#loving the galaxy beard | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mayhemspreadingguy · 6 months ago

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@magnusbae, not expecting I'd follow through, suggested to sketch Anakin but with cat fangs... Things got out of hand.

Also, look! Magnusbae gifted me with a most lovely fic inspired by my art (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) (fic under the cut, 3,800+ words).

That’s it. Anakin had resisted long enough.

All through morning, noon and even dinner. He had done his Katas, had finished his chores, even went through his studies, all without so much as a single comment. He deserves to be commended personally by Master Yoda for being an exemplary Jedi. He deserves to be knighted right this moment seeing how he never even mentioned just how force karked awful his Master’s hair looked like for the past week. Sticking in all directions, it grows in uneven patches, the addition of a beard is somehow making his elegant Master look like a beggar from the streets and that, that is intolerable.

Anakin growls quietly, muscles tense. He knows his Master most likely can feel him staring holes through him, and yet he simply continues reading his datapad, not asking nor looking, radiating calm in the force. Anakin wonders if he could tidy that mess with the power of thought alone. Would that be considered a frivolous use of the force? Even if done in the service of the republic? After all, his Master’s good looks are the cornerstone of the…

Obi-Wan scratches at the back of his head, clearly bothered and Anakin can’t tolerate this anymore, cannot accept this anymore. His tongue is itching something fierce, his hands are sweating, he cannot sit still like there’s fire ants filling his pants and crawling up his spine. He cannot tolerate this. If not for himself, he must do this for his Master. If not for his Master, then for the order. If not for the order, then for the Galaxy. If not for the Galaxy, then for the Force itself. For he can swear by all that he holds dear that the Force itself is embarrassed by his Master being so unkempt, so ungroomed.

Unacceptable. This is absolutely unacceptable. His Master has to always look neat and nice and put together, smelling fresh and looking proper. That’s the only right way for his Master to be. Anakin will not stand for it being any other way. He will not. He will make it right.

His Master ignores the first lick. He often does that, pretends to not notice in the hopes of Anakin stopping after catching himself at his instincts. Oftentimes it works. Oftentimes it is an accident. But not this time. This time it’s very much on purpose and very much intended to continue until Anakin is satisfied with the results. All Anakin needs is for his Master to continue pretending to not notice long enough for him to fix this mess.

Two more licks, lower neck up the scratchy beard and—

“Anakin—” his Master stops pretending so suddenly that Anakin’s tongue moves over his jawline and across the beard in a way that tickles funny. Anakin likes how it feels, rough and interesting, makes him curious about how it’ll feel like to lick across the jawline, where the beard is the thickest.

Knowing he does not have much time before his Master attempts to stop him altogether, Anakin leans in with renewed urgency, tongue ready, mouth starting to water— “Anakin, stop!” a strong hand pushes against his shoulder, moving him a distance away without being as rough as to push.

“Mrrphh!” Anakin protests, pushing against the hand but not fighting it actively. His Master can be so bossy when he gets like this, so unreasonable. The only way to win is to use his words, otherwise his Master might just walk off and hide in his rooms instead. Or worse, go meditate in the halls, where everyone will see this shameful disaster.

“You need the grooming, Master!” Anakin starts with the foundation and heart of his objection. His Master always teaches that it’s important to be able to pinpoint the problem early on and address it quickly so as to not let it fester and become bigger than it must be. Granted his Master spoke of interpersonal disputes however it absolutely does apply here. His Master simply cannot deny this reasoning, ergo, will not be able to dispute it as untrue. “So just let me!” Anakin adds, before his Master could somehow find a way to object.

Can’t his Master see that Anakin is offering him a service? Out of the kindness of his heart, no less. Him enjoying the way his Master’s flavor sits on his tongue, the way it makes all the small hairs on his body stand on end, how it fills him with excitement— His Master’s scent, rich and spiced and safe— how he favors it above all else even when the exotic teas make him sneeze and sneeze— the way a single point of contact would narrow his senses into a single point of focus, clear his mind of all worries— the way his vision relaxes, the way his nostrils flare and he inhales and inhales and inhales— the way his heartbeat peaks and then slows, the way his mouth goes dry and he feels thirsty, hungry even— all that, all that has nothing to do with his altruistic motivations. He’s just looking out for his Master. Obviously, duh.

“Master.” He can hear his own voice, can hear how it takes a whiny note his Master often teases him for. It’s hard to care when he has a goal bigger than his own ego. “Just let me.” He demands, he can hear it and he still doesn’t stop himself from reaching for his Master’s flowing robes, claws catching on the material and making him shudder. Maybe he does need trimming just like his Master insists each time they spar. Maybe Anakin will allow it, if his Master is good and allows him this. Maybe he’d even let his Master groom him too.

The bewilderment in the force clues Anakin on the fact that yes, maybe he did forget to shield, again. He huffs through his nose, wrinkling it. He really doesn’t know what the big deal with this is, doesn’t understand the obsession everyone and especially his Master, has with hiding every single urge and instinct and thought they have. It’s not like he thinks anything he wouldn’t also say out loud. Maybe if the Jedi used less of those shields, it would have been much easier to communicate with them, to bond with them, and maybe then he’d feel less like an outsider, like an odd bird out of its cage.

“Oh Anakin..” Obi-Wan sighs, the tension loosening from his hold against his shoulder, rather than scolding, there’s the hints of the sadness his Master expresses each time Anakin feels alienated in this place. It is not his fault no one understands him, it is not his fault he is different than everyone.

“Master.” Anakin chirps back, rolling his eyes. His Master has the oddest of tendencies to get hung up on the most particular of topics. Anakin not having enough friends, per his Master’s opinion, is one such topic. Nevermind the fact that Anakin had never seen his Master ever share a true conversation with a single person. Other than himself. Of course. His Master does talk to him.

His Master will get fixated on him instead of thinking about himself and nag him to half death. ‘Anakin get more friends’ and ‘Anakin don’t spread the droid parts all across the quarters’ and ‘Anakin I’m a grown man I can groom myself.’ And while some of those things might be true, obviously, the last one is not. “You look like a mess.” Anakin says it to his face, because he and his Master are real friends.

“Thank you Padawan.” His Master answer, no longer sounding sad, instead his voice is dripping with sarcasm. Anakin doesn’t like it, but he supposes it’s better than sadness. “I do not recall asking for your no doubt impeccable sense of— Ahnakin—!” his ranting stops mid warming up when Anakin uses the opening to dart forward and lick him again, from the lowest exposed spot of his neck, up the smooth skin, his rough tongue making a satisfying ‘shh’ sound as it catches at the hair of the beard and smooths it up with his lick. The flavor is… is…

Obi-Wan had used some sort of balm… some sort of synthetic musk that makes Anakin’s brain swim funny and eyes to close and mouth to water even more. He has to swallow down the saliva lest he drool like a hungry Tooka. It’s hard not to, when his Master is so, so, so karkin yummy. He slams his shields up with a clumsy thud in the force, but maybe just a moment too late to cover up that last thought.

“Anakin!” his Master sounds properly scandalized, voice raising to a tone that always makes Anakin’s ears ring uncomfortably and the following lecturing tone is no better. “Cease this nonsense immediately, you must not—"

Anakin licks again. The side of his neck and up to the point where skin meets ear. “Master.” He says there, voice dropping into a purr that morphs into a warning growl he didn’t even think of making, there’s no aggression, only the frustrated warning to not stop him in the middle of something so damn important. Grooming, is important. More than Katas or studies or meditations. Maybe even more than sparring. And Anakin loves sparring.

All Anakin wants is for his Master to sit quietly and let him take care of him. The way he ought to, the way he was meant to do. It’s his job, after all, is it not? He is Obi-Wan’s Padawan, it’s only natural he would tend to his Master, that he would care for him, that he would help him. That just makes sense. That rings true in the force and that’s all Anakin needs to know.

"I will.” He declares, it is no longer a request nor a plea, it is a declaration of intentions. A declaration of intent. He presses his nose at the soft skin under his Master’s ear and inhales, deeply, the scent making him Master-stupid so he says what’s on his mind with no filters, with no thought. “Unless you hate me.” His voice drops softer, he can’t breath, having inhaled too much of the strongest drug known to him. “Then I won’t” he trembles, he waits, if his Master rejects him, if he does hate him for his care, he will, he

“Anakin, this is hardly related, I do not think that—”

The force between them sparks and Obi-Wan’s mouth snaps closed with an audible click of the jaw. There’s a tension and a heating of an eruption that is halted with the calming breeze of spring air, Obi-Wan’s Force Signature covering his own, soothing, embracing, calming. “Very well, Padawan.” Obi-Wan speaks with a voice of a man who’s been worn in battle, sighing out in exhaustion.b “Since you cannot resist your nature, I’ll allow it.“ He pauses, sounding not a little doubtful as he adds the obligatory “Just this once, Anakin.” A final form of giving in, one Anakin is familiar with.

There’s an ‘You should be old enough to know better’ goes unsaid and so Anakin ignores it. It wouldn’t have mattered even if Obi-Wan did say it. He had before, many times, and it never mattered. Anakin somehow doubts it’ll matter even when he grows taller than Obi-Wan. And he will, he just knows it. He will grow tall and strong, and he will always take care of his Master, and Obi-Wan would not be able to argue with that. Because it’ll all make sense. It always does. Everything about them does.

If only his Master understood him better, he’d know that one doesn’t just grow out of wishing to groom those he cares and…loves. This is something that is forever and always. That is something that only grows and deepens, something to be shared and relished. Something he will always give to his Master freely, even if his Master maybe doesn’t…. Really share it in the same way as him. Which is fine. He had decided a long time ago. It is fine.

It is enough that he gets to care for his Master. So he smiles instead and purrs out a sweet “Thank you, Master.” In that respectful manner he knows his Master enjoys hearing. He giggles when he feels his Master’s breath hitching, giggles more when nuzzling against the neck tickles his nose. “This is so horrible.” He complains, wanting his Master to know how strongly he objects to this change, and yet he cannot stop giggling. “Master!” he doesn’t even try to hide his joy from his voice, nevermind from the Force.

His Force Signature is a slow pulse of contentment, securely tucked beneath Obi-Wan’s still. When he licks small licks under Obi-Wan’s ear, he can feel his Master’s breath catching, can feel the way he stops breathing entirely and the soft gasp when Anakin licks at his ear directly, once, twice, a few more times just to test how committed his Master is to this session. Very, it seems. His Master doesn’t object even when Anakin grows bold and nibbles at his earlobe, tugging ever so gently. His Master is always so sensitive around this area, always so jumpy if Anakin stays too long at this spot. It always makes Anakin want to lick there until Obi-Wan loses his composure entirely.

He never does.

At least not too much.

He does want to groom Obi-Wan after all, not only bully him into squirming because he is so damn ticklish there. That is not to say that he is above wanting to see his pristine Master squirming a little. So he licks there again, and when his tongue dips only a little into the ear, his Master finally jumps and moves away, breathing harshly and looking redder than his hair.

“Anakin I do believe that my hair is not located in that particular spot and—” his hands close on Anakin’s shoulders when he makes it to the ear again, wanting to nibble just one more time, just one last time… “Anakin.” His Master’s firm voice snaps him back into focus, tells him gently through the force to not overdo it. Fine, fine. He will not overdo it. This time.

"Just relax, Mastah.” Anakin pouts, the word slurring in the way his Master always corrects. Always, but not now. Anakin reaches for his Master’s wide shoulders and waits a moment until his Master’s grip loosens enough for him to actually move. It’s easy enough to shift to his Master’s lap. One knee over and sitting down in one smooth motion that has a practiced finesse to it. You either get to Obi-Wan’s lap swiftly, or you don’t at all. There is no room for hesitation for his Master will do enough hesitating for the both of them. So he sits down and nudges closer, right away. Inhaling, inhaling deeper.

Oh how he wants their scent to become one. They’re already nearly inseparable, living as closely as they do, using the same soaps, eating the same foods. Anakin wants more. Anakin wishes that they could smell and feel like one. United. Clearly bonded. Even more than they are through the force. He wants it so much that his fangs itch, itch, itch to bite and bite and bite. But no. No he is here to groom, to care. Not to bite, not to… mark. His cheeks are warm with it, knowing that he has, and is, constantly considering this. Wondering about this, curious about this. About marking his Master in a way that will be known, in a way that will be understood. He thinks about it, always. Luckily his Master has no clue. Luckily, Obi-Wan does not know. Or he wouldn’t let him sit here so carelessly, surely, he wouldn’t.

“It’s part of it, duh.” Anakin says without truly knowing what he speaks of. The grooming, the licking, the biting, the sitting on the lap? He doesn’t know. He only knows of the happy, loud purr that fills his lungs when Obi-Wan doesn’t stop him from leaning back in, back to his neck, nuzzling, smelling, licking up that rough, funny tasting beard and to his hair, spiky and significantly softer than the beard. He giggles again, and purrs. It’s an odd combination of sounds he does try to stop but doesn’t manage. He is too preoccupied for dignity, or decorum, or class. He’s too karking pleased.

When he licks at his Master’s neck again, the man tilts his head up and away, exposing his throat for him. Good. Good. Good, great, awesome.

His Master couldn’t have displayed his trust more plainly than this. No words could have conveyed the same level of commitment, of confidence and belief. Exposing one’s throat, Anakin thinks, is a universal sign. Even if his Master is less inclined to instincts as Anakin is, it still counts, it still matters a whole lot that he does it for him. His Master does it because he knows it matters to him and that— that matters more than all else.

His own purring is deafening, drumming in his eardrums and filling his chest with sound, he used to try to hide this in the past when he realized that most Padawans did not purr at every one of their Master’s compliments or gestures of kindness. He no longer bothers. He pulls and licks and purrs some more. He takes his time, licking small, measured licks, taking care to put that awful messy beard into something much neater, dignified.

“Maste-rrr.” He draws the ‘R’, nuzzling again under the ear and grinning when his Master shudders but doesn’t pull away, he always gives him a chance to be good. So he will be good. He does not nibble, instead he wraps his lips carefully around the bit of skin where no hair touches. Oh he wants to suck, to mark, to taste. Oh he does, so much. But he doesn’t. He will be good, because his Master believes him to be good, and proper, and nice. So he will be.

His cheeks are fire hot when he thinks about what else he would have liked to be doing instead of the promised grooming. That is not something he should be thinking of, nor something his Master would ever permit, but…

Thinking is not illegal and he is not good at not thinking.

So he imagines it. Imagines how his Master’s hands would feel on his hips, imagines his Master yanking him down to sit properly on his lap, Imagines his Master wanting him to lick elsewhere and—

“Ahnakin—” Obi-Wan protests, so strongly it rings in the force with his words. He feels and looks scandalized, even more so than before. He looks like he is considering all his choices and decisions. He looks like he’s about to call quits. He looks like he’d push Anakin away, he— places his hands on Anakin’s hips and pulls him down, to sit properly.

The whine that escapes Anakin’s lips is nothing short of mortifying. It’s a needy, surprised thing, he feels like a proper youngling, confused and shy. He seeks the refuge of his Master’s neck and hides there, nuzzling while whining again, complaining, scandalized too by his Master’s audacity to follow his dreams up like this. He can’t mean it, he simply can’t! It is a mere coincidence, his Master would never follow his fantasies, he didn’t even hear it, his shields are up and proper, he’s sure of it, he’s sure of it, he’s…

“Sorry…” Anakin murmurs out, because if he’s honest, he is not sure if his shields are worth anything with how excited he had gotten. Maybe his Master did hear, maybe his Master did feel something. Maybe he did push a little too hard. He doesn’t want to push too hard, he knows that sometimes his Master gets nervous because of his thoughts. Not angry, never angry.

He doesn’t want to make his Master nervous, he can feel the tell-tales of it in the force. Despite his Master’s secure hold on him, despite his Master’s unmoving frame. He can feel the building up hesitation. He does not want his Master to feel that way with him.

“I’ll stop.” He promises his Master, assures him. He’ll try to, anyway. For his Master he’d try to go against his nature, even if his nature does tell him to think and do all sorts of things. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night when he can’t sleep and he thinks of his Master and every word they had ever passed, he does wonder about this. Is this truly his nature, his instincts that drive him to act as he does, or is it simply how he is with his Master? He suspects he knows the answer to that, but it’s easier for the both of them to call it instincts and be over with it, so he never disputes it. “Really.”

There’s a charged silence and then, blessedly, his Master says the two words Anakin loves more than anything else in the world, the two words for which he, not jokingly, thinks he might be willing to die for.

“Good boy.”

The Coruscanti accent is thick and rolling, he sounds almost distracted, he sounds…

Anakin shuts his eyes and bites his tongue, fangs digging into the soft flesh. He must not think of exactly how he imagines his Master sounding. He should not think about how his hands feel warm and human on his hips. He should not think about the lingering flavor on his tongue nor how his lungs are full of Obi-Wan, of his Master. He should not, is not allowed to. Promised not to. Instead he wraps his arms around his Master’s neck and hugs him, pulling the larger man to himself, having his head against his chest for a few long moments in which he is sure Obi-Wan hears just how fast his heart goes. He surely can feel it through the bond, it’s going crazy, ba-dum, ba-dum.

He can feel a distant echo of his own heartbeat, almost imperceptible to his senses, and yet there. An answer. Thoomp-thoomp.

When he leans back, he moves his hands to cup his Master’s cheeks and makes him tilt his head up, to face him. “You look good now,” His fangs stretch at his lips as he grins wide enough to hurt. “Master!” he adds, cheekily.

His Master’s eyes are a bright blue, the deepest, calmest pond. He rolls them shortly, then looks directly into Anakin’s own eyes and smiles at him, sarcasm dripping with fondness as he says “Thank you. Ah-nah-kin.” With the most accented tone Anakin had ever heard. There’s so much black in his Master’s eyes, a beautiful, wondrous thing that makes him itch all over and want to see more of that soft darkness no one else gets to see.

No one else, but him.

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pedrito-friskito · 4 months ago

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// track 9 - the prophecy //

-> can I write a fic about din djarin without piling on the exposition? absolutely not. also bonus, this is my submission/entry/funtime for @prolix-yuy’s #bangathon2024! the wheel bestowed upon me the placid embrace, and I embraced the HELL out of it. fair warning this is unedited, I’m squeaking under the bangathon deadline here, but I had an idea and I ran with it! hope y’all enjoy 🤍

word count: 8.4k

warnings: canon-typical violence (a bit bloodier), possibly slightly OOC din djarin, descriptions of female body, unprotected p-in-v (wrap your shit in space too ok), din has a lot of feelings and has zero idea what they mean, the helmet comes off, reader is a seer/has visions, still not sure if I love the ending but here goes nothing!

He just can’t seem to catch a break.

“I don’t have the parts,” the smith is telling him, looking at Din’s broken vambrace with a pinched brow. “I can order ‘em in, but it’ll take a day or so to get ‘em here, another day or two to fix it. You gonna be here in four days?”

He takes the hunk of metal back, sliding his hand through the opening with a shake of his helmet, securing it back around his wrist. “Thank you for your time.”

The market is bustling with people. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he was on Batuu, but Black Spire Outpost is the same as it was the last time he touched the Crest down for repairs and refuelling. Except this time, there’s a tracking fob at his hip, a puck detailing his current bounty tucked into one of the pockets on his belt. The fob has been beeping slowly since he disembarked at the port, reluctantly paying the obscene amount of credits it cost to leave his ship for a day.

Not that it matters — the amount he’ll make on this job more than covers it. Two times over and then some. Once he delivers, he can go back to Nevarro, get his armour fixed, and onto the next one. The cycle continues, such is the life of a bounty hunter.

It’s not the life he would have picked for himself, he muses as he makes his way through the Outpost. But then, he wonders how many people in this galaxy have the lives they would have chosen, given the chance. Even the one he’s hunting.

Especially the one he’s hunting.

Din had been half-listening to Karga’s regular spiel about the bounty, but his ears perked up at the number of credits waiting for him at the finish line. “The ones who ordered the bounty, what planet are they from?”

“Savareen,” Karga had replied with a slight shudder. “Some backwater place on the Kessel Run. Don’t know how this coven got their hands on enough credits for something like this, but I know better than to ask questions. And the bounty isn’t on Savareen. She escaped and made it to Batuu somehow; I’m fuzzy on the details. All I know is the intel we have has her there still, and she killed both the fighters the witches sent after her. Feisty thing.”

“They didn’t give you anything else?”

“Only that she’s very valuable and they need her back before the next full moon.”

He’d slid the bounty puck across the table to Din then, the hologram flickering to life as he did. The face before him was too young, too innocent. You’d killed two fighters? Looking at you, Din wondered if you knew which end of the blaster to hold. But he held his tongue; he’d judged other bounties too quickly in the past, and had the scars to prove it.

Continuing through Black Spire, Din keeps his head down, but his eyes peeled. The fob is still beeping slowly, but as he turns down an alley, away from the busy market, the noise picks up. He keeps going, coming to a stop ahead of a small group of people. He lingers back, not making himself obvious as he observes.

An elderly man with a thick beard stares up at the sky, murmuring under his breath while two younger people seem to hang on his every word, holding his arms up for him. More people sit on the ground before the man, all staring at him intently.

The cloaked figure hanging at the edge of the group, hood obscuring their face, catches his attention. Their stance is tight, nervous, feet shuffling in the dirt with every word the elderly man says. To an untrained eye, they would look no different than Din himself, observing the group, lingering at the edge. But Din knows better.

The figure takes off as he takes a single step forward, hand resting on his blaster. In a flutter of dark fabric, he takes off after them, dodging the enthralled people on the ground, careful not to knock anyone over as he darts up the alleyway.

The fob is beeping rapidly now, quickening with every inch he gains on the cloaked figure, on you.

He grunts beneath his helmet, arms pumping as he runs, legs burning with exertion. He can’t remember the last time he sprinted after a bounty.

You’re relentless, taking hard lefts and rights any chance you get, but your scared movements are predictable, and Din finds it too easy to follow you, despite his racing heart and the sweat gathering on the back of his neck beneath his helmet. But your constant turning leads the chase back into the heart of the Outpost, and you’re moving too fast to stop from sliding into the large cart that pulls out suddenly into your path.

Din winces at the crash, your body crumpling to the ground and the cart’s contents pouring over your head. The merchant pushing the cart tries to help you up, but Din is quicker, hiding his heaving chest by straightening his shoulders, grabbing you by the arm and hauling you up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” the merchant starts, and Din lifts a hand, silencing him as he pulls a set of cuffs from his belt and slaps one around your wrist. You don’t fight him, surprisingly, offering your other wrist for him to clasp the cuff around. He’s grateful you can’t see his expression, the mix of confusion and surprise that has his brows shooting up beneath the helmet.

Strange.

He flicks the merchant a credit. “Did half the job for me,” he says, and grabs you by the shoulder, maneuvering around the stalled cart and back in the direction of the Razor Crest.

You don’t protest, keeping pace beside him, the corner of your mouth twitching as you walk. “You took longer than I thought you would, Mandalorian.”

The visions started when you were small.

They’ve always been a part of you, long as you can remember, and before you knew their true purpose, you thought them dreams, blips of darkness that occasionally came to call, taking you over and leaving you with knowledge that, most of the time, you didn’t want.

You were only seven when your family gave you to the coven. Your parents — scared of you, scared of the truths that spilled from your lips, truths you had no right knowing — sent you off without a second thought, assured by the coven’s leader that they would do right by you, that you’d grow to control your gifts, and could someday return home to Naboo a different girl.

But the control never came. The visions only grew more sporadic when you were under the coven’s care. They cared for you, that much was true — they fed and clothed you, gave you a roof over your head, a bed to sleep in. Someone watched you constantly, and anytime a vision struck, you were to immediately relay what you saw, provide as many details as you could, and on life would go.

Twenty years later, and still your control has not surfaced. But something changed.

The visions showed you the truth. You don’t know what gods are watching over you, if the Maker has any hand in it, but you know what you saw.

From the moment you had been handed over to the coven’s care, they had been poisoning you. Your drinking water sullied with a rare toxin from plants only native to Savareen. The toxin blocked out any control you might have over the visions, leaving you at their mercy. And you weren’t the first — they’d done it to a hundred seers before you. You just happened to have lasted the longest.

Anything you saw that was of use, names you couldn’t make sense of or planets you’d never been to, was cross-referenced across the coven’s expansive database of knowledge, created by the seers’ visions. And anything of true import was fed directly to the Empire.

And if you revealed what you knew, the truth of their game unraveled, they’d sacrifice you in the name of their god, as they had with every seer come before you.

When the vision finally released you, your warden of the day ready to record what you’d seen, you spat out a lie. A pretty one, with as much detail as you could muster that wouldn’t sound suspicious. The lakes on Naboo you once swam in, cool water warmed by the sun, the glint of sunlight off metal. A dream you’d had many times. Your warden seemed to believe it, scribbling away in a journal before sending you on your way.

It was obvious, what needed to be done. If you wanted to live, you needed to leave.

Easier said than done, unfortunately. The coven lived in a commune deep in the Savareen forests. Far from any marketplaces or spaceports. You would be travelling for days just to get away from them, and days longer until you came upon anything of use.

So it became a process — quietly gathering what supplies you could, explaining it away when your warden questioned you, sneaking around in the night while the coven slept. The first time an opportunity presented itself, you grabbed your things and ran, ducking away under the cover of dark.

More than a week, you walked. You rationed the food you’d taken, slept on the hard ground with a knife in your hand. You only slept a few hours at a time, forcing yourself to your feet and travelling another few hours before allowing yourself more rest. The further you got, the better.

You drank only fresh water from the streams, boiled over a fire to make it safe, and as you travelled, something akin to control settled over you like a blanket. The visions still surfaced, peeling away the edges of your mind, but they were easier to push back, easier to hold at bay until you had a moment to entertain them, to watch with a keen eye rather than a startled one.

You saw him on your fifth night. Stopped at the edge of the forest, the desert spread out before you, you rested. The coven elders rarely let anyone past the commune’s borders, though you knew they’d send someone after you. But that night, your visions promised peace, a good night’s sleep beside your small fire, the blanket of stars and moons above you standing vigil.

So you let the vision take over. You saw a helmeted man, his armour having seen better days. Your mind recalled the style of the armour, a holo-pads the coven used to educate you about the galaxy as you grew — or to make your visions more potent, you wondered now.

A Mandalorian.

A torn cloak fluttered behind him, a rifle strapped to his back. As you watched, he held out one gloved hand to you, the other lifting his helmet just enough to expose his mouth — unfairly full lips and a patchy beard. His name whispered on the wind, a voice that sounded like your own.

Din Djarin.

He stepped toward you, hand still outstretched, closer and closer until the warmth of his palm cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping your cheek.

“Safe,” he whispered, the word sinking into your chest with a warmth you couldn’t quite understand.

And then the vision faded. You came back to yourself, to your small fire and your blanket of stars, and without another thought, you slept.

The moment you reached the spaceport — if you could even call it that — you snuck onto the first cargo ship you spotted, tucked yourself in with the crates and hid the best you could. It didn’t matter where it was headed, you just needed out.

The cargo ship brought you to Jabiim, and it was safe, for a time. You stole when you needed to, found the odd merchant willing to pay you for a day’s work, sold the few things you’d taken from the coven for credits. You holed up in a boarding house, flexing your control over your visions like training a muscle.

You waited for your Mandalorian to appear.

He didn’t, but two of the coven’s warriors did.

They couldn’t have known the visions had warned you. Couldn’t have known that you’d booby-trapped every inch of your room in the boarding house. They didn’t know you’d seen not only that they’d come for you, but the how and the when, that you knew how you’d keep yourself alive.

It was bloody business, and had you slipping out the back door before morning came, hiding on the next cargo ship that left the spaceport.

And the cycle continued, until you landed yourself on Batuu.

You haven’t been here long. Black Spire is the biggest outpost you’ve ever seen — not that you’ve seen many to compare it to — and it works to your advantage at first, offering a plethora of trails to lose your pursuer. You know it’s him, knew it was him the moment he stepped up to the group of people listening to that old man preaching about the stories in the stars. The tinted armour, each piece damaged in some way, the pristine helmet. The way he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall was familiar to you, and your chest fluttered with the word he’d murmured to you in your vision.

Safe.

Except, you’re anything but. You can hear the beeping, see the way his hand hovers over his blaster. As soon as you see an opening, you take it, and it’s almost enough.

Until that cart comes out of nowhere — you didn’t see that in any vision — and knocks you on your ass. You give your hands over willingly to the Mandalorian when he hauls you to your feet, letting him cuff you, start to drag you off through the Outpost.

You try to suppress the grin that tugs at your lips. “You took longer than I thought you would, Mandalorian.”

He seems to balk at your claim, his shoulders going tight, not that you can see his expression. But you can imagine those full lips clear as day, the patchy beard, the bare spots the perfect size for your thumb to fit into.

Strength and a certain kind of ferocity seems to roll off of him, pushing every person out of your way as he leads you back toward his ship. Your head throbs with every step, your tongue numb where it got caught between your teeth when the cart hit you. It makes your blanket of control waver, a hole appearing in your armour, and your pulse quickens.

The Mandalorian all but pushes you up the ramp and into his ship. It’s nothing fancy, full of spare parts and rusted metal, but when he steers you toward the back of the ship, you see the carbonite chamber, people of every species encased in black, their expressions pained. Your heart is in your throat, rioting around, making your palms sweat.

“Go,” he tells you, gesturing at the empty platform in front of you, the chamber’s tubes steaming as he flicks a switch.

“P-please,” you manage to squeak out. Your control is gone, replaced with fear and anxiety. You pull against the cuffs, trying to turn your body away from the machine, but it’s too late.

The vision takes over, and everything goes dark.

Din catches you before you hit the ground.

In an instant, you shift from every other pleading bounty he’s shoved into the carbonite chamber, into something more. Your eyes roll back in your head, your body going limp, and it’s a miracle he manages to grab you before your head cracks off the metal. But he does it, grunting with the effort, wincing when he feels the jab of your shoulder in the crook of his elbow.

And he freezes.

Something in his chest goes tight, a taut string that has his ribs in a vice. It whispers that he knows you, that he’s seen your face a million times before even though this is the first day he’s ever set eyes on you. Like a part of his heart calls for yours.

It makes him stumble back a step, jostling you, your body leaning more fully into his. He’s enveloped in your warmth, the scent of you sneaking beneath his helmet, tormenting him.

I know you I know you I know you.

His gloved hand shakes as he brushes the hair from your forehead, looking at your face more fully. He studies you, the slope of your nose and the fan of your lashes. He has half a mind to take his gloves off, to feel your hair slip between his knuckles. The blood in the corner of your mouth makes something like panic shoot through him and he slips his other arm behind your knees, lifting you up and off the ground.

It takes some maneuvering, using his elbow to jab the button that lifts the door to his bed. He lays you out carefully, reaching for the medkit he keeps stashed near his pillow. He pushes back the strange feeling, focusing on the task at hand. He’s dealt with his fair share of head injuries, knows how precarious they can be. And he’s figured it out, over time — the best place to put the bacta patches, what mednog helps more than it hinders.

Din places the last of four patches behind your ear, right along the curve of your neck. You let out a quiet hum, arching your head into his palm, and he inhales deeply.

“I know you,” he murmurs, and doesn’t quite realize he’s said the words out loud until your lashes flutter, eyes shooting open and your body following suit. “Easy,” he commands, grabbing your shoulders, making you flinch. “You’re alright, just don’t move too fast.”

Your breath comes in short bursts, and Din realizes there are tears lining your eyes, one single drop sliding down your cheek. His fingers itch to brush them away, but he resists the urge, releasing you and curling them into fists instead.

Your eyes finally land on him, and the corner of your mouth twitches, like it had in the Outpost.

“Who are you?” he asks. You know her, his mind counters.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you retort, rubbing a hand across the back of your neck. You must find the bacta patch, because your brow furrows. “You…helped me?”

“Don’t think much of it,” he tells you, bracing his hands on his knees and pushing himself up off the cot. “I’m taking you back to Savareen.”

He sees the fear cover you like a veil, watches it pinch at your eyes and tug at your lips. The feeling rears its head, screaming at him that he’s doing wrong, but he beats it back.

“Please,” you say again, the same squeak you’d let out before you passed out in the carbonite chamber. “Please don’t take me back. They’re going to kill me, they’ll—”

“They’re paying me a ridiculous amount of credits to bring you back,” Din answers, cutting you off and turning his back on you. “And I’m gonna do just that.”

“At least listen to my side of the story,” you call after him. You pause a beat, and then— “Din Djarin.”

He can’t remember the last time he heard his name on a woman’s lips. Hearing it on yours is something else entirely.

His mind is at war with itself as he whirls. “How did you—?”

“Let me tell my side,” you reiterate, holding your hands up, surrendering. “And if you still want to take my back and collect your bounty, fine.”

He doesn’t say a word, but leans back on one foot, crossing his arms over his chest. You take it as a yes, leaning back slightly, straightening your back. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and Din clenches his teeth.

“I’m a seer,” you say slowly, eyes darting everywhere except his helmet. “I have visions. Always have, long as I can remember. I was born on Naboo, but my family gave me over to the Savareen coven when I was seven. They raised me, and it was all well and good until my visions told me the truth.”

You don’t continue right away, eyes finally landing on Din’s visor. “What truth?” he prompts.

“They were poisoning me,” you said, your voice shaking. “And the poison took away my control of the visions. A seer should be able to allow the visions to come when they wish, not be constantly at their mercy. They wanted me to see as much as I could, and everything I saw, the elders ran through their databases. Anything useful they fed to the Empire.”

The mention of the Empire makes him jump.

“And I’m not the first. They’ve done this to a hundred seers before me, and killed them all as soon as they figured out the truth. It’s a cycle, one I played into the moment I escaped. They know that I know the truth, and they’ll kill me for it and tell the rest of the coven that I was a willing sacrifice, for the safety of the rest of them.”

A sad laugh passes your lips, and Din’s chest feels hollow.

“And the worst part is: they’ll all believe them. The people that raised me, my friends, if you can call them that. They’ll believe I died willingly, for the greater good.”

You drop your face into your hands and everything in him begs him to comfort you, hold you, keep you safe.

No good will come of this, the rational part of him says. He could ruin his reputation with the Guild, and where would that leave him? Bounty hunting has always been his trade, his talent. He would go back to the Covert, ashamed.

But the sound of your voice has him quickly grasping for compromise. A final kindness, to please the beast in his chest.

“I’ll give you one thing,” he says, and your head shoots up. “One last…wish, I guess. Before I take you back.”

Din swears there are stars in your eyes. “A wish?”

He nods the helmet slightly. “Name it,” he says, “and don’t say setting you free.”

You think for a moment, a million emotions crossing your face before you seem to make your decision. “Naboo,” you say, your expression calm, almost serene. “Take me back to Naboo. I want to swim in the lake, like I did as a child. One last time, before I die.”

You think he’s going to fight you on it. You studied galactic maps with the coven, part of the studies they allowed, and you know just how far it is from Batuu to Naboo — you know it’s about the same distance as Batuu is from Savareen, in the complete opposite direction.

You wait for the no to reach your ears, for the disappointment and acceptance of your lot to settle in. But instead, he just nods again, turns on his heel and disappears from the ship’s hold, leaving you alone, still sitting on the edge of the Mandalorian’s bed.

A moment later, you hear the tell-tale hum of the ship’s engine. Another beat, and his voice sounds through the intercom beside the cot. “Get up here and strap yourself in. Don’t need you getting thrown around down there.”

Swallowing hard, you get to your feet and walking slowly toward the ladder he’d disappeared up. The rungs are cold beneath your hands, a reminder that this isn’t all a dream, or one of your visions.

He doesn’t turn his head when you step into the ship’s cockpit, doesn’t say a word as you settle into the chair in the corner of the space. You fumble with the belt straps, tightening them around you as his gloved hands move across the ship’s dashboard, pressing buttons and turning dials. The engine grows louder as the ship starts to hover, and you brace your hands on the armrests of your seat.

You’re both silent, the entire trip. After the initial jolt through hyperspace, you find the movement relaxing, and you don’t realize you’ve nodded off until you feel a warm hand on your ankle, the Mandalorian having reached for your outstretched foot to nudge you awake.

“The drop out of hyperspace can get a bit rocky around this sector.”

You nod at the warning, ignoring the sharp tug in your stomach at the rumble of his voice through his helmet. Adjusting yourself in the seat, you find yourself staring at the back of his helmet, the curve of the metal. When he turns his head to speak to you, you catch a glimpse of his chin, dipping as he talks.

“Hold on tight.”

The jolt makes you shut your eyes, gripping the armrests as tight as you can. The ship wavers and dips, the hull shaking and groaning with the effort and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Almost there.”

You don’t open your eyes until the ship has stopped completely, the sound of the engine whirring into shutdown making your breath come easier. When you open them, you’re met with a lush forest, a clearing just large enough for the ship to touch down in.

Naboo.

You’re out of your seat in the flash, nearly tumbling down the ladder back into the hold, desperate to be out and breathing in the fresh air so close you think you could taste it. The Mandalorian follows at a slower pace, reaching around your bouncing form to activate the ramp and open the door.

“Don’t go far,” he tells you, warning lacing his tone. “If you—”

“I won’t leave your sight, Din Djarin,” you tell him, quietly revelling in the way his entire form stills at your use of his name. “I promise, you won’t need to chase after me.”

You leave him to ponder your words, and step out and into the sunlight.

He stands on the Crest’s ramp longer than he should, watching you step out into the clearing. He found a good spot to land, forest wrapping around, a large lake sprawled out before you. The air is warm, fresh, invading his senses.

He watches you take off toward the water, shedding your cloak and top as you go, tossing the fabric aside. The bare expanse of your skin makes his throat go tight, makes the waist of his flight suit feel tighter than normal. As you reach the water’s edge, you crouch to pull off your shoes, straighten to shuck your pants down your legs.

Din only gets a brief glimpse at your bare lower half before you’re sprinting into the water, your laughter loud enough to send birds to the skies, disturbed from their homes in the trees. Beneath the helmet, he smiles.

You swim for hours. Din lets you take your time, your excitement getting the better of him. He tracks your head along the surface of the lake, turns his gaze to the ground when you float on your back. Din calls you back when the sun starts to set, finds something resembling dinner from the crates and boxes in the Crest’s hold. He leaves a blanket at the water’s edge as you swim back, and you eat sitting side by side on the ship’s ramp, your warm body inches from his.

A million questions dance on his tongue, the heat gathering beneath his helmet spurred by the way you lick your fingers clean when you’re done eating, sucking the juice of the fruit he found off your thumb.

How did you know his name?

Why does he feel the way that he does?

Why does he know you?

The sun dips lower, painting the sky a brilliant array of colours, orange into yellow into lavender and back again. The air is still warm, but a cold breeze blows, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Or maybe it’s the way you rise from your seat, the blanket draped around your shoulders, the way the sun covers you in a glow. He watches you make your way back to the water’s edge, but when you’re halfway there, he stands and follows you.

Din pauses when you reach the shore, the blanket dropping into a puddle of fabric near your clothes. You’re backlit by the sun, a silhouette he wants to trace again and again. “You could join me,” you call over your shoulder, stepping further and further into the water. “The water’s warmer than the air, you know.”

“Helmet takes too long to dry out,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I—”

“You could take it off,” you tell him, and his blood spikes. He wants to.

He knows you.

Din looks at you, and you meet him eyes through the visor, whether you know it or not. “I’m a Mandalorian,” he answers, “I don’t—”

“I know what you are, Din Djarin,” you answer, and he wants to record the sound of your voice saying his name, play it on a loop over and over until he has it memorized. “But I’ll be dead this time tomorrow.” You wade out further into the water, until it laps against your chin. “The secret of your face dies with me.”

You turn away from him, disappearing beneath the surface and reappearing further out. The sun is nearly gone, the last dregs of the sunset fading from the sky, the stars and planets taking their rightful place. The water still has a certain glow about it, the sounds of frogs and other night creatures filling the silence of the clearing.

Before he can second-guess himself, he hooks his fingers in the edge of the helmet and takes it off.

“Don’t turn around,” he calls out, reaching up to release the clips holding his cloak to his shoulders. It slips to the ground and he leans down to set the helmet atop it. One by one, he sheds each piece of his armour. The chill in the air makes him shiver, goosebumps rising on his skin as he slides down the zipper on his flight suit. He’s acutely aware of his nakedness, his eyes glued to the back of your head, bobbing in the water.

You listen; you don’t turn around.

He can’t stop his sigh when he steps into the water. You weren’t lying — it’s warmer in the water than out, and he steps quickly, feeling the ground slope beneath his feet as the water rises to his knees, his waist, his chest. Then it evens out, and he realizes you’re standing on tiptoe in the middle of the lake, your arms floating at your sides, head tilted back as you stare up at the sky.

“I’ve seen so many things,” you murmur as he comes to a halt behind you, leaving a good few feet between your body and his. If he lets his eyes dip, he can make out your slightly blurred figure beneath the water’s surface, but he keeps his gaze on the crown of your head, your face upturned to the stars. “So many places and people in the furthest corners of the galaxy. Things I’ll never truly see, but I’ve seen them just the same.” You take a deep breath, raising your arms just enough that your hands break the surface of the water. “And yet, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as the skies on Naboo. I remember swimming in a lake like this, as a child. Before they sent me away. I remember the stars looking just like this.” Your eyes flutter shut. “Thank you, for bringing me here. You’re a good man, Din Djarin. A better one than you allow the galaxy to believe.”

“How did you know my name?” he asks, the words spilling past his tongue before he can stop them. “How do you know my name?”

“I dreamt of you,” you say simply, as if it’s the most normal thing. You push your hands through your wet hair, and Din’s fingers long to copy you. “A long time ago, if we’re telling truths. Your face has come to me often —first when I was small, when we both were. I saw the destruction of your home world, though I didn’t know what I was seeing. I saw you pledge yourself to the Mandalorians, saw you earn your armour in the Covert. I dreamt of you long before I started running for my life. I always knew you’d be the one to find me, Din. The one to save me.”

It’s guilt, he realizes, that pools in his stomach, propels him forward until there’s barely any space between you. Until you’re close enough that he can hear your sharp inhale as he lifts his hand from the water, lets his dripping fingers trail up the curve of your shoulder, follow the curve of your neck to the space behind your ear, where he’d placed the bacta patch earlier. He’s so close he can feel the shiver that runs like a current through your body.

“Close your eyes,” he tells you, his voice a low rumble, “and keep them closed.”

You nod your head slightly, and he waits a beat before letting his fingers hook around your chin, using that leverage to turn you to face him. Your lips part gently, your breath warm on his skin. He drags the pad of his thumb across your lower lip, presses softly as you release another shaky exhale.

Din hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time. Longer than he cares to admit, and nervousness replaces his guilt as he tilts your face toward his. His hand rounds your head, cupping your skull in his palm, and your hair slides like wet silk through his knuckles.

The first kiss he gives you is soft. It’s tentative, your bottom lip captured between his, a quiet sound rising in your throat as he pulls away. Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes don’t open, and your hand reaches up, curling around the back off his neck and pulling him back down to you.

He grunts at the second kiss, your body inching closer to his beneath the water. His other hand finds purchase on your hip, digging his fingers into your flesh, and he swallows your groan, leaning deeper into your kiss, tightening his grip on your hair.

You give as much as you take, your free hand flattening against his ribs, your fingers fit in the spaces between his bones. The kiss is so familiar and so new, all at once. He’s done this a million times, and has never once done it before now.

I know you I know you I know you.

Pleasure shoots through him when your teeth scrape at his lip, your tongue darting out to soothe the ache you’ve left behind. It’s a welcome ache, and his hand drops from your hip to your thigh, hooking around the back of your knee and dragging your thigh over his waist. The sound you let out goes straight to his cock and he drops his lips from yours only to close his mouth around your pulse. You lean into him, both hands around his shoulders now, more soft noises of pleasure meeting his ears as he kisses a line up to the shell of your ear.

“When you dreamt of me,” he murmurs, your head leaning into the sound of his voice, “did you dream of all the ways I’d touch you?”

He accompanies his question with his fingers along the inside of your thigh, toward where he can feel you burning hot, your body warmer than the water that surrounds you both. Your lashes flutter again as you moan, digging your nails into his skin hard enough he’s sure you’ll leave little half-moon marks behind.

“This is better than anything I could ever dream up,” you whisper back, using your grip on him to pull your body flush to his. “I knew you’d find me, but I didn’t know you’d want me, that I’d want you.”

He pulls away, heart racing in his chest. Rejection flickers across your face, pinching your brow, but he grabs your hand beneath the water, squeezing. “Come with me.”

Din leads you out of the water, his grip tight on your hand. You still don’t open your eyes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as he wraps you in the blanket and then leads you back toward the Crest. He brings you inside, back to his bed, and pushes at your shoulder until you’re sat at the edge.

“Don’t move.”

He head back out into the night, the sun now long gone, and collects his armour and your clothes. His body hums with need, leaving his armour on top of a crate, your clothes and his flight suit tossed into the fresher to deal with later. He closes the ramp, locks the door to the hold, and returns to where you’re still sat, the blanket tucked around you.

“Move back,” he tells you, and you obey instantly, letting the blanket fall away as you slide back on the mattress. Electricity shoots through him at the sight of you, the dim light above his bed a meagre replica of the sunset. He can’t stop himself from reaching out, dragging his hand up the centre of your body until he reaches your chest. He cups the weight of your breast in his palm, swipes his thumb over your nipple and revels in the way it peaks at his touch, the way you shiver as he does it again and again.

“Din,” you murmur, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head.

“Say it again.”

“Din.”

He leans over you, plants a hand on either side of your body as you lean back, your head resting on his pillow. Still, you don’t open your eyes.

He kisses you again, angles his head so his nose brushes along yours. You arch up into him as he settles some of his weight against you, making a home between your spread legs. He can feel how wet you are, the heat nearly radiating against his cock, and he can’t stop himself from rutting against you, burying his face in your neck and fitting his mouth to your pulse once more.

“I want to be inside you,” he murmurs, and your nod is nearly frantic.

“Please.”

Din lifts himself off you, leaning back to kneel between your legs. His palms ride the curve of your spread thighs, thumbs swiping at the crease of your hip. It makes your whole body twitch, and he swipes a finger along your cunt, the wetness coating his finger, and your back arches up off the mattress.

He sucks his finger clean. “Sweet,” he whispers, and you let out a soft whine, a whimper.

Hands dragging down your legs again, he curls his fingers around your calves and lifts your legs until your knees are hooked around his hips. He feels your ankles cross at the small of his back and leans forward slightly, taking his hard cock in hand, shuddering at his own touch.

“Open your eyes,” he tells you, hearing the hitch in your breath as he drags his tip through your wetness, “the moment I’m inside you. You understand?”

You don’t answer at first, writing against the blankets, but when he taps his cock lightly against your clit, you shudder. “I understand.”

Dragging down through your folds, he notches his cock at your entrance, pleasure making sparks shoot across his vision as he moves his hips ever so slightly. He reaches beneath you, both hands at your lower back, and lifts your hips off the mattress, holding you aloft as he drives into you.

Your eyes shoot open, and you see his face. His whole face.

And Gods above, he’s more handsome than you ever could have imagined.

Every moment since you stepped off the ship has been more than you could have dreamed, but seeing his face, studying those dark eyes as he pushes himself inside you, it’s everything.

His brows knit together as he forces himself deeper. Your body jolts with the movement and you bear down, tightening yourself around him. It makes him tip forward slightly, close enough that you can wrap your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his dark hair.

The lips you remember, the patchy beard that scratches your skin when he turns his head and places a kiss against your wrist. His nose is different than you pictured, more hawkish with a scar cutting across the bridge. There are other scars too, littered across his chest and shoulders, a few even snaking down his front. You want to trace them all, memorize every ridge and dip.

He gives you a particularly hard thrust, and your vision goes white with pleasure. Your thighs quake with the intensity of it, feeling him drag against that sweet spot deep inside you. You tighten your grip on him, clenching your legs around his waist and keeping him where you want him.

“You feel…” he trails off, his lips parting as his hips roll into you over and over and over again. “I can’t…”

His groan spurs you on, lifting your hips off the mattress to meet his thrusts. The friction between your bodies grows more and more intense, his pelvis rubbing against your clit in a perfect rhythm. You can feel the pleasure growing, coiling at the base of your spine, and when he drops his head to your chest and wraps his lips around your nipple, you’re done for.

Your release rattles through you, seeming to draw Din’s from him. You shudder together, feeling the warmth of him spread through the deepest parts of you. He plants his head on your chest, hot breath fanned across your skin as you both move through it, limbs twitching and soft moans filling the air. He tries to pull himself from you too soon and you whine, refusing to loosen your hold on him.

Eventually, you let him go, instantly regretting your decision when the welcome weight of him moves off of you. He disappears for a time, but returns with a damp cloth from the fresher, and cleans between your legs before letting you move.

He doesn’t tell you to close your eyes again. You leave to use the fresher and when you return, he’s laid out on the cot, laying slightly to the side so there’s space for you. His eyes lock on yours as you slide into the bed, watching as he lifts the blankets for you and tucks you against his side.

Sleep seems to come easily for Din; you aren’t so lucky.

He wakes to an empty bed.

The hum of the night echoes through the hold, and Din scrambles out of bed when he realizes the door is open, that the cool night air is pouring in, and that you’re gone.

A million different possibilities flit through his mind; have you seen what happens? he wonders.

He pulls his underclothes on and finds his blaster, stepping slowly onto the Crest’s ramp. The clearing is the same as you left it, the only difference is the water is now as still as anything, the moon perfectly reflected in the surface.

You’ve left an obvious trail, and he tracks you easily through the forest. It’s a good distance from the ship, and when he finally finds you — and the altar before you — he hides in the brush, listening.

He doesn’t know what gods the carvings in the stone depict, and he wonders if you do, or if you’re just talking to anyone who might be listening.

“It’s not fair,” you say, your voice loud enough that he can hear the waver in it. You sink to your knees before the carvings, your hands dragging on the stone as you stare up at the sky. “I can’t see what comes next now. I don’t know what he’ll choose. I never asked for this!”

Din holds his breath, wondering if the sky might cloud over at your shouting, that thunder might rumble in response to your plea.

“Why lead me to him only to put my fate directly into his hands? Why allow him to bring me to life, only to snuff me out?”

The guilt returns, turning his blood black, making his mouth run dry.

“Is anybody even listening to me? Does anyone even care?”

I care, he nearly shouts in response, but the guilt ties his tongue in knots.

“I don’t want to die!”

Your hands curl into fists, slamming against the stone wall, flattening and your nails dragging along the carvings. Your shoulders shake with sobs, and half of him wants to run to you, the other half wants to disappear.

He returns to the Crest, the guilt crawling up into his chest and making a home there, a rival to the beast that demands he keep you close. They spar between his ribs, demanding to be heard.

Only he can decide which one he’ll listen to.

Din is right where you left him, when you return to the ship. Sprawled on his back, his arm outstretched where you’d laid your head. You close the ramp and the door, press the buttons you’d watch him press to lock the ship, and climb carefully back into the bed. Your tears are still wet on your cheeks as you fit yourself against his side. His arm curls around you, holding you closer, and fresh tears fall.

You wake up alone. Your body aches in a good way, your limbs groaning as you find your clothes. The ship hums, and it takes you a moment to realizes you’re moving. Not through hyperspace, just flying.

When you climb into the cockpit, he’s sat in his chair, all his armour back in place. He doesn’t acknowledge as you sink down into the same seat. You force your eyes to move away from his helmet, to the world outside the ship, and your heart feels as though it may shatter in your chest.

Savareen.

It’s good to know, in a way, that Din Djarin is a man of his word. You misjudged him, it’s true, but you can’t fault him. He’s doing his job. He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen.

Maybe not all your visions come true.

The spot where he lands the ship is not one you recognize. You’re far from the coven’s commune, that much you know for sure. As the engine’s hums die out, Din comes and stands before you, the same cuffs he’d used on you on Batuu in his hands.

You give your hands to him willingly. You won’t fight him, if this is your fate.

You don’t know what comes next; you haven’t seen it.

He’s silent as he leads you out of the ship and onto the planet’s surface. The air is that same cloying heat you remember, clinging to your skin and making it crawl.

As you descend the ramp, you see a familiar face — one of the coven’s elders, flanked by two of the same warriors who had come for you on Jabiim. The same man who had come to collect you from your family on Naboo, all those years ago. Who lied to your family and said you’d be in good hands. Who lied to you your entire life, forcing you to be at the mercy of your visions.

Bile rises in your throat as you draw closer, Din’s hand tight on your shoulder, your bound hands limp in front of you. “So good to see you again, my dear,” the elder starts, and everything in you screams at you to run away, but you never get the chance.

And you don’t need to.

As the elder reaches for you, Din draws his blaster and fires a single shot. The man drops to the cracked desert floor, a smoking scorch mark in the middle of his forehead. The warriors lunge forward, drawing their swords, but Din produces another blaster and moves in front of you, his stance protective, both barrels aimed at the warriors.

“Take another step, and you die,” he nearly growls, and your fingers curl around the fabric of his cloak. The warriors’ weapons clatter to the dirt. “Go back to your coven, and give your elders this warning: if they do not stop harming the seers, they will all share the same fate as him. She leaves with me, and if they send anyone after her, they share the same fate as him.”

With a nod, the warriors turn tail, sprinting off into the desert, leaving you alone with your Mandalorian. He turns to you, unlocks the cuffs from around your wrists. Your mind reels, trying to catch up with what’s happened, what it all implies.

“You…”

Din removes his helmet, holds it against his hip as he leans in, two fingers beneath your chin as he leans in to kiss you. You sink into it, elation seeping through your body, cupping his scruffy jaw in your hands, your thumbs fitting into the patches in his beard.

The kiss feels like a promise, like an oath.

“I’ll take you back to Naboo,” he tells you when you break apart only to breathe. “You can go back to your family, back to—”

“What if I want to stay with you?”

The corner of his lips twitch, and you lean in to kiss it. “Then you’ll stay with me.”

The moment you step foot back on the Crest, you freeze. Your gaze goes out of focus, your body a lead weight against his. Fear floods Din’s body and he grabs you, worrying you’re going to pass out again, that he didn’t do enough with the bacta, that you’re—

You come back to yourself quickly, blinking hard and gulping down air. “Nevarro,” you tell him, your voice tight. “We need to go to Nevarro, to the Guild.”

“I can’t do that,” he tells you. “I just broke my contract by not delivering you to them. They won’t—”

“Shh,” you hush him, two fingers pressed against his lips. “Listen to me, Din. We need to go to Nevarro. Karga will believe you when you tell him what happened, and he has a new bounty for you. An important one.”

His brows lift. “You had a vision? You saw Karga?”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “I saw much more than Karga,” you reply, your breath slowing. “I saw your son.”

the end

// TTWD track list //

#my fics #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin fluff #din djarin headcanon #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian headcanon #the mandalorian fanfiction #bangathon2024

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bloodygnqv · 6 months ago

Text

Oh Say Can You See

John Price x fem reader

cw: smut!! minors dni!, size difference (reader is described as small but dw there’s no infantilization), uuuh i think that’s it??

A/N: fuck the national anthem it’s a lana song. it’s been a while since i’ve written smut hope you enjoy anyway bless you all xx 🙏🏻

“Are you okay, love?” John asks you from where you’re laying on your side.

He’s all warmth and comfort, musk and tobacco and leather, a stark contrast between the feminine fruits and spring flowers and candy you enjoy wearing.

His voice is a quiet rumble, the crackle of a fireplace, the roar of an engine, the step on snow.

“Mhm, yeah,” you reply, sleepy and pliant, “Just really missed you.”

John lays on his side as well, cuddling you from behind. He’s always been the bigger spoon, arms and hands so large, so strong he can fully wrap them around your waist, cup your breasts in his palms, keep you to himself. His greed for you and your affection lodges in his throat.

You can feel him hardening against your back, and you stifle a small smile. “Go ahead, John, I’ve been waiting all day,” you whisper, your own desire sparkling in your belly, black milk and rose red and the veil of longing.

“God, you’re soaking. That needy pussy just needs some attention, huh?” His fingers slide against your slit gently as you whimper an affirmative and lift your leg a bit to give him access.

“I can take you, John, really, you can just slide in,” you mumble, stroking at his thigh greedily.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? You’re so small and I haven’t prepped you, you know it might hurt…”

Concern laces his voice like poison ivy. It almost makes you melt — he’s always been like this from the moment you two got together, soft care and love so strong it almost suffocates you.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I played with myself earlier..”

“Okay then,” he permits. He taps the head of his dick over your pussy, still not going in, syrupy whines escaping your throat.

And then his cock notches at your leaky entrance, slowly going in, and every little nag and annoying pesky thought hide somewhere in the back of your head.

“Oh,” you gasp and look down to where you two are connected.

John isn’t very long, but he’s thick, thick enough that you feel the stretch every single time you have sex. He carves out a place for himself in you, Galatea and Pygmalion, gentle marble across your legs (his large hands completely envelop the expanse of your thighs, leaving galaxy marks in his wake).

“Yeah,” John breathes, heavy, grunting out a response, “That’s it. Almost there, love, you can take it. Shit, you’re tight…”

You mewl, hands scraping for purchase against the duvet as he runs his fingers through your hair, his beard tickling your neck, whispering cotton candy filth in your ear. You know he’s already pushed in as you feel his heavy balls snug against your ass.

“There you go. Feels good, eh?”

“It does,” you whimper. There’s the slightest touch of too much, tiniest specks of pain, but they’re quickly chased away by the time John starts thrusting lazily. You’re not gonna last long, and if John’s satisfied grunts are anything to go by, he isn’t, either.

You grab his thick arm from where it’s perched over the gentle curve of your waist, delicate wrist teasing the underside of his palm and intertwining your fingers.

You’ve never felt more at home. You’re exactly where you need and want to be, ballad-like moans and late comfortable nights, devoted eyes and lust as a virtue. John’s filling you up just right, quenching the thirst that has simmered in you all day, pushing you off the edge.

John’s other hand reaches around and starts playing with your clit, just enough pressure in circles to bring you over the edge. He always goes the extra mile when it comes to expressing his love through pleasure, making your legs shake, newborn fawn, you are, seeing constellations and new planets beneath your eyelids.

“I’m gonna cum,” you murmur.

“Go ahead, baby. I missed you so, so much, my beautiful girl,” John rasps, peppering small kisses on the canvas of your neck.

There it is — the explosion of feeling and love and pleasure in your tummy, crawling down your legs and up your arms, making you moan and fist the sheet under your body.

Your orgasm pushes John to the edge, and you can feel his spend spilling in the crevice of your cunt, loud groans echoing in the corners of your ears, arms tightening around your small frame. That’s his favorite place to cum in, warm velvet around him, all that love that burns like a motor in his skin.

John pulls out slowly and lovingly cleans you up as your consciousness slips away from you. It’s been a long, long day, and the great sex is but your favorite way to release tension and put you in that space between wake and sleep.

The afterglow sneaks its way in your vein as you lay across John’s thick, hairy chest and close your eyes. This is your favorite time of day, all warm and snug and happy.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

His caress always feels like a blanket, a balm to soothe your wounds, a hazy morning dream you don’t want to wake up. It makes you all the more grateful, lying with the man you love in a space you two made.

#jana writes !#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #cod x reader #john price x fem reader #cod mw2 x reader #john price smut #call of duty smut #price x reader

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killuintense · 1 year ago

Text

❝ just imagine... ❞

Leon S. Kennedy [RE remakes]

small appreciation of Leon and his moles !

I have noticed in the games that Leon is a man with many facial and body marks. From hair on his arms to the beard on his face. But in the remakes I have noticed the amount of beautiful moles he has.

Just imagine kissing them, one by one, adoring his body down to the smallest detail. Kissing that mole above his lip, and slowly moving down in a trail of wet kisses to that mole on his chin. His features are so strong and hard, but you love how he laughs shyly, as he is quite insecure about the marks on his skin; after every mission he seems to have more. But you make sure you adore every single one of them, and his moles are your favorite part.

Sometimes, when you're both lying down and the clothes seem to have disappeared after a long night you set out to find new ones, surprising him to see moles he didn't even know he had. "Since when did I have a mole on my arm?" he says with confusion as he laughs, after you find a naturally colored mole, so soft and unnoticeable... minus you. You've even been able to see moles in places where only you have access, and that's what drives you the most crazy. It's only yours, even in the most intimate part. Every mole on his abdomen, on his thighs, on his back —you usually see them lost in the scratches you leave him—; everything is yours.

And you loved to let him know it, and that little blush, though he hates to admit it, belongs to you in its entirety. You own the galaxy of stars in Leon Kennedy's body, worshipper of the universe in his body.

#leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy resident evil #leon death island #leon kennedy #leon kennedy headcanons #leon re4 #leon resident evil #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy re4 #apreciation post #lovely post #leon kennedy comfort #resident evil fluff #resident evil remake #resident evil vendetta #resident evil #resident evil leon

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cainnleacghlovers · 2 years ago

Text

Who’s he? - MM

Paring: Mason Mount x Fem!Reader

Summary: Mason thinks Y/N is cheating. What happens when he can’t get his girl to forgive him? And what happens when Mason marks him in a match?

Warnings: Angst

Part 1/2?? maybe??

Finishing up the pasta you were cooking, you checked, for about the hmm? what time? you’d lost count. Okay, you definitely had enough protein in it. You’d asked the clubs dietician for some dishes you could make for Mason, knowing he loved a home cooked meal. Why on earth would someone need so much protein? What even is an amino acid?

You couldn’t complain, after all, you did get to reap the benefits of the muscle he was building. Whether it was a strong hand clasped in yours when you were out for a walk, or clutching his biceps while he pounded into you. Yep, you definitely weren’t gonna complain.

Trying a bit of the sauce. you were satisfied with the taste. Hearing the door creak open. You still hadn’t gotten round to oiling it yet. Shoes were thrown off, no doubts against the skirting board, and feet padded across the wooden floors, until a voice rung through the house.

“I’m home baby!” The voice said. That voice none other than your boyfriend. His voice was raspy, probably due to the freezing temperatures in London right now. You don’t think you’d ever get used to the permanent draft that seemed to linger in ever corner of the country.

“Kitchen!” You hummed back, singing to the beat of the song currently playing. New romantics by Taylor Swift. One Mason had even grown to love, insisting the lyrics mirrored his life. ‘The best people in life are free.’

Stepping into the kitchen, he gave you a smile, before making his way over to you, and pulling you into his chest by the waistband of your leggings. He swayed you slightly, his cold breath gradually heating up against your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

“I missed you today.” He’d been gone, how long? 3 hours. But you two needed to spend every minute of every day of every month of every year of every… okay, you get what i mean, together. He was your best friend, and he wasn’t just your world, he was your moon and stars. He was your entire galaxy.

“I missed you too.” You hummed against his chest, hands still stirring the pot in front of you, as you slapped his hand away when he tried to take some. That boy was so bad for double dipping.

“How was your day?” He asked, refusing to let go of you.

“Boring. Lecture was absolute shite. Came home, did homework. Got bored of said homework. Made pasta to procrastinate. How was yours? Working hard?”

He laughed at your comment, as your prodded his bicep.

“Working very very hard.” He added, spinning you round so he could pepper kisses all over your face. His bearubble, as you liked to call. It wasn’t a beard, but it wasn’t stubble. It was a bearubble. It tickled your face as his lips found yours, and you melted into the kiss. The coldness of his lips contrasting the warmth of yours.

“Mason stop. That tickles.”

‘Mason stop’ seemed to translate into ‘Mason keep going’, and he began to tickle under your arms, and scratch your face lightly as you kicked your feet in defence. You were a giggling mess under him, and he swore, in that moment, he’d never heard anything sweeter.

“Mase dinners gonna go cold.” He released you, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Fine. You win.”

As if on queue, his stomach rumbled, and he kissed you on the cheek before reaching up to grab some bowls. As he stretched, his jumper rose slightly, getting a good look at his toned stomach. Suddenly you were hungry for two things now!

Filling the bowls, he moved you over so he could lift them. Insisting he did everything for you, even carrying your bowl.

Making your way over to the living room, yes you ate in the living room, and yes you had a perfectly good kitchen table, but both your parents had been strict with eating on the sofa, so as soon as you got your own house, by god were you eating on the sofa.

He sat down, patting his lap for you to sit down.

“Will you be able to eat your dinner without getting distracted?” Hand on a hip, as you looked at him.

“I’ll be a good boy.”

Laughing, you fell onto his lap. Enjoying your dinner, and enjoying your company.

As you went to get drinks, a phone buzzed.

“It’s yours.” Mason said.

“I think it’s your mum. She was asking me about wallpaper. I said light blue, but she sent me every light blue wallpaper in the blinkin’ place.” You laughed to yourself, not really angry. You loved his mum.

He looked at your phone, as he checked the notification. Unless he unlocked the phone, he wouldn’t be able to see.

“Well who’s it from?”

“Can’t see. Got that lock thingy on.”

Unlocking your phone, you came back in, handing him a bottle of water. The atmosphere seemed to change, as if the cold from outside had crept in.

“It’s from Martin.” He said with a monotone expression.

“Who’s Martin?” You said genuinely curious.

“I think you exactly who Martin is.”

He spat the name out, and you felt the poison spilling off of his tongue. Furrowing your eyebrows, you were confused at why he raised his voice at you.

“Right, calm down.” You said, rolling your eyes at his temper.

“Calm down? Haha, you’re a funny one Y/N.”

“Oh i’m just hilarious. Why’ve you got a stick up your ass all of a sudden?”

Opening your phone, you realised it wasn’t messages. It was Instagram.

“No no. Don’t try be all ‘I’m so innocent’ with me? Jesus, you’ve talked more than once. What is this? He’s swiping up on your stories? He’s swiped up on one i’m in? He clearly knows that you’re you know, not single? Why is he messaging you? And why is it more than once!”

He was angry now. You knew the messages he was talking about, and they were certainly not bad. He played football with your brother, he complimented you? It was innocent. Absolutely nothing in it. If he was gonna point fingers, best believe you were too.

“Want me to go find him and go ‘Yo Martin, why are you messaging me, tell me every single fibre of thought behind it.’ I didn’t ask him to do this? So don’t take something that isn’t my fault, out on me.”

The tension in the room rose, the sofa being both a literal boundary, and a metaphorical one. You two didn’t shout, and you two most certainly didn’t accuse the other of cheating.

“Well you obviously gave him some notion that this was okay? You’re probably loving the attention.” He drew out the loving, and the sarcasm was laced through his words. His final words hurt you.

“And why on earth, mars, and venus would i do that? I don’t know why he’s messaged me. He swiped up on my story, and being a decent human, I replied back! I didn’t think much of it? It’s not like I sent him hearts and kisses, and ‘omg i’m in love with you?’ You’re being dramatic.”

If he was gonna go for sore spots, you were going to absolutely kick him in the ball. Not literally, but you were considering it. He knew you hated the attention you for dating him, and you knew he hated being told he was dramatic. Two can play at that game Mason.

He did not take that well. At all. Oh no.

“I’m dramatic?! My girlfriend is messaging other lads? What am I supposed to say to that, do a happy dance, and tell all the lads tomorrow at training! No! You’re bloody entertaining him. Why’re you going it? Your own validation?”

He opened your phone, scrolling through the messages. There was no point trying to get it, it would make the whole situation, that was already dramatic, explode.

“You’ve replied to all of them? Awk come on now Y/N. ‘Looking great’ with an ‘x’ ,a fucking ‘x’ you can’t be serious? ‘Aww thank you, that’s so sweet’ with a happy face. And you didn’t think much about it? What a fucking joke. Absolute bull shit.”

Not only did he mock his accent, his intimidated yours. You couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Are you serious Mason? He said ‘looking great’ and I replied? Being nice? And if we’re being like that, yeah i guess he’s a friend. But there’s absolutely nothing in it!”

“Fuck off.” He said, phone still in his hand, as if it were glued.

“No you fuck off you bastard.”

You didn’t mean to call him a bastard, and god you hated that word, but you were angry and cross and furious and every single word that means pissed off.

“Such a nice thing to call your boyfriend. Maybe you’d rather Martin be your boyfriend.”

“I’m not even talking to you anymore you ass hole.”

Again, you didn’t mean to call him that, but you were angry and cross and steaming out the ears. He scoffed, throwing your phone on the seat, and went upstairs to do something. Who cares what he was going to do. Probably complain about you to Declan.

Slumping down on the seat, you groaned in pure frustration, not understanding how the situation went from his mums wallpaper, to your supposed cheating scandal. Kicking your feet in the air, like a child, you got off of the seat with another groan, and put the bowls in the kitchen.

—

After you’d cooled down, and your vision turned normal, no longer seeing red. You decided that you should crack on with some homework. The complex Uni stuff you didn’t even understand would distract you.

Only problem was, Uni books were upstairs. Normally that would be a problem because, who could be bothered walking up the stairs not you. Today the problem was Mason.

Walking upstairs, you seen him sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Y/N.” He said softly. How dare he use that tone on you?

You looked at him, your eyes dark. You did not want to speak to him.

He patted the space beside him, looking for you to sit down.

“Come here. Please.” He added. The desperation in his voice almost made you feel bad. Almost.

“I do not want to talk to you.” You said harshly.

“Please. I wanna apologise.”

Number one rule in your relationship, someone wants to apologise, listen. Sighing you say down beside him. He moved to be closer to you, his arms stretching out to find their usual spot, around your waist. Not today though. You moved away from him.

“I’m sorry. You know I trust you.”

“Omg! You totally do. You’d never accuse me of cheating.” You said sarcastically, not even sorry that it probably hurt his feelings. He deserved it.

“I don’t know why I reacted like that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t of blown up at you.”

“That’s nice.” You added, raising your eyebrows. Listening to him, but not listening to him.

Getting up, and getting your books. You made your way to the door, eager to get out of this damn room.

“Y/N come on. I know I fucked up. I’ve said sorry, and I am sorry. What else can I do baby. Talk to me. Tell me how I can be better.”

“I know you said sorry, but I just don’t wanna look at your right now. Never mind talk to you.”

He sighed knowing you weren’t gonna give in. You pursed your lips, and prepared for you long, super long, night of studying. Yay!

—

Checking the time, and seeing it was 1:30 AM. You decided you’d have enough. Valuing your back over a fight with Mason. You were not sleeping on the coach. You made your way up the stairs.

—

Getting changed, you turned away from him, and he knew every single detail about you. From the time you wanted to be blonde, till the clothes you slept in. So of course, he noticed that you didn’t wear your usual bed attire. His t-shirt, and shorts. Instead opting for your own top, and a pair on long bottoms. You got in bed, not even looking at him, ad you stared aimlessly at the wall.

Better to go to bed angry than to rush an insincere apology.

“Night baby. I love you.” Mason said, and you heard him move to face you. Instead of being met with your pretty face, he was met with your back. He still thought it was pretty, but it wasn’t your gorgeous eyes.

“Night Mason.” You said coldly.

“Are you still coming to the match tomorrow?”

“I’ll see. I have a lot of work.” It wasn’t a lie, you did have a lot of work.

“But you never miss my home games.” He moaned. It was true. 4 years of dating, 4 years of home games.

“Mason please. I don’t wanna do this. Go to sleep.”

You felt him turn away again.

“Sorry. Night. I love you.”

Ignoring him, you soon fell into a dreamless sleep.

—

Waking up that morning, you notice Masons gone. You knew you put him a bad mood, after ignoring him last night, but he hadn’t been cross enough to let you freeze. The blankets had been pulled over you.

Rolling over, you rolled your eyes. Reaching for your phone. A message from Kai lit up the screen.

Kai: “what’d you do to him? worst fucking mood ever.”

So Kai got the blunt of it. Lucky him.

You: “he thinks i was flirting with Martin Ødegaard???? so i got pissed off. like really. called him a bastard…😬”

You watched the three bubbles appear as Kai typed.

Kai: “In short, he fucked up.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. The German really fit the stereotype. Blunt as hell.

You: “hmm.”

Kai: “You coming to the game then??? Sophia’s been eating my ear off about seeing you. Both them on the same pitch, roughhhhh😳”

Your heart dropped. Chelsea were playing Arsenal. Forgot being fucked, you were double fucked. No, triple fucked.

You: “Fuck off. no way you’re playing Arsenal.”

Kai: “We are indeed.”

You: “fuck my life. good luck later then!!”

Not that Kai needed it, he was a phenomenal player.

Kai: “thanks Y/N🙌🙌”

—

You decided you had to go to this match. Getting ready, you decided you didn’t hate him enough to not wear his jersey, but decided on a jumper over the top. The jumper could come of, the jumper could stay on. You’d see how you were feeling.

—

Getting to the match, you showed your pass, and they let you in. Making your way up, you spotted Sophia. Greeting her with your usual hug.

—

As the match progressed, Mason was extremely aggressive. You’d never seen him play like this. He always insisted that a dirty player, meant they weren’t secure in their ability. He fouled Saka. Surprising you. He had a lot of respect for the young boy. Singing his praises often.

“Jesus Mason.” You muttered, watching as Christian pushed Mason back, looking like he was having a serious conversation with him.

Sitting beside Sophia, you both cringed. The fouling was unnecessary.

“Did something happen? He’s really angry.” She commented, and you let out a dry laugh. You didn’t have the energy to explain what happened, even to one of your best friends. The girl you say on the floor with giggling like teenagers over your boyfriends.

“Fight last night. I didn’t wanna apologise. He thought I was cheating.”

Her eyes widened, she was genuinely shocked. The whole world knew how much you two adored each other. If you wanted the stars, he found a way to give you the whole universe.

“No way. What a dick.” She commented, making you laugh.

“Worst part is. Number 8. That’s who I apparently cheated on him with.”

—

Mason had the ball, and he was plummeting towards the goal. He tore through the defence like they were just made of feathers. Booting the ball, he found the back of the net. Running over to the corner of the field, he slid across on his knees. Lifting his top up.

He had ‘you look great x’ wrote across his under shirt, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re right Soph. What a dick head.”

Half time came and done, the tension in the pitch spreading to the stands. The fans were tense. The coaches were tense. The players were tense.

You were tense.

The boys came back out, and before you knew it. A commotion broke out of the pitch. Mason pushing Martin. He obviously did not appreciate that, and shoved your boyfriend right back. Christian ripped Mason away, and Martin shouted something.

I seen the anger rip through his body, coursing through his veins. Mason stormed over to Martin, grabbed his shirt, and threw him to the ground. Martin hit the ground, his team matés absolutely furious with what happened. The referee wasted no time showing him a card, as Kai dragged him away. Trying to talk some sense to him.

No surprises, he got subbed off. He stalked off the pitch, kicking a water bottle that was on the grass, sending it flying into the dug outs. He stormed into the changing rooms, or so you thought. That’s the general direction he appeared to be going in.

You and Sophia gave each other the look.

All she did was pay your shoulder and laugh.

“Good luck.”

—

Sick of his attitude, you walked into the changing rooms. Taking a lot of convincing on your behalf to the security guard to let you in. Eventually he did.

You got to the door of the changing room. Doing an awkward dance, jig type thing, as you prepared to go in. Your tongue became sandpaper, and you had to give yourself an internal clock to convince yourself to knock.

“Mason. It’s me. Are you decent?”

Waiting for a response, you cringed. Not sure what you were embarrassed over. The whole situation probably. Hearing a grunt back, you assumed that translated into something like ‘Come on in.’ Taking a deep breath, you opened the door.

Sitting away from him, you looked at him. He refused to meet you eye. There was no point sugar coating what he’d done. He’d messed up. Again.

“What was that about? You’ve bebe bebe booked for aggression.”

“Jesus, let me breathe. You’re going to tell me how I shouldn’t of done it either. I’ve heard it from Kai, i’ve heard it from Christian. I don’t wanna hear about it.”

He ripped his boots off, throwing them into the shoe locker. You never understood how they got new boots every match. 100’s of pounds for one game. Seems like an awful waste.

“I’m sure you’ve heard it enough, but yeah, you shouldn’t of done it. Pushing Bukaya as well. Come on Mason. What got you so pissed off? Other than the obvious.”

“Nothing.” He said bluntly. This was like talking to a brick wall.

“Mason.”

He raised his head out of their position between his hands, and his hair was messed up from gripping it. He threw his head against the wall, groaning in frustration as he sighed deeply.

“He called me an arrogant son of a bitch. Said I think this big tough lad, and i’m not. Didn’t even say that much, I was just cross and he was an easy target.”

He sighed, obviously regretting what he’d done.

He looked at you, finally. His eyes sad, and dropping from tiredness. You knew yourself, how eyes look when they’re about to cry. Your Uni work enforcing this feeling so often. You couldn’t help but feel bad.

“It got me thinking. Maybe I am an arrogant son of a bitch. And I know I don’t deserve you. And don’t tell me ‘Oh Mase don’t listen to him.’ or ‘you know i love you.’ After what I said yesterday, you deserve someone better. You deserve more than me.”

His eyes scanned your body, noticing his name wasn’t on show. You were still mad, but you had all the time in the world to be mad. Mason needed you.

Moving close to him, you tugged your jumper off. Turning your back so he could see his name, looking over your shoulder to see him smiling a little.

There it was. Your beautiful boys smile.

“I’m very proud. To let everyone know. That the handsome, talented man, that is the Mason Mount, is my boyfriend. My boyfriend. My man.”

He smiled, putting his hand out to pull you closer, pulling it back a little when he remembered you were still mad. Doing his job for him, you moved closer. Head resting on his shoulder. The whole fight seemed silly now, but you knew you still had to talk about it.

“I’m sorry for calling you a bastard, and an ass hole.” You joked. You definitely weren’t sorry, he didn’t have to know that.

He laughed, and you felt a weight lift of your shoulders.

“No I deserved it.”

“Yeah, you did.” You laughed.

You two sat in silence, the only thing breaking it was the cheers of the crowd. Who scored? You don’t know. Did you care? Not one bit.

“And I love you.” He smiled at that, his arm resting around your shoulder, rubbing lightly up and down.

“I love you. So damn much. No, that’s not enough. I love you so much that I’d give up football for you. I love you so much that i’d let Declan beat me every time we play fifa. I love you so much that I-”

You shut him up with a kiss. The kiss was more than just two lips touching. It was full of love. Full of passion. Full of 4 years of love you’d shared with this boy. 4 years of laughter, smiles, and tears.

“No harm Mason. You absolutely stink.”

He laughed, missing your banter. Even if it was just for a few hours. He never ever wanted to stop hearing your laugh.

“Guess we should shower then.” He prompted. Trying his luck.

“Showering’s a solo task.” You said.

He stood up, grabbing the back of your thighs as he lifted you, bridal style.

“When has showering ever been a solo task with us?”

Part 2???

This was inspired by a fic I read ages ago, and cant find the author :( If you do, let me know!

#mason mount x y/n #mason mount x reader #mason mount fanfic #mason mount fluff #mason mount imagine #mason mount #mason mount angst #footballer imagine #footballer angst

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ludwigplayingthetrombone · 11 months ago

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HELLO I LOVE YOUR BEARDED KAKSHI SO MUCH YOUF SO FUCKING GALAXY BRAINED

HE'D LOOK SO HANDSOME thank you!!

#kakashi hatake #naruto #my art #happy tag #asks

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strangemaleswaps · 11 months ago

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Strange Christmas Family Swap

Christmas is supposed to be the time of year where you celebrate joy with your family and loved ones. But everyone has that one family member no one looks forward to seeing, and I’m no different. For me that person would be my grandpa. He'd always been a really cranky guy who, I swear, could find something to complain about on literally any topic. I don't know why he even comes over for the holidays in the first place. Maybe he's just lonely? At least my siblings are coming home. They're all older than me and left for college years ago. Sometimes I felt like I was behind everyone just because I was the youngest, but they always tell me to enjoy being young while it lasted. At least I still had my dog, Lucy, to keep me company.

“Shoot. Ferris, we forgot to buy your grandpa a present,” my mom mentioned while preparing dinner for Christmas Eve.

“Does it matter? He's not gonna like anything anyway.”

“Yes I know. But it's Christmas. The time of year where you need to treat even those you dislike well. Could you quickly go to that gift shop and buy some cheap ornament?”

“Mom, it's Christmas Eve! Half these places are closed or closing soon.” She looked up a store on her phone and showed me that it closed at 5. It was 4:38.

“There's that one hallmark store within walking distance still open. You can make it in time! I just don't want to cause a scene.” I wanted to take the car, but it would take too long to shovel all the snow, so I walked. The store wasn't that far by foot, but it was still an awful time in the freezing cold. When I arrived, there was a single employee at the counter - an old lady with a messy bun. She greeted me and asked what I needed.

“I have just the thing.” She walked over to the shelf and showed me a little Santa ornament that was wearing a galaxy pattern suit instead of the regular red. It was actually a pretty good gift because my grandpa loved outer space, not to mention he kinda looked like Santa anyway, just without the beard.

“This is perfect.”

“Then why do you look sad?” Her response caught me by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I can tell something’s wrong. It's Christmas Eve. You should be happy!”

“That's probably easy for others. But for me, Christmas means family time and I don't exactly like someone in my family.

“That's a shame. You're lucky to have a family at least.” She looked down at the floor sadly. It was clear what she meant by that.

“But since you still have people in your life I'd like to help you with your problem. Could I have that ornament back please?” I assumed she was about to check me out so I started reaching for my wallet, when she walked into the backroom with the present instead. As soon as the door closed, the power suddenly went out and I was in pure darkness until there was a weird purple glow coming from the door. All of this only lasted about 10 seconds and the power came back on as if nothing happened. Did I just imagine that whole thing? It was weird. The woman walked back out with a big smile on her face.

“Did the power go out or something? And what happened in there?”

“Oh nothing,” she said with a grin. “Merry Christmas!”

“Yeah, Merry Christmas. I guess.” She checked me out and I was on my way back home.

When I arrived, my siblings were already there, as well as my grandpa.

“Hey! It's Ferris!” said my oldest brother Calvin. He had definitely gained a lot of weight since I last saw him, even though he was an athlete in college. Looks like he still refused to shave the messy beard he started last year. My older sibling Sam grinned at me. They looked exactly as they always did - expressing their love of anime with a nerdy t-shirt and wearing ear gauges that have gotten bigger since the last time I saw them. My sister Em walked up to hug me. She was always the one I was closest with, since she was only 2 years older than me.

“I got a present for Grandpa.” He suddenly looked at me, and then to the bag I was holding.

“It's about time you buy me something! Lemme see.”

“Well not until Christmas.” Despite living to see many Christmases, Grandpa was still an extremely impatient person. He'd actually opened up his Christmas presents early before because he just couldn't stand the wait. This was my first time buying one myself for him (even though it was really just my mom sending me) so I guess he was beyond curious.

“Come on. It's basically Christmas anyway.” He got his large ass out of the seat and approached me. He was wearing a tucked in blue plaid shirt that covered the gut hanging over his pants. He stumbled over to me until we were face to face. I could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath, almost making my eyes water.

“Boy, give me the gift.”

“Dad, just wait until Christmas. You're gonna spoil the surprise.” My mom thankfully defended me and started walking over.

“Fine, but I-” He faked content and snatched the bag from me.

“Dad! Enough!” My mom shouted but it was too late. He had taken the ornament out of the bag, but clumsily dropped it. It shattered all over the floor before he even had a chance to react.

“Oh man.” Sam gulped.

“Now look at what you've done! You ruined my present!” Grandpa yelled in my face.

“Dad! Dad! Calm down. I think you need to go to bed now.”

“Fine! But only because your idiot son ruined my Christmas!” My mom escorted him to the guest room and Em picked up a broom. We both swept together as my mom walked back into the kitchen.

“Could he possibly be more…you know…” I started.

“Horrible? Pathetic?” Calvin added.

“Gross? Nasty?” Sam added.

“Your grandfather is just lonely really. His parents - my grandparents - let him do whatever he wanted. He's a real spoiled man. But I don't think there's any changing him now so let's just endure the day tomorrow and you won't have to see him for a while. Got it?”

“Fine.” The rest of the night was much better and I had a great time with my family. Calvin scarfed down the food so fast he almost choked, Em told me all about what college was like, Sam bragged about his new gauges, and Lucy practically flew under the table as soon as my mom dropped a piece of ham.

When it was time for bed, my siblings got settled into their rooms - Calvin and Sam sharing the same bedroom they did growing up, and Em sleeping in the basement because her old room was turned into an office. I looked at the Christmas tree glimmering with lights and decorations, excited to see what the presents underneath it would look like in the morning. It's a shame that Grandpa's present broke and we had to throw it away, but I guess he got what he deserved for being such a dick. I headed into my bed, where Lucy was already snuggled up in, and nestled up under the covers.

The next morning I woke up to the sounds of shouting, which was unfitting for what was supposed to be a peaceful Christmas morning. It was coming from the room next to me and sounded like my brothers, which was weird because my room was across the hall from them. But it sounded so close. I started getting up, to see what was going on, but when I looked around, I realized I actually was in the guest room

How did I get in here? I gazed down to find my stomach seemed swollen in my white tank top. I lifted it up and to my horror, I realized my slim chest was replaced with a flabby belly! How did I get so fat? I know I ate alot last night but this was ridiculous! The gut flopped out, to a bit over my waist. It felt weird knowing a part of my body was just hanging there. I noticed a bit of chest hair, which was foreign to me, but when I noticed they were gray hairs, it finally hit me. I was a fat old guy in the guest room. I somehow switched bodies with my grandpa!

I heard the voices leave the room so I stumbled over to the door, not quite used to the shift in weight compared to my old twink body, and was about to put my hand on the doorknob when I saw someone looking at me in the mirror. I turned my head to find that it was my grandpa…I mean me…staring back.

I really did look disgusting, not just because of my looks, but because I now had the face of an impatient jerk. I tried doing different facial expressions; it looked weird because I rarely had ever seen my grandpa smile at all. I noticed that I couldn't see my own dick past the belly, not that I would want to. It was probably all wrinkly and gross! What was I going to do? I opened the door to find Calvin walking to the living room. He looked pretty concerned, which was unusual for the carefree personality he usually had.

“Hey uh..Grandpa?” Fuck. Looks like I'm not imagining it after all. I hated this. “Sorry for the noise, it's just that…”

“I'm not even gonna try to pretend.” I spoke, but my voice came out gravelly and deep. It scared me a little bit. “I'm Ferris, not Grandpa. I don't know how it happened! I just-”

“Shit! That's great! I mean not because you're Grandpa now. But because I'm not alone! I'm actually Sam.”

“Sam?” It was actually kinda funny, Sam and Calvin switching bodies. They were close but still completely different people. I couldn't contain my laughter and started giggling, even though it came out as my Grandpa's gruff wheezes.

“Oh sure. I'M the funny one when Mister-wheeze-a-lot can't laugh without sounding like he's dying.”

“Hey! Well Mister-” I stopped myself trying to continue the joke. “Wait, how does that work?”

“The gender is all up to the person. Sure the…” they stared down at the new extra pounds they now carried and shook their belly. “...expression might be different, at least at the moment, but I'm still me. BUT the idiot who looks like me doesn't seem to understand.” As if on cue, Calvin in Sam's body appeared, walking in a macho way, something that Sam would never do.

“Check it out Grandpa! I'm an enby!” Sam gave a huge facepalm.

“Calvin my sweet brother, We. Have. Been. Over. This.”

“Hey whatever. I think it's cool. My face feels so empty though. Maybe I'll start growing a bea-” Sam cut him off right there.

“If you go out there without a clean shaven face, I'm shaving YOUR beard.”

“God no please. It took me like a year to grow that!” Calvin pleaded.

“Hey hey, what about me?!” I interrupted their arguing.

“Oh yeah,” Sam started. “That's not Grandpa. It's Ferris.”

“Oh man Ferris. You're a fucking old dude now!” exclaimed Calvin. He then poked my new belly. “Welcome to the chub club! Well…” He glaced down at Sam's slim figure. “My membership is on hold for now.”

Just then we heard a scream coming from my mom's room. We quickly opened the door, already knowing what happened. We found my mom staring at the mirror with a look of pure horror on her face.

“It's ok Em, we're all body swapped too.” She seemed to calm down when she realized that she wasn't alone in all this.

“Weird case of Freaky Friday here. Especially with Em….and Mom,” added Calvin. Just then my mom, in Em's body, walked in to join in the confusion.

“Well this is awkward. Two of my kids in each other's bodies, my own son in my dad's and I'm in my own daughter's body. Could this Christmas get any crazier?”

“Where's Grandpa?”

“Probably still sleeping.”

We headed over to my room, expecting him to still be asleep, only to find him flexing in the mirror - in my body. I didn't actually have any real muscles, being a skinny twink, so he didn't really have anything to flex. That didn't stop him from admiring himself. When he noticed us, he walked over smiling. It was a creepy sight, not only to see my body move on its own, but also knowing it's my grandpa inside there smiling.

“Hello everyone. It's good to be young again!”

“Uh hey Grandpa.” He looked right at me. “No, no! Call me Boris! YOU'RE the grandpa now!”

I felt so humiliated. He was actually…cool…in my body! And I was just the fat old guy that nobody liked!

“Dad, we need to figure out what happened so you can become your old self again. Ok?”

“Hell no! I'm young again for the first time in years. No way I'm giving away this opportunity!”

“I got it!” Em suddenly exclaimed. We all turned around wondering what she meant. She showed us her phone - or rather my mom's phone.

“What?”

“How we all swapped bodies! That ornament that Ferris got! There's an ancient artifact that can take on different appearances. It says it's been known to cause mischief when broken.”

“What kind of ancient thing is meant to be broken? How has it lasted this long then?”

“That's the thing. Everytime it breaks, it finds a new place and takes on a new appearance. But it always takes on the appearance of an object that its next victim will need.”

“Shit. And that's why the present seemed perfect for Grandpa.”

“Hey! I got a much better gift than any of you!” cheered my grandpa as he flexed his arms once agaih.

“But…how do we find it again?”

“Y-you don't. Unless you want to search the whole world for something you don't even know what it looks like.”

There was a deafening silence after she spoke those words. We all realized the truth was that we would never return to our old bodies. I was stuck as an old man forever!

“Hey, it's not so bad,” my grandpa started, seemingly reading my mind. He leaned over and lifted up my shirt, exposing my gut, and slapped it. “The belly is pretty comfy after all. You'll love it.” Maybe he was right. I'm sure I could make the silver bear look work. As I thought about that, I noticed a bulge starting to form. Grandpa turned to look at everyone with a huge smile on his face.

“Merry Christmas everyone!”

#strangemaleswaps #body swap #male body swap #male tf #weight gain

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court-jobi · 2 years ago

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🔥🔥🔥🔥

good fucking lord WHAT’S HE SO BIG FOR

#pedro pascal #the mandalorian #din djarin #the love i have for this man #the beautiful greys in the beard #like stars in the galaxy.

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bebemoon · 8 months ago

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"love like the galaxy"-inspired spring look, requested by @konvalia .

a research of elapsing sheer-backed double-layered flower-dyed silk top in color "jade"

ann demeulemeester pale silk maxi skirt, a/w 2o23

sandy liang satin mary jane pointe in black

sophie buhai "audrey" silver, pearl and chalcedony drop earrings

sheridan tjhung "black flower" bearded iris ruffle bag w/ silver shoulder chain

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crit20art · 2 years ago

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[ID: two black and white digital drawings of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. Jon is depicted as a short, thin, British-Pakistani man with dark, scar-covered skin. He has long greying hair and a short beard. Martin is depicted as a tall, fat, Vietnamese-Polish man with freckles and a medium skin tone. He has short dark hair and patchy stubble.

In the first drawing, they kneel on a nondescript surface, and Martin has both arms wrapped around Jon, gathering him close. Martin’s expression is content and slightly determined as he presses a kiss to the back of Jon’s neck. Jon looks somewhat overwhelmed, as if he is so pleased that he almost can’t stand it, his eyebrows looking distressed even as he smiles slightly. He grips his own shoulder with one hand, and the other has fallen limply into his lap.

In the second drawing, Martin is shown from the shoulders up, presumably seated, and Jon bends down from behind to kiss Martin’s forehead. Martin’s eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open, and he blushes profusely as small exclamation points and a question mark float around his head. A book of John Keats poems is partially visible at the bottom of the frame, as if Martin was reading but the forehead kiss rendered him unable to hold up the book. End ID]

area man menaces boyfriend with endless affection, then gets utterly obliterated by one (1) forehead kiss

More kissing/touch prompts!! @roatmeal suggested a forehead kiss, anon suggested Martin hugging Jon while kissing the back of his neck, and the galaxy-brained @babyyodablackwood suggested Martin being overwhelmed by small displays of affection 😭😭😭 my king WILL learn to be loved i stg

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jmart #tma fanart #the magnus archives fanart #the magnus pod #magpod #jonathan sims #the archivist #martin k blackwood #Martin blackwood #seriously you may think this is an excessive number of tags but. tumblr has suggested all of these to me #teaholding #is that a popular one #idk anymore <3

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illuminatedquill · 16 days ago

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Story Summary: Sabine and Ezra do their best to enjoy a rare day off at home as their daughter, Mira, begins her days in the Academy. But, as it always is with these two, things are never that simple for this star-crossed pair . . .

Day 1, SabezraWeek2024 Prompt: Slice of Life - Domestic Sabezra

@sabezraweek

I used to be a morning person.

In the early days, back when I was still on the Ghost with Kanan, Hera, Zeb, Chopper, and Ezra, I relished being the first person awake during our long travels around the galaxy. Walking into the communal area, brewing up a fresh mug of caf, and then sitting in the Phantom alone, watching the stars pass by in silence. It was such a brief respite from the general chaos of our everyday existence, fighting a war against an implacable foe than never seemed to falter in its cruelty.

(Well, technically, I was the first person awake. Hera never really seemed to sleep, always tinkering with her ship at odd hours.)

Even back then, being involved in a war for our survival, I couldn't resist against the sense of optimism that flowed into me, looking out at the vastness of space. I felt young and invincible, able to shape the future as I saw fit.

There was no challenge that Sabine Wren, Mandalorian, could overcome.

But now . . .

A sharp series of pokes at my cheek, accompanied by giggling.

"Papa, I don't think she's going to wake up." My daughter, Mira, attempting to rouse me from my slumber.

My husband's voice, intimately familiar and filled with easy-going humor, replied in an amused tone. "Try the other cheek, maybe?"

Deciding to be playful, I let out a noise that some would unwisely call a snore. This was shortly joined by more giggling from my daughter.

I felt some pressure on my other cheek - and then, with lightning quick reflexes, snatched my daughter into a bear hug. "Aaaahhhhhh!" I growled. "Who dares disturb my precious sleep?"

The giggling erupted into squeals of laughter, bright and lively. "Mama!" Mira said, as I rolled around with her on my bed. "You're finally awake."

I peppered her face with kisses. "All thanks to you, little one. As punishment, I give you death by a thousand kisses."

"Gross! Papa, help me out here," complained Mira.

My husband, Ezra, stood at the side of our bed, dressed in casual sleepwear. His hair was still a little floofy from sleep, along with rumpled clothes. In the early morning hours, it was undeniably an extremely attractive look - well, at least it was to me, which is all that mattered. He stroked his beard, recently trimmed, looking thoughtful.

"Actions have consequences, cyare," he said sadly. "I'm afraid that's a fact of life."

Mira wriggled out of my embrace to glare at her father. "This was your idea, Papa," she retorted.

"Was it? I can't recall. Must be my old age."

I snorted and sat up in bed. "Is it time?" I asked.

My daughter looked at me, annoyance momentarily dropped. "Yes. Leaving for the Academy today."

"Soon, I might add," Ezra stated. He looked at his chrono. "Head over to the refresher, Mira. Let's get you ready now."

I stroked her hair, suddenly overcome with emotion. It seemed only yesterday that a medical droid had handed her to me, so tiny and fierce with life, swaddled in a blanket. The labor had been long and arduous, full of unexpected complications, but holding her in my arms afterwards - the ultimate manifestation of the love shared between myself and Ezra - was one of the happiest moments in my entire life.

She was our heart in physical form, stepping outside our chests into the big, wide galaxy. I knew we couldn't protect her forever, much as I wished sometimes to just lock her inside the comm-tower - she needed to spread her wings at some time.

I just wished it hadn't come so quickly. If only I had more time . . .

My thoughts wandered towards my late mother and father. Did they feel this way when Tristan and I started making our own way through life? Making choices that caused our paths to diverge far, far from home?

"Mama?" asked Mira, her voice worried. She stared curiously at me, her features a mix of Ezra and mine; I saw his smile at times, bright and guileless, but her eyes flashed briefly with a fire that reminded me all too well of my own - and my late mother's.

"Are you okay? You look sad."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a smile. "It's a happy kind of sad, cyare. You grew up on us so fast, little one."

Mira smiled. "I'm a kid. That's what I'm supposed to do."

I laughed and pulled her into a big hug. "And you're doing such a great job of it."

Ezra seemed more composed than I did, but I felt through our bond in the Force that he was going through the same emotional turbulence I was. His tone was gentle as he said, "Mira, it's time. Say good-bye to your mother now."

My daughter gave me a farewell kiss on the cheek and sprinted out the door. Ezra looked at me. "Are you going to be alright?"

I sniffed. Allergies, I told myself.

Sure, Sabine.

"No," I admitted. "I just thought . . ."

"That today would take longer to get here?" Ezra said, finishing my train of thought. "I feel the same way, Sabine."

I reached out to grasp his hand. He squeezed it affectionately. "You get it."

"She's with us for only a little time," Ezra said quietly. "Let's just enjoy it while we can."

I couldn't say anything to that. I heard someone say once that children are a gift that are loaned to us for only a little while. At some point, we had to let them go find their own way.

Why is the last act of love always letting go, I wondered.

He leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead before leaving to attend to our daughter. "Get some more sleep," he said. "I'll see you after I drop her off."

_ _ _ _ _

I awoke an hour later to the rich aroma of freshly brewed caf. Shuffling out of the bedroom, I found Ezra in the kitchen with a mug of my favorite beverage.

I accepted it gratefully and collapsed onto the couch. Murley sauntered by, brushing his face against my legs - a regular routine for him, since the act resulted in his daily allowance of petting. With fond annoyance, I reached down to do so.

Once he was satisfied, the mangy loth-cat let out a purr as thanks and stepped away to find a warm spot to doze in.

"You live such a charmed life," I noted.

Ezra joined me on the couch, a bowl of freshly sliced golden plait-fruit, berries, and meilooruns on his lap. My stomach growled at the sight.

"Hungry?" he asked.

I held back from snatching the bowl from his lap. "You have to ask?" I said, trying not to sound like a hungry loth-wolf.

My husband grinned. "No. But it's fun to do so."

He picked at a slice of fruit and popped it into my open mouth. I chewed slowly, savoring the fresh fruit. In between bites, I finished my caf, and leaned my head onto Ezra's shoulder, nuzzling into his neck.

"What's on the agenda for today?" I asked. My voice was still slurred slightly, a result of not fully being awake yet - the caf had yet to take effect.

I felt Ezra shift uncomfortably on the couch. "Well . . ."

I groaned. "Is that today?" I asked. "I thought it wasn't for another week, at least."

"Hey," Ezra retorted. "It was your idea. You said we shouldn't put off cleaning and maintenance any longer. This was the day we both agreed upon."

I grimaced. He was right. Ezra was a Jedi Knight, which came with enormous responsibilities, and Bo-Katan - the current leader of Mandalore - always needed my help corralling the clans into focusing on rebuilding our home world instead of warring against each other.

Add all that with the time-consuming demands of being a parent, meant that the comm-tower we called home had fallen into disrepair. We made it work; it wasn't easy by any stretch of the imagination, but that meant some things fell through the cracks.

"I've changed my mind," I said promptly. "Let's wait another week."

"Sabine," he said patiently. "We have a pile of dirty laundry that is literally taller than our daughter. It needs to be done."

I really did not want to clean the comm-tower. Ezra and I had been so busy over the past few months and with Mira finally out of the house starting Academy, we finally had some alone time.

I had needs that had to be addressed.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, I thought.

With a firm hand, I turned his face gently towards me. His expression was curious, a question presumably about to be asked but I had already pressed my lips hungrily against his.

There was a moment of surprised silence before he melted into it, his need rising to meet mine. I pushed gently against his frame, and we fell gently onto the couch, still kissing passionately.

"Sabine," he groaned. "We have so much to do today."

"We do," I agreed, tracing a line of smooches down his cheek, his neck, aiming to make my way further down into more enticing territory. "So, it would be best if we finish this first so that our focus can be fully on the chores."

His voice dropped into a husky growl, signaling that I had won this particular battle. "You are incorrigible," he huffed out.

I was in the middle of pulling his shirt off as he spoke. "Oh?" I asked, arching an eyebrow at him. "Should I stop?"

He glared at me. "Come here."

I lowered my face to his, holding back laughter.

Ezra grinned and he pulled me into a warm embrace, kissing and making me breathless; making me feel alive.

_ _ _ _ _

True to my word, I was locked in on the chores after we finished.

Ezra puttered around the house, cleaning up the various debris littering the floors first before putting in the hard work of sweeping, dusting, and mopping to make sure our home was habitable again.

Meanwhile, I focused on the maintenance: checking the electrical systems, the power generators, and communications array.

Early on in our relationship, we had figured out a good system to handling the daily mundane tasks of everyday life. Ezra had clocked immediately that I hated cleaning; something that shouldn't have surprised him, given our prior co-habitation on the Ghost.

When I had poked him about it, since he had visited my room countless times, he pointed out that we were at war with the Empire during that period.

"I assumed that was the reason," he muttered, after seeing my incredulous expression. "I didn't know that was your default state, Sabine."

"It would have been," I admitted. "If Hera and Kanan hadn't kept being annoyingly persistent about cleaning up after myself."

Meanwhile, I had realized that Ezra lacked the mechanical knowledge and expertise that had been ingrained into me since birth - which, if we lived in a normal state-of-the-art apartment complex in Capital City, wouldn't be necessary.

But we had decided to stay in the old comm-tower instead. During long years of isolation and loneliness, the aging structure had served as home for both of us. It was an easy choice, one of the first we made together as a couple.

But that meant someone had to look after and maintain it. Which meant me.

Parts for upkeep were increasingly rare since the comm-tower was already past its prime during the Empire's reign, as the last of its line of communications towers before being phased out of service. When the Empire came to power, this proved to be a boon to the Bridgers, since the outdated machinery meant that it was overlooked during the initial Imperial survey of Lothal's resources - and continued to be so when their son claimed it as refuge after they were taken.

Because of the rarity of parts for use, that meant I had to regularly scavenge in junkyards across the galaxy to find components that could be used. My husband was competent in quite a few forms of mechanical repair, but the tower was a long-term care project and required the kind of ingenuity and complexity that he simply wasn't equipped with.

And I really, really did not like to clean.

So, the bargain was struck - I handled maintenance, he handled cleaning. It was a good deal which enabled us to avoid arguments and turn our attention and energy to more pressing matters (like what we had just done on the couch.)

I was on my back, dressed in an old flight suit borrowed from Hera, covered in old grease and spatters of oil, halfway inserted into an open vent that led to a circuit board that controlled the flow of our air conditioning. It sparked erratically mere inches from my eyes, which were safely shielded behind a pair of mechanic's goggles (also from Hera, but she didn't know that I had them).

I frowned, holding back a curse. This circuit board had been a problem since I had procured it from a shady Quarren vendor on Kijimi. But the discount he had offered was too good to pass up.

I see now why it was so cheap, I thought grimly. Should have known better, di'kut.

There was a nudge at my foot. I peered out to see the face of my husband, looking concerned, holding a large trash bag full of -

"Is that hair?" I asked, shocked. "That can't be all hair, Ezra."

He gave a faint look of disgust and shook the bag's contents. "Afraid so. I can't tell if this all Murley's or if Mira's been letting in some of his feral friends while we haven't been paying attention."

I craned my neck to find the accused in question and found Murley, our resident loth-cat and menace, taking up his usual place on my personal tool bench. He was watching us with curious eyes.

I pointed my electric torch at him. "Stop loafing around and help out. I don't let you squat here just to be cute and keep us company, you know."

Murley mewled in what I construed to be polite disagreement.

I wagged the torch aggressively to emphasize my next statement. "I'll kick you out," I promised. "For real this time."

The loth-cat blinked - and then proceeded to cough up a disgusting hair ball.

Ezra sighed. "Great. I have to clean up that now."

"He has his charms," I said, grinning.

He folded his arms, annoyed. "Which are . . .?"

"Well," I said. "For one, he does remind me of a certain handsome Jedi."

Ezra squatted down to me, a slight smile breaking through his annoyance. "Oh, does he?"

I reached up to stroke my husband's face affectionately. "Why do you think I kept him around so long?"

"Figured it was the other way around. He was hard to get rid of."

"So were you," I pointed out. "Seems like I have a penchant for being liked by strays."

He leaned into my touch - and then laughed when my stomach growled hideously.

Feeling my face flush, I went scooted back into the open maintenance shaft.

"Guess it's feeding time," Ezra chuckled. "What are you in the mood for?"

Trying - and failing - to sound nonchalant about the egregious announcement of my bodily functions, I answered, "Two Bantha burgers, large fries, and a meiloorun smoothie."

"I'm assuming both of those are for - "

"Me, yeah," I grunted, stifling the mild spike of annoyance. My hunger was finally making itself known after an hour of toiling away in the mechanical guts of our home and I felt it begin to poison my jovial mood.

"So, that will be three bantha burgers, large fries, and two smoothies, then. From Paldo's?"

Paldo's. My favorite local fast-food diner in Capital City run by an elderly Twi'lek named, you guessed it, Paldo. I was considered royalty by the manager there, much to my husband's amusement. There was even a framed picture of me on the wall, first thing you saw when walking inside. Mira always laughed with delight whenever she accompanied me for a meal.

"Yup," I said.

He eyed me. "I don't understand where you put all that food."

I gestured proudly at myself. Years of hard work, battle, and a stressful childbirth and yet my figure was still in top form for my age. "It's all in the genes, cyar'ika."

"Is that so," Ezra said dryly. "And are those same genes the reason why you eat like a newborn rancor, my cyar'ika?"

"No. That was the result of being raised with a brother, as you know."

"Oh, I do know," Ezra replied. "I met him, remember? Poor Tristan was all skin and bones, if I recall."

I swatted at him. He let out a bark of laughter and pivoted to the side, avoiding my hit. "Go get my food, husband mine. Or you'll see how a baby rancor reacts when deprived of sustenance."

With a teasing grin, he gave a mock salute and headed for the elevator. A minute later, I heard the tell-tale grumble of a speeder engine starting and then the familiar swoop sound as it sped off into the distance towards Capital City.

Sighing, I returned to my repairs -

A chime came from the communications console, indicating a visitor.

I frowned. Had Ezra returned already? I didn't hear the speeder.

I got up and walked towards the console to press the intercom. "Did you forget your credit chip, di'kut?"

The response was laced with sardonic amusement. "Hello, Wren. It's been a while."

I froze at the voice, familiar but not in a way that invoked pleasant feelings; it was familiar in the way that a warrior knew the sound of a knife escaping its sheath or the sound of a blaster powering on.

"What do you want?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. Already my mind was racing, racing with horrible thoughts of Ezra and Mira.

"There's something I need to show you. May I come up?"

"No," I said firmly. "I'll come down to you."

"Sure," she replied. "It will be like old times."

I grab my lightsaber off a nearby work bench before heading down to see why Shin Hati had come to visit.

_ _ _ _ _

I have nightmares about this sometimes.

In my nightmares, she and I are dueling again. That cold night, years ago, after I had just unlocked the map to Ezra.

I beat the assassin droids and give chase to her, like always. She is wrapped in a cloak, blacker than the night surrounding us.

Her lightsaber blazes scarlet in the dark courtyard. I activate my own - and strike, my emerald meeting her scarlet in a blaze of sparks.

And then, in the nightmare, I stumble. My blade swings wide and I am left defenseless for a critical second.

Shin's blade comes down in a vicious arc, right through my exposed neck.

And I wake up, in a cold sweat. Ezra doesn't ask, he doesn't need to. He just wraps me in his arms and gently lulls me back to sleep.

This isn't my nightmare, however. But a part of me still feels the hot blaze of a blade made from pure plasma erupting in my gut.

Shin Hati stands across me in the tower's courtyard in broad daylight. Next to her is a speeder, sleek and shiny with fresh chrome. She's dressed in gray combat fatigues with a black bolero jacket worn over it. Her platinum blonde hair is longer now, tied into a short ponytail.

I probably don't look all that intimidating to her, now that I think about it, covered in an old flight uniform that's seen better days. But I hope the lightsaber hilt gripped in my hand is enough to make her cautious, at the very least.

Her eyes pierce mine with a wolfish stare. Finally, she shakes her head. "Well, you didn't have to dress up for me," she said.

"You should have called ahead," I replied. I made sure that my thumb was right over the activation switch on the lightsaber hilt. "I would have freshened up."

Shin cocked her head. "Thinking about it now, you didn't look that good last time we met like this."

She smirked. "Remember?"

An old searing pain ached in my abdomen. The scar.

"What do you want?" I demanded.

She slowly pulls from her jacket a holo-puck. "You need to see this."

"Toss it to me."

Shin complied. I caught it deftly, my eyes never leaving her face. She didn't move immediately for a weapon. I felt some of the tension drain from me - but not much.

"Play it," she urged.

I did so. The holo-puck emitted a recording, the blue static focusing into something sharper -

Something in my chest tightened and I felt myself inhale sharply. The recording was of Ezra and Mira.

From this morning. I watched the miniature holographic forms of my husband and child play out for a few more seconds - Ezra giving our daughter a hug before waving her off to the Academy - before the recording fizzled out in a shower of sparks.

I winced, dropping it. I realized a second later, seeing the warped and twisted metal, that I had squeezed it so hard that it broke.

I looked back at Shin. Something in my face must have spooked her because the former mercenary took a step back with her hands up, palms facing outward, in a placating gesture. "Wren, I promise. This was not me."

"Who?" I asked. The voice that came out was cold, colder than a winter on Krownest.

"Bothan private investigator. Their name - "

"I don't care for a name," I hissed. "Where are they right now?"

"I took care of them. They won't be following your family anymore," Shin said quickly. "But, more importantly, their employer is someone you know."

My teeth ground against each other in frustration. "Say it."

"Senator Xiono. He hasn't given up his personal crusade against you and your husband."

My stomach dropped at the name. Xiono.

He had already been a paranoid, suspicious politician before Thrawn had returned. The Imperial warlord's campaign against the New Republic had brought his planet's people nearly to ruin - and his wife had suffered grievously during the Grand Admiral's bombardment. Beset with grief and rage, the senator had railed against the Security Council for their failings - and had taken up a special fixation on myself and Ezra, who were caught in the middle of that mess.

There were only a handful of people who were aware of my involvement in Thrawn's return: Ezra, Hera, Leia, Zeb, Kallus, Ahsoka, and Chopper (no one actually told the astromech, he just figured it out all by himself). All had sworn to keep it secret, to protect me - despite my insistence against doing so.

But Xiono never gave up his line of inquiry, I knew. Chancellor Mothma had strong armed him to stay in line, but I always suspected that he continued to probe whenever he could.

The senator blamed Ezra and myself for what had happened to his home planet - to his family.

And he wasn't entirely wrong, a dark voice whispered in my mind.

But this was a new low.

My anger threatened to erupt from my chest, bellowing and screaming to the Lothal sky with all my pent-up rage.

Shaking, I asked Shin, "Why are you helping me?'

"I'm not helping you," she said, watching me carefully. "Your daughter deserves to have a family. I would not see her lose either of you, if it was within my power to prevent it."

I blinked, my rage momentarily forgotten. "I . . . I really don't know what to say."

Shin shrugged. "My job here is done, then." She took out her comm-link and proceeded to input a series of commands.

My own comm-link, hanging off my belt, chirped with an alert that a message had been received. I checked it quickly.

"What is this?"

"A place and a time," she responded. "The senator is expecting to meet his private investigator there. I thought you might like to meet him instead."

I considered briefly what Ezra would think. But he wasn't here.

"Thank you," I said. The rage came swarming up again, hot and eager. "I think I will."

_ _ _ _ _

The establishment was on the seedier side of Capital City. A dive, made from the wreckage of several TIE fighters clumped together, that served pirates, drunkards, and other sentient beings of dubious repute.

It was the perfect place for an incognito meeting, considering all the noise and ruckus.

A cloaked figure made his way hurriedly through the crowd, heading for a stone table enclosed in a dimly lit booth on the opposite side of the room. Another figure, slender and hooded, waved him over.

With the utmost discretion, Senator Xiono slid into the booth, huffing slightly. "This update had better have something good," he snarled to the booth's other occupant. "My contacts said you were one of the best, and I have yet to see anything of interest other than what color shoes Wren and Bridger's daughter wears to school!"

I lowered my hood. "I'm sorry you find my family so boring, Senator," I said.

To his credit, Xiono did not scream. His face went bloodless and pale, his lip trembled, his eyes widened - but the man was otherwise quite still.

Somewhere, amidst the storm of rage swirling inside me, I felt mildly impressed.

"Wren," he whispered. "Why are you - "

I placed my hands on the table with a gentle thump. Finally, he flinched.

I smiled, showing my teeth. "Do you read Mandalorian literature, Senator?"

He stared at me - and then, the faintest of sneers appeared on his face. "I wasn't aware your people had literature."

The sneer told me that he had been emboldened by my empty hands. But there were other ways to make someone afraid, I knew.

I nodded. "That's a fair point. Most of it was lost in the Purge. But the best stories always survive through word of mouth. Have you heard of the great Mandalorian warrior of legend named Akilles?"

"I have not." The disdain dripped off his tone, so thick I could almost see it congealing on his lips.

"Shame. You see, Akilles had a friend - another great warrior. One day, he found out that his friend had a mortal enemy, who swore to vanquish them. Akilles, upon finding out, proclaimed that there is no greater enemy than the enemy of his friend."

The ghost of a smile twitched on the senator's face. "Well, it seems that this Akilles and I agree on that."

I let my smile widen, showing more teeth. "Akilles went to confront the mortal enemy of his friend. And he gave him one warning."

I leaned forward; Xiono leaned back, as far as the booth would allow him. It wasn't much.

"There is no weapon; no army that can protect this enemy from the sheer hell that is Akilles rage."

"And," Xiono whispered carefully, "what happened to this enemy?"

"Akilles ran his sword through his gut. And then dragged his dead body throughout the streets of Sundari."

A chill silence fell between us in the booth, only interrupted by the occasional burst of laughter and conversation from the other diners.

The senator swallowed hard, his eye twitching. "What . . . might this enemy have done differently to avoid such a fate?"

I seized the front of his cloak and pulled him half across the table. He yelped, his hands scrambling, clawing for freedom but I ignored his feeble attempts at defense.

I stared into his wide eyes, unblinking. The fury within me seethed and poured molten fire into my next words.

"He could have left the planet. When he still had the chance." At the last word, I threw him back into his seat. He sagged, whimpering something incomprehensible.

I swept from the booth and went home.

_ _ _ _ _

"Mama!" yelled Mira, as I stepped from the turbolift. My daughter jumped into my arms.

"Hello, cyare," I said, squeezing her close. "How was the Academy?"

"It was a lot more fun than I thought. Made lots of friends - and a couple enemies, too," she added, almost as an afterthought.

I looked to Ezra. He shrugged. "I've already gotten some reports from the principal. She was standing up to some bullies."

I sighed and ruffled her hair. "It's a Wren specialty to have some archenemies wherever we go," I noted to him.

He snorted. "Don't I know it."

Mira squinted at me. "What's an 'arch-nemony'?"

I poked her in the forehead. "What, they didn't teach you that in linguistics class? Or, let me guess, you were too busy doodling in your sketchbook to pay attention?"

My daughter scrambled from my embrace. "I just remembered that I have to do homework. Gotta go now!"

I shook my head, amazed at her speed. "Never seen her so excited to do homework. She's hiding something."

"Yup," Ezra said. He glanced at me. "She's not the only one."

I kept my face still, turning to hang my cloak on a nearby coat hook. "What do you mean?"

"Sabine," said Ezra patiently. "Don't hide things from me. It doesn't work."

I scowled at him. "You know, sometimes it sucks being married to a Jedi."

"It's not the Jedi part that's telling me you're hiding something. It's the husband part."

He folded his arms. "Out with it. You were acting weird after lunch and then you vanished with barely a word."

I looked at the door leading to my daughter's room, biting my lip. "Can we talk about this outside? I don't want Mira to hear this."

I felt Ezra's worry rise considerably at my request, but his expression remained calm. "Of course."

Once we stepped outside, I spilled everything to Ezra. All of it.

When I finished, he let out a hiss of air and leaned against the balcony railing.

I went next to him, looking out over the view of Lothal's plains of grass and the glowing lights of Capital City in the distance.

"Bad, I know," I said quietly.

He reached out to take my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "We can handle it. But next time, let's do it together, okay?"

As always, my husband's simple enduring faith in a better tomorrow continued to surprise me. "You're not mad?"

He snorted. "Mad at what, Sabine? You being yourself?"

I looked at him, smiling slightly. "You agree with what I did?"

He grimaced. "No . . . but I get why you did it."

My husband gave me a knowing look. "It won't keep him quiet for long. This will just fuel him to dig harder."

I nodded. "I know."

My voice hardened. "But he needed to know, Ezra. What it means to cross my family. Maybe, at least, he'll aim his fury at me next time - and not at you and Mira."

Ezra stood to look me directly in the eye. "Our family, Sabine. Promise me you won't go after him again. Not by yourself."

"I can't - I can't lose you. Either of you," I pleaded. "I can't bear it."

"It won't happen. If he comes after us again, we will face it together. I want your word, Sabine. Swear to me."

I let out a shuddering breath, feeling all the negative emotions escape with it. Then, quietly, I reached out for his hand and brought it to my heart. "I swear on my word and my honor as a Mandalorian," I said.

His blue eyes searched mine - and he nodded once, satisfied. "Okay."

"I'm sorry," I said. "What I did, all those years ago - it won't ever stop haunting us, will it."

"Don't be sorry," he replied softly. “You are worth it. Always. We will find a way."

I didn't know what else to say. I just hugged him close.

We stayed that way for a while, swaying gently with the evening breeze.

Then: "Ewwwwww."

I rolled my eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be doing homework?"

"It's finished," Mira said, sounding bored. "I want to play now."

Ezra smiled, shaking his head. "Too smart for her own good," he muttered to me.

"No such thing," I said, mildly offended. "Too smart for her own peace of mind, well, that's a more factual statement."

"And our own," he added.

I grinned. "Wouldn't have it any other way, would you?"

"Nope." His smile lessened for a moment. "We had such a busy day. I'm sorry you didn't get a quiet night, like you wanted."

I gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Ah, this is much better. There will be other nights."

"Promise?" he asked.

"Promise," I said. And we went inside, together.

_ _ _ _ _

I used to be a morning person.

I used to relish being awake in the early morning, watching the galaxy stream by in lines of stars, feeling invincible and young.

I watch my husband and young daughter sleep on the couch, her body sprawled across his lap in the boneless way that only youth can manage.

I don't feel young anymore. Or invincible.

I've traded that away for this. And, yes, it brings fear, and heartache, and the seeds of future joy.

That's life, as I've come to learn. Today was an odd day, full of challenging events, both big and small.

And it was not yet over. I snuggle close to my family - my two hearts, beating in quiet rhythm with one another - and prepare to fall asleep.

Tomorrow is another day. And I will meet it with both of them.

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