#most I’ve drawn him with his helmet on in months

[seagiri]

sat on vc and painted

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Bateman Begins Part 39

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part Notes: Hi it has been an embarrassingly long time since I’ve updated I am so so so sorry 🦇🖤 Pairing: Nathan Bateman x Reader Rating: M Warnings: This Ain't a Chapter, It's an Angst Fest Also there will be more in the future; I have an outline

The article is the first thing that throws you.

It probably shouldn’t be an almighty surprise. Vicki has practically been Nathan’s shadow for nearly two months now.

But to see The Scientific Genius of the Prince of Gotham splashed across the front page of the Gotham Gazette is like having a bucket of cold water dumped over your head.

The photo is almost alarmingly intimate.

His glasses have been removed; his beard is neatly trimmed; his eyes are downcast, and his cheeks are tinged pink with a flush, or with exertion

You think from the bowtie that he’s wearing that the photo may’ve been taken the night of the gala, after you left—and before Nathan came to see you, to tell you that there was nothing to worry about

And maybe there truly is nothing to worry about.

All you know is that you see a version of Nathan on the page that you’ve only been privy to in private.

But it’s not just that.

You start to lose Nathan in the shuffle.

Between newly arising social events, Nathan’s additional duties on the foundations that he’s beginning to be more involved with, his nightly activities, and the press coverage that he’s been getting, you feel that you're growing distant.

You still spend nights alone at the mansion, but you hardly spend nights with him at the penthouse anymore.

You still work for him, and you still work on updated forms of the suits, the batarang, the car.

But—

But it doesn’t seem as simple as all that most nights.

It doesn’t feel like you’re just missing one another because you’re both so busy.

It feels like you're missing him because his attention is being drawn elsewhere.

It doesn't help that any attempt that you make to bring it up to

Nathan is met with teasing, or outright scorn.

It goes from, "You're so jealous you're practically turning green, baby," to, "Can you see past yourself for once? Not everything is about you, or us, even."

"You like that it's about you, though."

You can't help but snap back this time. It's been a long night, a longer argument. Nathan is still in the suit; you haven't slept—and you're in no mood to swallow your words or push off his self-righteous smugness

It shuts him up for a moment, at least

With the helmet removed, you can see his raised brows, his briefly stunned shock.

"You wanna run that by me again?" He finally asks.

"Oh, please. That's the first time I've seen you in the suit in damn near two weeks."

"It's come to my attention—"

"Because Vicki Vale brought it to your attention—

"That I have a little more influence in this city than I thought. I can

make changes, help people, without the goddamn suit."

You push out a scoffing laugh.

"Is that what you're calling what you've been up to? Swanning around at parties, batting your eyelashes at the press, cozying up to that, that—"

"That what." He urges you on flatly, urging you to curse in the way that you've clearly been holding back for weeks.

You splutter, face going hot before you finally manage, "That barracuda."

Nathan's brows inch up impossibly further.

"That's the best you can do?"

"I don't trust her."

"Well maybe I do."

It's like a punch in the gut.

Maybe? For Nathan to even insinuate that he might trust her at all feels like the ultimate betrayal.

You want to damn him for trusting anyone but you.

"Does she trust you?" You ask quietly. "Does she know?"

"Know what."

"Know who you are Nathan."

"The suit isn't who I am."

"It's part of you."

"Maybe it doesn't have to be."

That takes the two of you by surprise for a few moments.

Nathan is the first to blink, to turn and step away.

As Nathan turns away from you, pitching his helmet in the direction of the couch, icy dismay courses through your veins.

He leaves you alone in the lab with your pounding heart, heated face, and spinning head.

--

He invites you to a few events. At least, he tries.

Or, at least, he thinks he tries

It's so throw-away, how he does it now.

He used to make himself a damned nuisance, hound you to get a dress, shoes, bag, whatever it is that you need

Now, he mentions events at the last minute, tells you what time he'll be heading out if you want to go

It feels so low-effort, so blasé that it makes you feel unwanted

You decline over and over again, choosing instead to spend the night in your apartment, working on blueprints with thicker kevlar, more efficient batarangs, added pockets for the utility belt

You ignore how tired he is in the morning, the fact that he's photographed with Vicki at so many of the events that you choose to avoid

It's a little like playing the fiddle as Rome burns.

You know very well that what you're doing isn't helping a damn thing.

Nathan hasn't made changes to the suit in months.

He hasn't asked to see your designs. You haven't offered to show him.

He hasn't been picking through the garbage bin for your scraps.

There haven't been any scraps there to pick through.

It's as if Vicki Vale has created, or perhaps, accentuated, this chasm between you and Nathan.

You've always been of two completely different worlds.

You were raised differently; you've lived differently.

Some of your values and interests are shared, but that may not be enough to bridge this gap.

--

As it stands, your work at Bateman Enterprises just isn't…Satisfying anymore.

Maybe it's your growing apathy toward Nathan, toward what he's doing there

He isn't involved in the day-to-day of the company, but he's starting to invest his time, his interest, his cash, in charities and businesses around Gotham that need the help

It's not something that you ought to resent him for, or even resent Vicki for

But it's changed how you see him, and how he interacts with you

You start spending less time at the the mansion

You start staying at your apartment again

And when Nathan doesn't gripe about the fact that he still thinks that you live in a shit hole, you make the decision to call it

You apply to another job, just on a whim

It's outside of Gotham, at the S.T.A.R labs facility in Metropolis, with Barry's recommendation.

The rounds of interviews are done remotely. The job offer is generous, and includes moving expenses.

In your grief and loneliness, you're certain that Nathan won't even notice that you've gone, or that you plan on going.

So seeing him turn up at your exit interview is a shock. He waves the HR person out of the room and waits for the inevitable click of the door shutting behind them before he lowers himself to sit across from you.

The room is small and windowless, and almost feels…Sterile.

Nathan's gaze is heavy with something that you can't quite read: Disappointment? Annoyance? Confusion?

"I just think it's the right move," You finally tell him.

He says nothing still, and the nerves that bubble up in you force you to push into the silence:

"I've been here too long."

More silence. More staring. Maybe he's trying to break you down—and it's working.

"It's not the money," You swear.

That seems to amuse him a little, and he draws his glasses from his face, pointedly massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Were you planning on telling me?"

"I turned in my formal resignation two weeks ago."

"Were going planning on telling me," He folds his arms on the table after he replaces his glasses, "That you would be be moving out?"

"The commute between here and Metropolis would be insane—"

"And having Alfred pack up your things and send them o you, that wasn't calculated?"

Of course it was calculated. You swallow thickly, steel yourself, admit: "I didn't think you'd notice."

Nathan doesn't so much as flinch. He just reaches into his back pocket and draws something out, unfolding it before shoving it across the table.

"Sign where it's tabbed," He orders

"What is it?" You frown as he stands.

"An NDA. You know too much."

"We're involving lawyers? Wouldn't it be easier to have my killed?" You joke dryly, drawing the NDA closer.

Nathan says nothing, and you don't dare meet his eye as you skim the contents and initial and sign where it's indicated.

Once you've finished, Nathan snatches the NDA back up and tucks it away again, heading for the door. You turn your head back toward him a little, stomach churning with nerves, with discomfort, with the fear of finality.

He opens the door, and you hear him pause before he leaves, shutting it behind himself again.

You sink back into your chair, take solace in the quiet little space, and let your tears spill.

Tag list: @blueeyesatnight ; @revolution-starter-; @massivecolorspygiant ; @foxilayde; @poedameronsbeard (wouldn’t let me tag); @danniburgh ;  @carbonated-beverage ; @brandyllyn ; @missredherring ; @aellynera ; @the-feckless-wonder ; @ew-erin ; @recklessworry ; @xocalliexo ; @youngkenobilove ; @chattychell ; @selfishpresley (wouldn’t let me tag) ; @lorecraft  ; @thembosapphicclown ; @emotionalsupportbatfamily ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink

[floursramona]

Seeded

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Rating: G

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Fluff, a ridiculous amount of it, pining, canon-typical violence, flowers, I have minimal knowledge of the Star Wars universe, this may or may not be the beginning of a series, no use of pronouns, no use of y/n, some gendered nicknames, pre-relationship

Summary: Handing out flowers all day wasn’t exactly living the dream, but it got your bills paid. A stranger rolls through your neighborhood and you find yourself drawn to him. Oddly enough, he seems to feel the same.

Notes: This is my first ever venture into the Star Wars universe! Writing-wise, that is. I've consumed enough fic to last me a lifetime and I wanted to contribute my brain worms to the community as well. This idea came to me earlier this month, when I wanted to push myself to do something for Valentine's Day and now it's finally blossomed (ha) into… whatever this is. I may continue if I get an idea of where to go from here. Hope y'all enjoy and let me know what you think!

Cross-posted on Ao3

Handing out flowers all day wasn’t exactly living the dream, but it got your bills paid. Working at a plant shop was a unique experience and you couldn’t exactly say you regretted applying. On easy days you got to take your favorite post, and here you were, with a basket of cut wildflowers and enticing passersby to come inside. Your boss had always been eager to drum up business and what better than giving something away? 

On the busy and overpopulated planet of Coruscant, most people didn’t spare you a second glance, but tourists were always willing to stop and take a free and beautiful flower. From there, it wasn’t hard to convince them to come inside to see the whole garden and the workers inside were masters at sales pitches. Almost nobody left without a new plant for their homes or a bunch of flowers for their sweethearts. 

Standing outside a shop all day was rough sometimes, the sun beating down or the nasty smells but you always find yourself passing the hours people-watching. Even on your off time, you love sitting outside, making up stories and personalities for every being that walked your way. Which is exactly why, when you see the Mandalorian pass by you the first time, you are completely and utterly captivated.

It isn’t that you never saw warrior-types, no, in fact you’d seen many armored figures pass your shop. But you’d never seen one quite like this, covered head-to-toe in perfect, gleaming chrome. 

The armor is the first thing that catches your eye. The second is his posture.

If you had a less careful eye, you would have taken one glance and thought that he was inexperienced. Untouched armor is a dead giveaway for someone who hasn’t actually seen battle. Watching him stalk past your shop tells a different story. 

Even if he wasn’t wearing the armor, you bet he would still have that confident, broad stature. He isn’t peacocking, not strutting like he owns the place, but every bit of him says “I know who I am”. And Maker, do you like the look of that. 

Your inner musings silence all at once when you see his helmet turn towards you. The T-shaped visor gives him an intimidating brow and you feel yourself freeze, unable to look away. He isn’t anywhere near you, at least 10 other people walking past, but you feel like the only two on the street. You wonder if he feels the same.

A hand grabs your shoulder and the bubble suddenly pops, a sharp gasp leaving your mouth as you turn around. 

“Whoa! Didn’t mean to startle you,” It’s just your boss. You feel the hair prickle on the back of your neck and you’re tempted to turn back around, but he’s still speaking. 

“What? Oh, sorry. Just a little lost in thought.”

He chuckles at you, shaking his head. “I’ve just come to relieve you. Go take your lunch.”

Nodding, you hand him your basket of flowers and try not to rush inside. Your nosy coworkers would want to know what had you all flustered and what would you say? An armored covered stranger walking on the other side of the street looked at you? And you couldn’t even say for sure if he did, because he wore a helmet?

You chuckle at yourself for being silly. He was just another tourist. You see plenty of attractive people walking down the street every day.

But none of them usually spared you a second glance, your traitorous brain supplies. 

You shake your head to banish the thought, busying yourself with collecting your bag and credits where you keep it locked up in the back. You take your leave without saying anything, sure that your voice would give your unsteadiness away.

As you walk through the busy streets, you can’t help but fantasize a little longer. What if that armored stranger had been looking for a flower shop? You can’t imagine him wanting a floral arrangement but everyone could use a plant or two for their backyard. Does he even live here or is he from another planet? A silly pang runs through you as you imagine him living off-world - it means you likely wouldn’t see him again.

This time, you roll your eyes at yourself, entering your usual cantina for a hot meal. As the smells overtake you, you force yourself to leave the silly thoughts behind.

“Hey hon! Take a seat and I’ll be right with you,” The kind barmaid, Giala, who loves to waste time gossiping at your table, greets you and you smile. 

“You know what I want, Gee, I’ll be over at the booths. She grins back and nods, bussing the table in front of her. 

You take out your holopad to scroll through the news, but it’s quickly forgotten. You sit facing the door and a rowdy group of what appear to be businessmen draw your attention. You do your best not to stare, not that people tend to notice you much anyway. You find yourself rolling your eyes again as you listen to their conversation, and this time it’s apparent because Giala walks up to your table chuckling. 

“Those fellas are gonna be trouble, aren’t they,” she says, less of a question and more of a statement. She puts down your steaming hot bowl of… well, you weren’t always sure what was in it, but it was always delicious. 

“Eh, perhaps, but those types are usually harmless.” You’re quickly captivated by your food, hungry after a long morning on you feet. Your spoon is loaded up and on its way to your mouth when Giala says, “That shiny one over there might be a real issue though.”

It couldn’t be. You turn your head- it is. 

The armored stranger from earlier is standing by the bar. He’s obviously not there for a drink, too rigid and hands practically gripping the edge of the bartop. He’s scanning the room and once again locks glares with you, but the spell is quickly broken by Giala blocking the view when she crouches down in front of you. 

“I overheard someone say there was a bounty hunter sniffing around. Wouldn’t you think it’s him, just by the look of him?” Her eyes look at you eagerly and you peer around her again to study the figure. He’s looking back down at something in his hand. Something red and flashing, the reflection showing on his visor and it clicks for you.

“He’s a Mandalorian. I think. Supposedly some of the most feared warriors in the galaxy,” Something stirs within you that’s not quite fear, however. “Do you still work for that sleazeball manager?”

You look back toward her but before she can even get a sound out, shots are ringing out through the cantina. You thank the stars that you got your usual booth today, as you hit the ground and drag your friend under the table with you. She’s whimpering and covering her face, but you’re carefully watching the running feet from your position. 

Once the shots cease, which doesn’t take long, you hold just a bit longer. You can’t see anyone moving anymore, so you lean slowly towards the edge of the table for a better vantage point. You hear a few clicks and shuffling movements and when your head is out far enough, you see him again, arranging the cantina owner to drag him out by the cuffs on his wrist. 

A few other people are cowering under their tables, and there’s some scorch marks on the walls, but it doesn’t appear that anyone’s actually hurt. Well, except for the scumbag the Mandalorian’s got cuffed, but the groans he’s making give away his survival. 

The Mandalorian’s about to leave but he scans the room again, and, for what you hope isn’t the last time, meets your gaze. He nods- at you, you think? You hope- and leaves. For as intriguing as he was, suddenly you’re hoping that maybe he doesn’t pay your shop a visit.

___

Of course, he does. Well, not exactly, but just about a week later, you’re stood in front of the shop again and you spot the Mandalorian on your street again. Your stomach does a flip, partially out of fear that you might be the next one in cuffs, and partially at the thought that you might not be entirely opposed to that. 

He seems to be just as focused as the first time you saw him, but oh, how wrong you are. You’re staring again, you realize, because his helmet turns towards you, and your stomach is flipping again because now he’s making his way towards me, oh Maker, please tell me I didn’t commit some heinous crime in my sleep that placed a thousand credit bounty on your head and-

“Excuse me.” 

You snap out of your spiral at the sound of his voice, a lovely, deep, gravelly voice- 

“You work here.”

Fuck, you’ve gotta stop getting lost in your thoughts. He asked you a question. Except- he didn’t?

“Yes?” You manage to make your voice sound somewhat normal, if a bit higher pitched than usual.

“I assume you see a lot of people that go by,” he says and shit, it’s more than a little intimidating to have his attention on you. He’s fully facing you this time, only an arm’s length away. His hands are just resting by his sides, but the sheer amount of weaponry you see on him is not usual, even for this planet. 

“You’re not here to arrest my boss, are you?” you blurt out and already you’re regretting it. He tilts his head at you and it’s almost adorable, making you think of a confused loth-cat. 

“I don’t think so. I’m looking for this man. I’m told he frequents this area, and I’ve seen you out here every time I pass by,” he takes out a device that lights up with a hologram of a scruffy-looking human. Sure, you’ve seen him before, but wait- every time he’s passed by? As in more than once?

“I thought you found your bounty when you shot up the cantina last week,” and you reprimand yourself again mentally. Sure enough, he doesn’t seem happy with your phrasing when he shifts to cross his arms.

“Sorry- ‘shot up’ is a bit much. I just meant- I don’t always see that kind of… excitement around here. And we don’t exactly get a lot of folks who look like you either. So it’s a bit strange seeing you back so soon. W-why are you back again?” you’re babbling, and you know it. 

He doesn’t need to answer the question and yet he does, “I was completing a job and now I’m here for another one,” he lifts up the hologram again, “Do you know this man?”

“‘Know’ is a strong word. Have I seen him? Of course,” and you go on to describe how he often slinks around, a pickpocket who preys on the unsuspecting tourists of the area. You babble on far too long with a description of the habits you’ve picked up merely by observing, his full attention overwhelming you into running your mouth. 

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says, when you finally finish. He tucks away the hologram device but he stays standing there for another second, just looking at you. Waiting for what, you’re not sure. He’s already asked what he needs for you. Maybe he would have said something, but you beat him to it. 

“Would you like a flower?” You curse yourself internally, you really just say the stupidest shit when you’re flustered. He’s still just standing there, fuck, fuck, please respond-

“I don’t- I don’t need a flower,” he says, hesitantly. 

You scramble through your basket for the right bloom, something not overly feminine, something that would fit his personality, something that’s not already dying and there-

“Here,” you thrust your hand out awkwardly at him, “just take it. A-as thanks.”

He cocks his head again, as if confused. “For what? I was the one seeking information.” 

“For getting rid of that asshole. In the cantina? He was a real scumbag and treated my friend like shit. I don’t know what kind of price was on his head, and I don’t know what you did with him, but the planet’s better without him. So thanks for that… you, uh, did a good job.”

He stays silent this time and Maker, that blank stare just pierced right through you. Before you lose your nerve, you reach out and wedge the stem in an empty slot of his bandolier. It looks almost silly, on a man so threatening but also fits in a strange sort of way. The spray of light blue blends quite nicely with the rest of his ensemble and the small buds don't actually attract too much attention. It reflects on his chest plate and you let yourself admire him for another moment. 

“Thank you,” he finally says, interrupting your unashamed ogling. “For your time and your token.”

“Anytime, Mandalorian.” The grin comes easily to your face.

He turns to leave but not before studying you for another moment and saying, “May our paths cross again someday.”

You watch him walk away and wonder if he really means it.

——————

[gasha40k]

Currently a massive heatwave in my city and it’s slowly boiling me to death in my apartment like an unaware frog, so I decided it’d be a good time to distract myself by getting some tertiary work done on some lads.

From left to right: Kardon the Eternal, Lord Akselos, and some unnamed guy with a big ass axe

Starting with the most boring stuff, my World Eaters character goon squad is all primed and ready to be painted. Once I’m done assembling this army I’m gonna paint these three guys first because they’re the coolest, by far. I’m still mad proud of Akselos’ model and I’m super excited to see how he’ll look on the tabletop when he’s all shiny and colorful.

Epic unusable Chaos model, thank you GW

Speaking of painting World Eaters, here’s a CSM Legionarie that I whipped up a while back as a color test for my World Eaters army. The whole goal with my Khorne fellas is to keep them as default as possible, so the color scheme is very simple and coherent.

On this particular mini, I wanted to maximize my usage of Mephiston Red, which is exemplified most particularly on the rocket launcher, which I’d usually paint with Abaddon Black. I think that it being red, though, gives it a sort of retro feel, which I quite like. This may be one of the better single minis I’ve made, as well. No highlights or anything, but some decent, clean coloring, and a lot of Agrax Earthshade.

I have, however, been doing some highlighting on Lieutenant Sadrian’s model. I’ve also been cleaning him up periodically, coloring over little mistakes and trying to make his model really pop. He’s almost definitely the centerpiece of my Thunderbearers army now.

Check out how regal and leaderly he looks amongst his men. What a tactician!

Sadrian is one of the few models that I haven’t repainted in Skavenblight Dinge, alongside Big Harold, the Venerable Dreadnought that I’ve had since I started the hobby. They’ve both more than earned their stripes on the tabletop, having been in nearly every game I’ve played in the last two or so years, and I figured their paint jobs were pretty serviceable, so a repaint would be unnecessary.

While Sadrian is an elite taxtician that routinely exercises unmatched intellect and complex battlefield knowledge, he is also a by-the-books, reliable warrior and a ruthless marksman, hence the simplicity of the inscription upon his trusty bolt rifle

But to make him stand out more as an HQ, I added some minor highlights to his armor, particularly on his arms and helmet. I also highlighted much of his gun and did some detailing on the purity seals and red tassels. I’m very satisfied with the inscription on his gun. It’s crazy to me that I was able to write a word that small and, uh, have it be actually legible.

Every single painted Astartes model that I own. For context I have nearly 3k points of these fuckers and only 10 finished minis

I’ve painted a good handful of Thunderbearers Intercessors since my last post. Nearly a full 10-man squad, now. Sadrian definitely stands out, and I think that, when contrasted with the leagues of men that he commands, eyes are naturally drawn to him. I’ll never get over how satisfying seeing a cohesively painted army is to my weird brain.

I am so fucking in love with this model and I do not know why, although I figure it’s got something to do with its appearance in Dawn of War

In other news, I’ve got one of these disgusting classic Daemon Princes coming in the mail. GW recently did a made-to-order run of this model, and I’ve been trying to hunt an inexpensive one down for actual months. He’ll be a staple of my WE army whenever I get my hands on him, although I am kind of terrified as painting it.

I’ve just about run out of image slots on tumblr, so I’ll post a bit more about my Crusade (and some thoughts on 10th edition) next post.

[daydreamerdrew]

Comics read this past week:

Marvel Comics:

The Incredible Hulk (1968) #281

This issue was published in December 1982, according to the Marvel Wiki. It was written by Bill Mantlo, penciled by Sal Buscema, and inked by Joe Sinnott.

In this issue there’s a scene where Bruce transforms into the Hulk and the narration describes, “The body of Bruce Banner is gone, but his mind remains, to guide the pulverizing powerhouse known as the Incredible Hulk!” But in the next panel Bruce phrases the transformation slightly differently, not that it’s his mind that’s guiding the Hulk’s body, but that he is the Hulk now and no longer Bruce, saying, “The current coursing through the Quinjet is unpleasant, but it’s not numbing the Hulk as it did Bruce Banner!”

There’s also a moment where Bruce says, “I was a monster! I deserved to be hunted and hounded,” referring to the time before he’d taken control of the Hulk’s body. This made me think of the scene in issue #269 where Bruce referred to the Hulk’s rampages as his rampages and Betty pushed back against that, arguing, “If anyone can find a cure for your condition, it’s you! But you’ll never succeed if you start identifying yourself with the Hulk! You’ll lose before you’ve begun- and you’ll lose me, as well,” which is very much what has happened.

Timely Publications:

the Captain America stories in Captain America Comics (1941) #13-14

In this batch of 4 Captain America stories I went from April 1942 to May 1942, according to the issue cover dates. All of the stories were 20 pages.

Captain America Comics #13 was the first issue, and so ���Captain America and the League of the Unicorn” (writer unknown; penciled by Al Avison; inked by Syd Shores) was the first story, that reflected that the United States had joined WWII after Pearl Harbor. The cover of the issue shows Captain America punching out a Japanese general and saying, “You started it! Now- we’ll finish it!” It also has a “Remember Pearl Harbor” symbol and a banner that says “All out for America issue!” The Grand Comics Database synopsis for the story reads: “A railroad boss poses as King Zong, leader of the League of Unicorns, an oriental criminal gang that wear helmets with spikes on their foreheads to slay enemies. Zong hopes to profit from sowing discord between China and the Allies, but Cap and Bucky defeat him and hand him over to the police.” Despite the focus on positive relations between the U.S. and China, the Chinese ally characters are also drawn as racist caricatures, which was typical of this era’s comics. Though the leader of the Japanese villains ended up secretly being a white man, which is unusual to me; I don’t believe I’ve seen that before in my Golden Age comics readings. In the story the heroes use language such as oriental, slant-eyes, and nippon back-stabber. The Sentinels of Liberty secret club news page also refers to that the U.S. has joined WWII. Steve’s message opens with, “We meet again this month with grave purpose and determination!” And Bucky’s opens, “Well, guys, we’re in the war all right!”

The story “Captain America Battles the Horde of the Vulture” (writer unknown; penciled by Al Avison; inked by Syd Shores and George Klein) in Captain America Comics #14 has Captain America battling against a Native American tribe, who he realizes are really Japanese spies “using the name of the first Americans to hide behind while they attack” with no evidence other than that that’s what seems the most probable to him. And he turns out to be right, though their leader again turns out to secretly be a white man that was “an American turned traitor for the Japs with great promises of wealth for him if he succeeded as a spy!” The closing narration of the story reads, “This story has a lesson! No telling where the enemy of America may be lurking! Captain America urges every citizen to check on suspicious characters and happenings, and help with the war!” The villain in the next story of the issue, “Captain America and the Petals of Doom” (writer unknown; penciled by Al Avison; inked by Syd Shores and George Klein), was a white Nazi spy posing as an army captain, with no mention of the Japanese in this story. Also noting that I liked Betsy Ross’ use in this story.

DC Comics:

Superman (2023) #12

This issue was written by Joshua Williams, penciled by David Baldeón, and inked by Norm Rapmund. It was published this month, March 2024.

Nothing too interesting happened with Lena in this issue. I did like seeing her working alongside Superman. Also notably her grandmother got defeated in this issue. This book isn’t a chore to follow or anything, but I’m really not at all into what it’s doing with Superman and Lex Luthor. I am looking forward to this upcoming “House of Brainiac” storyline that’s crossing over with Action Comics. I’ve been waiting for the Brainiac stuff that was teased back when Lena joined the book to come to fruition.

Batman (2016) #1-6 and #9-24 and Annual #1 and The Flash (2016) #21-22

These issues were published across June 2016 to June 2017, according to the DC Wiki. This was me beginning to reread Tom King’s Batman run, which I first read a few years ago. Of note is that I have since then read Flashpoint: Batman - Knight of Vengeance (2011), Flashpoint (2011), Watchmen (1986), and Doomsday Clock (2017), and Infinite Frontier (2021)

Issues #1-6 were the “I am Gotham” storyline. All but the last issue, the epilogue of the arc, were penciled by David Finch. Issue #6, the epilogue, was penciled by Ivan Reis. Issue #1 was inked by Matt Banning. Issue #2 was inked by Matt Banning and Danny Miki. Issue #3 was inked by Danny Miki. Issue #4 was inked by Sandra Hope and Matt Banning. Issue #5 was inked by David Finch, Sandra Hope, Matt Banning, and Scott Hanna. And issue #6 was inked by Joe Prado, Oclair Albert, and Scott Hanna. I skipped the “Night of the Monster Men” storyline, which crossed over with Nightwing (2016) and Detective Comics (2011).

Issues #9-13 were the “I am Suicide” storyline. All were penciled by Mikel Janín, who also solely inked issues #9-10 and #13. Hugo Petrus worked on the inking with him for issues #11-12. Issues #14-15 were the “Rooftops” storyline. Both issues were drawn by Mitch Gerads. Issues #16-20 were the “I am Bane” storyline. All were penciled by David Finch. Issue #16 was inked by David Finch. Issues #17-18 were inked by Danny Miki. Issue #19 was inked by Danny Miki, Trevor Scott, and Sandra Hope. And issue #20 was inked by Danny Miki and Trevor Scott.

Issues #21-22 and The Flash issues were “The Button” storyline. Both Batman issues were drawn by Jason Fabok. The first includes a special thanks to Geoff Johns-the writer of Doomsday Clock (2018), which spun out of this arc- and Joshua Williamson, and the second includes a special thanks to Geoff Johns and credits Joshua Williamson and Tom King as co-plotters and Joshua Williamson as the scripter. Both of The Flash issues were drawn by Howard Porter. And both were written by Joshua Williamson and include special thanks to Geoff Johns and Tom King.

Issues #23 and #24 were both single issue stories, the former a Batman and Swamp Thing team-up and the latter titled “Every Epilogue is a Prelude.” Issue #23 was drawn by Mitch Gerads. And issue #24 was half penciled by David Finch and inked by Danny Miki and half penciled by Clay Mann and inked by Seth Mann. The Annual was an anthology book. It had a story written by Tom King and drawn by David Finch, a story written by Scott Snyder and Ray Fawkes and drawn by Declan Shalvey, a story written by Paul Dini and drawn by Neal Adams, a story written by Steve Orlando and drawn by Riley Rossmo, and a story written by Scott Bryan Wilson and drawn by Bilquis Evely.

Up next is the “War of Jokes and Riddles” storyline, which I remember not liking, but so far I’ve really loved rereading this book. Tom King’s approach to Batman really works for me.

Henry Clover paralleling both Thomas Wayne and Bruce as a parent, his speech in issue #3 about how growing up in Gotham “You stop seeing it as something other, and start seeing it as just more of yourself,” how “Its joys are your joys. Its miseries are your miseries,” and why he chose to raise his children there, “instead of retching, I breath it in deeper. And I smile. And I shout it good and loud… [No.]” And then Bruce declaring, in issue #5, “You want to kill Gotham?! For being weak! For being afraid! For failing again and again and again! I am Gotham. Kill me.”

Selina Kyle revealing her childhood fascination with a painting of Bruce’s “perfect” family at the Thomas and Martha Wayne Home for the Boys and Girls of Gotham in issue #10, that she thinks, “you’ll always be the little boy in the picture. You’ll always want to be the little boy in the picture.” And her hinging their relationship on that, while “When we kiss, the pain goes away,” “When your moment came, when they destroyed your childhood… you used all that will, all that loss, to make a better world,” and she didn’t, so they could only stay together in the event that “Someday, maybe you, too, will forget the better world. Maybe you, too, will stop feeling the love left behind and just feel left behind.”

Bruce admitting in issue #12, only to Catwoman, in a letter he wrote before this book takes place, something he believes only she understands, that his decision to become Batman was made while self-harming as a child and considering suicide and is defined that way. Him using the language that “My father was classically dignified, my mother was classically kind,” and then describing his mindset as a child as, “I was pain. That’s all I was. Everything else, every chance given to me, every promise I’d made, was pain. And what use is pain? What use is being just pain? It’s not dignified. It’s not kind. And if it’s not dignified, and if it’s not kind, then maybe it’s not worth anything.”

Bruce telling Selena in issue #14, after she’d spend an evening helping him as Batman, “I don’t like what we did. I had to do what we did.” Him feeling in issue #15, after she’d left after they’d had a good time together, that “as if it belonged to her” she’d stolen “the night.”

The parallels between Bruce and Bane in issue #18, particularly Bruce coming home with Alfred after his parents’ deaths being compared to Bane being put in the jail cell to be left to die, and Bruce calling the extended ‘Batfamily’ characters his “true strength” being aligned with a scene of Bane asking for an unsafe amount of Venom.

Bruce remembering in issue #20 how he almost died in issue #1 until the newcomer superheroes Gotham and Gotham Girl intervened, “You don’t see the impossible- You see the possibility no one else sees. So you ran through every scenario, every permutation, every way out. And every option led to the same outcome. This was your death. Coming up fast.” Him bragging, or complaining, “You know how many times I’ve heard that? ‘Rest in peace, Batman!’ ‘There’s no escape, Batman!’ ‘Time to die, Batman!’ ‘Every night. Over, and over, and over. For so many years. ‘This is the end, Batman!’ Every. Damn. Night. And yet… I’m still here.” Him him defining being Batman at the end of the issue as that the declaration “I’m Batman” essentially means that he never gives up, and so he isn’t defeatable. And Bruce’s hallucination of his mother, who speaks to him using the framing that him being Batman is a way for him to die, to whom he tells, “The girl needed help. So I helped her. That’s all it is. That’s all it’s ever been.”

Bruce briefly reuniting with his father in issue #22, a storyline which worked for me before, but had a stronger effect on me with the context of his portrayal in Flashpoint: Batman - Knight of Vengeance (2011) and Flashpoint (2011). Thomas’ described mindset back then, “the way it was supposed to be. So that Bruce would live… And I would die. As would this nightmare of a world,” the fact that he had been refusing to try to help prevent his world’s destruction before he even met Barry and learned about the original timeline and that there was a possibility of saving Bruce, and his mindset when he first appears in this book where he was disappointed that his world didn’t end when he thought it would and was preparing to kill himself (with a bomb to take out some of his enemies as well). And the fact that Martha had been horrified to find out that Bruce grew up to be Batman, like Thomas, and Thomas telling Bruce, “Don’t be Batman. Find happiness. Please. You don’t have to do this. Don’t do it for me. Don’t do it for your mother. Be a father for your son in a way I never could be for you. Let the Batman die with me,” and then Bruce not quitting as Batman, but hesitating to go out as Batman for once afterwards in The Flash #22.

And Thomas refusing to be saved in issue #22, but also choosing not to kill himself, instead ‘rising’ into the light as his world is finally destroyed, and the message Bruce receives from Swamp Thing in issue #23 but then is muddled/rescinded- “You have to tell me- tell me my mother and father are falling back into life!”

And Bruce admitting in issue #24 that, “I do this, I do all this, and I can’t… I don’t think I can stop. […] I do this. But I’m not… happy. […] I try. I do this to be happy. I try, and I fail.”

And I love Gotham Girl- her parallel but distinct origin story from Bruce in issue #3, what she brings out in Bruce, particularly in issue #24, and her whole concept as a character works really well for me on its own.

I remember when I first read this series I was struck by the limited presence of Damian Wayne, even though he might have been off in another book, he was still Bruce’s youngest child and who I would assume still needs Bruce’s parenting. Like, when Bruce went on his suicide mission to Santa Prisca for however long that was, I was wondering where Damian was and how that would affect him. I’m curious to see how that is or isn’t portrayed going forward, since Thomas put pressure on Bruce to not be Batman and be an involved parent instead, and the effect that we’ve seen of that final message so far- Bruce hesitating to go out as Batman and proposing to Selina- hasn’t involved his children yet.

Also, it’s pretty clear that Bruce’s happiness and relationship with Selina is being portrayed as antithetical to him being Batman, or at least him being Batman in the way he is now. It’s not that the way this book is going makes it definitive that he and Selina can’t get married, because I suppose it’s possible for a change in what being a superhero means for his life and mental state, but it’s not surprising that they didn’t go through with it.

Seeing the two instances where Bruce refers to Damian as his son, as opposed to referring to all of the former sidekicks as his children, reminded me of some of the controversy around this book. Batman is not a character I’m precious about; I can engage with and enjoy different contradictory portrayals of him. And, also, because he is so over-published, I am really not sympathetic to Batman fans being dissatisfied. I don’t remember if Bruce feeling differently about, say, Dick and Jason in comparison to Damian is ever delved into further in this book, but if it did that would be interesting to me and not something I have a stance against writing about. The criticism that it was wrong to portray Bruce as unhappy and made happy through his relationship with Selina because he had children and so should have had satisfaction in life through them really bothers me. I don’t think anyone, men or women, are doing something wrong by being depressed when they have children. I phrase that like that because I’m more used to that unreasonable expectation being put on women. And I don’t think that finding happiness in an adult relationship specifically is immoral either.

Also, I am looking forward to Thomas Wayne’s return and his reaction to learning about Bruce’s sidekicks, which weren’t ever explained to him in Flashpoint (2011) or “The Button” storyline, as I have gotten into sidekick drama since last reading this book.

Fawcett Comics:

the Captain Marvel stories in Whiz Comics (1940) #89 and Captain Marvel Adventures (1941) #76 and The Marvel Family (1945) #15

In this batch of 7 stories I read the Captain Marvel appearances published in September 1947, according to the issue cover dates. These stories ranged from 7 to 9 pages.

The story “Captain Marvel: Condemned to Die” in The Marvel Family #15 (written by Otto Binder; drawn by C.C. Beck) had Dr. Sivana’s most evil plot yet, to a very sad effect. He convinces Billy that Captain Marvel is a carrier for a dangerous plague and the risk that Billy will instinctively transform at some point and won’t be able to never turn into Captain Marvel again for the rest of his life is too high, so Billy has to die for the greater good. Billy is allotted one hour to say goodbye to his friends and make final arrangements, but he’s distraught all the while. His intense fear and grief are present the entire time. He breaks down and can’t enjoy his final hour, though he ultimately powers through to go and “take it like a man.” Sivana foils himself by prematurely cackling with glee while Billy was still alive in the gas chamber, but still.

[redahlia-writes]

when you hold me. | din djarin x reader

Prompt: when you hold me, I can feel your heart beating.

Words: 800ca

Content: fluff, comfort, established relationship, din being a little disaster, riduurok, implied smut but nothing explicit

A/N: prompt has been used for matt murdock as well

also on AO3  - masterlist

Din’s arms have grown familiar around you.

The weight and shape of it, his hands resting underneath your shirt, skin on skin in the dark.

He holds you in the dark of his bunk - your bunk for a few months now. His head rests in the crook of your neck, curls tingling your skin.

With the walls of his room protecting him - protecting you both - he sleeps soundly, holding you, warm and solid, his chest flush against your back, legs tangled with yours and the covers.

“Din?” you can never tell when he’s actually asleep - even when he’s so relaxed, his breathing even, kissing your skin from his parted lips, his hands don’t stop roaming across your skin, mindless patterns drawn with the tip of his fingers.

“What is it?” he mumbles tiredly, nuzzling into your neck.

You hadn’t expected the Mandalorian to be this affectionate - this physical. When his armor comes off he’s constantly searching for you, constantly searching for closeness.

“Are you alright?” you turn your head just a little - you cannot see him, but with the new angle the corner of your lips brushes his forehead.

“Of course,” he leans into you. “Why?”

“Your heart,” your hand rests on his when he stops tracing circles. “When you hold me I can feel your heart beating,” he eases his hold, allowing you room to turn and face him.

“You can?” you can almost picture the frown across his brow, how you’d reach to smooth it away. Slowly, you nod, shifting closer until you’re chest to chest, and his arms tighten around you once more, hands splayed on your back.

“It’s beating really fast,” it’s a whispered secret between the two of you, the tip of your nose brushing his. “It always does when something’s on your mind.”

“You can just tell that?” he chuckles, somewhat bewildered, tipping his chin up to brush his lips on yours.

The gentle touches are the ones you adore the most - for someone whose life is so fast, violent most of the time, it’s easy to lose oneself in tenderness. Din does just so, with lingering slow kisses and soft caresses, with embraces that last all night long and sweet touches in the morning.

“Even though I don’t know your face,” you murmur, soft-voiced, bringing your hand to his chest to press it where his pulse jumps, “I know your heart, Din.”

His breathing shifts - it’s almost imperceptible, but he’s so close and so familiar you couldn’t miss it even if you wanted to.

“There is something I’ve been thinking about,” he admits carefully, slowly, and the movement of his hands starts again, soothing mostly for himself. “For a while, now.”

“Wanna talk about it?” you offer, scratching his skin lightly. Din shifts a little, clearing his throat.

“Ah, haar’chak,” he mutters with a little scoff. “I wanted to do this properly, I wanted to do it right, this is -”

“Din, slow down,” you call, tapping his chest to the rhythm of his now racing heart. “What are you talking about?”

“Riduurok,” you know the sounds of Mando’a, but the uttered word is unfamiliar.

“What’s that?” Din inhales, shifting again, and you fight off the urge to take his face in your hands, kiss him back to calm.

“It’s a Mandalorian ceremony - a bond,” he clears his throat, voice hoarse. “A love bond.”

It’s your turn to shift, pulling back as if to look at him better, the frown forming on your face.

“What?” you shift your torso up a little, resting the weight on your arm. “Are you talking about marriage?”

“And as my riduur, I wouldn’t have to hide from you,” he exhales slowly, his hand sliding up your side lifted from the bed, following the curve of your body up to your shoulder, neck, until he’s cupping your cheek. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t do it anyway - I’d wake up tomorrow and not wear the helmet just to let you see me, but -”

“Din,” you lean into his touch, tap his chest again. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Yes,” he blurts out, and you can’t help the smile pulling at your mouth. “Although maybe you should be the one to say that - or not, I’ll understand, I just -”

You lean in - after months it’s easy to find his lips with your blindly, cutting him off with a quick kiss that leaves him gasping against your mouth.

“Take a breather,” you scold in a hum. “Your heart’s still running.”

“Of course it is,” he complains, the hand still on your side giving it a quick squeeze.

“Yes, Din,” you brush the arch of his nose with your lips, and he exhales at your words, hand shifting to your back to pull you closer. “Now breathe.”

“Now I kiss you,” he retorted, a smile in his words, unabashed happiness seeping through. “Breathing can wait.” 

And he did, heart jumping in his chest as if to reach you.

[onceandfutureoshainspector]

- SO IF I’M REMEMBERING ALL OF THIS CORRECTLY:

   - PICKMAN’S GALLERY: the nasty little freak painted a bunch of ominously portentious-looking paintings in blood and yellow pigment of questionable origin.

       - several of his works feature motifs of golden ribbons/spirals/halos/eyes which look eerily similar to the designs on the ZEALOTS’ armour, as well as subjects with circular facial tattoos/carvings much like the CHILDREN have.

       - by far the most striking painting is of a golden eye opening in a red sky, surrounded by ripples and unintelligible writing of the same colour, as blackened and burning hands reach upwards in fear or supplication - quite the portrayal of the apocalypse for a human, who couldn’t possibly be old enough to have seen it.

       - PICKMAN’s name is a reference to a racist/homophobic story by HOWARD PHILLIP LOVECRAFT, wherein the titular PICKMAN paints fucked up inhuman dog people in regular everyday settings, using photographs as references for his work, and the big twist is that these photographs aren’t of the cityscapes in the background of his work but of the monsters in the foreground - the monsters are real, not drawn from his imagination. if PICKMAN is intended as a reference in more than name, it’s possible that he’s seen some things that should not be.

   - DUNWICH BORERS: very shortly before the war, the mysterious and sinister “MANAGEMENT” were using the quarry as a site for mysterious and sinister rituals.

       - these rituals involved MINI NUKES in some capacity, putting them less than a month (i think) before the apocalypse - i remember when i visited FORT STRONG something that gave me a “huh!” moment was that MINI NUKES had only finished development a month or so before the world ended, so even with how far they spread within that month that’s a narrow window for MANAGEMENT to get their hands on some.

       - in their final message to TIM STOKES, MANAGEMENT stated that they were “very close to accomplishing [their] goal” - of course, it’s possible the ritual failed, but the presence of nuclear weapons and the fact that the world ended in fire within any time period from the same month to the same hour...

      - i had assumed that the ritual involved the use of KREMVH’S TOOTH, the fucked up knife left with two MINI NUKES on the altar, but while making the above gif i looked more closely at the person doing the ritual and noticed that their knife is way too straight to be it, so it’s possible that the TOOTH was a result of the ritual rather than an ingredient. don’t the CHILDREN worship ATOM for its ability to transform?

          - JACK CABOT’s comment about “disturbing geometries, tools not meant for human hands” also springs to mind when contemplating the TOOTH.

  - the CABOTS: LORENZO unearthed an ostentatious helmet from an ancient civilisation, heavily implied to be created by entities beyond the scope of our reality.

       - one of the effects of this object was to make him extremely resistant to radiation, as evidenced by the SERUM that his family bled from him to keep themselves eternally young - a serum so effective against the FOG that it was suggested by the game as a treatment for ANDRE. while i don’t yet know precisely how ATOM’S BLESSING works, this degree of radiation immunity/resistance without the drawbacks of physical mutation doesn’t show up many other places that i’ve seen.

      - it just so happens that HIGH CONFESSOR TEKTUS wears a vaguely similar headdress - far from identical, but close enough in general shape to notice, almost like a budget version constructed by a group without the resources of an apparently advanced civilisation and with slightly different symbology of the deity they worship.

           - another interesting detail: the central symbol of the CHILDREN OF ATOM’s crown (located at the third eye...) is, of course, an atom, with all the symbolism of life and death and power that holds. the centrepiece of LORENZO’s crown, on the other hand, is a scarab - often symbolic of the sun, which, in an equatorial region such as where it was found, often represent many of the same things as the atom in a world defined both by nuclear power and nuclear devastation.

    - and that brings us to the CHILDREN OF ATOM.

        - the CHILDREN, who worship an infinitely powerful deity from between realities, believed to have entered this world by the door of nuclear devastation, and etch their god’s circles and eyes into their possessions and bodies.

        - the CHILDREN, many of whom display an extremely rare immunity to radiation that doesn’t come with a side order of disfigurement (so far all the people who are confirmed to have this ability are the ones not going bald in patches), which they claim is a blessing from their deity.

        - the CHILDREN, who, despite the laughable quality of the nonsense to which they subscribe, still somehow manage to deliver on a surprising amount of what they preach, from the BLESSINGS to the strange effects of the MUSHROOM WATER to somehow remaining an active threat to their enemies despite embracing suffering as a virtue and living in literal filth and poison by choice.

            - i mean, the objective of their religion is to die of radiation poisoning. in order to survive this long, throwing themselves directly at death and missing enough times to make it to the next generation,  they’d need to be insanely, impossibly lucky - or there’d have to be something to their bullshit. even if they don’t actually know what they’re looking at, even if there’s just a pinch, a grain, an atom of truth at the centre of it all.

- with all of this considered, there is one thing of which i am absolutely certain: somehow, this is going to bring me back to the CORVEGA ASSEMBLY PLANT.

[lgg5989]

MavDad: Superhero

A/N: So I decided to try and write another blurb of MavDad and I think it turned out so much better than yesterdays! MavDad: That’s When

I’ve decided to write like a 500-ish word MavDad a day or so, please comment or ask me any ideas you guys have, I would be happy to try and give them life! 

__________

Maverick was at his wits end, they had been in the costume store for 3 hours and Brad still couldn't decide on what he wanted to be for superhero day at school. Every suggestion was shot down with vigor until they had gone through every costume in the store. 

"What about this one buddy?" he questioned, holding up a cheap spacesuit and helmet. 

"Astronauts aren't my heroes!" Brad shot back quickly.

"Well sweetie that's got to be every costume in the store, maybe we should look at home?" Carole suggested. 

"Actually, I think I have an idea…" said Brad as he tried to hide his grin from ear to ear. The three left the store with a new mission. 

-----

Upon entering the house Brad raced up the stairs as fast as his 8 year old legs could take him, exclaiming, "I have an idea, but you have to wait downstairs, it's a surprise!"

"Do you need any help?" Mav yelled.

"NO! Stay downstairs, Uncle Pete!" 

Mav smiled, no matter how much the loss of Goose still affected him, he was always happy to still be a part of his adoptive family. Carole and Brad had a room for him when he was home from deployment and after all these years they never held the accident against him. 

20 minutes and a loud crash later Brad came barreling down the stairs into the living room to find Carole in the kitchen starting dinner. 

“Mommy look at my costume!” he shouted proudly, over the music she had been playing. 

Carole turned to look at him and words escaped her, “Mav…Maverick!” she shouted into the laundry room, where Pete was fixing the dryer. 

“What’s up?” came his reply, and his head from around the corner. Upon seeing his nephew Mav was struck speechless as well. 

Carole was looking at him trying to hide the tears in her eyes. Standing in front of them was Brad, in what could only be described as the most fitting costume yet. Goose's helmet sitting low on his head, Mav's aviators crooked on his nose, topped off with Mav's leather jacket hanging off his small frame. And, upon further inspection, a hastily drawn on mustache, in the same eyebrow pencil Brad had been stealing from Carole for about 2 months now. He was a perfect mix between his two father figures. 

 As Brad waited expectantly for their reaction, his face hopeful, Mav had a mess of emotions running through his head. He couldn’t believe how much he looked like Goose, even with the touches of his own gear. 

He carefully asked, "Brad, who is your superhero?"

 "You and daddy." Brad replied rather bluntly but beaming with pride. 

"Well bud we are fighter pilots, we don't have any special powers," Mav said with a sly smile on his face. 

"I don't care, you get to fly super fast and you keep me and mommy safe!" 

"Alright buddy. If that's what you want to be," he said with a smile. 

Carole collected herself quickly saying, "Oh, my boys, let me take a picture!” 

----

The next day at school Brad stood in front of the class with his oversized clothes and haphazard mustache telling them all about his dad Goose and his uncle Maverick. Mav couldn't have been happier when he got a call from Brad's teacher that afternoon inviting him to their career day the following week. 

A/N: I’m thinking career day tomorrow??

[ohheyitsokay]

Omg I'm SO sorry!!! I'm the soulmates pain AU anon, I was completely aware you were the one with the milestone!! I saw the post through Molly's rb and I was almost completely sure I had opened your blog to send you the ask but alas, the Tumblr app can never give you any certainties. That long-ass message was completely dedicated to you, I still can't quite grasp how I managed to send it to scribbledghost 🙄🙄🙄 Sorry!!! Congrats again, I love you!!!!

for reference a Din Djarin x reader soulmate request where your soulmate feels your injuries and pain

hello, dear heart!

I wanted to say, before anything else, thank you. I've reread your words multiple times since you sent this, confirming they were to me, and they really mean the world to me. thank you so, so much! anyway, your idea is fantastic, I had a lot of fun with this one! I hope you like seeing what I did with your already wonderful thoughts 💕

ps it's well documented that I'm a big fan of sprawling thoughts, so please never apologize for sharing them!

warnings: mentions canon-typical injuries, a bunch of fluff. at least enough for a couple of throw pillows

>>

soulmate requests / follower celebration

<<

There's a short burn on his forearm when he wakes.

Din stares at it, wondering at the dull ache, trying to place the injury from yesterday's adventure when it hits him. Hot and golden warmth, flooding through his chest, thawing his flesh against the cold filtered air.

It's one of yours.

A burn, on his forearm.

And selfishly, indulgently, he pauses for a moment, mind slipping away from duty and expectations to dwell in the daydream of his soulmate.

First, his mind creates an image of a blurry mandalorian caretaker, gently moving around a kitchen in the covert. You stir a pot, tapping the spoon on the side before setting it down. Hearing distant calls, you turn too quickly and oh - a sliver of burn along your arm.

Din wants to help, wants to pull you away from the domestic .... danger, and he rushes forward. Your helmet turns to him and he almost sees it - before his mind can no longer produce the answers he aches for late at night.

The second image is of you, in armor as gleaming as his own, in a thick, unrecognizable forest. The hairs on his neck are at full attention, already subconsciously wanting to shout - but you don't need his help. You're breathtaking in all versions of his daydream - but watching you fight with practiced ease punches the air from his lungs. For a moment he feels self-conscious of his awkward maneuvers and slapdash fighting but then his mind pulls him back. You're protecting someone, or else you wouldn't have messed up - you never do, injuries from you are too rare - but you shove them behind you, shooting an enemy over your shoulder before your helmet snaps back. There are so many - you're surrounded - and a hot, sharp blaster bolt grazes your forearm before your fury is truly unleashed.

He runs his fingers over the burn, almost giddy at the possibilities.

Mandalorians are few and far between, but he's grateful he has a soulmate, and even more thankful you've kept yourself out of harm's way almost entirely, since you'd been connected.

As he dons his layers, the shine of his armor reflects bruises and scrapes littered across the expanse of his skin. His own, from his journey, and one beautiful little burn from his soulmate.

And then they're covered, and the armor is tied securely in place, and he leaves his daydreams in the room as the ship door slides unceremoniously shut.

-

You hiss at the burn, clutching your arm.

Great. Just what you needed - another injury to add to your impressive collection.

At least my soulmate gets a gift from me this time. You roll your eyes.

The vendor next to your stall is a sweet lady, already apologizing for her steaming pots and pans and offering you compensation.

The credits would be nice, but you could hardly justify taking anything, especially since it was your soulmate's fault your body was riddled with aches and pains in the first place.

Waving your hand, you accept her counter offer - a bowl of her perfect broth and noodles - before retreating. You sell cloth, from beautiful dyed lengths tucked away to sturdy, unstainable blacks, and it was days like today that you thanked your stars for that choice.

There's a thick pile in the middle that you perch on, sinking into the folds as your body cries at you, and you sigh over your soup in relief. The burden of waking to webbing bruises and sprawling scrapes and the more-than-occasional broken bone is eased by your stall - sitting and haggling until the sun goes down. That is, unless there's drama in the market, as it seems there is today.

In the distance you hear shouts, more than those of vendors selling meat on sticks to passing warriors and merchants - the taunts of drunkards.

Someone is coming, and you almost laugh when you see his form in the distance, because he's trying and failing to be inconspicuous. It's impossible, with his gleaming armor, but still he ducks into shadowy spots, forgetting - or maybe ignoring - their inhabitants.

"A Mandalorian has graced our market," your neighbor remarks dryly. They were respected, but it was well known that chaos followed them. You share a look, both wishing you were wealthy enough to conpletely pack up shop. If anything, a logical person would put away most of the stock and hunker down for a few hours. Weighing the odds was difficult: if you were lucky, the chaos wouldn't bother your business, and shoppers might be drawn out, hoping for entertainment and spending as they waited. If you weren't, a wayward burst of plasma or blaster fire would destroy your whole month's stock.

You looked at him again, the Mandalorian kneeling down the street. His form was... almost handsome, formidable but careful. He was light on his feet, seemingly with gentleness on his mind, and it drew you in like a moth to flame. You decided to stay, and hope for the best, your curiosity pulsing like your bruises.

And you were lucky, that day, because he ducked away not a moment later, taking the exciment with him.

Until, he came back the next day, this time on the prowl, stalking up and down the edge of Dicer's Row, one hand on his blaster and the other atop a bulky, wriggling bag. This time, you ventured to stand, folding and refolding your displays as you watched him through your lashes.

And then he made his move, and you sighed, feigning a yawn to cover your disappointment from your neighbor's knowing smile. She shouldn't be wiggling her eyebrows over the box wall between you - honestly his type were more annoying than anything. A crash from the alley confirmed it: there was no way a guy like that cared about his soulmate. The gentleness from before was surely a trick of the light.

Your whole side lit up with pain, the impact of something hard against your whole side and you groaned, settling into your mound again. Any curiosity or attraction was snuffed under your annoyance and pain, and your mood soured like fruit left unpicked on the tree.

Selfish, you thought, glaring as a chicken ran squawking from the commotion. What a jerk.

-

The next day, you tried to maintain the sentiment, huffing as he wandered the stalls.

Why does he keep coming back?

You'd have thought his time here was over when he'd dragged that lowlife out of town yesterday. But here he was, buying a crock of soup at the stall next to you, and ignoring her comments about how he couldn't eat it with his helmet on.

She had warmed to him, since he'd put money in her pocket, chattering in a way that kept him stuck for long moments.

It struck you as strange - he almost seemed too awkward to leave, like her returned generosity actually meant something to him. A man like him... surely could've just walked away.

But he stayed for awhile, nodding and looking at the spoons she carved in her free time, and you almost thought he was looking at you, too. Then he ducked his head and planted himself in front of you, and certainly he was.

For all the years you'd spent weaving words to sell your fabrics and goods, you'd never been so speechless. The Mandalorian was large, sharp, shining edges and bulky canvas packs tied to his shoulders - he seemed out of place, filling your whole stall, shuffling as he loomed over you.

He asked for soft brown things - children's clothes.

"Of course, I - I mean, yes, just over here -" you tripped over your words, caught completely off guard by the shape of him, the feel of him just an arms width away, and his request. You stumbled from your seat, nearly toppling in your hurry and his gloved hand wrapped around your arm, catching you.

"You're injured," he stated not really asking. It was... overwhelmingly intimate, him knowing, and acknowledging it, like he cared.

"Yeah, my..." you swallowed, trying not to get lost in the dark glass inches from your face. "My self-centered soulmate keeps getting himself nearly killed."

Even with your heart thumping in your chest, you couldn't keep the bite from your words, bitterness having collected over years of nursing injuries that were consequences of someone else's actions. He didn't let go of you for a moment, his helmet pulling back and tilting, like he was startled.

Then he was cautious, unbearably so, releasing his grip like a child freeing a captured creature when it was time. The topic was dropped, and he made his purchase quickly, but before he left, he paused. The Mandalorian's gloved hand ghosted over your cheek, slowly moving a hair back into it's place, and if you hadn't known better, it was almost an apology.

And then, thick cape swirling in the dust, tiny clothes in tow, he swept away, leaving you along with your whole body alight with a foreign longing.

-

Din felt as though he'd been stabbed.

Hot, hot feelings poured through his chest, spreading fast as fire as he desperately tried to sort through them.

You - you were incredible, fragile and bruised, with the most stunning, determined eyes he had ever seen. Not a Mandalorian, and you had a ... a soulmate, a fucker who left your skin littered with marks, burdening you with ...

He felt panicked, shocked, and guilty, just as he had when you'd told him. It had never occred to him that his soulmate might be there... out there, constantly burdened by his recklessness. His body screamed for attention, something he so often ignored, but this time, he was almost deafened by it.

His feet, legs, arms, chest, heart - all of them wanted him to return to you, in your little fabric stall. To... what? Truly, he hadn't the slightest idea, so his mind won out, shaking a little to try to reign in the muscles that he'd taught to obey him.

He couldn't go to you.

But, he couldn't stay away.

-

He was back in the market, and this time, he wasn't being subtle about staring at you.

Tall and ... slow, he waded through the crowds, making his was towards you like he was following a careful path.

"Can I help you?" You stood, moving almost involuntarily towards him. "Was there something wrong with my -" he was already shaking his head, hands reaching to make you shush.

Waiting, an irrational part of your mind wished he would touch you again, would place his big hands on your skin and sooth the aches that haunted your life. It was unfair, but you didn't stop it, couldn't if you tried.

Carefully, he slid a single finger to your arm, pushing up your sleeve to reveal the little burn you'd gotten.

He was being gentle. It made you want to stomp your feet, jealously welling up in your heart like bile, bitter and hot. How could it be, that someone so powerful had learned so quickly, wanted to, and he wasn't - he wasn't even your -

Then he moved again, pushing up his own sleeve and your thoughts tumbled over each other. It was intimate, even more than before, desperately trusting, as his skin near glowed in the morning light. And there was a burn on his skin, hairs singled like they'd met the edge of a pot of boiling broth.

You wanted to punch him. This man has spent years tossing his body around like he had one one spare, making your own as brittle as bread crust and - you wanted to kiss him. This man had learned after a single day, the impact of his actions, and had been nothing but kind.

The forehead of his helmet pressed into yours, and the two sides of your mind compromised.

Later, words would come - they had to.

But now, your eyes closed, and you sighed. He had the rest of your life to make it up to you - and he would, you were sure.

<<

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[marauderundercover]

Taking Chances Chapter 6: Let’s Play a Game (Overprotection)

Prev

AO3

Marinette ended up not staying for dinner. She talked to Bruce for a little bit, but he had to leave for some WE emergency and Marinette wasn’t really up to bonding with the boys- her brothers- yet. But that was fine. It wasn’t like she was desperate to get to know the man and wouldn’t be able to after this trip because she had to stay in Paris because of Hawkmoth. No, she wasn’t upset. Not at all. It didn’t hurt her feelings. Nope.

---

Walking into Madame Soleil's Wax Museum with Adrien by her side, Marinette is hit with a major wave of deja vu. And not a good deja vu. No, the memories of the last time she was in a wax museum with Adrien were awful, humiliating and- feeling a hand wrap around hers pulls her from her spiraling thoughts. Glancing down, Marinette tries (and fails) to hide her grin. Adrien is holding her hand. Adrien is holding her hand!

“Hey Marinette!” A familiar voice calls, a hand squeezing her shoulder, making Marinette squeal and whirl around.

“Dick? What are you doing here?” She asks, frowning at the boy- her brother- as he stands there with a huge smile.

“Well I heard that a new wax figure is being revealed today, and I thought I might come and see it.” He says with a nonchalant shrug.

“Really? Who?” Adrien asks. Dick’s smile twitches slightly as he glances at Marinette, making her frown. Was he seriously about to play the overprotective big brother card? Really?

“Jagged Stone.” Dick finally says, glancing at their entwined hands. Marinette tries hard not to roll her eyes. Come on, her crush is finally holding her hand and her brother (who she’s known for a day!) is seriously trying to ruin that for her?

“Oh cool! Do you think he’ll come to Gotham to see it, Mari?” Adrien asks.

“I think he’s definitely scheduled to make an appearance in Gotham in the next couple days. He’s picking up his new suit in person.” She whispers, grinning at the idea of seeing her “Uncle” in person again. He’d been touring for several months and she hadn’t been able to see him for awhile, just the occasional video call.

“So! What figures did you guys want to check out first?” Dick asks, wedging himself between the two and forcing Adrien to drop her hand. Glaring at her brother, Marinette scoffs when Dick just smiles innocently.

“The hall of heroes and villains sounds cool.” Adrien suggests, looking around Dick to see Marinette.

“Hmm. Okay, but if the Nightwing figure is in his disco costume, I reserve the right to melt the statue.” She says, frowning at the choked noise Dick makes. “Are you okay?” She adds.

“Oh, uh, yeah, yeah I’m fine. What’s 1so bad about that costume?” He asks, a hurt expression on his face.

“Have you even seen it? The only worse costume is Riddler’s.” Marinette says, adding a shudder for dramatic effect. Walking past the local celebrities room and the pop stars room, Marinette’s eyes widen as their small group walks into the hall of heroes and villains. Walking away from Dick and Adrien, she’s almost instantly drawn to the Batman figure. She reads the little plaque about the artist and frowns, turning to Dick who had moved to stand next to her.

“I thought it’d be taller.” She says, scrunching her eyebrows in confusion when Dick starts choking on air, gasping for breath as broken chuckles flood out of him. “Ookay then.” She mutters, turning and walking back towards the villains. Nightwing was, luckily, depicted in his most recent costume. As was Robin. Which meant the only real fashion tragedy (besides the god awful helmet Red Hood wore) was the Riddler. Pulling her sketchbook out, Marinette circles the wax figure, occasionally making notes and sketching out slight adjustments to the man’s costume.

“His costume might be terrible, but it’s still better than half of the akumas.” Adrien whispers, leaning over her shoulder. Marinette looks up at him, eyes wide as her face heats up with a blush.

“I, uh, um, yes. Yeah.” She says, trying not to wince at her lack of speaking skills. “I mean, at least we can rule out any fashion designer in Paris as Hawkmoth. Because if Hawkmoth was a designer, that’d almost be a bigger crime.” She adds, smiling as Adrien laughs.

“Good to know you’re not moonlighting as Hawkmoth, m’lady.” He says with a mock bow. Marinette snorts, then covers her mouth, embarrassment rushing over her. Adrien just shakes his head, wrapping an arm over her shoulders.

“In case you forgot, we’ve definitely seen each other at our most embarrassing.” He says, making her groan.

“Oh god, no. I tied us up with my yoyo!” She moans, turning and burying her face into his chest so she doesn’t have to look at him anymore. Her face heats up more when she feels him chuckle and wrap his arms around her.

“I’ve always thought that was paw-sitively adorable.” He says, laughing when she groans again. She pulls away slightly, looking up at him with a timid smile. He smiles back, starts to lean forward and-

“Hey guys! I heard they’re about to unveil the Jagged Stone figure. Come on, let’s go! Don’t wanna miss it.” Dick says, grabbing each of their hands and pulling them towards the exist (and successfully separating them again). Marinette tries not to glare at Dick. She’s about to have one less brother.

---

Dick Grayson wasn’t used to having a little sister that he could protect. Sure, he had a little sister. Cas was awesome, but she could also kick his ass without breaking a sweat. No, he’d never had a little sister to protect. Someone he could watch out for and support. But now….now he has Marinette. And he’ll be damned if he lets some little punk take advantage of his little sister. Ignoring Marinette’s glare, he positions himself right between her and...the boy. He’d need to ask Timmy to do a background check on the kid later. Especially if he thought he was good enough for Marinette.

“So are you guys big Jagged fans?” He asks, trying to pull the two back into a conversation. He narrows his eyes at the smile the kid gives Marinette. It’s too...adoring. Too much. She’s only...what, fourteen? Much too young to date. Especially this kid.

“Mari’s a bit of a fan, I think. But, personally, I much prefer Jagged’s designer.” He says, and Dick turns to him, missing the way Marinette’s face turns bright red.

“Are you talking about MDC? I love them! Their work is amazing! And Jagged Stone says that he’ll never have another designer. I heard that there’s a possibility of them opening their commissions again. God, I hope they do. I’d do anything for something made by MDC.” Dick rambles with a wide smile, deciding to ignore the kid for a minute in order to ramble about his favorite designer. As the group walks into the pop star room, Dick steps back and glares at the kid. He’d stepped just behind Dick and was apparently trying to hold Marinette’s hand again. Not on his watch. No siree. No one’s gonna hurt his little sister.

---

Bruce sighs, running his hands through his hair. He’d been checking the street cameras in Paris, trying to figure out what time Ladybug and Chat Noir patrol so that he can set up a meeting. Try and offer help, or maybe even offer to take control of the situation. Anything to get rid of Hawkmoth. But instead, it was like the heroes didn’t exist. He’d read reports of the heroes patrolling before, so why were they so quiet this week? The only akuma from the past couple days wasn’t even taken care of by both of them. Ladybug did it alone, and seemed worse for the wear when she came out of the battle. Where was Chat Noir? And why did it seem as though they had gone into hiding?

---

Marinette was five seconds away from committing her first murder. Okay, probably her only murder, unless her other brothers decide to be as involved in her love life as Dick is. Because Dick won’t have the chance to be a problem for much longer. Because Marinette was honestly going to kill him. Right as she turned to finally yell at him, and tell him to knock it off, the lights flickered. She pauses her tirade, glancing to gauge Dick’s reaction to see if this is normal. And if his worried glances back at her are anything to go by, this is not normal.

“Let’s play a game! Solve my riddles and you all can leave freely, but make a mistake and someone will pay greatly! Take one out and scratch my head, I am now black but once was red. What am I?” A man’s voice asks, Marinette frowning as the Riddler walks in, a wide smile on his face. Ten goons walk in behind him, all of them carrying guns. She was used to the akuma attacks almost every day, but didn’t Gotham’s rogues have anything better to do than attack every place her class went? With guns? Come on. Riddler smirks and points at Adrien with his cane.

“A match.” She blurts out, ignoring Dick frantically shaking his head. If nothing else, she should be able to work with Adrien to get everyone out. But she knew his style. And riddles weren’t really his thing.

“Oh goody. We have a volunteer. Tell me, what has to be broken before you can use it?” Riddler asks, stalking towards her. Thinking for a second, Marinette tries to suppress a smile.

“An egg.” She says. Riddler narrows his eyes.

“I have 13 hearts, but no lungs or stomach. What am I?” He asks, Marinette frowns, running through possible answers in her head.

“A deck of cards.” She finally says.

“Buzzy, come over here and hold onto our friend.” Riddler says, gesturing to one of the goons. The man comes over and grabs Marinette’s arm roughly, she winces. That’ll definitely bruise.

“I answered your riddles.” Marinette says, deciding that now's as good a time as any to start distracting the man.

“And how did you answer them so quickly?” He asks, the frustration clear on his face.

“What do you mean? Were they supposed to be hard?” Marinette taunts, ignoring the choked sound Dick makes behind her. She knew what she was doing. She did. She had to.

“Why you-” Riddler starts, stepping forward and pulling his hand back as if to hit her. Squeezing her eyes shut, Marinette waits for the slap. The slap never comes. Opening her eyes, Marinette’s jaw drops when she sees the Riddler’s fist held tightly in Dick’s hand.

“Don’t. Touch. Her.” He says lowly, a dark look on his face. Well that was unexpected. Riddler opens his mouth, probably to start spouting more riddles or other nonsense, when the goons blocking the exits drop. Noticing Red Robin and Red Hood picking off the other goons, Marinette throws her elbow back into the gut of the goon holding her. Not waiting for him to recover, Marinette stomps his foot and twists out of his grip. Grabbing his arm, Marinette manages to yank the man off balance and toss him to the ground. A hand on her shoulder makes her jump back and prepare to hit the person.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay ma’am.” The voice attached to the hand says. Marinette whirls around, ready to tell off the person, but immediately stops when she sees Red Robin.

“Sorry!” She yelps, jumping away from him. And she was too. She was determined to hit the person who grabbed her shoulder, so locked into battle mode, but she had managed to stop herself. Glancing around the room, Marinette notices Dick talking to Red Hood, his usual smile back on his face. That’s good. That’s normal, that’s right. The sudden blaring of the akuma alarm makes Marinette want to scream in frustration. Really, right now? It’s definitely already dark in Paris which means- Chat Noir. Ignoring everyone else, Marinette runs over to Adrien and grabs his hand.

“Akuma?” He asks, his voice low. She nods and tugs him towards the bathrooms, unaware of the eyes following them out.

Next

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[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 12

Masterlist

Winding down from the frenzy of the last chapter... Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit​ for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤

Word Count: 5.9k

Recommended song: "I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy

“Mon amour, wake up.”

Pierre’s sleep-heavy voice rouses you from the best sleep you’d had in a long time. You’d fallen asleep to the sounds of his even breathing under the soothing touch of his thumb tracing patterns on your side.

You crack your eyes open to see him silhouetted by the white light of the waning moon, his bare chest left uncovered by the blanket slung low over his hips. The sight alone has your mind instantly jumping into overdrive, fighting the need to sleep with the need to continue ogling the bare skin a foot from your face.

“I let you sleep as long as I could,” he says softly, reaching behind him for his phone. “We have to be on the M1 in about half an hour.”

“Mmmph,” you groan, snuggling back under the blanket and closer to him, chasing the warmth radiating from him. “The sun isn’t even out.”

His chuckle shakes the bed. “I figured you would say that which is why I made you breakfast and picked out your clothes. All you have to do is brush your teeth and get dressed.” 

You hum appreciatively and press a kiss to his bare sternum. “Is this how you’re going out today? Because I won’t complain but you might cause a few heart attacks.” A kiss to your temple is a small reward for your comment, as well as a concession.

"Don't worry, this is reserved only for you." He stretches an arm above his head, grinning when your eyes immediately are drawn to the way the muscles ripple and pull under his skin. You stare shamelessly as he flexes a little for your benefit, the action going straight to your head. 

"As it should be." You bite your lip and let your fingertips dance over his chest, memorizing the way it rises and falls so predictably with each deep breath. Against your better judgement you trail kisses up over his pectoral and spot them along his shoulder, dragging another light chuckle from him.

"My love," he warns, voice tinted with mischief, "we don't have time."

"Oh I think we do." You continue your path over his collarbone and to the hollow of his throat. Taking advantage of his biggest weakness, you flick your tongue over his prominent adam’s apple. The move has his hand engulfing your upper arm, giving you a warning squeeze.

"As wonderful as this is" -he sucks in a sharp breath when your teeth graze his neck- "if I'm late Horner will kill me."

"What's new?" You say, but draw back. The mere mention of his name made you see red and shattered the moment. "Do you really want to go back to Red Bull after how they treated you?"

"No," he admits, slipping an arm around you and tugging you up and into a sitting position, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of lust. "But if I want a shot with a top team when my contract is up, I don’t have much choice."

"Where do you see yourself going?"

Pierre studies you as you slip into the clothes he had selected for you. Nothing fancy, just an AlphaTauri branded navy and white hoodie and some light wash jeans. You don't miss the way his lips twitch upward when you notice it's his hoodie, his last name embroidered in block font on the cuff a dead giveaway even if the hoodie hadn't been ridiculously oversized on you.

Cheeky bastard.

"I think I would look good in sunshine yellow," he remarks. You make a show of looking him up and down under the pretense of imagining him in a Renault branded hoodie or their signature black race suit. Truthfully it was just another excuse to drink him in like the fine wine he was and recall how he had tasted on your tongue last night.

He would look good in any color on the grid but you don't grant him the satisfaction of pointing that out. Instead, you lean forward to toy with the waistband of the jeans he had hastily buttoned seconds earlier. "You and Daniel get along just fine." You snag him by the belt loops and yank him forward back onto the bed. "I think you should go to McLaren.”

“I’d still look good in orange.”

You wind your fingers under his waistband. “I think you’d look best wearing nothing at all, actually.”

“The time,” Pierre protests lightly when you pop open the button and undo the zipper. He groans when you yank the denim down around his thighs, finally submitting to your touch and lacing his fingers in your hair. Your lips explore the planes of his abdomen, any and all thoughts of speed abandoned on your end. "If you don't hurry up we're gonna be late."

"Maybe you'll just have to drive fast. I hear you’re good at that."

**********

"So how is it that they got your car all the way to London?"

"It's got its own private jet."

You roll your eyes and smack the hand resting on your thigh. His response is a light squeeze and a chuckle before he continues, "They've got a few spares they keep around for when drivers come to town. I can't be seen in a Mini or it would cause a scandal."

"Oh yes it would be quite tragic." His hand charts a dangerous path along your thigh. He knows exactly what he's doing as he slots a thumb between your legs and presses it tight to the apex of your thighs.

You snap your knees shut, effectively trapping his hand "Now you're just being cruel."

"Only dishing out what you did this morning," he points out and wiggles his hand free to rest on your knee instead. The message was clear: he had shaken you well enough for his liking and was perfectly content to leave you frustrated until he could get you home.

“So catch me up on what I’ve missed,” you say, determined to distract yourself from Pierre’s slight teasing. “What’s new in the life of the rising star in Formula 1?”

“Rising star,” Pierre mumbles and rolls his eyes. “Not yet, my love. Getting there, but not yet.”

“Please, you’re too modest. Last night when you fell asleep- you were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow, don't give me that look!” Pierre picks his jaw up off the floor and shakes his head as you continue, “I read plenty of articles that called you the next big thing, right up there with Max.”

The comparison didn't seem to sit right with him. He shifts in his seat, rolling words over on his tongue. “I’m sure you’re caught up then. I haven’t done anything really besides train and race.”

“I did notice you’ve beefed up a bit.”

“Yet another reason to thank Pyry.”

“At this point I should send him a fruit basket for his trouble.”

“Maybe you should.” Pierre grins, hand leaving your thigh for a split second to upshift. “What about you? How’s year four treating you?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” you groan. “My senior project is already killing me and I’ve only just started it. We have to design a building from the ground up- I mean I like architecture but I’m trying to be an engineer, not an architect. I dunno why I have to be the one to design a building! At this point it’s just a brick box.”

“Sounds challenging,” Pierre notes, flooring it when he merges onto the highway. Though the speed makes your stomach flip, you don’t miss a beat.

“My team doesn’t do much either, I’ve been doing most of it. I could rant for hours about it.”

Pierre glances at the clock, then back to you. The blue of his eyes is blocked by his signature purple tinted sunglasses, shielding them from the rising sun that casts him in a warm orange glow. “Humor me. We’ve got time.”

The hour and a half drive was by no means dull with Pierre's teasing touches and endless string of questioning along the way. He asked after every aspect of your life that had transpired in the last four months, only stopping you once in a while to interject with an opinion or anecdote.  He didn't stop at your life either, even asking after Ben's relationship. You'd been happy to report that he had indeed wooed his crush and had officially asked him to be his boyfriend.

"Those secret French lessons paid off," Pierre jokes as he pulls up to the imposing glass fronted building that served as Red Bull Racing's headquarters. The sweeping curve of the entrance was flanked on either side by two-story red and yellow bulls; proof that the team's dramatics extended far past the track. Anyone approaching for the first time would have been intimidated by the sheer size of them that suggested they were ready to stomp on their competition at a moment’s notice.

“Guess it’s time.” You sigh and undo your seatbelt and fiddle with the buckle, doing your best to stall. There was no reason to be this nervous. You were no one to these people; the focus would be entirely on Pierre. You would be an afterthought, not that you minded because it made it easier to fade into the background. 

Pierre picks up on your hesitation in a heartbeat. “I’ll keep them off your back,” he promises and you nod, the single sentence taking the edge off. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You reach for the door handle but Pierre tsks and you pause.

"You know better." You bite your lip to keep back the grin fighting its way to the surface as he comes around to open your door. He offers you his hand and you gladly take it and are pleasantly surprised when he threads his fingers through yours and heads for the entrance.

The atrium serving as the lobby is breathtakingly gorgeous. You had to hand it to the interior designer; they knew what they were doing. Sleek white marble floors are accented by red and yellow leather chairs scattered in small groups throughout the grand space. A tiered circular modern interpretation of a chandelier hangs above to offer guidance to the accountants, engineers and artists that weave through the lobby on their way to their respective wings or offices.

A waist high, glass front cabinet of drivers helmets serves as the reception desk. The unmistakable scent of a fresh cup of coffee hits you as you approach and the secretary hands a steaming paper cup to someone before they scurry off, presumably to a private office if they were important enough to warrant special attention. The first rays of morning sunlight glint off the silver Red Bull logo inlaid in the black marble behind the woman at the counter, making you squint.

"Bonjour Monsieur Gasly," she says in perfect French. "Ça va?"

"Bien," he says simply and switches to English for your benefit. "Has Christian come through yet?"

"He has," the woman says, glancing sidelong at you. Whatever conclusions she draws about you are insignificant enough that she writes you off immediately, angling her body towards Pierre and resting her chin in her hand. The posturing puts her ample chest on display, nearly spilling out of her billowing blouse, but Pierre's eyes don't wander. "He's not expecting you yet. Voulez-vous un cafe?"

"I'm good." The woman may have been determined to alienate you but Pierre was having none of it. Pierre turns to you, a grin playing on his face. This was your first test as an official couple and he intended to see how you handled it. "How about you, my love? Coffee?"

The woman's eyes slip to where your hand remains clasped in his. She cocks her head so slightly you think you might be imagining it until Pierre's grip tightens, a silent encouragement. Your confidence soars. If this was how Daniel's girlfriend felt when the two of them were out, you finally understood why they didn't hide. It was a rush knowing that everyone wanted Pierre but he only wanted you. No matter how blatantly women threw themselves at him, there was no doubt in your mind that he would never give a single one of them the light of day.

It was about damn time you afforded him the same unwavering commitment as he had shown you.

"No thank you," you reply sweetly with a mocking smile directed to the woman. You lean in and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You might want to fix your shirt though, it’s… slipped. I know I'd hate for that to happen to me and no one tell me, especially at work. I don't think I'd ever recover from it."

Her face immediately turns scarlet as she stands straight and folds her arms over her chest. "If I were you-"

"Let Horner know I'm here," Pierre interrupts and it's somehow the hottest thing he's ever said. His purely commanding tone leaves no room for argument. 

"Of course," she replies with a sharp smile in your direction that makes your spine stiffen. "Good luck. Christian is in rare form this morning."

"Just ignore it," Pierre murmurs and sweeps his thumb over the back of your hand as he leads you across the cold marble and down a carpeted hall. "You handled that well.”

“I may have gotten a few pointers from Daniel’s lover.” Your soft smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The short interaction had sapped most of your confidence, leaving you on uneven footing. “I would rather not have to deal with that again soon though.”

“I can handle the women easy enough when I know I’ve got you to come home to.”

The tightness in your chest eases further when the hall opens into another startlingly white space, this time packed with rows and rows of navy cubicles. But that's not where your attention is drawn- instead, your gaze is immediately snagged by the case of trophies towering high along the back wall. Cups of every shape and size shine within, each one representing a different podium for the team achieved in various years and tracks.

"There must be over a hundred," you breathe, mesmerized by the glinting silver and intricate craftsmanship. The case was easily thirty feet tall and you had to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the ones in the top row. Each one told a story of blood, sweat and tears, each one earned by a driver who had made countless sacrifices to be where they were and finish on a podium.

"A hundred and eighty five to be exact," he counters, laughing at your amusement. "Your inner architect is screaming isn't it?"

"Only a little." 

Pierre laughs outright at your white lie and tugs you along. "You can stare on the way out. I'll even show you which ones were Max's."

"Did you memorize what all his trophies look like?"

"Hey, meetings with engineers get boring. It's one of the more interesting ways to occupy your time when they are going on and on about fluid mechanics and thermodynamics- you know, stuff you understand but not me."

"Oh whatever, you enjoy those meetings and you know it."

"Only a little," he quotes.

People recognize him as you pass and some nod or give a simple greeting as they go about their morning but no one stops him to chat. The air feels a bit hostile, like no one knows what to do with him now that he's walking through the building after a nearly two year absence.

"Do you miss it?" You ask after he smiles at someone for the millionth time. 

"I miss the team," he admits, "but not the management culture. My team was great- they supported me any way they could but it didn't help that Horner didn't exactly encourage them to believe in me. It's hard to crank out results when there's no one on your side."

"I'm on your side," you point out, nudging him with your hip. "You've got me forever, no takesies backsies."

"I'm grateful for it," he murmurs and gives your hand a squeeze. He hadn't let go once; not when he had to open a door or the two of you had to walk single file to let people pass.

The building was a labyrinth and if it wasn't for Pierre you'd have been lost the moment you set foot inside. He navigates the twisting halls with ease, having no need for the countless signs posted along the way.

He leads you up a set of steel stairs after what seems like ages. When he knocks on a heavy oak door, his grip on your hand turns possessive like he suspects the office’s occupant would try to rip you away from him. 

“Morning.”

God, even the one word makes rage simmer in your veins. The voice precedes the man and Christian Horner swings open the door, a plastic smile splitting his face. He doesn't bother acknowledging you with a greeting, instead addressing his driver directly.

“I wasn’t expecting you to bring a guest.”

“A pretty face was needed around here,” Pierre snaps back without missing a beat. You bristle, free hand curling into a fist. If there was one person you didn’t mind teaching a lesson to, it was Horner. He had little respect for anyone he viewed as disposable- up to and including “underperforming” drivers.

Christian raises an eyebrow. “Sure. She can wait out here- you and I have terms to discuss.”

Fine, Horner wanted to play dirty? So could you. When it came to staring him down, you became fearless. He was the one person you refused to let intimidate you.  

Drawing on your newly minted confidence you smile up at Pierre and silence the protest forming on his tongue with a grin. “Gimme a kiss, race winner.”

Pierre doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to yours. Cupping a hand to the back of his neck you draw him in and nip at his lower lip. The hand on your hip tightens at Christian's scoff but Pierre makes no move to break away. You linger a moment longer than necessary to drive your point home: you didn’t care what Horner had to say about you, you were here to stay and he would have to get used to it.

Pierre gives you a small, blissed out smile before dropping your hand and following Horner inside. The door clicks but doesn't shut all the way, Pierre leaving it cracked for your benefit.

Uninterested in eavesdropping on small talk, you lean on the metal railing to observe the research and development garage coming to life on the floor below. Hybrid engines in various stages of disassembly dot the space, small teams of mechanics and engineers tweaking components to reduce weight or increase horsepower. Pistons and valves are scrutinized and exchanged before being placed under stress to test their strength.

An FIA official in a red jacket wove through the garage to observe and jot notes down on a clipboard. He looks over the shoulder of an engineer pouring over formulas on a whiteboard, startling him when the official asks a question. Someone calls your name from below and you search for the origin, finally spotting the woman and waving back at her.

Management may have their qualms with Pierre but it was clear there were still some within the team that had his back. They were likely the same ones that knew he would have to leave the Red Bull umbrella to find any semblance of success. They may not have possessed the guts to stick their necks out for him when Horner had cut him but they were at least happy to see him back around headquarters.

"You sure you'll rise to the challenge?" Horner's question drags you back to the mezzanine. 

"I'll take seventh. I'm only a few points away and we have plenty of races left."

He had five races to catch up to be exact. Pierre currently was comfortably ahead of the pack in ninth, Sainz was only three points ahead in eighth, and Norris ten points beyond in seventh. It would only take a DNF or two from his rivals and a few podiums to pass them up.

"Right," Horner starts. "There's a reason you've done so well this season and it's not luck. You've been racing exceptionally well and I don't want that to change."

"If there's something on your mind just get on with it." Pierre's voice is calm and collected in a way yours wouldn't be if you had been in his shoes. You've been dying to rip into Horner since the day he wrote Pierre off.

"There's been a fire in you the past few months since she has been gone-"

"Leave her out of this."

The tone sends a chill down your spine. It maintains the same level headedness that Pierre had perfected over the years and you had come to expect when he was backed against a wall, but it was laced with an unspoken threat. The intent was clear: he would walk out and abandon his chance for a seat at Red Bull if it meant protecting you.

You creep to the door to peer through the crack. Horner crosses his arms, a sly smile on his face. "You would sacrifice your chance at a championship winning seat for her? Everything you've worked so hard for, gone in a flash, because of her?"

"Without question," Pierre answers immediately. The conviction and commitment behind it nearly makes you stumble. "I'm sure there's plenty of other teams that would love to have me after the season I've had. She’s not going anywhere, so either you stop disrespecting her or I walk out."

You clench your fists, ready to burst in and demand Pierre stop being a fucking idiot. His long term plan saw him at another top team that would take care of him and nurture his skill- a long stint at Red Bull Racing was never in the cards. It wasn't an environment for everyone. Some people like Max thrived in it, letting the toxicity roll off their backs but for Pierre it was a cruel form of punishment. However, a seat at Red Bull for the 2022 season could mean the difference between an offer from Alpine and an offer from Haas when his contract was up for renewal. 

The idea of seeing his number stickered to the floor in a Red Bull garage excites and intimidates you. Last time he hadn't been given the chance to prove himself. Would they still hold that against him? Knowing Christian, he probably would. On the other hand, it meant that they admitted their mistake in cutting him mid-season, whether they said it outright or not.

Pierre's redemption day was on the horizon and you couldn't wait to see the look on Horner's face when he finally won. And the longer Christian stays silent, the more potent the urge to throttle him grows. 

Christian gives a slow clap. "Now there's the unwavering commitment that was missing during round one."

Your heart hammers in the dead silence as papers are shuffled. "Here's the contract. Terms are as discussed, you secure seventh in the world championship in 2021 and the second seat at Red Bull Racing is yours for the entire calendar in 2022. No demotions, substitutions, or shuffling of drivers unless medically necessary or mutually agreed upon by all affected parties."

"And the same spec car as the number one seat," Pierre insists, spine straight. "Same strategy." 

Christian waves a hand. "Yes, that's in there too. Feel free to take a moment and read it over."

He does, allowing Christian time to pour a knuckle of whiskey and set the glass before Pierre. He pours himself an identical glass and waits until Pierre signs and initials all the boxes before raising it in acknowledgement.

"Congratulations. Welcome back to Red Bull- conditionally."

Pierre leaves the glass untouched and remains silent, staring his potential future team principal down. He gives the man no margin to question his abilities further, conveying all he needs to with a look that would have had you shaking at the knees. Even if you can't see his face, wrath radiates from him in waves and you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it when it explodes.

"Right then." Christian lowers the glass, his fake smile vanishing. "I look forward to seeing what you can do."

"Don't worry. I'll deliver."

You step back and allow him to set the mood as he exits the office and slams the door behind him. Pierre sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "You heard all of that right?"

You nod. "You wouldn't have really walked out, right?"

"I almost did."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like you should know that he would choose you over all of this, that all of his dreams and everything he had sacrificed to achieve them thus far meant less to him than you did. How many times did he have to prove his unwavering commitment before you realized it was true?

Pierre laces his fingers through yours, the heat welcomed by your ice cold skin. It was as much a comfort to you as it was to him. "I just have to grab some things from Max's office and then we can head out."

His jaw is still set after his stand off with Christian and you want nothing more than to ease his mind. Publicly comforting him with a touch to his chest or a kiss to his neck was out of the question so you settle on temporary distraction.

"Hey, you know what I want to see?"

"What's that?"

"That room full of all the old chassis. You know, the one that they hold all the fancy virtual events in? I wanna see those."

"I think I should be able to get you back there." He veers down a hall and you yelp, pulled along by his momentum. His attitude brightens a little at your laugh. The grin he throws your way is your own personal sun, warming your soul. 

"Hey- hold on." You pull him to a stop and lead him into an alcove. The inch of space between your chests is charged with electricity, begging to jump from one to the other.

"Can I help you?" He asks and grins down at you.

"No," you say nonchalantly. "Just wanted to be selfish for a second."

You rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He melts into you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other finds the small of your back. You side your tongue over his lower lip and he presses you against the door leading to who knew where and opens his mouth to you. You sigh into the kiss, arms winding around his neck and losing yourself in him.

Now that you had gotten over your anxiety, everything was so much easier. You know there's press roaming about the building and any number of them could pass by at any moment but you genuinely couldn't care less. Let them talk; you were over caring what anyone thought or said.

All that mattered was the man beneath your fingertips. You would endure a lifetime of insults if he was the one to soothe the wounds afterwards. As long as you both were happy, no one could come between you ever again.

Pierre pulls away when someone passes by and coughs quietly.  "You're trouble," he murmurs, leaving an arm propped next to your head and effectively caging you in.

"And you're dangerous," you tease, tugging on his hair and exposing his throat enough to nip at it once. "Together we're the perfect pair."

He groans and leans away. "Keep that up and I might have to stay in London an extra week."

You slip out of his grasp and give him an unrestrained grin. "Don't threaten me with a good time." You spin on your heel and set off down the hall, swaying your hips a little more than necessary.

"You know where you're going?" He calls after you.

"Someone will point me in the right direction, I'm sure."

"Someone like me." He catches up to you and once again takes your hand in his. He was enjoying showing you off almost as much as you enjoyed hanging on him.

"Maybe we should head right to Max's office and hurry home, huh?"

"Maybe-"

"Pierre, there you are."

You both turn to a woman hustling up the hall after you. She’s slight and her brown curls bounce as she jogs to where the two of you pause at a bend. You glance up to Pierre to see if he's just as confused as you are.

"Hey Mary," he says cheerily. "How are you? Sorry I didn't check in with you when I got here."

"Oh it's fine- why aren't you in the Alpha samples I sent?” The woman props a fist on her hip and tips her head to the side. “I think I got your size right now that I’ve laid eyes on you. I was hoping for a shoot today since you've finally come by."

It takes you a moment to register that she's addressing you. You shoot Pierre a look and he offers you a tentative, closed off smile. "Um, what Alpha gear?"

The woman's chocolate brown eyes go wide. "The ones I've been sending to Pierre. Hoodies, dresses, jackets. All the stuff from the new line. They have been sending the samples to you, right?"

"Um, yeah I've gotten them," Pierre says, rubbing his neck. "I haven't given them to her though."

"Oh, I see!” Pink tinges Mary’s cheeks. “I must have missed a memo. I just thought that you'd want to do a shoot with her today, since we already had a quick one planned for you. After all, you talk about her all the time."

"He does?"

Mary nods. "Oh yes, we've all heard plenty about you. You're lucky to have someone so enamored with you. I just dropped off some more samples in Max's office as a little thank you for letting us steal him so often-"

"Okay, thank you Mary," Pierre says abruptly. "I'll get back to you on that."

Pierre steers you away and down the hall. "What was she talking about? Why would they want me to come by for a photo shoot?"

Pierre runs a hand through his hair and pauses outside Max's office. The Dutchman must have been away because Pierre pulls out his key and fits it in the lock. "I just- come on."

He waves you inside and you obey, letting him close the door and grant you some semblance of privacy before continuing. 

"I never formally told anyone that we broke up. Most people came to their own conclusions once they didn't see you around for a while. Some people didn't get the message. Obviously Mary was one of them. I would still talk about you, I couldn't help myself. There was one shoot where Yuki and I were together and he mentioned off hand that you'd be a good brand ambassador. I tried to explain that it wouldn't work but Mary wouldn't hear it and she just kept sending me more and more samples.”

You draw a breath and interrupt his rambling. “But where-”

"I had it all in a box in my office but I struggled to concentrate with a reminder of you hanging over my head. I sent it over here to Max and that's where it's sat ever since. I used the excuse that Max was in town more often than I was and no one read too far into it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You whisper. "I would've taken them. I'm sure you got an earful from Mary."

"Would you have?” Pierre pauses, your silence in the face of his frustration speaking volumes. “I waited four months to hear from you. Tell me that sending you thousands of dollars in unreleased merch wouldn't have made you even more hesitant to come back to me."

Not knowing what else to say, you let your gaze fall to the carpet. Sending you expensive things would have felt something like a bribe, like he was trying to influence you with fancy clothes.

Pierre shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past now. We can take it home today and you can wear it when I take you for dinner and Alpha will get the press they’re after. Everyone will be happy.”

He wasn’t happy. That much was plain to see. He hadn’t been able to stomach seeing something intended for you, even that minute of a reminder had been too much for him to bear. God, you had thoroughly wrecked him. You were lucky that there were still enough pieces of him left to heal. 

“I didn’t realize you were hurting so bad,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you cross the cramped space to him, stepping over piles of strewn paperwork carefully so as to not disturb whatever random order they were placed in. You don’t dare reach out to touch him as his shoulders slump, any and all forward momentum he’d gathered suddenly sapped.

“It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever gone through.”

Unable to let him suffer alone with his thoughts, you wrap your arms around his middle and let your cheek rest between his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to alienate you. I was waiting for you, too.”

“You needed space and I gave it to you.” His hand rests on your arm with a gentleness you’ve come to expect when he lays himself bare like this. “There were so many times I almost gave in to the impulse and just messaged you but I made myself wait. I didn’t want to rush it and make things worse. You always need time to think things through- I knew you would come around eventually. It didn’t make it any easier though.”

You rub soothing circles on his side as you blink back the tears that spring to your eyes. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry I took so long and I’m sorry I made you wait. It had to have been torture-”

He turns in your embrace and cups your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The pad of his thumb sweeps across your cheek, the metal of the ring on his middle finger biting into your flushed skin. “It’s alright. You had a lot to sort through and I had to respect that.”

“We lost so much time-”

“Hey,” he says softly, ducking his head to meet your eyes. “We’re together now. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that you can’t let missed opportunities control you or else you’ll never be happy.”

You nod, swiping your sleeve under your eyes. “What did they send?” you ask, nodding towards the box overflowing with tan and navy threads.

“Pull up a chair,” Pierre suggests, “there’s a lot.”

You roll over Max’s desk chair and tug on Pierre’s arm. Once he gets the picture and sits, you settle in his lap. He winds an arm around your middle, the close contact already soothing your frazzled nerves.

“That better?” he murmurs.

“Much better.”

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[sabxism]

But I’m Here In Your Doorway

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Based on these lines from this is me trying: 

Pulled the car off the road to the lookout Could've followed my fears all the way down And maybe I don't quite know what to say But I'm here in your doorway

Word count: ~2.6k

Warnings: mentions of and encounter with possible suicide, injuries (blood, bruises, etc), mention of (previous) deaths

Summary: reader loses everything. after she nearly makes an irreversible decision, she goes to Poe for help. 

GIF not mine

The screams of your squadron members bounce around in your head. It was your fault, you knew that. You shouldn’t have set off without checking your ship. Without checking for any trackers. So it wasn’t a surprise when, out of nowhere, a group of TIEs burst out of hyperspace, straight into your fleet like pins being knocked over by 30 flying bowling balls. You had watched, helplessly, as your friends - your family - were picked off one-by-one. As they went up into terrifyingly bright balls of gas and flame and smoke. It was your fault. All your fault. 

Part of you was trying to cling onto the notion that you couldn’t have known, how could you have known? But the majority of your mind beat back those thoughts, letting the sickening guilt take over and push you into a dark corner. Debriefing had been a nightmare. General Organa had, of course, told you that it wasn’t your fault, that it was nobody’s fault but the spy she hadn’t discovered in time. She could sense the weight on your shoulders, sense you falling into a pit inside of yourself. 

After the meeting, she had pulled you aside.

“Y/N. I need you to look at me,” she said, turning your head gently but firmly with her right hand. “It isn’t your fault. You did everything you could. Sometimes, things are just out of our control.”

“I know,” you lied, just wanting this conversation to be over. Leia could sense your apprehension, and sighed.

“Look, I know that nothing I say is going to change how you feel, because I’ve been there, and I know what you’re thinking. I know it’s hard. Trust me.” you look down at the floor, scuffing the tip of your boot across the dusty ground. “It will get better. I promise you.”

“Thanks, general.” 

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Leia?” she asks lightly as you turn to walk away.

“A few more, apparently,” you respond, the ghost of a false smile resting over your face. With that, you turn on your heel and head to your quarters. 

You step through the door as it slides open and sit down on your bed. You reach for your datapad, wanting to distract yourself with something. 

You click the screen on, and your heart drops. Staring back at you are the smiling faces of your squadron. You’re all clustered around Mari’s new droid, with hands on its shiny purple head. She had been so happy to get that little guy. 

Now they were both nothing more than dust drifting through the empty expanse of space.

 You hurl the tablet at the wall, watching as the screen shatters and falls to the floor. 

You place your head in your hands, silent sobs racking your body. You clench your hair in your hands, knuckles turning white. You stand up, body shaking, and walk out of your quarters.

You pass Finn in the hallway. He smiles at you, but you can’t bring yourself to do the same. You feel awful as he looks back at you as you pass him, but at this point there’s no use trying to fix it. You trudge outside and up to your x-wing sitting on the tarmac, the edges of the wings blackened from smoke. You glance around, checking the coast is clear, then scurry up the ladder and into the cockpit. You check the time. 

1800. 

Sighing, you boot up your craft and quickly take off. You cruise over the base a few times, watching everyone go about their day. Like nothing happened. Like 10 of the most beautiful, vibrant souls hadn’t just been snuffed like a match. You swallow the knot in your throat and head for the atmosphere. You need to get away from here. 

-

“General Organa!” Leia turns, to see a frenzied runway tech sprinting towards her. “Y/N took off on an unauthorized flight.” 

Leia swallows thickly, her heart dropping. “How long ago?”

“We noticed she was left just now - but it looks like she’s been gone about an hour.” 

“Then there’s nothing we can do but hope she comes back safely.”

“That’s what I was worried about.”

-

You land on a nearby forest planet, after searching for about ten minutes for a place to touch down. You pick a plateau on the Western side, lowering your land gear as you begin to descend. You hop down from your ship onto the grassy earth, and look around. 

It’s quiet up here. There’s a soft wind blowing, and it weaves delicate fingers through your hair and across your face as you take off your helmet. You let it fall to the ground, and decide to walk around for a bit. You make your way to the edge of the plateau, and look out across the forest beyond. It stretches on for miles, a swath of dark green. The last rays of the sun blaze across the sky, painting the clouds with a pink-orange hue. 

You glance down, and your heart drops to your toes. It’s a long way to the ground below. You begin to back up, but for some reason you find yourself stopping. You get closer to the edge, still looking down. It would be so easy to just take another step. Just one more. All of this would be over. You wouldn’t have to feel this guilt anymore. 

Your knee lifts up slowly.

Realizing what you’re about to do, you scramble back, falling to the dirt. You brace your hands on the ground, digging your fingers into the earth to anchor yourself. Your chest heaves, and your vision spins. The ground seems to buckle, to toss you around. The sky bends and arches above you as you struggle to breathe. You roll over onto your stomach and wrap your arms around your knees. 

You don’t know how long you lie there, but by the time you have the courage to stand up and walk again, the moon is floating in the sky above you, and the stars glimmer against a black backdrop. 

You climb back into your x-wing and sit there, staring at your dashboard. Your eyes meet one of the few pictures leaned against the fuel gague. You and Poe lean against his x-wing a few months ago. You have your arms wrapped around each other. He’s kissing your cheek, and you’re laughing, open-mouthed, your nose scrunched up and your eyes shut tight. 

You take a shuddering breath. Poe. You couldn’t believe what you’d almost done - what you still might do, if you don’t get out of here. You couldn’t leave him like that. You rapidly go through your flight checklist and then take off, headed back to base. 

You land on the tarmac around 0200, exhausted and beaten down by your own thoughts. You hop out of your ship, landing on the ground with a thud. 

You start walking, not really knowing where your legs are taking you, but you end up at Poe’s quarters. You can hear movement inside the room. You raise a trembling hand and knock once.

He opens the door, and his eyes widen. His mouth moves silently, searching for words.

You swallow thickly, a nervous knot tying in your stomach. 

He takes a step toward you, not quite believing what he’s seeing. Leia had told him that you’d left suddenly after their meeting, and he had grown worried that you were hurt, or worse. But here you are, standing in front of him. Your form is limp and you’re drawn into yourself. Your face and neck are caked with blood and dirt, and your eyes are clouded and empty. 

“Hi,” you say weakly. He quickly closes the gap between the both of you, wrapping you in a tight embrace. Your arms hang limp beside you.

“Stardust,” he breathes, holding you tightly. “I was so worried.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, falling down your face and onto Poe’s shoulder. He pulls back, concerned. Cradling your face in his hands, his eyebrows crease with worry. 

He looks down at you, stroking your cheek gently with his thumb. There’s a silent question written across his features. You shake your head tearfully. You don’t know what to say. 

“Baby…” he whispers, pulling you close to his chest again. You clutch at the back of his shirt with shaking hands.“I’m here now - you’re safe. You’re ok, you’re ok, you’re ok.” He repeats those two words over and over like a mantra, equally to himself as to you. “Let’s get you inside, ok?” he says, and you nod. Placing a hand on the small of your back, he guides you into his quarters. 

“I’ll grab some clothes for you,” he says as you sit down on the edge of the bed. He rustles through his drawers, eventually coming up with a long-sleeved olive green shirt and a pair of grey boxer shorts. He sets them on the bed next to you. “Are you good to take a shower?” You think about it for a minute, and slowly shake your head. The idea of being pounded with thousands of tiny droplets makes you want to hide under a blanket. 

“Too much,” you murmur, and he nods in understanding. 

“Ok, love, that’s fine. We do need to clean you off and deal with these cuts, though.” he gestures to the lacerations across your skin. You nod weakly. You hear him pad over to the refresher unit and grab a medkit and some washcloths, which he wets under some running water from the sink. 

He kneels in front of you, and motions for you to take off your flight suit. You slip it halfway off, letting it rest around your waist. Poe sucked in a breath through his teeth as he saw the bruises blooming across your torso and arms. You’d gotten tossed around pretty bad, getting knocked through space by several of the TIEs. You’d slammed your sternum right into the dashboard at one point, and small fragments of something had slashed open nearly every bit of exposed skin and even some under your suit. 

“Y/N…” he says quietly, tearing up. You bite the inside of your cheek, hating to see him so upset. 

He gets to work cleaning your cuts. He’s as gentle as he can be, but you still hiss as the cold water on the washcloth cleans out your cuts, and tears start to fall as he bandages up a particularly bad cut on your stomach. He holds your hand the whole time, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you need to, never even flinching as your vice grip tightens around his fingers. 

“Ok, baby, let me check your legs and then you’re all set,” he says, and you turn away, face flushing with nervousness. He’s confused for a second, then has a moment of understanding. He’s never seen you naked - you weren’t ready to get intimate yet, so you guys had been taking it slow, and now really wasn’t the best time to breach that barrier. “You can change into the shorts first,” he says quietly, and you look back at him gratefully. 

You make your way to the refresher unit, shutting the door behind you. You peel off your flight suit the rest of the way, followed by your undergarments, crusted with blood from the cuts on your stomach. You pile the discarded clothes in a pile by the shower, and slip on the shirt and shorts Poe had leant you. You take the opportunity to glance into the mirror above the sink, and grimace at the reflection that gazes back at you. Hair messy and tangled, face bruised and covered with small cuts, you were not a pretty sight to behold. Sighing, you head back into the main room. 

Sitting back down on the bed, you lean against the wall and stretch your legs out in front of you. Poe sits down on the mattress next to you, surveying your exposed limbs. They aren’t as bad as the upper half of your body, but they definitely aren’t good. He dabs at the cuts gently, taking your hand again. He mutters sweet nothings as you clench your teeth and shut your eyes tightly for the next few minutes as he finishes up. 

“All done,” he eventually says, and you relinquish your grip on his hand, wiping the tears from your eyes. He looks up at you, and you almost melt at the love in his eyes. You realize in that moment how lucky you are - that no matter what, he’ll always take care of you. Always. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and he smiles softly, opening his arms. You crawl over to where he’s leaned against the headboard and collapse into his embrace, breathing beginning to even out. 

“You need sleep, baby,” he says, and you nod. “You can stay here, if you want.” You nod again, and he presses a kiss to your hair. “I’ll grab some extra blankets from the closet.” He gets up and goes to retrieve them. You get under his comforter and lay your head down on one of the pillows. Your eyes drift closed.

 Poe pads back over to the bed and pauses, looking down at you. He swallows thickly, tearing up. He makes a promise to himself then and there that he’d never lose you like that. Never again. 

He lays another blanket over you, then switches off the lights. He quickly changes into some sleep clothes and then gets under the covers, laying down facing you. 

“Poe?” you mumble, searching for his face in the dark. 

“Right here, honey,” he says softly, and you inch closer to him, a bit nervous to get too close. He senses your unease and smiles softly. “Cmere,” he says, draping a hand over your waist and pulling you close to him. You tuck your head against his chest, a warm feeling creeping into your very core. Being this close to him is grounding. You take a deep breath in. The scent of the lavender soap he uses clings to his skin, and it washes over you. You listen to his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest. 

“I love you,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize what you just said. The two of you haven’t exactly said it before. You feel Poe freeze beside you, and your heart drops. You mentally kick yourself. How could you say that right now?

“I love you too,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. You blush furiously as he tilts your head up with his thumb and forefinger. “To the edge of the universe and back.” He presses his lips to yours, feather soft. 

“I love you,” you say again, just because you can. He smiles softly. 

“I’m proud of you, I want you to know that,” he says after a while. “For...getting through all this. I know it hurts, and it’ll stay that way for a bit, but…” he pauses, taking your hand in his. “But I’ll always be here if you need me. To talk, or just listen. You can lean on me, ok?”

“Ok,” you say quietly, looking up into his eyes. 

“Ok,” he whispers.

“Ok.” You smile, and his heart flips at the beauty of it. He pulls you into his chest once more, and you’re out like a light almost instantly. He presses his lips to your forehead before drifting off, holding you tightly in his arms.

[galactic-magick]

Dreams: Echo x Reader

Request: Prompt 6, please. Y/N loves every time they dream, where they can see 'Him', but when they wake up, it's a nightmare to find him, because his face is at the bar they work at, 79s. Now, that'd be fine, but the issue is, his face is on 87% of the customers. The Clone Troopers. So they gave up. After order 66, the dreams get more concerning and they have to leave Coruscant, and takes a job on another planet as a singer for Cid's Parlour(or something like). Finally meets him. Clone of your choosing.

Prompt #6: Soulmate AU where you can see your soulmate in your dreams

Summary: Having a soulmate that looks like the entire clone army has its challenges, enough to make you lose hope. But the possibility of love for you resurfaces when a cyborg man and his strange crew enter your life.

Words: 1200+

Warnings: none

Author’s Notes: I thought Echo would go best with this prompt since for most of his life he looked exactly like the other clones, whereas the rest of The Bad Batch might be more uniquely recognizable. Hope you enjoy!

-

-

-

You sigh, finishing the dishes and restocking the shelves. Once again, you had a beautiful dream about your soulmate last night, but woke up with no more hope of meeting them than you had before.

For most people, the mental link through the dreamscape is no trouble at all. They get to see their soulmate long before they meet them, and then they can easily recognize them when they finally do.

But not you. No, you just hadto have a soulmate who had the same face as the Galactic Republic’s entire army.

Sure, it’s pretty cool that your soulmate is a clone soldier fighting for you and all the other citizens in the galaxy. It’s worrying sometimes, hearing about all the harsh battles they go through, but you’re proud of whoever he is nonetheless. You hope one day he’ll find his way to you safely, and you can live a life together after the war is over.

Until then, though, you’re stuck working a job at 79s, a bar on Coruscant where the majority of the customers are clones.

You enjoy your job, you really do. You like mixing all the drinks and bringing out the food, and all the soldiers are very kind. It just hurts a bit to constantly see the face of your soulmate, and not a single one recognizing you.

As much as you try to push the thought out of your mind, sometimes you wonder if he’s dead. It’s certainly not an irrational possibility. Maybe the visions of him you have in your dreams are figments of the past, nothing more than a memory. Maybe he’s long gone, and you’re better off giving up and moving on.

-

Several months later, your life is entirely different.

It feels like the galaxy changed overnight. One day you were working your job and everything was normal, the next you witnessed a squad of clones chase a Jedi into the bar and shoot him. You ran, not knowing what else to do, all you knew is you weren’t safe anymore.

You took the little spare money you had to book a transport to a planet you have an old friend living on, and that’s where you’ve been ever since.

“I just…I still don’t get it,” you shake your head as you watch the Empire’s latest recruitment ad on the Holoscreen.

“What’s there not to get? The war’s over,” your friend shrugs.

“So why does everything almost feel worse?”

“It’ll settle down eventually,” they say. “Hopefully,”

You know your friend was never in the midst of the war like you were, living in the center of the galaxy and hearing all the battle stories, but gosh do you wish you could convey to them that what you saw before you left was much more horrifying. Seeing the soldiers you trusted for years all of a sudden kill the Jedi you also trusted and looked up to, the soldiers who shared the face of the man you’re destined to love.

Supposedly the Jedi were not to be relied upon anymore, something about corruption or treason, but you’re not sure you believe that. Something was off about the situation, and something was definitelyoff about the clones. And why would the Empire be putting so much effort into hiring non-clone soldiers if everything was fine?

Despite your concerns though, you understand that life has to go on. Eventually you take a job as an entertainer at a local lounge and buy your own place. You meet all sorts of people and try to forget your past and troubles. You can’t even remember the last time you saw the face of a clone, so even thoughts of your soulmate have started to slip your mind.

One night, midway through singing one of your most popular songs, you notice a particularly strange group come in. They wear armor similar to the clones and troopers, but it’s painted black and red, and a little girl tags along beside them. You continue, but you keep your eye on them.

One of them is significantly taller, speaking in a loud, gruff voice. One of them takes his helmet off to reveal some tattoos and a full head of wavy hair, and one looks to be deep in thought, hunched over a screen.

And the last one was walking towards you.

As you finish your song and step off the stage for your break, he slowly approaches you, his face still hidden.

“Hi,” he says, in a voice you still recognize even after some time.

You smile politely, but stay on your guard. You have no idea if this is a clone that can be trusted.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he must’ve noticed you tense up, “I just wanted to tell you you’re very talented, and-“

He stops.

“Well, thank you very much,” you nod, trying to ease the silence. “No need to apologize, I was just surprised to see one of you around here,”

“Yeah. Things are really different now,” his head falls a bit, “Can we- can we talk somewhere?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” you smile, leading him to the back room. You doubt he’s dangerous, if he and his crew were really out to get you they probably would’ve kidnapped you by now or something. They certainly look like they could.

He takes a deep breath, and you sit down.

“I think you’re my soulmate,” he finally says.

Your heart skips a beat, “What?”

“No, no, I don’t think. I know,” he fumbles. “Seeing your face was the only thing that kept me going when I was close to death, I’ve memorized your features more than any battle plan I’ve ever drawn. It must be you,”

“Wow, I-“ you gasp. “Holy shit,”

You stand up and look into the visor of his helmet. You can’t see his eyes, but you’ve seen them a million times before in a way.

“But…” you squint. “You’re different than the others, aren’t you?”

“We’re not with the Empire,” he assures you. “We-“

“Hey,” you bring a hand up to his covered face. “You can explain everything to me later. I’m just glad we’re together now,” your fingers fall to the bottom of the helmet. “Can I see you?”

“There’s…something you should know first,” he grabs your wrist with his human hand. “I was captured by the Separatists during the war, they- they turned me into a machine. I might not look like what you’ve seen in your dreams,”

You glance down at his cyborg arm you vaguely noticed when you first saw him. You can’t tell if his legs are also cybernetic as well, but with how happy you are just to be with your soulmate right now, you don’t really care.

“I will love you no matter what,” you promise him.

He releases your wrist, and you gently remove his helmet.

He has a device wrapped around his head and ears, and scars patched with metal on the top of his head. But beneath the years of suffering plaguing him, he’s still the same familiar face you’ve dreamt of.

You run your thumbs across his cheeks, meeting his eyes with a smirk, “You really thought I wouldn’t still find you handsome?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles.

You close the gap between you, placing a soft kiss on his lips, “You’re literally everything I’ve ever dreamed of,”

He smiles, pulling you back and holding you close. He doesn’t have to say anything else for you to know everything’s going to be alright, as long as you’re together.

[nxrthmizu]

| honoured | day 16

»»——⍟——««

@daminette-december2019-2020 ​

prompt | Royalty AU

pairing | Damian Wayne x Marinette Dupain-Cheng 

words | 1.7k 

author’s note | Hi watch me indulge myself in this because it’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a royalty au 

»»——⍟——««

“You’re all pathetic.” Damian hissed, twisting the sword out of yet another knight’s grip. “How are you supposed to protect me when you can’t even beat me in a duel?” His sharp words glared at the line of knights that had applied to be Gotham’s prince’s personal guard. None of them lived up to his expectations, and at this point Damian wasn’t even surprised anymore. 

He huffed impatiently. “Is that all you lot have got?” 

“May I try, sir?” Spoke a knight that was way too short and way too small in comparison to the line of other silver-clad men. A pair of bluebell eyes met the prince’s emerald ones, a spark of determination and confidence glinting in them. 

Damian sighed, eyeing the spark in the bluebell eyes, a smirk overcoming his features. How naive, he thought. He couldn’t wait to smite out that light in those bluebell eyes. 

»»——⍟——««

He didn’t. 

The room was completely silent as Damian’s sword flew across the room with a clang, twisted quickly out of his grip as the small knight surprised him with the sudden attack. It was so quiet that the failed knights could hear the prince’s shallow, panting breaths that hurried to pay off the oxygen debt in his muscles. 

“... What is your name.” The prince’s voice was deadly quiet as he stared into the blue eyes. The knight slid the helmet off, dark blue hair tied up in a ponytail, flushed cheeks painted red from the ten continuous minutes of unending parrying. 

“Marin Cheng, sir!” 

The failed knights watched with bated breath as the prince stared down coldly at the shorter knight. They had underestimated the knight greatly- No one thought that the small midget stood a single chance against the prince, who was one of the best swordsmen known throughout the kingdom. 

“...” He surveyed Marin with a careful eye. “Very well. See Mr. Pennyworth about your new living arrangements.” The words were unspoken, but the whole hall was clear about what the prince had left unsaid. 

You are my personal guard. 

»»——⍟——««

Marin never left Damian’s side, per his request. His personal guard’s job was to follow him around to ensure he was never outnumbered in an ambush- And he had to admit, Marin’s presence was rather enjoyable. The small knight was not made out of a lot of muscle- But certainly had the wits and deftness to make up for the lack in size. 

The knight quickly learnt that there were times when Damian wanted the air to be filled with chatter, and when he did not. During the times that he wanted to rid of the silence, the blue-haired knight would begin talking animatedly, chatting about anything and everything around them- The bushes around the royal garden, the new bakery that opened downtown, the new uniform for cadets. And when the prince valued his silence, the blue-haired knight would keep quiet and simply follow the emerald-eyed teen around. 

“Marin.” 

The knight was sitting on the floor of Damian’s private library, flipping through a book with the prince’s permission. Blue eyes glanced up instantly, the book forgotten quickly as the knight waited for the prince’s instructions. 

“I’m bored.” Damian pushed the documents he was supposed to read aside. “Fence with me.” 

The two of them were in the palace courtyard in a while, both their swords drawn as the prince stepped forward with the first move. The metallic ringing of sword on sword rang through the courtyard, the blows consistently repeating as the prince parried his knight’s attack. 

“You’ve gotten better, my prince.” Marin commented with a slight smile, blocking another of Damian’s attacks. 

A smirk slipped onto the prince’s features. “Of course.” 

»»——⍟——««

Months flew by uneventfully, Marin moving seamlessly into the prince’s life, getting used to the daily schedule of the emerald-eyed teen. Marin would be up at 5am, training alone in the empty courtyard until 6, when a shower and a quick pop-in to the kitchen would be needed. At 6.30, the knight would accompany Damian to breakfast and the rest of the day would be spent in the study or in the courtyard. 

Of course, Marin’s appointment as the prince’s personal guard brought a lot of attention in the form of jealousy and hate in the knight’s direction- But most of the time, these glares were simply dismissed by Marin. The other knights started trying to find any sort of dirt on the personal guard, knowing there was no way they could outmatch Marin in skill. 

And fortunately for the other knights, (And unfortunately for Marin), the blue-haired knight had a giant secret. 

The blue-haired knight shrieked in terror as the other silver-clad men dragged her into the middle of the king’s court, wrapped in only a white towel, all of her secrets laid out after they ambushed her in her morning bath. 

“Sir!” One of the knights said with a scoff. “We have an imposter among us.” 

It was clear now, without the wall of her silver armour to hide in, that Marin was actually a Marinette. Her long, dark blue hair covered her bare shoulders like a curtain of ivy, her bluebell eyes sharp in fright of the king’s reaction. 

“Prince Damian’s personal guard...” The knight continued, eyeing her hatefully and with a glint of victory. “Is a woman.” 

Before anyone could express their surprise at this discovery, the doors of the hall slammed open, as loud as a thunder clap across the kingdom’s skies. The furious prince stood in the middle of the doorway, marching to the centre of the court with narrowed eyebrows and a displeased frown. 

“What is this?” He demanded, eyes flitting over to the nearly-naked woman sitting in the centre of the hall.

“Damian,” King Bruce begin slowly. “It seems that your personal guard is... A lady.” 

‘Infuriated’ didn’t even begin to describe the prince’s expression. “And?” He snapped, turning to point his glare at the knights that surrounded the blue-haired knight. “She’s more than competent at her job. More competent than you lot, actually.” 

“My prince, with all due respect, don’t you think it’s inappropriate to have a lady as a knight?” One of the silver-clad men spoke up with a raised eyebrow, his fellow knights murmuring their agreements. 

The prince sucked in a deep breath before sharpening his ice-cold glare. “I am to be the future king of this country.” Hissed the emerald-eyed prince. “And if the knight, whether a she or a he, is capable of holding he or her ground in a duel against me, which, may I remind, you lot weren’t, then I would be nothing less than honoured to have her fight by my side.” 

Silence rang deafening volumes in the courtyard as men registered the fact that Prince Damian- The ice prince himself- Just admitted to be honoured to fight in someone’s else company- Never mind the fact that the someone happened to be a woman. 

“Father.” Damian said in an icy tone, shedding off his cloak to wrap around Marin- No, Marinette’s shoulders. “These knights clearly have no concept on respect and privacy. They dragged out a woman in nothing but her towel into the centre of a hall. Father, surely you don’t believe that these people here deserve to be knights?” 

The king hummed thoughtfully. “You do have a point. I don’t suppose they do.” 

“Your majesty-” 

“Alfred, have these men be removed from the palace premises and be stripped of their knight titles, please.” 

“Father, if I could make one more request?” 

“Speak.” 

Damian stood up, a cold fire burning in his eyes that would later lead him to be a fair and just ruler. “I would like to allow capable women to join knight ranks officially.” 

The court was so silent that you could hear the pen scratching of Mr. Pennyworth, who was busy making arrangements and smiling proudly at the emerald-eyed prince’s request. 

“That is an interesting request, Damian.” The king smiled thoughtfully. “Have your proposal on this new law finished and on my desk by tomorrow afternoon.” 

The prince nodded his head, gripping his personal guard’s shoulders as he helped her stand. “Thank you, father.” He said, emerald-green eyes glinting at the now former-knights as he guided Marinette out of the hall, the doors slamming close as if nothing had just happened. 

»»——⍟——««

 “Did you know this whole time?” Marinette asked quietly, now decked out more comfortably in her knight gear. The prince and his personal guard were seated on the stone steps of the courtyard, the sun beating down into the ceiling-less area. 

“... Ever since you beat me. Yes.” Came the prince’s answer as he watched the blue-haired woman wipe his sword clean. “You were too small-built to be a man. Your shoulders aren’t wide enough.” 

“I see.” 

Silence resumed as the blue-haired knight fidgeted awkwardly on the step, her hands moving quickly to make the metal shine under the glow of the sun. 

“You don’t have to always wear your armour around me.” Damian mused quietly, leaning against one of the pillars comfortably. “You can just wear a shirt. It would be easier for you to move around. And since everyone knows anyway,” He shrugged. “No point in you trying to cover up with your armour anymore.” 

Marinette blushed at the prince pointing her out blatantly. “I... Yes, my prince.” 

“Go change. I want to duel for a bit before I have to draft up my proposal.” He said lazily, flicking his hands at her. “I’ll practice on my own first. Hurry up.” 

He watched her retreating back, the clanks of her armour gradually getting softer as she returned to her room, which was only a corridor away from his. His mind flickered back to the day he first met her- Damian thought he’d never lose to a man in swordplay. 

And he was right. 

He lost to a woman. 

A woman by the name of Marinette Cheng. 

»»——⍟——««

taglist. @maskedpainter @animegirlweeb @starmist19 @myazael @stainedglassm @user00000003 @toughluna @nickristus-dreamer @missmadwoman

send in an ask to be added to Cady’s Daminette December taglist! 

»»——⍟——««

also I feel so sorry for everyone waiting for me to update never knowing which dates I’ll write for lol 

Oh oh and I'm pretty proud of this because I didn't use she/her at all before Marin's gender reveal :)

[kingofkingdom-archive]

So Much Like Stars - Part ONE

Pairing: Boba Fett x Fem!Reader

Part ONE (read part two here!)

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You’ve known nothing but snow and cold wind your whole life. When a mysterious hunter arrives at your village, you find yourself drawn to him.

Warnings: Explicit sex, p-in-v sex, vaginal fingering, breathplay, power dynamics/power play, royalty kink (?), dom/sub dynamics, naked female clothed male, come marking, unprotected sex, mentions of death (no character death)

Word count: 8.2k+

A/N: This fic is entirely self-indulgent. No one asked for it, but here it is. Boba Fett fucks and we all know it. Or maybe you disagree, in which case you’re wrong. Anyway, enjoy! As usual, there’s no use of Y/N here and please heed the warnings before reading.

Across the windswept, snowy plain, you watch as the ship approaches its landing. It slows, rotates, and then lands face-up on the flat expanse. It’s maybe a kilometer and a half away from the outlook you’re perched on; your binocs are old, no longer reading distance, so the best you can do is guess. The wind blows the snow towards the east, blurring the landscape into obscurity for anyone without a trained eye.

Your cloak, woven from the heavy fur of the Kintur that roam your planet, keeps the driving wind from seeping into your bones. Every inch of your skin is covered, from your leather boots and thick leggings to your goggles and well-worn face mask. You carry a pack, as you always do, to which are strapped your net-shoes that allow you to traverse over massive snowdrifts. At your hip is an old Republic-issue blaster and at your side is your staff, which often acts more as a tool to clear paths and knock snow from tree boughs than anything else.

This planet is nearly uninhabited save for the village you were born in. Seeing a ship is rare, and it’s even rarer to see one that’s unaffiliated with a galactic government. You take note of its location and strain to see if you can spot the pilot as he emerges, but you have no such luck.

You sigh, the wind whistling in your ears, the drifts of snow shifting and growing around you. Father will want you back soon. The newcomer is undoubtedly going to head towards the village, and you’ll need to be there when he arrives. You stow your binocs away in your pack and unstrap your net-shoes, attaching them quickly to your boots.

The trek back is one you’ve managed countless times before - that doesn’t make it any less dangerous, but the sheer cliff faces and howling, punishing winds are not strangers to you. 

Your village is small by the standards of other planets in the galaxy, from what you’ve heard (the Elders’ stories of Coruscant never fail to amaze you), but in your eyes it’s vibrant and bustling despite the harsh climate. There’s almost always a tavern with its lights on and music flowing out, a friendly face and warm hearth never far.

It’s located in a secluded valley between towering mountains, out of sight of the vast plains from which the mountains seem to erupt without warning. There are no foothills; only flat land interrupted by harsh terrain. It’s very easy to find death in the mountains, but they have sustained your people for generations. Hunting is your main source of food, whether it be the Kintur that also provide their hide or the massive snow-bison whose fat and bones keep your diets regulated. In the warm season water flows endlessly - the streams that run from the mountain peaks are known to have healing properties, and often they seem to glow with a supernatural shimmer. There is a small mine some distance from the village where many men work, and though the job is a dangerous one, the mountains never run out of the ores you need.

Your people’s existence is not especially complex, but they are tougher than most. The landscape requires it.

You arrive back at the stone walls surrounding your village and greet the gatekeeper, a man who recently inherited the job from his father. 

“Hello, Isrwill.” You plant your staff next to you and lean on it, taking your weight off of your feet. “Have you heard anything of the visitor?”

The man nods. He’s about a decade older than you, but underneath the goggles and mask his face is youthful, eyes kind and always merry. “Savakya returned not long ago. She says he will make it here within the hour.”

“Did she say anything of his appearance?”

“Only that he wears armor, and a helmet. She could not make out any features, other than that he’s shaped like a man.” Isrwill leans back against the wall.

“Ah,” you reply. “Well-dressed for the weather, then.”

He shrugs. “Yes, but also well-dressed for battle.”

You can hear the concern in his voice. The question is one you’re sure your whole community is asking: what has brought this foreigner here? 

“Thank you,” you tell him, and he nods while pushing the gate open.

Once inside the walls, you remove your net-shoes as well as your goggles and immediately head toward the building where you know they’ll bring the stranger. Your father will already be there, conversing with the Elders and with the Committee to prepare for whatever news or needs this foreigner might have. There are protocols in place for such an event, but they haven’t been used in your lifetime. As you walk to the meeting-house, you try and recall the words you studied so long ago, when your father taught you your people’s laws and customs.

The meeting-house is constructed of solid, ancient wood, imported from a forest planet and stark against the gray stone that most of the village’s homes are built from. Inside there is a massive hearth cut from a single stone, the fire inside it already raging. In the center of the main room there is a curved table; on one side sit the Elders, on the other, the Committee. At the head sits your father, next to your empty seat.

“You made it safely, my child,” he greets you when you arrive, a swirl of snowflakes following you in. Smiling, you pull down your face mask.

“I always do, father.”

He smiles from his place at the table, giving you a look. “That does not mean I do not worry.”

Rolling your eyes affectionately, you lean over to kiss him on the cheek. The other people at the table chat amongst themselves, though you can feel the undercurrent of unease at the visitor’s imminent arrival.

You walk around to take your place, setting your pack, staff, and outer layers near the hearth to dry. You are left in a long-sleeved, high-neck shirt and tunic over your leggings, your hair done up in its usual braids. Usually you would go home and change into something more suitable for Committee business, but there was no time. 

You turn to your father, who sits next to you with all the grace and poise befitting a benevolent leader.

“Isrwill told me the stranger is arriving soon. Do we know any more?”

He nods, though he doesn’t look entirely pleased. “Yes. From what Savakya described, it seems he’s a Mandalorian.”

The name isn’t familiar to you. “Is that a race?”

“No.” Your father leans back in his chair. His arched brows bely a concern that is rare to see on him. He strokes his white beard, staring off into space. “The Mandalorians are more of a culture, a people. I’ve only ever heard stories of them. They say they are fierce warriors, and that many of them are bounty hunters by trade.”

That’s odd. You frown, confused. “Bounty hunters? Why wo-”

You are interrupted by three sharp knocks on the doors. Beside you, your father calls out “enter! ”, and the doors swing open.

Two village men, two of the strongest of your people, flank a man clad in armor. His helmet has a T-shaped visor with a short antenna, and on his back is a rifle. You take note of the blasters strapped to his hips as well as something that could be a weapon at his knee. 

Isrwill was right. Well-dressed for battle.

You sit up straight and keep your eyes trained on the Mandalorian. Though you are a member of the Committee, you are also well-versed in how to use a blaster, perhaps the best trained of any at the table. You are also a protector of your fellow Committee members, the Elders, and most importantly, your father. 

“What business brings you to our planet, Mandalorian?” Your father’s voice is stern, strong in a way you hope to emulate when you inevitably assume his role.

“I am in search of a bounty, your excellency.”

The hunter’s voice is deep and slightly muffled through the helmet’s vocoder. He sounds weathered and rough, though you imagine that’s life as a man who fights and kills for a living.

“Sir will suit me just fine,” your father tells him, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “As for your bounty, it is highly improbable that any individual has survived outside of our village longer than a day. There is no stranger here but you.”

The Mandalorian sighs, looking down at the floor and then back up again. “I’m afraid I disagree, sir. The tracker isn’t wrong. He must be hiding somewhere in the mountains.”

Your father shakes his head. “Those mountains are impossible to pass without a guide. If he was there, surely he is dead by now.”

Though you can’t see his face, the hunter’s helmet is surprisingly expressive. He looks at your father for a long moment, and then glances around at the other people at the table. His gaze finally lands on you.

You set your jaw and stare back, unintimidated. A man with guns does not scare you, no matter how he tries.

“Alright,” he says, but you suspect he is not satisfied with this information. “Might I at least inquire about some lodging for the night?”

-

Later that evening, you find yourself in your favorite tavern, sitting in your usual booth, watching the townsfolk mingle and chat. Your drink of choice is a fermented ale that is produced in the warm season and aged for consumption outside of those short couple of months. 

No one pays you any mind unless they’re a close friend or they have news. They know to leave you alone, to let you sit with yourself as you prefer to do.

You’re watching a young couple you grew up with dance to the music when the tavern’s door swings open. You glance over at it but do a double take when you realize who stands in the doorway.

The hunter.

Around you, conversation quiets as everyone takes in the stranger. His helmet scans the room, like he’s looking for someone in particular. Internally you scoff. The bounty would never show his face here, he’d stand out too much amongst your people.

The hunter’s visor stops moving, aimed directly at you.

Kriff, you think, taking a swig of your drink. He wants information, and he’s not going to give up quite as easily as he did with your father.

The Mandalorian walks into the room, headed directly towards your booth. People watch, heads turning to track the stranger’s movements across the floor. His steps are heavy, intentional, large frame imposing as he approaches you.

Certainly a man built for survival. For conflict. If he were a different person, you might find it attractive.

He stops when he reaches your booth, looking down at you just as you stare up at him, brow raised. 

“This seat taken?”

You shake your head and gesture to it. “Not at all.”

From the corner of your eye you can tell the rest of the tavern’s patrons are watching, waiting. As the hunter sits, you wave your hand discretely, telling them to return to their conversations, to each other.

The noise picks up again.

“You’ve got some influence here, princess.”

The name both rankles and sends a shiver of something unwanted down your spine. Now that he’s closer, knees almost brushing your own, you really get a sense of how intense this man’s presence is.

A warrior, to be sure. None would debate that. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “We are not the subjects of a king, hunter.”

He scoffs, leaning back and resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Forgive me. What are you to them?”

“I do not see how it concerns you.” The words are harsh but your face remains neutral. Your father taught you how to deal with men like this - how to steel yourself against posturing, against prodding, against teasing.

The Mandalorian chuckles. “I just like to know who I’m talkin’ to. No need for the theatrics.”

You don’t respond. He’s the one who approached you - you have no desire to get in his good graces.

He sighs, glancing over to the wall at your left, his right. “I’d never heard of this planet before the tracker brought me here, much less your people,” he tells you. It’s not a surprise.

“That’s how we like to keep it. We stand no chance against something like the Republic or the Empire. Our only means of survival is staying under the radar.”

His visor is trained directly on you, staring, studying your face. You stare back, wishing you could somehow get a sense of what he looks like underneath the mask.

“How long have your people lived here?”

You know it’s not because he’s genuinely curious. Your mind is buzzing with all the different reasons he’d have for asking - he wants to know how familiar you are with the landscape. He wants to know how well-established your system of governance is here. He wants to know if you know how your people arrived. 

He wants to know how vulnerable you are.

“Generations. Since before the Elders’ grandparents were born. Memory of our arrival here has been lost to time.”

He tilts his head. “Is yours the only settlement on the planet?”

You nod. As far as you know, anyway. Attempts have been made to reach out, to try and see if any other peoples live in the outer reaches of the landscape, but none have returned successful. 

The Mandalorian hums. He glances over into the tavern, at the other patrons and the bartender. You watch as the bartender, a woman a few years younger than your father, uses a rag to clean out a cup, but you can tell she’s watching your table from the corner of her eye. When she notices the hunter’s helmet turn towards her, her eyes flit up to you, then over to him.

The hunter waves, as if to signal that he wants something. The bartender glances back at you and you nod. She sets down the cup and begins walking over.

You look over at him. He’s already staring back, chin tilted down like you’re a riddle he’s trying to solve.

“What can I do for you, sir?” The bartender’s voice does not waver, but it’s tense nonetheless.

He gestures to your drink. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

The bartender nods and leaves. You take a sip of your ale, finding comfort and clarity in the warmth it brings you. 

Across from you, the bounty hunter shifts in his seat, removing his gloves to reveal a pair of  calloused hands. You glance down at them and follow their movement as they reach up, thumbs curling under the bottom of his helmet, and lift. 

The hunter’s weathered face greets you. He’s a man, like any other, like you expected him to be. His brows are arched and dark, but the rest of the hair on his head has been burnt away by something that left scars across the crown of his head and his face. His eyes are cold, haunted, calculating as they look at you.

He sets the helmet on the table with a thud . 

“You’ve seen death,” you observe, holding his gaze with your own. “Been close to it.” His brown eyes narrow and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, princess.”

Ah, you think. He underestimates me.  He thinks you’re the coddled daughter of a village leader, fed by the kindness of your people and adored for your status. You raise an eyebrow and take another swig of your drink, smirking into the amber liquid. 

You set the cup down on the table. “There is more in those mountains than snow and wind, hunter.”

He doesn’t move, save for a slow blink. “Tell me, then.”

You sense movement from the corner of your eye - the bartender has returned with his drink. He nods to her in thanks and she gives a tight smile, glancing at you before hastily returning to her station.

The hunter takes the cup and brings it to his lips. You watch as he takes a sip, swallows, and his eyes widen. A small cough forces its way up and out of his throat.

You smile at him, a hint of a grin that curls the corners of your mouth. 

“A bit strong for you?”

He glares over the rim of the cup and pointedly takes another swig. He sets the cup down, large hand dwarfing it. 

“What is in those mountains?” His voice has gotten lower, rougher, like you’ll be intimidated by a show of verbal force.

“Nothing you’ll concern yourself with,” you reply, refusing to back down. “Unless you want to encounter your own mortality again.”

“I am perfectly fine with a bit of a scare.”

You bark out a laugh. “You wouldn’t survive an hour out there without a guide. And no one here will take the job, not when the options are either a fruitless search for a dead body or a shootout between two criminals.”

He leans forward, face pressing close to yours, warm breath blowing across your cheeks. His nose is inches from your own.

His voice drops to a low murmur. “I didn’t come here for a bounty, little one.”

Your brow furrows and you draw back, pressing your shoulders against the cushioned stone behind you.

“Word has got out of a large deposit of kyber somewhere in this system. The Empire has not yet caught wind, but soon they will.”

You don’t recognize the name of the material he’s referring to, but you do recognize the Empire and know exactly what something like that might mean for a small, defenseless village such as your own.

It’s much different than a simple bounty hiding in the mountains.

“Why didn’t you tell the Committee this?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know if this is where the deposit is. I didn’t want to cause unnecessary concern, especially considering the… size and scale of your village”

You purse your lips and lean your head back, staring up as you consider this development. This man has come in search of something you aren’t sure exists, and if it does, it means certain death for you and your people. 

You look back down at the man across from you. “Then why did you decide to tell me? You’d have been better off going to my father with this information.”

He huffs out a chuckle, then grabs his drink and takes a swig. He sets the cup back down and rests his arm on the table beside it. “Because I need a guide, little one. Someone with knowledge of the terrain, who I won’t have to watch out for. I’m willing to pay handsomely.”

The dots begin to connect in your brain. You raise a brow at him. “I have no need for your credits. They’re next to useless here. Besides, how can we know this - this kyber is there at all?”

“Is there anything unnatural about the mountains? Anything that would point to something powerful within them?”

You frown, thinking on it for a moment. All of the ores found in the mine are naturally occurring, the creatures that live on the peaks are all native, and the --

It hits you. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, and your heart rate increases. A falling feeling in your stomach takes the sensation from your legs for a moment, ice cold and burning all at once.

“The water.”

The Mandalorian tilts his head. You glance around to make sure no one’s heard you. Everyone in the tavern seems oblivious to the two of you, despite their stares earlier.

“We have to leave,” you tell him, fishing a couple of coins out of your pocket and depositing them on the table. “We can’t discuss this here. Come with me.”

Hastily you stand, taking your cloak from its hook on the side of the booth and pulling it on. The hunter follows suit, sliding his helmet back on and looking around the room.

You start towards the door, heavy footsteps following behind you.

-

You bring him to your home, the only place where you know you won’t be interrupted. You live in a small building tucked in a quiet corner of the village, between a storage silo and the village’s north wall.

Inside, the hearth has been going all day, fueled by coal and snow-bison waste chips. There are four rooms; three downstairs and a bedroom upstairs. You bring the Mandalorian to your study, where the fire roars and there’s a few soft chairs and a couch to sit on. He takes a seat on the latter and removes his helmet, watching as you search your bookshelves for something.

“Care to tell me what you meant by ‘the water’?” He slouches, thick thighs spread over the couch cushion.

Your eyes follow the movement of his legs for a split second. It’s supremely distracting, how inviting he looks right now. You glance up at his face and see a small smirk on his lips. A blush colors your cheeks, caught in the act of looking. To hide it, you turn back to the bookshelf, scanning the spines of your books.

“In the warm season there are streams that flow from the mountaintops to the valley. It pools in an area not far from here and forms a small lake, not much more than a pond, that freezes over once the cold sets in again. For centuries we’ve brought our sick and dying there to be healed.”

The hunter hums. “And it works?”

You nod, turning to look over your shoulder at him. “I was brought there as a child. I would have died of the fever had it not been for the water. Our Elders drink if regularly after they reach a certain age, once they haven’t been killed by the elements.”

“Are you saying your people live longer because of it?”

You pause. That has never crossed your mind, since using the water’s magic has always been normal to you, a yearly practice like any other. “I don’t know. How long does man usually tend to live?”

“It depends,” he says. “I’d say a hundred years at most.”

That has you taken aback. You look over at the bookshelf again - this is life-changing, world-shattering information. Dread begins to settle in your chest, like everything you thought was real is a lie.

The hunter leans forward, hands on his knees, concern etched on his scarred face. “How long do your people live, little one? How many years?”

You inhale and look over at him. “Hundreds. A thousand, if we’re lucky.”

“Kriff,” he swears, leaning back with a hand over his mouth and nose. 

Turning back to the bookshelf, you resume your search to calm your racing mind. You find the book you were looking for, a collection of stories gathered by your family over generations.

“Here,” you say, sliding the book out of its place and taking it over to the hunter. He scoots over, but only slightly, so when you sit next to him you’re tucked snugly between him and the arm of the couch. His thigh is warm against your own and you get chills down your neck when he shifts to put his arm behind you, around your shoulders.

You clear your throat and open the book, letting it rest on your legs.

“There are a few accounts that speak of the water,” you tell him, flipping through the pages until you find the one you’re looking for. It’s half a page of writing, the other taken up by a crude map of the mountains.

“The waters are life-giving,” you read, tracing along the words with your index finger. “They shimmer and glow in the sun when it shines upon us. The source is deep within the mountain, covered by ice and snow in the cold season. No one has seen the source of the waters and survived. Many have tried. It lies in the heart of ongrol territory.”

“Ongrol?” The hunter’s voice is deep, low in your ear. You look up at him, absentmindedly biting your lip between your teeth.

“Yes,” you reply. “A vicious species of massive snow lion. It’s rare to see one and live to tell the tale. I’ve only ever seen their prints.”

He hums, eyes flitting across your face as he studies you up close. “How large are they?”

You shake your head. “We can only guess, but certainly bigger than this building.”

The Mandalorian nods, his eye contact with you intense and unwavering. You meet it head-on, the warmth you feel in your bones spreading into your thighs and your ribs and your --

You blink and turn back to the book. The map is shaded to indicate the creatures’ territory, with a dot to indicate the general location of where the source is thought to be.

You point to an area just outside the shaded region. “This is as far as I’ve been. I can get us to the source - it’s the ongrol that are the problem.” You look back up at the hunter. “You’re sure the kyber is what’s causing this?”

He nods. “It’s one of the most powerful materials in the known universe. Little else could heal your people the way it does.”

“How do we hide the signature from others, to keep them from finding it?” The unspoken question there hangs in the air as you speak; how do we protect ourselves from attack?

He furrows his brow, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I’m still trying to work that part out, little one.”

That does not do much ease your anxieties, but you have to accept it for now.

You close the book with a sigh and stand to return it to its place on the shelf. When you turn back, the hunter has placed his other arm on the back of the couch, spread out like a king on a throne.

He looks comfortable - at home, here in yours. It’s unlike you to bring a stranger into your dwelling and not feel uneasy about it. Yet here he is, and it’s like he belongs right there on your couch, armor and all. You cross your arms, observing him.

“Do you know the name Boba Fett, princess?”

You shake your head. “No, I do not.”

He smiles, like your answer pleases him. “It's mine.”

Boba. The name is unusual, but it suits the man before you.

“I’d tell you mine in return, but I’ve grown fond of the names you’ve chosen for me, Boba Fett.”

A deep sound pushes its way out of Boba’s chest through his throat - half a chuckle, half a growl. He gives you a once-over with his dark brown eyes, like he can see right through your thick base layer and loose tunic. You watch as he does so, trying to calm your nervous breathing. His gaze is so penetrating, so intense, that after a moment you have to turn away from him, towards the fireplace.

The orange-blue flames dance in front of you, warming your face even further. A mirror hangs above it, but your eyes are focused on the hearth.

You hear Boba shift behind you, metal on fabric. “Tell me, little one,” he says. You can sense him moving closer. “Do you have any suitors, here in the village?”

The question makes your heart race even faster. “No.” You refuse to look at him, knowing that what you see there will render words impossible. “I’ve not had any interest in them.”

“But have men tried? Asked to court you?” He’s right behind you now, the warmth of him nearly matching that of the flames in front of you. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You can see his shadow from the corner of your eye.

“Yes,” you nod. “They have tried.”

Boba hums. His hands come up to gently, but firmly, rest on your shoulders. He slowly smooths his gloved palms down your arms, taking them from being crossed over one another to resting loose at your sides.

You risk a glance up at the mirror in front of you. He’s already looking at you, eyes locked on yours. You meet his gaze and dip your chin ever so slightly, so you’re staring at him from beneath your lashes.

A ghost of a smirk dances across Boba’s lips. He breaks the eye contact and you watch as he looks down at the nape of your neck, one of few exposed pieces of your skin. His right hand brushes your hair from over your shoulder onto your back, gathering the long tresses together. The women in your village grow their hair out as long as they can, not only to use for braids, but also to keep warm. 

Boba’s fingers brush lightly against you, the rough material of his gloves a contrast to the smooth skin of your neck.

“Why haven’t they been successful, princess?”

You clench your jaw. Boba looks back up at you, his hand resting across your nape, fingers curled ever so slightly. The feeling of it makes your thighs tremble, your core responding to this silent, easy display of authority. It shows on your face, how much you like this, and you know Boba sees it.

“None of them could give me --”

Your words are cut off by Boba’s hand snaking around your neck, firm grip tightening around the column of your throat. You gasp, a soft, breathy noise, and the man behind you chuckles. His thumb and forefinger press into your jaw, forcing your head up, though your eyes are still locked onto his reflection in the mirror.

You choke out the rest of your sentence. “-- Give me what I need.”

“Is that so,” Boba murmurs, the words a deep rumble in his rough voice. He presses just a bit tighter, and your eyes flutter closed in response. “I think I know just what you need, my dear.”

His words burn through you like fire on wood, like a cold wind rushing through an open window. Your legs grow weak and your hands grapple at him, trying to find something to hold onto. Your left hand catches on the gauntlet covering his arm and you draw it around, so his arm covers your hip and his hand rests possessively on your lower stomach.

“What a pretty thing you are,” Boba mutters, sliding his hand lower on your front until his fingertips brush your mound. You let your head drop back against his shoulder at the feeling of him cupping your most private of areas, like it’s his, like it’s always been his. Your legs shift further apart to make room for his wide palm. “A stoic princess who desperately needs someone to take care of her.”

You whine at that, at what he’s offering you. It’s true; of all the eligible men in the village, not one has taken you to bed and been able to let you fully cede control to them. They see you as a leader, as someone not to be messed with, as someone to be respected above all else.

“Oh, yes,” Boba hums, curling the fingers of his left hand into your cunt, hooking them into you through your clothes. “They might follow your orders, little one, but you’ll follow mine.”

It sounds like paradise, letting him have you like this. You nod against the armor on his chest, movement limited and head growing dizzy thanks to the hand around your neck. Boba presses his lips close to your ear, his large body now curled around yours.

“Listen to me, sweetheart.” The pet name makes you melt against him. “I am going to go take a seat, and then you’re gonna take your clothes off for me. Can you do that?”

You open your eyes and there he is, in the corner of your vision, gaze dark and full of heated promises. You study his face for a moment, memorizing his features while he’s close like this, and then you nod.

“Yes, Boba.”

“Good,” he tells you. He then moves his hands away, and though you mourn the loss of his touch, knowing what’s to come keeps you patient.

He turns, walks back over to the sofa, and sits. He spreads his legs as he did before, arms on the back of the couch, watching you.

Boba looks so much like a king in that moment that it makes you want to bow before him, to prostrate yourself like you aren’t the daughter of the Chieftain. To worship him as he demands. 

The thought crosses your mind as your fingers begin to unwrap your tunic, taking the woven material from its intricate adornment on your body. You feel a blush rising on your cheeks at the implications - what would the village think of their leader’s daughter, the one to assume his role in the future, imagining such things about a stranger?

Your mind wanders, racing, thinking of seeing him upon a proper throne, all silent confidence and heated gazes from behind the visor of his helmet. Maybe he’d bring you there, show you off to a court, hold you in his wide palms like a treaty. Set you upon his lap like a rare trophy from your far-off snow planet. You’d wrap your arm around the back of his neck and listen to his dealings while he kept a firm hand on your upper thigh.

Dignitaries and crime lords alike would watch, whispering, unable to look away.

It thrills you, to have these secret desires.

You deposit the tunic on the floor next to you and toy with the hem of your top, pulling it out from where it was tucked in your pants. Boba’s eyes zero in on the strip of skin that is revealed as you raise the shirt higher, higher, and higher, until in one motion you’ve slipped it over your head and off entirely.

He stares at your chest and it makes you smile. Men will be men.

Feeling emboldened by the way Boba is looking at you, you turn around and hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants. You slowly slip them down your hips, over your thighs, and past your knees, bending over as you do so.

Behind you, you hear shuffling. You toss the pants to join the tunic and shirt and turn to see Boba’s codpiece and gloves removed, his hand shoved down the front of his pants.

“I’m enjoying the show, little one,” he says, and waves at you with his other hand, even as you begin to see movement at the crotch of his trousers. “Continue.”

You smirk, a sly thing at seeing the effect your bare form has on him. You tuck your fingers under the band of your bra and pull up. Your arms block your view of Boba’s face as your breasts are revealed to him, but the hungry look in his eye once you can see him gives you a good idea of it.

“Kriff,” Boba swears, jerking himself faster, rougher. The sight of it makes your breathing become heavy, the labor of it causing your chest to heave. His eyes drop from your face to your tits - somehow, you don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed like you might usually. 

You just feel wanted. It’s intoxicating, that he wants you for you , not your title.

There’s only one article of clothing left on your body now. You turn around again, your back to him, and take the front hem of your underwear in your fingers. Slowly, almost teasing, you slip it over your hips, arching your back and pushing your ass out towards Boba. The underwear slips down your thighs until it falls to the floor.

You straighten up again and look over your shoulder at him. He gestures with his free hand, a ‘come here’ motion that you’re all too eager to follow.

“Beautiful kriffing body,” he murmurs as you approach. He reaches out and puts his hand on your hip, fingers curling into your ass cheek. His eyes stare at your mound, at the patch of hair there. “Bet you’re already wet for me, huh?”

He glances up at you. You blush, watching as he removes his hand from his pants and snakes it in between your legs, calloused fingers feeling the evidence of his effect on you. His fingertips catch on your clit, rubbing and feeling and stoking the fire within. You moan wantonly, comfortable in the privacy of your home.

“You are. Kriffing soaked. Just begging for my cock, aren’t you?”

His words make your pussy clench just as he slips one of his thick fingers into you, surely spreading his own fluids across your tight, hot skin. The girth of it forces a whine out of you, brows furrowed, and your hand flies down to hold onto his as he fucks you with his finger. Your other hand comes to rest on his shoulder, gripping his armor.

“Look at you,” he mutters, baring his teeth as he watches you writhe on his hand, using his thumb to rub your clit just so. Your mouth drops open in pleasure, sparks shooting down your legs and up into your belly at the feeling. 

Boba hums, circling his thumb and flicking it over your puffy, sensitive nub. “What would your people think if they saw you moaning like a whore for an old man, hm?”

Your legs turn to jelly at the force of the arousal that hits your cunt. You sway forward, knees buckling, and Boba catches you as you fall. 

He uses the hand on your ass to guide you into a sitting position on his lap, so now you’re straddling him, bare chest pressed to the cool metal of his armor. You tuck your face into his neck and revel in the feeling of a second finger teasing at your opening.

“You like that, little one?” His words cause his throat to vibrate, and the deep tone draws your lips in to kiss at it. Your nose brushes against the underside of his jaw as you move from kissing to licking, getting drunk on the taste of his sweat on your tongue.

Boba groans, sliding the second finger into your cunt with ease. You sigh, blowing cool air across the skin you’ve just wet with your tongue. “You do.” He runs his free hand up your thigh, holding tight to the firm muscle there, toned and strong from a lifetime in the ice and snow. “So desperate for my cock.”

You nod, though your lips hardly leave his neck. “Please, Boba,” you whisper into his skin, pressing yourself as close to him as you can get. 

His fingers still their movements within you and you whine. Boba shushes you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from pouting when he pulls his fingers from your pussy. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and leans back.

“I want you on your hands and knees, princess. Right here on the couch.”

You nod frantically and there’s not a moment of hesitation in your haste to follow his order. You arrange yourself next to him, forearms propped on the arm of the couch and your knees keeping your ass aloft in the air.

Boba turns and positions himself behind you with ease, half standing with one foot on the floor, his other leg bent and kneeling on the cushion.

He may call himself an old man, but he’s got the physicality of someone half his age. It makes the spot between your legs hotter and wetter just to think of it. Your cunt throbs for him.

You look over your shoulder and watch as he reaches into his pants, hand spreading your wetness across his dick, and your eyes widen as he draws it out from the confines of his trousers. Your gaze zeros in on him; he’s thick and long, just as you suspected, and every inch is one you want to feel as deep inside you as possible. Honestly, it makes sense - you’ve always heard that the men with the most to make up for do so in their personalities. 

Men like Boba don’t have to compensate, which makes them all the more attractive.

You glance up to his face. He’s smirking down at you, eyes traveling down to your ass, pushed out and open for him. He runs a hand along the soft swell of your rear, caressing you like you’re precious, like you’re prized.

“I could get used to this,” he tells you, guiding the head of his cock to notch at your opening. “Seeing a future queen all bare and ripe for me.”

Your eyelids flutter as you feel him press in further, deeper. The sight of him kneeling behind you, fully clothed while you’re naked as the day you were born, sends a wave of arousal through you. Your brain doesn’t even register what he’s called you, how wrong he is, because you can’t think of anything beyond his dick.

“C’mon, Boba,” you whine, his slow pace driving you mad. “Fuck me like you mean it, old man.”

The noise that comes out of his mouth is almost non-human with the way it reverberates around the room. His hands dig into your hips and he thrusts , unrelenting and rough, spearing you onto his thick cock until his balls slap your clit. You choke out a moan, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at how perfectly full you feel.

“Ah,” he grunts out as he immediately sets to fucking you roughly, deeply. “The little princess does want to be treated like a whore.” His words are accompanied by the lewd sound of his cock moving in your wet cunt, his hips slapping against your own. You moan, loud and uninhibited, unable to conceive of shame or propriety.

For your whole life you’ve been looked up to, treated as both fragile and untouchable.

Boba Fett fucks you like you’re nothing more to him than a pet.

He snarls his words into the air. “Woulda fucked you there on that table in the cantina, shown the whole village how well you take me.”

You keen, arching your back further to give him a better angle. He runs his left hand up your side, gripping your waist and pulling you back onto his cock in time with his thrusts. He’s deeper inside you than anyone’s ever been - you’re beginning to think men in your village must be small, or maybe Boba’s just unnaturally big, because you think you can feel the head of his cock bruising your cervix. 

The thought of him taking you in the tavern has you clenching down on him even tighter. Maybe you would have gotten on your knees for him, hid beneath the tablecloth and kept his cock warm in your mouth.

“That turn you on, princess?” He slows his thrusts just slightly, drawing out so he can slam back in with even more force. You cry out, nodding, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

“Of course it does,” he grunts, and you can feel the crest of your climax steadily approaching as he speaks, letting yourself get lost in the fantasies he’s bringing to life. His thrusts speed up again, rough and brutal, just as you need.

“You were just waiting for someone to -- ungh -- come along and fuck all the thoughts outta that clever little head, weren’t you?”

You whine, because he’s right - your normally sharp, observant brain has been put out like water over a fire. Boba leans forward, placing his hand on the arm of the couch next to your elbow, and brushes his lips against the back of your neck. It changes his position enough that his cock hits you just that much deeper, pounding against that elusive sweet spot deep within your cunt.

“Kriff, Boba --” You barely get the words out, your voice hoarse and strained and your mind turned to mush. “So -- so big.”

Against your ear, you feel more than hear him chuckle. His teeth catch on your earlobe, hot breath skating down the side of your face.

“Yeah? You like having my big cock in your tight little pussy?”

You keen, high-pitched and desperate. “Please, Boba, I’m gonna --”

His teeth trail down the side of your neck, biting firmly enough to leave a trail of red marks across your skin. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he leans up again so he can grip your hips more firmly.

“Gonna come, little one? Go on --” his words trail off for a moment - or maybe your hearing fades out as the crisis within you rises to its limit. Right as you’re on the edge, your face flush with sensation and your cunt fluttering around him, his rough voice fades back in.

“-- wanna feel you, princess. Come for your king.”

You have no choice but to do as he says.

Boba’s words scratch that small, hidden itch in your brain you’d taken a glance at earlier. Your mind whites out for a split second, as blinding as a snowstorm, before you return to yourself.

He’s still fucking you. Using you. Oversensitive and trembling, your senses absorb the world around you - Boba's hands on your hips, the scrape of his armor against your thighs, the crackle of the fireplace somewhere over your shoulder. 

The rhythm of Boba's cock inside you, chasing the same high you'd found moments earlier.

You moan, pushing back, encouraging him to find his release. A glance over your shoulder gives you the sight of his eyes focused on where he's thrusting into you, lip curled, a drop of sweat trailing down over his jaw.

Boba glances up at you and smirks, though the flash of teeth makes it more of a sneer. "Where do you want me, princess?"

A serene smile crosses your face and you pretend to think on it for a moment, lazy in your post-orgasmic haze.

"On me," you reply. "Wherever you want."

He grunts, looking back down, and thrusts a few more times, deep and bruising. As soon as he pulls out you mourn the loss of him, the fullness inside of you, but you're rewarded with a vision unlike any you've seen before. Boba takes himself in hand, and with a loud groan, cums across your ass, his spend dripping down your thighs and onto your pussy lips. He covers you with himself, marking you up.

Once he's finished, Boba runs a hand through the cum on your skin, pressing firmly and rubbing it in.

"Been wanting to do that since I saw you in the meeting hall, little one."

You hum, eyes fluttering closed at the thought of it. What a scandal - the Chieftain's daughter falling for the stranger, the first foreigner to visit the village in living memory.

Behind you, Boba shifts off of the couch. He stands beside you and then you register that he's moving you, strong hands arranging your limp body so he can pick you up. One arm slips beneath your knees and the other under your back.

"Bedroom's upstairs," you murmur. 

He brings you there, tucking you into bed carefully and then turning to undo his armor. As you watch him methodically remove each piece, you get the feeling that you're privy to something rare. Though you're sleepy, your eyes remain open, intent on keeping this memory clear.

The thought crosses your mind that this man must know so much of the universe. He's probably been to hundreds of planets, has hundreds of stories.

You've only ever known snow and wind. 

"Boba?"

He's just finished with the last of his armor when you speak. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to you and puts his hand on your side.

"Yes, princess?"

You gaze up into his eyes, dark but soft when looking at you.

"What's the most beautiful place you've ever been to?"

He smiles at that, letting out a soft chuckle. "I've been to so many places that it's hard to keep track, little one."

You pout. He moves to settle into bed next to you, under the layers of fur and fleece that keep you warm.

"You must have a favorite," you insist, curling up against him, head resting on his bicep.

He's quiet for a minute, thinking. You wait, though sleep threatens to pull you under. Boba's words lull you out of the beginnings of your slumber.

"I think you'd like Naboo," he tells you. You've read about it, about their system of governance. You can't recall seeing any pictures or illustrations, though. 

"It's very green," he explains. "There's meadows and forests everywhere. Their cities are vast, the buildings beautiful in themselves. I traveled there with my father when I was young."

You want to ask more, to learn about this place so different from anything you know. Your mind is racing with imaginings when you fall asleep, cozy and warm against Boba Fett.

In the night, your dreams glow as bright as the sun.

[bamfdaddio]

X-Men Unabridged: Proteus

The X-Men, those beautiful mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. We’ve been untangling that history for a while, but sometimes, you really want a more in-depth look. Interested? Then read the (un)Abridged X-Men!

(X-Men 125 - 128) - by Chris Claremont and John Byrne

Fun* fact: this particular issue is the oldest comic I physically own.

* for a given value of fun

Something sinister lurks on Muir Isle…

This arc is very much set up like a horror movie. It starts out as a regular X-Men narrative, where Claremont is weaving along several plot threads. We check in with the X-Men in Westchester, we check in with Magneto who has retreated to Asteroid M and we even check in with Xavier in space, who finally learns more about the true scope of the Phoenix and its nature. Finally, we’ve got Jean stationed at Muir Isle, where Moira is investigating the sheer scope of her powers. (She has realized how strong Jean truly is; akin to a god. Her theory is that Jean’s recent power dampening is the result of her human mind trying to cope with her massive power level.) It’s about as everyday as it gets for the X-Men, but, well…

I always thought Jean molecularly restructured her own outfit into the Phoenix-costume whenever she needed to change, but here, she just… wills it away? Also, why did you need an outfit change for this, anyway? Does the costume simply appear whenever she exerts too much of her powers, like an angry forehead vein? So many questions. (X-Men 126)

Other residents at Muir are Polaris, Havok and the Multiple Man, all of them blissfully unaware that something skulks about in the shadows: the remains of an unfortunate captain, whose body has been taken over by something… other.

But someone else is skulking around in the shadows, too. Jean isn’t aware of it, but a familiar stranger is manipulating her from the sidelines.

I’ve been gaslighting a cosmic force, ask me how! (X-Men 126)

1979 marks the first appearance of the Hellfire Club, though we only meet one member for now: Jason Wyngarde. (Maybe all of this could have been avoided if he’d had a Barbie doll to dress up in black lace as a child, but alas.) ‘Jason’ is a pseudonym and though most people these days know that he’s a familiar villain from the X-Men’s past, the reveal of his true identity will follow later.

Meanwhile, Beast finally gets off his ass to check on the Xavier mansion, even though the X-Men must have been tripping intruder alarms for months now. Still, we do get this sweet moment out of it:

Of course she’s going to be surprised at the sheer amount of plot contrivances that were thrown up to keep all y’all apart for a full year. (X-Men 126)

Beast knows that Jean went to Muir, so Scott immediately goes for the phone. Lorna picks up, but during the call she starts screaming, leaning heavily into the horror genre. She fends off the withering remains of the captain, so instead, ‘Mutant X’ jumps into a duplicate of Jamie Madrox and promptly flees to the mainland on a boat.

Guuurl, that body is snatched. (X-Men 126)

The X-Men (sans Beast) hit Muir Isle, where Moira debriefs them. Moira reveals who Mutant X is: his name is Kevin MacTaggart, her son, who has the terrifying power to warp reality. Because his power is so vast, he burns through bodies at an alarming rate. He can only be contained - or killed - by inorganic metal. In an effort to contain him (and, presumably, help him at some point), Moira locked him in a metal cell. He was kept there, alone, for god knows how long, until Magneto accidentally freed him. They know he escaped the island and, because of his parasitic need for fresh host bodies, Moira posits that he’ll be heading for a big city.

Kevin - who dubs himself Proteus - racks up an impressive body count in the country side, killing 7 people in total. (6 people and 1 dupe? Eh.) He’s a terrific villain, because he’s powerful, has a well-defined weakness and, even though it’s not impossible to emphasize with him -- isolation tends to drive people mad -- the way he discards his victims is truly chilling.

The X-Men chase after him, Wolverine picking up the scent. When Proteus tries to claim him, Logan’s adamantium skeleton repels him. In response, he unspools reality.

I’ve had this trip. I think they call this strain Dragon’s Dynamite. (X-Men 126)

Storm intervenes, but Proteus leaves Nightcrawler and especially Wolverine rattled. Logan’s heightened senses root him in reality more than most, and when Proteus uses his powers, everything is just screaming wrong at him. But nobody is safe: little Kevin MacTaggart turns gravity against Ororo, taking her out as well.

He tries to claim Storm, but Moira repels him, sniping at him from afar. Proteus fears (metal) bullets, knowing they can kill him. When Cyclops realizes Moira’s shooting to kill, he intervenes - X-Men don’t kill, after all. Moira knocks him out with her gun, but Kevin escapes in the confusion. Moira finally realizes where her son is headed, while the X-Men regroup.

In Edinburgh, Moira pays Joe MacTaggart a visit - her husband, Kevin’s father.

The MacTaggarts are definitely in the running for the Xavier/Marko-award for Fucked Up Family Dynamics. (X-Men 127)

There’s a calculating coldness to Moira’s character that I’ve never responded well to, but I like how Claremont fills in the blanks here. It’s part unhappiness, part a deep frustration with her inability to help her own son. I wonder how Kevin was a child, before his mutant gene activated: was he a sweet boy, or one with a cruel streak? Did she fear what he might become?

There’s a few gaps in Claremont’s narrative, but Hickman has drawn on this very well, I think: the Moira X in HoXPoX is equally calculating, equally cold. But how can she not be? How often has she raised Kevin? How often has she had to kill him? How many times has she watched these people, these X-Men, die?

Anyway, Moira’s warning is as effective as anger management therapy for Sabretooth, because Kevin comes by Joe’s office a little while later and snuffs out his dad. Phoenix hears Joe screaming telepathically across the moors, allowing the X-Men to pinpoint him. Claremont also makes sure to show that Jean’s power is steadily growing:

Polaris be like: “No, no, I’m carrying my own emotionally stunted Summers boy, thank you.” (X-Men 127)

Proteus takes Moira hostage as the X-Men confront him. They fight.

Ordinarily, I don’t pay a lot of attention to the fight scenes, because recapping those usually boils down to “Cyclops conks Magneto in the helmet” or “Wolverine snikts Pyro in the gas tank”, but this one is truly great. John Byrne delivers some excellent work, showcasing the scope of Proteus’ powers through his art, his panelling. Don’t just take my word for it:

I love how trippy all of this is. Pivoting gravity, changing an optic beam into flowers… Sure, Proteus might be a callous and cruel SoB, but he’s also one imaginative motherfucker. (X-Men 127)

One by one, Proteus manages to distract or take out the X-Men, either by endangering passers-by, encasing them in amber (Storm) or burying them alive (Banshee). One of my favorite details is how afraid they all are: especially Wolverine and Nightcrawler hesitate before jumping into the fray. For them, this villain is truly beyond their scope.

In the end, it’s Phoenix who manages to drive him back, outside of the center of Edinburg and up an old castle, where there are fewer civilians to threaten. There, on the ramparts, it’s Colossus who makes the final stand: he destroys Proteus’ physical body and realizes that right now, there’s only one thing they can do to stop him. All it will cost is Piotr’s innocence.

Showcasing an ancient Japanese truth: Psychic Pokémon are weak to Steel attacks. (X-Men 128)

Proteus scatters to the winds and the X-Men emerge victorious, though Moira has lost both her son and her husband after this ordeal. Moreover, I think this is the first villain that the X-Men explicitly kill, simply because they have no other options left. This marks the first time that their ideal of mutant rehabilitation fails. What’s worse is that Kevin MacTaggart was essentially nothing more than a supremely screwed up boy who got access to way too much power way too quickly.

I wonder if it would have turned out differently had Xavier been there. (I also wonder if it’s a coincidence that this takes place right before the Dark Phoenix saga.)

I think this might be Claremont’s best arc yet, heightened by John Byrne’s excellent art. Chris deftly mixes horror, action and his usual soap opera elements, serving one cohesive narrative that (for once) doesn’t leave much hanging. Proteus is an excellent villain whose powers work visually (pay attention, MCU) and whose entire being touches on one of the same aspects as Krakoa: can and should every mutant fit into any sort of normal society?

If you have someone who’s interested in vintage X-Men and you want to recommend something that doesn’t require a confusing explanation of all the necessary backstory (and perhaps a crude sketch of the Summers and/or Lensherr family tree), I would recommend this arc.

And the rest, as they say, is Hellfire. 1980 is gonna be a doozy.