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mothandpidgeon · 3 days ago

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Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 5

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: E MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old crused witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), alcohol, yearning masturbation, vegan slander, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 6.2k

a/n: Today feels like a really rough day in the US so I wanted to share this new chapter. Hopefully it'll take your mind off things. I've had a really really hard time writing this chapter. Really glad I stuck with it and struggled through. Could not have done this without input and beta from @moonlitbirdie @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre. Thank you my little witches!

🐈‍⬛

With Margot’s reprieve, life with Ezra becomes the new normal. Weeks pass and he’s slotted into your day to day so easily. Grocery shopping, breakfast at the cafe down the street. He comes to work with you. Except now, instead of lounging on top of a dusty bookshelf, he helps man the cash register.

Despite your aunt’s insistence that she would not under any circumstances be involved with this “conspiracy” (her word), she had pointed you in the direction of a vieling spell that would keep Ezra’s transformation under wraps. You and he cast the ward around town hoping it might buy some time but you’ll have to come clean eventually.

“By Yuletide, you’d better come up with a proper appeal,” Aunt Margot said. “People will ask questions if you’re absent and I’m not going to lie.”

There’s still time and so you choose to enjoy this secret, this new chapter with Ezra.

You’re smiling to yourself as you climb the stairs to the second floor of the Page with a book in your hands. It’s an antique school primer someone just brought in for Margot to appraise. Nothing special except that the little darling that once owned it filled the margins with dirty limericks and pencil sketchings of cock and balls. Some things never change, no matter what century it is. Ezra will get a kick out of it. He probably knows a few lewd poems himself.

You hang back when you find him beside the front window. Soft morning light falls over the angular planes of his face. There’s a divot in the center of his throat just visible above the collar of his olive sweatshirt that always catches your eye. You still haven’t quite gotten used to the fact that your old pal Ezra is so damn handsome. Not that you’re attracted to him. He’s just attractive. You’ve reminded yourself of the distinction between that many times over the past few weeks.

But it’s not the cast of the sun that has you hesitating. Ezra’s talking to a customer, his crooked smile revealing the dimple in his cheek, with a tarot deck in his hands.

“And it was the exact image I’d seen when I took ayahuasca,” she says. “The four of cups.”

“Well, cards are certainly prophetic,” he says, his voice edging on a tease.

You know her— Zoe’s a regular. She moved into town after backpacking through South America, and waitresses at the diner. She comes in to buy crystals from time to time and she’s good for business. Ever since the diner got written up as one of the “hidden gems of the Catskills,” she sends more and more of her customers over to the Page.

She’s been stopping in even more recently, the shop’s newest doe-eyed employee obviously her motivation. Twice a week you find her in conversation with Ezra. In fact, she’s given up the pretense that she’s actually shopping for anything anymore.

“Have you ever had your aura photographed?” she asks.

“No. A picture of me is a rare thing, indeed,” he says.

Zoe’s the exact kind of mortal Ezra detests– always talking about “getting into wicca” as if magic is a hobby she can try on– but she’s beautiful. She has hazel eyes and razor sharp cheekbones. Her slim arms are tattooed with delicate talismen and her haircuts seamlessly straddle the border between chic and edgy.

“I know a place down in Woodstock where you can get it done. Next time I’m going, maybe you can tag along,” she offers.

There’s a sparkle in Ezra’s eye that makes your chest tight.

You retreat to the stairs before you hear his answer. The sensation building in you is a stab, a flare of something bitter and dark. You’re not sure why you’re jealous because you don’t have feelings for Ezra. Okay, maybe a little crush. But you’ve got that in check. You’re not going to fall for your best friend just because he woke up with the most handsome face you’ve ever seen.

And you’re definitely not intimidated by Zoe’s waif-like frame and heavily lidded eyes. Next to her, you look like an ogre. But why would you need to compare yourself to her? And why shouldn’t Ezra get to bang a goddess when he has a mouth that should be sculpted in marble?

You realize how ridiculous this train of thought is becoming so you shove it down as tightly as you can, actually shaking your head as though this insanity might tumble out of your ear.

“You okay?”

Zoe’s standing in front of you at the register, the tarot deck set on the counter between you.

“You’re buying something,” you say, though it’s more of a question than a statement.

“This deck has a really good vibe,” she tells you. “Ezra picked it out.”

Hearing her say his name, you’re like a cat with its hair standing on end.

“He’s got the same name as your cat. Isn’t that funny,” she notes.

“I see how you look at him,” you say. It’s not meant to come out as an accusation but there’s a bite to your words you weren’t expecting. You’re being ridiculous so you decide to prove to yourself once and for all that your feelings are strictly platonic. The faster you see Ezra with someone, the quicker this little crush will die.

Luckily, Zoe doesn’t notice it. “That obvious, huh?”

“You should take him for a drink. He’d like that,” you say. Something like relief comes over you. Obviously you’re not jealous. If you were, you wouldn’t have tried to set him up.

“You think so?” she asks, glancing back towards the stairs. “I tried to give him my number but he told me he doesn’t have a phone.”

You try to keep yourself from laughing at what a devastating rejection that would be if it weren't true.

“He actually doesn’t,” you say.

“Really?”

You shrug.

She nods. “That’s smart. The EMF really messes with your brainwaves.”

“Hm,” you say with a noncommittal nod. “Well, I’ll have him send you a letter or something.”

–

Ezra used to trot down the stairs of the bookstore. Now he has to duck to keep his head from smacking into the shelf that hangs over the doorframe.

It’s taken some time to get used to his body again but after these few weeks, he’s navigating the world with ease. Ezra hasn’t felt this happy in hundreds of years. He’s doing magic for the first time in a long time and he spends his days working in the bookstore. It’s oddly enjoyable even despite the fact that it’s dull and full of silly mortals. Best of all, there’s you.

He still can’t comprehend how lucky he is to be given this gift. To be yours. Even if he isn’t anymore, not beholden by the fetters of a familiar, he’ll never stop thinking of himself as belonging to you.

You’re smiling at him as he comes to the counter and he has to resist the urge to nuzzle his head into your shoulder as he used to greet you. If there’s one thing he misses about being a cat, it’s your scratching behind his ears.

“I got you a date with her,” you say.

“The vegan?” Ezra asks.

“Yeah,” you say with a laugh. “The vegan that you shamelessly flirt with.”

Ezra furrows his brow. He was once quite the charmer but he hasn’t intended to do anything more than amuse himself. Over and over, this woman batted her eyelashes at him and Ezra carefully demurred each time. She was pretty. Perhaps some time ago he would have liked to bed her but he has no designs on her now, not when he falls asleep swimming in the scent of your skin each night.

”You shouldn’t have done that,“ he says.

”Why not? She’s so into you,” you reply.

Ezra says nothing because his answer would give it all away. Instead he grabs a handful of bookmarks decorated with pressed flowers and busies himself putting them on a table on the other side of the room.

“You’ve been celibate for how long?” you go on, following behind.

“No need for reminders.”

“We need to get you laid!” you say so helpfully. ”Are you blushing?”

If Ezra’s red in the face, it’s only because he’s realizing what a fool he’s being. You’re ready to send him off to another while he’s madly in love with you. He shouldn’t be surprised. He couldn’t expect that you were going to suddenly leap into his arms with any of the enthusiasm Zoe’s shown him. Maybe he thought there was some chance, some faint hope that you could belong just as much to him.

But this makes your feelings so clear. You’re not interested. You’re ready to pawn him off on some ridiculous mortal.

”What’s wrong? She too young for you or something?” you tease.

Zoe is, no doubt, attractive and she’d made it clear that she’s ready to take him to bed, both facts that should have elated him. The problem was, she wasn’t you. And you were someone he’d never have.

“I can manage my own matchmaking,“ he grumbles. He moves on to a stack of books, straightening their spines though they’re hardly askew. Anything to keep himself from looking at you, being reminded that you’re off limits.

“Ez, she’s been throwing herself at you.“

”I suppose in my time I’ve learned to savor the hunt.“

“Oh please. You used to eat out of my hand. You should be thanking me,” you say.

Thanking you for pushing him into the arms of another. His despair calcifies into a rotten resentment. You don’t want him, you never will.

“I’d much prefer it if you didn’t involve yourself,” he says. It’s nearly impossible to keep the venom out of his voice.

You scoff. In the corner of his eye, you’re frowning. ”Okay. If I’d known you were going to be such a dick about it, I wouldn’t have bothered,” you say, and then you turn around shaking your head and walk away.

He watches you stomp into the next room, regret flooding him. He shouldn’t be so mean, not to you, but the damage has been done. There’s hardly time to think about it because Margot is breezing in from the back door with Percy riding high on her shoulder, the sound of her bracelets filling the store with their music. Ezra sets his features in as neutral an expression he can manage.

“Oh, Ezra, dear. Just who I was looking for,” she says. “Come here a minute.”

She sets a wide box that’s tied with a grosgrain ribbon on the counter.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Open it.”

He looks from her to her familiar before he pulls the dark ribbon and lifts the lid. Inside is something he hasn’t seen in a dog’s age. The memories it brings back makes his lips tick up in an absent smile.

“Robes,” he says. “How did you—?”

“We found a description in Goody Cartwright’s diary in the basement,” Margot said. “Dusted off the old sewing machine.”

Percival scampers down her arm to climb into the box. He crawls beneath a sleeve and lifts the hem in his paws, standing on his hind legs.

“I hope they turned out,” Margot says.

“Mine were nearly identical,” Ezra says as he wistfully inspects the fabric.

He still remembers the feel of the homespun linen against his skin. His robes always smelled of woodsmoke from the moon revels. They had been stained with wine and goat’s milk, the bottom edge besotted with moss and rainwater.

“It was Percy’s idea,” she says.

The mouse ducks his head bashfully when Ezra looks up at him.

Ezra swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s moved, jaw gripped as he tries to stop from shedding tears. Another gift he’s not worthy of, compounded by the fact that he’s just upset you again. You were doing for him what you’ve always done– taking care of him, showing him that you loved him. If only he could accept it’s not the way he wants it.

He sets his hand out on the countertop.

“Percival,” he says.

After some hesitation, Percy steps into Ezra’s palm. Ezra brings the mouse up so that he sits at eye level.

“I deserve a much starker retribution from you, friend,” Ezra says. “I hope you’ll forgive my misdeeds.”

Percy cocks his head to the side.

“He says he’ll think about it,” Margot tells him.

Ezra grins. He offers a finger which Percy takes in his paw and they shake hands.

“You can wear them this weekend. Sunday’s your first full moon since you turned,” Margot says.

Ezra had forgotten all about the phases of the moon. How could he be expected to keep track of such things when there were so many new things to experience?

”We’ll celebrate,” Margot insists.

He wants to protest. Right now he doesn't feel much like frivolity, can’t imagine you’ll want to join in with any festivities when he’s been such a complete and total ass. But he knows he ought to learn his lesson and accept.

“I look forward to it,” he says.

Percy squeaks happily and Margot claps her hands together.

“Come on, Percy! There’s much to be done!” she says before disappearing into the back room.

The rest of the day is tense between you and Ezra, with few words exchanged. He’s lived with you long enough that it’s not your very first squabble but, in the past, it was much easier to stay out from underfoot. The apartment feels so much smaller now that he’s human, its walls crushing when there’s silence between you. It’s at its worst when you announce you’re going to bed. It feels cold, lacking an invitation, and so Ezra waits in the kitchen for a long while wondering if you want him beside you at all.

Some time after you’ve turned off the light, he slinks in nervously. He might as well be sneaking into the bed, though for all intents and purposes, it’s become just as much his as it is yours. He’s shared it with you from that very first night. Neither of you raised the notion of his sleeping elsewhere so it became a habit. He wonders now, more strongly than ever, if he’s overstayed his welcome.

You lay facing the window but he knows your breathing well enough to see you’re not yet sleeping. He lays on the cold sheets hating himself for loving you, for taking advantage of you, for disappointing you.

“I shouldn’t have accused you of meddling,” he says quietly.

Ezra has accepted the fact that he’ll have to take this mortal out despite having no interest in her. There’s no good reason not to, as you so aptly showed him, and if he doesn’t you’ll want to know why.

At some point in the late afternoon he decided that he would make the best of it. He would stop kidding himself and accept that you had no romantic feelings for him and try to keep an open mind with Zoe. At the very worst, he’d finally get a long overdue fuck. How could a man mope over that?

But seeing the slope of your shoulder in the moonlight, your eyelashes fluttering as you turn your face up to the ceiling, makes him realize just how impossible is the task that lies ahead of him.

You sigh and turn over, sheets rustling with your movement. There’s just enough light in the room to shine in your sweet eyes as you look at him and tuck a hand under your pillow.

“Ez, it’s okay. I know why you got upset,” you say.

His heart skips a beat. Of course you know. He’s been so obvious, how could you not see it? He swallows hard, unsure of what he’ll say when you call him out. It feels like an age passes as he waits for you to say the words.

“You haven’t been with anybody for a long time. If you’re not ready, I get it,” you say and you put a gentle hand over his.

A little laugh escapes him. How absurdly wrong he’d been. He sinks deeper into his self pity. How could he ever imagine a creature as kind and beautiful as you would want him? A reprobate, hundreds of years old. A fucking cat.

“Yes, well, I suppose if she’s as smitten as you believe I’ve nothing to worry about,” he says.

A smile cracks across your lips and your gaze melts over his face. You brush your palm across his cheek and Ezra can’t help but close his eyes and lean into the touch of your warm skin.

“How could she not be?” you say.

Your gaze lingers on him, your expression difficult to read. There’s nothing but the sound of your soft breaths and the whisper of dry leaves outside the window. His heart aches, wishing he could curl himself around you and say the words that live on the tip of his tongue. But the moment passes as you pull your hand back to your side of the mattress and the gulf between you feels wider than ever. He lays awake for what feels like hours wishing he was still a cat so he could sleep in your embrace.

You lay on the couch with a book spread open on your lap but you haven’t been able to read a single page. Ezra’s out with Zoe which is fine. Totally fine. You made it happen after all, even gave him some cash for drinks and coaching on the dating scene.

“I’m newly human but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m well acquainted with the customs and mores of modern courtship,” he protested.

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” you asked.

For a moment, you almost fooled yourself into thinking he wasn’t interested in her. He’d been so prickly when you brought it up. There have been times when you wonder. You’ll catch him looking at you in a way that makes your heart flutter. Or his touch will remain just a moment longer than it needs to, days when you wake up and question if his morning wood is actually for you and not just a fact of human biology. But of course not. And that’s fine.

It’s been a while since you’ve had the apartment to yourself— certainly not in the weeks since Ezra became human— and you’ve had little down time. There’s always some new adventure to take him on. Not that you’re complaining. It’s been the most thrilling time of your life.

This whole date situation is good, actually, because you could really use a night alone. At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

You poured yourself a glass of wine and lit some incense, cracked open the book. A good start. That’s about all you managed. You keep thinking about how it’s going with Ezra. What could they be talking about? Is he having fun? Maybe he’ll actually like her. Wouldn’t that be….something?

Things could never get romantic between the two of you anyway. You wouldn’t risk your friendship, so many years of trust and affection. It’s too precious to you. Besides, there must be something unethical about dating someone that’s been sworn to serve and protect you.

Not that you want to do that.

You snap the book shut and toss it on the coffee table, sitting up. You need to stop being weirdly obsessed with this date. Ezra is your friend, you remind yourself, and you’re excited for him. You just need something more engrossing.

You put on a period piece. Nothing like a night in with ballgowns and wine. You put your feet up on the table and try to lose yourself in the movie. Ezra is such a pedant when it comes to historical dramas, always pointing out the inaccuracies, complaining about the costumes.

You wish he were here now groaning over the cut of a coat. You wish he was here instead of–

This isn’t working. You know what always clears your mind? A bath.

The clawfoot tub is filled with oils and herbs, the little bathroom flickers in candle light. You slide deeper into the warm water, focus on the way your muscles unwind. You hadn’t even noticed you were so tense. This was a good call. There’s a knot in your shoulder you massage with your hand. Finally feeling serene, your wet fingers coming to slide across your chest. The water drips peacefully out of the faucet and your cheeks bloom with the alcohol and heat. Maybe Ezra should go on more dates, get the place to yourself more often.

You know what would really make you feel relaxed? Your fingers drift below the water, and skate down your belly and your eyes come to close. It’s been over a month since you got off– Connor (though most of the credit should really go to your passion elixir). It’s been impossible to rub one out with someone else in your bed. At least when Ezra was a cat, he spent a lot of time prowling the woods and being moody. Maybe he’d heard you back then, a thought that somehow equally horrifies and thrills you.

You touch yourself with a slow, delicate hand and you’re lost in the idea of him watching you now. His chocolate eyes hungry but his body still, the only movement he allows is the rise and fall of his chest. How many times had he seen you, all of you, and not looked away?

You shiver imagining him, urging you to show him how you take yourself apart. Studying, appreciating. Savoring. Throbbing at each twitch in your brow as you crest and your breath hitches. Even in the water you can feel yourself growing slick, a coil of need winding, and you bite down on your bottom lip. Your mind swirls, your body taught.

He’d be calling you dirty and pretty and good in his flowery prose, stroking your cheek with his knuckles and you unfurl a moan so loud because you don’t have to stay quiet, you’ve got the place to yourself.

Before you’ve even come down from your high, you're flooded with the sting of reality.

No matter how wrong or immoral or risky it is, there’s no denying it– your feelings for Ezra are anything but platonic. And he’s on a date with another woman.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes with a groan.

The thought of facing Ezra after this revelation makes your stomach turn. You can almost see him sauntering in, hair mussed, body slack from his sexual conquest. It burns a hole in your chest, a scream practically rising in your throat. And you’ll, what, go on living with him, smelling his musk on your sheets and not go completely insane?

You pull the plug from the drain. So much for the bath. It’s early yet but the only thing you can do to help yourself now is be unconscious. There’s no way you’re going to fall asleep with your thoughts racing so you brew up a sleeping draught in the kitchen. With any luck, you won’t have any dreams either.

Ezra’s side of the bed is empty and cold. Mid-morning sun glows on the walls of your bedroom and you’re just waking up, the effects of the potion still making your head groggy. But eventually it dawns on you. He’s not there.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Your eyes sting with tears, your gut sinking with the weight of it. You imagine Ezra curled up in bed with her. Morning sex. Breakfast. You want to puke.

After a long while pulling yourself together, you realize it’s better this way. The last thing you need is to wake up next to Ezra smelling like sex and the patchouli notes of Zoe’s perfume.

You can’t sulk. You need to get up, get over it.

When you step out of your bedroom, you stop short at the discovery that Ezra’s asleep on the couch. So he didn’t spend the night. It does little to soothe your aching heart. In fact, it somehow feels worse. He looks so perfect, long legs bare and brow smooth, mouth turned down in a pout. It’s not fair you have to survive around a man so perfect.

You go into the bathroom and close the door a little too loud a little on purpose.

Maybe there’s a potion for falling out of love.

Ezra’s dragged himself up by the time you step back into the living room, woken by the slam of the door. He had the damndest time sleeping on that couch. Never realized how lucky he’s been to share the bed.

You stop outside the bathroom door, arms akimbo, and your oversized sleep shirt rides up your thighs.

“Well?” you ask.

Ezra can’t help but smirk at your down to business attitude.

Well indeed.

Zoe had been fine company. Not hard to look at even if the conversation left a little to be desired. His favorite part of the evening came when Zoe brought up the shop and, in turn, you. It was difficult not to let his words run away from him.

Despite his best efforts, knowing that he should give over and accept this, his mind kept slipping back to his little mage. What you would look like in the little frock Zoe had chosen, the jokes that only you would understand. You’d helped him pick out clothes for the evening, a soft woolen sweater you swore wasn't too tight. All night, he kept remembering the drag of your eyes over his arms before you said, “You look really good.” He wants you to look at him like that all the time.

”She’s not intolerable for a mortal,“ he says.

“‘Not intolerable.’ Sounds like Ezra for bangable,” you say. “So?”

Perhaps in another universe, Ezra would have had a splendid time, would have debauched himself. He’d left after only two drinks, a look of disappointment on Zoe’s face that he wouldn’t soon forget. Had he been a better man, he would’ve felt worse about it but he couldn’t care about anything but you. As he walked briskly from the bar, he resolved to tell you everything, that he couldn’t stand even the suggestion that he sleep with someone else when you consume him. Good sense be damned. What was the point of being human if he had to live like this?

But he came home to find the apartment dark, your bedroom door shut. He listened there before opening it ajar to see you sleeping peacefully. Reality sunk in, fast and hard. A confession could ruin everything. His home, the only family he knew, the people he loved. He couldn’t risk losing you.

If he woke you, he’d have you face the question you’d just asked so he’d curled up under the throw blanket on the couch, as he had so many times before.

“I won't make a braggart of myself,” he says, sidestepping the question.

You roll your eyes and head back to your bedroom in a hurry.

Ezra’s shoulders sag with a deep sigh.

Sunday morning in the shop is slower than usual. It’s maddening, leaving you with too much time to meditate on your sorrows as you hide behind the cash register. Every time your eyes land on Ezra, you’re treated to fresh torment. For some reason you can’t stop picturing him fucking her doggy style with wild thrusts of his hips.

“Tea, dear?” Margot asks. Her rings tink against a spoon as she stirs honey into her tea cup. Mint and ginger fills your nostrils.

You merely grunt in reply but hear her setting another cup out for you. There’s a clink of porcelain and Margot clicks her tongue.

“Your bad mood is sullying the energy in here,” she tuts.

You turn to find her wicking spilled tea off of her hand.

“I’m not in a bad mood,” you say too quickly.

What kind of mood are you supposed to be in when you realize you’re in love with your best friend who was, until recently, a cat, and said friend spent the night with another woman? When there’s a chance that this was all for naught when the Elders find out and turn you into a newt?

Margot scoffs and lights a stick of palo santo, wafting its smoke in your direction.

“You’d better not bring that energy into the full moon,” she says. “I don’t need to feel all mopey for the next fortnight.”

You cross your arms.

“Are you still mad at me?” you ask. Margot’s been welcoming to Ezra but you still feel her ambivalence towards you. It hangs in the air the same as your sour aura.

“Mad at you,” she repeats, pouring another cup of tea. “Why? Because you implicated me and Percy in a crime that I’m concealing from the Elders? I should be, shouldn’t I?”

You sink deeper into your frown. Margot hands you the teacup.

“But I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time. Besides whatever bee is in your bonnet today,” she adds with an arched brow. “And that’s made me very happy.”

You look at her, your lip quivering. Margot’s been there for you longer than Ezra, taught you everything you know about magic and given you an unconditional love you can hardly fathom even in adulthood. You nearly spill your tea again, setting it aside so you can throw your arms around her.

She stumbles backwards with an “Oof” and chuckles into your ear. Her open palm warms your back.

“It’s all in the stars,” she says.

And, right now, you have to believe she’s right.

Through the long sleeves of your velvet dress, you feel the chill in the air. It’s much colder than the last time you were in these woods for the solstice. Of course, this is a much different kind of celebration. The fire is smaller, there’s less paraphernalia involved. It’s just the four of you— you and Ezra, Margot and Percy— but it feels more joyful.

Margot leads you in a ritual to draw down the moon, then sets out an ornate jar of water to charge in its light. You and Ezra help her cast some spells. She swears the ones done under a full moon have the strongest effect.

But mostly the night is for merry making. There’s wine and incense and apple cider caramels. Margot perches on a tree stump and plays a few songs on her concertina and Ezra insists that you dance with him.

You do, putting your hands into his and letting him spin you in circles. Margot’s words ring in your ears. You can be happy that he’s happy even if it makes your heart ache. At least now, safe from the rest of the world, hands clasped together, you can pretend.

Ezra looks so handsome in his new robes, you almost wonder if there’s an enchantment on them. The white patch in his hair glows as if the moon came down and kissed him on the forehead. His cheeks are pink and he’s as breathless as you.

You’re both laughing when the music ends and you let your hand stay in Ezra’s for a while, wanting the fantasy to last just a little bit longer.

“Now I must insist on a dance with you,” he says to Margot. He holds out a hand to her but doesn’t let go of yours yet.

“I’m playing the music!” she says.

“There must be an incantation that will make that squeezebox play itself,” he says and he slips from your grip to pull her to her feet.

Percy scrambles off of her lap and hops onto your knee as you flop down on the ground.

“I’ll sing!” you say.

“Goodness no!” Margot says.

You all laugh and Ezra releases her after a few twirls.

Since it’s his party, Ezra takes the liberty of sharing his favorite stories. He sits beside you on the ground, animatedly narrating his wildest adventures. You’re pretty sure half of them are pure fabrication but he’s having so much fun recounting them, you don’t question even the most outlandish of details. The fire warms your face. Though, considering how it’s dying down, it could just be his glow. Ezra loves being at the center of attention and you wonder the last time he had the chance to command so much of it. He hasn’t stopped smiling since the sun set, that gorgeous dimple growing deeper with each hour. You love seeing him like this, full of excitement and life.

Eventually, the moon hangs full overhead and Percy curls up to sleep on Margot’s shoulder. The crackle of the fire slows and you throw your head back to look at the sky dotted with so many twinkling stars. For the first time since Ezra left for his date, you feel peaceful. He’s quiet now and you try to catch another glimpse of him in the dark only to find his dark eyes shining at you. He smiles tenderly, and your whole body warms with affection. You can almost believe it’s a look of longing.

Margot slaps her hands against her thighs and stands, breaking your gaze.

“Well, I’d better go before I turn into a pumpkin,” she says.

“Oh, come on. It’s early,” you say.

“We’ll brew you something to wake you in the morning,” Ezra offers.

“That’s alright. Enjoy,” she says. Before she heads back into the trees, she takes Ezra’s hand and gives it a squeeze and pats you on the shoulder.

You’re quiet for a long time, watching the fire die down. It comes back to you, slowly at first, then a flood of emotion, the uncertainty of your future. This night has been a gift but, one way or another, you’re destined to lose Ezra. There’s a melancholy look on his face that hints he might be thinking about the same things.

“Should we retire then?” he asks after a sigh.

“Wait. I want to give you something,” you say. Margot arranged this whole evening and you feel like you’ve shown up to a party empty handed.

“You’ve given more than enough.”

“Well, apparently I’ve been putting off really bad vibes. So a protection spell.” You rise to your feet.

Ezra pulls himself up with your help and this time you don’t allow him to let go. You take both of his hands in yours, his rough fingers entwined in your own, and he watches you, with a fond curiosity on his face. He flusters you. His gaze is so intense, you have a hard time meeting his eye.

“Okay,” you say, shaking out your limbs.

Magic tingles where your palms meet and you notice that his thumb traces yours gently. Having spent the night before without him seems to double the intimacy of the moment. He looks downright beautiful like this, the angles of his face outlined in fire and moonlight. It’s almost unbearable.

“Ezra,” you start.

His lips part at the sound of his name.

“I protect you with my magic and my spirit,” you say.

He can surely feel it surrounding him like an embrace. It’s so intense, you can barely fill your lungs. His eyes are so soft, round and sweet. They glisten in the darkness.

“And my heart,” you add, your voice breaking.

You put your palm against his cheek, the pad of your thumb tracing the hairline scar there, to seal the spell and he takes in a sharp little gasp at your touch. There’s a look in his eye, beseeching, and you feel the tug of his magic, drawing you in closer like a knot tightening between you. It’s a whisper, so faint you’re probably imagining it, but you follow it to him, to his lips.

Before you even realize it, you’re kissing him. Tender and aching and it feels like relief to have his mouth on yours, to taste the wine on his tongue. His lips are soft and hesitant. Your body molds against him, it always does. You’ve been in his arms so many times before and yet it’s never felt more right than this very moment.

Except that it’s wrong. There are all of those reasons why this can’t be, how awkward it will be when he stops you, when he goes back to sleeping on the couch. Suddenly you’re pulling away despite your body screaming for you to do anything else.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I shouldn’t have– Shit!” You swallow down a lump in your throat.

Ezra holds you firm by your elbows, pulling your hand away from your lips and shaking his head.

“Little mage, I have wanted nothing more for longer than you can know,” he says, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

You stare at him, wide eyed, mouth agape, trying to make sense of his words. Your heart flips and you let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

And then he kisses you again and again and again.

🐈‍⬛

Comments and reblogs appreciated! Asks always open! I'd love to hear from you!

#ezra #ezra prospect #nine lives #ezra x f!reader #ezra x reader #familiar!ezra x witch!reader #witch!ezra #prospect fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic

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amphipolitan · 13 days ago

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Star Wars gifset I made from a poem I wrote. Highlighting some aspects & parallels of Ezra and Luke that I like.

Winds May Blow

The north wind comes to blow and blow, Disturbing ghosts from long ago; I watch the desolation grow; I hold them tight, these things I know: Though winds may come to mourn and blow, Defiance still will grow and grow, Fed by a voice from long ago And hope will bloom in winter snow. Be not afraid, when winds may blow; They rose in secret, long ago; What binds our hearts, they cannot know; Be still, and let the shadow show The formless plains of ash and snow Where hope once bloomed, an age ago; Apprentice, rise, and only know The force which binds the high and low, Acceptance for the change we sow, The strength to stand when winds may blow, The warmth which wards the fox in snow, The calm that lets the sapling grow.

#poetry #star wars #star wars rebels #luke skywalker #ezra bridger #skybridger #kinda?? there is definitely a contrasts and parallels thing going on in my mind #my writing #my poetry #a new hope #kanan jarrus #obi-wan kenobi #lothcats #gifsets

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jessicas-pi · 1 year ago

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Y'all said you wanted to know my new idea, so. Hear me out on this. Cracky fun-filled Rebels Superhero AU highkey based on the 1966 Batman show.

*narrator guy voice* At stately Syndulla Manor, home of millionaire Hera Syndulla and her youthful ward Ezra Bridger-

So yeah, Hera is a millionaire who does superhero work under the alias "Spectre." She has an invisible car called the Ghost (but Ezra always calls it the Ghostmobile.) Ezra is her adopted kid and sidekick. I'm thinking his superhero alter ego has a cat theme, just because. Maybe he goes by "Stray" or "Alley Cat" or something.

Now, enter Kanan!

Kanan also does superhero work, calling himself "Phantom." He, too, has a sidekick: Sabine! (I'm not sure if I want Sabine to go by "Nightowl" (referencing her Nite Owl helmet) or "Starbird.") Like Hera, Sabine is also pretty rich, but she tries to escape her life as the daughter of a famous politician by moonlighting as a superhero. She also refuses to be called Kanan's sidekick because she "works alone" (only she keeps showing up whenever he's investigating a crime because She's Lonely and he has Dad Vibes.)

Ahsoka is the "commisioner gordon" character, and she's in contact with all the heroes and often calls them both in for cases, but she also uses an alias (Fulcrum) so that the villains can't trace back to her and use her to get to the heroes. Zeb works at the police department and he's the one most often assigned to go work with the superheroes.

Hera and Ezra know each others' identities, since they're adopted family, but none of them know any other secret identities. Which leads to some pretty crazy shenanigans, because:

Hera and Kanan are engaged.

Spectre and Phantom are amiable coworkers.

Phantom very vocally admires Hera around Spectre.

Ezra is deeply suspicious of Phantom because he thinks Kanan is THE COOLEST and NOBODY ELSE should be acting all interested in Hera, especially if they don't even KNOW HER. SHE'S ENGAGED, BACK OFF BUDDY!

Ezra and Kanan have a great father-son relationship. The only strain is that Ezra will not shut up about how much Phantom annoys him.

Sabine and Ezra go to the same fancy school and they're best friends.

Ezra has the world's biggest crush on Nightowl/Starbird. Naturally, he confides in his best friend about it---minus the part where he's a superhero interacting with her regularly---completely unaware that she is Nightowl/Starbird.

Sabine thinks it's hilarious. (After all, it's just a celebrity crush---Ezra has never even met her as her superhero identity---and by the time he finds out her identity, he'll toooootally be over it! ...won't he?)

The only person to have everything figured out is Hera's butler Okadiah. He Is Amused.

So, yeah. Secret identity shenanigans.

Also, just funny stuff in general. There's lots of hilarious villains-of-the-week, among them such ridiculous characters as Commander Meiloorun. (Yes, Commander Meiloorun is an actual villain-of-the-week character here.) And the ridiculous costumes, too, obviously. I might have to draw them sooner or later.

Anyway, I've kinda expended my thoughts on this so far... yeah soooo that's all i have! (but stay tuned in case i do draw some art for it because i definitely might.)

#to the ghostmobile! AU #(yes. that is what i am naming it.)#(i have no better ideas.)#jessica's random thoughts #star wars #star wars rebels #kanera #sabezra

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cyazurai · 2 days ago

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#ts4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 legacy #name game legacy #ward legacy #gen 2 #ezra ward #emmett ward #tamara ward

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prolix-yuy · 2 years ago

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HELLO I'm here I've made it, don't mind me running in with my little pocket watch like the White Rabbit. Ahem! For the position, I got missionary with a pillow. For the man, I'd like to request Ezra. And for you, I have many kisses for your cheeks.<3 Ok love you byyeeeeee

Birdieeeee I will accept all of the cheek kisses and oh so many nights with Ezra. I hope it's filthy enough for my favorite Ezra writer.

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Position: Missionary with a Pillow

Word Count: 1584 (hELp)

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, unprotected PiV sex (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool), little bit of oral (f receiving), fingering, allusions to sex toy use, mentions of bad past sexual experiences, Ezra's filthy fucking mouth.

Notes: This has gotta be one of my favorite positions and I love it for Ezra because there's a kind of care that comes from this that gets me all swoony.

Ezra’s expression blooms from curiosity to confusion.

“You would like me to…take you to bed?” he asks, bionic and flesh arms folded over his broad chest. The henley he’s wearing stretches over his biceps, tapering to loose work trousers cinched at his waist. His tongue peeks out to wet his lower lip, confusion beginning to morph to contemplation, all while you try not to wring your hands too nervously.

“It’s just…I um,” you try to say, the sudden mortification of how you’ve come to this conclusion weighting your tongue. “I’ve…heard about you. With others. They’re always, uh, very satisfied.” You don’t dare to extrapolate on that, or touch on how his voice carries across the hall and into your small room on the Pug. The few times you ventured to listen at his door, you burned over how expertly he took his partners apart. But beyond all that, you hated to admit why you wanted to ask him.

“And you would like to be satisfied?” Ezra says, just a little smirk at the corner of his mouth as he tilts his head down at you. Face burning, you nod. He uncrosses his arms and braces them on his modest desk, giving you a full view of his muscled body and soft stomach. “And what would you offer me for that gift?”

Your stomach drops, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep tears from coming to the surface. Bad enough that you had to humble yourself for this request, but to be so bluntly asked what he’d get out of it only amplifies your anxieties.

“I, ah…I can…I could…shit, I’m…I think I’ve been stupid about this, I’m sorry, I’ll…” you stammer, backing towards the door. Quick as electricity Ezra pushes off and closes the gap between you, hand coming up to cup your chin. You still as he studies your face, deep lines etched between his brows and under his dark eyes.

“Have you never laid with another before?” he asks in a soft voice he only reserves for speaking to his ward. It makes your throat clench.

“I have, but it’s never been…good.” You hold his gaze, willing your boldness to return. “And it sounds like it’s always….good…with you.” Ezra’s eyes dance over your face, thumb stroking along your cheek. “I’d like to see what it’s like when it’s good, if you’ll have me.”

Ezra purrs darkly, the cool plastic of his prosthetic hand drifting to your hip.

“That is quite a gift you’re offering me. Are you sure there’s no other who would want to share in your first taste of ecstasy?” Before you answer he tugs at your waist and you follow his lead, swaying steps leading you to his bed.

“I’d like a sure thing,” you reply, giving him a smirk of your own that he greedily enjoys. His thumb swipes over your lips before pushing inside, scraping the pad over your teeth to press your tongue. Saliva floods your mouth.

“Take off your clothes,” he says firmly, stepping back to pull his henley over his head. The lines and planes of his chest are littered with scars and faded pink burns, noticeable redness where his prosthetic attaches. You rid yourself of your tunic and slide your pants to the floor, shedding your underwear in one fell swoop. This pleases Ezra, who groans and palms his crotch at your nude form.

“Lie down, I’m going to stretch you out on my fingers first,” he husks, stalking towards you as you sit on the edge of the bed.

“You don’t…have to, I made sure I was ready before I came,” you said quickly, making Ezra’s head cock and eyebrows pull together.

“You…prepared yourself? Without me?” he says slowly, sinking to a crouch and parting your knees with broad, hot palms. Your core is puffy from the toy you worked yourself up with, shiny with the lube you generously used in case Ezra was larger than you were used to. His eyes flick up to your face, now anxious.

“You did not need to do this. I take great pleasure in making you cum on my fingers and in my mouth before finding myself in your tight heat.” You try to shut your knees, embarrassed that your forethought seems to be in bad taste, but he slots his hips between yours and pushes you back on the bed. The sudden intimacy of his body so close makes your heart flutter. “Did you even make yourself cum?”

You shake your head, which he follows with one of his own. “Next time you’ll let me take my time with you, pull two screaming peaks from this sweet pussy before I bed you.” The promise of next time rushes blood to your head so quickly you fear you’ll faint, but Ezra’s thick fingers sliding through your folds to press inside makes you snap into sharp focus. As he coats his fingers, pressing a spongy spot that zings pleasure down your spine, he deftly unbuttons and shucks his pants to join you nude and scorching hot.

“Since you wish to get to the main event so efficiently, I’ll do my best to make it worth your while,” he says, and one hand urges your hips to lift as he tucks a pillow under your bottom. The height tilts your hips, your cunt suddenly empty as he pulls his fingers out to wrap around his cock. “I find if the act is not as pleasurable for you, this position helps.”

“Thank you,” you blurt out, his motions stilling as he looks down at your pliant body. There’s a flicker of something hungry on his face, the harsh squeeze he gives his cock echoing your observation.

“You may thank me when you’re cumming on my cock,” he plays it off, circling the tip of his cock at your entrance. A deep breath, then he presses in inch by sumptuous inch. Throwing your head back, you clutch at his biceps as he leans over you, harsh little pants blowing out of his nose. He stops in his journey to shallowly fuck, tiny movements that pinch your brow and drop your mouth open. Finally, after what feels like whole minutes, he’s seated deep and full inside.

“Oh, wow, Ezra, that feels…” you pant, opening your eyes to find him inches from your face. He’s draped down over your body, elbows planted on either side of your head, watching you so closely it makes you want to close your eyes again. The veins in his neck bulge, lips parted with his teeth clenched behind them.

“How many men have had you and not satisfied you?” he asks, strain in his voice as he drags back out.

“All of them. Never…fuck, never knew how to tell them,” you gasp, fisting Ezra’s close-cropped hair. It’s softer than you expect, sweat curling the strands at the base of his neck.

“Tell me everything,” he rasps out, then snaps back into your cunt.

Ezra’s pace and power curls your toes and rolls your hips against the mounting pressure. The angle is perfect, cock pressing into a place that makes stars explode on the edges of your vision. He watches your face for pain, revels in your pleasure, and when he begins cursing colorfully he drops his forehead to your shoulder. The rough pants and drag of his lips and teeth drive you to wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him flush with you.

“Is it good? Is it what you needed?” he asks, arching over you and shifting his weight to find your clit between your sweaty bodies. Fanning his fingers over your abdomen, he strums his thumb over it. Your cunt clenches, legs trembling as the telltale signs of your orgasm rumble into your body.

“Yes, Ezra, thank Kevva it’s so good, please…” you beg, clamping your body around him as he speeds up, humid mouth finding your ear.

“I would fuck you like this and any other way you desired. Every night. Would have done it every night before this, since you told me your name. To think you’ve been suffering so long and I could end your torture. Cum for me, and you’ll never want again.”

You let go with a ragged shout, the profound ecstasy of cumming full of Ezra and surrounded by him thrashing you through the best orgasm you’ve had of late. He pins you down with his hips and hands, arms above your head as he mouths at your jaw and throat. Finally your body relaxes, sticky sweet with endorphins and dumb with pleasure. When you can peel your eyes open enough to watch him, the smugness you expected is well tamped by an affection that catches in your lungs.

“Can you move?” he asks, your agreement preceding his gentle movements to roll you on your stomach. Pillowing your hands under your head, you sigh and prepare to thank him even more properly. You’re beaten by his large hands tilting your hips, and his hot tongue sliding into your pussy from behind. The gasps you choke out elicits a chuckle from Ezra’s throat.

“I’m going to take my reward now,” he teases, kneading his fingers into your generous ass.

“What’s that?” you manage to get out before he slaps one cheek enough to spike arousal back in your cunt.

“Every orgasm I can pull from your body before the sunrise.”

Night cycles on the Pug last 16 hours, and Ezra uses every minute.

END

LJ’s Bangathon 2023

#ezra prospect x f!reader #ezra prospect fanfiction #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect fic #ezra prospect x you #prospect fanfiction #prospect fanfic

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yall-hate-kids-tourney · 9 months ago

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Y'all Hate Teens Tourney Bracket

(Bracket updated through Round 2c)

76 teens who are unfairly treated by the fandom for being teens. Who has it worst?

We tried our best with the matches, but sifting through several unique submissions does get to us... We apologize for any unfavorable matchups.

Please let us know of any name corrections. For Japanese names in particular, we denote long vowels and put given name first.

No guarantees on when the tourney starts, but we'll try to get it started within a week. We'll start by setting up the propaganda posts, which will be separate from the poll posts this time around.

Round 1 and 2 matchups under the cut. Color-coded schedule here; undescribed. Note that the listed order is not the same as the schedule.

Round 1

Alicent Hightower (House of the Dragon) vs. Abigail Hobbs (Hannibal)

Amy "Panacea" Dallon (Parahumans (Worm/Ward)) vs. Orihime Inoue (Bleach)

Lady Kenna (Reign) vs. Lisa "Tattletale" Wilbourn (Parahumans (Worm/Ward))

Kokichi Ouma (Danganronpa V3) vs. Scott McCall (Teen Wolf (MTV))

Daphne Blake (Scooby-Doo) vs. Sophie Foster (Keeper of the Lost Cities)

Breezepaw (Warrior Cats) vs. Winter (Wings of Fire)

Gamzee Makara (Homestuck) vs. Yanqing (Honkai Star Rail)

Vriska Serket (Homestuck) vs. Haru (Beastars)

Dirk Strider (Homestuck) vs. Xander Harris (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

Wednesday Addams (Wednesday (Netflix)) vs. Sylvester Ashling (Epithet Erased)

Yukine (Noragami) vs. Sayaka Miki (Puella Magi Madoka Magica)

Yukio Okumura (Blue Exorcist) vs. Soyo Nagasaki (Bang Dream! Girls Band Party!)

Round 2

Dawn Summers (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) vs *1

Marcy Wu (Amphibia) vs. Fatespeaker (Wings of Fire)

Sansa Stark (Game of Thrones) vs. Charlotte Pudding (One Piece)

Olly (Game of Thrones) vs. Penny Carson (Bojack Horseman)

Azula (Avatar: The Last Airbender) vs. *2

Mai (Avatar: The Last Airbender) vs. Peril (Wings of Fire)

Katara (Avatar: The Last Airbender) vs. *3

Steven Universe (Steven Universe) vs. Gohan (Dragon Ball Z)

Adrien Agreste (Miraculous Ladybug) vs. *4

Marinette Dupain-Cheng (Miraculous Ladybug) vs. Sakura Haruno (Naruto)

Muu Kusunoki (MILGRAM) vs. Misa Amane (Death Note)

Chloé Bourgeois (Miraculous Ladybug) vs. Candace Flynn (Phineas and Ferb)

April O'Neil (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2012)) vs. *5

Gwen Stacy (Spider-Man : Into the Spider-verse) vs. Dovepaw (Warrior Cats)

Damian Wayne (DC) vs. *6

Sasuke Uchiha (Naruto) vs. Kyuusaku Yumeno (Bungou Stray Dogs)

Shinji Ikari (Neon Genesis Evangelion) vs. *7

Shuuji Kayama (Digimon) vs. Gon Freecs (Hunter x Hunter)

Asuka Langley Sohryu (Neon Genesis Evangelion) vs. Youko Nakajima (The Twelve Kingdoms)

Rei Ayanami (Neon Genesis Evangelion) vs. Uzi Doorman (Murder Drones)

Akito Shinonome (Project Sekai) vs. *8

Ena Shinonome (Project Sekai) vs. Mafuyu Asahina (Project Sekai)

Katsuki Bakugou (My Hero Academia) vs. *9

Yuuma Tsukumo (Yu-Gi-Oh) vs. Megumi Fushiguro (Jujutsu Kaisen)

Wesley Crusher (Star Trek: The Next Generation) vs. *10

Ezra Bridger (Star Wars: Rebels) vs. Theresa "Scary" Marlowe (Dungeons and Daddies)

Hope Estheim (Final Fantasy XIII) vs. Tohru Honda (Fruit Basket)

Severa (Fire Emblem) vs. Taimi (Guild Wars 2)

Yukari Takeba (Persona 3) vs. *11

Rise Kujikawa (Persona 4) vs. Kotone Shiomi (Persona 3 Portable)

Goro Akechi (Persona 5) vs. *12

Yuuki Mishima (Persona 5) vs. Makoto Niijima (Persona 5)

Phew, that was a lot.

#yall hate teens tourney #announcements

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vodika-vibes · 10 months ago

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hello!!! Any chance you’d be willing to write an Ezra x Reader with opal and winter??? I read your other Ezra fic and liked it so much I wanted to see another one! Preferably while he’s still with the ghost crew (like 18 or 19), if ya can! Thanks so much 😀

Life Day Conversations

Summary: It’s hard, being on the run from the Empire. You signed up for it, sure, but it’s still hard. Luckily, Ezra is always there to help you feel better about the choices you made.

Pairing: Ezra Bridger x Reader

Word Count: 722

Prompt: Opal - Faithful Love

Warnings: Kind of bittersweet, based off of what I know happens to Ezra

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: So, I still haven't watched Rebels. I just don't have the time, so I hope I didn't butcher him too badly. And I'm sorry if I did.

“Are you sure you want to stay out here?” Hera asks from the ramp of the ship, shivering as she pulls the thick winter jacket tighter around her, “It’s freezing.”

You glance at her, and flash the smallest smile, “Yeah. Just a little longer. I won’t stay out long, promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it. We can’t afford anyone catching pneumonia.” You hear the sound of her clomping back up the ramp, and you sigh and tilt your head back, your eyes drifting shut.

1 year.

It’s been one year since the day you defected from the empire. A year since the last time you saw your parents, your siblings, your nephews.

You don’t regret it. Not really.

The Empire is made up of monsters, the worst kinds of monsters. Monsters who look like your next door neighbor.

But you’ve never felt so alone in all your life.

Though, you’re fairly certain that your loneliness stems from the fact that this is the first major holiday away from your family. And as much as you love Hera and Kannan and Jacen…you can’t help but feel like you’re intruding.

You release a slow breath, your eyes opening again as you feel something cold and wet against your cheek. “Huh. It’s snowing-”

How…sad.

It fits your mood perfectly.

“Knock, knock.” You start at the familiar voice from behind you, and you turn to blink at Ezra, “I know you don’t like it when people just barge in, but I figure since there’s no doors-” He trails off, “I bring hot cocoa?”

“Hera is going to kill you if she catches you out here.” You note as you slide over on the boulder to let him join you.

“Pft. I’m not afraid of her.” Ezra hands you both thermos and jumps up to join you, before taking his thermos back, “I also brought a blanket, to ward off the cold.”

You shoot him a look, “What’s wrong, Bridger? Can’t handle a little cold?”

“Hera will kill both of us if either of us get sick, so scoot in. We’re gonna get cozy.”

“I thought you weren’t afraid of her.”

“Wasn’t me, must have been the devil speaking through me.” Ezra says solemnly, before he tucks the blanket around himself and then you, “So, why are you looking so glum?”

“I’m not.”

“Are too. What, you think I can’t tell what you’re feeling?” You scowl at him and he grins as he taps your temple, “Jedi, remember.”

“Cheater.”

“Is it cheating to use your god given powers-”

“Yes.”

He laughs, and drapes his arm over your shoulder, “Come on. It’s just me.”

You’re quiet for a moment, and then you sigh and drop your head on his shoulder, “It’s my first Life Day without my family. I suppose I’m feeling a little…melancholic.”

“You having second thoughts?”

“No.” You shake your head, “Just…feeling a bit lonely.”

“Well, that’ll happen when you’re sitting out in the cold rather than celebrating with your chosen family,” Ezra points out gently, “What’s really bothering you?”

“...I don’t know.” You pause, and pull your knees up to rest your chin on them, “What happens when you leave?”

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sure, you say that now-”

“No.” He turns to face you and holds his pinky out for you to hook, “I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.” He wiggles his pinky at you, “You know a pinky promise is eternal.”

“What are you, five?”

“Five times more fun than you.” Ezra quips. “Come on, even if I do have to go away for whatever reason, I’m always going to come back to you.”

“Until you don’t.”

“Nope. Always. Forever. I’ll always be faithful to you. I love you after all.”

You sigh and hook your finger with his, “Then, I hope you know that I’ll always be faithful to you too.”

Ezra beams at you and uses your joined fingers to tug you in so he’s able to kiss you, “Now, we’d better get back inside before Hera sends Sabine after us.”

“Oh…well…”

Ezra hops down off the boulder, and offers you his hand with a blinding smile, “Come on, gorgeous. It’s Life Day, you shouldn’t be alone.”

You release a quiet sigh, but slide down the boulder to take his hand.

Maybe change isn’t so bad after all.

#star wars #star wars rebels #vodika-vibes 500 followers celebration #ezra bridger x reader #ezra x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #gn!reader fic #answered asks

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autumnwoodsdreamer · 9 days ago

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Unsinkable

Chapter 40: Gifts and Curses

Characters: Ezra Bridger, Omega, Paz Vizsla, Original Characters

Words: 5363

Summary: Ezra wakes in the medcentre and Paz deals with his feelings about the new Mand’alor

Author’s Note: You guys might just hate me for this one… 🫣

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

Ezra woke with the sunrise.

For a few moments, he couldn’t find or follow the points between before and now, he just was, and all the world around him was a collaboration of colours, sounds, and sensations—all muted and muffled, washing in together, a mess, a nothing then a something.

A string of beeps and clicks.

A soft yet unyielding surface beneath him.

A haze of white gold and soft brown hovered beside him, blending with the pale blues and stark whites but never ebbing away into them, always staying: this one single defined thing amidst the fog.

Before he could focus visually, before he could collect and organize his memory, the Force filled him with a sense of peace.

The danger’s over, it said.

You have a friend beside you, it said.

As if to confirm that notion, a hand reached out and curled around his arm, squeezing softly but firmly, anchoring him.

It was a nice thing to feel, a friendly touch; it was nicer than the thin, snake-like tube clinging to his face or the skeletal contraption latched around his hand or the stiff, overly clean sheets tucked around him.

Waking the last stretch in a rush, his lungs pulled in a deep breath, the cold and the smell of antiseptic burning his nostrils and his throat.

Medcentre.

So they had made good on their threats, he thought, wryly, chuckling in his mind if not in his chest.

He was in a ward, not a room. He could sense others nearby, in varying states of wellness and consciousness. With some inane satisfaction, he noted he had the premium location—i.e. the bed closest to the window. Blue, papery curtains circled the bed, defining his space, leaving a short clearance all the way around for someone to get to the monitors or sit in a chair beside him. Said chair was the kind in between functional and comfortable, managing the former more than the latter, and the someone seated was Omega, framed by the sunrise pouring in through the window.

Ezra focussed on her, blinking to clear the murk from his eyes.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice barely held any volume and he couldn’t vouch for the coherency of his words, but it didn’t hurt so much to talk—it didn’t hurt at all… beyond the scratch of a dry, unused throat, that was.

“You’re awake,” Omega said, smiling like it was a great accomplishment.

(It certainly felt like an accomplishment…)

There was a necessary interlude then as she, without being prompted or asked, helped him to a drink of water—though not in pain, he found he was weak. If he had any doubts about their having reached Lothal, the water confirmed it—water from your homeworld always feels and tastes better than anywhere else (or, at least, when Lothal was your homeworld, it did; Ezra didn’t know if Tatooine natives ever longed for a drink of that hard recycled water that tasted like dusty machinery).

“What have I missed?” he asked, grateful to find the drink had restored his voice.

Omega shook her head and he thought the darkened circles under her eyes were an odd trick for the early morning light to play… “Not sure; haven’t commed the others yet; I was waiting until I had some news about you.”

“Is there any news about me?”

“You’re out the bacta tank and responding well to treatment. So. There’s that.”

Ezra remembered the journey to and the arrival on Lothal, remembered being whisked away to the medcentre, remembered Kanan’s calming presence, but the last stretch—the actual arrival at the medcentre and the submersion in the bacta tank—was a blank: a part of the holofilm censored for just him.

He couldn’t deny any of it: he was here, wasn’t he? He had a vague recollection of the kind of memory-dreams bacta was prone to producing—Din had found his to be a mix of sentimental and unsettling but Ezra was more at peace with his path and the visions of his unfettered mind attested to that.

And his midsection didn’t feel like it had the jagged claws of some grotesque beast lodged in it any more.

That was nice.

“Yes, remarkable what a bacta tank can do when calibrated correctly for the patient.”

“According to the information presented at the time, parameters were adequately met.”

Presently, the paper curtain was flung aside and the disparate figures of Sloan and AZI appeared. Sloan came in with a data pad in hand, AZI hovered beside him like an oversized bumblebee, wringing his hands, anxious to make his point.

Sloan made a sound like a dismissive sigh and motioned for the other med-droid to fly away with a fluttery flick of his spindly hand. Dutifully, AZI acquiesced and left to complete the rounds for the other patients.

Sloan raised his head, fixing his unblinking gaze on Ezra.

“As Miss Hunter has informed you, you are, indeed, responding well to treatment,” he said, his tone mellowing with unmistakable fondness. “However,” he clipped out and lifted a stern finger, “you are still in recovery. You will be kept under observation for another day, then, should your condition be cleared as stable, you will be discharged with an aftercare plan. Do I make myself clear?”

Ezra turned to Omega with a mischievous grin. “How to tell Din’s been in this medcentre before.”

She laughed at that, just a short snicker.

Sloan began his circuit, consulting the monitors. “You have demonstrated a fraction more self-preservation than your brother, but I have noted too many similarities not to err on the side of caution.”

Partly to prove he would be a better patient than his brother, Ezra didn’t even put up a joking fight as Sloan went through the rigmarole of checking his blood pressure and temperature, asking him for a number on the pain scale, and all the rest.

When he inspected the wound, Ezra was pleased to see there was no wound, there weren’t even bandages: the bacta had completed the healing Izara, Sloan and Grogu had begun. However, because of the extended delay between the wound’s infliction and the bacta treatment, scars had formed: a blurred constellation sprayed across his stomach. Anyone who saw it would think he had been peppered with bullets, though in reality it had been just the one… melted and fragmented, but still just one.

After leaving strict orders to rest, Sloan left.

But Omega stayed.

She stayed in the chair, spirit restless, eyes darting though there wasn’t anything to see with the curtains pulled closed.

She was always such a collected, capable person that to see her like this—anxious and unsettled—felt like looking upon an imposter.

“You didn’t sleep well,” Ezra noted, softly.

She shook her head, partly to confirm that, partly to dismiss it: a step in the water, a hand clamped on the railing. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, somehow blocking and thanking him in the same words.

If he could find the strength, he would’ve risen and reached out, returned her kindness and put a friendly hand on her shoulder. As it was, he couldn’t sit up without aid.

He didn’t press her. He didn’t have to; he could sense she wasn’t so avoidant as she was trying to order her thoughts.

So he just waited.

Eventually, her shoulders sagged, her spine bowing, her head not quite hanging but without the rigidity keeping her upright and stoic, she cut the image of a child, tired and scared and longing for home.

“I can’t… I can’t turn it off,” she admitted, her hands fidgeting with each other, going out for a vague gesture around her head but retreating before finishing. “The… Force thing. It’s like… everyone and everything is at full volume all the time.” She shook her head, her eyes shut tight. “I couldn’t sleep; I can’t even hear myself think. How do you live like this?”

“Give me your hand.”

She did so.

She didn’t open her eyes but her hand found his like a magnet: no fumbling, no missing. She latched on tight as a doomed climber would a rope, then, consciously, she loosened her grip, afraid of hurting him. Hoping to abate her fears, he ran his thumb over her knuckles.

He didn’t regret helping her unearth her Force ability but he did wish circumstances had unwound differently. He knew her natural empathy and compassion would feed into her connection to others, knew it would influence how intensely she sensed everything; he hadn’t expected her Force-sensitivity to hit her like a tidal wave but he had intended to teach her to focus and block, to manage the input.

Despite lying dormant for her entire life, her talent was powerful. It was like a beast that had risen from hibernation rather than just been born.

He reached out now and calmed the beast.

Because it wasn’t a ravenous monster so much as it was a creature, lost and confused, lashing out at everything, swiping at shadows and roaring at the wind.

It took energy but he made no mention or show of it. He calmed her the way Kanan used to do for him when his abilities outpaced his training and overwhelmed him.

“You know when you’re sitting at dinner with your whole family and everyone’s excited and talking and making a racket?” he said, painting a picture they both knew well. He caught her little nod and then let his eyes slip closed, his body rapidly feeling heavy. “It’s chaos, but you can separate the different conversations. You can focus on one person and just talk to them. The noise doesn’t stop but it doesn’t flood you; you just hear that one person. The whole galaxy is that table. Just focus on one thing at a time. For now, focus on me and I’ll talk to just you.”

He heard her draw a long, slow, measured breath, her hand shifting but not leaving as she set her shoulders back.

He could sense everything that was so loud and intense to her—a medcentre especially was a smorgasbord of emotions and feelings; pain and distress of all varieties pooled here. But what was a cacophony to her was manageable background noise to him—it was no less potent but it did not overwhelm him.

Gradually, the waves overtaking Omega eased.

“Better?” Ezra prompted.

“Yeah.” Her hand didn’t rush to retreat but she wasn’t clinging to him anymore, she was just… there. “Is it—is it always gonna be like this?”

“It’ll settle. You’ll get the mastery over it. I’ll help—if… if that’s what you want.”

. . . . .

Paz Vizsla never even dreamed he would see the Darksaber, let alone that it should wind its way back to its rightful place in his house. The fact it did so through the hands of none other than Din Djarin was… well, Paz was still identifying and sorting his feelings on the matter.

The tribe, on the other hand, needed no time to compute.

They rejoiced.

Paz couldn’t say it was unwarranted.

When last had there been a Mand’alor of the Haat Mando’ade? Not for some time; certainly not in his lifetime. Since the fall of House Mareel, there had been pretenders to the throne and unjust rulers aplenty, but never a true Mand’alor. The Tribe didn’t recognize the rule of the pacifists nor Death Watch nor the Sith Maul nor the Empire’s parade of puppets and certainly not Kryze who had been either complicit in or directly to blame for half those turns at the throne and no better, no fairer herself.

It was good, it was right that the Darksaber be back in House Vizsla. All legalities were appeased with the news it was won in single combat and the throne officially, publicly claimed.

Paz agreed, it was cause for celebration.

But he did not sit there that night and watch Din Djarin hold the ancient blade aloft, the white light illuminating his silver armour like a beacon, without feeling a grain of resentment slip in and take root rapidly.

He already knew Djarin had fought the Moff—he had seen him in the aftermath, unable to walk or even talk straight. But he hadn’t known he had the Darksaber in his possession then—he hadn’t known because Djarin didn’t breathe a word of it.

Why?

Why keep such a thing to himself?

Was he ignorant of what he had just earned? Or was he tying it up in secret on purpose? To what end? This could not be kept hidden—it should not be kept hidden. Why take so long to come find the tribe and then still keep his possession of the blade quiet until now, weeks down the line?

Paz couldn’t determine what his brother intended or what he was thinking, and any possible explanation his mind presented suggested unsavoury motives. Ignorance he could forgive but if Djarin had known all along and had actively kept it secret… was it not tantamount to lying?

Needless to say, he didn’t sleep well that night.

Ragnar had been as excited as the rest of the tribe, despite not previously knowing a crumb about the Darksaber—between their language, their customs, their history, and training, there was much to teach the boy and Paz had only had him in his care less than a year; he had been prioritizing the more present and pressing things, and while he had explained what a Mand’alor was, he hadn’t delved into the finer details.

What was there to know about the Mand’alors when there, currently, was no true Mand’alor?

But now, suddenly, there was.

And it was Din Djarin.

Usually, Ragnar was not much of a conversationalist. The boy grew up on the streets and was naturally a reserved person, but, due to the care and patience of a parent and a tribe, he had begun opening up more. Still, their nighttime routine consisted mostly of Paz leading the conversation, drawing him out with careful questions and silently rejoicing whenever his son began chattering under his own steam.

Tonight, Paz was a brick wall and Ragnar was a gushing flood of questions.

“Dad, what’s the Darksaber?” (Despite the fact he had just seen it.)

“Dad, who’s Tor Vizsla?” (“Tarre Vizsla,” Paz corrected.)

“Dad, is Ba’vodu Din the king now?” (Paz replied, through stiff teeth, that it was complicated.)

It didn’t stop there.

Ragnar’s only knowledge of kings and kingdoms stemmed from those distorted fairytales propagated by those Core World storytellers with their delicate constitutions and dream-clouded perspectives—apparently, they had even reached as far as the dead-end streets of Glavis. Politics and command structures were too heavy a subject to get into after such a long, stressful day and Paz doubted any lessons would sink in anyway, so he encouraged the boy to settle and sleep, save the questions for the morning.

Eventually, his son listened and quietened, perhaps less out of obedience and more from his own exhaustion as his surprisingly loud snores kicked up within minutes, echoing off the cave walls.

Paz did not leave the pallet serving as his own bed, nor did he toss and turn: he lay on his back and stared through the darkness, eyes never catching enough light to adjust, leaving his mind to paint whatever it willed in the black.

His thoughts were cacophonous, his heart a heavy, heated drum in his chest.

Questions and puzzles filled the night; ultimately, they could be distilled into just three small words.

How could he?

How could Djarin do this? How could he find and win the Darksaber and not tell Paz? How could he suddenly whip it out and wave it around and announce himself so grandly and expect them all to just fall in line behind him?

Djarin had never expressed any desire to lead.

Deep in his mind, Paz let that thought unravel further, the threads fraying and splitting apart.

Whether or not Djarin had ever wanted this, he lacked the qualities for it.

He was a loner, a thing separate from the rest of them, he hardly even knew the tribe. He hadn’t fought in the Purge, hadn’t hidden underground with them for years on end, the only sun they saw filtered through vents. He didn’t know what they needed.

How could he lead?

. . . . .

Somewhere in the night, Paz did yield to sleep, though he didn’t find much.

He woke to a bright, golden morning, his body stiff and his spirit still an unsettled beast, pacing a too-small cage.

Ragnar was awake long before him; he had already donned his helmet and gone to find his friends, seeking some play before lessons or work or whatever their elders would impose.

He had a strong sense of duty for one so young, and an even stronger instinct to protect. They were things that made Paz proud, especially as they developed and grew, intertwining with skill and burgeoning ability, forging purpose. The boy was strong and sturdy and diligent, but he was still a boy, and he had only recently discovered that children were supposed to play as much as they learned, that survival was not meant to be the only goal in life.

So Paz decided he might just… forget to remind him of his drills today. He might also forget to give him a job.

(But he would never forget the sound of his son’s laugh floating on the dry breeze, mingling with the rush of the rustling grass.)

(He hadn’t forgotten the sound of any of his children’s voices…)

His cares a little loosened, Paz washed in one of the tents set up for such ablutions. He prepared his body for the day’s activity then joined the camp for breakfast.

He discovered the excitement from the night before hadn’t dissipated; rather, it had brewed and swollen until it was spilling over. Everywhere, chatter and talk and whispers, of how apt, how phenomenal, how wonderful.

They acted as if this were the start of a brand new era, a fresh start sparkling like a white field, bursting with possibilities.

They acted as if Djarin knew what he was doing.

Paz couldn’t bring himself to eat, let alone to sit with the rest of the Vizslas. He opted to take a watch post while they ate and that, at the very least, gave him space and time and silence to get a lid on the fermenting emotions threatening to boil over into words and actions he was keenly aware he would only regret.

He didn’t see Din much that morning, and maybe that was a good thing. He glimpsed him just once, making his way to the caves with a small party in tow: the Armourer, Sabine, Fenn Rau and Koska Reeves. His path was slowed by all the ones reaching out to congratulate him, every pat on his back a lash to Paz.

All of a sudden, he was a celebrity among them.

All because of that sword.

Sharply, Paz turned his head and reset his gaze on the placid fields, an insidious, acidic feeling flushing through his veins, clogging his throat.

It was wrong to resent him, he knew.

It was wrong to impute bad motives on him.

It was wrong to let envy plant seeds and grow.

Din had to have had his reasons for keeping the Darksaber hidden all this time.

Though there were times when the di’kut acted as if his sense had taken an extended leave of absence, he was no fool. As baffling as his choices and his lifestyle were to Paz, as little as he understood the why of his actions, he was not dishonourable. And Paz could not say Din hadn’t worked hard and given everything to provide for the tribe—he knew, he saw the earnings Din brought back; he knew it was everything because Din wasn’t the kind to withhold.

And Paz recalled the state his brother was in when he found him all those months ago in the medcentre.

Din had been at his absolute lowest, branding and believing himself dar’manda for having removed his helmet in the presence and sight of outsiders. It was through Paz’s tireless encouragement and measured assurance that Din eventually recovered and corrected his view on the matter. He wouldn’t even be here today, wearing his helmet as proudly as ever if Paz hadn’t helped him see he had not broken his vow, not when he had done what was necessary to save his child.

Din had found his way and returned because of Paz.

He was home, walking among them again, standing with honour and holding the Darksaber—all because of Paz.

He decided to focus on that.

. . . . .

At some point in the day, the outsiders who had welcomed them to the camp came by again. They brought more supplies and came to speak with Djarin.

There was some plan in the works, Paz surmised, though he was not privy to details. He hadn’t spoken with Din all day, hadn’t crossed paths with him once: there didn’t seem to be a moment when his brother was not in some meeting or other.

Mand’alor for a day and already taking court…

Paz kept busy.

There was much to organize in the camp.

A cooking area had been set up the night before but they needed to establish a longer term arrangement: the current spot was too exposed to the elements, and while it was comfortable and adequate during this spell of fine weather, Lothal had random bouts of storms, especially during the spring which they currently resided. They needed a place deeper in the caves, ventilated and equipped for cooking and serving meals in all weather conditions.

So that was what Paz was doing, helping set up the cooking area, when Riel Rook approached him.

It seemed as if the young beroya had been trying to blend into the shadows ever since the confrontation with Cad Bane. The hunter may have been after Djarin but he had latched onto and followed Rook to reach him and the covert—Paz could only imagine the kind of guilt plaguing and consuming him.

He held no animosity towards him. It was quite clear he had no intentions of disrupting the relative peace and safety the tribe had enjoyed on Kyn-13.

Still, Paz was not in the most charitable mood when the young man appeared in the entrance to the cavern he was working in.

“Pardon me, Ori’Verd,” Rook said with an overly formal tone attempting but failing to cover the trepidation in his voice.

“What is it?” Paz clipped out. He dropped a compressed packet of some local fish into the cold-store, purposely drawing more noise from the action than necessary.

Rook swallowed, his discomfort audible. He didn’t hasten to speak and that only irritated Paz further, but what did he expect? He was keeping his back to him and infusing annoyance in every motion, winding the silence taut, communicating without words that he wished to be left alone.

Consciously, he relented.

The reason escaped him, but if he had to provide one, he might say Rook had offended him less than Din had, and, so, he was marginally more inclined to lend him an ear. But it wasn’t that; not entirely, anyway…

Paz was well-aware Riel was grown and mature enough to go out into the galaxy, he could more than take care of himself and others, he was not a child anymore, he was in his twenties… he was about the age Paz’s firstborn would’ve been today if it weren't for the price of the Purge.

He paused his work and made himself turn around. For a slice of a second, the image in front of him registered as wrong until he tied himself down to the moment and the matter at hand, forcing himself not to paint a ghost over the living right in front of him.

“What troubles you?” he asked.

He didn’t know what Rook looked like, but he pictured his mouth opening and closing—such an action would work well with the slight twitching bob of his black and grey helmet.

As if to ensure there were no errant eavesdroppers lurking about, Rook glanced around before taking a step closer and dropping his volume.

“Can someone who is dar’manda really be Mand’alor?”

He asked with caution and apprehension. He asked, sincerely, seeking an answer, an explanation, a clue to the puzzle. He asked because he just wanted to know.

Paz heard slander.

In a flash, he grabbed the young man’s shoulder and twisted, sharply, switching their places and slamming him against the cave wall. He pinned him there, his forearm barred across his chest.

“Do you want to repeat that, vod?” Paz challenged, a warning growl in his voice.

To his credit, Rook did not tremble despite the position he was suddenly locked in. He didn’t squirm like an Imp, didn’t thrash like a child; there was something remarkably stoic in how he bore being pressed against the stone like some petty criminal.

“Djarin removed his helmet,” he divulged, the trepidation gone, shed like an outgrown skin, in its place came indignation and confusion.

All at once, like a plug pulled out of a basin, the fury drained away.

Paz sighed, roughly, fully, letting all the air in his lungs just pour out like used dishwater. He let his arm go slack and drew back, the fire of a promising fight fizzling in his veins, leaving him brewing with unspent energy.

“It was to save his child,” he explained as he returned to his work: moving things from crates to the cold store. “That is no sin.”

It was beyond ironic.

Even in doing something as brazen and blatant as removing his helmet and showing his face to ones not bound to him by clan or creed, Din upheld their ideals and fulfilled the spirit of their code if not the letter of it—even when he did the wrong thing, he was right.

“No, that’s not what happened.” Undeterred, Rook shadowed him. “I saw him. I saw him coming above ground without his helmet on. When I asked him about it, he acted as if… as if it didn’t matter, like he did this regularly.”

Paz continued his work—loading his arms full of packets and boxes of various foodstuffs and transferring them to the cold store units—but, gradually, he slowed as his thoughts picked up momentum.

His first instinct was a paradox, a contradiction: he both latched onto Riel’s accusations and tossed them aside like garbage. A part of him believed it and a part of him refused to even listen to this. Somewhere in the middle, he turned the matter over in his mind.

The last time Paz saw Din before his return to the tribe, he had, indeed, been without his helmet. However, he was in the process of recovering from severe injuries and hadn’t rebuilt the strength required to bear the armour all day long; Paz assumed that point came sometime in his journey through Wild Space for Din seemed healthy as ever now.

He was one of the strictest followers of the way the tribe had ever known—he adhered to their codes and tenets like they were his lifeblood. Though, at times, he did things that baffled Paz and he seemed to search for fine lines and fences to dance on, there were things Paz never even dared to question.

His helmet was one of those things.

Din had only removed it at mealtimes with the Vizslas and in the company of his immediate clan, as was custom. Paz never got the sense he took it off any other time.

But he wasn’t with him every hour of every day, nor could he with absolute certainty say what way Din lived outside of the tribe. Looking back, he never said he had returned to their way—not in so many words; Paz had just… assumed.

He could not, with infallible certainty, say Din had not removed his helmet.

But for the report to come from one such as Riel Rook… Paz could not overlook the possibility the young man was lying. He could be trying to cast blame and seed doubt, sow dissension; if he could paint Djarin as a sinner, his own shortcomings would pale in comparison.

“If you did…” Paz said, bitterness filling his mouth with every syllable, some belligerent thing rising in his bones even as a voice screamed at him to stop, stop now before he tread too far down a road he couldn’t turn back from. He turned to face the young beroya. “If you did see his face, you could describe it.”

It was a test.

There was an obvious, low-effort way to cheat: Rook could say Din looked like his brother—most assumed as much—but if he did, Paz would know immediately it was a lie and would then rightly pummel him for his insolence towards a true vod and now their rightful Mand’alor.

With his heart thumping hard against his chestplate, Paz waited, hearing an eternity of ringing silence in the few small seconds Riel took to collect his words.

“Brown hair. Brown eyes with kinda… droopy lids. Light skin. And scars,” Riel described, gesturing vaguely to his own hidden face.

Paz held his breath.

Everything else could still have been a good guess but scars… scars were as unique as fingerprints and he knew Din’s like his own…

“He had these scratches under his eyes.” With his finger, Riel drew mirrored lines on the protruding ridges of his faceplate curving just beneath the visor. “There was a cut on his forehead, off to the side, and the bridge of his nose—it looked like it had been slashed open a few times.”

There were more.

But few saw the little scars on Djarin’s jaw—Paz knew about them because Paz was the cause of them: marks from some of their earliest scuffles, when Din didn’t yet know to duck.

(He got his revenge in due course and Paz had an almost identical nick on his own cheek from the first time the kid earned his respect.)

There was no way Rook could have known Djarin’s scars without seeing his face.

The implications sank in, all teeth and claws and harsh reality.

Driven by some urge he couldn’t rein, Paz turned and stormed to the other end of the cavern.

All his questions from the sleepless night reopened. All the dark, unsettled emotions he had been trying all day to restrain broke free and spilled through him: rapid and loud and burning.

How could he?

A shred of something—call it reasonableness or Devil’s advocate—made a plea that there had to be a mistake.

Rook may have seen Djarin’s face but perhaps it was inadvertent. He could have caught Djarin unawares or he could have engineered an incident. Paz didn’t know who would give up such information, but anyone who had seen Din’s face could have described it to Riel.

But, somehow, he just knew there was no other angle, no other explanation.

Riel was telling the truth.

Din had taken off his helmet and let himself be seen by ones not bound to him by clan.

Removing one’s helmet to save their child did not break their vow.

Removing one’s helmet for no reason did.

“Speak of this to no one,” Paz ordered.

“But—” Riel began to protest but stopped when Paz rounded on him.

“You know how these matters are to be handled.”

Each house was to care for their own.

That meant feeding, clothing, and sheltering.

It also meant resolving issues.

It was Paz’s duty to bring the matter to light—Riel knew that; it had to be why he came to him in the first place rather than calling Din out in front of the whole tribe himself.

“But he’s the Mand’alor,” the young man reminded him.

“He is not exempt,” Paz told him, his gloves creaking as he flexed his hands.

🎶chapter playlist🎶

Signal Fire — Snow Patrol

Gifts and Curses — Yellowcard

You Will Find Me — CHPTRS

Changes are Coming — Daughtry

#din djarin #paz vizsla #ezra bridger #omega the bad batch #omega tbb #the mandalorian #star wars rebels #the bad batch #lift a sail #unsinkable #my writing

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jedimandalorian · 1 year ago

Text

This is an excerpt from my songfic WIP “I’ll Be Home for Life Day.” I’m writing this for the @sabezra-life-day-celebration which you shippers should follow for updates. 😉

*****

I'll be home for Life Day

You can count on me

Please have snow and mistletoe

And presents by the tree.

Ezra Bridger stood there just staring with his eyes wide and lips parted, momentarily distracted from his work and fascinated by the sight of Hera Syndulla and Kanan Jarrus slow dancing to the familiar tune of “I’ll Be Home for Life Day” in the main hold of the Ghost. Ezra couldn’t stop himself from grinning at this very rare display of public affection between the two of them. Kanan was softly crooning the song’s lyrics right next to Hera’s ear-cones and was looking quite pleased that he brought such a rosy flush to her ordinarily cool green complexion.

Ezra was supposed to be helping Sabine decorate the holiday tree with glow spheres and colorful hand painted ornaments, but the sight of such a tender moment between his captain and his master reminded him of how his parents had danced to that very same song when he was a little boy. The end result was always the same: Ephraim Bridger always steered his wife Mira over to the doorway where the mistletoe was hung so he could steal a kiss from her. From the time little Ezra was old enough to toddle over to them, his father would lift him into his arms and hold him under the mistletoe so that his mother could kiss his cheek and they could both tell him how much he was loved. His mother and father did that every year until he was six.

Ezra closed his eyes and shook his head as if to ward off the painful memories of what happened on his seventh birthday. After that terrible day he had spent every Life Day on his own. There were no more Life Day trees, no more mistletoe kisses, no more presents…

…that is, until last year. Hera’s gift was the first present he had opened. She had bought him a new pair of red pajamas printed with drawings of silly, playful brown Loth-cats. Some fifteen year-old boys would have been embarrassed to wear such childish-looking sleepwear, but Ezra, who had recognized the drawings as Sabine’s own doodles, realized that Hera had them custom made for him. Ezra, who for years had only worn second-hand clothing that he had nicked or salvaged from recycling bins, had new pajamas that had been made just for him. He had launched himself into Hera’s arms, hugging her with a muffled “thanks” as he hid his face in her shoulder so that the others would not see that his eyes were watering.

“Ezra?” Sabine’s voice brought him back into the present moment. “You okay?”

Ezra hastily wiped his eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine. Is this one the last of the glow spheres? I thought we had more of them last year.”

“Here comes Chopper with the rest of them now,” Sabine said as the droid rolled over to them with another big tray of glow globes.

“Come on, we have to finish up before lunchtime. You’re getting your Life Day present early this year.”

“Early?” Ezra asked. Zeb had ambled over to them with the life-star, which he had the honor of placing on the top of the tree, since he was the only one tall enough to reach the top. “Why am I getting my present early?”

“We all chipped in to get you a gift card,” Zeb explained.

“Yep,” Sabine added. “And I’m in charge of your makeover.”

“Sabine’s taking you to the Spiral City Mall this afternoon to help you pick out some new clothes,” Zeb added.

“But—“ Ezra began, as if to protest.

“Make the kid pick out some new basics too,” Zeb said with a grimace. “I don’t think he owns any socks or underwear that aren’t torn or full of holes.”

Chopper’s electronic giggle made Sabine bite her lip, as if she was desperately trying not to laugh.

“Zeb!” Ezra exclaimed angrily. “That’s not true!” His face was red with embarrassment. “And I don’t need Sabine’s help to pick out under—“

“O Holey Drawers!” Zeb sang in synch with the next Life Day carol on the music-player. “Your bum is nearly showing!”

Sabine and Chopper collapsed in a fit of giggles, and Ezra found himself wishing for an air vent so he could crawl into it and not come out until New Year’s Day.

As if sensing how much Ezra wanted them to change the subject, Sabine came to his rescue. “Oh, they are so sweet,” she commented. Ezra, Chopper, and Zeb turned to look in the direction that Sabine had indicated. They all saw that Kanan was stealing a kiss from Hera under the mistletoe.

Ezra watched them with interest. Smooth, he thought. In a quiet moment he had with Kanan several weeks before, he had confessed his crush on Sabine and then asked Kanan how he managed to get Hera to return his feelings.

Kanan had looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied, “Kid, I might be with Hera, but that doesn’t mean I know how I did it.” Ezra shared a good laugh with his master over that. Kanan opened his mouth as if to say more, then stopped himself. Visions of a future that Ezra could not see clouded Kanan’s blind eyes.

After a long silence, Kanan finally said, “If it is the will of the Force, it will happen. And if it’s going to happen it will be when you’re both more mature and ready for it. For now, you should enjoy your friendship with Sabine, and value how close the two of you have become. Just take things slowly with her. Always be a gentleman, and trust the Force.”

Ezra snapped out of his reverie when Zeb punched his arm. “Are you studying his snogging technique for future reference, Lover Boy?” Chopper guffawed at this. Ezra was glad that Sabine was busy putting away the ornament boxes at that moment. He hoped she was out of earshot.

Zeb leaned down and stage-whispered to Ezra, “Let Sabine have her fun with you at the mall. You know how females are about shopping.”

Ezra nodded.

“Who knows? If you play your cards right, she might even let you hold her hand.” Zeb winked.

Chopper burbled something Zeb couldn’t understand.

“What did he say?”

Ezra was reluctant to translate what Chopper said. It was something like, “Ezra had better play his cards right with Sabine or the only hand he’ll be holding is an Idiot’s Array.”

Of course, Chopper probably intended to call Ezra an idiot by saying that, but he didn’t mind. An Idiot’s Array was still a winning hand in sabaac.

*****

So who wants Sabine and Ezra to go on a “mall date”? What sort of shenanigans should they get into?

What do you think of this story so far?

#sabine wren #ezra bridger #star wars #ahsoka series #sabezra #ezrabine #star wars rebels #hera syndulla #kanan jarrus #chopper #zeb orrelios #mira bridger #ephraim bridger #life day #sabezralifeday2023 #kanera

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brokenfuturerpg · 1 year ago

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PBS MASCULINOS POR EDAD

Hola personitas. Venimos con un aporte que nos ha costado un tiempito reunir. Es posible que algunos PB tengan 1 añito más de lo que pone, porque igual cumplieron recién. Esperamos les guste ^^

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