#shes crafty and she was trained to always be

[dailykugisaki]

Day 194 | id in alt

She was gonna just gonna give a thrift the clothes she no longer wanted but she can't deny Maki worth a shit. Also like she makes 237 straw dolls a minute. Sorry, Maki.

[ziggyyyystardust]

It’s been said before but the way people treat Luke has got to be one of the worst cases of infantilisation in media ever,, sometimes it feels like people aren’t even watching the same movies because how do you watch return of the Jedi and think “yeah what a stupid twink” bro straight up chopped off DARTH VADERS hand despite having crash course training in something Vaders been doing for the past like 30yrs.. if I were Vader I’d be so embarrassed. ALSO I’m so sick of people being like “Leia is so much smarter than him she was a senator and he was playing with toy ships” buddy idk how to say this but they had VASTLY different education levels, Leias’ parents were part of the rebellion and worked in politics where she was actively encouraged. Luke grew up in hutt space where his aunt and uncle were focused on making sure he didn’t turn out like his father or get himself killed. He’s also extremely skilled and crafty?? It’s always given me a weird feeling that people think that just because he doesn’t have a formal education that he’s dumb or something.

Anyways I <3 Luke, I think he’s one of the best Jedi characters ever

[novemberheart]

Chapter 2 <- Chapter 3 -> Chapter 4

{Overview} An interaction between Kyle and Johnny opens your eyes to your roommates.

{warnings} Soapgaz!!!!! Depictions or break ins and uncomfortable situations, reader being harassed, no s/a but intimidation and stalking written

You’ve always had a hard time finding your way in life. It felt as though everyone around you just gets up everyday and knows exactly what they are going to do- what they are going to accomplish. Take your work life for example. You’ve done just about every job in the book. You’ve been a barista, you went to fashion school (for a month). You’ve been a dog walker, a nanny, a personal shopper, person stylist, you even worked at a campsite. After facing pressure from your family you finally decided to go back to school and ended up getting a degree in psychology. You completed about seven months of your supervised training before you felt like you made a mistake.

Your mentors were decent, but you always felt like they could tell you were a dropout. They offered you little support- likely knowing it would be a waste.

Lucky for you, you have an Aunt Kate. Whilst she never understood your inability to settle she supported you nonetheless. So when she heard the veterans facility down the road needed a new art therapist, who else was she to think of?

They didn’t care that you lacked some much needed and required experience. You weren’t particularly crafty, but you were a quick learner. You were hired nearly on the spot (which could be perceived as a red flag) and you quickly hopped on a plane to England(or drove).

Your first day you realized why it had been so challenging for them to fill the spot. They were insufferable. Grumpy, angry and entitled. It was like that for weeks. They would never do any activities you set up, just lash out and complain. Then one day you lost it. You yelled at them. A room filled to the hilt of 20+ veterans who stared at you, a young woman, with their eyes like saucers.

You quickly became their favorite after that.

For the first time ever you found your niche. The last thing you wanted to do was loose it. But problems arose at home. The first break in was “your” fault. You had burned some popcorn and had left the window open, forgetting about it as you popped over to the store. When you came back your microwave, TV and charging cables were gone. You couldn’t sleep for weeks after that. Every little sound caused you to fly straight up in your bed. You slept with the lights on and barricaded your door every night. You hid it from Kate and your family- not wanting to worry them. You had finally began to feel safe again and Kate invited you on a weekend away in the countryside to celebrate a pay raise for her and two months at a job for you. When you came back your door was ajar.

This time Kate was with you. You were thankful for that. Nothing was missing, but your apartment had been turned upside down. Rotted food from the fridge being left open. They had smashed all your lamps and lightbulbs. Your bed had been flipped, your sheets shredded. They had also flooded your toilet with tissue paper. It felt hateful. You had no idea if it was the same people as before or maybe your apartment was just a target now.

The outside world started to turn against you too. You never minded taking public transportation, until people seemed to recognize your pattern. One night a man who had always sat rows in front of you decided to sit right next to you, sandwiching you between the window. While his hands never touched you, he slowly scooted closer and closer and closer. You were tired of feeling helpless. You stood up and screamed. As loud of you could. It was effective. The man tumbled away from you as fast as he could and you never saw him again. You filed a report with the police- well you told them about it but who knows if it actually went anywhere.

A few days later you were followed. You had gotten on the train that morning and noticed a hooded figure that you hadn’t seen before. Just the sight of it put knots in your stomach. You made it into work and had forgotten about it, until the next morning.

You called the police later, not that you could give much of a description. You stayed with Kate in a hotel that night, spilling your guts. She remained tight lipped, trying not to scare you. She felt sick. She had always been so protective of those she loved and she felt as though she had failed.

“I might know a place you could stay. Until you get enough cash for a down payment.”

You quickly shot down the idea.

Until the third break in. It happened at night. Interestingly enough on a night you felt comfortable. It was early in the AM when the creak of the window hinges woke you up. You didn’t even need to see what was going on before you started screaming. It had become a defense mechanism now. It had worked for you before, why not now? You sprung out of bed and grabbed the bear spray that laid next to you, charging out into the living room. You refused to go down without a fight. Two large figures had just crossed the threshold and you quickly made yourself known. You grabbed the crowbar next to the bedroom door and started swinging- all while spraying bear spray and screaming. It was like something out of the exorcist, but you didn’t care. This could be life or death. One of them reached for you, but was quickly pulled away by their friend, scrambling back out the window. You didn’t stop til they disappeared down the street.

You didn’t need to call the police this time. About six of your neighbors did it for you.

You had no other options. Everything was out of your price range and you were still a paying off student loans. The few places that were available were too far away from your beloved job or in just as bad areas as the one you were in now.

You called Kate with a hoarse voice begging her for help. She didn’t hesitate.

“How’d you sleep?” John asked, just as you passed the threshold of the kitchen.

“Good, thank you.” You chirped, beginning to stuff some snacks into your bag for work. “Got most of my unpacking done, not that there’s a lot.” You sighed.

“That reminds me, we each have our days for laundry. Does Wednesday or Friday work for you?” Your lips quirked out how well organized they were. You could easily imagine how they ran at work. “Honey?” He added, shaking you out of your thoughts.

“Wednesday. Wednesday works.” You smiled. He nodded his head in affirmation going back to his bowl of cereal. “I didn’t take you to be a cereal for breakfast type of guy. You seem more like bacon and eggs.”

He chuckled, tapping the box of cinnamon flavored cereal. “Guilty pleasure. Breakfast number two comes in around nine.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, filling up your water bottle. “See you later?” You questioned. He nodded his head quickly, a raspy ‘have a good day’ escaping him.

“Sooooooo Bon. You never quite explained to us what you do?” Johnny hummed.

“Let her get in the door, Johnny. Christsakes.” Simon huffed from the couch. You slipped off your shoes placing them neatly next to a pair of work boots. Johnny felt his chest tighten at the sight. He was half tempted to race upstairs and grab his sketchbook. Your prim and proper shoes next to their beat up death boots. Just looked right.

“I’m an art therapist at the veterans center.” You replied. He pulled himself out of his head, an even wider grin spreading across his face.

“That’s sick, Bon.” He followed you to the kitchen, where you began unloading your takeout. You still didn’t know what time they cooked dinner and you didn’t want to be in their way.

“Glad you think so. I really love it, well at the beginning I hated it.” You admitted.

“Forks are in the drawer next to the fridge.” Simon said, standing up from the couch. He made his way towards the kitchen grabbing a protein bar from the pantry.

“Thank you.” You dug one out of the (of course) neatly put together drawer.

“You hated it?” Johnny pressed, sitting down at one of the stools.

“Yeah, they were so mean to me. They would seriously tell me to “fuck off.”” You gawked. Simon snorted. Your eyes glanced up to meet his, before settling on Johnnys wide eyes.

“Way to represent.” The Scot muttered. You giggled, waving a hand in dismissal.

“That was just the older class. Most of them are seventy five and up. They have no patience for anything.” You snickered. “They like me now though.”

“How’d you manage that.” Simon interjected.

“I yelled at them. You all respond very well to negative reinforcement.” You hummed.

“What about your other groups?” Johnny asked. “What are they like?”

“Well they switch out of lot. Most of my other groups are soldiers who are required to take the class, as a ‘rehabilitation’ of sorts. We mostly just try to focus on healthy coping and self regulation methods. The art is just a distraction to get down to how they really feel.” You explained, beginning to dig into your spaghetti.

The men before you softened, sharing a quick glance with each other when you weren’t looking.

“Can I take the class?” Johnny asked suddenly. Your head shot up. Your first reaction was to tell him no. You didn’t want any judgment. Then you realized how unethical it was to deny someone.

“Of course.” You scrambled. “Although I recommend you come to the old timers club that meets every Tuesday and Thursday, eight am. They love talking to people in active duty.”

A sweet smile spread across Johnny’s features as he tapped his hand against the counter.

“It’s a date then.”

You fought hard against the blush and lost.

After you finished your spaghetti you worked your way upstairs. You were at the top of them when the front door opened. You dodged out of sight, but stayed close enough so you could peak down. Kyle and John were just getting home, both wearing workout clothes. You could hear someone bounding through the house and watched as Kyle steady himself, bracing for impact. Your eyebrows nestled together, waiting. Finally, Johnny came into view, throwing himself at Kyle. You smile grin spread on your face at the affection, but quickly turned into one of shock as Johnny opened his mouth, licking from Kyle’s neck up to his cheek.

“Shove off.” Kyle gagged, wiping at his face with his own grin. “Disgusting.” He grumbled, still trying to work out of Johnny’s grasp.

“I just love you.” You faintly heard Johnny murmur. He began peppering kisses on any skin he could reach and you watched as Kyle’s muscles relax.

“Not in the hallway you two.” John spoke up, patting both men. They whined- both for different reasons, stumbling into the living room still connected. John followed after them but not before his eyes darted up the stairs. He must’ve felt eyes on them. You dodged out of the way as quickly as possible, holding your breath. You stayed still for a moment before tiptoeing to your room.

As you laid in bed you wondered how you didn’t connect the dots sooner. All the things you witnessed but didn’t think twice about. The soft glances, how they always seemed to have a hand on each other. You wanted to know the dynamics.

How did this start? Whose idea was it? Do they all fuck each other or is it just a one on one situation? Maybe the room arrangements were the answer. Based off of that it would be Kyle with Johnny and John with Simon. But John and Simon were affectionate with the other two as well.

Your mind wandered through the late hours of night. Your mind growing more and more exhausted. You could almost imagine it. Them together. Tangled together, their muscled bodies rippling from pleasure and exertion.

You assumed John would be in charge. You could imagine him making sure everyone was getting the attention they deserved. Or maybe he would want to take the back seat for once. Who would step up then? You want to say Simon just based off of his demeanor, but you think Kyle would be good in that position. He is calm, gentle, but has underlying passion in everything he does. You could also picture Johnny running the show in his own way. Or maybe you were making this kinkier than it was. Maybe it was a mutual give and take? That’s how they seemed to be. Everything from their style to personalities blended seamlessly together.

You ignored the tightening in your stomach and rolled over pressing yourself further in your cozy bed.

“Sorry about last night.” Your head perked up from your laptop, to stare at John. You stared at him expectantly, before realizing what he was talking about. So you weren’t as slick as you thought you were.

“Please don’t apologize. This is your house.” You insisted, waving him off gently. He looked a bit relieved, as he sat down from across from you, his own laptop in his hands.

“Johnny likes to make a show.” He explained, a quirk in his lips. So Johnny knew you were there? Of course they did. These were men who had years of training under their belt. To think you were being sneaky.

“Well I should be the one apologizing. Creeping around like that.” You huffed in apologies. He chuckled, softly shaking his head in disagreement.

“Not to worry, Honey.” He assured, opening up his laptop.

“If you want another show I’ll be happy to provide.” You jumped as Johnny snuck around the corner. You could feel your ears begin to burn and the only thing you could think to do was giggle. John shot him a stern look, but Johnny paid little mind. He plopped down next to John spreading out various sketchbook and opening a silver tin filled with different sizes of charcoal.

“You get that all over the table again Simon’ll get you.” John warned.

“He’ll have to catch me first.” He hummed without a worry. All of you worked in a comfortable silence. John typed away on his computer, drifting away every so often to grab a new stack of papers to work on. Johnny was zeroed in and you doubted a tornado could break his concentration. His eyebrows furrowed and eyes squinted as he leaned over the table. His hands were blotched with black marks, and his tongue poked out of the very corner of his mouth. Your finger itched to rub the creases out of his brows and crows feet.

Suddenly his eyes glanced over to you, causing you to quickly shift back to your computer. You waited for him to call you out but it never came. Instead when you peaked at him over your computer he flashed you a smirk, his eyes swirling with mischief.

“Would you like to join us for dinner, Honey?” John asked, breaking your stare down with Johnny.

“Oh that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.” You said a slight grimace on your face. The two men looked slightly offended.

“It’s Tuesday, Bonnie. It’s pizza night.” Johnny whispered like it was a secret. John nodded his head.

“We’re going to eat out back again. It’s a nice night out and we have all the ingredients.” John coerced. Your teeth sunk into your lip, your stomach twisting in hunger.

“If it’s no trouble.” You pressed. The last thing you wanted was to become a burden.

“It’s only trouble if you like pineapple on it, Bon.”

Hi friends! Hope you liked this chapter. (sorry it took so long to get up!) This was more reader based and kinda boring but it’s a necessary evil! See you next time! 🥰

[moonstruckmoony]

LATE MERMAY POST - Because last month my job was very hectic and this weekend happens to be June already 😔

I wrote a quick small drabble below that goes with this drawing, enjoy

SharkMerman!Sebastian x IceBettaMermaid!Winter (MC) ❄️🩵🧜🏻‍♂️🧜🏻‍♀️

Sebastian is a magical shark merman that loves exploring new places and has a voracious appetite for adventure. While exploring the Greenland Sea, he encountered and fell in love with Winter, a rare mythical species of Betta mermaid that could live in icy seawater. He discovered after talking with her that there are currently only three of these Betta merfolks in the entire Arctic ocean, including her.

He could only see her a couple of times a week because his body could not withstand the icy temperature and his self-warming spell could only last for a day. During the remainder of the time, he would have to return to his home in the Northern Atlantic Ocean.

When she first met Sebastian, Winter was enthralled with his vast knowledge and intellect, as well as his witty and charming attitude. He has a kind and loving heart, despite the fact that he could be rather crafty at times and his stubborn disposition occasionally left her shaking her head.

Sebastian adores her quirky personality and caring nature, and he became even more enamored with her when he discovered that she possesses both intelligence and curiosity that rivals his. And Merlin’s bloody tail, while he finds her beauty captivating, her desire for knowledge is as powerful and forceful as the Gulf Stream, and he’s a goner for her. When he comes to visit her place, they always spend time together, whether it's going on long swims exploring places or simply chatting for hours.

Driven by a desire to see each other frequently, he trained his body to become more tolerant of the cold while she increased her tolerance to warmer waters. He would teach her spells to keep her body chilly while he practiced his self-warming charms to last even longer than before.

Even though their training allowed them to spend days or even weeks together, their enchantment doesn't endure long enough for their liking.

Nevertheless, they are resolute to search for a way to remain together, indefinitely, without the use of their magic.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

I actually have more lore on this drabble involving Ominis and other characters but I'll leave it like this for now, indefinitely

EDIT: omg I TOTALLY FORGOT but I meant to give some credits! I eyeballed some poses (by floorsdelluna) and background (from this painting i found in pinterest)

[sugarhog-au]

The long awaited(?) 7th round of character profiles! We looking at the Babylon rogues this time cuz I love the birb fam

Jettison (Jet): Professional racer and part-time annoying little brother of the group, Jet is the more lively heart of his little flock. Still young and hot-headed, He is quick to anger and never backs down from a challenge. Even at the cost of his health, much to the other's dismay.

Wave: The only one Jet even sort of listens to, Wave is the brains of the group. She often cares for and trains Jet for his races as his personal coach but loves to tinker with machines in her free time. She's the calmest in messy situations but don't let that trick you into thinking she wont snap a neck if need be.

Storm: The protective eldest brother of the group. He speaks little and is on guard always after escaping their home city many years ago with his three siblings. Storm is often lost in thoughts and thus appears to never pay attention to many conversations, but he remembers them quite well. He's often the one carrying around Jet's things, being the strongest and all.

Ruin (oc): Storm's only blood sibling of the flock, Ruin is often in competition with Jet for whatever strikes her fancy in the moment. Crafty and mischievous, most problems for the group are often caused by her but with her quick wit, can eventually get the group out of it. Chaotic, she loves pranks and jokes, but will have to be reigned in when she inevitability goes too far.

[wosowrites]

Moose (Jessie Fleming x Reader)

warnings: none

prompt: in which the reader and jessie play for chelsea and before they leave for the world cup reader makes jessie a crochet moose which becomes the team mascot for canada.

a/n: based off this request here also a super short fic because i’m still broken.

You were not at all a crafty person. Jessie had grown up with a craft room in her house and she liked to paint, draw, and do artsy things to calm herself down like her mother had taught her. When you started dating a year into her contract at Chelsea, her calmness had rubbed off on you. You had always been a stressed out person and moving in with Jessie had made you into a much more relaxed and happy human. You would go on bike rides, hikes, make crafts, paint the house every time you got bored of it and do everything together.

However the only thing you started doing on your own was crocheting. Jessie had tried it but was never big on it, so all the spare yarn in the house went to you. You loved it. You were horrific at it however. Everything turned into little colourful blobs and your creations were constantly either too loose or too messy. That’s why, when you walked into the house one day and pulled out a beautifully crocheted moose with a Canada jersey on, Jessie was baffled.

For the past three weeks, you would escape to a café every day and crochet for about an hour before going back to your girlfriend. Jessie was not a worried person and as madly in love as you both were with each other, spending a small amount of time away from each other every day just made you closer. Some days you would tell her you were grocery shopping, other days it was a meeting with your agent, a hang out with one of your German teammates.

But today, Moose was finally done.

You finished him a week and a half before the departure of the World Cup and you were in Canada with Jessie and her family. It would make it harder to travel all the way back to Germany and then to Australia but you didn’t care. All you wanted was to be girlfriends instead of rivals for as long as possible.

At the dinner table that night, you picked up your glass and straightened up.

"Um, I’m not big on words as you guys have seen by now but I wanna say a couple words," you said.

Jessie’s entire family put down their cutlery and looked up at you. "I’m terrified for this World Cup. Like… horrified. It’s been four years since I’ve played a major tournament so far from you, Jess. The olympics are in one city so we can visit but in Australia… we’re constantly going to be flying around. So… I made Moose," you said.

From under the table, you grabbed a bag and pulled out the knit animal. He had a red and white swear and big old antlers. Jessie’s mouth fell open and a large smile cracked her freckled face. "I’ve been making him for weeks, and he has like… five half knit siblings that went wrong if you want them," Jessie laughed loudly and extended her hand to take the crocheted animal. "Baby… it’s perfect oh my god," she said, smiling down at the animal. "Klara taught me how to make him. That’s why I was always out for an hour or so these past weeks," You said.

Jessie hugged the plushy to her chest and then put it beside her plate. The brunette stood up and walked to behind your chair, wrapping her arms around your neck and squeezing you.

Elysse took a quick picture as Jessie’s parents raved over your new talent.

Over the next couple weeks, Jessie was seen carrying Moose during press, in the bus, around the city, at training, everywhere. She always had Moose. And if she didn’t, she had entrusted Christine Sabrina, or anyone else on the clamer side to take care of the little mascot.

After Canadas 2-1 win over Ireland, Jessie was interviewed and eventually, the subject of Moose came up.

"Is that a moose?" the woman asked, looking down at the plushie tucked under Jessie’s arm. The camera followed the reporters eyes and then went back up to the Canadian. "Yeah it is," she laughed shyly, holding up the mascot. "Is there a story benne that? I mean it’s been showing up everywhere. "There is, yeah. My… uh my girlfriend made it for me. She’s at the world cup and her friend taught her how to make it for me. We won’t be seeing each other for a while depending on how the games go so she said she wanted me to have a piece of her. It’s cute, and I didn’t think she was this artsy so it caught me by surprise for sure," Jessie said, shyly and gently.

The reporter awed over Jessie’s story but the midfielders brain was just full of images of you. She missed you so much.

That night, she called you and the whole Canadian team joined the call behind the vice- captain, thanking you for the mascot.

[nikethestatue]

Rant incoming.

Maybe I am a bit of a psycho (okay, not a bit) but for the love of God and all that is holy--Sarah, give us the Shadowsinger that you keep hinting at.

I need at least ONE of these men to go dark. Go fucking black.

We keep hearing about the violence, the terror, the sheer presence of them that would make a grown man piss his pants---but we never see it?

The one and ONLY time where I feel it happened (and marginally too) was when Rowan skinned (not gonna say who) alive.

But it's kind of like--if SJM insists on making all these men ruthless warriors, torturers, the most powerful Fae in the kingdom or the world or whatever--then SHOW IT. Show us the men we are supposed to crave and fear.

We had Hunt, the Umbra Mortis, who barely ever 'mortis-nized' anyone ever. He was just a himbo who wanted to eat pizza and watch sunball.

Cassian, the Commander General, had one good run during the war and then became a human dildo.

Azriel cut the Attor a lil bit.

Give me the scary. The unhinged. I don't need cinnamon rolls. I want one of these dudes to rip out someone's heart and then fuck his ladylove on top of the corpse.

I am also so so so tired of the 'girl Power woooo!' thing that SJM keeps writing--where the women always take care of business and need no help, no protection, no revenge, no assistance from the men whatsoever. Why even bother making these men these illustrious warriors, when we know that Nesta can kill a Death God in 10 minutes, and Bryce can kill an Asteri in about 8 minutes.

I am beginning to wonder what is the point of men in SJMs' stories at all?

We had the 'Most Powerful High Lord In History' running around dropping to his knees, looking for a good OBGYN for all of ACOSF. We had the Commander General taking lots and lots of time from his clearly not very busy schedule to train some girlies and have repetitive sex. Lucien, not much of a warrior to begin with, just hangs out at his country manor. Azriel seems to be working at least, but mostly he is just being angsty.

Like there's been a shipwar raging for 3.5 years over these guys, and honestly, for what? Azriel is a spy, a torturer and 'a freak'. If it all ends up being for nothing, and he is just going to be some pining useless follower, carrying Elain's purse, whose 'freakiness' consists of light spanking and a nipple bite, then honestly, GAs or whoever, can have him.

I feel like 90% of all ACOTAR readers came to the series through Rhys. Because Rhys was so shifty. So cold. So unremorseful. Rhys was...INTERESTING.

What happened? Where are the interesting male characters? We know that SJm is not GRR Martin or anything, but come on.

Let's even take Lucien--and I don't give a shit about Lucien--but make Lucien...interesting? If he is so wily and crafty, why can't Lucien at least TRY to trick Elain into liking him, going out with him on a date? ANYTHING. Try to gaslight her, lie to her, trick her--do anything that makes me want to read about you. Eluciens keep whining about 'mean Elain' but like, why are they satisfied with this limp noodle of a painfully boring character? Why no demands of fucking everyone over and going after what he wants? 'Oh, he is so respectful'! Who cares? Why do you want to read that in a fantasy book about supposedly violent and brilliant fairies?

I am reading all kinds of things outside of ACOTAR, and I reflect and I think, OMG, SJMs males are boring AF!!!! Why do they even inspire a glimmer of desire or interest? They literally do nothing memorable or interesting.

Honestly, if the next book is the same, and she murders Azriel's character, it will be a big fat goodbye from me.

I am holding on to hope that she'll write him and even Lucien somehow, somewhat compellingly.

[mochinek0]

Daminette December 2023: 7-In a League of their Own (SUB)

Damian sat in his apartment trying to empty his mind. His girlfriend, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, was the most amazing person he ever met. He was still shocked she agreed to date him. Today was one of those days when he thought he was just holding her back from greatness.

'Marinette deserves better than me. She's smart, tactical, and crafty. You would think Mother or Father trained her.'

'Not only is she smart, but she can cook and bake. I'm still learning. I'm sure there's day she wishes she could have a home cooked meal. I can only take her out to resturants or make her breakfast. She makes the most amazing dinners! Everything she makes tastes delicious. Anyone would be lucky to eat her food everyday.'

'She's an amazing business woman. Marinette is practically running her own company and I don't even have full control of Wayne Enterprise! She isn't afraid to tell people off. Mother would have loved her commanding presence. Everyone, including Father, is scared of me.'

'Maybe I should break up with her.'

Damian's thoughts were broken when he doorbell went of continuously.

'Who could that be? Must be Grayson.'

Damian opened the door to see his girlfriend standing there in tears.

'What the fuck?'

Marinette lunged into his arms.

"Who-" he began to demand.

"It's been a really bad day." Marinette cried into his arms, "Can I just stay with you? I always feel better when I'm with you."

Damian took a deep breath and pushed his anger down, for another time.

"Of course." he spoke.

Damian picked her up and set her down on the couch. As she wiped her tears away, he began to take off her shoes and her coat. He went into the kitchen and grabbed her a glass of water to rehydrate and ordered some of her favorite take out, along with her favorite ice cream.

"So, what happened?" he questioned, handing her the water.

Marinette had went on to explain how there had been mix up with a few orders. A person she had fired had put in the orders and when they hadn't come in on time, she called the company only to find out that person had cancelled the orders. Once she told them that person had been fired months ago, they quickly put in motion to send the fabric and other items needed. Unfortunately for her, one of the clients pulled out of her services because of that claiming she was incompetent at her job. That had only been the morning. She had worked through her lunch to tackle anything her ex-employee had touched and caleld companies to ensure that the previous person didn't dictate her orders and informed them of any changes or wrong-doings the person had done. After that, she had to get her lawyers involved as the person was order fabrics under her name and Marinette had never received them. With all the invoices from the companies, her lawyer was sure it would be a clean sweep.

A knock at the door drew their attention away from each other.

"I'll get it." Damian offered.

When he checked the peep hole, he saw the delivery driver holding up the bag of food. He unlocked the door and took the bag. When he turned around, he could see she was surprised to see him holding up food. Marinette just looked at him with tears in her eyes and smiled. Damian quickly set the food down and rushed to her side.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

Marinette kissed him, leaving him stunned.

"You are the most amazing boyfriend ever." Mari declared, "I'm sure anyone else would be jealous to know my boyfriend is in a league all of his own."

Damian kissed her back, "You may think so, but you Angel are in a league above me."

Marinette cuddled into his arms.

'We can eat the food he got in a few moments.'

TAGLIST: @maribat-calendar-events@animeweebgirl@a-star-with-a-human-name@meme991001@vixen-uchiha@abrx2002@alysrose-starchild@fandom-trapped-03@dood-space@moonlightstar64@saltymiraculer@marveldcedits20@09shell-sea09@icerosecrystal@animegirlweeb@insane-fangirl-of-everything@blueblossombliss@nickristus-dreamer@megawhitleycalderonpaganus@missmadwoman@meira-3919@princessdaisysolosyourfaves@blep-23@fangirlingfanatic@darkhinauniverse@ravenr22@im-a-satanic-ritual@ravennm84@bianca-hooks123@a-slytherinish-gryffindor@starling218

[sirdindjarin]

The Savior - Din Djarin x f!Reader

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

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

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

AO3 Link🤠

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mandalorian again does not dignify a response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Grab his tail." 

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

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

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

“You are free to go.” 

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

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

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

“You won't run?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's over. 

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

That bounty hunter turns to you now. 

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

________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me your wrists.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Walk,” he orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does that mean?”

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

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

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

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

“We ain't buyin'," he slurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make your offer, Mandalorian.”

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

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

“Far too aggressive, Mandalorian. I decline.”

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

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

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

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

Mando calmly swivels his blaster to Salaa. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Where?” 

“Where else? Water’s Edge.” 

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

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

“You paid too much.”

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

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

That’s the defining feature of a bounty hunter.

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

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

“Passage for assistance,” he reminds you. 

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

 What the hell do I do now?

__________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs.

***

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

"Bounty?”

Terrified, she nods and whispers, “Yes.” 

"Who contracted it?" 

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

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

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

_______________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey! I was going," you glare.

"Move faster, scum," she orders. 

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

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

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

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

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

Closer. So kriffing close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There is work available on this planet.” 

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

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

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

Mando shifts his head in askance.

“For saving me from the slave hunter.”

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

You shake your head, too self-conscious now. 

“Good.”

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

________________________________

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

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

“How old are you?” You ask softly.

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

He tilts his ears toward you. 

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

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

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

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

The Mandalorian is but a few feet away, watching. 

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

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

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

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

Who is this guy?

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

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

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

“But she knew my name?” 

“I am referring to the Aqualish you punched.” 

“Oh.”

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

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

“Both? Why both?” 

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

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

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

Mando raises his hands, indicating his desire to negotiate. 

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

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

He killed a Senator’s kid?

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

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

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

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

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

“You killed a kid?” 

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

“A Senator’s son?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, where's that job?” 

“The Outer Rim.”

You sigh. “Of course it is.”

__________________________________

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

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

"Why is there a bounty on me?" 

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

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

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

You scoff under your breath. So reassuring.

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

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

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

A loose end. That's what you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mandalorian stares, uncomprehending. 

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

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

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

_________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He must still have lungs underneath, you shudder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," Din says with hidden feeling. 

His sincerity wedges a lump in your throat. 

He really loves that little guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A small amount of blood comes away on your fingers. 

“Oh,” you murmur. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is the baby okay?” 

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

You laugh once, flattered. “Can I?” 

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

A brilliant smile lights your face. 

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

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

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

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

“I don't know.” 

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

Did he steal this baby?

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

Din shrugs. “Kid.”

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

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

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

And you’re just a runaway slave. 

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

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

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

                               ***

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

_________________________________

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

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

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

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

But seedy didn't always mean crumbling and derelict.

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

"I said find an inconspicuous place to hide. You got the emperor's suite," he places his hands on his hips. 

There are technically three rooms: the main living space, complete with couch, table, and a space to prepare food; and two small bedrooms both on the same side of the building.

"It was their only available room. Trust me, this place is as disreputable as they come. And he didn't upcharge," you rise from the couch. "If that was what you were worried about. I… made a deal with the clerk." 

Din advances on you, "A deal?" His voice is tight.

"I didn’t involve you. I promise." 

The Mandalorian clenches his teeth. Anything involving you, involves him. 

"The kid?" 

You tilt your chin across the apartment and laugh, "He wanted the room with all the toys.” 

Din disappears into the room, and you chuckle at how long the child had been fascinated by the weird sculptures inside. 

A low, rasping voice travels from the open door, "Hey, kid. Missed you, too."

Your smile deepens and your heart swells with emotion toward the two of them. Though they are not your family, it's comforting to watch them be one.

The modulated voice sounds again with a short laugh, "She can't hear you. Do you want her?" 

You shake your head fondly, the kid had been babbling and reaching for you every time you set him down. 

After a significant pause, Din softly admits, "I agree. I like her, too."

Flushing with shame for eavesdropping, you move to the far side of the apartment, to another large window. 

Several minutes later, quiet footsteps get louder as Din leaves the child's room and closes the door.

"He tried to lift one of the sculptures," Din scoffs. 

You laugh, picturing the child peacefully sleeping after tiring himself with the effort. It wasn't the first time today. Growing serious, you turn to face the Mandalorian.

"He helped me today. Someone grabbed at me and he… did what he does." 

Din takes two huge strides toward you. "Did anyone see? What happened?" 

"No one saw. It was in a closed alley. I-" you pause in momentary reluctance, then remember who you're talking to. "I took care of it." 

You glance at the blaster on the table that Din had given you earlier that morning.

For the first time in a long time, Din's sigh is one of relief instead of irritation. 

"Thank you," he says. "Again."

You wave him off, "It was between a scumsucker and the kid. Wasn't exactly hard," you try to make light of it. 

Din shakes his head slightly. "I've seen you use a blaster. I'm glad the kid was there," he deadpans.

You exhale in feigned irritation, pleased by his playfulness.

He comes to stand next to you at the open window, and the peaceful silence is companionable. 

As the breeze flutters, you shiver noticeably and his torn, rough cape curls into your ankle. The Mandalorian turns his head to you and reads how low your heat signature is.

Din stalks back to the entryway where he had set down a cloth bag. He snatches it up and brings it over to you. 

"I hope they are acceptable."

Hands outstretched, you freeze as you realize you're being given a gift. You blink and look up, desperately trying to read a face you know you can't. 

"Um, I've never -" you whisper, needing to tell him why you look like you've been struck. "Never had someone give me something."

Inside his beskar armor, Din grimaces. Had he overstepped? It might get even worse when you see how personal the items are. 

He releases his hold on the bag and you open it, pulling out a pair of clothes. They're dark blue, and, while somewhat flowy like your current clothes, these do not have holes, stains, nor bad memories associated. 

And they are a gift from Din Djarin. 

How do you thank him for these? They certainly weren't cheap. The clothing is sturdy but light, beautiful but practical. 

Embarrassingly, tears collect in your eyes.

"Oh, wow," you look up at him, panicking. "I can't take these." It was too much.

Din has an excuse in his arsenal.

"Take it as payment for your help with the kid."

You look back down at the material in your hands, rubbing the soft fabric. 

"Thank you, Din. Really. I- I don't know how to thank you. You have been so kind to me." 

His cheek pulls upward when you say his name for the first time. How sweet it sounds in your mouth. 

"You needed them. These," he waves at the shredded scraps on your frame, "are no longer clothes."

You smile timidly, unused to being treated so well. "I'm going to go take them off and burn them." 

The Mandalorian taps his vambrace. "I have the means when you're ready."

"Thank you again," you murmur, escaping to the refresher.

Din steps to the center of the room and places a hologram disk on the low table.

While you're busy, he's going to figure out how to get out of this.

***

After an actual shower, real water loosening the knots in your muscles, you exhale in pleasure at the feeling of the clean, well-made clothing on your skin. You feel like a person.

It's similar to seeing hyperspace for the first time. It scares you with how good it feels, knowing you’ve missed out on so much. 

You slide open the refresher door to see Din seated on the couch, facing away from you. He sits reclined, his legs spread wide. The Mandalorian hears the door open, but he does not turn. 

Stomach growling, you head to the cold storage near the front door. The box of food you'd bought from a vendor sits on the countertop. You unpack it carefully, still in disbelief you can eat whatever you want.

"Are you hungry?" You call to the Mandalorian as you continue to pull items from the box. 

"You are no longer a slave. You do not have to serve me." The deep, rough voice sounds from right behind you, and you jump in surprise. 

"Dank farrik, you move quietly." 

Din reaches around you for one of the fruits you had purchased with his credits. His nearness has your body tensing, but he backs away almost immediately.

"How do you eat with that on?" You wonder, clearly meaning his helmet.

"I don't," he answers, walking into the other bedroom. 

                          ***

A week passes in that calm hotel apartment. The child provided more than enough entertainment for you, attempting to lift different objects of his desire at random. 

For Din, so used to the child's antics, you are the object of his attention. You brush it off when he stands near you at the window, when he ensures that you have something to eat, and when he silently takes the couch over the comfortable bed. 

But you're unable to ignore his touch.

Just after you wake, the dual suns begin to peek around the tall city buildings. Trying not to wake Din on the couch, you tiptoe to the window in the main room, still enthralled with the city view. You’ve seen cities thousands of times throughout your enslavement, often imagining running away to explore. Now that you have the opportunity, you find that you don’t want to go.

Seated on the bare floor, your arms wrapped around your knees as you watch the suns rise, you're wandering down halls of your own thoughts when a voice drifts into your consciousness.

"I will get your bounty lifted." 

Turning your head, Din leans forward on the couch, his forearms on his knees. 

"If that's what you are concerned about."

You shake your head, "I'm not concerned. I think I'm happy." 

You had just come to that conclusion a moment earlier. It's an emotion you don't remember feeling. It's like your lungs are expanding after twenty years of suffocation. 

You look back at the city and smile contentedly, "This is the best my life has been." 

The admission is extremely personal, but you can’t keep it to yourself. It’s liberating. You weren't ready to fight for your freedom when the Mandalorian came for your master, but you are now. 

Din’s footsteps advance on you until he’s standing off to your right. He says nothing. 

After an interminable length of time, wondering what he’s doing, you twist and look up at him. His helmet turns toward the window just as you face him. 

His hands are folded behind him, but a sliver of something flesh-toned is visible. 

Is that his wrist? 

Your stomach drops. His bare skin. It looks warm-toned and soft. You close your eyes and turn away, back toward the window. 

“I am glad,” Din says. 

“About what?” Since it has been several minutes since either of you have spoken, you’re unsure if he’s responding or making a statement. 

He simply looks back down at you as if that answers your question. 

“We’ll be leaving today,” Din continues to study you, appreciating the way the orange dawn lights your face. “You’ve almost drained me of credits with this palace of a hotel.” 

You deny the accusation with a laugh, “I did not. I told you I made a deal.” 

“And you have not told me what that deal was,” he says, a hint of a threat in his tone. 

Din is on edge about your ‘deal.’ The night before, he had gone down to the reception desk to intimidate the clerk about it, but the employee you’d dealt with hadn’t been there.

“I promised you already - it has nothing to do with you or him,” you motion toward the child’s room. “It is not worth your attention.”

Din scowls. “You are also under my charge, and if you’ve placed yourself in danger, I need to be aware of it.” 

Your face snaps up, uselessly trying to make eye contact with him. His charge? Why does your face feel hot at those words?

Finally taking pity on him, you answer, “He was a gambler. I bet him I could win more rounds of sabacc. And I did.” 

The Mandalorian is stock-still. That was all? Din had gotten incredibly worked up over what you could possibly owe this mysterious desk clerk, and all you’d done was a bit of hustling? 

“Why would you not tell me that right away?”

“I didn’t want to seem like I was bragging,” you frown. Din had tasked you with something and you had wanted to complete it with as little fanfare as possible.

“What other skills have you been hiding?” Din’s tone is half-mocking, half-serious. He knows next to nothing about you despite the monopoly you’ve had on his thoughts.

You side-eye him, unsure of his intention. “I can do basic ship repairs. I can speak four languages. I know how to fight.” 

“I am not convinced of that last one.” 

“The cyborg caught me on a bad day,” you protest.

"It was fortunate you were not seriously injured. I wouldn't have the credits for this," he nods his head up at the high ceiling.

For the second time, your head turns to scrutinize him, but he’s as impenetrable as ever. 

"Why not?" 

Din's silver face snaps down to you. "The quarry would not have made it into the carbon freezer."

And as you open your mouth - to say what, you have no idea - a quiet knock raps on the front door. 

Spooked, you whirl so that you face the door, still seated. 

“It’s alright,” Din’s deep, rough voice soothes. 

When he holds out his hand to help you stand, you take it without second thought.

But it wasn’t just a hint of his wrist that you saw - his gloves are completely off. His rough palm slides into your grasp, and his thick fingers close around your hand. 

Eyes widening, you audibly gasp.

Din raises you to your feet with no effort, and you wind up far too close to him. Your breath fogs on his chestplate, and your pulse thrums in your ears.

Too-quickly, his thumb rubs your skin, and then he releases your hand. Do you imagine the sigh he makes as he steps away?

Your eyes are glued to his broad form as he retrieves his gloves from the couch, then heads to answer the door. 

“Should I -?” You whisper.

“Stay,” he says simply. 

It’s unbelievable how one word could affect you. You swallow hard and clasp your hands together in front of you. 

***

“As you are well aware, Mandalorian, my esteemed patron was unhappy to hear about her son’s death. However, you are of concern to us for a different reason. If we are able to reward you for your silence regarding where her son was at the time of his unfortunate, accidental death, this business might be put behind us.”

The slimeball flashes her biggest smile at the bounty hunter. 

“What am I being paid to be silent about? The Hutt was banished by the Republic due to his slavery connections. Is the Senator afraid of her choice in friends being known?” 

The emissary smiles nastily. “Let us say that the Hutt is also on my list of individuals to speak with.”

“I require explicit terms regarding this agreement. I am a Mandalorian, I can assure you of my discretion.”

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slavery you overheard between the Senator’s son and Salaa the Hutt, and we shall reward you with twenty-thousand credits to be paid over the course of three months.” 

To your horror, Din rises from the couch and nods his head, saying, “I accept your terms.”

“And what about her?” The emissary wrinkles her nose as she indicates you.

“She is a slave,” the Mandalorian says with harsh finality. 

You physically shrink next to him. He had insisted you remain while they spoke, but now you’re regretting agreeing to it.

The distaste with which he had uttered the word ‘slave’ makes you feel unclean, unwanted. Tears threaten to spill over, and you keep your head down in a familiar, submissive posture in case they do.

The bounty hunter escorts the Twi’lek emissary to the door while you sit, head bowed, on the couch. 

“Senator Nesota will be most appreciative. If you are ever in Coruscant, she would be delighted to have you visit her apartments. They are most grand.” She disapprovingly glances around the hotel room. “I assume you had your slave pick this one.” The emissary briefly places her hand on the Mandalorian’s forearm, “Remember, we are friends now, Din Djarin.”

The helmet saves his entire operation, for Din cannot stop the disgusted scowl that mars his face. This piece of scum uses his name to both threaten and flirt; the difference in his feelings between her saying it and you saying it are blindingly stark.

“I do not have friends. My name is not for your use,” he says evenly as he punches the button for the front door.

The emissary walks away without another word. 

When Din closes the door, he turns back to you with a sense of relief for more than one reason. 

But something is wrong.

“Do you not feel well?”

You shake your head, “I misunderstood something. That’s all.” Your head remains bowed.

“You will not look at me.” 

“I am… embarrassed,” you mutter honestly.

An emotion Din has never experienced or understood, he is at a loss. Instead, he sits across from you and tosses you the recorder.

The small, comm-looking device lands on your lap, and you pick it up, curiously rolling it in your hands. You press the button.

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slav-” 

You stop the device and look up at Din with renewed hope, “You were lying.”

Din leans forward in his seat, “I was not lying. I gave her my word as a Mandalorian. But you didn’t.” 

“That’s a stretch and you know it,” you laugh. 

Din shrugs. The moral reasoning works for him.

“I am to send this recording to the Republic, correct? Get the senator removed from office?” 

“She will no longer have the funds to pay our bounties. They will be considered void.”

Your smile falters. He had done what he promised. 

Din tilts his head, “You’re unhappy about that?”

“It’s not your problem, of course. But I have to deal with the slaver’s reward. And… and I am not sure what I should do, where I should go.”

Really, you’re saddened because there is no longer any reason for you to stay. You wish there was.

The Mandalorian is silent, weighing his choice of words carefully. 

"There is room on the Razor Crest. The kid is fond of you. I can pay you for your services to him. And, occasionally, the ship needs repairs - you can assist me with those.”

“Is this that ‘legal employment’ you told me I needed?” You grin. “I would like that very much.”

“You will need to learn how to fight, though,” he shakes his head, his tone teasing. “The kid can’t save you every time.”

____________________________________

You sit on the hold floor, the child in your arms. Having left the inn rather early, the child is still asleep.

Jostling as Din lands the Razor Crest on a new planet, you slowly stand and place the little lump in his hammock and shut the door. 

The Mandalorian drops down into the hold, passing you and hitting the button for the boarding ramp. Deciding to trust him, you don't ask where you're being taken. 

The answer isn't far. Din stops right at the treeline and hands you the same silver blaster from the previous week's fight with the cyborg. 

"You need to learn to use it." 

"I've done well with a blaster before," you protest. "I shot Rathos." 

"But you didn't shoot the cyborg," you can hear the frown in his deep voice. "Pick a tree."

Nervous to be evaluated by a master of the craft, you hesitate briefly before aiming at a massive trunk a few speeders lengths away.

The plate of his armor brushes against your back as the Mandalorian gingerly sets his heavy hands on your shoulders, straightening them. With his boot, he taps the inside of your foot, indicating you should widen your stance. 

You blink rapidly. Your face flushes with warmth. Why is your heart thundering? Can he hear it? 

He can. 

His own heart rate increases when his helmet's display shows your heat signature rising. Din pushes it further: his leather-covered hands slide down to your waist where he turns you a fraction - completely unnecessarily.

Close enough that, were he unveiled, you could feel his breath, he murmurs, "Fire."

Utterly distracted, you squeeze the trigger as a matter of following his command. The blaster shot continues on through the treetops, singeing leaves. 

Din straightens, his hands leaving your body, and he huffs. 

"You distracted me," you explain. "I can hit it."

You realign the weapon and inhale deeply, releasing on the exhale just as you would with an arrow. 

The tree sizzles as you hit it dead-center. 

Spinning to face him triumphantly, the smile freezes on your lips. 

One of the suns on this planet has begun to drop behind him, and his large frame casts you in shadow. He still hasn't moved away from you. The way his mask is angled toward you makes you believe he's lost in thought. 

"What is it?" You whisper in the tense silence. 

Din feels dizzy. You're a natural with a weapon you'd fired all of three times. Your words cudgel his mind. He had distracted you enough to miss a huge karking tree.

"Do it again." 

You nod and return to the target. Throwing your mind back to your childhood, you once again hit the tree dead-on. 

Weighing the blaster in your hand, you turn back to him and say, "I still prefer wooden weapons. Or at least something resembling a spear." 

"Why is that?" His voice is rough, and his hands find a home on his hips. 

"That's how I grew up," you answer.��

"Okay. Grab one." 

Your mouth drops open in confusion, but he finally leaves your personal space and picks up a slender, twigless branch.

"You can't be serious," you sputter a laugh, certain he had just found a sense of humor. "I'm not fighting you." 

"Why not?"

"Um. Because I can't."

"You can." He holds the stick out toward you.

You stare at him, watchful, as you curl your fingers around it. Din removes a small, cylindrical object from his utility belt. He pumps it once and it unfolds into a thin cane-like weapon. 

"It's been twenty years," you frown. "You're going to win." 

But, when that makeshift spear is in your hand, it all rushes back. The key to winning is in gaining ground. Whatever you do, push your opponent back. So, you launch at him first. 

Only partially surprised by the speed of the typically-timid girl now coming for his throat, Din manages to duck out of the way just in time. But you whirl to the opposite side he expects, and swing your weapon into his helmet. It clangs, and you stand upright.

"I'm sorry!" You react, fearful both from years of mistreatment and not wanting to hurt Din.

He ignores you, swishing his weapon toward your middle, and you jump backward. Hating that you conceded even that little ground, you quickly drop to a crouch and sweep at his knees like Rathos did to you. 

Din rockets upward a few feet, then drops back down on your other side. He swings at you and you parry. 

Dancing for several steps, you eventually land a blow to his ribs where the beskar does not cover. Din's modulated groan makes you feel a rush of two separate emotions. 

You don't want to hurt him, but that sound ignites a heat between your legs.

Din retaliates, kicking his tipless spear into your chest and shoving you backward. He knows your move, now. You don't like giving up ground, so you'll throw yourself at him, arms raised to strike.

When you do exactly as he predicts, he drops his weapon completely, grabbing you around the waist and spinning. He throws you to the ground, coming down on top of you.

You laugh, exhilarated, "Almost."

Something is jabbing your hip, and when you shift to identify it, Din grunts again. Your eyes shoot to his hidden face. 

Under the helmet, Din's brown eyes are blown, pained at how aroused he is. He can't handle much more of this. Your wide eyes and galloping heart match his, but underneath him you look so vulnerable that he feels downright predatory. His stiff length twitches.

Din’s voice is raw, barely contained, "Tell me to stop and I will." His gloved thumbs push your bottoms down.

Speechless, your core pulsing, you nod. 

Din unfastens the material around his middle, pulls his desperate cock from the flight suit, and hastily positions himself against you. Your slick coats him as he drags himself through your folds. He groans through the modulator. 

“Oh,” you gasp when he eases the tip past your entrance.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Din sheaths himself inside you with a determined grunt, his patch of dark curls mingling with yours.  

Your hands try to fist in his flight suit, eyes wide at the incredible feeling of him filling you. His right hand cradles your jaw as he starts to rock his hips, cursing as he does so. 

For the first time in his life, Din resents his helmet; both for the separation from your soft skin, and the heightened senses it gives him. How is he supposed to last when he can see your heart racing, hear your quiet cries as though they’re inside his own head?

In an insufficient compromise, he rips off his gloves. His tan skin is calloused and scarred.

“Yes,” you plead.

Din intertwines his fingers on both hands with yours, hypnotized for a precious second by the intimacy. Reverently, you press a kiss to his knuckles. He makes a wild sound deep in his chest, then plunges your hands above your head. 

Pushing your chest to his, you signal that he can do anything he wants to you. He collects both your wrists in one hand.

Din rhythmically arcs into you, the sound of his body - soaked from your arousal - striking yours nearly driving you insane. When you’d imagined it before, you wondered if looking into the blank face of his helmet might be off-putting, but you find that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it’s him. If anything, it’s erotic to trust him so blindly. 

Din is resolved to know your body better than you do. With his free hand, his fingers nimbly massage your clit until you jerk. 

“There?” He confirms.

You nod, unable to speak. His heavy, straining cock dragging through you, and his rough fingers replace the output from all other senses.

When he finds the perfect combination, he doesn’t let up until your eyes screw shut and you shake, incoherent underneath him in ecstasy. 

“You can say it,” he hoarsely encourages through the modulator. 

It was already on your lips, “Din.”

The hand that acted as a manacle releases you as he places his palm on the ground, giving himself as much leverage to bury himself as deep as possible. The toes of Din’s boots dig up clumps of grass as he thrusts into you, the sound of skin slapping skin lost in the breeze. Your legs curl around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He feels the spark at the base of his spine and knows he doesn’t have much strength left. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his flight suit again, clinging to him for all you’re worth.

Din makes the mistake of looking into your lust-filled eyes as you speak.

“Let go,” you whisper tenderly, feeling his tense body begin to fracture.

Din has no choice but to obey you, pumping himself into you with a long, harsh sigh. He works his release inside you, gradually slowing until his arms shake.

He finally drops to the ground beside you, breathing rapidly.

Suddenly shy, you want nothing more than to reach over and take one of his hands, but you lack the confidence. You also don’t know what to say. 

Din doesn’t believe there’s anything to say. He had never been so tempted in all his life, and he had not passed the test. A shred less self-control and his helmet might’ve followed the gloves. 

In fact, the temptation is still so strong that he begins to plan for its eventuality. 

____________________________________

[valentinbelleyh505]

Make hoppyx kickin head canons

Okay! 💚💛

Here you go!

Cool Autistic Girl × Cool ADHD Boy

Kickin and Hoppy first meeting was in the skate, so when he saw her, he started crush and (lie) jealous on her lol- and DogDay wake up him lmfao

DogDay — *seeing Hoppy training with her skate* “your so cool skating!!”

Hoppy — “thank you, Spaniel dog.”

Kickin — “i'm here, DogDay! What are you doing?”

DogDay — “Kickin, look at how this girl is so cool at skating!”

Kickin — “wha-” *sees Hoppy at first time and playing the love at first sight song, and Hoppy finish her training

DogDay — “did you see this kickin, how cool the talent of skate she does? ...Kickin? Kickin are you okay-?” *kickin wake ups*

Kickin — “HOW DID YOU DO THAT?!”

Hoppy — “it's my cool talent of sports with skate, yellow Chicken. Anyways my name is Hoppy, Hoppy Hopscotch.”

DogDay — “what a cool name, nice to meets you Hoppy!”

Kickin — “it's so nice to meets you- WAIT, now i want to make a challenge, i dare that you better than me from the skate!!”

DogDay — “WHAT?!”

Hoppy — “wow, i'll do that challenge with you then...”

They do that skate challenge, and Hoppy win the challenge, then Kickin, wanted the revanch but Hoppy was upset then later Kickin planned more challenge with skate and the others sports that he thinked he will win, but these challenge Hoppy always winned. (I think my The Lion Guard fan that is also a HopKick shipper, know the reference lol)

Obvious Hoppy Hopscotch it's better than KichinChicken in everything

Both are competitive and had a friendly-rivaly with each-other but from the inside it looks like they are in love with each other but they are TOO flustered to confess their feelings on each-other

Kickin always have a dream that Hoppy said that he is the best and he confess that she is the best, and when he wake up he sees that his mom and dad or the boys looking at him, and he gives they a good morning (i think y'all know the reference, specially my other friend that is also a HopKick fan lol)

when Hoppy said to a friend that her favorite season is autumn, Kickin listed and walks up blushing and said that is also his favorite season, and Hoppy was suprised... Hm...

Hoppy have Arachibutyrophobia (fear of peanut butter), so in a day when Picky or her dad asks her if she wants any food with peanut butter, Kickin says that she doesn't like any food with peanut butter

Hoppy secretly admires when Kickin is surfing, and Kickin always admires when Hoppy is skating

they both always tries to help each other, and also Kickin always tries to help Hoppy to go in the Moon

they're Rapunzel/Flynn, Chicken Little/Abby, Rainbow Dash/AppleJack, Judy/Nick, LadyBug/ChatNoir, Bonnie/Chica and SPECIALLY Bunga/Binga

in the 1st of February, DogDay and Bubba knew that Kickin have a crush on Hoppy

Hoppy — *walks up*

Kickin — *looking at Hoppy walks away and blushes*

DogDay & Bubba — *seeing Kickin blushing looking at Hoppy*

Bubba — “...hey Kickin, do you like het?”

DogDay — *GASP* “DO YOU LIKE HOPPY?!”

Kickin — “what?? No........ E.. yes.”

DogDay — “OMG!!! did you confess her? Valentine's Day it's coming.”

Kickin — “ahn... Not yeet.”

so after this, DogDay tell this to CatNap that Kickin have a crush on Hoppy

when is winter, Kickin sees that Hoppy is don't with jacket, so he gives his jacket to her don't feel cold (this is based on a cute video from tiktok that i found on Twitter/X)

their songs are Who is Better Than Who, ToyBox's Best Friend, and ToyBox's SuperStar

and later, Bobby was the second critter who knew that Kickin have a crush on Hoppy, so she tell to Crafty and Picky

and Bobby started to make every fanfiction about Hoppy/Kickin love story omg- and Crafty make every fanarts of HopKick

Kickin's Mom gives a gift for Kickin that is a sketchbook that he keeps under his mattress, that is just COVERED in doodles of Hoppy with tiny pink and red hearts all over the pages

in Valentine's Day, Kickin was going to ask to Hoppy want to be his gf, but he was too nervous to ask her, so DogDay, CatNap and Bubba helped Kickin on this and they turned his WingMen, Bubba teaches Kickin how to flirt and DogDay & CatNap got some gifts for he gives to Hoppy, so after he going to ask her with courage, and he did it!

During molting season Kickin gets insecure about his looks and thinks he looks ugly due to his lack of feathers and thinks that Hoppy won't like him anymore because he's "less attractive" but then Hoppy comforts him and promises him that she still loves him no matter what he looks like while cuddling him and getting soft kisses all over his face while reassures him, that she thinks that he still looks cute to her

they both are good on babysitting, when Picky and her parents are out she requests they to babysitter her youngest brother, JuniPiggy, when heis sleeping, they play some games, watch a movie or any series/TV shows and/or also sleeps. This is same thing with Bobby and her youngest sister

when they had any nightmares, they always comfort each-other, and ofc Bobby found it cute

their favorite comics are DC and any FNAF Graphic Novel Trilogy, they always read these comics together

they also loves horror movies and stories, they didn't scares of this tip of movies or stories

DogDay told to the rest of the Smiling Critters that Kickin and Hoppy are Dating

DogDay — “KICKIN DID IT!!”

Picky — “oh?”

DogDay — “HE DID IT!!”

Bobby — “HE DID IT?!”

DogDay — “he did it!”

Crafty — “he did?!”

DogDay — “Pit, KICKIN DID IT!”

PitClowin — “OMG HE DID?!”

DogDay — “KALY AND KOOKY, HE DID IT!!”

Kalyganroo & Kooky — “HE DID?!”

DogDay — “KICKIN DID IT!!!”

Platty — “he did what?”

*DogDay shows the photo of Kickin and Hoppy kissing*

Platty — “omg!! Says to Kickin that am i so happy for him. He deserved a cool relationship.”

this is based on a Chickn Nuggit short <3

my Smiling Critters OC, PlattyWally likes Kickin's romantic relationship with Hoppy, and she was so happy when knew that they are Dating

DogDay, CraftyCorn and Bobby BearHug are #1 HopKick Fans

so, meanwhile these are some of my HopKick Headcanons

some of the ideas @dollieguts1010 gives to me and inspired by

*when i got more, i'll update this*

[oilith]

My Head cannon for the Clawthorne sisters: They're both talented even in their teens and both think the other is the genius teen prodigy. Hear me out:

Lilith is actually a prodigy in terms of academic level. She learned to do spells in the first few tries. We can see this talent when Luz teaches them glyphs. She impressed Luz with multiple ice sculptures while Eda could only make small ice balls. She thinks Eda is the genius teen prodigy because Eda has more raw power than her in magic as seen in their fight. Thus, Lilith focused on being "sharp and crafty" as she puts it.

Eda is the prodigy in the practical sense. We saw her raw power during her fight against Lilith. We saw her survive Terra's challenge when she was young. She taught herself wild magic too. Now here's the fun part: Deep down, She thinks that Lilith is the genius teen prodigy because she saw Lilith perform spells after learning once or twice which motivates Eda to learn more spells especially wild magic (Let's be honest: I'm sure the emperor's coven sigil still seals some form of magic to avoid them getting too powerful for Belos) until Eda believes that she's "better than Lilith". These needs of trying to be better than Lilith resurfaced again on the day Luz teaches them glyphs.

Sorry for the long head cannon. Have fun with this information

This is interesting. I've always thought that they're sort of "opposites" in a way. Like you said too, Eda has raw power, but lacks in the techical area. Meanwhile Lilith, while she isn't as strong as Eda, she has the technical skills. Also, Lilith has the EC military training so it makes sense for her to be like that. It's basically something like an experienced street fighter against a military trained fighter. I really like the idea that both of them think the other is a prodigy, when in reality it's both lmao

[saywhatjessie]

“So you thought you kissed your way into that situation, might as well kiss your way out of it?” “Basically!” Jamie cried. “‘S like that old American sitcom, innit?”* Or the one where Jamie can't stop kissing Roy in front of other people. Written for the @rjbigbang! 10.1k [Ao3] Video by MicheleYourBelle under the cut

The way it started was so fucking stupid that Roy could not be surprised at any of the stupid things that followed.

He was sitting at his desk - the one that had formerly been Ted’s - and Jamie was sitting on the corner, chatting with Nate about Mother’s Day plans. It was still early, Jamie having taken a ride to training with Roy, so it was still mostly just the coaches waiting for the rest of the team to fill out the dressing room.

“It’s always shitty being so far from mummy on mummy’s day,” Jamie said, sadly, his feet gently kicking back against Roy’s desk. “But she always likes the flowers I send her. And Simon lets me pick what he makes her for breakfast, so it’s like I’m there.”

“That’s thoughtful, Jamie,” Nate smiled, his own feet kicking back against the bookshelves he always perched on. “My mum never lets anyone cook for her, not even on mother’s day. But I do get her flowers. My niece and I might make her another special box as well.”

“You’re dead good at those,” Jamie told him. “But what does she need all these boxes for?”

“Oh, nothing. They all end up collecting dust in the attic. But we like making ‘em and she likes getting ‘em, so there’s really no harm.”

“Unless you consider ecological harm,” Trent said, sliding into his place against the doorframe, his mug softly steaming. “I imagine this crafting generates considerable waste.”

“Come on, Trent, you can’t quantify the quality of making art by equating it to the trash it makes,” Beard argued. “I’d rather Nate and baby niece Nate make a ton of garbage doing crafts than the waste major corporations generate doing capitalism.”

“And you could always recycle,” Jamie said. “Use old magazines or summat. That’s what I used to do.”

“Were you crafty, Jamie?” Trent smiled. “Make little posters of your favourite footballers?”

Jamie stiffened, his eyes head making an aborted jerk like he was fighting not to look at Roy. “No.” 

Roy smirked.

“All right,” Roy started, leaning forward in his chair and shoving at Jamie’s back. “That’s enough, Tartt, go put on your kit.”

“Okay so maybe I did!” Jamie said, hopping off the desk and turning to face Roy. “Doesn’t mean they were for you. There are other footballers.”

“Not according to Simon,” Roy grinned, his head tilting back to look up at Jamie as Jamie stepped toward him. “I can call him and get the real story if you like.”

Jamie scoffed, folding his hands into the bottom of his jumper. “Simon doesn’t know everything .” He frowned, leaning forward. “But you better not call mummy.”

Roy rolled his eyes, his face going just a bit too fond for company. “Go change, Tartt.”

“Ay ay, Coach,” Jamie said before leaning in to kiss him goodbye.

Roy and Jamie had kissed before. They kissed all the time: had been since they first kissed after that disastrous fight over Keeley that got both of them kicked out of her home and good graces. They’d worked out their aggression, their mutual attraction and, soon enough, their quads while they were fucking it out back at Roy’s place.

Roy’d had a special clause put in his manager contract that he wouldn’t have to break up with Jamie and Jamie would be totally protected as a player if they did break up. He’d worked it out with Rebecca, with Higgins, and with Sharon during his many therapist appointments about it.

But no one else knew. They’d never done this in front of anyone else.

They both froze.

Jamie pulled away. He and Roy had a half second of eye contact where they had the following silent conversation:

“I fucked up.”

“You fucked up.”

“I can fix it!”

“How the fuck are you gonna fix it?”

“Shut up, I’ve got this.”

Jamie stood up, his back rail straight, and took a deep breath. Roy watched him as he put the ‘Jamie Tartt’ affectation back on, smirk fixed, as he turned back to the rest of the room, everyone still struck speechless.

“Coach!” Jamie said, again, stepping towards Nate. Nate sat there, stunned, as Jamie took his face in his hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

Now it was Roy’s turn to be speechless.

“Big man Trent Crimm!” Jamie said, turning to Trent, and planting a fat one on the writer’s mouth. Tren’t mouth was still puckered when Jamie pulled back.

Jamie turned and pointed at Beard. “And I wouldn’t forget you, Coach!”

Beard tilted his face up to accept the kiss, seeming more prepared for it than the other two had. 

Jamie pulled away with a loud “Muah!” and grinned around to the assembled coaches, slightly manic. “See you on the pitch!” And he turned and fled the office.

They all watched him go for a few beats before the other three all turned their gazes to Roy, demanding explanation.

Roy did his best to pull out a Roy Kent worthy performance. “What the fuck was that!?”

Trent hummed, touching his mouth, consideringly. “Not half bad is what that was.”

Roy swallowed a growl. He couldn’t be obviously jealous and it’s not like Trent was wrong. Jamie was a famously excellent kisser.

“I'm more surprised you let it happen,” Nate said, still staring at Roy. “You didn’t even headbutt him.”

Roy grunted, crossing his arms. “It’s in my contract I’m not allowed to nut players anymore.”

“Still, you think you’d do it on instinct,” Beard said, eyebrow raised. “You didn’t even shove him.”

“I panicked! Froze up or some shit.” Roy said, desperate to get the attention off of him. “None of you did it either.”

Nate shrugged his mouth. “Well I never dreamed he’d kiss me .” he said. “He used to shove sweaty pants at my face.”

“I figured he was trying something.” Beard said, dismissively. “Thought we’d see where it goes.”

They all looked at Trent who held up his rainbow mug in tribute. “Who am I to deny a kiss from a beautiful man?”

Roy very heroically did not possessively bare his teeth.

“Well I’ll tell him to cut that out,” he grunted. “Can’t have players just go around kissing people. We’ll have a whole sexual harassment crisis.”

“That’s only if people don’t want Jamie to kiss them,” Beard said, fairly.

Roy couldn’t quite bite back his growl at that. Beard put up his hands.

“I think it’s nice that we’ve created a culture where our players can be so comfortable with us,” Nate noted, pleased. “Remember when they were throwing me in bins?”

“Those can’t be the only two options,” Trent said. “Kissing or bins?”

“You’re right, we need a third option,” Beard said, leaning back in his chair. “Kiss, bin, go drinking with.”

“The three genders,” Trent confirmed with a smirk. “Of those three options, I’m happy to kiss Jamie. Couldn’t lift him to put him in a bin and I worry how we’d fair in conversation.”

Nate and Beard hummed in agreement and now Roy wanted to defend Jamie’s conversation skills of all things.

He wouldn’t because that would be fucking suspicious but he wanted to. How pathetic.

“I’ll bin the twat,” Roy said instead. “Someone should.”

“He’d probably bin himself if you asked him to,” Beard noted, smirking.

Roy smirked back, not disagreeing.

[Read the rest on Ao3]

[venussaidso]

• HASTA NATIVES

Hasta Moon Hasta Moon

Hasta Sun Hasta Moon

Hasta Sun Hasta Sun

Hasta Moon Hasta Sun

Hasta ASC Hasta Moon

Hasta Moon Hasta Moon

As you can see, the appearance of Hasta men is different from Hasta women's. Hasta women have more slimmer, ethereal, fairy-like features and a petite frame. While Hasta men will look like Toothless from How To Train Your Dragon.

Hasta men have a mixture of soft and sharp features. Their face is never as defined or fierce like Chitra men. It's important to try to distinguish the two. Chitra men always seem more intimidating, especially the look they give. Then you consider their animal yoni, and think of the tiger's glare.

Chitra Moon Chitra Sun

Hasta men will always have a softer gaze (and jaw, cheekbones) than Chitra men. Even if there's a close chance of them looking alike, Chitras always have a more stronger/captivating stare.

Chitra Moon Chitra Moon

Hasta Moon women are sometimes more easier to tell apart from Chitra Moon women because Chitra women always look far more like their tiger yoni.

Chitra Moon Chitra Moon

But just like how some Hasta men can look/be mistakened for Chitra and vice versa, the same can happen to Hasta women & Chitra women. I found examples of two women who I thought were one nakshatra but instead another.

(The left I thought she was Chitra, on the right I thought she was Hasta.)

Hasta Sun Chitra Moon

I looked again and noticed that the woman on the left really does have the small, up-turned nose and an ethereal, youthful feel about her - like other Hasta women. I looked long enough to realize that she had a "fairy"-like beauty about her. And the woman on the right, her features aren't traditionally Chitra but far more Purva Ashada which is her Sun placement. And that's okay. Sometimes your Sun placement nakshatra or Ascendent nakshatra shows more on your face than the lunar mansion.

.

.

.

Hasta being ruled by Savitar, the Sun God, already tells the solar qualities within natives who have this lunar mansion. Hasta natives generally tend to steal the spotlight (Hasta Moon Harry Styles from One Direction) or they surpass their peers greatly (Hasta Moon Ariana Grande being the only megastar from Nickelodeon).

So, Hasta nakshatra people are very much alike Leos with being brightest, but they're crafty and very knowledgeable. They love learning, exploring, organizing, naturally attaining multiple skills that sometimes have nothing to do with each other.

They probably have amazing hands, I'd guess they'd love playing the piano if they're not total swift pickpockets. They're involved in various activities or choose to stay in work (art, sports) that involves a lot of repetition/practice.

They notice details that others don't, they may even have an interest in interior design, fashion or anything to do with colour coordination.

Because of the Hasta being co-ruled by the Moon, they tend to be emotionally in tune and have deep intuition. And because Hasta is primarily ruled by Mercury, they can be so good at mental gymnastics (they love wittiness and can develop a sharp sense of humour. Hasta is quite like Revati, in such a way that they like orchestrating pranks). Like their crafty side can make them extremely deceitful, cunning thieves (think of Hasta natives Zoe Kravitz & Anne Hathaway as Catwoman) and they also may be energy vampires.

Nakshatras that happen to suit Hasta: Mrigashira, Swati, Chitra, Revati, Uttara Bhadrapada, Pushya, Uttara Ashada, Purva Ashada, Shravana, Anuradha.

[forgottenarthur]

In Ruins | Arthur, Roderick, Eilia, Aria, etc...

Another step. Another. Up and up and up they rose before him, unending as the Kolchean ouroboros. And not a soul was speaking. For all the attendants traipsing and tripping after their god-given Emperor, a strange breathy silence pervaded, headed by the sullen-faced ó Réaltaí sisters (as the Staffords were now, evidently, to be called) and maintained by Roderick's many retainers, half-gasping with the interminable climb. The silence was a veil and Arthur felt twitchy, his fingers beating a tattoo against his thigh as he walked and walked.

"You Astairans certainly were not in jest when you claimed to live amongst the stars, I see."

Silence. Arthur detested silence. He'd always dested it, and he detested it now most of all. It was tense; it was subdued. And he didn't know what Aria was thinking...

Or anyone else. His father, for instance, or even...He glanced around to catch another face, half-desperate to prove there were other feelings which concerned him. Eilionora. No. But he wasn't supposed to care what she thought: she was the enemy. Still. He cared even less for what Sir Gregory thought.

Huffing, he shrugged. "I think I shall be eighty years old by the time we reach the top!"

"And here I imagined," began Eilionora, tone condescending. "A knight might be glad of such exercise."

"I--" Arthur frowned, rankling against the comment and struggling to invent a sufficient retort, when at last daylight (dying, by now, he saw) broke upon them. "At last!"

By the time Arthur gained the room, a world of ancient plaster featuring a tiny stone window in its concave surface. His father was already there, attendants arrayed about him like the streaming light of the sun, itself painting all in Arthur's own red. Eilionora stood opposite him, her expression fierce and determined, with her sister at her side and, fobidding as Aria looked, Arthur found himself drifting towards her.

Looking up, then, Arthur saw the look on his father's face. "Shit."

This was an expression well known to Arthur: triumphant and gleaming. The emperor was about to make the weight of whatever victory he'd won felt. "You thought to keep it from us," began Roderick, eyes glowing. "You strove and you strove, but every trace of your heathen gods will now be expunged."

Arthur felt Aria's eyes on him, but he could not pull his gaze from his father. Turning, Roderick grinned knowingly and suddenly thrust his arm directly through a wall.

"Father!" Arthur cried, starting forward. He stopped short. The emperor was unhurt and, in fact, a hole now stood in the wall where his hand once had been.

"A crafty illusion, to be sure," gloated Roderick. "Who'd think to vellum up a wall? Painted so precisely as to look to be pure plaster. But your woman's trick has come to naught."

Snapping, Roderick gestured and, at once, his attendants got to the business of tearing down the wall.

"God," breathed Arthur.

Roderick's gaze flicked towards him. "Why do you stand by them, Arthur?"

Arthur glanced hastily at the ladies. Swallowed. "To ensure they do not attempt to flee."

Roderick frowned.

"Your inevitable victory is something they really ought to see, Your Imperial Majesty."

Satisfied, Roderick smiled triumphantly at Eilionora, and nodded to Arthur. Aria glared at him. The emperor turned as a broad, wooden door was revealed and, with some difficulty, prized open by the attendants.

Now, it was to file into the room. Two servants went first -- to ensure the safe passage of the glorious presence behind them against any booby traps -- then the emperor went through followed by his attendants and lastly the ladies, with Arthur bringing up the train.

The door was low and ancient he saw, its planks turned half to stone by unimaginable age and, curious, Arthur swept his fingers along it as he passed through. The soul, he was told, was recurring. Had some version of him ever touched this wood before, perhaps its gentle-growing branches before it had been cut. Stooping to pass under the lintel, Arthur was temporarily blinded by a blanket of dark, limpid eyes narrowing as he stumbled a step or two inside.

He emerged into a vault of starlight as the last vestiges of day gave way to velvet-soft night, the firmament dotted with twinkling starlight, caught in a veil of midnight. It seemed a thousand, thousand stars glittered in the liquid night and that, if Arthur only stretched out his hand, he might just touch them with the edges of his fingertips.

"God be good," whispered Arthur. "I've never seen so many stars."

Glancing about him, he took in the ruins all about him -- a shattered dome, floor-to-ceiling arches that may once have contained windows now gaping over a yawning chasm.

"Do you know what this room is, Arthur?"

"No," he said, curiously glancing around him. "What is this place?"

It seemed to him that each lain stone was blue as lapis lazuli -- perhaps was lapis lazuli! -- and inset with ivory or some such so that stars were inset even into the very stones that strained to shelter them against the heedless sky above. Stretching out a hand, he laid it flat against one wall, cautiously approaching the casements to peer over the side of the mountain. Nothing but open sky greeted his gaze.

"How far up are we?"

"This is the crest of the mountain, Arthur."

He straightened, turned back towards his father. "What?!" he demanded. " Then--then this is--"

"Yes, the so-called Vault of the Heavens, the Cathedral of Stars, and other such: the very spot where their heathen goddess is said to have once set foot, according to some legends; where the shards of starlight were found from which their familial swords were forged. This," Roderick pointed down, grinning now in the pale starlight. "This is the most sacred place in all of Stafford."

Arthur glanced down at his feet, some sensation half like guilt springing vine-like across him, before his gaze shot suddenly to Aria, her own gaze now trained, relentless, upon Roderick.

"Now," continued Roderick, even his tone a gloat. "Where are those craters where the stars touched the earth? They're in this very room..."

Arthur's gaze did not leave Aria's face and, though it was hard to tell in the streaming starlight, he thought perhaps he saw tears sparkling at the edges of her eyes. His throat tightened. Arthur's hands closed to fists.

"Fill them in, shall we?" continued Roderick. "And bring what's left of this place to the ground. No trace of this heresy shall remain once I've done."

It was misery on her face, bleak and utter. She seemed to look at the walls, to the sky, as if they spike to her, friends soon to be shattered. A loss as deep as her name. Gritting his teeth, Arthur turned abruptly to his father, but Eilionora beat him to it. She was...laughing. Arthur watched fury dawn upon Roderick's face, unfurling like a plume of liquid flame over obsidian-dark granite. Sneer for sneer and glare for glare, emperor and former queen stared one another down.

She came forward. "No original ideas, have you? Do you know some of my own ancestors had a similar notion. Their great hall might prove more useful, they believed, otherwise. They tried everything they could -- every earthly tool there is: stone to cover up and concrete to pour. They even attempted, when that did not work, to flatten the rest of the earth. In every case, their tools came away bent and broken. The goddess shelters this place still. You can no more raze this site than they!"

Roderick's face was granite, craggy rocks -- brow and nose and lips -- etched with statuesque ire. As Roderick moved to close the gap between himself and his would-be bride, Arthur stepped forward.

Arthur had seen his mother do this a thousand times. Surely...surely he could do it, too. Oh, he could not employ precisely the same tactics she did: what Roderick might find favorable in a woman would prove repulsive to him in a man, but the principles still stood. He could move the Emperor, if he chose. Surely he could. He simply never had. But surely, surely he could. And he would. Just this once. Just this once, he would...

Slowly he began to clap, letting boastful swagger into his step as he strode forward, placing himself between the emperor and the ladies, and turning a look of perfect arrogance upon the one-time queen. He'd perfected this look long ago. One in eternal competition had to.

"It was a fine attempt, my lady," he laughed. "But did you imagine the God's Chosen would fall for so obvious a ploy?"

"Ploy? It is no--"

Laughing, again, Arthur held up a hand to silence her and turned towards his father, clapping him on the shoulder. "The hubris of women excels everything."

He felt Roderick's gaze heavy upon him. Here it was. The moment. Everything hinged on what he said next. It wasn't a betrayal of Roderick, he told himself. What he said could be true! And there was Aria, lovely and lonely as the stars above, tears radiant with the same silver light. He couldn't stand by and watch. How could anyone bear the misery on Aria's face? No. He had to act. He had to.

"Imagine, trying to goad an emperor into cheating himself of his greatest prize!"

Arthur was careful not to look at Aria. He felt the weight of her look, but he did not turn. He hoped she saw what he was doing -- but he doubted it as well. She'd just see the hateful swaggering prince too easily bent by his father's will: the one she'd always detested leaping out again: throwing her beliefs in her sister's face; laughing at them both. Still, it was better, Arthur told himself, better than the alternative. It was the best he could do.

"When this is the seat of power she's been guarding, the secret she's been holding onto!"

Roderick's eyes were fastened on Arthur, and the prince knew his father would not ask for clarification: he would not wish to admit to anyone that he did not see what Arthur was getting at. But Arthur would have to be careful in that, too. He couldn't let his father realize that Arthur knew he wasn't following.

"It's like a woman, isn't it? To try to manipulate you into destroying the very thing that gives her power over the Astairan people." He turned his gaze on the queen, then, found her expression contoured with rage...and confusion. "This is it, after all, isn't it? This is the reason they follow you? This place? That lost blasted sword! You blind them with symbols of power till they believe in you and nothing else! You must hate your people in truth: to wish further unrest on them, rather than cede to peace under someone else! You'd rather this place reduced to rubble, wouldn't you, than see its power put into the hands of your conqueror?"

Roderick's hand was heavy on Arthur's shoulder. He was behind him, and Arthur couldn't see his face. Was it ire? His clever father had seen the betrayal in him, and now his cruel wrath would fall upon Arthur's mother and brother and sister as well as himself! The hand was heavy enough. But it lingered, too. Was it encouragement, then, a kind of thanks for showing him...what was, in fact, a lie? A rotten son, indeed, and to both parents, it seemed. Arthur swallowed hard.

"Easy, Arthur," his father said. "We cannot fault her for trying. It can be no easy thing to see one's seat of power fall into another's hands for a second time, I am sure."

Arthur heaved a deep breath, pressing his eyes closed. It had worked. And then he heard Eilionora laughing again.

Roderick gestured and the ladies were led away. Arthur did not dare look at Aria. He had saved her sacred site for her, yes, but could she forgive him for the means? And did she know it had been his intention? And, god, he had betrayed his own honored father in so doing! Perhaps he deserved punishment, after all. And, he thought, he'd suffer it all gladly. God, what was becoming of him?

It was Arthur's turn to laugh. And putting his hands to his face, he did.

[thevalkyriesshadow]

what is the first gift that azriel and gwyn get each other for solstice?

OH GODS

ok so in a fic I wrote, Gwyn gives Az this little magical item that projects the starry night sky for any night of the year, and I really fell in love with that idea BUT I also think any books on topics he's into or is curious about is definitely something she'd get. Or Az always talks about the Rhys' planetarium so she gets Az one (but cooler cuz she added that one theorized planet they read about) and it just makes it that much more special

BUT I could totes see her getting a silly, thoughtful gift like an elaborately decorated box for his shadows, it's super crafty and intricately made but it's literally just a box with tiny pillows for the shadows to sleep in, as if they're cats who need a soft, cozy place to curl up LOL

In the same fic I wrote that Azriel would have the House create a secret room just for them that was half library/lounge, half mini training ring, but I could also see Az getting her her own set of training leathers, not Illyrian, but custom made, with all the bells and whistles like places to hide her daggers and other various weapons

And just like Gwyn, I could see Az getting something goofy for her like Pegasus slippers and matching robe (complete with a Pegasus head hood and wings), or a "special" addition of one of her favorite books but it's really just one of her favorite books reprinted to change a word in it - so the female and male leads in a romance novel would now have their names or she once couldn't remember the word for water and she called it "hydration liquid" so that's the word he had changed in her favorite pirate adventure book

It really could go either way because they're friends first and they have little inside jokes and whatnot, but they're also super thoughtful of each other's wants and needs.

[night-dark-woods]

Mara “Beloved Eris”/“Sweet, capable Petra” Sov

But also. Does Mara know about the assassination attempts on Petra. Realistically Mara “know everything” Sov would probably know, but then I refuse to believe there wouldn’t several less paladins when she found out

ok so for That, my dear friend Jackie's opinion (& i agree) is that Mara knows but doesn't do anything about it when she gets back, for several reasons:

it happened pretty early in Petra's regency (likely after she started actually Using her authority (see Report: Taken Power) and the techeuns and paladins had to actually deal with the fact that Petra was in charge for realsies). It's old news by the time Mara gets back.

the internal politics seem to have stabilized by Forsaken (if not of their own accord, then due to necessity- Uldren & first House Kings, then the Scorn), and Petra seems to have the Reef pretty well in hand when Mara actually returns (in Hunt iirc?). dredging up a years-old political incident would do nothing but destabilize a military already fighting an endless war on several fronts, and about to fight a new one as well.

it would undermine Petra's authority. Mara returning and immediately punishing someone over a personal slight (bc that's what it would be atp) would show a lack of trust and confidence in Petra's ability to handle internal politics, strip Petra of her hard-earned respect, and relegate her to a consort or non-military role. part of the pushback against her regency was that the high-ranking members of the court/military (same difference) thought Mara chose her because they were sleeping together (i do not think there is a single other way to interpret the Vouchsafe loretab. to be quite real) and Mara doing that would all but confirm their thoughts. Vouchsafe loretab as a treat:

"...No one thought you were right for that job. We thought…" He flattens his mouth. "Well, we thought Mara was favoring you for the wrong reasons. You're young; you were still green. You certainly weren't Sjur. When Mara died, and suddenly you were Regent instead of me or Devi or whoever…"

assassination attempts would presumably have been made by extremely essential and high-ranking commanders. top of the list would be Illyn (see loretab Illyn, Pathfinder set head armor) & Kamala Rior (see Chain of Souls, Prodigal set leg armor, a Talk to Petra flavortext). i know Illyn is Distributary-born from a Pilgrimage, and i believe Rior is as well; given that Petra on chronologically-first loretab mention (Oathkeeper) is called "a child" by Mara, i don't think there are any Reef-born in command roles tbh. both Illyn and Rior are also deeply essential to both the religious/technological AND military (inasmuch as those are in any way separate) command structures for the Awoken. those are the main suspects, but the entire command structure doubts her (see Honored, below, and Vouchsafe again). Illyn also was Petra's teacher when she flunked out of Techeun training, so that's a whole nother layer to the mess lmfao.

for Illyn:

"Quickly," Illyn hisses. "Before Petra is informed." Any breach of Processes and Services triggers an alert, and while they were crafty in their intrusion, even minute body heat and motion of the air will be detected.

&

We need more Techeuns, Illyn. You know I'm right." Illyn shook her head. "We are not weapons for the Queen's Wrath to command…"

& then for Rior:

Variks's fingers flexed. "Petra, the Loyal," he sneered. "Perhaps the murmurs of Kamala Rior are true, yes?"

Petra glowered.

&

"Regent-Commander Petra Venj, if you take the Queenship, I will take my fleet and leave." —Paladin Kamala Rior

&

"I'm sending you a permanent detatchment of Corsairs. Petra... I'm sorry for doubting you." —Kamala Rior

Honored

Petra does not see the cynical glance that passes between Leona and Pavel, who have both served the Queen faithfully for decades.

and lastly i dont think Mara has ever been one to act on emotion like that. she has always been LASER-focused on her goals and the Big Picture, determined to get there regardless of how grieved she is by her own collateral damage. she brought her people out of heaven to DIE. ("If you have grace, then see our sorrows, but swallow back your tears. We were made to pay this price. I led us to our fate.") the closest we get to a rash emotional decision is in the Oathkeeper tab when Sjur dies, and even then all she allows herself to do is send Orin to find her killers.

"...But if we divert our attention now to vengeance against an unknown enemy…" Mara put down the coin and allowed herself a small, humorless smile. "Then let it be my diversion."

EXTREMELY long response but. i think Mara knows, and however upset she may be personally, i think she would never act to destabilize the Reef like that. imo Petra understands, but i'd imagine it also fucking sucks sometimes. that is what it is to love a god-queen though.

ALSO. this is whats sooo fun abt whenever Sjur comes back (idec if it happens in canon. its true in my heart. it says in literally every Sjur-related loretab). bc everyone tells Petra to her face that she isn't Sjur. constantly. BUT then we got that radio message in SotWish where Mara told her that she was better suited for regency than Sjur. and Sjur isn't full of herself or unable to recognize others' capabilities, and she'd be impressed by Petra as well, and also horrified at what she had to deal with. just DEEPLY fun dynamic. i <3 Petra's small dog complex and violent tendencies. highly recommend Jackie's PetraSjur fic about it also, which touches on this actually and also belongs in a museum: (link)