#I believe you paz | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

netherfeildren · 2 months

Text

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter XII : Venus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

A/N: I realized shortly after posting chapter 11 that I’d made a small mistake in the timeline I’m intending this to follow. I included a line from Din saying Paz had already tried to take the Darksaber from him and failed, but where we’re at now, chapter 5 of The Book of Boba Fett hasn’t happened just yet. So I’ve gone back and deleted that small detail from the previous chapter, and why am I even telling you this, idk, but if you guy could do me a solid and pretend to forget my fuck up, I’d love you forever for it.

Writing Star Wars is hard

Also, the indomitable @dirtysouvenir has rendered the most gorgeous artwork imaginable of Din and Sithy, and I still can’t quite believe my eyes every time I look at it. Everyone please go show Jonis all the love and praise she deserves.

Anyways… like always, forgive me for the wait. I love you all for being so patient with me. And shout out to chapter four of Someone’s Wife in the Boat of Someone’s Husband which served as inspiration for this. You will always be famous to me!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

CHAPTER XII : VENUS

What are we doing here, and why are our hearts invisible?

Anne Carson, Kinds of Water

“Just like that, yes. Good girl–keep doing what you’re doing.” His hand slides to circle your wrist, leather and the thick weave of your tunic, the slight shake of your nerves caught between. “Grip it firmly, but squeeze it gently. Yes– yes, good. You’re doing so well.”

You suck in a trembling breath, too hyper aware of the feel of his chest plate brushing against your back, the cap of his left knee gently bumping the back of your own, his arms wrapped in a loose and careful cage around your frame where he’s helping you direct the blaster at the target he’d set up several meters away for practicing. He’s got one of your wrists wrapped in the leather of his fist, the other cupping the underside of your elbow to keep your shaking arms steady.

“I don’t know why I’ve never been very good at this,” you whisper over the sound of the burning desert winds lashing you in the brow. “It’s just never come very easy.”

“That’s alright. That’s why we’re practicing again.” The hand cupping your elbow moves slowly to your waist, all his handling of you these past few days has been so intentional, cautious and patient and aware of himself and you and your reactions. Your heart beats, thumps and thumps hard enough to make you a little dizzy, a little sick. “Keep your right arm firm, but fluid. Try not to lock your elbow, let the recoil move through you steadily.”

He’d covered your hair and face in soft white linen wraps to keep you from being scorched by the sun and sand, and his voice is so deep, head pitched low so that the modulator is vibrating right at the level of your ear, the sounds of him sluicing through the linen to curl around your ear. You shiver again, squeezing your fist too tight around the butt of the blaster. You’d asked him if he’d help you practice just before you’d made planet fall a few hours ago, and now here the two of you are. A few clicks outside of Mos Eisley, he’d found a cluster of sandstacks to land the Crest amidst for a couple hours of target practice—near an area he’d told you is called Beggar’s Canyon.

You’re not sure if it’s just an excuse to have him touch you, but here you are now, in the circle of his arms, shivering with nerves and heat and want. The sun burns, but the places where he grips you burn worse, and your heart rings in your skull.

“Focus your gaze between the eyeline, eventually, it’ll come naturally, your aim, but for now, use the field the blaster sets. Squeeze gentle–” He grips your now healed elbow firmly, anchoring your arm, the hand holding your wrist moves to your waist, securing you in his hold so that when you pull the trigger, the zing of the blaster bolt leaving its chamber moves through your limb, into your chest cavity, electrifying your heart, and his hold is steadying all the way through. He’s there to keep you up, keep you strong, and so it’s almost thoughtless when you do it, a gut instinct or some muscle inside your brain desperate to flex and stretch or come awake because faster than you can blink or think, you take hold of that bolt of plasma with your mind, freezing it midway between where the two of you stand and the target he’d set.

You feel his hands flex around you, but he keeps still and silent, watching, waiting for what you’ll do next. And your heart beats faster and faster, the bright of the sun gleaming and nauseating, refracting off the sand, the plasma, your eyes. The bolt screeches and writhes and defies the laws of nature by your hand, and it does not feel good, but it does feel right.

The first time you’ve really wielded the Force since the night you escaped.

There’s something painful and uncomfortable and familiar about it coming back to you. Your breath goes fast within your chest, the taste of the desert on your tongue and the grit of sand sneaking beneath your clothes, sweaty line of anxiety down your spine, and his steady, calm breaths up against your back every other moment, this power inside of you that’s always been the cause of everything bad and only some things good. It vibrates in everything, moves through all living things, the Force, within you, within him.

“Let it go, cyare. It’s okay if you miss.” You shut your eyes and let it fall away and now it’s not the Force or you or anything else, it’s only him keeping you up against the rest of everything.

The two of you, like grief and the mountain.

“How did you meet this woman again?” You ask for about the third time, seemingly unable to keep your mouth shut and your nerves to yourself.

“She’s been keeping up maintenance on the Crest for a while now. And she helped out with the kid, watched him for me a couple times—I trust her.”

“Peli,” you repeat the name contemplatively, taking in the sight of him as he checks the pre-landing codes, flipping switches and punching toggles a little too roughly. He’s agitated, covered and swathed in it. You know he’s worried about you, the way you’ll feel being around someone else, scared you’re still feeling fragile or tired or weak. And you’re accepting it for now because you are. You are tired and you do feel fragile and you do need taking care of. If only for the time being, if only for a little bit longer. A sort of end feels very near, and you’re still working out what that such end is going to be.

“Peli,” he sighs, hitting the last button and finally swiveling in his chair to face you, and you eye him suspiciously, you know that sigh and head tilt. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Not tired?”

“No.”

“Your shoulder?”

Hurts. “Fine.”

“Cyar’ika.”

“Din.” Another sigh. Another shake of his head. You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes at you beneath that stupid lug of metal he wears on his fat head. But you hope that he’s smiling too, and you give him a soft, small one of your own, twisting your fingers together tightly in your lap. You want to reach out for him, to go to him and sit with him and kiss him again like the other day. But you don’t feel ready again. Again, fragile, tired, a weakness of heart within you that you can’t understand the source of, or you can, but you don’t want to accept it, you want to be able to move on, to get over it, to be like you once were. But that you also know he’ll let you feel for as long as you need to.

“I promise I feel okay, and that I’ll tell you if I don’t.” The target practice had left you tired and awake, and there is something moving inside of you—a recognition of sorts you can’t pinpoint exactly, but which you know is going to show or tell you something about yourself soon, the Force, the things you’d done or the things you’d do. And there’s patience too, a waiting, a readiness to receive whatever this would be without pressure or urgency. You feel entirely strung tight, a knot about to be set loose, entirely at ease, as well. Something strange about the anxiety you carry within yourself, like it doesn’t really matter much anymore and is only waiting for the right moment to be expelled.

He gives a soft grunt and turns back to face the control panel. The rolling golden sands of Tatooine like an ocean before you, and then there in the distance, the littered smattering of sand blighted little buildings that make up the spaceport of Mos Eisley. He directs the Razor Crest towards Hangar three-five, the ship jostling with the lowering of the landing gear.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” You ask nervously, following him down the ladder once he’s eased the ship into the landing bay, fretting over this ordeal of having to meet someone else from his life, a friend, which wasn’t even something you were aware he knew how to have. You hear the heavy thud of his boots against the durasteel, and then his hands are circling your waist and pulling you down the rest of the way, paying no mind to your indignant squawking.

He’d been strange with his touch, as well. As if he couldn’t help himself some moments, overcome by habit and familiarity, and then afraid and cautious in others. And you can’t understand how you feel about this either. Grateful, a sort of soft that makes your eyes smart and your cheeks bleed with heat. He’s so aware of you, so aware of what you might want or need, but then overcome, as well, needing you, wanting you. And you feel so afraid you won’t be able to give him those things—the ones he wants or needs, that you won't be able to find your way back to the way things had been between the two of you before.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, little compassion to be found for your fretting. You stick your tongue out at the back of his head, rolling your eyes and steeling yourself as he lowers the hatch, and a chirpy little voice calls, Mando!

The plank lowers, and lowers, and lowers, and finally, a mess of springy dark curls come into view. The small woman, Peli, claps her hands excitedly and spreads her arms in wide welcome of him, and something in your heart throbs.

A friend, indeed.

“Peli,” he greets her, heavy, swaying gate stomping down the gangplank, voice serious and not all matching her enthusiasm. You roll your eyes at him again as the reverberations of his steps tickle your feet through the soles of your boots.

“Hey, look everyone! It’s Mando,” she says to the chittering droids whirring around her. You follow him slowly, slinking directly behind him so that the breadth of his shoulders conceals you for a second longer before, “And who do we have here? Another unlikely companion?”

He pivots, letting you step into full view and brave shyness, a hand coming up to hover around your waist, urging you forward, but not actually touching you. The sound of your name rings in tune to the thump of your heart through the modulator. Careful, so careful, and it makes you hurt at your own self. Wanting to touch you one moment, unable to stop himself from ripping you into his arms; another, afraid, feeling like he can’t even put a gently motioning hand on your body, and how will you ever fix this? How are you going to ever be able to get the two of you back to where you were?

You take a hurt little step away from him, swallowing the heat in your throat several times before you can force a smile onto your face.

His body shifts and sways towards your retreating one.

But the small woman steps towards you, pit droids spinning and skittering frantically around her, and she claps a work hewn hand on your shoulder. “Let Peli take a good look at you.” Her gaze is cheerful, full of a youthfulness that belies her age and an even more cheerful, gap toothed smile. “Pretty girlfriend, Mando.” She waggles her bushy brows up at him. “Brought me another set of bright eyes, didn’t’cha?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Peli.” Your throat feels humiliatingly tight when she takes your hand in her smaller one, giving it a swift shake, no gentleness about the way she handles you, and there’s something comforting about the forsaking of the kid gloves. Your fracture isn’t obvious for the whole world to see, there’s still normalcy to be found for you.

She looks up at Din as you avoid his burning gaze, laughing scowl on her sunny face. “Who woulda thought you had it in, ya, huh?” She thumps a fist on his chest plate, shaking her head and moves to take a look at the Crest. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Chasing down some elusive bounty? Carbon scoring’s worse than last time.'' She chatters a million miles a minute, pulling out some sort of electric scanner, assessing the old gunship.

“We had a long trip,” he sighs, hands fisted on his hips as he watches her impatiently, turning his gaze back to your face every few moments. You want to bare your teeth at him in a snarl and tell him to stop fucking worrying. You want him to take you into his arms or hold your hand.

“Long trip, sure. That’s what he always says,” she tells you over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes. “Turns out it’s usually a gun fight or something just as idiotic.”

You snicker, enjoying the easy way she handles your Mandalorian’s surliness, grateful for the cheerful buffer she provides between your own internal angst and his overzealous worrying. “It was a long trip this time, I swear. We’re coming from the Core,” he grumbles, and the two of you follow her while she inspects the damage on the ship, and in a moment of bravery or desperation for normalcy or closeness or just him, you reach up to grip two of his thick fingers in your fist. His hand immediately adjusts and curves to wrap around yours, intertwining your fingers and taking you securely in his grip. You feel him turn to look down at you questioningly, but you refuse to look back. This is normal, this is how it should be, this is what feels right even if you need the barrier of his gloves to feel like you can breathe.

“The Core! Long way’s.” Hmm, she muses as she goes. “Got a fuel leak.” Again. He huffs. “Taking a vacation now?” She turns back with another smarmy smirk.

“Something like that.”

“Nice little honeymoon?” She teases. “I could use one of those myself.” She scans something else, and the pit droids chatter and chirp around her, almost full her height, she’s so small.

“Peli–” he grumbles. Your grumpy, shy boy; you wonder if he ever blushes under that thing, squeezing his hand in yours as tight as you can.

“Yeah, yeah. No droids, I know. When are you gonna get over that nonsense, huh Mando? It’s about time, you know!” She bends to inspect something closer near the landing gear, covered in carbon scoring here too, examines her scanner again, then clips it back to her utility belt. “Alright, here’s the deal–” But he cuts her off, pivoting while pulling his blaster in one fluid motion to shoot at a poor little droid that's gotten too close. “Hey! Hey! What’ve I said before? You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” She shouts.

“Din–” you scold, gripping the thick of his arm to pull the weapon down.

“What’ve I told you?” He barks.

“No droids. No droids. Blah, blah. You have got to get over that! I’m tryn’a make a deal with you here, ya womp rat.”

He jerks aggressively towards another little droid that wanders too close, sending it skittering away in terror, and you pinch his arm beneath the thick duraweave, frowning up at him, be nice, when he looks down at you, giving him a jut of your eyebrow and thrusting your chin at Peli. He groans, cursing low and grumpy in Mando’a. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

“If you let them work on the Crest–” She jerks her chin at the little pit droids quivering behind the crates strewn about the hangar in abject terror of the mean Mandalorian.

“No,” he cuts her off, stubbornness in every line of his frame.

“Din!” You scold again, bumping your hip into his.

“Come on, Mando! I’ll charge you half price–”

“Deal,” he cuts her off again immediately, the cheapskate.

“Ha!” She hoots and claps loudly. “Droids! Get to work on this lovely man’s ship. Lemme see the cash.” She holds out a grubby palm, wiggling her fingers. “He’s pretty easy, you ever notice that?” She says to you conspiratorially.

“Constantly,” you can’t help the laugh in your voice. Your first laugh in what seems like years.

“Loose knickered is what they used to call it back in my day.” And you have to turn your face into his arm to muffle your cackling, listening to him start up another string of curses beneath the helmet.

“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that before, ever,” he mutters sullenly.

“Well, you’re young.”

“Not that young,” you provide helpfully, big cheesy smile that feels slightly unnatural and rusted spreading across your face.

“Whoopee, Mando! I like this one! You really do know how to pick ‘em.” She claps him roughly on the shoulder, her little paw slapping loudly against his pauldron. “Anyway, I’ve got somewhere to be for the next couple of days, you see. I’m dating that Jawa again—the one I’d told you about,” she announces, proud as anything, big smile across her leathery face.

“A Jawa?” You repeat, making sure you heard right.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, bright eyes. They’re quite furry… very furry, but…” She clicks her teeth together, “You know…” Grins.

You look up at Din, squeezing his arm in your grip. “Guess I gotta try it.” You’re pretty sure you hear him grumble something to the effect of over my dead body, before he’s agreeing to Peli’s deal with a clap and a shake, and the promise of two hundred and fifty Imperial credits and absolutely no harm done to her droids while she’s gone and they work on the Crest.

“Treadwell, get in there!” She shouts, and the little pit droid chirps fretfully, trembling behind an R5 unit. “You can’t say no, you’re a droid. Oh, he’s not going to shoot you. Stop being a coward! What is this, a democracy all of a sudden?” Losing the fight, the droid wheels forward to get to work. “Yeah, thought so.” She turns back to you and Din. “You two can stay here, look after the shop while I’m gone? It’ll only be a few days.”

“We have some resupplying to do, but we’ll stay until you’re back,” he promises.

“And you’re not going to shoot my droids?”

“And I’m not going to shoot your droids,” he agrees, but later, you catch the too rough nudge he gives one of the little droids with his boot when he thinks no one’s watching. This man and his droid complex, you roll your eyes.

“How’s the N-1 keeping up?” He asks as she’s packing up to go.

“Just how you left her. That honey’s faster than a fathier. You should take her out while you’re here, give that baby a spin. Oh! And I added that turbonic venturi power assimilator I’d mentioned before. Remember? S’how I reconnected with my Jawa,” she nudges you with a wink. “You’re gonna be the fastest ship on the Outer Rim.”

“You got a new ship?” You ask curiously.

“Just a side project we took up while I had some spare time.” But the way he says it is a little strange, making you pause to look up and try to read the blank face of his helmet. Ah, and he smooths that same hovering hand from before along the line of your spine, an attempt to soothe or quell your curiosity without actually giving you the gift of his touch.

Peli leaves a few hours later, and she really does have a Jawa lover. The little critter comes to collect her right before the suns set, off to catch the sandcrawler before it journeys off into the desert, leaving you alone with only Din and the little pit droids for company.

And suddenly, that shyness from earlier is back for some reason. The distraction of travel and the buzz of hyperspace lost to the calm silence of the quiet spaceport as the suns set over the horizon and night settles in, cool winds coming in on the sand gusts from deep in the desert. After hours of work, Din posing as the menacing overlord barking orders and complaints, intruding on their work when it isn’t up to his ridiculous standards, the droids finish up for the night, and Din engages the hangar security system, and then the ship’s, locking the two of you in safely for the night.

“Dinner?” He asks as he moves slowly around the hull, pulling the cloak from his shoulders, a river of sand sluicing in a rain sheet onto the steel floor. The sound of it has a shiver moving through you as you lower yourself to the floor, crossing your legs beneath you at the edge of your makeshift bed. You desperately want to crawl between the covers without a shower and find the peace of evasion through sleep, secure in the knowledge that he won’t follow you into bed. He’d refused since you’d reunited, even though you’d invited him several times to share the much more comfortable pile of blankets than what you know his pilot’s chair or bunk provide. He’d not taken you up on the offer yet, and right now, fluttering heart and hot eyes and sweating nape, you’re glad for it.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you—or you do. You’re overwhelmed with want and fear, of him, of his touch, of having lost what the two of you had before. And as you watch him start to pull his armor from his body, first one pauldron, then a vambrace, then a thigh guard, no sense of congruity to the pattern with which he divests himself of his Creed, it’s suddenly like he’s standing right in front of you, and yet you miss him anyway. Miss him in a way that makes you sick and devastated.

You must make some sort of sound, a funny look on your face or a change in your breathing because he turns suddenly, a too worried, “What’s wrong?” on his tongue.

“Nothing.” You look up at him from your spot on the ground, head falling back on your neck, and you can feel the wet of your eyes, trying to force yourself not to blink so that they won’t fall—the tears. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He comes to a slow crouch before you, long legs folding down, down. “What is it? Tell me.” Half missing his armor as he poses now, it’s like he’s half him, half yours, half only-man, half Mandalorian. A little bit like what you feel yourself; half, half, half.

Pulling one glove from his hand, he lifts it, palm spread towards you, showing you his intention before he carefully cups the side of your face; thumb at your pulse, pointer and middle fingers giving your temple a soft pressure, pinky poised at the bridge of your nose. Your lashes brush against his index every time you blink, and his skin is smooth and rough at the same time, and warm—sun-hearted man.

You press your face harder into his palm, letting him support the weight of your head, nuzzling against the rough of his calluses, blaster blister scratchy against your carotid, and heat pulses all through you from the crown of your head, sliding down the length of your, still yet, too long hair, the back of your neck, your chest, pooling to settle deep in the pit of your belly.

And yet there’s something missing or different or off, like you feel empty but too full of trepidation to conjure up that old desire you’d always had, that need for him to fill, fill, fill you. Like the heat is there, but it’s remembered, not necessarily present. It all makes you want to cry and scream and go to sleep.

The truth, and plainly: you’re terrified of anything that might hurt, can’t fathom the idea of it.

Your heart beats in your throat, you taste it on your tongue, and it mixes with the sad when you say: “Do you remember when we were on Kashyyyk—when we sparred?”

“I remember,” he says, voice deep and low—through the modulator. You hate his helmet. You wish you could get beneath. You wish you were brave enough. The feeling of it coming on sudden and unexpected, thought, bitter and foul and not something you’d necessarily felt before, certainly not so viciously. It’s just that you hate that all this has happened—you want to feel the press of his lips at the crown of your head and the wash of his breath like heat moving through your hair—that you are not in the same place you once were, that you’re too afraid to move forward.

“When we switched weapons—”

He hums: “Yes.”

“It was so green there.” You turn your face further into him so that you’re speaking into his palm now, words pooling there in the cup of it like a well of truths and fears.

“It was.” The pointer and index stroke your temple, press once, twice, thrice—harder on the latter. It feels good, it feels real and reminding. He lets a heavy silence pass for a moment, he’s thinking of something, contemplating a push. “Do you remember—” He passes a swallow you can hear the thickness of, “Do you remember how I had you in the dirt—like a fucking animal? How you let me do whatever I wanted, however I wanted.” He gives the hardest press he’s given yet, at your temple, you think you feel the press against your brain, and you open your mouth to let the edge of your teeth dig hard into the meat of his palm. He growls a rough sound, a hungry sound, a sound like one he’d have made when he had you in the dirt like a fucking animal.

You drag your teeth along the hill of his palm, closing your mouth at the end. You don’t give him the wet of your tongue, you don’t feel ready to taste his skin like that just yet—an assimilation of violence.

“Yes,” you finally say, realizing that he understands what you were thinking without having to say it, or knowing how to, that you’re full of memories of past desires and how badly you want them back and how out of reach that all feels, but also, that suddenly now, in a single blink, the heat in your belly isn’t remembered, but present, alive, awake. That you’re cunt clenches once, twice, thrice around nothing—harder, hungrier on the latter. That you’re wet for him. “I remember.”

“Good. I remember every single thing we’ve ever done.” You roll your face in his palm so that you can look up at him now, feeling something like brave. “Every word, every breath, I remember all of it. Alright?”

“Alright,” you say quietly.

“And if you need me to help you remember too, then I will.”

“Alright.” And then: “What if I can’t, though?... What if we can’t ever have that again? What if I can’t remember? What if I can never give you that again?” A tear slides over the bridge of your nose, and now it’s not only truths and fears cupped in the palm of his hand but the saltwater of grief too.

“Then we’ll find something new. A new way, a different way. We’ll do it however you want now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, cyar’ika.” It’s very much a promise, a new Creed being established here.

“Okay.”

He nods, “Okay.”

The water is warm verging on hot verging on scalding. It feels incredible slithering over your tired and sore muscles, the ligatures in your arms still trembling from the blaster practice earlier today, from your overwhelm of emotions.

You hate that you’re not good at it, that the only weapon that seems to become you is a lightsaber.

The suds of his earthy smelling soap slide through your hair, slipping down your spine, over your ass and along your legs to pool around your feet and disappear down the drain. You shiver once, as though letting something fall away as you slide your hand down, over the swell of your belly, to cup the palmful of your cunt, wedging your hand between your thighs. You pet slowly at the wet curls there, realizing some of it is also the sticky slick of your desire. You were right, you’re wet for him and your clit pulses, slightly swollen and wanting. Your body is awake and hungry for him for the first time in what feels like eons.

You explore slowly, your cunt slightly trembling at the feeling of being prodded and touched for the first time in you can’t remember how long. Moaning softly, you pull your fingers from between your legs, hands sliding up now to cup the weights of your breasts in each palm and squeeze tightly. Oh, you want him, you want him, you’re afraid. Your head falls back on a thump against the fresher wall, loud enough that you hear his lurking voice through the door, you okay in there? And instead of being annoyed at his overbearing caution, his hovering, you shiver again, something coming back to you now.

Your desire.

You shut the water off, grabbing one of the soft linens he’d slung over the warm pipe for you to wrap yourself in. He knocks a knuckle against the wobbly little door, “Cyar’ika?”

Looking at yourself in front of the steamy mirror, too long, naiad hair, bright, strange eyes, you want him, you want him, you want to feel alive, awake, anything. You can’t deny your shortcomings, fears, whatever they might be called, but there is yet still a soft place inside of you that they’d not snuffed out, that wants Din still.

You turn to slide the fresher door open just as he’s readying to knock again.

He’d showered before you, after he’d fed you your soup and your disgusting fake bread he’d promised he’d find a real substitution for soon enough, and you’d needed a moment alone to sit in your grime and silence, digest your feelings. He’s clad now in one of his soft, dark undershirts, his flight pants and the helmet, opposite your towel and water dewed skin, steaming from the hot fresher.

You watch a swallow pass through his throat, words caught, slow and heavy. He clears it once, twice, tilts his head down to take in the state of you, before he says, “You alright?”

You nod, wide eyed awake. He’s standing right in front of you and you miss him and you want to shock him wide eyed awake too. “The water was too hot. I got dizzy,” you lie, swaying towards him a little, letting your lashes flutter dramatically.

Not all the way, but enough, just a little, as much as you can bear, that’s what you want from him right now.

His hands come up to grip the sides of your arms immediately, his bare hands, soaking up the wet of your skin. He pulls you into himself, pressing you carefully against his chest, and you shiver and shake against him, teeth rattling with a sound entirely lacking temperance. Your blood feels like it’s boiling, there’s desire alive and writhing in your tummy, and you squeeze your thighs together tightly, shifting from one foot to another while you drip a puddle onto the cold floor.

“Come here, sit down,” he murmurs, gently moving you to your bed, easing you down onto it slowly. “You need to take it easy,” he clucks over you, gripping your elbow to let you down carefully, keeping his hands on your bare skin until the last moment. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re still tired, you’re still recovering. And you never listen. You have to listen to me when I’m trying to take care of you. You don’t eat enough, and I know your shoulder still hurts, little liar. Your elbow is barely better, and I saw you making strange faces when you were walking up the plank the other day. Your hip hurts doesn't it? Or your knee, something. No, don’t answer. I know you’ll just say no.” He talks and talks and talks, and you love him and you think that—

There’s a name for this…

He’d told you he loved you and he’d not said it again, neither had you, it felt too huge a thing to talk about again just yet while there was still so much left to discuss and bridge, but what does it matter if your body sings or screams in pain when you have the love of this beskar titan? What could you care for all the rest of everything?

Yes, Din. Yes, Din. Whatever you say, Din, as he huffs and puffs and arranges you, brings another pillow and blanket from the bunk, his only one in there, not that he cares, lovely man.

And it’s not only that you feel like you need to give him the things he wants or needs, because of course you do. You love him, you need to be able to give him things, everything, you want to be able to give him the whole galaxy. But it’s also that you want to. That to give him what he desires is to feed yourself, to live together, to be together, to give each other the things you need to stay alive.

You let yourself fall back onto the soft blankets slowly, this nest where you’ve always felt so safe and so protected and so loved, even when neither of you knew it was love that was holding you here. And you watch him for a few anxious moments as he pulls the covers this way and that, tucking them here and there, trying to avoid looking at the bare expanse of your dew damp legs. But then, taking hold of his hand, you still his nervous movements, and he finally looks up at your face, letting go of his fretting, taking hold of the bravery in the palm of your hand.

Shy—but brave. Brave—and wanting.

“We’ll take care of each other, won’t we?” You want to tell him you love him again, but there’s something slightly terrifying, gloriously intimate and fragile about the words.

“Always.”

“And we’ll keep each other alive?” Maker, I hope we keep each other alive.

“Yes.”

You take hold of the edge of the linen covering you, revealing your naked body to him slowly, exposing your soft underbelly. You hear his breath hitch, exhale on a groan that sounds like dying. His grip on your hand goes tight to the point of bone crushing pain for one brief, brief moment before he remembers himself and gentles again. You shiver at the pain, belly swooping and quivering with fear and nausea and lust.

You wish you could see his eyes, his face, his want.

“You—” he stutters, swallows, “You don’t have to, my love.” My love. He doesn’t need to say it out loud again now with teeth and tongue, he says it in all the things he does.

“You have to know that I want you so much. That I want you more than anything, Din.”

“I do know,” he says immediately. “I’ve never doubted that.”

“I want to show you.”

“You don’t have to. I know—” His other hand comes up to grip yours with both of his, caging your limb within the strength of his fists—to keep himself from touching you anywhere else, you think. But you can feel the intensity of his gaze along your skin, over your bare breasts, quivering with your hitching breaths, water droplets translating the frantic beat of your heart in their trembling on the surface of your skin. The line of your belly, the slope downward to the soft place between your thighs.

He’d seen the scarring on your hand, it was inevitable as much as you’d wished you could hide the deformity they’d left. As much as you wish you could’ve kept it from him, held an illusion for the rest of your lives together to spare him from the reminder of the things that’d been done, happened, chosen. But now… now he is to be subjected to the whole truth of it. Scars like cobwebs, strangely shimmering in silver lights beneath the surface of your skin—they’d been clever and ingenious in their torture—covering the whole circumference of your left hand up to your elbow. But also, from the lowest point of your last rib, over your right hip, traversing lower down the contours of your skin to wrap around the uppermost swell of your thigh.

They’d left their mark like they’d intended, and it wasn't something you could ever hide from him, the reality of what’d been done, what you’d chosen. It was obvious in everything, etched into your skin, a chasm in the still present distance between the two of you.

You feel like a bruise; tender, vulnerable, incongruously desperate to press on it harder and feel that dull throb, dark and ugly and on display.

His hands go tight around yours again for a moment, before he’s snatching them back to grip his bent knee, white knuckled, silent anger on display when his eyes reach the scarring.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smoothing a hand over your hip down to your thigh to grip yourself there, digging your fingertips lightly into the plush softness. Your skin vibrates. “It doesn't hurt now.”

“What did they do?” His voice is like gravel, restrained fire-full fury.

“They wanted to see what it’d take to leave a mark. They figured it out.” The helmet turns away sharply, a short, brutal curse spit from his mouth. The tongue of his mother, beautiful despite his violence.

“It’s okay, Din.” You take hold of your thigh, pulling it up and apart, spreading yourself for him. Brave, wanting heart, be brave. He turns back immediately. “I want you to see how much I want you,” you whisper. “How much I still need you.”

You let your fingertips flutter lightly over your swollen, needy sex, and you can hear the obscene, sucking sound of your wet lips spreading apart when you part your legs wide enough for your sex to bloom. Cunt hungry and weeping for him.

Fuck, he spits, leaning closer, and his hand snaps forward to grip your ankle all the way around, pulling your foot up onto the uncompromising muscle of his thigh—your only point of contact.

“Show me, cyar’ika. Show me how much that pretty cunt missed me,” he growls.

You start slow, wide eyes fixed on the dark tee of his vizor, fingertips swirling around your clit slowly, it pulses and throbs and beats to the rhythm you can feel his own heart beating at within his own chest. But you pet it slowly, teasing both of you, and then feel lower down to the clenching mouth of your cunt—fuck, he spits again—slicking your fingers in your sticky wet. You start to rock your hips against the flat of your hand, the sound of your cunt, loud in the quiet hull, nothing to interrupt but the too desperate sound of your mutual panting. His fingers around your ankle are so tight they’ll leave a sore spot, and you can't think of the later hurt now, afraid it'll scare you out of this, all you can focus on is the beat of your cunt, the way it cries for him.

You swirl your fingertips at your opening, again, again, “Put them inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” And it’s a demand.

You start with one, slow and tentative, a little, shocked gasp as you probe shallowly within the tight, little hole. Then further, wiggling inside until you’re impaling yourself with your own small finger, the first thing inside of you in so long, and suddenly, you wish it was him. Your eyes fill with tears at the thought, spilling over at the wish that he could’ve been the first thing inside of you after all this time, but the reality that you’re just not ready for it yet. The salted proof of your inevitable shortcomings slide back along your cheeks to drip into your ears.

“Another,” he demands. “Oh, it sounds so pretty, little one. Give it another.” You pull your single finger out, sucking, wet-cunt sound that he groans in tune with, to press another one in, mewling at the pinch and stretch of it, the slick slide. Yes, just like that. You’re doing so well, he says, a mirror of his earlier words to you today during target practice. “Roll your hips, ride your hand.” You hitch another sob, “Don’t fucking cry,” he grits, pressing your heel hard into the meat of his thigh. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re going to come for me, you’re going to let me see it.” He spreads his thighs wider in his kneeling crouch, pushing his hips forward into nothing, drawing your gaze to the heavy bulge behind the plaquette of his flight pants. He’s so hard.

You crook your fingers inside yourself, hill of your palm against the swell of your engorged clit, fingertips against the spongey ridge at the front of your cunt, rolling your hips faster, chasing the orgasm you need to give him. Your foot feels numb in his grip, your cunt, on fire, so tight it hurts. Your belly hitches and heaves, open mouth gasping and you cry his name, moaning and writhing wantonly, your stomach slick and glistening again with sweat now instead of water. One of your palms reaches up to take hold of your breast, nipple caught between your fingers, squeezing tight, tight, tight. And suddenly he’s surging forward, letting go of your ankle to lean over you and rip his pants open, freeing his furious erection. The tip is red-purple and swollen fat, drooling a thick string of sloppy, white precum, and he wraps one massive fist around the angry thing. Din, Din, Din. He beats at his cock furiously, the sound of your name, the slick thwack, thwack, thwack of it sends you spilling into your orgasm, belly pulling tight, cunt twisting even tighter.

“Fuck, fucking come—fucking come,” he snarls as he twists his fist cruelly around the head and the thick white viscosity of his semen starts to spill from the fat head, bubbling up and over his fist and between his fingers, splattering heavy and hot onto your spasming cunt, coating your fingers so that you’re pushing the thick of his come into yourself, slicking you further. “Yes, yes, yes, like that. Let me fucking see it…Look at what you do to me.” And there's so much furious want in his voice, and he’s so big, long and thick, and you know it’s going to hurt when he puts it inside of you for the first time again—you remember how it hurt before, how you loved it—and you’re afraid you’re not going to be able to handle any sort of pain ever again, not even the sort you’d been so hungry for before.

But your womb pulls tight, pulses and throbs, and suddenly your two skinny fingers arent enough, you want the thick heft of his cock fucking hard and fast and deep inside of you, punching at the deepest spot within you.

His orgasm ends on a fierce groan, panting, thick chest heaving, his head hangs low between his shoulders. You pull your shaking fingers from your clenching hole, and he gives a few last lazy strokes, squeezing the last drops of come from the slick tip to splatter against your pussy. “I fucking missed this—your cunt covered in me.” His dripping cock bobs so close, and you have the sudden insane thought of him just shoving it in, holding you down prone and fucking all of his spend into your sloppy cunt, forcing you to take it and be his again. “I can’t wait to eat it. I can’t wait to fill it with my come again and eat it out of you.” There’s a part of you that might want it, that might wish for it.

“Maker, Din…” you moan, rubbing the thick semen into your overstimulated clit, your mound, up the curve of your belly, slicking yourself in him.

If you can’t have his touch, this is enough, and you bring your sticky, soaking fingers up to your mouth, sucking the come from them. He groans, not fair, sitting back on his knees, spent cock hanging obscenely from his open pants, wet and glistening. He reaches behind his head to tug his shirt up and off, leaving his sweaty chest bare and gleaming. Your eyes flutter shut, cupping your cunt in the palm of your hand, covering the slick curve of it, and you arch your back, spreading your thighs further, putting yourself on display for him.

“Gorgeous, cyar’ika,” he says between pants. “So pretty, my love.” He reaches down to squeeze his half hard cock once more. “I can be patient for you, I promise. You’re so worth it.”

He lays beside you in the dark, stretched out long and entirely clothed, but here with you, forced and convinced to share your bed with a line of pillows as a protective moat between the two of you at his own insistence.

You’re on your side, hands folded beneath your smushed cheek, wide eyes searching fruitlessly for the shape of him in the pitch dark. You want to say something else. You want to tell him you love him again, to hear the words fall from your tongue.

“What are you thinking?” He asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” You hum a barely breathed laugh. And then, “I know you’re scared or regretful or worried that we’ll not get back to where we were,” he reads you.

“Yes.”

There’s a name for this…

He sighs long, goes quiet for longer, and then finally: “What’s happened’s happened, which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the galaxy.”

“Fate?” You muse, a little unbelieving.

Dark red—

“Call it what you want. We met, we separated…you were—gone. We waited. Now we’re here again. It’s meaningful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You believe in this—fate?” I didn’t think I believed in anything anymore. But I believe in you.

“Call it what you want, but yes.”

—String.

There’s something about this that you need to consider, chew on. The fact that you’d felt, all your life, cursed to know how a thing would happen, be, end, always. Something like fate, perhaps, the whisper of it making a home for itself within the shell of your ear, and now the truth that he too believes in this thing you’ve always lived with. Destiny, what have you—you believe in the same things, you believe in each other.

“Will you hold my hand?”

He turns over, reaching to twine his fingers through yours; large, rough palm against small, soft palm. You want to tell him you love him again, you want to hear the words for him, but they feel trapped, tender, timid.

You’d always thought your destiny fixed, poised, on the tip of your tongue. A thing was what it was birthed unto the galaxy in perpetuity, and no amount of desire could absolve you of its sunken teeth. But this—this desire is like the creation of myth, that dark red thread that goes by the name of fate being pulled taught, humming in accord with a frequency heard only by the two of you.

Now: “Will you kiss me?” A beat of silence, his fingers around yours going tight, tight.

“Come here,” his voice blends with the darkness, and tugging you into himself, protective border between your bodies and his hand around your jaw, he slips a kiss onto your tongue. His mouth holds the hot recollection of being alive; the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the taste, your fingers weaving through his hair, your names sounding together, a pair because they belong on the same breath.

You pull back, and it’s only a small brevity, but it’s enough, and that confusion from earlier, that shiver of letting something go or taking it back into yourself, settles.

You’re afraid or regretful or both, yes, sure. You also find yourself to be, suddenly, forgiving, full of empathy. You won’t be able to have him unless you take possession of yourself first, and on the tail end of a comet breaking across the sky: I love him, but I must also love myself. He deserves someone who loves themself, but more than that, I deserve it too. To be able to give him the things he wants and needs: I deserve to be in love with myself.

You let the Tartarian memory become nothing.

Love manifests itself primarily in forgiveness.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

#TCC fic #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x reader

188 notes · View notes

dindjarindiaries · 4 months

Text

The Broken Who Blossom

summary: At long last, Din’s returned home to the covert, but he’s brought a lot more home with him than anticipated.

pairing: din djarin x mandalorian!reader

tags: angst, physical & emotional hurt/comfort, injuries, references to trauma & death, fluff

rating: T

word count: 3.563k

main masterlist • din djarin masterlist

The beach was still littered with the bodies of injured Mandalorians and the giant-sized insides of the sea creature as you caught your breath. You went to stand up and let out a short gasp at the pain that rippled through your leg. Upon looking down, your visor found the gash on the side of your left leg, left behind by the creature’s claw.

You tightened your jaw and tried to stand again, but before you could, an outstretched hand offered to help you. Paz stood over you, the sight of him a relief as you accepted his help and stood on your feet as best as you could. Your gloved hands tightened into fists at your sides as you gave a quick glance around the shore.

“Is Ragnar okay?” Your modulated voice was more breathless than you wanted it to be.

“He’s fine.” Paz’s voice was lower than you expected, and his visor was fixed on something in the distance with hardly concealed hostility.

You followed his gaze to see the N-1 starfighter that had been the covert’s savior landing on the beach. Dread washed over you much like the water that continued to lap at the sand. You hadn’t gotten a chance to see the pilot, but the chances were the covert would have to relocate once again.

Then, the N-1 landed, and you clearly saw the person within it. The sight made you lose your breath even more than you had before, with only one thought—one name—able to come to mind.

“Din,” you gasped to yourself, your voice barely a breath as you attempted to walk forward.

Paz grabbed your armored shoulder without looking back at you. “No.”

You fought his grasp without hesitation. This was the first time you had seen Din since he was forced to leave you on Nevarro, and you weren’t sacrificing your reunion for Paz’s bitter feelings towards him. “Let me go.” Your voice bordered on a growl, even as your gaze softened at the sight of Din with the small, green child he had told you about so long ago.

“No.” Paz used his entire arm to keep you from advancing. “He is no longer one of us.”

Your helmet whipped towards his own. “What the hell do you mean?”

Paz’s visor finally met your own. “He’s an apostate.”

The words hit you harder than any weapon could’ve. Still, you remained skeptical, tilting your helmet at him. “How is that possible?”

“He removed his helmet.” You gaped beneath your own helmet at that, unable to believe Din could ever do such a thing. In your silence, Paz scoffed with cruel amusement and took a step away from you. “Let him tell you the truth himself.”

In moving away from you, the path between you and Din was completely cleared. Din had stepped out of his ship and set the tiny green child beside his boot on the sand. His attention was still fixed on the Armorer, who stood the closest to him. “I would like to request a brief audience with you,” Din announced to the Armorer, though everyone still standing on the beach remained silent enough to hear him.

You wanted to cry out his name again at the mere sound of his voice. Cycles spent dreaming of it, his final words to you wrapped around your mind like the cruelest broken promise, and now, you were finally hearing it again. But you can’t enjoy it, not with the knowledge of what Paz has revealed to you.

You didn’t want to believe him, but here it was, playing out in front of you. Whispers had already started to carry throughout the group, as if you had purposely been left on the outside of a deep, dark secret for much too long.

The Armorer at last responded with a nod. “When you are ready, you may join me in the forge.” Her visor found you with ease.

Din’s followed. You knew him well enough to understand how severe his reaction was to the sight of you, but even those who didn’t know him the way you did would have been able to tell. His entire body froze, even his cuirass stalling as his visor locked on your own. Your name came breathless from his modulator the same way yours had with his.

You let Din close the gap between you with steps that were both quick and hesitant, as if he was in a dream. You understood the feeling all too well, and you wished you could grasp onto it. Before he could get too close, you held out a single gloved hand, instantly stopping him in his tracks. Din’s visor looked between your hand and your helmet.

You willed your voice to be firm, but it was an impossible task. “Is it true?”

Din’s cuirass stalled again. He shifted his weight, a heartbreaking habit of his that made you want to drop your guard and reach out for him immediately. Still, the unspoken truth between the two of you overpowered your urge.

Your gloved hand was trembling as you continued to hold it up between the two of you. “Did you remove your helmet?”

Din took a deep, trembling breath. You were close enough to hear the way it shook as it entered and exited his corrupted lungs. All you ever wanted for longer than you even knew was to have this proximity to him again, but now, it was like a punishment. It was only made worse by the shame and pure ache in Din’s voice as he spoke. “I did.”

Your throat closed up upon hearing the truth from his lips. “You’re an apostate, then.”

Din’s helmet fell to his boots at that. “I am.” His voice was an inch from broken at the confession.

The little child at his side cooed in distress. It only worsened your own heartbreak. You exhaled and lowered your hand, giving your helmet an aimless shake. You lowered your voice as you spoke again. “Damn it, Din.”

The quivering in your voice was Din’s breaking point. He took another step closer to you. “I can explain.”

“Don’t.” You went to take a step back, forgetting the injury on your leg. It nearly gave out on you, causing you to trip a few steps around yourself. Din didn’t hesitate to reach out and steady you, but as soon as you had better footing, you pulled yourself away from him.

“You’re hurt.” Din sounded more pained than you, the one who actually bore the physical wound. He respected your silent wishes for him to stay away, his gloved hands tightening into fists as he struggled to do so. “Can I help?”

You raised your chin higher than usual. “I can take care of it myself.” You clenched your jaw as you turned your back to him, stopping to glance over your armored shoulder as you added one more thing quietly. “But you can come with me.”

Din nodded at that, clearly more than satisfied with your offer. He and the child followed you as you managed to limp all the way to your private barracks. You were grateful for the fact everyone had given you both some semblance of privacy, though you didn’t miss the glares thrown Din’s way as he followed you into the caves. It made you angry on his behalf, but even you were still disillusioned by the revelation.

It was like everyone knew except for you, and no one bothered to fill you in.

You led Din into your private room, and he drew the makeshift curtain closed for you. You managed to grab your medpac before collapsing on your bed. Din stood nearby, shifting his weight again as you began to tend to your own wound.

“I thought you would come back.” You made your voice stronger than before as you stole a look at Din. “Like you promised me.”

“I did.” Din’s quick response was desperate, not defensive. “After I completed my quest and reunited the kid with his own kind, I took all the jobs I could to get information on the covert. I found the Armorer and Paz on the Glavis Ringworld, and I…” Din shook his helmet. “I thought that was all that was left. That’s what I was told.”

You remained tough in your interrogation, no matter how your instincts of longing screamed at you. “Was that before or after you removed your helmet?”

“After.” Din never hesitated once in revealing each truth to you. “I had no choice, cyare. I promise, I swear.”

It was hard to remain calm when Din was so close to fracturing in front of you, but you maintained your composure nonetheless. “How did it happen?”

For the first time yet, Din hesitated. You stopped the work you were doing on your leg and glanced up, watching as Din bent down and held the child in his arms. You couldn’t help smiling to yourself at the sight of them. “The kid got captured by Moff Gideon.”

Your eyes widened underneath your visor. “Moff Gideon?”

Din nodded. “I… can tell you more about him later.” His voice was low, casting a shadow over the future conversation. “The only way I could get the kid back was to find the coordinates to Gideon’s light cruiser.” Din’s visor fell to the child tucked in his arm. “The Imperial terminal I used required a facial scan.”

It was hard to believe what Din was telling you, but at the same time, it wasn’t. Din was a man of honor, the most honorable you had ever known, but it was his love for and loyalty to the people closest to him that took precedence over all else. He had shown you so himself.

“You said you completed your quest.” You paused to grit your teeth as you administered bacta spray to your wound. Din nearly made the motion to lunge towards you in your peripheral vision, but he stopped himself. “But the child is still with you.”

“Grogu.” Your visor found Din again at the word. The way the child’s long ears had risen on his head answered the question you were about to ask, though Din also beat you to it. “His name is Grogu.” You simply nodded and continued to tend to your wound, allowing Din to continue. “I did complete my quest, but he came back to me.”

You spoke without diverting your attention away from your work. “Why?”

Din’s visor fell to the child, Grogu, once again. “I’m… not sure.” Your chest warmed underneath your cuirass as you watched Din’s forefinger and thumb hold Grogu’s hold. “I guess he wants to be a Mandalorian.”

“Or…” you smiled as you reached for the dark-colored gauze and began to unravel it, “he just wants to be with you.” You forced your visor to remain fixed on your work as you went on. “I know the feeling well.”

Din dared to take a step closer to you. His modulated voice was low and haunted as he spoke. “Have I ruined it?”

You took a deep breath, your armored shoulders rising and falling with you as you secured the gauze around your leg. You stopped and reached for your cuisse, holding the metal between your gloved hands and giving your helmet an aimless shake. “I just…” You raised your helmet to face Din. He continued to stand just a single step or two away from you, restless in his poorly concealed desperation as he shifted his weight once again. “I don’t understand.”

Din’s helmet tilted as he nodded. “I can explain.” His voice was hopeful, and softer than it had been ever since he arrived. “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“I know you will.” You packed up the medical supplies, securing the medpac closed and heaving another breath. “But I don’t think this is something you can explain.”

Din’s helmet straightened in confusion as you tried to stand. You groaned and stopped yourself, closing your eyes beneath your visor at the way the movement pained your healing leg. Din froze, his visor intently watching your every move. You held out your hand towards him.

“Can you help me?”

Din nodded, setting Grogu back onto the floor before taking a firm step towards you. He held your gloved hand and used the other to steady your back, helping you to stand and assisting you over to where your medpac belonged.

You resumed your earlier thoughts as Din kept you close to his side. It was a welcome feeling akin to that of a home. “Nobody told me.” Your visor found his. “I searched for a new location for the covert. I helped to bring everyone here, including the Armorer and Paz from Glavis. And what have I gotten in return?”

You shook your helmet, letting Din help you sit on your bed once again. That time, you were regretful to let go of his hand.

“Lies. Half-hearted truths.” You scoffed and tightened your gloved hands around your cuisses. “No one told me you were alive. Neither the Armorer nor Paz told me they had even seen you.” You lifted a hand to gesture behind Din at the curtain serving as your door. “They’ve all known about us for cycles, and yet no one decided to tell me what happened to you.”

Din helped a visible breath. Your visor never strayed from his as you sat in the silence for a long moment.

“But you haven’t hesitated to be honest with me.” You lifted your chin. “I’m not taking the side of those who refused to do the same.”

The tension that fled from Din’s armored shoulders at your words was practically visible. It was almost as if his weight gave out altogether as he knelt down in front of you. “Thank you.” His modulated voice was quiet, strained by an emotion you struggled to identify. “But…” he shook his helmet, his visor falling to the floor, “they’re still right.” Din found the faith to face you again. “I’m an apostate. I broke the Creed.” Din nodded, as dutiful as ever. “You deserve better than to be associated with me.”

You leaned forward and held his helmet between your gloved hands. It was a position that catapulted you to the sweet nostalgia of the past, when holding his beskar face was an everyday routine rather than a long-lost privilege. “Din.” It was hard to miss the small inhale Din took at your gentle utterance of his name. “You may have removed your helmet, but you did not break the Creed.” You nodded at him. “In my eyes, you upheld the most important vows we swore ourselves to: Honor. Loyalty. Solidarity.”

You paused, your visor finding the little one who stood patiently by Din’s boot. He cooed at you, nodding to agree with your words as he encouraged you to go on. You smiled at the child and looked at Din again.

“You completed the highest honor of our people.” Your helmet gestured to Grogu. “You rescued a foundling.” The front part of your helmet found his own as you brought Din closer to you. “This is the Way.”

Din’s gloved hands found your wrists, the touch slow yet secure as he wrapped them around you. His repetition of the phrase crackled through his modulator in his disbelief. “This is the Way.”

You smiled and brushed your gloved hands over his beskar cheeks. “If your allegiance to the Creed makes you an apostate, then…” you freed your hands from Din, holding your own helmet and lifting it before Din could stop you, “I suppose it makes me one, too.”

Din froze, his visor scanning your face in disbelief. His gloved hands were stuck as they reached out in front of him, a statue of his thwarted attempt to keep you from removing your helmet. He spoke in a trembling, disbelieving breath. “Cyare…”

You set your helmet aside and held his once more. “Loyalty and solidarity are the Way.”

Din finally began to move, one of his gloved hands returning to your wrist as the other cupped the side of your face. You leaned into the touch, closing your eyes to prove to him just how meaningful it truly is to you. “I’ve… only been able to dream of this.” Din’s confession was quiet, each modulated word strained as he spoke. “Of you.” He forced himself to take a deep breath, his gloved thumb running over the skin under your eye over and over again. “Of upholding my promise.”

You smiled at him. “As have I.” You held a hand over his. “It’s been hard, but…” you looked at Grogu and grinned wider, “I’m glad you put the foundling first.”

Grogu cooed at that before Din could even respond. You watched as the little one toddled his way over to you, wrapping his arms around your boot and closing his eyes as he hugged it. You chuckled lightheartedly, your gaze returning to Din’s visor.

You were shocked to see his true gaze just a moment later—a brown sea of warmth and pure affection.

Your gloved hands held his untrimmed jaw as the warmth of your forehead met his for the first time. You couldn’t resist the urge to study him up close over and over again, making your smile remain as you spoke to him in a soft breath. “Being an apostate isn’t so bad.”

Din huffed with amusement at that. His own gaze was studying you, but his eyes had started to focus on your lips. “We can make it worth our while.”

His natural voice was a gift as sweet as the first kiss he gave you, a breathtakingly beautiful display of affection that was many cycles in the making. Pure warmth that rivaled anything the galaxy had ever offered you blossomed from his lips onto your own, setting your chest aflame with the same sweet heat. For the sake of the child in the room, the two of you separated more quickly than either one of you would have liked, your smiles brightening up the space between you.

“So,” you began, running your gloved fingers over his cheek, “where are we headed next, cyare?”

Din grimaced for a moment, making you furrow your brow in concern. “Mandalore.”

You lifted your head from his. “The planet’s cursed, Din. We can’t go there.”

Din broke away from you for a moment to reach for something on his belt. He lifted it and offered it to you. “That’s Mandalorian writing.” He said the words as soon as you read them on the green slab of glass. “A traveler acquired this from the planet’s surface.”

Your gaze of disbelief found his. “Is it breathable?”

Din shrugged, taking the fused glass back from you. “That’s what I’m going to find out.” He nodded and looked down at his helmet. “The Armorer has told me redemption is only possible in the Living Waters beneath the mines.”

You tightened your jaw in resolution. “Then that’s where we’re headed.” You prepared to force yourself to stand once again. “I’ll get my things together.”

Din shook his head, his brown eyes dark with worry as his brow furrowed. “You’re still hurt.”

“One night’s rest will be enough to heal it.” You nodded in further reassurance. “The trip through hyperspace will take care of it.”

Din hesitated, but ultimately he nodded to agree with you. “And you still have your ship?”

“I do. Speaking of which…” you raised your brow at him, “you’ve got quite the ship, now.”

Din huffed, though his gaze averted yours. “The Crest was destroyed by Gideon.” You set a hand on his cheek for comfort. “This ship’s turning out to be a fairly decent replacement, though.”

“Sure.” You grinned at him. “Knowing you, this ship’s much more your speed.”

Din chuckled, his attention turning to Grogu. “What do you think, buddy?”

The foundling let out a long coo, making both you and Din laugh before he helped you to stand. He supported you with one hand and used the other to grab your helmet, though he hesitated before he put it back on for you.

“Thank you, cyare.” The genuine nature of Din’s words were even more evident without the filter of his helmet, his brown eyes telling you the very same truth.

You brought yourself closer to him. “You don’t have to thank me, Din.” You nodded, your next words a whispered breath upon his lips. “I did it because I love you.”

You kissed him, a quick yet meaningful gesture that kept a small smile on his lips as you pulled away. His response was still just as meaningful as before, if not more so. “I love you, too.” He nodded as he began to set your helmet over your head. “Once we find our redemption,” the helmet lowered, “then I’ll follow through on my promise.”

You helped Din with his own helmet before leaning it against your own in one more Keldabe kiss. “I know you will.”

main masterlist • din djarin masterlist

#this is what din deserved after such a haunting welcome #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #din djarin fanfiction #dindjarindiaries

236 notes · View notes

myaoiboy · 4 months

Text

OHHH MY GOD THAT LENS FLARE HES LYING I CANT BELIEVE I NEVER NOTICED THAT BEFORE

MGS has a very tight color language, especially obvious in V and PW, but it's present throughout if you know what you're looking for. The main ones that get played on are red, yellow, and blue.

Red is kind of obvious. Violence, etc. Ocelot is typically wearing a lot of red, like in this image. In V, characters who are doing/about to do violent acts are often back-lit with red lights that seem to come from nowhere.

In PW, red incites dissonance by foreshadowing Paz being a double agent, while *also* painting her as an innocent little red riding hood analogue. But I digress.

Yellow is also kind of a no-brainer. It's typically associated with allies, general good-heartedness, and maybe a sense of naivete. Think about Amanda and Cecile in Peace Walker.

Kaz even *changes his outfit* from yellow ascot (and blond hair) to red tie and beret post-GZs incident.

Blue is a little harder to tie down. It's best described as deception (including self deception), "something isn't what it seems." Sometimes it's used for grief as well. Think Paz's whole room's lighting, the blue butterfly, or the way Snavid is described as a blue rose-- pretty, technically biological, but unnatural.

The lens flares in V are used a LOT to toss a flash of the appropriate color behind someone. Here we have Ocelot saying "yeah boss I'm over it dw" and the lighting going

Which. We know he's lying. We know because of the way he acts for the next THIRTY YEARS. We know bc when he has a senior moment (a multiply-hypnosis addled senior moment, but still) and mistakes snavid for john, the first thing he does is plant a kiss on him.

But sure buddy. You're totally over it.

#actually i suspect he genuinely does think hes over it bc he conditioned himself not to love V #but i dont have solid evidence for that other than the general vibes of how he treats venom in v vs john any other time #mgsv #mgs #bosselot #ocelotposting #revolver ocelot #analysis or something #color theory #my analyses

145 notes · View notes

giveamadeuschohisownmovie · 1 year

Text

The more I think about it, the more I’m starting to get what Favreau and Filoni are doing with season 3 of Mando. It feels like they’re going for the angle that Din and Bo need each other in order to unite the Mandalorians. Bo can be the “face” since she has the name recognition, the Mythosaur knowledge, and the blessing of the Armorer. Din can be the “tool” since he wields the Darksaber and he is a great symbol of what Mandalorian unification could look like. Yes, he’s extremely devout, but he truly believes in the Way and it’s been shown that he can rally the Mandalorians behind him, like Paz Viszla agreeing to fight for him despite their animosity.

But neither of them can unite the Mandalorians on their own. Bo doesn’t have the Darksaber and she doesn’t inspire as much loyalty as Din can (her people bounced after she lost the Darksaber). Din doesn’t have the leadership skills or the desire to even be the leader. However, working together, just imagine how much they can accomplish. I think that’s why the show is really emphasizing their partnership. Sure, you can also read into this from a romantic angle which a lot of people are doing, but that doesn’t necessarily take away from the main point that Din and Bo need each other to unite their people.

I think you can also see this in how Din and Bo interact with each other. Bo respects Din since she sees him as a “true” Mandalorian due to his devotion to the Way and she also sees him as a good person based on his dedication to Grogu and the Watch. Din respects Bo as a leader and an ally since he came to her for help when it came to exploring Mandalore, and he even offered the Darksaber to her without hesitation.

The story angle is good. My problem is that Favreau and Filoni are padding the season out with random subplots and detours that it feels like Din and Bo aren’t getting enough focus, when their partnership IS the main point of the season.

829 notes · View notes

bitchin-beskar · 1 year

Note

Sorry shamless asking for another one. Only if you wanna answer.

Either 141 boys or Paz ( or all ) not quite thot.

Their proposal style.

💍

Happy weekend!

do I wanna answer????

you bet ur ass i do goddamn

I'll do a little proposal style for college!athlete!roommate!paz if ya'll want, but I'll answer this ask specifically for our 141 boys (plus alejandro and rudy bc ofc)

Task Force 141 + Alejandro Vargas & Rodolfo Parra and Proposal Style

Captain John Price

I hc that Price has a love of old things. I think he loves antiques, history, collectibles, etc. I think his flat is filled with memorabilia shit from WWI and WWII, classic novels he finds at garage sales and thrift book shops that are well worn and well loved, things with history and a past, things that mean something.

So, I think when he's going to propose, he's got the ring picked out, something he found in a pawn shop or thrift store, something that's old and beautiful, full of meaning and history. Of course, if it needs repairing, or new setting, he'll do what he needs to, make sure that it's clean and polished and that it suits you. He just likes sharing these little bits of history that have fascinated him for his entire life with you, and to put one of those little bits of history on your finger and swearing to love you for eternity? He loves it.

For reference, I imagine the ring Price finds looks something like this:

For the actual proposal, he's not going to make a big, public spectacle. He's always a little more uncomfortable in crowded places, due to his years as active military, he's a paranoid bastard by nature, and besides, this is supposed to be a happy, special occasion and something he wants to be fully engaged in, not distracted trying to analyze potential threats to your safety.

You're probably at home, in the flat you share with him. He'll make dinner, nothing super fancy, but a comfort meal that both of you love. It's not overly fancy or romantic, but it's thoughtful and sweet and everything that you love about him. He'd wanted to wait until after you'd both eaten, and were maybe cuddled up on the couch in front of the fire, but as he's putting the leftovers away, and you're elbow deep in sudsy water, rinsing the dishes, he finds he physically cannot wait a second longer.

He drops to a knee, the quiet utterance of your name barely heard over the rushing sink water, but you throw a "Yes, John?" over your shoulder. When he doesn't say anything, you turn to look and realise what's happening.

Of course, the two of you have talked about it before, after you'd been settled in a relationship for a few years, talking about the future and what you both wanted, but you'd had no idea when he was planning to propose, so the act itself is shock. You don't even shut off the water, falling to your own knees in front of him, hands fisting in the front of his shirt as you whisper "yes" against his mouth before you kiss him.

He reluctantly pulls away from your kiss, only to slide the ring onto your finger, before he pulls the both of you to your feet. Shutting off the water is the extent of the cleaning that you finish, deciding as you stumble to the bedroom that the rest of the dishes can wait until after the two of you have had some time to celebrate.

Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley

I think that for the longest time, Ghost truly believed he'd never marry. At first, it was just a matter of not having met anyone he'd want to spend the rest of his life with, but over time and missions, scars and torments, blood and secrets, Ghost decided that he'd never find someone who'd be able to love all of him, that he was only good for the harsh things in life, never the soft.

So, it's a huge surprise when he meets you and realises months into knowing you that he's fallen, and he's fallen hard. He meets you in the most mundane of places, like a coffee shop, an interaction that should just be a one off, but one that repeats with enough regularity that the cold, stone muscle that functions as his heart begins to beat faster with excitement at the anticipation of seeing you.

You remember him, greet him with a soft smile whenever you see him, never seeming to be put off by the fact that he never removes his balaclava. You'll ask him how he's doing, but you don't seem to mind that his answers are usually a fraction of the syllables. He's used to his size intimidating others, but you never seem to mind that he's roughly the size of a tank.

I think it's like pulling teeth to get him to admit his feelings, but when he finally does, the two of you fall into a relationship like you were built for each other. It's easy, far easier than the rest of his life, and for the first time, he finds himself dreading longer missions, because he's actually got someone to come home to.

That being said, I think when he proposes, it's not something planned. Maybe something happens at home, where you are, the danger not being something he'd thought to worry about. Maybe there was a robbery, maybe someone attacked your workplace with a gun, and when Ghost sees it on the news, because Johnny's there saying "Dinnae ya say somethin' 'bout ya girl workin' there, Ghost?", he panics.

Price gets him on the first flight home, and Ghost is bursting into your flat with an urgency he's not felt outside the battlefield, even though it's the dead of night and you're fast asleep in your bed. He doesn't miss a beat, shedding the worst of his tac gear and crawling onto the bed, wrapping his arms and legs around you even as you stir awake, burying his face in your neck as his heartbeat finally begins to slow.

You seem to know why he's here, why he's like this, because you don't say anything, just simply wrap your own arms around him, tugging off his mask and running your fingers through his sweaty, tousled hair. Your other hand presses in between his shoulder blades, dwarfed by the massive size of his torso, but still a grounding touch.

It takes him a long time to speak, longer than usual, and when he finally does, it's to whisper against your skin that he wants to marry you, like a sinner at confessional, begging absolution from the Priest of God.

You still underneath him, definitely not expecting that to be what he says, but it's like the dam has burst, and he can't seem to stop. He tells you about how scared he was when he'd heard, a fear he hasn't felt since he was young, unscarred and unknowing of the horrors of humanity. He'd known that you meant a lot to him, but the thought of losing you had shaken him more than he'd thought possible. He whispers that he can't give you much, he knows that, but he wants to give you his name, and a promise that he'll love you as best he can, for as long as he's got on this earth.

Your body is shaking under him, and he starts to pull back, worried he's crossed a line, but you're sobbing, silent and desperate, even as you tug him up and seal your lips against his. He sinks into your kiss, tears he's been holding back finally falling too. You whisper back that yes, yes dammit you want to marry him, and you don't care about him giving you anything other than his love.

In the morning, the two of you go to a jewelry store, and pick out matching bands, simple silver rings with no gemstones or embellishments. You get them engraved, on the inside where the metal rests against your skin, his name on yours and your name on his, to carry each other when you're apart.

Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish

For Soap, I think he buys the ring within the first month of dating. Some (most) might call him eager, maybe childish in his hope, but Soap is an excellent judge of character. He's never once been wrong, his gut instinct always telling him the measure of those he meets, and so when he starts dating you, he knows very quickly that you're the one he's gonna spend the rest of his life with.

People tend to assume he's a fuckboy, likely due to his flirtatious tendencies. He knows what others think of him, and for the most part, it doesn't bother him. However, it takes him far longer than he'd like to convince you that he's actually interested, because of how flirtatious he can be, you think he's just like that with everyone.

Honestly, Price has to pull you aside and tell you to put the poor boy outta his misery by either going out with him, or not. You're very stunned, because it's honestly been torture for you to be around him because you're very into him, but were convinced that he just saw you as a friend. Price just shakes his head and calls you both muppets.

When you're together, it's the happiest the both of you have ever been. Your sense of humour compliments each others, you always have so much fun together, it's honestly the time of your life. You miss him terribly when he's gone, but Soap has a habit of leaving little slips of paper with jokes and puns written on them around the apartment, a little surprise for you to find and to remind you that he's always thinking of you when he's gone.

Soap's proposal happens somewhat spontaneously. He's come home from a long op, and the two of you haven't left the bed in damn near twenty-four hours. He's lounging on the pillows, with you tucked under his arm, ear over his heart and left hand resting on his bare chest. His own hand covers yours, his thumb stroking over the skin of your fourth finger, a habit he's picked up lately.

Finally, he pipes up, voice thick with his Scottish accent, and asks what you'd think about marryin' him.

At first, you think he's joking, because as much as you love him, you'd never really thought he might be the marrying type. He carries the air of a free spirit, one who operates best not tied to anything or anyone. You joke a bit about how he needs a ring at least before he thinks about proposing, only for him to reach over and open the drawer on his nightstand, pulling out a small velvet box and popping it open before your wide and startled eyes.

"Whaddya think, bonnie?" He husks, voice clear and nonchalant even as his eyes betray his nerves. "Think you'd be willin' ta tie yourself ta me for the rest 'o our lives?"

You pluck the gold band from the crushed velvet, slipping it onto your finger even as tears fill your eyes. You stare at it on your hand for a long moment, before you look up to see Soap still watching you, hope blooming desperately in his gaze, even as he tries to reign it in.

"You damn foolish scot," you mutter, cupping his face and bringing him down to kiss him. "There'll never been anyone else."

Sergeant Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Ok so maybe this is a hot take but I chose to believe that Gaz is actually already married by the time of COD: MWII. No one knows. Not even Price. He marries his childhood best friend the minute they're both 18, and they've been together even longer.

ANYWAYS

Like I said, childhood best friends, so they were always together, all throughout school, hanging out in the afternoons, sleepovers on weekends, the whole shebang. Your parents and his called it early on that the two of you would end up together, but even they were a little surprised at the speed of which you got married. But, to none of their surprise, your marriage was one of the strongest they'd ever seen.

You knew each other's faults, your likes and dislikes, your pet peeves and your favorite things about each other, it only made sense for you to trip over the line between friendship and relationship sometime around when you were maybe 12 years old.

Even before then, when the two of you were maybe 7 or 8, you made a pact that you'd get married as soon as you could. As a promise, Gaz gets you a ring like this, from a cheap coin vending machine in the local grocery store:

It's a running joke in the family, that he decided when he first saw you that he was gonna marry you, although they don't really realize just how true that is.

On the night of graduation, after you've finished celebrating with your families, you and Gaz are holed up in your childhood bedroom. Your 18th birthday is in a week, Gaz's was a month ago. Your wearing the ring he'd given you damn near a decade ago on a chain around your neck, and his eyes fall to where it lays nestled between your breasts, even as he draws a small box from his pocket.

"Figured it was time to upgrade, eh, love?"

The rose gold band sparkles in the lamplight, and there's a huge grin on your face as you take the band from him. There's a large diamond in the center, but not too large as to be gaudy or flashy. Just enough to make a statement, a declaration.

"In a week," Gaz says, voice hush with anticipation. "Lets go to the courthouse, and I'll give you the matching one. What'cha say?"

"The same thing I said when we were eight, Kyle," you murmur, eyes unable to leave the pretty ring on your finger. "Yes."

Colonel Alejandro Vargas

Alejandro is really damn hesitant to propose, mostly because of how at risk any of his family is with his history of fighting the cartel. Anyone with a connection to him is another way to hurt him, and to ask you to go into hiding, cut off most all contact with any outside friends? He's afraid, he doesn't want you to begin to regret being with him, he's seen the toll being in hiding has taken of the marriages of some of his Vaqueros, and it would kill him to lose you.

It takes you a long time to convince him that even if you don't get married, you're not going anywhere. You love him, and damn anyone who tries to come between that, cartel or otherwise.

The final push for Alejandro to propose is similar to Ghost's. He's working when he gets the news that the cartel has attacked the area you live in, and that there are multiple reported civilian deaths, although names aren't confirmed. He's terrified, and Rudy has to physically push him out of the compound to go, to try and get to you.

When he gets there, no one has seen you, and Alejandro can feel his stomach churning, his heart is in his throat. He was such a damn fool, he waited too long, and now he's never going to get to marry you, to call you his wife, to know what it feels like to wear a symbol of your love and devotion every day until he dies.

He hears your voice calling his name, and the pure relief he feels makes him dizzy with it, his knees going weak. He hoarsely calls your name, and your body slams into his, your arms wrapping tightly around him as if you could hold him together by pure will alone.

The rush of police and other Vaqueros around him fade into the background as he sinks into your embrace, whispering prayers and thanks and words of love in Spanish in your ear, kissing the top of your head repeatedly from where you've tucked your face against the base of his neck.

The next day, the two of you go to a small local jewelers, and pick out matching rings. Your next stop is the courthouse, with Rudy as your witness.

Sergeant Major Rodolfo 'Rudy' Parra

Like Gaz, Rudy gets married young. He marries you shortly before he and Alejandro enlist in the army, because you'd pinned him with a glare one day and said if he died and you were going to mourn as his widow, you damn well were going to be his wife first.

Alejandro is thrilled when he hears, because he'd been telling Rudy to marry you for weeks, ever since he'd aired his concerns. (Rudy retaliates viciously when Alejandro is hesitating to propose to his wife).

He proposes to you with the ring his mamá had been given by his father, which she'd given to him when he told her he was going to propose to you. She'd given it to her son with tears in her eyes and very softly told him that if he got married without her there, no one would find his body.

You laughed yourself silly when Rudy told you what his mamá said, although that laughter cut off when you realised which ring he was giving you. You broke down in his mother's arms later, swearing to her that you'd treasure her ring and love Rudy the same way his father had lover her, and she simply cupped your cheek and told you that was all she'd ever ask.

It wasn't a necessarily memorable proposal, Rudy just coming home one day after visiting his mamá and bending the knee, but you'd prefer it to anything else, because it was so quintessentially Rodolfo.

Interestingly, because Rudy is married through his time in the military, he doesn't know at first that it'd be wiser to keep it a secret. When they find out Valería is El Sin Nombre, he's not quite sure what to think, because she definitely knew about you, and who you were to Rudy, but she never acted on it. It's probably just another facet of the twisted mind games she plays, but he's not sure. He tries not to think about it.

#cod #cod bois #proposals #captain john price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo rudy parra x reader #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #alejandro vargas #rodolfo rudy parra #task force 141 #141 #cod:mw2

487 notes · View notes

marivenah · 1 year

Text

What is your OC's love language?

I was tagged by @natesofrellis @socially-awkward-skeleton @echo3-1 and @purplehairsecretlair to do this really interesting uquiz! Thank you for the tags, beloveds 💙

sending out tags to; @sstewyhosseini @risingsh0t @poisonedtruth @hoesephseed @thomrainer @confidentandgood @aceghosts @indorilnerevarine @adelaidedrubman @josephslittledeputy @strangefable @ghastlyrider @noetikat @jackiesarch @jacobseed @leviiackrman @shadowglens @shellibisshe and you!

a story that ends in blood

The world has always been unkind, and when you have turned to yourself for comfort you have come face to face with an empty pit which seems to be laughing. You don’t care if it kills you but once you find someone whom you love and who loves you back, you will make sure nothing happens to them. They are yours. You will make a tear in this world and create a new place for you and your love if it comes to that. Because it has always been about love, and it is how it always ends.

consumption of a heart unloved

Here’s a dining table, here’s a set of plates. Here’s your heart, red and bursting with love. You have tried to love people all your life, but no one seems to understand you. Your own mother perhaps forgot to teach you how to protect yourself, maybe people whom you trusted chose to look the other way when all you wanted was a hand full of love. All you want is someone to take from you, all you want is someone to dig in your heart and eat it and kiss you afterwards - bloody and red. You want them to tell you that you are what they have been looking for, you want to be the one who ends their hunger.

an undoing influence

Can someone tell you what to do? You have been carrying so much love within you for so long it is starting to turn into anger (why does it matter, all you see is red anyways) and you have been dragging this body through each day and every night you are split open on your bed and it is so so so lonely. If someone were to walk in while you were on your bed that way and they stitched you back in a new way, lining the seams with their love and kisses, you’d probably find this dreary world a little more bearable. You want someone to turn you over and over until you look in the mirror and see yourself looking back at yourself with a gentleness which has been lacking in you since forever.

violent devotion

Everyone seems to think you are faithless, but the thing is you haven’t yet found someone who will bring you to your knees and make you raise your head in reverence. This world has stopped bringing you joy, you want more of the divine. You want to dedicate your entire existence to someone; you want to make them realise they are not something terrible, make them see just how much beauty they are bringing to this world. You want to be the only one for them, the only one they have chosen to love. There’s a god shaped pit inside of you and only they can fit in it. And what if they choose to walk away? Didn’t I say this was violent devotion?

a knife called grief

You have left your house, you have left those people behind, but what are you going to do about the memories which have taken root in you? You can run but not without them. You want someone to sit with you on this cool marble floor while the sun burns everything. You want them to cut your rotten heart and theirs too. You want to sit with it in front of you, let them see you with all your flaws, which haven’t been your fault but you have been made to believe so, and you want them to love you anyways. Because you know you’d do that for them.

#oc: paz acosta #oc: mags wilhelm #oc: laurie devin #oc: shireen oqir #oc: carol kovacs #tag game #uhh be careful when opening the tags lmao #we got A LOT to unpack here wow ok let's go #these are all so extremely accurate it hurts and scares me #mags' result is probably the most surprising one #replace 'mother' with 'father' and it would be a lot more accurate #i guess you could say it applies to her before she met genji and after she escaped talon hmm #she did give him her whole heart (served on a plate) so maybe that's how talon could not take it from her later on #because she didn't have it anymore. it was always safe with him #or maybe i'm talking complete nonesense #paz is an obvious one. a tortured and broken soul looking for redemption in the form of love #it's all there really is for her. all she can believe in. wants to believe in. and when she finally finds it she'll do anything to protect #this is the part where i can finally talk about how 'blood in the wine' is THE song for laurie. it was written for her i know it #'i was given a heart before i was given a mind' describes her perfectly #because that's how she acts. out of love and compassion. not necessarily the most logical way. but it's always others before her #not only has she been neglected by others but also by herself #and the stitching part can honestly apply to both jacob and faith #it's almost as if this quiz knew shireen's partner is maul 😩 and to her he's obviously not the monster everyone else only sees #she doesn't deny the atrocities he's committed and she stands by him #how they're sort of?? in a force bond and they're the only ones for each other kinda hnnnnn #this whole result is just about carol and her dad tbh. she can't deny him nor run away from the memories. they're rooted.#all she ever wanted to hear him say was 'I am proud of you' but she never did. and she blames herself for not being good enough #and she carries this with her throughout her whole life. talk about daddy issues #if you made it this far i am kissing you on the mouth #these are just notes for myself but hii!! if you're reading this lol

28 notes · View notes

pinkthick · 1 year

Text

I’ll always be there for you

Credits: @bluekernal / @quaritchsgirl

Pairing: Avatar!Miles Quaritch & Kid!Miles Socorro

Summary: Even though it's challenging to be a single parent, let alone an avatar, Quaritch is doing his best to care for little Miles. But he still finds himself thinking about his previous life.

Notes: Please take a moment to read this. Check out @bluekernal/ @quaritchsgirl’s blog because she created this AU, and let me tell you, her artwork is incredible.This fanfiction was greatly inspired by her drawings.

While Miles did pass away in this fanfiction exactly like in the original film, the RDA would have started this project earlier because the avatar body was already on Pandora and the humans hadn’t been sent back to earth. The humans are still living there, but the Na’vi still don’t accept them so fights ensure from time to time. Even though Quaritch is an avatar now, he still retains his previous memories, and he continues to serve in the ‘military’ on Pandora without his consent since he literally became the RDA’s propriety, but Jake Sully isn’t that important to him, his son on the other hand is what matters most to Quaritch.

Miles forbade his soldiers from having relationships between them. His first instruction as their commander was that. A weakness they cannot afford to have in the battlefield, according to his father, is having sentiments. And from a very young age, that was ingrained in him.

He couldn't believe it was him who had broken his most crucial rule.

Paz Sorroco. She was a bold and fierce woman. She had always been a more devoted soldier than he had ever been. Determined in everything she was doing. Paz even disregarded some directives that her superior had given her. She always thought it was worthwhile to fight for their home. She has always been very stubborn, something Miles has always found admirable in her.

Being completely honest, he never imagined that so much could change in just a short period of time. He always believed that there was nothing more in life that he could have asked for. Everything he ever wanted was given to him. But, as all stories go, something–er, someone came into his life. His baby boy, Miles Sorroco, came into the world. Paz’s greatest gift to him. He never understood why she had wanted to name the boy after him, but somehow right now, it brought him comfort. When Miles first saw him, he literally lost his ability to breath. He truly believed that the he could blow him away with only a small exhalation because the baby appeared to be so frail.

When Paz held the baby out to him, he was so insistent on refusing. He refused three times before the colonel finally took little Miles from Paz’s demanding hands. He hadn’t any clue on how to hold him. He had to sit right beside his partener in order to receive instructions. How the tables have turned. He tenderly held his head as he slowly rocked him. It didn’t feel real to him. Oh, how he remembers how his tiny hand wrapped around his finger. Paz could swore that she saw tears. When the little boy first opened his eyes, the soldier was shocked to see how much the boy resembled his mother.

Miles finally spoke “I’m—I’m a father, Paz.” His breathing was wavering and he just couldn’t believe it.

The woman besides him giggled “Yeah, you’re a father.”

He simply lifted the baby’s fist that encircled his finger and kissed it softly. “I promise you that I’ll always protect you little one.” He was unsure of why his father never felt this way about him, but he undoubtedly won't behave in the same way as his old man. He would try his best no matter what.

But he was unable to protect the boy's mother. That was the only time he disliked her stubbornness. Paz wanted to be there, to fight for their cause. So she didn't remain with another unit. Even now, he continues to hold himself responsible, but the idea that he was somehow lucky is something he still finds repulsive. He didn't fully recall how he died, but thanks to some insurance he had, they were able to transfer all of his memories into an avatar body. He was now RDA's property, a “Recom" as they call him.

The tail was what first upset him the most, which was strange. Most of the time, he made an effort to control it but had little success. Though he swiftly adjusted to his new form, he eventually came to terms with the fact that his ears and tail would always respond to his emotions, whether he liked it or not.

Although he was still on Pandora and felt secure knowing that not all of the unit had been destroyed and that it was still standing, he didn't give the other people any thought. His son was the most important thing to him right now. From this point forward, the toddler had only his father and he couldn’t help but feel guilty that his son will grow up without a mother.

For approximately six weeks, the boy had been staying with some nurses. He knew his son was safe but Miles couldn't quit thinking about him. He wasn't sure if the toddler was crying or eating properly, and he wasn't allowed to leave the grounds until the examinations were over. He didn’t like not knowing what was happening to his child.

The first time Miles saw Quaritch as an avatar was when he was a year old. He wasn't sure how the youngster would react, but it wasn't at all what he had anticipated. The soldier leaned over the tiny boy with both interest and fear as little Miles was hugging one of the nurses' legs and then child gazed up at his father. He would certainly not want to frighten the young boy so he moved slowly. He knelt to be closer to the toddler's eye level, but his son no longer turned to face the colonel. He continued to cling to the nurse like a monkey, burrowing his face into her leg. His heart began to race because he didn’t know exactly how to approach the young boy, but he tried, softly asking, "Miles?"

Finally, the young child turned to face him, his eyes a little moist as though he was about to cry. As the colonel drew near, his son murmured in a weak voice, "Dad?" When the child didn't back away from him, he felt more at ease and said, "Yea," chuckling as he added, "It's me Miles, your dad." The young kid immediately recognized his father's voice, but he wasn't certain it was indeed him. When Quaritch reached out with his blue hand, the boy let go of the nurse. Seeing a smile on her face as he looked up to get some form of confirmation, he realized everything was alright.

Little Miles approached the avatar slowly and gazed into the colonel's yellow eyes. Quaritch wasn't sure exactly what to do, he didn't want to frighten the child away, so he didn't move, and the boy eventually grabbed his hand.

He was unable to fathom the boy's current size in relation to himself. The youngster was so small. He didn't believe his son was capable of being cuter than before. When the toddler smiled at Miles, the soldier thought that he would have died of cuteness right there. His son’s little hand couldn't even grip three of his fingers. Paz, you would have cherished seeing this.

It will be hard taking care of the boy, he ain’t going to lie to himself, but he’ll manage, that’s for sure.

Quaritch heard beeping nearby, which he instantly picked up, but he soon realized that he could actually sleep in today because his meeting wasn't until later in the afternoon. Even though he didn't want to open his eyes, he did so after stretching out an arm to shut the alarm. He checked on Miles and saw that the boy was still tucked in bed besides him. The only problem? Is that the alarm woke him up.

As he turned to face his father, the child rubbed his eyes a little and grinned when he realized that his father was also awake. Returning the smile, Quaritch once again buried his face in the cushions since he was unable to keep his eyes open. God, he was exhausted.

“Dad?” The four-year-old hopped over his father and said, "Come on, it's eight in the morning.” A huff was nevertheless pushed out even though he hardly felt the boy land on him.

“Just give me five more minutes to sleep, boy. “ He muttered into the sheets as little Miles got off the avatar and the bed.

“What am I supposed to do then?” He inquired, his voice containing a tinge of disappointment.

The recom didn't even have the energy to turn his head to look at the boy, only saying, "Play for a little while."

Knowing that his son hardly slept in, Quartich understood it was pointless to try to coax him to. Yet, little Miles never, ever played in silence, which forced him to wonder what the boy was up to. But, the colonel's five minutes of sleep quickly grew into an hour.

He didn't hear the child leave or enter the room again. With his plate of food still in hand, Miles carefully climbed back into bed. The soldier next to him woke up when he sensed movement, but he remained still. Given the smell, the young kid most likely eating an omlet.

“Dad?” his son asked with his full mouth.

“Mm?” He didn’t manage to even form a full word right now.

“It’s morning.” The little boy repeated as he put the plate on the night stand and went towards his father.

For a few minutes, Quaritch remained silent. But when Miles prodded his arm, he finally uttered a worn-out "no."

"Lyle went with me to the canteen," the kid huffed, flopping onto his back and started to gaze up at the ceiling.

The small child was quite frustrated that the colonel was still quiet. He gave him another hour to sleep; wasn't it enough for his father? He wanted to play with him because he knew his father was soon to leave on a mission and he wanted to spend as much time as possible with him before that happened. However, Quartich slept when his father could play with him. That won’t do at all.

The soldier was surprised by another tiny prod, but this time it was against his ribs. He initially tried to ignore it and try to get back to sleep, but then the poking started again, this time a little more forcefully. Little Miles appeared to laugh when his tail began to move slightly under the cover, but he still persisted in prodding his father.

He pushed himself to open his eyes with a quiet grunt. "Bud, please stop." Of course, his son continued on. Back against the pillows, Quartich groaned while pressing his face against them. He sometimes felt like this boy could be the death of him.

“Dad, wake up!” He chanted as the soldier supported himself on his arms to look at the boy. His son gave him a sweet smile in response.

“Miles..” he let a whine as he tried to now grab the little boy without much succes. He flipped over, still with his eyes half closed and that’s when the kid attached to the man before him. He started to use his father as a climbing frame.

As he resisted his father's attempts to catch him, he giggled and said, "I want to play."

Finally Quaritch managed to grab him and wrestle him off his neck. He looked at the boy and understood that there was no way that his son would let him go back to sleep so he accepted his defeat quickly. His tail started to flick playfully and then started to tickle the young boy, who erupted into giggles. A sleepy smile spread across his face at the joyous laughter emerging from his son. Little Miles gasped for air and the soldier finally stopped.

The boy began to jump up and down on the bed once more and the colonel sighed as he finally turned to look around the room, wanting to see the state it was in. The fact that there were toys all over the floor didn't bother him; however, the slime that was stuck to the wall did. How on earth did he pull that off?

He thought that maybe it was more preferable than Miles drawing on the wall. Just as long as he doesn't have to repaint the walls…again—it’ll be alright.

“What did you do to the wall?” Quaritch questioned as his son stopped bouncing and refrained from even looking at him in the eyes.

“I didn’t mean to.” Little Miles spoke in a low voice and he just couldn’t be mad at him. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be the one to clean it.

“It's alright, buddy, but you still need to clean it, y’know.” After receiving a nod, Quaritch picked up his son so they could prepare for the day. He would deal with the wall later.

It was usually simple to give him a shower, but his child loathed brushing his teeth more than anything.

Miles wiggled to be set down as soon as they entered the bathroom. “I don't want to." he complained to his father. The colonel still tried to explain that if the little boy will clean his teeth, he won’t be going to the dentist anywhere near the future, but yet he always misunderstood what his father was saying to him.

His ears flopped down as he made an effort to reason with the 4-year-old. Finally when his kid finally took the toothbrush from his grasp, he began to think about Miles' first trip to the dentist.

When they both entered the hallways from unit 7, the scent of the sterile environment mixed with dental care chemicals was obvious. Quaritch had never been afraid of the dentist, even as a kid because he didn't have any dental issues and usually just went for a checkup. But today wasn’t about him, it was about his son.

It wasn't like little Miles would have any kind of procedure done to him—it was simply a straightforward dental exam—but his kid clung to him as he visibly stiffened. The young boy whispered softly, "I'm scared" as he still didn’t want to let go of his father.

The soldier smiled, attempting to reassure the boy that he had nothing to be afraid of. "All Doctor Palmer is going to do is look at your teeth for a little while," the soldier said. “That's all.”

Although his son remained silent, Quaritch could tell that he was still uncertain. "Do you really believe I would take you somewhere or permit someone to hurt you?"

Little Miles said, "No," as he encircled his father's neck with his arms. “But what if they remove all of my teeth and force me to wear fake teeth?”

Quaritch wasn't at all prepared for such question, and he was certain Lyle was responsible for instilling his kid with that ridiculous idea. He really wanted to speak with his soldier later.

“Don't worry, she won't.” He responded briefly. “And besides, that’s usually done for older people.”

“Oh. Like you and Lyle?" The young boy asked sincerely, and it's safe to assume that his father was surprised. But, one of the dental hygienists showed up before he could respond. He remembered her quite well. When they were still getting used to their new bodies, Doctor Palmer was one of the dentists who checked to see if anything was wrong with any of them.

“You must be Miles.” The little boy, that was still in his father’s arms, received a warm smile from the woman. “We’re ready for you now.” She didn’t say anything as they went to an examine room and as Quaritch ducked under the door so that he could enter, Miles simply tightened his hold on his father.

As she put down his tablet, the colonel also put the boy down even if he did get some protests from his son.

“Alright Miles, if you would take a seat.” Doctor Palmer said as she placed a booster seat on the large examaning chair.

The 4 year old took a step back and braced himself against his father’s legs.

“Miles, it’s alright. I’m right here.” Quaritch reassured him “Go on.”

He gave his father one last glance before turning to go towards the chiar, uttering a low "okay."

The soldier saw his son ascend the booster seat and breathed through his mask.

“Is he allergic to any kind of medication?” The doctor asked his father.

“No” He replied as he watched the woman jot down the details in a folder, then made his way over to the sink to wash her hands. The doctor then donned a brand-new set of latex gloves.

"So Miles, do you have a favorite animal?" She inquired so the little boy could loosen a bit.

“I like spiders.” He declared while beaming enthusiastically.

“Spiders? How so?"

“I saw the movie Spider-Man recently! He is the coolest superhero.” As soon as she noticed that he had somewhat relaxed, the woman smiled.

“I agree. I like how his suit the most.” She said to him as she started to raise her hands “So Miles, let’s see those teeth. Open wide.”

The boy's smile quickly vanished as he turned to face his father, who had a comforting smile on his face. The boy then finally opened his mouth.

Quaritch felt like the exam and the cleaning went well. Miles was calm while Doctor Palmer cleaned his teeth. It was when the metal instruments were starting to get used was when he noticed that his son started to grasp the chair tightly. The doctor was able to calm him somehow, but stopped abruptly when the boy flinched.

The colonel’s ears peeked up as he looked at them unsure at what was happening.

“It seems you have a cavity, Miles" The doctor continued, turning to face his father, "It's on his canine on the lower jaw.”

“What should we do?” Quaritch asked as he looked at his son, seeing that he was distressed.

“Normally, I would be thinking about getting it fixed right now since it’s small, but if you feel like we should leave it alone since it’s a baby tooth, we could do that.” She explained as she looked now at the agitated boy.

“I don't want it to cause him any issues.” Quaritch replied as he drew nearer to the boy.

“Will it hurt?” His eyes were glassy as he observed the woman in front of him.

She assured him, "No," and pointed to the device she was using. She gave the young kid an opportunity to examine the high-speed headpiece in her palm.

Miles finally opened his mouth once more, but he remained silent. But when Doctor Palmer turned on the instrument, that’s when the boy started to cry.

Quaritch still remembers how his son immediately came over to him. He really didn’t think that Miles would get scared, but he couldn’t do anything about that anymore. The cavity wasn’t that serious, but you never know. He would occasionally whine that his tooth hurts after eating sweets, but the baby tooth will fall out really soon according to Doctor Palmer. It wasn’t bad, but Quaritch still wanted to get it fixed. He made an attempt to convince his son, but it was useless. He was adamant about not wanting to visit the dentist ever again.

As he broke his train of thought, a smile reappeared on his face as he observed the child brushing his teeth. His son exclaimed that he was finished after pausing to rinse.

Without wasting any time, he exited the bathroom and shouted that he was going to clean the wall. Quaritch began his own routine but knew that his son would soon require assistance.

Even if being Miles's father was a challenge itself, the colonel couldn't deny that he would be lost right now if it wasn’t for the young child. He wouldn't trade his current life for anything.

Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ ?

Notes: I won't lie; it was difficult to write for both of them, but I genuinely wanted to turn Quartich into a soft dad. In addition, if you guys liked this, I think I'd like to write more of them.😅

#miles quaritch #spider socorro #avatar #avatar the way of water #recom miles quaritch #avatar miles quaritch #miles socorro #quaritch x oc #recom quaritch #quaritch fanart #spider fanfic

472 notes · View notes