#Thanks for reading!! <3

[spicymotte]

I am very happy to announce that I have won an Excellence Award for outstanding quality and creativity in the comic contest organized by Tapas & CLIP STUDIO PAINT!

My comic Ad Infinitum convinced the jury and I am very happy that I was able to make such a positive impression with over 700 submissions! :) Thanks to everyone for reading and all the lovely comments!

Read Ad Infinitum here!

[kill-the-feels]

Aliit

a/n: hey y’all! Here’s the final part — the epilogue to Jango’s story!! Thank you to everyone who’s stuck with this from day one. All your comments and likes and reblogs truly make my heart happy. Enjoy!! <3 (previous part) (masterlist)

word count: ~2.5k

warnings: none! Just lots and lots of fluff and implied spicy content and reference to past injuries (very mild/vague)

Building a house takes a surprisingly short amount of time. It isn’t big; just large enough for the four of you to comfortably inhabit. You make short trips to the nearby settlements, bartering for odds and ends that make the house more comfortable, slowly but surely putting down roots by the sea.

You and Jango lay in bed, the sun slanting through the curtains, the shushing of the ocean drifting in through the open windows, the breeze bringing the scent of salt and earth.

The two of you have been awake for the past few minutes, both of you too lazy to get up out of bed.

The giggling outside your door gets louder. Jango reaches over and snags your pillow out from under your head, stuffing it over his face.

“Sounds like we’re about to have guests,” he mutters.

“Hey!” you protest quietly, right before the door pops open and Boba and Jate enter softly. Boba has something behind his back, something living, judging by the way Jate keeps reaching up to help him hold it.

Unceremoniously, he dumps a loth-cat on the bed, the poor creature freezing in fear, torn between running over you or trying to sneak past Boba.

“Boba,” you say, jumping back, taking half the covers with you. The cat hisses, its ears flattening against its head.

“Can we keep it?” he whispers, mistakenly thinking Jango — who hasn’t moved — is still fast asleep.

“Can you- no! It’s a living creature. You’re not keeping it.” He and Jate give you twin pouts, Jate reaching to pet the cat. To your surprise, it purrs and curls into a ball at her touch, settling. Boba looks pleased.

“You just told us we needed to find something to do. About how we should do something productive with our time. Buir, getting a pet will give us that.” it’s hard to argue when he throws your own word back at you. You look between the both of them. Jango is no help, but you can feel the way his side twitches slightly in laughter.

Fine. You’ll show him.

“You promise you’ll take care of it? Promise that I am not going to be the one cleaning up after it?” Both of them nod vigorously. You bite your lip, the only way you can contain your laugh.

“Okay. We can keep the cat.” Boba cheers quietly, snatching the poor creature back up, and the three of them are gone in a rush of giggles, the door swinging shut behind them.

“They get it from you, y’know,” Jango says under the pillow, and you snatch it off his head. He retaliates by reclaiming his share of the covers.

He’s laying on his back, eyes still closed, mouth tilted up in an easy smile.

“Get what?” you poke his ribs gently and he jerks away with a grunt, eyes finally opening. A recent discovery? Jango is ticklish.

“Taking in strays.” You raise an eyebrow. It’s rich coming from him. Jango, who specifically asked for a son, instead of credits, who plucked you up because he couldn’t leave you, who Jate currently has wrapped around her little finger.

As if he wasn’t the one to go over how to clean and shoot a blaster with Jate over and over, until she could do it nearly as well as him, or he wasn’t the one to find a needle and thread to stitch up a tear in Ai-Ai’s tail after the two of them went to bed, or he wasn’t the one to sit in the field for an extra hour, pretending to fix the equipment as he posed for Boba and Jate to draw him, instead of finishing tilling the ground like he wanted to.

But you’re the pushover.

“Please,” you say, poking him again. This time he catches your hand, holding it to his chest, over his heart. With a huff, he rolls over, pinning you to the bed underneath him. You grunt, trying to shove him off, and in response, his hand falls to your side, tickling.

You snort out a laugh, head falling back into a patch of sunlight.

“You know that damn cat is going to become a hassle,” he says, easing up a little, so he can slip his legs in between yours.

“You didn’t see their faces. They clearly- oh!” The last part of your speech is cut off when Jango shifts forward purposely, pressing up against you in the best way.

“Clearly what?” he whispers, not taking mercy on you. You clear your throat, intent on giving as good as you get.

“Clearly were excited for it.” You tighten your grip on his waist with your hips, pushing him over, so you’re on top. He lets you, hand coming to a rest on your hip.

Now, some months past that fateful day, he’s almost completely healed.

His lungs still give him problems sometimes, coughing fits that double him over, leaving you feeling helpless as you cradle him and stroke his back, coaxing him through it.

The scar on his neck has faded, the jagged edges pink. And if his missing hand bothers him, he never says, and he more than makes up for his loss, sometimes more competent than you with both hands.

“You just couldn’t say no to their faces,” he says, stealing a kiss before you can refute his argument.

“Neither could you,” you murmur. “Which is why you put the pillow on your head.”

He tightens his grip around you, pulling the two of you into a sitting position, so you’re sprawled across his lap.

You can feel him press against your center and you bite your lip, trying not to moan as his lips move to a spot just beneath your ear, pressing a final kiss there before moving to your lips.

It starts out lazy, and impossibly, achingly gentle as he simply presses his lips to yours, the two of you just enjoying the contact. But you want more and you’re hungry for it, so you twist your hips, grinding against him, eliciting a perfect, choked groan against your mouth. And then you’re kissing him deeply, practically licking into his mouth as your hands hold the side of his face.

He pulls away from the kiss just slightly, and you bite his bottom lip as he goes, thighs clenching just slightly at the way his own grip tightens on you. His hand, which has wandered all over your body, tightens over your ass and then your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

You can’t quite contain the breathy moan when your chest makes contact with his, and you feel more than hear the low growl he makes in response. Your breaths are coming out as pants now, and with every gasp, your increasingly sensitive nipples brush against the fabric of your shirt and his chest.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dragging his mouth away from yours. Laughter echoes in through the window, followed by a loud meow.

“Got-gotta get up,” he murmurs, even as he pulls you in for another kiss. “Got stuff to do.” You roll against him.

“Just stay,” you say. “It’ll keep.” He kisses down your neck.

“Mhm. Maybe. But it’s important. Remember?” You do, actually. Have been looking forward to it for almost a week now.

Today, you and Jango are making it official. Even though technically, you’ve been together for years, today, he’s really giving you his name.

It takes your breath away.

“Later,” he promises you, giving you one more searing kiss before he stands. You don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you laying in the bed, eyes drinking up the way the patches of sunlight highlight your body, before he finally forces himself out the door to get ready for the day.

You follow soon after, finding Jate and Boba playing with the cat under the kitchen table.

Jate still doesn’t talk, but none of you mind. After all, Jango himself can go through phases where he uses little words, and you and Boba are perfectly fine being the only two talkers — it’s what you’re used to, after all. The four of you have come up with signs and motions that allow you all to understand each other without words anyways.

She’s signing at Boba right now, fingers flying furiously as she argues over something he’s said about the cat.

“We’re arguing over a name,” Boba fills you in. “I want to name it something cool like Killer, and she wants to name it something boring, like Seafoam.” You hide your laugh by turning to the cabinets, setting about making something to eat for everyone. Days of overly bland Kaminoan foods are long behind you, and if you never have to taste a ration bar again, it’ll be too soon. ~~~ The house you’ve built is surrounded by fields of crops Jango has been steadily tending to with the help of you, Boba, and Jate.

“Fett,” he confessed one night under a full moon, “means farmer.” It’s something that his ancestors were quite proud of. Now, he uses it to make a living, instead of bounty hunting. Some of the crops are kept for your own food, the others bartered away at the nearby settlements for other necessities.

It’s such a change from your time on Kamino, the unhurried way in which Jango moves, the very air charged with something different, but in a good way. It’s here you’ve learned that while Jango was very good at bounty hunting, it was never his true passion. Rather, just a way to survive.

The Slave I remains parked up behind the house, at the border to the forest where you, Boba, and Jate go sometimes to forage and see what trinkets you can find.

Jango keeps it ready to fly, just in case, but you know his hope is to not need it for years to come. There’s a pounding coming from behind the house, the clanging of durasteel on durasteel. Jango’s been working on something back there for a few weeks now, but you’ve been put under strict orders not to come investigate. Boba and Jate are in on it, all of them sharing little smiles when you ask if you can know the secret yet. ~~~ There’s another Mando’a word Jango taught you the night before, after Boba and Jate were put to bed. The two of you stayed up, staring at the stars. It’s one of your favorite pastimes now, without Kaminoan clouds to hinder you.

“That one looks like a helmet,” Jango’d said, as the two of you tried to make shapes out of them.

“There’s four all in a row,” you’d replied, curving back into his chest while his arms tightened around you.

“An aliit,” Jango said.

Aliit. Clan or family, he explained. A group of people sworn to protect each other.

Today, the four of you are becoming Aliit Fett.

As the sun sinks in late-afternoon, you step outside, the breeze brushing over your skin, a welcome reprieve from the sunny day. It’s nothing like Tatooine here, with the hot, dry air, or Kamino, with the constant dampness and cold.

It’s the perfect middle, a hidden oasis in the midst of a chaotic galaxy.

Jango is waiting down by the ocean, high enough to avoid the tide, with Boba and Jate, one on each side. The loth-cat darts past Boba, and you hear him shout, “Seafoam!” telling you who won that argument. He’s wearing his armor, minus the helmet, as is tradition. The hole’s long since been patched, the piece heated and molded until you can no longer see where it once was.

You take a step towards him, closing the distance.

Ten feet. Seven. Five. Two.

He extends his hand towards you, drawing you into his arms. Your palms land on his chest, the armor warm from the sun, seemingly alive in its own way beneath you.

“Hi,” you say, and he doesn’t even try to stop the small smile that tilts up the corner of his lips, the secret look in his eyes, the one he reserves for you alone. In the setting sun, this close, you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the few freckles on his nose.

“Hi,” he responds.

Mandalorians, he explained the night before, don’t have marriages in the traditional sense. Instead, they promise to become one, two sides of the same blade, preparing for the future.

He told you the words, in the Mando’a language, and now, as he says them, they flow off his lips in a way you know you can never replicate.

“Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dar'tome. Mhi me'dinui an. Mhi ba'juri verde,” Jango says. He pauses after each phrase, and on the last one, his voice cracks a little. Boba watches solemnly, and you don’t miss the way he swipes a tear away before Jate takes his hand. You clear your throat, determined to get through this without crying.

“We are one when together,” you say, speaking in Basic, too overcome with emotion to try and translate in your mind.

“We are one when parted.” Jango tightens his hold on you when you say this, pressing his forehead against yours. Another part of his culture, something he never quite told you how meaningful it was until the night before, when he was explaining all this.

“We will share all.” An easy promise to make.

”We will raise warriors." This part. Your voice is a whisper when you say it. Realistically, you know that one day, the galaxy will intrude. Everything outside your little moon is in turmoil now. You and Jango are careful to keep the extent of it away from Boba and Jate — wanting them to be children for as long as they can — but one day.

Even if you don’t like it, one day, the galaxy will pull them away, because the two of you are raising the two of them to be protectors. Leaders. Warriors. It would go against everything if you forced them to stay, to avoid the fight. But for now. Here. This moment.

It is enough.

Jango smooths a thumb over your cheek, wiping away the moisture.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something. A ring, you realize, made out of part of his armor. It’s the same blue as the painted portions, smoothed and shaped until it fits your finger perfectly. There isn’t enough of his armor to make you a set, something he lamented over the night before, but you couldn’t care less in that moment.

This is a piece of him, a physical part to carry with you no matter where you go.

“Cyare,” he says softly. Beloved. It echoes, over and over in your mind, and you realize, he means so much more than just you.

It’s everything. It’s Boba and Jate and the home, and yes, you.

All of it. For was long as you have it.

Enough. Cherished.

Beloved.

Your aliit.

[dominimoonbeam]

Don’t Run - 4

you can find the series from the start over on patreon. 

tags for the series: mobsters, dark themes, bad childhood, arranged marriage, reference to past violence, reference to past murder

DON’T RUN - CHAPTER FOUR.

When Adi walked into the café, Ezra was already sitting in a booth with their food while Molly was across the crowded room in line at the counter. He slid in across from him, scooting down. Ezra pushed his order in front of him, the grilled chicken wrap with a side of fries—his usual at Connie’s.

“Adi, where did Molly come from?” Ezra asked almost sweetly. Whenever he asked things sweetly, Adi knew he was up to no good.

He raised an eyebrow, his knees bumping Ezra’s under the table. Ezra didn’t pull his back, one leg sliding out to hook around the back of Adi’s shoe. “Did Freya ask about Molly?”

Ezra laughed and the sound eased something Adi hadn’t realized was tense in his chest. “No. She did ask about storage units though.” He winked and Adi wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. His gaze flicked to the side again, to where Molly was standing at the counter, flirting with the barista. “Seeing your mob wife being all fish out of water in Everton just got me wondering how Molly ended here... I heard somewhere that she kidnapped Grayson and he talked her into coming home with him.”

Adi smiled, taking a bite of his wrap. He had heard that story too. He was pretty sure his sisters, Victoria, had started it. She had been trying to cast shadows on Molly’s reputation but unintentionally bolstering Grayson’s legend instead. Like he could charm his abductor into being his best friend. “He brought her home,” he confirmed. He had never really been sure what happened or where she came from. Molly was definitely a thug before she showed up in Everton. She seemed to have her own money too—despite all of Grayson’s mother’s claims that she was mooching off her son.

Adi watched the barista blush at something Molly said before handing over her drink.

Molly crossed the café to them, her dark eyes flicking around the room and her smile cold, hollowing out with every step until she slid into the booth beside Ezra. She was waiting for Grayson. Adi felt like he only ever saw her when she was either with his brother, or waiting for his brother. What did the bruiser do on her own time? Ezra saw her at his gym, beating on punching bags or running on the treadmill in her boots like her life depended on it.

Everyone in the family had been suspicious of her when she arrived…many still were. Adi had gotten over his worries. Molly wasn’t playing some long con on his family. In fact, he was pretty sure she didn’t give a shit about his family. She loved Grayson, in her own sort of way, and Grayson loved her in his. They were odd, but who was Adi to judge?

“Ezra wants to know what brought you to Everton,” Adi tossed out.

Ezra grinned, turning a little to the side to look at Molly, waiting for an answer.

She pushed some of her curls out of her face and behind an ear. That ear was mangled, a chunk missing and the scar twisted. “A boat,” she answered and then sipped her drink.

Adi smiled.

Ezra laughed.

Molly took another drink, and he thought it was to hide her own smile. “How’s married life?” she asked.

Adi shrugged. “Still alive.” He snagged a baby tomato off of Ezra’s plate. It had happened once, years ago, that Ezra got Adi’s side salad and Adi got Ezra’s fries. They’d been ordering it backwards like that and picking off each other’s plates ever since. “That reminds me,” he played casual, looking his best friend in the eye when he said, “I want you to seduce my wife.”

Molly froze, coffee in hand between her mouth and the table. Her gaze cut between the two of them as if confirming that she wasn’t the one being asked. As soon as she confirmed she wasn’t, she laughed.

Ezra on the other hand, stared straight back at him. “Are you high?”

“We’ve been friends since we were kids. You can’t do me this one favor?”

“Friends? Is that what you think we are?” Ezra grinned, his knee bumping between Adi’s under the table and amusement gleaming in his eyes.

Adi waved a hand in the air, as if semantics could be brushed aside. “You’re already friends with her, aren’t you? Just keep that up and find out when she’s going to kill me.”

“What makes you think I’d want to stop her?”

Adi stabbed more salad off Ezra’s plate.

Molly leaned back into her seat, getting comfortable. “It’s a stupid plan,” she said, clearly only vaguely invested in the situation.

Ezra nodded, taking a couple fries off Adi’s plate. “She’s right. You’re missing the obvious risk…”

“What risk?” Adi demanded.

“What if we fall in love?”

Adi raised an eyebrow, undaunted. Ezra didn’t fall in love. If he did, he would be in love with Adi. Obviously. “You would betray me?”

“For love?” Ezra was using his shit-stirring tone, it came with a smirk secured in one corner of his mouth. Fuck, Adi liked that smirk.

Adi leaned back into his seat, staring across the table at the other man. He regretted sitting across from him instead of beside him. He wanted to kiss that smirk.

“She’d suspect your plan, wouldn’t she?” Ezra asked. Did that mean he was he considering it?

“That’s what makes it brilliant. She’s trying to weasel into my life, right? What better way to get dirt on me than to fuck my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Ezra practically sang. “I see I’ve been promoted from friend!”

Adi hated the heat that rushed his face. He thumped his knee to Ezra’s under the table.

“You still haven’t realized the risk, Adi…” Ezra teased.

“The bit about love?”

Ezra laughed. “That was bullshit. The real problem will be if she isn’t plotting against you. Then what? You had your best-friend-slash-boyfriend seduce her to spy on her? What kind of precedent will that set for your marriage?”

Adi swore. “It’s not a real marriage. Assuming we both survive the first year, we’ll get divorced and go back to being enemies. She’ll go return to the mountain, and I’ll get my apartment back.”

“It’s legal. I’d say that’s real.”

“She lives in your house,” Molly added, as helpful as a bullet.

“She might not even be interested in men,” Ezra said thoughtfully before pointedly looking Adi over. His skin always felt warmer when Ezra did that, but he pretended not to notice. “Have you two…consummated things?”

Adi snorted, he knew they hadn’t. “No.” It wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep with Freya. He’d slept with plenty of women and plenty of them strangers. But he barely trusted her at his table let alone in his bed. He hadn’t been in a room with her without having at least a knife on his person. She was a Morgan and the last time their two families had a blood feud wasn’t nearly far back enough to be forgotten.

“Huh. Maybe it isn’t legal then,” Molly said.

Adi shot her a warning glare. The last thing he needed was his parents telling him to fuck someone. He shuddered at the thought. Molly looked away, catching the gaze of the barista again and flashing a smile. Like him and Ezra, Molly swung both ways. “But if my wife isn’t into men, maybe…”

Molly’s eyes snapped back to him, just as cold and closed off to him as ever. Whatever smile had been available to the barista was certainly not for him. “I don’t work for you,” she reminded.

Ezra turned sideways to look at her, his arm stretching along the back of the booth behind her shoulders. One of his eyebrows pitched in a “oh really?” gesture. “What an odd way of declining a man asking you to prostitute for him,” he mused.

Adi scowled, not appreciating how he was wording that.

“Would you do it if Grayson asked?” Ezra continued. Adi knew it was just out of curiosity but there was something dangerous about this line of questioning—something that hedged all the questions about who Molly Hallow really was and where she had come from.

“He wouldn’t ask.���

“What if he did?” Ezra pressed, unrelenting.

Molly took another drink of her coffee, seeming to think about it or maybe just considering leaving. Even after all those years, Adi wasn’t sure she was actually a friend of theirs rather than obligated to them through his brother. Even if they were half-brothers, Adi had never doubted that Grayson loved him. Grayson loved the whole family.

Despite all of the shit some of them had pulled on Molly over the years, and all the nasty things they had said to try to get a rise out of her or push her out, Molly had never reacted. She had never laid a hand on any of them. Not even that time Victoria tried to slap her. When Molly dodged the swing easily, Vic had thrown her drink instead, channeling her inner soap-opera goddess. Molly had actually smiled and finished her meal.

Their old man said she was well-trained. Of course, he hadn’t said that when Grayson was around. Gray would have taken offense. Adi understood why. It made her sound like a dog, like something less than human. Most people, even their dad, either thought she was really dedicated to her role, or a very good goon. But Adi thought he’d figured out the truth. He’d seen her lose her shit on strangers that started fights with her in clubs. He’d seen her mean grin and the way she could cut at people with her words. And in all those years, Adi had noticed that the only people truly safe from her were the people Grayson loved. She wasn’t his brother’s dog; she was his fucking friend, and they were all so warped that they couldn’t see it.

Suddenly Adi wasn’t sure he wanted her to answer the question because as far as he could tell, there was nothing Molly Hallow wouldn’t do for Grayson Ellis. So, what would happen if he asked her to seduce someone? She would do it. She would do much worse for him.

“He wouldn’t ask,” Adi found himself saying and then shrugging like it was boring to even question her. Maybe it was. Because his brother really wouldn’t ask that of her. And yet, Adi would ask Ezra? Probably because he knew Ezra would tell him to fuck off. Hopefully that was why it was okay for him to ask. “Forget it, Ezra, it was a dick idea,” he conceded, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Ezra chided, sipping his drink. “I’ll see what I can do. She really did ask about storage units…”

Molly’s interest perked up then. “What kind of units?”

Ezra shrugged. “Didn’t give me dimensions, just asked while I was giving her the tour of the neighborhood.”

“You pointed out the orange ones? Safe Storage?”

Ezra nodded, finishing his sandwich.

“Shouldn’t be hard to find out if she gets a unit there,” Molly said, uninterested again.

“What do you think she’s going to do?” Adi asked her.

Molly shrugged. “Probably just feed her family information about yours…until something goes wrong with whatever negotiations Sybil has with your old man. Then she’ll probably help them kidnap one of your younger siblings or, hopefully, just intercept a shipment—something to get them leverage. I guess if Sybil decides to go full salted earth, she might get her to kill you while they kill your dad.”

Adi stared at her, not sure if he loved or hated the completely detached, bored tone of her voice as she reported the possibilities.

Ezra burst, laughing hard. “Christ, Mol! Like it’s a weather report!”

Molly took another drink of her coffee.

Adi just stared straight at her, annoyed by how easily she had said that last bit. “You really think Freya can kill me?” he asked, voice low and offense settling into his chest.

Molly put her cup down and stared back at him. “I think that barista could kill you.”

Adi forgot his food and Ezra stopped laughing. He could feel his friend looking at him, his legs under the table squeezing one of Adi’s as if to anchor him—to bring him back from that slow rising rage. “What the fuck does that mean?” Adi demanded instead.

Molly sighed like she was tired of him. Like this was her city and not his. This was the infuriating part of her. She didn’t even tense. She wasn’t afraid of him or his anger. Not even a little bit. “I mean anyone can kill anyone.”

Adi tried to accept that. It wasn’t about him and any shortcomings on his part. It was some bleak world view. “So, the barista could kill you?”

Molly smiled a little and picked up her cup, holding it toward him as if to say “yes, see?” and then taking another big swallow. She put it down and sighed.

Adi rolled his eyes and looked away, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension in them. Great, now he had to worry about being poisoned.

Grayson walked in and up to their table. He took one look around at them before cracking a smile. “Well, this seems fun…” His gaze landed on Ezra and he nodded hello. “Are they fighting?”

Ezra shook his head, eating more fries. “Adi wants me to fuck his wife.”

Adi snorted. “Not exactly what I said…”

Grayson picked up Molly’s coffee and took a drink, sliding into the booth beside Adi. “Where is she now?”

Adi shrugged. “Probably the apartment.”

Ezra shook his head. “She’s at the park.”

Everyone stared at him, not just Adi.

Ezra blinked and then smiled, lifting and waving his phone at them. “We’ve been texting.”

Grayson bit back a smile and leaned into Adi’s side. “You really weren’t joking… This is your plan? Well…You always did like a bad plan.”

[aevallare]

Long time fanfic lurker but I've never actually posted on advert until now...! Not a question but just wanted to say I've binged Kindred over the course of two days and WOW! Your writing is beautiful and so emotive - at times I feel my heart thumping alongside Auri's! Praying for a happy ending for these two (and more smut 👀😂🥵). Chapter 33 had destroyed me and I can't wait to see where the story goes. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

oh man this is so so kind!! i'm so thankful that the binge was worth it. auri and astarion live in my head absolutely rent free, and i can promise you there's more smut coming (hehe), maybe even sooner than you think! <3

[beepboopappreciation]

Is this anything

[stageturn]

(slides u a jon) got time for a draw this in your style?

use #stageturnDTIYS to participate :D

HAVE FUN!!!!! (closeups under the cut :3)

and here's the actual doodle of s1 Jon

[sparkleofstardust]

in light of the recent news that Iranian President Ebrahim Raisi has been found dead after a helicopter crash you might be wondering 'who the hell is this guy and why are so many people celebrating his death??' and i'm here to answer that!

to fully understand what's going on we need to look into Iran's history: when the Iranian revolution in 1979 happened the authoritarian king who was ruling at that time was overthrown, but the ensuing power vacuum lead to the islamic regime seizing power and establishing Iran as an islamic republic

the following years were incredibly cruel to the Iranian people; thousands of people (especially minorities) have been protesting against the strict islamic regime leading to many being jailed, tortured and executed.

and this is where Raisi played a big part: in 1988 he was part of a committee that ordered the execution of thousands of political prisoners who were protesting the islamic regime, earning himself the title of "the butcher of tehran"

do not be fooled by what the state media wants you to believe, the Iranian people are celebrating his death. he was a cruel mass murderer who has destroyed the lives of thousands of people, his death should be used as a time to mourn for all the suffering he has caused, and bring new attention to the political prisoners still being held in Iranian prisions today

because sadly the fight is far from over. many of you have probably heard of the murder of Mahsa Jina Amini back in 2022, causing a new wave of nationwide protests and establishing the "woman, life, freedom" movement. the regime has gotten increasingly cruel in their treatment of the Iranian people, especially women, but the people of Iran are not deterred and keep fighting for a free Iran.

if you want to know how you can help, please keep talking about us. the one thing the regime hates is international attention, and in the past it has been proven that international pressure has stopped the regime from executing various political prisoners. people like Toomaj Salehi are under imminent threat of execution and spreading their names could save their lives. so whether you share social media posts or talk to your family and friends about what is happening in Iran, anything helps 🙏🏼

jin, jiyan, azadi ✌🏼

[cheesit-notes]

"s'fucking small"

lieutenant ghost who has a major size kink.

tags: MDNI!, size kink obvi, manhandling teehee, fem reader, fingering, you're put in a mating press, lowkey praise?

a/n: sorry for the late post, i went to hoyofest '23 and then tumblr went down for a bit but teehee take ghost and size kink (i want him to manhandle me)

ghost likes to hold things after you hold them just to see how big his hands look on it compared to yours. does the thing where he makes you hold his phone and later compares it to his cock. (when hard, he is most definitely over 7 inches and at least 5 inches in girth, you can't tell me he can act like this if his cock was any less)

loves manhandling you 'cause god, look at you! so small next to him. he absolutely adores your hand in his, just shows him how big he is compared to you.

when he has you pinned to the bed, legs spread out showing off your pretty little cunt to him, just him. god, and you're so wet, letting him slip in a finger in so easily. one hand holding yours down, your knees pressing against your chest as he pushes himself onto you. revels in the fact he can just engulf your entire body with his larger one.

slips a few fingers in and out, seeing you squirm around trying to rub on him trying to get any form of friction. teases you by rubbing your clit, just a little. then when he's had enough, he'll stand up and let you watch as he slowly takes off his belt and let his cock spring free.

an arm to support him, your knees now next to your head because of the position, and his cock lined up with your cunt. he'll ram it in with no time for you to adjust (he's so mean). gets him all riled up seeing a bulge in your stomach. he'll grunt out your name and little comments about how you're "s'fucking small" and how you're taking him in sooo good. he'll put you in a mating press. eventually, he's just panting and moaning your name as you squeeze around him with a death grip on your hips and thighs.

god you look so cute as he fucks your brains out.

[cinnamoncatto]

Pose study + i tried out a new brush

[torsamors]

On Seatbelts and Sunsets - Hanif Abdurraqib

[jccatstudios]

Six of Crows: A Comic Adaptation

Part 1, Chapter 3

Page 55

END OF CHAPTER 3

Previous Pages

Download the Comics

[kill-the-feels]

stars

a/n: ahh everybody stay calm; it’s happening!! Here is the “final” chapter; the next one will be an epilogue of sorts!! Thanks to everyone who stuck around for the ride and I hope you enjoy!! <3 (previous part) (masterlist)

note: Jate’Kara is pronounced “Jah-tay’Kah-rah” — you can find more about my decision to include/create her in the end note for this chapter on ao3 if you’re interested!

word count: ~5.2k

warnings: angst, injury description, brief sex scene (not super descriptive, but stop reading after the last page break if that’s not your cup of tea), nightmares, tooth rotting fluff

Waiting is the worst part.

Gently, you coax the girl into going up to the cockpit, where Boba has gotten the ship into atmo and is waiting on directions.

He’s been crying too, you can tell by the tear tracks on his face, but he’s putting on a brave front, and he takes to telling the girl about the different buttons, even letting her push a few.

“What do they call you, anyways?” Boba asks, and the girl shakes her head.

“You don’t have a name?” you ask. Slowly, she nods and you sigh. It makes senes. Most people that end up like you and her on Tatooine don’t have families, and end up with whatever names or nicknames people give you.

“Can we give you one?” Boba asks. She nods again.

“Jate’Kara,” he says decisively. You tilt you head. It’s in Mando’a, a phrase you don’t recognize.

“What is that?” you ask. Boba’s cheeks and ears turn red, and he ducks his head.

“It means luck or good stars,” he says quietly. “I don’t know. I wanted something happy. It felt like it fit.” The girl leans forward, interested, and you smile. Jate’Kara is a mouthful, though, for people like yourself who only barely grasp Mando’a.

“How about Jate for short?” you ask, and she nods quickly, wrapping her little arms around your waist in a tight hug. That settled, you sit in one of the seats in the cockpit, between Boba and Jate.

Alright. You have two kids, an unconscious lover, and no clue where to go next.

You pull up a database, watching the way it spreads around the cabin, planets swirling around you. Jate watches with the same big eyes you remember having yourself the first time you saw something like this.

“What are we looking for?” Boba asks. You twirl your hands, moving the planets around. The blue mingles with the light of hyperspace, giving everything an ethereal glow. Well-known worlds skim past your eyes, as you zip through the Core and Inner Rim, heading for the Outer Rim.

“Somewhere off the gird. A backwater planet. Few civilizations for when we need supplies, but nowhere near as busy as Coruscant, or even Tatooine.” Boba clicks a few buttons, checking gauges on the ship.

“We need to stop somewhere else for some supplies and fuel anyways. We don’t have enough for a long haul, even through hyperspace.” You consider what’s near. Ord Mantell is the most likely option. Jango’s done business there before; the presence of his ship is not likely to raise too many alarms, especially if news has not yet traveled of his supposed demise.

“Fuel and extra supplies there, then,” you say. “And we can figure out where to go on the way.” ~~~

Ord Mantell goes smoother than you’re anticipating, perhaps because of all the challenges that have lead to this moment.

Jango stays stable, but he also shows no sign of change, a fact that is almost worrisome enough for you to find a more experienced person than yourself, but you decide that the less people who know, the better. He’s stable, and for now, that’s enough.

You also offer to drop Jate off, not really wanting to let the little girl be on her own in the world, but realizing forcing her to stay isn’t the best either.

It quickly becomes clear, though, that she has no interest in parting ways with you, staying instead right next to your side. So you take her in, which really, is the only logical conclusion for you.

When — not if — Jango wakes up, you’ll fight him on this if you have to, but you don’t think he’ll mind too much.

Jate sits beside you, eyes glued to the way hyperspace bends and moves around you, the blues shifting and folding over each other the same way the waves move. And yet, there’s an unnatural fluttering rhythm to hyperspace that can’t be seen in the waves, brief flashes of color poking out of the blue, the occasional shadow hinting at something larger there. You could spend hours watching, and sometimes, you do.

Boba shows you how to handle the ship — in hyperspace, it’s mostly just monitoring to make sure it stays on track — and the two of you take shifts, sleeping, watching Jango, and piloting.

You’re making a cross-galaxy journey to a backwater moon in the Outer Rim that has no name; its planet’s inhabited only by a few rudimentary civilizations. The perfect place for a legend to disappear.

When you stopped in Ord Mantell, you took a moment to catch up on the news that has started spreading through the galaxy, in the wake of the Battle of Geonosis.

War, they’re saying, and two million men to fight, each who look exactly like Jango and Boba. It’s chilling.

This. This is the project Jango has been working on for years, why the Kaminoans needed his DNA, why they did their best to listen to his demands.

You don’t know much about the science behind it, but you figure eventually, they’ll need more. All the more reason to disappear.

The door whooshes open slowly, and Boba enters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s exhausted. You all are.

“Want me to take it for a little longer?” you ask him. He leans against your side, and you wrap your arms around him.

You’re to the point where you don’t tell him to take it easy. He’s stubborn that way, not wanting to be seen as weak — even if you would never tell him that. And to an extent, you get it. The need to be busy, to seem like you’re doing something, when really all you can do is wait.

Always waiting, the same way it’s been since Boba was a baby.

Now, you’re even more glad for Jate. She doesn’t talk, but Boba more than makes up for it, the two of them getting along from the start. Boba offers a running commentary on everything he’s doing, and Jate listens intently, watching until she can replicate it, becoming his shadow. She’s the friend he needs right now, letting him feel like a teacher and a helper.

“I got it,” he says, patting your arm before he pulls away. He tugs on Jate’s braid as he sits in the pilot chair, checking the nav system.

“About one standard rotation out now,” he calls as you descend the ladder to the cargo bay and crew bunks. He must make a face or something, because Jate’s quiet giggles follow his words.

“Wake me if something happens,” you call back, even though you don’t intend to get much sleep.

You do the same thing you always do first.

Stop by the bacta tank.

Jango looks the same as when you put him in there, except the wounds have started to heal. The burn on his neck is no longer deep and ragged, instead a pink that you have a feeling will always be there. Bacta can only heal so much, after all.

The wound in his chest is the same, healed shut and still scarred. But his breathing is deeper than it has been, which you take as a good sign. His arm has fared the best, still missing his hand, obviously, but much less burned and the scarring is nearly invisible.

He just won’t wake up. And you can’t figure out why. You’ve tried everything you can think of, and still have no answers. Other than Jango just being stubborn.

“Me again,” you say, pulling a crate over to sit on. As usual, there’s no change. But you’ll be damned if you’re not going to try. After all, you can’t help but think of all the times he’s sat by you when you were sick or hurt.

“I could really use some help here. I mean, don’t get me wrong — the armor? Surprisingly comfortable. But I’m kind of flying by the seat of my pants here — figuratively speaking of course — and I could really use another adult to bounce stuff off of.” Sometimes, you feel guilty for having to rely on Boba like you do. He’s grown up so much and so fast in such a short time, that you wonder if you’ll ever see the innocent child again, or if that’s something else Geonosis took from you.

You fiddle with the clasp on the vambrace. The armor stayed carefully hidden on Ord Mantell. As far as the galaxy is concerned, Jango Fett is dead. Lost to dirt of Geonosis. But on the ship, it’s become like a second skin. It gives you a commanding presence, makes you feel more capable than you probably are.

And oddly, it’s like a piece of him, still watching over you.

“So anyways,” you say. “I’m sure you’re having the best sleep of your life. But when you’re ready, I’d love for you to rejoin the land of the living.” Taking a deep breath, you forge on, determined to say the words that have been stuck in your throat for so long.

“By the way,” you whisper, “I love you. So don’t even think about dying on me.” You close your eyes and lean your head on the tank, intending to stand up and get some sleep in the bunks.

Instead, you fall asleep like that. ~~~ Jango is fairly sure he’s dreaming. For one, Boba is too young. A smiling baby that can’t talk yet, much less fight.

You’re in the distance, but his mind can’t make the scene work, because it’s outside, and it’s sunny and green, but he can still hear the Kamino waves, getting closer and closer.

The tide tugs at his feet, and he makes the mistake of looking down.

“Boba!” It’s your voice, drifting on the breeze, and when he looks back up, Boba is old enough to run, towards you and away from him.

Jango reaches for him, and Boba dodges away with a laugh. He tries again, the frustration welling, fingers closing over nothing.

The both of you move away, over the hill, laughter echoing all around him.

Jango tries to pick up his feet and move; instead jerked backwards by the tide, the incessant tugging looking more and more like the white of the Kaminoans’ skin. He tries to beat them away, tries to shove himself free. It pulls him flat on his back, the water rushing into his mouth when he tries to call out to you.

A warning, maybe? To let the two of you go? While he still can?

The waves caress and tug, pulling him deeper and deeper, the sounds around him slowly fading away. There’s an incessant beeping instead, reminiscent of the chrono that used to rest on his bedside table, the one he bought after you started sleeping in his bed with him, when it made it even harder to get up.

It’s slow and rhythmic though, bordering on relaxing, if not for the high pitch. Slowly, consciousness eases into his mind, the static in his ears gradually fading, until everything goes still.

Quiet.

There’s a muffled voice talking, and his mind works to understand the syllables, interpret the cadence. It’s your voice, he realizes, speaking to him.

He tries to force his eyes open, but they stubbornly stay closed, his mind already exhausted. Frantically, he wracks his brain, trying to figure out what chain of events led to this situation.

Is he dead? No, he decides. Unless, he realizes with a burst of horror, that you’re dead too. Jango forces himself to breathe calmly in and out, and he becomes aware of something heavy sitting on his face, pressing over his mouth and nose, like someone’s hand.

But it isn’t a hand, he realizes, because he can still breathe. But it’s filtered, the way his helmet normally is, yet it’s only on the bottom part of his face.

“I love you. So don’t even think about dying on me.” The words drift through the stillness, startling sharp in the quiet. Jango tries again to open his eyes, recoiling when a liquid starts to seep in. He gasps, squeezing them shut. Sleep starts to tear at the edges of his mind, even as he fights it.

He’s not ready. He needs to reassure you. With another exhale, it goes dark again. ~~~ The next time he wakes up, he thinks he’s underwater. No, he knows he’s underwater.

His eyes adjust to the slightly salty sting of it, and he takes stock of his situation.

It’s not water, he realizes squinting above him. It’s bacta. Which leads to all sorts of questions.

Like how in the fuck did you procure a bacta tank? He turns his head as far as he can — which isn’t much — before there’s a searing pain in the side of the neck, the mask moving with him.

He narrows his eyes as he tries to peer through the tank. He’s fairly sure he’s still on the ship, which is a plus. Jango wants to close his eyes, to recall the events leading up to this, but he’s afraid closing his eyes will knock him out again, and he isn’t ready.

With an exhale, he stares at the ceiling of the tank above his head. Geonosis. The Jedi. Boba.

The lightsaber.

On instinct, he reaches for his right hand with his left, grasping nothing but air.

Well. That’s new.

His left hand drifts up to his neck, where he was certain the saber landed next.

The skin is rough there, a slight dip telling the story better than words could. It’s strange to realize how close he came to losing his head — literally. How quickly it all would have been over.

He sucks in a breath through the mask, and an odd ache twinges in his chest. From his position on his back, he can’t see the damage to his chest. He vaguely remembers being stomped by the Reek. The crack of his ribs, but this is something more.

Almost… almost like a blaster shot.

He’s taken a few before, but always glancing blows, and often against the armor. Never through the armor and center mass. That’s a startling realization, he decides. Just how close to death was he?

He can’t remember anything after that.

His heart rate speeds up, and he forces himself to calm down. Claustrophobia is starting to set in, and he wants out. He wants answers. He wants… he wants you. ~~~

When you land on the moon, it’s raining.

You and Boba look at each other, the both of your faces twisted in disbelief, mouths slightly open.

And then the two of you laugh. Because of course it’s raining. Jate looks on in wonder, likely having never seen rain or such fertile land before. Hell, you have, and you’re still struck by the wild, untamed beauty.

Together, you and Boba navigate the ship to a clearing. On one side, there’s a patch of woods, frightening looking right now in the dark and rain, and on the other, an ocean.

But unlike the oceans of Kamino, this one does not pass a certain point on the shore, the waves cresting at a normal height, even with the wind.

Carefully, the two of you set the ship down beside the woods, on grass that is a deep green even in the darkness.

Even though all of you are itching to get off the ship, you decide you’ll wait until morning, when it will at least be light. And hopefully less rainy.

And even though Boba is technically too old for it, you tuck both him and Jate in, the same way you used to. No one protests, needing this one quiet moment.

Without the sound of hyperspace or the sound of the systems running on the ship, it’s quiet. Eyes heavy, you drag your feet through the last of the shut-down checklist, having promised Boba you would take care of it.

You glance at the bacta tank, in the corner, knowing you need to check it, but unable to muster the energy to see the same old results.

What if he never wakes up? You push the thought out of your head, able to see the green light on the tank, indicating everything is nominal.

The morning. You’ll look in the morning, you promise yourself. ~~~

You wake up to birds chirping, a gentle breeze blowing against the side of the ship. Outside, the waves crash against the shore, in an unhurried rhythm, different from the giant swells that constantly slap against Tipoca city.

There’s faint laughter, and you peak through the window to see Boba and Jate playing tag on the shore, Ai-Ai resting on a nearby stump.

“Don’t go too far,” you call through the open ramp, and Boba waves his hand in acknowledgement, dodging out of Jate’s way. She stamps her foot in frustration, fists balled with a renewed effort to catch Boba. You know from experience, she won’t unless he lets her. You also know, he will let her. Eventually.

The tank beeps in the corner, the same rhythmic beeping it always has. The lightness you felt on immediately waking up dissolves as you approach the tank. It has to be done, you tell yourself.

Time to check on Jango.

You want to hope, to see a change, but you’re fully prepared to see closed eyes, a man just inches away from being a corpse.

Sure enough, his expression hasn’t changed. The lump in your throat grows. Even if you kept yourself from getting your hopes up too high, you know there’s a part of you that thought getting away would solve all this. That you’d land, and he’d spring up and take over, convince you it was all a bad dream.

You drop your forehead against the glass.

“I need to get busy,” you tell his form. “Too much to do now. Figure out how to get food, water. Check out some of the nearby civilizations. Convince Jate not to drown Boba.”

But you can’t tear yourself away; instead just laying there, staring at his face, eyes unfocusing and thoughts spiraling and catching.

In hindsight, that’s why it takes you so long to realize.

His eyes are open.

You fall backwards with a jolt, the scream catching in your throat, and thankfully so, because you don’t want Boba and Jate to come running yet.

His head turns a little, and even though it’s everything you have hoped for, there’s a part of you that can’t believe it. It’s eerie, how quiet it all is as the two of you stare at each other, separated only by the thin layer of transperisteel. There’s a rushing sound in your ears, and your chest is aching because you’ve forgotten to breathe.

Slowly, hands shaking, you reach for the decompression button, watching as the bacta drains down enough to make the tank safe to open.

You fumble with the latch, fingers slipping first and catching your nail painfully on the durasteel frame.

You heft the top open, gasping for breath now, and freeze, hand halfway reaching for his mask.

Jango snaps it off instead, his own hand shaking.

“Jango-”

“Cyare-”

And maker, it’s his voice, as deep and rich as you remember, soft accent rolling over you. He sits up with a grimace, and your legs unfreeze, rushing to his side.

“Careful,” you say, putting your hands on his shoulders to help. You’re not sure how healed he is, can’t afford to let him pull something. Your hands tighten on the bare skin of his shoulders, unable to believe how warm and alive he is.

“We almost lost you a couple times. It was bad.” He frowns, rubbing his hand over his face, wiping away the last of the bacta.

“What…” he trails off, and you can tell he wants to ask what happened, but can’t make himself say the words.

“You got hurt on Geonosis. It was bad. Boba and I got you back to the ship. Got this tank to try and save you. Stopped for supplies on Ord Mantell. Put down on the most remote moon we could find. I think you’ll like it.”

Footsteps bang up the ramp behind you, and you turn to see Boba and Jate rushing in, Ai-Ai strung between them like a rope. The both of them pass you, before Boba slams to a stop and Jate rams into his back with a soft oof. Ai-Ai falls to the floor.

“Buir!” Boba shouts, stumbling over his feet in his haste to get to you two. Jate follows, albeit slower, holding the hem of the back of Boba’s shirt.

“Either my vision is still messed up,” Jango says to you, “or you’re not telling me everything.” Your cheeks heat and you look at your feet.

“We stopped on Tatooine,” Boba says, “and picked up Jate.” You don’t miss the way Jango side-eyes you.

“Tatooine?” he says causally.

“Jate’s a fast learner,” Boba barrels on, missing the look his father gives you. “She picked up how to fly the ship super fast, and she’s really good at sabacc.”

“Gardulla had her,” you say softly, and watch the way his face softens, the understanding instant.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says to her gently, and she steps out from behind Boba a little, her smile small but genuine. Your heart swells, moisture rushing to your eyes.

Boba is starting to shuffle around, and you can tell he’s getting antsy, wanting something to do.

“Boba,” you say, “do you want to go find some logs for a fire? That way we can cook something to eat.” The relief on his face at having something productive to do is instant, and he snags Jate’s hand, the both of them rushing out.

“Boba came up with her name,” you say, watching them go. “He called her Jate’Kara, and said it meant good stars. But I thought that was a little too long, so we shortened it. She and Boba are thick as thieves at this point. She doesn’t talk, but she’s so expressive, and-” You’re rambling at this point, don’t realize it until Jango lays his hand on your cheek.

“Cyare,” he says, “Tatooine?” You lean into his touch, closing your eyes and expelling a long breath.

“I needed a bacta tank. Kamino and Coruscant weren’t options. Gardulla can be bought for the right amount of credits. It worked. And seeing Jate… it was like looking at myself all those years ago.” You don’t tell him about Maswoni. Maybe one day you will, but right now it’s still to fresh, too complex to articulate.

“In my armor?” he asks, his eyes sweeping over your form. You duck your head in a nod.

“Boba’s idea. He said it made me look more intimidating, and then it just seemed smart to keep it on when I was on the ship.” His hand brushes down your cheek, finger curling around a strand of hair.

“It’s a good look,” he says, eyes falling to the prominent hole in the center of the chest piece. His hand moves to it, palm splaying over the hole, and by proxy, your chest.

“Thought we lost you,” you whisper. “It settled in your lungs.” You press your hand over his. He’s quiet for a long time.

“I thought I was gone too,” he says finally. “I- It’s all a blur, and I…” He trails off, hanging his head, looking down at his battered body for the first time.

“The thought of you two being caught in the crosshairs,” he says, shaking his head. You place your hands on his cheeks, lifting his gaze back you, careful not to strain his neck.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We made it. Everyone is fine. Jango. We did it.” The words sink in for the first time.

You did it.

You’re out.

He studies your face, eyes dancing between yours, roving over your face. With a soft groan, he tugs you closer, mouth finding yours. His arms wrap around your sides, pulling you as close as he can with the tank in the way.

He tilts your head back with his own, forehead pressing against yours, like he can’t stand to not be touching you.

“We did it,” he murmurs against your mouth, deepening the kiss until you’re panting for breath.

You pull back slightly, stroking the sides of his face.

“I love you,” you say, repeating what you told him when you were sure he couldn’t hear you.

His eyes squeeze shut, like he’s in pain, and he draws in a shaky breath.

“Oh, Cyare,” he whispers. “It’s always been you. Only you.” ~~~

Later, much later, you and Jango lay on a blanket under the stars.

Boba and Jate are asleep in the ship, and you lay with your head on Jango’s chest, listening to him breathe, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

Every time you touch him, it’s feather-light, as if you’re afraid holding on too tightly will break him again.

Jango traces his hand over your hip, slowly working it under the loose shirt — his shirt — that you’re wearing.

It strikes you again, just how warm he feels. You squeeze your eyes shut. You won’t cry anymore. You’re done with that.

His hand leaves your shirt and catches your own, bringing your fingertips up to his mouth.

Slowly, so slowly, he kisses them.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, and you swallow hard.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur. And it isn’t. You suppose it’s just all the stress finally starting to melt away. The dissolving of the fear, the convincing your body that it can exit its fight or flight mode.

“Are you sure?” He shifts, so you’re laying face-to-face, because he knows you can’t hide your emotions well.

“I was so scared,” you finally manage, voice just barely above a whisper. He knows this. You’ve told him this.

“And I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m not scared. That I’m not going to wake up and find you gone. And I want to be gentle, so gentle because the last thing I want to do is hurt you.” But there’s a part of you that wants to feel him, real and solid against you. Only you can’t just say that. The words get stuck in your throat, tangling around themselves.

Jango nuzzles his nose along the hollow of your throat, lips lightly grazing over your pulse there.

“Can I tell you the truth?” he asks, and you nod, unable to speak over the lump in your throat.

“I was scared myself. Not for me, but for you and Boba. If anything had happened, knowing that I put you two in that position.” It kills you, the stricken way he looks at you.

“Boba and I both went willingly. You should have seen Boba, Jango. He was so brave.” Jango kisses the top of your hair.

“Just like his buir,” he murmurs, taking a long, deep breath, like he’s trying to memorize and savor every part of you. Something coils deep inside you, and you bite back a moan when he squeezes your ass.

“I don’t want to hurt you again,” you say. Jango’s hand trails down your leg, tugging it over his hip, opening you up.

“You won’t hurt me,” he says quietly. He finds your hand again and shifts, cupping it gently over his length.

He’s hard, a detail that sends a throb through you.

“Jango,” you whisper, any thoughts of protesting for fear of hurting him fading fast. He hums in agreement.

“I need you,” he says, voice rough. “I want to think about something else. Please.”

You kiss him this time. It’s soft, achingly gentle, as you run your hands up and down his sides and along his back, reacquainting yourself with the feel of him. He shifts, leaning over you.

Carefully, your shirt is tugged over your head, followed by his, so there’s nothing between you two but warm skin.

Your hand traces over the scar on his chest, barely visible in the starlit night, and he kisses along both your cheeks, wiping away moisture you didn’t even feel there.

The waves crash on the distant shore, an ever-present melody keeping you in the moment. Wind stirs the trees, bringing with it an earthy smell. You shiver and Jango presses closer, sharing his warmth, as he fumbles with the hem of your pants.

He gets them about halfway down your legs before he gives up, choosing instead to focus on kissing you as his hand slips between your legs. Jango caresses, and you keen against his mouth, distantly aware of kicking your own pants off, freeing your legs to wrap tighter around his waist.

Your hands drop from his shoulders, pushing at his pants, and he lets you, groaning against you when you finally get him in your hand.

“Fuck, Sweetheart, you feel so good,” he pants against you, jaw clenched as he tries to maintain control. Above the two of you, the stars paint a picture in an impossibly-clear sky, so different from Kamino, with its clouds threatening to choke out the few stars you could see.

Jango kisses your neck, burying a groan there when you squeeze him tighter, mouth moving down your chest, paying attention first to one breast, then the other. You cry out, arching into him, as his fingers find that particular sweet spot between your legs.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs against your skin, hand covering yours as he lines himself up.

As he slots into you, he takes your hand in his, pressing it back against the blanket. You note the way his hands shake and you tighten your hand around his, giving him some of your strength.

It isn’t rushed. It’s slow, following the same rhythm of the waves on the shore. Every time you think he’s close, he seems to find a second wind. Slowly, it stokes a fire in you, until you’re nearly panting with the way he scrapes against you. You lose track of how many times you hit your peak, until finally, you’re nearly delirious with pleasure.

“Jango,” you murmur in his ear. “Come.” He shudders against you, shaking his head, as if he’s afraid this will all disappear when it’s finished. His head stays pressed against your neck, lips worrying a spot beneath your ear.

“Trust me,” you say, mouthing at his jaw before your own eyes screw shut in pleasure, the cry as you find your release echoing in the night.

You squeeze around him as you come. He finally gives in, managing one final thrust, staying buried in you as he finds his release, groan muffled against your neck.

After, he shifts onto his back, taking you with him, unwilling to separate just yet. You rest your head on his chest, tangling your legs in between his as his arms wrap tighter around you. Your eyes drift close, listening to the way his heart beat has slowed.

For now, you are the only two people in the whole galaxy. In the morning, there will be plenty of problems to solve, plenty of issues to deal with.

But for now, it is just you and Jango under the stars, listening to the calming of each other’s heartbeats and the steadfast waves.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 295

So, maybe Danny should have been more specific when he said he wanted to get reincarnated, because this? Is not an ideal situation. 

See he’s fine with being a clone, really, but uh, apparently the scientists want to terminate him- which, like dude, he’s not even melting or actively dying! So what if he failed at their tests, his body is three, give him a break! 

Well, at least it’s given him certainty in getting out, because these are Not good people. He wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt and- hold up, another clone? Brother? Two brothers? One aged up, one in the middle of it- since his own aging-up failed past three? 

Oh hell no, they can’t experiment on his brothers, those are his brothers and living people just as much as he is! Time to break out- and he’s taking those papers thank you- and gonna’ grab his… he’s gonna’ call them his triplets because they’re the same age, just aged differently. 

Now hold his hand, they’re runnin’ to the mountai- oh thank fuck, the physically-oldest of them can fly. To the mountains while they have the cover of night and they can figure things out. At least his life isn’t boring yet…

[obsob]

despite, despite, despite!!

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

Feelings Thawed

Character; Cater Diamond

Content; Fluff, gender-neutral reader, pining, ice skating (to various degrees of success)

Word Count; 650+

Author's Note; This is a present/thank you to my mutual @i-like-forgs. I hope you enjoy this ice skating scene with Cater, and that you get to skate soon!

As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

The brisk wind bit at your nose, and you pulled up your scarf, trying to keep away the offending wind. Around you it was a winter wonderland, all made possible in the temperate conditions thanks to Cater, who was filming you skating around on the frozen pond’s surface.

“You know,” you hollered, making sure that you caught his attention, “you should join me! It’s fun!” You came to a stop by the pond’s edge, where Cater was standing with a large thermos.

Cater just shot you a wink, handing you the thermos. “This is for you though, silly!” 

He was deflecting, you could tell; behind that bright and cheery smile that he always seemed to wear around others, you knew when there was something off with Cater. You accepted the thermos though, and took a sip of the spicy apple cider, still piping hot.

You gave him a look and pulled lightly on his coat sleeve. “Yes, but it’s more fun with others, come on Cater!” You stepped back onto the ice, and slowly skated near him, waiting with an eager smile.

He looked at you, and then back at the ice, but he stayed standing in the light snow, shooting you that smile. “But I can’t take photos if I’m out there with you!” He scratched at the back of his neck.

Liar. “Cater,” you looped back around and stepped onto the bank, balancing on your skates, “do you not know how to skate?”

Cater’s smile turned sheepish, and his ‘ahahaha, looks like my gig is up’ chuckle made its appearance. He had been found out. “Never got the chance to,” he hid his face slightly in his scarf, either to keep the cold at bay or to hide that his cheeks were turning pink. “So I’d just slow ya down.”

You took his hand into yours, “Well, I could teach you if you wanted. Just a warning though, you’re gonna fall on your butt a lot, might get a few bruises.”

Cater looked down at your entwined hands. Mittens and gloves separated your skin from touching one another, but Cater could swear that he could feel the sensation nonetheless through the layers of fabric.

“You would? Even if I pull you down with me?” 

The last question wasn’t just about the ice skating; Cater didn’t want to force you to do anything that you didn’t want to… and that included being his friend. His heart seemed to whisper stronger emotions though, but he didn’t want to ruin what the two of you had.

You walked him out to the ice, and the both of you swiftly fell down on the ice, hard. But you just laughed and got right back up again, “Well, we did just fall. There isn’t anything scary about falling down; yes it stings and might leave a gnarly bruise, but in order to move forward we have to fall and get back up. So yes, is what I guess I’m saying.”

Cater looked up at you, the sun illuminating you and the snow glittered behind you. You were holding your hand out again, waiting for him. And Cater took your hand. 

It took him a while to get the hang of it, and he fell down quite a bit, but every time he fell down you helped him back up. And by the time that the sun was setting in the west, the both of you were cold, and both were going to wake up tomorrow with some bruises. It was fun though, which is all that mattered… but that whisper in Cater’s heart was by now singing, and maybe he would listen to it, but for now, he was happy with how the way things were, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, especially with how much you had smiled today. Your smile and knowing that you had fun with him was enough.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tags; @eynnwwyjth, @ithseem, @krenenbaker, @silvers-numberonefan, @twistwonderlanddevotee, @xxoomiii

[commsroom]

the u.s.s. horrible unending nightmare 💥 (once again from the incredible @hehearse)