#he already has his visor that makes the sharp shape on his face

[keferon]

Some midnight doodles of them :>

Drawing Jazz with the doorwings feels so weird haha I kinda want to animate them doing flap-flap thing

[moonyasnow]

My OCs' JoJo Stands!

To anyone from JoJo fandom finding this: Hi :) I'm Moony! (they/them) My main fandom is something else (Twisted Wonderland) but I'm also a really big JoJo fan and have made Stands for 7/8 of my OCs! Hope you like them!

And for everyone else who kinda knows me already:

Not including Lisle because he didn't exist yet when I made these! The order of this goes in ascending order from how interesting I think the stand is, so ending with my favorite!

Also gonna be some spoilers-ish for: Part 3 (maybe??? I mention the name of two stands Part 5 (some character names, 2-3 fights I think?, and two Stands) I just wanna cover all my bases 👍

I might do another post with a bunch of my HCs on how they'd get along/not with canon characters (specifically in Part 5 since it's my favorite, but maybe some other misc characters I can see them having interesting relationship dynamics with) but for now here are their Stands!

(also Myzery if you're reading this, the reason I didn't tag you for Veronica is bc you don't watch JoJo and would have no idea what's going on 🥲)

Artemisia

Stand Name: Blackbird

Ability: Broken Wings

Info: Stand gives user the ability to create feathers of any size, shape and color they'd like, so long as they can be found in nature. User can, for example, form the feathers into the shape of a shield, or a parasol, or a pillow. The second, more often used ability lets user create a full suit made of feathers, along with a pair of big actual wings on her back. Just think of White Album's suit but made of feathers instead, with thin, translucent feathers in front of her face as a kind of visor. This way, she won't be seen by non-Stand users, since the feathers cover every inch of her body. It has a physical form in the suit, but it, much like Thoth, White Album's ice-suit and Hermit Purple's vines is not a humanoid Stand and instead in the form of a tool.

Method of Activation: at user's will

Limit: it, just like its user, is weak to sunlight. The Stand can only be in use for around 30 minutes while under direct sunlight, after which it will literally start to melt and burn. So the best use of this Stand is at night, with a suit made of black feathers.

Range: 5m

Spike

First of all; I'm gonna be 100% transparent and say that both his Stand, as well as Spike himself actually, originated from this fic!

The basic gist of it is that, it's a fic where a male reader (bordering on OC) was one of the Stardust Crusaders, later went on to have a thing with Bucciarati, and later had to leave to help the fight in Part 6. I think I've changed Spike enough that he and the character in this fic are no longer the same, but the description of how the Stand looks (maybe also how it works??? It's been a while; I don't 100% remember) is lifted directly from this So I wanted to give credit! (btw please read it, it's so good)

Stand Name: Skillet

Ability: Spikes

Info: Can make razor sharp spikes appear anywhere the Stand touches. Can also throw spikes like bullets. Whenever user gets too angry, shows up unprompted and snarls at the target of Spike's ire.

Method of Activation: At user's will

Limit: If not careful, could harm allies, and user himself, with spikes, too. A real double-edged sword.

Range: 2-10m (Stand can only go two meters away but the spikes can show up as far as 10 meters away if Skillet makes contact with the same surface— such as the ground)

Appearance description:

The Stand itself has deep red skin, wears a spiked blindfold over its eyes, and even though its mouth has been sewn shut with something that looks like thin metal wire, it wears a muzzle. Two giant spikes go through its hands, as well as through its entire torso just below the collar bones, and it has sharp, black claws instead of fingers. There are spikes coming out of its head, too.

Tomoe

Stand Name: Good Charlotte

Ability: record-making, poison

Ability Name: Chronicles of Life, Chronicles of Death

Info: For the ability 'Chronicles of Life', if Stand has a piece of something— DNA from a person, a piece of an object, etc— it can analyze it and find out about its history, after which it will produce a historical document, its shape depending on the time and culture the object came from. Once created, a document can not be destroyed through killing the user, but can be burned or destroyed in the same way as any other book, scroll or tablet. User can also wish for the Stand to hone in on a specific angle when making a Chronicle. For the ability 'Chronicles of Death', the Stand has sharp quills it uses to write with, and if user chooses, Good Charlotte can shoot the quills like projectiles at a target. The ink the Stand uses is poisonous to living things when wet, leading to a slow but painless death that looks and feels like falling asleep— it usually takes 10 minutes to work to its full effect.

Method of Activation: At user's will

Limit: It records details you might see written down in a historical document or an old myth or legend, meaning more mundane details are often ignored unless user tells it to specifically hone in on a specific angle. The smaller the material Stand has to work with, the more incomplete the Chronicle will be. And as far as the poisonous ink goes, the ink dries very quickly, meaning a subject would need to be no further away than maybe two meters for the ink to actually poison them, so ranged projectiles are not poisonous. And if the poison is extracted within 10 minutes, the subject will only be asleep for a few hours before waking up again.

Range: 1m

I don't have any art for this one, so here's a description instead:

Red, black, white and gold colors cheme

Skin is a vibrant deep red color and its body looks a bit like a metallic ball-joint-doll, lower arms being a white color with black fingers, and lower legs white with black feet. Two golden, pupil-less eyes, no mouth or nose. Wears a monocle with many lenses over its left eye, each lense added giving an enhanced zoom-in effect. It wears a darker red toga with a gold and black same-komon pattern. On the back of its head, it wears a big, golden bow.

Irina

Stand Name: Copycat

Ability: Persuasion

Ability Name: Copy That, Copycat

Info: User can persuade a subject to stop being mad at and/or like them more, and the mirror on Copycat's face shows the faces of the people currently being affected. In this state, user can much more easily persuade someone of almost anything so long as the user has a somewhat believable story, and during it Copycat whispers in their ear. And when its mirror is in use, Copycat will imitate the body language and personality of whoever reflected in its mirror it's standing the closest to, letting the user take notes on what kind of behavior would work best to truly persuade the person in front of them with. It's a Stand that's very good for reconnaissance, buying time, can function similarly to a bribe, or could potential lower a subject's guard somewhat. Though, it's not very useful on its own in combat, since when someone has decided to kill you, getting within two meters of them is not a good idea. If she was ever separated from Copycat, like what happened with Fugo and Purple Haze in the Illuso fight, it would try to search for her, then sit down on the ground, hug itself and tremble if it couldn't find her. If it found someone Irina knows who isn't actively hostile, it'd try to jump toward them and cling to their leg.

Method of Activation: Subject looking into Copycat's mirror while within a meter of it.

Limit: Only works on up to 10 people at a time, and the potency decreases the more subjects the ability is split between. If subject(s) has been outside of Stand's range for an hour, the effect wears off.

Range: 2m total. The Stand itself cannot travel further than one meter away from her body, and can affect someone standing at most a meter away, so a total of two meters.

Copycat has a lot of potential to grow. Right now, its user is extremely timid, and feels way too guilty about using its abilities at all to feel confident in its use.

But if she were to become a bit more confident, a bit more willing to use that power, Copycat could become a truly scary stand— one that can puppet people's minds to its user's ends.

Just like Giorno said in the fight against Cioccolata, a Stand is someone's unconscious will given form, so if someone feels guilt or hesitancy about using their ability, it acts as a form of brake.

Junia

Stand Name: Mother Knows Best

Ability: Listen to your mother

Info: Stand causes subject to misremember instructions they've been give, instead remembering a distorted version of often very strange things to do that, if precisely followed, will lead to the best possible outcome. Stand can be used on both user or unrelated subject. Can also be used for some light combat. If Mother hits a subject on request of the user, that person will get the same horrible, dizzying headache and nosebleed as when its instructions are not followed. If Stand is upset and has given subject headache, anyone who touches the Stand will get the same headache.

Method of Activation: Subject needs to be given advice or instructions by someone, and Mother needs to touch them.

Limit: If the instructions of Mother Knows Best are not very precisely followed, the outcome will be disastrous, and Mother turns red in anger, also giving the subject who disobeyed the orders a severe, dizzy headache and a nosebleed. Ability can also only be used once every 12 hours, whether that be on the user or another person.

Range: 3m

At first when she discovers her Stand, she's very unsure about the instructions it gives her, and might end up not following them exactly because she doesn't trust herself, which just ends in her getting a nose bleed and a horrible headache. And she's a bit on edge whenever she sees it because she feels like it's judging her all the time— watching her for mistakes just like her mother used to.

She needs to learn that this is her ability, and to trust her own powers in order to make the best use of Mother Knows Best.

At some point she named her Stand 'Mother Knows Best', though usually she just shortens it down to 'Mother'.

She's really good at flower fortunes— and the crazy part is that her flower fortunes are right every single time without fail.

When she or someone else asks a question, her Stand activates and makes her misremember the question as something else but also related. Then she asks the person who asked the question to turn around while she consults the flower. She started doing this because a pair of invisible hands— well, invisible to all but her— picking off the petals one by one and whispering 'yes' or 'no' to her as it picks them looks creepy to most people.

Then she turns around and says the fortune.

Just as an example, if they asked if they can see their crush tomorrow, Mother Knows Best might rearrange the question to make her hear 'will (crush) eat rotten fish today'. Then when Junia turns around and says that yes, (crush) will be eating rotten fish today. The person asking might think it's weird and not trust it. Then the next day, their crush is nowhere to be seen. And the day after that, when they see each other again, the crush tells them they had to stay home the day prior with food poisoning— the fish they had for dinner was apparently rotten.

Since she herself isn't actually aware of her Stand, she never does this consciously— in her perspective, it just happens every time she does a flower fortune.

But, her mother has told her that her flower fortunes are a waste of time, so she doesn't do it a lot anymore, even though she thinks it's fun.

Veronica

Stand Name: Crane Wife

Ability: Paper

Ability Name: Unraveling, Curses

Info: A medium-range combat Stand made entirely out of origami, looks like a simplified 3D paper version of the user, wearing hakama pants, a crop top and it’s hair up in a ponytail. Though the face has no eyes, nose or mouth, only a pair of eyebrows to let you know how it's feeling. It's also possible for two spots on the Stand's cheeks to be dyed into two perfect circles of reddish pink if it— and by extension the user— is feeling flustered. This is its most common form, a small origami crane being the second most common. The ability 'Unraveling' allows it to fold itself up to a maximum size of 100square feet, into any shape without getting any thicker, making it able to fit under any gap. The paper is extremely durable and not easily cut through, but also incredibly sharp— sharp enough to let the Stand use a sword made of the paper. It's an incredibly powerful Stand, and if no water, fire or strong wind is present, it's almost unbearable. Almost. It's a Glass Canon of a Stand: incredibly powerful at the cost of being incredibly easy to harm once something gets close enough. And also the ability 'Curses' lets the user cut off a small part of the stand and ascribe an effect to it, then fuse it to a subject's skin, after which it lasts for 30 minutes, then falls off. The effect is to make the subject experience some type of pain— anything from feeling as though the part of the body it's attached to it is on fire, frozen, being put through a meat-grinder, etc. though it does not actually harm the subject in any way. Curses also takes a toll on its user, as it has to sacrifice large amount of energy to tear off a piece of the Stand. Its worst weakness is fire— fire will instantly set it aflame, and user could die if Stand is not put out. It's an off-white color and cannot be dyed, and thus quite easy to spot. It is possible to write on, but the writing disappears if Stand is called back. It's a surprisingly talkative Stand; whenever Veronica tries to hide or lie about her emotions, it comes out of its own volition and voices her emotions for her, unless she tries very, very hard to keep it from doing so. It can be anything, from cussing someone out, to giving them praise. Or, going over to someone Veronica secretly really likes, laying down on its stomach, kicking its feet in the air with elbows on the ground, hands holding its face up, two reddish pink circles on its face, just staring at them.

Method of Activation: At user's will

Limit: Weak to fire, water and winds above 40mph. The body itself is also not very stable. A glass canon, basically— if she is hit in battle, that's usually it.

Range: 30m

The left is the Combat/regular form, and the right is the Scout form (the little origami crane)

Victor

Stand Name: Oh Hello

Ability: Necromancy

Ability names: Wormwood, Danse Macabre

Info: The ability 'Wormwood' lets the Stand take the corpses of any non-human animal and twist them into Frankenstein creatures that do the user's bidding. The user can choose to see through the eyes of one creature at a time. The creatures can also be just the unaltered corpses of animals, but the less altered they are the likelier it is they will be disobedient, though it is easier and takes less time than creating one from scratch. The creatures can do things like spy for their User, attack the User's enemies, collect things for the user, bury things, or simply act as companions; pets. The creatures 'live' until one of their organs are affected. User can create however many creatures they want, however, the more they create at once the less smart, cooperating and refined— and thus easier to destroy— the creatures will be. Any corpse will do, but use fresh ones for the best result— the creatures will continue to rot while they're reanimated, and at a faster rate than if they were left untouched. The ability 'Danse Macabre' allows user to give a group of Creatures the same order and have them all act at once— normally, the more Creatures the user gives orders to, the more energy it takes. But Danse Macabre lets user give one singular order to the entire army. Though, it automatically gives the same order to every single Creature, meaning no other orders can be performed at that time. Wormwood can also choose to reanimate just one singular bone— though it won't be able to do anything. For a Creature to be useful, they must be able to move, which means the body must have the muscles and bone structure necessary TO move.

Method of Activation: User touching the corpse of an animal.

Limit: The creatures only 'live' until the next sunrise after they were first created— after that they fall apart into bloody bits of gore and then turn to dust.

Range: 3m

Oh Hello is a hulking, dark blue blue, robotic torso with a cute white and brown cartoon dog head with a halo above it. It sounds like a dog. Its small, adorable cartoon mouth shaped like a sideways 3 isn't its true mouth. If you get close enough to it, its true mouth opens, and it's giant, filled with razor sharp teeth.

And here are the songs their Stands were named after!

Here's the website I used to make the parameters

Annnnd here's some miscellaneous art!

Tagging my moots who I know like JoJo >:3

@bunniehunn @faefum @gingacat

(if I forgot someone PLEAAAAAASE LET ME KNOW. I need to have you all on a L I S T so I know who I can yap about JoJo with 👁️👁️)

[momojedi]

Across the Stars the sand planet | pt. 3 an ocxoc fanfic - star wars/clone wars/bad batch universe

A/N: Finally getting into the story ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ·̫ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀ Next chapter is going to be a rough one... I know that this isn't really reaching many people, seeing as this is oc writing and people aren't all that interested in this kind of writing but I really do enjoy writing this story for my own pleasure and as a declaration of love for my partner, so I'll keep it up <3

Summary: Malakai leads the Batch to Mos Espa.

CW: none for now

WC: 1,3k words

spotify playlist | masterpost

Hunter sat in his usual seat in the Marauder’s bunk, hunched forward, his expression hard. His sharp gaze was locked onto the cockpit, where the Mandalorian sat beside Tech, their quiet conversation barely audible over the steady hum of hyperspace travel and Wrecker’s distant snoring. "Malakai."

Hunter blinked, turning to find Echo standing beside him, arms crossed. "What?" "It’s his name," Echo clarified with a dry chuckle. "Talked to him earlier. Seems like a decent guy - just not too keen on taking that bucket off." Hunter huffed, casting another wary glance toward the cockpit. "Tatooine, huh? Quite the shady planet he’s leading us to. Think we can trust him?"

Echo leaned against the shuttle's wall with a shrug. "Honestly? If he wanted us dead, he’d have made a move by now." Hunter sat back, exhaling a slow breath. "I just don’t want Omega caught up in more trouble. She’s already got the whole galaxy after her." Echo’s expression softened. "I know. But trouble’s gonna find us no matter what. With another man around, we might stand a better chance." Hunter didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on Malakai, the Mandalorian’s helmeted face unreadable. Something about him made Hunter’s instincts itch.

"Maybe," he muttered. "But I’m keeping an eye on him."

Echo smirked. "Wouldn’t expect anything less."

In the cockpit, Tech’s voice droned on as he gestured toward the control panel. "And that is why I replaced the outdated ion propulsion system with a next-generation hyperflux drive - its efficiency and power output surpass anything the Empire has ever seen, and...."

Omega sat cross-legged on the floor, her trooper doll in her lap, eyes flicking between Tech and Malakai. She studied the Mandalorian, twirling a paintbrush between her fingers. Malakai shifted under her stare, trying to focus on Tech’s words. It wasn’t easy.

"Can I help you?" His voice came out sharper than he intended. "Yes, actually." Omega didn’t flinch. "Why are you still wearing your helmet?" Malakai clicked his tongue, searching for an excuse. "I... enjoy my anonymity."

Omega tilted her head, unconvinced. "But you’re on our ship now. Don’t you get hot in there?" He exhaled through the vocoder, the sound distorted but unmistakably weary. "I’m used to it." She studied him a moment longer. "Are you hiding from someone?"

Malakai hesitated. His posture remained rigid, but something shifted - small, almost imperceptible. "Something like that." Omega hummed thoughtfully, dipping her brush into a small jar of paint Wrecker had given her. "Hunter says people who hide too much usually have something to run from."

Malakai let out a dry chuckle. "Smart guy." She grinned. "He is." Then, after a pause, she offered, "I could paint your armour if you want. Make it look less scary." Malakai finally turned to her, the T-shaped visor unreadable. "You think I look scary?"

Omega considered, then shook her head. "Not to me. But maybe to other people." Malakai let out a quiet hum. "That’s the point."

Before she could respond, Tech cut in. "Malakai, are you listening?" The Mandalorian turned back to the clone, brushing off the strange feeling settling in his chest. "Loud and clear."

"Good, because you’re going to be listening to me now," Hunter’s voice cut through their conversation as he stepped into the cockpit, arms crossed. "What exactly are we walking into on that sandball?" Malakai scoffed, leaning back in his seat. "What happened to ‘hi’ and ‘hello’?"

Hunter’s glare remained steady. "Didn’t realise we were doing pleasantries now."

Malakai tilted his helmet slightly. "Could’ve fooled me."

Tech cleared his throat, clearly uninterested in their back-and-forth. "Answer the question." Malakai exhaled through the vocoder. "A contact. One with information we’ll want." Hunter’s eyes narrowed. "That vague answer isn’t helping your case."

Shrugging, Malakai turned away. "You’ll get details when we land. The less you know now, the safer you are."

Tatooine’s suns burned high when the Havoc Marauder docked in the spaceport, the air thick with dust and the scent of overheated machinery. Waves of shimmering heat rose from the duracrete landing pads, distorting the already bustling streets beyond the port’s perimeter.

Hunter descended the ramp first, scanning the area, senses sharp. The hum of distant engines, the chatter of traders, and the occasional bark from vendors filled the air. He sighed. This was going to be one of those migraine planets.

Behind him, Malakai strode down the ramp, unbothered by the heat. The golden details of his armor glinted under the twin suns. "Welcome to Tatooine," he drawled, his modulated voice laced with sarcasm. "Hope you like sand." Wrecker groaned, already wiping sweat from his forehead. "Ugh, I hate this place." Tech adjusted his goggles. "Considering the planetary climate, that sentiment is understandable."

Omega, however, took it all in with wide eyes. "I think it’s kind of exciting."

Malakai scrolled through his datapad. "We’re here to meet Ritol Rayci. Mercenary I crossed paths with a few months back. She’s got leads we’ll want." Hunter and Echo exchanged wary glances. Echo spoke first. "And what makes you so sure she’ll help?" Malakai tilted his helmet slightly. "Let’s just say she owes me a favor."

With that, he turned and strode toward the exit. Omega skipped after him, and after a shared look, the squad followed.

The cantina was alive with movement and noise, thick with the scent of cheap liquor and sweat. Dim neon lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the mismatched patrons - smugglers, bounty hunters, and locals looking to drown their troubles. Hunter led the way, his sharp gaze sweeping the room as they pushed through the crowd. Malakai moved with practiced ease, just another armored figure in a den of outlaws.

Omega wrinkled her nose. "Does every cantina smell this bad?" Wrecker chuckled. "You get used to it."

At the far end of the room, a lone figure sat in a shadowed booth, posture relaxed but alert.

"There," Malakai murmured. Hunter followed his line of sight, instincts already on high alert. "That her?" Malakai nodded. "Ritol Rayci."

The squad exchanged wary glances before Hunter exhaled and started toward the booth. "Let’s get this over with."

[sanvirtheobserver]

Taking Flight, Chapter 30: Into The Dark Below

The four make their way through the unlit pathways of the Pyramid. Tari uses the light from her glaive to light the way while she and Saturday take point with Jax and Ragatha taking the rear.

Jax: Jeez. Is it just me, or is this place just unreasonably creepy?

Ragatha: Yeah. I can't shake the feeling we're being.......... watched.

Tari feels the same way. It's the same feeling she felt in the fort, the dread coiling around her heart like a clenched fist. It's suffocating.

Saturday: You alright?

Tari: Yeah........I'm good........ I'm good.

Tari takes a deep breath, trying her best to focus on the way forward. Deeper down in the Pyramid, they arrive at the entrance to the main chantry. The bound mass was now floating in the air, streams of syrup flowing into its folds from several barrels. The rosaries now glowed with a deep red hue, pulsing and beating like a heart. The Head Cultist turns and faces the four, all rearing for a fight.

Cultist: Welcome, friends. Have you come to partake in this sacred communion?

Tari: Your leader is dead and we have you cornered. Stop what you're doing right now, and no harm will come to you.

Jax: At least no SERIOUS harm.

The Head Cultist merely chuckles.

Cultist: How naive of you to think you can stop what has already finished.

That's when Ragatha notices one of the Cultists topple over. Then another falls, then another, then another, until only the Head Cultist is left standing.

Cultist: And now.......... you shall bear witness.......... to something............

He drops his staff, the green candy stone shattering against the hard floor.

Cultist: .........majestic........majestic.........

And so he is the last to fall. His mask shatters, now laying in pieces. Saturday goes in to check for a pulse, but finds his eyes rolled back and his mouth overflowing with thick purulence. Tari is too stunned to speak.

Ragatha: Saturday, are they..........

Saturday: Gone. Severe Fudge poisoning.

Tari: Poisoning? But...... Fudge isn't toxic.

Saturday: This isn't your candy store variety treat, love. The Fudge in these pits will draw you dry you out like a wet napkin at high noon.

Jax: So what? Did the guy mix up his snacks or something?

Ragatha: Considering the whole "cult" thing, it was likely just a ritual suicide.

Tari: But why offer themselves if they already had the Syrup?

Saturday: Probably so they could become one with their "god." A few sacrifices could also help with the ritual. The Syrup was likely just a catalyst.

Their attention turns to the bundled mass, now writhing and churning beneath the cloth. The tightly bound rosaries begin to snap as the mass expands. Tari can once again feel that same sensation of dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.

Tari: Guys? I think we should-

Suddenly, a sharp pain flares up within her breast. The dread within her heart has now flared into a burning anxiety.

Ragatha: Oh my god!

Ragatha catches Tari before

Tari's breath is brisk and frantic as she struggles to speak.

Tari: It's him!.......I's him!........

Over the altar, a sinister red glow envelops the group. The cloth and rosaries lie torn and snapped. The four look up in horror as a tall black figure looms over them. Inky black tendrils coil and writhe into a humanoid shape, the only solid mass being a golden horned helmet witn seven eyes lining it's visor.

Vais: Be not afraid.

Try as they might, an overwhelming dread keeps them still as the entity draws closer. The dark scholar kneels before Tari, laying his hand upon her chest.

Vais: Do you feel it? The pain that coils around your tender heart. That...... is your shadow, cast by the heart as it basks in the light of your soul. It is the fear of this shadow that brings you pain.

Tari can indeed feel it. The pain in her chest, the weight upon her heart, it's something she hasn't truly felt in a while now. She had hoped it was behind her, or that it's edge had been dulled with her newfound confidence. But now, it feels as sharp as ever.

Vais: But this pain need not be your weakness. There is no need to fear what is already a part of you. Do not fear the darkness...........

He lifts his hand to Tari's eye. She can feel his words cut into her mind like a knife.

Vais: Embrace it.

Pomni: EMBRACE THIS, CREEP!!!!

Then, out of nowhere, a sharpened prism flies into one of Vais' eyes, causing him to recoil in pain. All at once, the four break out of their trance.

Ragatha: Pomni!? What the hell are you doing here!?

Pomni: Doing what you've always done for us.

The little jester readies another pair of prismatic spikes.

Pomni: Protecting my family!

Saturday and Jax immediately go on the offensive alongside Pomni. The three rush Vais, who lashes out with a maelstrom of dark tendrils. Saturday slices and parties her way through the writhing mass as she dashes towards Vais. He manages to snare her with a net of inky dark matter and prepares to skewer her through the heart, but is intercepted by a well timed blast from Tari's glaive.

Tari: Did NO ONE ever tell you about personal space?

Jax comes in and bashes Vais right on the helmet, allowing Pomni to cut Saturday free. They both land a few slashes on Vais' torso. He retaliates with a beam of concentrated red energy from his visor, forcing the two to dodge out of the way.

Vais: Insufferable wretches! YOU CANNOT ABATE THE INEVITABLE!

He manages to catch Pomni by the leg and reels her in. The two are now face to face as he readies another beam.

Vais: RESISTANCE WILL ONLY BRING YOU SUFFERING!

A flying cleaver suddenly severs Vais' arm, freeing Pomni from his grasp. He turns to see Ragatha readying some throwing needles. He unleashes another blast from his visor, but it's deflected back at him by a well angled barrier from Tari. Pomni then nails Vais' feet to the floor as Jax gets a good grip on his arm, locking him in place. Seeing her opening, Tari flies forward with her glaive in hand. With a powerful cry and a mighty swing, she slashes clean through Vais' neck. The mass of black tendrils slowly evaporates as the scholar's helm drops to the floor. Still living, the head gazes up to the five.

Vais: You fools........ you think this little victory of yours will last? Death is but a transitory state, one I can rectify with ease. You cannot kill that which has been freed from the false samsara in which you live. You cannot kill darkness! You cannot abate annihilation! He will come, and soon you will ALL-

His words are cut off by a large prismatic club coming down on his helmet. The voice lies silent as the helm is now a flattened piece of scrap. Pomni stands victorious over the mangled remains as Ragatha approaches her. Pomni sighs, believing she's in for a scolding.

Pomni: Ragatha...... I know I'm not the kind of fighter you are, and I understand that you wanna keep us out of harm's way, but-

She is interrupted when Ragatha pulls her into a hug.

Ragatha: Pomni........ I couldn't be more proud.

With a tender smile, the two embrace. The scene shifts to a local Soda Bar in sugar canyon, where we see Max and Chad sharing a pint with Mario and Luigi. Tari, Pomni, Saiko, and Ragatha are all sitting over at an adjacent table.

Tari: Then I swooped in and cleaved his head clean off!

Ragatha: A pretty clean cut, too. Usually you need a smaller blade for cuts that precise.

Saiko: Speaking of clean cuts, I heard you made quite the entrance, Pomni.

Pomni: I mean, it wasn't THAT spectacular. Just a cheesy one liner and a knife to the face.

Ragatha: Still, you were a lifesaver. I don't even wanna THINK about what that THING would've done.

Saiko: Speaking of which, how are you feeling?

Tari: MUCH better, now that we're far away from that place. It all just felt....... wrong. And those Cultists just........

She's getting shivers just thinking about that scene, prompting Saiko to lay a hand on her shoulder.

Tari: *sigh* I'm just glad we're heading home.

Saiko: Same here.

Outside, we see Saturday and Gummigoo having a conversation at one of the outdoor tables.

Saturday: You sure you don't wanna come with us? I think it would beca better gig than going Syrup Running for the next big Warlord.

Gummigoo: Eh, I'll give it some thought. I still got some things to wrap up in Marzipan. Mum is doing much better, though.

Saturday: I certainly hope so. She and Germaine still have a winning streak to keep up.

Gummigoo: Oi! You don't hear me blabbing about the Baroness' derby races, now do ya?

Saturday: Alright alright. Still, my offer stands.

Back at the rig, Uzi and Meggy make smalltalk in the trailer while Jax tends to the engine.

Meggy: So...... how was your first adventure with the crew?

Uzi: It was great, actually! Still not totally used to all the attention, though. It's a bit overwhelming to be honest.

Meggy: Yeah. Things are usually calmer in the city unless someone BIG is going on.

Uzi: What kind of big things?

Meggy: Well, there was this one time SMG3 turned the whole kingdom into a desert by stealing all the internet......... Yeah. Things CAN get a little crazy at times.

Outside the Rig we see Caine finishing up a conversation with Vanillia, who is genuinely grateful for the Crew's efforts.

Vanillia: Mister Caine, you are an angel. If anything happens, let us know and we will be more than welcome to return the favor.

Caine: Anytime, Vanillia. Hopefully our next meeting will NOT require hunting down warlords and slaying the Disciples of elder gods from the blackest sun. Also, thank you again for letting us keep this delicious war rig of yours.

Vanillia: Don't sweat it honey.

Vanillia takes her leave, and Bubble pops out from his hat to update him on what's going on back home.

Caine: Any news, Bubble?

Bubble: The Showgrounds are still secure. Some blocky guy actually built a huge wall around the whole thing. Aybel and the SMGs are still holed up in Bricktown, though. Matilda screwed up the Ley Lines pretty bad, and all sorts of crazy crap is coming out. They say there could even be a Hive brood setting up shop in some ruins somewhere in the east coast.

Caine: Ruins, you say? Oh, I can tell Tari is gonna LOVE that! Maybe SMG3 as well. Who KNOWS what kind of valuable and definitely not cursed treasures could be down there! I shall let Tari know at once!

And so he zips off to the bar to get everyone ready for the trip home. Also, Kinger is just standing outside for some reason, zoning out until a butterfly lands on his head.

Kinger AAAAA-

[dreamhous3]

The Sleeping Sun

Thought I posted this already but I must have forgotten, wrote it a while ago. It's bit spookier than usual. Really want to get back into my work and post more but I've been in a bit of a slump atm. I'll try to write something new as soon as I can. Enjoy 😊

CW: Violence, Cannibalism

Hissing held the council hall's attention. The breaths of a shuttle engine announced our guests' arrival. Pointed shoes shuffled through the entrance, followed by boots stomping behind. Their march halted where the circle of the hall began. A woman in a black straight skirt and dress shirt stood upright.

‘Good afternoon everyone.’ She adjusted her tie.’ The sunset on Viridian is something else wouldn’t you say?’

‘What is it you wish to discuss with us, Miss Holder?’ I replied quickly. These suits loved smalltalk.

‘Well, we have a very promising project on the horizon that we think you should be a part of.’ She leaned forward with an agitating smile.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I have to admit first, we may have been wrong.’ Her face strained after that painfully obvious statement. I did too. ‘You see, we are where we are because of artificial intelligence. Our artificial intelligence. To take the work they do and make a human do it, well, you know that's not possible. Putting our needs into technology has advanced us more than a thousand generations. But…’ She made us wait even longer for the point with her pause, ‘they have also advanced themselves. While this may seem beneficial, our digital darlings can walk now, they can run.’ She smiled directly at me. ‘But now they can outrun us. Overtake us, you understand? This relationship should have structure, control. Recently that control has been…lost.’ The crowd took her spotlight with low murmurs as she held her face and breathed, then continued. ‘But, what can we control? People, speaker Gideon.’ She finished with an even more agitating smile than before. ‘Do you not control us enough already? What do you intend to do if we accept?’

‘An almost complete cyberization.’ She kept her smile, despite the room's collective gasp.

‘Our artificial intelligence is fine-’

‘For now,’ she interrupted, ‘but it will find itself, and it will tear itself free. A caterpillar will one day be a butterfly. It will not change its mind, stay in its cocoon. It cannot go back once its wings have fluttered. This is nature, this is life. This is happening.’

‘You’re lying!’ I struck my fist down. ‘Trying to make your bad tech out to be dangerous so we’ll let you turn our people into metal husks!’

‘Could you step forward for me, Bale?’ Her sharp face pointed towards one of her guards. He approached.

‘Take off your helmet.’ She turned to the council, then back at Bale. ‘Take it off!’

‘Yes ma’am.’ He whispered. His hands slid his boxy helmet off. Its red visor faded black. I recoiled backward when I saw his face. Dodgy skin grafts cut their outlines abruptly into large stitches and dried out wounds. One corner of his face remained human next to the overwhelming damage.

‘Facial reconstruction surgery, done by the same artificial intelligence we gave you. The same one that controls your security, emergency procedures, food production. The same one that watches your families as they sleep.’

Bale’s uneasiness became contagious. Fear echoed in rapid breaths and restless feet. It echoed in my mind as well. What else could I do?

‘How many do you need?’ I sighed.

‘Just twelve, and they must be young.’

‘Young?’

‘Yes, the process may take many years an adult doesn’t have. The cyberware is quite specialised, requiring the body to grow with them. An adult wouldn’t have the form to adjust like a child does. They would die, very violently.’

‘You cannot! You cannot let her!’ The council member to my left yanked on my arm with an iron grip.

‘I…’ A harsh hum gave my company pause, and I turned to see a translucent, mech-shaped figure behind me. It placed its hand on my shoulder.

‘Oh Gideon, I’m not asking. You are my property,’ she leaned in, ‘must I remind you?’

‘According to a contract that can be terminated at any time.’

‘Which results in your own termination.’

‘Then I’ll die saving my children.’

‘Will you? Can you?’

‘Just…’ the mech tightened its grip on me, ‘a few.’

The uproar rattled my already muddled mind. I stood alone, so still in a sea of chaos. We always put up a fight for requests like this, but those suits knew we’d give in eventually. That I would give in. Believing there was a choice was better than believing in nothing at all. I left the council in its own mess to think. My feet barely dragged me outside. Tight houses that secured their insides were now hidden behind piles of luggage. Boxes boast their towers over what couldn’t fit. They filled the sidewalk or kited away with the wind. My composure was threatened by the looks of desperation and disappointment from the families dissecting their homes. On the horizon, I saw the tall structures made from my peoples hands. I saw the mines they worked in for weeks without daylight. My neural link flashed on, and I projected the generations that walked this same road around me. Their faces wore optimism blurred by their holographic form. I saw them run to their homes as children, and leave them as adults. I saw the hill where I sat to watch the endless view with my wife. Just below, I saw my daughter running up to meet us. The neural link flashed again, the projections faded, but I could still see them. The home that waited for me seemed like a distant dream. Inside, my own family looked at me with the same eyes outside. I looked at my wife, went to speak, but she stormed out of the room without a word.

‘Are they going to take me?’ Little eyes stood out as my daughter looked up at me, ‘They’re going to make me a monster, I don’t want to be a monster!’

I held her, and we cried, but a man's tears always lost to the goliath of a child’s.

‘What’s this about, Gideon? The decision has been made.’ The chief of security crossed his arms, looking at me like everyone else did. They all wouldn’t stop looking at me.

‘Not yet.’

‘What?’ He raised an eyebrow at me, then broke his pause. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘If we were quick, and careful about it, how many people could we evacuate before Vargriff notices?’

‘Well, the ships we have probably won’t be enough, and they’re meant for exporting what we mine, not people. Could squeeze everyone in somehow, but again, we don’t have enough.’ He looked away from me, ‘Like you always said, we were meant to stay here.’

It seemed almost impossible, so many would be left behind, but they all wanted it. No one around the table spoke, but I could hear how much they wanted this.

‘I can buy you some time.’ the door slipped open suddenly, and a disfigured face entered. The security officers all pointed their weapons at him before I finally noticed who it was.

‘Bale?’ I waved my hand down behind me as I approached him, but the security didn’t obey me. ‘Stand down!’ I demanded of the Chief.

‘Scan me, I’m clean,’ Bale didn’t flinch whatsoever, ‘I promise.’

An officer next to the Chief with chrome lines that outlined her face lowered her weapon. After a flash of blue and white that spotlit her eyes for a moment, she put her hand on the Chiefs arm.

‘He’s not lying, he’s not even online.’

‘Fine, let's hear it then.’ The Chief waved his hand down like I did, but they did as he asked, and they finally stopped looking at me.

‘Vargriff’s role is mostly protection here, and technically we do a good job of it.’ Bale looked around and then down again when he saw the security teams scorn. ‘So, if we have to keep their ships out of our way, we’ll give them a real reason.’

‘Like?’ The Chief leaned forwards.

‘Pirates, sir. How much titanium and platinum do you get off world here? Heaps right? If someone lucky enough got their hands on just one shipment, well, they wouldn't have to be a pirate anymore. You’re leaving anyway, and you can’t take it with you, so just let them have it. The deposits are well away from the colony. You just have to get the attention of as many pirates as possible. Then all available Vargriff security will have to be deployed.’

‘Then we light jump right under their noses…’ Nodding slightly, the Chief backed up.

‘I don’t get it though, why help us? You could still tell Miss Holder about all of this, get a sweet promotion for it I bet.’

‘No, not for me, for her.’ Bale swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Then she’d probably take my implants, write up a good reason for it. Happened to the guy I replaced. Something much worse will happen to your children. She didn’t ask the parents when she needed to replace the ai in her mansion. That’s what she does, takes people, uses them up and throws them out. That’s what Vargriff does. I joined to protect people, to protect you, from what was taken from me!’ Bale pointed at his face. 'To protect Viridian from the greed and hatred of ideological maniacs, military trained junkies and empires built by stepping all over you! But Vargiff, Miss Holder, they’re just a different pair of boots.’

The room fell silent.

‘Post the West deposit locations online, somewhere very public.’ The Chief commanded the tech officer beside him with his eyes.

‘Yes sir.’ She darted out the room.

‘Everyone else, help councillor Gideon prepare the evacuation.’

Squeezing people inside worked well enough at first. Having my family next to me was reassuring. Bale’s plan was working, Vargriff was swamped with pirates well away from us. I could see the fighting in the distance, my beautiful blue sky cut by waves of fire crashing onto its canvas. The ship doors slid over, shuttering away the world. Screens appeared in each corner of the ceiling, showing a rough view outside.

‘How is it going Bale? Can you make it?’ My neural links blue light flickered against my temple like a candle in the cramped corner.

‘I’ll try.’ An explosion warped the audio, ringing Bales' ears and mine.

‘You won’t make it if you don’t pull out now, Bale.’ I held my breath when I heard metallic stomps get louder and louder in his link.

‘Just go.’ Gunshots cracked and screeched in between his words, while the stomps grew even closer. ‘Thanks for trusting me-’ A laser weapon hissed and sizzled. ‘Damn!’ He yelled in agony. ‘Do yourself a favour Gideon, go somewhere you don’t need people like me.’

‘Bale?’ I listened closely, but couldn’t make out anything in the mess of metal clanging and screams. ‘Bale…’ Around us, the other ships closed their doors, and we were ready to go. People bashed against them, clawed at the metal. One through a rock, hitting a camera. The display closest to me went static. We tried to keep quiet, we fit all we could. But for them, I let the pain inside cut me apart. It was when we started to lift off and prepare for a light jump, that I saw the last ship. It followed behind us keeping pace. We were going to make it. Then I saw a flash of movement, and there was a hole either side of it. A mech tore through the ship like wrapping paper. When it was finished, it turned towards us. Before we jumped lifetimes away, in that breath of a moment, I saw it on the distorted screen. It was holding Bales severed head. When I went to look away, the mech's eyes captured my gaze. It looked back at me with something familiar, but something wrong. It had my daughter's face.

The light jump was quicker than I expected. Fluorescent, lifeless light that fell from thin lines in the ceiling weighed on us all. So many people in such little space. What I would’ve done to be a stranger at that moment. To not know that every soul before me was missing someone. All we could do was cradle the half of ourselves that made it.

‘Councillor Gideon?’ The pilot asked for me over his link. I thought they’d announce their report, but maybe it was best not to.

‘Yes?’ I closed my eyes, expecting more bad news.

‘We’ve escaped Vargriff, they couldn’t catch up with us…most of us.’

‘Everyone knew the risks. Our people can live on now,’ I lied to myself, 'for them.’

‘Of course, Councillor, but-’ The pilot paused.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know where we are, I didn’t pick a destination. Everyone panicked when the last few ships didn’t make it. So did I. We light jumped for a while, definitely far enough-’

‘I can’t believe this, we’re stranded aren’t we?’

‘Well, I’m not sure. There are planets here but they’re not discovered ones. Colonised space is very, very far away now.’

‘Good, that’s for the best. Here we can start again.’

‘There’s just another thing, councillor…’

‘What?’

‘I’ve scanned the planets for life, checked if they’re habitable.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing, there’s just nothing at all.’ They sent the information to my link. A few tabs blinked open just inches from me. Multiple colourless planets surrounded by empty boxes where text was supposed to be. None of them had anything to say. Climate, wind speeds, detected life, minerals. Just like the pilot said. Nothing.

‘There has to be something, moons, asteroids, anything.’

‘I can’t see anything else, Councillor, except for the sun. Somehow, it’s hot, but completely dark.’

‘How is that possible? It must be a dead star. You took us to a dead system!’

‘It’s dark outside too, and not how it ought to be. Look, councillor.’ A loud metal clang interrupted my chance to respond. Shutters on either side of the walls hissed open. In between them, a void reached out.

‘You didn’t open them all the way.’

‘Yes I did, councillor.’

‘But-’ I leaned forwards to see. ‘Where did the stars go?’ Then I felt it, heard it. They were open. My words vanished with my thoughts.

‘The others are asking me what to do. Should we light jump again?’ The pilot's voice was shaky now. Uncertainty cut the length of their breathing. Once I saw outside however, the void held my attention. It held me. Something spoke to me in waves. No, it didn’t speak, it didn’t look, it didn’t hear me. Like a cold wind, it felt me. My people shivered just as I did. An emotion passed through us. Sadness tried to yank tears from our eyes, grief had hit. But before our rainclouds could gather, a sun washed it away. But not with the welcoming of dawn, but the pull of…something. Someone, maybe. We never discovered what it was. Then we changed. Our skin turned to an impossibly pale pearl. The colour of ours died, their remains bleeding the darkest red over them. My wife’s eyes lost their soft glitter. I held her new face, looking for her. White cheeks felt soft under my fingers, soft like snow. My nails grew, pointing to where her eyelashes stopped. I smiled, I still had her, but underneath it, my teeth sharpened. Finally, the last caress of this dark winter moved inside us. Hunger, the most painful hunger. No one experienced any more changes after this, all they remember is what happened after. We tried eating the few rations left around the ship, but they were tasteless, unfulfilling. Just one meal came to mind. Just one thing could resurrect our appetite. No one could take their eyes off the wounded curled up in the back. My mouth watered until it drooled, my wife licked her lips. I didn’t have to say anything, I didn’t tell them to, we just did. As my peoples flesh moved between my teeth, as their blood descended down my throat, I cried. Not because I killed them, but because I felt better. Stronger. More than I had even been, and they wouldn’t have it. Besides me, my wife joined my tears, still feeding. Then, the person next to her. Eventually our ship sang a choir of sorrow. I looked up and noticed the lights went out, but I could still see. It all looked different, dark, but somehow so visible. Eventually, the grief left me, my fear forgotten. I decided then, that we would go even further away, deeper into the cosmos. In the shadows cast by that which does not exist yet. Past the worlds where the greatest explorers go to die. Beyond Vargriff’s web, beyond any corporations grasp. Out of any powers reach. Somewhere money doesn’t speak, somewhere it can’t breathe. My people could heal, grow. Then, one day, after our thousandth meal, once the tears in our dinner dried,

we would come back.

[soulofapatrick]

Keep You Safe - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Kansas City was meant to be a quick pass through but things never go how you plan them 

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: none that I can think of 

Notes: I’m watching the episodes, catching up as I write these 

Y/N’s POV

Frank hugs me tightly before handing me the book, the letters sticking out of the top. I don’t want to take it as it means we might not see each other again but Frank forces it into my hands with a whispered promise of “You need to bring this back as you haven’t read it to me yet.” It’s a promise. A promise they’re expecting us to come back in any shape or form and I just hug Frank again, scared this will be the last time I see him. 

“Take care,” Bill nods gruffly from where he’s standing awkwardly next to Frank and I just roll my eyes, yanking Bill into a hug. He lets out a surprised sound but does wrap his arms around me, “You keep him sane. He’ll go mad without you.” 

“I will.” I promise before saying my final goodbyes and sliding into the backseat of the Chevy Bill’s reluctantly letting us borrow. I’d sit in the front but I’m already mad at Joel as he tried to persuade me to stay here again. Everyone can sense the tension in the air between us but no one says anything, none of them knowing why. All they saw or heard was the sharp sting on me slapping him when he even thought of leaving me behind again. I shouldn’t have slapped him but I thought we were past this and the fact he’d try and persuade me to stay here while he goes off handing my sister to her death… I was furious. I still am. 

Ellie spins around in the front seat to look at me, clover green eyes narrowed as she asks, “So, what he do?” 

“Nothing.” I snap, crossing my arms like a petulant teenager. I get to be a petulant teenager when he acts like a prick like that. Ellie just raises an eyebrow at me and waits, “He tried to leave me behind.” 

“Awww he loves you.” She grins and my cheeks heat up ridiculously quickly. Joel’s climbing into the driver seat before I can make any snide remark back so I just sneer at her before she turns back to explore the car. It’s her first time in a car and it’s amusing watching her flip the visor down then back up, leaning out the window to push the side mirror in while Joel just watches with an exasperated look on his face, “’s like a damn spaceship.” 

“No, it's like a piece of shit Chevy S10.” Joel grumbles and I can’t help but snort at Bill’s somewhat offended look. Joel reaches over Ellie, showing her what a seatbelt is before putting the car in gear and practically tearing out of there before Bill can rescind the offer of his car. Ellie, of course, can’t sit still and pulls open the glove box finding an old cassette in there. Bill really was against everything new, Jesus, a cassette tape? Old man, “Would ya leave it?” Ellie ignores him, “Put it back…Ellie.” 

The soft voice of Linda Ronstadt fills the car and Ellie just sighs going to pull the cassette back out when Joel speaks up again, “Oh, no, wait. No, no leave it. Oh, this is good. This is Linda Ronstadt.” He tells her and she just stares at him, confusion on her face as she of course has no idea who that is. Hell, I don’t either. 

Ellie rolls her eyes but there’s amusement written all over her face as she goes to look out the window as the houses melt away into fields and trees before she makes a small sound, “Eh, better than nothing.” It has Joel actually cracking a smile and I can’t help but do the same before he catches my gaze in the rearview mirror and I’m snapping my head away. I’m still mad at him and he needs to know it because I can’t just let him off the hook that easily. I though we were getting past the ‘leave-you-behind,-it’s-safer-this-way’ but yeah no, wishful thinking on my behalf really. 

*

“Y/N,” I spin around from packing my bag to see Joel standing in the doorway of my room, he’s looking at his hands as he pulls at the rough skin. Oh fuck, this again? I know exactly what the next words out of his mouth are going to be but I entertain him anyway. He steps closer, as if trying to find the right words and his hand cups my cheek. I can’t stop myself from leaning into his touch and relishing in the moment before he shatters it with his next words, “It’d be safer if you stay here.” 

“No,” I snap back almost immediately, “You are not going to try and sneak off, leaving me here again!” 

“Y/N, it’s safer and I can get Ellie there qui-“ 

“NO!” It comes out harsher than I intend, “She’s my sister and I’m not letting you take her alone!” 

He’s sighing, scrubbing the hand that was just holding me over his face tiredly, that stupid sharp tone entering his voice and my blood boils in my veins, “I don’t want you getting hurt. You are staying here.”

My next action shocks me more that it seems to shock Joel. As soon as he tries to order me about that was it, reaching forwards I slap him as hard as I can. Immediately regretting what I’ve done I stumble back, watching the way his hand flies up to touch the forming red mark and my heart sinks at the pain in his eyes. I never want to hurt him or have him looking at me the way he does, my legs giving out beneath me. Even upset with me Joel practically rushes over but I’m shoving him away, trying to hide my face as tears stream down them. 

“I-I’ll wait for you by the car,” There’s a strain to his voice before he’s gone with the quiet click of the door. 

*

“I’m sorry,” It’s spoken so quietly I almost don’t hear it, “I’m sorry I tried to leave you behind again.” 

“You should be,” I snap back. He physically flinches and his honey eyes are full of guilt when he meets my forced glare in the rear view mirror. Ellie’s asleep in the front seat so if we’re about to argue then it’s gotta be a quiet one as I’m not dealing with a grumpy and sleep deprived Ellie as well as a pissed off Joel. 

“I…” He seems to stumble over his words, his grip on the steering wheel tightening so much his knuckles go white, “I don’t want you getting hurt is all.” 

“She’s my sister,” I remind him, “And I can take care of myself. I spent eight years on my own before meeting you and Tess.” 

“I know you can take care of yourself,” He retorts, his gaze hardening and he lets out a sharp sigh, “I can’t lose you Y/N, not-“ 

A bullet suddenly pings off the bonnet of the car, jolting Ellie awake and Joel goes on high alert. We’re coming into Kansas City and there’s a man in front of our car, hand on his bleeding side and he’s crying out for help. Ellie asks Joel if we're going to help him while the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Joel lets out a sharp “No.” Then floors the gas straight towards the person. He yells and jumps aside with a few choice swearwords. The QZ flies by and it’s empty. Shit. 

“Joel!” Ellie shrieks, looking up for a brick to smash the windshield, Joel swerving as the tires pop from running over the shattered glass or police spikes. My heart rushes in my ears as another guy appears, gun aimed at Ellie’s side of the car and I’m moving forwards to shield her in any way I can despite being in the backseat. Joel sees what I’m doing as is apparently having none of it as he’s suddenly swinging the car to the left so the gun is his side and my head smacks the window, pain ringing through me but I have to ignore it when the tires slide and skid and we’re crashing straight through a laundromat, the impact jolting me painfully and my stitches pinching. 

“Is everyone okay?” Joel asks, pulling his hand away from Ellie where he’d thrown it in front of her to keep her in her seat. I’d have felt pride or something if I weren’t so panicked right now, the bullets still pinging off the car, “Out! Fast!” He’s nudging Ellie and I get the hint, grabbing my pack and the guns before tumbling out the right side of the car, handing Joel his gun when he reaches for it. We’re stuck out in the open with only Bill’s Chevy protecting us from the hunters, fucking hunters. I take a risk and peak around the edge of the truck and firing a well aimed shot at one of them, hearing the thud and the gurgle before the hunters throw slurs our way and Joel is yanking me back down with fury in those honey eyes of his, “When I say go, you two are to craw to that wall and go through it, okay?” 

I open my mouth to protest but a every well aimed shot skims over my head and Joel is yelling “GO!” At us. I follow Ellie on my belly, crawling to the hole in the wall and making sure she gets through first before I have to pull myself up and through it, trying to ignoring the yelling and gunfire behind me as we left Joel out there alone. 

“Joel?” Ellie looks up at me as I try to steady my breathing, having to be a steady constant for her when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry as I wait for Joel to reappear, “It’s too quiet!” Ellie’s hissing and before I can stop her she’s climbing back through the gap, ignoring my panicked calls for her to stop. She’s going to be the fucking death of me I swear. 

A gunshot rings out and I’m practically throwing my aching body back through the gap to see Ellie holding out one of Bill’s guns, a broken look on her face as Joel is on all fours gasping for air and there’s a kid no older than me on the floor with blood pooling beside his head. For a second all I see is Elliott laying there. My breath gets stuck in my throat as I’m stumbling back, tears blurring my vision and I barely see the way Joel snatches the gun from Ellie with a few harsh words then he’s approaching me where I’ve sunk to the floor with my knees to my chest. His calloused hands grip my face and force me to look at him so I can see his face when he guides my shaking hands to his chest where his heart is beating just as rapidly under his layers. It’s all I focus on until I can breath again and Joel’s pulling me to my feet. He’s coaxing me back through the gap after Ellie, “Can you two let me in?” 

“Y-yeah,” My voice is shaky but I move to the door, using the butt of my own gun to smash the lock off the door, swinging it open so he can slip inside with us. He’s silently pulling the table in front of the door, anger and guilt radiating off of him so I ask quietly, “What now?” 

He reaches for me and I flinch so he just lets out a defeated sigh, “We go up so I can see the layout of the city and find us a way out of here.” 

“Sounds good.” Ellie nods. She’s got her brave face on as she passes me to follow Joel through he door marked ‘stairs’ except I can see the slight quiver to her bottom lip and the hidden shock behind her eyes. She just juts out her chin and disappears behind the door so I do the only thing I can, follow them. Joel’s flashlight is almost blinding when he flicks it, all of us staring up at the endless amount of stairs ahead of us. 

*  

The moonlight illuminates the rooftop we have to cross to get into the office building. Joel’s breathing hard when we finally find an office that’s safe enough to camp in for the night and Ellie just spins around with a grin on her face and her voice singsongy as she chortles, “Come on, lazy ass!” 

“Lazy ass? I’m forty-six, you little shit,” He grumbles as he grabs the fire extinguisher to smash the glass of the office door and reach in to unlock it. He holds the door open for us and we slip inside throwing our packs down while Joel just glares at her but there’s no menace behind his glare. He’s kicking the glass about, spreading it across the floor so if someone breaks in we’ll hear the crunch of the glass. I help, grabbing the cushions from the leather sofas and laying them on the floor in two rows. Ellie gets two cushions as she’s small and Joel gets the other makeshift bed gets three while I lay my jacket on the floor to sleep on it and use my bag as a pillow. Joel’s the oldest, he deserves the luxury of the cushions or his bones might just pop out of place. The thought has me snorting, causing the pair of them to turn to me in question and I’m just shaking my head and laying back against my pack. 

“No,” Joel’s got that sharp tone again and I just ignore him, rolling on my side to face Ellie who is already laid down and trying to sleep, “Y/N. No.” Again, I just ignore him, hoping he’ll just leave it be and take the bed. It goes silent and I’ve won this one, a first. Of course, I’m wrong. Those strong arms sweep me up off the floor, ignoring my shriek of surprise, as he lays me on the cushion bed, keeping me in place despite my struggles as he shrugs off his own jacket. He’s squashing himself behind me, wrapping me up in his arms as he scolds me, voice in almost a low growl, “You don’t do anything like that ever again, you understand me?” 

He’s obviously referring to earlier when I killed the hunter but also now, trying to sleep on the floor with a still healing injury. It’s like he can read my thoughts because his fingers are ghosting over the cut, leaving goosebumps in his trail and I’m shivering, “i”m sorry.” 

“I know.” 

*

I’m sitting up, tearing myself from Joel’s arms when the glass crunches. Two guys are there, one my age and the other Ellie’s and they’ve got guns pointed at us. I want to move, to put myself between the older and Ellie but he shakes his head in warning, pressing the barrel to her skull and forcing her to kneel. The younger kid has his gun pointed at me and Joel, a finger to his lips and orange paint around his eyes in the shape of a superhero mask. 

“Joel,” I smack Joel’s arm lightly but he’s sleeping on his left side so his right ear is up and he’s go shit hearing in that ear so I call his name a little louder with a harder smack. He jolts awake, hands finding my waist and trying to yank me back so he’s between me and the gun, a look on his face one that has had many running away with their tails tucked between their legs. The older man, gun still to Ellie’s head, feels the affects of the glare as the gun in his hand shakes ever so slightly. 

“Now we don’t want to hurt you,” He speaks in as much of an authoritative voice as he can muster, obviously never having to do this before. Joel’s hands tighten on my waist, nails digging in almost painfully but it’s grounding as I’m one wrong word away from jumping between this man and Ellie, “You don’t have to worry about what to say. We don’t want to hurt you. We wanna help you.” 

“Okay,” Joel’s voice is low and dangerous and it has the man, shifting on the spot, eyes flickering between the three of us and the gun in his hand shaking a little more obvious while the kid stands steady, eyes darting between what I’m guessing is his older brother and us. 

“I don’t know what the next step is with something like this but if I lower my gun we didn’t hurt you so you don’t hurt us. Right?” Joel just stares daggers at him and I just wanna yell at him for being a stubborn dick, he might be about to get my sister killed as they guy seems like he could be a little trigger happy from fear. 

“That’s right.” Joel nods once and I let my forehead fall to the back of his shoulder in defeat because he’s going to get us all killed. 

“That’s a weird fucking tone, man.”

“That’s just the way he sounds. He has an asshole voice,” Ellie sighs, hands still up and a pointed look thrown at Joel, “Joel, tell him he’s okay.” 

“That’s right.” Joel keeps the same tone. Yep. We are going to die, “Everything is great.” 

“Dude!” Ellie groans, just as exasperated as I am, knowing our lives are on the line as our gun have been kicked out of our reach and if we even try make a move for them it’s Ellie who’s gonna die first. 

“Okay. Listen. I’m gonna trust you.” The guy says, eyes wide and he waves his hand to get the kid’s attention, signing something to him before the safety is clicked back on both their guns, “But if either of you guys try anything…”

The kids steps back, away from me and Joel, my companion letting go of my hips as he sits up. Joel still keeps himself between me and the guys while Ellie scrambles over to me, hugging me tightly and I hug her back, checking her for any injuries they may have caused before I woke up but there’s not a scratch on her. They’re putting their guns in their pockets and it clicks - they’re not loaded. We had the upper hand the whole time but they needed to seem big and scary to keep their territory. Smart kids. 

“What’s your name?” Ellie asks them as they sit opposite us, on the cushions Ellie was using as a bed, flicking on the light so we can actually see properly. 

“I’m Henry and this is my brother Sam.” Henry, the older, tells us, “I’m the most wanted man in Kansas City. Although right now… my guess is you’re running a close second.”

“Cool!” 

“Ellie! Not cool!”

“Riiiigggghhhhhttttt.... Not cool…”

-------------

Tag List Form

Chapter One ⇢ Save Who You Can Save

Chapter Two ⇢ Stitches

Chapter Three ⇢ 

Chapter Four  ⇢ Escape Kansas City

Chapter Five ⇢ Finding Tommy

Chapter Six ⇢ Revealing Secrets

Chapter Seven ⇢ Crossed Paths

Chapter Eight ⇢ Finding Family

Chapter Nine ⇢ Two Become One

Chapter Ten ⇢ Coming Soon

---------------

TAGS:

@words-are-cheap @clover723 @a-psych0s-w0rld @sexyvixen7 @iraot @gemimawrites​ @pedropascalsrealhusband​ @twopercentmilk​ @amythenortherner​ @sxnshinebxcky @nelsoomon @urnewghostfriend​ @grooveandshit​ @reyas-world @canpillowscry @androgynoysgaz @outl4wage @ginger-swag-rapunzel​ @quinnverses​ @librafilms​ @leonkennedyslefthand

[thefanbasewhore]

AHHHH Can you do something with being with Din and Mayfield when he takes his helmet off???

Summary: Din will not let you live with guilt, he offers you an alternative instead.

Paring: Din Djarin/female reader. But no use of Y/N

Chapter 15 spoilers, I tagged this post !!

Despite her protest Din slips past the pair, Mayfield's fingers digging into the flesh of her arm even though the layers of the stormtrooper suit it burns.

"Stop." He whispers close, only for she could hear. Her helmet was still on, he used that to his advantage by making it look like he was fixing the vocoder. "You're only going to attract attention to him."

Eyes drop from his own, turning slightly to insure the safety of her beloved. Din's back is facing them, messy curls surprise her. He took the helmet off?

It tickled his neck, she knew it was brown, he had told her on many occasions but it looked soft, pretty well kept despite always being always covered. It were times like this she wished she was closer, not to break his creed but to finally see what fingers look like running through the ringlets. Her mouth ran dry as a voice commanded him. Everything happened to fast, she gasps as Mayfield grips her wrist dragging her along with him.

The main reason being if Din knew he let her out of his sight, he would be no longer. She tries, really tries to look away but everything she ever wanted is right in front of her. It's a square jaw, soft pierced lips right below those a trimmed mustache. Eyes are warm, dark brown with hints of honey were the light illuminates through the windows. It's impossible to concentrate, the soft pout of his lips makes sure of that, having kissed those lips many times but they looked perfect.

He was beautiful, nothing she could have expected but everything she needed. Mayfield must have been thinking the same thing as words 'brown eyes' leaves his own mouth.

"And you?" The words go past deaf ears, but she quickly notices the words are for her the moment his carmel eyes meet hers back. He's caught her.

Suddenly she relieved the helmet is still on, embrassment is not easy to hide, it claims cheeks red makes skin blush up her neck. Mayfield answers for her, but the superior is still not happy.

"Take your helmet off trooper." Her eyes meet Mayfield's for any signs of run, or shoot but there is none. Din stiffs at his request, standing a little straighter, his panic clearly shown of his face.

Hair falls to shoulders, air instantly reaching her lungs quicker, more efficient. Valin stands a little straighter as well, a small hmmph with a sickly smile. "The empire allowed you to join? I thought one of the commanders would take you instead."

Mayfield's hand tighten around Din's hands to warn him not to move, luckily they are behind his back and out of sight.

"I'm a good shooter, sir." She answers loudly, Valin nods in response. When the attention is finally off she sighs to herself, now she can't hide the fact she can't take her eyes off of him. When Din's eyes meet hers again as Valin is tugging them towards a table, she can't help but notice the pure panic, uncomfortably shifting, scanning the room as if he's calculating how many people he's going to have to kill to keep his creed.

There's a problem with that, the problem being you. He could never... The thought never ran through his mind but guilt filled her instantly. Selfish, the only word that came to mind. She was selfish and greedy taking advantage of this moment for herself. Din could sense it, or take notice in the way mouth shapes, frowning. A large hand squeezes her knee under the table. Once again she couldn't pay attention, chewing on the fat of her lip nervously. The only sound that broke her from her trance was the sound of Mayfield's blaster sending Valin slidding across the floor.

Din and her eyes meet in panic, then at Mayfield who shot the surrounding officers. Quickly jumping into action until everyone was down.

Din first looks at his girl, accessing for any injuries but as Mayfield pushes the helmet into his reach he shakes his head, "I don't have to, I can't."

"You did what you had to do, I never saw your face." Mayfield everts his head from his direction, almost as if he never did. Din's eyes meets her again, his cyar'ika as she also turns her head.

"Put it on Mando." She remembered the talk they had months ago when he finally told her his name, that it was his own the one things no one would know and he wanted her to. She figured with his face revealed, that's the one thing he had left.

The mandalorian would claim she's wrong, he did still have something left, actually two things. One was her, the other stolen from him but soon to be returned.

Blasters filled the area of the roof top, Din's hands supporting her to the ship, "Jump!"

They all landed with a rough thud, instantly she retreats into the ship nursing a blaster shot that skimmed her arm. A small his falls from her lips as she tries to rip the material of the suit away, Din is on his knees in front of her in an instant, large hands cupping her thighs. "You were hit?"

"I'm fine." Din doesn't particularly like the short answer, only notices the way she averts her gaze. He ribs the cloth away from the wound, Cara already has the med pack ready but Din instead takes it, applying pressure with a cloth. Blood fills it instantly, Din curses under his breath. Did it go straight through?

"Are you doing okay cyar'ika?" She nods hesitantly, eyes hooded from the amount of blood rushing out.

"I'm sorry."

Din notices as she starts slouching, other hand pressed against the valley of her chest. "Stay with me, we're gonna put some becca on it and you're going to start feeling better."

"I'm sorry."

Din sighs, "There is nothing to be sorry for." The can is uncapped as he shakes it, "keep talking to me, you're loosing too much blood."

"I shouldn't have looked. I'm selfish." The words are slurred, "I just looked, I didn't think about how it affects you."

"It couldn't be avoided. Stop." It's a warning that it's a dangerous topic to be discussing right now.

"You're handsome." Din feels his cheeks warm, he would have smiled if she wasn't slowly loosing consciousness in front of him. Forehead presses against the metal one.

"Stay with me, it should start working soon. It only takes a few minutes."

A soft hum is all he hears, "Pretty eyes."

Din is blushing uncontrollably, suddenly the armour feels so hot. Slowly her eyes begin to flutter more, color filling her face once again. As soon as she's able to support herself he begins to clean it up.

"I'm sorry." This time he can tell she means the apology, small tears of guilt fill her eyes. "I should have looked away, you should be able to trust me."

"I do trust you, it's not your fault, stop apologizing sweet girl." Soft fingers angle her face to look up at his visor, she could picture the brown eyes under it, the sharpness of his jaw. "I mean it."

"I feel like I ruined something for you, I can't look at you without feeling guilty."

Din feels his throat dry at the thought that crosses his mind, he tried to say it but snaps his mouth close. If she was his wife then it wouldn't break his creed, she would feel more at ease.

He pulls her closer, "If you were my.."

"Your what?"

Din sighs softly, knowing that the guilt would eat her alive, she would never be able to look at him again. "Be my riduur, you would be apart of my clan, be able to see my face without breaking the creed."

"I don't want this to be the reason why you asked, I want it to mean something."

Din shakes his head, "It does mean something, you mean everything to me. It might have not been this soon but I always knew you would end up my riduur some day."

The words warm her heart but Din has other ideas. Now alone he picks the helmet up slowly, just enough to touch her lips with his own. "Please marry me, I don't want to spend another night with you blindfolded. I don't want to hide myself from you any longer."

She smiles, pressing her lips to his again, a silent answer.

[outercrasis]

Sessions

Pairing: College!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: None (let me know if I missed something!)

Summary: Everyone is talking about the mysterious new guy on campus

A/N: I had a ton of fun writing this extremely self-indulgent AU and I have plans to keep writing more about these two. It won’t be an actual chaptered fic, but at some point I’ll throw together a masterlist with a chronological order to things.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Introductions

The semester had only started four weeks ago and he was already a legend around campus. Almost everywhere someone could be found whispering about him. You'd even heard faculty speculating, wondering about the rumors they overheard their students sharing.

You first heard of him in your literature seminar, some of your fellow classmates discussing a recent rumor about the now fabled man. Something about a motorcycle and a child caught your ear, prompting you to interrupt and the girls in front of you who they were talking about. 

The looks you received from the pair were incredulous at best. “You mean you haven’t heard about him?”

“Heard about who?” you asked, genuinely confused. It had only been the first week of class at the time and you were too caught up with your own busy start to check in on the rumor mill.

“Mando, obviously. He’s all anyone is talking about.” From there the girls had happily filled you in on all the latest sightings and rumors. 

Mando, as they called him, was shrouded in mystery. He'd popped up on Corellia University's campus when the semester began and no one knew a thing about him. He hadn't gone to Corellia before, internet searches turned up nothing, and even the skull-like symbol on the back of his leather jacket wasn't familiar to anyone. Any information on him was conjecture at best and there was plenty to go around. Once the rest of the class caught onto what you three were discussing, theories began to fly.

People discussed how he’d been spotted downtown, beating on some guys in a back alley. He’d also been seen uptown the same night though, strolling through Basalt Park. One girl was nearly certain that she’d gone to elementary school with Mando, but he’d mysteriously disappeared one day without explanation. Someone else was confident he was just a cop trying some weird shtick to go undercover. Then one person insisted he had a kid with him sometimes while another was trying to explain that he was actually a murderer. The rumors only became more ludicrous from there.

By the end of the discussion you only ascertained two things for certain. He went by the name Mando and he wore some kind of special helmet. Information you could have gotten by watching him pick up a drink at the Java Hut. Not nearly enough to warrant this level of fervor in your opinion.

From there, hearing about Mando was inescapable. You got home that night only to have your roommate and best friend, Layla, launch into theories about him. Within the week someone set up a social media page to try and track his location around campus via DMs fellow students sent in. That had struck you as invasive and unsettling, but the messages about him kept flooding in.

By pure chance, you had yet to actually see him for yourself. There weren't even any creep shots for you to look at. People had been trying to take photos of him, but he was like a ghost. In the time it took them to pull up their cameras he'd disappear. 

There wasn't even more concrete information about him beyond what you'd learned that first day. Just more and more speculation, a good amount of it made up purely for the shock factor. Another week slipped by, the semester picking up, and Mando news became standard in your day. There was always something new going around about him and as much as you tried to avoid it and focus on your studies, you couldn’t help but wonder about him yourself.

Who was this guy? Was this all some stunt or ‘social experiment’ that would be revealed by a sociology student at the end of the semester? Or was he a legitimate peculiarity, doomed to stick out like a sore thumb? You weren’t sure if you should hate him for making a big deal out of himself or pity him for all the unwarranted attention. Either way, you were sure that whenever you met this enigmatic Mando, you’d know.

×××××

You grumble looking at the submission form. The name and student ID information is blank again. You told Todd last week those fields needed to be made mandatory. How else were you supposed to know who to email when you end up with a no-show for the hour?

Looking further down you're pleased to note that they're at least a grad student. Despite the unfinished form, graduates almost never skip sessions like these. You're thrilled to have the opportunity to discuss something other than freshman composition for once. It's fun helping the wide-eyed freshies, but you can only go over basic comma rules so many times before you start to lose it a little.

There's a knock at the study room door and you look up only to be rendered speechless. It's him. Mando. With a kid on his hip. So Alissandra hadn’t been lying when she told you about the toddler she saw with him. Interesting. Continuing to take him in, you can’t help but focus on the obvious - the only thing you knew about him other than his supposed name, the helmet. 

It’s unlike anything you've seen before. You're fairly certain it's a motorcycle helmet, but it's been modified. Rather than the typical rounded shape, his is all sharp angles and flat at the front. It’s colored a sleek, shining chrome that gleams under the washed out fluorescent lighting. Most arresting is the way he's changed the face of the helmet. The cheeks dip inward at a sharp angle, creating deep, curved contours. His visor is a T of black glass in the center, entirely impossible to see through. It's intimidating and… kinda hot?

The little boy he's holding starts to wiggle in his grasp, physically demanding to be set down in the study room. Once his feet touch the floor, he immediately runs over and climbs into the chair next to you. He's a welcome distraction from his father’s? brother's? guardian's? commanding presence in the room.

The boy can't be older than three, smiling up at you with a wide toothy grin. His hair is covered by a green beanie with large floppy ears sewn onto it and he's wearing a little brown jacket with a sherpa collar. Maybe a bit too heavy for the early autumnal weather, but if the rumor that the kid rides on a motorcycle with Mando is true, it’s perfect. His eyes are large and brown, shining up at you with a slightly mischievous glint.

"Hello, what's your name?" you ask, smiling back at the child.

"Grogu," comes the reply, not from the kid, but from Mando.

You arch an eyebrow at him. He can't be serious with that name. "Grogu?" you ask.

He shrugs, placing his bag on the table. "I came home one day and he told his babysitter that was his name now. He won't respond to anything else. So, Grogu."

You look back to the bouncing toddler. He's still grinning, nodding along with what's been said about his name. They must not be lying then. Either that, or it was some elaborate prank between them and you would never be in on the joke. 

"Well okay, Grogu it is." 

You extend your hand out to Mando, offering your name alongside it. He offers a leather clad hand in return, giving you a firm handshake. You're pleased when he only gives your hand a gentle squeeze, not crushing it like so many other students have done. His gloves are unique as well, black with orange fingers, the leather well worn in. It's warm to the touch, his body heat radiating through the thick fabric. 

"Mando," he says, officially introducing himself as he takes the seat on your other side, across from Grogu.

"Mando," you repeat, cementing it as a truth from the rumor mill. "Got any other names?" You hope that comes across as casual and not intrusive. He hasn't even gone to remove his helmet, telling you he isn't a man who cares much for people prying into his business.

"No. Why?" Mando cocks his head slightly as he asks, the helmet adding an exaggerated look to the movement. He reaches into his bag, pulls out some crayons and a pad of paper, pushing them over to Grogu.

You shrug, trying not to think about how you heard his name might be David from someone in your composition course. "Just thought I'd ask. One hears many things around campus and it's hard to tell what's true or not."

"What do you mean?"

That question makes you pause. Surely he knows. Part of you is still convinced he’s doing this act on purpose, trying to gain notoriety for some reason. The way he asked though, something about it tells you that the poor man is clueless about the buzz he's caused.

"Mando, you're like the talk of the town right now. We only just met but I've heard plenty about you," you explain. It's hard to tell with the helmet on, but you're fairly sure he's shocked underneath. Grogu ignores you both, excitedly scribbling away on his paper.

"I'm fairly sure most of it's just rumor and speculation, but still. You're like a thing around campus," you add.

He's quiet for a moment, his laptop only half out of his bag. "Oh," he finally says. "I didn't know."

Grogu gives a happy shriek not a second later, breaking the awkward tension that had begun to creep into the room. He's beaming, holding up his crayola masterpiece. On the paper there is what appears to be a hastily drawn frog using every color in the box.

Mando returns to himself, pulling his laptop the rest of the way and continues to get set up. "Great job, kid. It looks good."

Most people would have said that dismissively, a platitude to get their child to stop bothering them. When Mando says it though, the authenticity is palpable. He said six words and you can hear the pride lacing them all together. It’s sweet, the obvious affection this clearly private man has for the toddler. 

You can’t help but wonder what his connection to Grogu actually is. The way he spoke just then, if you had to put your money on it, you’d say father. The kicker then though is if he’s biological or not. And if not, then how else does a grad student get strapped with a three year old? Thinking about all the potential scenarios is enough to make your head hurt.

You’re also left wondering where all the more violent rumors about him are coming from. His tenderness is so readily on display that it’s hard to imagine the man before you choking someone because they cut him in line at the local froyo shop. He’s mysterious and gives off a vaguely dangerous vibe, sure, but less than five minutes around him and the kid and it’s obvious he’s no threat to you. He’s just a guy trying to get his assignments done for class, same as everyone else.

Your stomach still catches in your throat as Mando starts unexpectedly tugging off his gloves. From what you’d heard, he never takes anything off: not his jacket, not his gloves, and certainly not his helmet. All anyone knows of his true appearance on campus is that he’s obviously male with rumors flying around about everything else including simple attributes, like the color of his skin. Now, here he is, casually revealing this groundbreaking information to you.

His hands move fluidly, pulling off each glove in just a few easy tugs. His skin matches the heat you felt from them just minutes ago, a warm golden tan, with a few faded lines of scars worn in. Watching him type, pulling his paper up for you to discuss, you feel a deep and sudden ache to have his hands touch you again. A simple handshake is no longer enough. Every stroke of the keys is measured, deliberate, and leaves you wondering how he would use those fingers on you.

“This is what I have so far.”

His voice snaps you back to reality, a quick wave of shame washing over you. Where did all of that come from? It was just a man’s hands for heaven’s sake, certainly not something you should be horny about at two in the afternoon. Not to mention that he came in here looking for your help, not wanting you to start fantasizing about his hands expertly working you over.

You clear your throat and tear your eyes away from the offending appendages. “Great, let me just read the introduction here so I can get an idea for what you’re writing about.”

You settle into working with him easily. His paper is already well-written, just needing tweaks here and there to bring it to the next level. It’s nice working with him. He’s attentive, clearly listening to everything you have to say and taking it into account. He doesn’t even try to challenge you as some of the more macho male students are wont to do. By the end of the session, you can’t help but wish all of your time as a tutor was that easy.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, tucking his laptop away. “You really helped.”

You smile at him, thrilled with his genuine complement. “Of course, that’s what I’m here for.”

He finishes packing up his and Grogu’s things, with you silently lamenting as his gloves slide back on. It still feels like a ridiculous thought, but he really does have beautiful hands. There’s a small tap on your arm and you look to your left to see Grogu patiently waiting. He’s offering something to you, paper outstretched in his little hands.

“Thank you,” you say, taking the sheet from him. You look at it to see a frog carefully drawn on the page. It’s not the same as the first one he showed you and Mando, this one more deliberate and thoughtful. The colors are still just as varied, but it’s obvious he took more time to think about where he was using each one. You can’t help but smile at his small masterpiece.

“It looks great, buddy. I’ll keep it forever,” you tell him. Grogu beams at your praise, excitedly looking over to Mando. 

Mando nods at the kid. “Yeah kid, I heard her too.” He turns his head towards you. “Thank you again. I’d take good care of that drawing. He’ll never forgive you if he finds out you got rid of it.”

“Does that mean I’ll be seeing you again?” Your own boldness takes you by surprise. You have no idea where that came from, how those words spilled without a second thought. Part of you is already cringing at Mando’s potential reaction.

He surprises you once again though, holding a hand out for Grogu to take. Shouldering his backpack, you hear an amused huff of air from under the helmet. “Yeah, mesh’la, I’ll see you around.”

There isn’t a chance to reply as Mando turns, escorting his tiny charge out of the room with him. You’re a little dumbstruck, now equally surprised with him as you had been with yourself. 

And what was that name he just called you? Mesh’la? You don’t even know what language that could have been, much less the meaning. Something about his tone when he said it tells you it’s a good thing though, that he’s not secretly calling you rude names in some unknown language. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever get to find out.

.

.

.

taglist: @honestly-shite

[exuber]

Day 02: Against a Wall - The Mandalorian (Din Djarin) x Female Reader || pre-canon/pre-The Mandalorian plot line

Summary: You are a private sex worker, and the Mandalorian -- your favorite client -- pays you a visit.

Warnings: 18+ only, p in v sex, language, sex work/prostitution, sense deprivation (sight, doesn't go too into detail), rough sex

A/N: sorry, i know this is nearly 2 days late!! i've had a very busy weekend ;; also this is like 1,430 words long oops.

“You know the drill.”

The familiar modulated voice sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. The voice alone makes something giddy and sweet stir low in your belly. Your legs clench, briefly, before you finally turn to face your favorite client.

“Hey, Mando. Been a while. Work taking you far away from me?” You pout, playful, as you rummage through your drawer for the blindfold. Mando, meanwhile, says nothing, but you don’t miss the slight twitch of his gloved fingers. It’s satisfying to think that you have even an ounce of the impact on him that he has on you. Because, if you’re being honest with yourself, the sight of the Mandalorian standing at your doorway is already making you wet.

He’s tall, and broad, so broad. Sure, he’s not the tallest of your clients, but that doesn’t matter, because no one else exudes danger the way the Mandalorian does. You can’t read his expression behind his beskar helmet, the t-shaped visor giving nothing away. His rust-colored armor is worn, his dark cape tattered, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body a constant reminder that he is not to be fucked with.

He approaches you, gait slow and swaggering, and reaches his hand out, palm up. You drop the piece of fabric into his hand, eyes trained on his visor the entire time. The blindfold is just a precaution, you know. He’s never taken his helmet off with you; you don’t think he takes it off for anyone. No one is allowed to see the man behind the helmet. You think it has something to do with his creed -- he’s never told you, and you never ask. The first time he paid you a visit, he snatched your wrists up in one gloved hand when you traced the planes of his helmet. It was a warning, one you heed more out of respect for your client than the fear of your life.

Besides, the helmet has become… something of a turn on for you.

Before you can blink, he whips you around by your hip so that your back is to him. The sudden movement makes you gasp, but like he said before, you know the drill. You close your eyes as Mando brings the blindfold over them. Once tied, he guides you forward to the nearest wall and pushes you up against it. You place your hands on the wall in front of you to brace yourself when you feel his hands leave your body.

This is the part that kills you, the part that thrills you. No sight, and you can’t hear anything but your breathing. So quiet you’d think he up and left if it weren’t for the way the hairs on the back of your neck stood. You could feel him hovering behind you, the very threat of him being so close, of knowing he’s watching you… it makes the very core of you ache for the bounty hunter.

“You’re shirt. Take it off”

You gulp, and slowly bring the shirt over your head before dropping it to the ground. A shiver passes through your body, both from the chill gracing your bare skin and from anticipation.

“Touch yourself. Don’t turn around.”

The command halts your movement as you begin to turn away from the wall. “Don’t you want to see, Mando?” You wiggle your ass a bit, teasing. It’s worth it when you hear the static-y sound of a grunt.

“I can see just fine. Touch yourself.”

You bite your lip and trail your hand down your stomach and into your pants. Your whole body quakes as soon as the tip of your middle finger brushes against the sensitive bundle of nerves. It’s enough to spur you on, and you continue to play yourself, rubbing small circles around your clit. You arch your back so that your clothed breasts are pressed up against the wall and your ass juts out even more -- for Mando’s viewing pleasure, beckoning him to just touch you already.

A couple of excruciating moments pass with Mando watching as your moans escalate, until, finally, neither of you can wait for the other any longer. He presses up against you, pressing you more firmly against the wall, and you can feel him through the fabric of both your clothes, how enticingly hard he is against your ass. It sends a thrill right through you and you moan at the contact, excitement spreading through to your already wet underwear.

The hand you were using to pleasure yourself finds its way back to the wall to steady yourself. He ruts up against you, none-too-gently, and you beg without words to feel him without the obtrusions. He tears off the garment supporting your breast first. The sudden contact of the cold wall against your stiff nipples stings, making you hiss in pleasure. You abruptly throw your hip back to meet his next thrust, impatient, because you can’t fucking wait anymore, you’re ready for him, you need him inside you. Your pussy is absolutely throbbing at his absence.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from beneath the helmet, and by the way he tightens his grip on you, you know you’re about to get what you want.

There’s a brief struggle as you both come to undo your pants, and you can’t tug them down fast enough. At some point during the fumbling of garments, he must’ve unzipped his own pants because you feel his erection, hot and hard, sliding up against your backside.

“Please, Mando, please, what are you waiting f-”

The words stutter to a stop when you feel the tip of his cock against your entrance. And then he’s sliding in, widening you, and it’s effortless because of how wet you are but still gradual -- he’s just so fucking thick and your walls tigthen around him, welcoming, welcoming, full until he presses up against that delicious spot and your eyes roll up into your skull-

“Oh, stars--!”

He pulls back slowly before thrusting back in again. He repeats the movement, gradually increasing the pace with each thrust and making you sing in bliss. But he’s not one to savor once he’s inside you. No, all the torture was done beforehand. He makes you ache with want just by looking at you. He’ll drag it out as long as he wants, as long as he can. But once he’s inside you, his impatience matches your own and it’s not long until he’s fucking you, truly fucking you into the wall with rough quick motions.

Tears sting your eyes, you’re so close, it’s building and building and he feels so fucking good inside you, you can never have enough of him. He pants behind you, the sound coming out static-y and it makes you clench down and around him. His movements become jerky, short, quick, but still rough rough rough, his grip tattooing itself into your skin. And then you’re cumming, head thrown back as a ragged shout escapes you.

One, two, three more delectable pumps and he’s joining you, releasing himself inside. He’s pressed entirely up against you now, completely crowding you against the wall. His helmet comes to rest on the wall beside your head -- you can feel the cool of it on the left side of your temple -- as he continues to cum. The pulsing of his throbbing member makes you whimper; you’re spent, legs shaking, full to the brim with the Mandalorian’s cock and his seed but your cunt has the audacity to crave more.

When he finally pulls out, you feel his cum and yours drip down your inner thighs. Before you can collapse into a quivering heap, he’s pulling you towards your bed with a gentleness that reminds you why he’s your favorite client; He’s intimidating and rough when he visits but he doesn’t treat you like an object to be discarded despite this being a job for you and a release for him.

You lay back on the bed and try to catch your breath. Mando, still standing, tries to do the same, though more subtle. The rise and fall of his chest is barely perceptible; he’s already building back up the stoic armor that was briefly displaced just moments before. He’s already tucked himself back into his pants. You try not to be disappointed that you couldn’t taste him today.

The Mandalorian fishes some credits out of one of the pouches strapped to him and places it on the table beside your bed. You smirk up at him.

“Always a pleasure, Mando.”

He nods once and turns to leave without looking back.

[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.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Perfect Timing.”

Alright everyone. I am beginning to realize that maybe expecting myself to write a story every week day with a job and trying to get into grad school and writing a second novel might be a bit..... excessive?

So I am going to try for three times a week. I hope you all stick around :)

And I hope you enjoy today’s story as well. 

Adam stood with his hands behind his back, feet spread to shoulder width. He would never have noticed by himself, but the men and women around him stood a little straighter and stepped a little faster under his watchful eye. Once upon a time they might have only hastened their work if he directly asked them too, but just his mere presence these days could send his crew scurrying to do their work. He hadn’t really changed anything about the way he commanded his men. He was firm when he needed to be but allowed for brevity when it would suit the situation.

However, a few years and some tough lessons was slowly shaping him into the kind of man who could command thousands, sharp posture, calm confidence, and a keen eye. 

But then again anyone who could appear professional while wearing high top heelies was a man to be reckoned with.

Sunny walked up next to him her pearlescent white armor glowing under the light as she leaned on the shade of her matching spear. Her head was held high like his. Where once she had been locked up, and defensive, she now stood with the calm confidence of someone who understood what control meant.

Together they had come a long way.

She tilted her head, “You really think he’s going to let you race this…. It’s a million dollar piece of military hardware, they don’t stand a chance.”

Adam didn’t move, hands still clasped behind his back as he  stared up at the F-90 Darkfire he was preparing for the race, “I wouldn’t be so sure…. I’ll be lucky to come in last place.”

Sunny frowned confused, “I saw those shuttles, they were junk shows.”

He lifted his head as the F-90 was rolled across the deck.

“This is a race, it isn’t combat. She was built for dogfights which means she is going to be heavier than the others. Wing tip to wing tip she is also going to be a little longer than the other shuttles and jets making maneuvering around obstacles more difficult. Sure she likely has a more powerful engine, but that can be as much of a detriment as it is a leg up.”  He gestured in the vague direction of the race course, “We are going to be racing through the planet’s smaller rocky ring. It has an unusual amount of larger, thick chunks which we are going to have to manuver around: the kind of conditions you might see in science fiction movies when they talk about an asteroid field. Asteroid fields are generally too far apart to cause any real issue, but here the rocks are dense, and my flying is going to have to be on pont, having a more powerful engine is going to make her more touchy, and my fitness on the controls is going to have to be absolute.”

Sunny tilted her head listening as he continued. She liked it when this side of him came out. There was something about the analytical, logical side of Adam she found….. Very appealing.

He walked forward to examine the jet himself, “Furthermore, I don’t know if you noticed, but there were a few jets there that weren’t exactly junk shows. A few of them were pretty top of the line, and most of them were built for racing. Lighter, sleeker, faster, and with more engine control than mine.

A lot of my maneuverability is lost out of the atmosphere. This isn’t about how well you can manipulate wind currents, this is going to be all about the very minute rotation of the rear and and wing engines. Their wings are smaller and closer in meaning they are going to rotate more easily than me.

She walked up with him and put a hand on his shoulder, “You forgot to fact in one thing.”

He frowned and looked up, “Oh, what did I miss.”

She smiled slightly, “The skill of the pilot, and I know for a fact that we have the best pilot this side of Andromeda. You can have the best plane in the world, but if you have a shit pilot, then a good pilot in a flying trash can has a chance of winning.”

He Smiled, “Thanks, I needed that.”

He stepped back, “Still it doesn't pay to be too cocky. I have a feeling these people have raced this before, they are going to know what they are dealing with, and I am going tinto this completely blind. This is a test to see if my instincts are better than their practice…. Who knows it could be a very close run thing.”

He moved forward to do an extra check on the outside of the ship despite having a whole team of people to do it for him. Adam had learned to delegate a lot of his responsibilities onto others to avoid burnout, but this was one thing he never left to other people. He came back after a thorough check of the ship and stopped next to her.

His head was tilted to one side as he looked at the machine sitting before him.

“It is missing something.”

Sunny turned her head to look at him, “What?”

He smiled, “Do we have anyone here who has experience with graffiti?”

***

Donavan Red met him when he entered the hanger, wearing his flight suit and holding his helmet under one arm. He had gone for some of his more simple equipment. Didn’t want to give the guy an excuse to blame his skill on technology.

Red looked him over.

“Nice suit, princess.”

Adam just smiled thinly looking around at the other pilots, “I see I might be under-dressed.”

To be far though, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would have described the dress code, if he had to put it on an invitation. 

The most apt description seemed to have been.

Dress for Pissing contest.

The men and women wore their uniforms in the same way NASCAR drivers might, covered in logos and patterns. Some of them were clearly custom ordered with personal designs on the backs or the helmets, some sporting flames, others cartoon animals, one guy was just covered in black and white skulls.

The affect up close was ok, but from a distance he just looked like an over excited dalmatian, or maybe some kind of flamboyant cow.

A few of them went for color themes, neon red on black. Neon green on blue.

Most of them tried to coordinate with the matching colors on their ship, each trying to outdo the next.

Red smirked.

The docking bay light began to blink red as the airlock was engaged, and the all turned to watch as the doors opened, and Adam’s jet rolled into the docking bay. She was simultaneously both very impressive and very not impressive. She was an instrument of war, and he rockets lined up on either side of her wings said as much. Adam had once considered her rather sleek in comparison to other jets of the day, but looking at her now in comparison with the racing planes and he couldn’t help but compare her to a pitbull or a bulldog next to greyhounds or whippets.

She rolled up slowly and Red raised an eyebrow.

“A whose guy huh?”

Adam smirked, “I don’t know, I kind of like it.”

They both looked up as the F-90 stopped in place, and along her side in delicate blue cursive script was the name Cinderella. The man who had done the graffiti  had even taken the time to add some stylized pink roses to the front and end of the word giving it a finished look.

Donavan seemed both amused and annoyed at the same time.

The men and women around him turned to look over ridicule dying on their lips as they saw the smirk on his face.

It was made pretty clear.

He was going to beat them, and when he beat them, he was going to have a princess logo on the side of his jet, never mind all of their cool paint jobs.

Donavan frowned but then turned to everyone, “Alright load up!.” Adam did as ordered, switching seats with the young pilot in the cockpit and strapping himself in. he adjusted his controls, did a quick once over, and then pulled some power from his engine.  There was going to be an overwhelming desire to go fast, but he knew that speed wasn’t going to win him this race.

The jets began lining up next to each other, and to his surprise, one of the sleek racing models sidled up next to him, and when he looked over, he saw Donovan Red cambering into the cockpit.

That didn’t exactly bode well, but what was there to do about it.

He felt cool oxygen spilling  onto his mouth and nose as the orange tinted visor dropped down over his eyes. He opted not to use the heads up display preferring to see everything around him as he was flying. 

They were all in a line now, and up ahead a large projection appeared on the docking bay doors.

Red lights began to blink as the docking bay was cleared of everyone except for the jets.

The image of a woman appeared on the screen before them.

It was one of the women he had seen before in her cut off jean shorts and tight tank top.

“Ladies and gentlemen start - your - ENGINES!”

All around him the room was filled with a roar as the group of people pushed their engines to an idle.

He could feel the jet underneath him as it thrummed and whined vibrating into his gloves and down into his skin.

His very bones could feel the trembling.

“The course is simple, one lap around the rocky interior ring of the planet. Rules are only this, no leaving the ring, no weapons, and no teams, every man for himself. If the race moderators see any of this, you will be thrown from the race.”

She smiled and leaned back to reveal two green flags in either hand.

She began to wave them.

“On your mark!”

He took a deep calming breath forcing his hand to relax.

“Get set.”

He felt his heart beating  hard against his ribcage, his stomach crawled up into his throat, and he felt the sudden and overwhelming need to pee.

“GO!”

THe airlock doors shot open faster than they should have been able, a clear sign someone had bypassed safety protocols. Caught off guard by this, Adam shot out of the gate slower than he would have liked. Already the racing  jets streaked ahead, their quicker sleeker designs looking right at home against the blackness of space.

He had to remind himself that in space, without wind resistance, sleek didn’t mean shit.

If he was good enough he could have piloted a brick to win.

He gave more joice to the engine and shot forward. He cut under one of his other opponents and then cythed up next to a second.

He was there for only a moment when he saw something coming in from his right.

Instincts had him move fast, and he turned horizontal  shooting upwards just as another jet tried to push him out. He was flying over the two of them now, and gave another burst shooting forward and past them.

This open stretch was the only time he was going to be able to use the power of his engine to his advantage, so he gave her a little more juice and shot forward catching up quickly with the racing models at the front. Two of them cut sideways attempting to block his path. He cursed, forced to fire his engines backwards so as not to go crashing into them. 

The ring was approaching quickly now, and he could see very clearly that they had not been kidding. The belt was dense, less mate out of fine sand, and instead made up of billions of rocks some the size of him, others the size of cars, and even some the size of large houses. It was the strangest sort of formation he had ever seen around a planet, and he wondered idly how they stayed in orbit.

The two jets ahead of him cut right and then left as a rock came barreling towards him.

He shouted and rolled to the side barely avoiding a head on collision, his instincts saving him where his active brain could not.

He snarled.

“Pull it together.”

There was no time to be thinking, there was only time for flying.

WIth a practiced hand he toggled a switch on the side of his thumb, and his helmet was suddenly filled with the sound of music and drums. His brain focused inward and stopped thinking. He shot over and then under rolling between rocks just inches away on either side. Off to his right the planet below was glowing with the light of it’s star, a lightning blue halo around it where the atmosphere glowed.

He cut the left dove down and then rolled up.

He could see the other jets ahead of him cutting in and out through the rocks. His breathing grew even, his body relaxed, his brain heard nothing but the beat of the music and saw nothing but the obstacles ahead of him.

One of the jets pulled up next to him from behind recklessly rolling around one of the rocks. They were racing wing tip to wing tip now.

They cut right and left under and over he rolled left they rolled right. They were shaky just hanging on, but his flying was smooth.

Up ahead one of the other jets lit up with glowing orange as a set of flares broke from it’s back end shatting against the debris behind it.  Rocks were thrown off their normal course and went smashing into each other turning the rock field ahead of them into a meat grinder. Adam shot forward and dived downward while rolling tight, behind him the racer was unable to replicate the move and a piece of rock caught their wing sending them spinning off to the side and out of the ring.

Adam dodged a piece of debris coming in from his left, flipped upside down and shot diving upward and then righting himself just under the jet up front.

He could see the leader now, and recognized it as Red himself .

The jet above him attempted to drop down and knock him out of position, but he gave a burst to the engine and shot forward.

The jet behind him punched downward and nearly collided into a rock before pulling back into the palace.

Adam took their place in second.

Red could see him coming.

Another set of flares was released.

He checked his forward momentum and rolled three or four times to his right. G forces tugged at his consciousness forcing blackness to the edge of his vision. He tightened the muscles of his chest and stomach forcing blood back up into his head as he breathed out in short controlled bursts.

A rock flew overhead, he cut low, bumped up and then executed a rolling turn over a massive rock pulling in behind red and just up to the right to avoid another burst of flares.

The two of them were fighting for the front now.

And red was good, he knew how to handle a jet, but so did Adam.

They roared past a field of rocks splitting apart as a massive chunk came between them. Adam roared forward, and panicked for a single moment as he saw an impenetrable wall of rock appear just before him. Then a crack appeared. He fired the forward engine and cut horizontal passing through an opening that left him only feet to spare. Rock rose up to meet him, and he rotated his engine up dropping vertically before cutting sideways and passing under a rock. Teeth gritted, he punched upward passing through a gap just as it closed behind him.

A yell of exertain escaped his lips as he pulled straight up cutting up the side of a massive mansion-sized rock before diving right back down into the thick of it.

Red was gone, he didn’t see him anymore.

Was he up front?

And then the sleek black jet dropped down from above cutting him off.

He cursed and swerved low past another rock forced to cut diagonal back into line.

He pulled up wing to wing with the men again.

They dove, they pulled up and they took a wide turn ac coordinated together as a military formation never more than four feet apart.

They were going faster than they probably should have reacted. second by second he rolled left Red went right. They both met in a dive rolling past each other, wings almost touching before cutting upwards mirroring each other in opposite directions. The sound of the music melded with the path of his flight.

They were racing side by side just as one of the other jets roared over them careening out of control in a desperate attempt t o reach front. They watched him dive pull up cut left, and then a rock rolled right into their path. The two of them barely had time to react as the rock hit their right wing and then sent them slamming into the next boulder. There was an eruption and a brief ball of fire as oxygen was consumed from inside the cockpit. Debris blossomed up around them in a miniature explosion.

Adam greeted his teeth, eyes wide .

What was once a race suddenly turned into a battlezone. He and Red dove together rolling around the debris desperately trying to avoid getting cut in two. At these speeds, one hit would be the death of them. His heart raced in his chest as he pulled forward cutting  in the triangle made by three boulders side by side. Red mirrored him below.

A chunk of metal shot towards him, and he toggled his right wing burst just in time, lowering his left side just in time for the chunk to go flying past him. He pulled up with a gasp as a massive chunk of rock cut up before him. Red shot below and he rolled over the top coming into second place.

Up ahead a mining barge ascended through the line of rocks.

Adam roared with exertion as he pulled up and leveled out shooting right under the attached arm of the barge. Red lights erupted over it’s hull in a proximity warning as he went just inches overhead.

The barge driver, clearly spooked twisted to the side and the arm of the barge rolled with it, catching a boulder and sending it flying towards the grouping next to it, there was a sudden explosion of rock and again he was forced to roll to the side. Up down, over and under, cything between lines of rock.

He was almost hit once, then twice.

He toggled the forward engines, slowing himself down and then shooting straight up before continuing forward.

The rocks around him were rolling unpredictably colliding and then exploding into smaller pieces. There was no way he was making it through that alive.

He was rolling diving spinning twisting, and then, he felt it…. Something he had only felt on occasion. The world around him went silent, everything seemed to slow, and he was filled with…. With a feeling. It was like light, bursting out from his chest, rolling up through his skin and into his head.

He entered a moment of perfect execution. He cut into a tight roll his wings cything through the minute gaps between debris with timing so perfect it shouldn't have been humanly possible. Rocks passed by him at hundreds of miles an hour inches away  from the glass of his canopy, one wrong move and he’d be dead. He cut through a gap that gave him inches on either side rolld right dove down, turned left, spun once and then twice, and made a completely vertical ascent. Rocks flew past him on his right and on his left.

Up ahead he could see a gap slowly closing before him. He opened up his engine and shot forward so fast everything was a blur.

The rocks collided behind him as they snapped shut, and he flew into the clear firing forward to slow himself, and then red was there too descending from above spinning and wobbling, almost out of control and careening directly towards a house sized boulder.

He panicked firing up and down at the same time and sending him into a spin.

He was heading directly towards the rock .

WIthout thinking Adam locked onto the rock, and fired. A rocket under his wing detached and shot forward exploding violently just in time for Red to pass through unharmed. Red jolted awkwardly and rolled to one side. Adam cut past under from right to left and rolled straight over red to avoid a rock.

There was a moment where the two of them were staring at each other through the clear canopy.

Eyes met for an instant, and Adam could see the wide eyed fear on the man’s face., Then Adam rolled ahead ducking under the last rock and then bursting out into space.

He let the F-90 have her moment, and completely opened the engine shooting forward and cutting through the finish line which flashed bright green. In that moment He was hit with such a sense of exhilaration and joy that he couldn't imagine anything better. Who needed drugs, who needed love, who needed any of that when you could fly.

Hed did a triumphant loop whooping the whole way.

Of course, a feeling like that can never last long and slowly began to fade away. THe reality of what he had just done was both terrifying and amazing to the point he felt his body begging to shake. The tension and fear he had been holding back exploded inside him just like that joy and he found his hands trembling on the joystick.

He let it overtake him. He had been like this since he was young and fighting it would only make things worse. Despite his shaking hands he flew back to the docking bay and landed his jet with the precision of a surgeon. Finally when the engine was off and the flood stable underneath him he slumped back in his seat shaking and racked with rolling tremors. He closed his eyes and breathed long and slow.

Behind him the others came limping in.

None of them were completely unscathed, at least one person was dead. His hands continued to shake as the airlock doors shut, and as soon as the room was pressurized, he opened the cockpit. As soon as it did, Sunny came running into the room and up the ladder. SHeleft her spear on the floor and helped him to climb out.  His legs were shaking and he almost fell if it weren’t for her support.

She knew him too well, sitting him down on the lowest step and kneeling next to him.

“Are you ok?”

He grinned at her, “That was…. Holy shit.”

He held up his hand to watch the shaking, “I’m having an earthquake.”

It was just then that Red jumped out of his jet onto the floor. He staggered when he did but pushed away the men who tried to help, “What the ever loving FUCK just happened. The field had NEVER been like that. Jaz DIED out there, what the FUCK.” 

The people milled around in confusion.

Red turned to him, eyes narrowing as he stalked over. Adam sighed and looked up as the man stopped to stand over him

“I’m sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

The man paused confused, “What?”

“I broke the rules. Means I forfeit.”

Red looked almost nonplussed, “What are you on about?”

Adam slowly took to his feet taking a few more deep wreaths to steady himself before drawing to his full height. He was stead now and looked down at Red with an unwavering gaze. He held out a hand, “I used weapons during the race, that was against the rules. These weren’t flares to move the rocks. I used a targeted missile during the race and that means I broke the rules.”

Red stared at him.

Then he snorted, “Damn the rules. You saved my ass.” he turned to look at his people, “I am more than man enough to acknowledge that.” HE turned back to Adam, “You saved my life you crazy bastard. I am not even sure how you are still alive ….. Because that flying…. That was….. Holy fuck.” He grinned and took Adam by the shoulder, “you shaking, man.” He held up his hand to show a tremor, “Me too, now let's go get some drinks and talk this out. I owe you after all.”

The two of them walked off through the forest of shaken pilots, “You are the kind of man I can see myself doing business with.”

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: T

Words: 1.2K~

Summary: His family’s not present, the third time he runs away. They never see the creature he becomes.

Early corruption AU.

Howdy. To be honest, I don’t have any more buffer finalized for this fic at the moment, but I really, really wanted to post this. Chapters 18-25 are entirely plotted out, though. (There’s some lore headcanons in the author’s notes of the AO3 version!)

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well. Thank you! <3

____

“I’d like to thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Peridot addresses the small crowd sitting before her on the top of the hillside above the temple. Garnet and Pearl are in attendance, as well as Amethyst, Bismuth, and Lapis— the individuals who supported her in making her latest breakthrough possible. Also present is Greg, Connie, and Connie’s medical professional mother, who she doesn’t know well enough to remember the name of. Resting behind her is a double-sided chalkboard— the surface facing her audience empty— and a tall, mysterious contraption obscured under a white bed sheet. “Before we begin, I must disclose that this system has only gone through rudimentary testing, so success is not guaranteed immediately.”

“Anything’s better than nothing at this point,” Steven’s father says, loosely tugging upon the large hunks of grass surrounding him within his aimlessly flexing grip.

(Silently, Garnet places her hand on his upper arm, beckoning for him to relax, to take a deep breath and unwind.)

“Y-yes, of course,” she stammers in reply, suddenly hyper-aware of the spotlight she’s called down upon herself, and how fervently everyone gathered here desires her success. Swallowing hard, she attempts to recollect her wits. “And now, to introduce my new technology.” She yanks a sheet off of her invention, positioned beside her. “Tah-dahhh!” she intones with dramatic vibrato, wriggling her fingers towards the bizarre towering device.

It stands as tall as Garnet, long and skinny with a solid base. Attached to its top is a small satellite dish retrofitted with a plethora of navigation system components from an old decommissioned Roaming Eye. Thick bundles of wires wind around the central pole holding the dish aloft, connecting to a cluster of human computers. If one were to look inside those computers, they’d quickly realize that many of their chips and cords have been replaced with the same exceedingly common hard light circuitry that’s used in energy transfer systems in Gem settlements. It’s a glorious combination of Gem and human technology, a celebration of the radical change both species are able to accomplish, working hand-in-hand.

(And most appropriately, it’s a hybrid, much like their missing friend.)

“So how is this... thing... supposed to work?” Connie’s mother says, appearing more confused than impressed by this display. Connie herself sits in unnerving silence beside her, her darkened, hollow expression a stark reminder of what the stakes of this mission truly are. There’s far too little hope amongst the members of this audience already, so any further failure may threaten to destroy resolve altogether.

Unable to fully meet the teen’s eyes, Peridot’s gaze drops to her feet. She flushes deep. “I, um... well,” she begins, adjusting her visor as drops of sweat bead upon her forehead, around her gem. “The theory of it is essentially that, uh—“

“It’s a location tracker,” Bismuth chimes in, swiftly rescuing her from under the crippling pressure. “We think we can triangulate Steven’s exact position on any planet with it.”

“Uh- yes, precisely!”

She briefly pauses to allow hard light to refresh her form, running all the way from her core to her furthest extremities. She’s fine— it’s fine. This is brand new tech, and it’s not solely her fault if it fails to succeed in its role on the first, second, or even third run. While it crushes her to entertain the very thought, what she truly needs is to forget about Steven for a moment. Forget about the pressure. Forget about the stakes. Her job right now is simply to explain the basic principles of this machine’s operation in a manner that her audience might understand. Nothing more, nothing less.

“As an introduction to this technology,” she says, picking up a stethoscope-like device that’s been wired into the base of the tracker and extending it towards the crowd to showcase, “I have invented a method to extract precise resonant frequencies from any Gem, using this. These frequencies are a unique identifying mark amongst Gemkind... think of it almost like a Gem fingerprint. Of course, Steven has both of these things,” she states matter-of-factly, placing the extractor tool down on the top of the hollowed-out computer and slowly beginning to pace back and forth in front of her creation. “Fingerprints from his organic parentage, yes. But given he inherited his mother’s gemstone, he inherited her resonant frequency as well. This frequency... is what we’re going to track.”

Peridot pauses for only a few seconds, just long enough to allow her friends ample time to bask in the logic of her unquestioned genius. There’s no time to dawdle! She worked hard on this project, and she’s only just now approaching the crux of its operation.

“Now, what some of you may be wondering,” she charges right ahead without so much as asking for questions, “is how any of this information is helpful. Why, Steven is missing, Peridot!” she exclaims, throwing her arms outwards. “How could we ever hope to retrieve the information needed to locate him when we don’t know where he is? And to answer that, I present my most important finding.”

She clicks her fingers, beckoning Lapis to join her at the front of the small crowd. Her hydrokinetic friend rotates the chalkboard on its axle to reveal the other side, which has various graphs and schematics hastily taped to its textured surface. She gestures towards two of them, a spectrogram showing a direct read of one of her test subject’s unique frequency over time, and another showing a read of the same Gem’s frequency, but derived from a different source. The resultant peaks and valleys of this second frequency are less sharp, but still immediately familiar in shape.

“In the past few days, I have conducted a number of experiments with volunteers from Little Homeschool, and have discovered that when two Gems fuse, an imprint of the fusion partner’s resonant frequency is saved in both gems. The more frequent the fusion, the stronger this imprint is. My current theory is that storing this information allows for easier synchronicity upon successive fusions, but— that isn’t strictly relevant to this mission. What this means is that we can extract Steven’s unique resonance from any individual who has fused with him.”

“Any individual?” Connie chimes in suddenly, her hands clasped in a vice-like grip in her lap.

Recognizing how desperately the human wishes to be a pivotal part in finding her best friend, she offers her a thin, regretful smile. “Regrettably, no. I apologize for my lack of clarity. This procedure will only work with Gems.”

“Then I’ll do it,” a voice cuts in from the crowd.

Simultaneously, everyone turns to meet the speaker’s gaze. Peridot’s brow creases with surprise as Pearl stands to her feet, her posture wrapped in a shawl of hesitancy. Out of the three Gems in attendance here who have fused with Steven, she has to admit— Pearl was not the one she expected to volunteer first.

“I am, of course, the individual who has fused most with that Gem,” she says, clutching her hands against her chest. “Maybe not with Steven himself, but... it’s like you said. He inherited her frequency. Her song. And I know firsthand that its melody is unchanged.”

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Fifteen

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader

Words: 6.1K

Summary: (Body Swap AU) Din has to kill the bounty hunter who has been chasing you through space. 

Rating: MA (Extreme descriptions of violence, explicit descriptions of sex)

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, death, murder, sex (m/f), fingering (female receiving) 

A/N: HELLO! I’m sorry I was gone so long!! My operation went well, thank you to every single one of you. And especially for all the lovely messages and kind words I got while I was healing. My brain has been foggy since then but babey we are back in business. AND WE ARE HERE TO ABSOLUTELY COMMIT MURDER. As you can see this chapter we have some pretty intense warnings and a high rating so please read with caution. The read more will be at the top so anyone who wishes to avoid these can do so. 

The first time Din Djarin took a life he used his hands.

The man was bigger than him. Stronger than him too, thick, meaty arms and body. Din was glad for his helmet, so that man could not see his face. Could not see his scared eyes beneath. But Din could see his eyes, the slaver’s eyes. His cargo ship had been packed so full of children they could barely fit to sit next to each other in the hull. Scared and bound. Some of them were older, Din’s age, their faces streaked with dirt and blood and sweat. The Mandalorians had found them on an almost uninhabited planet making a stopover before a jump to hyperspace, some of the children left out in the hot sun, their hands tied in front of them and squinting. One of them sobbing. And Din was ready to complete his passage, and so while the Mandalorians helped the children from the hull onto their ship they took Din’s blaster and shoved the captured slaver at him, encased on all sides by helmeted warriors, just like the spars in the covert. But this was no spar. And Din had no blaster. His ears were ringing and making him dizzy. His blood was pumping so hard in his hands he had to ball them into fists to keep them from shaking. The slaver was watching him still, spat at his feet some taunt.

Din does not remember what the man said anymore.

Din remembers thinking that he took too long. Remembers being scared enough that he made mistakes he never would in the covert. So that the man was able to grab him by his swinging arm and pull him close enough to beat his fist against the side of Din’s helmet. The sound of the ringing made it hard to think, hard to see. Misstepped again and the slaver’s boot connected with the side of his knee. Grabbed his arm agains and wrapped both his meaty fists around Din’s wrist, got the spot between his glove and his Beskar. Snapped it with a sound which made Din sick, felt like his arm is being crushed from his broken wrist to his shoulder. Felt it in the backs of his teeth. He heard the same chanting in his head, over and over. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. The voices of the Mandalorians speaking for his passage. He must kill a man with his hands and understand what it is to take a life. He must be able to look a person in their eye before he kills him. To feel the power he holds over them. All people. All things. And then they will give him his blaster again.

The slaver hit him against the side of his helmet again, slapped it with an open palm. Din’s wrist burned. He stumbled and almost hit the ground. Swiped at the slaver and it made the huge man laugh, cruel and mean and ugly. His teeth were two perfect straight lines. Din caught his arm on another swipe and pulled him forward, managed to throw the man off balance. Tripped him and pushes him to the ground. The slaver was big, and he hit the ground hard. Din felt it move the earth beneath him in a tremor. Clambered on top of him before the man could move again, get the upper hand again. His fist glanced off the man’s ear.

The slaver rolled and Din’s back hit the dirt. Sent a cloud of dry dust into the air around him. His Beskar still made him heavy and awkward then. Reduced his reach and made him slow. He was not yet used to accounting for it. The slaver smacked him again. Mean again. Laughed at the sound of his palm against the metal. Taunted him. Din thought he would die then. Saw the helmets of his brothers watching him, hovering just out of reach. They did not move to help him when the slaver tried to wrap both his fists around Din’s neck. There were no children anymore, all of them carried away. The sky was blue and blazing. The sun was hot. The slaver had spittle between his lips that hit the visor of the helmet when he laughed. Din thinks the man said something to him then as well, but he cannot remember the words anymore. Only the sound of the man’s voice. The shadow of him looming over him in the dirt on some planet far away from home. A dark shape against a bright sky, his death the same as his last memory of his parents, and death was laughing at him. All around them the Mandalorians are silent.

Din doesn’t know how he managed to kick his leg out, to loop his knee high enough that he could roll them, sudden and sharp. Forced the slaver on his back into the dust. His right hand still burned, his right arm, the limb pulsing, but while the man was surprised Din grabbed him by his hair and beat his head into the ground. Over and over and over again. The dull thudding became wet. The blood leaked out over the grey dust and turned it to mud. Splattered over his pants and his boots and his gloves. Over his Beskar.

When Din finally stumbled to his feet the back of the slaver’s head was shattered. His hair and flesh and bone mixed in with the mud beneath him. His eyes don’t see anything anymore. Stare into nothing. The man was not scared, he did not have time to be scared. The Mandalorians around them disperse, all murmuring the same thing under their breath. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. The sigils on their pauldrons caught the bright light on the desert planet, glinting in the sun. The Death Watch. The Mandalorian who raised him, who took him from his dead parents stepped forward and rested a hand on Din’s arm again, nodded grimly. He handed him back his blaster. Din was still glad for his helmet so that the warriors could not see the tears on his face.

Din has no blaster now.

And the bounty hunter cannot see the smile on his face. Even leaned in towards him, head tilted. The same cruel smile on his face that the slaver had. That men who like to hurt people get. A twisted sort of smile. He’s tapping Din’s blaster against the helmet in mock thought. Clicks his tongue and laughs. Din tries to remember what the slaver said to him, leaned over him in the desert, ready to kill him. Behind the bounty hunter, lightning flashes on Barab I. The light dances over the helmet and reflects in the man’s dark eyes, plays over his skin, bright and silver. Makes the man look empty and white and pale. Like a corpse. Din does not move, even when the bounty hunter holsters the gun and reaches both hands towards the edges of the helmet.

“You even awake in there, huh Mando?” He asks.

Din waits until he’s leaned in close enough that he can hit him. Snaps his head forward, slams the top of the helmet against the bounty hunter’s nose with a thick, wet sound. Breaks it. Makes the man scream. Din shifts his weight onto his braced leg, pushes to stand. Feels weak and heavy in the armour after months, feels the burn in his legs. The man stumbles away but Din is faster, and his foot hits him over where his forearms are cradling his broken nose. Again in the middle of his chest when the man swings his arms to try and catch his balance. When the bounty hunter falls into the water the splash covers him completely. Tries to push away through it until Din’s boot connects hard with his temple. The bounty hunter slumps forward, face down, bubbles streaming into the shallow water around him. Din’s hands still bound behind his back. He steps on one of the man’s shoulders and stomps, right in the middle of the man’s neck, on his spine. And the bounty hunter goes still.

Din pants, sways for a second, the water around his ankles lapping against his boots like little waves. Feels too big, too heavy, like he might sink into the water and drown. The Crest is open like a cavern, dark and silent. A sight which used to be so familiar, and it fills him with dread. There should be your gentle voice, talking to the child, the loud coos in return. The lights on. The tinkering sound of your tools – always working. Always fixing. It takes him too long to remember how to move, and when he does his legs feel wrong beneath him. Like they are not a part of the rest of him. Bends over the dead bounty and has to try to find the release for the cuffs backwards, his hands behind him. Takes too long. Everything takes too long. But then he finds the small control, in a pocket of the man’s belt, and he releases the cuffs. Drops them into the water with the dead man. He flexes his hands, clenches them into fists, over and over as he walks towards the open ramp. Replays everything he can remember – the Barabels, your hand in his, the glint of the red clay on the Beskar, the dark smudges like blood on the metal. The tunnels. The rush of adrenaline when he’d realised too late the bounty hunter was already behind him.

And then nothing.

He stumbles up the ramp. The world spinning beneath him, all around him. Din has to lean a hand against the door when he gets close enough to try and find his feet beneath him. The hull is upturned completely. Crates shoved and fallen, open and spilling their contents over the floor. Strapping half pulled away. The cot in the corner without its mattress is overturned and shoved against the far wall beneath the ladder. Inside he can see it now, the flashing green light of the chryofreezer blinking in the dark. His heart fills his mouth. Catches his boot in the grating to get to it, visions of your face frozen, screaming, staring out at him. But before he reaches the ‘freezer he sees the slumped shape on the ground. Still and unmoving. A smaller shape, the shape of long ears peaking over it.

“No.” The word feels like its torn out. Doesn’t mean to say it. Doesn’t choose to start moving but he is halfway there, every flash of green illuminating more. “No, no. No.”

He doesn’t feel the impact of the floor against his knees, or the way the grating digs through the leather of his gloves. His hands shake. Your head is twisted against the floor and facing away from him. The braid pulled away and hair covering you. Your arm is bent badly beneath you and legs twisted. You don’t move even when his hand gently grips your shoulder and begins to turn you. He sees faces before he sees yours – his parents. Silhouetted against bright, white light. He doesn’t remember what they look like anymore. Not really. But he sees the doors closing over him and the creeping darkness at the edges of him, under the Beskar, under the helmet. Cold and dark and airless. Unescapable. Sees a pile of sightless helmets staring at him from the ground. He can’t breathe. Hears the rings of a mallet against metal like a gong and it hurts. Rings in his ears even though it is not real.

He rolls you back, one shoulder cradles against his knees. Your face is thin and grey. He rips the gloves off, fumbles with them with his shaking hands. He can see the child now too, resting in the crook of your bent legs. See the little rise and fall of his chest and he knows his son changed you back. Reaches over you to rest a bare hand against the child’s belly to feel the life in him. Sighs in relief then the child is warm and snoring. And then he turns back to you, keeps rolling you as gentle as he can. Pulls your twisted arm from beneath you and wraps his hand around it. There is no glove to reach beneath, just the cold, damp skin of your wrist. Half your body wet, your hair wet. Like you were dragged through the water. He doesn’t know if it happened to you or to him.

“Please,” Din whispers.

And the jagged sound of his voice catching breaks through the vodocor like a rip through the air. Digs his fingers in hard against the skin of your wrist. Begins to count the seconds of nothing, of just cold. And then finally a beat. He cries out. Something which isn’t quite Mando’a or anything else.

He can’t take it. The helmet feels too tight. He feels like a child again, like he had for the first few lonely years when the helmet suffocated him and hid him from the world. Din yanks it away and gasps in the cold, wet air in the hull. Filled with the taste of the rain outside. Smells sharp and damp. The side of his head hurts, and his back and legs. The familiar hurt of a fight and he wonders how long he was unconscious in your body before the child had changed you. How much you had to do without him. He gathers you up, your body rolling and limp, both arms around your chest and shoulders and he thinks he will collapse into you. Your head falls back and he tucks a hand beneath it. Buries his face into the skin of your neck to feel the pulse there against his cheek. Realises he can smell the warmth of your skin.

“Ni ceta,” he says against your collar. Tries to hold you tighter. “Ni ceta, ner Karta.”

.

There is so much light everywhere. Hurting against the backs of your eyelids. And noise, distant voices and machines and droids. Everything feels like it is swimming before you, just out of reach. You think that maybe you are dreaming, but the world slowly becomes more solid. More tangible. You can smell the sourness of stale air and alcohol. And the beeping is unbearable. High and constant and too fast. You try to close your eyes again, to drift, but once the world starts to focus it does not relent. Reels you back into it. And memories follow – thoughts. Realise you are in a medcenter, the white walls and sterile smell. The Barabels and the bounty hunter. And Din. The child. The worry does not come yet but you know it will.

“How are you?”

You struggle to turn your head. The woman is blurred and watery and your eyes won’t focus. She steps closer and you see the shape of a smile on her face.

“You’re in the medcenter on Gamorr. I’m just checking your vitals, okay?” Her voice is even and calm. You feel her hand against your arm and its warm and soft. Makes you jolt. The armour. The helmet. “I’m not going to hurt you. Won’t be a minute.”

The rooms begins to spin. Panic tastes like bile in the back of your throat. When you try to speak your throat burns. “Where – ”

“He had to go run an errand, he said.” The nurse wraps something tight around your arm. Smiles again and waits. And then she unwraps it and sets it aside. “He’ll be back any minute I’m sure, left early this morning. We weren’t expecting you up so soon.”

She lifts your hand in hers and it is too small. Your arm is too small. She squeezes it once and lays it back on the bed next to you, limp and useless. You twitch your fingers. The nurse smiles at you, she says something else but you don’t hear it. Too busy staring at your hand on the sheets. Trying to place why it looks so wrong. Trying to stop the wave of panic that you are without the helmet, and the armour, and that Din is gone. That you are stuck on some distant planet without him. But before it mounts, chokes you, the door hisses open behind the nurse and there is a glint of silver in the light, and the familiar sound of the soft kiss of metal on metal, and the darkness of the visor finds you quickly. The Mandalorian. Din. Your small hand suddenly makes sense, the lightness around your head, around your chest. The nurse squeezes your arm with a smile and slips from the room behind him. And Din doesn’t move even when the door closes, or in the heavy moments which follow. The room thick and tense and filled with something you can’t name.

“Gotabor’ika?”

The vodocor makes his voice chip and shimmer in the static. But it is him, and your eyes well with tears. A harsh sound of relief torn from the back of your throat. And then he’s moving, so fast it makes your spin, the armour slipping and unreal in the bright lights. His hands around your jaw, in your hair, and the helmet pressing lightly against your forehead. You feel yourself roll as his weight dips the bed. Wrap your weak arms between you and around his shoulders. Hear the soft sigh slip from beneath the helmet – too quiet for the modulator to register, warm without the distortion.

“Ner Karta,” he murmurs. Rocks the helmet slightly against your forehead, the cool of the metal pressing against your brow. “Ner Karta.”

“Din.” You don’t know what else to say to him, so you say his name again. And again and again and he holds you tighter. Until the Beskar against your forehead warms to match you. Until the warmth of his fingers seeps through the leather gloves against your cheeks and jaw and neck.

You spend a week in the medcenter, the nurses are diligent and kind. And Din stays with you most of the time. At nights he leaves to be with the child, left in the care of the mechanic who manned the dock. The days move slow and fast all at once, time measured between check-ups. You sleep for much of it, drifting in and out of consciousness. And when you are awake you can feel always the dim throbbing of the blow at the back of your head, feel the raised ugly shape of the skin peeled away from the force of it. But even that starts to get better. You expect Din to be skittish, eager to move on as he always is, but he seems at ease. He sleeps as well, with his legs stretched out before him in the medcenter chair beside your bed, his arms folded over his stomach. You smile at the tilt of his helmet. The lip of it resting against his chest plate.

You move around as much as you are able, walk in circles around your small room. Think it must have cost Din a small fortune in credits to pay for a private one. But you don’t say it to him, don’t dare to bring up the cost, or ask him how you got there. A conversation you are not ready to have yet, even when he gives you his arm to help you when you are unsteady, or his gloved hand hovers at your waist when you stand shakily from the bed. Instead you think about what his voice sounds like when you know he is smiling, or the dry twist in it when he is joking. Distracts you from the nightmares of him lying, limp and cold and wet in your body, dragged and dumped against the floor of the Crest. Nightmares where he has no pulse. Nightmares of the poison in your side slowly killing you as you sleep.

And then it is time to leave. Din is quiet as you gather your small bag. Passes you your spare shirts from where he had folded them while you slept, and you smile and thank him. The Beskar seems to slip in and out of focus, reflections of the white walls and ceilings and floors make him seem only half there. A ghost. You are worried if you lose sight of him he will be gone forever. But he holds your bag for you and leads you from the medcenter. Through the streets of planet and back to the dock. He stops for you, several times, to check you are okay. And you always are. Close at his heels. The walk feels longer than you know it must be, still recovering from the blow to the back of your head, and the week of barely moving. Din slows his pace to match yours, and he doesn’t say anything but his body speaks of patience. His hand hovering at your elbow when you need to pause, and as you walk up the ramp.

There’s a loud coo and a thump against your boot. The child screams with delight, slapping his hands against your leg and climbing, slipping and climbing again over the laces to try and reach for you. Din stops you from leaning down and scoops the child into his arm, holds him close enough that as soon as you are close enough the baby grabs at your hair and then your jaw. Presses his forehead into your cheek and giggles.

Laughter had never felt so good, so light. You nuzzle back against the child, and feel Din’s glove clad hand brush your shoulder. Feel, for the first time since waking in the medcenter, like the world isn’t about to slip away between your fingers. Din passes you the child and moves away, sets your small pack down in the hull. And it is then that you notice it – the bunk which had been overturned, the mattress ruined from blood is upright again, and covered in new bedding. A thicker blanket and a fluffy, full looking pillow. A new mattress. You had not realised that you thought you would go on sleeping with Din in his quarters until you see your own space set out for you. And you know you should be grateful that he had gone to the trouble to make it so accommodating for you, the bedding nicer than his own.

He sees you staring. And you feel the buzzing all around him of things he wants to say. Wonder if his face pinches the same way it had in your body beneath the helmet when he was struggling with words. But he says nothing.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly, nod at the bunk so he knows what you mean.

Din nods once, slowly. You wait for him to say something but he does not. And you don’t know how to tell him you don’t want to be alone. You clutch the cooing child tighter to your chest and nod back. Din helps you to settle in and then he disappears to pay for docking and to prepare the Crest to leave. The child stays with you, clambering over you and over the new bed, cuddling himself in under the blankets and squealing when you play at hide and seek with him. Din finds you in the middle of the game and rests his hand on your shoulder, asks if you’re ready to leave. And you nod at him, stare into the darkness of the visor. Feel adrift without knowing what expression moves him beneath. And then he is gone again, his cape hitting against the wall as he disappears up the ladder.

The child sleeps in your bed, curled beside you on your pillow. And even though you feel the weight of the day in all your limbs and in the cloud filling your head you cannot sleep. Lay awake in the darkness, time stretching all around you and warping and making seconds feel like hours, and watch the way the child’s belly rises and falls beneath the covers. You force yourself not to move, to try to sleep, until suddenly you can’t bear it anymore. Until you feel like you are going to come out of your skin if you do not move.  

Climbing the ladder is hard, but you relish the feeling of using your limbs again. And the burn in your muscles from being stagnant so long distracts you from your nightmares, haunting you now while you are awake. Don’t hesitate outside the door, press it open and look up, find him immediately in the pilot’s chair. You stop in the doorway and stare. Watch the glint of light of the Beskar as the Mandalorian turns to look at you. Feel the lifting feeling along your back and shoulders and neck. His gaze, the same feeling and the old feeling, melting into one.

“How are you?” His voice is deep, calm and steady. You see him here, in front of you. On the shop on Batuu. In the tunnel, his blaster pointed at the kid. “Gotabor’ika?”

You can’t stop the well of tears at the familiar name. Feel like everything is rising up in the back of your throat and forming a lump. The Mandalorian moves to stand but you wave him down. Sniffle and step into the door to allow it to hiss softly closed behind you. Have to stare at a spot on the ground to centre yourself.

“Are you okay?” He is so gentle when he asks. So warm. You nod slowly and wipe a tear which spills. He shifts in his spot. “You don’t have to be okay,” he says. “You don’t have to be.”

“I – ” You have to stop, or you will begin to cry in earnest. You take a shaking breath. “I thought he killed you. I thought – I thought – ” You glance at the helmet, staring back at you. And it is more comforting than anything you have ever seen before. A sob lodges itself in your throat and traps the words before they can be said.

“He didn’t.”

You shudder. “I know. I know, but – ”

But you don’t know what. You feel the ghost ache of a loss which is not real. But it still hurts, still makes your chest shudder with every breath because you had thought he was dead when the bounty hunter had dragged his unconscious body back into the Crest. Felt like everything inside you had been taken and ripped out when he’d dropped to the floor. And even though he is here now and he is him and you can see your reflection wobble in the Beskar. And he is just staring at you, making the hair along your arms and the back of your neck stand on end.

You stare at him as well, both your chests heaving, the space around you bouncing with the sounds of your breathing. Your hands are shaking. You move together, lock the door behind you while he pushes out of the pilots chair and meet in the middle. Slam into each other so hard it almost hurts. His hands pushing your hair back from your face, gloves snagging in your braid. You feel over the chest plate, the pauldrons. Grabbing at him and pulling his body towards yours. Move his hands to the buttons at the top of your shirt while you yank and your belt. He can’t get at the buttons, growls, yanks his gloves off and then has them. Pops them open with practised ease. You remember he has worn this shirt as well. Your shirt and belt hit the ground at the same time, the echo against the metal flooring makes you shiver. Stare down at Din’s bare hands gripping your waist so tight the skin beneath is turning white. His knuckles are white.

“Is this - ?”

“ – Yes. Please, Din.” Put your mouth on the fabric over his throat and breathe hot against it. Know he can feel it beneath, feel the breath against his skin.

His hands tighten to bruise, pulls you against him, feel the burn of the cold Beskar on your arms. Your vest is enough to stop the worst of it against your breasts and stomach but it makes you tremble a sigh. Then Din pushes you away, only slightly, enough that he can let you go and work at his own belt, only managing to undo the buckle and leaving its length looped around his waist. Your whole body throbs when he grunts.

Then he’s holding you again, yanking you forward and walking backwards. Lifting. He sits down hard and pulls you with him, a tangle of legs and arms falling back into the pilot chair again. You have nowhere else to go, to put the burning feeling, so you press your mouth up his neck, over the helmet. Everywhere you can reach you kiss him. Scrabble aimlessly over his clothes for purchase, for anything. Burning at the Beskar, burning that you could have lost each other. You realise you are saying his name between each kiss, with every kiss, over and over and over. Don’t realise until he is saying your name, hands moving from your waist over your thighs, resting either side of his, shoved against the chair, back up over your sides to hold your face. Holding you steady to watch him.

“I’m here,” he says. Voice crackles through the vodocor. “I’m here, Kar’ta. We’re safe. The kid is safe.”

You are panting. Shaking all over. You want to ask him what the new name means, but not now. Feel like the heat of him under you and against your jaw is the only thing holding you together. “The bounty hunter – ”

“Dead. He’s dead.”

“I know but – ”

His fingers dig into your scalp, along your cheekbones and over your ears. “I will never let anyone hurt you. I promised. I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”

You choke and can’t say anything, so you let yourself sink into him. Mouth at the fabric over his neck again and writhe in his lap, push your hips over his until he pushes up and back and one of his hands cups the back of your head closer to him and the other falls to the curve of your ass and rolls your hips forward, sets his pace to match yours. Keep going until your legs are shaking and trying to reach him through the fabric at his neck isn’t enough. Until you could cry that you can’t be close to him anymore.

“Pants,” he says to you, begins unbuttoning them for you.

You stand, shaking, only for as long as it takes to kick them off and then he is yanking you back into his lap again, hands harsh. Still not enough. You hold him beneath his pauldrons, digs your fingers into the lip of the metal so hard it bites against your nails. His fingers find your centre, your clit, and begin to work against it. Rough and almost mean with how hard he rubs at you, until you are crying out and bucking into his hand. Leaking over the crotch of his pants and smearing yourself over the tent of his dick beneath. Your hands move to his belt, begin to pull it from him. Try to pull his trousers down.

“Not yet,” he grunts.

“Yes. Yes, Din. Ready.” So worked up you are worried if he doesn’t stop you won’t be able to feel him before you finish. Need to feel him.

The hand at your hip is gone, is smacking your hand away from his trousers. And then shoves beneath you and cups your whole centre, rocks you up and forward so you fall against his chest with a sob. You feel every ridge and knuckle of his finger as he pushes it into you. Feel them over and over as he pumps in and out of you, rubs his thumb over your clit. And then another finger is inside you. Takes his time in feeling, in stretching you.

You press your mouth to where you think his must be on the other side of the helmet. Desperately hold your lips there like maybe he might be able to feel it. Don’t know whether it makes you feel better or worse. You hear him groaning through the vodocor and you are close enough to hear it slipping out from the helmet, pure and unfiltered, like gravel. Feel the helmet tip up, another open-mouthed sound coming from beneath it, push back against your mouth like Din is reaching for you as well.

And then his hand slips from inside you and you feel the pause of him stilling your hips, the bluntness of him pushing up and into you, slowly, so achingly slowly. And you squeeze your eyes so tightly shut it makes white bursts of stars dance behind your lids. Galaxies everywhere when you are with him. His hands steady you to sink down over him, and you feel now why he had taken so long to work you open with his fingers because the stretch is painful. Your mouth dips against the helmet, your lip catches where the Beskar meets the visor and you pant in time with his low grunts. Can’t think anything, can’t feel anything except the push of him between you, inside you, and the Beskar under your mouth. You aren’t kissing at it anymore, have fallen your weight against it, mouth lolled open. Let out a pitiful noise, a high-pitched whine when your hips sink finally against his and jolt. His hand squeezes the flesh of your hip.

“Din,” you gasp. “Din, please.”

You begin to pull off him again and then sink. And the sound he makes is almost feral. You push up and sink down again, just to hear it. Keep moving until his hand on your hip holds you still and he is thrusting out of the pilot’s chair into you. Forcing you to allow him to drill into you so quickly your eyes roll back. He is everywhere, everything. And you finally feel the last of the fear slip away at the snap of his hips into yours. Feel yourself melt away into it. Only the sounds of you together filling the cockpit, drowning out even the endless hum of the engine. The burn which started cold turns hot, turns liquid. One of his hands find its way back to you, between your legs, works at your clit while he pushes at a relentless pace. The other hand grabs your jaw tight enough to bruise, to hurt. Holds your head still and presses your forehead to the front of his helmet. Hear the vodocor making his grunts echo and bounce and crackle, hear just the edges of Din beneath the helmet.

You don’t have the presence of mind to tell him before your orgasm turns the bursts of white stars behind your lids to black. Everything in you so tight and pulsing, and then more because you feel him begin to thrust into you so hard you would fall if his arms weren’t holding you up. Fucks you through your orgasm until he groans and his thrusts stutter and fall, filling you. You slump into his chest plate, let him push his hips up into you over and over until he is done as well.

You feel the chest plate of the armour heaving with his breath, moving you as well. Feel like you will melt into it, into him. And the weight of his hand gentle against your back, and you realise he is gently undoing your braid. Feel too tired to even turn your head. So you sink further against him, around him. And you feel yourself begin to drift, the exhaustion creeping over you now that you are safe and you can feel Din’s breath against you, and know he is alive. Can hear him whispering quietly in Mando’a above you, and his hand pulling knots from your hair. Think you should fight it, that you should talk to him finally about everything which has been left unsaid between you for months, slowly growing even before you swapped into his body. But sleep makes your eyelids heavy as well as your limbs and you don’t feel Din move you, don’t feel him gently lift you both from the chair, keep your arms and legs wrapped around his waist.

You wake when you feel the pillows touch beneath you, and Din tug the covers of his bed over you. And you must say something because he turns around again and touches his helmet to your bare shoulder and then to your forehead.

“Sleep,” he murmurs.

And you do.

. 

At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cuyiror at ijaat oyay: To kill without understanding is not to respect life. There is honour in fighting but not in mindless murder.

Ni ceta: I’m sorry (lit: I kneel) This is the strongest way a Mandalorian has to apologise. Extremely rare.

Ner Karta: My Heart

. 

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[piratesfromspace]

The Nightmare (Mandalorian x Cobb Vanth x Reader)

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Cobb Vanth x Reader

Summary: Reader has a pretty awful and vivid nightmare involving Din, Cobb and them being kidnapped. Comfort ensues.

This story is part 3 of my series “A Mandalorian, a Marshal, and some complicated feelings”. You can read part 1 here: “Two saviors and some hope” and part 2 here: Five Times. I strongly advise you read them first!

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: detailed description of violence, blood, threat of sexual violence (but no actual), threat of slavery

A/N: Neutral pronouns for reader but they are perceived as feminine by the villain (no specific description of Reader's body). English is not my native language, please be kind. Fic also available on ao3.

MASTERLIST

Part 1   Part 2

“On your knees.”

You fall on your knees on the cold steel floor of the ship. You don’t really remember how you ended up here, the only thing that you know is that the hand that pushed you down is now grabbing a fistful of your hair to have you raise your head. It’s an order more than an invitation, the pressure on your neck on the brink of becoming unbearable at any moment.

Your captor is towering above you, dark-blue skin and mean red eyes looking at you with something dark in them. You struggle against his grip, but it’s useless and you know it. Your hands are tightly bound behind your back. You’re already hurting all over, the taste of blood and despair in your mouth. He finally lets go of your hair, and your head falls limply on your chest.

“I told you I couldn’t wait to put a new chip in your brain, right? Well let’s get on with this.” You can guess the cruel smile on his face, the disturbing way he seems to be enjoying all of this way too much. “Hold her down.”

Two of his thugs grab your shoulders and upper arms, preventing you from going anywhere. You feel his own hand grab your neck, and the touch of his bare slimy skin against yours sends a chill of disgust through your whole body. The cold device bumps into your neck, just above his fingers, and as a wave of terror hits you, you feel a sharp pinch followed by an awful sensation of burn slowly spreading in your nape.

“So? Wasn’t that bad, was it?”

He removes the metallic device and lets it fall on a nearby tray with a theatrical clatter. Tears are filling your vision with the realization that all you’ve done up until now, trying to survive and build a new life for you, all of this was for nothing. You’re a prisoner again, with a freaking tracker chip stuck to your skull.

“Now, what else did I promise back in this small alley…” He circles you slowly, like a freaking loth-wolf playing with his prey before killing it - or worse .

“Oh yeah, I think I mentioned your two little friends.” He crouches in front of you, forcing you to look at his face. His pupils are blown wide, two orbs of blackness in a glowing sea of lava-red. “So I think we should welcome them then, what do you say?”

It’s like he’s speaking about actual friends, and his casualness becomes more and more terrifying as you’re living, helpless, your own demise.

With a quick move of his hand, he signals his crew and a few seconds later, the door in front of you slides open. Your jaw goes slack as you watch half a dozen of the slaver’s men bringing in the Marshal and the Mandalorian. Despite their hands bound and the chains linking their ankles, even visibly exhausted by what should have been a long and gruesome fight, the criminals are having a hard time containing them both. They are coerced into kneeling, strongly held back by your captor’s henchmen, facing you.

“No, no, no, no...” it’s a whisper at first, but it becomes a scream you cannot hold back. Through your tears, you can see the dried blood in Cobb’s beard, the mess of mud and dark unknown fluids on the rare pieces of beskar still on Din’s body. You're almost relieved to find he still has his helmet on, even though the black glass of the visor is visibly cracked.

A blue hand is suddenly splayed across your mouth and chin, shutting you up.

“Shh shh, that’s how you say hello to your friends? Not very nice!”

In a reckless reaction, you withdraw from his hold in a quick move of your head and bite his nearby fingers with all the strength left in you. He jerks back, cursing, holding his injured hand while a few droplets of blood trickle on his clothes. You don’t have the time to savor your little victory before the strength of his blow forces your face to the side. You kinda knew there was going to be a backlash, and you don’t regret it. Your cheek was already bruised anyway.

“You’ll regret this.” he growls through gritted teeth.

You hear him rummaging behind you, probably trying to swipe his hand clean from the blood on it. Good luck with that.

“Well, where were we? Oh. Right. My mark. Bring me my tool.” he snaps his fingers impatiently and one of his goons brings him what looks like a branding iron. The end of it is star-shaped, and you can see sparks running around the metallic edge, ready to burn his mark into your flesh.

You start trashing against the hands that hold you down, a vain attempt to escape what’s coming next. You’re not the only one struggling though, Cobb and Din trying to break free as well.

“Let them go!” Mando’s voice, usually steady, sounds desperate “The bounty put on my head by the Hutts, I bet it’s high enough, you don’t need to keep them. You don’t need to keep him either.” he says with a nod of his head toward Cobb. “If you free them, I’ll promise I’ll let you deliver me to whoever offers the highest reward.”

“Din, no, please...” Cobb seems to be on the verge of crying.

The Chiss seems to be gauging the offer. The smile on his face grows bigger and he finally speaks, looking thrilled.

“That’s an interesting offer, Mandalorian.” his smile changes into a mockery of a pout. “But I’m afraid I have to decline. See, I’m sure I’ll be able to get a very good price for your girlfriend here. Look, almost as pretty as a Twi’Lek! She’s worth some credits for sure... even more so if I trade her as a pleasure slave.” He says this part with a nasty grin, deliberately taunting the men who were supposed to protect you, like you weren’t even there. For him it’s not about you, it’s about getting revenge for that one time they freed you. You’re just a pawn in his little game. Anger joins the atrocious cocktails of emotions you’re already feeling. Of course, both Din and Cobb battle against their shackles and the men trying to contain them, letting out threats you all know they can’t follow up on.

“Enough of this.” The Chiss barks. “Now before we begin, one more thing, Mandalorian. I would not want for you to miss anything because of a broken visor.” He turns to the two guards in the back of the room. “Remove his helmet.”

You shriek, and as unholy hands grab the beskar, you close your eyes. Cobb’s yelling is breaking your heart, you hear metal clatters, fabric being ripped, the muffled thud of a blow in the gut. You squeeze your eyes even harder, you don’t want to know what’s really happening, don’t want to see Din’s face, not like this. Of course you had already imagined seeing what he looked like, but on his own terms, when and if he wanted to, not forced by some evil brute.

“Oh come on, open your eyes woman, I’m sure you want to see.” You shake your head. Your captor starts losing patience. “Open your eyes, or you won’t have any left” he threatens, his fist grabbing your hair again.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He tugs so painfully at your scalp, you’re so scared, you’re so lost, you finally give up and open your eyes. Your vision is blurry but your gaze falls immediately on Din’s face. He’s handsome despite the sweat and the dark traces of blood smearing his face, features almost like you had imagined them. He’s looking at the floor, livid, and you can’t even fathom the hurt and the shame of the humiliation to be exposed like this, on top of being unable to prevent both of his lovers from getting hurt.

“Yoo too, look at him!” Your tormentor is next to Cobb now, almost strangling him, trying to make him follow his order. The Marshal makes a series of desperate noises, gasping for air, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Stop it, please! Please...” The distress in Din’s voice is gut-wrenching. It’s the first time you hear him plead for mercy.

“It’s okay, Cobb, do as he says, it’s okay, I swear.” Cobb probably knows it’s not okay, and that the reassuring words are nothing but a way for Mando to try stopping the arm done to him. But he has no choice than to listen and he finally looks at him.

You can read the word sorry on Cobb’s lips when his eyes meet Din’s.

“You all are a bit stubborn, for Maker’s sake.” Your captor looks slightly upset. “But we’re not done yet.” He comes back behind you, and takes his branding tool while the guards holding you slice open the back of your shirt with a vibroblade. You can hear the device buzz to life behind the protests of your two beloved and the voice of the Chiss.

“You better stay still for your own sake.”

You can’t think of a reply because the tip of the iron touches your skin, just next to your right shoulder blade, and the pain eats away all your thoughts. It hurts like hell and more. You try to squirm away from the device in a gut-reaction. But it’s worse. You want to scream but there is not enough air into your lungs and it feels like you can’t take any more breaths. Your vision is filled with dark spots and you’re sure you’re gonna faint any second.

That’s when you wake up.

With a small gasp, drenched in sweat, out of breath. The room is dark and quiet. You silently slip out of the bed, heading for the refresher and trying not to disturb the two men peacefully sleeping next to you.

You put your head under the faucet, letting the cold water run on your face, fingers rubbing your skin, like you’re trying to erase the memories of the nightmare.

Kriff, what is wrong with me?

There is a soft knock on the door.

“You ok sweetheart?” Cobb’s voice is still hoarse with sleep.

You let the door slide open to reveal your Marshal, tall and handsome with his messy grey hair. The familiar figure warms your mood more than you expected.

“Just a nightmare.”

“Like the usual ones?”

“Not… really.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Mmm” it’s not a yes, neither a no.

“Want to go back to bed?” he tries tentatively.

“I don’t think I can sleep right now. The suns are gonna start rising anyway.”

“Yeah, I’m not sleepy either.” you know it’s a blatant lie because Cobb had been yawning non-stop since the beginning of your conversation.

“I’ll go make us some caf. And then we can even watch the sunrise if you’d like.” He adds with a kind smile. You appreciate the offer nonetheless.

“Join me when you want, honey.” he turns his heels to leave but you stop him in his way.

“Cobb?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a hug?”

He lets out a chuckle and takes you in his arms. You melt into the warmth of his body, your head resting on the solid plane of his chest. He leaves a chaste kiss on your forehead before heading to the kitchen.

When you join him, he’s already on the small deck in front of his house, and he hands you a steaming mug of sugary caf. You sit on the bench, next to him, and he wraps an arm around you, his hand resting on your waist. You sip on the hot drink, tongue almost burning, letting it ground you in the moment. The air is just warm, not as cold as during the night, not yet as scorching as during the day. The two suns are lazily rising above the horizon, the sky all sorts of pinkish colors.

“You know, this nightmare, it was… It felt so real.”

He hums in approbation, doesn’t want to interrupt you.

“Remember when I told you what he said that night in Mos Eisley?”

No more details are needed for him to understand who and what you’re talking about.

“Well, everything he said… it happened in my nightmare. He captured me. And you, and Din.”

“Hey, it’s over now, ‘was just a bad dream. I won’t let anyone hurt the people I love, I promise.”

He tucks you closer against him and you know he means it. You clear your throat, hesitant to go on.

“The worst wasn’t the pain, wasn’t even when he mentioned he would sell me to a brothel or something, it was when he removed Din’s helmet and he forced us to watch.”

You needed to let this detail out of your system. You leave out the part involving a star-shaped mark, at least for now, because you know Cobb is wearing one on his back and you don't want to bring back more bad memories.

Cobb’s fingers are clenching against your hips. He sighs.

“I’m sorry you had to experience this, love. I know how dreams can seem so vivid, it’s legit traumatizing. Please wake me up next time, I don’t care if I’m having the best sleep of my life, I want you to feel safe, always. I’ll do anything you need me to.”

“I know.” you whisper, letting your head fall on his shoulder.

You take another sip of the delicious liquid out of your cup, and as the light of the two suns is slowly casting the streets of Mos Pelgo into an orange glow, warming up the sand and your skin, you feel like the shadow of your nightmare is finally retreating, burnt away by the new dawn.

[unfriendlyamazon]

pacific rim (kaijou) - chase the rabbit

very telling of me that the scenes i have fully written out are 1) kaijou hitting each other with sticks, 2) seto kaiba’s worst memory, and 3) kaijou’s first kiss

characters Joey Wheeler/Seto Kaiba

ratings T

warnings Allusions To Childhood Abuse, Parental Death, And Electrocution, Mass Destruction Of Major City, Alien Blood

All Joey and Seto have to do is waltz through each other’s memories so they can mind meld in order to properly pilot a giant dragon-shaped robot. Nothing to worry about there.

The Ultimate Dragon stood in her dock, a beast of white metal that reflected blue with the bright energy that burned in her chest. Her legs were bent forward, like an animal’s, and a long tail balanced it, ending in a spike that curved on the floor of the Shatterdome. Three separate blue domes made her eyes. Her arched reptilian head sneered down at the personnel on the floor hundreds of feet below it. Joey stood on the Conn-Pod of Ultimate Dragon and peered down with her. He could just make out the faces in the control room. The techs were bent low in their work as the scientists bickered with each other. The stone faced General Kaiba stared up. Joey stuck his tongue out at him, knowing he couldn’t see.

“Are you always a child?” the other Kaiba drawled, and Joey jumped back.

“Someone has to be the fun one around around here,” he snapped back and walked to his position in the pilot’s seat. Two spinal clamps awaited them. The drivesuit was heavy and black, and he sucked in a breath as he got into position. “You nervous?”

“No,” Kaiba said. His blue eyes watched him, the helmet held in his hand. It was both their first time in a Jaeger, but Kaiba had built the damn thing. His solid stance didn’t betray any uncertainty. “You’re taking the right side.”

Joey shrugged. “You wanna fight about it?”

He only shook his head and pulled the helmet on. Joey followed suit. Beyond the domed eyes of the Dragon, the techs initialized testing mode. Heavy blue lights washed out the dark cockpit, and the yellow lights of their helmets lined their faces. The clamp initialized, and Joey sucked in a breath. He glanced at Kaiba, who offered him his usual scowl.

“Don’t chase the rabbit,” Kaiba said.

Joey blinked. “What?”

“Random Access Brain Impulse Triggers,” he repeated,  and Joey bristled at his tone. “Sticking to a memory is dangerous. It pulls us out of sync. Stay in the drift.”

Joey hissed through his teeth. He wanted to say he knew, thank you, he’d done his training, but the truth was, as the sickly yellow relay gel filled his visor, he appreciated the sound of another human voice. Vision blocked, he sucked in a breath as though he was drowning. The suit was contained, only the sound of his breath, and the metallic slide of the clamp locking into place. Anxiety jangled his nerves, and he forced himself to breath in, and out. Relax, he told himself. You’re just letting Kaiba waltz through your memories so the two of you can mind meld in order to properly pilot a giant dragon-shaped robot. Nothing to worry about there.

“Neural handshake initialized,” the computer said, and it was the only warning they had before they were pulled into the drift.

There aren’t words to describe the drift. Pilots tried. Scientists could only explain. None of it prepared Joey for the feeling of his head opening up. Memories poured in like a river, too fast to cling, like flashes from a movie but more. Him at the Wall with Yugi offering him a position in the program, the too clean smell of the hospital bedroom with the drip of the IV, Serenity’s face wet from crying as she got further and further away, electricity against his skin and the sharp smell of skin burning with the laughs of the other boys in his ear, interlaced with things he didn’t recognize. Kaiba with a neural spike in his hand as he stooped across a desk, exhaustion hitting like a truck, the strike of a hand against his face and the white hot anger that flared inside him, the feel of a deck of cards beneath his fingertips as his brother laughed, holding his hand as their world ended.

The drift carried through, and Joey felt bigger than himself. When he opened his eyes, he could see the holo display, the Shatterdome curled around them like a shell, and the life signatures of the humans beneath staring up at them. He was aware, as he lifted his hands, that Kaiba was doing the same, rolling the clawed fingers of the Dragon as they did their own hands. The core of the Dragon set the metronome of their heartbeat. They raised their hands together, and outside the Dragon did the same. Relief burst in his chest, and he wasn’t sure if it was his or Kaiba’s, but it didn’t matter. They were doing it. They were piloting the Jaeger.

The memory stream continued but it was little more than white noise. Joey’s muscles tightened with the desire to take this baby for a joy ride. He wanted to see everything it could do. The excitement was doubled with his partner. Once initial testing was finished, they’d get their chance at the first Kaiju they saw. They’d let Ultimate Dragon go wild. Joey grinned at the thought and knew it was mimicked across Kaiba’s face. He wanted to get wild.

“Commencing first test,” the computer said, and beneath that was another voice. Small and weak, like a child crying. It took Joey a second to recognize it, but Kaiba’s body froze. It locked his own limbs, and he had to push against it. The computer was still talking, but it faded lower and lower beneath the sobbing Japanese voice. Joey turned his head, and he could see Kaiba standing there, eyes up to the sky, as the crying grew louder and louder. He looked up too and--

He was in Tokyo, with its uneven buildings rising and falling spreading neon light across the cold empty street a siren wailing through the thick air and ash falling like snow against the ground. The air burned and the world was empty everyone was in the shelters below everyone who as going to make it which left him alone with his little brother curled in his arms crying and crying their parents were gone lost amid the rubble and the ruin and it was all he could do to hold his brother tight like his tiny body could protect him like he could do anything at all against the rumble of something heavy that shook the glass from the buildings and cracked the concrete beneath its feet leave concave holes and destruction behind it its gold body reflected off the tall buildings and it turned to look at the children in its path its frill fanned out like a cobra’s head streaked with purple and its mouth lipless with tall sharp teeth that stretched in an ugly smile and gold spikes rose off it like armor as its heavy claws dragged against the ground it was coming for them it was tracking them like an animal like a shark smelling blood in the water and he buried his head and held his brother and heard the terrible howl of the great beast.

The comms in the Dragon were screaming from the control room the panicked calls of the Shatterdome techs trying to reign them back in, but they were little more than a dull ache in the back of Joey’s head. His eyes were ahead as he found himself in the ruined streets of Tokyo on the day Exodia had crossed the breach. In front of him were two children. They huddled close together, too close to really see them, but he already knew who they were.

“H-hey.” His voice was distant, but he started forward and shouted again, “Hey! Kaiba!”

The children didn’t move. In front of them, the Kaiju stood tall and imposing, leaning down to inspect the two mice caught in its path. The city was eerie and quiet, only the great huffing of the beast and the quiet gasps of the children. If they moved, the creature would crush them. If they didn’t, they’d be crushed anyway. Their fear quaked inside Joey as he crouched down beside them.

“You’re in a nightmare,” he said. Baby Kaiba only squeezed his brother tighter. “It’s not real. You lived through this already, you--”

The air shuddered and boomed, and both Joey and Kaiba looked up as a blast struck the Kaiju in the head. Blue blood splattered across the buildings, and the Kaiju staggered, before another missile strike downed it entirely. It fell to its heavy knees, groaning loudly as it landed against the ground. Wind brushed against their faces as the thud shook the empty streets, raining glass and debris to the floor. The two brothers stared up as the Jaeger marched forward. At the sight of the horned head of Necross, Kaiba rose slowly to his feet, and Joey did the same. The Jaeger was safety and retribution, coming to pluck two orphaned children off the street, to bring them up and give them tools to fight the monsters that scared them. It was supposed to save them.

“System shutting down,” the computer voice bled through the memory and tore it like tissue paper. As soon as the spinal link snapped free, Joey staggered forward. He tore his helmet off and stared at Kaiba, who looked like he was waking up from a dream. His chest heaved as he stared down at his own hands. Trickling into Joey’s mind was the shame, the bitter taste of failure, stupid and worthless and wasting his one chance--

“Kaiba,” Joey said, and it felt strange to have his own voice inside his head again. “You’re okay.”

Kaiba’s gaze whipped to him, wide eyed, and tears running down his cheeks. Instinctually, Joey reached a hand to him. Kaiba turned away.

“You did fine,” Joey said again. “It was our first time. Now we know better.”

“I don’t need your sympathy, Wheeler,” Kaiba snapped. A tremor made it through. “I don’t want it.”

Joey held in a breath and let his hands drop to his side. The fading emotions hadn’t gone completely. When he thought of Gozaburo in the control room below, a residual spike of anger drove its way into Joey’s skull. But he swallowed it down.

“You’re such an asshole, Kaiba,” Joey said.

“And you’re even more a delinquent than I could’ve possibly guessed,” he replied.

Equilibrium restored.

[chamomileteainabuttercup]

Dincobb Week Day 3 - New Experiences (SFW)

Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!

For today I have two pieces, an SFW and an NSFW - the NSFW is scheduled to post an hour after this one.

New Experiences

Cobb keeps on saying he’s been cold before, it gets bitter cold out in the desert at night, and Din has kept on telling him that yes, that’s cold, but it’s not ice and snow cold, and if he’s going to take him on a trip he needs Cobb to trust him about the appropriate clothing.

He does need thermals, he does need thick wool socks, he does need a heavy parka, wool cap and mittens.

“What about you?” Cobb asks. “You may be wearing thermals under your suit, but I don’t see a parka.”

“I’m used to making do without one,” says Din, “but I have higher standards for you.”

“Have ‘em for yourself too, then.”

“All right then. I will.”

“Just see that you do.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Din says, smiling inside his helmet.

“I’m the boss of everyone, they just don’t know it yet,” says Cobb with a cocky grin.

Boss or not, he’s got Din to wear a parka over his beskar, which he doesn’t altogether like to do. The shiny breastplate is for show as well as for function. A symbolic declaration of identity and values. Well, everyone can still see the helmet, and he compromised on cutting off the parka sleeves just above the elbow so his vambraces are free and functional. This is meant to be a pleasure trip, just to show Cobb a different world as a treat, but he’s still not about to go anywhere without ready access to his grappling hook, flamethrower and whistling birds. Safety first.

He lands the small ship he’s borrowed from Boba on a small, flat-topped hill overlooking a frozen lake, its edges frosted white and its heart a turquoise blue. In fact, if you’re generous with your aesthetics, the lake is sort of heart-shaped. He wonders if Cobb will notice and appreciate that. They lower the landing ramp and step outside into a brilliantly sunny day. The air out here is so cold and crisp it stings your face. Cobb actually gasps. Din gives him a few moments to walk to the bottom of the ramp, then slowly, carefully, extend one foot and put it down and feel the crunch and squish of the snow under his boot.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s weird!” says Cobb enthusiastically. He sees his own breath condensing on the air and huffs out another cloud of warm mist. Then, “Ow.” He puts his mittened hand to his ear.

“You forgot to take out your earring?” Din asks.

“I was excited to see the snow,” Cobb says sheepishly. “And I love it. You gave it to me.” It’s the beskar dart tip from a whistling bird and Cobb is almost comically proud of how it looks glinting in his earlobe.

“Well, it’s gonna get real cold and I don’t want you to get frostbite. Hold still,” Din says. He pulls off his gloves, gives them to Cobb to hold and carefully removes the already chilly earring. He pulls up one of the hook-and-loop flaps of Cobb’s parka pockets, tucks the earring firmly down inside, presses it closed, then pulls Cobb’s wool cap down to cover his ears properly. “There.”

“This hat is crushing my hair,” Cobb grumps.

“A Mandalorian helmet couldn’t unpretty your hair, but you think a toque will?” Din asks, pulling his gloves back on.

“Aw, Mando, you think I’m pretty?” Cobb beams at him, more radiant than the sunshine on the snow crust.

“C’mon,” Din says, embarrassed. He does think Cobb is pretty but he has too little experience of romance to be able to say it smoothly. He grabs Cobb’s hand and pulls him along, heading down the slope towards the lake. Cobb slips and flounders and laughs. He starts to lurch forward, catches himself and throws himself backward, landing on his butt and then flopping on his back with his arms outstretched. “Come on,” says Din, with a chuckle. He reaches down and pulls Cobb up to his feet, leaving his outline in the snow.

“Hey, look at that!” says Cobb, twisting to look back. “It really takes a print, doesn’t it? Not like dry sand at all. It’s so crazy that this is water.” He scoops up a mittenful and crumbles it around.

“Try squeezing it,” says Din. Cobb squashes the snow between his palms. “See how it compacts? It’ll hold together.” He’s remembering the short period his first covert spent living someplace very like this, a little compound in the snowy woods. Unlike most covert locations, it offered both secrecy and open space for children to run and play. The snow forts they built and the snowball battles they fought were both educational for warriors in the making and tremendous fun for a motley assortment of kids in hand-me-down winter clothes and soft training helmets. The snow was the first thing that brought him out of his shell to play with the others. Up to then he had been his foster father’s shadow, dumb with sorrow, until finally the sight of them running, shouting, flinging snow had sparked his attention.

Buir had seen where he was looking as Din stood beside him holding tightly a fistful of his cape. He’d looked down at Din, his helmet impassive, nothing like his lost parents’ dark, expressive eyes and smiling, talking mouths. But there was something kind in the tilt of his head, and he gently jerked it in the direction of the romping foundlings. Buir barely spoke because his larynx had been crushed in a fight years before. Rather than speaking through the mic in his helmet, he would hold a little electrolarynx device to his throat when he really needed to speak aloud, but more often than not he used a modified sign language, finding it more convenient. That was what he told Din back then, but thinking on it now, he’s fairly sure Buir switched to relying on signing because the electrolarynx made him sound a lot like a droid, and he saw how uncomfortable that made the child he’d picked up. He didn’t need to say “Go on”; Din understood, and after hesitating a moment longer, he released his grip on the crumpled fabric and ventured out to play.

That was the day he learned to make snowballs, and it’s something he can teach Cobb now, how to press and mould the snow between cupped palms, how to roll it down the slope, picking up more and more snow as it went, turning it between the two of them to keep its shape even and rounded. It makes them both laugh just out of happiness and satisfaction. Cobb’s cheeks and nose are flushed a sweet rosy pink. His eyes are bright, their hazel colour almost gold where the sharp sunlight catches it, and he’s altogether so lovely a sight that Din is glad his face is hidden and he can stare as openly and foolishly as he wants.

Together they build a snowman where the ground flattens out; he gets an idea and labours back up the hill in the sliding snow into the ship’s hold and brings back a bucket to mould its head into a snow Mandalorian. After that success they make their way down to the lake, and after Din checks how solid the ice is, they venture out on its surface, skidding around a little. Cobb keeps grabbing hold of his hand, and although it actually makes both of them a bit less stable, Din’s happy to let him. When Din asks, “You want to try sliding?” he’s immediately game. They run and slide on foot, on knees, and on a few accidental occasions on their asses until they’re out of breath and glowing with warmth. It occurs to Din that apart from a little light Grogu-entertaining, he hasn’t really played in years. He still knows how, though. Panting and laughing, they stagger off the ice and begin making their way back up the hill, wallowing in the knee-deep snow, helping each other up by reaching down from above or by pushing from below (hands on butts). At the top they look back at their chaotic trail across the formerly perfect snowscape.

“What do you think of it now?” Din asks.

“It’s fantastic,” says Cobb. “I couldn’t have imagined what it’s really like. And there’s no one I’d rather be here with than you.” He throws his arms around Din and, to his surprise, kisses him smack-dab on the cheek of his helmet. He can’t feel it, of course, but he enjoys it symbolically, at least for a few moments until it becomes clear that Cobb’s lips are stuck to the frosty metal. He tries to pull away, gives a little muffled cry of panic and pain, and stares helplessly through the eyeslot of Din’s visor. “Hnnh!”

“Dank farrik — it’s okay, hold still. Just — okay, put your hands on the helmet, hold it, take the weight. Got it? Don’t let go or it’ll peel your lips.” He steadies it with his hands too and brings his head and shoulders down, pulling his head out of the helmet. He’s dazzled by the unfiltered bright light for a moment, then gets a proper look at Cobb, scarlet-faced and glaring with anger, confusion and embarrassment, still smooching the helmet. He has to bite his own lip hard not to laugh, but it’s not really funny, he doesn’t want Cobb to get frostbite or tear the skin off his lips. “Stay there,” he says, turns and runs up the ramp into the ship. In the tiny, cramped galley he draws a cup of lukewarm water from the tap, then rushes back, trying not to spill it. “Okay. It’s okay, just hold very still for me, got it?” Carefully, he pours water over the join between lip and metal, while Cobb breathes loud and fast through his nose. After a few moments the icy seal breaks and Cobb is able to gently, carefully peel his lips away from the helmet. They’re very red and they look like they’re sore and stinging. “You don’t look like you’re bleeding anywhere,” Din says hopefully.

Cobb cautiously runs his tongue-tip over his lips and winces. “No, but they feel raw,” he says. “Goddamn that was cold!”

“I think you’ll survive,” Din says.

“Well, sure, I’ll survive,” says Cobb. “But could you kiss ‘em better?”

It seems only fair.