#crafty light asks

[crafty-light]

Hello! 😄 How are you doing okay? ~🐧

I'm doing good just planning on writing some requests and doing some organizing on my blog. Like having a masterlist and update fandoms I write for.

[nasa]

NASA Inspires Your Crafty Creations for World Embroidery Day

It’s amazing what you can do with a little needle and thread! For #WorldEmbroideryDay, we asked what NASA imagery inspired you. You responded with a variety of embroidered creations, highlighting our different areas of study.

Here’s what we found:

Webb’s Carina Nebula

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, created this embroidered piece inspired by Webb’s Carina Nebula image. Captured in infrared light, this image revealed for the first time previously invisible areas of star birth. Credit: Wendy Edwards, NASA. Pattern credit: Clare Bray, Climbing Goat Designs

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, first learned cross stitch in middle school where she had to pick rotating electives and cross stitch/embroidery was one of the options.  “When I look up to the stars and think about how incredibly, incomprehensibly big it is out there in the universe, I’m reminded that the universe isn’t ‘out there’ at all. We’re in it,” she said. Her latest piece focused on Webb’s image release of the Carina Nebula. The image showcased the telescope’s ability to peer through cosmic dust, shedding new light on how stars form.

Ocean Color Imagery: Exploring the North Caspian Sea

Danielle Currie of Satellite Stitches created a piece inspired by the Caspian Sea, taken by NASA’s ocean color satellites. Credit: Danielle Currie/Satellite Stitches

Danielle Currie is an environmental professional who resides in New Brunswick, Canada. She began embroidering at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic as a hobby to take her mind off the stress of the unknown. Danielle’s piece is titled “46.69, 50.43,” named after the coordinates of the area of the northern Caspian Sea captured by LandSat8 in 2019.

An image of the Caspian Sea captured by Landsat 8 in 2019. Credit: NASA

Two Hubble Images of the Pillars of Creation, 1995 and 2015

Melissa Cole of Star Stuff Stitching created an embroidery piece based on the Hubble image Pillars of Creation released in 1995. Credit: Melissa Cole, Star Stuff Stitching

Melissa Cole is an award-winning fiber artist from Philadelphia, PA, USA, inspired by the beauty and vastness of the universe. They began creating their own cross stitch patterns at 14, while living with their grandparents in rural Michigan, using colored pencils and graph paper.  The Pillars of Creation (Eagle Nebula, M16), released by the Hubble Telescope in 1995 when Melissa was just 11 years old, captured the imagination of a young person in a rural, religious setting, with limited access to science education.

Lauren Wright Vartanian of the shop Neurons and Nebulas created this piece inspired by the Hubble Space Telescope’s 2015 25th anniversary re-capture of the Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Lauren Wright Vartanian, Neurons and Nebulas

Lauren Wright Vartanian of Guelph, Ontario Canada considers herself a huge space nerd. She’s a multidisciplinary artist who took up hand sewing after the birth of her daughter. She’s currently working on the illustrations for a science themed alphabet book, made entirely out of textile art. It is being published by Firefly Books and comes out in the fall of 2024. Lauren said she was enamored by the original Pillars image released by Hubble in 1995. When Hubble released a higher resolution capture in 2015, she fell in love even further! This is her tribute to those well-known images.

James Webb Telescope Captures Pillars of Creation

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art, created a rectangular version of Webb’s Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art

Darci Lenker of Norman, Oklahoma started embroidery in college more than 20 years ago, but mainly only used it as an embellishment for her other fiber works. In 2015, she started a daily embroidery project where she planned to do one one-inch circle of embroidery every day for a year.  She did a collection of miniature thread painted galaxies and nebulas for Science Museum Oklahoma in 2019. Lenker said she had previously embroidered the Hubble Telescope’s image of Pillars of Creation and was excited to see the new Webb Telescope image of the same thing. Lenker could not wait to stitch the same piece with bolder, more vivid colors.

Milky Way

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art was inspired by NASA’s imaging of the Milky Way Galaxy. Credit: Darci Lenker

In this piece, Lenker became inspired by the Milky Way Galaxy, which is organized into spiral arms of giant stars that illuminate interstellar gas and dust. The Sun is in a finger called the Orion Spur.

The Cosmic Microwave Background

This image shows an embroidery design based on the cosmic microwave background, created by Jessica Campbell, who runs Astrostitches. Inside a tan wooden frame, a colorful oval is stitched onto a black background in shades of blue, green, yellow, and a little bit of red. Credit: Jessica Campbell/ Astrostitches

Jessica Campbell obtained her PhD in astrophysics from the University of Toronto studying interstellar dust and magnetic fields in the Milky Way Galaxy. Jessica promptly taught herself how to cross-stitch in March 2020 and has since enjoyed turning astronomical observations into realistic cross-stitches. Her piece was inspired by the cosmic microwave background, which displays the oldest light in the universe.

The full-sky image of the temperature fluctuations (shown as color differences) in the cosmic microwave background, made from nine years of WMAP observations. These are the seeds of galaxies, from a time when the universe was under 400,000 years old. Credit: NASA/WMAP Science Team

GISSTEMP: NASA’s Yearly Temperature Release

Katy Mersmann, a NASA social media specialist, created this embroidered piece based on NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS) global annual temperature record. Earth’s average surface temperature in 2020 tied with 2016 as the warmest year on record. Credit: Katy Mersmann, NASA

Katy Mersmann is a social media specialist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Md. She started embroidering when she was in graduate school. Many of her pieces are inspired by her work as a communicator. With climate data in particular, she was inspired by the researchers who are doing the work to understand how the planet is changing. The GISTEMP piece above is based on a data visualization of 2020 global temperature anomalies, still currently tied for the warmest year on record.

In addition to embroidery, NASA continues to inspire art in all forms. Check out other creative takes with Landsat Crafts and the James Webb Space telescope public art gallery.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[azrielhours]

Captured

Azriel x Reader

Word count: 2018

Synopsis: The camera has been invented and Azriel takes up a hobby of capturing reader, proving how pretty she can be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What is it?”

“An obscura camera, I think we called it.” You turned the device around for him to see the little hole to look through, let him hold it. “It means ‘dark room.’ Light travels in through here,” you pointed to the lens, “and an image is captured using refraction and shadows.”

Azriel frowned in disbelief, making you laugh.

“Watch,” you said, gently taking the Obscura from his hands.

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing,” you smiled, positioning it before your face. “Smile for me.”

He gave a small, tentative smile. The distrust in his eyes had you laughing again, which made Azriel chuckle genuinely.

You clicked something. A shutter sounded, light flashed, and Azriel’s eyes widened. You pulled the obscura away as it rattled, producing a thin strip of rectangular film. Azriel’s frown returned. “It’s black.”

“It has to develop,” you plucked it away and placed it facedown. “You’ll see in a few minutes.”

“This is what you’d been working on with Nuan?” he asked, referring to the alchemist who’d been in town for a few weeks.

You nodded. “It’s an early prototype, but it mimics the way light enters the eye.” A mixture of her trinketry, your crafty impulses, and some magic. “All this work so we can finally capture your pretty face,” you teased, enjoying the pink dusting his cheeks. You turned the piece of film to him, relishing Azriel’s shock upon peering down at the photograph.

That sincere smile you’d managed to capture was how you often caught him looking at you. A sweet, receptive earnestness lighting his normally cold face. Eyes that beheld you like he missed you even when you hadn’t gone anywhere. Now etched permanently into a photograph for you to cherish.

It was your turn to blush. Playful words aside, this truly did catch his beauty.

He met your gaze. “Teach me how to use it.” You demonstrated, pointing to shoot the nearby bookshelf, but Azriel shook his head. “I want one like that,” he nodded to his headshot.

Your nose crinkled. “I don’t photograph well, Az.”

He scoffed. “Why wouldn’t you?” He positioned the obscura over his eyes like you had.

You covered your face with your hands, hiding. “I don’t like the posing.”

 “Come on,” he cooed, laughing. He reached to move your hair where it fell forward as you ducked your head, then gently held your wrists beneath your chin, broad hand easily cradling them between a thumb and two fingers. He tilted your face up with his hold. You peered at him through your fingers, rosy cheeks peeking through digits. Still holding your wrists, he took the photo effortlessly.

You uncovered your face, still blushing. He wondered how you didn’t see what a perfect subject you’d be. How you could invent the obscura and deprive him of its most obvious benefit.

Azriel studied you, and you saw the gears turn in his head. “Can I borrow it for a while?"

You laughed. “Okay, Az.”

~

It started off rather clumsy, and it took a few tries for Azriel to figure out that lighting mattered. That snapping photos with light in the immediate background ruined the film. He tested his hypothesis by capturing a bewildered Cassian, the confusion frozen making Azriel chuckle. He understood why you’d been laughing at him before. Next, he found that distance was important; that he could shift the angle of his photography. A practice shot of Feyre losing herself in a painting, so focused that she didn’t turn to wonder about the shuttering sound. Rhys landing on a balcony after training. Nesta reading ferociously by the fire.

He got the hang of it and was ready to really begin.

I don’t like the posing, you’d told him. He had no issues with that whatsoever.

The first one happened in the kitchen. The early morning hours were typically shared by the both of you on the grounds of a close friendship. You’d been sipping on coffee like it was medicinal, the light of the sun softening everything. Eyes closed, hair still slightly undone from sleep. He loved seeing you in your fancy dresses, your fighting leathers, but something about seeing you in soft, utterly personal nightwear—linen pants, knit cardigans, slippers—it spread warmth through his chest brighter than your revered sunrise. Today he'd even caught you in his t-shirt you must’ve swiped. Carefully positioning the Obscura over his face where he stood at the doorway, he snapped his photo before inconspicuously joining you, inquiring about the theft he quietly adored. Adoring your answering smile even more.

The next shot was on the rooftop. He’d caught Cassian bandaging you up after sparring. You were sat on the bench, smiling bloody and beautiful. Laughing as Cassian cracked jokes, allowing him to tend to you. He was kneeling on the ground before you, cleaning the cuts on your brow, wrapping your bruised knuckles. The sheer glee in your laugh, the way you sat so comfortably with his brother had Azriel reaching into the pocket realm for the Obscura, capturing the sight of his favourite people bantering fresh out of the ring.

One night after Rita’s, Rhys had offered to fly you home after winning a drinking game against Azriel. He’d winked at the bested Shadowsinger, taking you into his arms and shooting to the sky. Azriel grumbled at first until he’d realized the opportunity he had mid-flight with Rhys ahead. You reached to the skies above, stretching like you could grab the very moon, safe in the High Lord’s arms. He wished the Obscura had the power to capture the sound of your laughter as well, but he’d gladly settle for your silhouette marked by the Night Court stars, their beauty dimmed in the face of your exquisite joy.

The next photo was stolen after a Hewn City mission. You’d been in a billowing dark gown, face so ethereal, so striking and utterly beautiful that he’d struggled to look at you face-on. Everyone had taken to sprawling on the couches after coming home, still in formal attire, helping themselves to drinks as they winded down. You’d fallen asleep at some point, stretched comfortably across the sofa with your head nearly hanging off, hair cascading around you like a halo and down the sofa to the ground. Feyre mentioned wishing she could paint the sight of you, sleeping like some spite or nymph, some woodland creature of beauty, your dress ballooning around you like a nightshade flower. Azriel silently pulled out the Obscura, taking his time levelling the device so the light of the hearth illuminated your face.

“What is that thing you keep doing?” Cassian asked lowly.

Azriel focused, capturing the shot. Taking another one just for good measure. “Nothing.”

His favourite photo was of you and Nyx. You’d been playing with the boy on the balcony, blowing bubbles as he tried dutifully to pop them. They’d land and settle in his hair, making you laugh boisterously, head tipping back as Nyx laughed with you unwittingly. It was like the sun loved you, how it always shone upon you, doing the work for Azriel. He took the photo, falling into the easy routine. Once that photo developed, his heart skipped a beat at its sight. At the promise it captured that he wished was his.

He was a lucky bastard to have this gift—a device that finally allowed him to freeze the light that you were in his life, to etch the sights he so sincerely loved. God, you were special. Azriel had to walk away from the balcony, still staring at the little strip of film, more invaluable than precious jewel. How lucky he was to witness you. Luckier still to capture you in still frames, while you unknowingly captured his heart.

~

Azriel found you in your room, sitting at your vanity. He handed the obscura to you. “There’s no more film.”

You laughed. “Wow. How many photos did you take?”

He shrugged, smiling roguishly. “A handful.”

“Can I see?”

He handed a few.

You rifled through them, gasping at the quality. “These are amazing.” He’d captured Feyre descending the stairs in her regalia, beautiful like a divinity of legend. Nesta pouting playfully, glaring right at the camera. Mor putting earrings in before an outing. “Their mates would love these,” you murmured.

“They would,” he agreed.

You shook your head, stunned. “God, they’re beautiful.” Azriel didn’t know if you meant the photos or who he captured in them. “I wish I photographed this good.”

He would’ve laughed at the absurdity if he could resist his scoff of disbelief. “You do.”

You just shook your head, sneaking a quick glance at yourself in the mirror before eyeing the photos again.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. “You do,” he repeated. “I—” he reached into the pocket realm. “I took some of you as well.” Handing over a few photos, he watched closely as your eyes widened. You took your time studying each photo, brows pinched. He didn’t know if it was in dislike, or—

“Wow,” you breathed. You met his gaze. The fragility in them told him it was awe. “Azriel,” you breathed again, assessing the shots. “Wow. You make me look…”

You faded to silence. “What,” he gently nudged you.

“Pretty.”

He tried to speak. A breath puffed out of him. “Y/n,” he couldn’t stop the reverence in his tone. “You’re beautiful. What do you mean?” He didn’t care how it came off, how saying it warmed his cheeks.

He’d only pulled out a few of the tamer photos. The ones of you with his family or in mundane solitude. He immediately pulled out the rest, laying them before you. The pinch deepened between your brows, looking at the one of you after Hewn City. “Oh my god,” you breathed. You had no idea you could look so… “beautiful.”

“Yes,” Azriel nodded. “Beautiful.” He pointed to the one of you in the kitchen, freshly woken up. “Here as well.” Always.

You took your time studying them, unable to find it in you to care about how stupidly vulnerable this struck you. Too busy grappling with the comfort of feeling this seen. You finally met his gaze, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought that look in his eyes was…

If you were well and truly self-indulgent, you may have called it how you felt inside.

Azriel wished he had just one more piece of film to capture the look on your face. The depth of fondness in your eyes, like he was worth seeing. His heart stuttered again, holding that stare like he could pour his affection directly from his eyes to yours.

“Will you be keeping these?” you asked about the photos.

Azriel chuckled. “Yes. Try taking even one away.”

Oh.

You blushed, breaking his stare. A fine line to toe with your friend indeed.

But Azriel enjoyed that conviction on your face when you saw yourself as he did. “Okay,” he let up, exhaling in mock annoyance. “You can have a few.” He took most of the photos back, making sure to leave you with a copy of the Hewn City one. “I mean, I can always take more.”

You laughed, standing to retrieve your satchel, pulling out spare film. You showed Azriel how to load it in, but before handing the Obscura back, you eyed the first photo he’d taken, with his hands holding your wrists. “I want one like that,” you said, reaching for his face.

He laughed but didn’t bat your hand away, to your pleasant surprise. Only standing firm, albeit leaving his face uncovered. You cradled his face gently by the chin in one hand, resting your fingers on his cheeks, barely pressing. He smiled warmly at you, looking right through the camera at you. You captured him.

“There,” you handed back the obscura. “Now I got you,” you held up his matching photo.

He liked the sound of that. “I have you too,” he raised his collection of your photos in his hand in reminder. “And I’ll be keeping you with me.”

~

taglist:

@iimisty-a @feyretopia @riddlesb1tch @cullenswife @reiincarnatiion @sfhsgrad-blog @answer-the-sirens @mrstangerinejohnson @marigold-morelli @courtofjurdan @azriels-mate123 @emotionless-lover @marina468 @slvtherinseeker @owllover123 @banasheefan56 @nyotamalfoy @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @lilah-asteria @bakananya @deep-forest-creature @itsswritten

[2corvusossifragus]

i wanted to make an oc ask game 😋 things i like to ask people abt their characters:

are they associated with a certain color? what color do they wear the most?

what sort of music would they like? have you thought about what genres or bands do they lean towards? do they have a favorite song?

weapon of choice? any particular reason they chose their weapon?

how crafty/resourceful are they?

how do they typically dress? does their wardrobe lean more towards practicality or aesthetics?

how do they wear their hair? do they care a lot how their hair looks?

favorite animal? why?

do they have a nickname? who gave it to them? if it's not derived from their real name, what's the story behind it?

favorite food? least favorite? are they a picky eater? do they have any dietary restrictions?

if they wear jewelry, what kind? do they prefer silver or gold? do they have a favorite gem?

what do they have in common with you? how are they different? would you get along with them?

how long have they been around? do you know their birthday? is their birthday the day you made them or another day? what do they think of celebrating birthdays?

what languages do they speak? how fluently?

are they any good with numbers?

how big or small is their family? who did they live with growing up? do they live with anyone now?

do they have any pets? what do they call their pets?

how did they spend their summers/free time as a child?

their opinion on lying, stealing, and killing?

are they quick to anger? what sets them off?

if applicable, can they drive? if they have their own, what color is their vehicle? is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess?

their favorite place to be?

do they sleep well at night?

how would you describe their voice? can they sing?

do they have any creative hobbies? (art, writing, music, etc)

how good/bad is their hearing? what about their eyesight?

how do they move? are they clumsy? light on their feet? do they use mobility aids?

if applicable, do they have a favorite sport? do they play any sports or prefer to watch?

how do they show that they care about someone? how do they express that they don't like someone?

are they associated with any particular element (air, earth, fire, water)?

do they smell like anything notable?

do they like receiving gifts? giving gifts? what is their ideal gift?

do they have any habits that aren't particularly self-destructive, just maybe odd?

if applicable, how would your other characters describe them? i mean specifically the people around them.

how would your character describe themselves? it doesn't have to line up with how they really are.

do they ever return home?

[rileyslibrary]

teaching ghost how to make paper cranes but he keeps messing up with his huge ass hands <3333 (gn reader please! love your work❣️❣️)

*taps microphone* one “Ghost struggling” with a side of “Japanese paper folding art” coming right up. (A/N at the end)

———————————————————————

“This is even more annoying than Soap.”

“It’s not Soap’s fault you have sausages for fingers.” You murmur as you finish your tenth paper crane and set it on the conference table.

He examines the back of his hand as if he had just received a manicure. He then flips it over, palm facing up, and curls his fingers into a fist before releasing them.

“My fingers are not the problem,” he argues, “it’s these sheets; they are way too small.”

“Did you say ‘shits’ or ‘sheets’?” You quip, and he huffs at your comment. Yet, he picks up another piece of paper from the stack to try again.

You observe him as he leans over the table. He is pretty crafty when it comes to surviving in difficult situations; he can light a fire by creating a bow drill, build a shelter out of branches, and navigate the woods with a needle as a compass. But when it comes to these types of crafts, he struggles.

He starts folding again, a little gentler than before. Every time he completes a step, he pauses to assess his progress. He occasionally lets out a self-motivational hum and nods to himself.

But then something happens, and he loses it—a misaligned fold caused by his large hands or a paper rip as a result of his inexperience with handling such delicate materials. Sometimes he just feels discouraged, anticipating another failed try, and gives everything up.

Looking at his current attempt, you know the paper crane will fall apart. He completes his final folds and, as you anticipated, it comes loose. He groans and crumbles the paper.

“You can do it,” you assert. “I’ve seen you train unruly recruits with much more patience.”

“For fucks sake, Y/N,” he shouts, throwing his head back, “recruits are easier to shape into soldiers than moulding a fucking Post-it note into a duck.”

“It’s a crane,” you correct him; “ducks have another technique.”

“What’s the difference?” he complains. “Why do they have different folds if they are both birds?”

“For the same reason, an AK47 and an MP5 need different types of ammo, I guess.”

Despite his disappointment, he picks up another piece of paper and folds it again.

“Patience, Lt.,” you encourage him, “treat it as a recruit.”

He pauses for a minute, contemplating your advice, before he begins. He does not treat the paper as a target this time. He carefully pinches it with his fingers and folds it with his nails. In his eyes, the paper has taken on the appearance of something far too fragile. Something that needs to be helped and taken care of. It’s not against him, but with him—they’re allies working towards a common goal.

He completes it and places it in the palm of his hand, stretching his creation towards you. It’s not perfect, but nothing is.

“Excellent work, Lieutenant!” You cheer, and he proudly places his paper crane next to yours.

“It’s relaxing and meditative,” he admits; “all this folding and aligning makes you forget about things.”

“Things?” You ask as he pulls another sheet from the stack.

“You know,” he replies, staring at the paper in his hands, “bad things.”

You can see his emotions shifting through his eyes—they’re half-lidded as if they want to forget the atrocities they witnessed. His hands are fiddling with that paper; they are shameful hands in his mind—hands that participated in the worst horrors imaginable. They’re not worthy of making paper cranes.

“Paper cranes symbolise hope,” you comfort him, “and there’s a Japanese legend that says whoever makes a thousand of them will be granted a wish.”

His eyes light up, and he opens his lips to say something, but Soap enters the room. “What are you doing here?” He yells and sits on the table, right next to your paper cranes.

Ghost rolls his eyes at the sight of Soap but continues with his little project. “I’m making a thousand paper cranes to fulfil my wish.” He replies.

“What are you going to wish for, Lieutenant?” He asks, and Ghost replies with a stern “for you to get off my fucking back.”

You make quiet shushing noises to calm him down, and he inhales deeply.

“What is it that you want, Sergeant?” He finally asks, and Soap begins to report every problem around the base that would require Ghost’s attention.

“And the fridge broke last night, and all the meat has gone bad,” he concludes, “so it looks like we might have to eat a plant-based diet until we fix it.”

“That’s alright,” Ghost shrugs, “as long as we get our nutrients, we’ll be fine.”

Soap looks at you, dumbfounded. “Wow, Lt.!” he shouts, turning to Ghost, “these paper cranes have turned you into a bloody monk, haven’t they?”

“Paper crane, paper crane,” Ghost begins to chant as he folds, “go away, or you’ll end up with a fucking cane.”

“Ghost!” you cry. “Where is the patience and meditative state we discussed earlier?”

“I’m sorry,” he apologises and turns to Soap. “Namaste, sergeant,” he says and waves his hand in dismissal, “now fuck off.”

And who are you to tell him what to say or how to behave? You, too, are a project yourself, just like these cranes lined up in front of you. You look at the trash bin with all the papers he crumbled before completing his first successful paper fold art. Today he learned something new and joyful. Something that makes him feel content and proud rather than something that wakes him up in the middle of the night or, worse, prevents him from sleeping. Making a thousand paper cranes is so much better than watching him with that thousand-yard stare he gets after every mission.

Soap grabs one of your paper cranes, places it in his pocket, and leaves you two be.

Ghost completes his second successful paper crane and grabs another sheet. “Nine hundred and ninety-eight more to go,” he states, “you know, for that wish.”

———————————————————————

A/N: I had no idea how to make a paper crane, so I wanted to teach myself first in order to write this. And yes, I did it on a Post-it note (but not a sticky one). Also, this piece is 1000 words.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐞𝐝

Surprises were not an unexpected occurrence when you come to think of it, not when you had Bucky Barnes as your boyfriend, though you had to give him credit where credit was due — he was a crafty, cunning man when it counted.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✯ Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✯ 2.0k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✯ This is just pure filth ჻჻჻ SMUT: Unprotected piv, rough sex, multiple orgasms, restraints/blindfold, inappropriate use of Christmas lights, oral fixation, biting, finger sucking, so much dirty talk (this fic has the most dirty talk I have ever done), Dom!Bucky ჻჻჻ KINKS: Praise, degradation, sir, breeding

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✯ You can imagine why there was only one smut entry for this day, because I did end up yeeting myself after this one.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ✯ @buckybarnesevents Build a Bucky Bingo ჻჻჻ Blindfolds (November), Dom Big Dick Bucky Barnes (January) — Masterlist ✯ @mcukinkbingo 𝗡𝟭 — Character is a Dom — Masterlist ✯ @sweetspicybingo Sweetheart Bingo — My Bed Now — Masterlist ✯ @rookthorne's Merry Buckmas — Masterlist

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Honey, sweetheart,” Bucky said innocently. 

There was a hint, a smidge of trouble in his voice — the very same tone he took when he wanted something far more than family friendly. You couldn’t help but smile as you sat on the couch in the living room, phone in hand; feigning blissful ignorance was a game you loved to play. 

Especially with him. 

A shadow moved in your peripherals, and this time, Bucky’s voice was a little closer. “Baby.”

The smile on your lips threatened to give you away, so you schooled your expression into being focussed. Your cover was made more successful by the furrow of your brow and tongue between your teeth.

“I know you’re listenin’ to me, kitten,” he drawled, and he sat on the couch next to you, his bright eyes staring so intently into the side of your face. “Stop pretending and look at me.”

“You know,” you began, locking your phone screen before you placed it on the side table. “Using all of the sweet names won’t get you what you want. I was Christmas shopping.”

Bucky shrugged, a coy smirk playing on his lips. “I don’t know, kitten—you seem to respond pretty instinctually to bein’ called all sorts a’things. Or maybe–” He leaned in closer, his breath fanning over your lips. “That’s just my pretty girl respondin’ to her sir.”

The breath in your chest hitched and morphed into a choked gasp. “Bucky!”

“What?” he asked, pouting. 

You sighed, then took a deep breath. “What do you want, you menace?”

“I want you, baby.” The couch creaked as he shuffled closer, and his hand moved to grab your jaw. His fingers gripped your face gently, and he moved your head, facing it forward so his lips could trace over the side of your neck. “I want you, spread under me an’ takin’ my cock like a good girl—that’s what I want.”

“You and your fucking words, sir,” you breathed, letting your eyes flutter shut. 

Bucky grinned against your neck, and his hand moved to press lightly against the front of your throat. “But this time, sweetheart,” he said, “We’re gonna do somethin’ new. Strip, then lay down on your stomach in bed.”

The moment you flew to your feet and followed his order was when you realised how right he was — the blood pooled in your cunt and your walls throbbed, empty and wanting. Your clothes flew to the corner of the room, a discarded pile, and you laid flat on your stomach atop the comforter, resting your chin on your crossed arms. 

Heavy footsteps came soon after, followed by, “Close your eyes, baby—I’m gonna blindfold you, then tie you up by your ankles and wrists.” Bucky appeared at the side of the bed, and he kneeled so you were eye level with him. “That sound alright?”

“Fucking yes,” you rushed, willing your heart to slow down — passing out before the fun began was not something you particularly wanted. “Please, I want that.” 

Bucky grinned. “Alright, hold tight now.” 

The soft fabric of the blindfold brushed your forehead, then rested over your eyes; all light was now gone, and you were cloaked in darkness. 

“How’s that, Honey?” he asked, the pads of his fingers brushing over your cheeks. “That okay?”

You nodded vigorously — the mystery of what he was doing, or what was to come, lit a fire inside you and the heat of it travelled to every nerve. The slick feel of wetness between your thighs made you rock your hips for momentary relief. 

An action Bucky did not miss. 

“You already achin’, kitten?” There was a dark chuckle, and you squeaked when his warm palm cupped your bare ass and pulled your cheek to the side, your core now exposed to the cool air. “You wanna be filled, huh?”

“Yeah– Yes, please,” you whined, pushing back against his hand. “Please, sir, I need it.”

“I know what you need, slut,” Bucky snapped, and his hand came down with a sharp crack against your skin. The pain startled you, and you gasped. “Patience.”

Rough hands moved down from your ass to your ankles, softly caressing the skin until you felt the tight grip of his hand around the back of your heel. “Here we go,” he whispered, and you nodded. The soft feel of some kind of fabric tickled the skin, and then, the fibres of something brushed over your ankle, tightening there. You could feel Bucky’s fingers between the strange material and your skin. “How’s that, baby?”

“It’s perfect,” you replied. “Now hurry up.” 

Bucky laughed and did the same to your other ankle, spreading your thighs wide and checking the tightness before you heard him walk up to the head of the bed. “Can I have your hands, please, sweetheart?”

“So sweet–” The covers ruffled as you held out your hands. “Why so gentlemanly, now?”

The same fabric on your ankles looped your wrists together, the hold strong and firm, but loose enough to tug free from. “Well,” Bucky said, his hand running up your arm. “There is one reason, baby.”

“And what’s that?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, and you felt the mattress dip at your side. The weight of his body on one knee made you tilt to the side. “So, Honey,” he said, and there was something in his voice you couldn’t place — your heart thundered against your ribs and in your cunt. “I thought ‘cause it’s Christmas, ‘n all.” There was a brush of skin over the back of your bare thighs, and you realised with a jolt that Bucky was naked, too. He settled between your thighs, his knees forcing your legs wider apart. “I wanted to tell you I love you.”

“Aw–”

“‘Cause I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.”

Your cry of shock was wrought with a moan at the feel of Bucky’s cock pressing into your heat, inch by thick inch. It was too much to bear, but he wasn’t stopping. “Fuck, kitten,” he hissed, his lips against the shell of your ear, “You’re already so fuckin’ tight, let me in, baby.”

“Oh–” You groaned loudly at the feel of his hips meeting your ass, and his arms caged you to the mattress. “God!”

“That’s not my name, sweetheart.” The words were followed with such a harsh thrust the bed slid over the floor. “Your cunt is fuckin’ made f’me, isn’t it? Jus’ perfect to fuck and fill—leave wantin’ and beggin’ for release.”

“Yessir!” you cried, your hands balling into fists. “Please, move—I can take it–”

“Can you really?” Bucky said through gritted teeth. Hot puffs of air brushed your temple, and you felt his lips trail towards your earlobe, then down to your neck. “I know you can, slut—but whether– Fuck, whether you can manage not to break.”

“Break me, break me, need it– Sir, please,” you babbled, whimpering from the lack of stimulation when his hips stilled. “Fuc–”

Bucky’s hand covered your mouth, and he shoved two fingers between your lips to rest over your tongue. “Shut the fuck up, kitten—suck on them like you would my cock.”

“Hnng!” you managed, and your tongue ran over the pads of his fingers while your lips closed around them. The hollows of your cheeks deepened with the effort. “Mm!”

“Yeah, fuck it,” Bucky growled, low in his throat. “I don’t wanna hold back—not anymore, this cunt’s jus’ too perfect.” 

The first thrust was harsh; the second even harder; the third made your vision white out. 

Mercifully, Bucky took his hand out of your mouth and placed it back on the bed, the inner side of his elbows brushing your sides with the force of his thrusts. 

You couldn’t help the moans that fell from your lips like a prayer, his name and title loud over the slick sounds of his cock forcing its way in and out of your cunt. “Sir! Sir, please—feels s’good!”

“Tha’s it, baby,” Bucky praised, and his hips moved harder — the slap of skin a symphony with his grunts. “Call for me, baby—go on.”

“Ah– Fucking, please!” A loud ringing sound accompanied the pounding of blood in your ears, while an unbearable heat burned through your core, tearing your reservations to shred as it swept through. “I think–”

“If you can still think, slut,” Bucky growled, and he lowered his head into your neck. “Then ‘m not fuckin’ you hard enough.”

His hips jackhammered into you, fucking you with abandon into the mattress while he bit and sucked on your neck. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, just as the pleasure crested and rolled into something unbearable–

“Tha’s it, good kitten, good slut,” Bucky cooed, and he spread his legs, forcing yours wider. “Can feel you—give it to me, baby.”

The first sparks of your orgasm stole your breath, and you gasped, pulling in breath to your desperate lungs. “Sir! I’m–”

Bucky moaned, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through your whole being, and your climax swept you away. Distantly, you could hear his calls of, “Fuckin’ good girl, good girl!”

You could feel him fuck you through the throes, but each thrust forward sparked the climax into starting again; the rawness of your throat turned your moans raw and rasped. 

Even so soon after your first, the start of a second orgasm crept closer — you couldn’t voice it, but Bucky knew. 

“You’re gonna give me more, kitten,” he demanded, and he ground his cock deep, forcing you down hard onto the mattress — his cockhead continued to brush against that spot, making you dizzy from the pleasure while tears welled on your lash line. “Then I’ll fuckin’ fill you up ‘till it takes—fuck a baby into you, over and over– Fuck, yeah, baby, tha’s it!”

You wailed as a second climax tore through, fiercer and harsher than the first. 

Bucky’s hips faltered in their punishing rhythm, and you could hear his grunts and moans over your pants for air. “Please, please,” you rasped. There was suddenly light filling your vision and you shut your eyes at the shock of it — the blindfold landed on the covers with a light thump next to your head. “Wha–”

The glint of colour caught your blurred vision — you blinked to clear it, and you found your wrists encircled by tinsel and Christmas lights. And in your dazed state, you started to deliriously giggle. “You think it’s funny, baby?” Bucky purred, and you could feel his smirk; hear it in his words. “Why don’t you cum again for your sir, so he can fill you up?”

“Hnng– Yeah,” you moaned, “Please, please–” 

“You hear that slick while I fuck you, huh? You hear it?” Bucky asked, his voice deep and just as wrecked.

You nodded, closing your eyes to listen to his hitched moans and wet sounds of his cock as he fucked you deep and hard, the long strokes against your walls heavenly. “Mhm–”

“Give it to me then, slut,” he snapped, driving his hips faster, “Fuckin’ perfect pussy, can feel you squeezin’ me and beggin’ to be fucked an’ filled, baby—c’mon.”

There was no time to voice the pressure you felt as a third, devastating climax burst — you could feel your release coat your inner thighs and drip down onto the bed, and Bucky’s cock only forced more of it out. “Yes, yes, yes,” he grunted into your neck, “good girl.” 

The hard pressure of his teeth over the skin of your neck intensified the fire in your veins. 

Bucky’s muffled moans grew in volume when his thrusts fell out of rhythm. “Gimme it, sir,” you moaned weakly, canting your ass up to meet his thrusts. “Fill me up—need it so bad.”

“Fuck.” He slammed his hips forward, pushing his cock to the hilt while it twitched. “Fuck, fuck, y’feel s’good, kitten,” he rasped, and you started to feel the pressure from his release coating your walls. A guttural moan filled the air and you whimpered. 

“Good girl, good girl,” Bucky praised, lowering his body over yours while his cock still twitched in your cunt. “Takin’ me so well, tha’s it—jus’ a bit more, good girl.” 

Your sense for words had long vanished, so you laid there, under his weight feeling protected and full of him. 

Eventually, you managed to mumble, “Happy Christmas t’a me.” 

You felt Bucky’s chest shake with laughter against your back, and you smiled dazedly. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Honey,” he cooed, kissing your temple. 

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[reds-writings]

rust cohle headcanons

(pairing: rust cohle x fem!reader)

a/n: here's some more rust brain rot on my behalf <3 feedback is always appreciated!

warnings: implications of sex, light cursing, etc. let me know if i missed anything! (minors shoo!)

word count: roughly 1k

-----

adding to the headcanon floating around of him being an acts of service type man through and through. yes, he can go on neverending tangents but sometimes words about his more sentimental/mushy feelings are better demonstrated by him being at your near beck and call whenever you’re in need

you don’t even have to directly ask him to do anything. it’s more like if you were to mention offhand that something in your car didn’t sound right or your fence needed some redoing they’d find themselves fixed within the coming days without so much as another word 

that man is crafty and i cannot be convinced otherwise! the little beer can people he made are just a small example of what he can do with his hands. one day in town you saw a beautiful chestnut dining table but it was just a tad out of your price range so you figured you’d save up a little more for it and get it the next time you stopped by 

rust had some downtime (more like made downtime during his bouts of extreme insomnia) and got to building. it was a while after and by that time you had long forgotten about the table you saw until one day you got home from work only to find an ornately designed table in your dining room. it was a bit different than the one you’d spotted at the shop but no less beautiful. in fact it was even more gorgeous with its polished shine and intricate details 

you had searched for a note or maybe even a sign left anywhere of the maker that it came from to then spot a neatly carved ‘RC’ underneath one of the tabletop’s lefthand corners 

your fingers grazed over the simple set of initials as your brain damn near short-circuited at the fact that this man built you a damn table. with his bare hands. rust cohle saw that you liked a table and decided to just make it himself

you’d made your way to the receiver on your wall after snapping out of your disbelief and rang him up

“You built me a table.” You said it more as a statement than a question instead of a normal greeting.

“I did.” His tone held no sense of pride or smugness at your shock. As if this were no big deal at all.

“You built me a table. When did you have time to build me a whole table? In fact, when’d you start bein’ able make tables in the first place-”

“D’ya like it?” He interjected in that lackadaisical way of his and you paused. 

“...I love it.” 

“Good.” 

“Well, I guess then it’d only be fair for me to invite you over for dinner so that we may put this lovely new table to good use. As thanks of course.” 

You heard him huff in fond amusement on the other line, “Yes, ma’am.” 

y’all put that table to good use alright 

he’s more of a grappler than a cuddler when it comes to sharing a bed

he holds you as if in need of tethering himself. it was as if he were to let go somehow this wouldn’t be real and your presence would flit away should he loosen his grip at any given moment 

if you get too hot in the night any point of minimal contact was still initiated like tangling your foot with his or linking pinkies just so he knew you were nearby (this happens longer down the line in your relationship when he feels a bit more comfortable having someone in his space a bit more constantly) 

quality time together isn’t necessarily always spent doing something totally stimulating or exciting 

it could be as simple as cooking dinner together or curling up on your sofa while he reads and you watch something soapy on television 

he’s a very private man so going out to do something super couple-y isn’t really up his alley. he won’t really ever deny you if you wanted to really switch it up and go to places like bars, the movies, fancy restaurants, etc. he’d just find himself more reserved in more public spaces but no less completely and utterly focused on you

he’s not much of a dancer but don’t get it twisted. his ass can dance. the man is from Texas so you best believe he has more than a few line-dancing routines ingrained in the depths of his mind

on the very few occasions you’ve gotten him to agree to dance with you when you’re out you nearly laugh every time with how seriously he takes it 

you find yourself cooking food for him often. not that he ever expects it of you but living off of cigarettes and beer can only do so much for a guy. he genuinely forgets that his body needs a meal when he gets all caught up in his work (you don’t bother nagging at him much because he’s grown and more stubborn than anything at times) 

if you aren’t available to check in on him you’re not above making Marty grab something for him when they’re stuck at work 

any kiss he gives you is not one made in passing. anything rust does has some level of deep intent behind it but he never kisses you or says ‘i love you’ out of routine or empty habit

he’s a deeply feeling guy and a lot more handsier the longer you’re together (usually still only in the privacy of your own home). it goes back to just having to feel tethered or connected to you! it comforts the more broken/scared bits of him knowing that you’re just there and present and real

his synesthesia can make things overwhelmingly intense so sometimes when you’re out or after certain activities he finds himself in need of longer moments to himself (which you never take personally) 

in less serious moments you find yourself asking him the dumbest questions you can about smelling colors or tasting places 

“So does that mean Marty’s got a taste to him? You've tasted your coworker?” You snickered as you lay beneath the weeping willow in your front yard with him.

“It don’t work like that.” He said around the unlit cigarette in this mouth, tone sounding as if he were entertaining a silly child. 

“Nuh-uh! You said somethin’ awhile back about my presence tastin’ like jasmine and clementines or somethin’-”

“Drop it.”

You poked your tongue in your cheek trying not to giggle. 

“I bet you Marty tastes like stale coffee and I dunno…regret-” You snapped out a surprised laugh as you felt a quick pinch on your side. 

[ssslime]

nocte solitudo

his mind tends to wander at night.

➥ astarion x gn!tav, ranger!tav, some angst, a lil comfort, mentions of blood

It wasn’t often Astarion felt rested.

Meditation brought him some reprieve, at least, during nights where the camp’s quiet was only interrupted by the distant buzz of insects and the sound of the trees above them. Sometimes silence was too loud — too thick and heavy for him to relax.

Astarion shifted in his bedroll. His ruby gaze was caught upward, piercing into a little coin-sized hole in the cloth ceiling.

Tav would probably stitch that up quickly, if he asked. They’re good with crafty little things like that, all nimble fingers and a brow furrowed in concentration.

He rolled over.

A shard of light caught in Astarion’s eye for a second. The tiniest bit of moonlight bounced off of his daggers, tossed unceremoniously atop his travel bag in the corner of the tent. Smooth silver gave way to crusted, dark blood and grime near the sharpened tips. Astarion’s lips twitched downward.

He was hungry. He hadn’t fed in a while, and he’d need to hunt something down within the next few nights. Things had just felt hectic as of late — why exactly Tav insisted on helping every dripping wet, sniffling fellow they found on the side of the road, he’d never know. It grated his nerves sometimes, how it seemed they were unable to say no to any sad little sob story fed to them. He would know; it’s worked for him before.

But, Tav would probably help him hunt down some wild boar, or maybe even a bear to hold him off for a while, if he asked. They’re quite the hunter.

He sat up.

Outside, he could hear Scratch idling around. The dog’s eager nose gave him away; sniffing and snorting softly, Astarion knew the pup was poking around their trunk of food nearby. With a sigh, he stood to his feet and parted the curtain door. He wouldn’t be settled any time soon, anyways.

The night air felt cool on his skin as he stepped outside. All was calm, as expected. A crackling, dying fire laid in the center of camp, dimly lighting the area and casting weak shadows along the surrounding tree line. Astarion let his eyes wander over to the white dog some yards away.

Scratch lifted his head and peered right back. His tail swayed lightly back and forth and his ears perked up.

“Hungry, are you?” Astarion asked quietly, looking between the dog and the closed chest. Scratch simply tilted his head to the side, his big, pleading eyes working wonders on the supposed stone cold vampire.

Astarion sighed. “Fine, fine — but nobody hears about this, understood?”

He wasn’t sure why he was talking to a damned dog. He reminded himself of how strange and silly Tav looked whenever they would communicate with animals. It was nearly second nature to them, it seemed, and perhaps that’s what it was — a survival technique, like all their other skills, developed out of necessity. He could relate, and that thought alone made his stomach turn a little.

Thoughts like these came to Astarion at the worst times. Moments where he was free from distraction, with countless minutes under his belt to ruminate and dissect, even when all he wanted was to simply close his eyes and let time pass like sand between his fingers.

He tossed the dog a sausage link. He knew what it was like to have a feast right in front of you, and not be allowed to indulge.

In his mind’s eye, Astarion could picture slinking across the stagnant landscape of their sleepy little camp. Working with the shadows to blend seamlessly into Tav’s patchwork wonder of a tent. Watching their chest rise and fall with deep, steady breath — their lashes flickering just the slightest bit over their cheeks. Feeling their pulse thrum beneath his lips, their breath catching, their hand weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck.

Tav would probably let him feed, if he asked. They’d shared their blood before; succulent and sweet and mind-numbingly warm as it slipped down his parched throat. They’re such a delicious treat.

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t ask such a selfish thing.

He sighed.

Change is difficult. Surely his life was leaps and bounds better than it was before; no longer did he have to prowl taverns and dark streets for vulnerable prey in the form of drunk and lonely hearts. But this… duality inside of him made him sick. He wished so desperately for things to be different.

He wished they could’ve been another name and face to discard the morning after.

“Astarion?”

He wished he didn’t see parts of himself in them.

“Is everything alright? It’s very late.”

He wished he could be selfish with them, because it’d be so painfully easy. But he couldn’t.

He glanced up, soaking in Tav’s tousled hair and squinted expression as it grew closer. They rubbed one eye with the back of their hand and furrowed their brow, watching him expectantly. Scratch, of course, trotted over happily upon seeing his favorite person, and leaned up against their legs. Tav dropped their hand to rub along the dog’s snout and cheek in a show of idle affection.

“I was just… thinking,” Astarion replied finally. “Feeling a bit restless, I suppose. And what of you, darling?”

Tav blinked their bleary eyes, watching him for a moment before opening their mouth again.

“Would you come lay with me?”

It wasn’t often Astarion felt rested. After 200 years, it was something he was used to. His nights were filled with crushing guilt or staggering loneliness, doomed to wallow in the dark and filth of his seemingly endless existence.

But, perhaps change is a good thing. Perhaps this is what it’s like to be born anew, to shed your old skin in favor of a life newer, better than before. It’s unsettling, it’s sensitive.

Astarion pondered this as he settled in behind Tav. The scent of lavender curled around him as soon as he laid down on their bedroll. He didn’t mind — it had quickly become a source of comfort, whether he’d admit it to himself or not.

“Thank you,” Tav whispered after a few moments of quiet, “it feels better with you here.”

Astarion slid his ruby gaze over to settle on the back of their head. He turned onto his side, weaving his arm under theirs to rest on their waist. Tav relaxed easily into his gentle hold, fitting their bodies together like they were shaped from the same clay.

“You don’t have to thank me, dove. I’m just a few tents away,” he leaned closer, ghosting his lips over their shoulder with a gentle kiss, full of all the warmth and affection he never knew he was capable of before, “all you have to do is ask.”

[darlingchronicles]

JJ AND THE GOLDEN GIRL HEADCANONS II

pairing: jj x fem!goodgirl!reader

word count:

first part here & based on this and this post that i made. enjoy !!!

What is their favorite photo of with other?

✔︎ jj's favorite photo of him and his golden girl is when they were asleep on the hammock and sarah snapped a shot. she was laid on his chest and her head was buried into the side of his neck with her arms around him and jj head was resting against hers and his arms fully engulfed her waist. a small blanket was laid over them and the sun set in the background. as mentioned in my previous headcanons, he keeps it in his wallet at all times.

ఌ golden girl has so many photos that she loves of jj and her, but one takes the cake. it's one where she and jj had just gotten out of the ocean and dressed in their regular clothes, but their hair is still wet, and they were sitting next to a fire the pogues made on the far side of the beach. her head was on his shoulder, but tilted up so she was looking at him and he was looking down into her eyes. it was night, so the light from the fire made them seem like they were glowing. sarah also took the photo and golden girl framed it and put it on the wall near her bed.

What special thing do they carry with them at all times?

✔︎ well of course jj keeps the photo in his wallet, but he also has a couple of bracelets from her. however, one of his prized possessions is the gum hearts. as stated in the previous headcanon, golden girl is very crafty with her gifts and gave jj a heart made out of gum wrapper. she actually wrote in it. a little note that only said, "hey there criminal". it was so lame that he laughed when he opened it one day and saw it. it's a little of an inside joke because jj's name is jesse-james maybank, after the criminal. it was so stupid, but it makes him laugh.

ఌ for golden girl, she usually has a few things on her, but she adores her bracelet that jj made. he made it by hand (he never told her this, but she could tell by the messy threading and specific mini charms) and personalized it. he gave it to her about a year after they began dating (only a few days before he told her he loved her). he just handed it to her randomly when she was staying over at the chateau. he was so nervous but she loved. she always wears it and only takes it off if she's going into deep water because she doesn't want to risk losing it. one of the charms is a surf board, another is of half a sun and one of her favorites is of flounder from the little mermaid (as mentioned before in part 1, she's scared of sharks). she loves that thing and you can always see her wearing it no matter what.

How does the cut and figure eight react to them?

✔︎ first off, the cut is probably the most surprised at the news of them. it only appears maybe like five or six months into the relationship. they kept it hush hush for a while and eventually didn't care who saw them. multiple pogues saw them going for ice cream together. heyward saw them sailing on "the pogue" a few times, alone. others saw them at the kegger, sitting close to one another and jj's arm was around her. the cherry on top was when they came out of the ocean from surfing and he gave her a kiss (ON THE MOUTH???) and the news spread like wildfire. everyone had questions about how it began and shit like that. but it was the excited type of questions. separately, they ask the couple if they're together. jj's only response is "yeah, for a time now" in a lighthearted tone and golden girl's response is "yes, we are!" in a very cheerful tone. honestly the cut was so surprised, but they're honestly for it. with their responses, it seemed like the two were very much falling in love and by the way jj looked at her, the man was a goner and based on her smiles, she was half-way in love already. (everyone knew they were endgame at this point and any other secret suitors resigned) there were some skeptics and some who didn't believe they'd last long, but when they heard how long they've already been together, it crushed all of it. they didn't expect it, but they're kind of the cut's IT couple now. famous, i'm telling you.

ఌ the more judgmental pack is the kooks, aka figure eight. golden girl is known there because she works at the club restaurant as the hostess and she has a pretty good rep there too. heck she has a great rep everywhere. she is the golden girl after all. smiley and shiny. a bright future. the sun personified. (she'd argue but go on) so when they find out that she is dating jj maybank, the bus boy and absolute troublemaker of the cut, they're all fla-ber-gas-ted. like they all blink in confusion. and the only way the kooks found out was about a month after the cut found out and jj and golden girl went to a kegger together and ended kissing near the bonfire. kooks saw, told their friends, who told their friends, who told their parents and BAM! wildfire. some kids were actually really confused and some even tried to "warn" her about getting with a kid "like maybank". she had half a mind to flip them off but all she said was "i think i'm smart enough to make my own choices. thank you" and continued on with her day. she saw the judgment whenever they passed by each other at work and she knew it'd be a while before things went back to how they were at the restaurant. jj had the sharp end of the sword as he physically saw and heard the judgment from the kooks as if they knew her more than him. some of it kind of got to him, but he eventually over heard golden girl telling off some kook boys to leave her and jj the hell alone before she taught them how to shut their mouths. politely. but yeah that's what she said. eventually everything calm down, but figure eight isn't really their biggest fans.

How did their friends react to them?

✔︎ the pogues were really surprised that jj was capable of capturing her heart, but not surprised that they got together. she'd been part of the pogues for a while before they got together. even then, they saw the goo goo eyes and smiles and secret touches here and there and had bets placed. sarah won nearly every side bet, but pope won the last one about who kissed who first. they're for it honestly. they know that she makes jj really happy and he's more devoted to her than any other girl he's ever taken a look at and they know that golden girl would never hurt jj and that she's been in love with him for a while and they know they are made for each other. so very supportive.

ఌ golden girl is actually friends with a few kooks and they were very...ehhhh on the matter. they nearly choked when they heard and ask if the rumors were true. she said yes and they just shared a look. they warned her (like every damn kook on the island she was associated with one way or another) about how jj was and how they heard he was and just told her to rethink it or be careful. they continued on with that train for a while before she told them shut up or else she'd stop hanging out with them. (she's not friends with most of them anymore). however her pogue friends were very happy for her and admire them anytime they're around. again, bets were made and paid.

When did they know they were in it for the long run?

✔︎ the idea actually popped up in jj's head a few times, but he always pushed it aside or ignored it. i mean...being for someone for the long run? like marriage? and kids and a house. i mean, he's too young to even think about that right? i mean it's not possible to know right away? is it? he'd never thought about getting married beforehand. marriage was a wreck for anyone who got involved and it was like tying a noose around your finger, right? that's what he thought. and then she'd smile at him like he was her world and he made it spin on its axis. then she'd give him a little gift he never asked for and she wouldn't even ask for a thank you. then she'd give him a lecture about being reckless, but eyes just tell him that she's terrified something would happen to him. the one time he actually let the thought in was around their first year anniversary when they went surfing and ended up on the beach late at night with no one around. she was pressed up against his chest, sleeping with a few blankets over them and a smile fire burning to keep them warm. he glances down at her and there's something that glows within him that just tells him. for the first time, he thinks about marriage and being with her when he's old and gray and...it doesn't scare him for the first time. that thought alone leads to the first "i love you" only weeks later.

ఌ she's thought about it before. i mean, golden girl has watched rom-coms before, so she has thought about marriage. she'd hope to break the whole generation curse one day and be with someone she loves rather than for money or an accidental pregnancy. it's a wish in her. she does have the desire to marry one day, but she wants it to be for the right reasons. she's more into long-term relationships rather than hook ups or "situationships" because of the fear she'll be used like the women in her family before. so when jj came around and she actually let him in, she knows there's something special there. she thought about it here and there, but she always told herself that when she knows, she'll know. and that moment came around when she and jj were hanging out in her room about nine months in. her parents were out and jj snuck in and stayed for the night. they had played a game of uno, which she beat him at 3 times in a row, and received the reward of him telling her she was the best and amazing at everything (all in a playful manner, she demanded it) and when he won, he claps his hands in a taunting manner and went straight for her. she fell back and he caught her in his arms and pressed a passionate kiss to her lips and she swore she felt her heart skip two beats. when he pulled away, simply to press his lips to her cheek and request a game of cards to beat her at (still riding on the win) when she realize that she could do that forever. play games with cards and monopoly boards and win rewards of kisses and praise for the rest of her life. and the way jj smiled at her when she said she'd kick his ass at anything else, she knew it had to be him. (she knew he felt the same way before he knew).

What is their go-to and favorite date plans?

✔︎ jj is a simple guy. he doesn't need much. if he really wanted to have some alone time and take her out, he'd take her out for a drive to the beach, walk around, talking about everything and nothing before going to get an ice cream and ending the night watching the sunset. his favorite date plans is going surfing or staying on the pogue for the entire day and just be in each other's company.

ఌ golden girl understands that she and jj are busy people. busy bees. if they both had some time in-between their breaks or even after work for some time (or any time for that matter) her go-to suggestion is to sit outside or inside (probably the beach) and play a game of cards with two soda cans sitting next to them. it's quick and easy and they always have a good time. because of this, she and jj always have a stack of cards with them. her favorite date, however, is whenever the carnival or a festival comes near the mainland and they go together and just have fun. close second and most common one is introducing jj to all her favorite movies, musicals and series. (she got him hooked on money heist and gilmore girls, but he'll only watch it with her).

What is the favorite physical and non-physical trait of theirs they love?

✔︎ for jj, his favorite physical trait of hers is her eyes. she's so expressive in her eyes and if he needed to know anything, he'd just have to look into her eyes. she can say one thing, but the eyes tell another. he now believes in the whole "eyes are the windows to the soul" saying. (to be not so wholesome because it's jj duh, he really likes her chest. what can i say? he just likes the girls). his favorite non-physical trait is her ability to try and see the good in everything and everyone: aka her compassion. he knows it's hard for her to do that sometimes and he can see how she wants to be negative, but she tries her hardest to bring joy to others and to herself. she wants everyone to be happy because that's what she wants for herself (and sometimes she doesn't get it). jj doesn't really accept the fact that he's a cause of her happiness and joy, but he feels happy knowing he is.

ఌ for the golden girl, her favorite physical trait of jj is his hair. especially his wet hair when he just exited the sea and he shake it a bit out get the water out. *chef kiss* she also likes to play with it and toy around with it when she's watching tv or when jj is a little stressed, she likes to pass her hand over his hair. it works actually. (to not be so wholesome, his arms and back just make her drool and make her eyes roll back into her head, but you didn't hear it from me) her favorite non-physical trait is his loyalty. i've touched upon this in my last headcanon i think??? but he is loyal to the end. like it's actually this man's fatal flaw. she could be wrong or right, but jj is by her side. honestly her hype man. she's really happy to know he'd go search the entire world just for her.

What specific physical touch do they secretly like?

✔︎ jj is a sucker for back scratches. it's just a thing he found out he liked. he and golden girl were laying in jj's bed at the chateau, mumbling as the clock began to tick closer and closer to two in the morning. he was laying on top of her, head nuzzles into her neck. jj sleeps on his stomach, so golden girl had to learn how to not get crushed by him as she realized it was non-negotiable for him. she was mumbling something about school and jj was just responding with hums as sleep began to overtake him and she began to drag her nails up and down his bare back softly. jj is actually so embarrassed by how obsessed he became with it. if she stops, he'll whine until she gives in. if she begins, she cannot stop until she falls asleep or jj falls asleep or they have to get up. jj could go hours with her just scratching his back. he doesn't care how hard or soft she does it, just likes it (he does have a little fantasy about it, but it's only a fantasy for now lol)

ఌ golden girl really likes it when jj just holds her, whether in her room, his room at the chateau, or the hammock, she likes to curl up in jj's arms and have him hold her. sometimes she needs it because of all the stress on her. she specifically likes it when he talks to her, regardless if she'll respond. it's in his softest voice (he would never admit it to anyone and if she ever mentioned it someone (she hasn't), he'd deny it because why would she try and out him like that????) and he'll just mumble sweet nothings in her ears and sometimes she'll fall asleep because of it. she likes it a lot. (and just to out her a little, she's actually kind of interested in jj's soft voice in other types of scenarios if you catch my drift) but yeah she loves jj holding her and paying attention to her and only her in those moments?

How needy are they?

✔︎ if this man ever says he's not needy, he's lyingggggg. jj is an attention seeker at heart and he wants her attention at nearly all times. he just loves the attention and will do the most stupid stuff to gain it. once he waved her over just to show her he could do a handstand. she eventually caught the pattern of this, but she still goes over to him whenever he calls her. she likes that she's wanted by him. she thought he'd get use to it, but nope. this man is still as obsessed with her attention as always. as for physically, this man got a taste of physical touch after being touch starved (romantically at least) and he's never gone back. a hand on her back, hand in hand, hugging her, arm around her shoulder, etc, etc. he's always touching her if he can.

ఌ she admits it. she likes his attention. A LOT. she wouldn't say she's needy, but she really likes it when he's paying attention to her and only her. golden girl captures his attention in different ways. she'll fiddle with his hands or his hair or just call him over so he can sit next to her. she's heading towards jj-level obsessed at some points. physically however? she's right there with jj. hand on his knee, rubbing his back with her hand as he talks, fiddling with whatever jewelry he has on, stroking his jaw with her thumb, hugging him, etc. neither of them really care what everyone else thinks, but they never go beyond this to make sure others are comfortable in some aspects. since they're not there yet, this is as far as it goes for now (john b and sarah on the other hand are...well...they're not very quiet....lol)

Favorite nicknames?

✔︎ little lady, princess, flounder, sunflower, goody-two shoes, wormy, grumpelstiltskin

ఌ blondie, j, sunshine, pretty boy, criminal, giraffe, surfer boy, sleeping beauty

thedarlinglore: i love jj and golden girl so much. like it's actually an obsession. and there is more come!!! a fic is coming soon, but hey, we have more headcanons. i am thinking about blackcat!reader, but we'll see. requests are also open i hope you enjoyed and see you in the next one. love you, my darlings <3

➣ my last "jj" work | "oh schroeder" ➣ more concepts | jj maybank

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

More headcanons of the Nimona trio being domestic dorks

Whenever the trio gets sick of each other they’ll ask the person in the trio they’re not pissed at to handle them

It always goes something like this “Ambrosius come get your kid they won’t leave me alone-“ “No Nemesis come get your husband he’s being a stick in the mud”

Or “Bal go get your son from prison he got arrested again” “Oh so he’s my son today?” “Yes when he’s stupid enough to get caught he’s your son” 

If you're wondering why Nimona doesn't just escape its cause they find it hilarious when Bal has to come to bail them out at random points in the day

There are also times when they’re proud or happy and they’ll say things like “I’m gonna go get my daughter ice cream” “Since when is she just your daughter?” “Since right now when she helped me fix my prosthetic” 

“Hey boss where’s my Nemesis I heard he got in a fight today” “I thought he was my Nemesis” “Not when he puts three guys in the hospital he’s not” 

Bal is one of those people who sees something and says “Why would I buy that when I can just make it” AND HE DOES

Nimona has a bad habit of fucking up speakers so Bal just set up a sound system throughout the house 

If the trio weren’t such antisocial losers with three friends combined their parties would be amazing

He made Ambrosius a skincare cabinet just so he could put actual medicine in the medicine cabinet 

When Nimona moved in he asked them what their ideal room would look like 

She gave him a rough draft and he did all of it

They spend a week tearing that room apart so they could soundproof it so she could rock out without disturbing the boys

She has sick ass LED lights and she’ll change the colors depending on her mood 

Ambrosius and Bal helped her paint the walls the most obnoxious shade of neon pink And then they didn’t complain when she spray painted over said walls 

It’s worth it to see her visibly relax when she enters her room

This man has gutted and put back together and rearranged their little house so many times it’s unrecognizable 

I also feel like everyone in the trio is a crafty bitch

They all have a million little hobbies that have produced even more trinkets that fill up their whole house 

Their house is this weird combination of comfy yet chaotic and it's a minimalists nightmare 

Cleaning is also a nightmare but they wouldn't change it for anything 

Back when they were in the institute Ambrosius was a terrible cook -♾️/10 his cooking would put people in the hospital 

After the knighting ceremony was the first time he was living by himself and didn’t have access to free food so he taught himself how to cook

Honestly most people would think he would give up

I mean there are only so many times you set water on fire before you throw in the towel

But he's a stubborn brat and cooking took his mind off of everything so he stuck with it

One day Bal came home to the smell of cooking and he assumed it was Nimona 

He swears to this day he had a heart attack when he saw Ambrosius in front of the stove and Nimona comfortably sitting at the dinner table not helping at all

He promptly dragged Nimona out of there like a bomb just went off and warned him not to touch Ambrosius’ food

He told Bal “The more you call it a biohazard the more I want to eat it” 

So Bal used him like a test dummy 

When Nimona finally did try it they turned to Bal and complained that he lied 

Bal thought he was being pranked until he was forced by Nimona to try the food 

And it was good 

More than good I was fucking amazing 

He asked Ambrosius quite frankly “Who are you and what have you done with my husband” 

Ambrosius just rolled his eyes and told him to eat the food

Bal never gave up on finding out how and slowly but surely he started asking like a normal person

And Ambrosius never answered like a normal person

His answers would range from “A chef never reveals his secrets” (“that’s a magician love” “just zip it and eat your food”) to “I’m never telling you so suffer and finish this meal I lovingly cooked” (“is it still considered love if you knew I was gonna suffer?” “Yes” “…. Makes sense”)

[crafty-light]

do you have a masterlist?

I don't have a masterlist yet right now I'm trying to get back into writing since summer is almost over. As since I've been busy with work so I'm trying to organize the requests I've gotten and hopefully finish writing them before summer is over.I also want to update my rules and the fandoms I write for.

[littlefreya]

Before the Storm

Summary: Gus finds way to keep you warm as you both sail on his boat during April.

Pairing: Major Gustav (Gus) Phillips x Reader (no description)

Word count: 2K

Warnings: 18+, romance, fluff and smut, oral sex (woman receiving), a bit of fingering, teasing, a sweater, a pinch of angst.

A/N: Gus is a character we know nothing about only that he is an unhinged gentleman (?) so I just went with what I felt and oh I hope others will enjoy :). Many thanks to the lovely @captainsy-cookiemonster and @agniavateira for beta and emotional support.

Please reblog with comments if you enjoyed 🖤

Before the Storm

Gus. Gustav. Gustavus. 

Such a timid name for a man who was wilder than the seas he sailed. When you first met Gus, you thought that he was the ocean itself; Untamable, unpredictable, a maelstrom of a man. Little did you know, you were wrong about him; if Gus was anything, it must have been the god of the sea. 

The only thing he was missing was a golden trident. 

Resting on the deck of his yacht with a small plate of local sweets and a book by your side, you watched him through a veiled gaze. The tall man stood at the bow, preparing the boat for the evening sail. You knew very little about nautical travel, but you always enjoyed watching him work on his boat.

Liberats - he called her - the only place he thought of as home. 

His large chocolate curls swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, thin threads of sliver-grey rimming each ringlet, though as the April sun began to set, those fine curls were kissed by vivid hues of purple, orange and pink.  

A deep frown line creased his forehead as he held onto the mast. You entertained yourself at the notion that he had the same exact look when he was hovering and grunting above you. Lightly snorting at the thought, you reached for the plate and grabbed a sweet while continuing to stare. 

“Like what you see?” Gus asked without looking away from the mast. His thick English accent rang through your ears in a melodious tone. He had a way of making everything sound either like poetry or sex.

You ogled him gingerly. In complete contrast to you, who lay in undergarments, Gus donned a chunky grey sweater and dark work trousers. You hated that. It hid what you knew was underneath it. The body of a god. 

“Hmm…” you stretched,  “I haven’t seen enough to decide.”

A slanted smirk tugged his cheek, and he threw a side gaze at you, but his smile fell as he noticed the little shiver in your arms. You weren’t exactly dressed for the season, in fact, you weren’t even dressed for a cruise, but for the time being, simple pair panties and bra sufficed. 

Until they didn’t. 

Not saying another word, he let go of the mast and sauntered toward you, mumbling, “oh, darling,” while already slipping the heavy sweater off. Abs and pecs that might as well have been crafted by a master sculptor glistened in the waning sun. Tanned and sweaty, his skin was like honey. Busy appreciating the view, you didn’t notice the lumpy grey thing that headed toward you at the speed of light until it smacked you in the face.

“Gaws!” Your words were muffled by the sweater that covered your entire head. 

Annoyed, you tugged it away, one brow arched with ire, but your expression softened as Gus’ scent poured upon you; seafoam, salt - fresh and untamed - you inhaled it, inhaled him. 

Unable to resist the urge to be enveloped by his presence, you pulled the sweater on and sighed at the comfort it brought, your fingers clutched onto the collar to hold it closer to your nose and with a deep breath, you took him in. For a moment, you felt yourself slipping into delirium, but then the warm shadow that loomed over your face dragged you back to reality. 

Gus stood over, the breadth of him blocking the sun. Head tilted down, arms crossed together, he observed the treat before him, a crafty grin playing on his lips. 

“Looks better on you than on me.” Hand reached up to his moustache, he twirled its edge between his index and his thumb. “I sure like what I see.” 

You smiled sweetly, your bare legs stretching forward in an invitation. “Too bad this sweater doesn’t cover all of me…” 

His marine-blue gaze followed instantly, a flicker of excitement igniting within them. “Cara Mia, need me to keep you warm?” 

Gus was the type of man who never needed a special invitation. Nor did he ever waited for an answer. Simply, because he always got what we wanted. Gently, he sank to his knees before your feet, and reached for your ankles. His hands were roughed by manning the ropes of the boat and things you didn’t wish to think of, yet his touch was as tender as the caress of a wave as he ran his hands up and down the length of your legs.

“Smooth,” he murmured, “it always stuns me how soft women are.”

Half chuckling, half moaning, you laid back onto the deck, casually reaching for the bowl of sweets and grabbing a piece. Gus’ glare darted at you, watching you nibble while the coarse pads of his fingers glided below your knees, his touch sent a stream of shivers that coursed through your skin, making you tremble in his grip. 

It took every drop of strength to remain composed and not give yourself entirely, you were always afraid of him having too much power over you, and Gus knew that and knew just how to bend you - figuratively and literally. 

His palms smoothed higher with each stroke, kneading your thighs, fingertips reaching close to your heat yet not close enough. Every wave of his touch only left you more frustrated. Wetness pooled at your core, the unmistakable bloom within calling for him in yearning, like a flower opening, awaiting to be seeded, yet he took his time. 

“Still cold?” Gus provoked at how wildly you quivered. 

Lips pressed into a thin line, you swallowed a moan and shook your head, clutching onto the sweater as if it served any protection, but all hell broke loose as, without any warning, he pressed his thumb against the wet fabric of your underwear.

“Fuck!”

“Such a dirty mouth.” 

Giving into a shuddering yip, you pushed your pelvis forward, trying to grind into his thumb, only that he pulled back. 

“Gus! Stop this!!!”

“Stop?” His eyes flared comically. “I thought you were enjoying this…”

Ready to throw the book at his stupid face, you frowned, which caused Gus to chuckle before he hooked a finger below the strap of your underwear. “Now…” his voice dropped, and his eyes darkened as if touched by a storm cloud.  “Are you going to say it?”

Already at wit's end, you pouted and let out a breathy, “please...”

He tugged on the strap a little, sliding the garment to the mid of your hips, yet not enough to expose you. “Please, what? Cara Mia?”  

“Please, fuck me.” 

Triumph burnt on his face. Overjoyed that once again he managed to break you, he paused, eyes gliding at every inch of your body while his fangs grazed over his bottom lip. The way he stared at you, you could have sworn that you could feel his touch wherever his gaze landed; your mouth, your breasts, your nipples, the base your belly - he was everywhere, but you needed more. You needed him inside you.  

“No.” 

“No?!” Your cry could be heard across the 7 seas. “What do you mean ‘no’!?” 

“You had your candy, I think I’ll have mine.”

Without any other delay, he yanked on your underwear and threw them over his shoulders. Exposed to the open air, you breathed a shuddering gasp. The chill ocean-breeze blew upon your slit, further storming the tidal-like spasms that swept over you. Still, it was nothing in comparison to the storm that Gus was about to bestow upon you. 

The bearded Adonis looked ethereal as he crawled between your thighs, his curls and brazen bristle tickled your skin. His broad, muscular shoulders flexed in a predatory motion, and his face wore a dark, preying shade to match. Brows knit together, jaw clenched, his fingers dug into your ass, and with a guttural groan, he lowered his head to the valley of your thighs and granted you the sinful kiss of Poseidon. 

Slow, yet not lazy, his mouth drew a languid course between the little pearl above your cove to your inner thighs as if testing the water before plunging in. The touch of his hot lips and coarse bristle was enough to elicit the most desperate yelps from you, and like a siren washed up on the shore, you writhed for your god, begging for salvation.

It wasn’t as if Gus didn’t know every inch of your body, yet still, he revelled at the different cries that escaped you as his mouth marked different parts of your flesh, almost as if it was a game to him, as if you were a toy he examined and coaxed to his whims until you were completely broken and at his mercy. It was only then when you were bent and vulnerable, that’s he would tear you completely apart.

With his breath hot on your flesh, he hummed against your clit. Legs quaking, you prepared yourself for yet another tender kiss, only that instead, you felt the wet glide of his tongue teasing your flesh. Once, then twice, his velvety serpent stroked and twirled. The third time he wrapped his lips around the tender nub and suckled with every ounce of love he felt toward you. 

Inarticulate sounds followed from your throat, your toes curled as the spasming jolts of ecstasy flowed all across your body. He brought you near impulsion, but he wasn’t done playing with you just yet. Grunting, he slipped the edge of his tongue between your swollen petals, pressing just enough to provoke you, yet not enough to bring you undone. 

You wanted to scream his name but found that you had no words. Instead, you heaved and cried breathlessly, your head pressing to the wooden deck beneath you, eyes wide open, staring at the seagulls floating in the air. In the open ocean, everyone could see you. Everyone and no one. You were one with the gods and the sea creatures and you sure as hell writhed as if you were drowning on dry land. 

Appeased by your helplessness, Gus locked his strong arms around your thighs, holding you spread open and in place as he finally dove his tongue inside you. 

“Fuck!” Your back arched against the surface. Tears of joy brimmed in your eyes as Gus fucked you ardently with his tongue. Over and over, he plunged into your cove, groaning and savouring the dew that dripped from it as if it was a feast. 

As greedy as they come, he wanted to devour you; there wasn’t a single patch of skin he hadn’t laved, kissed or suckled. Even while his tongue wreaked havoc on your clenching cunt, his mouth continued to suckle upon your swollen lips with little hums of delight that vibrated through you. 

It wasn’t fair. He brought you on the verge of pleasure on despair. You felt the storm within you rage; violent waves of pleasure gushed and surged, begging to be unleashed. Knowing your body so well, Gus wrapped one sturdy arm around your belly, held your mound to his hungry mouth, and finally, took his fingers and buried them deep inside you to force you into ecstasy. 

Climax shattered through you in several electric currents that continued to hit. Each one stronger than the other  Still convulsing in ecstasy, you lifted your eyes to Gus.  The last rays of sunlight glazed around him in a golden aura. For a moment there, you imagined him as the lord of the ocean, who, in his fury, pierced his trident at the ocean’s bed and split it apart. 

Split you apart.

Spent, you fell back to the deck with a deep sigh, your eyes gazing aimlessly at the evening sky while you snuggled Gus’ sweater around you. The moon had already risen, surrounded by a shy group of gleaming stars resembling precious pearls embroidered on a blue dress. Memories of childhood sprang to mind; summer days in the sun, when you floated carless over the waves. 

“Are you alright?” Gus moved to lie beside you. His knuckles brushed your cheek in a tender caress.

You nodded weakly, your breath still hitched from the intensity of the pleasure he wrought from you. 

“Speak, Cara Mia,” Gus asked gently and, with a small pinch around your chin, brought you to stare at him. "I need to hear you say it."

Quiet, you stared back, your lower lip parted, but no words came as you studied his face. The little wrinkles around his eyes and the silver tainted his beard made him look somehow pure. So pure, it broke your heart to think that once you dock again, you will have to take off the masks and costumes you wore and be who you really were - soldiers fighting to liberate the world and Gus, as spirited and wild as he was, would never be free, never be able to fully commit to anyone other than his cause.

Still, you loved him.

Enough to follow him into hell. 

[cuubism]

A vignette from Silly Rabbit universe (jeez it's been a while). Part 1 of 3 interconnected scenes. [Explicit]

--

“You know, there’s an old saying about lying,” Hob remarked casually to Dream.

Dream was leaning against the bookshelf as Hob graded, looking far too self-satisfied. Earlier, Hob had told him about how a university administrator had come by to ask him if Morpheus was a student, to which Hob had responded with an emphatic no because as much as he wanted to let Dream have his fun, he wasn’t about to let people go around thinking he was fucking his students, Jesus Christ. Dream had pouted at first, though he understood.

Now, he was smirking, and that could not be good.

“I tell no lies,” Dream reminded him, “and I weave no webs, other than by providing the scaffolding for imagination. Your students – and colleagues – are simply creative.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, let’s steer the rumors away from sexual harassment, if you don’t mind.” Hob could technically always fake his death, but he’d really really rather not have that be the cause.

He also really didn’t want to have to go back to grad school yet. Please, God.

“As you wish,” said Dream. “I have no desire to disturb your life.”

“I like having you disturb my life,” Hob said. “Upend it. Throw the table over.” As long as you stay. “There just has to be a limit somewhere.”

“I will plant more stories separating myself from this university,” Dream said, and Hob breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.”

“After all,” Dream continued, with a crafty smile, “there are plenty of other reasons a man such as yourself might be in possession of a lover who is… how did that student of yours phrase it? Young, pretty, and unemployed.”

Hob groaned. He could already see where this was going. “You’re only one of those things, Dream.”

“And as I have stated, I will not be obtaining a ‘job.’”

Hob threw a pen at him, which Dream caught with those supernatural reflexes of his.

“You should get a job. A human job,” Hob told him.

Dream’s lip curled in the most abject expression of disgust Hob had ever seen. “Why?”

“Because it would be funny. I want to walk into Starbucks in the morning and see you behind the counter glowering at some kid ordering a Pink Drink.”

“Ah, I exist for your amusement, then,” said Dream, leaning further back against the bookcase. “A court jester dancing about for tossed pennies.”

“Pretty much,” Hob agreed.

Hob expected him to pout, but instead, he smiled. It was not a smile that boded well for Hob. “Or perhaps… I am doing more than dancing for my coin.”

“What is this obsession with making me look like a sex fiend?” Hob demanded.

“If it is easily believable,” Dream said haughtily, “then that is hardly my fault.”

Hob blew out a long breath. “I’d almost think you wanted to destroy my reputation.”

“Perhaps I want you to myself,” mused Dream. “Perhaps I crave all your attention.”

“You have it.” Hob beckoned him over, and Dream uncurled himself from his slouch, stepping over and perching on the edge of Hob’s desk. “The moment you step into a room, you have it,” Hob said, looking up at him. “And all of my daydreams besides.”

Dream found his hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing each finger in turn. “Good.”

Hob meant to make some lighthearted retort about his sheer entitlement, but it was impossible to focus on it when Dream had his mouth on him, looking at him from under his eyelashes like that.

“You know,” Hob said instead, keeping his voice light purely through force of experience, “sometimes I think you haven’t actually given up on that bet that I’ll die, you’ve just decided that you want to be the cause of it.”

Dream grumbled in disagreement. “If you are choosing death, then I have been using my mouth very wrong.”

Hob should probably take his hand away from Dream’s mouth if he wanted to survive this conversation. He didn’t. “We should probably take this elsewhere.”

Dream, the absolute bastard, merely tugged Hob closer, pulling him off balance in his seat. “Must we? For I seem to recall a young vagabond who would have cheerfully bent me over a table in full view of the entire tavern, given the chance. Have you become so timid?”

“Nope,” Hob said, and, resigned to it now – or rather, gleefully allowing himself to be dragged into Dream’s fantasies, as usual – braced his hands on Dream’s hips. “Wouldn’t have. Even then, I wanted you all to myself.”

“You have it now,” Dream said. He hooked one long leg around Hob’s back to hold him close. “Will you let the locale stop you?”

“Oh, no, in fact, this is an enduring fantasy of mine,” Hob admitted. He slipped his hands under Dream’s shirt, feeling the sharp angles of his hips. “It’s just, we were talking not five minutes ago about avoiding getting fired for workplace misconduct.”

Dream merely looked at him expectantly.

Hob sighed and conceded, “Would probably be worth it.”

Dream’s eyes lit with victory as if he hadn’t known he would get exactly what he wanted from the start.

“This is a fantasy of yours?” Dream asked as Hob gave into temptation and pushed up his shirt, kissing his belly just above the waistband of his jeans.

“As if you don’t know,” Hob said.

“I know only what dreams you share with me,” Dream said, letting out a sigh as Hob kissed his way over to his hip bone. “I do not pry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t,” Dream insisted. He tugged on Hob’s hair in admonishment. “If your fantasies are obvious in the way you look at me, that is not my fault.”

“Are they that obvious?” Hob asked as he worked on unbuttoning Dream’s jeans. He couldn’t help but be charmed by the thought, even if it was another strike towards getting fired for inappropriate workplace behavior.

Dream smiled. “At times. But you have never been one to hide your feelings. And it is flattering.”

“‘Course it’s flattering. Sponge for compliments you are.” Hob wondered idly how obvious his thoughts on Dream had been over the many years of their meetings. Wondered if Dream had seen them, and simply decided not to address them — or hadn’t let himself see it at all.

“I suppose,” Dream agreed idly, as he dragged a hand through Hob’s hair, disheveling it, scratching his scalp with sharp fingernails. “Does that make you a font of compliments, then?”

“Or just a born simp, as the kids put it.”

“I did overhear a student say as much,” Dream admitted, and Hob laughed, pressing his forehead to Dream’s stomach.

“God I’m so obvious. Did you know I actually had a professional reputation, once upon a time? Properly professional Professor Gadling, I was once.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Dream, in an overly indulgent tone. “You have been wholly professional and respectable, always. And certainly never a charming bandit swindling your way into pockets and pants.”

“Charming, eh?” Hob grinned up at Dream, not missing the irony that he was currently mid way through getting into Dream’s pants. “Now you’re making me regret not making a proper pass at you back then.”

“I would have smote you where you sat for the audacity.”

“Nah. You liked me too much for that, I could tell.”

“Like an unusual bug I had found in the grass,” Dream conceded.

“On that flattering note.” Hob finally got Dream’s jeans properly undone, and pressed his nose to Dream’s pelvis, breathing in with a satisfied hum. Sometimes, Dream smelled of nothing at all in the waking world, like he had forgotten to apply that layer to his ‘human’ skin. Sometimes, he smelled like strange and impossible things, echoing dream scents that would never linger so long on a real, physical body.

Today, he smelled properly human, sweat and musk and Hob’s body wash.

“Are you doing that on purpose?” Hob asked, voice muffled by Dream’s body.

“Am I doing what?”

“You smell good.”

“Ah.” Dream pet Hob’s hair. “Perhaps.”

“Yeah, perhaps. I’m onto you.” He pulled Dream’s jeans down to his upper thigh; Dream obligingly wiggled on the desk to let them free, which was far cuter than it had any right to be. “You’re such a tease.”

“I enjoy when you want me,” said Dream, softer now. And Hob’s heart ached, but in a sweet way, a gentle way.

“You hardly have to work for it,” he said.

He took Dream in his mouth, then, and set to showing him just how much he was wanted.

Dream spread his legs wider on the desk, leaning back, letting out a long sigh of pleasure. Hob loved him like this—loose, indulgent, enjoying himself. Dream didn’t indulge himself enough.

And really, there was nothing Hob loved more than indulging him.

He worked Dream’s cock, licking over him and taking him deeper in increments. Dream’s moan above him was the greatest reward. Hob had had lots of time by now to learn, to get very good at drawing his pleasure out. A most valuable skill, to get Dream’s thighs shaking and his hands clutching tight to Hob’s hair, breathing in deep though he didn’t need to, relishing in the simple illicit pleasure of Hob sucking him off in the middle of the work day.

And Hob loved it, too. The taste of him, and the experience of his enjoyment.

Soon enough Dream’s hips were twitching up, and he came in Hob’s mouth with a long sigh. Hob swallowed him down, and remained there for a few lingering moments, Dream’s prick softening on his tongue, until Dream squirmed from overstimulation and Hob let him go.

He was terribly hard in his trousers, but wanting Dream was its own pleasure to relish in. “Dearest Hob,” murmured Dream, a glint of mischief lighting through the haze of his expression as he pet Hob’s hair. “Should I leave you like that? Wanting, and knowing that I await you at home as you finish your day?”

Hob shivered, but said, “More like go about your work and rematerialize at home once I get there. Don’t pretend like you’ll be tormenting yourself, too.”

“Mmm,” said Dream, “but I could.”

Hob sat up straighter. “Could you? Would you really make yourself wait?”

“Perhaps you will have to find out.”

“How am I supposed to know if you’ve really been good?”

“Hmm,” said Dream. It was a challenge now. “I will show you.”

He vanished, leaving a scattering of sand on Hob’s desk. A few moments later Hob received what he could only describe as a vision, a daydream of Dream lying in their bed, nothing but a pair of lace panties on, idly playing with himself through the fabric with one hand as he read a paperback book with the other. He knew it was really Dream, the image was too crisp to be a creation of Hob’s mind. Apparently, being also all daydreams Dream could make himself into one. Damn creature.

Hob groaned, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his erection before forcing himself to stop. He did have to teach, after all, though he knew Dream was going to be holding that image in his head all day.

Indeed, an impression of Dream’s voice floated to him.

Work hard today, beloved.

Oh, he’d be in for it later.

If Hob survived the workday.

[dreaming-about-fanfictions]

Crafty!Reader gifting Morpheus something they made specially for him! Bet that guy never received a nice handmade gift in his life. Thank!! Have a nice day!

this warmed my heart, thank you for sending it in 🤍

"For me?" Morpheus asked again, turning the little box in his hands. "Why?"

You shrugged. "Just because."

"Is this a trade? Do you want something in return?"

What? Morpheus sat across from you at the table, confusion and curiosity written all over his beautiful face.

"It's a gift, Dream," you said, tone a little amused. "I don't want anything in return. I just made you something because ..." You shrugged again. "Because I wanted to. I hope you like it."

His eyes darted up. "You made it?"

"Just open it."

He did. It also became very obvious that he did, in fact, never receive a gift before. Because only someone like that would open the box with so much care and so painfully slow.

"You chose the wrapping paper?"

You smiled. "Thought it was fitting." The stars and little crescent moons printed on them spoke to you in the store.

When he finally opened the box and the gift fell into his hand, he froze, staring at it in ... disbelief? Shit, didn't he like it?

"It's obviously not the real thing," you said, suddenly feeling a bit shy as you heat rushed to your cheeks. "I thought, now that you don't have your ruby anymore, you might like this. Like a replica. A memory. I don't know, I-"

"You made this yourself?" He interrupted you as he held it up against the kitchen light. The red stone wasn't a real ruby but it still shimmered beautifully.

You nodded. "Mhm."

Morpheus remained silent, eyes fixated on the gift, expression unreadable. You shifted in your place. Why couldn't he just say something. "If you don't like it-"

"It's beautiful."

"Oh." Your heartbeat slowed. Oh, thank all the Gods humanity ever thought of.

He looked at you, completely serious, and a bit - you felt daring as you thought it - overwhelmed. "Thank you."

You smiled. "You're very welcome."

"And you do not require anything in return?"

"Morpheus!"

send me an ask for a little blurb

[sirdindjarin]

The Savior - Din Djarin x f!Reader

The Mandalorian, side-quest extraordinaire, accidentally frees a slave, kills a Senator's son, ends a criminal conspiracy, and falls in love. Just a month in the life of the galaxy's favorite chaotic space cowboy and his son.

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

A/N: i fucking love this man. here's the spotify playlist i made while hallucinating being wrecked by him. I accidentally based this fic on Euphoria by Angels & Airwaves.

AO3 Link🤠

TAGS: Fluff, m!falls first, plot with porn, helmet stays on for now, P in V, outdoor activities, protective!Din, soft-ish!Din.

WARNINGS: reader is/was a slave; references to abuse; no curses or slang outside of Star Wars canon (that's a warning if you hate that hahaha)

**************************************************************

"I thought vagrants were barred at the door. How did a Mandalorian get in here?”

The Mandalorian in question does not react to the insult. At the table before him, the taunting Trandoshan guffaws, but his laughter dies when he gets no reaction from the bounty hunter.

"What do you want?" He snaps, his green jaws clicking shut.

Instead of replying, certain the answer is obvious, the beskar-covered man leisurely surveys the colorful, boisterous room, his hands folded in front of him. Having already scouted the upscale casino, he does this for sarcastic effect. He’s also certain that fact is lost on his Trandoshan quarry. 

Upon returning his direct attention to the lizard, a small movement in the booth catches his heat sensor. A young woman, likely his quarry’s slave by her frayed appearance, sits with her head bowed behind her master. 

“Hey, tin man, you in there?” Your master’s voice sounds more like rocks scraping together than fluid language.

The Mandalorian chucks a bounty puck onto the table, the name and alien visage of Rathos Craaf glowing in a blue cone of projected light.

“Go quietly or don’t - it makes no difference to me.” 

“Ahh,” Rathos Craaf hums in his throat and leans back in his seat, making your demure form more visible to the bounty hunter. “What’s the price?”

The Mandalorian again does not dignify a response. 

“Can’t be greater than what I’m willing to pay,” Rathos insinuates. 

The tense silence eats through your body as the ruthless men stare at each other - the probability of oncoming violence ratcheting up.

“Go prepare my ship,” your master barks suddenly at you, raising his hand.

Flinching, you scoot around the U-shaped booth to obey. 

You weren’t always a slave. As a child on Kenari, you had been born into a world of vivid green, rippling blue, and rich, brown soil. Trained in both hunting and fighting from birth, you had been too young to save your village from the brutal relocation program of the Empire. 

Dispersed onto harsher worlds, you’d been sold from one slaver to another until finally coming into the collection of one Rathos Craaf. He has been your master for several years by this point, and while not the worst, he was close. 

“What will you do about the girl?” A modulated voice asks.

Pausing on the edge of the hard bench, you look between the two antagonists. Me?

“Who cares about the mudscuffing girl? Tell you what, I’ll sell her to you.” The crafty Trandoshan gets an even better idea: “Or - take her in exchange for the bounty. She’s considered top-tier sentient property.” 

“Not what I was asking,” a gloved hand thumbs his blaster. “Once you’re in carbonite, wh-”

The Trandoshan lunges up from his seat with a booming yell, launching at the cloaked, beskar-free neck of the Mandalorian. Rathos’ claws reach around the smaller man’s throat, but the Mandalorian is lighter of foot, ducking out of the hold. 

Off-balance, Rathos tumbles but rolls back on his feet, his scaly tail acting as a counterweight. Gasps and mutters spill from the crowd as people scramble out of harm’s way.

You remain seated in the booth, frozen and unsure. But then, as the silver bounty hunter aims his blaster, Rathos whips his tail into the Mandalorian’s legs, knocking him with a clang onto his back. 

The blaster goes skittering through the crowd, and you’re shocked to find your legs racing after it. 

The thunder of a powerful flame roars in the cavernous room as you weave through aliens and humans alike, searching. The blackness of the blaster appears on the gray floor and you dive for it. 

Cold steel excites your skin. It’s heavier than you thought it would be, and though you’ve never fired one, your ancient muscle memory remembers the feeling of a bow in your hands; the trajectory, strength, and steadiness necessary. 

Sprinting back through the crowd, you find Rathos pinning the Mandalorian’s chest. The solid armor prevents any of Rathos’ blows from truly hurting the bounty hunter, but the weight of the lizard is too awkward and great for him to shove away from this angle. 

The fire-throwing vambrace comes up again and, as it billows into the Trandoshan’s face, you fire a blast at the substantial tail that had once been used against you. 

Rathos bellows in pain, tumbling to the side, and the Mandalorian takes full advantage. He jumps to his feet, then connects his fist to his quarry's skull, rendering the creature unconscious. Binders clasp around the arms of your master and the successful bounty hunter staggers backward a single step to catch his breath. 

You freeze at what you’ve just done, the blaster still pointed at Rathos. People murmur, and the words, “Killed by his slave” can be heard, though he is only unconscious. Your chest heaves, far more out of breath than the Mandalorian walking toward you.

“Thank you,” he says drily, taking his blaster out of your hands. 

Unsure what else you should do, you follow your master as he is dragged without dignity along the smooth fogstone floor. 

Exiting the casino, snaking down an alley, and traipsing to the outskirts of the city limits, the silhouette of a ship against the orange horizon becomes visible. 

Neither you nor the Mandalorian have spoken a single word since he took the blaster from your hands, but as he presses a button on his vambrace to lower the loading ramp, he turns to you now.

“Grab his tail." 

An order. That you could do. You immediately grab Rathos’ tail and lift. The Mandalorian half-drags and half-lifts the Trandoshan by his cuffed hands and the lizard is loaded into the ship’s hold. 

Standing at the far end of the Mandalorian’s rather busted ship, you’re surprised to see a small, green being. Dressed in what must be a sack, its long ears perk up and its eyes glimmer at the sight of the bounty hunter. A happy coo reverberates in the quiet, metal space. 

The child looks at you and makes another, similar noise. It waddles toward you, but before you can react, the Mandalorian scoops the child into his arms and sequesters it behind a thin blast door. 

“You are free to go.” 

It’s an odd statement. He must be familiar with the underworld. He knows how slaving works.

You’re not sure when you last spoke; you weren’t allowed to speak. But the bounty hunter seems to expect a reply. 

“I am not. The law says I am to be returned to the slavers’ coalition for repurchase.” Your voice is scratchy from disuse and the helmeted man tilts his head in curiosity. 

“You won't run?”

It seems too monumental a task. Hopes and fears trip over each other in their efforts to be heard. Freedom. Finding a place to call home. Your family was long dead. But… maybe there was hope of a family somewhere.

Where would I even go? No way I could stay ahead of the slavers. They’d send hunters like this Mandalorian after me. I’d be worse off than I am now.

“I do not know if I can,” you whisper honestly. 

The Mandalorian looks at you - at least, you think he does - for so long that you begin to squirm under his gaze.

Without warning, the wind is knocked from you. Rathos’ tail slams into the back of your knees, crumpling you to the floor. His claws wrap around your neck, and you yell, plunging two fingers into his lidless eye.

“Traitorous shutta!” Spittle from your master flies onto your cheeks.

As he recoils from your jab, you squirm underneath him, trying to flee, when the weight on your chest vanishes in a rush of air. Coughing and wiping your face, you lie there momentarily until your throbbing pulse abates inside your head. You sit up and widen your eyes to hasten their focus.

The Mandalorian has the Trandoshan by the throat with both hands. Rathos sputters and gags, but you watch as gloved fingers dig harder into the scaly throat. The anonymous man shoves his quarry into the carbon freezing chamber and smashes the button with more force than necessary. 

It's over. 

When you woke in the dark that morning, never would you have expected to watch your master be frozen in carbonite aboard a bounty hunter's ship.

That bounty hunter turns to you now. 

“I have something I need to do. I’ll give you passage if you provide assistance.” 

________________________________

Crossing your arms, tucking your legs under your body, and leaning against the hull in your seat, you try to make yourself as small as possible. You wouldn’t have even climbed up here if the Mandalorian hadn’t indicated that you should.

He wanted to keep an eye on you. He did not trust you around the kid - despite (or perhaps because of) its interest in you. 

Moments after leaving the planet’s atmosphere, a new emotion bubbles in your chest: elation. The stars flow by in a technicolor kaleidoscope; hues and shapes you have never seen race past your eyes. It’s beyond anything you could have imagined. 

“Has it always looked like this?” You wonder to yourself.

You jump when a deep, electronic voice answers, “Yes.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, realizing he had been watching you. “I’ve never seen hyperspace. I was kept in the hold,” you state without self-pity.

The Mandalorian lets that terrible fact hang in the air before eventually saying,“I recommend you get some sleep. It will be several hours before we reach Mid Rim.” 

He turns away from you and folds his arms. The muffled clang of his helmet tipping back against the headrest tells you that he will be taking his own advice.

Interestingly, you feel safe enough to get some rest. Being constantly attuned to the temperamental wills and whims of others, you've become a great judge of character. 

This Mandalorian, though quiet, is clearly capable of kindness to those who deserve it. A rarity for someone in his profession. 

___________________________________

The blue cone glows in his hand, projecting the face of one ugly slug. The name at the bottom, written in a language you had been forced to learn, reads: Salaa the Hutt.

Fearful eyes flick up to the veiled Mandalorian, “A Hutt?”

The helmet nods, “You will be my way in.” You make a whimpering noise, but the bounty hunter continues. “You’re a slave on the run. I will be returning you for a small reward.”

Crushing disappointment deflates your body. Believing yourself to have been wavering between freedom and the life you had known, you realize, now that the decision was being made for you, that you’d chosen freedom. Further adding to your pain is your misjudgement of the Mandalorian. 

I’d have never made it to freedom - far too naive. Thought a karking bounty hunter was doing something out of the kindness of his heart. Unbelievable.

Still, to your credit, you take several steps back, almost as though you might try to outrun the nimble, strong bounty hunter with a kriffing jetpack, of all things. You’re proud of yourself for even thinking about doing it.

The Mandalorian doesn’t react. He pockets the puck and opens his weapons cache on the hull wall. He lifts a small item from the assortment and shuts the doors. You can’t see what it is, and he doesn’t return to you. 

He opens the blast door to the child’s tiny room. The baby snores in his bungalow, and the ever-fascinating Mandalorian rubs the green, fuzzy head before closing the door. He turns and strides toward you.

You take one more step backward, just because you can. Because you should.

He still says nothing. Closer, and closer, the armored man advances on you until you can see your nervous eyes in his breastplate.

“Give me your wrists.” 

Is his voice naturally that persuasive or is it the vocoder?

Overriding your fledgling autonomy, you obey him with a preprogrammed respectful nod. He clasps binders around your wrists.

The Mandalorian steps away to retrieve another weapon, then he lifts his chin toward the boarding ramp. 

Shouldn't you at least try to gain freedom? Beg him to let you go? 

“Please, I can try to pay you,” this is a lie and he knows it. “Or I could work off the debt of transport. Something!”

It’s the loudest your voice has been in living memory, and it both surprises and emboldens you. But the Mandalorian does not seem swayed. 

“Walk,” he orders.

You minutely shake your head twice. It means nothing to him, but everything to you. 

An electronic sigh, then he takes a single step toward you. Fear switches you back into the subservient girl of the last twenty years. You flinch, your manacled hands blocking your face. 

The Mandalorian falters, slightly abashed. “I am not going to hurt you. But you need to start walking.” 

Slowly, you lower your hands. His gloved fingers curl around your bicep, and he leads you out into the sunny air.

It’s a hot day on Niamos. The beachside resort that serves as the capital city is teeming with families of all species bathing in the muggy air. The sandstone path that Mando - that’s what everyone calls them, right? - parades you down is packed with beachgoers. Embarrassed by your plight, you try to hide the binders, but it’s impossible with the angle he holds your arm. 

Finding another gust of will, you reason, “Surely you could find a way inside without turning me in? You’re good at your job. You could've killed my m-”

“Salaa angered powerful people. There is a bounty on him and it’s higher if he’s dead.

“What does that mean?”

“He's careful. Employs expensive security. Easiest way in is through the front door,” Mando finishes. 

Mando’s leathery hold on your arm is soft. Unyielding, of course, but he doesn’t hurt you. It saddens you to realize how different that is from your usual treatment. He had still binded you and planned on turning you in, but hey! At least he wasn’t going to leave a bruise.

Directing you down a narrow alley, the Mandalorian stops in front of a tan-colored, generic shield door. He raps twice on it, standing casually still. If he feels you shaking, he says nothing about it.

A Yaka man is standing behind the door when it opens with a whoosh. His metal implants reflect the sun and you squint. Behind him are another two Yaka and a particularly menacing-looking Zabrak, all armed with pulse rifles. 

“We ain't buyin'," he slurs.

“I'm here to claim the slave reward.” 

The Yaka stares at the impenetrable, T-shaped slit in the silver helmet, scrutinizing, before stepping aside. Mando guides you ahead of him, then you hear the spur-like sound of his step over the threshold. The close quarters are sweltering, and sweat beads on your temple.

“This way,” the Yaka servant veers to the right and up a steeply inclined hallway. The other members of the security team follow behind you.

The Mandalorian’s thumb slides over your skin. You would give it more thought if a wide, dingy room wasn’t quickly coming into view. 

On the second floor, a muted, sparsely furnished area overlooks the residence across the street, and the beach beyond. However, you can’t see the view because the balcony is being taken up by a massive, blob-like shape, and a tall, spiky silhouette.

“Ahh,” the huge shape speaks, and for the first time in your life, you’re thankful you speak Huttese. “What is this?” 

Bowing, the Yaka guard explains, “This Mandalorian has returned a loose slave.” 

He grabs for your arm, but you lurch when Mando pulls you out of reach, warning, “Careful. She killed her master before fleeing." 

The bodyguard recoils as though you personally threatened him. He steps away, waiting for actual instruction from his boss. The green Rodian next to Salaa tuts in his sour voice.

Deciding it was best not to speak, you raise your chin with dignity as Mando drops his hand from your arm.

“Why do you return her here?” Salaa the Hutt inquires. “Surely you know that I have been removed from my associations. Including the slavers.”

“I am here for information,” Mando drops the ruse completely, his voice calm.

“Information,” the Hutt laughs horribly. “I have much of that, pateesa. What do you wish to know?”

“You should ask what I have to trade first.”

“Hmm. You do not wish to trade the girl, I hope. Must be better than that,” the slimy giant slug laughs derisively.

You don’t even bristle. Worse things had been said to you daily. 

The green, mohawked Rodian chuckles. Though you do not understand his language, the human bounty hunter does: “She is too sad-looking to be any fun. Pity.” The reptilian-looking male then makes a vile comment about what he can see through your ratty, loose clothing.

The Mandalorian's eyes narrow, and his right hand drifts toward his hip of its own accord.

“Make your offer, Mandalorian.”

“If you provide the information I need, I won’t claim the ten-thousand-credit bounty on your head.”

That horrible, bulging laugh bursts from the ex-crime boss once more, hurting your ears in its pitch and volume. 

“Far too aggressive, Mandalorian. I decline.”

Salaa’s stubby arm motions at the armed security who raise their rifles at the two of you. 

While you freeze in terror, the Mandalorian stills in focus. Faster than a hyperdrive, he clenches his fist. Miniature rockets whistle through the tense air, eliminating all three bodyguards; the angry Zabrak, the mouthy Rodian, and the blubbery Salaa remain.

The Mandalorian draws his blaster, pushing you behind him, and fires from his hip as the Zabrak guard begins to raise his modified arm. What type of weapon it held, you’ll never know because he falls to the ground, dead, before he can use it.

The Rodian darts away from Salaa, circling the room. To you, it seems as though he is intending to flee, not fight, but the Mandalorian fires a laserblast at his bug-eyed head, dropping him.

Mando calmly swivels his blaster to Salaa. 

Resigned, the Hutt slimily states, “Ask what you wish to know, pateesa.”

“I have been told that you have seen another Mandalorian. Where?”

“Ahh, that is all? I have seen one here.”

“On Niamos?” So surprised, Mando forgets to keep the tone from his voice.

“A beskar-covered man does not go unnoticed on a planet filled with water-bathers,” Salaa laughs again. You visibly wince.

“Where?” 

“Where else? Water’s Edge.” 

Mando twists his head toward the opposite window as if he could see his fellow Mandalorian from here. He holsters his weapon and turns to leave. 

“Those Yaka were expensive guards, pateesa,” the Hutt grumbles ominously.

“You paid too much.”

He returns his hold on your arm, pushing you forward. Marching awkwardly down the sloping halfway, you try to make sense of his actions.

Your face screws up in confusion, “You didn’t turn me in or claim the Hutt’s bounty. You're earning no credits.”

That’s the defining feature of a bounty hunter.

The silence lengthens as you reach the ground floor, and hurriedly exit the sandstone building. As you soak in the blistering sunshine, the hand on your arm turns you to face him. The Mandalorian’s quick fingers remove your binders. 

“That’s it?” You rub your wrists even though he had left them on the loosest setting.

“Passage for assistance,” he reminds you. 

He then nods once and takes his leave. For an interminable length of time, you watch as he calmly walks away, breaking only when he turns down an alley and is lost from sight.

 What the hell do I do now?

__________________________________

The new day is growing late. Din Djarin basks in the heat of the single sun. For being one of those odd planets without plural light sources, the strength of the lone sun is incredible. Din much preferred the scorching, arid planets to the ice-covered ones, and Niamos is perfect. The breeze gently carries through his light flight suit, while the sun warms whatever dark material is visible around the beskar. 

While Din feels more comfortable in this climate, heat signatures can be a little bit more difficult to read. He had managed to track a faint heat signature around Water’s Edge. The day before, immediately after speaking with Salaa, Din had come to check the place out, but his quarry had left some hours previously and he had lost the trail.

Din enters the establishment for the second time in as many days. Inside is a large, open floor with dining tables set out across the expanse. High society clinks glasses as they wait for the next act to grace the small stage. Din surveys the room, switching between heat sensors and normal vision, before concluding that the Mandalorian he searches for is beyond the far wall. 

Heads turn and stare as Din, strutting as if he belongs, makes his way to the unobtrusive doorway next to the stage. A Mandalorian stands out here. This was a place for people who employed bounty hunters, not those whom they hunt. Din slides the door open, and he is greeted by a dark hallway.

Light spills from a room to his right. Din flips on his heat sensor again, and presses his lips together in satisfaction when the heat signature picks up.

Rounding into the room with confidence, Din observes everything at once.

A large mirror, complete with lights, sits above a desk. A rack of clothing stands lonely in the far corner. And on a stool in front of the mirror sits a Mandalorian, their flaky, blue-painted armor having seen better days.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he announces. “I have been tasked with finding other Mandalorians in order t-” 

“Oh, my stars!” The Mandalorian squeals. The helmet is removed by purple hands, and a humanoid species stares in awe. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Mandalorian. I- I do this character because I just love your culture so much.” 

Blinking behind his helm, Din confirms what he's already becoming sure of, “That armor you wear - it is not real beskar.”

“What? This stuff?” The actor scoffs. “This is expensive paint and cheap wetboard.” He stands up, advancing unwisely on the real Mandalorian. “Can I ask you some questions? I’ve got a real opportunity here to elevate my perfor-” 

Din backs out of the room in a single, fluid motion, punching the button for the door. 

He sighs.

***

A blaster shot turns the corner of the building Din had just walked past into dust and debris. He spins, drawing his own blaster, expecting to see the Empire itself. Instead, a young human bounty hunter stands there, nervously fumbling with her jammed blaster. The Mandalorian rushes her, pinning her by the collarbone against the alley wall. 

"Bounty?”

Terrified, she nods and whispers, “Yes.” 

"Who contracted it?" 

She wheezes from under Din’s forearm, “Don't know. It's open Rim-wide for now. Just told to kill you and the girl.”

Under his helm, Din’s brow pinches. “The girl?”

The wide-eyed woman shrugs, again in the dark. If this inexperienced bounty hunter managed to track him down already, it's likely another has found you. Din releases the woman roughly and rockets up into the sky.

_______________________________

The sights and sounds of the beach are incredible. The late-daylight is deliciously warm as it touches your skin through the holes in your clothing. You sit on the top step of the tiered beach area, staring out at the water as you try to come up with a plan of action. Having slept on a lounge chair last night, you’re nearly grateful for the decades of poor lodging training your body. 

The sky is hazy, but the flash of sunlight glinting off of something tiny flying far above has you twisting your head and squinting. Unable to make out the object, you return your attention to the ocean and ignore it. 

From behind you, a voice calls your name and you automatically turn.

As you stare down the barrel of the blaster pointed at you, you remember no one should know your name here.

"Let's go," the bounty hunter tells you.

It's a woman with red skin and long, blue, braided hair. Etches in her cheeks make her bone structure look even sharper. 

You frown. What you’d told the Mandalorian had already been proven correct. You weren't able to run. 

Resignedly standing to your feet, you take a step, but go stumbling forward as the woman kicks your back.

Your second foreign emotion of the last twenty-four hours sparks in your chest, glowing as hot as the sun above. 

"Hey! I was going," you glare.

"Move faster, scum," she orders. 

You continue walking, your eyes scanning for something, anything, to get you out of this.

Ahead on the right is a large crowd of vendors and their customers. If you can duck through them, maybe you can lose the blue-haired madwoman behind you. 

A cold, circular shape presses between your shoulder blades as you march, and your bravery starts to fail. If you make a single wrong move, you'll be shot before you even get to the crowd. 

Just do it - better to die now than live as a slave.

The crowd swells as a school trip pours out from a nearby museum. Your confidence rises at the sight of the increasingly busy, confusing horde.

Closer. So kriffing close.

The female bounty hunter cries out suddenly as a blaster shot scalds her arm. She defensively spins, kicking out powerfully behind her.

A large species you're unfamiliar with, tall and teal, is thrown sideways with the force of the kick. The competing bounty hunter recovers into a crouch and shoots at your captor, hitting her in the chest.

With a violent exhale, she falls. Too busy sprinting into the crowd, you do not hear her final, pathetic breath. 

Weaving, keeping ducked and hidden, you whisper a constant stream of 'excuse me.' You don't want to push anyone, knowing a reaction from an offended beach-goer could give away your position. 

The unblinking bounty hunter, your newest enemy, stands tall above much of the crowd, and it doesn't take him long to spot your trail. 

Thundering forward, happily shoving people you had so politely passed, he roars. Fear ices your stomach.

The sound of a sputtering jetpack drowns out the noise of the people. Never breaking stride, you search for the source of another bounty hunter. 

I know I’m a runaway slave who assaulted her master before turning him into a carbonsicle but, banthashit, is the price on my head really that high?

The massive hunter gains on you, and just as you clear the other side of the crowd, you gasp, pained, when he snatches your hair. You whirl, packing all of your strength into your right fist. Your blow lands on the creature’s lower jaw, which seems to be two pink tubes, and it wails grotesquely. 

The grip on your hair loosens and you rip away, but the much larger creature lunges for you again. It pulls you upward by your shirt this time, and you scream. Kicking out, your foot knocks a breath from the ugly bounty hunter, but it does not release you.

Staring at you with shallow black eyes, it speaks in a language you don’t understand, but the intonation is clearly a question. 

Gasping, you boldly say, “Let go of me and I’ll tell you.” 

The creature seems to understand Basic because his three-fingered hand leaves your shirt. 

Before you get a chance to make up a lie, the hulking bounty hunter vanishes in a flash of silver. Your head snaps in the direction of travel, and a trail of exhaust follows. 

A hundred yards away, the jetpack flares out and the two fall to the ground in a tumble of fighting. A strangled laugh exits your mouth. 

From bigger fish to bigger fish. Eventually the biggest fish would win and come after you.

The sound of the ugly creature roaring ends abruptly with a choked grunt. You push your legs hard as you run. The doorway to a cantina catches your eye as an intoxicated human stumbles out, and you rush past him. 

Inside the dark, clamorous, smoky business, you slide into the booth furthest from the door, hoping that neither hunter saw you duck in. Panting heavily, you tell the droid waitress you’d like a bit of spotchka. You’ve never had it, but you’ve seen how relaxed and brave it makes people and that sounds wonderful right about now.

The circular cantina door slides open and the silhouette of a tall, broad Mandalorian is outlined by the glaring sun. You can’t tell what color or condition his armor is in, but your stomach clenches all the same. It had been an entire revolution of the planet since your Mandalorian had left, so it can't be him.

Wonder if he found his friend, you think about his ten-thousand-credit question for the Hutt. Must’ve been quite a reunion if it was worth that much. 

Shrinking back against the wall of your booth, you shift completely out of sight and pray to whatever Ancient is listening that the stories about their helmets’ capabilities are exaggerations. 

The droid waitress sets your pretty blue drink on the table without comment, for which you’re grateful. You don’t think your voice works.

Clinking metal is audible despite the volume of the rowdy bar. The sound gradually grows louder as he approaches your booth.

“What are you doing?” The Mandalorian has his hands on his hips, and though you cannot see his face, you’re certain he looks like a disapproving parent.

“I- what?” You squeak, completely confused by his question. And why he's here.

He moves to sit down across from you, and your nerves flare.

“Why are you still here?” He asks the same question you want to ask him.

“Where was I supposed to go? I have no credits.”

“There is work available on this planet.” 

You pause, unhappy to give away just how out of your depth you are, “You mean paid employment? I’m not familiar with the process."

The Mandalorian doesn’t speak, he simply stares at you until you break your stare first. 

Looking down at the grimy table, you trace a piece of graffiti with your finger and whisper, “Thank you.” 

Mando shifts his head in askance.

“For saving me from the slave hunter.”

“He wasn’t a slave hunter.” Mando’s helmet tips down to where the bright blue liquid sits on the table. “You going to drink that?” 

You shake your head, too self-conscious now. 

“Good.”

He slides out from the booth and motions for you to walk ahead of him. 

________________________________

Standing in the bay of the Mandalorian’s ship once more, you engage in a staring contest with the little green baby as it sits on the floor. Its ears move like he’s listening to Mando speak on his holocall above in the cockpit, but its eyes remain on you.

You’ve always liked children. While they could be blunt, they were kind to you and other slaves because they hadn’t yet learned any differently. 

“How old are you?” You ask softly.

In your experience, children prefer to be spoken to as one would an adult, so you refrain from the baby-voice that springs to the surface when you look at the adorable infant. 

He tilts his ears toward you. 

“You’re pretty cute." The baby coos, then babbles once.

“You really are cute. And you seem highly intelligent. Have you been with the Mandalorian long? He seems to pick up strays easily,” you smile warmly. 

The child awkwardly gets to its feet, toddling toward you. Remembering how quickly Mando had taken the child away when it last interacted with you, you slowly move backward toward the ladder. You don’t know if it's dangerous. Maybe the cuteness is a front.

A gurgling noise, as if it’s trying to tell you something, breaks from its little mouth. He raises his hand, pointing, and you whirl.

The Mandalorian is but a few feet away, watching. 

How the kark did he get down the ladder so quietly?

“I’m sorry,” you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. 

Mando strides around you and crouches to pick up the baby, “We're leaving this planet. I won't have enough fuel to get across the galaxy, but there is a job a few systems over."

He cradles the child so gently that it makes your heart ache. 

Who is this guy?

The child in his arms makes grabby hands at his helmet, so he tenderly sets it back down. Mando heads back toward the cockpit, indicating you should follow. 

Up the ladder, sitting once again in the same seat, you keep your eyes on the Mandalorian as he begins the lengthy takeoff procedures. 

“The bounty hunter you encountered was not after the slave reward.”

“But she knew my name?” 

“I am referring to the Aqualish you punched.” 

“Oh.”

The Mandalorian does not immediately continue, focusing on his tasks for several minutes. 

“There is a reward out for you,” he flips another switch. “And a bounty.” 

“Both? Why both?” 

“The bounty is secondary. Dependant on you giving them m-”

A panicked, childish cry echoes from below, and you’re only a moment behind the Mandalorian as he leaps down the hatch to the hold.

You gasp in horror as you see the long-eared, big-eyed baby squished in the crook of another kriffing bounty hunter’s arm. The loading ramp closes slowly behind him. He must’ve jumped in at the last moment.

Mando raises his hands, indicating his desire to negotiate. 

“Do not hurt him,” he says. Instead of coming out as a plea, his vocoded words come out as a warning that makes your hair stand on end. 

“Din Djarin, you are wanted for the murder of Senator Nesota’s son. I know your reputation, and therefore do not wish to fight. I’ll release your… this," he nods at the green baby, "when you’re in carbonite. There,” the human bounty hunter nods his head at Din’s own carbon freezer. 

He killed a Senator’s kid?

The child frowns, his ears drooping, and he focuses hard on the bounty hunter. His little hand curls, and the man’s ruddy face turns purple. His eyes grow red and glassy.

Din reacts quickly, drawing his blaster and firing at the hunter’s face. The man falls with a clattering thunk, and the child rolls away, unmoving. 

“No," you cry. "Is he alright?” You start toward the kid, fear in your voice. 

“He’s fine,” the Mandalorian replies, holding his palm up for you to stay back. He reverently lifts the unconscious kid. “He’s just asleep.” 

The Mandalorian - Din Djarin - murdered an important person’s child. And his own kid just choked someone without using its hands? I didn’t inhale spice, did I?

“You killed a kid?” 

Din believes you’re still thinking of the baby in his arms. “I said he’s sleeping.”

“A Senator’s son?”

“Oh. Yes, the Rodian with Salaa.” Din hadn’t known he was the son of a powerful person, but it wouldn’t have mattered. 

Relief floods you once again as your evaluation of the Mandalorian’s character remains intact. After seeing the way he cared for the little green one, how could you have believed he would harm any child? 

“Okay." You return to the wildest topic, "What just happened with your kid?”

Din sighs. This was getting more dangerous than negotiating with a Tusken. He places the kid in his hammock and shuts the door. 

Turning on you, he threatens, “Never speak of him outside this ship.”

“I- I wouldn’t,” you promise, surprised by the fierceness in his voice. 

Din is satisfied. He’d watched you speak to his ward earlier, and the kid seems to like you immensely. But he doesn't solely rely on the kid's opinion. 

The experienced, Mandalorian bounty hunter's own character assessment is top-notch, and he finds that he feels strongly about you. He doesn't categorize or identify the specifics, however.  

The Mandalorian does not ask for your help in removing the dead bounty hunter from his ship, so you look on in silence as he does it alone. He lowers the landing ramp, drags the body to the edge, and watches it roll down unceremoniously. He turns and stalks past you.

“So, where's that job?” 

“The Outer Rim.”

You sigh. “Of course it is.”

__________________________________

The planet blinds you when the Razor Crest launches out of hyperdrive. Brilliantly green, the single sun reflects the vibrant landscape right into your eyes. 

Shielding your face, you venture a question. The Mandalorian had not finished explaining.

"Why is there a bounty on me?" 

Even through the modulator, you can hear his dry tone: "You aided a bounty hunter in entering the Hutt's hideout through false pretenses which ended in the blasting of a Senator's son."

"Right," you frown, slumping in your seat. 

"Don't worry. The bounty on my head is far larger than yours."

You scoff under your breath. So reassuring.

A deep breath, then you postulate, "Is that what the bounty hunter was asking me? About you?" 

Din doesn't respond. He didn't hear the Aqualish's question. He was too busy aiming at its body with his own, but his best guess is yes. 

"That's the reason you saved me," you mutter, oddly dejected.

A loose end. That's what you are.

Din often - almost constantly, actually - appreciated his helmet for the freedom it gave him to show any emotion at any time. No need to worry about a convincing poker face when no one could see it.

"You could have told them where my ship was."

"Except I thought you'd flown away the day before," you argue, saddened that he thought you would’ve talked. 

Of course, he didn't know you, and he had a child to protect, but it still stings. 

"Why not just kill me?" You wonder seriously.

You're a liability. Two separate prices on your head? The Mandalorian's easiest solution is obvious. A slave of no importance, no one would put a bounty on his head for your death.

Din Djarin's armor clanks as he spins the chair a quarter-turn toward you and he cocks his head. 

"I don't want to die," you read his body language correctly. "But I don't understand you." 

The Mandalorian silently returns to his piloting duties as he nears the lush planet. He does his best to shut his thoughts away, but he stumbles over you again and again. 

Din had rescued you because he didn’t want to see you harmed for his actions with the Hutt. The idea of protecting himself from prying questions had been an afterthought. 

He had flown above the city, looking for your trail. Since you hadn’t moved much, there wasn’t much of a trail to find. Then he spotted the crowd roiling and parting for the violent Aqualish.

When he watched it yank your hair, he felt angry. An emotion he experienced less frequently than many of his friends would believe. Frustration, irritation, sure. But true fury was rare for him.

Not wanting you dead was basic decency, but the anger had been interesting.

On some level, Din knows his emotional responses to you deserve greater scrutiny. But he doesn't have the time nor the energy.

When the Razor Crest lands in a grassy clearing between forest walls, Din rises from his chair and commands, “Stay here. Watch the child.” 

“O-okay,” you agree hesitantly. “What do I do when he wakes up?”

The Mandalorian stares, uncomprehending. 

“You… you don’t do anything for his… condition?”

“I told you he’s fine.” Din thinks for a moment, and remembers there is actually something you should know: “When he wakes up, he might be hungry. Do not let him eat the metal ball on the thruster.”

With that, he climbs down the ladder, and out of sight.

_________________________________

As the fist flies at you, you subconsciously register that your assailant must be right-handed, because this left hook is much sloppier than the other. Or maybe it's because his left arm is still human.

Ducking, you escape the jab and slam your palm-sized stick into the quarry's metal shins. He doesn’t react except to kick your thigh. You cry out, knowing it will bruise if you survive this.

The blaster you had taken from the Mandalorian’s cache lies just out of reach. The silver gleam is stark against the rich soil of the forest floor.

Enraged, the cyborg quarry leaps at your hunched form, knocking you flat. Surprised by his speed, you forget to keep hold of the heavy branch you use as a weapon. 

The growling man rips the stick from your hands and slams it against your throat like a vise, choking you, “Die, wretch.”

You turn your head to the side, providing yourself with a precious moment of air before the quarry shifts to cut that escape route off, too. 

Swinging your leg up, you kick him in the back of the head, pushing him forward. You take the opportunity to headbutt him - thankful that his head is still completely human - and he falls sideways. Right next to your blaster. 

You snatch up your wooden weapon, but it's too late.

He laughs mechanically as he grabs the blaster, swinging it at you. “Too late, sweetheart.”

Panting, you don't raise your hands. If he's going to kill you, he'll do it when you charge him. 

You take a step and the sound of a laserblast ricochets through the trees. 

The creature cries out, dropping the weapon, his arm useless at his side. Wires spark from the elbow joint that had been blown away.

"Found you," the Mandalorian says flatly, his blaster pointed at the machine.

The metal man lunges but Din fires again - hitting the quarry in what should be its gut. It doubles over, groaning, then topples, fighting for labored breath. 

He must still have lungs underneath, you shudder.

Still trying to catch your own breath, you gasp, "How-" 

"Heard the fight. You were supposed to stay on the ship," his voice turns scolding.

Clenching your jaw, you finally find a steady breath. You had stayed on the ship. This piece of space junk had broken inside through the cockpit window.

As you sat in the hold, dutifully watching the kid, the sound of glass shattering alerted you that it was not Din who was back so soon. You had snatched up the baby, touching him for the first time with no concern about his potential dangers, locked him in the little room, and ripped a small blaster from the Razor Crest’s weapons cache. 

You crouched at the far end of the hold, against the closed boarding ramp, waiting, uncomfortably far from the child. 

A cyborg, more spidery-droid than man, with a human head and fleshy left arm had come skittering down, bypassing the ladder completely. Unwilling to chance a blaster shot going through the baby’s door, you hit the button on the landing ramp and scrambled out.

The forest. It was your home. Your element. If there was any chance you could kill it, to prove to yourself that you could survive this life - it was then and there.

Of course, you hadn't expected the quarry to get your blaster.

"I tried," you breathe as Din binds the still-groaning quarry. 

The helmet turns to face you, understanding. "He entered the ship?”

You nod, and Din stands bolt-upright, his head whipping in the direction of the Razor Crest.

“It’s fine,” you assure him pointedly, walking with your hand outstretched toward the worried Mandalorian. You remember your promise not to speak of the child, “Your ship is fine. Knew you'd hate it if he trashed the thing, so I ran out here.”

The Mandalorian visibly relaxes his broad shoulders, and your heart tugs once again. 

"Thank you," Din says with hidden feeling. 

His sincerity wedges a lump in your throat. 

He really loves that little guy.

Din turns and snatches the connector between the binders, pulling the quarry. Its metal feet dig trenches as it tries to stall, but the Mandalorian is far too strong.

Somehow, it's the first time you've truly noticed. Din is extremely strong. Is it the suit? 

Can't be. It's just metal and fabric. 

The realization might as well be a thunderbolt to your brain. Your assailant must weigh as much as a land speeder, and here your bounty hunter was carting him along like a sack of starfruit.

An unfamiliar feeling, something like hot, sharp sparks shoot through your stomach. Your eyes follow the Mandalorian as he makes his way back to the Razor Crest. 

Is this attraction? You’ve never experienced it. Far too busy surviving, wanting someone in that way is a foreign concept to you. You roll your eyes at yourself. Din Djarin, a kriffing Mandalorian bounty hunter is not going to look twice at a slave, and it's best to kill those feelings before they take root.

***

Across the large clearing, at the ship, the bounty hunter waits patiently while the boarding ramp lowers.

“She yours?” The quarry asks curiously, his voice wheezing. "You orbited me like a karking moon, but as soon as I go after her, you come runnin’.” It laughs. 

The cyborg doesn't expect a verbal answer; he wants a reaction.

Din turns his head slowly with a cold warning, “I would advise you to stop speaking.”

“I damaged her pretty good for you. Might wanna che-” his taunting words end in a pained grunt when Din slams his fist into the man’s cruel mouth. 

Surprised by the sudden violence, you inhale sharply. Din hadn’t knocked the thing unconscious, so what was the point of that? 

The Mandalorian hauls the creature up the ramp and shoves him into the carbon freezer. 

“Should’ve killed me,” the cyborg threatens with a laugh as he freezes into a solid mass.

Din turns to face you and asks in a low voice, “Are you injured?”

The rush of adrenaline you had been riding on slowly fades, and you remember the only blow you’d received had been the one to the side of your thigh. Your hand falls to it, feeling the area through your tattered pants. 

A small amount of blood comes away on your fingers. 

“Oh,” you murmur. 

You pull up the ripped, baggy material, exposing your entire leg. The skin had split with the force of the blow, but there’s no serious damage and it would heal on its own. 

The cyborg must’ve been trying to unnerve us. Or distract the Mandalorian? Maybe he thought Din would check right away, you almost laugh aloud at the ridiculous idea.

Din, for his part, really wishes you would let your pant leg fall. It’s insane, it makes no sense to him. Millions of people walked around in far, far less clothing than you, and Din never reacted like this. 

But here you stand before him, slowly checking out the inch-long cut on your mid-thigh, and the Mandalorian can’t tear his eyes away. 

When you look up at the helmet of Din Djarin, he fixes his face as though you could actually see the way his lips had parted. You fleetingly, timidly, smile at him and, miraculously, let go of the flowy pant leg. 

Released from the spell, Din exhales and makes his way to the child’s room. 

“You can use the refresher to clean that, if you’d like.” He does not look at you as he speaks. 

“Is the baby okay?” 

Din need not answer as the child himself murmurs in happiness at the sight of the two of you. To Din’s abject shock, the kid lifts his hands toward you. 

You laugh once, flattered. “Can I?” 

Din simply turns sideways so that you can fit between him and the hull wall. You reach for the child and it snuggles into your arms, touching your chin. 

A brilliant smile lights your face. 

“Are we friends now?” You whisper to him. 

The baby babbles a response you’ll take as an affirmative. 

“I’ve not asked. What’s his name?” You turn your still-smiling face up to Din. 

Again thanking the Mythosaur for his helmet, he stares, stuck on your glowing expression as you cradle his ward. His brown eyes swim with an emotion he’s never felt. 

“I don't know.” 

Taken aback, you realize that there is a far deeper story here.

Did he steal this baby?

You move on quickly, “What do you call him?”

Din shrugs. “Kid.”

The child makes a cooing sound, then reaches for the Mandalorian. You hand the baby to his stoic guardian, and your smile changes to a satisfied one. 

“He looks like he belongs there,” you laugh. Then your eyebrows pull together as you regret the too-comfortable comment.

He’s a bounty hunter, a killer, and he may or may not have stolen this fuzzy, long-eared infant. 

And you’re just a runaway slave. 

You back up a step, feeling awkward now. “You said I could use the ‘fresher?” 

Din simply nods his head in the direction of the tiny facility.

When you've shut the door, Din's body relaxes. 

                               ***

But not for long. He didn't account for the sound of your clothes hitting the floor and the sound of the sonics. You are steps away, unclothed, and some wild instinct inside him awakens. Ashamed, he sets the child back in the hammock and climbs up to the cockpit to relieve himself. 

_________________________________

The planet is purple. Dark and cloudy, the yellow, green, and blue street lights cast strange shadows. Neon signs of every shade flash from every corner. You've been to thousands of cities like this one. An underworld. 

The Mandalorian landed the Razor Crest on the outskirts despite there being a busy spaceport made for that purpose. He transported the carbonite body of the cyborg to the edge of the city where he was met by some anonymous creature in a cloak. He asked no questions. 

Din had entrusted you with the care of the child. He directed you and the kid to go on ahead to one of the less-reputable inns. The worse-looking, the better. People were more likely to mind their business. 

You've found the perfect one. Din wanted seedy, he was getting the seediest. After all, most of your tasks as a slave had been spent in this environment since your masters hated to be seen in them. 

But seedy didn't always mean crumbling and derelict.

Din, having tracked the child's chain code, returns later that night. His eyebrows rise at the size of the room.

"I said find an inconspicuous place to hide. You got the emperor's suite," he places his hands on his hips. 

There are technically three rooms: the main living space, complete with couch, table, and a space to prepare food; and two small bedrooms both on the same side of the building.

"It was their only available room. Trust me, this place is as disreputable as they come. And he didn't upcharge," you rise from the couch. "If that was what you were worried about. I… made a deal with the clerk." 

Din advances on you, "A deal?" His voice is tight.

"I didn’t involve you. I promise." 

The Mandalorian clenches his teeth. Anything involving you, involves him. 

"The kid?" 

You tilt your chin across the apartment and laugh, "He wanted the room with all the toys.” 

Din disappears into the room, and you chuckle at how long the child had been fascinated by the weird sculptures inside. 

A low, rasping voice travels from the open door, "Hey, kid. Missed you, too."

Your smile deepens and your heart swells with emotion toward the two of them. Though they are not your family, it's comforting to watch them be one.

The modulated voice sounds again with a short laugh, "She can't hear you. Do you want her?" 

You shake your head fondly, the kid had been babbling and reaching for you every time you set him down. 

After a significant pause, Din softly admits, "I agree. I like her, too."

Flushing with shame for eavesdropping, you move to the far side of the apartment, to another large window. 

Several minutes later, quiet footsteps get louder as Din leaves the child's room and closes the door.

"He tried to lift one of the sculptures," Din scoffs. 

You laugh, picturing the child peacefully sleeping after tiring himself with the effort. It wasn't the first time today. Growing serious, you turn to face the Mandalorian.

"He helped me today. Someone grabbed at me and he… did what he does." 

Din takes two huge strides toward you. "Did anyone see? What happened?" 

"No one saw. It was in a closed alley. I-" you pause in momentary reluctance, then remember who you're talking to. "I took care of it." 

You glance at the blaster on the table that Din had given you earlier that morning.

For the first time in a long time, Din's sigh is one of relief instead of irritation. 

"Thank you," he says. "Again."

You wave him off, "It was between a scumsucker and the kid. Wasn't exactly hard," you try to make light of it. 

Din shakes his head slightly. "I've seen you use a blaster. I'm glad the kid was there," he deadpans.

You exhale in feigned irritation, pleased by his playfulness.

He comes to stand next to you at the open window, and the peaceful silence is companionable. 

As the breeze flutters, you shiver noticeably and his torn, rough cape curls into your ankle. The Mandalorian turns his head to you and reads how low your heat signature is.

Din stalks back to the entryway where he had set down a cloth bag. He snatches it up and brings it over to you. 

"I hope they are acceptable."

Hands outstretched, you freeze as you realize you're being given a gift. You blink and look up, desperately trying to read a face you know you can't. 

"Um, I've never -" you whisper, needing to tell him why you look like you've been struck. "Never had someone give me something."

Inside his beskar armor, Din grimaces. Had he overstepped? It might get even worse when you see how personal the items are. 

He releases his hold on the bag and you open it, pulling out a pair of clothes. They're dark blue, and, while somewhat flowy like your current clothes, these do not have holes, stains, nor bad memories associated. 

And they are a gift from Din Djarin. 

How do you thank him for these? They certainly weren't cheap. The clothing is sturdy but light, beautiful but practical. 

Embarrassingly, tears collect in your eyes.

"Oh, wow," you look up at him, panicking. "I can't take these." It was too much.

Din has an excuse in his arsenal.

"Take it as payment for your help with the kid."

You look back down at the material in your hands, rubbing the soft fabric. 

"Thank you, Din. Really. I- I don't know how to thank you. You have been so kind to me." 

His cheek pulls upward when you say his name for the first time. How sweet it sounds in your mouth. 

"You needed them. These," he waves at the shredded scraps on your frame, "are no longer clothes."

You smile timidly, unused to being treated so well. "I'm going to go take them off and burn them." 

The Mandalorian taps his vambrace. "I have the means when you're ready."

"Thank you again," you murmur, escaping to the refresher.

Din steps to the center of the room and places a hologram disk on the low table.

While you're busy, he's going to figure out how to get out of this.

***

After an actual shower, real water loosening the knots in your muscles, you exhale in pleasure at the feeling of the clean, well-made clothing on your skin. You feel like a person.

It's similar to seeing hyperspace for the first time. It scares you with how good it feels, knowing you’ve missed out on so much. 

You slide open the refresher door to see Din seated on the couch, facing away from you. He sits reclined, his legs spread wide. The Mandalorian hears the door open, but he does not turn. 

Stomach growling, you head to the cold storage near the front door. The box of food you'd bought from a vendor sits on the countertop. You unpack it carefully, still in disbelief you can eat whatever you want.

"Are you hungry?" You call to the Mandalorian as you continue to pull items from the box. 

"You are no longer a slave. You do not have to serve me." The deep, rough voice sounds from right behind you, and you jump in surprise. 

"Dank farrik, you move quietly." 

Din reaches around you for one of the fruits you had purchased with his credits. His nearness has your body tensing, but he backs away almost immediately.

"How do you eat with that on?" You wonder, clearly meaning his helmet.

"I don't," he answers, walking into the other bedroom. 

                          ***

A week passes in that calm hotel apartment. The child provided more than enough entertainment for you, attempting to lift different objects of his desire at random. 

For Din, so used to the child's antics, you are the object of his attention. You brush it off when he stands near you at the window, when he ensures that you have something to eat, and when he silently takes the couch over the comfortable bed. 

But you're unable to ignore his touch.

Just after you wake, the dual suns begin to peek around the tall city buildings. Trying not to wake Din on the couch, you tiptoe to the window in the main room, still enthralled with the city view. You’ve seen cities thousands of times throughout your enslavement, often imagining running away to explore. Now that you have the opportunity, you find that you don’t want to go.

Seated on the bare floor, your arms wrapped around your knees as you watch the suns rise, you're wandering down halls of your own thoughts when a voice drifts into your consciousness.

"I will get your bounty lifted." 

Turning your head, Din leans forward on the couch, his forearms on his knees. 

"If that's what you are concerned about."

You shake your head, "I'm not concerned. I think I'm happy." 

You had just come to that conclusion a moment earlier. It's an emotion you don't remember feeling. It's like your lungs are expanding after twenty years of suffocation. 

You look back at the city and smile contentedly, "This is the best my life has been." 

The admission is extremely personal, but you can’t keep it to yourself. It’s liberating. You weren't ready to fight for your freedom when the Mandalorian came for your master, but you are now. 

Din’s footsteps advance on you until he’s standing off to your right. He says nothing. 

After an interminable length of time, wondering what he’s doing, you twist and look up at him. His helmet turns toward the window just as you face him. 

His hands are folded behind him, but a sliver of something flesh-toned is visible. 

Is that his wrist? 

Your stomach drops. His bare skin. It looks warm-toned and soft. You close your eyes and turn away, back toward the window. 

“I am glad,” Din says. 

“About what?” Since it has been several minutes since either of you have spoken, you’re unsure if he’s responding or making a statement. 

He simply looks back down at you as if that answers your question. 

“We’ll be leaving today,” Din continues to study you, appreciating the way the orange dawn lights your face. “You’ve almost drained me of credits with this palace of a hotel.” 

You deny the accusation with a laugh, “I did not. I told you I made a deal.” 

“And you have not told me what that deal was,” he says, a hint of a threat in his tone. 

Din is on edge about your ‘deal.’ The night before, he had gone down to the reception desk to intimidate the clerk about it, but the employee you’d dealt with hadn’t been there.

“I promised you already - it has nothing to do with you or him,” you motion toward the child’s room. “It is not worth your attention.”

Din scowls. “You are also under my charge, and if you’ve placed yourself in danger, I need to be aware of it.” 

Your face snaps up, uselessly trying to make eye contact with him. His charge? Why does your face feel hot at those words?

Finally taking pity on him, you answer, “He was a gambler. I bet him I could win more rounds of sabacc. And I did.” 

The Mandalorian is stock-still. That was all? Din had gotten incredibly worked up over what you could possibly owe this mysterious desk clerk, and all you’d done was a bit of hustling? 

“Why would you not tell me that right away?”

“I didn’t want to seem like I was bragging,” you frown. Din had tasked you with something and you had wanted to complete it with as little fanfare as possible.

“What other skills have you been hiding?” Din’s tone is half-mocking, half-serious. He knows next to nothing about you despite the monopoly you’ve had on his thoughts.

You side-eye him, unsure of his intention. “I can do basic ship repairs. I can speak four languages. I know how to fight.” 

“I am not convinced of that last one.” 

“The cyborg caught me on a bad day,” you protest.

"It was fortunate you were not seriously injured. I wouldn't have the credits for this," he nods his head up at the high ceiling.

For the second time, your head turns to scrutinize him, but he’s as impenetrable as ever. 

"Why not?" 

Din's silver face snaps down to you. "The quarry would not have made it into the carbon freezer."

And as you open your mouth - to say what, you have no idea - a quiet knock raps on the front door. 

Spooked, you whirl so that you face the door, still seated. 

“It’s alright,” Din’s deep, rough voice soothes. 

When he holds out his hand to help you stand, you take it without second thought.

But it wasn’t just a hint of his wrist that you saw - his gloves are completely off. His rough palm slides into your grasp, and his thick fingers close around your hand. 

Eyes widening, you audibly gasp.

Din raises you to your feet with no effort, and you wind up far too close to him. Your breath fogs on his chestplate, and your pulse thrums in your ears.

Too-quickly, his thumb rubs your skin, and then he releases your hand. Do you imagine the sigh he makes as he steps away?

Your eyes are glued to his broad form as he retrieves his gloves from the couch, then heads to answer the door. 

“Should I -?” You whisper.

“Stay,” he says simply. 

It’s unbelievable how one word could affect you. You swallow hard and clasp your hands together in front of you. 

***

“As you are well aware, Mandalorian, my esteemed patron was unhappy to hear about her son’s death. However, you are of concern to us for a different reason. If we are able to reward you for your silence regarding where her son was at the time of his unfortunate, accidental death, this business might be put behind us.”

The slimeball flashes her biggest smile at the bounty hunter. 

“What am I being paid to be silent about? The Hutt was banished by the Republic due to his slavery connections. Is the Senator afraid of her choice in friends being known?” 

The emissary smiles nastily. “Let us say that the Hutt is also on my list of individuals to speak with.”

“I require explicit terms regarding this agreement. I am a Mandalorian, I can assure you of my discretion.”

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slavery you overheard between the Senator’s son and Salaa the Hutt, and we shall reward you with twenty-thousand credits to be paid over the course of three months.” 

To your horror, Din rises from the couch and nods his head, saying, “I accept your terms.”

“And what about her?” The emissary wrinkles her nose as she indicates you.

“She is a slave,” the Mandalorian says with harsh finality. 

You physically shrink next to him. He had insisted you remain while they spoke, but now you’re regretting agreeing to it.

The distaste with which he had uttered the word ‘slave’ makes you feel unclean, unwanted. Tears threaten to spill over, and you keep your head down in a familiar, submissive posture in case they do.

The bounty hunter escorts the Twi’lek emissary to the door while you sit, head bowed, on the couch. 

“Senator Nesota will be most appreciative. If you are ever in Coruscant, she would be delighted to have you visit her apartments. They are most grand.” She disapprovingly glances around the hotel room. “I assume you had your slave pick this one.” The emissary briefly places her hand on the Mandalorian’s forearm, “Remember, we are friends now, Din Djarin.”

The helmet saves his entire operation, for Din cannot stop the disgusted scowl that mars his face. This piece of scum uses his name to both threaten and flirt; the difference in his feelings between her saying it and you saying it are blindingly stark.

“I do not have friends. My name is not for your use,” he says evenly as he punches the button for the front door.

The emissary walks away without another word. 

When Din closes the door, he turns back to you with a sense of relief for more than one reason. 

But something is wrong.

“Do you not feel well?”

You shake your head, “I misunderstood something. That’s all.” Your head remains bowed.

“You will not look at me.” 

“I am… embarrassed,” you mutter honestly.

An emotion Din has never experienced or understood, he is at a loss. Instead, he sits across from you and tosses you the recorder.

The small, comm-looking device lands on your lap, and you pick it up, curiously rolling it in your hands. You press the button.

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slav-” 

You stop the device and look up at Din with renewed hope, “You were lying.”

Din leans forward in his seat, “I was not lying. I gave her my word as a Mandalorian. But you didn’t.” 

“That’s a stretch and you know it,” you laugh. 

Din shrugs. The moral reasoning works for him.

“I am to send this recording to the Republic, correct? Get the senator removed from office?” 

“She will no longer have the funds to pay our bounties. They will be considered void.”

Your smile falters. He had done what he promised. 

Din tilts his head, “You’re unhappy about that?”

“It’s not your problem, of course. But I have to deal with the slaver’s reward. And… and I am not sure what I should do, where I should go.”

Really, you’re saddened because there is no longer any reason for you to stay. You wish there was.

The Mandalorian is silent, weighing his choice of words carefully. 

"There is room on the Razor Crest. The kid is fond of you. I can pay you for your services to him. And, occasionally, the ship needs repairs - you can assist me with those.”

“Is this that ‘legal employment’ you told me I needed?” You grin. “I would like that very much.”

“You will need to learn how to fight, though,” he shakes his head, his tone teasing. “The kid can’t save you every time.”

____________________________________

You sit on the hold floor, the child in your arms. Having left the inn rather early, the child is still asleep.

Jostling as Din lands the Razor Crest on a new planet, you slowly stand and place the little lump in his hammock and shut the door. 

The Mandalorian drops down into the hold, passing you and hitting the button for the boarding ramp. Deciding to trust him, you don't ask where you're being taken. 

The answer isn't far. Din stops right at the treeline and hands you the same silver blaster from the previous week's fight with the cyborg. 

"You need to learn to use it." 

"I've done well with a blaster before," you protest. "I shot Rathos." 

"But you didn't shoot the cyborg," you can hear the frown in his deep voice. "Pick a tree."

Nervous to be evaluated by a master of the craft, you hesitate briefly before aiming at a massive trunk a few speeders lengths away.

The plate of his armor brushes against your back as the Mandalorian gingerly sets his heavy hands on your shoulders, straightening them. With his boot, he taps the inside of your foot, indicating you should widen your stance. 

You blink rapidly. Your face flushes with warmth. Why is your heart thundering? Can he hear it? 

He can. 

His own heart rate increases when his helmet's display shows your heat signature rising. Din pushes it further: his leather-covered hands slide down to your waist where he turns you a fraction - completely unnecessarily.

Close enough that, were he unveiled, you could feel his breath, he murmurs, "Fire."

Utterly distracted, you squeeze the trigger as a matter of following his command. The blaster shot continues on through the treetops, singeing leaves. 

Din straightens, his hands leaving your body, and he huffs. 

"You distracted me," you explain. "I can hit it."

You realign the weapon and inhale deeply, releasing on the exhale just as you would with an arrow. 

The tree sizzles as you hit it dead-center. 

Spinning to face him triumphantly, the smile freezes on your lips. 

One of the suns on this planet has begun to drop behind him, and his large frame casts you in shadow. He still hasn't moved away from you. The way his mask is angled toward you makes you believe he's lost in thought. 

"What is it?" You whisper in the tense silence. 

Din feels dizzy. You're a natural with a weapon you'd fired all of three times. Your words cudgel his mind. He had distracted you enough to miss a huge karking tree.

"Do it again." 

You nod and return to the target. Throwing your mind back to your childhood, you once again hit the tree dead-on. 

Weighing the blaster in your hand, you turn back to him and say, "I still prefer wooden weapons. Or at least something resembling a spear." 

"Why is that?" His voice is rough, and his hands find a home on his hips. 

"That's how I grew up," you answer. 

"Okay. Grab one." 

Your mouth drops open in confusion, but he finally leaves your personal space and picks up a slender, twigless branch.

"You can't be serious," you sputter a laugh, certain he had just found a sense of humor. "I'm not fighting you." 

"Why not?"

"Um. Because I can't."

"You can." He holds the stick out toward you.

You stare at him, watchful, as you curl your fingers around it. Din removes a small, cylindrical object from his utility belt. He pumps it once and it unfolds into a thin cane-like weapon. 

"It's been twenty years," you frown. "You're going to win." 

But, when that makeshift spear is in your hand, it all rushes back. The key to winning is in gaining ground. Whatever you do, push your opponent back. So, you launch at him first. 

Only partially surprised by the speed of the typically-timid girl now coming for his throat, Din manages to duck out of the way just in time. But you whirl to the opposite side he expects, and swing your weapon into his helmet. It clangs, and you stand upright.

"I'm sorry!" You react, fearful both from years of mistreatment and not wanting to hurt Din.

He ignores you, swishing his weapon toward your middle, and you jump backward. Hating that you conceded even that little ground, you quickly drop to a crouch and sweep at his knees like Rathos did to you. 

Din rockets upward a few feet, then drops back down on your other side. He swings at you and you parry. 

Dancing for several steps, you eventually land a blow to his ribs where the beskar does not cover. Din's modulated groan makes you feel a rush of two separate emotions. 

You don't want to hurt him, but that sound ignites a heat between your legs.

Din retaliates, kicking his tipless spear into your chest and shoving you backward. He knows your move, now. You don't like giving up ground, so you'll throw yourself at him, arms raised to strike.

When you do exactly as he predicts, he drops his weapon completely, grabbing you around the waist and spinning. He throws you to the ground, coming down on top of you.

You laugh, exhilarated, "Almost."

Something is jabbing your hip, and when you shift to identify it, Din grunts again. Your eyes shoot to his hidden face. 

Under the helmet, Din's brown eyes are blown, pained at how aroused he is. He can't handle much more of this. Your wide eyes and galloping heart match his, but underneath him you look so vulnerable that he feels downright predatory. His stiff length twitches.

Din’s voice is raw, barely contained, "Tell me to stop and I will." His gloved thumbs push your bottoms down.

Speechless, your core pulsing, you nod. 

Din unfastens the material around his middle, pulls his desperate cock from the flight suit, and hastily positions himself against you. Your slick coats him as he drags himself through your folds. He groans through the modulator. 

“Oh,” you gasp when he eases the tip past your entrance.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Din sheaths himself inside you with a determined grunt, his patch of dark curls mingling with yours.  

Your hands try to fist in his flight suit, eyes wide at the incredible feeling of him filling you. His right hand cradles your jaw as he starts to rock his hips, cursing as he does so. 

For the first time in his life, Din resents his helmet; both for the separation from your soft skin, and the heightened senses it gives him. How is he supposed to last when he can see your heart racing, hear your quiet cries as though they’re inside his own head?

In an insufficient compromise, he rips off his gloves. His tan skin is calloused and scarred.

“Yes,” you plead.

Din intertwines his fingers on both hands with yours, hypnotized for a precious second by the intimacy. Reverently, you press a kiss to his knuckles. He makes a wild sound deep in his chest, then plunges your hands above your head. 

Pushing your chest to his, you signal that he can do anything he wants to you. He collects both your wrists in one hand.

Din rhythmically arcs into you, the sound of his body - soaked from your arousal - striking yours nearly driving you insane. When you’d imagined it before, you wondered if looking into the blank face of his helmet might be off-putting, but you find that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it’s him. If anything, it’s erotic to trust him so blindly. 

Din is resolved to know your body better than you do. With his free hand, his fingers nimbly massage your clit until you jerk. 

“There?” He confirms.

You nod, unable to speak. His heavy, straining cock dragging through you, and his rough fingers replace the output from all other senses.

When he finds the perfect combination, he doesn’t let up until your eyes screw shut and you shake, incoherent underneath him in ecstasy. 

“You can say it,” he hoarsely encourages through the modulator. 

It was already on your lips, “Din.”

The hand that acted as a manacle releases you as he places his palm on the ground, giving himself as much leverage to bury himself as deep as possible. The toes of Din’s boots dig up clumps of grass as he thrusts into you, the sound of skin slapping skin lost in the breeze. Your legs curl around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He feels the spark at the base of his spine and knows he doesn’t have much strength left. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his flight suit again, clinging to him for all you’re worth.

Din makes the mistake of looking into your lust-filled eyes as you speak.

“Let go,” you whisper tenderly, feeling his tense body begin to fracture.

Din has no choice but to obey you, pumping himself into you with a long, harsh sigh. He works his release inside you, gradually slowing until his arms shake.

He finally drops to the ground beside you, breathing rapidly.

Suddenly shy, you want nothing more than to reach over and take one of his hands, but you lack the confidence. You also don’t know what to say. 

Din doesn’t believe there’s anything to say. He had never been so tempted in all his life, and he had not passed the test. A shred less self-control and his helmet might’ve followed the gloves. 

In fact, the temptation is still so strong that he begins to plan for its eventuality. 

____________________________________

[bigfan-fanfic]

Abjuration (Mage!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

A sorcerer!reader helps Bucky relax with their magic. NOTE: Can be read as platonic, and for gender neutral readers as well

Bucky sighs, pulling you into the safehouse, finally setting down his weapon.

You gulp, and then practically collapse on the bed.

It's basically a one-room shelter. a kitchen, a bed, and a communication center.

Bucky is on mission from the Avengers to protect you, to guide you safely back to the Avengers compound and avoid HYDRA, who would wish to use your magic powers for evil.

But HYDRA has been crafty, keeping in pursuit enough that you haven't been able to magic yourself and Bucky right to the Avengers.

And with them on the tail, Bucky knows he can't get you out to the extraction point.

Bucky quickly finishes sealing up the door and looks over at you. "Not having a great time?"

You groan a little. "It's been rough, but... at least we're safe, right?"

"As safe as I can make us." Bucky sighs. "We'll have to lie low here for a while, but we'll be trying to make it to the extraction point at our first chance, so you better get some rest."

"What about you?" you ask, slightly concerned. "I mean, you're the actual soldier, you should be well rested, right?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I don't know if you're capable of providing a reliable watch - you're wiped from casting those spells to help us get away."

You nod, acknowledging his point. "Still-"

"I don't sleep well anyway." he admits. "It's hard for me to ever really feel safe."

"I can help with that," you brighten. "I think, at least."

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I can perform a protection spell on our safehouse here. It may not keep everything out, but it'll provide enough of a barrier to defend against most things, and will alert us quickly if something is coming."

Without waiting for an answer, you begin moving, summoning your power from the wellspring inside you. Your magic always is improved when you're helping someone you care for, and Bucky has become a good friend these past few weeks on the run.

You haven't been anywhere secluded or long-term enough to justify expending your magic reserves on a protection spell, so this is the first Bucky's seen.

It takes a good twenty minutes to perform the ritual, gathering energy and focusing it, and Bucky arranges the gear and starts preparing some of the MREs in the kitchen stock, though he occasionally glances back over at you as you walk the perimeter of the safehouse, trying to touch every wall.

About halfway around, light blooms from your fingers, a soft amber color spreading outward, twinkling golden lights of concentrated power studding the ephemeral nebula of amber light spreading now over the ceiling.

Bucky watches in awe, field rations forgotten as you pull the rudimentary bed away from the wall and begin drawing runes in a haphazard circle, each glowing with light and floating a little off the floor around the bed.

"That'll be for when we sleep." you smile. "I'll activate it from the inside to give us some extra protection."

"Same bed?" Bucky finally manages to say, tearing his eyes away from the magic as the walls fade back to normal, the light now faint, now gone.

"If it's not a problem. That way we can both fit in the circle and you can get some sleep."

He nods, then chuckles. "You ever slept on a safehouse bed? Good luck sleeping."

You laugh and walk over to him to see about eating.

And later, Bucky hesitantly takes off his tactical gear and armor - he claims it helps him feel more relaxed, but it's not great for sleeping in.

He sits on the bed, cross-legged and alert, watching as you gently lean over the side and touch the rune circle. It blazes with power and sends light cascading upwards in diaphanous sheets in soft colors, forming a dome of protection before it coalesces into little spheres of drifting light, like night lights, like tiny stars gently watching over you both.

"I hope you feel a bit safer." you say softly.

"I do. The magic... I feel like it's strong. And... like it's on my side." Bucky says, leaning back to watch the lights drift as you tuck yourself under the blankets.

"Good night, Bucky."

"Good night, Y/N." Bucky whispers back. It's only after he hears your breathing change to that of unconsciousness that he slides his body downward, now lying down. And glancing at the lights, he truly does feel, if not safe, then protected.

He lets his eyes fall closed, and without trouble, drifts into sleep.