#look vizsla is violent man

[cienie-isengardu]

Star Wars Fact Files about Tor Vizsla

Fact Files in general are a pretty interesting source of knowledge about star wars lore however those are far from perfect, objective description. What is best seen with characters designed as villains, such as Tor Vizsla. For example, his entry is set out to present Vizsla as a man who “took excessive pleasure in the suffering of others” and was “prone to extreme cruelty”

And sure, Vizsla was not above solving his problems with brutal force, but adding the bold claim about him taking pleasure from hurting others to this particular picture is either the author's unfortunate choice born from ignorance or done on purpose ignoring the original source and in the result, a premeditated action to give the readers an misleading impression. Because you see, the picture above comes from the first issue of Jango Fett: Open Seasons in which Tor’s violence was very limited and original authors clearly did not go with the typical villain approach.

Lemme explain. 

When Death Watch managed to scatter True Mandalorians during battle, Tor Vizsla promised to running away Jaster Mereel that he will burn all his hiding places to the ground and execute anyone who helps him.

When Death Watch found little Jango working in the field, Vizsla got the needed information that the boy's father was helping someone wearing “soldier boots”, and that is why Death Watch came to Jango’s home. 

The next scene shows us Tor Vizsla interrogating Jango’s father by himself and this is the thing - all the beating was focused on the only one person confirmed to help Jaster Mereel. Little Jango was kept behind by one of Death Watch’s soldiers (as seen in the background),

but in the final scene, Tor did not threaten Fett Senior with killing his son(1) for not betraying Jaster’s location but that the boy will be forced to witness his death.

Tor: Answer me, or your kid will be wearing your brains.

One way or another, this was traumatic for Jango, but the point is, the original authors of the comics made a choice to not go with the typical villain route with Vizsla. If he took pleasure from others' suffering or was so prone to violence, hurting Jango was the best option to break Fett Senior, as a father would be more likely to betray his former associate(?) for his child’s sake than to spare himself the physical pain. What is even more, as the next frames showed, Jango’s mother and sister (later named Arla Fett) for some reason were allowed to stay in the house in relative safety and shoot down one of Death Watch soldiers that started the final shooting in which Jango's parents died.

The comics does not provide any information, did the women hide from Death Watch and thus attacked out of surprise when the situation looked dire or did Tor and his men know about them but ignored their presence(2), as only the Fett Senior was confirmed to help Jaster?

But again, if Death Watch knew and Tor was such a madman and psychopath as Fact Files claims, there was little Jango, an adult woman and teenage girl that could be hurt, both physically and sexually, to break down the man that refused to give away Jaster’s location. Death Watch could force Fett Senior to watch his young son or wife or daughter beaten to death, raped or tortured in any other way and yet Vizsla’s violence was limited to the man. Limited only to person confirmed to help True Mandalorians. A person Vizsla promised to execute at the beginning of the story(3).

Which gives an interesting nuance to the villain of Jango Fett’s story, something that original creators decided to include by adding this detail to the story when they could go with the typical “do as I said or I will kill your loved ones” threat. And this is something that greatly annoys me. Not just because of slander against one of my main favorite Mandalorians, but how the article was published in Fact Files- as the name suggests, a series dedicated to “facts” from lore, and yet presumably on purpose denigrates this certain character. 

This is the lesson that one should always be critical when engaging with widely understood source material and if there is a chance, to actually get familiar with the original source instead of just blindly relying on data books and other people's interpretation of characters and events.

SIDENOTES

(1) I even made a joke about that scene.

(2) If Death Watch knew about the wife and daughter hiding/staying in the house, it does not mean the women would be spared. As Tor said after Jango's parents died, they don't leave witnesses and thus Arla was presumably killed. One may though wonder, what would happen if Jango's father gave Death Watch Jaster's location? Would they left the family in peace or not?

(3) Tor also promised to burn down all Jaster Mereel's hiding places and in fact he keep that part of promise too.

[tarabyte3]

Mayhaps you could elaborate your top 5 hear-me-out monsters? 😏

Mr. Pyramid head makes me very blushy

Spectacular topic. Pyramid Head is an excellent monster. 😏

Yautja

They're strong and ripped, B I G, the intense body language 🤌, they have a code of honor that makes them fascinating characters, they can absolutely provide for you, and I have recently realized one of my types is apparently men in masks (Paz Vizsla, Immortan Joe, Yautja, Doctor Doom). I mean, just look at them!! Mask on or off, I don't even care. I love my crab faced boyfriends. (Crucified Predator from Predators (2010) is my favorite 😍)

Demons

You could include the devil (and D&D devils) in with this as well. I love corruption tropes, and demons are the embodiment of corruption. Too often they are portrayed in horror as just another violent Creature, when they're so much more than that. I love when they're intelligent, patient, cunning. Why turn to violence when temptation is so much more fun? They're a mirror to my Priest Kink. Seducer vs the seduced. Plus religion is actually fun when you're sexualizing it. 😇

Minotaur

The physicality and bestial aspect of a minotaur is similar to that of werewolves with one (in my opinion) very important distinction: Werewolves can shift their form to something human and a minotaur cannot. There's no split between man and beast. He IS the beast. So it then becomes about acceptance of the monstrous in its entirety. Not expecting it to change. Loving it anyway exactly as it is.

Death from Death and the Maiden paintings

This one is difficult for me to articulate. In this motif, Death is very seductive. It beckons and lures and corrupts, and is often portrayed as doing so in a very erotic and passionate way. Oftentimes moreso than depictions of two humans, even. I find it very appealing in a similar way as demons, despite the lack of any sort of anatomy or flesh. Apparently it just scratches some part of my brain. I suppose you could say I want to 😎 bone him.

Caesar from The Planet of the Apes

HEAR ME OUT. I know this isn't a very monstrous answer. And I know I am tempting fate here because I have been fighting for my life in my asks for saying Caesar is hot. BUT. Caesar is a monster. He's not truly an ape and he's not human. He's a very intentionally human coded Other. The first and truest next link of evolution as the result of a virus.

For anyone reading this and getting ready to send me MORE hate mail, let us refer to the Harkness Test: Does it have human intelligence (or "greater")? Can it talk or otherwise communicate with language? Is it of sexual maturity for its species?

Caesar passes all of them. He's a monster. He has Andy Serkis's voice and grunts and growls. And he's sensitive, intelligent, kind, brave, loving, and he's HOT. 😤

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2023: October 31st

Day 31: Free For All

Mando x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Fight Club style sex, anal sex, mlm, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fucking and fighting, face riding, oral sex (female receiving), helmet riding, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The loud squeal brings your eyes back to the center of the floor, stopping the conversation between you and another armored warrior as you watch Paz Vizsla take his prize. The the ruby red back armor of his opponent bows, the body lurching forward while a cock that you swear is as thick as your wrist sinks into the man to the hilt, the blue heavy- armored warrior pawing at the black flightsuit of the man under him so he can wrap his beefy, leather cladded paw around the smaller man’s cock while he fucks into him ruthlessly. 

The sight is one that is common now, occurring every week after he challenges Dorin Fatuk and wins.“I don’t know why Vizsla just doesn’t enter into a Riduurok with Fatuk.” Magda grumbles underneath her helmet. Scoffing and turning back towards you while dismissing the very public coupling that is occurring as other Mando’s talk and watch. 

You snort indelicately, watching Paz’s frantic thrusts while Dorin moans and writhes under him like he does every week. Giving in and accepting the defeat with a certain frantic relief. You don’t miss the way Dorin starts to rock back against the cock hammering into his ass. It just further proves your theory that maybe the smaller Mandalorian wasn’t fighting as hard as he could when Challenged. “Because then the Armorer wouldn’t let them fight.” You hum knowingly, sending a smirk back to the purple and gold helmet of your friend, watching your reflection in the T of her visor. 

Mandalorians love to fight, you think they goad one another on purpose, to have them pull their blades and clash. It was why the Armorer had decreed that all fighting be done here, in the Pit. 

The Pit was a portion of the covert that is far from the large passageways that house foundlings and younglings. Wanting to keep the noises away from their tender ears and the sights from their young eyes. The Pit’s rules had evolved along the way until it was known as the Fuck Club. 

You had the opportunity to deny a challenge, no one would look down on you if you did. Beyond the usual shit talking that seems to be second nature to Mandalorians when one or more gathers together. You wouldn’t be forced to fight. 

If you did fight, there were two outcomes if defeated. You would have your helmet removed, disgracing you and breaking your Creed, or you would be fucked. Anyway that the winner wants, right in front of the entire crowd that had gathered in the Pits that night. It was public, dirty and often violently satisfying. Nothing was better than fighting and fucking to a Mandalorian. You don’t remember the last time someone actually had their helmet removed. 

“Vizsla’s always been a showoff.” Magda huffs, making you grin at the annoyance in her tone. “Guess we can add exhibitionist to the list of traits.” 

You hum, turning back and watching the scene unfold. Paz pulls Dorin upright, nearly lifting him off his knees as he continues to thrust into him. The other man’s cock dribbling pre-cum and looking like it’s about to explode. You can’t even imagine how it feels to have the fucking hulk of a man batter against a prostate. Although you swear you had seen Paz and Dorin huddled off in a corner of the tunnels before the fights started. Hopefully it was so that Dorin’s poor little hole could be prepped to take that fucking python. 

“Are you going to fight?” You roll your eyes at the question, hearing it every time you decide to come down to the Pits to watch. 

“I wear no armor.” You remind your friend, motioning to your uncovered face and the noticeable lack of beskar that covers your body. You aren’t a Mandalorian, you have not sworn the Creed, although you are allowed to live among them. Their protection and acceptance among their covert in exchange for going out and securing supplies and bartering for necessities so that they can remain relatively hidden. 

“And?” The indelicate snort coming from your friend makes you grin and shake your head. “You could still beat half of them, armor or not.” Just because you did not wear their armor did not mean the Mandalorians had not trained you to fight. You enjoyed the time you spent training. They had wanted you to be able to protect yourself when you went to the surface. 

“Still-” You break off when you hear another cry, watching as Dorin’s cock starts spurting ropes of cum and hearing the roar of the heavy armored warrior behind him as he thrusts deep one last time, obviously cumming himself. The cheering among the covert was loud, raucous as they thump their fists on the plates over their breasts, covering the sounds of the two men as they ride out their pleasure. 

The noise turns into a mixture of conversation, the attention no longer on the men in the center of the ring but on the figure that has moved away from the wall. 

Din Djarin. He rarely comes to the Pit. The shiny, silvery beskar reflects every light in the place. Drawing more than a few visors his way. 

He’s a bounty hunter, often away from the covert. Traveling the galaxy and traveling to places that you can only dream of. The most you see is the rough market in Navarro, going above ground for the covert so they don’t draw more attention to themselves than necessary. Often wishing that he would take you with him, but you know that Din Djarin doesn’t even know you exist. 

His steps are slow, almost a saunter as he walks into the center of the Pit. The almost lazy perusal over the crowd, as if he is searching for his quarry makes a shiver run down your spine. He looks imposing, even among the Mandalorians here. There’s a moment when his helmet stops on you it seems and your heart skips a beat when he lifts his hand and points at you, loudly announcing your name to the spectators. 

You, he challenges you. Your eyes widen and you can feel the hundreds of eyes suddenly on your helmetless face. Making you wish that you had their armor to hide your surprise and embarrassment. To have that shield from the world and make them interpret your silence or the tilt of your head. 

Everyone is waiting for your refusal, you can hear the whispers starting to rise through the crowd. Djarin’s visor is still fixed on your face, body completely still as he silently demands an answer to his challenge. 

Why you? There are others to challenge. Plenty of available women in the covert who would gladly fight or fuck him. Is it some sort of test?

When you stand, the crowd roars, their leather clad hands pounding together in a muted, yet impressive thunder of applause. Making you a little more sure of yourself as you make your way down to the center. 

The rules are simple. No bombs, no blasters, no blood. Anything else is on the table, although you don’t wear hundreds of weapons strapped to your body at all times. Your flight suit is plain. A blaster on your hip, discarded onto a table to be retrieved later, a vibroblade that you have tucked under your sleeve, and a throwing knife in your boot. 

Standing in front of him, you weigh your options. Wondering what kind of strategy to take. There are weapons available. Sticks and practice swords. Something that you imagine the younglings using when they are training, but these weapons never leave this room. 

He’s quick. Moving before you can even blink and making you feel like you are behind the curve as he jumps towards the table to grab one of the weapons. Knocking into his shoulder harshly and groaning at the solid weight of the man. He’s like trying to move a giant wall of beskar. 

The noise of the crows fades as your vision narrows. All you see is Djarin, watching his core, his footwork as you start to pummel each other. You have a longer staff, a spear that you are using to your advantage. Pushing him back and knocking him off balance in a feverish melee attack. 

He’s good, you have to give him that. He’s quick thinking and his skills are impressive. Taking hits equally as well as dodging them and your attack is quick if you do say so yourself. Despite not being a Mandalorian, you helped train the younglings at times. 

‘Crack!’ The sound of your spear snapping over his chest plate makes you hiss, rolling off to the left when he attacks, bringing the sword down where you had once been standing. Giving you time to leap to your feet and sucker punch him right behind the ribs. A weak spot between his chestplate and backplates. He groans and stumbles forward, clutching his side and you use his bend over frame to climb up his back, wrapping your thighs around his helmet and starting to squeeze.

Din is trying to throw you off, but you hang on. Making sure that his helmet was firmly in place but you apply pressure to the cowl wrapped around his neck, effectively using it against him. Making it where he is struggling to draw breath and you both fall down when he collapses. Tapping your thigh and effectively tapping out of the fight and yielding to you. Making you the winner of the skirmish. 

The crowd roars over the victory, and you reach down to grip the edge of his helmet to begin to lift it. He grunts, panting under his helmet and he grabs your hand, squeezing the back of it, although he can’t stop you. If you want to pull his helmet off, it is your right as a victor. 

You don’t. You expose just the lower half of his jaw as your other fingers drag the lower zipper of your flight suit down. Exposing your cunt to his mouth. 

You’re going to ride his mouth. Using him to get you wet enough and then you are going to fuck him. Once again, the roar of the crowd fades as you hold Din Djarin’s helmet and grind your cunt down onto his mouth. 

He licks through your folds, groaning at your taste, or in relief that you did not pull his helmet off. You aren’t quite sure, but all thoughts but pleasure flee your mind when his tongue starts to move. Caressing and flicking over your clit eagerly, and you know that everyone is watching you ride his face, even Magda, from her spot in the stands. 

The edge of his helmet grinds against your clit as your rock your cunt over his face, riding his mouth and his helmet at the same time. Smearing your juices over both.

Quickly working you up with the quick, harsh licks, you reach behind you and squeeze his cock through his own flight suit. He doesn’t wear a codpiece, but he’s as hard as steel when you grip him. Obviously turned on. 

When you pull away, his lower jaw is covered in your juices, the wetness of your arousal glistening through his stubbled hair. He apparently shaves under his helmet, but not everyday. It is sexy to see, because you’ve never really wondered and now all you will think about will be that patchy brown hair. 

The crowd is still cheering, some of them shouting what you should do with Din, others just wanting to see you fuck. Your hands slap his own leather covered ones away to reach down to the zipper yourself. You want to pull his cock out. This is your show, your right as the victor to touch him as you wish. To decide how you are going to fuck him. 

Din groans again when you reach inside and wrap your fingers around him. Like most in the Pit, most Mandalorians in general, he’s not wearing underwear. Letting you pull the thick, uncut cock free and moaning yourself over the sight of it. 

He might not be as big as Paz, but he’s thick. He’s long enough that you know you will feel him in your guts when you sink down on him. Quickly pumping him a few times as you straddle his waist again. 

“I’m going to ride you, Djarin.” You accounce, knowing that the second your mouth opened, every Mando in the place would go dead silent, straining to hear what you are saying. Especially since this is the first time Din’s fought. It’s also the first time you’ve ever accepted. 

“Your victory.” He pants back, yielding to you and it’s strange to see his mouth move since his helmet is still halfway off. It also prevents him from seeing clearly, his head tipping down slightly to get a better look. 

It stretches you, your walls parting at the intrusion of his thick cock when you start to sink down on him. The slow beating of fists on armor starts to echo around the room as you take him. All visors on you as you start to ride Din. 

Your eyes slip closed and you don’t push his hands away when they move up to grip your hips, tossing your head back as you move. Feeling him twitch and pulse inside you. “Mesh’la.” He moans, making you whimper at the term. 

You can’t believe you won, that you are riding him in for all to see. Hands slide up to your breasts, squeezing them as you bounce on his cock and then you gasp when he pulls your zipper down, exposing your tits to grope them. 

The pace turns frantic, harsh. Galloping on your prizes' hard cock as you chase pleasure. Feeling him completely fill you up and press against that spongy spot deep inside you. Every roll of your hips pushes you closer to cumming. 

“Fuck.” You choke out, feeling your pace falter for a moment and you look down at his still exposed lower jaw. Reaching down to stroke a finger down the edge of it. Feeling him pulse and jerk inside you at the contact. 

He squeezes your tits, bucking his hips up hard enough to make you squeal. “More!” You cry, knowing that even if he takes over, it’s still your victory. 

That order is all it takes, Din holds onto your tits as he starts to drive up into you from underneath. Pistoning his hips up at a nearly unhinged pace. Feeling just as desperate as you are as the crowd continues to thunder around you. 

The second you start to cum, your entire world goes white, the wild cries from the crowd nearly unheard as all you can hear is your own blood rushing through your system. Even your own scream sounds muted. 

You don’t even realize Din is cumming as well. That he’s still inside you, lifting you both off the ground as he paints your walls with his cum. All you can feel is the pleasure. The tight squeeze of your cunt around him as your entire body shakes in pleasure. 

Collapsing down onto the hard armor of his chest plate, you pant, trying to catch your breath. Feeling him relax under you as well as you try to come down from the bliss that had blown you into the atmosphere. 

Fuck, you love the Pit.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Cowboy Like Me | d.d. | Bonus I

Din Djarin x princess!reader

Word Count: 2.0k

Warnings: Nada

Author’s Note: Thriving on the idea of defending Din’s honor against the Armorer <3

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me!

The Apostate

“Is there a reason why your covert decided to live on a planet with such violent creatures?” She asked as she piloted the Crest over the waters.

Din was manning the blasters, taking aim to put a stop to the reptilian creature that had interrupted the ceremony of the foundling. It would be his first time returning to the covert since they married –since saving Grogu –and he knew that his arrival was going to be less than exciting. While it wasn’t necessarily unusual for Mandalorians to marry outside their clan, she was not a Mandalorian herself and he wasn’t sure how the rest would feel. More importantly, he knew he would be facing consequences for the things he had done in the last several months.

“I’m not sure,” he answered truthfully, having blasted a hole through the creature and watching pieces of it explode across the beach. “Land over there.”

He pulled back from the guns, making his way back to the passenger seat. Grogu sat there, and he lifted the child into his arms as he peered out the window down at the covert who watched her land the ship. He had been teaching her how to navigate –her and Grogu, really –and how to pilot the ship. If anything because he liked seeing her behind the controls. But because she insisted she learn, in the very possible chance that they needed another getaway.

Shutting off the engines, she stood and held her hand out to him with a reassuring smile. “All will be well,” she promised as he stood, taking her hand in his.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite sure about that.

The Armorer stood beside Paz Vizsla, and the remainder of the tribe were scattered behind them as Din and his princess, with Grogu floating behind them, set foot on the beaches. Din greeted the Armorer with a nod, ignoring Paz who was staring him down. And Din knew he was. Because that's what Paz always did when Din was around: size him up.

“Din Djarin, you have returned with the foundling,” the Armorer greeted, motioning towards an opening in the mountains. “And the Princess of Senex.”

“Yes; the child chose to leave with me instead of remaining with his own kind.” He nodded as she stood up a bit straighter beside him. “And we married a short time ago.”

“So I have been told,” the Armorer murmured as they made their way into the forge. “Alas, there is nothing I can do for you here, Din Djarin. You are no longer Mandalorian.”

Even knowing that this was coming, Din’s chest constricted as the Armorer confirmed his transgressions. However, his princess seemed confused and almost offended as she cocked her head to the side.

“What do you mean? He has followed the Creed –he did not show his face until after we were married,” she argued, taking half a step forward. “We exchanged the Mandalorian vows; I am his riduur. You must recognize that –,”

“You are his riduur, princess,” the Armorer stated. “However, he has removed his helmet willingly. Had I known when he came to me, I would not have smithed your dagger, as he is an apostate.”

His princess and the Armorer stared each other down for several moments before she finally turned to him. She was searching for answers in his visor, as if trying to find his gaze. Waiting for some sort of explanation. And there were several –many of which involved her.

“When I saved Grogu,” he explained. While it killed him to detail his transgressions against the Creed, she deserved to know. But he didn’t want her to know how deeply he broke it for her. “I had to remove my helmet, and allow several people to see my face.”

She didn’t look convinced, however. Turning back to the Armorer, Din could see that the diplomatic side of his wife was coming out. He wondered if she knew she was using that royal ability of hers to speak, or if it simply came naturally to her.

“He removed his helmet to save a foundling. Is that not the highest honor of the Creed? To save a child?” The Armorer did nod once, but said nothing. “Should that not, then, outweigh the removal of his helmet, as it was necessary to fulfill the Creed?”

As if Din couldn’t fall even more in love with her, she had to go and fight for him in a battle of words. But he didn’t deserve her defense, as he knew what he had done. He knew why he was truly being excommunicated from his people. 

“He is not exiled for saving the foundling,” the Armorer continued. “You are aware of the Creed, princess. Which suggests you are aware that he cannot remove his helmet in the presence of any living being.”

Her brow furrowed as she considered what was being said. The Armorer stood, watching them both carefully, as the princess slowly turned back to Din, realizing what any living being meant.

“Din,” she murmured, her eyes searching his visor for any sign of misunderstanding. “Din, you said –if I didn’t see you –,”

“I know what I did,” he admitted, looking down at her. And he did know. He knew that removing his helmet –for any reason –would break his Creed. He knew the entire time; there were no loopholes. No way around it. He knew. “I know what I did, and I do not regret it.”

The Armorer watched them as his princess’s eyes welled with tears. And Din wanted to comfort her; wanted to draw her in, promise that it was not her fault. He knew what he was doing when he agreed to cover her eyes that first night on Sorgan. He knew what it meant when he removed his helmet and allowed himself to kiss her. It was not her fault; it never would be. 

He turned to the Armorer, holding his head high. “Were I to bathe in the Living Waters of Mandalore, would I not then be redeemed?”

“It is impossible; Mandalore has been lost.”

“But I would be redeemed, would I not?” He pressed, and the Armorer stared at him for a long time. “If I were to bathe in the waters and bring proof –would I be Mandalorian once more?”

“You would.”

“Then you will see us again.”

Their return to the ship was silent, with the only sound being the crunching on sand beneath their boots. She was angry; Din knew she was. She was easy to read on a good day, and even easier to read on a bad one. It was one of the many things he liked about her –she wore her heart on her sleeve and protected it deeply. 

“I think this is our first argument,” Din joked as he sat in the pilot’s seat, flipping the switches of the control panel.

“Is it an argument if I haven’t scolded you for being so careless?” She countered, and her tone was nowhere close to how joking he was. 

“I told you,” he reiterated, turning to face her. The teasing was gone, and he sat in front of her, posture straight as he turned serious. “You did not force my hand, you did not make me remove my helmet. I knew what I was doing. I knew what I was doing long before I even did it.”

She watched him for several moments, leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. Din took her silence as a sign to continue his side. “The day I found you –when you pulled me through the market on Nevarro –I knew I would not deliver you to your mother. I did not know I would marry you –but I knew that, when you protected me, the one hunting you, from the droids your mother sent after you, that I was done for. When you pressed against me in that alleyway; that moment.

“I broke my Creed,” he continued, reaching out to take her hands in his. “I broke my Creed because for the first time in my life, I wanted to be selfish and I was. And now, I am married to you and I will be redeemed.”

She stared at him for a long time, her eyes brimming with tears. But she leaned forward soon enough, pressing her forehead against the steel of his helmet. “I wish you would have told me,” she scolded still, but her voice was soft and trembling. Guilt ridden. And that killed Din, because he knew she was going to feel bad for his choices regardless of what he told her. “If I had known…I could have waited, Din. I would have waited to kiss you, if it meant not breaking your Creed.”

“You could have waited, perhaps,” he reminded her, bringing his hand up to rest against her cheek. His thumb ran over her cheekbone. “But I could not have waited any longer.”

———

Taglist (CLOSED): @r4iner @sgt-morgan @mingeniee @darling1darling @teriolan-blog @venusfalling @double—take @sunshine96 @lovelessprick @mxtokko @ellepascal @waddafaknik @c-ms1ut @kokoirne @sl-ut @munsons-queen @intense-sneezing @geekrenaissance @dilf-din @tizylish @ruleroftides @aheadfullofsteverogers

[probablyreadinsmut]

Untitled Mando x Fem!reader WIP. Planning on this being a short and sweet one maybe one or two parts, pure smut, maybe a little fluff.

MDNI

///

The awkward silence stretched in the cockpit, idly fidgeting with your fingers in your lap as you stare at the back of his stupid shiny head.

Turning to check for the thousandth time that hour, you saw the kids floating crib was still closed, not a peep coming from the far corner, you wished something, anything, would cut through the quiet, but nothing. Only the hum of the engine, the mechanics whirrs and the press of a button from up front where he adjusts the controls every so often... That and the little voice in your head that only you can hear telling you to make a joke or try to get him to engage in chit chat.

Have you ever tried to engage in chit chat with a mandalorian? Not. Recommended.

Maybe the silence was just awkward to you, you're pretty sure this is how he liked it. Before you got here it was just him and the kid, the little green monster is far from loud, he can't talk, but he can certainly make a din when he wants to.

The first time you'd heard him laugh was a few days after you'd accepted the job offer, laying in your bed roll down in the hull, there was a 'klunk' heard upstairs in the cockpit, followed by the sound of something metal rolling across the floor. 'Hey. That's not a toy. Put it down.' You'd heard Mandos modulated voice above attempt to chide the child, and then rapturous giggles descending the ladder. It was quite the sight, this little fuzzy green monster holding the metal ball in his clawed hands above his head like a trophy, tiny feet patterering across the steel floor towards you, a mischievous grin on his face.

How could you not fall in love with that?

Mando however... He was a little more difficult to love. Not that you're even sure Mandalorians want or accept love anyway. Some of them must do, surely? They procreate, you've met Pas Vizsla who told you he had a son, unless it's like a Mando thing to just go around adopting children as your own?

As you're staring at the back of his head, thinking entirely too much, you can't help but wonder other things about him. The man under all the imposing armour and the emotionless facade of his helmet. How old is he? Does he have dark hair or light hair? Dark eyes or light eyes? Has he ever kissed anyone? Touched anyone? Has he ever even had sex before?

Okay. Now that thought snaps you out of your daze, where did that even come from? Absolutely shouldn't be thinking thoughts about your boss like that.

But the silence is so frustrating! You can't help it if your thoughts went a little in the gutter, right?

"Mando?" Breaking the silence was necessary because maker knows where your thoughts would drift to next otherwise.

He doesn't even turn in his seat, helmet tilting slightly as if he were looking at you over his sbohkd e instead, unspeaking.

That annoys you, how quiet he is. How quiet he always is. "Will we be making the jump into hyperspace soon? 'Cause if we are and you don't need me up here then I'm just gonna head down and-"

"No."

No to what? The lack of elaboration makes you want to scream. "No?"

"No. I need you up here, even after we make the jump." Is all he has to offer before he turns his head back to face straight ahead. 

Okay so that clears that up. Though why he'd need you up here after is unclear, he's never asked you to stay before.

///

The jump into hyperspace always makes your stomach lurch initially, sure you're used to it by now and you're thanking the maker that you no longer need a bucket beside you. The first time it happened you'd barely had time to get to the sink in the galley before your breakfast had violently evacuated from your body. You'd scrubbed every inch of that tiny sink for an hour after, offering an embarrassed apology to him as you did so. Your new boss had heard (and probably seen if we're being honest) you throwing up on your first day. What a way to make an impression, he'd probably wanted to turn the ship around and drop you back off where he found you, there and then. He hadn't though, thank your lucky stars.

With the kid still asleep and the ship safely in hyperspace, you don't hesitate to undo your seatbelt and get up so you can at least stretch your legs, a small groan leaving you as you rise to your feet.

"What exactly did you need me to stay up here for?" You half expect him to answer as he usually does, his back to you, tone modulated but stern. Not this time. There's a slight squeek to the hinge of the pilots chair as he turns to face you, spreading his legs wide as his forearms spill over the armrests. If you hadn't had those brief thoughts earlier, this may not have been so inherently sexual but it was, the way he looked right now? Maker. This sight before you was going to star in your dreams tonight for sure.

"What I need..." why does it feel like his eyes are burning holes into you right now? Even if you can't see them, you feel it... "Is for you to come here to me."

Your brain all but short circuits right at that moment, looking at him dumbly as you try to understand what he means by that.

"Don't make me repeat myself. Come here." The command in his tone isn't something that's unfamiliar to you, you've heard it plenty of times but in this context? In this context it makes your clit throb and your mouth go dry. So you do it, you take those few small steps forward, until you're standing between his legs, looking down at him as his helmet slowly drags up your body to meet your gaze.

///

[vendettavalor]

@tacticalvalor said: “  you think i don’t notice but i do.  i can tell something’s wrong.  ”  -> paz to bo katan

⚔️ Emotionally Stunted Idiots Prompts // CLOSED ⚔️

She's not her sister.

She's said it before and she knows it to be true. She's not like anyone in her family, except maybe her father. But she wouldn't even know that. The old man was a pure traditionalist, so dedicated to the old ways of their warrior culture that he was scarcely ever around for her or her sisters. Never there to witness the way they cut her down for being just like him. He never saw the way they called her a disgrace for her rebellious nature. He was only ever there to give her her armor, and teach her how to fight, and instill in her the strength to shrug off their violent words.

And then they wondered why she grew up to be just like him. A soldier, a strategist, a warrior. They wondered why war was all she was good at when all they ever made her do was fight them.

And now where was she? Her mother was gone. One of her sisters was dead. The other was only Maker knew where. And in her desperate attempt to salvage the situation that was left to her in their absence, she lost everything. Her friends, her family, her clan, her home. And now, here were these new Mandalorians coming to her- calling her an apostate and worse but still bringing forth the same old Bantha fodder her father used to tell her now that they had reclaimed their homeworld.

Still a traitor, even in victory.

And here beside her now sits Paz Vizsla. Descendant of her old leader, her old friend. One of the few who knew the truth (though in his case, it was only because she'd told him - and the Armorer had confirmed it). The one she was so loyal to and whose name she tried to give honor to even after his most dishonorable death to some disgraceful outsider. And because she wanted to keep Mandalore free and honor her friend, she was still a monster. A woman whose very name was equal to sin. To omen. To death.

And somehow, she's supposed to carry that fact so easily. So unaffected. Because that is what is expected of her. This is the Way.

"I'm fine," she insists. Her gaze lingers on the distant sunset tucking itself away over the peaks that safely guard the border of their current settlement. Thin gold streams from the day's last light stretch over the encampment, their shadows fended off only by the torches and campfires being lit around the settlement in preparation for dusk and dinner. She looks over it all and she cannot help but feel... disgusted. Ashamed. Saddened.

These are her people. Her people which have been forced back into the ways of primitive survivalists, desperately scraping by. It shouldn't be like this. They shouldn't have to live like this. But they are. And it's all her fault.

She pulls away as he moves to touch her arm, rising to her feet instead with her helm tucked under her arm. She doesn't look at him. "I think I'm going to retire early tonight. I don't have much of an appetite anymore."

[newtie-patootie-bootie]

Masquerade (Chapter 1)

Summary: This is your third season and your aspirations on finding love are dwindling but news on Lady Whistledown’s society pages say that there is to be a foreign royal in attendance to the season. Could this royal dignitary be the one you’ve been waiting for, or could there be a mysterious stranger lurking in the shadows, waiting to pluck your heart for his?

Disclaimer: I do not own Bridgerton nor The Mandalorian- all rights go to the owners and creators of their separate stories.

Warnings: Descriptions of violence and minor blood and wounds- nothing too major. (I tell you, we’re getting into it, I promise!)

|| Please do not repost or plagiarise my work ||

If you’d like to read more of my works, please visit my Masterlist!

| Prologue | Chapter 2 |

Tags: @technicallykawaiisoul @call-me-soap​ 

Din stormed down the hall of his newly acquired estate, red cape catching the air behind him from the force of his gait and the beskar armour he proudly wore, winked in the early morning sun.

His helmet was tucked under his arm, leaving his uncovered features twisted in an enraged scowl and his untamed curls bouncing freely with his violent gait as he darted for the double doors that would lead him to the dining hall where his company would be breaking their fast.

The place in which he resided in had been bought once he had solidified the trade agreements with the Queen of England, the residence too lavish for his liking. It was more suited to Greef Karga’s own extravagant tastes, the man was his financial advisor but sometimes Din found himself lamenting in agreeing to bring the older gentleman into his court.

The house was dripping in the deepest red materials and gold accoutrement to accompany the ridiculously flamboyant furnishings Greef had purchased with the Crown’s treasury. It was a wholly unnecessary investment as Din had expressed his distaste for the country and its many crippling social demands and their tunnelled, biased view on the rest of the world around them.

When he had heard from the month’s financial statement and use of the treasury account that the properties Greef had purchased on behalf of his Majesty rivalled the livestock towns in their homeland, Din was furious but unable to do much of anything but issue Karga with a stern warning.

Karga made good on his promise to cease his incessant and improper spending habits but it seems Din was a little too late on that front.

Din growled, baring his teeth as he pushed the double doors open with one hand, dark eyes searching the table as his two Mandalorian guards, Sofir and Tatya- unhelmed, stood immediately and pressed their fists to their cuirasses. Both were young, perhaps too young to be kings guard but Din noticed their skill and the pride they had in their country. He chose them over the more experienced Mandalorian’s and he never regretted it.

Their half-eaten plates were abandoned in their hurry to address their king. The large table, some would say was ornate. A fine piece of craftsmanship.

Din would call it gaudy- unnecessary for a man who needed little and survived longer than the most socially capable of people.

For a moment, Din’s reality swirled and he was faced with humble surroundings. A different life, a life he was happier leading. With an internal shake of his head, the unwanted memories faded and he was once again immersed in the riches he was steeped in.

Din would have been fine with a crate and two boxes for chairs, but he could no longer be that man.

“Manda’lor.” Sofir and Tatya greeted him, bowing their heads in respect.

Din nodded curtly and gestured for them to return to their meals as he turned his piercing gaze to the foot of the table, searching. “Where is General Vizsla?”

Sofir turned her blue eyes to her king and swallowed the portion of fruit almost nervously, “I caught sight of him in the training room, perfecting his strikes.”

Din almost snarled his gratitude before whirling back out of the dining room with renewed vigour.

Long legs took him hurtling down the winding halls of his estate before he twisted the ornate knob and pushed the door open, revealing the training room in which Din, at the time of assembling each piece of equipment, was looking forward to utilizing at some point in between the droning events and simpering debutants and their aggravating mothers.

Even though he may not be what he formerly was, it did not mean he couldn’t keep his skills as sharp as the blade he wore on his back. Amongst the different equipment was a large ring raised off the ground, perfect for sparring.

And in the middle of the fighting ring was Paz, unhelmed and unclothed from the waist-up. Thick, corded arms jabbed at the air, testing his speed against the invisible foe he opposed. Sweat dripped from the soaked blonde strands of hair that hung over his forehead, blue eyes stony and focussed.

“You had no grounds nor merit to justify your blatant disregard of my orders, Paz!” Din’s voice boomed across the large expanse of the room.

Paz straightened, rolling his shoulders back as he turned to face his king, chest heaving with his laboured breath, “your plan to attend the ball unhelmed and unguarded was foolish at best, attempting to gain information on the most genuine of willing applicants completely unnoticed as you once used to did not go well, did it, Manda’lor? I saw you frolicking with that Duke’s daughter.”

Din remained eerily silent as he set his helmet down, the beskar rang out and he unclipped his cape and quietly folded it beside the helmet before sliding off his gloves and tossed them atop the cape. Paz watched as his king methodically removed piece after piece of his armour without a word- remaining silent as he peeled the layers of clothing from his upper half to mirror Paz’s own state of undress. Each garment was placed atop the armour, removed as not to soil the fabrics with sweat or blood.

Din’s body was not burly, nor could he hope to match Paz’s unique size but the fine definition of his upper arms and broad shoulders that were attributed to the years of dedication to his craft. His stomach was soft, not sharp and contoured like his general’s but Paz knew better than to underestimate his king and his smaller stature only attributed to his keen dexterity.

Dark, incensed eyes never left Paz’s and Din noticed the glimmer of uncertainty in the bluest part of his eyes but quickly covered it with the same stony indifference Din had been acquainted with all his life as he entered the ring smoothly.

Sofir and Tatya came barrelling through the open doorway, unwilling to overlook such a tussle from two of the most talented fighters in Mandalore.

They remained near the entrance, not wishing to overstep their welcome to watch their king and their General oppose each other in the fighting ring. “You’re lucky I do not have you punished for wearing another’s armour, least of all-” Paz was unprepared for the viper-like strike as Din’s fist shot from its dormant place by his thigh, snapping fiercely into Paz’s jaw, “-mine.”

The two guards watched, riveted by the raw display of power demonstrated by their leader.

Din Djarin was not a man easily intimidated by one’s size or power as one would be by Paz’s physical stature, but they both knew that Paz would not back down from a challenge either- not even from his king, “do you realise the precarious position you have put me in?! The young Dalton girl believes the Manda’lor and Din Djarin are separate entities!”

“You are no longer who you used to be.” Paz argued back, swinging his fist viciously and aimed right for Din’s nose but the latter was quicker and ducked from would-be blow, “your freedoms are limited as is your time to find a suitable partner in which to make your queen and rule by your side.”

“If I dare reveal myself now as the foreign ruler who she is so apprehensive of,” Paz swung again with a loud grunt and Din took his moment, ducking once more but the larger man caught on to his intent and lifted his knee, slamming it directly into the king’s stomach. The younger man rattled out a wheezing groan, stumbling back as his arms curled around his belly but Paz wasn’t finished and connected a quick blow to Din’s cheek- sending his king reeling to the floor.

“Continue, Manda’lor.” Paz mocked as Din slowly began to peel himself off the ground, curls tumbling around his head as he shook the fog beginning to blanket his thoughts

“Her trust will be betrayed as will her feelings if I choose to pursue her.” His voice was strained as he pointed at Paz, “you made the Manda’lor’s interest abundantly clear last night at the fete!” Din grunted as he straightened up, shaking off the ache in his stomach and spat out the blood filling his mouth from the cut inside his cheek, painting the scuffed flooring red. He shoved his reddening hand into the pocket of his pants and pulled out the crumpled Lady Whistledown and tossed it away as if it disgusted him, the sheet bounced on floor of the ring, rolling unevenly before it stopping directly in front of Paz’s feet.

Paz made to grab his opponent but Din twisted out of the way with ease, snapping another blow to the blonde man’s jaw. The general growled in frustration, “that scandal sheet has taken London by storm, we could not have our leader not make an appearance when he was reported to do so.” The two engaged in close combat, blocking and striking as they were taught in their tribe. “The speculation alone could ruin us and future potential alliances!” Paz rebutted, digging his fingers into Din’s wrist and tugged him forward as he screwed his dormant hand into a fist, “I did what was best for the Manda’lor’s image.”

Din dropped to his knees, narrowly avoiding Paz’s devastating strike and quickly regained his footing. Ignoring the twinge in his knee joints, the brunette used the sweat beginning to bloom across his body and twisted out of Paz’s hold before delivering harsh blows across Paz’s face- not necessarily aiming anymore. “I care not for any reporter’s musings, no matter how popular it may be!”

“Din Djarin may not, but the Manda’lor must!” The blatant rage displayed on Din’s features morphed into surprise at Paz’s argument and the man in question to slowly extricate himself from his king’s hold. “Our country is in your hands; you must do what is best for it and our people. It’s not just about you anymore, vod.”

Din huffed a soft breath, nostrils flaring as he took a step back from Paz.

The anger that fuelled him slowly began to drain as apprehensive eyes turned to his tribe-mate and Paz began, “I will apologise for wearing your armour, but I will not seek your forgiveness for my actions. I do not regret it.” Din watched his brother as he straightened his back, sweat-slicked chest speckled with his own blood. Every muscle flexing and only made him seem that much more imposing, “the Manda’lor is our leader and as such, I will not allow you to squander such a title away for a life you are no longer able to lead.” Din remained silent, staring deep into Paz’s eyes before stepping away and took a deep breath before moving toward the turnbuckle to retrieve a towel and tended to the weeping wounds across his bruising knuckles, “what are you going to do?”

Din turned to look over his shoulder at Paz, “what I have to.” His voice sounded resigned, “Sofir, Tatya, call the carriage around the front, please. We are going to visit the Duke and Duchess of Wintere, the Lady Dalton is about to receive her first caller.” He ordered without looking away from his wounded knuckles.

“Right away, Your Majesty.” The two guards promptly exited the training room, the soft clinks of armour following them.

The noise of the guards slowly tapered off, silence filling the space between Din and Paz as the king continued to care for his split knuckles, dabbing the beading blood away.

“You’ve not lost your skill, vod.” The slight pride that tinged Paz’s tone tickled Din’s amusement and huffed a chuckle in response.

“Were you expecting my reflexes to have slowed due to my recent negligence?” Turning to face Paz, he tossed the soiled towel to the general who caught it with ease and folded the fabric to an unused square before dabbing at the beads of sweat upon his brow.

“I had begun to believe that your former talents to have atrophied under the strain of the monarchy’s heavy expectations.” Paz answered easily, smirking at Din’s less restrained laugh, “I see that I was mistaken.” Thick fingers gingerly grazed over the bruise beginning to develop along his jawline.

“Good.” Din teased before bending to slip beneath the ropes, grunting in pain as the blow Paz delivered into his stomach protested at the movement, “perhaps now you will understand why I was most invested in the furnishing of this room in particular.”

Paz followed Din as he picked up his discarded garments and armour and meticulously reapplied each piece with grace, “you are going to pursue the Dalton girl?”

“I am.” The levity in the Manda’lor’s tone dissipated with the return of the hard topic, busying himself with the task of redressing.

“I wish you luck in your endeavours, your Majesty.” Paz bowed to his king before taking his leave, grabbing his linen shirt on the way out and shrugging it on without breaking stride.

Din sighed, strapping the cuirass in place before picking up his helmet and turning it face up. He could see his own reflection in the opaque visor, the silver and gold inlay winked at him in the streaming beam of sunlight.

There was no way he could attempt to court you without insulting your intelligence, nor could he take back the Manda’lor’s interest that seemed to capture this rumourmonger had shared with London’s overly curious.

“Haar'chak!” Din hissed quietly, setting the helmet over his head and stomped out of the room, cape billowing behind him.

You slowly opened your eyes to the pattern lining the border of your bedroom ceiling- the blue floral molding stood out against the stark white backdrop and in the middle was a fabulous illustration of a white owl taking flight amongst the snow-tipped hellebores and tilting upward toward the dawning sun. The mural itself was to your mother’s tastes, curved into a circle and tapered brushstrokes to blend with the ceiling to create the illusion of the image to be unfinished.

It was beautiful.

The picture was a little hard to make out from the shroud of darkness your room was ensconced in, its true brilliance remaining uncaptured.

The curtains had yet to be drawn by your maid and you heaved a gentle sigh while turning your gaze away from the artwork, your eyes slowly took in the furnishings that reflected the same blue on white theme as the rest of your bedroom did.

Your bedroom reflected the wealth your family carried and the multiple homes spanning across England were just the very same- steeped in expensive furnishings and high-end materials to make each abode even more comely. Your family’s London home was smaller than the country estate you and your brother had grown up in but it was by no means modest.

Many a suitor that had entered these halls had remarked on how grand the residence was, their eyes shining with greed and their pretentious gifts were poisoned by their determination to win the heart of the Duke’s daughter.

As your mind was overridden with thoughts of extravagance and lush surroundings, the image of an iron clad warrior flashed before your eyes, anonymous, alluring and unsettling.

Soft fingers pressed into the impressive material of your bed coverings, twisting the opulent silk between your fingertips anxiously before one of your hands slipped from the creased fabric and passed over your eyes, swiping across your brow as you reviewed last night’s events and your stomach began to twist with nerves:

As soon as the Mandalorian king was announced, overzealous mamas pushed their overbearing daughters toward him in the energetic hopes that they would be considered the new queen he had been purported to be desperately seeking.

Lost amidst the wave of hysteria, you did not realise that your partner had slowly begun to pull away from you, “I did not think he would come. What do you make-” your sentence trailed off as you turned to converse with the mysterious lord you had just met, only to see that the space he occupied beside you was now empty, “my lord?” You twisted in place, your gaze scouring every inch of Lady Danbury’s lavish ballroom until you made out the soft crown of untamed curls striding out of the room completely unseen.

“Lord Djarin!” You called, hoping you could gain his attention over the grating squawks of women fawning over the new arrival and cursed silently when he did not acknowledge you as he turned the corner out of the ballroom, out of sight.

Dashing forward, you took hold of your skirts to not tread on the material and attempted to remain vigilant in avoiding the flock of debutants elbowing and pinching their way closer to the king. You operated with a wide berth as you scurried for the exit, ignoring your mother’s calls when you felt a gloved hand clasp yours- forcing you to let go of your dress and cease in your pursuit.

Turning, your skirts fluttered delicately and the words of your polite rejection to the obviously headstrong lord bubbled at your lips- only to remain silent when you saw the silver helm of the king staring down at you. “Your Majesty,” you whispered, shock froze your intentions and you slowly curtseyed out of respect.

“Lady Dalton.” He knew your name?

With your hand still in his, he helped you rise and turned his body to face you while completely disregarding the gaggle of women who now fell silent, glaring at you with burning envy at his special attention.

“I must confess I did not realise we were acquainted, your Highness.” Your arm was still in his hold, orange-tipped leather fingers tracing the delicate bones of your wrist and you fought the urge to pull away from such a bold action.  

“We aren’t.” Blunt. Forceful. His words did little to calm the raging storm within you and you wanted nothing more than to pull away from his touch, not enjoying the coldness of his gloves, nor the anonymity that shrouded his being. Rather finding yourself wistfully wishing for the heat of another unfamiliar. An alluring lord that treated you with such care you’d never seen in any suitor beforehand.

“Well, in that case, how pray tell did you come by the knowledge of my name?” You retained your sense of propriety for propriety’s sake, your lips widening into an insincere smile that you had nurtured and cultivated over the seasons and separate events you had partaken in until you had mastered it.

It was a skill you used sparingly, mostly with unsavoury characters that had called on you with their ill intentions or their crass proposals.

“There was no shortage of envious musings in the town where your name was the topic in discussion. As for deducing you to be the wearer of such a fine name, it was rather easy,” you didn’t think it to be as trivial as he made it sound but remained silent as the Mandalorian king continued his deductions, “no one in this room fitted to such a moniker as a ‘winter blossom’ more than you.”

Your heart flipped in your chest and your fictitious simper cracked ever-so-slightly, “m-my Lord, I am flattered,” you curtseyed once again before raising your gaze to meet the blank stare of his opaque visor, “I would wish to commend on your armour, but I fear I may offend you with my lack of knowledge on the particular subject. So, in lieu of your warrior garb, I thank you for your service to your country.”

“I hope we meet again, Lady Dalton.” His gloved fingers slipped into your palm, his thumb gently curling over your dormant fingers, raising your hand to his helmet and gently rested it against the polished iron right over where his lips would reside were the armour removed.

Gasps rippled across the ballroom as he released your hand, the king nodded once before moving deeper into the room, flanked by his guards and the music began to play once again, tenuous and hesitant.

But, the sound of the sweet melodies flooding the room did nothing to drown out the wave of whispers that accompanied jealous eyes that were perpetually focused on you. You barely felt your mother’s hands on your shoulders before slipping down and kindly curling her arm around yours before leaning closer to whisper in your ear, “we will take our leave now. Leave your suitors wanting more, dearest.” Elaine gently urged you out of the ballroom- leaving the rest of the women to stew in their judgement.

Thomas and Ryder both followed you out, “I’m so proud of you, darling!” Your mother murmured excitedly and you could barely twitch your lips into a smile.

Your heart thundered in your chest and with your free hand, you clutched at the fine material of your bodice, swallowing nervously as you contemplated the fate of the season with the King of Mandalore chasing after you and a mysterious lord that became even more mysterious with every passing second-

-the sun shining down upon you ripped you from your reverie as Olivia pulled the curtains open with a chipper, “good morning, my Lady!”

You swallowed the primal groan that threatened to erupt from your throat as you lifted yourself up from the bed, the covers falling into your lap.

You sighed, running your hand down your rumpled bed-hair, “good morning, Olivia.”

Dragging yourself from under the covers, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and toed on your dainty pale blue slippers, “we’ll need a few more chairs in the drawing room I would think, my Lady.” You snapped your head up to meet a nearly vibrating Olivia’s gaze- only to see the offending scandal sheet clutched in her hands. Maintaining your composure, you held your hand out for the paper and Olivia handed it to you immediately. You mumbled a ‘thank you’ to her as you stood from the bed and walked to the vanity- taking your seat in front of the mirror as Olivia began to tend to your appearance and diligently style your hair, “your prospects this season seem rather remarkable, my Lady, I must say!”

You barely acknowledged her comment as you opened the sheet and read under the subheading:

‘The Warrior King Charmed by the Frosted Flower?

This bold writer would like report that it may be a very short season for our dear Lady Dalton, for she has caught the eye of the mysterious yet alluring king of Mandalore.

Following his jarring entrance into the Danbury Ball, the Mandalorian king set his sights on the beautiful Lady the moment he strode into the room to the call of his own title- a rather candid affair if I may be so bold to scribe.

It seems he was rather taken with our winter rose from before he laid eyes upon her, swayed by featureless letters printed on an ink-blotted page. An accomplishment that this columnist will take full responsibility for.

Lady Dalton will have her hands full this season, with mysterious kings and lords and many suitors of the ton, wishing for her hand.

Perhaps, the Diamond of the Season is not as Incomparable as previously titled. The Queen should seriously reconsider the moniker she gave so freely to the prettiest in the pool and notice that perhaps it is not only beauty that wins the hearts of men- perhaps it is a mixture of beauty, boldness and intelligence that only the Lady Dalton can express so effortlessly.

We all know how the Queen despises when she is wrong, do we not?

In other related news-’

You tucked the paper in your lap, resting your linked hands over it as to mask the words from your view. “Has my mother read it?” Your voice was small, barely audible but Olivia took no notice of the change and continued with her tasks.

“Yes, my Lady. Her Grace was the one to organise additional chairs in the drawing room.” Olivia affirmed and you sighed, drooping your head down and your chin touched your chest. Olivia tutted in friendly reproach before gently lifting your head with cool fingers to resume her work.

“Of course, she did.”

Your fingers dug into the pristine paper, crushing it in your hands as Olivia worked on your hair, “a glowing compliment from Lady Whistledown, don’t you think, my Lady? Your prospects on the mart surely should have reached the heavens itself with the interest of a king!”

“Oh, yes,” you hoarsely replied as your eyes found your own reflection in the mirror, unease clearly etched into the fine lines of your features and you swallowed gently, “a most pleasing tribute, indeed.”

There was a knock on the door and Olivia excused herself with a curtsey before bustling for the door, creaking it open as to keep her lady’s modesty. You heard Olivia and whoever had interrupted you speaking quietly- their hushed whispers filling the room yet unable to be deciphered. “Olivia, what is it?” You asked, looking through the mirror.

Olivia quietly closed the door, turning back to face you with wide, excited eyes, “oh, my lady! It’s so exciting!”

Your brows pulled together and you turned to properly catch her gaze, “Olivia?” You repeated, your arm resting over the support of the chair, waiting patiently for her to explain.

“The Mandalorian king is here, my lady!” You stood from your chair, your back ramrod straight and distress pulled at the knot forming in your belly, “he’s here to promenade with you.”

“P-promenade? Now?” You hushed, shock punching the breath from your lungs, “i-isn’t that a rather early development, we only met the night previous!”

“You must have made quite the impression, my Lady!” Olivia exhibited the excitement you should have been feeling as she helped your numb form back into the chair as she resumed her work on your hair with a renewed vigour.

The entire time, all you could think about was soft brown eyes, tufts of dark curls winking with blonde and red accents in the artificial light of the chandelier and large hands searing the skin of your back as he held you to his strong, broad chest to keep you from falling.

Din Djarin.

“Haar’chak!” - “Damn it!”

"Vod." - "brother/sister or comrade/friend."

[subbing-for-clones]

The New Apprentice Part 11

Maul x Sith reader

Word Count: 2.1k

WARNINGS: Oof um so yeah, SMUT 18+ ONLY, blood play, decapitations, straight up murder, power grab, power kinks, light cum play, over all violent.

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       The Death Watch customized their armor. It was in the small details that you had come to be able to recognize most of them. Clan signets, certain dents and scratches here and there, slight differences in paint. You didn't know any of them personally but you knew whose throat you crushed when they stood in your way to the throne room. Maul strode with his chin held high, hands clasped behind his back as you and Savage walked behind him clearing the way. You didn't have to see his face to know that his eyes burned, flaming with anticipation.

    Not many, but a few of the Watch stepped out of your way. It was them you let live. You needed numbers and mindlessly slaughtering all of them wasn't going to get you anywhere. Ghosts couldn't pledge loyalty after all. But the ones who shot or lunged for your master all met one of two fates. Suffocation followed by broken necks or simply being thrown off of ledges. Every step the three of you took could have shaken the ground with purpose. Savage had the last guard in his force grip while he clutched and scratched wildly at the invisible hand that held his throat, lifting him high into the air. You threw the towering doors open to the hall with a powerful unseen push and Savage threw the gasping Mandalorian hurtling towards the group that surrounded Vizsla in his false reign on the throne.

    Blasters were raised in your direction but Maul hadn’t faltered, stalking forward he growled loudly banging his fist against his chest and pointing at Vizsla directly.

"I challenge you, one warrior to another and only the strongest shall rule Mandalore!" The guard lowered their weapons and looked to their leader who took each step off of the throne slowly but filled with resolve.

"So be it. Give him his weapon."

    Bo Kataan unclipped Maul's saber from her utility belt and tossed to him. Gods, you could've fucking ended her right then and there for having the gall of being the one to hold your master's weapon. Maul force pulled it out if the air and into his hand holding it closely, igniting it with a savage roar as the red lit up half of his face agianst the sun's setting glow.

    Vizsla lit the dark saber and cried out, "For Mandalore!" before charging. The two met with a violent ferocity, electricity screamed as their sabers clashed red agianst a crackling black. You noted that Maul wasn't using the force. Whether it was out of personal pride or to strengthen the chances of the Death Watch following him you didn't know but marveled all the same as you stood watching with Savage and Almec. They danced dangerously around one another, weapons shrieking with every contact.

    As you had suspected, the battle didn’t last long. You were surprised when Vizsla had managed to disarm your master but he quicky regained the upper hand. Kicking the broken leader back to the foot of the throne he force pulled the dark saber into his grasp, lit it and beheaded Vizsla in front of all of his men.

    You watched unblinkingly as Maul took his rightful place on the throne. His golden eyes bored straight into yours, a slickness wetting your folds at his power display. You barley registered Bo Kataan sneering something with a disgusted tone to her voice. Your masters growl rang out clearly in the hall calling for her execution along with the deserters who joined her. You walked slowly away from the door; eyes still locked on his, predatory. Blaster shots flew past you. The traitors had lit their jet packs and took flight, returning fire. You were possessed by lust, more so than you ever had ever been in your life.

    You felt more than thought about your arms lifting above your head, clenching your fists and slamming them back to your side, power fueled by your emotions. The loyal Death Watch members stared in amazement as every deserter crashed to the ground with such a force that their beskar shattered on impact. Death rattles and groans of agony drifted from piles of crumpled limbs as blood pooled around them. An invisible, ethereal hand brought Bo Kataan to her knees in front of you, clutching at her neck to no avail like you had seen dozens of times by now. Your eyes still locked with Maul’s.

    He leaned back in the throne grinning wickedly as you took your sabers from her belt where his had hung beside them not minutes before. You took a moment to look at her face, swollen and purple while her eyes bulged. You lifted the shorter of the two sabers to the side of her throat and lit it, plunging the plasma blade through her neck. You ripped the last tendons that connected her head to her shoulders with a violent spray of blood, drops splattering across your cheek.

    The loyalists were frozen in place, even Savage was gaping but you didn’t see any of them; only your master. He must have commanded them to leave the hall because bodies in armor rushed past you as you sashayed up to the throne before dropping to your knees between his spread legs; his twitching bulge painfully obvious now. You reached up to the hem on his pants and dragged them down, freeing his aching cock.

    You didn’t hesitate to drag a long languid lick from his base to his dripping tip while he groaned loudly. You captured the tip in your mouth and lightly suckled it, swirling your tongue around his head as you sunk lower down his shaft. Eyes locked onto his you took him all the way down to his hilt; gag reflex be damned. You were blown out by lust and feral for the man before you. Any slight shred of doubt you held in his plan, gone. You swallowed around him and he hissed, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. He gathered his bearings and pulled you off of him by your elbows and dragged his tongue over your chin and cheek, collecting the blood where it had splattered.

    After cleaning every last drop off of your flesh he delved his tongue into your mouth, tasting himself on your breath. He was growling while he tore your bottoms off of you, exposing your skin to the chill of the air. His hand plunged between your folds roughly and he moaned at how wet you were; dripping down your thighs like you had already cum.

    He bit at your lips viciously before pulling away long enough to pull you onto him and directing his cock into your burning core. You gasped out as he brought you down flush with his hips on the throne. You lifted slightly to fall back down onto him as he thrusted up into you. The pace was brutal, ferociously fucking each other as teeth explored one another’s soft necks. His pace impossibly picked up and your legs were starting to shake, breathing became ragged and inconsistent while you clenched around him. You screamed your release and went limp from its power as he continued to fuck into you until he was roaring animalistically in your ear; filling you with his cum. He gripped you there, on his cock, bodies littered around you, Bo Kataan’s blood staining your top. You stared into each other’s eyes until your breathing slowed.

      A week passed since your master took Mandalore and instated Almec as its prime minister. The Death Watch who had remained loyal to your master had painted their armor black and red, the higher-ranking members adorned a crown of horns in semblance to Maul’s. All that had seen your display and no doubt heard your sexual activity immediately after the bloodshed obviously feared you. Going rigid if you turned a corner and walked into their line of sight. You had tried to assure them that as long as they did their jobs and served the new Mand’alor appropriately they had nothing to fear of you. This only seemed to make it worse.

    That night when you returned to yours and Maul’s shared room you paced around while he read a data-pad from a desk.

“I’m gonna make them like me,” you decided aloud, eliciting a chuckle from Maul.

“They don’t need to like you to do their jobs darling.” He was wearing a long silken black robe as he peered over the rim of his reading glasses at you. He had adapted incredibly quickly to the finer things part of this new situation. He adapted quickly to all of it actually; he seemed to seamlessly juggle the various crime syndicates and the new planet easily.  

“No, they don’t, however, people who serve out of fear will only serve you for so long. People who like you, who love you, will follow you to the end of the galaxy and back,” you ran your hands over his shoulders, down his chest and nibbled at his ear, “as I would for you.”

Maul took off his reading glasses chuckling louder as he turned to face you, “they watched you kill at least fifteen solders simply by lifting your arms. Then you proceeded to rip a woman’s head off who had held an air of importance within their ranks; the second I sent them away we fucked on the throne while you were covered with blood,” he gazed at you like you were the most wonderful woman who had ever existed in the galaxy and you playfully pouted.

“I guess I did scare them a little didn’t I?” you pouted coyly. Maul stood to kiss you.

“Yes, my love you’re utterly terrifying and I love it. I love you.” You rubbed your nose against his and nipped at his lips, “I love you too.”

You took his hand and pulled him into your shared plush bed, “I’ve been thinking.”

He turned on his side, propping up on his elbow and dragging his other fingers down your curves, “yes? What about?”

“The extra funds we seized from Satine’s personal accounts. I think we should use them to relight the forges that the pacifist had extinguished. I’ve been reading up on the people’s customs and it seems they value a few things above all else, the forge fire being high on that list.”

He hummed in thought, “and what of the rest of the funds? That surely wouldn’t take all of them to accomplish.”

You thought for a moment before answering, you didn’t want to come off as undermining his rule but he had asked for your opinion so you spoke, “well, Satine had been struggling to get food to some of her people. I looked into reports and found that several extensive farm land properties had been seized from various clans by the crown after failing to make payments on them. After statistical analysists, I calculated that if those lands were to bear crops and raise meat yet again; Mandalore could be self-sufficient in two seasons. I suggest we give the land back to the clans who lost them, abolish their debt and use the money to seed their fields. Mandalore would feed itself without the need for outside intervention and you’d have their gratitude along with their loyalty.”

    Maul had removed his hand from your side to stroke his chin in thought of your words looking off into the distance. You waited on bated breath for his response. He eventually looked back to you with a proud smile on his lips, “that would work. You know,” he took your hand and pressed a kiss to your fingers, “you’d make a wonderful Queen. The people would adore you as I do.”

Your face heated as you looked away, honored by his praise and humbled by it.

“I will bring your suggestion to Almec tomorrow and see that it happens. I know I’ve been busy but we will resume your training very soon my love; I’m sorry the break has taken longer than I had perceived but please know I haven’t forgotten about it. It can’t be a bad thing to have a planet full of warriors grateful and indebted to me. Someone wiser than her years recently explained to me why it’s best to have people who like you, serve you.” You giggled at his mirroring and locked your lips with his.

   The two of you lazily made love until sleep took hold of you both. As you drifted off into its warm embrace you sighed contentedly, the path felt clear again. This is what you were meant to do in this moment, heal these people and their planet and strengthen Maul’s rule here.

[savagesbonergarage]

If you’re still taking requests, how would you feel about a Savage x Reader where the reader works in the Sundari palace as a hand of the duchess/lords and/or works as a diplomat, but then surprises Savage with her combat skills? (Steamy sparring/demonstration of said skills ensue from there? 👀) Feel free to make it as NSFW as you’d like (IF this is something you’d be interested in, that is 😅)!

I mean, of course?

I’m going to take some artistic liberties here and combine this request with another one, the second part to this ask about reader's first kiss with the Opress brothers. ☺️

A/n: I think the only warnings are violence, death and a little steaminess at the end? Nothing TOO steamy though...at least, not in THIS one ;)

This time featuring our favorite golden boy~

Savage

"First Kiss"

It happens after an intense battle.

The cowardly defectors of the Death Watch weren't content leaving Sundari Palace to it's rightful rulers, it seemed. It certainly wasn't an unanticipated move, with Prime Minister Almec having predicted some form of retaliation due to the imprisonment of the former Duchess Satine and the familial bond correlating with that other Kryze traitor who dared to reject Lord Maul upon Vizsla's defeat - however, no one seemed to foresee who their precise targets would be.

Rather than attempt to rescue Satine, they prioritized removing the alien intruders from the positions they obtained directly. An otherwise foolish and hasty move in any other circumstance, yet they managed to establish the perfect link that would lead them to victory - or so they thought. Before they could confront the zabraks they'd have to eliminate Almec, and in order to do that, they needed to eliminate you, his diplomatic aide. It might have worked, too, if they'd only been able to proceed beyond the first phase of their plan.

Unfortunately for them, you were also a mandalorian. Perhaps not the sort that paraded around in their armor and clung to their identity as a warrior for dear life, but you were well-versed in combat nonetheless. Despite the lack of battle situations in your daily life, you could hold your own fairly well should the need ever arise.

Today, it did.

You watched from the balcony of the palace as the city below became erratic with suspicious activity, the guards at their stations displaying unusual behavior as you watched them leave their posts and return unannounced, all the while some approaching unknown speeders crossed the boundaries of royal property - something only the traitors of the Death Watch would recklessly attempt. Clearly, some had already infiltrated the palace and were transmitting orders for a coup. Almec was inside, but he did at least have a few bodyguards with him. You, however, weren't detrimental enough to require protection, and therefore made an easy target to subdue before moving on to the rest of the ruling body - in theory.

In practice, the Death Watch assailants soon discovered that the first phase of their assassination plot had a bit of a hiccup, and by 'hiccup' that meant 'the weak-looking young lady in fancy robes is killing us, actually'. Every warrior that was sent up to dispatch you was never heard from again, and by the time the fourth comm cut out, they began arriving in pairs, and then triads. Eventually, too much precious time and muscle was wasted and the entire palace was made aware of the plot, with the red-embellished mandalorians quickly arriving to thwart the forces of the blue-armored enemies.

It was now or never if they had any hopes of weakening the fundamentals of the ruling body, so in a desperate attempt to at least get through to dispatch Almec, almost every one of their soldiers was sent to exterminate you. Ultimately this didn't go unnoticed, and even the zabrak brothers themselves were made privy to the onslaught of traitors surrounding you. Rather than send in reinforcements on his behalf, Savage was anxious to handle the situation on his own - for exactly what reason he couldn't quite determine - although he was cognizant of the fact that if it were anyone else being attacked, he wouldn't be as inclined to get personally involved.

Even though you were well-taught, you were only a single individual and therefore hardly capable of taking on what was undoubtedly a small army. The large and powerful zabrak arrived just in the nick of time to see you about to be overwhelmed by a handful of heavier-looking infantry soldiers, and before the final blows could be dealt, you looked up after being alerted to the sound of men screaming to see Savage’s arms yanking two of your attackers away and throwing them violently over the balcony. The crimson blades of his double-bladed lightsaber ignited, sending a rush of anticipation for what was to come through you as he stood with his back to you somewhat protectively, however, his resoundingly low voice ushered in a command that forbade your involvement.

"Leave, servant."

You collected yourself to the best of your ability and geared up to do as you were told, wiping some blood away from your face as you slinked off to let the zabrak handle the rest of the enemies. There weren't many left, no doubt he could defeat them all easily-

However, a horde of red-clad foes in stolen armor quickly flooded onto the platform via jetpack as well as on foot and surrounded him from all sides, firing projectiles and flames from their gauntlets all at once in an attempt to subdue him. They concentrated absolutely all of their firepower on Savage, aware that he'd still manage to take most of them out, which he did - but not before sustaining some significant damage. You watched the scene unfolding, taking notice of their strategy and how they were timing their efforts to make a constant barrage of attacks that would gradually injure him until he was weak enough to kill.

You weren't about to stand by and let that happen.

Fortunately, it seemed that your presence was all but forgotten while they focused on the beast rattling them around with his brute strength and bursts of force energy, which gave you the opportunity to give him more of a fighting chance before it was too late. There were openings all around, and although it would be risky to your own safety, you never thought twice about hesitating. Most of the onslaught that he couldn't deter was aerial, their attacks inevitable while he focused on battling the ground enemies that were posing a more immediate threat. That was your chance.

You made yourself known to them, running back out onto the balcony and yelling something to the effect of "forget something, di'kut?" while you left yourself an open and vulnerable target. One of the airborne attackers took the bait, redirecting his attention to you as he shot a restraining line from his gauntlet. You allowed it to reach you and wrap all around your leg, the wire sharp enough to constrict and cut through to exposed skin, yet you acted quickly despite the pain and yanked on the line with every ounce of strength you had, ignoring the cuts your palms sustained as you did so. He jerked downward, only by a few feet but it was enough that you could jump and latch onto him, delivering a swift kick to his face as you used the edge of his breastplate to cut the wire while you climbed onto his shoulders. He reached for you, but not quickly enough, as your thighs strangled his head and you violently jerked your hips all the way to the side, an obscene crack of bone sounding through the air as you ended him. The body went limp, yet the jetpack kept operating and you used the opportunity to guide yourself and the corpse to another of the flying opponents.

With a vibroblade that you retrieved from the dead man's belt, you punctured the jetpack and lept off of it right before the impact. He collided with an enemy utilizing their flamethrower, and the result was a fiery and undoubtedly lethal explosion that consumed not only its immediate target, but the remaining airborne attackers as well. You fell, not as gracefully as you would have liked with the force of the blast above sending you down hard, making a controlled landing nearly impossible - if you even landed, that is. Luckily, Savage took notice of your predicament and used the force to not-so-gently catch you before you missed the trajectory of the balcony completely, and with a flick of his wrist you were flung onto the hard ground. It wasn't a very graceful landing, either, as he was still preoccupied with his own battle when he helped you out - therefore the back of your head and torso took the brunt of your fall, which served to quicky render you unconscious.

~

The throbbing pain in your skull was sensational before you even opened your eyes. The smell of bacta filled your nostrils and the sterile sting of it was piercing through the open wounds on your skin, making you wince. However, what really seemed to fully awaken you wasn't any discomfort from this, but from the cold compress against your forehead. You stirred, and just before your lids cracked open, the pressure of the compress lessened significantly and the rag slid down the side of your face. There was a whoosh of air beside you, prompting you to look in that direction to see the blurry visage of black and gold heading toward the door.

"Lord Savage?" you inquired, voice caught between a croak and a squeak.

He stilled, apparently debating on whether or not to leave the medbay now that you had acknowledged his presence. After what felt like a full minute he pivoted on his feet to face you again, taking a single step forward as he thought of something to say.

"So," he began, a strange tinge of embarrassment in his tone, "you survived."

"I... yes," you replied, feeling a little flustered yourself for some reason, "...so did you." There was a pause that carried an unnerving amount of tension in it, and you decided to say something else to remedy the stupidly obvious statement you made. "What happened? Did the enemy retreat?"

Savage answered quickly, somewhat relieved to be having a less personal discussion. "Yes. Their forces were significantly depleted. Lord Maul is pleased with the outcome of the battle. I'm also- um...I'm pleased-, uh, grateful-, um, you fought good. Well. You fought well."

A small smile tugged at the edge of your lips, the unanticipated compliment lifting your spirits significantly. "Um, thank you. You fought well as...well."

Another painfully awkward silence. You swallowed, suddenly remembering your position as a diplomatic servant indebted to one of your masters. You spoke again, reverently and candidly. "Thank you for guiding my fall. You saved my life."

The zabrak's countenance softened for a moment before you took notice of the bob in his throat and what might have been a temporary flush in his tattooed cheeks. "Yes. Um, I apologize that it was a harsh impact. I was afraid that it did more har-" he caught himself, taking a moment to cough awkwardly into his fist before he continued, "I'm glad you're not dead." He winced after he spoke.

You felt your own face getting warmer, and this time you knew that it wasn't due to the absence of the cold cloth against your skin. It was...strange enough that he had complimented you earlier, and now he was more or less expressing relief that you were alive. It wasn't inherently anything to feel flustered about, yet you felt like he wouldn't have said those things let alone be here with you if it were anyone else. You couldn't quite discern what that possibly meant, but there was no denying what you hoped it was...

You snapped back into reality when you heard his voice again, realizing that you had been stupidly staring right at him while you were lost in thought. He looked almost strained, as though he was trying to be as nonchalant as possible and utterly failing to do so. "Your...injuries are stabilized?"

"Um..."

You sat up a little to get a better look at your own body, all properly bandaged and set despite the pain.

"Yes. What about your- oh."

Your thought was interrupted when you finally analyzed the man before you and found that he was still pretty battered in most places, the major wounds clean but still irritated without any coverings. He was raising a non-existent brow at you, confused by your concerned expression as you quickly forgot to filter your questions. "Do you not like bacta patches?"

Savage momentarily seemed somewhat reluctant to answer the question, but evidently decided to do so anyway. "I'm fine with patches. I hate droids."

Ah. After the unexpected welcome he and his brother received when the Death Watch first acquired them, it only made sense that Savage wasn't privy to being operated on by machines - and with the medbay being staffed solely with them, his disinclination to have his wounds checked was understandable. Still, your worry was outweighing your conscience, and the words slipped out before you could stop them. "I can help you."

Once again, silence. You wished that you'd been killed when your head hit the ground. What were you thinking, offering care beyond your duty to Lord Savage of all-

"Alright."

You blinked. He was serious. You both cleared your throats and avoided one another's eyes as he fumbled around looking for a chair to place at your bedside and you clumsily retrieved some bacta patches from your side table drawer. You set them on your lap and looked over as you felt him plop down onto the seat, and you almost audibly gasped when from the corner of your eye you realized he was nearly naked. You hadn't even heard him remove his heavy armor, but you...you didn't mind it. Don't stare, do not stare, do not-

"L-Let me see your arm," you managed to say coyly, feeling ridiculous as he extended his forearm and rested it in your hands, which made them look absolutely miniature in comparison. Savage was obviously a large man, but actually having him close like this and touching him only made the size difference that much more apparent. This was also something you didn't mind. His skin was so warm and rough even in places where the flesh would be more supple on anyone else, the texture so oddly pleasing against your fingertips, which were lingering a little longer than they should have been with every new patch you applied. It didn't take long for you to realize that your heart was racing, and you had to consciously pace your breaths to keep them from becoming ragged. Maker, pull yourself together!

Before long, you had applied the final patch and it was time to dress the last wound - his swollen lip. It didn't need an entire patch for such an insignificant injury, only a dab of bacta gel that you gingerly applied with the pad of your ring finger. This time, neither of you were able to avoid eye contact. You were both extremely cognizant of the...tenderness being displayed, and you could only hope that you weren't making him too uncomfortable, let alone aware of your more hidden impressions. You felt the warm wetness of the inside of his mouth against your finger, and with that you abruptly took your hand away before you did, said or thought something you might regret.

"Finished."

Savage examined your handiwork, seemingly pleased with the results. "Thank you."

"You're-, oh. I missed one."

You took his hand and faced the meat of his palm in your direction so you could get a better view of the significant scrape there. Once you had finally applied the actual last bandage, you smiled softly and breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"There we go," you uttered aloud, and without thinking, you brought his massive palm up to your lips and lightly kissed the patch over where the wound was. A beat. Your entire countenance sank as the realization of your actions finally hit you with the force of fifty rancors. Oh God. Oh my God. I really just did that. I just-

You reluctantly lifted your head to see that Savage was just as puzzled as you were, a little frozen in place as his eyes never left that spot on his hand. "What...?"

Oh, kriff.

"I-," you blurted, stopping yourself before you said I'm sorry, since, well, you weren't. Obviously you wanted to do it, but now the difficult part was explaining to the giant zabrak sitting in front of you what it all meant. Hell, you didn't really know for yourself what it all meant. "It's..." you tried again, "it's an old healing gesture. Parents will do it to their children's wounds to 'kiss them better'".

Dear God, that sounded even more pathetic out loud. Was it too late to run back out to the balcony and jump off? Maybe you could catch Lord Maul in a bad mood and he'd mercifully end you? Forget Maul, the zabrak you should be the most concerned with was presently almost right in your lap and any second now he could become unhinged-

Only, he didn't. He only looked...curious. Not angry, not confused, simply just curious. He was still studying his hand, his golden irises flickering while you all but held your breath. "Interesting," he finally replied, quelling your anxiety for the moment, "does it always work?"

"Um-"

His hand was at your mouth before you could respond, his expression charmingly eager. "Again."

Again?

He wanted you to do it again? To kiss his wound...again? You swallowed, your chest swelling up not with fear exactly, but with a strange anticipation that you weren't expecting to feel that night. It wasn't your place to deny him what he wanted, so you held his wrist up with both of your hands and carefully placed another kiss in the same spot, letting it linger for a while longer than the last. Your lips made a tiny yet audible smack against his skin when you pulled away, and Savage's eyes weren't on his wound when you drew back - they were on you.

"Hm," he whispered, "it works."

"Lord-"

"Here," Savage interrupted, bringing your hand to the patch on his chest, "this one, next."

You gazed up at him, as if to inquire if this was really okay, and his expression in return was genuinely insistent. Did he... Did he really believe that your kisses were helping, or was he...? You tried not to think about it too much, instead simply closing your eyes and bringing your lips to each patch he guided you to - his chest, his arm, his stomach, his thigh, his shoulder - and when you pulled away, heart pounding so rapidly there was no possible way of concealing it, your blush deepened when you felt Savage's lip against your fingertips. You gazed at him once again through half-lidded eyes and silently asked if he knew, if he really knew what he was doing - turns out, he did. He absolutely did. His arm was already snaking around your waist-

You started out carefully, just in case, only barely allowing your palms to graze against his pecs as you leaned in and softly collected the most swollen part of his lip in yours. You kept it chaste, making no moves to deepen it, and neither did he. You simply stayed like that for a while, only applying the slightest bit more pressure right before you pulled away. Your eyes met. There was a dual beating beneath your palms - two hearts - and with no further words needing to be exchanged between you, your mouths swiftly met again in tandem and your embrace on one another tightened. It wasn't very chaste this time, Savage uttering a growl into your mouth that wasn't at all menacing while his teeth grazed your lips, rather, it came from a place of sheer desire and need and passion-

It wasn't much longer before his large frame was pressing you into the bed, one of your hands cupping the back of his neck and the other gripping onto one of his long horns as you felt the bedframe staggering to support the weight. Savage also took notice of this and finally parted from you long enough to speak, his low breaths sensual and uneven. "Perhaps we'll continue this in my private chambers..." he growled into your neck, sending heat coursing all throughout your body before he finally asked, "do any of your wounds require...a healing gesture?"

You managed a playful chuckle, tenderly bringing your lips to his once more. "Yes. All of them."

He smiled against your skin before effortlessly picking you up and holding you against his chest. "I have my work cut out for me," he purred against your neck before pulling your body even closer to him. "I'll take all your pain away."

[stars-trash-18]

Paz Vizla’s

It was soft hours while I listened to a new playlist and all I could think of was this situation. I try to keep my readers as badass as possible while trying to create a connection to the audience, and I realize I may lose that connection since reader is a mother. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did because I sobbed like a baby proof reading this.

TW: Pregnancy mentions, injury mentions, blood, angst

You cursed the day you told Din he could use your home as a safehouse after the third time he came to you for healing .You curse the day Din Djarin led that giant blue hunk of metal to your doorstep, said hunk of metal charming as could be with the amount of blood he had lost. But none of that could be changed now, especially as you trudged through the muggy forest towards the coordinates DIn had given you, “in case anyone found out you had been harboring mandalorians,”. Your body burned as you marched further, not having recovered from the ordeal you experienced two months ago, the tiny bundle wrapped in the cloth around your chest holding to that testament. 

   As you continued to hike the hidden path you thought back to how it all started. First with Din showing up sicker than sin with the virus native to your planet, not knowing that he needed his vaccines renewed. Then his visits afterwards between bounties, bringing you supplies or making repairs to your home as repayment for your healing and quartering, until eventually you both became like siblings to one another. Until two years ago when he brought Paz to your door.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of blasters being fired up and pointed at you, you quickly wrapped your arm around the infant on your chest hoping to shield her a little as the armorer stepped forward. You were surprised to see her here from what recollections of what Paz had told you she rarely left the forge, much less to come see a possible threat since that was left to the hunters. 

“What brought you here Aruetii, how did you find us?” she questioned her voice carrying an intensity you knew meant she would not hesitate to protect her own. You opened your mouth to speak, but the ash that coated your vocal cords only caused you to cough so violently that you fell to your knees trying to regain your breath, the Armorer took notice how ragged you looked, your clothes covered in tears and mud with the wrap around you being the only clean thing. She physically tensed at the sight of the infant strapped to you before quickly offering a hand to grasp as she barked orders in Mando’a, a hunter taking the pack from you back as they shuffled you towards the covert. Making the decision that you were no threat in your condition.

----------------2 days later--------------------------

For two days you faded in and out of sleep as the tribe’s doctor tended to you, only waking for brief moments to nurse your daughter and ensure she was with you. When you were finally able to speak you requested only the Armorer to be in the room as you nursed your daughter again, her appetite as big as her father’s, your nerves still slightly frayed from your journey.

As the Armorer entered your room you presented her the mythosaur that had been tied to your daughter's swaddle. The Armorer knew whose it was the moment she turned it around to see the emblem of Clan Vizsla emblazoned on the back and you could see her mind run faster than light speed trying to figure out the story.

 “Rest assured Paz never broke his creed, what happened between us was only once a year ago and we took precautions,” you soothed the woman as she relaxed into a chair. You covered yourself as your daughter was content to just nuzzle into you for a post-feeding nap, “he left after that night and left that behind on accident and I never saw him afterwards so he doesn’t know about her,” you continued before the Armorer rose a hand to silence you.

“How did you find us,” she demanded this time, her thumb rubbing the necklace in her hand as she glared beneath her helmet at you. She knew you weren’t a threat, but she needed answers in case anyone followed you.

You sighed before answering, “Din gave me the coordinates after he took out a few bounty hunters sniffing around my home, I had an agreement to harbor him and anyone he brought with him in my home as a safehouse,” this seemed to ease the woman’s nerves as she leaned towards you to rest the necklace on your daughters blankets. You nodded your head at her before continuing, “They came in the middle of night two weeks ago, they tried to take me but I managed to fight them off long enough to set my home on fire and slipped into my shuttle with my daughter, when we made it here I only had enough fuel to reach the port and had to walk the rest of the way here, I ran out of my provisions two days before you finally found me,” A tear slipped down your face before looking down at the little jewel in your arms, running a finger over the nose you know didn’t come from you. 

The Armorer went to inquire more before the familiar thundering boots reached your door as it flew open, you jerked your head up and pulled your daughter further into your chest as she let out a startled wail. You quickly shushed her as your heart rate spiked, noticing the familiar blue of the armor in your door, his helmet locked onto the crying baby in your arms, his body rigid. 

 “Paz, good to know you’re not dead,” you quipped as you rocked and shushed your daughter. He had no obligations to you, but it hurt when you woke up to him gone without a trace after he had been flirting with you for months, only to never show up again and leaving you no way to inform him of your condition the following month. The Armorer took her leave after those words, sensing that there were things to sort out between you, and when she passed Paz she stared him down for his stupidity.

The room stayed silent for a moment before Paz lumbered over to your bedside, “are they mine, mesh’la?” he softly inquired, his fingers twitched in his gloves wanting to reach forward and run a finger over the infant’s small face. You softened a little watching the giant become a puddle, but steeled yourself for the answer.

“If you must know she is your’s,” you emphasized the last bit as you adjusted yourself in the bed, pulling the blanket that swaddled her to loosen it to allow some air flow. 

A loud sigh of relief left Paz as he pulled a chair to sink into by your bed,his elbows resting on his knees with his helmeted head in his hands. He made a pained groan as he looked to you, “If I knew you were pregnant…” he began before you swiftly cut him off

“You would’ve what Paz, stayed instead of abandoning me like I was some whore from a brothel, I don’t think so,” you spat with the venom that had built in you from that night, because that’s how you felt. Like a prostitute from a brothel, because once he had his way with you he threw you aside to never think of you again. You were too much of a badass to let some man throw you aside, you fought in a war and gave birth without an epidural for star's sake. That seemed to visibly shake Paz as he leaned over you to ensure he had your attention.

“Mesh’la never say that about yourself I never thought of you that way, I woke up to you in my arms and felt the most at peace I had ever felt in a long time, I knew if I didn’t leave then I would’ve stayed and broke my creed for you,” he rasped, his voice cracking in the vocoder to let you know that he started to cry, “I thought about taking my helmet off for you so many times but I had an obligation here to my tribe, If I left that would mean less supplies coming in and less security, the foundlings have went through too much for me to abandon them,” he continued as his body shook with unshed tears.

He twisted the blanket in your lap to try and calm himself before you wrapped yours around his much larger hand. You rested his hand on the side of your face as you looked at him, tears building up as relief flooded you at his confession, ‘Paz if you had only told me I would have understood, but you left and never came back,” you choked out as you wiped the tears from you face to look down at your daughter, who was sleeping peacefully in your arms. “I hoped everyday that you would come back and it wasn’t until I found out about her that I realized I had to stop hoping and move on for my child’s sake,” you broke as more tears took over. 

Paz wiped the tears from your eyes before resting his forehead against yours, “I wanted to return to you everyday Cyare, and I regretted never returning everyday and will forever regret not being there to protect you and my...our… your ade,” you said, stumbling over how to refer to your daughter.

 You rested your forehead on his for a moment before pulling your daughter away from you and forcing Paz to hold her. He held her like he held babies a thousand times before, but with the shakiness of a new father as he looked to you to ensure you were fine with it. You smiled at the sight wanting a holo of this moment before staring at him with intensity to ensure he got your message, “Paz she’s our daughter, I would never take that from you and never feel guilty for the past, you can do what’s right in the present and future,” you explained watching as he let out a large sigh of relief before he relaxed with his daughter to his chestplate.

“We have so much to work through Cyare, we have wounds to heal, but if you would have me I would love to have you stay here with the tribe, move in with me and raise our little warrior until we’re both ready,” he said hesitantly, reaching a hand out to take yours.

You sucked a breath in at the offer before shaking your head, “Paz i’m not a mandalorian, I don’t think they would appreciate me being here,” you said not turning him down but not taking his offer either. At that Paz took the Mythosaur necklace from the wrap and set it into your hand as he squeezed your fingers around it.

“Under our customs you’re the mother of a mandalorian, and you carry the mythosaur necklace of one, you may not have taken an oath, but the moment I left you this necklace you became one as an extension of me,” he vowed as he looked to you. So he didn’t leave it by accident.

“Then yes, I’ll stay with you Paz for as long as you’ll have us,” you breathed as you leaned over and rested a kiss onto his knuckles as you have done countless times before. His chuckle rumbled through his chest causing the sleeping babe to wake again and make a noise from being woken up again.

“It’s alright Dinui’ika I’m here now and I’ll never let anyone harm a hair on your head so long as I breathe,” he soothed the babe as he gently bounced her in his arms, in that moment you had forgotten to give him her name.

“Paz her name is Atria,” you said hesitantly as you ran a finger through her little wisps of hair. you had asked about the names engraved on the inside of his armor one day after he came to you to be patched after one of his more difficult bounties, he had stiffened before telling you that they were the name of his parents and left it at that. When you had been pregnant you couldn’t figure out a name for your unborn child, but the moment you held her in your arms his mother’s name came to your mind and you couldn’t picture anything else to name your little star, a small part of you wanting to have some connection to Paz so that she would know something about her father. Now you only hoped it was the right thing to have done, knowing how Paz was deeply troubled by his parents death.

He let out a choked sob before resting the forehead of his helmet against Atria’s forehead, “it’s perfect Cyare, just like you and just like her,” He said as he squeezed your hand, “you’re the strongest woman that I’ve ever met for putting up with me, I can’t think of anyone else to let use my mother’s name, let alone carry my child and here you are giving me my world” he praised. You knew in that moment you would be alright, you and Paz had things to work out but you knew in time that things would flourish between you and that your daughter will grow up to the most loved child in the world.

Tags: (thought ya’ll might like this one) @soradragon @remmyswritings

[crispyjenkins]

I’m resending it now! ok so what if for some reason Obi’s lightsaber either gets destroyed or the crystal stops resonating with him & He’s with Jango who goes with him to wherever the force guides him to find his new crystal at & like Obi goes through some wack vision/trial from the force and when he gets through it his new crystal reveals itself and it’s the same type of crystal like in the dark saber? And Jango is just losing it when he sees it bc he thinks “HOW?! but also, That’s HOT” hehe

(my DUDE i’m so flippin glad you re-sent this, i’ve had to force myself not to write this one so i could get other people’s prompts out, and i was at first unsure of how to spin this, but holy FECK is it all i can think about now. i just. i just want to write so much of this obi. i’m sorry i didn’t get to jango much, but you bet your butters he and obi are connected every which way in this, in ways beyond force bonds because i’m a dramatic bitch.

i hope y’all enjoy this one as much as i did!!)

edit 6/26/20: this is now part of a full fix-it! you can read it as it updates here on my Ao3! updates on fridays.

  Illum is colder than he remembered, though the last time Obi-Wan had been here, he had not feared wrapping himself up in the Force. It’s been... Force, he hasn’t been back since after Melida/Daan, and something in him breaks again at the thought that he’d lost the ‘saber that had been with him for more than a decade. But, no, a lightsaber is a small price to pay to have saved his master.

  His former master. He isn't Qui-Gon’s apprentice anymore, Anakin had made sure of that.  

  Obi-Wan had been sent to Illum alone, no younglings in need of making their first ‘saber, and no one else needing to replace theirs; Anakin has a few more months in the crèche before he can build his, and Obi-Wan can’t thank the council enough that he doesn’t have to walk the caves knowing his replacement is somewhere doing the same. With Qui-Gon still in the Halls, Master Plo had stepped forward in offer to knight him, and had almost had to fight Master Depa for the honor, which was... strange. He’s used to quite the opposite of masters fighting over him, but an amused Yoda had almost used his lineage status to refuse them both for himself instead, until Mace, as Master of the Order, had given the right to Plo Koon. And Jedi do not gloat, but the Kel Dor had certainly been smiling behind his mask.

  The doors to the caves open easily despite the ice, so maybe his great-grandmaster had been right about Obi-Wan rebuilding his lightsaber before his knighting ceremony. This thought doesn’t settle the feeling of intruding when he steps over the threshold, the marrow-deep feeling of being an imposter in one of the most holy places in the galaxy. 

  The kyber hums around him, as if he wasn’t at this exact moment considering walking away from the Order.

  He’s hardly a proper Jedi, is he? Killing a Sith with a sai tok, falling in love with Satine, holding a grudge against a nine year-old freed slave for taking his master away from him. Hadn’t he drawn on the dark side to defeat the Zabrak? Killed him not out of duty to his vow but in revenge for the fallen Qui-Gon? His lightsaber might have cauterised the wounds, but he has blood on his hands all the same.

  So he keeps walking, refusing to touch a single crystal he passes. The Force tugs him deeper into the caves anyways, and he has half a thought to ignoring it (does he even deserve to listen to it anymore?) but for all his tumultuous thoughts, Obi-Wan is beholden to the Force, beholden to the grip it has in his viscera. 

  He follows it as his breath forms clouds before his lips, frost on his skin that he cannot even feel. Where would he go, if he left? Stewjon is insular, they would not want him back, but he cannot stay at the Temple. Naboo, perhaps? Padmé would surely welcome him, but could he really settle down on such a peaceful planet after spending over half his life running around the stars with his master?

  Closing his eyes at the memory of Satine, he allows himself to... consider it. Would she still want him? They haven’t spoken since, but sometimes he can feel her in his mind still, a little warm bud that could bloom, if he let it. And even if she threw him out, Mandalore isn’t a bad place to restart.

  “Could I really?” he muses out loud, stepping over a great crack in the stone floor and setting his feet to follow a barely-there path towards the lake, only for the Force to have him veer away from it. Could he really give up being a Jedi? After every trial the Force had put him through to even become an apprentice? Oh, but he had tried so. kriffing. hard. to get this far, could he really do anything else?

  He swallows thickly and almost desperately pulls the Force back around himself, as if in apology, as if in repentance, as if anguish—

  Peace, it whispers, brushing over his mind even as it sinks claws into his ribs and pulls him up short.

  Obi-Wan is twelve again, wind whipping around him as the Jedi transport takes off from Bandomeer, Qui-Gon Jinn staring down at him. Force, but he hasn’t ever felt worse than when he feels their raw bond stretching with distance, yanking deep in him until he’s breathless, doesn’t Master Jinn feel it—?

  And Obi-Wan is sitting in the living room of their Temple apartment, kneeling on his cloth meditation mat across from Qui-Gon’s bamboo one. His master’s warmth surrounds him in a glittering cloud of comfort and ease, and they’ve been at this for five years now, and still Obi-Wan holds this as his most treasured memory, something to cling to when things seem desolate or he’s been arguing with Qui-Gon, or—

  He’s in the glass city of Sundari, brushing a hand over Satine’s cheek as she laughs, and Force, she’s even more beautiful than he remembers— She’s dying in his arms, bruises violent red around her throat, a sizzling ‘saber wound through her middle, and she’s beautiful even now, oh Force not like this—

  Obi-Wan is older, his joints a little creakier, his hair grey at the temples, and he has a beskad sticking out of his chest. Above him is a boy that looks suspiciously like him, red hair and green eyes but with Satine’s lips and eyebrows. Korkie, the Force tells him, as the boy leans over Obi-Wan and why is he angry? Ah, so this blade had not been meant for him—

  Anakin, little Anakin with a padawan braid beams up at him in a training salle with a practice saber in his fists. Obi-Wan moves to correct his kata, and though he’s... sure he had never learned this from Qui-Gon, he knows it’s Form III, he knows it’s Soresu like he knows his own name, like he knows the padawan bond in his mind and the warm nova glow of Anakin attached to his core—

  Obi-Wan is an old man, seated on a perfectly smooth grey stone above a green, green cliff battered by ocean waves and briny air. He meditates with the knowledge he had come from here, the Force here as close to home as he could ever hope to achieve. He had not searched for the family that left him on the Temple steps, and that’s just fine by him, he could not have asked for a better place to begin his seclusion studies than Stewjon—

  Obi-Wan is an old man, seated on a perfectly smooth red stone, the desert cliffs around him worn smooth from the sand that batters around him, ripping through his robes but never touching his skin. The Force is feral here, claws and bone and teeth teeth teeth, but somewhere out in the dunes, there shines Luke, pearlescent and good and proof that Obi-Wan has not failed just yet. 

  Satine is screaming at him as she shoves Korkie behind her back and raises a beskad that seems wrong, wrong in her hands, but he doesn’t have time to think about his heart wielding a blade, when he’s wielding the darksaber, whistling as it cuts through the air against Tor Vizsla, why had they trusted him, he knew he could not be trusted, and now his family is going to pay the price— His ‘saber, black as space, connects with Vizsla's, black as night, and Obi-Wan is not wielding the darksaber, but something else entirely, with a beskad’s edge, with a hum that’s almost a scream, that moves towards the darksaber with the intent to shatter—

  A Mando in blue and silver beskar’gam hands him a hilt, hammered durasteel wrapped in black leather, so unlike any Jedi ‘saber hilt he’s ever seen, but Obi-Wan knows it’s his from the way it sings, the way the Force insists it’s his his his—

  The blue and silver Mando with his helmet off, a man so unspeakably gorgeous that Obi-Wan wonders how he even copes— The Mando’s gloved hand grips Obi-Wan’s wrist, the face he knows so well twisted into dread and anger. Don’t go, they beg, but Obi-Wan must, he cannot abandon Mandalore, he cannot—, Don’t you realize that Zabrak’s fucking crazy? Obi-Wan, he’s going to kill you—

  Obi-Wan is older, but not much, pinned underneath blue and silver armour as Sundari glass and blasterfire rains around them—

  Obi-Wan watches the Beautiful Mando sleeping with his head pillowed on Obi-Wan’s arm, a new scar curling through his eyebrow that he hasn’t asked about yet—

  A mini Beautiful Mando eyes him suspiciously, hands on his hips while his buir stands behind him and tries not to laugh—

  Obi-Wan is on Illum, but he is not, he weaves his way through dusty streets he has never seen before and yet knows the way by heart, following that heart towards the hangar where his aliit waits. He has beads braided messily in his hair, twisted by pudgy fingers insisting Obi-Wan deserves to look just as pretty as his buir; that durasteel and leather hilt bounces against his hip, and he has a single blue and silver gauntlet on his right arm. He is a Jedi, the Force assures him, in the way light bends through him, but he is also Mando’ad, he knows that without needing to ask. He belongs to a planet and to a people that he did not start with, in a strange Force-willed way that he can’t explain, and he’s a Jedi, but he knows he has a family waiting for him in an old police craft. A black-bladed ‘saber hums at his side.

  Obi-Wan opens his eyes in front of a rock wall, glittering kyber in every colour rising up the sheer face until their little lights disappear into the darkness far above him. Just above eye-level, there is a small crater in the wall, as if the rest of the kyber cannot grow around the single crystal at the crater’s center. 

  It is opalescent and space-black, and looks as if it had been cut for a piece of opulent jewellery. The Force whispers heart heart heart, and he supposes it does look the size and shape of a beskar’ta, and isn’t that fitting?

  When he reaches out to take it, the white glow at its edges seems to suck in the light from around it, and it sings higher than any crystal he’s ever touched, whistling trials and heartbreak and pain and blood, but also love and laughter and family, if he lets it form the notes just right. It sings in Mando’a, in war gods and clans and beskar, and it sings for Obi-Wan alone.

-   Across the galaxy, Jango wakes on Jaster’s Legacy in a cold sweat.

Translations/Other: sai tok — the ‘saber move of cutting an opponent in half, frowned upon by the Jedi for its roots in the dark side. beskad — traditional Mandalorian curved saber made of beskar. allit — Mando’a for “clan” or “family”. buir — Mando’a for “parent”, gender neutral. beskar’ta — Mando’a for “iron heart”, the elongated hex-shape common in Mandalorian armour designs (great post here comparing them to katana tsuba). also called ka’rta beskar or “heart of the iron”. Jaster’s Legacy — Jaster’s old ship that Jango found and used post Galidraan, and pre Slave I.

[labrats-and-clonetroopers]

“Determination” Bo-Katan Kryze x Commander Cody Drabble, Star Wars: The Clone Wars

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A/N: Before you all come after me in the comments, Bo-Katan’s opinions of Jango Fett are not my opinions of him. I just think she hates him because I head canon that Pre Vizsla hated him

______________________________________

When the Jedi and his clone trooper snooped around the Death Watch, the old mining facilities, Bo-Katan expected only the former to pose any problem. As it was, the Jedi went down far more easily than the clone. She was astonished really, he fought off their attack with such determination, one that nearly turned ferocious when Obi-Wan was subdued. Of course, the clone hadn’t been able to hold out forever. He crumpled to the ground, breathing ragged. Bo-Katan stepped forward then, and held back the violent hand of one of her subordinates. She knelt down and removed the trooper’s helmet. It was indeed a clone of Jango Fett, with a strange twisted scar running up the left side of his face. He looked up, barely concious, and met her eyes. Jango had been a washed up traitor, but this man seemed unworthy of his blood; this clone was more of a warrior than Fett ever was. 

[seghs24]

Had a bad dream last night

My mom, dad, me and two family friends decided to go camping. We went into this mountainous, Lake Tahoe-esque sort of area to a campground. We decided to hike up a trail to go see a cave in the late evening when the sun was starting to set.

There were a lot of other people up there, and when the sun began setting a ton of bats came out of the cave. I think I got some decent pictures of them but I never checked my camera.

Suddenly, when it was dark, people began panicking. One man had crawled into the cave and woken up... Something. The further into the cave he went, the floor was covered in a layer of what looked like meat or skin, and when he touched it something deep in the cave started howling and wailing.

We all started going down the hill and people were talking about legends and things about what was in the cave. My family was one of the last ones down and the creature caught up with us.

It had the body of a dog, it looked like a Vizsla with an undocked tail, but it had the head of a young boy. He had short, messy brown hair and pale skin, and he always looked upset, like he was about to start crying or screaming.

He caught up with us and bit my arm, but I got away and started running along the side of the mountain on a very narrow trail. Eventually I was on a cliff overlooking a little river area with a rocky shore.

Soon I heard him, the noises he made were a mix between a child wailing and a dog howling. I looked and he was sitting down on the shore, crying violently and watching me.

I thought I could skirt around the edge of the mountain without falling but I ended up having to hang onto this weird metal pole. I wasn’t able to climb up it and kept sliding down.

Eventually someone found me, I think it was my dad, and he tried to pull the pole up but I slid down and was down at the bottom. The boy jumped up and bit onto my right arm and there was a big chunk of flesh hanging off when he lost his grip but there wasn’t a lot of blood.

My dad pulled me up and we continued down the mountain and made it back to the campground and got into our mobile home that we came in. We went home and I thought everything was okay, but something was wrong with our house. It felt terrifying being in there, like there was something waiting to jump out and attack.

I woke up after that

[bellsybuilds]

[Part 2 of the Truck Stops and Tribulations series (link)] 

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The way home - chapter 3 (T rating and warnings will change)

Din Djarin, Paz Viz(s)la, Baby Yoda, Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels, Agent Ginger Ale (modern AU, all human, road trips, found family, family reunions)

That sick feeling turns over in Jack’s stomach, hardening cold and certain as Ginger reaches for her datapad.

“Show me,” Jack says.

The playlist of storms proves soothing for more than the kid and Din has settled back against the bed when he hears the door click and slide open again. Wasn’t that supposed to be locked?

“Paz, I alr—“ he starts, turning to find his visitor is not Paz at all.

Jack cocks an eyebrow beneath the brim of his hat and locks the door behind him.

… Shit.

“Nope. Not ‘your ride’.” A smirk plays at the corner of his brother’s mouth and Din rolls his eyes.

“Really, Jack?”

“Well and truly.”

“Why are you even here?” Din grumbles. Jack warned he would return, but Din’s tired. It’s been a long week. The prospect of finally getting a real night’s rest behind safe walls is too attractive. He’d like nothing more than to lay his head down once he’s confident they’re still off the radar.

“You know we still need to talk.” Jack says, drawing Din’s attention away from his phone once more. He doesn’t make an effort to advance any further into the room, leaning a shoulder up by the door, arms crossing loose before his chest.

Din raises an eyebrow at the distance still yawning between them. “From over there?”

“Need I remind you the terms we left on weren’t so auspicious.” The ones that left Din with split knuckles and Jack himself with a broken jaw.

Jack rubs the side of his face, absent minded, as though the memory makes his nerves twinge. It was too much to hope Jack would have simply loaned his assistance without asking something in return. It’s not unreasonable. Din had just hoped Jack might have claimed some other compensation than… talking.

It’s not their strong suit.

He is grateful (though a little guilty) when the nest of pillows shifts beside him and the kid’s head emerges, rubbing his eyes with a small fist.

“Eh?” He blurts, peering blearily between the two brothers.

“Hey, kiddo.” Jack spares him a smile. “Looks like we’ll have to be on our best behaviors now, won’t we?”

Din decidedly ignores his pointed look. “Don’t patronize me.”

Jack raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just making a point.”

“Yeah, you have a habit of doing that,” Din bites back. He’s already had two rounds of Jack tonight and that’s two rounds too many.

“Look.” Jack sighs, relenting. “I didn’t come here to argue.” He shifts and hesitates. Din’s eyes narrow when he approaches the bed and stops, reaching across Din to offer the kid a hand. Tiny fingers wrap around his pinky, pulling and pushing in a gentle swaying motion.

It’s very tempting to smack that arm down.

“I’m trying to put him to bed.” Din tries in a last ditch effort. His brother is nothing, if not persistent.

Glancing from Din to the child, Jack hums under his breath with a thoughtful frown. It almost feels like an apology when he gently guides the child back to its nest of blankets.

“So,” Jack says, tucking one of the child’s arms under the blanket’s edge. “Tell me about this guy.”

A muscle in Din’s jaw tics. What more can he say about Paz that he hasn’t already? But before he can complain further Jack continues, “The one you had to kill.”

Din’s breath catches in his throat.

Oh.

Bowing his head, Jack’s stetson slides into his hands and he rests the hat’s wide brim over the child’s eyes. A curious coo echoes from beneath the leather, but no whines of distress follow. Jack folds his hands over his thigh and meets his brother’s gaze.

“That was your first? Since we got back?”

“Yeah.” Din’s voice is hoarse. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and has to focus hard on the shape of the child shifting under the blanket instead.

If he doesn’t, he’ll instead see those eyes that find him every night when he turns out the lights: wild, bloodshot and impossibly wide. The man’s skin had glowed with a sickly pallor, veins stark like fissures of indigo rising from his neck to his hairline. He’d spoken nonsense, but his gun hand was steady.

There had been no other choice.

Jack snorts a quiet laugh. “Still can’t believe you made it all these years as a bounty hunter without killing anyone.”

Din stares at him, but his brother just smiles back. He’s being serious.

“It might shock you, but the rest of us have to abide by the law.” His clients definitely wouldn’t appreciate the heat from association to a murder charge.

Jack shrugs light-heartedly, cocking an eyebrow. “Look, sometimes… people resist.”

Din mirrors the gesture, head tilting. “Never been a problem for me.” The bounties didn’t have to be conscious, just whole and healthier than not. Most of them were bail-jumpers and too scared to resist the moment they were found. It rarely got violent.

But this bounty with the kid… he had never worked so hard in his life. His ribs ache and he’s still knitting together in places.

“I’ve heard,” Jack’s smile is wide. “You’ve made something of a name for yourself East-side. What’s that line? ‘I can bring you in warm or--’”

“You keeping tabs on me?” Din growls.

Jack’s face tells him that’s a stupid question. “I’m your big brother. Wasn’t any other way I was going to learn what’s going on in your life. Was there?”

("It's been too long. You don't call, you don't write.")

Din scowls deeply. His heart pounds in his chest. He’d just wanted space. And time. Was Jack always going to be looking over his shoulder?

“Did you know we were coming?”

“No. I have my own life, you know. Wasn’t aware of this casualty. You kicking up a fuss on your old turf. Making off with your own target. And that guy?” Jack jerks a thumb at the wall separating them from Paz. He rolls his eyes in an impressive show of disgust. “I thought you hated teamwork.”

“I hated the team.”

From the look in Jack’s eye, he catches the reference. His gaze drops, wry smile tugging at his mouth. With a rueful laugh under his breath, Jack glances heavenward as though he might find the stock and balance of their lives in the ceiling’s grooves. His voice is very quiet. “At least when we cleaned house, we had back-up.”

His sobriety changes something in the air and Din stares at his hands. Swallowing feels difficult. “I… I don’t think I left a trace, but… if they do… if they find me… I need to find a safe place for the kid before that happens.”

“Is that why you killed this guy?”

“He was after the kid. Not me. He had a fob.”

Jack nods. “Yeah, I gave it to Ginger. It’s good you held on to it. She can study it.”

“Do you really think she’ll be able to help?”

Jack is drumming fingers against his knee, studying the tall chair in the far corner of the room. “Blood trackers are rare even in our line of work. Ginger may be a whitecoat, but she’s a good one. She’ll turn up something.”

“You trust her to keep it off the books?”

“I’ve worked with her for years. But this Vizsla--”

Not this again. Din rolls his eyes, rising from the bed to seek out a drink from the mini-fridge.

Jack continues, undeterred. “--You known him a week?”

Din cracks open the can of soda with as much vindictiveness as he can muster and gets spray on his collar for the trouble.

“‘The hell are you doing telling him our history?”

Din’s face twists, drink stalled halfway to his lips. “I didn’t--”

“You don’t know him,” his brother argues, voice rising again. “You can’t trust him.”

“Jack,” Din snaps, throwing a significant look at the… well at the stetson hiding the snoozing kid, but his brother understands his intention well enough. Lips to the can’s rim, Din starts chugging.

Jack is quieter, tight and annoyed. “You know what he said to me? ‘The only one Din has to worry about is you’ -- the fuck have you been saying to him?”

Half the can is already gone and, not for the first time, Din wishes he drank alcohol. His lip curls in a scowl. “I told him you’re a pain in the ass and last time I saw you, I almost broke my hand on your face!”

Jack points at him like Din has walked into a trap. “Which you still ain’t apologised for.”

Din spreads his arms in invitation. “I’m sorry your damn head is so hard it gets us both in trouble.”

“Hey, who ran to who for help today?”

“And have you cleaned up?” Din crushes the empty can and throws it to the trash beneath the desk with a satisfying thunk; a clean shot. “I know twelve step programs. Shouldn’t you be apologising to me first?”

Jack rises to stand, expression dark. “What I do to grieve my own goddamn family… so I can support us?” His voice is low and trembling with rare fury. “That’s my business.”

Din knew it. He shakes his head in disgust, leaning back to appraise his brother. “You never went to rehab. I bet you’re not even clean.”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Jack leans his weight on a hip, arms crossing. “You’re still here. Asking for my help to clear the way, like always.”

Weariness falls over Din, heavier than before. He shakes his head, wishing he could shut Jack and all the noise he brings out of his head. He releases a long breath.

“I’m done for the night. I need to rest,” he says.

Jack watches him for a few seconds, and eventually relents, nodding. “Okay. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

Din really doesn’t want to pick this up tomorrow, but he doesn’t argue the point because it allows Jack to reclaim his stetson, revealing the child softly snoring beneath it. He follows his brother to the door and frowns when Jack stops, fingers on the handle.

Jack turns back. He hesitates.

“Din.”

Din frowns with suspicion, waiting.

Jack meets his eyes. His searching gaze feels heavy. “Did you steal that kid from his family?”

A high pitch static whines in Din’s ears. He stares at his brother, disbelieving.

“... What?”

Jack turns, facing him squarely. “I’m sorry, but I need to ask. If there’s a report for him, we’ll find it. But if you took him from a bad situation, we can--”

“How the fuck can you ask me that?” Din hisses.

Jack raises his hands in placation, but it’s insulting. “I know, okay?” He leans in, searching Din’s face. “ We know .” Not we, Statesman, but Din and Jack. “It’s not always cut and dry.”

“He was a bounty , Jack. I took him as I was told!”

Jack holds his gaze. “And these people you took him from. They weren’t his family?”

Din feels his expression twist into something ugly remembering the remote warehouse, dark and empty. The child’s bassinet revealed beneath a heavy rag in the corner, stowed like some common piece of trash.

Or maybe, hidden in the vain hope of benevolent salvage.

“There was nobody,” Din says, chest tight at the memory of those dark eyes blinking up at him in the dim light of his flashlight. The sudden urge to see the child tugs at something within him, and he glances back to the bed. His chest loosens at the sight of the child’s face relaxed in sleep. “He was alone.”

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “You stealing him back for his family?”

Din looks at him, incredulous. “Those people? There’s no way they’re his.”

“Family, you know... it can be fucked up.”

Not those people. “Impossible.”

“He got a name?”

Din’s hands curl at his sides. “Not one I know.” He feels ashamed he can’t give the kid that much.

“You found him without a name? Damn. You are good.” In a rare turn, Jack sounds genuine.

“He’s ten months old,” Din says. That and his last known location were all they gave him.

“... I'll have Ginger run him against missing persons. If anyone's looking for him, we'll find out. And if they’re decent, we’ll hand him over.”

Din’s exhale leaves him in a rush. He nods, turning back to his brother. “Thank you.”

Jack shrugs, expression thoughtful. “You’re looking for a safe place for him. But for now that's probably with you.”

Din’s heart skips a beat, drumming hard. “With my job?” No. There has to be someone -- somewhere better. “It's no life for a child.”

“As I hear it, you're unemployed,” Jack winks at him, tugging the door open with a click. “Might be room for options?”

Din just glares at the wall and huffs out a tired breath of frustration.

“There’s a cafeteria down the hall when you’re hungry in the morning. I’ll send Ginger round to get you.”

Din nods and even that feels like effort. “Sure. Thanks.” His voice is rough with exhaustion. It’s annoying to think his brother could mistake it for emotion.

Jack tips his hat. It’s hard to translate the look in his eyes, like he’s waiting for something, judging his options. “Hey. We’re going to keep him safe. I got you.”

Not wanting to encourage any further discussion, Din just nods again and shuts the door behind Jack when he steps off. He checks the locks twice. Burying his face in his hands, his shoulders drop with a sigh so deep it feels like it will never end.

Enough for tonight.

He looks back at the kid, ear straining for its soft breaths. He shakes his head.

Enough.

///

Statesman’s night shift is halfway through their rotation but, in Jack’s opinion, some occasions are worth pulling a few extra hours.

A stream of faceless names speed by on Ginger’s large, wall-set monitor as their systems sift through each state’s missing persons databases. Ginger set the scan for children under two years old of African-American descent. Although Din lifted the kid from somewhere in the Eastern states, they can’t dismiss the possibility he came from elsewhere first.

Toddler after toddler flickers by, each smiling soft, beguiling and bright-eyed. They number in the thousands and as the tally climbs, Jack’s heart grows heavier, sick to his stomach.

So many missing children. So many broken families.

Across the lab, one of the computers beeps.

Jack straightens from his lean against the console. Ginger looks up from her desk where she had been studying a read-out of the kid’s general blood test results. Low on iron, but all things considered he was remarkably healthy.

That sick feeling turns over in Jack’s stomach, hardening cold and certain as Ginger reaches for her datapad.

“Show me,” Jack says.

On a second monitor, a new image appears: a cell structure, biosynthetic in nature. Below it, an affirmative green message displays the familiar make and model of the kid’s tracker.

Ginger’s lips part with a soft ‘oh’ of shock. Jack is more vocal: whirling with a curse, he smacks the side of Ginger’s console for lack of anything else to hit.

Ginger looks from him to the monitor and back again. “But--”

“God-- damn it--”

What were the odds. What were the fucking odds.

Pretty damn good when he could count the number of competitive patents on one hand.

Ginger stutters and points to the monitor accusingly. “But how did it get in a kid? We only use them for sanctioned targets, high risks to… to the country--”

Jack sags against the console, dragging a hand across his mouth. He stares at the indisputable evidence of their tech’s misuse and considers the implications. None of them are good.

Ginger grips her datapad tightly. “We have to tell Champagne.”

Champagne. The boss. Fuck.

It was Jack who sold him on the pitch of these blood trackers in the first place. Their panel of scientists may have vetted the proposal, but he was the senior agent who signed off on Statesman’s joint development of this particular iteration. Now to find it in a kid brought to him by his brother ?

Champagne would have his hide. If they launched an investigation, he could kiss that promotion to New York goodbye.

“If someone’s leaking our patent… or if our partner’s been selling it--” Ginger cuts off at his raised hand.

One thing at a time.

He holds her eye and points to the diagram on the monitor. “Back this up on an external drive and clear all record of these scans. This stays between us. I’ll deal with Champagne. You just focus on getting it out of the kid tomorrow when he wakes up.”

“Can we even do that?” Ginger’s expression is incredulous. Her wide eyes dart around the lab. “Jack, that means I need to bring him in here! We can’t bring in non-personnel.”

“If he’s got our tech in him, we can.”

Ginger clutches the datapad to her stomach. “I don’t think those two will let us take him away.”

She’s not wrong. Even if his brother’s attitude wasn’t deterrent enough, the obnoxious walking wall of muscle would have something to say about it.

“I’ve got a plan for that.”

///

“Only one of you can be chosen.”

Din hasn’t dreamed of this in years.

But it’s as clear as the day he lived it, the moment he and his brother exchanged a cold look of realisation and he watched Jack’s face contort in anger.

“Don’t--” Jack began.

But Din was always a faster shot than his brother.

There were only three of them standing in that room when Statesman put a gun in their hands and left them to decide who among them would become the newest recruit. The assessment had persevered for days. Physically, Din could have gone for many days more. But mentally, he knew he had to end it.

The third among them dropped like a puppet released from its strings when Din shot him in the shoulder, and immediately laid down his weapon. Weaving his hands behind his head, he ignored the furious look in his brother’s eyes as he kneeled, addressing the cameras.

“That’s it!” he called to their unseen spectators. He jerked his chin at his brother. “There’s your agent. It’s over!”

Jack may have dreamed of them joining Statesman together, but it was only his dream. Everywhere, always; together. Just thinking of it again makes the air feel stifled.

“Din,” Jack growls, trembling. His gun is pointed at the downed man. “What have you done?”

Din shakes his head, voice quiet enough hopefully the surveillance won’t hear him. “I’ve had enough, Jack.”

But Jack doesn’t seem to hear him. Towering over his kneeled position, Jack’s voice is thunderous. “What the hell did you do?”

He looks to their third and this time, Din follows his gaze.

His heart almost stops in his chest.

Because it’s not a man, but a gently squirming tangle of blankets on the floor. A small, dark arm emerges from the bundle, reaching weakly. A sworn oath dies in his throat as he throws himself across the tile, but the motion beneath the blankets is already slowing. The thick pool of blood grows.

“--No, it’s not possible… kid?” Din scrambles to gather him up, but the blankets are empty. Oh no. No, he didn’t mean to. How did this happen? He was so careful. He was… no….

His eyes burn with tears and he crumples the barren blankets in his hands. “Kid?”

Jack’s roar fills him, “What did you do?”

He gasps awake, heart pounding in his chest, the accusation still ringing in his ears. Darkness greets and engulfs him. Gulping in shallow, greedy breaths of air, he scrambles at his side for light. His hand closes round the sharp corner of a table. The lead of something. A lamp.

He flinches at the warm flood of light but it’s an instant relief when he’s able to make out his surroundings.

Statesman. He brought them back here. What was he thinking?

Safe , another lifelong voice in him counters. Jack is safe.

Except when he’s not.

He startles at the touch on his knuckles in the bedspread and looks down to find the kid on all fours, crawling from his blankets.

The kid?

“Aaah,” the little one squeals, pushing himself up on Din’s forearm in an attempt to stand, legs wobbly. His smile is wide and cheeky, maybe delighted at the unexpected opportunity to play when he should be sleeping.

The guilty panic of the dream is still tight in Din’s chest. The touch on his arm feels unreal and with the child’s very tangible weight leaning into him, the kid has barely straightened before Din’s face has twisted, mouth wrenching in a silent gasp for air. He scoops the child up and buries his face in his tiny shoulder, shaking. The relief is overwhelming.

His tears are silent. He doesn’t say anything. The child wouldn’t understand him anyway.

I promise. I promise.

Maybe the rocking is more for his own benefit than the child’s, judging by the kid’s annoyed noises and squirming in his arms. When he finally relents and loosens his hold, the child pulls himself higher up Din’s chest with hands that will probably stretch his collar.

Din sniffs and the kid stares at him, expression unreadable. How did people ever tell what was going on with kids anyway?

“Sorry,” he sighs, wiping his nose apologetically on the back of his sleeve. He shouldn’t cry in front of a kid. He’s pretty sure the comfort was supposed to flow the other way.

The child bounces in his lap, those small hands push at his chest. “Ehhn!” He sounds scolding.

Din sighs again. “Don’t beat me up, man. I’ve had a long day.”

“Aaaaah.” The kid seems to scoff, leaning into him, mouth agape and Din has to lean away to avoid the kid latching onto his chin and slobbering all over his neck. Again. Drool drips down onto his shirt instead.

Din pulls a face. “Do you think you could not drool on all my clothes?”

The kid laughs giddily, hands tight in his shirt as it bounces on his thighs, unfairly energetic for their mutual lack of sleep. Din startles when the kid throws itself against his front in an unmistakable hug, arms wrapping around his neck. The babble in his ear is more questioning this time.

Warmth blooms in his chest. Carefully, he wraps both arms around the child in return. As if by magic, the tension begins to ease from his chest to his shoulders, and on. Air comes easier.

He checks the time on his phone. 3:40am. Nothing to do but sleep. Might as well try it this way.

“Okay,” he concedes, a hand on the child’s back to hold him steady when he leans over to flick off the lamp. “Just this time.”

The kid barely weighs a thing and is a surprisingly comforting weight on his breastbone as he lays down, tucking the blankets in around them. The kid squirms gently against his chest, getting comfortable and cooing nonsense.

“Stop moving,” Din murmurs, patting his back through the blanket.

Another coo comes, a simple, sweet note of question.

“Shh,” Din rubs his back, other hand closed around the shape of the kid’s foot under the blanket. “Shh.”

With the kid’s soft noises fading, Din finds himself also drifting and the last thing he registers before sleep takes him is the unmistakable damp of drool seeping into his shirt. He’s too tired to care.

<< previous chapter | next chapter >>

[stubbychaos]

Something I Can Never Have

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4

Chapter 5 of Saviin’ika

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: After days pass without you seeing your blue Mandalorian, you force yourself to make a promise that will ultimately strip you of your happiness, though you find it hard to stay true to your word. In the process, you also meet an unlikely companion that will teach you that not everything on Nevarro is ugly.

Rating: M for darker themes pertaining to abuse, animal neglect/fur trading, unresolved sexual tension.

Word Count: 10,000 (at least there’s finally plot lol)

Warnings: This chapter definitely starts off very dark and has descriptions of intense injuries. There’s pretty graphic descriptions of manipulation and abuse (I tried to keep all actual descriptions of the father actually abusing saviin’ika very non-detailed, but still, please read with caution if such topics make you upset and DM me if you want a safe summary of the chapter <3). There’s also a brief mention of animal neglect, but again, nothing descriptive at all!

A/N will be at end of the chapter!

“You know everything I do is for your own good, right? To make you stronger?”

You force yourself to nod when a crooked finger presses cruelly against the small gash at your hairline and you find yourself desperately missing the much softer touch of your Mandalorian; a few droplets of blood trickle past your brow and into the soft divot of your eyelid.

“Then why do you never learn?”

“I... I don’t know,” You whisper weakly, your body limp and weak against the uncomfortable cot, “I am sorry.”

“I only hurt you because I care about you--because I want you to be better. Do you understand that? If you just did your fucking job and listened to what I say, I wouldn’t have to hurt you all the time,” Your father informs you, though you’re certain he’s trying to rationalize his own actions so he can sleep at night, rather than actually comforting you, “I don’t want you wasting your time on someone who doesn’t care about you, not when you’re needed here and nowhere else. How long has it been since you’ve seen him? Two or three weeks?”

Your chest aches at his cruel words.

Sixteen days.

It’s been sixteen days since you’ve seen him and you’re certain it’s your own fault he stopped showing up without a word as to why. 

After your companion had taken you to see the waterfalls, your father had been utterly infuriated upon seeing you with the Beskar-clad warrior, lengthening your shifts from easier twelve hour days to shifts that nearly lasted twenty hours. After finally emerging from the infirmary nearly twenty hours after he’d taken you to watch the sunrise, you had been absolutely heartbroken to find that your blue Mandalorian had not been waiting for you in the wee hours of the morning. After nearly half an hour of standing around, you had shrugged it off and slowly made your way home; you honestly wouldn’t expect anyone to wait for you that long and figured you would see him at some point later. 

But then he’s not there the next day when you get off at a somewhat reasonable time--or the night after that.

Thinking that perhaps an emergency had arose in his tribe, you find yourself waiting against his usual spot the following nights when you are finally released from your agonizingly long shifts.

Still, he does not show up and while your faith in the Mandalorian is slightly shaken, it is not completely broken and hope still flickers in your chest like a tiny spark.

“It has been however many fucking days and you think he’s going to come back for an incompetent girl? He’s probably already forgotten about you. Why did the Maker curse me by having you as my last living blood?”

Your eyelids slip shut at the same time a tear trickles along the bridge of your nose and lands somewhere on the stiff cot that you physically cannot lift yourself from; you think you’ve heard him utter those words more times than he’s ever said ‘I love you’ or, ‘I’m proud of you’. You try to think of the last time he’s said something kind or encouraging to you, but your mind is foggy and the room around you is spinning wildly, breaths leaving your lungs in erratic little patterns that you have no control over.

You can’t even remember the last time he attempted a small smile in your direction, let alone a reassuring sentiment.

You’re certain that at least one of your ribs is fractured or broken and you vaguely remember patching up your blue Mandalorian upon your initial meeting, though that moment seems so far away and out of reach. You swear you can still feel how scalding his skin had been underneath your skilled hands and how the muscles in his abdomen had contracted and tensed upon feeling you rubbing that salve against sore ribs. 

Your dry throat constricts and you force a sob away when you remember that night he had carried you home and tenderly treated your wounds while you were in and out of sleep, going so far to even take out your braids and massage your tender scalp.

You ponder what he would say or think upon seeing your current state--curled up on your own medical cot, bruised and battered and unable to work. Even if he found you to be pitiful, you’re certain he would manage to make you feel better and you hate that the ache in your chest is worse than the one in your bruised ribs.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” He furiously demands and you reluctantly crack your eyelids open, your head aching from the fluorescent lighting that assaults your sensitive eyes; you think you must be concussed, “You’re wasting your time with the Mandalorian, you know that deep down, don’t you? Do you even realize what they would do to a weak woman like yourself? His people are known to be ruthless and unforgiving towards outsiders. He’s going to turn his back on you or take advantage of--”

You tune him out after that. 

Partially because you don’t wish to listen to the lies that he spits like venom and also because the ringing in your ears makes it hard to hear much of anything; you don’t want to hear what kind of torture he believes that the Mandalorians would ever inflict upon people like you when you know it to be false. It actually upsets you to the point of nausea--that another man who has hurt you so badly could attempt to convince you that the only man who’s ever shown you kindness and that you are absolutely infatuated with was against you--that he only wishes to harm you in the cruelest way possible.

Your Mandalorian--cruel?

Impossible.

You think you know your selfless, caring Mandalorian better than you know the back of your own hand and the horrific assumptions your father implies causes a terrible ache to form in the pit of your stomach--a disgusting feeling that makes you want to retaliate, though you force yourself to calm down. You truly do not want to intensify his anger; not when your ribs are aching something awful and the pounding in the back of your skull throbs more achingly the more he spews insults.

Ignoring the anger that quells deep in the pit of your belly, you let your eyes slip shut again and think of blue Beskar instead, or how lovely you think his visor looks in the moonlight, despite not being able to see what he truly looks like underneath his helmet. Though he threatened the life of the very man who hurt you so badly that you currently can’t even move, you think him to have the kindest soul you’ve ever known and you pray that he isn’t too upset when you see him again.

If you see him again.

As your father continues to remind you that you don't deserve the little happy moments that the Mandalorian has gifted you with in such a short amount of time, you try to ignore the fact your companion lied to you. You’re almost certain that it’s not his fault--that something complicated must have developed within his beloved tribe and though you worry for him, you also can’t help but to let your father’s venomous words manipulate your mind into briefly thinking that he’s completely abandoned you.

Usually your injuries are easy to hide with the long sleeves of your dress or longer leggings, but you can feel the contusion that's currently forming around your eye, as well as the blood that's starting to dry and grow crusty at your hairline. You’re only slightly grateful he hasn’t been there for you the past few days, knowing he would absolutely loathe to see what’s become of you and how messy and tangled your usually soft mane has become--

How you haven’t even bothered to decorate your messy braids with vibrant flowers because you no longer feel joy upon wearing them.

You think the skin that's visible must resemble your Mandalorian's dark blue armor and you find the irony of the realization sick and cruel; it’s unfair because you’ve always thought his scuffed up armor to be beautiful, but there’s nothing beautiful about your current state. 

If you possessed even a fraction of the Mandalorian’s strength, you would not be in this painful position and you wished you were somewhere so far away where your father's violent nature was nothing more than a distant, faded memory. You think of the planet your Mando had described to you just weeks ago--Felucia--and vibrant flora that towers over the heavy-infantry warrior; you wonder if he had been making the story up to cheer you up, though you know him to be an honest man.

“Maybe one day I will have the chance to take you there, mesh’la.”

The mere thought of traveling among the stars with the warrior is enough to subdue the pain that’s coursing through your bruised body and your lips barely stretch into a tiny smile; you know it’s something that will most likely come to fruition, but perhaps if you get lucky, it will come to you in the form of a lovely dream one night.

“Clean yourself and get up,” Your father grunts upon realizing that you’ve been ignoring his deprecating speech, “You have a long shift today.”

“My head though,” You grimace when his fingers curl into fists, tears burning something fierce in your eyes at the thought of simply moving, let alone working a full shift in your current state, “I--I think I’m concussed.”

“If you have the energy to complain, then you have the energy to work,” He hisses and you let out a pained yelp when he roughly grabs your elbow and yanks you into a sitting position; the room spins around you and bile rises in your esophagus, “You should be thanking me for not breaking anything important, like your hands or legs. You gonna thank me? Or you gonna keep being an ungrateful bitch all the time?”

You clench your jaw and swallow the lump in your throat, feeling absolutely pathetic as you speak through your teeth, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” He spats and you cringe when you smell the alcohol and spice on his breath, “I will not have you disrespecting me when I’ve done so much for you. You’re going to stop seeing the Mandalorian if he shows back up again, okay? I don’t need him filling your head with such foolish fantasies and thoughts, especially when he’s distracting you from your job so much.”

“Father, please,” You beg, no longer caring about sounding so feeble because nothing leaves you feeling more bereft of all hope than the thought of not seeing your kindhearted Mandalorian if he chooses to ever come back “I promise I’ll be better and I’ll stop talking back all the time! Please, don’t make me do this. I’ll be a better daughter if you just--”

“If I just what?” He scoffs, sounding disgusted and you think his next words are probably the most heart-shattering words he’s ever uttered, “There is nothing I could do--nothing you could do--to ever make you be a better daughter.”

Tears trickle down your bruised cheeks as you force yourself not to sob, “Please don’t take him away from me.”

“Your Mandalorian has already given up on you, yet you try to defend him? If he truly cared, he would have been here for you days ago. Your cowardly warrior does not care for you like I do,” Your tears don’t affect him--they never have--and he almost seems amused as he wraps his dirty fingers around your wrist, squeezing until you cry out from the pain, “Don’t make me break your hands, little one,” He warns and you ponder how someone could be so cruel as to rob you of two of the only things that bring you the most joy, “They may bring in a lot of credits for me, but I would not be sad about breaking one or two fingers.”

It hurts to breathe, let alone cry, and you somehow manage to subdue your tears, though you have not felt such devastation in years. The pain in your ribs and the back of your skull is nothing more than a flicker of a thought as you contemplate what it is he wants you to give up. The anger you felt earlier upon hearing him talk so horrifically about your Mandalorian is nothing to the flames that currently dance wildly in your belly, making you feel absolutely feral and resentful towards your only living family.

“Don’t worry,” He coos when you sniffle and struggle to force your sobs away, “It wouldn’t be enough to keep you from doing your job, just enough to get the point across.”

Your body shakes with breathless, silent sobs that cause your ribs burn and throb in absolute agony, though you think your father’s words hurt far worse.

“No, mesh’la,” You remember your companion’s response upon hearing how you insisted that your father was family and didn’t deserve to be harmed, “He is a monster that deserves to feel shame for what he’s done to his own blood.”

“You really are a monster,” You speak the realization out loud, as if all the past abuse hadn’t been a clear indicator of that, “How could you be so cruel to your own daughter?”

He scoffs and finally releases your wrist from his painful grip, “I don’t have a daughter, just an incompetent nurse who can’t properly do her job because she’s too busy daydreaming about a future she’ll never have. Forget the Mandalorian and focus on your job, or else I’ll really make things far more miserable for the two of you and make sure you never help another fucking patient for the rest of your life.”

“You may be able to do this to me, but he would not let you lay a hand on him.”

“I can hurt him in other ways,” The cruel man reassures you, something dark and ruthless glimmering in his dark eyes; you wonder how a man can be filled with so much hatred and disgust towards their only blood, “If he cares for you as much as you think he does, then I think he wouldn’t be too happy if you suddenly disappeared, if he thought you ran away. Shit, perhaps he just wouldn’t care at all.”

You’re certain it’s a threat against your life, but the way he says it so nonchalantly fills you with utter resentment towards him and your chest heaves. You think back to when the infirmary had been robbed a couple months ago and how the bandit threatening your life had held a blaster to your forehead, but that seems like nothing compared to your father’s violent promise. Though you haven’t seen your Mandalorian in over two weeks and there’s a chance that he’s already tired himself of you, the thought of him showing up one night to simply find out that you ‘ran away’--well, you’re certain he wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of your father’s mouth.

He wouldn’t, right?

...Right?

You’re not sure what thought is worse, your Mandalorian feeling betrayed at the thought you would simply take off without a word or his reaction upon finding your lifeless body wherever your father would dump it, should he be the one to discover it.

“He would kill you,” You weakly inform him, though you feel that you have already lost this fight, “He already wants to.”

“I have connections too, little one,” He refutes easily and you know he’s only telling the truth by the way he smirks, “Ones much more powerful than a coward who chooses to live a life hidden in the shadows.”

Your fingers loosely curl into a fist at the insult, but you remain silent when you see his own hands form into much tighter fists.

“Forget him,” The cruel man repeats in a hushed growl and you refuse to meet his angry glare, “Or else you will both regret it.”

The words hurt more than his fists and you loathe that your voice cracks when you speak in a broken whisper, “Yes father.”

“Now, get up and get to work--you look like a damn mess.”

You weakly nod and tiredly wipe a hand down your face as your father leaves your office with the slam of a door, making you flinch at the aggressive action. You wince upon feeling the new bruises splayed across your skin and carefully slide off the medical cot, gripping the metal railing with stiff fingers and pressing your other hand to your aching ribs. Wearily, you make your way to the mirror that sits on your desk and squeeze your eyes shut upon seeing purple and blue bruises covering nearly half of your face, along with your neck and jaw.

You think you look just as bad as you feel.

After washing your hands and retrieving your suture kit, you slowly sink into your chair and begin the painful process of cleaning and stitching the gash at your hairline. The pain that comes with the horrific sensation of a long, hooked needle piercing your skin and tugging bloodied skin back together is pretty intense, it’s nothing compared to the agony that threatens to rip you apart when it dawns on you that your father truly expects you to forget the Mandalorian, as though he’s some sort of toy that you’ve outgrown.

“Why me?” You question nobody in particular, or perhaps the Maker that has cruelly elected you to such a painful life, “Stars... why me?”

Even though your vision blurs with tears and the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is damn near incapacitating, you continue to stitch and treat your own wounds, and you grow bitter upon realizing you’re your own patient. This is not what you envisioned when your mother decided to teach you everything she knew, hoping that someday you would have the same skills she possessed, though she was far more of a talented nurse than you could ever hope to be.

You don’t remember much of your mother, nor her soft voice and kindhearted touch, but as you finish tending to your wounds and force yourself to forget the blue Mandalorian that never truly leaves your mind, you focus on the patients that slowly trickle in and out of the infirmary for the next twenty hours or so. You’re far too injured to be working and even though your vision is doubled and speckled by black dots, you force yourself to focus and do your job. Only a few mention your new wounds, but when you insist that you were simply mugged the night before, they promptly drop the subject and you continue with your day as best as you’re physically able to.

As you find yourself thinking of your Mandalorian’s deep baritone and how he would hold you like it was pure instinct, you realize now what the warrior truly meant when he spoke of you feeling homesick for a home you had never even known.

You think the warmth and safety of the blue Mandalorian’s arms are the closest you’ll ever know to having a home and it is the only think that gets you through the most painful shift of your life.

When your shift ends eighteen hours later, black spots dot your vision and you can barely breathe with the intense, agonizing pain in your side. 

You only make it a few buildings past the infirmary, nearly passing the dirty cantina you’ve known a few of your scummy regulars to frequent when you hear it.

It starts off as a high-pitched whine that eventually dissolves into pained whimpers that wrack your heart and pique your undying curiosity.

Despite the exhaustion that bleeds into every single one of your senses, the painfully heart wrenching noises of a creature beckoning for you to help it overpowers any other rational thought that your concussed mind can possibly conjure.

You know how absolutely dangerous the village is at this hour, but something about the hopeless whimpers combined with the fluorescent red eyes that seem to reflect underneath the moonlight absolutely haunts you. Though it’s difficult to make out anything in the dark, you’re very much aware of how desperate the strange creature sounds like it’s being tortured and despite the traumatizing events of the day you’ve just experienced, your natural instincts have you making your way to the helpless animal.

As you get closer, it reluctantly emerges from the safety of the dark corner it has been hiding in and you gasp out loud at the strange, yet astonishing sight in front of you.

The ethereal moonlight seems to reflect off of the creature’s gorgeous crystalline coat and you press the back of your hand to your mouth when you realize the poor animal is tied up to a kriffing dumpster on the outside of a disgusting cantina.

How could anyone tether something so absolutely beautiful to something so dirty?

You nearly sob and your heart aches something fierce as you cautiously make your way over to the whimpering creature, it’s bright crimson eyes seeming to glow in the darkness of the night and you hesitate when it lets out a shrill noise as it moves in a way that must cause intense pain. 

The tiny cub shakes its beautiful coat and you startle a little when you hear the soft clinking of crystals jangling against one another, its coat seeming to be clad with some sort of stunning, reflective mineral. You’ve never seen something so ghostly or intangible and you raise your brows when the creature politely sits on its hind legs and stares up at you, its front paw lifted off the ground and you realize it must be injured if it refuses to support any weight on the wounded appendage.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo, utterly entranced, but determined to help what seems to be such an innocent, beautiful creature; despite the horrific pain in your own ribs, you slowly sink to your knees and hold a soft hand out for the cute cub to sniff, “I only want to help you.”

The cub tilts its head to the side and you nearly giggle at how big its ears seem compared to its little head; the peaks of the crystalline ears look dangerously sharp and you remind yourself that this is a feral animal that could easily deal some serious damage upon feeling threatened. Keeping that in mind, you slowly reach into the pouch at your hip where you think you still have some sort of sustenance left over from your meek lunch.

Clumsily, the beautiful creature hobbles forward and eagerly accepts the piece of jerky you’re offering. For the first time since parting ways with your Mandalorian sixteen days ago, you find yourself grinning when the fox-like creature makes a hacking noise, as if it expects some sort of luxurious cuisine, rather than dried out meat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” You murmur, earning a curious tilt of the head from the clearly neglected animal, and your grin melts into a sad frown as you move to untie the thick rope that’s wrapped like a vice around its neck; it flinches severely and you think you understand its fear all too well, “It’s okay, I’m going to get you back to the infirmary and fix up that leg. I only wish to help, I promise.”

Something about the soft determination laced in your quiet voice must resonate with the creature, because it’s soulful, crimson eyes blink slowly up at youas it plops down and heaves a tired sigh. Using the vibroblade the blue Mandalorian had given you over a month ago, you carefully cut through the thick rope and your heart breaks when you realize the pale flesh underneath is absolutely rubbed raw and slightly bloody. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” You coo when it lets out a little whine as you inspect the extent of its injuries, though they seem fairly minor, “I’m going to take care of you, I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You smile sympathetically and lean forward to carefully pick up the cub, marveling at how tiny the creature is and loathing that you can feel its ribs, even underneath its rocky coat. Slowly, you rise with the strange animal cradled cozily in your arms and ignore the pain in your ribs as you gently scratch its rocky chin. You’re met with the pleasant sound of a happy little shriek and you can’t stop yourself from giggling, not even noticing the sound of shuffling from behind you, nor the soft click of a weapon pointed in your direction.

“Drop the vulptex right now.”

You turn around so fast that you nearly knock yourself off balance, gasping when you realize the source of the voice belongs to a Trandoshan that towers over you by more than a foot; you tremble at how terrifying the reptilian species is. He’s pointing a rusty blaster right between your brows and you think that this day can’t possibly get any worse, what with your injuries, your father’s haunting words, and your Mandalorian’s continuous absence.

As if it senses your fear and sadness, along with the severity of the situation, the creature in your arms--the vulptex--whines a little and tucks its wet snout against the crook of your neck.

“Drop the mutt,” The Trandoshan hisses, his Basic a little choppy and slurred as he staggers closer until the cold barrel of his weapon is pressed firmly against your forehead; you’re shocked that you manage to not tear up from fear alone as you stare into his emotionless yellow eyes.

“I would not surrender this abused creature so easily--not when your intentions are cruel,” You whisper, grunting a little when he shoves the blaster against you and urges you backwards into the stone wall, the back of your already aching skull colliding against the unforgiving surface, “Why would you own such a beautiful animal, only to harm it?”

“You think I actually care about the damn noisy thing?” He scoffs, eyes darting down to the shaking creature that you hold so protectively to your chest, “Her coat right now could easily earn me over two thousand credits; I don’t give a shit if she’s hurt or not, I only care about the pretty reward she will bring me.”

You glare fiercely at him, hating that your eyes fill with tears simply from the thought of the precious creature being bred and born for no other purpose than the cruel intentions of a sick man. Unconsciously, you hold the vulptex tighter against you, hating the little squeaks and whimpers she lets out, as though she’s aware of the torture she will endure if she ends up in the hands of this monster.

“Hand it over and I won’t hurt you,” He steps closer until his scaly body is pressed against yours and it all feels wrong and gross and you force your mind to go anywhere else than the wall of a dirty cantina, “Though I don’t think I would mind seeing you with more bruises, little one--seems like I’m not the first one you’ve manage to piss off today.”

For the umpteenth time that day, anger swells like a grave wound in the pit of your stomach and you hate that it only makes your tears burn hotter in your eyes, leaving a trail of scorching fire down your cheek. You cringe when the Trandoshan reaches forward to grab your bruised face and you’re hasty and panicked as you speak up before he can do anymore damage to your already wounded skin.

“Put the blaster down and I’ll give her back, I swear!”

He makes a strange hissing noise and grips your bruised cheeks harder, making you cry out in pain, “This is not a negotiation, little one. Just hand over the fucking mutt and I might let you leave in one piece.”

Though your voice shakes, you somehow steel your nerves and stand your ground, “I will give you your animal once you put down the blaster. How do I know you won’t just shoot me dead as soon as I hand her over?” You question, realizing that the confusion in your voice must affect him severely and when you speak up again, your voice is filled with fury. 

“Put. It. Down.”

“Only because your anger is amusing.”

The Trandoshan clicks his tongue angrily at you and lets out the most vicious growl you’ve ever heard, though you must be convincing enough because he finally eases his body off of your much smaller one. Your heart pounds frantically in your chest as you watch him bend down a little to holster the unforgiving weapon and you remember what your Mandalorian had once told you in regards to defending yourself against enemies larger than you.

Without really thinking of the consequences, you promptly bring your knee up into the enormous Trandoshan’s groin, cringing at the loud yelp the man lets out and you further the damage by swinging your calf upwards when he nearly collapses, your ankle colliding with what you’re sure is his most sensitive appendage. 

The fox-like creature in your arms whines and squeaks profusely as you take advantage of the situation by sprinting to the end of the alleyway where you know you can make a quick escape into the infirmary that’s just a few buildings away from your current location.

Your feet move before your mind even registers your actions and all that you know is that your cruel attacker is bent down at the waist, nearly on his knees and crying out in pain as you quickly sprint as fast as your aching legs will allow you to. Pain is radiating throughout your entire body, but you ignore it as you focus your entire being on getting out of a dangerous situation in one piece. 

You think you’re safe and in the clear when a massive arm wraps tightly around your waist and tugs you close to them, causing you to cry out in pain and desperation as you angrily kick your legs about. In a furious rage, you shriek and thrash against the impossibly tight grasp your new attacker has on you and it fills you with utter fury; it’s the third time today that someone’s hurt you and something about the realization fills you with resentment and grief.

Barely registering the familiar baritone that attempts to calm you in a softer, exasperated tone, you thrash wildly against the arm that holds you to an unyielding chest. It’s familiar, but you’re certain that your mind is playing cruel tricks on you and you are not willing to give in so easily to your captor.

“Let me go!” You shriek, absolutely blinded by fear and terror to register that the one holding you to his chest is your only other companion--the only man you’ve ever trusted. His arm is wrapped around the worst of your bruising and you feel as though you're being crushed so heavily by the weight of your own consequences, more so than his armor.

"Shh, It's me," The familiar voice shushes you and you feel shame that you didn't recognize it earlier, that you didn’t even realize it was Beskar digging into your broken body, "I've got you--you're safe. Please don’t… don’t cry, mesh’la. Shit, please don’t cry--it’s just me."

‘It’s just me.’

He says it like you haven’t been waiting for him every night for weeks and you nearly sob at how unconcerned he sounds when you spent so much time terrified that he had simply abandoned you or had gotten gravely injured.

Before you can even think about weakly asking him why he didn't show up all those nights ago, another voice--a much angrier one--echoes from down the sidewalk. You're not sure whether your shakiness is from fear or adrenaline, but the warrior doesn't lessen his grip and holds your back tightly to his Beskar-clad chest. You’re grateful when he removes his arm from around your tender ribs, deciding that just above your chest seems like a better option and if you weren’t so shaken up, you’d blush upon feeling his fingers gently squeeze your shoulder in a comforting way.

"You fucking little--"

Immediately, your attacker’s angry tone dies down as he realizes that someone new has entered the altercation, immediately spotting the irritated Mandalorian that’s holding you and the ethereal creature securely with one arm, his other stretched past your head as he steadily aims a long blaster in the Trandoshan's direction. Though the intimidating criminal stands just as tall as the blue heavy-infantry warrior, you're certain that he's not nearly as broad or as intimidating.

Definitely not as skilled in his drunken stupor.

Your attacker's eyes widen just a fraction upon realizing who's currently holding you and your breath catches in your throat when he refuses to lower his blaster--would he really be so foolish to challenge someone who was trained from childhood to be a skilled warrior? You feel the Mandalorian fist the material of your dress that covers your shoulder and if you weren't so focused on the tense situation, you would have complained about the burning pain that shoots through your side at how closely he holds you to him to his Beskar chest. Swiftly and not unkindly in the slightest, the warrior gently urges you behind him and you’re quick to let out a deep exhale that you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in since he initially grabbed you.

"I don't want any trouble, Mando," The Trandoshan's voice drops, as though he can sense the anger rolling off of your Mandalorian's Beskar, "I just want the vulptex back--the girl is a thief and I want my reward."

“Thief, huh?” The blue warrior cocks his head to the side, like he's amused by the thought of you committing any sort of crime, "Seems to me like you're the thief. Vulptices only reside on Crait and are protected by law, even in the Outer Rim. I’m sure you already know that though."

“Since when do Mandalorians have morals?”

Your Mandalorian doesn’t say anything in response and you think that his silence is far more fearful than whatever else he could have said in retaliation. His leather-clad hand slowly reaches behind him and your cheeks burn something painfully fierce when you realize he’s reaching out for you, as though he’s worried that you’ve somehow vanished or that your visible injuries are because of the Trandoshan.

Despite the promise you made to your father earlier, you’re unable to resist the urge to reach out for him as well. As your fingers intertwine with his and you give them a gentle squeeze, your father’s words haunt you and tears fill your eyes when you remember you’re going to have to break off the tender relationship you’ve somehow formed with him in such a short amount of time. You thought that nothing would hurt worse than convincing your father that you would simply focus on work, rather than your Mandalorian, but now that he’s actually there and holding your hand like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held?

You’re absolutely terrified that your heart is going to break into hundreds of piercing shards and somehow hurt him, even with the protection of his precious Beskar armor.

Upon realizing that the heavy-infantry Mandalorian isn’t going to relent, your attacker seems to falter and finally lowers his blaster upon hearing the warrior’s next words.

“I’m sure a fur-trader like yourself would have a pretty big bounty on their head,” A squeeze of your own hand fills you with warmth and reassurance as he argues with the cruel man that holds such ill intentions for such a beautiful creature, "I would not mind handing you over to a bounty hunter and seeing how much I could make off of someone like yourself."

“You really don’t want to do this, Mando,” The Trandoshan hisses and you realize that he’s trying to convince your Mandalorian to hand you and your newest companion over, “They’re not worth it--I promise.”

Thick fingers curl tightly around yours and you hate that your heart skips a little when you realize he’s silently reassuring you that you are worth all this trouble, a notion that’s difficult for you to truly believe after the past few weeks. You want to be upset with him for disappearing without a word, but you’re certain that he must have a reasonable explanation and fear churns in the pit of your belly when you remind yourself of the promise you’d made to your father earlier.

“I think he wouldn’t be too happy if you suddenly disappeared, if he thought you ran away…”

Tears burn painfully in your eyes as the Trandoshan relents with a furious growl, sending you one last glare as he angrily makes his way back into the cantina. The Mandalorian stands deathly still as he continues to stare at the spot where your attacker had previously occupied and you think that he must be collecting his thoughts before he speaks out loud. You’re certain that this isn’t how he expected your reunion to go--you pissing off a Trandoshan that rivals his own strength and having to yank you out of a bad situation--but as he slowly turns to regard you and the creature you cradle so closely to your chest, you think he’s not angry with you.

“Seems like you’ve had quite the day, saviin’ika,” He observes with a cocked helmet, his hand slowly moving to the underside of your jaw so he can tilt your head back to get a better view of your newest injuries; judging by the tension laced in his baritone, along with the way his chest heaves, you must appear as awful as you feel, “Not a good one, at that.”

The weight of his grave words fill your eyes with tears and you squeeze your eyes shut when the cold leather covering his calloused thumb ghosts along the apple of your bruised cheek; it brings you back to when he carried you to your hut and tended to your wounds. Somehow, his touch seems far gentler right now than it had that night, despite him wearing his gloves and it only makes you want to cry harder for the tender warrior.

“Y-You weren’t...” You force yourself not to sob, as you feel you’ve cried far too much for one day, “Where did you go? I-I waited, just like I promised. I know it was so late the first day, but after that I kept waiting and y-you never showed up and I thought you--”

Your voice cracks and you think from the way he slumps forward a little he must feel the pain that’s so prevalent in your broken words; he raises his hands in a pleading gesture as your tears burst like a kriffing dam. You’re certain it’s just the events of the day, combined with being concussed and absolutely exhausted that’’s making you so emotional, but you don’t care anymore and let it all out.

“I… I am sorry I have not been here for you,” He sounds ashamed as he leans down to tenderly press his Beskar-clad forehead against your bare one, taking great care to not bump into your stitches, “There were problems in the tribe that needed to be taken care of. I did not intend for it to last this long.”

You hesitate to open your eyes and peer up at him, though when you do, you find that the sight of his scuffed up helmet and visor bring you more comfort than what you’ve felt since his absence, “Are your people okay? I could help if someone is injured or--”

“No, mesh’la,” He still sounds pained as his fingers graze the edges of the bandage that covers the stitches at your hairline, “Everyone is okay, but thank you for your concern. It was just a dangerous mission that our bounty hunter needed help with and some negotiating with the tribe that I needed to be there for. I did not want to be away from you for this long--it was not my intentions--but I know that one day soon you will understand. Please don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“No, I just... there is nothing to forgive. Your tribe should always come first,” You shake your head as you viciously wipe the tears from your cheeks, “It’s been a long day and I’m just being... I’m just tired--I’m exhausted and hurt.”

“Then let me take care of you, little nurse.”

“You… you should not be here; you should be with your own people,” You force out in a tiny whisper, though he does not seem afraid by your words in the slightest, “This is--what we have..” You hate that your expression crumbles and your voice breaks, because he immediately tilts his helmet, as though he already sees right through your lies, “It is wrong.”

He scoffs and you’re barely aware of the way he gently curls his fingers around your hip, pushing you up against the infirmary you had somehow made it to in your hysteria. Judging by the way he shakes his helmet at you and easily backs you up until you're pressed to the brick wall of the broken down place you work at, you think he must not believe your words at all. You feel as though you do not have the strength to explain what is going on as he cockily rests a forearm right next to your cheek against the brick wall of the infirmary that he’s successfully trapped you against.

“This is wrong, mesh’la?” He questions softly--desperately--and you think your heart might combust at how gentle his modulated baritone is, “Is it so wrong that I couldn’t stop thinking of your eyes and smile every night I was away from you? Is it wrong that I dream of how soft your hair feels when I take off my gloves or that I only wish to hold you when I am alone in my bed at night? Would you really be so cruel to me after I traveled so long just to see your pretty face?"

“Was it not cruel of you to be away for so long without me knowing why? I thought you might have...” Your gaze lowers to his cuirass in embarrassment and shame, “I thought you were injured or that maybe you just didn’t... you didn’t want me anymore.”

He tenses, back straightening as he makes a strange choking noise, “I always want you--I always will. It pained me to not be able to see you in person, but you were in my dreams whenever I actually managed to get sleep. Do you really not want this anymore? Did I hurt you that badly?” He suddenly sounds fearful and your heart absolutely aches in your chest, “I would get on my knees and ask for forgiveness if that is what you wished for.”

“I would not allow your big ego to take that big of a hit,” You jokingly whisper--a poor attempt to lighten the situation, though it stops him right before he can fall to his knees, “This is--it’s just something that cannot go on any longer.”

“You are making no sense to me, mesh’la.”

You release a small sigh when his fingers drift up to the remnants of dried blood that have crusted into your roots, “I am not a cruel woman, Mandalorian, I am tired and I would not let you feel the same pain I have felt,” You whisper the last part as he gently nudges his forehead against yours, “I would not wish it upon anyone, especially you.”

“You think your father could hurt me?” The Mandalorian’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles into your hip as he tilts his helmet, forehead still pressed to yours and you force your expression not to crumble when you remember your father’s words from earlier, “He wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on me--he wouldn’t be able to even think about it before I’d have him in ashes at your feet.”

“Must you make everything so difficult?” You inquire lips trembling because he does not realize the true extent of the kind of pain your father it able to inflict on the fearless warrior without even laying a finger on him, “You should leave. P-Please, you do not understand what he is--what he can do to you.”

“What did he say to you? Please tell me he did not get inside that pretty head of yours,” He taps the underside of your chin and urges you to peer up at his visor and you fear that he’ll see the despair and agony burning something fierce in your shimmering eyes, “Is that really what you wish for, mesh’la? You gonna break my heart like this?”

“You know what I wish for, yet it is something I can never have, Mandalorian.”

“Don’t do this to me, to us,” He sounds just as devastated as you feel and it only complicates the situation more than you could ever hope to anticipate as he continues to speak in the same tone, “Don’t take this away from me--not when it’s the only good thing we’ve both had in so long and I... please let me help you.”

He sounds so despondent and the graveness of it causes your heart to ache terribly as you shake your head frantically, tears streaming down your cheeks and into the leather covering his fingers.

“Let me take you away from here.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and rest the back of your head against the wall he has you trapped to; all confidence you had in your attempts to break things off with the Mandalorian dissipates the very moment you feel the cool leather of his thumb kiss the corner of your mouth. He cocks his helmet to the side when you turn your head further against his hand and slowly let your eyelids slip shut when your lips meet the palm of his black glove; you long for the warmth of his rough skin instead. 

You simultaneously loathe and love that he has this effect on you--that he holds your heart so protectively in his palm--and you know you're playing a dangerous game as your free hand comes up to press against his much bigger one. You trap the cold leather close to your face and don’t care when you force him to apply the tiniest pressure to the blue and purple bruises covering half of your face.

You’re barely aware of the way he raises his fingers, so he causes you no pain.

He lets out a deep, dreamy sigh when you press a firm kiss to his palm and all thoughts pertaining to the promise you’d previously made to your father disappear as he tenderly strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“I have to tend to her wounds, Mandalorian,” You murmur when the vulptex cub lets out an irritated whine and you feel emptier when he reluctantly pulls his hand away from your face, though he keeps your hand trapped firmly in his.

“Then I will tend to yours after, mesh’la.”

“They really aren’t that bad,” You insist, though the ache in your ribs and the throbbing in the back of your skull reminds you otherwise, “They look a lot worse than they feel.”

“You are a terrible liar,” He sighs again and gently squeezes your hand as you lead him into the infirmary, taking great caution to lock the entrance behind you, “I can tell by the way you are breathing that your ribs are injured. Let me--just, please let me take care of you."

You should tell him to leave, your father's threat lingering in the back of your mind, but the temptation of your Mandalorian's bare touch outweighs any rational thought you might have had. So, you relent with hardly any fuss, giving the stubborn man a small nod as you tiredly guide him into your office and turn on the lights.

"I do not want you to see my body like this," You warn him as you tenderly lay the wounded creature in the center of your medical cot, "I am ashamed of my bruises and scars."

You barely glance at the warrior as he lazily removes his heavy cannon, as well as the jetpack that's attached to the huge weapon. He freezes upon hearing your meek words and shakes his helmet as you begin to disinfect your tiny patient’s minor wounds, earning you soft squeaks and whines in the process.

"That shame belongs to him, mesh'la," Your Mandalorian reassures you in a firm tone that makes you think he's upset, "Never feel ashamed for the cruelty of others, especially when you did nothing to deserve any of this. As for the scars, there is nothing embarrassing about the stories that tell your survival."

“Do you have many?” You question, not able to meet his emotionless visor, though something about how terse he sounds makes you think he’s not as stoic as he always tries to appear to be, “I know when I stitched you up a couple of months ago you, I just didn’t see many scars.”

“The armor doesn’t always hold up,” He quietly admits and you finally turn your head to peer up at the dents in his helmet; dread pumps through your veins when you realize the scars on his Beskar must have been a result of a powerful blaster shot and you wonder if the bare skin beneath is scarred as well, “I have many scars as well. Some I’ve gotten from fights I’m not so proud of, but they are still a part of me and tell the story of who I am today.”

You contemplate his words carefully, observing all the scuffs and dents in his dull blue armor before collecting your thoughts, “I am not a warrior like you and I did not get these scars from fighting in battles. There is no honor behind my story--behind learning how to take beatings and keeping my mouth shut so I won’t be hurt worse. This is not a battle, it’s just learning to live with it.”

You turn away from him when you fear that you won’t be able to hold your composure any longer, tensing a little when the Mandalorian speaks in a low, deeper baritone, “Maybe it is not a battle you’re fighting, but that doesn’t make you any less of a warrior, mesh’la. You’re far braver than anyone in this damn village and I’ll keep telling you that until you finally believe it.”

“And what if I never believe it? What will you do then?”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until the day I die.”

You smile sadly and not knowing how to respond, you simply fall into a thoughtful silence as you check the cub for any broken bones or wounds that might not be visible; after confirming nothing is broken, you spin around in your chair to face the Mandalorian. He’s leaning against your desk, wood creaking underneath the weight of his body as he stares right back at you with his bare hands resting on his hips. Just the way he stands when he’s in a relaxed environment screams confidence and power and you think it to be amazing that someone can consistently exude that kind of energy, even to someone like you--someone who’s seen him grow shy and even sometimes vulnerable.

“Would you please hand me the antibacterial cream?” You politely ask as you situate yourself in the most comfortable position that your bruised ribs will allow you to sit, offering him a tiny smile when he nods and turns around to reach up to the top shelf bolted to the wall, “Thank you.”

“Sure,” He hums as he makes his way over to you in two wide strides, seeming to be unbothered by you ordering him around, “All this trouble over a vulptex that looks like a little runt?”

“All creatures matter the same to me, Mandalorian,” You gratefully accept the little jar he holds out for you to take and you scoop out the white cream on two fingers, “No matter how big or small they are, they all deserve basic medical attention.”

“You’re something else, saviin’ika,” He informs you, sounding amused as he holds a hand out for the cub to sniff, though the ethereal creature merely turns its nose away and blinks slowly at you; the Mandalorian shakes his helmet with a grunt and turns his attention to you as he leans against the back of your chair.

“Do you know much of this species?”

The Mandalorian hums as he lazily wraps his fingers around the top of the backrest of your chair, seeming entirely comfortable to be this close to you, “I know they’re native to the planet of Crait, but other than that, I don’t know much else outside of the fur trade and them being smuggled and slaughtered for their crystal coats.”

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach and you hate that tears immediately burn your eyes as you stare at the precious little creature and her soulful crimson eyes, “S-Slaughtered?”

“It is best not to think about it, little nurse, especially when your heart is so soft compared to everyone else’s,” He sighs and he must be mentally kicking himself in the back of his scuffed up blue helmet for exposing you to such terrible news, “You did a good thing--saving this little runt. Her fate would have been… unfavorable, to say the least.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as he gently thumbs your braids that lack their usual vibrant flowers; they had all fallen out upon the beating you’d taken earlier and it felt so wrong to be without them, “Do you think her family--her mother--?”

“I don’t know,” He answers honestly, dutifully stroking the unruly baby hairs away from your forehead as you continue to wonder what kind of trauma this beautiful creature must have gone through, “Like I said, it is best to not think about it.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop thinking about what that man would have done to this poor animal,” You confess in a meek whisper as he smooths a calloused hand over your braids in a comforting manner, “How can people be so…?”

Your question hangs heavily in the air like a dark gray cloud and the Mandalorian makes a small noise in response, wordlessly answering that he doesn’t know why people are capable of acting so cruelly to those who don’t deserve it.

“That Trandoshan… did he do anything to you? I could go back and--”

“Always so ready to fight,” You smile sadly, watching as the cub slowly falls asleep underneath your tender hands and the soothing sensation that your homemade cream bestows upon its burning wounds, “He did not hurt me. If anything, I hurt him.” 

You continue when he makes a questioning hum from the back of his throat, “I kind of uh, kicked him between his legs… twice?”

You blush fiercely when he makes a choked sound and reaches out to gently squeeze your nape, he sounds like he’s trying not to laugh when he speaks, “You kicked a man in the balls? A Trandoshan?”

“I was left with no other choice and did what I needed to.”

“You are much braver than you believe,” You think you hear a twinge of admiration in his cool baritone and shake your head a little at the sentiment, refusing to believe his words “I mean it. Not many with no fighting experience would have the courage to take on someone so much bigger to protect something so little, especially when you’re already hurt. You should feel proud.”

“Th-Thank you,” You whisper, shuddering when his hand slowly travels down your neck and settles on the space between your shoulder blades, rubbing the tension away from your aching muscle; your fingers fumble with the roll of gauze as you slowly finish wrapping it around the cub’s raw neck, “You are… you’re distracting me from my work, Mandalorian.”

“I would prefer to distract you in other ways, mesh’la,” That slight cockiness is back in his modulated voice and when you try so desperately to think of some sort of witty comeback, you find that your mind is full of thoughts of what other distractions he could possibly mean. His hand slowly trails up your back and around the slope of your shoulder, eventually stopping at the base of your throat and urging your head backwards so the back of your skull is gently pressed against his armored-clad abdomen and you’re peering up at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. He barely uses any pressure to control you and it’s then that you realize it’s not dominance he seeks, but more so your trust in him, and knowing that he would never harm you with ill intent.

“I have a patient to treat.”

“So do I.”

“I’m still upset with you.”

He releases the gentle, barely-there grip on your throat at your weak words and you exhale a long, deep sigh as you finish wrapping up the vulptex’s sprained paw with a small splint and a tight layer of gauze to keep the bones from shifting. Grabbing the thin pillow from the top of the medical cot, you slowly rise from your chair, fully aware of your Mandalorian’s attention on you as you place the pillow in a safe corner of the room before retrieving a small, metal dish that you would typically use to discard debris into upon treating injured patients. Instead, you fill it with water before placing some dried meat into a smaller dish, just in case your newest companion becomes hungry at some point throughout the night.

Once you settle the healing creature near its water and food bowls, you hesitantly turn to the Mandalorian that now occupies your chair, legs splayed wide, as though he doesn’t give a damn about how much space he takes up in your little office. As you approach him after making sure the cub is sound asleep and comfortable in her cozy corner, you find that you don't mind his hulking stature in the slightest and place a gentle hand on the spot between his pauldron and the lip of his helmet.

“Mesh’la,” He greets you in a quiet huff as you slowly lower yourself onto the cot with a pained expression etched upon your features; his hand moves to your thigh and carefully tugs you closer to him, “Your wounds?"

"I've done all that I can already," You inform him weakly, putting up no fight when he gently guides you into a laying position on your side by placing a firm hand on your shoulder, "I don't have anything for fractured ribs."

"I do," He begins to pull a familiar jar from the pouch at his hip and you shake your head a little upon realizing it's the bacta salve you gave him two months ago, "Please, let me take care of you the same way you take care of everyone else."

“I’m not used to--”You swallow the lump in your throat and eventually nod your consent, melting into the stiff cot when he gently wraps his fingers around your bare calf and you speak in a weak whisper, "Okay, just please be careful, the bruising is--it's pretty bad."

"I would never--" His chest heaves and his head tilts as his visor lands on your face, "I'll always be gentle with you, mesh'la."

You nod and fully relax against the mattress, peering at his scuffed up helmet as his fingers curl into the hem of your dress; you think his hesitation is endearing because most men would not have the same reaction, "It is okay, I'm wearing shorts."

"How unfortunate."

So much for hesitation.

Your face grows so hot that you feel it spread to your earlobes and you shake your head at the man who's determined to be your own nurse. You think it’s ironic that you’re in the same position he had once been in during your initial meeting and you now understand why he had become so tense upon touching his warm skin. He’s barely touched you and your heart is beating harder than a war drum before battle; you briefly wonder if this is what he had in mind when he inquired about treating your wounds and you think he must enjoy watching you squirm a little.

Yet, you know his intentions are pure and he only wishes to help you.

"Do you flirt this way with everyone?"

"No," He sounds utterly amused by your exasperation and shy disposition, "Just pretty nurses who go around picking fights with Trandoshans."

You scoff at that, fully aware of what kind of game he’s playing with you, “It seems as though you are the nurse and I am your patient now, though.”

“I... uh, yes, it does seem that way, mesh’la.”

You roll your eyes at him, though a small smile threatens to break your stoic features, "It is not professional to flirt with your patients, Mandalorian."

He huffs a little, risking a cursory glance at your face before carefully sliding your dress up your thighs and stomach so he can get a good look at your ribs. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel his calloused knuckles graze the outside of your bare thigh and you force your mind out of the gutter, reminding yourself that he’s doing this to tend to your wounds.

"Oh, saviin'ika," You hear him sigh gravely as he lightly drapes your dress just underneath your bust, exposing your severely bruised skin to him, "He… he did all of this to you? Wh-Why? Maker--how could anyone--?"

You flinch a little when he cautiously lays a warm hand near the darkest of the bruises and he’s astoundingly quick to yank his hand away, as though you’re the one that’s caused him such pain and you shake your head a little. You reach out to grab his warm hand in your colder one and guide it back to your bruised skin, longing to feel any sort of tender touch after the rough, violent week you’ve had.

"He caught me daydreaming instead of working. I should have--"

"Don't you dare blame yourself for this," He breathes, a twinge of devastation clear as day in his crackly voice, "Nobody deserves this kind of torture except for him and him only. I wish you would--" He sounds like he's in even more pain than you and your heart shatters upon realizing you've unintentionally reduced him to such a state, "I wish you would let me kill him for you. I could even make it fast so you wouldn't think me to be as cruel as him. Please, mesh--"

"I want to continue to be a nurse, Mandalorian," You weakly remind him, remembering your father’s threat as your own nurse glides a cautious thumb along your tender skin, remaining diligent in not applying any pressure, “I could not keep helping others if you killed him--the infirmary would close down and I would be left without a job.”

The Mandalorian shakes his head and you watch as his rough fingers collect a generous scoop out of the jar that looks just as filled as the night he’d carried you home and tended to your wounds then. You wonder if it’s simply an instinct for him to take care of others and you give him an encouraging smile when he begins to rub the warm gel against the worst of your bruises with far more tenderness than you’ve ever experienced. You can tell he’s utterly afraid of causing you further pain and you watch as he keeps his visor trained on his massive hand that’s currently soothing your wounds.

“What if you could though? What if there was a way you could continue to help others and not have to fear him?”

You force yourself not to ponder his words too much, knowing such wistful thinking will only end in more pain.

“I would think it to be a fairytale,” You finally murmur, eyes slipping shut as he continues to slowly and carefully soothe your bruises with a ghost of a touch; the bacta salve is pleasantly numbing and you’re suddenly grateful for the unexpected medical attention, “And I have never believed in fairytales, Mandalorian.”

He simply hums and doesn’t say anything else as he finishes rubbing the numbing salve against your tender skin; though the dull ache still lingers, you’re certain the pain will be minimal come morning. You think he’s finished when he kindly fixes your gray dress so the hem is settled against just above your knees once again, but then he’s standing up and you barely lift your head when you hear water running from the small sink that’s adjacent from where you lay. The Mandalorian seems like a man on a mission as he keeps his back to you and goes through a few drawers and cupboards before finding what it is he’s searching for.

You make a small questioning hum as he makes his way over to a little sink that you'd normally wash your hands in, "What are you doing?"

He barely turns his head to you as he harshly wrings out a soaking rag in the sink, "I am cleaning you up. You have blood in your hair."

"You don't--" Your heart swells at the gesture; you hadn't really had much time earlier to thoroughly clean yourself up and had felt the dried up blood crusted into your hairline all day, "Th-Thank you. That's really sweet of you."

He merely grunts as he shuts off the water and makes his way back to the cot you currently occupy and you blink in surprise when he gently slides a hand underneath your head and urges you to sit up just a little. It takes you a second to realize what he's doing and you carefully lean up on an elbow so he can carefully shift himself behind you on the cot and your face grows warm at the thought of him yearning to be so close to you. 

As he settles behind you and moves you up into more of a seated position between his splayed thighs, carefully wrapping his thick fingers around your biceps to pull you up further against his chest, you completely forget your father's foreboding threat. Now, you're focused solely on the way he curls himself around you to get a better look at the dried blood matted to your scalp.

"Nurses don't typically treat their patients like this, Mandalorian."

He lets out another grunt and firmly keeps his hand cupped to the underside of your jaw so he can tilt your head backwards, “I just wanted to be close to you after not seeing you for so long. Besides, I don’t hear you complaining at all, mesh’la,” He lowers his helmet a little as he gently dabs at the small section of matted, crusty hair, “Are you going to tell me the real reason why you tried to get me to leave you tonight?”

Your eyelids slip shut as he soothingly rubs your jaw with his thumb and you wish he wasn’t wearing his cuirass so you could melt against him easier, “This is dangerous for both of us."

The scratchy material of the cloth tugs at your skin a little, but it's nowhere near painful as he continues to dutifully clean the blood from your scalp, "What did he say to you?"

Tiredly, you rest your hands on top of his armor-clad thighs and lean further against his chest as you force yourself to lie to the only man you’ve ever admired, “Only the truth--that I need to stop getting distracted so much. I-I have a job to do.”

“That does not mean you shouldn’t be allowed to be happy,” He breathes and you keep your eyes closed when he moves to tend to the bruises; you don’t have the heart to tell him that your happiness would end with your demise, “You can still help people and... and be with me.”

Your brows furrow and your chest heaves as he affectionately rubs the soothing salve against your cheek before dutifully moving to the black and blue skin around your eye. You think of earlier when he spoke of your strength and scars and how you insisted you were no warrior, but as the Mandalorian drops his helmet until the chin of it is resting on your shoulder, you realize you are at war with yourself.

How could you possibly deny this man anything?

Even when the bacta is absorbed into your pleasantly numbed skin, he keeps caressing your cheeks, nose, and lips and you slowly turn your head until your nose bumps against his visor; if he weren’t so close to you, his next words would have been inaudible.

“I wish I could kiss you right now, mesh’la.”

His thumb barely parts your lips and you feel his other hand come up to feel the frenzied pulse at the hollow of your throat, seeming all too content to touch you anywhere you’d allow him to. You feel utterly warm and helpless when his thumb gently pulls at your bottom lip and a desperate noise somehow passes through his modulator.

“The things I would do for you,” He groans upon feeling the warm saliva on the inside of your lip, “The things you do to me...”

You swallow the lump in your throat as you speak, your words a weak promise that he doesn’t realize to be true in that moment, his mind only focused on the way your tongue barely grazes the rough pad of his thumb to register the weight of your statement.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Mandalorian.”

Saviin’ika= Little Violet

Mesh’la= Beautiful

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild  @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aeryntheofficial @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst​  (as always, please let me know if I missed anyone!!)

Author’s note: SO I literally say it every single chapter, but you guys are absolutely amazing and I’m so grateful for all the sweet words and support y’all have given me. When I started writing the first chapter, I only intended on it being 3-5 chapters at the most, but I literally adore these two lovebirds and now I’m over here planning out a whole ass novel for them lmao. 

Also if I take a long time to reply to your kind replies/reblogs/asks, please forgive me!! My dumb self gets so overwhelmed in such a good way and I never know how to respond :( I definitely see every like, every reply and reblog and ask you guys send me and I adore all of you <3