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darthspideys · 1 month
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SIMONJESS + TOUCH
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darthspideys · 3 months
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Non-vigilante batsis who's the rudest little shit you will ever come across. She's mean and angry and always seems to be in a bad mood with a scowl on her face and her arms crossed with her headphones blocking everyone out.
Her brothers know that she's actually a softy like her father, it almost seems like they switch personalities but with different things. In public, Brucie Wayne is aloof and frankly a himbo but he's a hardass who just wants his children to not kill each other.
The public never sees how she grips onto Damian a bit tighter when someone says something that he doesn't like toward her. No one likes to notice how she pulls Jason away from potential fights or arguments that would lead to another one when they get home. No one can tell the difference between her being bored and her giving Tim company when he's pressed against the walls trying to avoid everyone. No one pays enough attention to see the slight quirk on her lips when Dick says something that makes her want to burst out laughing.
No one is at the manor when she trips over air or even when she forgets a simple word and replaces it with a made-up word to replace it. Photos aren't shot and taken when she's covered with flour despite barely using any or those times when she's wondering herself how she got flour on her when she wasn't even near the kitchen when Alfie was cooking.
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darthspideys · 8 months
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Congrats on the 3,000 followers. I know he’s not on your list but I miss your way of writing Sherlock.
The prompt from the cliche list that caught my eye was drunkenly confessing feelings because of those damn photos from the Enola Holmes set
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It’s totally okay if you’re not feeling it. I’ve just been rereading your stuff lately because I’m in the Sherlock mood
Thank you so much!! I had a lot of fun writing this, I've kinda missed writing him! *Half-shot and crocked are Victorian terms for drunk. Also the method described herein is how people used to make coffee, though apparently at some point the prevailing method was to strain it through...A sock? ANYWAY Warnings: Public drunkenness, Victorian Impropriety™, a bar fight, cursing, Fluff™
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He’s heard that this is what the average man does when attempting to sate his desire for a particular woman, and while he’s never been one to tread the routes that other men have gone, in this one instance, he’s willing to give it a try. Sherlock is determined to forget you, and to find his solace at the bottom of a bottle.
All goes well until he gets himself in trouble with the barkeep. Apparently the man doesn’t like being told which of his patrons is clearly cheating with his wife. The patron that he rats on doesn’t particularly like it, either—but Sherlock has found it rather hard to keep a hold on his tongue since he’s cleared his fourth pint.
Everything that follows seems to happen too slowly and too quickly.
The bartender manages to land a punch before Sherlock pushes him harshly back against the bar. Sherlock manages to land a single punch on the jaw of the man that’s started toward him with a broken bottle, sending the assailant sprawling. But before he can take on the next, several men are on him at once, wrestling him toward the door. Sherlock finds himself in the cool summer night, on his ear and on his ass, staring up at the irate barkeep. “Don’t you ever darken my doorstep again,” The man barks at him. It takes Sherlock a moment to draw himself up off of the ground. His head spins, and the flat sidewalk seems to tip back and forth like the deck of a ship. He manages to get to his hands and knees, rests one foot on the ground, and after a moment, up into a standing position. The laughter of the people on the street around him falls on deaf ears—the jeers, and the taunts bounce off of him as he brushes himself off, beginning to walk away from the pub. For once, Sherlock isn’t sure entirely where he’s going. His feet seem to move on their own accord; his head swims and tips from time to time. His lip hurts just a little—why is it doing that? Sherlock reaches up, touching the agitated point, wincing at the sting. He draws his hand away, peering at it beneath the sidewalk’s light. He spies two dots of red along his fingertips. Blood. “...Hm,” He hums to himself before his feet begin to move again. When they stop again, finally, he finds himself in front of a house. Your house. Sherlock’s brows furrow for just a second, and then he must stop. Frowning seems to make his head ache now. That’s a damned nuisance. His eyes blearily wander over the house’s front before he spies light in your room. Sherlock reaches down, finding a pebble on the ground. He rears his arm back, forces his focus, aims—misses. Damn. He crouches down for another, wobbles a touch, finds another pebble. He raises his hand, focuses, aims—Aha! A hit…A hit with no response. Sherlock pouts, crouching down and picking up yet another, raising his arm, throws, hits—and nothing. Sherlock pushes a frustrated breath through his nose, crouching down. Another pebble, there must be another around somewhere— “Sherlock!”
“Not now,” He mumbles.
“Stop it!”
“I’m busy.”
“Sherlock—what on Earth—” A hand groups his shoulder, and he rears back too far, landing on his ass again. He seems to wind up here much more often when he’s drinking. He doesn’t like it down here. He looks up, planning to ask who's bothering him— But it’s you. It’s you. Sherlock’s hands stop grappling the ground for another pebble, blinking up at you—in your robe and nightgown. “...Aren’t you cold?” He manages to ask. “Sherlock—” “You’re shivering—” “Get up. We have to get you inside before anyone sees,” You order, gripping his hand and tugging. He has to help you lift him. His body feels like a stone on the ground, but he manages to prop himself up—and then he’s being dragged up your front steps. His feet stumble heavily under himself as he follows you inside. The door is shut behind him, and he blinks into the dim light of the hall, looking around. “Where—” He starts before he’s shushed rather forcefully. You’re still holding his hand, still leading him along downstairs, around a corner (a left), and then around another (a right) before he is nudged onto a stool in the kitchen. Sherlock watches you turn on the gas lamp in the corner of the room before you turn to him. He watches you take in his state—his rumpled and dirty clothes, and, no doubt, the blood at the corner of his mouth. You buzz over to the stove, setting a pot of water on the stove and taking a canister down from the cupboard. He watches you measure out coffee grounds, one—two tablespoons are dropped into a small container on the counter before you tuck the canister away again. “What have you gotten yourself up to?” You ask, rounding to the cupboard and pulling out a clean rag before you cross to a pitcher of water, pouring some onto the rag. “I…Went to the pub.” His admission stills you in your step, but you move closer to him after a moment. You take his jaw in hand, tipping his head up. His heart leaps into his throat. He’s never felt your hands without your gloves before. They’re soft, and sweet-smelling. You must rub some cream or lotion into them before going to bed. As you focus on his cut, leaning close to ensure that you’re cleaning it thoroughly, Sherlock has an excellent view of your face. You look tired, and concerned. Sherlock’s gut twists with remorse and guilt. He glances around the kitchen. “Have you anything here?” He asks. “Water is all you’ll get from me. Water and coffee.” He can’t help but smile, though it agitates the split in his lip. “If you insist,” He murmurs. “I do insist. I found you in the middle of the street after you threw rocks at my window. You don’t need any more than you’ve already had—Stop smiling.” When Sherlock forces his face into a serious set, a frown, his brows drawing together, you can’t help but smile yourself, shaking your head. “Just relax your face, Sherlock,” You order, “I’m nearly finished.” Sherlock relaxes his face again, forcing himself to focus on the details of your face—your eyes, the sweep of your lashes along your cheeks, the way you bite your sweet lip as you concentrate…Yes, he’s always thought that your lips must be quite sweet— All of the sudden, you’re drawing away again, dropping the rag into a bin as you head for the stove. Sherlock lets himself watch you in a brazen manner, one that he would never otherwise allow himself. His eyes sweep your body in your nightgown—white, lacy…Is it soft? He’s certain it must be quite soft. Would you think him terribly impudent to ask to touch it, just for a moment?
Sherlock is snapped out of his daze as he watches you pour coffee grounds and water through a cloth bag, straining and squeezing the excess carefully, so as not to burn your hand.
“Here,” You set the coffee mug in front of him, “Give it a moment to cool.” Sherlock watches you step away, taking up the pitcher again and getting down a glass from the sideboard. You pour the water before setting it down alongside Sherlock’s coffee. He takes the water up, takes a sip, and then draws the rest down in greedy gulps. He didn’t realize just how thirsty he was.
“Slow down,” You hiss, but there’s a tinge of laughter in your voice, “You’ll make yourself sick.” “Why were you awake?” Sherlock asks as sets the water glass down. “I was reading.” Sherlock reaches for the coffee next, and freezes as he hears you gasp softly. “What did you do?” He hears you ask. His brow furrows at the question, and his eyes drop to his hand where you’re staring. “...Ah,” He mumbles, eyeing the irritated, red, swollen skin of his knuckles. You sigh, standing again and taking up another clean rag, covering it in water before ringing it out over the basin. You join him again, sitting on the stool beside his hand taking hold of his hand. Sherlock focuses on your hands holding his. It’s a lovely sensation, even if it is simply for the purpose of bringing the swelling down. He holds his hand as steady as he can as you wrap the cool, damp rag around his knuckles. “Why did you go to the pub?” You ask. “I was…It was an experiment.” “Oh?” You ask, arching a skeptical brow, “What experiment would that be, exactly? How long it takes you to become half-shot or how long it would take for you to get thrown out of a bar?” Before he can ask how you could possibly know, you nod to his jacket. “You’ve dirt all along your side, and on your knees. It’s smudged, but you couldn’t wipe off all of it.” Sherlock can’t help his awed little smile, damning his split, throbbing lip. “I love you.” Well. It would seem that his lack of a leash on his tongue will lead him to say the most ridiculous of things, if not the truest. He watches you go still, your eyes darting to his face. He sees something there that he’s never seen before: wariness. It’s not quite drawn enough to be fear, not quite light enough to be excitement. He watches you set his injured hand back on the table before you nod to his cup. “Drink your coffee,” You mumble. Sherlock obligingly takes the cup up, draws in a sip before setting it down again. In the moment that it takes for the warm drink to slip down his throat and splash down in his stomach, his tongue decides to escalate the conversation: “I said I—” “I know what you said, Sherlock.” He blinks owlishly at you. “Then—” “If you mean it, tell me again in the morning. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that from a man that’s crocked.” Sherlock considers for a moment before he gives a short nod, looking into his coffee. “I will,” He swears quietly, “I’ll say it as many times as you like.” Sherlock feels your fingers smooth along his cheek, and he turns his head to look at you. You’re smiling, just a little, and it makes Sherlock grin. “Go on,” You nod to your cup, “We have to get you out of the kitchen and somewhere quiet before any of the servants find out you’ve been here.” --
Sherlock opens his eyes and then he immediately shuts them again, wincing against the brightness of the morning streaming in still through your light curtains. He grunts, raising an arm to shield his eyes. “Are you finally awake?” Your voice makes Sherlock stop breathing for just a moment. He manages to draw his arm away from his eyes, peering around and spotting you at your vanity. You’re putting on an earring, glancing back in his direction. You’re in your dressing gown; Sherlock can see a flash of your neck, your collarbone, your sternum— His body flushes with the twin heats of embarrassment and arousal. It’s only made worse as you stand from your vanity, walking over to the chaise lounge in your room and sitting on the edge beside him. “Did you sleep alright?”
Sherlock nods just a little in response, not wanting to increase the throbbing in his head. “How are you feeling?” You press. He grunts, wincing, and you smile just a little. “How did I get up here?” He asks. “You walked, like a big boy.” Your teasing isn’t lost on him for a moment. “What time is it?” “Just past ten. You’re lucky my parents are in the country visiting my sister. They would’ve had a fit last night.” Sherlock pushes himself to sit up, wincing as he feels a twinge of pain in his hand. He lifts it, eyes the rag—and the dust-up at the pub comes back to mind. Maddening. He carefully unwinds the rag from his knuckles. The redness has come down, though they’re still a touch swollen and sore. “I can get you a new one,” You offer, but he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary.” “Would you like some water?” “Please.” Sherlock watches you rise and cross to the breakfast tray in the corner of the room. “Has anyone else…Been in here?” He asks delicately. You laugh, shaking your head. “Of course not. I’m not stupid. I told them to leave it outside.” Sherlock watches you return with the glass of water, takes it with a mumbled thanks, draining half of it quickly. “Honestly,” You mutter with a fond smile as he lowers the glass, “If that’s how quickly you down alcohol, no wonder the state you were in last night.” Sherlock lowers his eyes into the glass. “I am sorry,” He says, “I shouldn’t have turned up as I did. It was impolite, and improper, and I know that I put you in quite a delicate position.” “...Yes,” You agree, “But I’m glad you wound up here and not in some back alley God knows where.” Sherlock raises the glass, draining it before pressing the cool glass to his heated cheek. “More?” You offer. Sherlock nods, holding the glass out to you. Before you can take it, he catches hold of your outstretched hand, holding your gaze as you meet his eyes. “I do love you,” He swears softly. He watches, relieved, as a smile blooms on your lips. “I know, Sherlock,” You reassure softly, “I love you, too.” It takes a moment before that truly sinks in. He manages to ask, “You do?” “Do you think I’d risk bringing just any man inside, let alone up to my bedroom in the middle of the night?” Before you can tease further, and before he can second-guess himself, Sherlock sets the empty glass down on the chaise lounge and uses his grip on your hand to draw you closer. He stops as you regain your balance, resting your hand on the cushion behind him.
The two of you search one another’s faces for a moment, hesitance locking you both in limbo. Sherlock takes the plunge first, tipping his chin up and brushing your lips with his own. Your eyes slip shut as you lean against him, raising your other hand and cupping his cheek. Sherlock’s arm curls around your middle, drawing you against him and smoothing his hand over your back, reveling in the cool, silky fabric against his hand. He groans softly as your tongue teases over the seam of his lips before you draw away. He takes in your astonished smile, grins as your thumb sweeps his cheekbone. “I knew your lips would be sweet,” He mumbles. “Oh?” You laugh just a little, “Perhaps you’re still drunk.” Sherlock shakes his head, leaning up and kissing you gently. “I’ve never been more clear-headed in my life.”
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darthspideys · 1 year
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AND WHAT ABOUT THEM?! AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY GOODBYE TO MY FAVORITE BROTHERS TOO
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darthspideys · 2 years
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HOUSE OF THE DRAGON #1.05 - “we light the way.”
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darthspideys · 2 years
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get up boys its time to check out your new lair
Super Sons #10
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darthspideys · 2 years
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on earth we’re briefly gorgeous, ocean vyoung / we are okay, nina lacour / @fairycosmos / how this ends, andrea gibson / the zahir, paulo coelho / alex hirsch
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darthspideys · 2 years
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anidala + death and the maiden
stills from attack of the clones / attack of the clones script / revenge of the sith concept art by ian mccaig // revenge of the sith novelization by matthew stover / stills from revenge of the sith 
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darthspideys · 2 years
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currently recovering from the foxhole court series. probably gonna draw the girls later.
the foxes (girls)
the ravens
the trojans
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darthspideys · 2 years
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Nightwing #89 variant cover by Jamal Campbell
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darthspideys · 2 years
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MCU + iconic trios (to me)
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darthspideys · 2 years
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Hot take: Actual literary analysis requires at least as much skill as writing itself, with less obvious measures of whether or not you’re shit at it, and nobody is allowed to do any more god damn litcrit until they learn what the terms “show, don’t tell” and “pacing” mean.
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darthspideys · 2 years
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presenting: the crackheads who messed up the timeline n stuff
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darthspideys · 2 years
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she just gets it
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darthspideys · 2 years
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[ 𝐇𝐔𝐆 ] with our husband, our lovely husband, din djarin
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✶  ———  REUNION  ;   d.d.
summary: din comes back to tatooine, and you both have tender confessions to share after nearly a year apart
pairing: din djarin x gn!reader, friends-to-lovers
warnings: bro i made myself emotional with this, fluff and comfort, a little angst, and a rlly fun make-out with din
a/n: it's like 2019, i am back writing for din again like a starved woman — enjoy some mechanic!reader content that i've alluded to in the past, but with a dash of OH HI YOU'RE BACK. the beautiful gif is by @hayden-christensen from this stunning set that made me sit at my desk and like the lisa simpson meme. you know the one.
"There's someone you'll probably want to see."
Fennec looks cunning when she says it, and she goes so far as to toss him a smirk over her shoulder as she saunters down towards the lower level of the Palace.
Din's footfalls falter momentarily.
Before he can even twist his frown away and grit out a follow-up question, he hears your voice.
Your voice.
Fennec can't see Din Djarin's eyes, but she can interpret the look. The well-kept expression behind the mask of beskar? That's surprise. The tension in his shoulders tells her enough. It's apprehensiveness that slows his steps. It's yearning that twitches in his fingers.
"I thought you said you were the best mechanic in the Rebellion—" comes a voice, far off in the deep cistern of a hangar.
"One," comes your voice, anointed with a grunt of disproval, "I never said that. Two, that's a hell of a lot of mouth coming from the kid who asked for my help—"
At your jest, there's a quiet clamor of laughter.
Fennec watches Din as the two hunters circle around the Slave I; her warm eyes are crinkled at the corners. It's a sense of satisfaction that's settled across her face. The soft, tender promise of this reunion... A non-promise in a swirling void of chaos. Fennec's gloved hand skims the bow in the ship's hull as she follows — and she waits in the wings when Din finally lays his eyes on you.
It's been months.
Nearly a year.
And you're here.
In truth, you'd never left.
You're under a... scooter? A colorful little speeder sits neatly on jacks, and you're on your back — rag and wrench in hand. He can see the bare skin of your arms, smeared with grease, and thick gloves that crawl up your wrist. Your boots scuffle a bit as you roll father back and let you a little curse.
"Seriously, what did you think would happen?" you huff haughtily, "The propulsion vents on this model aren't built for finer grit dune sand—"
You're lecturing a gaggle of teens. Scrappy, amused teens that are hanging on your every word — even when you raise a hand and waggle your wrench in frustration. They laugh a little, and Din feels gutted with a deep pang of longing. The same sort he's been wrestling with for the last year. But, this time, you're right here.
He's hardly put together that he's been standing there, a few meters from you, for a few seconds. Not until one of the teens, one with warm skin and a cyberized orbital implant, coughs.
"We have a guest," Fennec projects, spurring you to pause.
Easily, you wheel yourself out.
Sitting up is the easy part. Wrangling your goggles off your face, and smearing the sweat from your cheek isn't as easy, but it's habit by now. Days and days spent doing just this — not that you can complain. Fixing helps. Keeps you busy. Has you feeling useful. Hell, even that is an easy realization to come to.
All that is certainly easier than the jarring actualization that Din Djarin is standing right in front of you.
Din.
It's been months.
Nearly a year.
And he's here.
Like he never left.
In the same glittering, beautiful beskar — and you can see your breath robbed from your lungs in the reflection. Your wrench meets the pavement of the hangar, and you forget about any attempt at grace.
Scrambling up, his name is like a petal on your tongue. Its springtime in his heart and Din is moving before he can remind himself to slow down. Din is half-ready for the planetary impact brought about by your orbit colliding with his — in a dizzying spell of limbs and gravity. The collision is as gentle as a year of longing can be — not nearly as brutal as the nights spent alone, not nearly as hollow as the ache of forgetting the sound of someone's voice.
"Din."
He knows — deep in his heart — he's never heard his name said sweeter. Maybe it's the horrible, lonely circumstance. Or, maybe it's the fact you've wound your arms around his neck and you're proving him wrong, that he hadn't lost you when he left this planet on the promise of duty-owed. When he left you.
You can feel his gloves wind themselves tightly into the back of your mechanic's jumpsuit. You nearly trip as you push yourself up onto the tips of your boots and cling — hardly the reaction you'd rehearse in your head a thousand times. No, no you promised yourself you'd be tangibly cool, perfectly calm.
Truth be told, you're far from it.
You pull back, gloved finding the curved sides of his helm as you settle back down and look him over. An inspection, a breathless one, that's halted with the deliberate press of his helmet to your forehead. It's cool. Smooth. And his hands, you realize, have moved to hold your shoulders steady. To follow the curve of your arms, and to settle along your jaw.
It's a quiet reunion.
One that's watched by an audience, you remember, when Skad pointedly clears his throat and delivers a good-natured jab.
"I take it you two 'ave met, then?"
Din wishes you wouldn't pull away — not until he's finished the thankful prayer on his tongue. His hands fall to yours, and you squeeze them tightly when you turn your cheek. The entire time, he's watching you. Assessing the change. You've started wearing your hair in a new way. There's a wrinkle, between your brow, he doesn't remember being there before. He notes a new scar along the curve of your clavicle.
The entire time he's welcomed by the great Daimyo and his enclave of collected followers, his attention remains on the one person he's been unable to push from his thoughts. Fennec supposes there's something rather romantic about that — and even though she can't be sure that T-visor is trained on you the entire time, she knows well enough.
Din notes a litter of new scars along your knuckles.
During dinner, you try to keep your tender-mouthed yearning quiet. You have a hundred questions for him — but bide your time picking out the best parts of the prepared meal to bring to his quarters after. You plate fruit and meat and little bits of love carved right from your rib. You sit there, flicking up your gaze to find his attending look each time. It makes your heart feel heavy, and so you pile on more sweetsalt berries to his plate.
Laughter comes and goes as do the questions about his armor, conversations about the current politics, and full-bellied lull of a Tatooine evening. Somewhere, a balcony curtain billows — and the three moons hang warm and pink in the sky.
"I trust you can show our guest his living arrangements."
Boba's eyes are kind.
When you stand, gathered plate in hand, there are few questions — just heavy, tender looks from the Daimyo and his Master Assassin. Just a strong hand planted warmly on Din's shoulder in passing. A smile, even, from Fennec to you.
Din is quiet as he follows. The quiet tinker of beskar and the cool breeze of the evening air is all there is — even when you nudge open the door to his quarters. It's one of larger rooms, with a balcony and a rotunda and a bed big enough for a Hutt. It's not entirely dissimilar from your own arrangements.
As you set Din's dinner down on the table near the balcony, he speaks. The door slides shut with a hiss, and you steal a berry to tide over your yearning.
"I thought you'd be angry with me."
You flick your eyes to him. He's stopped in the center of the room. The sunset has settled into the glimmering curves of his armor, and you can't help but feel your heart tighten at the words.
"I was."
Din inhales.
Your expression is solid — but not cruel.
"For a while," you continue, "But, I'm not anymore."
"Why?" he asks in a quiet breath. It sounds far away through the helmet's vocalizer. Like a glacial rift tearing itself apart.
You frown — and almost immediately Din wishes he could take the question back. He watches you reach for another berry, and then you drift away from the balcony. Back to the center of the room, back towards him. You step around him for a second, like a star in orbit. Somehow, you find his eyes beneath the visor. He's always been struck dumb by your uncanny ability to do it. He's not sure if you know, but you've done it. The eye contact he so dreads, until it's you.
And then he feels home.
Like he never left.
You push the berry past your lips and shrug. You drop his gaze, and you turn your cheek towards the rising moons.
"Did you find them?"
"Yes," you're deflecting — and Din can play the game just as well, "I thought you said you were going to go home."
Suddenly, you look panicked.
How do you tell him he was home all along?
Your mouth goes dry, and you shrug away the burn of anxiousness.
You promised yourself you'd be honest with him if you ever saw him again — you promised yourself you'd ask him to never leave again, to let you stay by his side no matter the risk. No matter the circumstance. You promised yourself night after night that someday you'd see Din Djarin again and tell him exactly how you felt.
Your eyes are wide. The wrinkle he noticed before is back. He realizes it's one born out of worry.
"I..." your words slip away. You blink, then shake your head, "I was going to. Then, I realized some things."
Din wishes someone would take the dark saber and carve his heart out. It's the tension, the fear of admitting what you both know — and the edge of fear that perhaps it's not shared.
His voice is raspy. He takes a leap.
Quietly, he steps forward with his confession. "I should have never left."
You shake your head. "We both know you had to."
"They exiled me," he says, then, as he stands over you in the moonlight; Din's words are heavy and they sink into your heart, "And I had no one. All I did was think of you, every night I was gone."
"Exile," you breathe; you don't like the sound. You try to distract yourself with it, and not the crushing cosmos of feelings swirling in your chest at his pretty admittances.
"And then, I thought I'd come back here," Din says with an edge of fear, "And you'd be gone. And I'd never see you again."
You can feel the lump in your throat. You wish you had more of the spotcha at dinner. It would have given you enough of an edge to compose yourself, and not bow into Din the moment he touched you. Your cheek meets the smooth plate of his chest piece when he touches your hand, and you bend into an embrace that surmises a year's worth of unspoken feelings.
"I missed you," he says as his arms wrap themselves tightly around your shoulders, "I'm sorry I ever left you."
"I'm sorry I agreed to it, to part ways," you laugh shakily as you settle your chin on the lip of the beskar, "It was the worst mistake I ever made—"
His gloves hands are cool against your cheeks.
Again, with fluttering lashes, you find his eyes beneath the visor.
There are a lot of things being said between the words, and Din feels himself settling into them. You've relaxed — gone nearly pliable in his hands as you touch his knuckles with your own calloused fingers.
"Exile?" you ask mournfully after a moment of content quiet as you rub the curve of his thumb.
Din's gaze falters. "For showing my face."
Hurt flicks across your face. You know he could have lied. He could have told the Clan that no, he hadn't. But, Din Djarin is a good man — and in his truth, he'd bore the brunt of his punishment.
"But," he says after a moment, "I find myself... bargaining."
"Bargaining?" you ask with a wry look, one half-etched with confusion and half with amusement.
"I'd bear the weight of a thousand exiles if it meant I could kiss you."
Oh.
Oh.
There he goes again, robbing you of breath — this time with words so soft and honest that you can hardly find the right reaction; and it worsens, when a gloved hand moves to tip the lip of his helmet back and the beskar bends the light. Blues and pinks and orange flicker along the rotunda, and you watch greedily as the warm skin of throat, of chin, of lips appear.
He's slow — tentative. The gap is closed with steady hesitancy that meets in an exceedingly gentle press of the lips. Your nose slots next to his, chin tilting, and you can't help the way you slip into bliss at the dreamed touch.
You hardly notice that the beskar falls to the floor when he really kisses you — you hardly hear the bell-like sound that rings in a year worth of want. Can anyone blame you? When a Mandalorian bends his creed to kiss you, soften his war-hardened hands to cradle you? You swear you'll never be able to love again, at this moment, and the Mand'alor holds not only the dark saber in his hand but your heart.
When he draws himself, slowly, away from your kiss, you keep your eyes shut firmly. The sort of thing you'd always negotiated when you'd first started feeling these things for him, back when you'd only been an impromptu live-in mechanic for the Razor Crest.
You can feel his smile tickle your cheek after a moment of quiet. Your own smile is big. Din, sans his helmet, huffs a little laugh from his nose. It's a nasally sound, a warm one. You know he's smiling now.
"I can save you exile," your lashes kiss your cheeks as you keep your eyes firmly shut, "I promise, I'm good at not looking."
You had, after all, spent nearly a year and a half aboard that small freighter playing this exact game — in tight living quarters with a Mandalorian meant snapping eyes shut at a moment's notice.
Then, a gloved hand cradles your face as he presses a series of kisses to your cheek. Over and over. Each is punctuated with a little bit more force than the next. And on the last, he keeps his nose to your cheek as he muffles a laugh. His voice is warm against your ear.
"Just open your eyes," he says lowly, "Before I offer marriage as an alternative."
You laugh and swat at his chest. But, it has you cracking one eye open.
And there's Din Djarin.
It's been months.
Nearly a year.
And he's here.
Like he never left.
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darthspideys · 2 years
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darthspideys · 2 years
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How long have you known Clint Barton? …About a week.
HAWKEYE (2021) stylized as HAWKEYE (2012-2015) by Matt Fraction, David Aja, and Matt Collingsworth
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