[joanofexys]

queer themes in x-men my beloved. Angel binding his wings. Bobby’s parents asking if he’s tried just not being a mutant. Nightcrawler and catholic guilt. The existence of cherik. Everything with Scott/Jean/Logan. Mystique and Destiny.

[fluideli123]

[IMAGE ID: The American Chopper Argument Meme that reads: "Deadpool 3 wasn't a good movie because the anchor being concept didn't make sense and neither did the cameos, it was supposed to be about deadpool." In the second panel, "Anchor beings are a commentary on Marvel's fucked up money-making scheme and destroying characters who are popular to the audience which puts more money in their pockets." The third panel states, "The cameos still shouldn't have been there! They made no sense!" Followed by, "Deadpool wanted to be a hero since the first Deadpool movie and continues to be rejected over and over and you think it's not important for him to meet people who were rejected by the industry and forgotten? To not only make a jab at big industries but also for himself and his repeating themes?" / END ID]

Guys, I might be passionate about this movie, I don't think it's noticeable./s

[ethan-nestor-owns-my-heart]

Can we talk about the fact that so many people on this app would rather ship Lucy with the guy who CUT HER FINGER OFF or HER COUSIN 🤮 rather than shipping her with her canonical black love intrest. Yikes, this happens so often and it’s so concerning.

[kingassblast]

image that came to me in a dream

[sorry-but-no-sorry]

Day 57 of “I want to be with darth maul, not for romantic reasons but because he’s such an intriguing character who deserved better from the start and if he had a good therapist, I want to be adopted by him as a mentor or father figure”

[literally-noone83]

Supernatural Headcanons: Receiving Affection (1/?)

About: female!reader×platonic!everyone, teenage/young adult reader, reader's love language is touch: hugging, hanging off the boys' shoulders, falling asleep on their shoulders and the like :) just wholesome things (with some angst).

Word count: It's a long a one...

Warning: Angst, Shouting, other than that it's just fluffy :)

A/n: This reallt isnt a head cannon tbh. Started with an idea, created an OC then a background and then and then and then — it spiralled into this mess haha.

I meant to go further - provide that conclusion to create a holistic narrative... but it's already really long and atm felt uninspired to keep going with it. So we wait, sorry !

Welp, enjoy!

Let's imagine your love language is touch. The crave and the lingering need to touch, hug, lean on, hold onto someone, some one you felt safe around and loved by was a instinct you've always had.

Surrounding yourself with some of the most emotionally stunted and constipated people — emotionally unavailable car, pie and ACDC loving hunter, his emotionally neglected brother and monotonous 'I don't understand the reason for handholds if you're not lost' angel boyfriend — your touchy feely nature was met half-heartedly.

Given the moment you first met them was amidst a series of tumultuously devastating events — one easy case turned bad, the loss of family was never easy on a adolescent. And for the most part that's all you were to them. Another poor young soul caught up in the cusp of a terrifying world Dean and Sam intended to protect. To save. It never came without consequence — it's just this time in came in the form of a teenager, tear stained and alone.

Dead of night, once the vampires who took your mother and little brother were resolved with a few knife swings and burning bullets — it was the embrace Sam offered that changed things.

You needed it. Solace, comfort. Something to keep you grounded.

The Winchesters would do more than offer a hug. Decisions and shots were called, arguments sure did occure — another mouth to feed, a head to look out for — but in the end life kept moving and this was all you had left; a reason, an opportunity, to help.

A Winchester. You were the rookie who could barely hold a gun. Then you were the amature that fought to fight; snooping for cases, sneaking out for a chance to shoot and to prove you can contribute. Couple years fly by and now you're family.

So many night spent trading stories, on the stupid shit Dean pulled and Sam moments of pubescent embarrassment among the pockets of normal school life, or your gems of memory with your mother you missed and a brother you had teased. The banter was rich on both ends — most prominently with Dean. It was just so easy. A grumpy old man who dished out the rules and stomped around with that voice of his — you couldn't help yourself.

*in Dean's voice* "Its too dangerous, me macho man will take care of it" *normal voice* "y'know I didn't realise you were one grey hair away from being my father..."

He lets out a humorless laugh, rubbing his chin and gesturing to you at Sam. "She thinks shes funny huh? youre real comedian— thats it!"

He chases you down the bunker and you run away. Deans yelling and your laughter ringing behind Sam.

Sam truly was enjoying to have someone on his side — till at times he wasn't so lucky. You and Dean were a little too powerful once you joined arms...

Amidst this new found family, Dean and Sam quickly noticed how much you liked to hug them... almost clingy.

Granted, it wasn't like you smothered everyone who walked into your life — with Dean and Sam it was different. They saved you, welcomed you, took care of you. You trusted them.

It qas noticeable during the early days of your stay. After long hunts when you were left behind, in security of the bunker, those hours felt like days and days felt like years. Crippling fear of losing the only formed tether of family and safety frightened you.

The moment the door clicked open, "Hey, Y/n, we're back," a bag of take out ready and jackets being torn off in lethargic movements of a day's struggle, "got some burgers and those curly fries as remembered and—"

Frantic steps and a leap, Dean was almost knocked down by the force of your hug. Wrapped around his neck, face buried in his collar. "Woah there, Kid." He stumbled and huffed from the suddenness.

"Y/n? you ok?" Sam asked at your long passing moments in embrace. Words of gladness and "Thank god"s poured from your lips, stepping back to look at how they're really here. Alive. Safe. The brothers noted it was probably because of your family — you were dealing and I think they are one of few people who could really understand that.

However, this passing moment became everytime. They'd come home and you'd hug them briefly. Once you were coming with them than waiting patiently, you'd embrace them before bed.

Huddled around the table, Sam reading, Dean nursing a cold beer whilst flipping through a magazine as you ate and prompted Dean into weird topics of 'never have I ever - monster edition'. You'd bid yourself adue.

"I'm gonna hit the sack, weirdos." You'd walk around to them. "Enjoy your light reading, Sammy. And enjoy your pervy magazine, old man." Passing by, wrapping your arm their shoulders, affectionately nudging cheeks with them — Sam would accept them graciously, the loving gesture comforting to him. And Dean would simply hum at you, trying his best to look indifferent or exasperated by such contact. But you knew he silently enjoyed them, and Sam did especially; knowing his older brother, the boundary of affection was never crossed but from you — a semblance of a younger sister — was soothed but this entry of comfort. Shoulders slacked, posture less tense, you were a reminder of everything was okay.

"Now get off me - you need a shower."

When Castiel was around it, too, didn't take long before he was another victim to your embraces. Seeing how close Cas was to Dean and Sam, it meant he was good.

Late night car rides, slumped against the worn leather of Baby as the soft rock channel hummed alongside the murmuring engine pushing the hunters and a angel home. The orange street light continuously ran over their laps, exhaustion lingered in the vehicle — Dean's raw red knuckles were prominent, wrapped around the steering wheel. Sam sported a scrape on his cheek bone, exchanging hushed words between his brother and Castiel. Sat in the back with Cas, you couldn't bother chipping on the discussion. The headache you endured only just subsided, with just a bruise that ached at your side, both the dull music and gentle voices did well to block it. Soothing you into a lul.

"Someone's uncharacteristically quiet..." Sam humoured. The two shared a peak through the review mirror to catch your heavy eyes and tilting head you struggled to hold up. Dean couldn't help but smirk, chuckling under his breath at your disgruntled hum towards Sam.

"It's a nice change," he joked.

"Dean," Cas warned, glancing attentively to you, "She did a lot today."

"Yea... she did." He said silently proud. Of course she did.

Moments passed and next thing you know, Cas felt your held fall on his shoulder. Almost surprised, he didn't move an inch. Tossing and turning, laying on him finally made you settle. Staring down at you, he was glad to see you sleep — you took too many nights to sitting on thay laptop keen that every minute need not be wasted. And so he laid back a bit more comfortably, mindful on how much he moved. He understood, humans needed their rest.

Dean couldn't help but find it endearing.

The boys did their best to revieve your affection in stride. Cas was always naturally stiff when you slung your arm over his shoulders. Dean tried his best to act annoyed when you attack hug him from behind, and awkwardly patting your back. Sam never minded the time you'd sit beside him, leaning against his larger stature while he read or researched.

Then Jack showed up. Between losing Mary, Crowley, the fright of Cas' death and so much more — times weren't the easiest. Lucifer's son, the premeditated anti-christ that was the cease all life and goodness, the first day of getting to know Jack was a rocky path. While Sam continuously sympathised the young man and Dean couldn't even look at him, you remained initially indifferent. Just like your brothers, you were scared more than anything, grieving over the losses especially Cas — you didn't know what to think but you did know they needed you.

Jack noticed how you kept wrapping your arms around them every time you left off to somewhere or twist your twist your face into something warm at the much angrier man. It was so peculiar to him that he asked Sam when they were in the cellar, "why does she do that?"

"What?"

A look of seriousness worried Sam, "Do that - hold him. Dean." And he looked at him confused.

"You mean— she hugging him." Jack's face didn't change, "she's embraced him because she's worried about him," it sounded more like a question as he mimicked the gesture, "you embrace someone when you want to comfort them, or show them affection."

"'affection'?"

"It's means to show care for someone."

Jack looks at him, "She does it a lot." He noted.

Sam omitted a breathy laugh, "Yea. She does - she cares a lot, I suppose."

Soon your apprehension grew to empathy for the nephillum. His innocence and innate kindness baffled you at times. He borne no essence of evil - he rather carried Kelly's sweetness, and a fear that made you realise that Jack was far from anything like his father. He was just Jack.

The realisation settled within you as you sat on that crate where your breath transpired in the cold, facing Jack curled up beside the dumpster. Large shadows drew over his furrowed brows, deep with sadness and hurt as he said, "Maybe I'm not worth all this". Your heart sunk. All alone without the comfort of his mother and guidance of the angel she promised, made to feel like he was something he wasn't — worthless.

"Stop." The words escaped your lips faster than you could think and he stared at you saddened. "Don't..." You hesitated, too many things you want to say and you settle with reaching out a gentle hand. "Can I please uhm..." Jack slightly confused gave his hand at your hushed question. And he was surprised by your warm and firm grip; holding his palm with your other hand instantly clasping over his knuckles, you told him "Jack, you are worth all this..." staring intently into his eyes. "Sam thinks your worth it, so did Castiel, your mother. And so do I."

His eyes softened, and a small smile slipped onto your lips. Hope seeping into his features, he asked, "Really?"

"Really." You said.

That night you shared a room with Jack, agreeing with Sam things were too tense with Dean. You'd continue to be at Jack's side, speaking to him, answering his questions, simply being with Jack whilst mediating your brothers. Meaning, your constant defense of Jack caused a constant bickering and arguing with Dean. Unlike Sam the Diplomat, you two were almost explosive. Dean hated how close you'd stick by that thing, that freak; he was dangerous, he could hurt you! And you hated Dean's merciless disdain for him — always throwing warnings at the names and disregarding statements Dean would say without a thought with Jack.

At times, when Sam was with Jack, the moment he'd leave you and the eldest alone, stiff muttering of words escalated into loud yelling. Seething at each other until your red faced. Sam would always have to intervene, assuring Jack they're just "hot headed".

This anger festered into Dean's asserting orders; regulations, rules, reprimanding of your interactions with Jack. You were holding Jack's hand cause he seemed nervous, Dean would explicitly say no handing holding with devils. Alone in a room with him on an off chance again? Dean's dragging you out on errands or telling you to go to your room. Walking around the table offering your bidding night hugs, your affectionate squeeze on Jack's shoulder earned a warning glare from Dean.

You always made a face back, countering his overprotective as overbearing and stupid. When you finally had a go at him for it, Sam was out and there was nothing holding them back. You both pushed at each other to your limits. Comparing Jack to you when you some kid helpless and alone too, or Sam deemed bad before he could do any good, really sent Dean down the rails — because you're family. Jack is Lucifer's son, not you.

"Does he look like Lucifer's son to you, Dean?! He does nothing but be kind, gentle. He listens to your orders, he's even terrified of you!"

"And so he should be!" His voice booms with anger you hadn't heard from Dean till now and it shakes you. "You think I care that he can smile nicely at you, and say 'thank you' and 'sorry'? That doesn't matter. Cas is gone because of him, Mum is gone because of him. Wake up, Y/n, he can't change what he is and what he is, is a freak, an inevitable danger to you, to us, this entire freaking world- I'm sorry youre too damn stupid and niave to realise that." His starn, harsh words push past his lips in a burst of thoughts that seemed like he's been holding in forever, and he has to lean back for a moment to sigh. You stood there without moving, your eye glisten against your will as you swallow his words. He paused before turning to walk away without another word — the knife sunk a little deeper.

"I know you're hurting, Dean," your voice went small, and you caught him mid step. "but you're not the only one." His face grew sullen: he was too angry, too tired. He hadn't the energy to say or do something. Looking at you, he noticed your quivering lip you tried so hard to hide and instantly in his eyes you reverted back into that small 14 year old girl he and Sam decided to take under their wing. An image that flashed by and then you were walking away. To the other side of the bunker. And after a few heart beats, he did too.

Without either of you knowing, Jack had heard the entire altercation. Your purposeful steps rushed past him and you didn't see him — too busy fiercely wiping away escaping hot tears you didn't want. Jack had never seen you this upset and quietly he followed you to your room. He heard you slam the door shut and heard you sniffle inside. Hesitant he slowly cracked the door open to see your back facing towards him, sat on the edge of your unmade bed, silently crying.

A sensation of sorrowful guilt imbued in the centre of his chest. This was his fault wasn't it?

"Y/n?" His sudden appearance finally made known surprises you and you whip around. "Jack," your voice is thick with emotions, harshly sniffed back as your wiped your cheeks several times. "What are you..." You took a deep breath. Seeing his worried eyes you realised your attempt to appear unphased and normal was feeble — your eyes were puffy, flushed cheeks and red nose. And then it hit you, "I'm sorry, Jack. Sorry you had to hear that it's just, he's just..." you lett your hands fall to your lap defeatedly and head hung low. You looked him and flashed a weak smile, "Don't worry," Jack moved to sit on your bed, "It's just everything's a bit weird."

"I'm sorry." He finally said simply.

"What? Jack-"

"I'm sorry," he looked at you with those same eyes that night. "that you, Dean and Sam are hurting - because of me."

You shook your head, "No, no Jack, you have done nothing wrong, we're fine. We will work this out-"

"But you are crying, you are upset."

"I'm fine, Jack, don't-"

"Why are you lying?" He places a hand over yours, catching your evasive and scattered gaze. He pulls you to a halt, forcing you to meeting his big attentive eyes. They were so kind and gentle. And the warm of his hand stopped your racing heart. "You can tell me." He said softly and such simple words crashes over you. Your eyes locked onto his, you let silence hang in between as you soaked in this blooming comfort from someone you least expected it. It was overwhelming. And the longer you looked at him, all thoughts and emotions started to feel too real, too much, and your eyed began to well up in tears. Trying to blink them away made them fall faster and your gaze fell to his hand. "I- I'm sorry."

Your voice cracked and your instinctively tried to cover your face; to hide from Jack which you were sure you were confusing him even more with your immense and sudden outpour of emotions. You muttered your apologies, intending to turn to avoid overwhelming him further until the mattress dipped this way and there and a pair of arms embraced you. The foreign feeling of his body against yours made you hold your breath for a second — digesting the unexpected gesture of comfort from Jack and one that you didn't know you needed.

He held you firmly, his head tucked beside yours, eyes scrunched tight as if desperate to make you feel better. Seconds pass before you relent into his touch, wrapping your arms around his neck and burrying yourself away into the nape of his neck. And Jack squeezed you a little tighter.

You and Jack would stay like that for a while. Until your quiet sobs muffled into his shirt quietened down to weak sniffles and your arms loosened, feeling yourself wafting into sleep.

Once Sam came home from his grocery run, he was met by the unsuaul silence and brooding Dean who fixing himself a sandwich.

"Dean, I literally went shopping to cook now why are you-"

"'s not for me." He finished it before pushing it towards Sam, "Mind giving this to Y/n?" It was hardly a question.

The way his brother barely looked at him leaning back with a drink, and the sullenness of his voice, Sam knew something must've happened, "...And why can't you do that?"

"I don't think she's in the mood to talk to be right about now."

Sam walked up to your door, sick with worry and anger to hear what had gone down between you and Dean. The steam from yet another argument with Dean came to a simmer seeing your door not locked but left ajar. He slowed, softly calling out "Y/n?" coming closer he heard not only your soft snores he knew well after years but another's.

Entering he stopped — there you were deep in slumber. And in the arms of the nephilum. Your head lay in the croock of his neck, arms loosely fallen across his torso while his around your shoulders. Sam noted your red eyes and nose, stains of tears that revealed the severity of this argument with Dean had a toll on you. It pained his heart yet seeing Jack with you overturned such hurt — he comforted you. A cosmic being does not need sleep yet Jack visibly chose to rest with you — to show you he cared too. However it there was no doubt you had fallen asleep on him first — a sign of your trust.

The two of you have connected, and Sam quietly left, clicking the door shut with a relief and no plan on letting his older brother know about this.

[thealogie]

I’m such a prequel girlie at the end of the day. Hahaha yes tell me a story that was always going to happen. Tell me a story that’s been dead since the beginning

[crosshairlovebot]

birthday revelations / crosshair x gn!reader

pairing: crosshair x gn!reader (no y/n). reader has a nickname.

description: crosshair discovers it's your birthday, and in an effort to try and understand birthdays, he gets you a gift.

word count: 3,793

warnings: none. crosshair ovethinks a lot

Another request! Maybe not technically a request, but @starrylothcat sent in an ask for an ask prompt and said it would be nice to see me write a fic where crosshair buys a gift for the reader for their birthday or christmas and it's been stuck in my head since! so here you go! i hope i did it justice!

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated <3

Crosshair didn’t like crowds. He gritted his teeth as he walked alone through the market on Sorgan, sidestepping people as they entered his path. It was noisy, but that didn’t bother him so much. Vendors called out to passersby, promoting their various goods for purchase with enthusiasm. Voices chattered and laughed. The smell of food wafted through Crosshair’s nose and his stomach tightened with hunger. Rations were poor choices compared to the sizzling of flavourful meat on grills, but he didn’t have enough credits to buy himself something to eat.

He only had enough to buy something for you.

He had been helping Tech with cataloguing files when he saw one on their nat-born medic. You had joined Clone Force 99 just over half a standard cycle ago with your plucky yet kind attitude, falling into the group dynamic easier than Crosshair had thought. Sure, it had taken some adjustment for him and his brothers to become used to another presence they had not grown up with, but it was inevitable you would eventually find your place in the team. You were hardworking, strong and compassionate. You paid attention to each of his brothers, giving them your undivided focus during conversation and indulging them in questions about what they were doing or their chosen skill. He had watched you talk with Tech about data decryption, Wrecker about proton-based explosives, Hunter about tracking strategies, Echo about ARC trooper training, and of course, him about sharpshooting.

He recalled the way you sat next to him for the first time on his bunk during their time in Hyperspace. He had disassembled part of his Firepuncher rifle, readjusting the scope and the barrel after it had unexpectedly jammed on their previous mission. He’d been annoyed – his prized weapon never faltered, and he was trying to figure out why it had failed on him when the thin mattress dipped next to him, and you asked what he was doing. When he’d given a particularly surly response, you nodded and then just continued to watch him. His eyes had slid to you.

“Can I help you with anything else?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so icy, but he had been frustrated with this rifle, with himself.

“Can you…explain what you’re doing?” you had asked hopefully.

He had looked at you sceptically. “Why?”

You just shrugged. “It looks interesting.”

He had studied your expression, trying to discern if you were being genuine. But you were. You always were with things like this.

So, he explained what he was doing, answered your questions and by the time his weapon was fixed, he didn’t even really remember his initial annoyance. You had smiled at him, your mouth stretching in a way that made your eyes light up. He felt a little flicker of something in his stomach before it was promptly extinguished.

Since then, you have spent time with him like that more often. Not just when he was cleaning his rifle, but other things. Like throwing Lula back and forth across the bunks as you both talked, joking about things that happened on missions. Sharing looks over briefings. Stealing Wrecker’s snacks.

But his favourite time with you was drawing on your datapad and trying to guess what the other was drawing. He had learnt you liked to draw and enjoyed drawing out something other than a medical diagram. He felt a sense of pride in making you laugh so hard you cried with his silly caricatures during long hyperspace trips. Exaggerated doodles of his brothers, tookas and the like, a portrait of you with a funny expression. You liked to draw him with a smile too big for his face, chuckling as you drew and then collapsing into laughter when you showed him. It always made the thing in his stomach flicker.

He really liked having you around.

So, when he came across your file when helping Tech, he couldn’t help but open it. You had told them all any information they had asked for, and information they had not. There wasn’t really anything you kept secret. But when he saw your ID holo looking particularly embarrassing: with wide eyes and a half-formed expression – like you were taken off guard by the photo, the corner of his mouth twisted up in an impish smirk.

He had intended to tease you about it; set the holo to the show on every Marauder screen so it was everywhere.

He opened the file to take a copy of the holo when he spotted details about your age and date of birth.

He frowned at the date. “Tech, what is today’s galactic date?”

Tech looked up from his datapad, adjusting his goggles before rattling off the date. “Why?”

He said your name before telling him, “It’s their birthday tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Tech blinked.

Age and birthdays were almost foreign concepts to clones. With accelerated aging and growing in a capsule, they didn’t really matter to them. Awkward to calculate, they weren’t celebrated. Crosshair had no idea when he had been ‘birthed’ or decanted, and if the Kaminoans documented such dates, then it was classified information. He knew his chronological age, but his biological age was a little murky. He knew he was a “mature clone”, however with the accelerated aging, he didn’t know where exactly he stood. None of their brothers knew any of these details. It was normal for them.

He read the date and your age. What would it be like to be so sure of something like that? To be sure of the parts that made up who you were?

Crosshair cleared his throat and closed the file without even copying the ID holo. He frowned to himself. Maybe he should’ve asked you about it before, but birthdays weren’t a part of his world, so he hadn’t thought to. But they were important to nat-borns, weren’t they? At least that’s what they’d all been told during their training modules.

When he lay in his bunk that night, he circled his mind for all he knew about birthday traditions. Gatherings. Food. Gifts. Would you like all that? Did you like all that? You seemed like you would. He didn’t know if it was something he would enjoy if he had a birthday…it didn’t really seem like his thing, but maybe he would. He would never know. He thought that Wrecker might be the only one who would enjoy a birthday. Maybe Echo too if you did it right. Same with Hunter.

But you hadn’t said anything about your birthday.

He had tossed and turned. You were part of their squad. You cared. Listened. Laughed. Did you not feel you could share the date with them? He didn’t know, and a part of him felt a little hurt that you might not feel you could. Were you not friends? Crosshair didn’t have many friends, but he knew they were supposed to tell each other things.

He turned again, crossing his arms against his chest as he faced the wall. Why did he even care? If you didn’t want to tell him it was your birthday, fine. He wouldn’t mention it.

He squeezed his eyes shut before sitting up on his elbows and craned his head to see you sleeping in your bunk. Through the darkness, his enhanced eyes saw you curled in yourself, and your nose twitched as you breathed deep and evenly. Something in his chest pinched. He sighed before laying back down and pulling the thin blanket over his head.

Now, as he found himself in this market the next day, he wondered what he was even doing here.

Once they had landed on Sorgan, they completed their mission easily with no complications. But Crosshair was still distracted by your birthday. You hadn’t even said anything when everyone woke up this morning. Just acted like it was any other day. You had just smiled at him as you tucked into a ration bar, saying good morning before throwing one to him to eat.

It puzzled him.

When you all started walking back to the Marauder after the mission, Hunter could tell something was up with him, nudging his shoulder.

“You alright?”

Crosshair had scowled at his brother. “…Yes.”

“You look deep in thought,” Hunter pointed out, falling into step with him.

Crosshair broke his gaze and looked away, back towards where they came, to the village they had just liberated. The thought had barely formed before he said, “Do we have time before the next mission?”

Hunter’s surprise showed in his voice. “We have a couple of hours, why?”

“I’ll be back later,” Crosshair walked off in the direction of the village before Hunter could say anything. His long legs carried him to the marketplace, where he stood now amongst the bustling bodies.

He just couldn’t get your birthday out of his stupid head; that you hadn’t said anything because clones didn’t celebrate birthdays. Just because he didn’t understand them, doesn’t mean he couldn’t try…for you.

He started combing through the vendors, most of which were finishing up resetting their stands after they fled suddenly several days prior. He moved from stall to stall, gazing at the different items over people's heads. Kriff, what were you even supposed to buy people for birthdays? Something they needed? Something they wanted? It was all a little overwhelming. And Crosshair didn’t get overwhelmed.

“Looking for something in particular, my friend?”

Crosshair startled and looked up to see the vendor, a greying man with a wrinkled face, horns protruding from his forehead and curled up in an elegant spiral shape.

Crosshair frowned, clearing his throat. “It’s…my friend's birthday today.”

The man’s face lit up. “Wonderful! Birthdays are special.”

Crosshair’s mouth tightened as the man continued to speak. “What were you thinking of gifting them?”

The hairs on Crosshair’s neck stood up with nerves. “I…I don’t know.”

The man’s face lit up. “Perhaps I can help.”

The man then went through the different items at his stand. He held up scarves, strings of beads, and handmade pottery. Crosshair thought they were all nice enough, but he wasn’t swimming in credits. And none of the items really felt like you. The vendor was patient, more patient than he should’ve been. Either he really wanted to help or was desperate for a sale in a competitive marketplace.

After many minutes and many items, Crosshair felt himself gradually stiffening, becoming more and more on edge and uncomfortable. He felt so out of his depth. He was always so sure of everything, and trying to do this thing he had no experience in, made him more vulnerable than he had in a long time. It was not a feeling he felt comfortable with. Never had been.

And as much as he liked you, maybe this was all a stupid idea. You hadn’t mentioned your birthday for a reason. He shouldn’t bring it up. If he did, he’d have to explain how he found out…and he didn’t want to go through that awkwardness. He was about to open his mouth and tell the over-enthusiastic vendor: thank you, but he wouldn’t bother with a gift, when the vendor clapped his hands loudly, making Crosshair jump.

“I may have something back here, hold on,” he said as he turned away to rifle noisily through a crate behind him.

Crosshair felt his fist curl at his sides, and this should’ve been his opening to slide away unnoticed until he looked down and saw a brown leather book. Crosshair halted and lifted a gloved hand to the soft worn cover, running his fingers over the engravings in the bound leather. He opened the cover, seeing it was a blank notebook, and it had a writing implement tucked into the spine. Not many people recorded things the traditional way anymore; datapads were much more efficient and stored more information than the pages of a notebook. He flicked through the pages, fanning them with his thumb. The dust drifted up and it was a smell he didn’t recognise, but he supposed it was the smell of paper.

“That’s a good choice.”

Crosshair retracted his hand as if he was a cadet being scolded, and looked up at the vendor, who held an oversized pot that would break the second it came aboard the Marauder.

“That would be a perfect gift,” the vendor continued, nodding at the notebook.

Crosshair looked at him before picking up the notebook – more surely this time, and turned it over in his hands. He imagined you in your bunk, scribbling in it at night with a torch in one hand. He imagined you keeping it under your pillow for safekeeping. He imagined you doodling in it, showing him your drawings with that smile on your face. He imagined drawing in it with you. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“How much?” Crosshair asked.

“It’s yours.”

Crosshair’s head snapped towards the vendor. “What?”

The vendor waved him away. “Take it.”

Crosshair blinked, confused. “…I have to pay you.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve been trying to sell that for years. You’d be doing me a favour.”

Crosshair furrowed his brow. “…Isn’t the customer supposed to be right?”

The vendor barked out a laugh. “Not this time, my friend.”

Crosshair dug into his pocket anyway and pulled out half the credits. “For your patience…at least.”

The vendor chuckled and took them. “Thank you. I hope your friend likes it.”

Crosshair didn’t respond as the man turned away, placing the pot down before calling out to other marketgoers, trying to entice them.

Crosshair walked back through the market, the notebook feeling heavy in his hand. Leaving the village, he made his way back to the Marauder, thoughts swimming in his head.

Kriff, what if you hated it? Or thought it was stupid? What if all his knowledge on birthdays was completely inaccurate and you would think him strange for giving you something? Or what if you just thought he was weird for getting you something at all?

Crosshair’s grip on the notebook tightened. He just wanted to do something nice. Like you always did for them. But this is why he avoided it. It was so vulnerable being nice. Being nice left you open for hurt, open for aching. It was much easier to keep it at bay, to restrict it. To hide it behind actions inconspicuously where it wasn’t out in the open. Being so open with it for you…he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it scared him. The doubt crept in. Crosshair had conviction and confidence, and he wasn’t used to it wavering like this.

He was just about ready to throw the notebook into a bush and never speak of it again when he heard your voice ring out from the steps of the Marauder.

“Crosshair!”

You placed your datapad down and ran over to him. He hid the notebook behind his back with both hands, gripping it so hard he knew his knuckles would be white as you approached him with a smile.

“Hey,” he said, hoping he sounded normal.

“Where’d you go? You disappeared after the mission.”

“I was just…looking for something,” he said carefully. Dank farrik, how was he supposed to do this? He thought he might just leave it on your bunk when you were distracted with a little note written inside the cover saying, ‘Happy Birthday’. That way he could avoid your reaction when you saw it. He didn’t even know how to get into the Marauder with it now that you were here in front of him.

You tilted your head with a quizzical smile. “Looking for something?”

Crosshair nodded. “I couldn’t find it,” he lied.

“Oh…okay,” you looked at him weirdly. Would you look at him like that when you saw his gift?

Crosshair nodded to the Marauder, desperate to get on board and stow the notebook away until he could leave it on your bunk. “Should we go inside?”

You looked at him, narrowing your eyes. “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, meshurok,” he lied, his grip tightening again.

“Yes, you are,” you sidestepped him to look behind him and he leapt out of the way. You grinned. “You are! What are you hiding, Cross? Why can’t I see?” you tried to chase him around, but Crosshair kept angling himself away. Kriff, he had never felt so stupid in his whole life.

“It’s nothing. Get your meddling hands away from me, you di’kut,” he walked backwards in a circle, his face and neck hot.

“Crosshair,” you chided, smiling at him. “Come on, is it really that bad?”

“Go away,” he grumbled, hands aching from holding the damned notebook so tight.

“Crosshair,” you said his name again, and your face was stretched in that playful grin that he’d unwillingly memorised. That thing in his stomach flickered again.

Then he remembered how you didn’t tell him about your birthday. And how you were friends, but you didn’t say anything about it. And how he had this unexplainable feeling he couldn’t name sitting in his stomach that compelled him to go to a village market and pick out a stupid gift for a birthday tradition he didn’t even understand just to do something nice for you the way you did for him and his brothers.

Crosshair’s expression flared and he shoved the notebook at your chest. You startled at your hand came up to grab it, sliding against his like a searing snake. He pulled his hand back and balled both at his sides as he gritted out, “Happy birthday.”

All he saw was your eyes were wide before he stalked off, almost stomping his way to the Marauder. His face burned, and embarrassment flooded his body. He felt so stupid, and he hated feeling stupid. He hated the feeling of being on the end of someone’s judgement. He hated knowing that he’d just been forced to make himself vulnerable. But mostly, he hated the feeling of you not trusting him with what was supposed to be the important parts of you.

“Crosshair!”

Your voice came from behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He was already planning different ways he could avoid you. He was going to lock himself in the ‘fresher until the next mission and make sure Hunter placed him on watch at opposite times to you. Whatever it took. His heart panged. You were one of the only people outside his brothers he liked. He would mourn the shared jokes and laughter, and time spent with you, knowing it couldn’t happen anymore.

“Crosshair, wait.”

He felt a hand on his arm pull him back. He swayed backwards, but he let you stop him. He avoided your gaze, scowl burning an outline in his brow as he stared off into the middle distance. Your hand stayed on his arm, and he felt it through the plastoid wrapped around his forearm, squeezing him there. It felt like part of him, and that made him feel both warm with content and spiked with anger simultaneously.

“Cross, please look at me,” your voice said quietly, and his heart squeezed. He slowly moved his gaze, looking down, then sliding his eyes to your bare hand on his arm before they lifted to your face. Your brows were slanted downwards, looking at him with such softness in your eyes he felt the flickering in his chest again.

“How did you…” your voice was soft and trailed off, notebook in your other hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed with gritted words.

He felt your hand flex with your grip. “It does to me.”

He studied your face carefully before saying, “…I was helping Tech with cataloguing his files. I saw your birthday in yours.”

You continued looking at him with an indecipherable gaze and moved your hand slowly from his arm to his wrist, your bare fingertips brushing his gloves. You gently grazed his fingers as you let his hand drop softly. He watched you as you inspected the book, hands turning it over, fanning through the pages. He studied your expression, trying to discern what you thought, feeling anxiety grow in his stomach, his throat tightening. He felt something hot poke inside him as he watched your mouth turn up into a smile as you gazed at his gift.

“I’ve been so busy this year that I forgot about my birthday.”

Crosshair hoped he hid his surprise. You not telling him about your birthday…it was never about him. Of course, you had forgotten. The past six cycles had been a whirlwind for you trying to adjust to a soldier’s lifestyle, countless missions and trying to fit in with his brothers. His face burned again. He was a fool.

You looked up at him, a smirk itching the corners of your mouth. “Been too busy keeping you boys in line.”

Crosshair scoffed lightly, letting a puff of breath out of his nose. Your smile widened.

“This is a beautiful gift, Cross. Thank you for getting it for me,” you place your hand on his arm again, squeezing gently to show your appreciation He felt his heart lift and his cheeks redden, but this time, not in embarrassment.

He nodded at you. “I’m…glad you like it. I don’t have much experience with birthdays.”

Your smile touched the edges of your eyes. “That’s what makes it even more special.”

You reached up on your tip toes and wrapped your arms around his neck, embracing him. Crosshair stiffened in shock and surprise before he slowly wrapped his arms around your torso. His fingers grazed your sides, and there was something wildly comforting about holding you like this. He could feel the side of your face pressed into his neck, just below his ear, and your breath tickled the sliver of open skin not covered by his blacks. You were so warm. He felt you squeeze him gently and he didn’t stop himself from squeezing back.

You were his best friend, after all.

You pulled away, but not before you cupped his face and placed a kiss on his cheek. Crosshair flinched and his eyes widened as you lowered yourself back down on flat feet with one of the most joyful smiles he’d ever seen gracing your face. The action had surprised him more than anything else had.

“I’m going to show everyone what you got me,” you said before running off towards the Marauder.

“No, don’t, they’ll—” Crosshair started but you were already halfway up the gangplank. His brothers’ teasing was going to be ruthless.

He sighed, shaking his head before following you, that thing flickering in his chest. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t try to extinguish it.

banner art by @vimse

mando'a / meshurok = gemstone thank you for reading! i did find this one slightly challenging bc it's very much crosshair in his head and i tried to write him how i thought he would react to a situation like this, but if it's a little OOC, i apologise! but i think he would react like this if someone he cared about didn't tell him something important about them; someone who was his friend and who he liked very much. i think he'd be kinda mad and hurt but he cares too much to not do anything at all. i have more gen requests on the way, so stay tuned if you're interested! <3

tags @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @moodymisty @nahoney22 @freesia-writes @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @bobaprint @crosshairsnose @jesseeka @thegalaxys-edge @snarky-mans-gf @chopper-base @wenalena @shredderwest @leavingkamino @rexamongthestars @r2d2staser @bluebird-dreams @pb-jellybeans @a-streakofblue @theawkwardartist12 @mylifeisactuallyamess @padawancat97 @littlecrowtime @jedipoodoo

i now have a TAGLIST FORM!! please fill it out if you'd like to be tagged in future fics! (please let me know if there are any issues with the form)

(if i've already been tagging you and you've interacted with my work consistently, you will still be tagged, but filling out the taglist will ensure you get tagged in the fics you want to be tagged in! it also makes it easier for me in the future when i post my work.)

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Hello my wonderful friend! I’m here with a request if you’re feeling it!

“a kiss to convince the other to stay”

With Crosshair? 👉🏻👈🏻

hi friend!! <3 thank you for this request! I must admit that my brain automatically turned to angst for this one, so I am so very sorry for the pain this may or may not cause (hurt my own feelings writing it)

Please Stay with Me

Summary: You try to convince Crosshair to come back with you.

Warnings: gn!reader, ANGST GALORE, hurt no comfort, takes place at the very end of 01x16

Word Count: 696

Tears sting in your eyes though they refuse to fall. In the distance, Tipoca City—what’s left of it—burns, black smoke churning in the otherwise clear sky. Ironic, you think, how beautiful the weather has chosen to be on such a tragic day. Heart weighing heavy in your tight chest, you swallow down a sob. You’ve only visited Kamino a handful of times as the nat-born medic assigned to Clone Force 99, but you feel its loss keenly. 

You can only imagine what the six clones around you feel, watching the only home they’ve ever known smolder. 

“It’s...” Omega trails off, her voice cracking. “...all gone.” 

You lay a hand on her shoulder and squeeze gently, letting her know you’re here. She covers your hand with one of her small ones. 

“We should leave before the Empire’s scouts show up,” Tech says. 

“You coming with us?” Wrecker asks. 

Turning, you catch the way that Crosshair very obviously does not look in your direction where you stand with Omega. Bile rises in your throat, despite the aching squeeze in your chest. 

“None of this,” Crosshair says, “changes anything.” 

Hunter hesitates, glancing at you for a moment. Then he sighs. “You offered a chance, Crosshair. This is yours.” 

“I made my decision.” 

Except it wasn’t a choice! you want to scream. It was the chip! It was the Empire! This isn’t you! 

But the words stick in your throat like glue, clogging your windpipe until you feel lightheaded. Omega gives you a concerned look. 

Whatever Hunter has said, it doesn’t seem to have changed Crosshair’s mind. One by one, the squad turns away to head back to the Marauder. Omega slips away from your grasp to run after her brothers, before hesitating. You squint your eyes shut, tears finally spilling over onto your cheeks, as you do your best to tune out their private conversation. But Omega’s words reach you regardless. She has a way of getting to the heart of a matter with uncanny precision. Her statement cuts you deep. 

“You’re still their brother, Crosshair,” she says in a plaintive voice. “You’re my brother, too.” 

Her footsteps retreat. For a moment, you know it’s just you and Crosshair on the platform, the others on the ship already. He remains silent, and so do you. Everything you’ve wanted to say to him since the Empire came into power, everything you want to scream and rant and fall apart over dies on the tip of your tongue when you open your eyes and find him staring at you. 

“Cross—” Your voice breaks, thick with tears. “Please.” 

“Like I said, I made my decision.” He turns away. 

Body suddenly unlocked from where you’ve been frozen, you stride to him and grab his plastoid-covered arm to spin him back to face you. He lets himself be pulled, his sharp eyes finding yours. But instead of the warm amber you recall, his eyes are dull and flat. Your heart breaks a little bit more. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

He murmurs your name, a flicker of pain sparking in his eyes. “You know I can’t.” 

You shake your head. Shoving down the sob that threatens to tear you apart from the inside, you cup his face in your hands. His stubble has grown out, and his hair has refused to grow back since the Bracca incident, but his skin is just as warm and familiar as you remember. Leaning into him, you press a desperate kiss to his lips. Stay, you want to say. Stay with me.

He remains still, stiff and unmoving under your touch. When you pull back, his eyes are screwed shut. His breath fans over your face in a shuddering exhale. But, as those lifeless eyes open once more, he merely removes your hands from his face—gently, though you give no resistance—and steps out of your grasp. 

A warm arm tightens around your middle, your back pressed to cold plastoid. Hunter’s voice is low and apologetic when he speaks. “C’mon, doc. We need to get movin’.” 

You allow yourself to be led back to the ship, your blurry gaze never leaving Crosshair’s form, silhouetted against the smoking remains of his home.

Ragu: @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @bobaprint @thorsterstrudle @droids-you-are-looking-for @goblininawig @cw80831 @dreamie411 @jedi-hawkins @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @9902sgirl (if you'd. like to be added or removed, click here!)

[ap-5]

i fucking love darth maul, easily one of my favorite genders

[kaminocasey]

See You Again (Part 1)

WARNING: MANDALORIAN S3 FINALE SPOILERS

Summary: Din Djarin just wants to settle down and perhaps Grogu's pretty new teacher understands that.

Pairing: Eventual Din Djarin/Grogu's F Teacher!Reader

Warning: 18+ MINORS DNI; Teacher!Reader, Dad!Din Djarin, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Domestic Fantasy

WC: 1.9K

A/N: Can you believe I've not written a full Mando fic yet??? Everyone say thank you to Jon Favreau for giving Din and Grogu a house. <3 Domestic fantasy coming right upppp. Excited for part 2!

TAGLIST FORM

The Galactic Farmer’s Market at this time of morning isn’t too terribly busy. A little cool, maybe. But, It’s pretty manageable and you aren’t regretting your sundress so far. You know it’ll warm up around lunchtime. 

You don’t have work today, so you’re trying to get all your stuff done early for the day so you can relax tonight. You’re planning on making dinner and reading your new book. So, your typical night.

“Can I get a couple of these meilooruns? They look great!” You ask the Tarsunt vendor, handing him a few credits as you pick a couple up and stick them in your bag. “Thank you!”

As you walk away to the next vendor, to look at a few vegetables you could use for dinner tonight, you hear a droid-like voice arguing. When you turn, you’re met with a sight you can honestly say you’ve never seen before. A Mandalorian and a child inside an IG unit, arguing over the same fruit you just picked up. As a teacher, you’re met with all sorts of unique situations, but never one like this. 

“No. Hey, Grogu.” The Mandalorian sighs, trying to take the fruit.

“Yes.” The IG unit speaks for the child, making your eyebrows raise in amusement. 

“Give it.” The Mandalorian tries to reach but the child makes the droid raise it above his head so he can’t reach it. “Grogu, give it back-”

As the Mandalorian grabs the droid’s arm to pull it down, the hand around the fruit squeezes tightly sending meiloorun juice all over the poor Tarsunt who groans like it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. 

“Uh oh.” You murmur, still rather amused, as the child drops the fruit, prepared to step in. 

The Mandalorian sighs again, sounding absolutely exasperated. Clearly this is not the first time something like this has happened. As you walk back over to the Tarsunt’s stand, you hand him a few credits. 

“Here.” You smile and hand the Mandalorian your meiloorun. “Maybe you can cut it up for him later.” 

“Oh…” The Mandalorian sighs. “That’s… very kind of you. But not necessary.” 

He tries to hand you back the fruit but you hold your hand up.

“Keep it.” You grin and nod in the vendor’s direction. “That’s probably one of the most interesting things to happen to him all week anyway.” 

The Tarsunt grumbles something in his native tongue and you can’t help but chuckle as you and the Mandalorian and child walk down the cobblestone path between all the other vendors. 

“Thank you for your kindness.” The modulated voice tells you.

“Believe me, I get it. Kids at this age can be a lot. But give them a death machine on legs and you’re probably asking for trouble.” You tease. 

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, this thing isn’t working for me. The IG unit, that is. It was a “gift” from High Magistrate Karga.” 

“Quite a gift.” You smile. “Especially from the Magistrate. You must be important.”

“Not really. Just old friends.” He tilts his helmet at you slightly before glancing behind him to make sure the child is following. 

“That’s nice. Greef is an old friend of mine as well.” You tell him as you near the end of the street. 

“Then perhaps you are the important one.” The Mandalorian teases. You think. 

You chuckle either way. “I mean, maybe. I do shape the minds of the young children of Nevarro.” 

“You’re a teacher?” He guesses.

You nod. “I am. Will I see your little one in class or are you just visiting?” 

“Undecided.” The Mandalorian stops at the end of the road and looks out into the distance, and when you follow his gaze, you can see multiple ships and what you see are other Mandalorians. 

He was part of the group who helped stop those pirates, you realize. They’re just camping out, from what you’ve heard through the grapevine. Your neighbor, Eia, had already developed a crush on one of them and was hoping that they’d stay, but from what the woman had told her, they were looking to retake Mandalore and weren’t planning to be camped out long.

“I see.” You nod. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around again someday. Bye Grogu.”

You wave to the duo and Grogu gives a little coo and wave as you walk back up toward the vendor stands to continue your shopping. When you look back, you can’t help but smile at the Mandalorian with his helmet faced in your direction. You can’t be sure if he’s still watching you, but you smile anyway and then continue back up the street.

Later that evening, you can’t help but wonder if perhaps you should’ve invited the Mandalorian and his child for dinner. But by the look of it, his clan was pretty large and maybe he didn’t want to separate from them. 

Cooking your dinner, you can’t help but let your thoughts linger on the mysterious Mandalorian. So many questions run through your mind. Was that his child? What did he look like underneath that beskar helmet? Why was he undecided if he was going to be just visiting? With all these questions running through your mind, you remind yourself it isn’t your business. 

You know very little of the Mandalorians. Just who they are, how they lost their homeworld, and how private they can be. You should make peace with the fact that you’re never going to find out. 

But still… your mind wanders.

A few days later, you’re cleaning your chalkboard as the kids play outside in the courtyard. It’d been a long day with the kids feeling rowdy from their weekend activities. They always come back full of energy, so you normally let them play a little longer in the morning. 

You finish scrubbing the board clean when you hear a modulated voice clearing in the doorway. The sound, admittedly, makes you more excited than you were expecting. When you turn your head to the voice, you find the Mandalorian and his little green companion, this time without an IG unit. 

“Well, hello there.” You smile at the helmeted figure leaning in the doorway and then look down at Grogu. 

“Hello.” The modulated voice sounds happy, which in turns your smile into a wide grin. 

The fluttering feeling in your stomach surprises you. It’s honestly a feeling you’ve not had in a really long time. What do you do with this feeling? Lean into it? There’s no way that this man feels the same way as you. You’re just a teacher. Granted, you have an exciting past… But you’re not that person anymore. You enjoy your solitude and your quiet evenings at home with a book, too much. Something a Mandalorian probably wouldn’t care much for.

“What can I do for you…?” You try to ask him his name.

“D-din… Djarin. And this is my son Din Grogu. Or just Grogu.” He sounds a little nervous to give you his name.

“Din Djarin and Grogu.” You grin up at him, stepping around the desk. 

Grogu makes his way over to the doorway to watch the children play. 

“Can he join them?” You ask his father. 

Grogu looks up at Din for permission to which Din nods. Grogu immediately scurries off into the play yard, joining a few children who are playing in the dirt. Din walks over to the doorway to keep an eye on the small child, and you join him, standing closer. 

He looks down at you and the weight of his stare seems heavier somehow. The dark visor makes him seem so… mysterious. So… far away. 

“Do you happen to have space for one more child?” He asks you, curiously.

It takes you by surprise for sure. You’d seen the Mandalorians’ ships all take off and not come back. Your neighbor, Eia, had been devastated that the woman she had spent time with had left. So to see this Mandalorian return, without his group, surprises you a bit.

But still, you smile kindly up at him. “Absolutely. Decided, have we?” 

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Yeah. Decided.” 

Your chest tightens at the content in his voice, like he’d gone through a lot to get to this point right here. You try to mind your business and not ask him.

“He can be a little handful, I should warn you.” Din tells you and you can hear a smile as he looks back at Grogu.

“Don’t worry, I specialize in little handfuls. I’ve got 12 of them.” You tease.

“Thirteen now.” Din teases back and you laugh. 

He looks at you again and the thought of what he looks like under the helmet comes back. Does he ever take it off? 

He tilts his head and your breath catches in your throat.

“Um… let me grab my…” You struggle, stepping away to regain your breath and to grab your datapad so that you can enter Grogu's information into your system. “Here. Just enter all your information and his so that he can start.”

He nods and takes the datapad from you, brushing his gloved fingers over yours as he takes it and you can’t help the rapid beat of your heart that picks up. 

Why are you acting like this? He’s a parent to a child who is now your student. Calm down.

You look out at the children playing, giving him a little privacy to fill out the information. Grogu seems to fit right in, all the kids starting to want to play with him.

“Easy with him, Lira. He’s smaller than you.” You tell one of the young girls as she tries to pick him up.

“Don’t worry about him. He can handle his own.” Din chuckles.

You walk back over to your board and pick up the cleaning supplies to put them back into the closet. As you turn around, Din is right there with your datapad, trying to hand it back to you. 

“Oh.” You feel yourself go warm at the sudden closeness again. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Din tells you. “Is he alright to stay for the day-”

“Yes, absolutely.” You nod, smiling. “Pick up is at three.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.” Din tells you and then goes to tell Grogu bye, who meets him at the door. “I’ll be back in a little bit. You’re going to learn new things from this nice woman, like we talked about.”

He talked about you? 

Din starts to walk back toward the door that leads to the street, and then stops. 

“You’ll comm me if there’s an emergency?” He asks and your heart warms at the concern in his tone.

“I promise.” You nod.

He nods again and then pauses again before leaving. “I… was really looking forward to seeing you… again.” 

You’re lucky you don’t immediately turn into a puddle right then and there as you smile brightly at the Mandalorian and bravely tell him, “I was hoping you’d come back.” 

“See you at three.” Din clears his voice and walks back out the door. Perhaps the lack of excitement in your life wouldn’t be such a turn off to Din Djarin.

TAGS: @twistedstitcher27 @misogirl828 @rebel-finn @grievouus @madameminor @dumfanting @rain-on-kamino @corona-one @tecker @ladykatakuri @brynhildrmimi @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @agenteliix @padawancat97 @hated-by-me @sleepingsun501 @quigonswife8 @idlenesses @redheadgirl @dnxgma @themcuwriter @ashotofspotchka @sunshinesdaydream @crosshairsimp73 @ariadnes-red-thread @rosmariner @heyitsaloy @starstofillmydream @high-ct5555 @echos-girlfriend @sleepywych @nekotaetae @justanothersadperson93 @brownstalebread @aconstructofamind @book-of-baba-fett @chopper-base @palliateclaw @501st-rexster @dead-poolz @nahoney22 @where-is-my-mind-tho @jediknightjana @erishimoon @witching3 @queen-of-many-fandoms

[charnelhouse]

teacups

pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k+ summary: Joel and you take a shower after a traumatic event. warnings: srs hurt/comfort. violence/gore. implied attempted sexual assault. trauma. panic attack. joel being too nice. A/N: same reader as the one in bad people and moments, but no need to read. Joel Miller Masterlist

Joel wondered if his luck had finally run out. His hand slid along the slippery kitchen floor as the man on top of him snarled. Joel was pinned in a way where he couldn't get a full breath in. He'd been an idiot, relying on threadbare information passed between smugglers. 

"You know that real nice house outside the wall? Only bout half a mile South? Apparently, it's empty. The guys livin' there got taken care of during a raid. A lot of shit probably left inside. Well hidden. I'll pay you to see what you can find."

Joel hadn't thought it'd be that dangerous. He needed a second pair of hands, and everything had been fine until three of the supposedly dead men had walked in on them, rifling through their shit.

"Fuck. Fuck," Joel hissed between clenched teeth as he attempted to reach for the knife that had been kicked out of his grasp. The man's arm around his throat tightened. 

Joel felt his vision tilt, his body shuddering forward. Everything was fluctuating between spots of bright yellow to deep gray. He wasn't scared for himself, but he was for her. She'd been taken into the next room. He could hear her screaming-

No-she was shrieking. Painful, warbling, animalistic noises that only rang out from people cornered without options. Joel knew them well. He'd caused them. 

He shuddered as she wailed, a tempest of sound that destabilized him. It cut him straight to the bone, and his head was galloping a mile a minute: no, no, no, no.

Beneath that mantra was something more explicit. Not her. Not her. Christ-not her. 

He swore he heard her shout his name. Beg: Joel. Joel. Please. 

Okay. Okay, honey. 

He went blind-white with a rage he hadn't felt in a long damn time. Despite his lack of oxygen, he braced his hands and knocked his head back. The guy yelled, loosened just enough that Joel shot forward and snatched the knife. He lifted his arm and flung the blade back, making contact with something squishy that gave under the sharp tip. Eye, he guessed, especially by how loudly the bastard was hollering. Joel whirled around to find him holding his face, blood squeezing through the creases in his knuckles. The handle trembling between fingers.

Joel jumped to his feet, jerking the knife out before driving it forward once, twice, and then a third time. He couldn't waste a second, so he jabbed the vulnerable areas. The man gurgled, frantically attempting to stem the injuries before abruptly collapsing. He’d bleed out.

Joel!

His name rocked through his head, and how much time had he just wasted? What if they'd hurt her past the point he couldn't help her? 

He ran.

***

Joel's hands were pulsing with his own heartbeat, dribbling blood from the violence of using a knife. Stabbing was a tricky business.

Joel.

As he tore through the house, he shouted her name, hoping it would comfort her to know he was coming. He'd been a fool to take her outside the walls of the QZ with only two guns and not sufficient information.

But-fuck-she'd handled herself before. 

He hadn't forgotten the night she'd taken out the three people who had killed her boyfriend. Luke had been a good man. A benevolent leader. When he’d been murdered, Joel hadn't exactly cared since he was focused on his own shit. Death had been normal. Loss was easy. Luke had been another name whispered through the channels of QZ communication.

But he did remember her.

Dolly.

It's what most of the community called her because she had a lovely, rich voice and sang a lot of Dolly Parton to help the kids sleep. 

Then, she went briefly insane. A switch flipped when she found Luke ripped and shredded with his guts out. She'd taken it in stride, seemingly calm and collected, as she wrapped his body and brought him to be burned. She'd then asked around, discovered where the three who'd done it were sleeping, and slaughtered them with a Ka-Bar.

Yes-the QZ's homecoming queen walked out of the woods covered in blood, and no one said a word. It was swept under the rug just like everything else, and who was going to complain about losing three assholes who'd murdered a decent guy for a couple ration cards and supplies?

The community had liked Luke. Respected him. 

Joel, admittedly, found the man foolish. Back then, he hadn't given Luke his attention, but once he started fucking his girlfriend, he mulled over his encounters with the blonde jock like he was studying a map. Who was he to her? How much had she liked him? How had he fucked her, pleasured her, made her smile? 

There was the tiniest piece of Joel that felt jealous. Luke was dead, but he still haunted her just like Joel's ghosts plagued him. 

Selfishly, he wanted her rage-her stunning wrath. The idea of that girl carving three people up to avenge his death was a strange, exhilarating image for him. 

In truth, Joel was deeply fucking attracted to her. Dolly. 

What had she said that night as they sheltered from the rain? The first time they'd had sex, and they both had been blind drunk. 

"He was an idiot.

"He still operated as if the rules hadn't changed. He didn't understand that you have to be a bad person to survive here. He trusted too easily. Far too empathetic for his own good." 

Joel never told her, but those words had lit a fire in him. That had been the moment he’d realized she wasn't just some sweet, pleasant angel who sang to kids. She was all teeth. She was smart-

She was still screaming. 

Joel sprinted, barreling through the final door into the dining room before he abruptly slid to a stop. He was puzzled at the scene before him. He couldn’t figure out what he was seeing.

Blood. Dark, viscous as syrup. It was all over the floors. There was arterial spray covering the pale, peeling wallpaper. Dolly was straddling one of the men, bringing her arms up and down in brutal strikes. Joel could hear the squelch of tissue. The creak of the wooden floor under her knees. She had stopped yelling at some point and now was breathing heavily-grunting low and rough. Across the room was the third guy, very obviously dead. 

Joel moved steadily toward her, calling her name softly. She wasn't hearing him, and he realized her sleeves were drenched in blood up to the shoulder. The silver of the knife continued to disappear into the purple-pink mess of the man's belly. His eyes were open and unseeing, mouth parted in shock.

"Dolly," he tried. Nothing. 

"Sweetheart." Nothing.

Finally, he lunged and seized her wrist. She yelped as the knife flew from her hand and skated across the floor. She struggled in his grip, making wet, hiccuping noises when she attempted to wrench herself from him.

"No," she spat. “No-no-no-”

Carefully, he pulled her off the man and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He shoved the side of his face against hers. She was twitching in his hold, shaking furiously. Her teeth clicked, her body taut with adrenaline. "Focus," he coaxed. "You focus for me, now."

She choked and sputtered. She attempted to crawl away, but Joel had her locked against him. Her heart was vibrating in her chest, thumping with the same fury as a battering ram. Joel scanned the room, fully digesting the utter devastation she had caused. Wordlessly, he turned her toward the paintings hanging on the walls. Gold-framed watercolors. It was something nicer, at least. 

"Look at that," he murmured.

She moaned, pushing against him. 

He waited.

***

"Joel," she gasped as if finally coming up for air. She was bending forward, nearly falling, and he latched to her back possessively.

Protectively. 

"Yeah?" His cheek was still glued to hers, his beard scraping her jaw. Both of them were slick with sweat. If he moved his head just right, he'd be able to kiss her, but it wasn't the time. Initiating something sexual seemed like bad form after whatever had gone down.

"Joel," she repeated, and he cleared his throat. Her thin, weary voice worried him.

"You're alright," he assured her. "They're all dead."

She said nothing, so he let her go lax in his arms. He studied the walls and the chandelier. He tried to count her heartbeats but found it challenging when the room stank of copper and viscera. The real stench of death.

Suddenly, she lurched in his arms.

"Teacups." She pointed to the white cabinet-so dusty it could be gray.

"Yes," he agreed slowly, puzzled. 

"Teacups," she muttered before it bloomed into a laugh that was verging on hysterical. "We should take them home." She turned, fingers caught in the opening of his shirt, tugging down like she was attempting to climb him. "Would be nice, you know? Have something pretty."

He grimaced, readjusting his stance, crouching lower to the point that his knees creaked and pain shot through his thighs. He ignored it and grasped her face, tilting it toward the delicate stream of moonlight. "Look at me," he ordered firmly. "Look at me, honey."

She did, her eyes flickering from the floral-stamped teacups to his face. She appeared gone-blood, tears and tears smeared across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was even wet with it. A disturbing memory infiltrated his head: Sarah's artwork that used to hang on their fridge. Finger-paints. Lots of red and pink. He swallowed before licking his lips. 

"Is this blood all theirs?" He asked, gesturing to her clothes. He was pissed at himself for not checking her sooner, but he figured calming her down had been the most necessary action. 

She lifted her shoulders before dropping them. She had gone somewhere else. Shit.

Gingerly, he maneuvered her into his arms to carry her up the stairs. He needed to clean her and wipe away the remnants of tonight’s mistakes. His mistakes.

***

"Get in the shower," he instructed, but she wasn't moving. He sighed, tenser now. He figured a hot shower would have excited her. A luxury neither of them had had in months, maybe longer. Joel frowned and scraped a hand over his face. 

She'd killed before, so he wasn't sure what this was? She seemed broken. Carefully, he reached for the hem of her jeans only to find her belt gone. He inhaled sharply as he began to scrutinize the rest of her outfit. He'd assumed things had gotten messy in the fray. Her sleeve was torn, and there was swelling along her throat. He took her face into his hands and moved it left to right, right to left. Looking closer, he realized her bra straps had been wrenched loose. Buttons missing on her shirt. When he pulled the collar to the side, he found a distinct bite mark. 

Joel cursed, jerking away instantly. She didn't flinch, only stared up at him sadly. 

He hadn’t meant to. It had been a reflex. A very poor one. He needed to try a softer approach and show her he wasn't fearful of her. He'd just been surprised. 

He reached for her again and began rubbing her shoulders. He found them cold and damp. Clammy. 

"They weren't infected." He was stating it as fact. Hoping.

She bit her lip. 

"Work with me here, baby. They weren't infected, right?"

She swallowed and shook her head. "It wasn't that." She blinked dazedly before continuing. "They tried…" she trailed off, and her eyes began to fill with tears. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, chewing hard as if she couldn't say the rest. She averted her gaze, and Joel felt sick.

"They didn't, Joel," she whispered. "They-they-"

He reacted immediately. 

Wrapping his arms around her, he hauled her body to his chest. "They tried," he confirmed. "They tried, and they didn't get close. You took care of 'em."

She broke.

She began sobbing into his shirt, muffling her mouth against the denim fabric. She was shaking, and Joel felt inadequate-completely lost. Inexplicably, he decided that this would be something Luke would most likely excel at. Kindness. Empathy. Understanding. Joel only felt nauseous. He felt ill with guilt and then had to banish the thought away, disappointed at his pettiness. She needed him, so he cupped the back of her head, using his thumb to draw tiny circles above her ear. 

After a few minutes, he spoke gently. "Do you want to shower?"

She fisted his collar, her back hitching under his hand. She was working herself up again, straying very close to a panic attack. He had to calm her down.

"I'll go in there with you," he offered. "I won't leave."

She stilled, though her shoulders continued to tremble in spurts of aftershocks. He could smell the blood on her. Rusty and metallic. 

"Okay," she agreed.

***

The shower felt good. Better than good. It was narrow and cramped, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she burrowed into Joel's naked chest, desperate to feel his skin. He had even been willing to get in fully clothed.

"You've been through a lot. I don't want to make you uncomfortable-"

"Shut up, Joel. It's fine."

The room was humid with steam, the air tinged with old blood. The shower floor had turned pink, and Joel had to detangle himself from her to search for wounds. He'd found a slit in her side, just beneath her ribs. Hardly serious, but it had to have stung. With a bar of valuable ivory soap that had been just lying on the shower step, he carefully dragged it over the injury. He crouched low, one hand holding her hip as he cleaned her. 

She said nothing as she watched him, her fingers running through his hair. Somewhere between washing her toes and beneath her breasts, he felt a strange affection for her. This was the most intimate thing they had ever done. The gentleness. The womb-like shower. The dim lights. 

 When he was done, he kissed the wound under her ribs, lips firm against velvety skin. He stood, and she regarded him with tender curiosity, her eyes far more present than they'd been ten minutes ago. He pulled her to him, his cock slightly stiffening simply because she was beautiful and molded into his frame, and his body reacted to her regardless of his intentions.

"I was scared," she confessed as the water sluiced down them, drumming the tile floor. "I was so scared they'd killed you already, and I couldn't do anything."

"I think," he said, lightly teasing. "You managed to do quite a bit."

She huffed, shoving her face into his throat, nose rooting along his jaw. She used enough force that his back hit the wall and his arms automatically rose to cradle her. He said nothing, just let her find him, use him as she needed. She'd been terrified for him even when they'd attempted to harm her. He swallowed thickly as a new wave of anger pulsed in the trenches of his marrow. He hoped one was still breathing downstairs, unable to move. Joel would make it hurt.

He felt her shift in his arms, and as she relaxed, it cooled his temper. She stood on tiptoes, her mouth running along his ear. He shivered and attempted to calm himself down-think of anything else. 

"I did it for me," she whispered. "But-but I also did it for you. I'd kill for you if I had to."

Stunned, he gripped the nape of her neck and forced her face from his throat. He pulled her eyes to his. He wanted to tell her that she'd certainly already done that. He didn't want her to have to, even if it shot heat through his bones.

"You did a hell of a job," he managed to say instead. He was drunk off the shower steam and hot water, and her breath was cool against his mouth. "You did so fuckin' well, sweetheart."

***

Afterward, Joel tucked her into one of the beds. She reached for him, her lids heavy and movements sluggish. He promised her he'd come back after he checked the house. He didn't kiss her, but he thought about it. Things were changing. He shook his head, interning those worries for another day. He swapped his tenderness with something easy. 

Anger.

He found outrage and clawed his fingers into its familiar texture. 

There it was. Fury and revenge were his old, perfect lovers, and he felt them as he stood outside her door. They touched him, caressed him, begging to be used.

For her. 

Joel would do this for her even if it meant nothing. Even if the damage was already done. He needed somewhere to put it. He needed somewhere to place those emotions because he certainly wouldn't take it out on her, fuck her simply for stress relief after what had happened tonight. 

"Joel?" From inside the room, her voice rang small. It distressed him. Bury that, too. 

He rested his forehead against the closed door, sighing. "Yeah?"

"Will you check if they're gone, please?"

"Of course."

***

Silently, he went downstairs, found a hammer from one of the men's belt loops, and then ruined whatever she had left still whole in the dining room. Skulls. Ribs. Bones. He crushed them all, fractured them to bits and pieces for what they had done to him and his. 

[dindjarindiaries]

“Brown Eyes” • The Mandalorian S2E7 & The Bad Batch S2E1

[foli-vora]

gilded lily

pre/during-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

a/n: gif by moi. just me over here clowning around and hurting my own feelings lmaoo. we start off soft af, and then it all goes downhill very fast so enjoy the angst-fest! x

word count: 2.6k

warnings: brief mentions of potential pregnancy, graphic violence, blood/gore, violent murder (does it count as murder if they’re a zombie? lmao), infected characters, heartbreak, mourning, angst angst angst - don’t like, don’t read. this does not have a happy ending.

note: this follows the general direction of the outbreak and how it unfolds in the show, it’s not identical, but i’ll still put a spoiler warning so yeah - consider yourself warned.

It’s a low buzz, a barely there ringing in your ears, settling in the background and never wavering despite your efforts to clean your ears and pop them. It draws your attention for most of the early morning you spend awake before the others, and it’s not until a body suddenly steps in the way of you staring vacantly at your reflection in the bathroom mirror that you even notice other things are going on.

Your eyes come to focus on Joel who stares at you expectantly, his brows raised at your silence.

“Oh, hi—sorry, what did you say?”

Keep reading

[bowtiesandsandshoes]

beautifully written <3

[foli-vora]

Female reader. Steven grant. Prompts: 21, 26, 75.

In my mind is something like reader having to protect sweet Steven, so she breaks up with him and he’s destroyed and begs her to not leave him or something but ends up telling her he hates her after the whole break up scene, and she leaves.

Break my heart with this please. I want to feel stevens sadness and readers heart breaking knowing it’s what she has to do.

CONGRATS ON 3K MY LOVE!!! PRECIOUS FOLI IM SO HAPPY TO SAY THAT IVE BEEN HERE FOR LONG RIDE!! It’s an absolute honor to read you.

my sweet love, i am so honoured you've been here for the long haul and i appreciate you so much! thank you for your request, i had so much fun breaking sweet boi's heart! i hope this is painful enough for you x

tear into my heart

steven grant x f!reader

word count: 2359 warnings: angst. so much angst. mention of the avengers/other marvel characters, brief mention of S.H.I.E.L.D & HYDRA, mentions of danger, mentions of death/dying, lies, a fake affair, break up, brief violence (throwing a plate)

Dread.

It fills you. It runs through your veins, churns restlessly in your gut and fills your throat until it feels impossible to inhale. Panic begins to build, with sweat stinging at your skin and bringing a wave of fog over your mind.

How had things gotten so out of hand? You’d thought for sure the situation would be contained, would be dealt with so easily. It was looking fine, everything had gone well and it was meant to just be over. Done with. Finished. You should’ve known it was never that simple.

Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.

How did you get here? Maybe you could explain, maybe you could keep him safe, maybe it didn’t have to be this way—

Bucky sighs, the crackled whisper of it falling into your ear from your phone and you bite down on your lip to stem the bitter feel of tears. 

“I’m sorry, doll. I wish there was another way.”

You swallow around the sudden dryness in your throat, picking at the blanket beneath you. The blanket you often shared with him.

The blanket he’d draped around your shoulders when you had a cold, the blanket you tucked around him when he fell asleep reading on the couch… so many memories with just a bit of fabric. You dare not look around to see the other trinkets and memories lingering in his flat.

“Am I doing the right thing, Buck? I don’t want to hurt him, surely I—we—can protect him—”

“I wish I could say we could, but the reality is I just don’t know. Do you want to risk it?”

Could you risk it by staying? Risk him?

“No,” you reply softly, knowing you’d rather suffer the pain of not being with him rather than the pain of potentially burying him. You needed him safe. You needed to know he was safe.

“Maybe once this is over, you could sit him down and explain everything. He might understand?”

Would he? Would you even get that far? While confident in your skills and abilities, there was always a chance of not walking away, and you might never have the chance to fix anything. Death has never frightened you — the possibility simply came with the job and you had long made peace with that, but now?

A trickle of fear buds in the centre of your chest. Could you die knowing you had left him heartbroken? Could you die knowing you didn’t utter a final ‘I love you’? Would he even know you died?

As far as he knew, you worked in an office. A simple job, with occasional travel included.

You hated lying, but it just seemed a lot easier than coming out with the whole 'Oh, well I worked as an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D before that went up in literal flames and I’m now actually stationed in London and employed by the Avengers on the recommendation of Agent Barton'.

Steven was nervous enough in the beginning, you didn’t need another reason to scare him away with that whole backstory. 

“Yeah… maybe,” you mutter, desperately blinking the shine of tears overtaking your vision. “Okay. I’ll be an hour or so, I don’t want to just leave him a note—I want to do it properly.”

“We’ll be here, doll.”

Knowing you didn’t have long until Steven got home, you pass some time by shoving clothes into a bag and clearing your things from the bathroom, trying to not focus on the way his toothbrush now sits alone in the cup. You can barely look at your reflection in the mirror.

Emotion claws at your throat when you empty your side drawer and pluck the single polaroid from its depths. You hold it between two fingers, studying the way he looks so damn handsome in his glasses and fully focused on the little book in his hands, completely oblivious to you taking a photo.

“I love you,” you whisper, trailing your fingertips over its shiny surface before slipping it carefully into the front pocket of your bag, unwilling to part from it should he not want to see you once you were finished with the mission.

At least he’d be safe.

“Take care of him, Gus,” you murmur to the glass, watching the orange fish swim his usual paths through his tank.

The door opens, drawing your attention away from the little animal, and in shuffles Steven, rustling with a plastic shopping bag and a tired smile that considerably brightens when his eyes find you. Your heart quickens in your chest, his presence never failing to send your system into a tizzy.

He’s too good for this, too good for you.

“Hiya, love. Gods, you would not believe the day I’ve had—”

Off he goes.

You love his ramblings. You love how he would use his hands so much as he talks, how expressive he would get and how he was oblivious to anything happening around him. He would talk and talk and talk, and you would soak it all up, hanging on every word falling from his lips.

Just for a moment, you enjoy the normality of it; the calm before the storm, the peace before the pain. He’d stop soon, realising he hadn’t yet given you a kiss, so you straighten before he can do so, knowing if you were to feel that simple, tender press of his lips you wouldn’t have the strength to walk out the door.

“Steven?”

The word gets trapped in your throat.

“—and then some kid knocked the stuffed scarabs over so that was a little disaster in itself coz you know what Donna’s like. Oh! There’s that new David Attenborough doco on the telly tonight so I thought we could watch that and order in some tea, maybe have a little b—”

“Steven,” you repeat louder, firmer, “we need to talk.”

Immediately, he stops. His eyes fly to you and you fight to weaken at the softness swimming in them. This is for him, you remind yourself. It’s all for him. He’d be killed if they knew.

“I thought we already were, though it was a bit hard for you to get a word in what with me going on,” he gives a chuckle, but your face remains indifferent to it. His eyes flick over your face, taking in your cool, stiffly set features and his smile falters. “You ‘right, love?”

Here we go. I’m so sorry.

“No. I’m leaving.”

He blinks, “You what?”

“I’m leaving. This is over.”

“Over?” Confusion twists his brows, his face pinching as the words ring through his ears. “What do you mean ‘over’?”

“I mean this—” you gesture between him and yourself, “—is over. What we have? It’s done. I’m done, Steven. I’m leaving.”

“What? No, you—you can’t. We—” he runs a flustered hand through his curls, his chest jumping with his sharp inhale, “everything’s great. It’s great. Wh… I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur before you can stop the words from falling, forcing yourself to swallow the feel of your heart beating in your throat.

“Is it the sleep thing? Love, I-I’m sorry, I can… I can figure something out! I’ll tie myself to the bloody bed if I have to!” He smiles, laughs, but it’s all nerves, panic. 

So many nights you’d woken to him up and moving about. The first time it happened, it was almost as if he didn’t recognise you, like he was so lost to dreams that he wasn’t truly there and was startled at your presence. It happened frequently, almost every night, and with the more you began to stay over, the more it became a routine. 

You’d coax him into bed, wrap him in the quilt and kiss his cheek with a loud smack, expecting his dorky little chuckle or an adoring little comment, but instead you were met with stares that didn’t seem quite so familiar. He looked like Steven, smelt like Steven, but the eyes… there was something there. 

“No Steven, it’s not the sleep thing.”

“Is—is it me?” He asks shakily, faltering on a step forward and bringing his hands together anxiously, his fingers turning and twisting around the others. “I know I can be a bit much, love, but I-I can change… I’ll do anything for you, anything—”

It pierces right through your chest, impaling your heart and tearing it in half. How could he think that? He’s lovely. So, so lovely. You’ve never met anyone like Steven. He’s beautiful. He’s smart. He’s kind and warm and so damn sweet—

“It’s not you, please believe me when I say that.”

No, it’s not you, precious boy. I’m so sorry. 

His hands begin to tremble.

There’s nothing more to say. It’s done. You let your gaze fall away from him, taking a quick second to gather yourself and keep your posture straight, ensuring to swallow down the pressure in your throat before it could morph into tears. 

He moves when you do, watches you pick up the readied bag he had passed coming in, and he steps in front of the door, holding a hand out in an effort to keep you still.

“Love, please—”

“I’m going, Steven.”

He doesn’t move. He stands there in your way, hands shaking by his sides, his lips pressing tightly together to keep the noticeable wobble at bay. 

“Please let me do this,” you mutter, the dull sting pricking the back of your eyes. Get out now.

“You can’t leave, love. You can’t, we—you’re my everything. Please—please, just—we can fix this. Whatever it is, we can fix it!”

He won’t let go.

Gods, Steven, please let go.

The thought of this all blowing out of control and someone finding him… the thought of it makes you physically ill. Your mind rejects the images of him hurt, beaten, laying bleeding and broken on the floor, his eyes empty and staring vacantly into nothing.

Bile builds in your throat. You have to protect him, you have to keep him safe.

There’s a way to make him let go, but it’s fucking brutal, and you’re almost certain there’s no coming back from it. But it’s okay. If he’s safe, it will be okay. It’s for him.

A bubble of self loathing builds in your gut. Please forgive me.

The words make you sick.

“There’s someone else.”

The moment holds after your spoken words, the air in the flat turning harder somehow. His heart shatters. You can see it play across his face. First the confusion, your words not quite sinking in. Someone else? No. No, you would never. The denial—you wouldn’t do that… no, you love him, don’t you? The pain. It pierces right through to the very core of you.

You bite down hard on your tongue. There’s so much you want to say. You want to cry, you want to apologise, you want to cradle him and tell him there’s no one else, there could never be anyone else… but you stand firm, watching the daunting understanding leak into his features.

His shoulders drop, and those tortured eyes meet yours.

“Oh. What’s their name?”

Your training kicks in.

“James.”

“James,” he repeats quietly, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “How long?”

“Steven—”

“How long?”

“A few months,” you lie through your teeth.

Lying had always been somewhat of a second nature to you, but here? Now? The words burn your mouth. The lies feel acidic on your tongue. It burns to the point you think you can’t utter another word.

“All that time?” He whispers in surprise, his voice cracking.

His lips press firmly together but the action doesn’t stem the tears that build along his lash line. The barrier breaks and they eventually spill, falling from his eyes and painting his cheeks with trails of heartbreak.

“Does… does he know about me?”

You don’t answer, but he seems to draw a conclusion from the look on your face. He gives a barely there broken chuckle, forced through shaking lips.

“Bet you both had a right laugh,” he mutters scornfully, “while your stupid little boyfriend waited in his stupid little flat.” 

Your face creases, “Steven—”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, eyes dropping to the floor as more tears stream down his face. “Gods I love you, but I fucking hate you right now.”

And with those final words, he crumbles.

His devastation is palpable, and your heart shatters alongside him.

He wraps his arms around himself, unable to raise his eyes enough to meet yours as he shuffles out of your way, freeing your exit and allowing you to leave. A warm tear slips down your cheek as you listen to the sounds of agony falling from his throat, spreading over your skin when your fingers rise to brush it away.

Every step towards the door is a struggle.

You want nothing more than to turn around, to stay. The door knob is ice cold under your fingers, mirroring the feeling of grief spreading out from your gut. His cries echo around you, burning into your mind with each broken inhale and heavy exhale.

The soul shattering sobs stop, and the startling finality of it is enough to have you pausing where you pull the door open. His curled shoulders stiffen and his body hardens, almost as if he just snapped right out of his heartbreak.

He half turns, his dark, wild gaze locking onto you from beneath the mop of curls falling over his eyes and you’re frozen from the bitter hostility filling them. The rage, the hatred.

It’s not the stare you’re used to meeting at night. This is different. 

The air changes, thickens.

He’s different. 

“Steven?”

“Get out,” he rasps, voice taking on a deeper, angrier husk and it’s not him—it’s not your Steven, “now.”

“What—”

“Leave!”

His hand swipes a plate from the table, sending it flying across the room before it shatters into pieces against the wall and you swallow a sob, quickly resuming your exit and aching at the sounds of further destruction that echo down the hall once the door slams shut.

-

moon bois tags: @acourtofsnakes, @greeneyedblondie44, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @itswanktime, @stevenmylove, @ruhro7, @juletheghoul, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @asgardiandeadpoetsociety, @excitedcurtain864, @chickencouncilrep, @bluestuesday, @katronautt, @what-iwish-you-knew, @totallynotastanacc, @bangaveragewhitewine, @chaoticevilbakugo, @trickstersp8, @rominaszh, @gooddaykate, @midgardianminx, @mishasminion360, @detectivecarisi-1, @quicksilvermad, @raphaelaisabella, @iceclaw101, @thatpinkshirt, @breakfastonpluto19, @withakindheartx, @sirpascal, @littleone65, @xoxabs88xox, @timpletance, @jitterbugs927, @randomchick546, @xdaddysprincessxx, @dnxgma, @astronomeoww, @dindjarinswhore, @Curiouser-an-curiouser, @h-hxgirl, @mischiefnevermanaged94, @mando-amando, @mx-ferelden, @xxvariant, @welcometostayingawake, @trinkets01, @shadowolf993, @mwltwo, @loveslide, @lccs-world, @artsymaddie

[bowtiesandsandshoes]

literally heartbreaking omg. been a long time since a fic has made me feel like this. fantastically devastating

[djo]

Joel Miller + text posts

[bowtiesandsandshoes]

Spoilers for Bad Batch s2e4

Tech x Reader

No use of y/n

Warnings/Rating: spoilers for s2e4, fluff

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: You worry about Tech's safety during the race, fluff and realisations ensue

----------

Tech stood towards the back of the hanger, giving the ship and his calculations one last look over. He was confident in his skills, despite the look on Cid’s face when he decided he would be the one to race.

He heard footsteps coming from behind him, instantly realising who they belonged to. “I’ve gone over the final calibrations, and everything seems to be in order.” He turned to see you coming to a stop a few feet from him, a grim look on your face. “You have no need to be concerned. I am fully confident in my abilities.”

“I know you are Tech, that doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

He hummed in response. “Yes, your concern is very typical of your behaviour- “

“Tech.” You interrupted.

“What?”

“You will be careful, won’t you?” His eyebrows rose, as if surprised.

“As I have just said I am fully- “

“I know you are, but that’s not what I meant.”

You took a step closer to him. “I just,” you paused, “I worry about you. These people play dirty. All they care about is money.”

Tech sighed. Of course that would be your uneasiness would be about. As if he wasn’t also out to win this race.

“Cid is at stake here. As well as more credits that we can afford. I cannot just opt out.”

“I’m not saying you should. All I want you to understand, is that your life is worth more than any amount of credits.” You put your hand on his arm. He looked down at it. “But Cid- “

“We can always get Cid back. And no offense but I care about you a lot more than I do her.”

He looked up into your eyes, your brows creased with concern. No. It was fear. You were close to terrified.

He sighed your name, but you interrupted him again. “Just please come back in one piece. That’s all I ask.”

He looked long into your eyes, his stomach knotting. “Of course.”

He paused, then whispered your name, as if about to ask you something.

“Hey Tech! You ready?” Omega called from the entrance to the hanger, Wrecker trailing behind her. You stepped back quickly, as if you had only just become aware of the proximity between the two of you.

His eyes shifted to give you a once over, your own fixed on something near your feet.

“Yes, I’ll be right there.”

----------

You stood at the edge of the balcony, watching the hovering screen displaying the live events of the race. You were half aware of the commentary, shifting your focus mostly to the conversation happening behind you. You gripped the commlink tight in your hand, feeling the edges digging into you, knowing it would leave marks on your palm.

The racers flew out of the tunnel, Tech careening towards the run where you were all situated. The weapons carrier on the front of his ship dislodged, clattering to the ground. “Your weapons!” Omega cried.

“They were slowing me down.”

He shot forward, clearly moving at a higher speed than before. That did little to quell your anxiety.

“Tech.” You spoke into your comm. “You can’t defend yourself properly.” You did little to hide what was close to anger in your tone. “I am aware, although I have deemed my shields and speed to be of greater importance.” After a moment he added “Don’t worry. I’m being careful.”

“Yeah, doesn’t really look like it from here.” You mumbled under your breath.

“I heard that.”

As the race continued, your fear and anxiety only grew, your stomach feeling as though it was folding in on itself.

“You’re losing shields.” You heard Omega say behind you.

“Tech, if you die, I’ll kill you.” You muttered into the commlink.

“Noted.” He responded curtly, although you could hear the smirk in his intonation.

Omega and Wrecker had now joined you overlooking the track. Looking to your left, Omega was anxiously peering over the railing. You placed a hand on her shoulder, not trusting your voice enough to be convincing of the phrase, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be okay.’ She placed her hand atop of yours and squeezed.

“Here they come! It’s going to be close!” The commentator cried as the remaining ships flew out of the tunnel ahead of the finish line. A cloud of dust enveloped the ships, preventing any of you from being able to see what was happening.

“Come on Tech, please.” You muttered, your hands clenching.

“And the winner is…”

The dust cleared and one ship careened towards the finish line.

“Tech!”

Omega and Wrecker cheered. You leant forward against the railing, letting out a breath of relief with a laugh. Omega grabbed your arm to pull you, and all three of you ran down to reach Tech on the track.

You practically sprinted, launching yourself at Tech, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, almost knocking him back.

“Uh- “ Tech found himself dumbfounded. His arms hovered in the air, not knowing what to do with them. You jumped back as if shocked, suddenly realising what you were doing.

“You did it!” Omega shouted.

“You sound surprised.” He managed to choke out, still shocked by your display. You looked mortified.

“I thought you were a goner.” Wrecker laughed.

Tech went to say something to you but was distracted by the crowd chanting his name.

----------

You sat next to Omega on the shuttle back to Ord Mantell. Tech sat a few rows behind, watching the back of your head as you listened to an excited Omega, who was recounting the days events. He pondered your actions as he scrolled through is data pad. While you had never exactly shied away from physical affection, this was clearly the most you had ever shown to him. Along with your anxiety about his safety, it was clear you cared about him. What he struggled with the most, was trying to figure out examples of when you were worried to the same extent about the rest of the group.

It was true you had been distraught when Wrecker had been overcome by the effects of the inhibitor chip, or when Hunter had been captured by the empire. He could not recall a time where your worry had been this highly directed at any other individual, except perhaps Omega. But she was a child, which made sense. You were fully aware that he was an adult and had more than enough experience taking care of himself, and that he was a skilled pilot. He could not fathom that your emotional response to his safety in such a small circumstance would be so high.

Once the shuttle landed on Ord Mantell, the group of you made your way back to Cid’s.

Once inside, they found Hunter and Echo, who had looks of relief on their faces as you entered. He was vaguely aware of Hunter lecturing them about going off world without notifying the other two. He was mostly paying attention to how you wandered over to the bar, reaching over the counter and pouring yourself a generous glass of spotchka. Once Hunter was satisfied he had conveyed his frustration, he and Echo turned to Omega who began retelling the days events.

Tech made his way over to the bar and took the seat beside you. He opened his mouth to ask if you were okay, but you beat him to it.

“I’m sorry Tech. I know you’re not a big fan of physical touch, I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” The words came out in a jumbled mess, but Tech managed to understand what you were saying.

“I was not uncomfortable, just surprised. You have never shown me that level of affection before, so I was unaware of how to react. You have no reason to apologise.

You looked at him. “I was worried.” Your voice was strained. “I know you were, but I’m okay."

He placed his hand upon yours. As you turned to look at both your hands, he looked at you. He had never really thought about the fact that you were attractive before. Yes, he hated noted the way you looked, the slope of your nose, and the colour of your eyes, but he had never taken it all in as he was doing now.

You smiled as you looked back up at him. “I stand by what I said before. You ever die, and I’ll kill you Tech.”

He smiled back, “Understood Cyar’ika.”

Neither of them saw Omega looked between the two of you from the other side of the room. She grabbed Hunter’s arm, shaking it. “Look.” She whispered.

Hunter followed her gaze. A knowing smirk growing on his face.