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the-takosader · 7 months ago

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While we're in the prep phase for the Crusader...

...let's go through the Ideas Archive, explore the stuff that's shelved, canned or otherwise not happening right now. This'll be the new pinned post, so I'll use this as a place to put everything I'm currently working on, and what I might do at some point.

Current:

The Crusader, a mix of Burns Double Six, PRS CE24 and Rickenbacker 4001, combined with influences from Hamer, Gibson and Fender. Note: this build is currently in the wood prep phase (stripping pieces of mahogany and sapele door for use in the guitar body and neck) as of 21/11/2024, and will likely take a year at my current progression rate.

Shelved:

Fender Marauder Build (yes, I still want to do this. The Crusader evolved from this, so it's still on the cards)

Casino Humbucker Mod

G6122 Country Gentleman '62 Style

Crest Replica (NEW!)

Telecaster Bass VI (kit body, custom neck)

Lennon Les Paul Jr. Replica (kitbash)

Höfner Violin Bass from scratch

Canned:

Lerxst 355 Replica

Acoustic Rickenbacker 360/12C63

Telecaster-Shaped Red Special (TSRS)

Plausible:

A non-specific doubleneck.

Resonator acoustic (kit build)

Completed:

Fretless Stratocaster

Cherry XII/Tele-Shaped Rickenbacker (TSR)

So, let's review top to bottom.

The Crusader:

I don't need to explain this much, I've already made a long-ass post about this. As said above, it's a mix of a Burns Double Six, PRS CE24 and Rickenbacker 4001 combined with influences from Hamer, Gibson and Fender.

The design is set in stone, aside from the exaggeration of the upper horn. You'd understand if there was a picture around here of the Burns. In the meantime, I'll get on with describing the others.

Fender Marauder Build:

Not the wackiest idea here, not by a long shot. As previously described, the Marauder is the culmination of Fender's offset guitars, featuring the switching of a Jaguar, the lead-rhythm circuit of a Jazzmaster, parts of the trem system of a Mustang, modified to fit with the pickguard and general aesthetics of a Jag. It even gave the Starcaster, the only semi-hollow by my reckoning that Fender still produces, it's headstock, something Fender afficionados call the "running shoe", at least, that's what my aunt calls it. Considering the contour gets filled in by paint, it's not hard to see her point.

The issue with doing this one is that barely anyone does Marauder vibrato plates. And to do this from scratch? Yeah, I need to find someone who would do the specific metal pieces I'd need, that being the Jag-style metal plate for the lead-rhythm circuit, the switch plate for the pickup switches, the extra long control plate, and that Marauder vibrato plate.

Yeah, if I ever find somewhere that does metal parts out of aluminium or something, I'm gonna get them to do the metal parts of this. Next item on the list!

Casino Humbucker Mod:

This one should be self-explanatory - take an Epiphone Casino, stick some P90-sized humbuckers in there. The only caveat is that they have to be hidden and mounted via dogear P90 covers, which isn't too much of an ask; this guy in Manchester does custom pickups, even hand-winds them. Certainly sounds appealing, may go for those. Next one!

G6122 Country Gentleman:

Yeah, uh... this one's shelved with good reason.

For context, the G6122, more commonly known as the Country Gentleman, is one of Gretsch's most famous guitar models, up there with the Duo-Jet, the Tennessean (now Tennessee Rose) and the one that Malcolm Young gutted and modded for his purposes as the rhythm guitarist of AC/DC. Gretsch list it as the "Jet" but I have no clue if that's a different model to the Duo-Jet or it's a variation, or whatever.

My aim with this would be to make as accurate a recreation of the Country Gent as I could with the documentation and information present on the internet. That means making it with 3-ply maple veneer top, back and sides, utilisng the thumbnail inlays on an ebony fingerboard, slotted for 24.6" (24.75" if you measure from the middle of the nut), with the same style of tuner, the little plaque on the headstock, the vinyl/leather pad on the back of the body covering a backplate access hatch, and all around trying to recreate this mad thing.

The only downside is the cost, because I'd need to source TV Jones Filter'Trons (not hard), maple veneer (harder), Grover Imperials or lookalikes (very hard!), and figure out how to make a veneer press, and how to shape the slightly arched top and back in a 3-ply veneer, not to mention the Bigsby, all the spare parts, the flip-up foam mutes that Jimmie Webster came up with (and also patented).

In short, the entire project is shelved. For the foreseeable future, until I can source all this stuff myself. Onto the next one!

Crest Replica:

This is a new one, inspired by an admittedly newfound appreciation for the Gibson Crest.

...oh right, I should explain what that is.

The Gibson Crest, as a name, refers to 2 different models, respectively produced around the late 1950s to early 1960s and between 1969 and 1972, with a one-off model of the latter style produced in 1983 for that year's Winter NAMM show. Said model is in the possession of guitar collector and YouTuber Trogly, who runs the eponymous Trogly's Guitar Show on YouTube. At first, I thought he was a bit of a knob, or at least a bit naïve, but as it turns out, his show's a good way to pass the time, and satiates the GAS (gear acquisition syndrome) that guitarists seem to get pretty damn often (as far as I know).

The former is estimated to have been produced a total of no more than six times, each custom orders put in by Gibson salesman-clinician and budding guitarist, Andy Nelson. Due to the nature of being entirely custom orders, no one knows the exact specs as they would obviously vary between examples as each guitarist would want something unique.

The body shape is assumed to be reminiscent of a similar model that Gibson were producing around this time: the L-5CT, that being a jazz archtop around the thickness of a Gibson Byrdland, but with a Venetian cutaway, a singular humbucker, a toggle switch next to the cutaway on "deluxe" models (models with 2 pickups as stock) and a trapeze tailpiece paired with a "floating" or freely moveable bridge.

One example of the original Crest, however, had a thinline single-cutaway body with a Florentine cutaway, as opposed to the Venetian cutaway of the L-5CT. It featured a carved spruce top, maple back and sides, with a 7-ply bound top, and a 3-ply bound back, as well as a pickguard made not of plastic, but of alternating dark and light plies of maple.

Now, that's interesting, because (and this is a personal side tangent because this guitar is so very unknown because of Google's overuse of SEO and keywords) the only other guitar Gibson produced with a wooden pickguard that I can think of is the Gibson The Les Paul, produced between 1976 and 1980, and that was only because the way Norlin-era Gison constructed these things, everything was either wooden or metal, with plastic being used as little and as sparingly as possible. The switch tip was rosewood, the binding for the body was rosewood, the veneer on the headstock was rosewood as opposed to holly, the knobs were rosewood, the pickup rings were rosewood. About the only thing I can find that wasn't wooden or metal is the inlays, which are actual abalone, and the binding for the headstock, which appears to be plastic, though this might not be the case.

Point is, the guitar was designed with one main principle in mind: "Can it be rosewood? Yes? Make it rosewood." That's why they now go for around £35k and rarely ever sell.

But anyway back to the Nelson Crest. Yes, that's what I'm calling it, it's better than calling it Crest 1 or Crest Custom. The example I'm drawing from here had bound f-holes, was stained cherry red like most of the ES models around the time, and had an HS pickup layout, with the usual number of volume and tone controls, and a toggle switch in the usual mounting place for an ES model guitar, that being near the treble-side f-hole.

According to the source I'm getting all this from (an article on the Gruhn's Guitars website), it also had a Switchmaster tone switch and was wired for stereo output. The floating bridge, as it was an archtop, was mounted on a rosewood "foot" which was inlaid with mother-of-pearl decorations. The bridge itself, meanwhile, was your bog standard late '50s, early '60s Gibson ABR-1 without retaining wire for the saddles, while the tailpiece has the diamond ornamentation seen on a Casino/ES-330 while also incorporating a shield and coat-of-arms motif.

This motif is continued on the absolutely gigantic headstock, which had individual Grover Imperial tuners, and an inlay featuring a coat of arms with three Moorish crescents on the shield. The fretboard is given the top-level treatment of the era, as is to be expected of a custom build, with 3-ply binding all-around, and Super 400 inlays up to the 17th fret, unsurprising for an archtop. The truss rod cover, meanwhile, is a sort of merger between the typical shape for a Gibson, and the art deco movement which was starting up in the early '60s, with it being a trapezoid interpretation of the standard Gibson bell shape.

This is one of the few images I can find of the original style of Crest, in all its resplendent late 1950s glory:

As you can see, it's basically everything I mentioned above, down to the cherry red stain.

So, that's the Nelson Crest, in all of its custom and stupidly insane glory. It'd be an interesting challenge to replicate that thing, but that's not the one I want to replicate, not by a long shot.

The Crest that I do want to replicate, however, is more reminiscent of a short-neck ES-330 or, to be more conforming to normality here, the Epiphone Casino. This has its own subsets, referred to as Crest Gold or Crest Silver, for the style of the hardware, those being either gold or "brushed silver". Assuming I was mad enough to build this, I would have to either source vintage-accurate parts or get someone to make them custom.

As you can probably guess, neither sound appealing! However, ignoring that, let's get down to business. What is the Gibson Crest, in this latter format?

The Gibson Crest, in the 1969-72 styling, is a double-cutaway ES-style guitar, as you can probably guess. Now, a double-cut ES-style isn't surprising, both CMI and Norlin loved making those. The surprise comes from the features, starting with the short neck, with the join at the 15th fret. Now, normally, that's weird for an ES-style, they all have long necks, with a meeting with the body at the 19th fret. Why does this one have such a short neck?

Well, it's because it's a hollow-bodied guitar, like the ES-330 or Casino. Then again, that is no excuse, considering the ES-330 and Casino both had long necks at this time, even if the Casino returned to the short neck, dragging the 330 along with it whether it liked it or not (kinda miffed about that, I like upper fret access, taking it away on an electric guitar like the Casino is just annoying).

But anyway, the Crest has this short neck, and that's where the similarities to most ES models end. The toggle switch is placed where the first iteration of the 347 would place the coil-split switch, that being the lower horn, and that's about it for known similarities, with the other features being more reminiscent of the original Nelson Crest rather than an ES-330 or similar guitar from Gibson/Norlin.

Let's start with the pickups, which are mini-humbuckers, most certainly an interesting choice; apparently, the reason they chose P90s as the pickups for the 330 and Casino is because it was a "budget" model, and not because they were fucking cowards. That last bit's not important, though, so we can come back to it at a different time.

As with the Nelson Crest, the Crest Gold and Silver have a floating bridge akin to an archtop, though I cannot for the life of me remember if they're an ABR-1 like the original, or a pre-compensated bridge. It doesn't much matter either way, because the fact of the matter is that this guitar has some nice details to it. A 7-ply bound top, with a 3-ply bound back separated by a decorative strip, and a large heel cap which has a strap button screwed into it.

The electronics are the interesting thing. As noted above, the toggle switch was placed in the location where an ES-347's coil-split switch went, which may even be where they got the idea for that, but as is also noted above, the thing has 2 mini-humbuckers with individual volume and tone controls, and treble-side adjustment screws that go through the pickguard.

None of this is nearly as impactful as what the thing was made of, though, because I have been keeping that bit entirely shtum for surprise factor. Y'see, the Crest was made almost exclusively out of Brazilian rosewood veneer, which, for a time, was entirely phased out of Gibson as a wood option, before even becoming a protected wood by the Washington Convention. Trade in it is restricted, even now, and that means it is incredibly hard to get hold of it, even in veneer form.

Does this mean I am shit out of luck? Well, if I wanted to recreate the thing using the exact same wood, yes. If, however, I wanted to recreate the guitar with just any species in the family Dalbergia, rather than specifically Dalbergia nigra (note: that's the scientific name for Brazilian rosewood), I am not, in fact, shit out of luck, as most other species of rosewood (any wood in the family Dalbergia) is not restricted, and has not been under restriction for almost 5 years.

Here's a photo from Gary's Classic Guitars in case you were having difficulty visualising this thing:

I'll be including images like these for projects that are either replicas, or I feel need the image in some way or another.

So, the rosewood veneer isn't a problem. Why is it still a shelved project, then? Well, the fact of the matter is that we live in a capitalist society. Things cost money, both for the item itself and the labour required to produce it. In short, wood is expensive, and I don't have the money yet. You may notice that "too expensive" is a running theme, even in cases where half of the expense is the guitar itself.

To avoid getting depressing, let's move on (finally)!

Tele Bass VI:

So, you may be wondering, "why's this one shelved?"

The thing is, it wasn't intentionally shelved. It's just that I can't really do anything with it without finishing the Crusader first. I need fret wire, wood for the neck, a nut, and a truss rod. Not that many things, but it's also what I need for the Crusader, and in the case of that, I at least have the wood for the neck, and a nut, but that still leaves me without a truss rod and fret wire (which I also need for my acoustic because it's got fret sprout, but that's neither here nor there).

I was intending a maple neck for it, anyway, and I need maple for the fretboard of the Crusader. Maybe I'll be able to sort that at some point. Moving on!

Lennon Les Paul Jr.:

This one's hard to call "shelved" seeing as I've done jack shit with it for 3 months at this point. Do I want to do more with it? Yes, absolutely. It's just finding the werewithall to actually go do more with it. Part of it's been the stress of organising my college stuff, but part of it's also been laziness and just not being able to decide if I want to do it or not.

I'm sure you don't want me to bore you with this one, and you saw a photo of a replica on the previous pinned post, so I'll move on.

Höfner 500/1 Violin Bass Replica:

This one is very much a doozy, but it's at least sensible.

Höfner's been going for over 100 years, that's an accepted fact, something that makes sense to everyone. Their "peak" of iconicity, however, came in the form of Sir James Paul McCartney, who has used Höfner's basses since 1961. Now, since then, they've done plenty of reissues of his (two) different basses, the 1961 with its close pickups, and the 1963 with the wide, separated pickups.

So which one would I go for? That is a good question, because it's really not what I should be asking. What I should be asking in its stead is "do I want to learn Actual Violin Lutherie to make this thing", because the whole "Violin Bass" is not just a selling point, it actually is constructed like a violin. It's a chambered hollow body, like the Country Gent, but it's the size of a violin, with the construction to match, including the use of flame maple (or, to use its more apt name, fiddleback maple) for the back and sides. The top, meanwhile, is solid carved spruce.

Don't believe me about the body size? Look at this sub-model Hofner do, based on the one you can see in Get Back:

As you can see, the body is tiny in comparison to the length of the neck, especially when you compare it to an actual violin:

Look at the proportions on this, then look at the 500/1. Doesn't the neck seem so ridiculously long now? Anyway, that's gonna take some going at, and thus it's shelved for when I feel confident enough to actually do it, or at least to take a partial stab at it.

Now then, we've seen the ideas that I might get round to but aren't being done now for one reason or another. Let's look at the ones that won't be done at all, for one reason or another.

Lerxst 355 Replica:

To the average reader, that name's going to look like gibberish. To be honest, I don't blame you, the way it's pronounced feels like you're speaking gibberish as well. "Lurks-st". It sounds better if you try and put on a Canadian accent. Not full tilt Canadian, with all the "eh"-ing and being super polite, just a hint of Toronto.

Anyway, what's Lerxst? Or, more accurately, who is Lerxst? Lerxst is the nickname of Aleksandar Živojinović, a man known professionally as Alex Lifeson. He was the guitarist for Rush for as long as Rush had existed, until their semi-functional retirement after the death of their drummer Neil Peart. The remaining two members, that being Alex and the bassist Geddy, have performed together since, including at the Taylor Hawkins tribute concert and at the 25th anniversary concert for South Park.

Now, Lerxst has used many a guitar over the past 50 years, from that ES-335 he used in the beginning, to the large amount of PRSes he used between 1990 and 2010. His most famous, however, is the one this one is talking about: a 1977 ES-355 built by Norlin-era Gibson. It has T-Top humbuckers (named as such due to the bobbins having a slightly raised part in the shape of a T), 22 frets on a voluted neck, a 7-ply bound top (you saw me refer to this in the Crest section; 7-ply bound top doesn't mean the top is 7 plies of veneer thick, it means the binding is 7 plies thick, and is bound around a 3-ply top of maple-poplar-maple) with a 3-ply bound back, a Maestro vibrola unit, an individual set of volume and tone controls per pickup, a simple 3-way toggle, and the key part - a varitone switch, with accompanying bypass mini-toggle for the "raw" tone unmodified by the varitone.

The output jack's also mounted to the top, but considering it's an ES model, I wouldn't think that too revolutionary. So, what's a Maestro vibrola unit when it's at home? For that, we need to explain vibrato units overall.

The history starts with Clayton "Doc" Kauffman, who devised the first ever patented vibrato system in the 1930s, fittingly named the Kauffman vibrola. This worked quite differently to vibratos that we know now, as the action of changing the pitch was much more subtle, and was done through moving the arm laterally, instead of pressing the arm down to the body. The sound was meant to mimic a slide guitar (as that's where Rickenbacker's guitars originally started), but there was an ever-so tiny but incredibly crucial detail: the tuning stability was terrible. Guitarists such as John Lennon decided to replace the Kauffman units on guitars they were installed on with other models, such as the Bigsby vibrola, the second patented vibrato unit, and the first to see widespread commercial success.

The Bigsby works in a much more conventional way, using the standard we know now: push down to lower pitch, release to return to normal. Supposedly, it has terrible stability in and of itself, but that is from players who ended up being like Floyd D. Rose, who overused the vibrato of the Bigsby, requiring that they retune. The Bigsby wasn't intended for that; instead, it was only intended to provide a slight "warble" effect to playing, what some would term a "shimmering" effect.

This, in effect, is what Gibson's vibratos were meant to provide, starting in 1961 with the Sideways vibrola. I have an opinion on these: they suck, both in function and form. They copy the function of the Kauffman nearly wholesale, and the large folded up arm in direct contact with the nitrocellulose finish(!), well. Yeah, no, not for me. The Maestro, however, looks and behaves so much better. It functions like a Bigsby would, excepting that it doesn't copy the mechanism wholesale like the Sideways does with the Kauffman.

To explain this, let's go on a small side tangent about a Bigsby vs. a Maestro vibrola, because I assure you, this is actually necessary to the guitar.

The Bigsby works by loosening tension using the leverage of the tremolo arm to cause a deepening of pitch. It's kept in place and returned to normal pitch by a spring which is compressed in the action of using the vibrato unit. The Maestro, however, uses direct leverage on a bent piece of metal to cause the same loosening of tension and lowering of pitch.

This means that the Maestro, while more primitive, is easier to work with when restringing due to the fact that the strings are threaded into the tailpiece, which is then bent, changing the angle and distance between the tuners and the ball-end of the string, thus affecting the tension. The metal returning to its standard shape (because the force required to permanently change its shape has not been applied) is what returns the guitar to standard and proper tension (as long as it's been set up correctly).

The Bigsby, meanwhile, has a specific way of threading the string through the unit before sending it down the neck to the tuner and the nut. When restringing a Bigsby, there is a massive rigamarole if you don't have a Vibramate spoiler installed. You have to thread the string down from the bridge, under the tensioning bar, then up over the string bar, around it, and slot the ball-end on the tiny little post on the underside, so it can function correctly when the arm is depressed. I honestly wish I was joking about this. I have restrung a Bigsby once, and once was all the experience I needed. Never again. I heavily advocate for people to damn well use a Vibramate spoiler on their units, even if it's just because of a personal gripe.

Back to the point where we were, about... 8 or 9 paragraphs ago, the 355 generally came stock with a Maestro vibrola in 1977, so it's no surprise that Lerxst got it on his. It's even featured on the reissues from 2008:

These are the same reissues that have a Fucked Up volute on the neck that's approximately halfway between the nut and the first fret, as opposed to in line with the nut. If I were to recreate this, I'd at least fix that.

So, it all seems possible, right? Then why is the build canned? Generally, it's the fact of the varitone, specifically the chokes. How, the literal fuck, do those things work. If I ever figure how they work, then maybe this will move from the can to the shelf. But right now? Canned. Completely and utterly.

Next, please!

Acoustic Rickenbacker 360/12c63:

This requires much less in the way of explaining. The Rickenbacker 360 is a famous guitar by most stretches of the imagination, soldiered on by its incarnations as the 360/12, used by George Harrison, the 370/12 used by Roger McGuinn, and the 330/12, used by innumerable amounts of famous guitarists like Peter Buck, Johnny Marr, Pete Townshend and The Edge.

But y'see, those are electric guitars. They've got magnetic pickups and all sorts of gubbins in there. My idea with this was to see if you could just... get rid of all that, construct a 360/12 in the double-bound style without that central block and all the electronics, and be left with an acoustic Ricky 12, complete with the compacted headstock and a piezo if I felt like it.

Knowing what I do about how Rickenbacker's shit is made, though, that would require making the body in the form of back, then sides, glued with bracing and then the top, with two sound holes. I'd then have to find somewhere to fit a pre-amp, and make sure that it's the usual thickness before then setting the neck in, which itself would be a 5-piece construction of maple with walnut center stripe and headstock wings, adding the truss rod(s) and the fretboard, before finally assembling the metal bits onto it.

Doesn't sound too hard, sure, but if you look at this example of what the Rickenbacker 360/12C63 looks like...

Yes, that is the entire thickness of the body. It's approximately an inch thick and not all that acoustically resonant. It'd be good as an experiment, but considering I'm debating over getting a standard acoustic 12 at some point, it's canned for that reason. Onto the last canned build, and the last build that's overall a hypothetical.

Telecaster-Shaped Red Special (TSRS):

I laid this whole thing out in a Notepad file back in May or June, as we were finishing up the Cherry XII, as a proposal of "maybe this can be the next build," but I scrapped it a month or so later because I fell into a trap I've fallen into so often it might as well be my home: I wanted to recreate a specific thing, without remembering the way that guitar is constructed, and really, what that guitar is built out of.

You see, the Red Special, built between 1963 and 1964 by Brian May and his father Harold, is a very interesting case of guitar design, in that it was designed to feedback in an appealing way. The internal cavities were actually carved out in a very specific way in order to allow for this, and most copies of the thing do the feedback, but struggle to do it exactly like his. He also has his own brand of guitars mainly made up of official replicas fitted with either a standard Strat-style trem system, that being the BMG Special, or the more accurate design mimicking the original's trem arm made of a knitting needle and a bicycle saddlebag holder.

Now, having only a Telecaster body, I couldn't recreate most of this. I mean, where am I going to put all this stuff? And the neck couldn't be slotted for 24" scale length. It just wouldn't have worked. 25", like the Harley Benton copy, maybe, but then I'd have to modify the body to allow for a 25" scale, and then rout out chambers for controls, the cavity, and the trem system's springs.

Looking back on it, I think I had a grand idea, but had bitten way too much off to just go and do it. If I ever do get it in my head to recreate the Red Special, even without a treble boost circuit or a treble boost pedal, I think I'm not going to try and start from a jump-off point, and just go at it from scratch.

Now then, we've gone through those that've been canned, let's look at the ones that aren't shelved or canned, but aren't currently in play. I denoted them as plausible above, but I might go at them at a slower rate than the Shelved builds.

Non-Specific Doubleneck:

When I say "non-specific" doubleneck, I don't mean "bland-name EDS-1275" like a Chibson or a Gear4Music or Harley Benton or anything like that.

For one, the EDS-1275 isn't the only doubleneck out there, nor is it the only doubleneck Gibson ever made. Rickenbacker made a 12/6 doubleneck 360, fittingly named the 362, as well as the 4080 doubleneck which was a bass on top and your option of a 480/6 or 480/12 on the bottom. That latter one was most famously used by Geddy Lee on Xanadu, as well as the former on A Passage to Bangkok (a song about smoking weed, if you didn't know).

Here's him with the former, in a surprising tuxedo (white with black plastics) finish:

And here's him using a Fireglo 4080/12 back in 2015 for the purpose of playing Xanadu:

Anyway, that's a Rickenbacker doubleneck, but they're not the only ones to do this stuff. Fender also make doublenecks. Well, "make" is a strong term. This is the only one I know about:

This is the craziest doubleneck I've ever seen. It's a basic 12/6, but actually No It's Not. You've got an Electric XII on top, which is the only "designed to be 12 string" guitar Fender made pre-CBS, and the Marauder on the bottom, with the vibrato merged into the pickguard, and the 5 pickup switches and the kill switch and everything that makes it the Marauder.

If I ever decide "okay, let's make a doubleneck," and then actually go through with it, I think I'm gonna take some design cues from all of these. I'll probably also chamber it so it's not uncomfortable to play for long periods of time, and just hide the chambering under the pickguards because that's a thing that could work.

Now, the other plausible idea.

Resonator Acoustic (kit build):

You know how I said kit builds were out of the question? Yeah, I didn't believe me either.

Resonators are a really cool relic of the pre-amplification era. Like, they're the step between electric guitars with magnetic pickups, and the acoustic guitars we all know, minus the piezoelectric undersaddle pickup. They work by passing the strings over a bridge mounted to a resonator cone, and when a string is plucked, strummed or otherwise makes a sound, the cone takes the vibrations and amplifies them entirely acoustically. They were originally made by a couple companies before Rickenbacker came along and invented the horseshoe pcikup and, by extension, the electric guitar.

Those companies were National String Instrument Corporation, and Dobro Manufacturing Company. The former was founded in 1927 by George Beauchamp (anyone who knows the history of Rickenbacker will know that name), and John Dopyera, a Slovak immigrant who came to America with his brothers and father in 1908, sensing that war would soon break out in Europe.

Smart move, fellas!

Anyway, Dopyera and his brothers, Rudy and Emil, soon left National to form their own comapny, Dobro. Dobro is a name with double meaning, in this case - while it's an abbreviation of Dopyera Brothers, it's also the word for "good" in a lot of Slavic languages, leading to the slogan "Dobro means good in any language!"

Due to Beauchamp's work with Rickenbacker, though, resonators fell off the radar in terms of popularity. After all, they'd figured out a form of amplification that didn't use lots of metal, so resonators ended up failing as a product. Or at least, they did for a while. Nowadays, you can find many brands producing resonators, usually for the specific tone resonators provide: rich and metallic. They're seen nowadays as bluegrass and country music instruments, but you can see people like Mark Knopfler using them for songs as well.

Now, this isn't referring to a specific kit build. I found one that's kinda an ES-style thing, with 21 frets, so that's probably the one I'd go for, not least because I like upper fret access, but it's all dependent on if I still want to build a resonator acoustic after the current build, or if I'd want to do something else entirely. It's an odd thing, my mind.

So, what now? The completed section? Eh, not exactly.

I would do a small piece on the Fretless and the Cherry XII each, I really would - God alone knows I love rambling about these builds enough, this post is testament to that on its own - but I don't need to. I made a full post about the creation of the Fretless, and made multiple posts in the course of building the Cherry XII, starting back in January and leading up to June.

But other than that? That's all there is to this post. There's nothing more I can really do in terms of explaining my ideas. I may have more ideas in between now and whenever I revisit this concept, I may reshuffle things, shelve one idea or can another. But as for everything else? It's in flux, constantly uncertain unitl we reach and observe it. I can't really say what I'll want to build after the Crusader, because I haven't finished the Crusader. Hell, I've barely started it.

Hope you enjoyed reading this. If something needs explaining further for one reason or another, tell me, and I'll try and explain it to the best of my ability.

#guitar building #lutherie #fender guitars #rickenbacker #gibson guitars #takosader's ramblings - this time into the double digits!!!#holy shit we did it #10th in the series baybeeeeeeee #anyway there's swearing in here...#somewhere i think #too many things to put in the tags so i'll hit the highlights and do the small postscripts #one - yes i'm aware that the chokes in a varitone system are capacitors and inductors #the issue's not the construction it's the values and the tones; what's the point in making a varitone if it doesn't function like it should #two - i know trogly's crest is a different variation on a normal crest #i watched his video while writing that section and clocked it because of the full hbs and the longer neck #otherwise it's exactly the same as the late '60s crest #three - if some of these feel like they came out of left field it's likely because they did #a lot of the ideas were listed on day 1 of writing this but others got added while i was writing mainly because i wanted this to be complet #comprehensiveness was another aim. yeah - as if i'll ever wring comprehensive and understandable documentation out of my head #wow this is a long post #wasn't expecting the tags to be so big either #guitar #hofner doesn't have a tag on here #but i'll put it down here for completeness

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kirstielol · 8 months ago

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this is where peach sleeps every day lol, hanging from the mist king nozzle

#crested gecko #crestie #parthenogenesis #reptiblr #peach #mygeckos #myreptiles #by the end of the day she's usually dangling by like 1 foot.. she passes out and slowly slides off lmao

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hexhomos · 6 months ago

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isnt it wild how jayce is the most heavily misunderstood arcane character..everytime i see takes about him being upper-class and rich or mean and condescending or not caring about viktor in s1 or whatever other garbage ppl say about him i lose a year of my life

It's crazy to me that I've been saying jayce is working class for years and this got confirmed in the draft 1 board for arcane christian linke posted on twitter sometime ago lol

house Talis is a MINOR HOUSE of toolmakers whose most prominent contribution is the 'collapsible pocket wrench'. They're literally blacksmiths. This is a service and labor position. Jayce can't even afford to use gold in his inventions in act1 because he relies on the Kiramman money for everything. This is not the life of a rich guy in Piltover this is middle class at best lol his drive to finish up hextech and succeed academically is him trying to build a better life for himself!

Blacksmithing is historically a very intensive work position. The work wears you down & eventually disables you very early in life (jayce's injury in act3 seems to be a metaphorical speedrun of that, in some ways) we're never told how jayce's dad died but it is very fair to imagine it was a work related. he's fucking aware of this, its true In Real Life and it brings such an interesting context to his interactions with Viktor and how they want to create things that help common laborers and make the work better if it wasn't for the council. (in s1 act2 their progress day showcase to heimerdinger BEGINS with jayce complaining that they've been stuck fulfilling the council's demands these past 10 years and now, finally, *finally* it's their time to decide what to do with hextech. and they're not even allowed that.)

Also, the perfected hexgems in s1 are kept in Kiramman-crest boxes. I noticed this just the other day. JAYCE AND VIKTOR DON'T OWN SHITTTTTTTTTTT they're getting exploited big time while all that 'investor' money is charged back with deep dividends

just like real life academics they probably spent most of their life writing up grant proposals like dogs and begging for funding that will wring them dry later on. Where the hell is all my jayce and viktor class solidarity 'getting drunk off their mugs and complaining about their dipshit bosses' content?

[related post]

MARCH 2025 UPDATE: just got my Arcane artbook and it directly confirms the Talis family legacy is not big industry, because those weren't even part of the world. It is only post-timeskip that we start to see ramped up production + Jayce's focus is giving magic to the common people.

#jayvik #arcane #meta tag #jayce talis #viktor arcane #jayce arcane #vikjayce #viktor lol #jayce lol #viktor league of legends #jayce league of legends #league of legends #hexposts

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 5 months ago

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Of Duty and Desire | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

Extra Long One-Shot

This is my first Ominis fic, I hope I do all you Ominis lovers proud :') The plot was heavily inspired by these (1, 2, 3) artworks by @tamayula-hl !!! (they literally create such gorgeous work, I fuckin swoon every time I see them ;.;)

Summary: After years apart, you are forced into a marriage with Ominis Gaunt, someone you once considered a close friend but who pushed you away after Sebastian's breakdown in fifth year. The rift between you has left years of unresolved tension, and on your wedding night, the two of you are forced to confront the fallout.

Words: ~15,700

Tags: Explicit Smut, Pureblood Politics, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Drama, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House

The Gaunt family estate loomed like a mausoleum under the pale light of the crescent moon. Its dark stone walls seemed to absorb the light, and the air inside carried a suffocating chill that no roaring fire could banish. Ominis sat alone in his room, the only illumination coming from a single flickering candle perched on his desk. The Gaunt family ring, heavy and ornate, turned slowly between his fingers.

Tomorrow, it would sit on your finger.

His chest tightened at the thought of the ceremony, the vows, the look he imagined you’d give him as you forced to say, I do.

He wished you still saw him the way you did all those years ago, back when you’d shared tentative smiles across the library table, before fifth year shattered everything between you. He’d thought you were remarkable then—fierce, clever, and endlessly loyal to the people you cared about. He still thought so, though the years had placed a wall between you.

A wall he had built.

His hands clenched into fists, the metal of the ring biting into his palm. He could still hear the echo of your argument, that fateful day when Sebastian’s descent into darkness had reached its breaking point. You had wanted to help him, to pull him back, while Ominis had been determined to stop him at any cost. The two of you had stood on opposite sides of a chasm, and in his frustration, his fear, Ominis had pushed you away.

But now? Now, you were to be his bride.

The marriage contract had been delivered two months ago, the parchment sealed with the Gaunt crest and bearing the oppressive weight of their expectations. You had no grand family name, no wealth or influence to rival the Gaunts, but you had something far more valuable: ancient magic.

Your family had no power to refuse the offer—not when the Gaunts were known for their ruthlessness. You’d been given no choice, and neither had he.

Ominis exhaled a shaky breath, setting the ring down on the desk with a soft clink.

The bitter irony was that you had been right about Sebastian all along, and Ominis had destroyed what you had years ago for nothing.

Ominis had doubted Sebastian—had believed that his obsession with dark magic would destroy everything and everyone in its path. But eventually, with time and a painful amount of humility, Sebastian had begun to heal. He had come back to them. He had proven himself capable of change, of redemption.

And you’d seen it all along.

Ominis swallowed hard, the guilt twisting his stomach. You’d begged him to give Sebastian a chance, to believe in the person he could be. But Ominis had been too blinded by his own fears to listen. His distrust had cost him Sebastian’s friendship for years. And worse, it had cost him you ever since.

He rested his head in his hands, elbows braced on the desk. The weight of it all was suffocating.

The memory of your expression when you’d arrived at the Gaunt manor two days ago lingered in his mind.

Even without the clarity of sight, he could feel the weight you carried. He’d “seen” the stiffness in your shoulders, the faint tremor in your hands as you’d clasped them in front of you, your head turning ever so slightly toward him as his parents greeted you. For a fleeting second, he’d felt your attention, a thin, aching tether between you.

But you hadn’t spoken to him. Not then, and not since.

What could he possibly say to make this better? “I’m sorry” was laughable at this point. He was sorry, of course—sorry for every cruel word spoken in the heat of fifth year, sorry for not trusting you, sorry for not preventing you from falling into the Gaunt nightmare—but no apology could undo the damage.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He straightened, smoothing his hair as if that would make any difference. “Come in,” he called, his voice steadier than he felt.

The door creaked open, and one of the Gaunt family’s house-elves stepped hesitantly into the room. “Master Ominis,” the elf began, its voice trembling, “your bride-to-be is in the garden, sir.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Why?” he asked, his throat dry.

“She—she is pacing, sir. She looks… upset.“

Ominis nodded, rising from his chair. “Thank you,” he said, though the elf was already retreating, bowing its way out of the room.

You were upset. Of course, you were. Why wouldn’t you be? Tomorrow, you were being forced to marry him and tie yourself to a family that cared only about what they could take from you. And worse, tied to him—a man who had pushed you away when you’d needed him most, who had no right to ask anything of you, least of all forgiveness.

But the thought of you pacing alone in the gardens, trapped in your own swirling emotions, was unbearable. Ominis didn’t know if he could say anything to help, but he couldn’t just sit here and do nothing.

He moved swiftly through the dark corridors, and when he reached the door to the garden, he paused, letting his wand hum faintly to map the space before him. He sensed the vast openness of the ahead, the night air cool against his skin, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and dying roses.

And there you were.

Your silhouette materialized in his mind like a shadow against the darkness. You were pacing, just as the house-elf had said, your movements quick and restless. It was a knife to Ominis’s chest, seeing the person he cared for so deeply reduced to this.

Care.

No, he thought bitterly, that wasn’t the right word. He loved you. He had loved you since before he even understood what love truly was. And that made it all so much worse.

Because you would never love him.

Ominis stood stiffly in the doorway. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too consumed by your thoughts and frantic steps that sent gravel crunching underfoot. But when he shifted his weight, the faint sound of his movement caught your attention. You stopped abruptly, your head turning toward him, your posture instantly stiffening.

“Ominis,” you said, your voice calm but sharp like the edge of a blade. “…Couldn’t sleep?”

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to answer. He recognized the tension in your tone, the way you carefully shielded yourself with polite indifference. It was the same tone you’d used with his parents when you arrived, the one where he’d sensed every ounce of resentment you’d tucked away beneath a mask of cordiality.

“No,” he said softly, stepping further into the garden. “I was told you were out here.”

“Of course,” you replied, your voice carrying a detached sort of humor. "Not allowed a moment of solitude, hm?"

Ominis flinched inwardly, his wand picking up on the subtle tremor in your hands as you folded your arms across your chest.

“I thought… perhaps you might want to talk,” he said carefully, his voice low.

“With you? No,” you replied quickly, brushing off the suggestion as though it didn’t matter. You turned your back to him. “Talking to you won’t help.”

Ominis winced but didn’t respond. The silence stretched between you, the night air growing heavier with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” he said at length, the words feeling inadequate even as they left his mouth.

You laughed, soft and humorless, as you turned back toward the fountain. “Sorry,” you echoed. “Of course. And that makes it all better, does it?”

He took a hesitant step closer, his wand pulsing faintly to track the distance between you. “I mean it,” he said. “I wish things were different.”

“Do you?” you asked, glancing at him over your shoulder. ““Because last time I checked, you’re the one who pushed me away."

Ominis froze, the accusation cutting through him like a blade. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat.

You turned fully to face him now, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Do you think I don’t remember?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of unspoken emotion. “The things you said to me? The way you looked at me, like I was… like I was the problem?”

“That’s not what I—” Ominis started, but you cut him off with a sharp laugh, one that lacked any real humor.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “Nothing either of us says now will change anything. And tomorrow, we’ll stand in front of your family and say the words they want to hear."

You turned abruptly, your footsteps crunching against the gravel as you moved past him. “Goodnight, Ominis,” you said, your tone clipped and distant as you made your way back toward the manor.

He turned slightly, his wand picking up the blur of your retreating figure as you disappeared into the cold, sterile halls of the estate. The faint trace of your magic lingered in the air, turbulent and raw, and he hated himself for not being able to ease it.

~~~

Morning came like a thief, stealing away the fragile moments of sleep Ominis had clung to in the restless hours of the night. The Gaunt manor, usually oppressive in its quiet, was unnaturally alive with activity. House-elves scurried through the halls, their frantic movements punctuated by the clinking of silver trays and hurried whispers. His parents had spared no effort to make the day grand, though their motives were far from sentimental.

Even worse, his extended family had descended like vultures, eager to witness the union that would bind your ancient magic to the Gaunt bloodline. Even Ominis’s older brother, Marvolo, had returned from his work abroad for the occasion, his mere presence enough to sour the air. Ominis had always loathed Marvolo—arrogant, cruel, and every bit the model Gaunt heir their parents had hoped for. The rest of the family wasn’t much better. Aunts, uncles, and distant cousins he resented filled the halls, their haughty laughter echoing off the cold stone walls.

Ominis moved through the chaos like a ghost, his mind as numb as his steps. He had imagined marrying you a hundred—no, a thousand—times, but never like this.

In his dreams, you loved him back. Your smiles were soft and unguarded, your laughter warm, your hand reaching for his not out of duty, but out of choice. But those dreams had always been fragile, built on a shaky foundation of what-ifs and hope he’d never dared voice aloud.

You wedding band weighed heavily in his pocket, a cruel reminder of the vows he would unwittingly force you to take. He told himself he was doing this to protect you—that he was backed into a corner with no way out. It wasn’t a lie. His parents had made their expectations clear: defy them, and Ominis would pay the price. The Gaunts had always been dangerous, even to their own blood. He’d seen it with his older cousins, the ones who had been disowned or “disappeared” for daring to cross the family.

And that didn’t even encompass what they might do to you.

The sharp knock on his door startled him. Ominis straightened instinctively, brushing a hand over his hair as if readying himself for battle.

“It’s me,” Sebastian’s voice called through the heavy wood, rough but familiar.

“Come in,” Ominis replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

The door creaked open, and Sebastian stepped inside, his expression a mix of concern and irritation. He was dressed sharply, though his tie was slightly crooked—a detail Ominis would have pointed out if he’d had the energy to notice.

“You look like hell,” Sebastian said, crossing the room and leaning against the desk.

“I feel worse,” Ominis admitted, lowering himself into the chair by the window.

Sebastian tilted his head, scrutinizing Ominis with a sharpness that felt impossible to ignore.

“…You love her, don’t you?” Sebastian asked suddenly, his voice blunt and cutting straight to the point. He had never been one to dance around difficult questions.

Ominis let out a hollow laugh, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one,” Sebastian said, standing straighter, arms crossed. “Do. You. Love. Her?”

Ominis sighed heavily, his head tilting back as though seeking answers from the cracked ceiling above. “You already know the answer to that, Sebastian,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “You’ve always known.”

“Humor me,” Sebastian pressed.

Ominis’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “Of course I love her. I’ve always loved her. Since before I even understood what that meant. And you know that. So why ask?”

Sebastian scoffed, fixing Ominis with an unrelenting stare. “Because you’re acting like this is the end of the world. You love her. And now you’re marrying her. She’s about to be your wife.”

Ominis turned his head sharply, his sightless gaze narrowing slightly. “My wife?” His voice rose, edged with frustration. “This isn’t a marriage, Sebastian. It’s a transaction. A cage.” He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the distant hum of laughter and footsteps filled the courtyard. “She doesn’t want this. And she certainly doesn’t want me.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch, his calmness almost maddening. “But you love her,” he pointed out again. “That means you can make something of this. You can try.”

Ominis let out a sharp breath, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Try what? To pretend that she doesn’t hate me?” He shook his head, his voice quieter now, but no less filled with anguish. “She does hate me, Sebastian. And why wouldn’t she?”

Sebastian frowned, his expression flickering with guilt. “You were scared. We all were. What happened back then…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t easy for any of us.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ominis snapped. “I made my choices. And now, she thinks I’m no better than my parents.” His voice cracked slightly, the weight of the words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. “She thinks I’m just like them, putting her through this. And maybe she’s right.”

“She doesn’t think that. You’re nothing like your parents,” Sebastian said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And if you’d stop wallowing in self-pity for half a second, you might see that she doesn’t actually hate you.”

Ominis scoffed, shaking his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Sebastian said, beginning to pace the room with his usual restless energy. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Ominis. She’s hurt, sure. Angry. But hate? No.”

Ominis leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “You’re imagining things,” he muttered.

“Am I?” Sebastian challenged, stopping in his tracks to face him. “You’ve spent years convincing yourself she hates you, but did you ever stop to actually talk to her about it? Or did you just decide she hated you because it was easier than dealing with the mess you made?”

The words hit their mark, and Ominis flinched. He couldn’t deny it. He had avoided you for years, too ashamed of his actions to face you properly. He had assumed the worst because it was safer than hoping for anything else.

Sebastian sighed heavily, glancing over at the ornate clock hanging on the wall. The ticking sound, once faint, now seemed to echo in the room like a countdown to inevitability. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze flicking back to Ominis.

“We’re out of time,” he said flatly. “They’re going to be expecting us downstairs.”

Ominis didn’t move at first, his hands still gripping the arms of his chair. He looked like a man on the edge of breaking, and for a moment, Sebastian considered calling the whole thing off himself. But he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. This wasn’t a fight they could win—not here, not now.

“Come on,” Sebastian urged, his voice softer. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ominis exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. He stood, his movements stiff and reluctant, his fingers brushing down the front of his suit as though trying to compose himself. His family had ensured every detail of his appearance was perfect—he looked every bit the polished Gaunt heir, the image they demanded. But inside, he felt hollow.

Sebastian gave him a faint nod, adjusting his own crooked tie. “You’ll survive this,” he said with a slight smile. “Everything will work out.”

Ominis didn’t respond, his throat too tight to form words. Instead, he followed Sebastian out of the room, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the distant hum of activity that filled the manor. Every step felt heavier than the last, the anticipation building in his chest like a storm.

The courtyard garden had been transformed into a grand display of pure-blood prestige. Rows of white chairs lined the manicured lawn, and a narrow aisle flanked by enchanted, softly glowing flowers led to an altar at the far end. Ivy climbed the stone arch that framed the altar, its dark green tendrils twisting delicately around clusters of pale blossoms.

Ominis stood at the altar, his back straight and his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his wand tucked away in his sleeve. The suit he wore was immaculate, tailored perfectly to his tall, lean frame. But even as he stood there, a picture of composure, his mind churned with unease.

Beyond him, countless guests sat in waiting—pure-bloods from every corner of their miserable society, their presence a suffocating reminder of the world he had tried—and failed—to escape.

His extended family dominated the seats closest to the altar, their self-satisfied smirks and sharp whispers grating against his already frayed nerves. The Gaunts had arrived in full force, a parade of arrogance and entitlement, each one more intolerable than the last.

Ominis’s parents sat in the front row, their expressions masks of triumph. His mother, draped in rich emerald, surveyed the scene with quiet pride, while his father sat like a statue, his posture rigid, his face a cold, unyielding mask. And then there was Marvolo, lounging casually in his seat beside them, his smirk a permanent fixture as though the entire event were for his personal amusement.

Across the aisle sat the members of your family, their expressions far less composed. Your mother’s hands were folded tightly in her lap, her face pale and drawn as she avoided meeting anyone’s gaze, eyes flicking nervously between the guests and the altar.

The contrast between them and the Gaunts couldn’t have been starker. Ominis’s family were predators, their confidence unshakable, while yours looked like cornered prey. And you… you were the sacrificial offering, the tether between their worlds.

The low hum of chatter faded as the first notes of music filled the courtyard, soft and lilting yet as heavy as a tolling bell. Ominis stiffened, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. This was it. The beginning of the end. The melody floated through the air, a cruel, elegant herald of what was to come.

He couldn’t breathe.

The sound of footsteps against the stone aisle cut through the music, and Ominis’s wand pulsed faintly in his sleeve, mapping the space before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw them—two figures approaching the altar. Anne and Sebastian. The only two friends he had managed to invite to this sham of a wedding. His parents had objected, of course, but for once, Ominis had refused to yield. If they were going to strip away every ounce of choice from this union, he would at least ensure that two people who truly cared about either of you would stand witness.

Anne walked with quiet grace beside her brother, her head held high and her movements calm, even as the weight of the moment pressed down on her. She had always been your rock, and now, she looked every bit the part.

Sebastian, meanwhile, walked with his usual subtle defiance, his jaw clenched as though he were biting back a dozen remarks that would surely have caused a scene.

As the Sallow twins joined Ominis at the altar, the music softened, a momentary pause that signaled what came next.

And then, you appeared.

The air in the courtyard seemed to shift as the music swelled once more, drawing every gaze to the entrance. Ominis’s wand hummed, and for the first time in his life, he felt as though he could truly see.

Shapes and shadows sharpened in his mind, the lines of the archway and the glow of the enchanted lanterns framing you like a painting. Your figure materialized with unprecedented clarity, every detail irreversibly etching itself into his memory.

You were breathtaking.

The soft glow of the lanterns seemed to chase after you down the aisle, casting a warm, ethereal light as you stepped forward, arm looped through your father’s. Your gown was simple yet striking, its flowing fabric a cascade of soft ivory that hugged your figure just enough to suggest elegance without excess.

Your hair was swept into an elegant updo, soft tendrils framing your face and neck, accentuating the graceful curve of your collarbone. The tasteful touch of makeup enhanced your features without overpowering them, the faint flush of color on your cheeks and lips lending you an almost otherworldly glow. You looked every bit the part of a bride—refined, poised, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Ominis’s heart twisted painfully. Despite everything, despite knowing how wrong this was, he allowed himself a single moment of cruel, fleeting hope. He imagined that this was real. That you had chosen this. That the soft shimmer of your gown, the elegance of your updo, the deliberate grace with which you moved—all of it was for him.

For a heartbeat, he believed it. That you had taken your father’s arm and walked toward him because you loved him. That your choice to stand before this crowd, to become his wife, was born of something true, not forced by the iron will of his family.

But reality was cruel.

He could feel it in the tremor of your hand as you reached the altar, in the absence of warmth in your fleeting glance as your eyes locked with his. There was no joy in your expression, no affection, only quiet resolve and resignation. You weren’t here for him. You were here because you had no other choice.

Your father released your arm hesitantly, his hand lingering for a brief moment as though reluctant to let go. His face was pale and drawn, his jaw tight as he gave you a faint nod. You stepped forward alone, taking your place across from Ominis.

He caught the slight hitch in your breath as the officiant spoke. It was subtle—so subtle that no one else would have noticed—but to him, it felt like a scream. He wanted to reach for you, to close the distance, to bridge the gap he had created all those years ago. But his hands remained at his sides, his palms clammy against the cool fabric of his trousers.

The officiant’s words droned on, his low, measured tone a blur in Ominis’s ears. He could barely hear it over the roaring in his chest, the heavy thud of his heartbeat as he focused entirely on you.

And then the moment came.

“Do you, Ominis Gaunt, take her to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The words cut through the fog in his mind like a knife. For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, his throat tightening painfully. He could feel his parents’ gaze burning into him, his father’s unyielding authority pressing down like a lead weight. The crowd’s silence was deafening, expectant, suffocating.

His lips parted, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them, heavy and hollow.

“I do.”

The officiant turned to you, repeating the same question.

“And do you take Ominis Gaunt to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Ominis held his breath, his entire body tense as he waited for your response. The pause that followed felt endless, each second stretching into an eternity. For a moment, he thought you might refuse.

But when you spoke, your voice was quiet and steady, though devoid of any joy.

“I do.”

The words hung in the air, final and irreversible. The officiant’s voice rose again, completing the ritual with the formal pronouncement that sealed your fates.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Gaunt, you may now kiss your bride.”

Ominis froze.

How had he forgotten about this part? He’d imagined this twisted mockery of a wedding day a thousand times, and yet this moment—the one he had once dreamed of with such hope—had slipped through the cracks of his planning. The girl of his dreams was standing right there, so close he could feel the warmth of you, and now he was meant to kiss you.

His hands twitched at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as he forced himself to move. The crowd was watching, their silence heavy with expectation. His parents’ satisfaction was palpable, his extended family practically giddy at the spectacle. But all Ominis could focus on was you—the tension radiating from your frame, the subtle way your shoulders stiffened as you waited.

He stepped closer, his wand mapping the space between you. His hand hovered near your waist, uncertain, before finally settling there lightly. He could feel the delicate fabric of your gown beneath his palm, the warmth of your body through the material.

Ominis leaned in slowly, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain you could hear it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not like this, not with the weight of obligation hanging between you like a curse.

With his eyes fluttering closed, his lips brushed yours in the faintest, most hesitant of kisses. As he expected, you were still—frozen, unmoving, your lips soft but lifeless against his. The kiss was chaste, obligatory, and for a moment, it felt like a dagger to his heart.

And then something expected happened.

You kissed him back.

Ominis’s mind went blank, his senses overwhelmed. It was subtle at first—a gentle press, a shift in the way your lips moved against his. But then it deepened, and the world seemed to explode around him. Fireworks erupted in his mind, a kaleidoscope of sensation, your warmth spreading through him like wildfire.

The taste of your lips, soft and slightly sweet, was unlike anything he had ever known. It was perfect. You were perfect. In that moment, everything else faded away—the oppressive weight of the crowd’s gaze, the suffocating expectations of his family, the years of distance and resentment between you.

His hands tightened instinctively at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, and he revelled in the curve of you beneath his fingers. It was everything, you were everything, he had ever dreamed of and infinitely more.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

You pulled away slowly, your movements deliberate, as though reminding both of you that the moment had passed. Ominis’s hands lingered at your waist for a fraction of a second before he let them drop to his sides, his fingers curling slightly as though trying to hold on to the ghost of your touch.

His breath was unsteady as he straightened, his mind reeling. You’d kissed him back.

Why?

Had it been part of the performance? A calculated move to play the part of the perfect bride? Or had it been something else entirely?

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The officiant’s voice rose again, announcing the end of the ceremony and you were slipping your hand into his. Swallowing hard, Ominis led you back down the aisle.

The crowd rose to their feet, their clapping a dull roar in his ears as he walked with you at his side. Every step felt surreal, the moment between you still crackling like static in his chest.

He didn’t dare look at you. Not now. He wasn’t sure he could handle whatever answer your expression might hold.

But as the two of you passed beneath the ivy-draped arch, stepping into the unknown future that awaited you both, Ominis couldn’t help but wonder if, just maybe, that kiss had been real after all.

~~~

The reception had been nothing short of torturous for Ominis.

If the kiss at the altar had left him confused, the evening that followed only deepened the storm in his mind. Because from the moment you both entered the grand hall where the reception was held, you played the part of the happy bride.

You’d smile at Ominis, soft and convincing, allow him to hold your hand, to rest his palm lightly against the small of your back as the two of you made the rounds, greeting the guests who had gathered to witness your union.

You spoke to guests with grace and poise, weaving stories of your Hogwarts days into the conversation with ease. Tales of late-night library study sessions, Quidditch matches, and the occasional mischievous escapade were all recounted with a fondness that left Ominis reeling.

You spoke of those moments as though they had been golden—untarnished by the years of bitterness and distance that had followed. And for the guests, it was a perfect performance, a portrait of a couple deeply in love, bound not just by obligation but by shared memories and affection.

The guests were relentless in their attention, each one more insistent than the last in prying into your lives. How you met, what your future plans as a couple might be, when you fell in love, was it love at first sight.

Ominis had been stunned at how quickly you answered the last question. You didn’t miss a beat, your lips curling into a soft, polite smile. “Oh, absolutely not,” you said, your voice light with humor. “Our first meeting was… let’s say, less than ideal.”

His stomach twisted at your words, but you pressed on, the ease in your tone disarming the nosy crowd.

“He found me in his personal study spot,” you continued, glancing briefly at Ominis with a glimmer of something in your eyes that he couldn’t quite place. “I’ll never forget how furious he was.”

There were a few chuckles from the guests, and Ominis forced himself to smile faintly, though his mind was racing. He knew exactly what you were referring to. The Undercroft. But you’d never betray that secret, not even after all he'd done to you.

You went on, your tone growing softer, more reflective. “I thought I’d made a terrible first impression. And, well, I had.” A few more chuckles rippled through the group. “But a few days later, he apologized. He didn’t have to—he could’ve just ignored me forever—but he did. And...we became friends after that. It wasn’t easy at first. We’re both… stubborn.” You laughed lightly, the sound so genuine it felt like a blade cutting through the air. “But we figured it out.”

Ominis felt like the ground beneath him was shifting. These weren’t just pretty words spun to entertain the guests or to appease his family. This memory was real. Every moment you described was real.

In fact, he probably knew these memories better than you did, because he had held onto them as tightly as a drowning man clutches a piece of driftwood. They were the only part of you he’d been allowed to keep, and now, here you were, bringing them to life as though the years of distance and pain hadn’t fractured them beyond recognition.

“The moment I realized it was more than just friendship was not long after, right before Christmas,” you continued, your gaze growing distant as though you were looking back into the past. “We’d spent the day shopping in Hogsmeade. The three of us—Ominis, Sebastian, and me.”

Ominis’s heart twisted at the mention of that day. He remembered it vividly, every detail coming to life in his mind as you spoke.

“It had started snowing that afternoon,” you continued, a soft smile curling at your lips. “We’d bought sweets at Honeydukes, browsed the shop windows, even picked up a few last-minute gifts. By the time we made it to the Three Broomsticks, we were freezing.”

The guests chuckled, and Ominis’s lips quirked into a faint smile despite himself. He could almost feel the icy wind again, the way your cheeks had flushed red from the cold.

“And then,” you said, your smile widening slightly, “Sebastian—being Sebastian—managed to spill an entire mug of butterbeer all over me. It was awful, I was absolutely soaked, sticky, and cold.”

More laughter rippled through the group, and Ominis felt a faint heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered the way you’d looked—your expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement as you tried to wring out your sleeves.

“But then,” you continued, glancing briefly at Ominis, “he gave me his coat.”

That was true. He had. Though Ominis hadn’t thought much of it at the time—he’d just wanted to make sure you were comfortable and warm. But now, hearing you speak of it, he realized maybe it had meant more than he’d ever understood.

“And not just that,” you said, your voice softening. “He left the Three Broomsticks, in the middle of the snowstorm, and went to Gladrags to buy me a clean set of clothes. He didn’t have to, but he did. And when he came back, he handed me the bag like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it wasn’t a big deal at all.”

Ominis’s throat felt tight, his hands clenching at his sides as he remembered the look on your face when he’d handed you that bag. You had been startled at first, your eyes widening as you glanced between him and the neatly wrapped parcel. Then you’d smiled—a small, genuine smile that had left him momentarily speechless.

“That was the moment,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of vulnerability that struck Ominis to his core. “The moment I realized he wasn’t just my friend. That he was… more. That I loved him.”

Your words hung in the air, a quiet confession wrapped in the guise of a story for the guests’ entertainment. Ominis could feel every gaze in the room turn toward him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet any of them. His focus was entirely on you—on the way your voice had softened, the way your smile lingered just a fraction longer than it needed to.

Were you simply using a real memory to bolster your performance? Was this a carefully chosen story to charm the crowd? Or was there a flicker of truth buried beneath the polished delivery?

The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Ominis. The guests continued to press you both with questions, and you answered them all with the same ease and grace. He played his part, too. Smiled when he needed to, laughed when it was expected, but his mind was elsewhere, racing with memories of that day in Hogsmeade so long ago, of the way you’d looked at him then, and the way you’d spoken of it now.

By the time the reception finally came to an end, Ominis was exhausted—not from the physical effort of the evening, but from the mental and emotional toll it had taken.

And now, as the two of you walked through the opulent halls of the hotel where you would be spending your first night as husband and wife, the weight of it all was beginning to crush him.

The sound of your footsteps echoed softly against the marble floors, mingling with the faint hum of distant conversation and the soft rustle of your gown. The hotel was grand, each detail designed to impress, but Ominis barely noticed any of it. His focus was entirely on you—the way you walked beside him, close but not quite touching, your silence stretching between you like a chasm.

Finally, the two of you reached the door to your suite. Ominis hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the ornate handle as he inserted the key.

Exhaling slowly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. The suite beyond was as opulent as the rest of the hotel—richly furnished, with soft, glowing light and an enormous bed draped in luxurious fabrics. A chilled bottle of champagne sat waiting on a nearby table, two crystal flutes beside it.

The two of you stepped inside, and Ominis’s chest tightened as he shut the door behind you, the finality of the moment settling over him like a weight. Here you were. Alone with him, no audience, no expectations—just the two of you and the silence that neither of you seemed to know how to break.

You moved toward the corner of the room where the house-elves had neatly arranged your bags, the contents folded with meticulous care.

Without a word, you pulled a set of pajamas and your toothbrush from the bag, your movements quick and purposeful. Without meeting his gaze, you turned on your heel and headed straight for the bathroom. The soft click of the door closing behind you echoed through the stillness of the suite, louder than it had any right to be, and Ominis exhaled slowly, releasing a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

For a moment, he stood there, motionless, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. Then, with a quiet sigh, he began to loosen his tie, the fabric slipping easily from his collar. He tugged it free and let it drop onto the nearest chair before running a hand through his hair. The day’s events replayed in his mind like a loop he couldn’t escape—your words, your smile, the warmth of your laughter, and the kiss at the altar that had left him reeling.

It was too much.

Ominis moved to the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat heavily on the edge. He toed off his shoes, one after the other, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands came up to his face, fingers pressing lightly against his temples as he tried to push the chaos in his mind into some semblance of order.

But there was no clarity to be found. Only questions he was too afraid to ask and doubts he couldn’t shake.

The sound of water running in the bathroom was faint but constant, a reminder that you were just on the other side of the door. He wondered what you were thinking, whether the evening had left you as drained as it had left him. He wondered if you’d meant the things you’d said during the reception, if there was truth hidden in the warmth of your words, or if it had all been part of the carefully orchestrated performance.

More than anything, he wondered what would happen when you came out of that bathroom—if the silence would continue to stretch between you, or if one of you would finally be brave enough to break it.

With a heavy sigh, he sat up, his movements mechanical as he made his way toward his own bag to prepare for bed. He crouched down, his fingers brushing over the neatly packed contents until he found his sleepwear.

He stood, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against his skin as he worked to unbutton it. His fingers moved methodically, one button at a time, but his mind was elsewhere—on you, still behind the closed door, and the way everything about this night felt wrong.

This wasn’t how a wedding night was supposed to feel.

It wasn’t supposed to feel so strained, so heavy. There should have been laughter, warmth, the giddy sort of nervousness that came with embarking on a new chapter together. Instead, there was unrelenting tension. A chasm of unspoken words and unanswered questions that neither of you seemed ready to bridge.

Ominis shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall to the floor behind him as he reached for the waistband of his dress pants. He unclasped them, the fabric loosening around his waist.

And then the bathroom door opened.

The quiet click of the handle made him freeze, his hands stilling as he turned his head slightly toward the sound.

You stepped out, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Without his wand, Ominis couldn’t sense the details of your expression, couldn’t see the way your eyes might have widened or the way your lips might have parted slightly in surprise. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking, how you were reacting, and it left him feeling unmoored.

The air between you felt charged, the silence stretching out like a thread pulled taut. He was acutely aware of his state—bare-chested, his dress pants undone and hanging low on his hips. He wondered what you thought of him—what you saw when you looked at him now.

He had an idea of his appearance, of course. His wand’s mapping magic had given him a sense of his own features over the years, an understanding of the angles and planes of his face, the height and shape of his frame. He had been told, more than once, that he was conventionally attractive—sharp, aristocratic features that bore the unmistakable stamp of his bloodline.

But those compliments had always left a bitter taste in his mouth. His pale skin, high cheekbones, and long, slicked-back blonde hair—all of it tied him far too clearly to the Gaunt family, to a legacy he resented with every fiber of his being. Even his tall, lithe frame, lean from years of discipline and sparring practice, seemed more like a reminder of his upbringing than something to take pride in.

And now, standing here in this charged silence, he couldn’t help but wonder what you thought when you looked at him. Did you find him attractive? Or did you see only the Gaunt heir—a pawn in the endless, suffocating game of pure-blood politics?

He had no way of knowing. And for a moment, he almost reached for his wand, desperate for the faint hum of its magic to ground him. But he resisted, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Sorry,” you murmured softly, your voice breaking the silence. It wasn’t sharp or cold—just quiet, almost tentative.

“N-no,” Ominis said quickly, his voice low and uneven. He straightened slightly, his hands falling to his sides. “I—I should be the one apologizing.”

You didn’t respond immediately, and he could hear the faint rustle of fabric as you shifted, likely clutching your wedding dress tighter against you. “I’m finished in the bathroom, if you want to change in there,” you offered, your tone polite, carefully neutral. “Or… I can just turn around, if that’s easier.”

Ominis’s fingers twitched at his sides, his throat tightening. The absurdity of the situation struck him. You were married, bound by the vows you’d exchanged earlier that day, and yet you could barely manage to exist in the same space without this unbearable awkwardness.

“No, I’ll—I’ll use the bathroom,” he said, his voice tight. “Thank you.”

His toothbrush and pajamas in hand, Ominis disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He set his things down on the counter and leaned heavily against the sink, exhaling a shaky breath.

The mirror above the sink offered no reflection, but he didn’t need to see his face to know what he’d find there—a pale, drawn expression, tension etched into every line. He let his fingers trail over the cool porcelain of the sink before reaching to splash cold water on his face, hoping it might clear his mind, if only for a moment.

He quickly changed into his sleepwear and brushed his teeth, though the routine didn’t do much to ease the tightness in his chest.

When he finally emerged, his hair slightly damp from the water he’d splashed on his face, he reached for his wand then stopped in his tracks. The bed, massive and draped in luxurious fabrics, was untouched. Instead, you had set up a makeshift bed on the floor using a collection of spare blankets and pillows.

You were kneeling beside it, smoothing out a blanket, and when you noticed him, you straightened, brushing your hands against the fabric of your pajamas.

“I thought…” you began, your voice trailing off as though you were unsure how to explain yourself. “You should take the bed.”

Ominis blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. “You… you don’t have to do that,” he said quietly, his voice laced with something that sounded almost like guilt. “The bed is yours too.”

You shook your head, the motion subtle but certain. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll be more comfortable here.”

Ominis stiffened, watching you adjust the blankets and pillows as though you could somehow make the situation less absurd. It struck him all at once just how wrong this was. It was your wedding night—a night meant for intimacy and closeness—and yet here you were, offering to sleep on the floor.

Did you hate him that much? That the idea of sharing a bed with him, even in the most innocent sense, was so unbearable?

He couldn't keep quiet.

“I’ll take the floor,” Ominis said, his voice quiet but firm. He stepped closer, his fingers tightening around his wand. “You shouldn’t have to.”

You looked up at him, startled for a moment, before shaking your head. “Ominis, it’s fine,” you said, your tone polite but insistent. “I’ll be more comfortable here. Really.”

“It’s not fine,” he replied quickly. “It’s wrong. You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor—especially not tonight.”

“It’s not wrong if I’m choosing to,” you countered, folding your arms across your chest. “The bed is yours. I don’t mind.”

Ominis’s frustration began to bubble beneath the surface, his composure slipping. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine with this,” he insisted, his tone growing sharper despite his efforts to keep it even.

“I’m not pretending,” you shot back. “I said I don’t mind, and I meant it.”

“Why?” Ominis asked, his voice rising slightly. “Why are we doing this? All this… politeness and decorum?”

Your expression shifted, your jaw tightening as you glanced away. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” Ominis said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “The careful words, the pretending that any of this is normal. Why are we bothering? Why are we talking to each other like strangers? There’s no one here to see it. No one to keep up appearances for. It’s just us.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable. “Maybe because we are strangers, Ominis. We have been for years, haven’t we?”

Ominis froze, your words striking him harder than he expected. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. You didn’t look away, your expression steady but tinged with something he couldn’t quite place—resignation, perhaps, or maybe sadness.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” you pressed, your voice quieter now but no less pointed. “After fifth year, you made it perfectly clear how you felt.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening as your words sank in. “I was trying to protect you,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “From Sebastian.”

“Don’t,” you said sharply, cutting him off. “Don’t put this on Sebastian. This isn’t about him. This is about you.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, his throat tightening as the weight of your accusation settled over him. He couldn’t argue with it—not entirely. You were right. It was his choice to push you away, though at the time he’d convinced himself it was the right thing to do.

“So no, you weren’t protecting me,” you continued sharply, your voice rising. “You were punishing me.”

He flinched as though you’d struck him, his sightless eyes widening. “Punishing you?” he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and pain. “Why would I—”

“Because you didn’t trust me,” you cut in, your voice breaking slightly. “You thought I was wrong. You thought I didn’t understand, that I wasn’t on your side. So you pushed me away and you’ve done it ever since.”

“No,” Ominis said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not—”

“Then what is it?” you demanded, taking a step closer, your anger and pain spilling out in equal measure. “Because that’s what it felt like. That’s what it’s always felt like. And now—” Your voice cracked, and you took a shaky breath before continuing. “And now, you’re stuck with me.” You lifted your left hand, the Gaunt family ring reflecting the lamplight. “And trust me, I know this isn’t what you want.”

Ominis froze, the weight of your words taking a moment to settle. And then, he almost laughed. The absurdity of the idea that he wouldn’t want you—you of all people—was almost too much to bear.

He’d imagined it—dreamed of it, hoped for it in the quiet, unguarded moments of his life. For years, he had spent his nights picturing you by his side, your hand in his, your voice soft and full of laughter as you spoke his name. He had clung to the idea of a future with you like a lifeline, even though, due to his own stupidity, it was impossible.

“If anyone doesn’t want this,” Ominis said finally, his voice trembling as he spoke, “it’s you.”

You blinked, your expression shifting from anger to confusion. “What?”

“You’re right,” he said, his grip tightening on his wand as he forced the words out. “You’re right about everything. About what I did, about why I pushed you away.” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Even if I didn’t realize it, I did punish you.”

You stared at him, your anger softening into something more complicated, though you didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve given you every reason to hate me,” Ominis continued, his voice breaking slightly, “For what I did to you then, and for what my family has done to you now.” He gestured vaguely at the room around you, at the bands on your fingers, at everything that bound you to him against your will. “I… I know you hate me, and I accept that. I know you hate this—hate us—and I accept that too. But if you think for one second that I didn’t want this—that I didn’t want you—you’re wrong.”

You rose slowly from where you’d been kneeling, your movements deliberate, your frame tense. Your arms hung loosely at your sides, and your gaze settled on him, unreadable. Ominis didn’t move, didn’t speak. The silence between you stretched taut, heavy and unbearable, his breath shallow as he waited, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest.

Then, finally, you spoke, your voice quiet, almost hesitant. “So… you... don’t hate me?”

“No,” he said immediately, the word escaping before you’d even finished. “Never.”

You blinked at him, as though startled by his vehemence. For a moment, he thought that would be the end of it—that you would leave it at that. But then you took a step closer, your voice trembling slightly as you asked, “Then why did you…?”

You trailed off, but he knew exactly what you meant. Why did you push me away for years?

“Because I’m an idiot,” Ominis said, the words escaping him sharper than he intended. His voice cracked slightly as he exhaled shakily, lowering his head in a mixture of frustration and shame. “Because I let fear and pride cloud my judgment. And Merlin, it’s the biggest regret of my life.”

Ominis's throat tightened painfully, the words he’d held back for years clawing their way up to the surface. They pressed against his chest, demanding release, and for once, he didn’t push them down. What was the point? You were already married, bound by vows neither of you could escape—trapped in this twisted arrangement orchestrated by his family. There was no undoing it, no going back.

“Because... because I’ve always loved you,” he stammered, his voice faltering but steady enough to carry the truth. He lifted his head slightly, his sightless eyes turned toward you as though he could see the effect of his words. “Always.”

The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, and the silence that followed was unbearable. The room felt suffocatingly still, every sound amplified in the oppressive quiet. He could hear the faint rush of blood in his ears, a relentless pounding that seemed to echo his racing thoughts. Even the soft cadence of his own uneven breathing felt deafening, filling the space as though to taunt him with the vulnerability he couldn’t take back.

“I…” you began, your voice unsteady, but you trailed off again, clearly struggling to find the words. “You… loved me?”

“Love,” he corrected softly. “Present tense.”

Your breath hitched, and he could hear the faint tremor in it. “Why... why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He hesitated, his hands tightening at his sides. “Because I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid you didn’t feel the same. Afraid of what it would mean if you did. I didn’t want you getting tied up with my family—with the Gaunts. I didn’t want you dragged into… into this.”

He gestured vaguely around the room, his frustration with himself evident in the sharpness of his movements. “Not that it ended up mattering,” he added bitterly.

You were silent again, and Ominis felt the weight of your hesitation like a physical thing pressing down on his chest. He’d said too much. He’d gone too far. And now—

“I wouldn’t have cared,” you said softly.

"...Pardon?”

“I wouldn’t have cared about your family,” you said again, your voice a little steadier now. “I never cared about any of that.”

Ominis's heart twisted painfully at your words, the faint flicker of hope they ignited almost too much to bear. “You…” He stopped, his voice faltering as he tried to process what you’d said. "You didn't?"

“No. In fact, I don’t care,” you continued, your voice quieter now, almost shy. “Present tense.”

Ominis felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted, his entire world tilting on its axis as his mind scattered, his carefully constructed thoughts unraveling at the edges. Present tense.

The implications swirled in his mind, overwhelming and impossible to fully grasp. If you didn’t care—if you truly didn’t care—then what did that mean? What did it say about the way you felt about him now?

“You mean…” he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to form the question that had lodged itself in his throat. “You mean you still…”

You looked away, a faint blush coloring your cheeks as you clasped your hands in front of you. “What I mean,” you began quietly, your voice barely audible. “Is that I... I love you too.”

Ominis thought he might collapse under the weight of your words. His head swam, his legs trembling as if they could no longer hold him upright. It was too much—too good to be true.

Surely, he’d imagined it.

This had to be some cruel trick of his mind, conjured from the depths of years of longing and guilt. Perhaps he was dreaming, caught in that fragile space between sleep and waking where impossible things felt real. Any moment now, he’d wake in his cold, oppressive bed at the Gaunt manor, the warmth of your voice nothing more than a fleeting echo in the dark.

But the longer he stood there, frozen and breathless, the clearer it became that this was no dream. You were still there, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of your presence, the soft sound of your breathing in the silence.

“You…” His voice cracked, his grip on his wand tightening as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. “You love me?”

“Yes,” you said softly, unable to meet his eyes.

Ominis shook his head slightly, as though trying to shake loose the fog clouding his mind. “You… are you sure?”

“Yes, Ominis,” you said again, this time with a small, amused smile. The warmth in your voice should have soothed him, but instead, it sent his heart racing even faster.

“You’re serious. You… you lo—”

The words caught in his throat as you stepped closer, your movements soft but deliberate. The sudden proximity sent a shockwave through him, and what he was about to say dissolved on his tongue. The world narrowed until there was only you—the warmth of your presence, the faint rustle of fabric as you drew near, the soft sound of your breath mingling with his.

And then you kissed him.

The contact was gentle at first, tentative, as though testing the boundaries of a moment that neither of you could take back. But the moment his mind registered what was happening, something inside him snapped. Ominis dropped his wand, the dull thud barely registering in the haze of sensation that overtook him. His hands found your waist instinctively, trembling as they settled against you, holding you as though you might disappear if he let go.

It was everything��more than he had ever dared to imagine. The taste of you, the softness of your lips against his, the faint sigh you let out as you pressed closer. You were all he could feel, all he could think about, and the overwhelming reality of it, of you, left him breathless.

When you finally pulled away, his chest heaved, his forehead resting against yours as he struggled to find his breath.

“That story…” he murmured, his voice low and uneven. “The one you told at the reception. About Hogsmeade. Was it… was it true?”

You pulled back slightly, just enough for him to sense the shift in your posture. He couldn’t see your expression, but he could feel the heat rising from you, could hear the faint hitch in your breath.

“Yes,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with embarrassment. “It was true.”

Ominis felt his knees nearly give out at the confirmation, his grip on your waist tightening reflexively. “Merlin,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “All this time…”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as the weight of everything settled over him. The years he’d spent aching for you, the nights he’d lain awake tormenting himself with what-ifs—it all seemed so absurd now.

“You really…” He trailed off, shaking his head as though he couldn’t quite believe it. “You realized then?”

“At Hogsmeade?” you asked softly, your voice still tinged with shyness. You hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes... I did."

Ominis let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, his breath hitching as he shook his head slightly. “Because of some clothes?” he asked, the faintest trace of amusement coloring his voice. “Because I gave you my coat and bought you something dry to wear?”

"Sounds a lot less romantic when you say it like that," you mumbled, a hint of embarrassment coloring your voice. You glanced away, fidgeting slightly as though unsure how to explain yourself. “It wasn't just the clothes. I’d been falling you for some time, but I hadn’t really let myself acknowledge it. And then that day, it all just… clicked.”

His grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Clicked,” he repeated.

You swallowed hard as you cast your gaze downward. “You’ve always been… well, you, Ominis,” you began softly, your voice carrying a hesitant edge, as though you weren’t sure how much to say. “You, with your calm, your steadiness. Even when you’re angry, it’s controlled, measured, refined. It’s like you always know exactly what to do, like you were born knowing how to handle everything.”

He swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond to the quiet admiration in your voice. He’d spent so much of his life rejecting the parts of himself tied to his family’s legacy—the refinement, the composure, the quiet dignity that others associated with the Gaunt name. To hear you speak of it now, as though it were a part of him you valued, left him unsteady.

“And me?” you continued, your voice softening. “I’ve... I've never been like that. I’m messy. Emotional. I act too quickly and think too slowly. I’m… I don’t know. Chaotic, I guess.” You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, just a quiet vulnerability that made Ominis’s chest ache.

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his brow furrowing. “You’re—”

“What I’m trying to say is that you’ve always been my perfect opposite,” you continued gently, your voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “My foil. You’re steady, and quiet, and level, and I’ve always felt like… like you even me out.”

Ominis’s heart twisted painfully at your words, the depth of your confession leaving him breathless. “You don’t need evening out,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “You’re brilliant just as you are.”

You gave a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “Well... that doesn’t change how I’ve always felt around you. Like you make me better. Like I can stand still and actually think when you're near.”

He was too overwhelmed to trust his voice, too unsure of how to put everything he felt into words. So instead, Ominis reached for you, his hand settling gently at the nape of your neck. And he held you there, his thumb brushing softly against your skin, his lips pressing a tentative kiss to your forehead.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his voice quiet and raw as he asked, “Well, I’m here now. So… what are you thinking?”

You hesitated for a moment, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “I’m thinking…” You glanced toward the untouched bed before meeting his gaze again. “Maybe we can share the bed after all.”

"Is that so?" He murmured.

You nodded, your smile widening slightly. “Well, it’s a big bed. Plenty of room. And besides…” You reached for his left hand, spinning the wedding band around his finger. “You are my husband, after all.”

The words were light, teasing, but they sent a rush of warmth through Ominis that left him almost dizzy. He’d spent the entire day dreading what being your husband would mean, burdened by the weight of your resentment and his own guilt. But now, standing here with you, knowing you loved him, hearing you call him that—husband—filled him with an overwhelming, almost unbearable mixture of relief, joy, and hope.

Wordlessly, Ominis gently guided you toward the bed, his hand ghosted along your back. When you reached the edge of the mattress, he paused, his fingers brushing yours as he coaxed you to sit.

“Wait here,” he murmured softly, his voice warm and steady, though his chest was still tight with the weight of everything that had just happened.

Retrieving his wand from the floor, Ominis turned toward the small table where the champagne sat waiting, the chilled bottle glinting faintly in the soft lamplight. He reached for it with steady hands, though his heart was anything but calm. He needed the drink—something to take the edge off, to dull the sharp, almost unbearable clarity of this moment—the knowledge that you loved him, that he was about to share a bed with you not as strangers bound by duty, but as something far more significant.

Pouring the champagne into two crystal flutes, he turned back to you, carrying both glasses with a surprising steadiness for someone whose mind was in complete turmoil. Handing you one, he sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, closer than he’d dared to in years.

“To... new beginnings?” he offered softly, his voice carrying a tentative edge as he raised his glass slightly.

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze meeting his, before a small smile curved your lips. “To new beginnings,” you echoed, clinking your glass gently against his.

The crystal chime of the glasses meeting seemed to echo in the quiet room, a sound that felt impossibly delicate in the stillness between you. Ominis brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip as his mind raced, the taste of the champagne crisp and cool against the tension still thrumming in his chest.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before speaking. “You looked…” His voice caught in his throat, hoarse and unsteady, and he cleared it softly before trying again. “You looked beautiful today.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and he could sense the faint blush that rose to your cheeks. “Ominis…” you began, but he shook his head, stopping you.

“I should’ve told you earlier,” he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity. “You were… you are, the most stunning thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I mean, um. Not that I can…” He trailed off, a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “But I didn’t need to see you the way others do. I could feel it."

Your cheeks flushed faintly, and you glanced down at your own glass, swirling the champagne slightly as if to distract yourself. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft but genuine.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You have always been beautiful. And today, seeing you in that dress… it felt like I was dreaming. I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

A deep flush spread across your cheeks, the warmth creeping down your neck as his words lingered in the air. You didn’t respond right away, instead lifting your glass in a swift motion and draining the champagne in one determined gulp. Ominis raised a brow at your boldness, his expression hovering between amusement and surprise. Before he could say anything, you leaned forward, stretching across his lap to place your empty glass on the bedside table.

The unexpected contact sent a jolt through him. His entire body stiffened, his breath catching in his throat as your warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Sorry,” you murmured, glancing at him as you sat back.

“It’s… it’s fine,” he stammered, a rush of warmth crawling up his neck and settling in his cheeks. He gripped his champagne flute more tightly than necessary, the coolness of the glass a poor counterbalance to the fire you’d ignited in his veins.

“You seem… tense,” you remarked, your eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tense?” he repeated, forcing his voice to remain steady even as his grip on the flute tightened. “I’m not tense.”

“You’re holding that glass like it’s about to leap out of your hand,” you pointed out with a soft laugh, leaning in just slightly, your shoulder brushing his. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, though his voice cracked slightly on the word.

You hummed softly in response, your amusement now evident. “If you say so."

Ominis turned his sightless gaze in your direction, his throat tightening as he tried to summon a reply that wouldn’t betray the chaos now swirling inside him. But you spoke again before he could, your tone as casual as if you were discussing the weather.

“By the way,” you said with deliberate slowness, “did I ever tell you that you clean up very well?”

He froze, his pulse thundering in his ears. “I… I’m sorry?”

“You,” you said simply, your gaze flicking over him again in a way that made his skin prickle with awareness. “In your suit earlier. You looked very handsome.”

Ominis’s face burned. He gripped his glass tightly, taking another long sip to buy himself a moment to think. “Th-thank you,” he managed.

“You’re welcome,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips. You leaned back onto your hands, the bed giving under your weight. "You really are very attractive, Ominis," you added softly, the undercurrent of sincerity that making his heart ache.

You’d never complimented him like that before, never indicated whether you found him attractive or not, and the revelation was dizzying.

“Why are you—why are you saying this?” he asked, his throat tight.

“Because it’s true,” you said simply. “And because I can.”

Ominis exhaled shakily. “You’re... you're very bold."

“And you are shy,” you replied, a playful glint in your eye as you tilted your head toward him. “I told you it’s a good thing we balance each other out.”

He wasn’t sure whether to be flustered or comforted by the ease in your voice. The warmth radiating from you, the teasing lilt in your tone, and the sincerity beneath it all—it was overwhelming, intoxicating.

“You’re relentless,” he muttered.

"Because you make it so easy." You explained smoothly.

Ominis cleared his throat, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of composure. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about."

You tilted your head, eyeing him. “Oh, I think you do."

Before he could respond, you leaned forward again, reaching past him toward the small table beside the bed. But this time, your free hand rested on his thigh for balance, the contact sending heat through his veins and a gasp threatening to pass his lips.

“Let’s see…” you murmured thoughtfully, your fingers brushing against a book as you pulled it toward you. “Huh. A bible. Why do hotels always have these?”

Ominis barely heard your question, his attention consumed by the weight of your hand on his leg, the warmth of your palm seeping through the thin fabric of his pants. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he tried—and failed—to focus on anything other than the proximity of your body to his.

“I suppose it’s tradition,” he managed weakly.

“Perhaps you’re right,” you mused, flipping the book closed with an air of exaggerated disappointment. “Though you’d think they’d leave something more interesting. A mystery novel, maybe.”

You shifted slightly to flip open the pages of the book, humming thoughtfully, but your elbow caught Ominis’s arm, sending champagne spilling directly into his lap, the cool liquid soaking through the fabric and clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

“Shit!” you exclaimed, sitting up quickly, your hand flying to your mouth. “I’m so sorry. Let me—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, his voice strained as he tried to wave you off. “Really, I can—”

But you were already on your feet, grabbing a towel from the bathroom. Before he could protest further, you were kneeling in front of him on the floor.

“Let me help,” you insisted, your tone sweet but tinged with a something else that Ominis couldn’t quite place.

He stiffened further, his entire body locking up as your hand brushed dangerously close to the center of his lap.

“I-it’s fine, truly,” he stammered, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “You don’t need to—”

“Nonsense," you said lightly, shaking your head as you continued to blot the fabric. “It’s my fault.”

Ominis held in a groan, fighting to maintain even a shred of composure. Heat had already been pooling in his abdomen, a slow, insistent burn that now threatened to spiral out of control, but with your hands so dangerously close, with you kneeling before him, he felt as though his very sanity was slipping through his fingers.

His mind raced with a flood of thoughts—improper, indecent thoughts that he told himself he was far too much of a gentleman to entertain. And yet, he couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to give in, to let go of the rigid self-control that had defined so much of his life.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Y-you really don’t need to,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he shifted, trying in vain to create some distance between you. “I can handle it.”

“No, no," you murmured, your dabbing movements now turning into wiping motions. "Let me help.”

Help. The irony of the word wasn’t lost on him. If anything, your proximity, your touch, was undoing him entirely. And what was worse—what truly horrified him—was the knowledge that the evidence of his attraction would soon become blatantly, inescapably obvious.

His breath hitched as your hand brushed closer—too close—and he couldn't handle another moment.

Ominis shot to his feet so suddenly that it startled you, his wand clutched tightly in his trembling hand. The movement sent the towel slipping from your fingers as you instinctively leaned back, your wide eyes snapping up to meet his.

The image that his wand painted in his mind was delicious and utterly disastrous: you, on your knees before him, your hair slightly mussed, your lips slightly parted, and those impossibly wide eyes staring up at him.

He clenched his jaw, quickly lowering his wand, but no matter how hard he tried, the image wouldn’t leave him. It was burned into his mind, vivid and unrelenting.

Ominis opened his mouth, but his words came out as a jumble of incoherent stammers. “I—I’m sure the house elves packed… something—uh—extra pants.” His voice cracked slightly as he gestured vaguely toward the corner of the room where their bags were stacked. “I should—probably just—”

He moved to take a step, desperate to escape, but then your hands were on his thighs, stopping him mid-motion.

"Running off on me, are you?"

"I—I just thought—"

You tutted and gave him a gentle push, coaxing Ominis to sit back down on the edge of the bed. He resisted for a moment, but your persistence, combined with his legs trembling beneath him, left him with little choice. Slowly, he sank back down, his hands gripping at the sheets.

“There,” you said softly, your tone soothing yet carrying a playful undercurrent that made his pulse quicken. “That’s better.”

Better? Hardly. Ominis was certain he’d never been in a worse predicament in his life. You were now kneeling right between his legs, your hands still resting on his thighs, the heat of your palms searing through the thin fabric of his sleepwear.

He was painfully, achingly hard now, pressed uncomfortably against the fabric, and he knew—he knew—you must have noticed.

How could you not? You were so close, on your knees before him, your face dangerously near to the source of his torment. He clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists as he tried to will his body into submission, but it was no use. The evidence of his desire was blatant, inescapable.

And then, as if the situation wasn’t unbearable enough, you tilted your head slightly, feigning an expression of concern.

“You can’t be very comfortable like that,” you said softly, your voice laced with innocence. “Your pants, I mean. All damp and cold.” The corners of your mouth tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “Maybe you should just take them off.”

Ominis stiffened. He knew exactly what you were doing—knew you weren’t nearly as innocent as you were pretending to be. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to call you out. Couldn’t bring himself to break the fragile thread of tension strung taut between you. Because some part of him—some reckless, desperate part of him—wanted to see how far you were willing to push him.

“I—I think I’ll just wait until—”

You leaned in slightly, your expression soft and oh-so-kind. “Until what?”

Ominis exhaled shakily, his hands tightening into fists. “Until I’m alone.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Alone?” you repeated, tilting your head as though the concept genuinely puzzled you. “Why? It's just me... and I'm your wife now, aren't I?"

His wife.

He swallowed hard. “You… you are,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t mean what?” you interrupted, trailing your hands further up his thighs. “That you can’t be comfortable around me? That you can’t let me take care of you?”

“Take care of me,” he repeated hoarsely, the word catching in his throat as his mind spiraled. He knew exactly what you were insinuating, and it was driving him to the brink of madness.

“Isn’t that what a good wife does?” you asked softly, your voice lilting as though you were enjoying this far too much.

Ominis swallowed hard, muttering your name. “…This is a dangerous game you're playing."

Your lips curved into a sly smile, your gaze never leaving his. “Is it?”

He forced himself to take a steadying breath. “You know exactly what you’re doing.

Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew wider, teasing and entirely too confident for his fragile composure. “And what happens,” you asked, “if I keep playing?”

Your hands trailed upwards and his entire body went rigid, his fists tightening so hard that his knuckles ached.

And then you did it.

Your fingers hooked under the waistband of his pants, your touch light as you began to tug. And Ominis's composure shattered, the remainder of his control finally giving way.

He reached out, his hands catching your wrists and stilling your movements as he leaned down, his sightless gaze locked on you.

“Enough,” he said, his voice low, dangerous.

You blinked up at him, your playful smile faltering for the first time, though your eyes still held a glint of challenge. “Ominis—”

“Enough,” he repeated, his tone sharper this time. “You wanted to play a game, did you? Let me show you what it feels like to lose."

Ominis stood slowly, bringing your hands with him, guiding them back to the waistband of his pants. His breath was heavy, his voice low and rough when he spoke. “You started this,” he murmured, his tone carrying a dangerous edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “Now finish it.”

Your eyes widened, your earlier confidence faltering as you stared up at him. “Ominis, I—” you began, but he cut you off, his fingers tightening just slightly around your wrists.

“You wanted to see how far you could push me?” he muttered. “Congratulations. You found out. Now take them off."

You hesitated, your playful bravado faltering. This wasn’t the careful, reserved Ominis you were used to. This was someone raw, unguarded, and utterly unyielding.

But you had pushed him to this point, hadn’t you? Teased and taunted, knowing full well what you were doing. And now, you would face the consequences.

Your fingers trembled as they hooked under the waistband of his pants, tugging at the fabric. The damp material clung stubbornly to his skin, and the tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on, but Ominis revelled in it, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

After a moment, the damp fabric finally gave way, sliding down his hips and pooling at his ankles, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his fingers trailing along your jaw. “No teasing comments, hm? Not so bold now, are you?"

“I…” You hesitated, your breath hitching. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” he interrupted smoothly, his fingers ghosting along your skin. “Tease me? Push me? Make me want you until I could barely think straight?”

Your eyes widened, your lips parting in shock at his bluntness. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he took in your reaction.

“Because if that’s the case,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “then you failed. Now... where were you?"

He reached for your hands again, skimming them along his legs before hooking them into the fabric of his underwear. Your lips parted, a soft, unsteady exhale escaping as you gazed up at him.

“Go on,” he urged, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a shaky breath, you complied with his demand, the fabric yielding beneath your touch as you began to tug it down past his hips and over the hard length of him.

Ominis’s breath hitched, his jaw tightening as he fought to maintain his composure. His one hand found your shoulder, the other tangling in your hair as you freed him from the confines of his underwear, the cool air of the room brushing against his heated skin.

He could feel your gaze moving over him, taking in every inch of his body. He didn't need to see her to know exactly what you were looking at. He could feel her hesitation, the quickening pace of your breathing, and it stirred something deep inside him.

"Like what you see?" His voice was low and rough. It wasn't a question so much as a challenge, a dare for her to speak the truth he already knew.

There was a pause, a moment where he could feel her nerves battling with her desire. Then her voice came, soft and trembling, yet unmistakably honest. "Yes. I… Ominis, you're... fuck, you're so big.”

Her words hit him like a spark to dry kindling, igniting a fire he could barely contain. A slow, wicked smile curled his lips as his confidence swelled at the admission. He let his thumb trace the curve of your jaw, the movement gentle even as his grip on your neck tightened slightly, coaxing you closer.

Your hands trembled against his thighs, and he felt you hesitate again. That flicker of uncertainty was intoxicating, drawing out the predator in him that wanted to take his time unraveling you.

"I don't even know if I can..." you whispered,

"Oh, you can," he said, his voice a mix of promise and challenge. "And you will. Open your mouth."

Your lips parted without hesitation, your trust in him making something primal surge within his chest. Ominis let out a low, satisfied chuckle as he guided you toward him with deliberate care. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with approval.

He could feel your breath ghosting over him, the slight tremor in your shoulders betraying her nervousness. But when your lips finally made contact, wrapping around him with warmth and softness, a sharp groan tore from his throat. The wet heat of your mouth was intoxicating, your tongue brushing against the sensitive underside of him sending jolts of pleasure rippling through his core.

He groaned, his voice low and gravelly, unrestrained. "God, you feel so good... yes, just like that."

His grip in your hair tightened, controlling your movements as he adjusted the angle with a firm but gentle tug. Each movement was controlled, his hips rocking forward slightly before pulling back just enough to keep you comfortable.

A low moan escaped him as your tongue flicked against the head of his cock, every slight drag of your lips sending waves of pleasure radiating through him like fire. His head tipped back briefly, a ragged exhale slipping from his lips.

"Relax your throat," he ordered breathlessly, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. "Let me in. Let me feel you take all of me."

You responded instantly, a muffled moan escaping as you took him deeper, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through Ominis that left him teetering on the edge. His control slipped, and his hips jerked forward instinctively, driving himself further into the warmth of your mouth. The way your throat tightened around him, the way you surrendered so completely to his lead—it was undoing him, igniting a raw, primal need he couldn't restrain.

"I’m close," he breathed, his thumb brushing against your chin. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

Your kept pace, and every sensation sharpened, from the slick slide of your lips to the pressure of your tongue and the slight resistance of your throat.

Ominis's body shuddered violently when the tension coiled tight within him finally snapped, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as his hips pressed forward, forcing you to take his release. He groaned your name, his voice raw and broken, the sound laced with unrestrained pleasure as waves of his release surged through him. He felt you swallow, the rhythmic pull of your throat around him drawing out every last bit of his pleasure and leaving him utterly wrecked.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and uneven as he brushed his thumb gently against your chin, a subtle caress full of approval. “So perfect.”

His breaths came in uneven gasps as the intensity began to ebb, though the memory of your mouth on him lingered, searing itself into his mind. The slick warmth of you, your complete submission to him, was something he knew he'd spend his life chasing.

Finally, his grip loosened in your hair, and with a soft, wet pop, he pulled himself from your mouth, the absence of your warmth almost jarring. His legs trembled as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, his body still buzzing. Yet, even in his post-climactic haze, his hands remained steady, tracing the curve of your jaw with a reverence that felt entirely at odds with the raw dominance he'd displayed moments before.

“Are you alright?” he asked breathlessly, tilting your chin up to brush his thumb over your swollen lips.

Your breath was shallow, quick, and he could feel the faint tremor in your body under his hands. When you didn’t immediately answer, his brow furrowed. He withdrew his hand and reached for his wand.

The image of you that materialized made his breath catch—your breathing ragged, your cheeks flushed a deep, fiery red, your lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath, your eyes glassy.

He breathed your name, his voice tinged with worry as he cupped your face again. “I—I didn’t hurt you, did I? Please, tell me I didn’t hurt you.” His fingers brushed your hair back, searching for any sign of discomfort, his unseeing eyes filled with an almost frantic need for reassurance.

You blinked slowly, as if coming out of a haze, and the smallest of smiles tugged at your lips. Your breath hitched, and when you finally spoke, your voice was rough and shaky. “No,” you managed,“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

He let out a shaky exhale. “Are you sure you’re alright? Please tell me the truth.”

You nodded, your unsteady, watery smile sending a wave of relief coursing through Ominis, the tension in his chest easing ever so slightly. But that smile—soft, trembling, and paired with the glassiness in your eyes—made his heart falter for an entirely different reason. He had pushed you close to your limit; that much was undeniable. The sheen in your gaze spoke of intensity, perhaps even moments of overwhelming vulnerability. And yet, the faint curve of your lips said it all—you’d liked it.

You had trusted him so completely, surrendered so fully, giving yourself over to him for his pleasure, even when it stretched the boundaries of your comfort.

It was a realization that hit him hard, an almost overwhelming surge of emotion he wasn’t prepared for.

But Ominis couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it now. There was something far more important to focus on—taking care of you.

Ominis inhaled deeply, centering himself as he rose from the edge of the bed. He pulled back the covers with a smooth motion and turned back to you, his expression softening as he reached for you. “Come here,” he said gently.

Reaching down, his arms slid around you, steady and secure, as he helped you up from where you knelt on the floor. One hand pressed lightly against the small of your back, the other brushing against your arm as he guided you onto the bed.

Once you were settled, he tucked the covers around you, his hands lingering for a moment, brushing along your arm before moving to your face.

“There we are,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair away as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re alright,” he assured, though it felt as much for him as it was for you. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper, cut through the quiet. “Ominis, you can stop fussing. I’m alright.”

He froze for a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile as a soft chuckle escaped him. “You’re alright, are you?” he asked, his tone a blend of teasing and disbelief. “You can barely speak. Forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips. “I mean it,” you said, your voice still raspy. “I’m okay."

He shifted closer to the edge of the bed as he adjusted the covers once more, making sure they were snug around you. “You need water," he decided, his brow furrowing slightly.

Before you could protest, he was already moving, locating a glass and filling it at the bathroom sink. He returned swiftly, slipping one hand beneath the back of your neck to help you sit up just enough. The other hand brought the glass to your lips.

“Drink,” he murmured softly.

You sipped obediently and he smiled softly, chest rising and falling with a quiet steadiness now that he knew you were truly alright.

"You were so good," he murmured, as his fingers trailed down to your jaw, tilting your face slightly upward. "Do you have any idea how amazing you felt?"

He leaned closer, his lips finding the flushed heat of your cheek, pressing soft, lingering kisses there, each one accompanied by a murmured word of praise. “So perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his voice low and reverent. "So well behaved."

His lips trailed to your other cheek, brushing against the soft skin as he continued. “It was overwhelming in the best way possible. The way you felt, the way you took me—it was more than I could have ever imagined.”

You hummed softly, the sound a mixture of contentment and satisfaction as his lips trailed across your flushed skin. A shaky hand lifted from beneath the covers, reaching out to find his cheek, your fingers trembling slightly as you guided his lips to yours.

The kiss was a whisper, soft and delicate, barely more than a brush of your lips against his. Ominis exhaled against your mouth, his breath warm and steady, a low hum of contentment escaping him as he leaned into you. His hand slid from your jaw to the nape of your neck, cradling you as his lips moved against yours.

Your lips barely parted from his as you whispered against them, your voice still raspy but filled with quiet conviction, “I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, Ominis stilled, as though trying to convince himself they were real. Then, his breath hitched, and he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I love you, too,” he murmured in return, his voice trembling with emotion. “Merlin, I love you so much. I always have.” He paused, his unseeing eyes searching for something he couldn’t quite articulate. “After everything, after all this time… I never dared to hope we’d find each other again like this.”

You smiled faintly, your thumb stroking his cheek as you closed the small distance between you for another kiss, your lips speaking what words couldn’t.

Ominis pulled back slowly, his fingers brushing through your hair one last time before he adjusted the covers around you. He slipped into bed beside you, his movements careful, his body naturally finding yours as his arms slid around you, drawing you close. Your head nestled against his chest, your breath warm against his neck, and he felt your heartbeat, steady and sure, beneath his hand.

As he held you, Ominis let his mind wander, reflecting on everything that had brought you both to this moment. The pain, the distance, the longing—it had all been worth it for this, for you. A soft, contented sigh escaped him as he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

As he closed his eyes, his grip on you tightening slightly in an unconscious promise to never let you go again, a single thought echoed in his mind: This is where I’m meant to be. With you. Always.

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buckysleftbicep · 19 days ago

Text

beneath the crown (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader (set in medieval times)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, forbidden relationship, lots of tension, loads of pining

summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you’re a princess promised to a prince you don’t love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you’d risk everything just to be his.

word count: 2.5k

a/n: yay! chapter 1 is finally here! i genuinely hope it doesn't flop on me! thank you so, so much for reading my loves and please leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed it, i would really appreciate it! love ya and stay safe darlings!

series masterlist

The castle has never felt so cold. Tall arched ceilings echoed every whisper of conversation and footsteps, the marble floors that royalty generations before you had walked on were polished to a mirror’s shine beneath the flickering chandeliers.

Golden sconces lined the stone walls, casting pale light over the crimson tapestries and ornate banners bearing the crest of your house in silver, bold and unbending. Servants moved quietly through the corridors, heads bowed, eyes averted, as if the walls watched and guards stood stoically at every turn, their armour gleaming in the light like polished bone.

But none of it felt like home, at least not anymore. You sat stiffly in the great hall, hands clenched tightly in your lap, the silk of your gown whispering with every breath you took, you were dressed like a bride already—draped in ivory and gold, dressed to the nines, every day of your life, since you were born.

Your hair, coiled into elegant twists by your handmaidens, your throat encircled by a delicate sapphire necklace, gifted by your grandmother to you, that seemed to feel more like a shackle than a gift.

Though you were the only princess ever born to the king and queen, hailed as the light of the realm on the day you were first presented to the people of your kingdom, you never truly felt that way. You hardly saw beyond the gilded, golden bars of your palace prison, never saw what life truly had to offer besides the one you were born into. Adored, perhaps, but always constrained.

Sometimes, you envied the townspeople in their simple lives, free to choose, to love, to marry whoever they wished, to breathe without permission.

Across the length, your father, the king stood proudly beside the visiting envoy, the herald of the man she would marry. The great prince of House Hydra who had not even bothered to come himself, sending nothing but his regards.

The man who would inherit your hand, your title, your body, the man who would rule over you, the man you were expected to serve. He was chosen not for love or even friendship, but for land, allegiance and gold.

A political transaction.

That was all you had become, raised, fed and taught to become nothing but a bargaining chip, a living seal on a loyal contract. Your heart thuds with rage as you remember how swift the announcement was.

There was no warning or private conversation with your father, none of that, simply a scroll, read aloud by his majesty at the high table, his voice ringing off the walls with pride.

“The princess (y/n) (l/n) shall be wed to Prince Rumlow of House Hydra, a noble union which will ensure peace and prosperity across all kingdoms”.

Peace, prosperity, what of yours?

Completely disregarded.

You blinked slowly, swallowing hard against the tightness in your throat, your mother had said absolutely nothing, shooting you a glance that urged you to accept the decree, to do your duty as princess.

You didn’t blame her, you couldn’t, she too had wed your father under the very same circumstances. She had simply bowed her head as the court erupted in polite applause and some of the duchesses congratulating you as if being offered to some man on a platter was an occasion to be celebrated.

“Are you well, Princess?” The voice came low beside you, gravel-smooth and unmistakably his, you turned your head, already knowing who stood at your shoulder.

Sir James Barnes, Bucky, your sworn knight, your silent shadow stood just behind you, ever watchful. He was a towering figure of black leather and polished silver plate, his broad shoulders framed by the dark cloak clasped at his collar.

The hilt of his sword gleamed with deadly promise at his hip, well-worn from use, the etching of the royal sigil barely disguising the notches of war along its edge. He looked carved from steel and smoke, unyielding, stoic and impossible to ignore.

His hair was slicked back from his face, his features sharp and angular, a soldier’s face, honed by battle and shadowed by the weight of things unsaid.

A strong jaw dusted with the beginnings of a beard, cheekbones carved you suspected were carved by Aphrodite herself, high and severe, and a mouth that almost never smiled, but when it did, gods help you.

But it was Bucky’s eyes that captured you most, steel blue, clear and cold and somehow endlessly deep, they never left your face, not in four years, not since the day he was assigned your guard, plucked from the battlefields of the border wars, his name carried by whispers of brutality and brilliance.

They had said he was ruthless, relentless, a weapon barely unleashed. And yet when he looked at you, there was a softness, fire, a hunger so carefully buried, it almost felt like a secret you were never meant to witness.

Bucky had bowed before you in the great hall that day, kneeling in tarnished armour, blood of the kingdom’s enemies still drying on his gauntlets as he swore his oath before the court. He was to guard the kingdom’s most prized possession, to protect the crown’s only heir.

You remembered how his eyes had narrowed when you snapped at him for following you a tad too closely, the way he hadn’t apologised when you ordered him to leave your chambers when you were dressed in nothing but one of your sheer nightgowns, he only lowered his gaze respectfully, jaw tight and unmoved.

Overtime, however, something shifted, a grudging understanding, then a fragile trust and now, perhaps something else.

“I’m not well” you replied softly, eyes scanning the court for any nosy handmaiden, “but i’m surviving”.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gloved hands flexing at his side. “If you gave the word-”

You looked up at him sharply, “what?”

“If you told me to,” he said, voice low, so only you could hear, “I’d help you escape all of this”.

Your breath caught, he had meant it, every word. There was no jest in his tone, no playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Bucky's gaze held yours with unshakable intensity, carved from iron and shadow and in it, something deeper stirred. Not just the rigid armour of loyalty he wore so well, but a burning heat beneath it, a quiet consuming ache.

It pulsed in the space between the both of you, the kind of yearning that cannot be named, only felt, it was ancient, wild and utterly ruinous. It had stretched between the both of you for months, like a bowstring drawn too tight, trembling with restraint, begging to snap. It was the lingering glances across the room, the brush of your fingers against his that should have been accidental but never were.

You and Bucky had never crossed the line between knight and princess—not truly that is. But you had danced along its edge, toeing it in the shadows where nobody could see, a breath too close, a touch held too long, words unsaid, heavy with meaning.

All of this taut and forbidden.

“I can’t” you whispered, “you know I can’t”.

“You already do” Bucky replies.

“Not the way I want to”.

The confession crashed over you like a wave, sending your pulse skyrocketing, you turned your face forward again, willing yourself to stay still, to hide the tremble in your hands.

Not the way I want to.

You lost count of the nights you spent, laying awake, staring at your ceiling, thinking of the rough timbre of his voice, of the stolen glances you had both shared across the council chambers, his training yards and moonlit corridors.

The nights you had spent imagining pressing your lips to his, tasting the fire you saw behind those cerulean blues, that barely showed any emotion, except when it comes to you.

Too many.

Bucky was your knight, sworn by blood and steel, bound by an oath beneath the banners of war. You were the crown princess, first of your name, heir to a throne gilded in tradition and chained by countless expectations, rules.

The space between you and him was carved by laws, wide, deep and merciless, it was a chasm filled with duty, danger and the ever-looming spectre of consequence.

To betray that sacred divide meant death, not just for Bucky but for anyone who dared conspire with him, after all, the crown does not forgive disobedience. It punished treason with fire and blade, seen when your father made examples of lesser men for far smaller sins.

And Bucky was no ordinary man, he was a symbol, the battle-worn soldier pulled from blood soaked soil, knighted before a crowd of nobles. He is the kingdom’s quiet weapon.

And yet, your heart raced everytime he looked at you like that.

Not like a knight beholding his charge, but a man staring down temptation. Like he knew exactly how soft your skin would feel under his calloused hands, like he had memorised the shape of your mouth when you whispered his name in the dark.

Like he was always mere seconds away from shattering every vow he had ever sworn.

“Come” you said softly, standing, the heavy chair behind you scraping lightly against the marble, “I wish to walk the gardens”.

Bucky nodded silently, and fell in step behind you as you swept out of the hall, your chin high, posture regal, but you knew, beneath all of that, you were shaking.

The castle gardens were quiet this time of the night, cloaked in moonlight and the hum of crickets. Roses bloomed in wild tangles along the stone pathways, their scent thick in the cool air. Lanterns flickered gently in the breeze, casting golden shadows over the hedges and statues.

You walked until you were far from the windows, far from the eyes of the court. Bucky followed without question, ever the silent sentinel. When you finally stopped, it was beneath the wide, open branches of the weeping willow, the one your mother whom you recall used to read to you under it, now it had become the one place you always came when the walls of the castle felt too tight.

“Do you think I am weak?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“What?”

“For accepting this, for just bowing my head and smiling through my own damnation” you say, a bitter ache swelling in your chest, shame twisting with helpless fury as the words slipped from your lips like a confession. Your voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the weight of a thousand silenced protests, all the defiance you had swallowed in the name of duty.

Bucky stepped closer, like a storm barely held at bay, broad shoulders tense, his cerulean irises burning with a fury reserved only for those he could not protect. “You aren’t, there is no weakness in survival Princess, there is no shame in doing what you must”.

“I feel like I am being sold,” you said, breath catching, “packaged like meat to some man who I have never met”.

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You’re not his. You’re not anyone’s.”

But mine, he almost said. The words burned on his tongue, scorching with truth, but he swallowed them down. He couldn’t risk it. Not when both your lives hung in the balance.

You stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “No,” you whispered. “But I wish I were yours.”

The words escaped your lips before you could even stop them, your heart pounded like a drum against your ribs, defying reason, downing out duty. Bucky’s chest hitched, chest rising as if he had been struck, the raw hunger in his eyes, sharpening, no longer hidden, no longer restrained.

“You don’t mean that,” Bucky replied tightly, his voice strained, torn between hope and torment, almost as if your words had cracked something open in him that he had fought too long to bury.

“I do” you whispered, “I’ve meant it for months James”. you replied softly, his name lingering on your lips.

Bucky’s hand rose, hesitated in the air, then slow and gentle, he touched your face, callused fingers grazing your cheek. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone with aching tenderness, as though you were something sacred he would only ever dare to worship from afar. The fire in his eyes flickered with conflict, a desire that warred with discipline and love for you that was tempered by fear.

“I’ve known it since the night you carried me from the fire in the east wing, since you bled for me, since you stayed by my side”. you said, leaning in, your lips just a breath from Bucky’s.

His breath shook, “if I kiss you, I won’t stop”,

Your eyes searched his, “then don’t”.

His lips crashed against yours, all hunger and desperate, breathless need, it was far from gentle, it wasn’t careful, it was the unraveling of restraint, the collapse of every unspoken word between them.

His hands framed your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks, you could feel the cold press of his armour against your chest but it did nothing to dull the searing heat radiating from his body—from his mouth, his touch, the way he kissed you, like he had been starved. The raw ache behind every movement sang through your body, full of all the things you and Bucky were never allowed to utter.

But before the kiss could deepen, the sound of footsteps echoed across the path. “Your Highness?”

You and Bucky broke apart instantly, breath heaving, eyes wide.

Your handmaiden, Yelena, rounded the hedge, “The King requests your presence in the throne room immediately Princess”.

You straightened, your heart thudding, face burning. “Very well, thank you Yelena”.

“I am sorry Princess, I know this alliance is not what you wish for” she replied softly, her gaze moving towards Bucky, she knew, she always knew of your feelings for your knight. You offered her a tight smile, the ache behind your ribs sharpening, “nor is it what I would choose,” you murmured, eyes flickering towards Bucky just once, your voice low but steady, “but I was never offered choices was I?”

Yelena’s expression softened with quiet understanding, but she said nothing more, she didn’t need to.

Bucky’s gaze changed, it was something darker, protective, possessive.

“Whatever it is, you won’t face it alone” he says.

You nod, turn and walk with him at your side, your fingers still tingling from his touch.

The throne room was filled with lords and ladies, their fine jewels glittering under the light, your father stood before them, hands raised for silence.

“The date is set” he announced, voice booming across the chamber, “my precious daughter, the crown princess shall be wed to Prince Rumlow in three weeks time, all preparations shall begin at once”.

A round of applause filled the hall and your stomach dropped like a stone.

You turned just enough to catch Bucky’s expression where he stood in the shadow of a column, his jaw was locked, his cerulean eyes were dark, like storm clouds threatening rain. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, as if he was restraining himself from crossing the space between them. There was a storm brewing behind those eyes, not just fury, but anguish.

He looked like a man ready to go to war.

a/n: and that's chapter 1! gosh i hope you loved it, please leave a comment or reblog this if you did, it would mean the world to me!

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myheadhurtscutely · 2 months ago

Text

Angel, Princess (1)

Anakin Skywalker x Princess!Reader

Warnings! slight religious themes (sin, angels, heaven, etc.), small age gap, guilt about ages, power imbalances, smut to come? fem!reader

wc ` 1.7k

` When Anakin is assigned to protect a princess from a small country, his dedication to the Jedi code is in danger. This princess seems to be an angel, but as he sees it, maybe a devil, something used for temptation to tear him from his right path..

Anakin was not new to this duty. He had protected royals, officials, senators, etc. But this time, he was excited. He was assigned the duty of protecting an important heir. She was the new target of a terrorist group, trying to overtake important trade routes.

After an attempt on her life, her fearing parents called in a favor from the Jedi. Obi-wan had been familiar with the family years ago. He used to travel to the planet with Anakin to stop for food and resources on their travels. The master Jedi was quick to accept the task, sending his best pupil, Anakin.

Anakin Skywalker had known the princess but had not seen her since he was a teen, and her only at most 10. It would be one of his few first missions alone, due to its danger level being relatively low, and he was grown as well, nearing his mid-20s quickly.

The palace walls curved inwards up to the radiating sunlight cascading into the room through the roof. Anakin tried to keep his face straight, not trying to look in awe as he approached the throne of the royals, followed by a pair of their guards. Annunciating harps and other foreign instruments announced his arrival, preparing the royal family to stand tall before him.

Anakin's eyes squinted as he approached them, trying to get a glimpse before he was directly at their feet. He couldn't make out the faces until he knelt at the end of the long pale blue entryway.

"Your Highness," Anakin said, lifting himself up from his kneeling position, finally giving him the opportunity to soak up the faces of the family. The king's voice took Anakin back to meet his eyes. "Mr. Skywalker, thank you for your haste. We've been so worried lately after the attempt."

"Of course, I came as fast as I could sir." Anakin seemed to have a permanent smirk on his face, despite the serious conversation. She noticed it. The girl standing slightly below the king and queen was her. The princess. Her pale pink dress, fitted just for her, flowed from her hips like a fountain as she took in her protector's face. She didn't remember him looking like that.

Anakin was taken aback. He tried to hide it, but it was hard. He tried to avoid the girl's gaze after realizing he had stared into the supposed Angel's face too long. The queen, her mother, had been blabbering off about how she was the sole heir and how their baby was just too precious, 'how could someone do this', blah blah blah. Anakin couldn't take in any more voices until he heard hers. Does the Angel speak? Does the princess sing? He longed to hear the voice of pure beauty like the day longed for night.

Night chased after day's words, his voice seemed to keep parading around her mind as she wished for him to address her. She scolded herself for such relentless thoughts but it was useless.

The pair must've been shot by Cupid.

The next day, Ankin beat the sun before it rose, too anxious to start the day. The tie on his robes was tangled, perfecting it while he walked to her room. They had yet to speak to one another.

He knocked gently on the door, using the gold knocker on the front, engraved with the royal crest. "Princess?" his deep voice swept through the door and into her room.

The entrance opened slowly, standing there in a nightgown, was her. He tried his best not to ogle, he really did, but her silhouette was angelic. He felt as if it would've taken him ages to take in all of her features. He opted for inconspicuous glances.

Her eyes took a moment to rake up from his chest to his eyes as he blocked the outdoor light with his looming figure.

"Hello there." She gave a weak smile, her puffy eyes squinting as she adjusted to the morning light.

His knees weakened at the sound of his Angel. "Good morning princess." He spoke.

"What brings you here so early?" She questioned his presence at her door, wrapping her arms around herself as she realized the state of undress and unreadiness she was in.

"Your schedule said you enjoy a morning stroll, so I came to take you," his smugness was apparent. Normally she would find it insufferable, but he was charming, he could've been mistaken for a prince.

She threw her hands up to her chest and mouth, appalled at her own forgetfulness. "Oh my," she sighed, opening the door wider, "I'm so sorry. Please come in, I still have to get ready!" she turned to walk around, leaving him with an option, follow or stay. Anakin behaved like a stray dog. He walked with her.

"Close the door would you?" She asked as she disappeared behind a dressing divider, decorated with delicate hand-painted flowers that resembled the ones native to her planet. Anakin nervously pushed to handle to a click before letting himself fall further into her space.

The sunlight illuminated the thin linen she undressed behind. Anakin pervertedly stared. Her silhouette created fantasies for him so instantaneously. He felt awful for the little bit of shame he felt.

He cleared his throat, "I can come back later, princess." His voice gave way to hers.

"No no no! You got up early to walk me. I should've been ready. Besides my handmaidens don't wake up early enough to dress me in time." He could hear her giggle behind the screen. Anakin felt like a wolf stalking a sheep. He could so easily rip through the thin veil that protected her vulnerable form.

His nervous laugh bounced off the lavish walls around the pair. Anakin felt as if he could hear the silk slip onto her body over the sound of the chirping birds. Maybe he was hallucinating? Had he died and met heaven? Was she the temptation the Jedi had warned the man about since he was a boy? Maybe his angel was his personal hell.

"Um," He could hear her muffled struggle, "Could you zip me up?" Anakin froze. "I'm sorry you really don't have to-"

His warm hand guided itself over her smooth back. The other made its way over the blue silk and lace, to the zipper. She was quiet, the birds singing for them in harmony. Zip. "There you go, princess." She could hear the smile in his voice.

"Thank you, Mr. Skywalker." She spoke as she turned to face him. God protected him from the sin that stood before him.

"Of course, princess." He said, waving her formality off while hiding his smile, tilting his head down.

She smiled at him in response, "Ready for a stroll?" She snaked her arm into the gap between his waist and arm. To her, it was just a royal familiarity, but to him, the touch was like a burning wound on his tan skin. He could feel the heat radiating off of her, his own skin burning in response.

The pair left the quarters at a slow pace, she did more of the guiding as she knew the palace grounds better than him. He was torn between examining the area and performing his duties, not ogling at the temptation that hung on his arm. It was like setting fresh gazelle on a lion's nose and telling it not to bite. Anakin felt something beyond temptation.

“So,” she broke the clicking of their heels in the hallway with her voice. “It’s been a while.” She said in reference to their long intermission in each other's presence.

“it has, it has.” Anakin said. He pondered for a moment. “If you don’t mind,” he quickly felt like he was on the other side of a confessional booth. “Not to be forward, but you’ve grown to be beyond beautiful.”

She smiled and met his blue eyes. “You’re too sweet.” She looked back down at her feet as they entered the tall archway to the gardens. “If I may, you’re not what I remembered either.” The couple laughed. He cut his laughter short to hear the melody of her humor.

The garden stroll was nothing short of magical. He listened as she pointed out the native, and exotic, plants that were kept and tended to. She pointed out her favorites, her least favorites, her birth flower, and ones that reminded her of him. It was special. Though he listened to her ramblings, his mind was still occupied by his attraction, only now further intensified after this display of her intelligence. Anakin liked a smart girl. He also liked a witty one.

"Is this how you get rid of your suitors?" She looked at him confused, "Talk their ears off until they leave?" He laughed as she pushed into his side, trying to send him off balance. He smiled at her attempt.

"Oh, so I'm a bore?" She crossed her arms and sat on the side of the fountain. "Though you've grown handsome, you're still that petulant young boy."

He scoffed, standing in front of her. "Oh, princess, don't play the age game. I'm grown in many ways."

"Yeah?"

He didn't know why, but the way she tilted her head at him at that moment, the way the water glistened under her skin, illuminated by the morning sun, the way her hair played in harmony with the colors of the grandiose garden, he was smitten, beyond smitten. He wanted her. Her in whole, his. He wanted his presence to be associated with hers, he wanted her first name to become acquainted with his last. "Yeah. Don't play dumb princess."

She remained silent, turning her head to the side, shutting them to block out the sunlight.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that." He cooed at her. "This is supposed to be a nice walk for you."

She turned back to him, opening her eyes, his figure blocking the sunlight. "Well, I don't want to waste any more of my breath boring you, Skywalker."

"Princess, please, speak to me." His voice was gruff, as he squatted down to her level.

She tried her best to hide her flushing face. "Hmph."

"You're a spoiled one, aren't you?"

"What?" She said, standing up from her spot. "Spoiled?"

He smirked, but before he could respond, trumpets sounded from the bell tower high above the castle.

"We'll continue this later, Mr. Skywalker." She stood up and made her way across the garden, wary of his watchful eye. She had to prepare for the ball.

DIVIDERS by enchanthings, v6que

a/n : i really didnt want to make this a series and wanted to keep it as a one shot, but I think that getting this out will help me write more, and give me less stress on writing the rest, bare with me, thank you!

#anakin skywalker x reader #hayden christensen #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker #hayden christensen x reader #anakin x reader #anakin x you #star wars x reader #anakin skywalker fanfic

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heliosunny · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, hope you're having a good day!

I just wanted to let you know that I've been coming to your account back and forth for the past few days. Your Mydei & Phainon fics had me looking forward for any new updates!

I also have a request if that's alright with you!

(Heavily inspired by this Royal Scandal MV: https://youtu.be/CETiMtd_6tw?si=x0iHkLunFIn3K_x7)

PrinceCharming! Phainon who found the owner of the missing glass shoe (soulmate) he's been looking for. He then (charmingly forceful) took reader to the palace and promised her a (twisted) happily ever after with him.

Thank you♡

Yandere!PrinceCharming!Phainon x fem!Reader [part 1]

The grand ballroom shimmered under the glow of golden chandeliers. Phainon lounged lazily on his ornate throne, propping his chin on his hand as he watched the celebrations with barely concealed disinterest. Though this was his coming-of-age ball. His eyes drifted across the gleaming marble floor, drawn by an unexpected stir in the otherwise composed crowd. A noble lady—darted between the guests, her gown swirling as she chased after a man. She caught him, pressing the thing he dropped back into his hand with a gentle smile before melting away into the swirl of silks and tailcoats.

Phainon straightened slightly, intrigued. "Who is that?"

"The daughter of Viscount Evern, Your Highness."

"Is that so?" He leaned back, momentarily entertained by the fleeting moment of sincerity he had just witnessed. But as quickly as his interest had piqued, it waned, and he returned to his idle watchfulness.

The night wore on, and various ladies approached him, requesting a dance. He indulged them, moving through the waltzes with practiced ease but with no real enjoyment. That was until he encountered you again.

You had slipped behind a pillar. A quick glance behind you revealed a young man searching the crowd. Later, you turned to Phainon. "Your Highness, would you grant me this dance?"

His blue eyes flickered with curiosity. "Very well." he mused, offering his hand.

As the music swelled, he guided you across the ballroom floor. He could feel the slight tension in your grip, and when he followed your line of sight, he saw the same man staring, his jaw tight with displeasure.

So that’s what this is.

Phainon smirked but said nothing. He played along, twirling you under the glittering chandeliers. The moment the music ended, you gave a polite smile, curtsied, and withdrew—returning promptly to the nobleman waiting for you at the edge of the ballroom.

Phainon watched as the man scowled, his pride wounded. He should have felt amused. Instead, something else stirred within him.

The ball eventually came to a close, and guests began filtering out into the night. You were among them, moving swiftly toward your waiting carriage. But in the rush of bodies, someone jostled you, causing one of your shoes to slip from your foot and fall to the floor. You gasped, glancing back, but the growing crowd pushed you forward, forcing you to move on without retrieving it.

Phainon descended the steps of the ballroom and found the abandoned shoe lying in the middle of the floor, its intricate design catching the light. He knelt, brushing his fingers over its delicate embroidery before picking it up.

So, fate has chosen for me after all.

Phainon wasted no time. The very next day, he sent a formal invitation to your residence—a delicate parchment with gilded edges, sealed with his personal crest. It was an invitation to a private tea party in the royal gardens.

Declining wasn’t an option. A direct invitation from the prince himself was not something a noblewoman could simply refuse without consequence. And so, you found yourself seated at an ornate table beneath the flowering canopy of the palace gardens.

You sat stiffly, fingers wrapped around your teacup, while Phainon sat across from you.

“You seem tense” he observed, swirling his tea lazily before taking a sip.

“How could I not be, Your Highness?” you replied. “It’s not every day one is invited to tea with the prince.”

“A lady such as yourself should be used to attention by now. You have quite the bold streak.”

Your grip on the teacup tightened, but you said nothing.

Phainon exhaled in feigned disappointment and, without further preamble, reached inside the ornate box beside him. From it, he withdrew something you instantly recognized—the delicate shoe you had lost.

He placed it on the table between you, “I believe this belongs to you.”

“You… kept it?”

“Of course,” he said “I see it as a sign of fate.”

Phainon leaned forward slightly, “I am not blind, you know. You danced with me only to make another man jealous.”

“But,” he continued, “as long as you’re not officially his, that means I still have a chance.”

“I would like us to be in a proper relationship.” he declared, “You intrigue me.”

You exhaled slowly, placing your teacup down. “So it’s mere interest.” you murmured, “If that’s the case, then I’ll prove to you that I am neither your soulmate nor your ideal love interest.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s see how long your interest lasts.”

“I look forward to it.”

A few days later, you arrived at another of Phainon’s arranged meetings—this time, a small lunch in the palace gardens. His tastes were refined, his meals prepared by the finest chefs, so you decided to test his patience.

“Oh, this dish looks delightful” you mused, picking up a spoonful of a carefully plated meal. Then, without hesitation, you dumped an excessive amount of salt onto it, stirring it into the sauce.

Phainon watched with mild amusement as you took a bite, pretending to savor it. You pushed your plate toward him. “Here, Your Highness, you should try some.”

To your surprise, he took a bite without hesitation. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and then simply smiled.

“Delicious.” he said. “Would you like some of mine?”

You barely kept your composure as he slid his plate toward you.

During one of the palace gatherings, you decided to take things a step further. If ruining his meals wouldn’t make him reconsider, perhaps public embarrassment would.

With a carefully crafted plan, you arranged for a court poet to compose a rather… excessive love poem about Phainon. And you, of course, were the one to dramatically read it in front of a small group of nobles.

You stood tall, clearing your throat. “Ahem. ‘O Prince Phainon, whose eyes glisten like a moonlit lake—’”

A few nobles barely concealed their chuckles. You could already imagine Phainon squirming in discomfort, but when you glanced at him, he looked… entertained.

You continued, pushing through exaggerated metaphors of his ‘lips like the sweetest wine’ and ‘a gaze that could melt the hardest ice.’ By the time you finished, you were certain he would be seething.

Instead, he clapped.

“Lovely,” he praised, “Shall I commission the poet to write a reply?”

During another of your forced outings, you carried out your next plan. You pretended to trip right as you carried a full cup of tea, aiming to spill it all over him.

Just as you fell forward, Phainon caught you effortlessly. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other plucking the cup from your hand. Not a single drop spilled.

“Careful now. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

You wanted to scream.

You were running out of ideas. No matter what you did, Phainon only seemed more amused, as if he enjoyed your antics rather than found them bothersome.

And then you saw him.

Your heart skipped a beat. Elias.

A knight in service to the royal family, his mere presence was enough to make your carefully built act falter. He was walking along one of the palace corridors, and you felt a rush of determination. If you couldn’t shake Phainon off, maybe Elias could remind you of your original goal.

You took a deep breath, readying yourself to approach him—only for a voice to suddenly whisper in your ear.

“Going somewhere?”

You jumped so hard you nearly stumbled. Whipping around, you found Phainon standing right there.

“Y-Your Highness?”

He followed your gaze, and his smirk only deepened when he saw Elias. “Ah. I see.”

And just like that, the three of you were now standing in an awkward triangle, with you frozen between the man you wanted to talk to and the man who refused to leave your side.

Elias raised an eyebrow. “Is something the matter, Your Highness?”

Phainon, still looking far too pleased with himself, simply placed a hand on your back and guided you forward. “We were just about to leave.”

---

The palace gardens were peaceful that afternoon, a light breeze rustling through the apple trees as you reached up to pluck one of the ripened fruits. You had come alone, wanting nothing more than a quiet moment to yourself.

Just as you wrapped your fingers around an apple, a flash of color caught your eye. A bird—its feathers a striking shade of sapphire—perched on a nearby branch, its head tilted as if studying you. It was beautiful, and for a moment, you simply admired it.

Then, the sharp whistle of something slicing through the air shattered the tranquility.

An arrow.

You barely registered the danger before it struck. Not you, but the bird.

The creature let out a strangled cry before collapsing, its wings twitching weakly as it fell. In your shock, your foot slipped against the uneven earth, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled backward.

Pain flared through your leg as you hit the ground. You gasped, grasping at the dirt as you tried to steady yourself, but the pain was unbearable.

And then a shadow loomed over you. It was Phainon.

His eyes were scanning the area as he knelt beside you. He had arrived late enough to miss the attack, late enough that the assassin had already fled.

“You should’ve been more careful.”

You scowled through the pain. “I didn’t exactly plan to fall, Your Highness.”

Phainon ignored your irritation. Instead, he lifted you into his arms. You stiffened at the sudden closeness.

As he carried you back inside, you caught sight of him glancing at the ground—his sharp gaze noting something in the dirt. You couldn’t tell what it was, but whatever it was, Phainon had found a trail.

Later, in your chambers, you sat stiffly as a palace physician carefully bandaged your leg. Phainon sat nearby.

When the physician finally left, Phainon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Life as a royal is dangerous.”

You clenched your jaw, still recalling the sound of the arrow slicing through the air. “…True.”

As if reading your thoughts, Phainon leaned closer. “Now that you’re an important figure” he murmured, “they’ll aim for you, too.”

The news spread like wildfire. The precious daughter of Viscount Evern had narrowly escaped an assassination attempt. Your parents, sick with worry, demanded to see you immediately. Even as Phainon promised to find the culprit behind this attack, you couldn’t ignore the weight of his words from earlier—they’ll aim for you.

With your broken leg, you could barely move on your own. Your closest maid was assigned to stay by your side at all times. You despised the helplessness, but even more than that—you despised him.

Phainon had ensured that you were under heavy surveillance. His knights patrolled the halls near your quarters, and you could feel unseen eyes watching your every move.

A few days later, while sitting outside for some fresh air, you saw Elias. Whether it was fate or misfortune, this time he actually approached you.

“Why are you always with him?”

“Him?”

“You know who I mean.” He cast a glance toward the palace. “The prince. What exactly is your relationship? After that night, did he do anything?”

“You shouldn’t get too involved with him.” he warned. “He’s not someone you can trust.”

A flicker of hope bloomed in your chest—was Elias worried about you?

Unfortunately, before you could respond, a voice interrupted.

“Ah, how interesting.”

You stiffened as he stepped into view, the ever-present smirk playing on his lips. He took his time, drawing out the moment, before finally pulling something from his coat.

An arrow.

Your breath caught in your throat as he held it up between two fingers, twirling it.

“I was planning to save this for later, but now seems like a good time,” he mused. “Do you know how lucky you are?”

“The head of this arrow,” he continued, rolling the shaft in his fingers, “was coated in poison. If it had grazed you, even slightly…” He trailed off, letting the implication sink in. “And that’s why, you should keep my men near you.”

Days passed, and slowly, you regained your ability to walk.

It didn’t matter how busy his schedule should have been as a prince; no matter where you went, what excuse you tried to make, he was always there.

One night, as you sat by the window, staring out at the moonlit gardens, you indulged in a small fantasy—what if you escaped? Not that you were planning to.

BAM!

Your door swung open without warning.

Phainon strode in, completely unfazed by the fact that this was your room and that he had no right to barge in like that. He didn’t say a word—just casually made his way to your bed and sat down.

Then, he looked at you. And patted the spot beside him.

You wanted to throw something at his face. Instead, with a deep sigh (and a grumbled damn him under your breath), you weakly made your way over.

He laid his head on your lap. “Can you sing?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Not good, but… I can.”

“Sing me a lullaby”

“That’s… random.”

He closed his eyes.

You should have refused. But something about the way he looked made you hesitate. And so, despite yourself, you began to hum a melody.

Phainon didn’t move. His breathing slowed. And soon enough, he was asleep.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #phainon hsr #phainon honkai star rail #phainon x reader #hsr phainon #phainon

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fishsfailureson · 1 year ago

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"What is to come"

(image id is both in the alt text and below the read more- I put it under one because it's incredibly long)

And so there we have it, the 200+ followers artpiece that I have been working on for several days, if I had to guess I'd say it took 25 or so hours over eleven days. Honestly it's so surreal to me that I'm here with over 200 followers (260 as of typing this- yes, I procrastinated on this), especially when I only hit 100 followers in February. It's genuinely really nice to know that people are actually interested in my art (before anyone brings up spam bots- I know there are a few of them amongst my followers but I've checked most of them and I am 100% confident that over 200 of them are real). I don't really have much else to say really- I'm just grateful to have the support. Thanks y'all :).

[Image id: a large, lineless digital drawing of several dinosaurs. It is nighttime. At the bottom of the piece, a lone Eoraptor lunensis is walking across the floodplains- both the ground and the Eoraptor are just silhouettes, the early dinosaur has been given protofeathers. The full moon is shining, it's size is exaggerated for artistic affect. Behind the moon, the heads of sixteen different dinosaurs can be seen (listed left to right, bottom to top) Row 1- Thecodontosaurus antiquus (small sauropodomorph with light brown protofeathers, near-white undersides, straight stripes that are moderately darker than the base colour and vibrant green eyes), Coelophysis bauri (small early theropod with a long and narrow skull, its protofeathers are golden and black. A soft orange stripe runs across the back of its head, it has warm brown eyes. Row 2- Plateosaurus trossingensis (long-necked sauropodomorph, it has reddish-brown scales, light undersides, triangular stripes running down it's spine that get bigger the further down they get and pale yellow eyes), Heterodontosaurus tuckii (small ornithopod with a hooked grey beak. It has spiky green feathers, a lighter chest and a darker stripe running along its head and back, there are three small spots on its face, two behind the eye and one infront of it, it's eyes are bright yellow). Row 3- Megalosaurus bucklandii (medium-sized theropod with warm brown feathers, lighter undersides, dark spots and bright yellow eyes, there are several scars on its face), Brachiosaurus altithorax (greenish-grey true sauropod with lighter undersides, a dark pink patch on its throat, dark desaturated brown eyes and a few small scars on its neck), Archaeopteryx (early toothed bird with a black head, white neck and bright yellow eyes). Row 4- Hylaeosaurus armatus (pale brown ankylosaur with lighter undersides and vibrant green eyes), Velociraptor mongoliensis (dromaeosaur with light brown feathers, a lighter chest, a black stripe near its eye and light green eyes), Sinosauropteryx prima (small compsognathid theropod with ginger protofeathers, an off white mask and undersides and pale yellow eyes), Iguanodon bernissartensis (large greenish-grey ornithopod with a slightly darker back, pale undersides, a grey beak, and yellow eyes). Row 5- Matuku otagoense (heron with medium grey feathers and a small crest. A red stripe runs from just behind its nostrils to about a third of the way down its neck. Its undersides are white, its beak is grey and its eyes are brown), Triceratops prorsus (three-horned ceratopsian with grey-brown scales, lighter undersides, two triangular stripes between it's brow and nasal horns, reddish-orange diamond-like stripes on its frill, a hooked grey beak and golden eyes. Its brow horns curve forward at the base. Row 6- North Island brown kiwi (plump brown bird with a long pale beak, whiskers and black eyes, its nostrils are at the tip of its bill, and unlike the other dinosaurs in the sky part of its body below the neck is visible), male house sparrow (small redish-brown and grey bird with a black bib below it's bill), it has brown eyes and a dark grey bill. Row 7- rock dove (grey bird with iridescent green feathers scattered across its neck, a dark grey beak, and warm brown eyes). end id]

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theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago

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MATCH MADE IN HELL PT1 | MV1

an: i am slowly finally finishing off all my requests and this was one of them, i had so much fun and my dear friend loved reading this so i hope i did justice to the request. anyway max hmu x

wc: 2.2k

part two | part three

THE CHAMPAGNE WAS STILL STICKY when she found out.

She had spent the past hour celebrating—laughing, grinning until her cheeks ached, drinking in the sight of thousands of fans chanting her name. World Champion. The first female Formula 1 World Champion. The words tasted sweeter than the bubbly that had been poured over her head on the podium.

And then it all shattered.

She hadn’t even been looking for it. Her phone had been left abandoned in the motorhome while she basked in the euphoria of her win. It was only when she returned, still buzzing from the adrenaline, that she saw the messages. A handful of texts from a friend, a link, and a simple message that made her stomach turn cold.

I’m so sorry. You deserve better.

Curious, still lightheaded with joy, she clicked the link.

And there it was. Photos. A grainy shot of Nathan at a club in Monaco three months ago, another in Dubai during the summer break, then one just last week in Austin. Always with the same woman. A brunette with legs for days and a familiar smirk. Someone from the team, if she wasn’t mistaken.

Her throat closed up, fingers trembling as she scrolled, every image a knife to the gut. It wasn’t just a drunken mistake. It was calculated. Repeated. Lied about.

Nathan fucking Donovan. Her teammate. Her fiancé. The man she had trusted with her heart, her career, her future.

The sound of the paddock outside was muffled, drowned out by the rushing in her ears as she dropped her phone. For years, she had turned down every offer from Red Bull. They had been calling since her first podium, since her first win. They had wanted her, but she had always said no. Because of Nathan. Because she had wanted to win with him. Because they were a team, a partnership, a power couple.

She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

She had been a fool.

By the time she lifted her head, the decision was made. She wiped her damp hands on her race suit and reached for her phone. The Mercedes crest on her chest suddenly felt suffocating, like a brand that no longer belonged to her.

Her fingers moved with a steadiness that surprised her as she typed out a message to her agent.

Call Red Bull. I’m ready to talk.

That was six months ago.

Now, she had her foot down on full throttle, fighting her teammate.

The roar of the Red Bull RB20’s engine vibrated through her bones as she flicked the car into the corner, tyres screaming as they clung to the edge of grip. Ahead of her, her teammate—Max Verstappen, two-time world champion and an arrogant bastard on his best days—held position, defending like his life depended on it.

It had been like this all season. A relentless, brutal fight for the title. They had the fastest car on the grid, Red Bull’s latest engineering marvel, but they weren’t teammates in any real sense of the word. No teamwork. No cooperation. Just war.

And she was winning.

Six months ago, she'd walked out of Mercedes with her head held high, ringless finger curled into a fist. The world had lost its mind. The media had spun its stories, her ex-fiancé—Nathan Donovan, lying, cheating, spineless piece of shit—had played the heartbroken victim, and the fans had taken sides. But she hadn’t cared then, and she didn’t care now.

Let them talk.

She’d spent years at Mercedes, loyal to a fault, standing by Nathan’s side because she’d thought they were a team, on and off the track. And he’d thrown it away. Lied to her face. Made a fool of her.

So, she’d made sure to humiliate him in return.

Signing with Red Bull had been the first strike. The second had been selling the place they lived in, after all it was in her name - not her problem that he had nowhere to live for two months.

Now, the third was coming—because with two races left in the season, she was leading the championship. And Nathan? A non-factor.

The thought made her press harder on the throttle. The car twitched under her, skimming the edge of disaster, but she held it steady. She was close. A tenth behind Verstappen, closing fast.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” her race engineer crackled through the radio.

She smirked.

Too late.

The gap was nothing now. Less than a tenth.

She was right on Max’s gearbox, weaving slightly in his mirrors, making sure he knew she was there. The car felt alive beneath her, the Red Bull’s aerodynamics biting into the tarmac, begging to be unleashed.

Final lap. Final sector.

Max was still defending, but she could see the cracks. He was too focused on keeping her behind, positioning his car to block, reacting rather than attacking. And that was his mistake.

She took the wider line into the penultimate corner, knowing he’d cover the inside. Then, in a move that was either genius or madness, she lifted off ever so slightly, making him think he’d done enough—before throwing everything into the exit.

Tyres screamed, her car twitched—then hooked. She got the drive she needed, rocketing past him just before the final turn.

Too late for him to do anything.

The chequered flag waved. She crossed the line first.

“YES!” Her own voice rang through the radio, pure adrenaline and triumph. “Fucking get in!”

Her engineer was shouting in her ear, the Red Bull garage was on their feet, and somewhere, she knew, Nathan was watching. Watching as she won. Watching as she proved, once again, that she was better than him.

The thought made the victory even sweeter.

She pulled up into parc fermé, hands shaking with the aftershock of adrenaline as she switched off the car. A second later, Max’s Red Bull rolled in beside her, stopping with just enough aggression to make his frustration clear.

She smirked.

Helmet still on, she climbed out, raising a fist to the cheering crowd before stepping onto the scales. Cameras flashed, capturing every second. She could already imagine the headlines.

She turned just as Max yanked off his helmet, dark blonde hair a mess, jaw clenched. He took one look at her, exhaled sharply through his nose, then muttered, “Fucking hell.”

She grinned. “That’s what you get for leaving the door open.”

His eyes narrowed. “That was not a door. That was a crack in the wall.”

She shrugged. “Still got through, didn’t I?”

Max let out a sharp breath, shaking his head, but there was something else in his expression. Not just frustration. Something almost… impressed.

He wouldn’t admit it. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. But she could see it, clear as day.

And the best part?

No matter how much of an arse he could be, she knew one thing for certain: he hated Nathan as much as she did.

banner-

The post-race press conference was the usual mix of adrenaline, exhaustion, and barely concealed hostility.

She sat in the middle, winner’s seat, hands wrapped around a bottle of water, pretending to listen as the moderator rattled off formalities. Max was to her left, arms crossed, jaw still set in frustration. Charles—third place finisher—was on her right, mostly just happy to be there.

The first few questions were routine. Race strategy, tyre management, overtaking opportunities. She answered smoothly, flashing the occasional smirk at Max whenever someone mentioned her overtake. Each time, his jaw tightened just a little more.

Then, inevitably, someone brought up Nathan.

A journalist from one of the more sensationalist outlets leaned forward, microphone in hand, voice dripping with feigned innocence.

“Amazing drive today, congratulations. Obviously, this is a huge result in the championship fight, but I have to ask—do you think your performance this season has been motivated at all by… personal matters? Specifically, your past relationship with Nathan Carter?”

The air in the room shifted.

She had heard a lot of bullshit in these pressers, but this? This was almost impressive in how blatant it was.

She opened her mouth, already crafting the sharpest, most dismissive response possible—

But Max got there first.

He leaned forward, elbow on the table, voice dripping with casual disdain.

“Yeah, mate, I’m sure she’s leading the championship because of her ex. Not because she’s fucking fast or anything.” He raised a brow. “You want to ask me if my performance is motivated by my tragic breakup in 2022? Or is this just reserved for women?”

Silence.

The journalist blinked, momentarily stunned. Then stammered, “I—I was just—”

Max tilted his head. “Just what?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting back a smirk.

The moderator swiftly cut in, moving things along, but the damage was done. The clip would be everywhere within the hour, and Max knew it. He settled back in his chair, arms crossed once again, looking completely unbothered.

She glanced at him, just briefly.

Still not friends. But maybe, just maybe, a little less like enemies.

After the press conference, she barely made it two steps out the door before Max fell into step beside her.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, casually twisting the cap off his water bottle.

She snorted. “For what?”

He gave her a pointed look. “For shutting down that absolute cunt before you could say something that’d get you fined.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles.”

“Clearly.” He took a sip of water. “But I like watching them.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She wasn’t about to admit it, but watching that journalist’s face crumble had been the highlight of her day—besides the win, obviously. And Max had delivered it with all the effortless arrogance of a man who lived to piss people off.

They reached their driver rooms, the doors right next to each other. She pushed hers open, stepping into the quiet, adrenaline still thrumming in her veins. Her suit was damp with sweat, her body still buzzing from the intensity of the race, but it was a good feeling. A victorious one.

She had just pulled her race suit down to her waist, reaching for a towel, when she heard a door open behind her.

Not hers.

Max’s, probably—except the footsteps that followed weren’t his.

A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the room.

“Well done. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

Her entire body went rigid.

She turned.

Nathan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face carefully neutral—but his eyes gave him away. Cold. Calculating.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “What the fuck do you want?”

Nathan stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. “You need to cut the shit.”

She laughed, crossing her arms. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, mate.”

His jaw tightened. “The comments. The narrative you’re letting people run with. It’s damaging my reputation.”

“Your reputation?” She arched a brow. “Pretty sure you did that yourself when you stuck your dick where it didn’t belong.”

His expression flickered, just for a second, before the mask slipped back into place.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “I have lawyers. You keep dragging my name through the mud, and I’ll make sure it costs you.”

She tilted her head. “Is that a threat?”

He shrugged. “A warning.”

She scoffed, turning away, but he kept going.

“I mean it,” Nathan said, voice dropping lower. “This little act of yours—playing the scorned woman, running off to Red Bull like a child—it's pathetic. You think people actually respect you? They’re laughing at you.”

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay calm.

“Must be humiliating,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Knowing you were just something to pass the time. A placeholder.”

Her fingers curled into fists.

Then he said it.

“Fucking whore.”

The door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Nathan barely had time to react before he was shoved backwards, his back hitting the wall with a dull thud. A forearm pressed hard against his throat, holding him in place.

Max.

His entire body was tense, his usually sharp, arrogant expression now twisted into something far more dangerous.

Nathan made a strangled noise, trying to push him off. “What the—”

“Say that again,” Max said, voice low, lethal.

Nathan swallowed, his eyes flicking to her.

Max pressed harder. “Go on. I fucking dare you.”

Silence.

Nathan was many things—arrogant, selfish, manipulative—but he wasn’t stupid.

Max held him there for a moment longer, just to make a point, then finally let go, stepping back like Nathan wasn’t even worth the energy.

Nathan straightened his shirt, swallowing whatever insult he’d been about to throw. His eyes flicked between them, then he scoffed. “You two deserve each other.”

Then he turned and walked out.

The second the door shut, the room was quiet again.

Max exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the tension. “Fucking hell.”

She blinked at him, still processing what just happened. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He turned to her, dark eyes unreadable. “Yeah, I did.”

And then, just like that, he walked out, leaving her standing there, pulse racing, wondering what the hell just happened.

part two...

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

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skywalkerslvt · 4 months ago

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Remove your armour for me?

❥Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!mechanic!reader

❥Summary: You’re stuck on the Razor Crest with Mando and a group of mercenaries, but things get tense when you both get caught up in a dangerous mission to break someone out of a prison ship. Things heat up between you two, and before long, you’re caught up in a whirlwind of emotions. You and Mando have to sort out your complicated relationship and unspoken feelings for each other. Set around the events of “The Prisoner” episode (season 1 chapter 6). I highly recommend you watch it–if you haven’t already–for some background info but ofc it's not absolutely necessary.

❥CW: 18+ smut, sexual tension, violence, p in v, floor sex, fingering, mostly canon compliant, porn with plot, porn with feelings, maybe a tiny bit of angst, fighting, reader babysits grogu <3, 19k words

❥a/n: DISCLAIMER BEFORE YOU READ- I am well aware that many fics like this have been done before, and would like to acknowledge all of these amazing fics! And while these are all ideas I've outlined for a really long time, if anyone feels it is to similar to another fic, you can DM me and I will hear u out and change whatever needs to be changed lol. The outline for this fic has been in my drafts for years, and I finally decided to do something with it. She's a long one, so I apologize if there are any mistakes I missed, or if any of my ideas weren't written out clearly 🥲 I hope you enjoy <3

The hum of the Razor Crest filled the silence of the cramped quarters. Your hands, calloused from years of working on engines, were busy at the makeshift repair station you’d set up in the corner of the ship. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was home. Or as close to home as you'd get now, after months of drifting from planet to planet, always on the run.

The metal beneath your fingers was warm as you twisted a wrench into place, but your mind wandered to the quiet figure that was never far from your thoughts.

The Mandalorian–or Mando, as you called him. There was always something magnetic about him, the way he moved with purpose, the stoic expression never giving away what was beneath. It kept you guessing. But after all this time, it wasn’t the silent looks or the odd, soft gestures that had your heart in knots. It was the way he made you feel seen in a galaxy that often overlooked people like you.

You let out a sigh as you wiped your grease-covered hands on a rag, glancing over to where the child’s little pod was resting quietly beside you. It was always quiet on the ship when Mando wasn’t around. The kid didn’t say much–or anything really, other than the occasional coo– but there was something comforting in the way he sat near you, playing with his favourite metal ball, tiny and serene. Something safe.

Your wrench slipped for a moment, and the clang of metal on metal sent a flicker of your memory through your mind. You could almost hear the bustling sounds of your old shop, the hum of speeders waiting for repairs, the dull chatter of the occasional customer coming in and out. That life felt distant now–a memory dulled by the constant movement of the Razor Crest. You missed it sometimes, the routine, the steady rhythm of life on that backwater planet. But that life had been torn apart the moment Mando landed in your yard with a broken ship and a bounty hunter’s target on his tail.

But the fire wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning—the moment everything shifted. You could still picture it clearly, the first time he stepped into your shop, long before the kid, long before everything fell apart.

It had been an ordinary day, hot and slow like most on that backwater planet. The sun had cast long shadows across the junkyard when the distinctive roar of a ship’s engines broke the monotony. You’d looked up to see a clunky, battle-worn ship descending—a hunk of metal that seemed more scrap heap than starship. You weren’t expecting much when the ramp lowered, but then he walked out, his beskar gleaming in the sunlight. He’d looked out of place there, a specter of something bigger, more dangerous than the quiet life you’d carved out for yourself.

“Repulsorlift’s shot,” he’d said simply, his voice tinny through the modulator. No pleasantries, no introductions. Just business.

You weren’t sure why, but you hadn’t been intimidated. Something about the way he held himself—rigid, guarded—felt almost… tired. Like he carried the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders and didn’t trust anyone to help bear it. You’d nodded, grabbed your tools, and set to work. You’d told yourself it was just another job, but something about him stuck with you. Maybe it was the way he’d watched your every move, silent but observant, or the faint hesitation in his voice when he’d finally said, “Thanks.” Or maybe it was the way he held himself, tall, alert, and slightly cocky, like he knew the intimidating effect he had on people.

That wasn’t the last time he showed up at your shop. Every few months, he’d come back, his ship battered and bruised from whatever trouble he’d gotten into. Sometimes it was a blown-out hyperdrive; other times, hull damage from a firefight. You didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer answers. But over time, the silences between you had started to feel less empty. He’d comment on the efficiency of your work, or you’d tease him about the state of his ship, and while he never laughed, you could’ve sworn you saw the slightest tilt of his helmet that hinted at amusement.

You’d grown to look forward to those visits. The sound of his engines overhead was enough to send a little thrill through you, though you’d never admit it. And every time he left, his ship a distant glint on the horizon, you felt the same pang of sadness. You’d watch until he was gone, telling yourself it was just the quiet returning that unsettled you. But deep down, you knew better.

And then came that day.

The day he landed not for repairs, but for refuge. The day he brought the kid into your life—and with him, all the chaos that followed.

You heard his ship land–well, more like a crash–outside your shop. You immediately dropped whatever mundane task you had been working on–the sight of the Crest sending your heart pounding for multiple reasons.

One, you’d get to see Mando a lot sooner than you thought you would, the thought of the tall, beskar clad man sending butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You tried to push the feeling away, thinking strictly of business.

Two, because the ship was in terrible shape–possibly the worst shape you’d ever seen.

You rushed to the door of your shop to immediately tend to the Crest–and to see the man you had secretly been harbouring a stupid crush on–but when you whipped the door open, nearly ripping it off its hinges, Mando was already there, standing tall and shiny before you.

You jumped, slightly spooked by the unexpected sight before regaining your composure. “Mando? What are yo–”

“I need your help,” he cut you off. He took a step closer to you, sending your heart pounding and cheeks heating under the gaze of his black visor. You could feel yourself getting flustered by his proximity. “Can I…come in?” he asked, confused by your silence and dumbfounded expression

Right. Yes, of course. He wasn’t stepping closer to you for the reasons you had wanted. You should probably step to the side and let him in. Averting your gaze, you stepped to the side of the doorway, allowing Mando to step inside the small shop before shutting the door behind him.

You looked out the window of your shop, seeing the sorry state of the ship. You cringed, the thought of all that work you spent on repairs being undone by whatever mess Mando had gotten himself into now.

“Stars, Mando. What the fuck did you do to that ship?” you questioned as your eyes scanned him for any injuries. It was silly of you to care so much about his well being–especially considering how well he could hold himself in a fight–but it didn’t stop you from worrying.

That’s when you noticed it. The satchel at his side holding something–or rather someone. Your eyes widened at the big brown eyes looking up at you, a soft coo leaving its little mouth. Mando tilted his helmet towards his satchel, lightly stroking the creature's big green ears before his visor fixed on you again.

“Mando, what the fuck,” you gasped, mouth hanging open in shock.

Mando shifted slightly, his broad shoulders stiffening as though bracing for your reaction. “It’s... complicated,” he said, his voice flat but with the faintest hint of hesitation.

You blinked, your gaze bouncing between him and the small green creature nestled in the satchel. It blinked back at you, wide-eyed and unassuming, as if this whole situation wasn’t entirely bizarre. “Complicated? Mando, this isn’t a blown hyperdrive or a cracked hull—it’s a kid.”

“I’m aware,” he replied dryly, adjusting the satchel as if to shield the child from your scrutiny.

Your mind reeled as you tried to piece together what you were seeing. You stepped closer, peering up into his inscrutable helmet. “So… what? You’re babysitting now?”

A soft coo from the child drew your attention, and you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. It was absurd, really—the hardened bounty hunter with a baby in tow. But when you looked back at him, something about the way he stood there, tense and guarded, made the smile fade.

“This isn’t permanent,” he said finally, his voice low. “I just need to keep him safe. For now.”

The weight in his tone struck a chord, and you realized this wasn’t just some odd detour for him. Whatever had brought Mando to your door wasn’t a simple favor or a quick repair. It was bigger than that—dangerous.

“Safe from what?” you asked, your voice softening.

He hesitated, and you saw his gloved hand flex at his side before he finally spoke. “The ones who want him back.”

Your stomach sank as the implications hit you. If someone was after the kid, it meant trouble—and a lot of it. “Kriff,” you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face. “You’re telling me you’ve got people hunting you now?”

“Yes,” Mando said, his voice steady but heavy with tension. His gloved hand rested lightly on the edge of the workbench, his helmet dipping slightly toward you. “And they’re not going to stop.”

Crossing your arms, you looked up at Mando with a frustrated look in your eyes, clearly not satisfied with the vague answers he was giving you. He sighed, knowing you wouldn't give this up, and briefly told you of how he and the kid crossed paths.

You glanced down at the child, who blinked up at you with big, curious eyes, a soft coo escaping his tiny mouth. It was impossible to stay mad with that face looking at you, even if the mess they’d brought to your doorstep was monumental.

“Alright,” you said with a resigned sigh, tossing the rag onto the bench. “What do you need from me?”

Mando straightened slightly, his presence somehow more commanding even in the cramped space of the shop. “I need you to watch him,” he said, nodding toward the child. “And fix the ship.” His helmet turned back toward you, and though you couldn’t see his eyes, you felt the weight of his gaze. “I’ll take care of the ones after us.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “Take care of them how?”

“I’ll find them before they find him,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious answer in the galaxy.

You blinked at him, your irritation softening into reluctant admiration. Of course, that was his plan. Run headfirst into danger to protect the kid, with no thought for himself. It was infuriatingly… noble.

“Right,” you said, exhaling sharply. “So, let me get this straight. You’re going to go off and hunt these people down, while I babysit and patch up the flying death trap you call a ship?”

His helmet tilted slightly. “That’s the idea.”

You shook your head, muttering under your breath, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “And here I thought this was going to be a quiet day.”

“Quiet’s overrated,” he said, the barest hint of dry humor threading through his tone.

You snorted despite yourself, grabbing a set of tools from the workbench. “You’re lucky I’m a soft touch, Mando. You owe me. Big time.”

He didn’t respond to that, but the tilt of his helmet lingered on you for just a beat longer than necessary, as if he wanted to say something but decided against it. Instead, he stepped back, his hand resting briefly on the child’s pod.

“I won’t be gone long,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you shot back lightly, though the pang of worry in your chest betrayed your teasing tone.

Mando nodded once before turning to leave, his armor clinking softly as he moved. The child let out a curious coo, his big eyes following Mando until the door shut behind him.

You sighed, looking down at the little green bundle of chaos. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” you muttered, reaching out to pat his tiny head. Then, with a glance out the window at the battered Razor Crest, you grabbed your tools and got to work.

You’d thought the babysitting would be an easy job. You thought the kid would sit in the corner, playing with whatever scrap metal he found while you worked on the Crest. Boy, were you wrong.

It started innocently enough. The kid had perched himself near the workbench, happily clutching his favorite metal ball from the Razor Crest’s lever. You’d thought, Great, he’s occupied. But the moment you turned your back to start on the ship’s mangled stabilizers, the little gremlin had somehow waddled over to a pile of tools, his tiny hands reaching for a wrench twice his size.

“No, no, no,” you muttered, rushing over and scooping him up before he could topple into the mess. He cooed at you, his big brown eyes wide and innocent, as if he hadn’t just been caught trying to cause chaos.

You set him back near his pod, this time surrounding him with a makeshift barricade of crates and spare parts. “Stay,” you instructed firmly, pointing a finger at him. He blinked up at you, looking entirely unimpressed, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Satisfied he was contained, you turned your attention back to the Razor Crest, only to hear the unmistakable clang of something hitting the floor. Spinning around, you saw the kid holding a hydrospanner he’d somehow managed to grab from your toolbox, despite the barricade.

“Are you serious?” you groaned, snatching the tool from his little hands. He let out a disgruntled squeak, as if offended by your intervention.

This back-and-forth went on for what felt like hours. No matter where you put him or what distractions you offered—scrap parts, shiny bolts, even your own spare tools—he always found a way to escape and make a beeline for whatever could cause the most trouble.

Eventually, you admitted defeat. “Alright, fine,” you huffed, eyeing him as he sat on the floor, gnawing on a piece of wiring. “You win, kid.”

Desperate for a solution, you rummaged through your scrap pile until you found a long piece of fabric. It was a little dusty and frayed at the edges, but it would do. With a few quick knots and some adjustments, you fashioned it into a makeshift sling.

“Okay, little troublemaker,” you muttered, scooping him up and settling him into the sling. He looked up at you, blinking curiously as you secured him against your chest. “This way, I can keep an eye on you and actually get some work done.”

To your surprise, he seemed to like it. He snuggled against you with a contented coo, one tiny hand clutching your shirt as the other held his precious metal ball.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you murmured, shaking your head as you grabbed your tools and got back to work.

With the kid securely in the sling, things were… marginally easier. Sure, he still reached for anything shiny within arm’s length, and you had to be extra careful with your tools, but at least he wasn’t wandering off or attempting to dismantle your entire workshop.

As you worked on patching up the ship’s stabilizers, you found yourself talking to him without even thinking about it. “This stabilizer’s a mess,” you muttered, adjusting the sling slightly. “Mando really did a number on it this time. Honestly, I don’t know how this ship is still flying.”

The kid responded with a soft coo, his big eyes watching you intently as if he understood every word.

“Yeah, I know,” you said, glancing down at him with a small smile. “You’re probably used to this kind of chaos, huh? Well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m not planning on making this a habit.”

He let out a tiny, happy sound, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Alright, fine,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “Maybe it’s not so bad having you around. But don’t tell Mando I said that, okay?”

The kid blinked up at you, his expression as innocent as ever, and you swore you saw a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

The clatter of metal sounding from your shop made you halt your tinkering. Sure, Mando had been gone a while, and probably should’ve been back by now, but he was composed and careful. He never would’ve knocked something over in your shop. Goosebumps appeared on the surface of your skin, the threat of some unknown person creeping around your shop alerting all your senses.

You reached for the blade strapped to your thigh, silently cursing yourself for leaving your blaster locked in a drawer on your workbench. Were the people who were after the kid here to take him? You placed the kid in his pod before turning towards the building.

Silently, you made your way to the entrance of your shop, your hands shaking slightly as you pressed yourself against the wall, listening for any signs of trouble.

The sound of another clatter echoed through the shop, sharper this time, like tools hitting the floor. Your heart pounded in your chest as you gripped the hilt of your blade tighter. The shadows in the dim light of the shop played tricks on your eyes, stretching and shifting as you tried to steady your breathing.

A muffled voice—low and gruff—reached your ears, confirming your worst fear. Someone was in your shop.

The kid let out a faint coo from his pod, and you whipped your head around to shush him, your finger pressed to your lips. “Stay quiet,” you whispered, barely audible. His wide eyes blinked at you, and you prayed he understood.

Drawing a deep breath, you crept forward, the cold metal of your blade reassuring in your hand. You could make out faint footsteps now, moving further into the shop. Whoever it was, they didn’t seem to be in any hurry. That wasn’t a good sign.

You rounded the corner slowly, keeping your steps light, your back pressed against the wall. When the intruder finally came into view, your stomach sank. It wasn’t just one person—it was two. Both were heavily armed, with blasters holstered at their sides and rifles slung across their backs. Their armor was mismatched and worn, but their movements were confident, predatory.

“Check the back,” one of them barked, his voice grating and impatient. The other nodded and began heading toward the rear of the shop—toward the Razor Crest.

Kriff.

Your mind raced. If they got anywhere near the kid, it would be over. You needed to act, but taking on two armed bounty hunters with nothing but a blade was suicide.

Suddenly, an idea struck you. It wasn’t much, but it was all you had.You waited for the first hunter to disappear further into the shop, his boots echoing faintly as he moved toward the back. The second hunter, a stocky figure with a jagged scar running down the side of his face, lingered near your workbench, scanning the room. His back was to you.

This was your chance.

Quietly, you shifted the kid’s pod further into the shadows and gripped your blade tightly. Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you crept toward the hunter, careful not to make a sound.

When you were within striking distance, you sprang forward, plunging the blade into his neck. He grunted in pain, twisting toward you as he fumbled for his blaster, but you yanked the weapon from his holster before he could grab it. With a sharp shove, you sent him crashing into the bench, his head slamming against the edge before he slumped to the floor, motionless.

You barely had time to catch your breath before the other hunter’s voice rang out.

“Hey! Stop right there!”

You whirled around to see him at the far end of the shop, his blaster already raised. Without thinking, you dove behind a stack of crates as the first shot sizzled past your ear.

Blaster fire erupted, and you returned fire, your hands shaking as you squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space, sparks flying as shots struck metal and ricocheted wildly.

The hunter was relentless, his shots forcing you to stay pinned behind the crates. You peeked out just long enough to fire back, but your aim was far from precise. The tension built as the seconds ticked by, the energy pack in your stolen blaster rapidly depleting.

Finally, the unmistakable sound of a weapon sputtering signaled the hunter’s blaster running dry. You tried to fire again, only to hear the same disheartening click from your own weapon.

Great. Just great.

Panic clawed at your chest as you scrambled to come up with a plan. You glanced toward the Razor Crest—so close, yet so far. The kid’s pod was still tucked in the shadows where you’d left it, but you couldn’t leave him here.

You moved cautiously, trying to stay hidden as you made your way toward the ship. You'd find a better weapon on the Crest and then come back for the kid. The shop was eerily quiet now, save for the sound of your own ragged breathing. You were almost there, the Razor Crest’s ramp in sight, when a rough hand grabbed you from behind and slammed you to the ground.

The impact knocked the wind out of you, and before you could react, the hunter was on top of you, his hand clamping around your throat.

“You thought you could take us out?” he snarled, his grip tightening. “Big mistake.”

You clawed at his hand, gasping for air as your vision blurred. Desperation took over, and you thrashed beneath him, your hands fumbling for anything to defend yourself with. But he was too strong, his weight pinning you down as darkness crept in at the edges of your vision.

Then, a sharp, sudden whizz cut through the air, followed by the heavy thud of the hunter’s body collapsing on top of you. His grip on your throat loosened, and you shoved him off with a gasp, coughing as you struggled to sit up.

Your blurry vision cleared just enough to see a familiar figure standing in the doorway, his blaster still raised. The Mandalorian.

He strode toward you, his movements quick and purposeful. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice steady but with an edge of concern.

You shook your head, still catching your breath. “I’m—fine,” you managed to croak, though your throat ached and your heart was still pounding.

Mando’s visor tilted down to the kid’s pod, which had rolled out of its hiding spot in the chaos. The child cooed softly, seemingly unbothered by the commotion.

Mando turned back to you. “Get him on the ship,” he ordered. “Now.”

You nodded, scrambling to your feet as he turned toward the doorway, his blaster ready for any more threats.

The kid’s pod glided up the Razor Crest’s ramp, its quiet hum the only reprieve in the cacophony of chaos around you. Your hands shook as you secured him in the ship’s hold, glancing back toward the shop’s entrance where shouts and sporadic blaster fire echoed in the distance.

You exhaled sharply. This wasn’t over. Not even close.

There was no time to waste. You darted back down the ramp and toward the exterior hull of the Razor Crest, scanning for the damage you hadn’t had time to address earlier. The scorch marks along the port engine told you everything you needed to know. That engine wouldn’t make it through hyperspace—not in its current state.

You grabbed your toolkit and scrambled onto the hull, nearly slipping as adrenaline and panic coursed through your veins. Shouts grew louder, closer. You could hear the unmistakable hiss and pop of blaster fire—Mando was holding them off, but for how long?

Your hands worked as quickly as they could, tightening bolts, rerouting power lines, and sealing cracks with a welding torch. Sparks flew as you worked, the harsh light illuminating the frantic expression on your face.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered under your breath, wiping sweat from your brow with a grease-streaked hand.

The blaster fire outside grew louder, more rapid. A cry of pain echoed over the chaos, and you flinched, your pulse pounding in your ears. You couldn’t tell who it belonged to—Mando or one of the bounty hunters—but you didn’t dare look.

A warning beep sounded from your wrist comm. The ship’s diagnostics reported a critical error in the starboard stabilizer.

Kriff.

You slid off the hull, landing hard on your feet, and ran to the other side of the ship. The stabilizer was bent out of alignment, and you cursed under your breath as you wrenched it back into place with all your strength. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you didn’t stop.

In the distance, the sound of gunfire suddenly ceased. The silence was almost worse than the chaos, your mind racing with the possibilities of what it meant.

“Mando?” you whispered under your breath, glancing toward the shop’s entrance.

Your answer came seconds later as the man himself appeared, sprinting toward you with his blaster still in hand. His beskar armor was scorched in places, and his breathing was heavy, but he didn’t slow down.

“They’re dead,” he said sharply, his voice modulated but firm. “But more will come. A lot more.”

Your hands froze mid-motion, your heart sinking as his words hit you. “What—what do you mean?”

Mando grabbed your arm, his visor fixed on you. “You’ve been seen with me. That makes you a target.”

Panic began to rise in your chest, your breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. “I can’t—Mando, this is my home!”

“I know,” he said, his voice softer this time, but no less urgent. “It’s not safe anymore. You need to pack what you can and get on the ship. Now.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes as your mind raced. “I—I don’t know what to take—”

“Hey.” Mando’s hand gripped your arm tighter, grounding you. His tone was steady, even reassuring. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna take care of this. But we need to move. Go upstairs and get your stuff.”

His words, though brief, were enough to snap you out of your spiraling thoughts. You nodded frantically, pulling away and sprinting toward the stairs that led to your small room above the shop.

Your hands shook as you threw open drawers and grabbed clothes, tools, and whatever personal belongings you could fit into a small bag. The room, once your sanctuary, now felt stifling, like the walls were closing in on you.

The kid’s soft coos echoed faintly from below, reminding you why you couldn’t stay, why you couldn’t afford to hesitate. You shoved a photo of your old life—a younger you, covered in grease and smiling in front of the shop—into the bag before zipping it shut.

With one last look at the room that had been your home, you turned and bolted down the stairs, your heart pounding as you raced toward the Razor Crest. Mando was already at the ramp, his visor fixed on the horizon, scanning for more threats.

“Let’s go,” he said, gesturing for you to board.

You didn’t hesitate.

That was months ago.

The day you left your old life behind, running on impulse, never imagining you'd still be here—on the Razor Crest, floating from one planet to the next. You were supposed to find another place to settle, start fresh somewhere far from everything. But that had never really happened. Not with Mando around. Not with the way things had fallen into place between you two.

You never had the chance to leave, and, to be honest, you didn’t really want to.

Neither did he. Though, neither of you would ever admit it out loud. The thought of you leaving had become this quiet tension in the air whenever you got too close to speaking about it. He never pushed, and you never asked. But the way his gloved hand would brush yours when handing you tools, the way his presence seemed to fill the small space of the ship—those things said more than words ever could.

In the months that followed, you’d become a sort of permanent fixture on the Razor Crest. A mechanic, a babysitter, a companion in this strange, wandering life. You worked on the ship in between watching over the kid, fixing what needed fixing, and ensuring the Razor Crest was always ready to fly.

Mando paid you a percentage of the bounties he earned, and you used that as your excuse for staying. You were “just doing your job.”

But it wasn’t just that. You and Mando had fallen into something of an unspoken routine, a domesticity you hadn't expected but quickly came to rely on. You knew when he needed food and when he needed space. He knew when to leave you alone while you tinkered and when to offer a quiet word of encouragement or the occasional teasing comment.

His humor, once dry and almost imperceptible, was starting to show itself more. He’d crack jokes now, and it felt oddly comforting. He still kept his distance, his words few, but those moments of levity made you feel like maybe you weren't just an accessory to his mission. Maybe, just maybe, you were becoming something more.

And it hurt, in a way. Because the more time passed, the more your feelings for him grew. There was something deeper there—something more than camaraderie or just shared circumstances. But you couldn’t let him know that. You wouldn’t. The last thing you wanted was for him to take one look at you, all vulnerable and tangled up in emotions, and then kick you to the curb, dropping you off on the next planet, saying it was time to go your separate ways.

You had to keep it buried. It was safer that way. For both of you.

Still, in the quiet moments between tasks, when Mando was off somewhere dealing with a bounty or when you were fixing the ship on your own, the longing would flare up in your chest. You'd think of his quiet gestures, his rare jokes, and wonder what could be. But you'd shove it down, focusing on the ship or the kid, anything to distract you.

That didn’t stop you from fantasizing though. In the shower, your mind would always wander to him–to his teasing, his hardened exterior, to the rare moments he would take his gloves off, the flesh of his thick fingers on display for you. Only then would you slip a hand between your thighs, biting down your whimpers as your calloused fingertips circled your clit to the thought of the sliver of flesh he allowed you to see. Stars, you were like a mutt in heat.

You weren’t foolish. You knew better than to hope for something you couldn’t have. So you didn’t let yourself have hope. You decided you’d push your feelings down and continue on with this job for however long Mando would have you.

The hum of the Razor Crest's engines gently vibrated through the floor, but the sound of the cockpit door sliding open was enough to pull you from your spiraling thoughts of your past. You turned your attention toward the entrance, expecting to see Mando, and sure enough, he emerged, his silhouette framed by the doorway. The familiar weight of his presence filled the space.

“Strap in,” he said, his voice modulated and calm, but there was an underlying urgency in his words. "We're landing."

You blinked, momentarily confused before following him into the cockpit and taking a seat. Landing somewhere? You’d been drifting through space, the Razor Crest just a speck of metal in the endless expanse, but now he was pulling you into something new. “Why here?” you asked, crossing your arms instinctively, though it wasn’t like Mando to offer unnecessary explanations.

He didn’t turn to face you, instead reaching for a switch to adjust the ship’s descent. “I need you to stay on the ship with the kid until I come back,” he said flatly. “Don’t make yourself known.”

Your brow furrowed, and you instinctively shifted closer to him, tension building as you processed his words. “Mando, what’s going on? What’s all this about?” You were met with nothing but silence as his hand hovered over the controls, his visor giving away nothing.

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” he said, voice growing slightly firmer. “Stay inside. Stay out of sight.”

You swallowed hard, uncertainty gnawing at you, but his expression remained unchanged. You wanted to press further, but you knew better than to argue. His rules were simple: obey, or risk the consequences. He’d never put you in danger, but this—this felt different.

With a reluctant nod, you sat back, your hands instinctively reaching for the strap of your seatbelt as the ship began its descent. The thought of being left alone on the ship with just the kid, a few meters of metal between you and whatever Mando was about to face, made the hairs on your neck stand on end. Something wasn’t right, but you had no choice but to trust him.

He was already heading for the ramp before you could voice any more questions. The last thing you saw was him disappearing into the dimly lit expanse of the strange industrial ship you landed on before the hatch slammed shut behind him, leaving you with nothing but the soft gurgles of the child in the background and the distant whirring of the ship's systems.

The hum of the ship was different now—throbbing, industrial, almost foreboding. It reminded you of the kind of stations you’d passed through in your earlier years, those heavy, unwelcoming places where you’d never feel entirely safe. The interior of the ship felt cold, metallic, and clinical, the kind of place you imagined shady deals went down. You’d watched Mando as he moved about, speaking to some of the others, his posture tense, his visor fixed on everything and everyone around him.

You glanced at the kid, who was nestled in his little pod next to you, cooing softly as he fiddled with the small metal ball. His innocence, his trust in you, made everything feel that much more dangerous. Your stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and anger.

“What the fuck has Mando gotten himself into now?” you muttered under your breath, a sense of dread settling over you. You had a sinking feeling that this wasn’t a job he could just walk away from.

The minutes dragged on, and you sat in the cockpit, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling. You glanced at the kid again, trying to calm yourself as his big, trusting eyes met yours. You didn’t want to think about the trouble Mando had landed in, or the dangers lurking around them. But it was hard to ignore, especially as you sat there alone, waiting.

Half an hour later, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the ship, and the door to the cockpit swung open. You barely had time to react before Mando was there, grabbing you by the arm with surprising force.

“Come on,” he said, his voice clipped and urgent.

“Mando?” you started, feeling a flicker of panic. “What’s going on?”

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he practically dragged you through the narrow and cramped ship, ignoring your protests.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you hissed, trying to pull free, but he only gripped you tighter.

“Mando—seriously, what’s going on?” You struggled, trying to get some kind of explanation, but he kept walking, heading toward the back of the ship.

When you finally reached his sleeping quarters, he shoved the door open, dragging you inside.

“Stay here,” he ordered sharply. “With the kid. It’s gonna be a while, so you might as well get comfortable and sleep. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s okay.”

You stopped in your tracks, disbelief flooding your chest. “Mando, what the fuck?” you snapped, frustration bubbling over. “You better start explaining yourself right now.”

But he just brushed you off, his tone hard, like he wasn’t even going to entertain your question. “I’ll explain later. Just listen to me,” he said, his voice growing more forceful.

Before you could respond, the door was already closing in your face, and Mando was gone.

You stood there for a moment, seething, your heart pounding in your chest. “Kriffing Mandalorian…” you muttered under your breath. This was so typical of him—keep you in the dark, like you were just some bystander in his chaotic life.

Still, despite the rage burning through you, you knew better than to disobey him now. Whatever was going on, it was serious. So you sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed, trying to calm yourself. You glanced over at the kid, still blissfully unaware of the tension surrounding them.

It didn’t make sense. He promised he’d explain, but you had a feeling it was going to be a lot longer before that happened.

And that pissed you off even more.

An hour had passed, and you were still fuming. The anger, the confusion, the sense of being trapped—all of it swirled inside you, making it hard to focus. You paced around the small quarters, trying to burn off some of the frustration. You wanted to scream, to demand answers, but you knew better. Mando wasn’t going to budge until he was ready, and until then, you were stuck in his room, with nothing but your own seething thoughts for company.

Your eyes flickered to the bed. A part of you knew you wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon, and if you were going to be stuck in here, you might as well make yourself comfortable. You glanced down at your mechanic clothes—dirt-streaked, sweaty, and uncomfortable—and sighed. There was no point in staying in them. But with Mando having locked you in here, your own clothes were still back on the ship, out of reach.

Frustrated, you stood up, scanning the room for anything that could be used. Your gaze landed on the drawer where he kept his few clothes. You hesitated for only a moment before walking over, your fingers trailing over the fabric of his shirts. You weren’t sure why you felt a little nervous, but you pushed the thought aside. You needed something clean, and it wasn’t like you hadn’t worn his clothes before. Your cheeks heated as you thought of the time you had to leave the fresher in just a towel to ask him for a shirt because all of your clothes were dirty.

After a moment of deliberation, you grabbed one of his shirts, large and soft-looking. You quickly stripped out of your dirty clothes and pulled his shirt over your head. The fabric was thick and worn, the hem barely covering your panty clad ass, and the smell of him hit you immediately—earthy, leather, and something distinctly Mando. You froze for a moment, the scent making your chest tighten, heat rising to your cheeks.

It was just a shirt. Just a shirt.

But it felt like more. You pulled the fabric down, letting it drape over your body, and as you did, the soft cotton brushed against your bare skin, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. It was so different from your usual work clothes, so much softer, so much… him. Your breath caught in your throat as you stood there, suddenly aware of the fact that you were standing in his bedroom wearing his clothes, all of it feeling far too intimate for your liking.

Your thoughts wandered, and before you could stop yourself, you imagined what it would be like for him to see you like this, in his clothes, the smell of him all around you. Your mind flashed to the moments you tried to ignore—his gloved hands brushing yours, the teasing comments that made your stomach flutter, the times your eyes lingered on the way his armor shifted with his movements.

You quickly snapped yourself out of it. “Focus,” you muttered under your breath. You had more important things to think about than some ridiculous fantasy.

You glanced down at the kid’s pod. He was still sleeping, the small form curled up in his blankets. You smiled softly at him before walking over and quietly closing the pod, making sure he was settled for his nap. You needed to distract yourself, so you decided to climb into Mando’s bed, but not before strapping your blade to your bare thigh–just to ease the paranoid feeling in your chest.

It felt strange, unfamiliar, but there was comfort in it. You pulled the covers up around you, feeling the warmth of the bed seep into your bones, and before you knew it, your eyes drifted shut.

The soft hum of the ship, the muffled sounds of the engine, and the occasional clink of metal from somewhere in the hall lulled you into a deep sleep.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming, your paranoia fueled dreams filled with nightmares of Mando in trouble.

Mando’s secret, whatever he was caught up in, was far from over, and you weren’t going to sit idly by much longer. You had to be ready when the time came. But for now, you let yourself rest, hoping sleep would give you the answers that Mando wouldn’t.

You woke up a few hours later, your body stiff and groggy from sleep. The soft hum of the Razor Crest and the quiet whirring of the kid’s pod were the only sounds filling the otherwise still room. You blinked, rubbing your eyes as you tried to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. The kid was still nestled in his pod, curled up in the corner, his small chest rising and falling rhythmically. You closed his pod, not wanting to disturb his nap.

You let out a quiet sigh, stretching your limbs before you reached for your holopad. You were trying to distract yourself, keep your mind off what had just happened, and the nagging sense of unease that had settled deep in your chest. You flicked the holopad on, scrolling through schematics and plans for the ship—small upgrades here and there. The kid, the trapped feeling of being stuck in Mando’s room, and whatever Mando had gotten himself into were all still there, lingering in your thoughts, but you tried to push them aside for the moment.

But just as you were about to get lost in the designs, the door slid open with a sudden hiss. Your heart stopped for a moment, and you immediately shot to your feet, your hand instinctively going to the blade still strapped to your thigh. Your pulse quickened as you tried to get a read on the situation. Your eyes widened as you saw a group of figures standing in the doorway. You recognized none of them, but the sight of them immediately put you on edge.

There was a tall, scruffy-looking man who stood a little too confidently, his arms crossed over his chest. Behind him was a twi’lek woman in dark clothes, her stance aggressive and assertive. Next to them, a Devaronian with a thick, muscular build and sharp, menacing horns stood with his arms crossed. And then, there was the droid—shiny and polished, but with an unmistakable, almost robotic indifference to everything around it.

They all froze when they saw you standing there in Mando’s shirt, the fabric hanging loosely around your frame, and nothing else but your panties and the holster with your blade strapped to your thigh. You had no choice but to stand there, caught off guard and feeling exposed, like a deer in headlights.

A soft whistle came from one of the men—the scruffy one. “Well, well, what have we here?”

You immediately stiffened, your jaw clenching in irritation at the obvious look of interest in his eyes. You knew exactly where this was going. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was in the way he spoke. You didn’t like it one bit.

Before you could respond, Mando’s helmet snapped toward the man with a sharpness you hadn’t seen before. The tension in the room skyrocketed as he moved toward the doorway, his posture aggressive. His voice was low, almost growling as he addressed the man.

“Keep your eyes to yourself,” Mando said coldly, his tone carrying a warning that left no room for argument.

The man didn’t say anything, but the expression on his face told you he wasn’t pleased by the command. He looked like he was going to retort, but then, the Twi’lek woman standing behind him spoke up, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Well, well, Mando. Who’s this?” she said with a mocking smile, her bright eyes narrowing as she looked you up and down. “I didn’t realize you kept pets on the ship.”

You felt a surge of heat in your chest at her words, the insult hanging heavy in the air. You weren’t anyone’s pet—least of all Mando’s. You couldn’t hold back the anger that bubbled up, your hands clenching into fists as you glared at the Twi’lek.

“I am none of your fucking business,” you snapped, voice dripping with contempt. “Who the fuck are you?”

The woman didn’t flinch. If anything, she seemed to take delight in your reaction. Her smile only widened, her posture even more arrogant now. “I’m just curious about who Mando’s letting on his ship these days. Not everyone gets the privilege.”

You felt the heat of your anger rising, each word she spoke only fanning the flames. The tension between the two of you was palpable, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air as she watched you closely, almost daring you to react.

“Well, it’s not your concern,” you spat, your voice as sharp as a blade.

Her lips curled into a smirk, and she leaned in just slightly. “Oh, I think it is.”

You could feel her goading you, trying to get under your skin. And she was succeeding. You stood there, seething, ready to snap. This was not the time to back down.

The Twi’lek woman’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous spark as she leaned forward, her voice dripping with malice. “I see why Mando keeps you around,” she purred, glancing you up and down again, her words cutting like a knife. “Must be nice to have a pretty little thing to play with… I didn’t realize he had a taste for whores.”

The words cut through you like a vibroblade, sharper and more personal than you anticipated. A flush of heat spread across your face, not from embarrassment, but from sheer, unadulterated rage. This bitch. The audacity. The way her eyes lingered on you made it feel like you were exposed, like she could see every inch of your skin, and she didn’t even care about the weight of her insult.

You felt your pulse spike, your body tensing as the anger coiled inside you. Without thinking, your hand moved to the knife at your thigh, your fingers curling around the hilt of it. The impulse was immediate and intense—shut her up, make her regret those words—and your instincts took over. You yanked the blade free, your heart hammering as you lunged at her, your movements fueled by a desperate need for retaliation.

But before you could get within arm’s reach of the smug Twi’lek woman, you felt a forceful grip around your waist. You barely had time to register the movement before you were yanked off the ground, lifted effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. Your legs instinctively wrapped around the person who caught you, your body pressed against their chest.

Mando. Of course.

His strong arm held you in place, cradling you with a level of ease that made your head spin. You could feel his armor-clad body against yours, his heat radiating through the layers of metal. His grip on your arm tightened, pulling your knife hand away from the Twi’lek woman as he murmured in your ear, his voice low and unyielding. “I don’t like this as much as you do,” he said, his words steady and calm despite the chaos of the situation. “But I need you to trust me… and behave.”

His other hand slid under you, lifting you higher, and suddenly, your legs were wrapped tightly around him, your body pressed flush against his. You couldn’t help the shiver that raced up your spine at the feeling of his strength. The way he held you, with such casual confidence, sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. You hadn’t realized just how strong he was—how capable—until now. He was holding you like it was nothing, like you were weightless in his grasp.

For a split second, your mind went completely blank, overwhelmed by the heat of the situation and the proximity of his body. His gloved hand brushed over the bare skin of your thigh as he effortlessly disarmed you, slipping the knife back into its holster.

You tried to focus, tried to ignore the way your pulse quickened and your breath caught in your throat, but it was impossible. The heat curling low in your belly was undeniable. His body was pressed so close to yours, the firm outline of his armor against your skin sending a wave of desire through you. You felt it in every nerve, every inch of your body—his strength, his control, his scent mixed with the sterile, metallic smell of his armor.

Get it together, you silently told yourself. This is not the time for this.

You forced your mind back to reality, but that didn’t stop the heat building in your chest. You were angry. Angry at the way the Twi’lek woman spoke to you, angry at Mando for not telling you about the kind of people he associated with, and now… you were angry at yourself for the way your body reacted to Mando’s proximity.

You gritted your teeth, your breath uneven as you glared at him. “Fine,” you bit out, your voice tight, but still laced with frustration. “But we’re having a conversation about this later.”

Mando’s helmet angled down toward you, his posture still as rigid as ever, but there was something in the way he held you that was… different. His hand lingered on your thigh for a moment longer than necessary, as if he was aware of the effect his touch had on you. He said nothing, but the silent understanding between the two of you was palpable. He was warning you, but not in a way that felt threatening. He wasn’t going to let you do anything rash, but he also wasn’t dismissing your emotions.

For a second, you thought you saw something flicker in his stance—something that felt almost… personal. No, you were imagining things–being hopeful. You had to put a stop to these feelings.

Mando put you back on your feet, though his hand slid up to your waist where it stayed. You tried not to let the contact fluster you.

The Twi’lek woman’s sharp, mocking voice broke the silence.“Didn’t take long for him to claim his territory, huh?” she sneered, clearly amused by the entire situation.

You wanted nothing more than to scream at her, to make her understand that you were not some prize to be claimed. But Mando’s grip on you was unwavering, and as much as your chest burned with the desire to lash out, you knew you had to hold your ground. You were mad. So mad. But you did trust him. You had to, even if it was hard to ignore the simmering resentment that had started to build.

And yet… you couldn’t help but feel that familiar pang of something else whenever he was close. The heat in your chest, the pulse of desire that wouldn’t die down no matter how much you tried to suppress it.

Mando didn’t look at the woman, didn’t address her taunts, but he was done with her blatant disrespect towards you. His helmet snapped toward her mercilessly, and his voice, cold and firm, rang out. “Enough, Xi’An.”

The Twi’lek’s smirk faltered for a second, but she only laughed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. Like I’m scared of you, Mando.”

You bit your lip, feeling your face flush with the rush of emotions flooding through you—rage, frustration, and something darker that you couldn’t quite name. You wanted to scream at both of them, but instead, you clenched your fists and fought back the urge to lash out. This wasn’t how you imagined today going.

The ship suddenly lurched violently, throwing you and the others in the ship off balance. The abruptness of it sent your body into a panic, your instincts kicking in. Before you could even process the sudden movement, the world tilted, and you found yourself tumbling forward.

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself. The floor came rushing at you, but before you hit it, a pair of strong arms caught you, lifting you effortlessly into the air. You gasped as you were pulled against a hard, armored chest, your heart racing from both the shock of the lurch and the overwhelming proximity to Mando. His body was like a rock against yours, the heat radiating through his armor making your already flushed skin burn hotter. You barely had time to register the way his arms wrapped around you, holding you close, before you were on the ground, his weight coming down on top of you as he shielded you with his own body.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice calm, even though the ship continued to shudder beneath you.

You were frozen for a moment, your chest pressed to his, your body pinned beneath the weight of his armored form. His helmet loomed above you, a protective barrier between you and everything else, and yet it felt strangely intimate. The way he held you was possessive, urgent, as if he were determined to shield you from any harm—no matter the cost. His gloved hands braced on either side of your head, his body still covering yours as the ship continued to shudder, throwing the others in the ship around from the turbulence.

Your breath hitched as the full reality of the situation washed over you. You were under him, pinned by his bulk, and his body was pressed so intimately against yours that you could feel the hard edges of his armor in places that left you breathless. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythms, and your heart beat eratically. The heat between the two of you was almost unbearable, your legs still trapped beneath him, your body pressed tightly against his in ways that sent shivers down your spine.

Mando’s voice, low and gravelly, broke the tension. “You’re alright,” he murmured softly, his gloved hand sliding from the floor, brushing against your arm as he made sure you were stable. He seemed almost… tender in that moment, as though the concern for your safety was as real as the weight of his body on top of you.

For a second, you didn’t know how to react. Your body was still pressed against his, every inch of you aware of how close you were, and the intensity of the moment sent a wave of heat crashing through you. The way he held you, the way his body moved with yours, had you feeling almost helpless in his arms—and you couldn’t decide if you hated or loved the feeling.

Your pulse raced—not from fear, but from something else. Something you didn’t want to acknowledge. The magnetic pull between you and him was undeniable, and you tried to push it down, tried to focus on the situation at hand.

The ship shuddered again, but Mando didn’t budge. His body remained a solid barrier over yours, the press of his weight keeping you grounded. The Twi’lek woman’s laughter cut through the air, but it felt distant now, like background noise compared to the electric current between you and Mando.

For a moment, the world outside of you and him faded. All you could hear was his steady breathing and the rapid pulse that thrummed between the two of you. Every inch of your body was acutely aware of his, and that undeniable heat curled low in your belly.

He was still on top of you, and the temptation to lean into him, to feel the raw intensity of the situation, was almost too strong to resist. You could feel the weight of his body, the power in his frame, and you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining how it would feel if you were pinned down under different circumstances, the feeling of Mando’s bare hands pinning your wrists above you as he thrusted deep inside of yo–Get a grip, you thought to yourself, shoving that thought down as fast as it came.

Mando’s helmet shifted slightly, his visor meeting your gaze. His gloved hands moved from the ground to your waist, a reassuring touch—though it wasn’t gentle. The way he had you under his control, even in this chaotic moment, made it hard to focus on anything other than the sheer closeness between you.

“We’ll be landing soon. There is just some minor turbulence,” the metallic voice of the droid chirped.

The ship lurched again, but it barely registered. Your mind was consumed by the feeling of Mando above you, his body pressing into you with an almost unnatural force. And yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability as he held you there, even as you hated it. The way his presence was all-encompassing, grounding you in a way that left you feeling both safe and exposed at the same time. You had no idea how to navigate it, how to balance the raw tension with the danger of the situation.

His gloved hand brushed against your skin once more, and the quiet moment stretched between you like a taut wire, the atmosphere charged with something you didn’t know how to name. His touch lingered at your waist just a moment too long, as though he was trying to gauge whether you were okay—or maybe trying to pull back, just in case you weren’t. But you didn’t pull away. You didn’t push him off. You didn’t want to.

Finally, as the ship’s movements slowed, Mando shifted off of you, but not without that final lingering touch. It was almost possessive, his palm brushing your skin, sending a jolt through you. He didn’t say a word, though, just helped you to your feet, his hand steady at your back as you stood. But the distance between you both felt heavier than it should have, as if the silence stretched between you two with a weight that was more than just the aftermath of turbulence.

You didn’t meet his gaze immediately. Instead, you stood there, trying to calm the pounding in your chest, but the words came out before you could stop them. “Don’t ever do that again.”

The moment your words left your lips, you felt the shift. His posture stiffened, and for the briefest moment, you saw the flicker of something in the way his body tensed. Maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you. Maybe it was the slight hesitation before he helped you up. Whatever it was, it caught you off guard. It made you second-guess the sharpness of your tone, but it also made something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

You could feel the air between you change, thick with unspoken things. Was it embarrassment? Guilt? Was he angry? You couldn’t tell, but something in the way he held back now made you feel even more uncertain than before.

He helped you to your feet, guiding you down the narrow hallway, and despite the tense silence, there was an undeniable closeness between you both. The air still felt heavy with everything that had just happened. His gloved hand brushed against your bare skin, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down your spine, but he didn’t linger on it.

“Sorry…” he muttered, his voice almost too quiet to hear. His tone didn’t carry any weight of guilt, just an acknowledgment that hung in the air between you like an unspoken understanding. He didn’t dwell on it, and neither did you. It was easier to pretend it hadn’t shaken you, easier to ignore the way your pulse still raced from the moments that had passed.

You both moved in sync toward the sleeping quarters, the weight of the earlier tension still present but unspoken. Mando didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. Neither of you had the words for it just yet, but you both knew things had shifted.

What was this? You didn’t know.

But there was one thing you were sure of.

You were in way over your head.

As you entered the sleeping quarters, Mando moved with purpose, glancing over at the child’s pod. The little one was still asleep, his rhythmic breathing soft and steady. A small, reassuring weight lifted off your chest at the sight of him, but the rest of your body was still tense—still filled with the residual heat and anger from the scene with the Twi’lek woman.

Mando moved toward the child’s pod, checking the controls and making sure everything was functioning as it should. The last thing you wanted was for the kid to be disturbed. After all, he had been through enough.

He stood over the pod for a moment, his back to you, and you took that brief moment to compose yourself, trying to ignore the tumultuous thoughts swirling in your head. You needed space, and right now, Mando was giving you none.

Once he was satisfied that the kid was fine, Mando shut the pod with a soft hiss, turning to face you. His helmet was angled in such a way that you couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the weight of his gaze. He stepped toward you, his movements still deliberate, his presence still suffocating.

“We need to make sure the kid stays out of sight from the others,” Mando said, his voice low, but not unkind. “It’s gonna get a little rough out there. I need you to trust me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he interrupted you, holding a hand up. “Look, I’ll explain everything in a minute. I just need you to stay here for now, get dressed. I might need you to pilot the ship or handle something else once we’re out of here.”

The order was clear, but there was something about his tone that made it feel like more of a plea than a command. He wasn’t asking for your help, not exactly. He was telling you to stay put, but it wasn’t with the usual coldness you’d come to expect. It was… softer. And that made your pulse quicken all over again.

Still, you were pissed. The situation was still a mess, and you hadn’t forgotten about the way the Twi’lek woman had looked at you, her sneering words still echoing in your mind. You wanted answers, and you weren’t sure when you were going to get them.

But Mando wasn’t done. He took a step closer, his gloved hand resting on your shoulder for just a second, like he was trying to comfort you, but you weren’t sure if it was working.

“We’re going to be breaking Xi’An’s brother out of a prison ship,” he said quickly, his words cutting through the quiet of the room. “The job’s straightforward—get in, get him out, and get out. But things might get tricky. There’s a lot at stake here, and you need to be ready for anything.”

You nodded, absorbing the information. A prison break, of course. That was what this was all about. You had assumed something shady was going on, but you hadn’t expected the situation to be this complicated.

Mando shifted uncomfortably, his helmet remaining fixed in your direction, and he continued, voice more commanding now. “Once we break out Xi’An’s brother, I’ll need you to pilot the ship. I’ll be in and out of there quickly, but you’re going to have to move fast to get us out of there when the time comes.”

He paused for a moment, his helmet still angled toward you, as though considering something for a brief second. “You can handle that, right?”

The question was direct, but there was something in his voice that almost sounded like concern, though you couldn’t be sure. You weren’t exactly keen on being left behind to do the heavy lifting of a prison break, but you understood why he had to ask. You gave him a firm nod, your lips pressing into a thin line.

“Yeah, I’ve got it covered,” you replied, voice tight but determined.

Mando’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but he didn’t make any move to leave. Instead, there was a slight hesitation in the air, a shift that made your pulse quicken without quite knowing why. It was almost as if he was gathering his thoughts, trying to find the right words. Then, without warning, his voice came out in a low, gravelly tone.

“You…” He trailed off, his tone softer than you’d heard it before. “You look good in my shirt.”

The words hung in the air, completely unexpected and far more intimate than you were ready for. Your mouth opened, as if to respond, but before you could get a single word out, Mando had already turned toward the door, his heavy steps carrying him toward the exit.

“Get dressed,” he called over his shoulder, his voice now back to its usual no-nonsense tone. “We don’t have much time.”

The door slid shut behind him, leaving you standing there in stunned silence, the weight of his words still sinking in. Your heart was thudding in your chest, your mind racing. Did he mean that? Or was it just a passing comment?

You stared at the door, trying to gather your thoughts, but the confusion mixed with something else—something hotter that made your skin flush as you realized just how close you were to him. How dangerously close.

Shaking your head, you turned to the small corner of the room where your clothes had been discarded. You couldn’t focus on that right now. You had a job to do. You had to keep your head straight, get into the right mindset, and be ready for whatever came next.

But still, his words kept ringing in your ears, and the heat in your chest refused to go away.

You quickly changed into your clothes, trying to push aside the lingering tension. You didn’t have time for this. The mission was more important.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You finished dressing and took a steadying breath, ready to move on and do what Mando had asked. But as you stepped toward the door, ready to follow through on the task ahead, the thought of his voice and his words wouldn’t leave you.

And that was the problem. You watched as Mando left with the group, jittery with both nerves and the heat of Mando’s words. And so you waited.

Two hours. It had been two hours since Mando had told you to wait on the ship. Two hours of pacing, of turning over every possible scenario in your mind, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and why Mando still hadn’t returned. You couldn’t sit still anymore. You had to move.

The comm came through suddenly, breaking the silence and jolting you from your thoughts.

“Listen to me,” Mando’s voice crackled through the comms, calm but laced with a tension that sent a chill down your spine. “It’s a setup. They trapped me somewhere. I need you to stay put and stay on the ship. I’m going to get out.”

Your heart stopped in your chest. A trap? You didn’t care about anything other than finding him, making sure he was safe.

“No. Mando, I’m coming for you. I can’t just sit here,” you practically shouted at the comm, the panic starting to rise in your throat.

“Calm down,” he said, his voice a little firmer now. “Stay on the ship. You’re no good to me if you get caught out there too. I’ll handle it. Just wait, and I’ll be out before you know it.”

You ground your teeth, frustration boiling inside you. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to do something, anything, to go and find him. But he was right. He was capable of handling himself, and if you went out there now, you might only make things worse.

Reluctantly, you agreed. “Fine. But you better get out of there fast.”

You kept pacing, watching the time tick by, anxiety growing like a fire in your chest. You couldn’t just sit here, helpless. The minutes dragged on, each one worse than the last, and soon enough, your decision was made.

Fuck it. You couldn’t wait anymore.

You slipped off the ship, moving swiftly and silently through the corridors of the massive vessel. You didn’t even know where you were headed, just that you had to find Mando, to make sure he was okay. Your pulse was racing as you crept along, every sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through you.

You dispatched a guard droid with ease, your blade cutting through its systems like butter, but still, the ship felt too quiet. Too empty. The hum of the vessel’s engines was the only sound you could hear now, and even that felt distant, like the ship was alive and yet disconnected from you. Every step you took felt heavier, as though the darkness pressing in around you was suffocating, tightening around your chest. The only thing louder than the silence was the erratic beat of your own heart.

The light flickered, casting long, eerie shadows along the metal walls, and then, with a shudder that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the lights went out. Just like that. A sudden, suffocating darkness swallowed you whole.

Your breath caught in your throat. You froze, eyes adjusting to the blackness, the low hum of your commlink the only weak point of light in this endless expanse. The cold air seemed to press in on you, the ship’s metallic bones groaning as it shifted. You felt utterly alone in the dark, every step you took seeming to echo in your ears. The stillness was almost worse than the chaos. It had that dead, hollow quality that made your skin crawl, and every single nerve screamed at you to stop, to turn around, to run back to the ship and wait for Mando.

But you couldn’t. Not now. Not when you were this close.

Then, a sound—footsteps—just at the edge of hearing. Too light, too quick, but unmistakable. Someone was out there.

You pressed yourself into the shadows, your pulse rising as your fingers curled tighter around your knife. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline rushing through your veins, but you told yourself to stay calm. Stay sharp.

The footsteps grew louder, closer. Whoever it was, they were moving fast. Too fast.

And then, he appeared. A silhouette in the dark, moving like he knew exactly where you were, his boots echoing against the cold floor. You didn’t have time to think—your body reacted on instinct. You rushed forward, knife raised, ready to strike, but you weren’t fast enough.

He was on you before you could land the blow. His weight crashed into you, knocking the air from your lungs as he shoved you to the ground. The cold, unforgiving floor of the ship met your back with a brutal thud, the impact stealing your breath.

Panic flooded your system, your heart pounding louder than the thud of your fall. Your hands flew to the knife, but he was too strong. His grip tightened around your wrists, forcing your arms above your head. You thrashed beneath him, desperate to break free, but the more you fought, the more he pushed you down, his body pressing on top of yours.

You could feel his breath on your face, heavy and labored, and all you could think about was the knife—his knife—now pressed against your throat. Cold steel kissed your skin, and the weight of it made your throat tighten. You couldn’t get a proper breath. Couldn’t think.

“Stay still,” he growled, the knife digging a little deeper. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. You weren’t going to give him that. Not when you still had a chance to fight. You twisted beneath him, trying to free your legs, but they were trapped under his body. You were pinned.

No escape.

You felt the panic rising in your chest like a tidal wave, clawing at your throat, making it hard to breathe. The edge of the knife pressed against your skin, just waiting for the wrong move.

And then—your mind snapped to him.

Mando.

The thought came out of nowhere, like an instinct, something that was just so ingrained in you that it was impossible to ignore. You thought about him. About the way he always seemed to have your back, the way he had your trust. Your thoughts flickered to the kid—his smile, his laugh. You’d never see him again. You’d never get to tell Mando how you felt, never get the chance to be with him.

This was it. You were going to die here, on this ship, in the dark, with a blade at your throat. And you hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell Mando that you cared.

A broken, almost hysterical laugh bubbled up from your chest. It felt so unfair. The kid would grow up without you. Mando would never know how much he meant to you. Your thoughts were racing, spiraling out of control as you tried to grasp at something—anything—that could stop this, but the dark reality settled in. You weren’t going to make it out of here. It was all slipping through your fingers like sand.

But then, a crash.

The figure above you was wrenched off in a single, fluid motion. You didn’t even register it at first—just the sudden, sharp shift in pressure, the weight lifted from your chest. A loud grunt followed, and then the man was gone, hurled into the darkness with a sickening thud.

Your chest heaved, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as you scrambled to push yourself up. And then, in the shadows of the darkened hallway, you saw him.

Mando.

You blinked, unable to fully comprehend that he was here, right here, right now. He stood over the mercenary like a storm, a force of nature, his armor gleaming in the dim light. Without hesitation, he was on the man, his gloved hands wrapping around the mercenary’s neck and slamming him against the wall with a sound that made your stomach turn.

The mercenary’s knife was knocked out of his hand, clattering against the floor as Mando finished him off in a swift, brutal movement. The man’s body crumpled to the ground, a heavy silence falling over the ship.

You stared at Mando, still on the floor, trying to piece together what just happened. You were alive. He was here. You were okay. But the overwhelming relief didn’t hit you at first, not until he turned toward you, helmet angled just enough that you could almost feel the weight of his gaze on you.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and steady as he extended a hand to you. His tone was all business, but there was something softer there, beneath the surface—something that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

You took his hand, feeling the strength in his grip as he helped you to your feet. There was a brief, lingering moment where neither of you spoke, just standing there, close enough that you could feel his heat radiating from his armor. His presence was commanding, undeniable. And you… you couldn’t breathe properly, not with the way your heart was hammering in your chest.

But you didn’t have time for that. Not now.

“You okay?” Mando asked, his voice a little softer now.

You nodded, though your voice caught in your throat. “I—I thought I was going to die.”

Mando’s gloved hands were gentle as he cupped your face, his touch oddly tender amidst the chaos that had just unfolded. His helmet loomed close, his posture rigid, but his movements were careful, his fingers lightly brushing over your skin, checking for cuts, bruises, any sign of injury. The intensity of his inspection was palpable, as though he needed to reassure himself that you were truly unharmed.

The tension that had been building between you both crackled in the silence, but that tension quickly turned into something else, something sharper. His posture stiffened, and when he finally pulled his hands away from your face, you noticed how his shoulders tightened under the weight of his frustration.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick with irritation. “I told you to stay on the ship.”

The words stung more than they should have, but you weren’t ready to back down. Not this time. Not when he was being so infuriatingly overprotective.

“I couldn’t sit there while you were trapped,” you snapped, your chest heaving with the remnants of adrenaline and anger. “You think I’m just supposed to wait around? While you’re stuck somewhere? I’m not that kind of person, Mando.”

Mando’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don’t care. I need you to stay out of danger. You’re not invincible. I can’t lose you like that.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you were left standing there, breathless. But the sting of his words only fueled the fire in you, and you found yourself stepping closer, your own frustration bubbling over.

“I don’t care if you’re worried about me,” you fired back, voice tight, “I couldn’t just stay on the sidelines, especially when you’re in danger. I’ve seen what happens when you get caught in the thick of it.” You shook your head, turning away from him for a moment. “I couldn’t let you go through that alone.”

Mando’s jaw clenched, and there was a long pause between you both as you exchanged heated glances. The anger swirled between you like a storm, both of you stubborn, both of you unwilling to relent. The silence hung in the air, thick and heavy with everything that had been left unsaid.

After a moment, Mando exhaled slowly, turning toward the ship’s exit. You followed him, neither of you saying another word. The ship lurched into the air, the engine roaring to life as you made your way back to the safety of the ship, the weight of the argument hanging like a dark cloud between you.

Once you were in the cockpit, Mando set course for the stars, his hands tight on the controls, his posture as stiff as ever. You both sat in silence as the ship cut through the atmosphere, the stars on the other side of the viewport a reminder of the vast distance between you and the danger you’d just escaped.

But as you cleared the atmosphere, as the silence between you both grew unbearable, the argument reignited.

“Why couldn’t you just listen to me?” Mando’s voice was quiet, but the frustration was still there, simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his focus on the controls.

The cockpit felt suffocating, the tension thick enough to choke on. Mando stood before you, his broad frame rigid, his helmet tilted slightly as though he couldn’t believe you were actually arguing with him after everything that had just happened. The way his body was so still only made your frustration mount, a stark contrast to the way you were practically vibrating with anger.

“Because I’m not a damn prisoner on this ship,” you snapped, each word cutting through the charged silence like a vibroblade. “I have a stake in this. I’m not going to sit around waiting for you to come back. I’m not just here to sit pretty and keep the ship in one piece while you risk your life. I’m not gonna be left behind.”

His head tilted slightly, the shine of the black visor catching the dim cockpit light. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured but laced with a dangerous edge, like a storm barely contained. “You think I asked for this?”

Your jaw tightened, but he didn’t stop.

“You think I wanted to come back to find you fighting for your life? That I wanted to worry about whether or not I’d lose you today because you couldn’t follow simple instructions?”

The words hit you hard, your chest tightening with a mixture of anger and something you weren’t ready to name. His voice was colder than you’d heard it in weeks, and the accusation in his tone stung more than you cared to admit.

“Maybe if you told me what was going on,” you countered, your voice rising, “I wouldn’t have had to! You treat me like I’m supposed to just sit here and wait while you throw yourself into danger. I’m not your—”

“You’re not my what?” he demanded, stepping forward, his voice cutting through yours like a whip. “Not my responsibility? Because that’s exactly what you are when you pull a stunt like that.”

The word responsibility landed with the force of a blow, and your vision blurred for a moment with the heat of your fury. You didn’t know if you were angrier at his words or at the fact that they hurt so damn much.

“Fuck you,” you hissed, the venom in your voice surprising even yourself. Without waiting for a response, you spun on your heel and stormed out of the cockpit, your boots pounding against the cold durasteel floor.

“Hey!” he barked, his voice sharp and commanding. You didn’t stop.

You barely made it halfway down the corridor before you heard the heavy thud of his boots following you. His strides were longer, faster, and before you could fully register it, his voice was back at your side, low and demanding. “Don’t walk away from me.”

“I’m done talking to you,” you threw over your shoulder, your pace quickening.

“Well, I’m not done with you,” he growled, his voice closer now.

You came to an abrupt stop, spinning to face him so fast that he had to pull back slightly to avoid colliding with you. Your chest heaved as you jabbed a finger toward him, your anger boiling over. “Oh, of course not. Because it’s never about what I want, is it? It’s always about your rules, your plans, what you think is best. But guess what? You don’t get to make that call for me.”

His head tilted slightly, his shoulders rising as though he were bracing himself. “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“No,” you snapped, cutting him off before he could continue. “You don’t get it. I have a right to be here, to fight, to know what the hell is going on. You don’t own me.”

Something in the air shifted. His body stiffened, and for a moment, you thought he might back down. But then he took a step forward, closing the distance between you. Instinctively, you took a step back.

“Careful,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly. Your heart pounded in your chest, your anger simmering just beneath the surface.

He didn’t stop. Another step. Then another. Each one deliberate, controlled. Every inch he took forward, you took back until the wall met your spine, cold and unyielding.

Your breath hitched as he stopped inches from you, his broad frame towering over you. One of his arms came up, his hand bracing against the wall beside your head. The movement was slow, almost deliberate, and the intensity of his presence made your pulse race.

“You want to keep yelling?” he asked, his voice low, rasping. “Go ahead. But answer me this first.”

Your brow furrowed as you glared up at the black visor, your confusion mixing with your frustration. “What?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended.

“Tell me you didn’t like it,” he said, his tone dropping into something darker. Something that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you spat, your anger barely masking the flicker of unease his words ignited.

“Earlier,” he clarified, his voice smoother now, almost sultry. “When the ship lurched, and you were pinned under me. You told me to never do it again. So tell me… tell me you didn’t like it.”

Your breath caught in your throat, his words pulling the memory to the surface with startling clarity. The weight of him pressing into you, the heat of his body even through the layers of armor. The way his hands had cradled you with such strength, such care.

Your pulse quickened, and a flush spread across your cheeks. “I…” you started, but the words wouldn’t come. Your mind was spinning, the memory of that moment replaying with vivid detail.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” he said, his voice laced with both triumph and frustration.

You opened your mouth to argue, to push back, but the intensity of his presence silenced you. His free hand moved to your hip, the touch firm but somehow electric.

“Mando,” you whispered, his name falling from your lips before you could stop it.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, his voice rough, raw, “what it would’ve done to me if I’d lost you today? If I hadn’t gotten there in time?”

His hand tightened on your hip, and you sucked in a sharp breath as he leaned in closer, the helmet mere inches from your face. His thigh shifted, parting yours to rest at your core, and the contact sent a jolt of heat through you that you couldn’t ignore.

“I…” you tried again, your voice faltering as the weight of the moment pressed down on you.

“You’re fucking infuriating,” you finally managed to say, your tone sharp, but your body betrayed you as your hips shifted slightly, the friction against his thigh sparking something you couldn’t control.

“And yet,” he said, his voice low and filled with something dark and possessive, “you’re still here.”

The air between you was crackling, electric and volatile, like a storm that had been building for far too long. Mando was impossibly close, his gloved hand gripping your hip with a possessiveness that left you breathless, his helmet tilted toward you in a way that felt predatory. His other hand still braced against the wall beside your head, boxing you in completely.

Your heart pounded in your chest as his voice dropped even lower, gravelly and dark. “You’re still here,” he repeated, his tone carrying an edge of frustration and something else—something deeper, something that made your knees weak.

You opened your mouth to reply, to argue, to yell something—anything—to break the tension, but the words died in your throat as he shifted against you. His thigh pressed up between yours, deliberate and firm, the pressure just right to send a shockwave through your entire body.

“Fuck you,” you breathed, though your body betrayed the words as you shamelessly ground down against him, seeking more of the delicious friction that had your nerves tingling with fire.

His helmet tilted, the black visor never leaving your face as his hands slid up, one spanning your waist while the other lingered at your ribcage, his thumb brushing maddeningly close to the underside of your breast. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice impossibly low and edged with something feral. “You keep saying that like it’s not exactly what you want.”

A sharp pulse of need shot through you, and you let out a sound somewhere between frustration and surrender. His words felt like a challenge, like he was calling you out for the very thing you couldn’t deny.

Your hands fisted the fabric of his flight suit as you leaned forward, your forehead brushing against the smooth surface of his helmet. The action brought you so close that his breaths—filtered through the modulator—felt tangible against your lips.

“Stop playing games,” you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and desire. “If you’re gonna—”

He cut you off with a sharp movement of his thigh, his hands guiding your hips against him, forcing you to feel the friction, the heat. Your head fell back against the wall, a broken sound slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

“You think this is a game to me?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

You forced yourself to meet his visor, your chest heaving with every breath. “What do you want from me, Mando?”

“I want you to stop acting like you don’t know,” he growled, his hand sliding up your side, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Like you don’t feel it.”

You wanted to argue, to fight back, but the words wouldn’t come. Your mind was clouded, your body overwhelmed by the sheer force of him—his presence, his touch, the way he moved against you like he owned you.

“I can’t—” you started, but his thigh shifted again, and the sound you made was anything but coherent.

“You can,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His helmet tilted down toward you, his voice softening just slightly. “I need you to.”

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping the beskar as you tried to ground yourself, tried to fight the wave of heat building inside you. But it was impossible. He was everywhere, overwhelming your senses, leaving you no room to think, only feel.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” you managed to say, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “Sitting here, wondering if you’re gonna come back? Fuck—”

His hand slid up your side again, his thumb brushing against the bare skin just below the hem of your shirt—his shirt—and you shivered at the contact.

“I’ve wanted—no, needed you for so fucking long,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Your voice was raw, filled with frustration and longing. “I–ah–didn’t think you felt the same.”

His grip on you tightened, his body pressing closer, his thigh still firm between yours. “You think I don’t feel the same?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You think I could’ve lost you today and just kept going like nothing happened?”

His breath was ragged against your ear as he slid his hand further, his thumb tracing the curve of your side. “I’ve always wanted you,” he muttered, the words low and edged with a raw, primal edge that sent a shiver through your entire body. “Fuck, I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you on this ship—every time you walked by me in that tight hall, wearing my clothes like you fucking knew what it did to me. You don’t understand how hard it was to just… watch you, to feel you so close, but never touch. It was wrong—hell, I know it was wrong. I'm basically your fucking employer—but you were there, right there in front of me. Every time I saw you, I couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think straight, and every part of me just wanted to take you, to pull you into me.” His voice grew tighter, almost as though he was choking on the words as his hands gripped you even tighter, pulling you against him. “But I couldn’t act on it, not until I knew you felt the same. Until I knew you weren’t going to just… disappear.”

Your breath hitched at his words as his hand trailed up, brushing against your ribs, his touch setting your nerves on fire. You wanted to respond, to push him further, but the weight of his words—and the way he looked at you, even through the visor—left you speechless.

“Mando,” you breathed, your voice trembling.

“Din,” he corrected softly, his voice a reverent murmur.

Your heart stuttered at the sound of his name, and you opened your mouth to say it back, but before you could, he leaned in, his helmet brushing against your forehead as his hands slid to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. “Are you going to do something or what?” you challenged.

He didn’t reply, but his hands moved again, sliding down to cup your ass and grope the pillowy flesh. Then, with a fluid strength that took your breath away, he lifted you.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, locking at the ankles as your body molded against his. You gasped at the firm press of his body against yours, your core pressed directly against the undeniable hardness between his legs. Even through the layers of clothing and armor, the sensation was maddening.

Your hands braced against his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric as the reality of the moment overwhelmed you. “Mando—Din,” you corrected yourself, your voice breaking as your forehead rested against his helmet again. “I need you. Now.”

His hands gripped you tighter, and the way he growled your name was a sound you would never forget. He stepped back from the wall, carrying you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. The heat of his body was a blazing contrast to the cool metal of the ship, and your breath hitched as he lowered you to the floor with surprising care, even amidst the unrestrained urgency crackling between you.

He hovered over you, his hips slotting between your legs again as his hands roamed your body, claiming every inch of you without hesitation. The hard edges of his armor brushed against your skin, a stark reminder of the man beneath it—unyielding, impenetrable, yet undone for you.

You arched into his touch, your mind clouded with nothing but him, the overwhelming need you felt, and the knowledge that nothing could keep him from you now.

Your hands trembled as they slid down his chest, palming at the cold, unyielding metal of his armor. The sharp edges and smooth plates were a stark contrast to the heat radiating off him, and you bit your lip, frustrated by the barrier between you.

“Din,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, but the urgency in it was unmistakable. Your fingers tugged at the edges of his cuirass, a desperate plea breaking free from your lips. “Please… take it off—I need to feel you.”

He stilled above you, his helmet tilting down as if weighing your words. You knew what you were asking was monumental—he rarely took his armor off, and certainly not in front of anyone. It was a part of him, an extension of the creed he held so tightly. But right now, you needed to feel him. Not the metal, not the layers—him.

His gloved hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he seemed to search for something in your expression. Whatever he saw there, it broke down the walls he’d built so carefully around himself.

With a slight nod, he sat back on his knees, his hands moving to the clasps and fastenings of his armor. The air grew heavy with anticipation as he worked, the clinks and clicks of metal being removed echoing in the small space. Piece by piece, the armor came off—shoulder plates, chest plate, gauntlets—until he was left in just the dark flight suit that clung to his body.

Your breath caught as you watched him, the dim light casting shadows across his broad frame. The fabric of the flight suit hugged every inch of him, leaving little to the imagination. He hesitated for a moment, his hands stilling at the zipper of his suit, as though giving you one last chance to stop him.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and rough, yet threaded with a vulnerability that tugged at your heart.

You nodded, your lips parting as your chest rose and fell rapidly. “Please, Din.”

That was all it took. He pulled the zipper down in one swift motion, the sound louder than it should have been, and peeled the suit off his shoulders. The fabric slid down his torso, revealing tan, scarred skin and taut muscles that made your mouth go dry.

You swallowed hard, your gaze drinking him in as more of him was revealed. The ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the trail of dark hair that led down to the waistband of his boxers—it was overwhelming. Your eyes dipped lower, and your breath hitched at the sight of his arousal, straining against the fabric of his boxers. He was huge, the outline of him leaving little room for imagination, and the sheer size of him sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs.

“Maker,” you whispered, unable to tear your gaze away from him. Your skin felt electrified, every nerve alight with anticipation.

Din’s hands slid under your shirt, his calloused fingers skimming over your stomach and ribs with an intimacy that sent a shiver racing up your spine. His touch was light, almost reverent, as though he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “Your turn,” he murmured, his voice rough with arousal.

You didn’t hesitate, your hands flying to the hem of your shirt. His eyes, hidden behind the black visor of his helmet, seemed to burn into you as you stripped the fabric from your body, leaving your torso bare to him. The cool air of the ship kissed your skin, but the heat in his touch was enough to set you ablaze.

His hands followed, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, until you felt utterly consumed by him. His helmet tilted as though he were memorizing every detail of you, and the air between you crackled with a tension so thick it was almost suffocating.

Din froze as your bare form was revealed to him, his chest rising and falling with heavy, measured breaths. His gloved hands hovered for a moment as if the sight of you had momentarily rendered him incapable of movement. When he finally exhaled, it came out in a deep, guttural groan, one that sent a shiver coursing through your entire body.

“Maker,” he rasped, his voice raw and unguarded, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it.

His visor tilted, drinking you in as though he could see every curve, every dip and swell of your body beneath the low light of the Crest. To him, you were radiant. The soft, golden glow of the overhead lights cast a halo around you, highlighting the light sheen of sweat glistening on your skin. You looked ethereal, angelic, like something he had no right to touch.

But it wasn’t just the beauty of your body that undid him—it was you. The way your chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, the way your hands trembled slightly, clutching the blanket beneath you for some semblance of stability. You were so alive, so perfect, and you were here with him. For him.

His cock twitched painfully against the confines of his boxers, straining against the fabric as he took in the sight of you. He could feel the heat pooling in his belly, the pulsing need to touch you, to claim you, to lose himself in the one thing he never thought he could have.

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself, but you heard it. The word sent a flood of warmth straight to your core, your thighs instinctively pressing together to temper the ache building there.

Din noticed, of course. He always noticed. His hand, still clad in its leather glove, trailed down your side, the contrast between the cool leather and the heat of your skin sending sparks along your nerves. He reached the waistband of your panties, hesitating for a brief moment before hooking his fingers under the fabric.

His movements were deliberate, almost agonizingly slow, as though he wanted to savor every second. He peeled the fabric down your legs, his eyes—hidden though they were—never leaving you. The sight of you fully bare beneath him stole the air from his lungs, and he let out another low groan that made your toes curl.

“Din,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need, your thighs shifting restlessly as the heat between them became unbearable.

“Patience,” he said, his voice dark and commanding, yet laced with a tenderness that made your heart race.

His hand returned, now free of the glove, and the warmth of his palm against your inner thigh made you gasp. He traced a slow, teasing path upward, his fingers brushing against your slick heat, and you bit your lip, barely stifling the whimper that escaped you.

“So wet,” he murmured, almost reverently, his thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch off the floor. “Is this all for me?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking as his fingers slid through your folds. “All for you.”

His other hand settled on your hip, grounding you as he slid one thick finger inside you, the stretch making your head fall back with a soft moan. He moved slowly at first, his finger curling and pumping in a rhythm that had you writhing beneath him. Then he added another, his thumb never ceasing its gentle assault on your clit, and the pressure built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

“Din, I—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice softening as he leaned closer, his forehead just inches from yours. “Let go for me.”

The words, the command in them paired with the tenderness, sent you over the edge. Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your body trembling as you cried out his name, clutching desperately at his forearms to anchor yourself. He worked you through it, his fingers never faltering as he coaxed every last bit of pleasure from you.

When you finally came down, your chest heaving as you blinked up at him with dazed eyes, Din didn’t give you time to recover. He was already pushing his boxers down, freeing himself, and the sight of him made your breath hitch. He was massive, thick and long, and your core clenched at the thought of him inside you.

He leaned down, pressing his helmet against your forehead as his hands slid under your thighs, hitching them around his waist. “Tell me,” he rasped, his voice rough with need, “if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head fervently, your hands clutching at his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice breathy and desperate. “I need you, Din. Now.”

With a low growl, he removed his cock from his boxers, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of him brushing against your sensitive folds. Then, with one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushed inside, and you cried out at the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of him.

The moment Din pushed inside, your body arched off the floor, a strangled cry tearing from your lips as the sensation of him stretching you filled every inch of your being. He was thick, his girth almost overwhelming as your walls clenched around him involuntarily, fluttering at the sheer force of his entry. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly as you fought to adjust to the exquisite stretch.

“Stars,” you gasped, nails digging into the taut muscles of his shoulders. “Din, I—”

He stilled immediately, his hands gripping your hips firmly, holding you steady even as his own body trembled with restraint. His voice, low and strained through the modulator, was like gravel. “I know, baby. I know. Just breathe.”

You could feel his cock twitching inside you, a constant reminder of his size and the way your walls struggled to accommodate him. The burn ebbed slowly, replaced by a pulsating ache that was both pleasure and pain, your body contracting around him as it learned to accept him. The Crest’s dim lights glinted off the sheen of sweat on your skin, making you glow beneath him, and Din’s breath hitched audibly at the sight.

His thumb stroked soft, reassuring circles against your hip, his own restraint evident in the way his chest rose and fell with thudding breaths. “Kriff, you feel…” he started, his words trailing off as if they couldn’t capture the magnitude of the moment.

Finally, the pressure shifted, the ache transforming into a hum of pleasure that sent vibrations through your core. You gave a small, experimental roll of your hips, testing, and the motion pulled a groan from his lips as your walls sucked him deeper.

“I—I think I’m ready,” you whispered, your voice breathy and tinged with urgency.

Din hesitated, his forehead pressing to yours. “Are you sure?” His voice was rough, every syllable trembling with the weight of his self-control.

“Fuck, Din,” you moaned, your hips grinding against him instinctively. “Move. I need you to move.”

His restraint snapped like a tether pulled too tight. He pulled out slowly, your walls clenching and fluttering in protest, only to slam back into you with a force that left you gasping. Your body trembled beneath him, your nails raking down his back as he set a slow, deliberate pace, each thrust deep and intentional, filling you completely.

The sensation was overwhelming. Every drive of his hips sent shudders rippling through you, his cock dragging against every nerve, your walls pulsating around him with every movement. The friction was maddening, a delicious agony that built steadily, and you could feel every twitch, every throb of him inside you as he claimed you.

“Din,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as his name fell from your lips like a prayer.

He groaned in response, the sound guttural and raw as his hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you in place for his relentless thrusts. “You’re so tight,” he rasped, his modulated voice vibrating against your skin. “So fucking perfect.”

Your body was a live wire beneath him, every nerve ending alight as the coil in your core tightened, your hips grinding up to meet his with desperation. Each thrust grew rougher, more urgent, his pace driving faster as your walls quivered and sucked him deeper.

“I—I’m close,” you stuttered, your voice trembling as the fire in your belly burned hotter.

“I’ve got you,” Din murmured, one hand sliding between your bodies to find the swollen bundle of nerves at your center. His fingers pressed against you, the pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Let go. Come for me.”

The combination of his thrusts, his touch, and the overwhelming fullness of him buried deep pushed you over the edge. Your release hit like a supernova, your walls contracting and fluttering around him as waves of pleasure pulsed through you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

“Din!” you cried out, your body arching against him as the pleasure ripped through every inch of you.

The way you clenched around him, your walls milking him as you came, was his undoing. His thrusts grew erratic, each one deeper and harder as he chased his own release. With a guttural growl, his body tensed, his cock twitching as he spilled inside you, the force of his climax sending shivers through his frame.

After the intensity of the moment passed, a deep silence enveloped the two of you, punctuated only by the sound of your heavy breathing. The ship’s low hum seemed distant compared to the pounding of your heart in your chest, still racing from the whirlwind of sensations. Din slowly pulled out, his movements gentle, almost reverent, as he settled back beside you on the cold floor of the cockpit.

The aftermath was strange. Your body still hummed with the memory of his touch, the lingering warmth of his skin, but now, there was a profound sense of exhaustion, of weightlessness, almost like you’d been floating outside of yourself. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him—his form still looming over you, imposing and powerful, even with the helmet still in place.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Din’s hand reached for you, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a tenderness that caught you off guard. His fingers lingered on your cheek, as if he was making sure you were real, that this wasn’t some fevered dream.

He exhaled sharply, almost like he was trying to shake off the weight of what had just happened. You watched him, unsure of what to say, feeling the quiet aftermath settle around you.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you felt the same?” you asked, your voice quieter now, but still filled with that same raw frustration. You weren’t angry, not really—you just needed to understand. The silence in the cockpit was deafening, and all you could think about was how much this moment had changed everything between you.

Din didn’t answer immediately. His gloved hands flexed as he reached for the remaining pieces of his armor, moving methodically, almost as though he was trying to mask the emotion you knew he was feeling too. But then he stopped, his back still to you, and you could see his shoulders tense.

He turned slowly, his helmet facing you, but his posture was less rigid than usual. It was almost like he didn’t know how to stand anymore. He let out a breath, long and low, and then finally, in a voice that was quieter, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it, he spoke.

“I was scared,” he admitted, the words coming out rough, as though they were hard to say. “Scared that you wouldn’t feel the same. That if I told you, you’d leave… that you’d leave me and the kid.”

Your heart tightened in your chest as his words sank in. You could feel the weight of his vulnerability, the fear that had kept him silent all this time. You wanted to reach for him, to tell him how foolish he was for ever doubting you, but you let him continue.

“I’ve been willing to suffer through it,” he went on, his voice catching just slightly, “if it meant you’d stay. I never wanted to put that burden on you. I never wanted you to feel like you had to choose between me and… well, everything else. But when you went after me earlier…” His voice faltered for a moment, and for the first time since you’d known him, he seemed unsure. “I thought I was going to lose you. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t let that happen.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and fragile. You swallowed hard, feeling a rush of emotion you hadn’t expected. All this time, he’d been hiding his feelings because he thought you might leave.

You reached out, your hand trembling slightly as you placed it on his arm. His gaze softened under the helmet, his body still tense, but there was something in his stance that made you believe he was finally, truly being open with you.

“I’m not going anywhere, Din,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly with the sincerity of your words. “I thought… I thought you knew that.”

Din’s breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, he stood there, completely still, before his gloved hand reached out, gently cupping your face. His touch was warm through the cool material of his armor, and his thumb brushed over your cheek in a motion that felt almost reverent.

“I don’t want to be alone in this anymore,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t keep pretending like I don’t need you. I’ve… I’ve never needed anyone before. But I need you, both of you.”

You were speechless for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of emotions—everything that had been unspoken between you finally coming to the surface. You could see it in the way his posture softened, the way his gloved hand held your face with such care, like you were something precious to him.

You reached up, gently touching the edge of his helmet, as if trying to bridge the distance between the two of you, the one that had been there for so long. “You’re not going to lose us, Din,” you said firmly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him, like he was finally letting go of some of the weight that had been pressing down on him for so long. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you closer. His helmet leaned down just slightly, as if he was breathing you in, the closeness between you palpable.

Then, his voice, softer this time, held a hint of the emotion that had been building for so long.

“I’m sorry for not saying it sooner,” he murmured. “For not telling you how much you mean to me. But now, I’m telling you. I need you here. With me.”

Your chest fluttered at the admission, and you smiled softly, feeling lighter somehow, as if the weight of everything that had been unsaid between you was finally being lifted.

“I need you too,” you said, your voice almost shy now, but filled with certainty.

And with that, the last of the tension between you melted away. He pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you as you nestled against his chest. For a moment, it was just the two of you, holding each other in the quiet, dim light of the Crest, the sound of your heartbeats the only thing you could hear.

Din’s voice rumbled softly in your ear. “Next time, don’t go running off without me, alright?”

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing small patterns across his chest. “You’re not the only one who gets to be stubborn, you know.”

He chuckled, and for a brief moment, everything felt right—like this was how it was always supposed to be.

“I guess we’re both stubborn then,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with that same tenderness. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you around, huh?”

You smiled, leaning back to look up at him, the warmth of his embrace making you feel more at peace than you had in a long time. “You better,” you teased softly, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his flight suit. “I wouldn’t want to leave you and the kid to fend for yourselves.”

A soft laugh bubbled from his chest, and as he looked down at you, you could see the beginnings of something new between you—a bond that wasn’t just about survival or shared missions anymore. It was deeper than that. You didn’t know what the future held, but right now, you knew one thing for sure: you were in this together.

And that was enough.

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