dustin and Robin are stealing as much food as they can and Steve has started chatting up a beautiful girl with dark skin and locks so long they touch her butt. 

You stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the entrance and waiting for Eddie to walk through it. And as if God himself was listening, the door opens and reveals the whole band, Eddie behind them all. They’re all sweaty and their clothes are sticking to their skin. 

As they enter the room, everyone erupts in cheers, yelling and clapping in congratulations. 

The boys hoot and cheer along, high-fiving people as they walk past. 

You stare at Eddie, waiting for him to notice you. 

As his bandmates begin walking off in different directions, his line of vision hits you. 

His eyes go wide and the smile on his face breaks even wider. He all but runs toward you, arms open wide and ready to hold you as close as possible. 

You laugh as he picks you up, spinning you around and pressing you close to his sweaty body. He squeezes you tight and lets your feet hit the ground. 

He pulls away a bit to see your face, both his hands coming up to hold your cheeks. 

“Hi.” He says. 

You laugh again, “Hi.” 

He leans in for a kiss and it’s almost desperate. Your arms wind around his neck and pull him as close as he can get. 

“Get a room!” Gareth yells. 

Wolf whistles echo around the room and you pull away, shyly hiding your face in Eddie’s neck. 

“Fuck off.” Eddie says, holding the back of your head and patting your side with his other hand. 

Your face is tacky with his drying sweat as you pull away and Eddie’s hand comes to push the hair sticking to your face behind your ear. He keeps staring at you, big brown eyes so filled with love it makes you breathless. 

Before you can say anything else, someone comes up to Eddie to congratulate him. And once one person comes, it seems everyone else thinks this is an invitation to talk with him. 

You stay by his side, holding onto his arm through each conversation. You don’t care if you look clingy, you’ve missed him too much. 

Eddie’s talking cheerfully with everyone but he keeps flicking his eyes down to you every now and then, like he’s checking that you’re still here. He pulls his arm from your grip and drapes it over your shoulder, pulling you into his side. 

He turns his head to kiss the top of your head and continues with his conversation. 

You feel at home in his arms. The last few months have been lonely. 

“If you can excuse us for a second.” Eddie says to the man in front of you both. 

Walking in front of you, he grabs your hand and pulls you along through the crowd of people. 

“Where ya going?” Gareth calls out as you pass him. “Sneaking off is rude y’know!” 

Eddie doesn’t bother to reply to him, just keeps pulling you till you’re out of the locker room and down the hall. 

“Eddie!” You laugh, “Where are we going?” 

He pushes a door open to some random room and pulls you in, closing the door behind you.

You look around the room and see it’s the exercise therapy room. There are two massage tables in the middle of the room and the air vaguely smells of tiger balm or some other massage lotion. 

Eddie grabs at your hips and crowds you against the door, “Just wanted to be alone with you.” He kisses your cheek and then kisses the other, “Fuck, I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, pretty boy.” 

He leans down to rub his nose against yours. 

“You were so good tonight. My big rockstar.” You praise. Your hand comes up and tucks some hair behind his ear, “So proud of you.” 

Eddie smiles sheepishly and his cheeks pinken. He leans down and presses his lips against yours and you melt into him. Your arms snake around his neck and pull him closer to you. 

His lips move to kiss just beside your mouth and work their way along your jaw and down your neck. Little sighs leave you as he sucks a mark just below your ear. 

He chuckles, “Missed the sounds you make. Thought about them every time I fucked my hand.” 

“Yeah?” 

His thigh moves in between your legs, pushing against your crotch and you mewl. 

“Pretty pretty girl with her pretty pretty sounds.” He sings into your ear, his voice gravely from the show. His thigh pushes up harder against your pussy and you feel the warm wetness that’s covered your panties. 

You moan filthy and long, making Eddie smile against your neck. 

The hands on your hips pull you forward as he takes a few steps backwards. He keeps guiding, his lips not leaving your neck, before he spins you both around and your back is suddenly pressed against the massage table. His hands on your hips, come down to land just below your bum and help you sit up on the edge of the table. 

Eddie drops to his knees in front of you, his head the perfect height at your groin. His hands slide up your legs, over your thighs and up to the button on your jeans. 

He unbuttons and unzips them. You lift your hips and he wiggles them and your underwear down your form until they bunch at your sneakers. 

“Can’t wait to taste you.” He says as he pulls off your shoes and then pulls your jeans and panties off. 

You sit there with your legs open wide, pussy on display, leaning back on your hands and watching him intently. His left-hand holds onto your knee, pushing it wider while his other hand reaches up to your glistening cunt. His calloused and ringed fingers slide between your slit, lapping up your juices. You shudder at the first contact, head dropping back and eyes closing. His fingers circle your clit, pressing tenderly against the nub. 

“So wet already, baby.” Eddie murmurs. 

“Hmm. Just missed you so much.” You reply, breathing in deep as his fingers start to go a little faster. 

“Tell me, princess, all those nights alone, without me,” his fingers trail down your folds and tease at your entrance, “did you touch yourself thinking ‘bout me?” his middle finger pushes into you and you clench around him. 

“Yeah.” You breathe out. 

He slowly fucks you with the one finger, “What’d you think about?” 

“Your cock splitting me open,” You admit, “Fucking me till you fill me up.” 

“Oh!” Eddie exclaims, his hand on your thigh reaching up to your stomach, pressing down on it, “Want me to fill you up till this cute little belly is full of my come?” He teases. 

His fingers curl up, pressing along your walls, along the textured spot that has you trying to force your legs shut.

“Nuh-uh-uhh.” He sings, bringing his hand back down to force your legs open. 

You look down at him and he smiles up at you as he leans forward. His mouth is an inch away from your pussy, you feel his hot breath hitting your core and it makes goosebumps rise over you. 

Slowly Eddie closes the distance and plants an almost sweet kiss against your centre as his fingers continue to thrust into you. 

You whine at the contact and he chuckles against you. Without warning his tongue sticks out, working its way between your folds and lapping at your clit. 

“Oh god.” You moan, watching his face as it’s buried between your thighs. His eyes flicker up at you and they’re so dark you can barely see his beautiful honey-brown hues. 

He adds a second finger, scissoring you open as he feasts on your clit, sucking and toying with it. One of your hands flies up from behind you to grab onto Eddie’s hair. He groans in approval as you use your grip to pull him harder against you. 

You start grinding down onto his face, feeling his tongue and nose pushing against you and his fingers fucking up into you. Your core tightens with your release, and you moan out a cry as it tips over the edge and coasts Eddie’s tongue. 

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” You cry. 

Eddie moans against you and continues licking and fucking you until you’re frantically pulling his head away by his hair from overstimulation. 

As you look down at him with glassy eyes, you see your release glistening on his face and he pulls his fingers out from you and licks them clean. 

“Fucking perfect.” He says. 

You grab at his face and hoist him up to his feet, bringing his lips to yours in a desperate kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue as he licks into your mouth and groans into his mouth. 

“See how good you taste, baby? Can't believe I went so long without it.” 

You nod dumbly as you chase after his lip again. You bring your hands to his waistband, skillfully unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. Slowly you trail a hand down his abdomen, scratching at the soft skin and coarse hair. Eddie sighs into your mouth as you take him in hand. 

You waste no time and hold him firmly, stroking up his length and before thumb at his tip, collecting the dribble of precome. You pull your hand out and bring your now sticky thumb up to your mouth and suck on it. Eddie watches mesmerised as you lap up the saltiness. 

“God, you’re a fucking dream.” He mumbles almost to himself. 

You keep eye contact with him as you lay down against the table, and shuffle up a little with your legs wide and cunt on display. Eddie gets the message and instantly pushes his pants down below his ass and jumps up onto the massage table. He crawls between your legs and kisses a line from the top of your cunt all the way up your stomach. He stops at your breasts and kisses the right one before sucking your nipple into his mouth. 

You reach a hand up and grab at his hair, little sighs leaving your mouth. His skilful tongue laps at the nub, before his teeth tease it with small nibbles. He pulls off and starts kissing up your chest until he’s at your neck and then he pushes up so he’s hovering over your face and smiles down at you sweetly. 

You keep looking into each other’s eyes as he grabs at his cock and guides it towards your entrance. The mushroom head of his cock breaches your hole, the nice stretch burns in the best way possible. Your chest heaves as he pushes in inch by inch, eyes not leaving one another. 

As Eddie bottoms out, he presses his forehead against yours and your eyelashes kiss each other with small flutters. You missed this so fucking much. Missed the closeness with him. The love spills out from both of you as you stare at each other. 

His arms come to either side of your head to hold himself up. 

You reach your hands up till they’re around his neck, and bring your legs around his body, feet digging into his ass. You want him as close as you can get him. You need him as close as possible or you think you might die. 

He pulls out slowly and you whimper at the slide of his cock against your wet walls. He pulls all the way out before pushing back in just as carefully. The first few thrusts stay that way, slow and long, almost like he’s trying to remember how you feel. 

His movements soon become a bit more frantic. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes throughout the room. He pounds hard into you, pushing deep inside you and hitting that spot that has you clenching around him and gasping against his mouth. 

You whine as he pushes deep into you, grounding his hips in sharp small thrusts. 

“You like that, baby?” 

You nod deliriously, almost squeaking with each movement. 

“Missed fucking this sweet cunt. Reckon it was made for my cock.” His gravelly voice says above you. 

His arm snakes down your body, his fingers dancing over the top of your crotch before they slide over your clit. He rubs it in time with his thrusts. The balls of your feet dig into his ass as you wither beneath him in pure ecstasy. 

Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, your mouth open as you breathe deeply. Eddie smiles down at you, nodding along meanly at each of your little cries. 

Tears prick at your eyes as he keeps toying with your clit. 

He rubs his nose against yours, staring into your eyes deeply. 

The heat in your core starts to build again, making your toes and fingers flex in anticipation. His circling on your clit becomes more furious as his hips begin to stutter a bit, losing their rhythm. 

Your body tenses as your orgasm rolls over you and you pull Eddie down for a searing kiss. He bites at your lip and pulls back before letting go. You moan out his name over and over, tears now streaming down your face. 

Eddie drops his head against your forehead, “Love you. Fuck. I love you.” He says, as his orgasm pushes through him and he fills you up. 

You feel his come coat your walls and his hips begin to slow their motion before stopping completely, buried deep inside you. 

You both breathe heavy, your warm breaths mixing together as you stare at each other. You have a satisfied smile on your face as you stare up at him lovingly. 

He leans down and presses a chaste kiss on your lips before leaning back and pulling out of you. You wince at the loss and slowly sit up. 

Eddie pulls his jeans and boxers up, zipping them before grabbing your clothes for you. 

Slowly you get redressed, a little woozy from the intense orgasms. When you finally have your pants and shoes on Eddie grabs at your face and turns it up to look at him. 

“You good?” He asks. 

You nod, “So good. I love you.” 

Eddie’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles widely. “I love you too.” 

[kybercvnt]

Saber Training

Pairing - Din Djarin x Jedi!GN!Reader

Summary - After reuniting with your favourite Mandalorian and realising how incompetent he is at holding the Darksaber, you decide to help him out.

Word Count - 2124

A/N – Since Bar Fight is my most popular fic, I decided as my birthday present to you (🥳🎉), I would gift you another Din Djarin fluff piece.

Din was utterly pathetic at wielding the Darksaber. Every time he would wield the blade, he struggled to hold it upright, and most of the time it was too heavy so it was dragged behind him. No matter how many times The Armourer would tell him “you are fighting the blade” and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to mitigate this issue.

It pained you, a trained Jedi, to watch him resist the blade every time he held it. In battle, you would swing the blades like they were dancing across your fingertips, Din always admired the way they moved so fluidly in motion, sometimes he would get jealous when you would jump and slash through enemies with ease, while he was left with the bells and whistles attached to his armour.

So when he realised after defeating Gideon that he was the new rightful owner of the Darksaber, a part of him was awfully optimistic at the opportunity to be your equal at owning such an overpowered weapon.

When Luke arrived to collect Grogu, he urged you not to join him because of Grogu’s attachment to you, despite you being a Jedi. So you stayed with Din for a while longer, helping him with more bounties while grimacing at his sword fighting skills. Until Ahsoka had managed to contact you and urged you to travel to Ossus to use the attachment Grogu had for his own benefit in becoming a Jedi. You hesitantly accepted and made your final goodbyes to Din before reluctantly leaving him.

When you saw him again on Ossus, you ran into him with a warm embrace.

“What are you doing here?” You whispered into his shoulder. He shivered at the quiet words being said close to his ear. It had been a while since you had seen each other, and your voice brought back all the memories of your adventures together.

“I wanted to give Grogu this…” He said, and he pulled away from the embrace to reveal a neatly tied-up cloth from his pocket. You smiled at the shape. “...And I wanted to see you.” You looked up at the T-shaped visor as he said that, a warmth flooding your cheeks. Then you remembered his face from Gideon’s ship, his facial hair, his scruffy helmet hair, and the sadness in his eyes. You wondered what they looked like when he wasn’t so pained by the attachment he had grown on both you and Grogu.

You walked with him along a trail in the thick bamboo forest nearby, catching up on what you both had done in the span of time since you last saw each other. He continued his bounty hunting, and you helped Luke train Grogu while enjoying the tranquillity of the planet while not having to worry about war for once.

As you both walked deeper into the forest, you reached a large circular clearing. You broke from his side and ran towards the centre, where you pulled your lightsaber hilt from your belt and held it out in front of you.

“Let’s see if you’ve improved.” You requested a duel, and the blade expanded from the hilt, covering you in your lightsaber’s glow. You had at least hoped he had improved somewhat, maybe you could bestow your Jedi knowledge onto him.

He copied your actions and removed the hilt from his belt and held it out in front of him, but when he went to ignite the blade, his stance immediately faltered and the blade fell downwards. Just as you expected, he had barely made any improvements, yet you still wanted to see if he could prove you wrong.

You spun your blade around before charging towards him, lunging and swinging your sword down to greet him. He could block most of your attacks where they were predictable to the average person, but it was the speed he was raising his blade to meet yours was where he looked like he was struggling.

By the time he was able to raise the lightsaber to shoulder-length, it was far too heavy to swing to attack you. While he could barely lift the weapon, here you were, dancing around with such grace and mobility, managing to fit in so many spins and tricks with your lightsaber before you would land another blow to his weapon.

Finally, Din could no longer keep up with the fight and succumbed to the weight of the blade and your lightsaber met his beskar with sparks. His weapon hung loosely at his hips, resting the end of it on the ground as the dirt became charred. You sighed and stepped back, retracted your blade and put it away. He did the same.

“You need to learn how to control your weapon.” You said to him. His heavy breathing was being picked up by his vocoder, you had worn him out. You walked up to him and rested your hand on his arm. The heavy breathing had begun to slow, and you tried searching for those eyes you saw long ago, but they were hidden behind his Mandalorian identity.

You gently tugged him to follow you, and he did so diligently. You stopped him at the very centre of the duelling circle, and you slowly walked behind him, not leaving your hand on his arm.

“Hold the weapon.” There was that sweet whispering he loved so much. Maybe you could read his mind, one of those many Jedi tricks you would spring out of nowhere when it would benefit you both, he would be okay with it if that were the case.

He headed your words and removed the hilt from his belt once more and held it out in front of him. Your hand dragged itself down his arm, touching his wrist. He couldn’t feel it through all the beskar and fabric, but stars did his imagination go wild.

“Breathe.” You whispered again. “Let it be a part of you.” He listened, and he drew in a long and deep breath. Either he was doing it for you or because of you, he couldn’t tell. You were very distracting from the teaching you were trying to inflict on him.

He ignited the blade, and almost immediately the blade became too heavy for him and his arm dropped. He began to grow a little frustrated at not being able to master holding the weapon, let alone using it. Your arm, still fitted on his wrist, slunk itself to the other side and underneath, and you began to raise his arm for him. Just like that, it almost seemed like he was holding it like it was a feather.

“Let it be a part of you,” you repeated, “an extension of yourself.” He breathed in deeply once again, but you could still feel the stress and strain his muscles were feeling in preparation to hold it by himself. “Everybody has the force within them,” you said to him,  needing to get him in the right mindset to be able to understand the significance of using such a weapon, “it is up to them to embrace it. 

“I am no Jedi.” He responded. You took a moment before speaking, letting only the sound of silence and the whirring of the blade’s energy be heard in that time.

“No, you are not.” It was the truth that he wanted to hear, but did he really doubt himself this much? He had admired your swordsmanship, but now that he felt like a child, he knew he could never be on the same skill level as you. “But it does not mean you can’t be one with the force. Close your eyes.” You commanded him

You couldn’t prove if he had his eyes closed, but he did so anyway. “Feel it around you. Feel the life that lives beyond our control, feel the wind in the leaves, and the water flowing in the river. Feel me.” You were making him meditate, he realised this now, and it all felt a little silly to him. He was a damn bounty hunter and he had forgotten that all this Jedi business was an entire religion for you. Yet he wanted to understand how to control the Darksaber, he was doing this for you.

When you said the last part, his mind went straight back to all the times he had cherished you on your adventures together. When he would see you curled up asleep with the kid, or when he would watch you dance with your enemies and your lightsaber gliding through their bodies. He admired you and enjoyed your presence, so he knew what energy he was aiming to feel.

“Clear your mind.” You told him. You had sensed all of the thoughts racing through his head, distracting him from what he was supposed to be focusing on. Feel me. Feel me. Feel me. Your words kept repeating in his mind. This entire time without you and the kid, he felt lonely. He felt as though he was just filling in time until he could see you next. Now that he was finally reunited with you, he could reflect on this growing attachment to you. But now was not the time. You were trying to help him because you cared, so he paused those thoughts for the meantime, and focused on you, and only you.

“Breathe through the blade. Let it be an extension of your hand, it is a part of you now.” You said and he felt peaceful for once. This was the first time in a long while that he wasn’t thinking about his next bounty, or worrying about you and the kid. He felt the movement of your hand graze the fabric of his glove, and he felt the support of your experienced Jedi hands remove itself from him. Your hand still hovered underneath, in case he faltered, but it surprised both you and him when he continued to hold it out in front of him.

He opened his eyes, bewildered at the sight of his own hands being able to hold it properly for once. The strange sensation of your support lingered, so he twisted his wrist to see if it would stay. The weapon felt like nothing to him. There was a perfect distribution of weight along the blade and it was perfectly balanced.

He retracted the blade and turned to you. He watched you smile, the perfect, soft smile he loved. You were proud of him. He reattached the hilt to his belt before he began to reach for the sides of his helmet. Your smile quickly faded. From the surge of positive emotions like satisfaction and being proud of him to the hesitance of watching him leave his identity rendered you frozen.

In a blink of an eye, you saw that face you had remembered from long ago. It was different from how you remembered it. It was thankfully not as sad as you recalled from that time, but you were so close to him that you read his face easily. You ended up taking a small step back at the shock of such an intimate action. In return, he took a step towards you.

“I can’t pretend I don’t miss you anymore.” He admitted. Your heart swelled at his affection, but it popped soon after when you realised how screwed you were. You could say the same to him as well. There wasn’t a day that went by where you weren’t thinking about him one way or another. His face, or what you thought he was up to, or reminiscing on those times you would study his behaviour while he sat piloting the Razor Crest.

You knew you were screwed when you felt the same attachment to him. It was a foolish thing, and you knew Luke would be highly disappointed in you. Grogu, you knew he would forgive because he was still only a child, but you were a trained Jedi. Maybe it was all that built-up trust you had in one another for keeping to his creed, or all the times you saved each other and realised how dead you both would have been without each other’s support.

Now you were the one clouded in your own racing thoughts. Now you were the one whose face was easy to read. So in your state of realisation, he leant down and placed a kiss on your lips. At first, his intent was only a light peck to test the waters. He knew how much your Jedi code meant to you, but he figured that if he had the opportunity, he would take it. Luckily, you pressed your lips into his, perfectly interlocked with each other.

[davnittbraes]

The Second Step - Chapter Nine

Part of The World Is Light, Embodied.

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3100

Warnings etc: PLEASE READ. I AM ALL CAPSING FOR A REASON. THERE ARE GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE, MURDER AND BLOOD IN THIS CHAPTER.

For those of you who want to skip it, I have indicated the beginning and end of the extremely graphic section with this: ----------

Other warnings: emotional trauma, anxiety, mention of past depression, panic attacks, implied sexual abuse

Notes: This is a ROUGH chapter, but these things need to happen in order for Reader and Mando to truly move forward. Somebody please send me cute fluffy things I need a hug after editing this.

Please check out the Series Masterlist page for more info.

It’s strange how the passage of time can change depending on the situation. 

Suns rise and set. Planets spin at the exact same pace as they have for eons. Even the universe expands with a growth that is measurable down to the tiniest increment.

Yet time seems to speed up during periods of happiness and joy - days, months and even years passing within what feels like the briefest of moments.

And it can also slow to a pace that rivals nothing else in existence, the steady beats that indicate its movement seeming to pause under the weight of emotions like fear and dread.

If someone were to find a way to reverse that effect, they’d be kriffing rolling in credits.

The last two hours have been the longest of your life, and time doesn’t seem to be moving any faster even though the ship is now parked on a landing pad in Junkfort Station’s industrial sector.

You’ve been working up the nerve to tell Mando. You had said you would, after Takodana - promised you’d tell him if you were ever in a situation where your past might cause trouble. But you’ve spent literal years blocking out anything and everything to do with Junkfort Station, fighting to suppress the memories that threaten to pull you back into that dark place once again. Any acknowledgement of your connection to it feels like letting those memories win, somehow.

So you’ve been avoiding Mando. Like a coward.

The kid coos, drawing your attention. He’s looking up at you from the nest of blankets you’ve yet again made into your bunk in the far corner of the hold. That same place you’d set up when you first joined them, then packed up before you’d left him on Tatooine and re-established when you’d finally stopped pretending you didn’t want to be here.

A little corner of the world you’d started to feel comfortable in, despite the cold durasteel floor and the storage crates and gear and supplies all around. Even though the blankets were borrowed, it was a place of your own, in a way. Maybe because out of all the options in the galaxy, you had chosen to come back to it.

You haven’t always had a choice in where you rest your head.

Shaking away memories that boil just beneath the surface, you squat down to stroke the edge of a pointed ear. “It’s gonna be ok, kiddo.”

Those big, amber eyes blink at you with an eerie comprehension. You’ve seen that look before, a wisdom behind his gaze that doesn’t make sense in one so small. Sighing, you let your hand fall. “Yeah, I know. I’m saying that more for myself than for you.”

The kid chirps, raising his arms, and you scoop him up smoothly just as the sound of boots on the ladder echoes through the hold.

Mando’s voice floats over your shoulder. “I’m going to go see what our options are.”

You turn toward him just enough to avoid seeming rude but not enough for him to see your face, occupying yourself with adjusting the kid’s robe. “Sounds good. It’s uh, it’s probably best if I stay out of sight while we’re here. I can look after the kid while you get the repairs done.”

There’s a pause, and again time slows to a crawl, dragged down by the heavy pounding of your heart and the cold ball in the pit of your stomach. It takes effort, but you force yourself to look at him - the black visor is an anchor in the shimmer of silver armour, the gaze behind it open without being seen.

He knows, of course he kriffing knows, I can’t hide from him I can’t I can’t go out there -

Suddenly a warm leather-clad palm is cupping your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. The weight of it shifts your focus and time ramps up to a normal speed.

His modulated voice is a cool balm on your nerves. “Lock the door. Stay in my bunk with the kid. I won’t let anyone else onboard.”

Relief temporarily calms your anxiety, enough to let you smile, even if it’s just a weak curve of your lips.

He shifts, slowly stepping into your space, his hand steady on your cheek, and your heartbeat flutters for a different reason. With precise, predictable movements, he leans in and rests his forehead against yours.

The chill of his helmet on your skin, the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the scent and the feel and the nearness of him dissipate the tight grip on your lungs and you can breathe again, take in the life-giving air and his presence, and your eyelids slide shut as you fall into the moment.

All too quickly he’s stepping away, cloak swirling with his departure. But that brief moment was enough to give you focus.

You make your way toward his bunk, kid tucked snugly in the crook of your arm, silently repeating those words that have guided you through so many moments like the ones ahead.

I am alive.

I am safe.

I am going to survive.

*****

The kid finally passed out after who-knows-how-many hours, curled up against your chest, head tucked into your shoulder. He’d been restless, but apparently there were only so many times the little guy can lap around the bunk, peek into corners already explored, crawl all over you and the shelf and his hammock before boredom dragged him down into a fitful doze.

To be fair, your own feet are twitching with the urge to move, fingers tapping against the slats of Mando’s miserable excuse for a bed - says the girl sleeping on blankets over durasteel.

Snorting softly at your silent self-deprecation, you shift again, trying to ease the cramp in your lower back that’s been building since you crawled into the tight space. Not that you were complaining, the concept of being in the same place that Mando slept was exhilarating at first. Your treacherous mind supplied all kinds of images of muscled limbs and naked skin that you shoved away - Mando’s commitment to his creed along with the kid’s presence in his bunk probably prevented anything your imagination could come up with from happening in here.

The kid sighs heavily in his sleep, one ear drooping over your arm. You pat his back, the fabric of his robe rough beneath your palm, warm from his little body.

There have been sounds of people working all day, bangs and clanks and thunks and raised voices, sometimes just outside the hull. Not loud enough for you to recognize anyone, but you assume Mando is out there, too.

Which is… uncomfortably reassuring.

What does it mean that you feel safer with him around? You’ve survived on your own for so long, why should having Mando nearby make a difference?

You frown at the wall. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t make a difference if he’s in your life or not.

A trickle of unease worms its way into your stomach.

Dependence will get you killed as quickly as complacency.

The sound of the crew door sliding open startles you out of your musings, gaze flying to the bunk door. One hand slips down to the grip of your blaster, strapped to your thigh, while the other gently eases the kid out of your arms and onto the bed.

Mando said he wouldn’t let anyone in. 

But you’re not taking any risks. Not while you’re here.

Bootsteps muffled by the durasteel approach the bunk and you move into as much of a standing position as you can, drawing your blaster.

A beep and the whir of the door mechanism and then he’s there, silver and black and brown and safety.

Mando.

Letting out the breath you didn’t know you were holding, shoulders slumping with the sudden release of tension. The visor takes it all in, helmet tilting in concern, and you wave it off with a flick of your fingers, holstering your blaster. “All done?”

It’s his turn to sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “For now. Could only afford to patch it - the mechanics around here aren’t fond of bounty hunters and their prices show it.”

“Makes sense. You probably scare away their best clientele.”

He hums noncommittally. “Used the last of my credits. I’ve got contacts on Nevarro, for both work and repairs. It’s about half a cycle away.”

“Works for me. I’ll be up in a sec - let me just tuck the kid in, he fell asleep in my arms a while ago.”

A slight nod of the helmet and then he’s gone, heading toward the cockpit. You turn to find the kid curled up in a little ball on the bed, one ear flopped over his eyes, snoring softly. Pulling a blanket from his hammock to drape it over his little form, you quietly step out of the bunk, keying the door shut. The engines whine as the start-up sequence begins, and you start toward the ladder. 

Nevarro. You’ve never been, once you learned it was the home of the Bounty Hunters Guild you’d avoided it just as much as you’d avoided Junkfort Station. But something had happened a while ago, rumours said the Guild had been attacked and no longer operated there, so what did that mean for -

The crew door suddenly flies open and people pour into the hold.

Everything is moving too fast. 

You can’t track it - them - whoever they are, they’re everywhere all at once.

Instincts kick in just as a blaster bolt zings past your head.

You make a break for the cockpit but a human male appears out of nowhere and catches you by the shoulders. The abrupt stop throws off your balance and he uses that, yanking you backward then shoving you to your knees.

Pain flashes up your thighs and back. You cry out despite your clenched teeth - every muscle in your body is tensed.

Too many can’t fight them all -

Blaster fire, movement by the ladder, screams of pain -

Mando -

Quick, your hand flies to your thigh holster.

Just as the ice-cold barrel of a blaster presses hard against your forehead.

You freeze.

The man holding the blaster stands at your shoulder. His teeth glint in the light of the hold. “Smart girl. Be good and this whole thing will be easier for you.”

The slimy condescension in his voice makes you want to vomit.

The man keeps his eyes on you as he calls out. “Back off, Mandalorian. We’ve got your pretty little plaything. Give us the bounty or I’ll give her a bolt to the brain.”

Bounty? Mando hasn’t hunted since he found -

The kid.

It takes effort to keep your gaze on the man holding the blaster to your head. Don’t look at the bunk. Don’t let him even think about looking there.

You have no idea who these people are but they’re obviously not here to make friends.

Protect the kid. They can’t find him.

A quiet falls over the hold. The others shift, obviously reacting to some movement you can’t see. There are eight of them in your line of vision, sounds like three or four more behind you, back by the ladder.

Too many.

“Let her go.” Mando’s modulated voice is cold, words clipped.

The man scoffs. “And lose my leverage? I’m not an idiot.” His gaze drifts down your face, lands on your mouth. “Besides, I quite like how she looks on her knees for me.”

A feeling floods your body, hot and sharp and almost painful in its intensity. A feeling you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hate.

You hate this man.

He chuckles, eyebrows lifting in amusement as he meets your gaze again. “A little fire in you, eh? Well, we’ll have to find a way to put that out, get you ready for the slave market.”

Time slows, stretches.

Stops.

You understand several things all at once.

First, these men won’t leave until they get what they’re looking for, which will eventually lead them to finding the kid.

Second, Mando won’t risk opening fire with you like this - you’re too exposed, no cover close by to shield you, and you probably won’t be able to move fast enough to unholster your blaster and turn off the safety before the man squeezes the trigger.

Third, there’s a small knife stuck in the top of the man’s boot, not good for much except trimming or shaving, but good enough for what you need right now.

----------

Because you’re going to kill this man.

You’ve done it before. You don’t like it.

Those faces still appear your dreams, flicker across your vision when you see someone with similar features.

But you’ve done what you had to do, to stay alive.

And if this man takes you, you will die, if not by someone else’s hand then by your own.

I am going to survive.

All it takes is a flick of your wrist and the hilt of the knife is in your hand.

The blade flashes as it turns up, in, moves toward the man’s thigh.

Sharp point aimed at his femoral artery.

Pressure, resistance, then release.

The man’s scream burns through your body, boiling hot like the blood pouring over your hand.

The knife twists, deeper, heat raging over and under your skin and you’re burning alive.

Time snaps into motion again.

You reel, falling onto your back at the same time the man crumples to the floor, his free hand grasping at the wound in his leg, blaster rising to point at you once more.

His shot goes wide as one of his crew stumbles over him, running, frantically trying to escape -

Escape what -

A flurry of bolts whips through the air, each one landing its target.

Several bodies drop almost simultaneously, the dull thumps vibrating through the floor.

They barely register to you, a quiet background noise, just like the gentle thrum of the engines when the ship is in hyperspace.

Your focus is on the man bleeding out in front of you.

He lifts his blaster again. It shakes, but it’s steady enough to aim.

You’re surging forward before you realize it, twisting his wrist until the blaster drops. He cries out in pain, says something, lips forming words but they don’t make sense, they’re gibberish to you.

The knife flashes again and then silence.

Silence all around you.

Bodies are scattered throughout the hold. Nothing stirs.

A contrast to the fire still roaring in your ears.

You stand smoothly, stride toward the crew door and slam the lock with the side of your fist.

The fist still holding the knife.

You wait until the door shuts and the electronic tones confirm it’s locked before you turn around. The whir of the engines pulsing to life tells you Mando is pushing them through the take-off sequence.

Grabbing a strap that’s hanging from the ceiling, you brace yourself as the ship shudders, creaks as it lifts into the air.

Time passes.

You don’t notice.

The sound of the engines keening bleeds through a crack in your awareness. There’s a click and a shove and then a gliding smoothness, and the air temperature drops a couple degrees as the ship moves into hyperspace.

You’re still holding the strap. It takes some effort to uncurl your fingers and let go of it.

Taking one step, then another, you walk to the body of the man whose blood is caked on your hand.

The knife bounces once as it drops to his chest.

----------

Boots on the ladder.

Your gaze automatically lifts to meet the black visor’s gaze.

Mando stands there, a few paces away. Silent, still.

Watching you.

You wait, poised. Ready.

The fire rages.

“Are you hurt?”

His concern falls over the fire like gentle rain. Spitting and sputtering, dimming it’s heat ever-so-slightly.

“No.”

Did you say that? Maybe. Your own voice sounds foreign to your ears.

He starts toward you but some instinct, some part of the fire, doesn’t want closeness, pulls you back a step.

He stops abruptly, hesitant. “I’m sorry.”

The fire sputters again under your confusion. “What are you sorry for?”

“I failed to protect you.”

White-hot flame erupts.

“I don’t need you to protect me.”

Your words land like a whip crack and you know it probably hurts but the fire now flares out of control and you can’t stop.

“I don’t need anyone to protect me. I can protect myself.” Hot fire rage - “No, apparently I can’t. All this time. All these years. I have been smart. I have survived.”

You look down at the body, seeing but not seeing, because it’s not a body, it’s proof of your failure. “Everything I’ve been through. Could have been for nothing.”

Your hand, the one sticky with blood, flies out, gestures behind you vaguely. “I was there. The last place in the galaxy I should have been. And I was there because I followed you. I followed you when I should have done what I needed to, should have walked away from you before now and I didn’t and if he had taken me I -”

The fire burns up your words and you can’t speak anymore, can’t see, vision filled with red and black and -

Silver.

Cool and smooth, unlike the jagged heat that threatens to consume all.

It surrounds you, shoves its way between you and the flame.

Your hands grasp at it, clutching, desperate.

The fire smolders, smokes and fades away until it’s nothing but coals.

There’s wetness on your cheeks.

Something is brushing it away, gentle.

Long fingers.

Smooth callouses.

Hands that are often at work but always protected by leather.

Mando’s hands.

Mando’s bare hands.

Warm and golden and alive.

You turn into the caress, lips pressing against the wide palm. Your lungs fill with the scent of worn leather and blaster fire.

He’s speaking. Has been for some time.

Your thoughts churn to focus on his words and they slowly sink in.

“You’re safe. You’re alive. Listen to me, tionas. Hear my voice.”

As your awareness shifts back into your body, so does exhaustion. Your muscles tremble with strain, you stumble with the effort of holding yourself upright.

But it’s ok, his arms are around you before you can fall, and he’s solid and strong and alive.

Like you.

You want to speak, to say something, anything, but your voice is stuck, bound in your throat by a mass of unshed tears.

His hands smooth them away, gliding over your skin, your face, in time with the words circling in a steady rhythm through your mind.

I am alive.

I am safe.

I am going to survive.

And you believe them.

*****

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