#pond in the middle of a moonless night

[emdeerm]

Idea!

Ex-Twin

Damian and Danyal were twins. They were very close but only within their mother's sight. Everyone else only ever saw a cold indifference.

Danyal has failed a mission at the age of 6 which resulted in his death. Damian was with him at the time and retrieved the body. In a desperate attempt to get his brother back, he tried to dip him into the Lazarus Pit.

The Pit took him away much to the heartbreak of the living boy.

Damian threw himself into an even more ruthless training and excelled at it. With time, Ra's was even happy that the other boy has died. It served as an excellent motivator to his heir.

Years passed. Damian has been with his Father for a long while now. He was now turning 22 and Father held a Gala in his honour. Damian has long since realised that it was quite unnecessary but it helped their covers and allowed him to make connections.

However, they were just as boring as ever. Same faces, same lies, same talks. Nothing aloevera changed

Until a new couple from a city Amity Park, came with two teenage children. Samantha, the girl, was expected. Her bright pink gown less so if any information on her was any true.

Her companion, a boy her age, clearly uncomfortable in the suit and tie, made the ground under his feet disappear.

He looked so much like Damian himself did at the age of 15. And his eyes were that familiar, haunting blue.

Damian excused himself from his current conversation, and gracefully strode out of the room past the young teens.

Maybe he was being paranoid. Most likely unreasonably hopeful. Perhaps he was behaving irrationally.

Nonetheless, long minutes later, the scan of a hair he managed to snag revealed the truth.

It was his brother.

He came back.

___

Um... so, Maddie and Jack got dozed with some old Ecto at some point during very early stages of Maddie's pregnancy and Lazarus (Ectoplasm+Clockwork) infused the preserved genes of the baby, who died so early and had a glorious life of adventures ahead of him, into the barely formed zygot.

Danny's adventures happened. Phantom Planet not so much (unless you want it to be after the AGIT). Sam's parents finally made into an even bigger leagues and were invited to the Gala.

Danny had a bad feeling. Anything to do with the extremely rich was always problematic. No offence, Sam.

#Sam: none taken. #dpxdc #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #ex-twins #I mean #genetically they still are #but Danny's whole life has been started over #so... #Danny woukd sometimes get flashes of his past in the early childhood #they stopped around the age of 5-6 (guess why) #but returned a lot more vividly when he became a Halfa #that's why he sometimes pulls out moves that he shouldn't be able to know how to do #his Phantom form is a little different as well #it's still a hazmat suit but the feeling of his Ghost side is a lot more haunting #he looks the same #but his presence feels like staring into a dark #deep #pond in the middle of a moonless night #ironic since he shines like the brightest star #but eh #dc x dp prompt 2

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH12

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Unprotective sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), cum eating, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE END Chapter Word Count: 14,704 aah im sorry no im not Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

One simple sentence is all it took for the two of them to silently agree to their departure of Tatooine and to seek refuge somewhere quiet, secluded and undisturbed by baleful bolts of shimmering reds. It escorts them to the moss-green planet bedecked by marshland and chirpy fauna—its atmosphere crisp and welcoming to that of Tatooine’s sand-choking airspace.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Yes. There’s a village nearby. They took me in for some time.”

“So you’re thinking they’ll let us crash there for a while?”

There’s a click on the vambrace and the Razor Crest’s hatch closes behind the trio. “If all goes well. Are you sure you have everything? It’s a bit of a walk.”

A tap on a blaster holstered to her thigh, a finger trailing across a wrinkly green forehead, the faint touch on a steel pauldron. “Blaster, kid, Mandalorian. Check, check, and check.”

The Mandalorian chuckles and takes the lead through the woods, heading towards the unnamed village of Sorgan—its inhabitants surely awaiting his emergence the moment the Crest snapped through the atmosphere and swooped low among their needle-point rooftops. It’s selfish, he knows this, returning to the haven he once envisioned himself hunkering down at—having the opportunity of a joyful life, a family, a love—with a different woman matching his stride is destined for failure; for tension. It’s wishful thinking to pretend it’ll produce anything but, to pretend this could be normal.

Sorgan hadn’t changed one bit, except for the lack of invasive Klatoonations, thanks to yours truly. It’s still so green, so wet, so clean and fresh. Its air could regenerate the deflated lungs in his chest from decades-worth of smoke, dust, and discipline, its waters purify his blood, its pacifying ambience replace the void he reserved for quiet nights in space, its company fill

the vacancy between his arms—that last one wasn’t entirely Sorgan’s doing and he gazes at his companion treading alongside him, feet generously lifting over an undisturbed one-eyed aqua frog in her path.

He sighs and places the flat of his leather against the back of her shoulder. “I trust them, they’re good people, but my name can’t be spoken here.”

She twists her neck to look at him and dips her head in a nod. “I know that, Mando.”

Mando. A name that once sounded like shiny credits falling from the clouds now so bleak and rusted. It’s mere corroding steel in comparison to her moaning his name in such a broken voice it heats his abdomen and increases his blood flow. The Girl is like a spice, a strong dose of alluring desires that he’s incapable of acting upon—the inquisitive little alien in his care interfering with his white-knuckled primal impulses.

Idling in hyperspace, confined and carnal, with a toddler and the woman who made his knees weak, heart leap, fingers itch, was dangerous. There he was thinking the atmosphere back on Tatooine was tense; how wrong he was. If that was tense, this had been downright torturous. He could cut the tension with his vibroknife; reduce it to tiny physical pieces he could chew on and grind his enamel down to the gums.

Sorgan is their opportunity to explore their unspoken relationship further—to disassemble the barricade of panels in place and analyse the circuitry underneath. Mando downplays the increased pumping of his organ to himself, masquerading his excitement with faulty breathwork.

“I can take him,” Mando gently tugs on the rucksack strap situated across her shoulder, the child cooing at her hip. “Those slashes haven’t healed.”

“They’ve healed enough.”

He insists, “They reopened, you’re going to strain them with the weight. Let me carry him.”

The Girl grumbles under her breath and picks up her pace, tenacious to prove she’s more than capable to carry the toddler despite the ache the satchel strap is producing; burrowing its residency in the pads of her shoulders. The Mandalorian remains at his tempo, allowing her the distance she incessantly pursues. “Atin,” he breathes.

Their shared moment back in the abandoned cantina seemingly sectors away—so out of reach and untouched it almost never occurred.

All though there had been times, dead in the middle of hyperspace when the kid was napping in his hammock, where the Girl would join him in the cockpit to share a few soft spoken words and purposeful touches he couldn’t begin to dissect. The sensations of her hands running along his shoulders still so crystal in his mind, her knuckles brushing against his cowl as he’d tip the helmet back against the headrest simply to get a little glimpse of her. She knew what she was doing when she’d administer feathery kisses against the surface of his visor—sheer seduction on her part—and it took all of his fizzling restraint not to bend her over the controls and fuck her until her thighs are burning, calves trembling, her skin star-kissed.

Believe him, he’d imagined it. On many occasions in fact. He’s pictured taking her anywhere and everywhere—against the walls, on the floor, in his bunk—but nothing, nothing, was more appealing than the thought of having her in his lap in the pilot’s seat, her back smooshing the buttons of the navigational controls until the Crest whined in agony.

Needless to say, the circumstances didn’t allow the rise for many opportunities; the kid often waking the moment his glove makes contact with her. Mando had to settle for small glances here-and-there, the occasional stroke of her arm as she passed.

But he needs more—needs her.

The Girl is an additive through and through—functioning as a pricey flask of spotchka sedating his muscles and justification and in exchange stimulating his appetite for her; flesh, muscle, tissue, whatever his nails could dig themselves into he wanted.

Mando’s teeth grit together and his eyes scan her back ahead of him, nursing the heavy eyelids on the curve below. The cockpit had been too electric, the recycled air too thick with his desperation; the projection of the Girl naked—because he knew what that looked like now—never far from his mind. But he hadn’t seen her bare from behind; a view he can only imagine - for now.

A throaty grunt slips past his lips as he stumbles on a grounded root in his trance. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, but the Child’s peering eyes stare straight past the visor as though he could sense the disgrace radiating off his guardian, his eyes squinting. He tenses his shoulders in embarrassment and joins the Girl as she slows to a halt on the village’s border outskirts.

“This it?” she asks, shifting the satchel to the opposite hip between herself and Mando, shielding the kid from potential threats.

“It is,” he confirms.

Their heads twist in unison, observing the environment laid out before them; high-spirited and brimming with energy. In the distance children run through riskless fields playing a game of tag, adults conversing and labouring the krill ponds, the croaking of frogs echoing around their feet. Subdued and isolated from all the destruction—preserved from everything they are down to their cores.

The Girl hums and fiddles with the strap slung across her chest. “I don’t want to intrude. They look…”

“Happy.”

She’s concerned for the villager’s safety, as is he—jeopardy seemingly overhanging them like an aura; tethered and indestructible. Returning without a notice felt deplorable to the Mandalorian’s morals as though he was trespassing on their sanctuary and sabotaging their chance at true tranquillity.

Shuffling beside him reminds him why he’s here, why he chose Sorgan rather than any other planet in the Outer Rim with a half-decent field. Mando wags a gloved digit ahead of the Child and anticipates his claws to latch onto the leather, tug and whine until he’s content in his beskar, but not even a grunt of acknowledgement slips through his lips.

Mando huffs a deep exhale and returns his hand to his belt, hooking his thumb in the centre and taking the lead. “Let’s go,” he directs.

The Girl adheres to his side, elbows brushing with each swing of their arm, their footwork synchronised as they cross a narrow mound of land between two krill ponds—the vibrant blue critters easily perceptible with his visor’s enhanced vision. She shrinks her shoulders inwards as the path withers to his wingspan—too binary to admit defeat against Sorgan’s elements and saunter behind—her feet sliding against the bank, but Mando’s reflexes are sharp and he snakes a hand around her waist before she tumbles off the edge.

She straightens herself out, checks on the baby, and exudes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

Mando grins and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Couldn’t let the kid fall in.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Her eyebrow cocks and eyes squint. “What about me, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want him stirring up a disturbance, would we? We need to make a good impression,” he teases. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you’d be fine.”

“Sleemo,” she insults lightheartedly, placing a firm palm against his pauldron and shoves—not so lightheartedly. Mando’s smile falters as his boots lose their traction in the slippery, squelching mud. Descent incoming, he reaches out for the Girl’s arm but stops himself at the reminder of the baby attached to her hip; her own personal lifeboat.

If he wasn’t so cautious for the Child’s current state he’d clasp her wrist and force her to take the brunt of her actions, instead, he accepts his fate and collapses into the krill pond—the water soars higher than the village’s roofings with the added weight of beskar, the sloshing reverberating and drawing the inhabitants attention their way.

Mando finds his footing in the waist-deep waters, hands on his hips as droplets streak down his armour, the over-absorbed fabric of his flight suit clinging to his muscles. There’s dark brown coagulated mud muting his shiny beskar, plastering the warring steel with Sorgan’s serene elements.

“Think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he questions, head tilting.

She bellows just as loud as the initial crash, her gasped amusement echoing among the hushed quiet; the villagers watching from afar. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine,” she mocks. “Funny. I don’t hear much commentary coming from you now.”

“I could’ve drowned.”

She jabs an eyebrow upwards and gestures to the water level. “That’d be very embarrassing.”

He grumbles with feigned anger, splashing her lower-half with a mischievous thrust of his hand.

“Oi, watch the kid!”

The Child’s ears perk down at his guardian submerged in the filthy waters, a soft tight-lipped grin donning his face in replacement of the frown he’d been suiting prior—Mando’s muscles lax, his stoic demeanour withering away.

This was good. Right. Both the kid and the Girl deserve to reside in a haven like this, somewhere they don’t need to look over their shoulders—somewhere blasters can retire from holsters.

Miniscule cobalt crustaceans summon up the courage to investigate the intrusive limbs in their occupancy, grasping against the fabric of his flight suit and scrambling underneath the rim of his beskar cuisses. Mando attempts to shake off the meddlesome critters but they’re persistent in driving him away; the Girl steps forwards to aid him out of the waters—after she’d finished laughing so hard tears were brewing in the corners of her eyes—but stammers in her footing as a shadow casts over him from beside her.

She instinctively reaches for her blaster’s hilt and shields the Child, but a delicate hand outstretches for Mando below and she carefully drops her hand, clenches it beside her in doubt. Mando inclines his helmet to follow the hand, travelling up the grey fabric of their tunic and settling on the familiar kind hearted brown eyes welcoming him to the village without needing to speak the words.

He nods as thanks and slips his leather into her hand, hoisting himself to the ground with a boot in the bank for stability. Mando humorously nudges the Girl enough for her to panic and seize his elbow for safety—his vocoders unable to catch the light chuckle in his throat but she feels the tremors in his limb and playfully slaps his bicep.

“It’s good to see you again,” Omera says, a bright smile as she eyes him up and down. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend.”

“Yes.” Mando glances at the Girl beside him, tucked into his side plenty that she looked tiny. “I hope we’re not intruding, we-”

She interrupts him, shaking her head and gesturing behind her to the gathering inhabitants. “The community will forever be grateful for your endeavours. Stay as long as you like—we’ve established additional lodges since you were here. Take your pick.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Mando follows after Omera, irrigating the grass in his wake, and the Girl stealths behind him so she’s unseen from the watching eyes; his beskar performing as her protection. She engrosses herself with the ball of abrupt energy fighting against the confines of his satchel, his claws eagerly tearing at the fabric to rid himself.

The villagers have queued themselves along the banks of the krill ponds, distanced enough for their visitors to pass through without bumping shoulders but close to exchange friendly greetings—welcome back’s and thank you’s—their proximity allowing them the opportunity to examine the Mandalorian’s new partner on the heels of his boots, her eyes cast down in an attempt to stave off unwanted attention though it does very little.

Omera stops short of the newly-installed structures, three identical huts to match with the theme of the others strewn throughout their lands and Mando, not being one to concern himself with impractical decisions, chooses the first one his eyes lay on; his hand vaguely gesturing to the open door of the middle hut.

Omera nods her head and orders a flock of children to prepare their quarters. “We can organise your friend next door.” She flicks her attention past his shoulder and he follows, acknowledging how stiff the Girl looked as though she could be blown over with a docile breeze; her eyes silently pleading to him through his visor.

It’s unusual looking at her this way, as though he’s violating her with just his eyes. She’s typically so snarky and talkative, but her lips are bonded together and her eyes bounce from his visor to the speculative crowd; nervous and uncomfortable.

She assures, “You’ll only be a few metres away from each other.”

Mando has no intentions of letting her occupy a separate hut, not after he’s been so distanced from her all this time. “That’s okay. We don’t want to take up more space than necessary.” The Girl relaxes somewhat, shoulders flaccid, and her hands return to fight against the Child’s tantrum.

He notes how the villagers share some questioning glances towards each other, their prying prompting an unsettling weight on his shoulders—Omera shares a hasty gander between the two of her visitors as if assembling a deconstructed blaster from scratch, gears turning in her head.

It’s too much attention for him—too much visibility for a Mandalorian clad in ancient shiny Beskar steel.

His shoulders tense, his fingers flex into fists; they know, they have to know.

His throat bobs underneath his cowl, mouth dry and cheeks warm, though he’s learnt to conceal it through his mannerisms—the constant tension between him and the Girl training him over time—he remains stoic, statuelike, displaying no visible signs of confirmation to their silent queries.

It’s none of their business; nobody’s other than him and the Girl’s.

“If that’s what you wish,” Omera breaks the silence. “I’ll leave you to situate yourselves.”

Mando inhales sharply and nods his head, walking past her to their new residency. The cluster of children straighten upon his arrival, organising themselves in a single file to allow their guest to investigate their work. It’s a small cabin, less spacious than the barn he occupied last time but more secluded—the windows sturdy and the door possessing a lock—with a bed fit for three in the far-end of the walls; it’s been too long since he’s slept on a mattress, too long since he’s been allowed the privilege of stretching his limbs rather than compact them.

Alongside a comfortable mattress comes the Girl’s warmth as they’ll indeed be sharing a bed. Mando will make certain of that.

There’s hushed whispers behind him, helm capturing some of their words—baby, ask, play—and he redirects his vision to the rucksack resting among the Girl’s hip, the children bursting with excitement at the sight of their playmate. He’s just as psyched as they are, his little claws outstretching for Winta in the middle of the group.

“It’s okay.” Mando nods his head towards the children. “He can play.”

The Girl nods and transfers the kid to the floorboards carefully, stepping out of the stampede of children excitedly taking themselves outside.

Tarrying presences now gone, the Girl joins him in the examination of their cabin. “Good thing the Crest isn’t far,” she jokes.

“It’s not that bad.” Mando twists his body to follow her, pauldrons clashing into her harshly. “I suppose it could be a little bigger.”

“Or you could be a little smaller, tin-man.”

He cocks his head to the side, visor leering. “You’re looking for trouble today.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he grumbles in his throat, sweeping his vambraces around her to hug her arms against her sides. “You are.”

She struggles against his grip, well aware of her impending justice, but he’s too sturdy—too determined to seek revenge. “Don’t,” she warns.

Mando simply smiles, a large toothy grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

What little gap remained between them abruptly narrows as Mando compresses his build into her, squeezing out the krill water from his flight suit and into her garments. Beskar wipes itself clean on her shirt, caking the textile with heavy mounds of sludge.

“Mando!” she gasps and rolls her shoulders back in false hope it’ll aid her escape. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”

He chuckles, deep and throaty that makes his shoulders bounce. “Neither do I, but you didn’t think of that when you pushed me in,” he growls, the vocoder filtering the sound as a crackle that reverberates in the structure and through her bones; she shudders, her shoulders and chest twitching against him—his blood pumps hot.

“I was doing you a favour. When was the last time you hit the ‘fresher?”

“Need I remind you I have you trapped, mesh’la?” Mando presses the curvature of his helmet against her cheek and rubs the excess droplets onto any surface area he can manage, her cheeks, forehead, jaw, staining the pretty skin she’d been blessed with.

She tries to disguise her laughter with anger, but it comes out through her voice—light and airy; Mando hums at the delightful sound, like a lullaby to his ears. “Okay, okay. You win!”

Unwilling to wrench his grip from around her, he continues pressing himself against her and inches forwards until her back is flat against a pillar—his vambraces slipping around sandwich her between two sturdy foundations, one of splintered log and the other a living, breathing tower of a man coated head to toe in steel.

He’s breathing hard, filters whistling with each exhale.

“Mando--” she purrs, teeth nibbling at the soft insides of her lips.

Eyes bore into the cushiony flesh, his tongue swiping across his own in the thought of them against him. Soft and warm—he knew that much when they were around him—but that’s as far as his understanding reached; were they gentle and sweet or rough and hungry?

Would they be addicting, like every other part of her, or simply satisfying; something to pluck as a treat here-and-there?

He grunts and squeezes his vambraces against the wood, his chest following suit against her. “We’re alone,” he murmurs, head tilting to the side as if to silently voice his thoughts.

She’s not as convinced, searching the cabin for eyes infused into the walls, the floors.

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

Her head twists to the entrance, a rush of heat tagging her cheeks in soft hues of pinks. She quietly squeaks, “The doors open.”

“Nobody is looking.”

He’s pushing boundaries he put in place decades ago; parading around a relationship—or whatever this is—like some big achievement, which, to be frank, was pretty extraordinary for the Mandalorian. Flings and casual partners—sure—they weren’t feats but this...He’s never encountered someone so remarkable, so special, so necessary; she’s squirmed herself into his life and now she won’t ever be able to leave without causing a disturbance in his lifestyle. He needs her.

She composes herself at his odd comment and brashly collects a batch of his cowl between her teeth to tug him closer—arms still inoperable against her—and uses the newfound angle to assault his neck with a tauntingly hot breath.

“Clean yourself up first,” she tempts. “You’re grimy.”

“To be fair,” he grumbles, “I don’t recall you having a chance at the refresher in a while.”

She pulls away, eyes squinting at him. “Tread on your words very carefully here, Mando.”

He chuckles and loosens his grip moderately. “I mean—you could join me.”

Mando’s growing confident—too confident, it’s the first signs he’s setting himself up for disappointment—and he slides his hands from the pillar to the curves of her hips, his leathers slipping underneath the oversized shirt to explore the bare flesh; her torso being the only place he hadn’t been given the pleasure of researching—all the chalky scar tissue, the slopes of her abdomen, the contours of her chest.

Pair that with the suds of soap cloaking her skin, her hair, it’s every man’s dream to be the one to apply it to a woman, to feel and pull on slippery skin in such a personal way—to scrub her spic-and-span only to ruin her until she needs another.

“Join you,” she repeats mulling for a moment but she shakes her head with rejection. “That’s too conspicuous.”

She doesn’t voice her concerns regarding his helmet—how in the hell do you clean yourself with me there?—and he himself is uncertain, he just knows he wants to be the one to wash the grime off her. He’ll fix himself up after he’s tended to her, if need be.

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

She sighs. “Guess I wasn’t very discreet earlier, huh?”

“No,” he confirms, his digits stroking leisurely lines to-and-fro. “you weren’t. What happened? I’ve never seen you look so uncomfortable.”

“I...don’t do well with crowds.” She casts her eyes between their feet, examining the size difference of their boots. Mando removes himself from her to allow her to breathe, to continue without feeling pressured. “That face mask I wore… It was a layer of me. It helped me deal with spying eyes. When Tika destroyed it, I dunno, I guess a piece of myself died with it. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

You’re talking to the expert of masks, he thinks.

“I understand.” he says. “It mustn’t be easy having to deal with the lack of something so integral.”

Mando has yet to experience that fear—that overwhelming sensation of uneasiness; people’s eyes so effortlessly studying him without the disguise of his armour to protect him—it’s something he’s appreciative of everyday.

She sighs, hot and heavy and laced with exhaustion. “Well, life continues either way and I can’t exactly hide away here forever.” She initiates a stare-down with the ajar door, scanning the wilderness that reached her vision; a couple of women standing among the pond waters scooping for krill, a pair of children on the banks assisting with their catch. “I’m not one for fishing but I guess I should help out a little, as thanks.”

He grunts as a reply, lacking the confidence to trust his voice—stay here, stay with me—and lamely takes a few steps back, assigning his amban rifle to a nearby flat surface, some storage units, and sinks to a rustic chair.

She considers him, eyes bouncing from his helmet to his lap where his cloak is pulled between his hands. Mando rings out the sopped material, murky water seeking refuge in the crevices of floorboards.

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, his back straightens. “I can’t.”

“I won’t look.” The Girl turns on the heels of her feet and shuts the door ahead of her, casting the room into darkness except for the timid rays of sunlight shining through the narrow gaps of the window—not enough for somebody outside to see, but plenty for him to undress himself without a hassle. “Just put in my hand when you’re done. I’ll find somewhere sunny to hang it up - shouldn’t take too long to dry in this heat.”

There’s no movement on either of their sides, their hut as though it was in suspended animation or the Crest on one it’s many malfunctions just idling in the vastness. She shifts on her feet restlessly in wait for the sodden garments to weigh her hand down.

“What, so I just sit here until it’s dry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Unless you want to walk around the village naked with a helmet on, yeah.”

Mando grumbles under his breath. It’s not really a choice. It’s not as though he can just remain drenched all day until the air inevitably dries him off. Still, it’s not easy to remove himself from his armour somewhere other than the Crest; it provided security, a reassurance that nobody will see him so exposed.

Both boots are dismissed from their positions and come to lay rest beside the chair while he works on the beskar platings riddling his body—the steel branded to protect him now nothing more than a nuisance as it resists against his efforts and continues to cling to the suit against his wishes. They’re slippery and contain no traction on behalf of the clumpy muck, his leathers sliding out from underneath each time. It’s like a suction seal against his chest, inconceivable of success, but he’s just as stubborn and lures the rim underneath a stitch of his glove and plucks the guard off harshly.

One down, too many more to go.

The other platings put up just as much of a fight as the first but, with a few tugs, they withdraw from his body and reside on the ground alongside his boots. He’s practically naked without his beskar—the air light and crisp as he breathes without the weight—practically naked in front of the Girl. It’s the most he’s been so revealing and, even though she’s not looking at him, his cheeks grow warm, his stomach pulled taut.

He dabbles in intolerable concepts—thoughts he shouldn’t act on for the sake of his Honour, his Creed—the overwhelming suggestion of standing behind her and letting her feel his bare heat radiate off in potent waves; like a strong glass of spotchka, irresistible but ultimately an unhealthy decision.

There’s a deep shudder that runs through the base of his neck down to his coccyx, goosebumps brandishing him and refrigerating him far greater than the krill waters could. Underneath his helmet, he casts his eyes low to devour the curves and slopes of the Girl’s body, his teeth grinding against each other until there’s an ache in his temples.

His Beskar is gone, solely a clump of shiny steel that serves as a warning of what he could be throwing away—everything he’s risked his life for, everything he’s spent decades consuming, altering his physical attributes to suit that of a stoic, emotionless pillar of flesh and bone fortified with not just his armour but his code. His faith.

The Girl precariously shifts between either foot and cocks her hip out, sighing dramatically that pulls his thoughts back into the present.

“Patience,” he instructs.

The air is thick, hot, or maybe it was just him—his filters rendering inoperable when confronted with the foreign bashfulness; it’s not often he encounters such a outlandish emotion, so unknown and disorienting, and it’s quite possibly the worst fucking issue he’s faced with. There’s no shooting or piloting his way out of it and his brain only works in a handful of matters at a time—none of which included addressing the electricity in his chest, the bubbling in his stomach, the clenched muscles throughout his anatomy.

The Mandalorian—if he could still be considered a Mandalorian without his armour, his essence—stands, prompting a squelch from the pool of water he formed underneath, and reaches around his neck to unclasp the heap of his cloak; it’s nothing new, she’s seen him without it before. The shirt is a different story. That’s new. That’s untouched boundaries. His build is infrequently subjected to the perched star in the clouds let alone another lifeform.

Fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt and bundles the material, his second knuckles sweeping against his abdomen that leaves his jaw tight. That famished growling in his chest is utterly pathetic—his own touches manage to provoke such a humiliating reaction, he could only fathom what the Girl would do to him with those soft hands of hers, her gentleness as she nurses the bruises with her thumbs.

Mando hoists the shirt over his head and slips free from the sleeves and drops it to the floor with a displeasing schlup and neglects the choking in his throat, the rise of his heart rate. Are your eyes closed, he seeks answers to voiceless questions, or are you staring at wood, counting the twigs? Why aren’t you looking at me? There’s another sigh that fills the quiet, whether it’s from her or himself is uncertain; his heart is pleading for a moment’s break.

It doesn’t come.

Next is his trousers—something she had seen before, but under different circumstances, totally contrasting. Perhaps it was all that Tatooine heat that got to them or the severity of the events catching up—Mando nearly dying, nearly stranding her and the kid—that caused them to collide with desperation, their hands working at whatever little article of clothing they could eliminate from the equation to feel each others warmth; the indication they were both alive, safe.

Mando takes pity on her restlessness and forces his reflections to the dark recesses of his mind for later, stripping out of the trousers adhered to his thighs, his calves, noting how the temperate air licks his legs dry. It’s too exposing, too public for his comfort, and he swiftly bundles the cot’s blanket around his shoulders to conceal himself from eyes that weren’t even aimed at him. She wouldn’t go undermining the trust they’ve built, but it’s his Honour, his code—at least that’s what he tells himself.

The Mandalorian tells himself he’s weary because that’s how he was brought up, he was trained to be cautious. To prohibit connections that’d tie him down and crush what little valour remained within him.

He ignores the pestering inkling at the back of his brain telling him that’s not why he’s so high-strung.

There’s scars tainting his flesh, painting the tan skin in slithers of off-whites, bruises on his knees and shins, thick callus paddings on his fingertips. He can’t help but imagine what the Girl might say if she saw him so bruised, so broken. Would she still want to touch him, or is it the shiny beskar that allures her—a mere status symbol.

Securing the blanket around his frame, Mando shimmys a hand out between the folds and grabs the pile of drenched cloth, striding across the room in three steps and gingerly placing it in the Girl’s outstretched palm.

“Is that all?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the stack of black. “I won’t be able to come back for more.”

Mando swallows, his throat bobbing against the air rather than his cowl; it’s such a bizarre situation, being so bare before the woman he struggles to contain himself around, his thoughts jumbled in his head—turn around, please don’t turn around—and he finds the strength to back away from her. “That’s all.”

She won’t—turn, that is—it’s too overbearing, too unlike her. No matter how easy it could be for her to witness him so vulnerable, so human-like, she won’t fiddle with the bindings of their mutual loyalties. Won’t stick her hand in the wet duracrete because she knows it’ll leave a permanent mark, a stamp of her backstabbery.

“All right.” She inches backwards so she can open the door ahead of her. “You out of sight?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her fingers wrapping around the handle and twisting but it stays firmly against the frame. “Get some rest. I know you didn’t sleep on the way here. I’ll get these tended to and then you can hit the ‘fresher.” She opens the door and takes a step outside. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

He watches her leave, observes how the sun swallows her in a breathtaking glow, watches the room be cast into darkness once more—isolating him from the outside; if it’s not beskar or the Crest, there’s always something between him and the natural beauty of the planets he frequents.

The sonic detectors pick up her departing footsteps, light and reluctant, until her boots make contact with the grass, dulling their resonance until he’s left with the laughter of children and hushed gossip concerning himself. He sighs, clicks the lock into place and precariously removes his helmet—cold, dirty with mud and silence leering through him. It’s insides are comforting, a shelter he’s incomplete without, but it’s exterior is the polar opposite; sinister, an insignia for his kind to instill fear into their enemies—the Girl never displaying that trepidation he’s so accustomed to.

Mando is endowed with the sight of the Girl’s beauty, how her eyes crinkle when she smiles or how she chews on her lower lip when in thought, her hands never static for more than a minute at a time, there’s not a detail in his sight he hasn’t engraved into the forefront of his mind.

She’s not as fortunate as him, stranded in the cold surrounded by steel rather than warm skin, unable to pursue the comfort of another without the constant reminder that he can never provide her with anything more than a slab of metal servicing as her shield. And yet, despite those factors, she remains beside him—voluntarily puts herself between him and danger—looking past the visor, all the walls he put in place, and into his eyes.

The helmet expires atop of the chair he’d been seated on, positioned away from him as he sinks his weight onto the mattress—bouncy and cottony, feeding his aching muscles with some much needed attention. For the first time ever, the bed is too large, too empty—she should be here.

Mando’s head stoops against the bundle of organised pillows, cushioning the healing wound underneath the thick of his curls. Curls her fingers nursed. He groans, deep that resonates through his chest, and distorts his head towards the door in wait for her return, his eyelids heavy as they fall shut.

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily in territories he’s been deprived of conquering; the nooks and crannies of each aisle between the huts unaccounted for, the instability of wooden walls establishing minimal security. It’s not optimal in contrast to his Crest but it works enough to achieve a couple hours of sleep. When he wakes, the orange tint leaking through the cabin has evolved into a blend of soft pinks and purples that blush against his tan skin as he paces the room, the blanket wrapped around his build dragging along the flooring with each lengthy stride.

He’d discovered a small refresher deposit in the shack and decided to clean himself up best he could—despite his hormones advocating against the idea, begging for him to wait it out until the Girl returns and he can share the space with her—which now leaves him stranded with his thoughts. A dangerous game he’s not prepared to dabble in presently. Fortuitously enough, he doesn’t need to—a steady knock on the hut’s door pulls him from his thoughts.

“I’ve brought your clothes,” Omera says from the outside, Mando quietly hums to himself and slips his helmet on before speaking.

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

“I’ll leave it at the door for you to recollect.”

Mando enables his thermal vision, outlining her body through the door as she bends down to place the garments at the foot of the entrance and turns away for him to steal them. He does so, swiftly and with such minimal sound she doesn’t hear the door open or close behind her.

She’s unmoving, her hands clasped behind her back in patience for him to dress himself.

Assuming she wishes to commune about their sudden arrival, Mando doesn’t leave her waiting long—the flight suit smelling of soap and hugging his muscles with a pleasant residual warmth from the sunshine, his beskar, boots, gloves, and cloak following suit; electing to disregard his bandolier and holsters.

He’s not as hesitant to make noise now that he’s back to donning his layers and widely swings the door open indicating his decency. Omera turns to face him, her eyes casting over his clean clothes and offering a smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk before nightfall,” she asks, gesturing to the stairs below. “It would be nice to catch up with you. It’s been a while.”

“Where’s-”

“She’s out in the ponds with our finest catchers and your boy is with Winta and the other children.”

Mando doesn’t object against her proposal. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to get some fresh air, to clear his thoughts of the Girl, the wavering uneasiness of his Creed.

They leisurely stroll beside each other following the gravel paths of the village, the sinking sun ricocheting off the front of his helmet as they draw nearer.

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

She chuckles. “Quite talented at fishing at that. She’s made a name for herself. We can swing by on our way, if you’d like.”

He faintly nods, his helmet inclining to the path as he walks. “Has the village encountered any issues recently?”

“You mean the raiders? They’ve kept their distance and the villagers know how to fight if that changes.”

“And what of you?” Mando asks. “How have you been? Winta?”

“Better, because of you, thank you,” she says, her feet coming to a halt among a cluster of krill ponds. They’re all empty, the inhabitants packing up for the remainder of the night, though his eyes land on the Girl in the distance. She’s switched her tarnished trousers and shirt for a village dress, hitched up to her mid-thigh as she dries the limbs coated in krill water.

The Mandalorian’s stomach contracts, his throat narrowing as he rakes in the image—the fluidity of the material in the wind, her skin lambent from the sunrays, the unclothed legs tormenting his self control. She hasn’t detected his prying, too concentrated on communing with a flock of women thanking her for the assistance.

It’s almost...domestic; Mando can imagine them settling down in a place like this, rough hands that manipulate blasters and spacecraft dedicating themselves to lenient chores like a regular townsman. Gummy blood that sticks to his leathers washing away in a tranquil stream. Their nights spent witnessing the stars emerge from the vastness of the sky above.

The weight on his vambrace suffocates his daydreaming with grungy splotches of soil and he reluctantly returns his attention to Omera, who’s studying his inattentive stance.

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

“To settle down here with your boy.” The bothersome weight snakes along his beskar and to the thick of his flight suit, her fingers working their way into the strained bicep. She lowers her voice to a dainty murmur, “There must be a reason for your return.”

The weight on his arm is unnatural, forced—so unlike the unfiltered gentleness of the Girl’s—he refrains from shrugging her off, not wanting to appear ungrateful for her hospitality, but it’s like venom seeping into his veins and numbing him from the inside.

Their little game of tooka-and-womp-rat from the last time he was here starting to catch up with him; this is what he was afraid of. She’s a kind woman, she’s great with kids and can handle her own, but she’s not the Girl. She’s not who he wants to see right now.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“It’s-it’s not an option. We can’t stay still for long.”

“It’s safe here.” Fingers dig in, feet inch closer, eyes dusky.

Mando finally pulls away, unsettled, and shakes his head. “The Child is still being hunted by the Guild. We may only last a few days here before needing to move on. They need a break, is all.” He shies from mentioning he requires a break as much as them; the Girl’s initial idea stimulating the selfish desires that influenced his return. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Omera’s eyes stall downwards, her hands clasping together ahead of her. “I understand,” she says. “Since you’re on a break, how about I take in your boy for the night? It’ll allow you some rest and I’m not sure if I can separate Winta from him.”

“I don’t think-”

“We’re only a few huts down from you,” she reassures.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Omera, she’s demonstrated her loyalties before, but they’ve spent so much time apart since Tatooine. What happens if the kid latches onto someone and Mando can’t stomach meddling with their bonding? What happens if he no longer wishes to journey with him? The Mandalorian is responsible for him—he can’t just abandon him, but who’s he to insert himself in places he doesn’t belong?

Then again, devoting time to other children his age—well, about as close they’ll reach to his age—could be beneficial; it’s one of the reasons why he had chosen Sorgan.

Mando exhales and seats his hands on his hips. “Okay, but if he’s too much to handle let me know.”

“Of course,” she whispers, clasping a hand on his tricep as she passes him, the burden slinking down his elbow until he’s too far from her reach and it falls away. He cranes his head to look behind as she strides back towards the village, his eyebrows crinkling as he studies her.

“You two are real chummy,” the Girl says from ahead of him, brushing her shoulder against his pauldron as she continues towards their shared hut. He releases a grunt as he’s pushed out of her way, the confusion inscribed into his brows only multiplying—what the fuck is happening?

“Hey.” Mando stalks her, towering and threatening that induces the locals to pitiful onlookers, silently wishing the Girl her best as she enters the hut with him not far behind, the door slapping closed. “What’s gotten into you?”

The Girl scoffs and shakes her head with disbelief, her hands working at the fastenings of her dress to loosen it from around her thighs, framing her legs in wrinkled tapestry. “Me? You’re the one changing around all your little rules you put in place. Should’ve seen the two of you out there. What happened to privacy?”

His legs don’t operate with his wishes, the boots cemented in a debating stance with his arms crossed against his chest. “What are you talking about?” the vocoders buzz.

Baring her teeth like a tooka, she hisses, “She likes you.”

She likes you—he mulls it over, sifting through the dust for the underlying meaning—do you like her?

Mando’s muscles sag and his feet bound across the room to near her, needing her warmth; needing her. He can’t believe she’s skeptical of their connection. He can’t believe she’s doubting how he feels. It burns him. Leaves a searing scar where his heart belongs.

He wants to reach out for her, feel her pliable tissue underneath his gloves, but there’s a meek hesitance; a miniscule drops-worth of concern he’ll incur further stings that eat at his flesh.

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

Does she not realise what it’s doing to him?

How his fingers are clenched into fists against his sides. How his breathing is heavier. How his shoulders are hunched and his head is preoccupied with images of that blasted skirt hitched up to her thighs with him between them. Does she not see that?

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

“I get it, all right. I don’t...have you, Mando. I’m not allowed to-to be jealous when another woman touches you, but—” She unzips the top unconcerned of his peeping, furious and desperate to rid herself of the confining garment. “I won’t wear her clothes. I won’t dress up as another one of your flings. That’s - that’s…”

Mando’s features soften, his fists unclenching, shoulders slacking, and—wait. Back up. Is she that clueless?

He carries his feet towards her, heavy and laden with purpose.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re wrong, mesh’la,” he repeats. Another step.

She’s no longer concerned with the dress, the fabric that once felt like acid against her skin now nothing more than the means of coverage. The Mandalorian isn’t radiating any expressions that she’s learnt to pick up on—he’s completely unreadable.

“About what?”

“I don’t have you,” he recites. “That’s what you said.”

The Girl’s quiet, too quiet, as she stares him down. There’s a falter in her movements as she recedes from her own nerves reflecting off beskar. Finally, ever so slowly, she breathes out another, “What?”

His modulator thrums, his boots clink, his flight suit rustles. Their radius is shortened, Mando’s beskar brushing against the material of her dress as he closes her in like he did before. His leathers stroke against her cheek, bulky and unsatisfying; preventing him from the intimacy he seeks. It’s not fair. He can’t remain like this—so quarantined from her, so fucking removed.

There’s no thinking, no self-interrogating, as his hands fumble against the beskar plate strapped to his chest in haste—concerned that if he slows down even a second he’ll lose the confidence building up inside him—his fingers curl underneath the boundary and tears the steel off his build, clanking to the flooring beside them. The impact causes her to jump, her eyes widen as she inspects the vacant space of his torso.

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

Seizing her hand in his, he compresses it against his pectoral and breathes in deep—lungs inflating against the appendage, his heart stammering at the unacquainted sensations of her nails digging into the flesh underneath. Inconsistent palpitating of his organ travels from the surface of his chest, through her fingertips and to her core, tightening and coiling as her own beating soars to unhealthy speeds.

It’s an adrenaline rush in itself, her fingers so temperate and alive abutting his dense suit—he conceptualises them slithering underneath to nurse the ache of his organ.

He’s not afraid of being burned. He told her that back on Tatooine and he fucking meant it.

Mando is durable; he can take a few burns if need be.

“You make me do foolish things, mesh’la.” The beskar slides across the room with a kick of his boot and he takes another step closer, her back forced against the walls of their dinky cabin. A gloved forefinger hooks the thread perched among her neck and lifts, the steel pendant revealing itself from beneath the top of her dress and he rubs a comforting stroke on the face of the skull. “This is the only part of me I never removed.”

Her face is hot, her lungs heavy. She’s listening, though she makes no effort in concealing how her fingers insistently grasp at his shirt to develop an understanding of the unfamiliar territory.There’s a gentle squeeze across the back of her hand and she tears her eyes away to glance at the visor, tilted and lenient. “This-” He absentmindedly fidgets with the necklace. “-means more to me than my beskar. It was a...beacon of light, hope. It was my compass when I lost myself in my commissions—reminded me of why I chose this life, why I chose to isolate myself—I’m not sure if I need it anymore.” He hopes he’s exhibiting the connotation inside his head as successfully as he believes—I don’t need it when I have you and you have me.

“Mando…” she exhales.

He chews on the gums of his cheeks, his lips, until they’re sore and tender.

“Not -- not good with words,” he confesses, his thumb massaging circles into her cheekbones. “Let me show you.”

Her head angles to the side in consideration. “Show me?”

It’s not an exact approval of his request but it’s enough for him to act—enough for him to demonstrate his devotion to the Girl—and he sinks his hands behind her thighs and hoists them around his waist, pressing his chest into her for stability against the wall. Her hands find their place on his pauldrons, quizzing eyes searching his visor for assurance. Baffling, how she’s so precarious for his Honour’s sake despite him being the initiator; his toes absorb his weight as he lifts himself to insert the face of his helmet into the crook of her neck, his modulator eliciting a grunt as his arousal awakens and rubs against the bottom of her thighs.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She doesn’t—Thank the Force, as Peli would say—and he transitions them to the cot, her legs tightening around him with each step he takes. He deposits her onto the mattress on her back with his body hunched over hers, though his feet refuse to tear from the floor, either hand on the cushions beside her head.

“Take it off.”

She doesn’t need a stupid dress for him to look at her that way.

The Girl whirs melodically like a comforting warble from his Crest welcoming him home and she carefully slips her limbs from his shoulders down his chest and out from their sleeves, the dress supported by nothing but gravity and her fingers bundle the skirt, impishly stripping the garment inch by slow inch.

Mando rids himself of his gloves, hell-bent on pursuing the pillowy flesh and engraving his fingerprints. Her stripping wavers at her abdomen and he takes the opportunity to slip the rough pads of his hands along the tops of her thighs to beneath the cloth, fingers blindly studying the miniscule scars puncturing the smooth skin. They find the most recent one, still tender but glossed over with rough tissue, and he circles it like a tooka with its prey.

She’s otherworldly, all soft curves and smooth skin in contrast to the dead of steel.

The weight on his chest, or lack of, evokes shameful thoughts.

“Come here,” he whispers, catching her hands and placing them on either of his pauldrons, her fingertips hooking underneath the rim. “Drag it down and then up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

The nickname pulls a shudder out of her bones and her fingers tighten around the steel, heeding his instructions until the layers unclasp from their fastenings—protection he’s bonded with now nothing more than inanimate alloy in her hands. It’s a physical weight off his shoulders but it reaches so much deeper than that, as though he could finally breathe for the first time in years even with the blockade of a helmet.

He repositions her hands to his vambraces. “Curl your finger underneath-” She follows, either forefinger arching beneath the rim and finding a small shrouded dial, the plates slackening around his wrists and she carefully peels either off. “That’s it.”

That ugly trepidation from before isn’t even a consideration—his eyes glowing and fingers stiff as she shucks him from his beskar piece by piece, her own garb partially removed and covering the last portion of her body he’s yet to see bare. He won’t undress her further, not until they’re equal and she’s more comfortable.

Mando slips free of his boots, nudging them to the side, and ascends to the surface of the cot to sit on his knees between her legs. Their hands shift to his tassets resting among his hips and he aids in her attempt to dislodge them from their joints, tossing them to join the growing pile of steel below the bed. She stops with her hands sprawled across his cuisses, the last of his armour; the last physical manifestations of his essence.

“Is this what you want, Mando?” she asks, the tips of her fingers caressing small strokes into his thighs above the steel.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “No one will hear.”

She repeats, “Is this what you want, Din?”

Dank Farrik. He’s no longer The Mandalorian, Mando, but instead reclaiming a long lost name and wearing it with pride, ingraining the sound of it slipping through her lips into his bones. Din. A name he’ll only ever hear come from her. His name.

And the Girl was no longer just the Girl—she’s His Girl; all his and he’ll brand her body to prove it, label her skin with his crescent nails if he has to. They deliberately dig into the meat of her thighs, skin raking underneath his fingernails, and he nods his head in response to her question - this is all he wants. To be suspended in time right here and now; triumphing buried insecurities with her unwavering support.

Her fingers progress independently, hitching underneath the borders and tugging the final two pieces of pesky beskar from his body, sans helmet of course, and languidly drops them to the flooring with a clank.

She stifles her breathing, reducing it to a slow wisp that flees her mouth and circles around them dragging them against each other. “You-you can touch me, mesh’la.” He expresses his covet for her touch by depressing his hips into hers, rocking once and twice rhythmically until she wads a fistful of flight suit to draw him in—her breath fogging the visor as she analyses his build with her hands; trailing along the front of his chest and around his sides, the featherweight touches tickling the body parts scarcely disturbed.

“Smell so good,” she moans and tucks her face into his cowl. “Much better than before.”

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

There’s a hand on either hip and he observes from the clouds as she aligns their pelvises together, her heat bucking against the emerging bulge.

“Show me,” she alludes to his previous proposal, eyes swallowed with inky lust.

Din fucking growls—the modulator contributing very little to the deep crackle—and his hands return to soft flesh, shoving the galling dress up, up, up and over.

“S’pretty.”

The garment is discarded across the hut, finding its home somewhere among the clutter of beskar trailings. She’s faultless, something he already had an impression on but seeing her so bare, so unguarded and trusting beneath him, is record-breaking.

Trauma lesions encompass her skin, little choppy lines of faded tones splotched across her abdomen, her chest, shoulders, waist—mimicking his own—and he returns to the healing wound on her abdomen to brush a tender stroke along the surface; an injury he was there to witness, the blade tucked into her flesh still so fresh in his mind.

“Din.”

The vermillion slipping through his gloves as she faded out of consciousness. Those dreadful cries of pain each time he touched her. The unyielding environment of Tatooine attacking his muscles and composure as she bled out in the arms of a stranger.

A prodding at his back plucks him from reliving the memory, crumbling it into miniscule debris fragments upon the revelation that she’s here with him, breathing and safe and alive. She’s poking at the wound he garnered all those days ago, when she took the first step to progressing this little thing they have going—all of their intimate milestones triggered by one or the other inflicting a wound of sorts; Din seemingly the culprit in both instances.

But not this time.

This time is different. Spurred on by passion and a necessary need to show each other themselves defenceless.

“Sorry,” he whispers and compensates for lost time with a gentle grind of his bulge into her sex, her feet digging into the matress behind him and holding him stationary against her.

She raises to her elbows, seizing a clump of his cowl in one hand to stabilise herself and uses the newfound leverage to rut against his lap. “Shit, Din,” she moans.

It’s so fucking lewd; she’s just using him to get herself off and fuck if he doesn’t like it—the pressure around his neck with each tug, the warmth against his lap, how light and freeing each movement is compared to last time.

“Supposed-” He’s cut off with a tumbling grunt, fleeing out of his throat and into the silent cabin as she quickens her pace; stroking the underside of his length raw. “I’m-I’m supposed to...fuck.”

“Taking-” she breathes, “-too long. Fucking--taking off your beskar, what’re you thinking? I need you, Din.”

She’s forced back onto her back beneath him with a hand flat against her abdomen, his figure looming over her exuding lust and desire and pure dusky thoughts he’d be ashamed of admitting. “Wasn’t done,” he declares, a hand grasping at the hem of his shirt to eradicate the article from the equation. Din needs to feel his skin against hers, more than just roughened hands, he wants her nails in the muscles lining his back, her teeth retreating to the skin above his collarbone, lips and tongue labouring at his neck.

The weight around his neck and shoulders commands him to cease his stripping—fuck. Why’s he got so many fucking layers for? Din rips the cloak from around his neck, bundling it into a tattered ball and tossing it across the room impatiently.

His hands return to his shirt’s hem, elevating the fabric until a sliver of his abdomen is assaulted by frigid air. The downwards dragging is unexpected, quaint, and he stops to heed her interruption, “Only if you want to, Din. Don’t - don’t force yourself for me.”

“Sweet girl,” he muses and removes his hands so she’s left clutching the fabric alone. “Take it off for me.”

It’s too intimate, too liberating; so much more than just sex and a means to receive relief from each other’s bodies. This is something they’ve both been denied for far too long—the meek touches of another to lull each other, reassure themselves events that have yet to unfold will be okay so long as they’re together.

She discards the shirt beside them and runs her nails along his spine gingerly, recording the bumps of bone buried underneath the flesh and muscles. His front is in her face, on direct display for her eyes to collect the slithers of off-whites; her lips brushing his pectorals.

“Been through so much,” she whispers against his skin, her breath prompting a layer of goosebumps in its radius. “Too much.”

“As have you, mesh’la.” His fingers trail a slash across her shoulder.

The time she contributes to identifying each scar, memorising the feeling and positions, is staggering—as though she’d be content with just studying his body for the next week alone—those impressions of her only wanting him for his armour and protection, not for what else he can bring to the table, are lit in unforgiving flames.

She’s not in it for the reputation he withholds, but simply for him.

There’s a tightness in his chest, an ache, something new and terrifying—a word to an emotion he’s not acquainted with circling his mind, bouncing along his tongue in jest towards his confusion and uncertainty.

He doesn’t entertain the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly Din is having his initial encounter with something bigger and more dangerous than any commission he’s dealt with before. It’s not possible. He’s not that fortunate. He can’t process those emotions—he’s not built for that.

Din needs a distraction, pronto, otherwise his head will be so clouded with the thought that—

She banks a wet stripe across the front of his throat, the groan oscillating through his flesh and onto her tongue and she rewards him with a benign kiss—his throat bobs and he ruts against her pelvis unquestionably eager.

Yeah, that’ll do.

Din’s hands surrender behind her back and blindly unclasp the hooks of her undergarment and yanks the blasted barrier off, his hands working the soft mounts before his eyes gain a chance to rake in their appearance.

“So soft,” he murmurs, palming the tissue vigorously. “How’re you so soft?”

The Girl opens her mouth to utter something snarky—he’s beginning to sense her incoming sass—and he devilishly clips a nipple between two fingers to disrupt her train of thought, her fingernails raking against his shoulder blades in an attempt to stifle the rising noises in her throat. It’s hypnotic, like watching electricity react against metal, her back arching as he flicks a thumb over the hardening peak sparking her nails to bare down into the meat of his slackened deltoids.

A hand trails down to his abdomen, digits soaking through the hairs of his happy trail but she doesn’t stop in her endeavours and sinks lower, past his bulge and buries her hand underneath her undergarments so that he can only see the outline of her hand working away at her crotch.

Din exhales, one of his hands fleeing from her breasts to remove the garment so he can watch her. She plunges three fingers inside of herself, stiffly pumping her hand in and out—preparing herself for him; it’s so fucking vulgar.

“Gods,” he groans. His final piece of clothing retires to his ankles, too overzealous to put in that extra effort to be completely free, and instructs her hand to his cock, using the slick on her fingers to lubricate himself. “Flip over for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

She enthusiastically obliges and squirms underneath his weight to lay on her stomach, he uses the pillows to prop her ass up to avoid her overstraining herself and reserves a moment to consider the view—far greater than his mind would conjure up. There’s additional scar tissue across her back, lengthy slashes and the remnants of blaster bolts, but those only highlight her features; the dip between her shoulder blades, the arch of her lower back joining the curves of her ass perfectly.

“Beautiful.” He adjusts himself between her folds, rubbing the tip to amass more of her slick, and eases inside her gradually; his hands never leaving her waist, eyes refusing to tear from the scenic sight.

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

Din hums and thrusts inside her, pulling moans and gasps from her lips like music to his ears. “Beautiful...mesh’la.” It doesn’t require further explanation, the connotation straightforward with two simple words.

She asks, nonetheless, words muffled with bedspread and moaning, “That’s what you’ve been calling me all this time?”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it—you’re… you -- Maker. Shut up and fuck me.”

Fucking her, that he can do. Shutting up, on the other hand, was a little more difficult. It’s worthy of a comedic performance, how contrasting Din is in bed to in his armour; usually so stoic, a Mandalorian-of-few-words, now so whiny and talkative underneath the Girl’s charm.

Even if he wanted to stop murmuring dulcet words—and he really fucking doesn’t want to; the pent-up statements flowing from his throat so smoothly compared to earlier, like a tender creek current—he can’t stop.

Din applies his weight onto her back, uses his knees to continue his thrusts, and dips his helmet to mutter filth into her ear, “Gar jatnese be te jatnese-” He grunts, a hand squirming it’s way underneath her body to snatch a breast - just to have his hands against parts of her reserved for him. “Gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?”

Of course she doesn’t understand—-Mando’a isn’t a well-known language, with few aruetii capable of articulating the speech. It’s no surprise when she doesn’t respond to his comments but the quiver reaching her shoulders and toes is a clear indication she’s savouring the sound of his voice manipulating a foreign language—whispering endearments only he can understand.

He’s touching her everywhere, running along her sides and across her shoulders, fingers dipping to draw lines across her cheeks and forehead where sweat is beginning to accumulate. Din’s inquisitive, it goes against his nature—habitually so cautious and attentive—and he sweeps two fingers across the cushioning of her lips, tapping against the flesh until she parts and immerses the digits within the pocket of her mouth.

There’s no sense of direction, no suggestion for what she should do cause he’s fucking splintered like a log; he’s had her fingers in his mouth before but he’s never felt the warmth of her saliva without a leather barrier. The helmet tucks into the crevice of her neck and shoulder as she bobs her head on the fingers, performing identically to how she had at Tatooine on his cock—sultry and slow, simply exploring the body he’s honoured her with sharing.

It’s an overload of sensations. Being rooted so deeply within her it’d be best to pitch his residence to refrain from laborious movement, their lungs synchronised against each other, his bareness, his withering Honour, so apparent and she’s focused on serving him with anything he desires; fingers in her mouth, weight crushing her, a hand grabbing at her chest, she doesn’t care so long as he’s satisfied and touching her.

Din can’t handle it. He’s a fucking Mandalorian. A warrior. He’s killed thousands of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s survived wars. None of those even came close to shattering him like she does—a pretty girl is the cause of his skeptical questioning of his Code. A pretty girl is the sole motivation for his fingers to dip underneath the beskar rim, floundering for the feel of a fastener -- click!

There’s a hiss that interrupts her pace, the gears in her head turning, and she pulls away from his fingers to stare off into oblivion. Her body’s tense, the cushiony flesh abruptly hard and taut underneath him. “What’s the matter, Cyar’ika?” he mulls, stopping his movements to console the change of attitude.

“Din—you can’t.”

She doesn’t need to explain herself. Doesn’t need to clarify she understands that sound, having heard it twice before now. She understands the reality of the situation he’s pushing themselves into; quite possibly more than Din himself.

She inhales and inclines her head, sealing off any possibility of catching a glimpse of something unforgivable. She murmurs, “You’ve shown me, I get it -- I understand. The pendant, the beskar, the flight suit... It’s too much—I can’t reciprocate. You can’t give all of this to me, Din.”

The beskar is slack, mobile, as he shifts so he’s directly behind her. “Oh, Cyar’ika, you’ve given me plenty.” he hums, the vocoder continuing to operate. It modulates his vocals into staticy droid-like sounds; it provokes a rise in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen, and he rips the steel from his face—as though he’s submerged in krill water, drowning and in dire need of the Girl—and his mouth latches onto the back of her shoulder in one foul swoop. There’s no time to consider it, his actions overcoming his rationality and faith to his Creed.

It’s all teeth and tongue. Biting and tugging, licking and lapping.

The Girl springs at the sensation, the contact so heavenly she’s uncertain whether it’s real.

“Din, you...fuck, shouldn’t-shouldn’t…” She struggles for a deep inhale with the weight on her back, her face swallowed by blankets for his Honour’s sake.

The enamel works out the knots in her muscles, his warm tongue lulling the skin to relaxation after he’s finished abusing it. It’s fucking surreal. Dreamlike. Who knew something so small could elicit such a primal feeling inside of him. She’s even softer in his mouth than his hands—how is she so fucking soft—all warm and salty from sweat that attacks his tastebuds, leaves him thirsty for more.

He marvels whether the beating in her chest is as fast as his, whether he’s spurring on some deepened arousal like she’s doing to him; his cock hardens like that of his beskar, tight and sturdy to the point of ache and he’s compelled to grind his pelvis against her ass to relieve some of the pressure.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, voice rounded and deep and alive; goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin, which he nurses with delicate pecks. “Should take a look at yourself.”

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

It encourages him, welcomes the husky tone from the depths of his throat as he nears her ear and deliberately exudes a hot sigh to assault the cartlidge, “Kaab jate, Cyar’ika? Is that what you like? My voice?” He pokes his tongue at the base of the side of her neck and slides upwards to the bottom of her ear. “Or—ner uram—my mouth?”

It’s not a question needed to answer; she makes it apparent that yes, his mouth, his voice, his vulnerability, his sacrifice, is what she likes—she likes him.

“Ke-ep talking like that and I’m gonna-”

“We’re not done,” he rumbles. “I wanna-wanna taste.”

“Ta-st-e…” she stumbles. He can’t see her face from this angle but he imagines a tint of pink across her cheeks, her teeth chomping away at the bottom lip.

Din buzzes against her ear in confirmation. “Want you in my mouth. Is that okay?”

“Oh fuck. Yes. Where - how do you want me?”

So fucking eager—he swallows the opportunity to assuage her appetite for his tongue by flattening the organ against her spine unloading a thick stripe of saliva in substitute for the sweat that nestles its way down his throat. “Not yet, sweet thing, let me take care of you first.”

Din lacks experience utilising his mouth to get someone off, isolating yourself in a layer of steel tends to do that to a man, and he’d be unable to reveal himself from his beskar again if he humiliates himself like that—he’ll just exploit what he can and swoop in to lap up the remnants between her thighs.

It’s greedy wanting to experience the flavour not for her pleasure but his own. That aftertaste that’s so highly spoken about so unidentifiable on his taste buds; he can’t continue living not knowing what that’s like.

But first; he’ll make her scream his name and come on his cock until she’s leaking down her thighs.

His helmet idles beside them, lopsided visor leering at him from it’s position—he scowls at the heinous thought jostling around his mind and repositions it ahead of the Girl, the steel weighing down the blankets. He verifies it’s perspective and slithers a hand around her throat to pry her face from the depths of the blankets and mattress.

She’s rigid as she finds herself in the reflection of the visor, sweaty and flushed and practically drooling with thirst for his thrusts. “Fucking——look at yourself,” Din moans.

“Shit, your face-”

“S’okay,” he slurs, “can’t see me from your position.”

The Girl relaxes somewhat, her shoulders still taut but her neck melting into his hand and moulding her flesh around his digits as he continues to incline her head—look how gorgeous you are—and his teeth latches onto the skin of her throat, twisting and pulling to leave a mark for later.

His hair is thick and unkempt, subsequently flat and jungly from the helmet, and his wild curls wash against the bays of her jaw; strands peering into her field of view even though her eyes are almost at the back of her head. She obliges with her eyelids requests, respecting his Creed, and seals themselves together to submerge her vision with black—it’s all sensory, all touches and gentle kisses against her neck to counterbalance the unforgiving thrusts he’s gifting.

Din labels her with his teeth indentations, breaking the blood vessels in splotches across her throat, painting crescents into her shoulders with his nails. He mouths her name but the word refuses to vocalise, latching onto the tonsils and taking residence there; in his mouth, where it belongs.

“Din--”

His response is nothing short of filth; muffled moaning pressed against the back of her ear as his hand captures the swelling nub of her clit to draw eager circles.

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

“That’s it,” Din croons, his lips curling at the over abundance of his name spewing from her gullet. “Let go.”

There’s a quaint delay, her body working overtime to comprehend all the sensations without overloading her brain, then she’s writhing and twitching underneath him; his hand and thrusts never-ending as he pulls every single quake out of her involuntarily. Her walls tighten around his cock, that unmistakable warmth engulfing his length to attract his own undoing like a magnet—he could keep going for hours if not for that fucking warmth.

“Din! Di-”

“Shh,” he advises, setting his palm against her mouth to blunt the ecstasy cascading from her vocals like a waterfall—a downside to being so close-quartered to others; he wants to hear those whines, the unstoppable call of his name at her peak, but he’ll settle for rewarding muffles.

Din works her down from her orgasm, pecking soft kisses against her healing slashes and softening the fingers against her clit until she’s no longer twitching underneath his weight. She lays there for a moment, simply memorising the tingling between her thighs and how his pelvis compresses against her ass with every delicate thrust.

Energy recovering, rather quickly, she meets with his lunges, sloppy and trembling on her knees but he appreciates the effort—not that he needs it. She doesn’t need to do anything special to aid his high; Din could just come if she asked him to.

He’s reaching deep, the tip of his cock nudging against her cervix, and they stagger in unison. “Fuck. Vaii, Cyar’ika. Where-where do you want-”

“In,” she mewls between his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“In.” Din fights his conscious for a breath, his windpipes narrow and clogged. “Dank Farrik. You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

Din’s cock anchors in her warmth, his pelvis rocking back-and-forth lightly, and he savours how her walls contract with each flick of her sensitive nub—edging on his orgasm by the inch starting from the tip and sliding down to the base like vine tendrils wrapping around him and encouraging him to just fucking let go.

He heeds his own advice and relaxes, allowing the overwhelming pulsations to pump strings of softening whites inside of her, her name falling out his mouth in broken moans. Their warmths mix together within her walls and stick to his length with vengeance as he numbly extracts himself until only the tip is concealed. Cock still semi-hard, Din irresistibly thrusts into her one final time—pathetic ego reaching new heights when she mutters a final bleat.

Din runs rough fingers up the backs of her thighs and to her shoulders, palming the flesh tenderly until she’s nothing but a pool of lax muscles beneath him. His mouth delivers delicate kisses across the back of her neck to provide a break for her to regain her breathing.

“Can you continue?”

She nods her head, a simple response he holds close to his heart as he carefully readjusts himself behind her.

She’s poetic from this view, a body crafted with wise hands the greatest bards would struggle to write about, but there’s nothing that comes within range of outstanding like her face does.

He needs to see her.

“Think you can hold your eyes shut while I go down on you?” Din groans in desperation while she mulls the question over. “Please, Cyar’ika, I need a taste.”

It’s a big ask and if she can’t ultimately gather up that courage to comply he won’t pressure her, no matter how much his mouth salivates from the thought of finally consuming a piece of her.

It’s the greatest test of trust; she’d easily be able to slip open those pretty eyes and pulverise his Creed to molecules—he wouldn’t trust himself if he was in her position.

It should terrify him; should render him into a solid beam of sturdy beskar.

It doesn’t. Din’s paralleled to that of the Girl, soft and warm, not an inch of him cold and solid.

His Mandalorian helmet contains a blackout setting and, if it comes to it, he can slip it over her head so he can sate his cravings without the paranoia in either of their heads—no.That picturesque face of hers shouldn’t ever be covered up again; that stupid face mask stole too many moments from his vision.

There’s enough concealment behind beskar to provide for both of them. Too much concealment.

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

The stretched lips across his face is disgraceful; finding pleasure in something so filthy. Din couldn’t give a fuck. Who wouldn’t be smiling in his position?

They silently reorganise themselves with her on her back, eyes firmly shut, and Din planted between her thighs, quite possibly his favourite place in all of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t rush things; he’s not that kind of man. He works her up with ribbing kisses across her sternum and tooka-licks on either nipple simply to hear her breathing hitch and her hands fist the blankets underneath them. She white-knuckles the fabric when his teeth collect the sensitive skin and brutally sucks his markings into her, red and blemished that’ll welt nicely by morning—the only form of bruisings her body should be subjected to.

The hand assaulting the blankets transfers into the thick lock atop of his head with his guide, the digits snaking through the curls for leverage and tugging as he makes sloppy open-mouthed kisses around the pendant resting between her breasts.

“Cyar’ika.” The newly-adopted nickname floats through the air and into her core. “What’d I do to deserve all this?”

There’s no sarcastic comeback this time, not even an attempt, though he knows what she would say—destroyed my rifle—and he makes route lower and lower and fucking lower.

She’s straining to keep her hand in the mess of hair, his head lowered between her thighs where she can feel his breathing against her heat.

There’s a trail of translucent along the insides of her thighs and he follows the streak with his lips, digits digging into the meat while he collects it onto the cushiony brims. His tongue doesn’t delve out for a taste—not yet—until he’s made a path directly to her sex to place a final kiss against the peak of her clit triggering a miniscule buck that nudges against his nose.

“Tell me to stop,” Din pleads; fucking pleads because he knows if she doesn’t he won’t be able to stop himself.

His scalp burns as she stiffens her grip. “Please.”

There’s an experimental lick at first, nothing short of the tip of his tongue running through her folds, but once he’s obtained a taste of her there’s no end in sight—the finish line sprinting so far away from him he doesn’t even want to make an attempt to reach a conclusion. He’s happy to sit there and lap up everything until she’s dried out.

The Girl was spot-on. They’re a combination of sweet and salty—sweet on the account of her, salty because of him—and its so fucking addictive. His tongue flattens against her to collect as much slick onto the muscle and retracts, swallows, and repeats.

The bump of his nose stimulates her oversensitive clit for a second round, his fingers deviously slipping inside her canals to accumulate what his tongue can’t reach, his eyes spying on her face for every reaction he plucks.

Din can’t prevent the famished growl that slips out of him when his fingers plop into his mouth, shiny whites blending with his salvia to slide down his throat and lay rest in his stomach.

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

For someone so inexperienced, Din sure knows what he’s doing. His tongue is in hyperdrive, working at her clit and suctioning every last drop of her out from within.

“O-o-h,” she moans and writhes on the mattress. “Gods, Din... Right there. Sh-it.”

The mewling words of encouragement boost his ego, as though he’d been replaced with his younger self; overly-enthusiastic and mindless, but possessing far more maturity—nurturing quirks that go against his amour propre youth.

Din heeds her commands, unrelenting licks jerking against her clit while his fingers get to work pumping in and out of her.

He’s not trying to make her come again, he didn’t think he had it in him, but fuck she’s right on the edge—he can feel it. Maybe it’s the over-sensitive nub collapsing into her core prompting her to tremble and twitch, or maybe he’s not giving himself enough credit; regardless, he’s working overtime to quench her needs.

When her thighs pinch the sides of his head, he really loses the plot—a heavy grunt expelling from his throat as he angles his head to the side and quickens his pace, poking and prodding at the spot she likes best.

“Din, Din-fuck.”

Thrumming journeys through his mouth and onto her clit, stimulating it just that extra mile to cross the finishing line. Her thighs stabilise his head in place while she violently bucks into his mouth, her second orgasm much stronger than her first.

There’s a surge of slick coating his fingers and he sinks to hoard it in his mouth, tongue-fucking her up till she’s a whimpering mess beneath him. It’s all her—his saltiness long gone—and he revels in the warmth; focusing on it slipping down his throat and sheeting his taste buds with a sweet syrup that immediately destroys the memory of those pitiful pancakes.

“So fucking delicious, Cyar’ika. You deserve a taste. You want some?”

Her head nods faintly, the exhaustion catching up to her; thighs trembling and fingertips taut in his curls.

Din accumulates a mass of her slick on his fingers and reroutes himself for her mouth, but stops himself. It’s glistening at him, taunting and just begging to slip into his mouth—he fulfills it’s wishes and plunges his digits inside for his tongue to lap up the remnants before hastily ramming his lips against hers.

It’s too authentic, too nerve wracking, as though he’s being initiated into the Creed for a second time; all butterflies in his stomach and outpaced blood flow through his veins. His hands quiver as they find her face, cupping her jaw as he deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue across her gums.

The Girl’s eyes nearly slip open from the initial shock but she’s mastered her self-control, slinking into the mattress and pulling him with her.

It’s not like the kisses you’d see in holoplays, where it’s all soft and delicate but rather hungry and needy, a lot of teeth clashing against each other as they attempt to find themselves.

They exchange flavours, Din offering up her slick on his tongue in return for her saliva; tasteless in itself but it’s hers—his favourite flavour.

It’s all over him. In his mouth, on his chin, his fingers, his cock. It’s where it belongs.

Breathing is essential to life: they’re reminded as they reluctantly pull from each other's seals. Din’s not done just yet, then again, he’ll never truly be quenched of her. There’s just not enough of her. His lips disturb every speck of visible skin on her face, pecking her chin and across her cheeks all the way up to her eyes and back around the opposite side.

He’s much more gentle now, having gorged himself on her lips and taste, and is mindful of the scratchiness of the scruff along his jaw as he runs the pillows down her throat to come to rest in the cavern between her shoulder and neck.

She’s so bouncy, so padded, Din could rest his head on the bare tissue and sleep for centuries; recuperate for all the decades of blood and sweat he’s put his body through, replenish the colour underneath his eyes, permit his muscles and bones to be reborn.

His eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he rests his eyes and evens out his breathing.

“Din,” she breathes, hands sketching idle lines across his back. “Hate to ruin the mood but your helm-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest,” he mumbles against her flesh, a hand blindly reaching out for the blanket to cover themselves; he doesn’t plan on moving from this position. She’ll have to pry him off herself. The beskar pendant is wedged between their chests, the skull's tusks digging into his muscles but it’s somehow fitting, comforting.

She is worried, though. There’s a crinkle between her eyebrows that he heals with the padding of his thumb. “What if I wake up-”

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Din should initiate. She’s too comforting and he might never wake if he remains in her arms. His stubble pricks against her collarbone as he finds an abode among her chest, the beat of her heart against his eardrum.

“Please, Cyar’ika, don’t make me put it back on.”

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

Her, not the location, though Sorgan will always sit somewhere special within his heart.

His Girl is all he needs.

If Din didn’t have a mission, a green mischievous baby, to tend to he would spend the rest of his days nestled into her body, pampering precious skin made of the elements themselves with sentimental kisses and delightful touches.

If she was to ask him to retire his blasters to their weapons unit, he would do it in an instant.

“Din?” He placidly drones in feedback. “Thank you.”

“Hmm? For what?”

A hand lazes on his head, tufts of ungroomed curls separating through the gaps of her fingers considerably slow as to not lug a knot. “Believing in me. I don’t ask much about Mandalorian culture ‘cause I figured you get asked a lot; I only know of that from Legends, but I can see it’s a part of you. Trusting me with your Creed...after everything I’ve done… Thank you.”

She’s still beating herself up about previous events. He could just wedge open her eyelids so she can look into his eyes; maybe then she’ll realise he’s already forgiven her. Instead, Din exhales a low-toned sigh and pecks what skin his lips can reach from his position.

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Sweet girl,” he shushes her. “In Mandalorian culture we use that term in initiation; it’s to clear all previous debts. Everything that occurred before is erased. Only what will happen in the future will be considered.”

Their cabin falls silent as she mulls the significance over. Din can hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby, children laughing, and adults toasting each other to another successful day; lively and euphoric-sounding but he’s content laying atop of his euphoria, to feel each expansion of her lungs, each tardy investigative stroke on his bare form.

“Does that mean I’m not getting your rifle?” she jests.

Din laughs, a full-on throaty bellow that resonates through her. It’s so humanlike it shocks him, leaves him wiping at the corners of his eyes from the onslaught of tears he’s producing.

The Girl’s hand runs from his head to the back of his neck, her thumb and forefinger massaging out the taut stone into flexible cloth. She quietly murmurs, “Wasn’t that funny.”

Laughing gradually subsiding, he basks in the comfortable silence between them. The Girl was never overbearing, even before all the tension arised, never stepped her foot out of line purely out of respect for his wishes and now she’s breached obstacles that’d make him hang his head in shame in the presence of his elders.

“Didn’t you propose a challenge or have you already forgotten?”

She smirks with cocky confidence. “Gambling with your weapons, huh? That’s so unlike you.”

“As I said; foolish, foolish things, Cyar’ika.”

___________________

"atin" - stubborn "sleemo" - slimeball "mesh'la" - beautiful "gar jatnese be te jatnese" - you're the best of the best "gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?" - you complete me, do you understand? "auretii" - outsider "cyar'ika" - sweetheart/darling "kaab jate?" - sound good? "ner uram" - my mouth "vaii" - where

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than the others, it lowkey beat my ass up. In other news, I am currently planning my next series that'll be a Mandalorian!Reader if any of you are interested in that. If you wish to be added to either the LUNAR taglist or the upcoming series tags, please send an ask or a message!

tags: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

#the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x y/n #smut #star wars smut #the mandalorian smut #cw smut #star wars fic #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #fic #fiction #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #lunar fic #grogu #omera #y/n #you #reader

[kurlyfrasier]

No-One But Her: Part 2

Zuko x Katara

Synopsis: Katara flees from the newly crowned fire lord, thinking it's what is best for him, but the moment she sets foot on a Fire Nation supply ship she starts hearing Zuko’s voice and dreaming of how he handles her disappearance.

Word Count: 1409

Warnings: none

In all his finery, Zuko looks imposing, intimidating, feared. Even with the front open, revealing the scar (or maybe the scar helps the look). Her scar. She wishes he would take it off. She wishes he would go back to wearing his comfortable travelling clothes she remembers the smell of; campfire, sweat, spice. She wishes she could walk into his open arms and feel the warmth that can only come from Zuko.

He sighs, tracing the scar as he stares into the mirror.

“Why did she heal me if she wasn’t going to stay?” The question echoes in his chambers, now empty of fire whiskey bottles with light shining in through the cracks of the curtains.

She wants to scream that it’s because she could never live without him. That she could never live in a world knowing he doesn’t exist, she rephrases.

“I would’ve preferred death to this agony,” he rasps.

She wants to punch him. Kick him. Shake him as he closes his robe, hiding the scar. The thing that proves his love for her.

“Time to be Fire Lord,” he whispers. Straightening up, shoulders back, and holding his head high he turns away from the mirror and walks out the door.

She follows unwillingly down the hall and into a large conference room with a long table in the middle, snacks set on a side table (she notices what she thinks are fireflakes in several bowls) under windows that lined the outer wall. The sunshine was blinding compared to his room. In this light she sees the dark bags under his eyes. She hopes it’s not lingering pain from the lightning bolt causing restless nights.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” the advisors greet and bow in concert, their chairs screeching over the floor as they stand up.

“Please sit,” Zuko says in the most serious tone she’s ever heard.

They obey as he walks toward the end of the table - the head of the table. After sitting, he stares at the other end longingly. Katara wonders who is supposed to sit at the empty chair there.

The advisors’ curious gazes follow their fire lord’s.

“Ah, Fire Lord Zuko,” an advisor- Ruzu?- smiles knowingly. “Might you be searching for a Fire Lady?”

“No,” Zuko glares at Ruzu, daring him to continue. 

“But you need a Fire Lady by your side. You will appear-”

“I’m not looking because I’ve already found her-” the advisors gasp in astonishment and murmur to themselves with curiosity. Katara feels a pang of jealousy towards whomever her friend was talking about.

“Wh-who?” An advisor asks, barely able to meet his Fire Lord’s piercing gaze.

“None of your concern. I know what’s best for this country and myself and it is she.”

“If it is that waterbender,” Ruzu spit out. “Then she will never be welcomed on the throne.”

“That waterbender has a name and you know it well, Ruzu,” Zuko said pointedly, his golden eyes molten in his fury. Katara knew that if Zuko was not in the meeting his fists would be flames. “She saved your Fire Lord’s life. If I hear even a whisper of any negative rumors about Master Katara-”

“But she is a peasant-”

“She is the equivalent of our royalty being the Chief’s Daughter,” Zuko snapped his eyes in the direction of the advisor who dared call Katara anything less than what she is. “This conversation is over. Do not bring up marriage again. I will marry one person only and there is nothing any of you could say or do to change my mind.”

***

Katara stirred awake in her darkened room. It was a starless, moonless night. She could feel the rage of a storm in the distance. She thinks rain is exactly what she needs to cool her flaming cheeks after witnessing Zuko defend her so fervently, until she remembers Zuko stating he already has a fire lady in mind. She now knows it was good she left. Her heart wouldn’t be able to handle seeing another woman by Zuko’s side. She thinks he may have been speaking of Mai and believes she would be a good fire lady. Perfect for the role, actually. Not quite what the advisors were hoping for, she thinks, but definitely someone who would stick to Zuko’s side.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.” 

She curled into herself as the whisper of his voice sent shivers down her spine.

“I know I don’t deserve her.”

His rasp tickled her skin.

“Will she ever come back?”

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek. 

“Where is she?”

With a quivery sigh, she rolls over, the blankets tangled in her legs. Faintly, she wonders if his voice will ever leave her- if the dreams will ever disappear- and allows sleep to consume her once more. 

***

The garden was just as beautiful as Katara remembered it. The pond glistened under the sun’s rays, warming the sleepy-looking turtle-ducks floating on the surface. She heard a blast of flames. 

Then another. 

And another.

Curious, she strolled through the garden, passed the gate, rounded the corner, and into the training field she had practiced in at one time. Before she heard the advisors speaking of how she would be a distraction, that she would never understand their ways. Anger formed in the pit of her stomach at the memory, until she noticed Zuko- shirtless- staring out at the ocean, chest heaving.

“What burdens you, Nephew.” Katara snapped her head in General Iroh’s direction. He sat by a pai sho table, seeming as if the current game consumed all of his attention. Katara knew better, though. The man always had a sense of his surroundings, especially when his nephew was nearby.

“Did you know, Uncle?” Zuko asked softly, gaze still toward the ocean. Katara wished desperately to see his face, although he didn’t look to be as lean as he was in her last dream.

So time had passed. She wondered when the last dream must have taken place and if this one was more accurate to the current time.

��You must be more specific. There are many things I know and even more I do not.”

“What the advisors had said about her?”

“And of whom are we speaking?”

“You know who,” Zuko snapped, finally turning around to find his uncle still bent over the pai sho table. “Ugh, isn’t that game over yet?” He muttered, walking over to sit on the opposite side of Iroh.

Katara’s heart soared to see Zuko looking well-fed and healthy, and rushed as if to hug him before she remembered- she wasn’t there. So instead, she settled with looking him over; his lean muscles were becoming a bit bulkier, powerful-looking, intimidating. She wanted to know if his hold would still feel the same in those arms. She felt a smile touch her lips when she saw his eyes no longer held bags under them, even if they still held a hint of sadness. And he seemed...taller somehow, now that she sat next to them.

“It is a long game indeed, to play by messenger hawk. Kanna is also a formidable player,” Iroh sighed and glanced up at his surrogate son. 

Vaguely, Katara wonders how Iroh knows her grandmother, but is too consumed by Zuko’s presence to pay it any mind. She barely even pays attention to their chatter as she soaks every facet of Zuko in. Oh, how she wished she could spar with him, one last time. 

“She writes that Master Katara has not been to the Southern Water Tribe.”

“Arg,” Zuko runs a hand through his shaggy locks. “Where could she possibly be!? She’s not with Suki, Sokka, or Toph, and Aang hasn’t seen her at any of the air temples. The men I sent out still haven’t sent back word. I don’t understand, Uncle,” he abruptly stands, marches to the middle of the training field, and starts aggressively fighting an invisible foe. “Why is she hiding? Do you think she really believed them? That she would only be a distraction?”

“Fire Lord Zuko!” A guard calls out, running into the training field, effectively getting their attention. Zuko’s stance changed from relaxed to ramrod straight, eyes narrowing as he waited for the guard to finish panting. “A cap- A captain claims he’s seen the Master Waterbender sir. Says she-”

“Speak no more,” Zuko cut the guard off with a wave of his hand. “I’ll speak to him in the throne room.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 3

#zuko x katara #zutara #fanfic #atla fanfic #my writing #atla #zuko #katara #aang #sokka #suki #toph #kanna #avatar the last airbender #angst #happy #sad #water #fire #elements

[kaitoujokerscans]

Showdown in the Dark Night! Joker vs Shadow CH1

Notices!!

"Tonight, I'll come to take 'Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum' from the Cape Gardens! Phantom Thief Joker"

"On the 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒟𝒶𝓇𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 when the moon has perished, I shall come together with 𝐵𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝑅𝒶𝒾𝓃 to steal away the 𝐸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝒯𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 ​ known as 'Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum'! Phantom Thief Shadow Joker"

<1> Night Raid

It was a moonless night. A cold wind blew in from the ocean, and other than the sound of leaves on the trees rustling, the night forest quietly held its breath.

Within this sprawling forest atop a precipitous cliff, a house stood deserted. This grand house, a relic of Japan's Showa era, was now uninhabited. Since the death of its owner, a major financier, it was managed by only a few members of staff. The master of the house was famous for being an eccentric who hardly went out, but also happened to be a noted botanical collector, and in the courtyard grew many rare kinds of flowers. This courtyard, flush with flowers from around the world, was spread out over a wide area in the vast forest and endowed with a multitude of diversions to entertain the visitor: a large pond, bridges, a greenhouse, and a garden maze formed from tall hedges, among others.

The very centerpiece of the courtyard was a donut-shaped hanging garden, fixed around the great manor like the rings of Saturn. It was neatly divided into twenty-four beds and engineered so that one could enjoy flowers in season at any time. Looking out from the manor, one would see the ocean beyond the hanging garden. After the owner died, the courtyard was opened to the public, and it came to be known as the "Cape Gardens".

Tonight, this usually tranquil garden was under high alert. The red lights of numerous police cars lit up the entire garden, sowing it with an uneasy ambiance. The police searchlights positioned on the manor's roof smoothly circled the courtyard as if tracing an image, at intervals illuminating the officers on duty. They rigorously scanned the area with an anxious look on their faces.

One man watched them from the from the third floor of the house. He wore a custom moss green uniform on his short and stout body, and long hair flowed out over it from the back of his head. A certain look of determination filled his face as he intently looked out over the garden, arms folded.

The manor's clock tower bell struck once. Bong!

"11:30, is it..." said the man, looking at his wristwatch. The bell in this house rang the time at the hour and struck once at the half hour.

A door banged open behind the man. "Inspector!"

He turned around to see two officers run in. The first was a sharp-eyed long-haired violette, the other a short blonde.

"Oh, Ginko-chan, Momo-chan."

"He's arrived."

"At last!" The man's glinted dimly. "Fu fu fu, this is the end of the line. This time I'll so arrest him!" he exclaimed loudly.

The man's name was Oniyama Dokusaburou. He was a veteran officer belonging to the Metropolitan Police Department's Anti-Phantom Thief Unit, with twenty-five years on the force. He originally handled robberies and fraud cases, but his career changed completely with the appearance of a certain man. His name...

Phantom Thief Joker.

Nicknamed the "Miracle Maker", Joker was the century's greatest phantom thief. He came and went as he pleased, was smart as a whip, and could change his appearance to anyone else's. He stole treasure like smoke and escaped like the wind. Though he was still young, his almost magical methods were indeed miraculous.

Oniyama had first encountered Joker in a certain caper, in which he was utterly bested and the treasure was stolen. Ever since, Oniyama had dedicated his own career as a police officer to catching Joker, or so he swore. Now wherever Joker stirred up trouble, Oniyama was sure to come along after him. Joker was a world-trotting thief, and while Oniyama could not chase him overseas at a moment's notice, he was always in charge of cases involving him in Japan. This time, he had rushed to the scene upon receiving a notice from Joker threatening to steal the Gardens' "Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum".

"Today's the day I'll catch him, for sure..." Oniyama said as he did before every caper. To exaggerate a little, chasing after Joker was Oniyama's reason for living. Oniyama had vowed that he would put Joker in handcuffs himself. This time, he looked out onto the field with more resolve than ever. The reason being...

As he thought to himself, he heard the squeaking sound of wheels from beyond the door. A young man in a wheelchair entered the room.

"Heya, long time no see, Oniyama-han."

"It's been a while, Hayami Kyoutarou-kun."

"There's a buncha big-name officers here again. Halfa loaf's better 'en none, so that's fine and dandy. But if we can't catch our key man Joker with all 'ese heads put together, what's tha point?" Hayami teased in his Kansai accent, grinning at Oniyama.

Frosty eyes set in a pale face shone below his neat and even bowl-cut black hair. He was dressed in a blue blazer, a properly-tied striped necktie, and black slacks. It was the uniform of the school that Oniyama's daughter would likely attend in the future as well, the private Cross Academy high school division.

Hayami was a genius high school detective famous in the area. He solved cases while sitting in his wheelchair with a mind so keen that his IQ was rumored to be 300. He could figure out and expose culprits and tricks on the spot with only the slightest amount of evidence. Oniyama had singled Hayami out and requested that he help in this investigation.

"Let me thank you for coming out this far. You were a great help when you last handled a Joker case."

"Yep, was that the recent Kubiki Shrine affair, or the instrument inheritance case? The nitwit police kept chasin' a phony balloon Joker that time, I recall."

"Say that again? The nitwit police?" The long-haired officer beside Oniyama took a step forward. Officer Ginko was a former F1 racer and speed freak, hence she was infamously referred to as the department's "devil chaser". Both her driving and disposition were a little on the wild side, and she could be short-tempered.

"Ha ha ha, pardon. I can't say I didn't feel like a nitwit myself. Joker ended up spoiling the trick. It was a sour case fer the both of us." Hayami took a breath and turned his gaze toward the center of the room. "So that's what Joker's got his mark on this time?"

"Yes, that's right."

There was a small glass case in the middle of the large open room that formerly served as a salon. Within it was a beautiful hairpin, sparkling gold. It was ornately crafted, a chrysanthemum decoration adorning the end. Each petal was made of gold, and a brilliantly-shining diamond was set in the center.

"Is that Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum?"

"Correct. Apparently it's the most valuable item in the deceased owner's collection. As the name suggests, it's a chrysanthemum flower made of gold, and it's said that only the historical poet Ono no Komachi* could complement its beauty."

"Hmm... Inspecter, could ya let me see it?"

The blonde officer opened the case for him, and Hayami gently took the hairpin in hand. He examined it intently.

"It's really pretty, especially this diamond!" The blonde officer Momo was fascinated by the hairpin's focal gem. The white diamond was unusually large. It had a brilliant cut that made it glint at any angle. It was truly worthy of being a treasure targeted by Joker.

Once Hayami had carefully put the hairpin back in its case, Ginko and Momo returned to patrolling the area. It was only Oniyama and Hayami in the salon now. Hayami turned back to Oniyama and broke the silence.

"By the by, Oniyama-han, I hear you'll be losin' charge if ya don't jail Joker this time, is that right?"

"Mmh..." Oniyama faltered. Yes, Oniyama's boss had given him an ultimatum: "If you don't get results this time, I'm taking you off any future Phantom Thief Joker cases." Seeing as he hadn't made any headway, he was in no position to make excuses. As a last resort, Oniyama used every connection he had within the police to assemble a host of strong, trained officers and equip them with new arsenal. Just to be on the safe side, he requested Hayami's assistance. "That... doesn't concern you." Oniyama answered, looking away.

"Come on, don't be so touchy. Yer just up against a cliff, Inspecter. I had some trouble with Joker not long ago now in Singapore."

"What, you mean last month's incident? You were there?" Last month, Phantom Thief Joker had shown up in Singapore and snatched a gem called the "Black Opal". It was another piece from the collection of this manor's owner.

"Yep. One little slip and I let Joker get away. This time I'll nab 'im for sure..." Hayami clenched his fist. A strong light sparked in his cold eyes, and Oniyama didn't miss it. I can trust this boy...

Oniyama held his hand out straight. "I appreciate your cooperation today, Hayami Kyoutarou."

"Right on, ya can count on me. Let's catch Joker, the both of us!" The two exchanged a firm handshake, man to man.

As the pair were having a sincere moment with each other, what exactly was the all-important Phantom Thief Joker doing...?

§§§

"Waaaaaaaaaaah! Craaaaaaaaap!" A scream rang through the giant airship Sky Joker as it advanced through the night sky.

A boy in ninja wear hurriedly ran into Joker's room. "W-What happened, Joker-san!?" shouted the ninja boy, his round golden eyes opened wide. A blue hood and metal plate covered his forehead, and he was clad in ninja gear. There was a small katana fit to his stature at his back. It was Joker's assistant, Hachi. "Joker-san?" Lying on the bed across from Hachi was Joker.

The century's greatest phantom thief, the miracle maker Phantom Thief Joker! Bane of millionaires around the world, the boy who charmed countless with his bombastic conduct, always wearing a bright red suit... except for right now.

Joker was wearing a set of sunny yellow pajamas and a little triangular nightcap. His loud silver hair was bedraggled and sticking out in every direction. His drowsy eyes were wide open, and of all things, there was a trace of drool at the end of his mouth. "I messed up bad~~~! Hachi~~~~!" Joker whined at Hachi. Giant tears blurred his eyes.

"What happened!? Did something major..."

"The reservation period for my game... ended thirty minutes ago..." Joker dropped his shoulders and mumbled.

"Huh?" Hachi blinked in surprise.

"Big Brawl Battle Smasher 3's reservation was until 11 o'clock! When I just checked the site, the limited first edition was on order stop~~~!"

Hachi exhaled. "Sigh... is that all?"

"Is what all!" Joker clung to Hachi, voice rising. "Yeah, I could buy the regular download version, but that won't work! It won't have the passcode included in the limited edition's packaging! Without that, I can't get the Rainbow Hammer that I missed in 2~~!" Joker blabbered on like an addict, grasping and shaking the dumbfounded Hachi's lapel. "Waaaaaah! I messed up~~! Treasure's one thing, but once I miss a game's first edition, I can't get it any other time~~~~!" Joker exclaimed and fell flat on the bed, starting to blubber.

"Is that really worth crying over..." Hachi watched in annoyance, then Joker suddenly stopped moving.

"Hachi."

"What is it?"

"...I'm not going... to today's job."

"Whaaaaat!?" Hachi yelled the loudest he had today. "What are you saying, Joker-san! You've already sent advance notice! We're almost right by the Gardens!"

"I don't have any motivation... I can skip just this once."

"Wha! No you can't! You absolutely can't skip work for a lousy game!"

"What do you mean, lousy! It's important to me!" Joker raised his head and shouted.

"Work is more important!"

"No! There's nothing more important in this world than reserving video games!" Joker clenched his fists and shouted forcefully, the loudest he had this year.

"Are you kidding me..." Hachi yielded to his stubbornness and dropped his shoulders. "Then are you okay with losing your match with him?"

"Him...?" Joker's eyes lit up once he remembered him.

§§§

BAMMMMM! An explosive sound rang through the salon that Oniyama and Hayami were in. The rumbling accompanied the walls blowing apart, its fractured pieces scattering across the floor. A uniform cloud of dust rose up, instantly turning the room grey.

"Is it Joker!?"

"Here at last!"

Oniyama stood with his back to the Gilded Chrysanthemum's case. Hayami quickly steered his wheelchair and came to a tight halt besides Oniyama. As they watched their surroundings cautiously, a faint silhouette came into view beyond the dust. The shadow of a boy with a silk hat and flapping cape...

Just as Oniyama was about to shout "Joker!", a harsh voice came from the dust. "Ha ha ha ha! I'm taking the treasure!"

"Wha!?" It wasn't Joker's voice.

"Bloody Rain!"

Just as he thought he saw something glint in the dust, a red beam shot across and grazed Oniyama's arm. The moment he bent back reflexively, the Gilded Chrysanthemum's case exploded. The beam had hit its target.

Bam! went another loud noise, breaking the reinforced glass. The glass fragments scattered, and Oniyama immediately covered his eyes. This was a poor move. The moment he looked away, the shadow in the dust ran past Oniyama and took the Gilded Chrysanthemum. "Ha ha ha ha ha! I've got it!"

Oniyama shouted at the triumphantly laughing shadow. "You aren't Joker, are you! You're...!"

"Yeah, that's right. I'm the black shadow that paints over the light, arising from the 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈, Shadow Joker!" The dust gradually cleared to reveal a man standing still.

His silhouette was the exact image of Joker's. His silk hat, suit, and necktie were all matched in purple, and a black cape hung from his back. In contrast to Joker's flashy appearance, Shadow had an aura as cold and dark as his name. His shifty golden eyes hid an evil gleam deep within. His spiky cyan hair shone mystically.

Shadow was pointing his black umbrella at Oniyama. It was his weapon, Bloody Rain. "Too bad for you I wasn't Joker. I'm taking the treasure!"

"You think you can..." The moment Oniyama tried to approach, a beam fired from the umbrella at his feet. The beam hit and burned the floor in front of Oniyama's toes black.

"The next one will hit you. I'm not as soft as he is."

"Mmmh..." Oniyama gritted his teeth in frustration.

Yet a quiet giggle came from Hayami beside him. "Kukuku... yer as rowdy as ever."

"...Who the hell are you?" Shadow glared at Hayami.

"I'm struck that th' phoney'd turn up brazenly after I humbled 'im in Singapore."

"Singapore...? Then you're the lout who set up that trap!" Shadow stiffly turned his umbrella tip toward Hayami.

But Hayami was unperturbed and began to speak placidly. "Yep, that's right. But to level with ya, ya weren't my target. I haven't got any interest in Joker's phoney."

"Wha... I'm not a phoney!"

"Fu fu fu, I'm just callin' it as it is. Just like yer name, yer Joker's shadow, a bona fide phoney veiled by darkness."

"Quit saying that! I'll kill you right here and now! Bloody Rain!" The piercing shot fired at Shadow's command and sped toward Hayami. Hayami quickly moved his wheelchair out of the way and narrowly evaded the beam.

"Ya won't hit me that easy. My wheelchair can move faster than a guy can run!"

"You cheeky little-!" Shadow shot several more beams at Hayami. But true to his word, Hayami's wheelchair avoided the beams, moving around at immense speed to dodge the attack. "Scamp...!" Shadow continued to fire in his rage, and so did not realize the presence rushing in behind him.

Clink! A dull pain spread through Shadow's arm. "...!" When he looked, the hand holding his umbrella was clapped in irons.

"Shadow Joker, you're so under arrest!" Grasping the other end of the taut rope tied to the handcuff was Oniyama.

"You blackguards... watch this! 𝒰𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝒮𝓂𝑜𝓀𝑒!" Shadow angrily shifted his umbrella to the other hand and struck it forcefully against the ground. A smokescreen immediately billowed out from the umbrella tip.

"!?" The smoke spread sooner than Oniyama and Hayami could express their surprise. It quickly filled the entire room.

"I'm not letting the treasure go!" Shadow cut the rope on the handcuffs. The next moment, there was the sound of a window breaking.

Oniyama shouted into his radio. "Ginko-chan, Momo-chan, so arrest all suspicious persons around the manor!"

"Roger, Inspector!" Ginko responded, and the radio cut out.

Oniyama ran out before the thin smoke had cleared completely.

"Inspecter!"

"Joker will come for sure. After the treasure, that is!" Oniyama shouted and ran out of the room.

"..." Left behind, Hayami squeakily wheeled his seat over to the broken glass case and looked down at it. "Fu fu fu, this is riveting. The phoney stole a phoney..." Hayami's mouth curved into an audacious smile.

#kaitou joker #light novel

[stella-maria7]

THE UNTAMED FAN FIC: THE TANGLED HEART

Chapter 18: PREMONITIONS

Notwithstanding the time of the night when it supposed to be a full-moon, the whole sky was left lonely with not a single glistering object accompanying it. Not even one star, and bizarrely, not even a slight part of the moon. The whole sky was pitch-black.

Lan Xichen was sitting cross-legged with his hands resting atop his bended knees and his palms facing the ceiling. Stream of pale blue light encompasing him as he closed his eyes, concentrating on circulating his spiritual energy. Any of the room’s openings such as windows and door was all closed to prevent any disturbance. Not that he would be disturbed anyway. The whole world knew that eldest Twin Jades of Lan was in seclusion. Who would dare to come?

Well, people might not dare to, but nature feared no other. The gust of winds were banging on his door and windows loudly as if the storm was coming. The rattling sound continued nonstop until it successfully penetrated the room. One of the windows were forced open with a bang, letting the cold strong wind inside. As Lan Xichen opened his eyes, the blue light receding to his body. He got up and adjusted his clothes before walking to stand next to the open window.

Something wasn’t right and he could feel it. It was just like five years ago. When his brother and Wei Wuxian told him about the truth nature of Jin Guangyao, he still didn’t believe them. How could he when he had always trusted him? He breathed in the air and frowned. At the night of Jin Guangyao’s death, the air smelled just like this. At that time, he didn’t know so there was nothing much he could do to prevent what had happened from happening. However, this time was different. He needed to do something within his capability to prevent more misfortune life losses.

“I fear that I have been in seclusion far too long.” He said as he looked up to the moonless sky, face full of painful memories.

***

The window was left open to let the air in. And since the chamber was on top of the hills, it usually received strong wind than at other places. Nevertheless, the wind today was way too fierce that it was almost blowing a gale. Papers, both written and new, were flying everywhere in every direction.

A brush was laid down at the corner of the ink’s container with a sigh. Lan Qiren stopped his writing and stroked his beard. His usual frown face was still frowning now. In the next second, a puff of wind blew into the room and extinguished the lit candle, letting the darkness devoured the whole room.

In the dark, Lan Qiren wondered how much time he had left to enjoy this undisturbed tranquility old life.

***

Jiang Cheng was standing with his arms behind his back in front of the lotus pond. He stared at the pond and memories of the younger version of Wei Wuxian and himself flashed before his eyes.

Wei Wuxian and he would always skip lunch and escape to this pond. This was his brother’s favorite place since he loved eating. He would lie on the boat and eat the lotus seeds all day. And sometimes, they would toss seeds into each other mouth playfully. Then, when the sun was about to set, his sister would come to find both of them and brought them home.

How he wished he could as careless as he was when he was young. How he wished his sister were still alive. How he wished…

Right at that moment, Jiang Cheng felt the ground beneath his feet shook violently, creating ripples after one’s another on the water surface. The vibration made the lotus flowers’ petals fell all over the place, leaving a big mess with the ripples. Without bothering to open his eye, he frowned and clicked his tongue in annoyance “What is it going to be this time?”

***

At Burial Mounds, the place known for its darkness, was thought to be abandoned after the fall of Yilling Patriarch. However, if one looked closer, we saw a figure in black sitting with one knee up to his chest, eyes stared at nothing specific as they were dwelling on the past memories with the hellp of the familiar settings.

Those memories were heart-rending enough that could draw endless tears. Sympathetically, the reminiscer couldn’t shed even a single tear even though he wanted to. His body no longer listened to him.

And he was none other than the well-known ghost general, Wen Ning.

This was his second home. As well as A-yuan’s. A warmth place where they were giving second chance in life when others didn’t even get the chance to. How fortunate that A-yuan was alive. He thought his entire clan had already distinct. A-yuan. The thought of his cousin's name somehow made him relaxed. But at the same time, the mention of this name pioneered something unexpected. It was brief. Gone as quick as it came, but Wen Ning could feel it.

His heart. It beat. It was alive only a mini-second. But that mere second was enough for Wen Ning to be able to feel again. But it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It depicted a feeling of grief. Wen Ning was confused to whom was he to grief for when his entire family and clan were gone. Then he was reminded of the name he thought of not long ago. The sole survivor from the Sunshot Campaign. The only family member of his that was alive.

***

At Carp Tower, piles of papers were almost tumbling over the young Sect leader. He had been sitting at his desk for hours, going over the report, scrolling over the business transactions; albeit those piles of papers didn’t seem to decrease. The night wasn’t getting any younger yet his works wasn’t getting any lesser.

Feeling thirsty, he got up and reached for the tea set prepared for him at the end of the table. He poured out the warm tea into a cup and lifted it up to inhale the scent. It helped soothing his mind somehow. When he inched it closer to his lips, surprisingly, it slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, shattering the pottery into pieces.

Jin Ling stared at the spilled tea, which was slowly advancing towards the hems of his robes, feeling anxious.

***

“No, don’t hurt them! Don’t you dare! Stop!” Wei Wuxian stirred in his sleep. His body was shaking. Lan Zhan was playing guqin at the end of his sleeping a husband feet. A small table was placed just several strides away from the bed but Lan Wangji was way too distracted that his fingers started speeding up the playing on the strings without him knowing. The music evolved from the soft melody that sounded like a lullaby to a fast-paced tempo that was so unlike Lan Wangji’s playing.

Twang!

“A-yuan! A-Ling!”

The smallest string in guqin snapped open and simultaneous Wei Wuxian’s scream reverberated the room. Wei Wuxian was panting so hard and his eyes were unfocused. He looked sideway to the bed, the spot where his husband slept, and realized it was empty. His eyes circled the room to look for his missing half only to stopped when focusing on a white figure before him.

Taking a deep breath, Wei Wuxian got up from his bed and walked to sit on his husband’s lap. He was welcome of course, as usual. However, he wasn’t given the full attention as he’d always had. Though Lan Wangji made space for him and wrapped his arm around the waist, his eyes were focusing on something else. Wei Wuxian followed his husband’s gaze, curious to see what really drew his husband’s attention.

He gasped. “Lan Zhan, you’re bleeding.”

“Em.”

“Why did you act like it was no big deal?”

“Because it wasn’t... ”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian started to get irritated and was about to say more when the next words he heard stopped him dead in his track.

“I’m sorry.”

“Huh?”

“Your guqin. I broke it.”

Wei Wuxian looked at the guqin lying on the table and mouthed an Oh. It was the one he made for Lan Zhan on his birthday. He remembered stressing over it for days on what to gift his husband when his son recommended to do something special. Like something unique that only existed between two significant people. And Wei Wuxian suddenly had the idea. With the help of Sizhui and Jingyi, he handcrafted a guqin with both of their names engraved in the middle of the wood. Wangxian. In big letters. Wei Wuxian insisted that Lan Zhan should play him lullaby using this guqin instead of his usual one, and Lan Zhan complied.

“It is not broken. The string just snapped. We can just replace a new one. Don’t feel bad, okay?” Wei Wuxian cupped his husband’s cheek in his hand and consoled him.

“I…have a bad feeling.”

“Yeah, me too. I just had a nightmare. I hadn’t had any since we were married, but tonight, it came to me. And you know that my dream are mostly turn into reality. Either the whole truth or a partial of it.”

“Em” Lan Wangji nuzzled his face in the crook of Wei Wuxian’s neck, breathing in his most favorite scent. “What did you dream about?” The sound wave and the warmth breath came into contact with Wei Wuxian’s sensitive area, making him feel so ticklish.

“I dreamt that A-Yuan’s identity was exposed. And everyone couldn’t accept it. He was being sentenced to death by the very thing his clan was so proud of. Fire, Lan Zhan. They were burning him. Alive. And he didn’t even try to fight back. It was like he let them do it. His eyes were lifeless as if he had lost the will to live. The fire started to build up, surrounding the wood beneath him. It was climbing up almost to his feet when Jin Ling ran into the ring of fire and hugged him tight. And that was the last scene I saw before the fire engulfed both of them into its flame.” Wei Wuxian almost chocked after he finished narrating his dream. He didn’t hear any reply so he thought that Lan Zhan was asleep.

“Lan Zhan?”

“It won’t come true.” Lan Wangji said in a firm voice. “I’ll…make…sure…of…it.” He trailed off as sleepiness was taking him in.

Oh, so it was nine p.m. already, he thought. Wei Wuxian somehow found peace when he listened to his husband stable breathing. Thinking back of the past, he was thankful to have given a second chance to live a life with someone who really cared for him. He remembered the moment when Lan Wangji stood against the whole world just to stand by his side, clearing his name. Sometimes he kept thinking that he really didn’t deserve to be with someone who was so ethereal like Hanguang-Jun. But fate had it this way and Wei Wuxian accepted it with both hands.

“Thank you, Lan Zhan. For everything.” He leaned down to kiss Lan Wangji’s temples.

It was a rare sight to see the infamous Wangxian couples in reverse position, but it wasn’t as less sweet as their usual one.

#writing #fantasy #wattpad #ao3 #achieve of our own #lan jingyi #lan sect #lan sizhui #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wei ying #jin ling #jiang cheng #lan xichen #lan qiren #my fanfiction #my writing #the untamed fanfic #the untamed #mo dao su zhi #mo dao zu shi #zhuiling #lan si zhui #love triangles

[wannabecatwriter]

Once they make it to the pond, Terra picks out a nice area on the shore and gets to spreading the flowers and twigs in her bag around in a nice circle, with a space left in the center.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make one of those ‘cat traps’ they have trending all over the internet,” Jamel chuckles. “Wait, why are you making a giant cat trap?”

“Not a cat trap, a fairy circle,” Terra informs him. “And it better work, Bartholomew.”

“It will. But once again, this is the equivalent of breaking into someone’s home in the middle of the night and waking them up by pouring a bucket of cold water on them,” he warns her.

“But if the fae is trapped in a fairy circle created by a non-fairy,” Terra recounts the information she read in one of Sage’s books, “then the fae is bound to give the non-fairy something to earn their freedom. Even if that something is information.” 

“Yes,” the cat sighs. In truth, while this is the sort of thing no sane familiar would advise their wizard to do, he is oddly proud of her. While trapping a fae in a circle is considered extremely rude in the majority of magical circles, it is an effective loophole in whatever official agreements exist to prevent Toris from disclosing the information they need. And Terra discovered it on her own, only verifying with him whether her understanding of the matter was correct.

As soon as she completes arranging the flowers as necessary, Terra calls out:

“I, Terra Sidheins, summon you, Toris Pearson, here on this moonless night to do what I ask of you!”

Almost immediately, with a crackle of light, Toris appears in the circle. And as Bartholomew predicted, she is not happy with being called up in such a manner.

#Sims3 #Barron and Sylvia #Terra Sidheins #Jamel Bedlington #Bartholomew Sidhe #Toris Pearson #Sim Stories

[kyleugaldephotography]

Beneath a moonless sky - Part 2

I was lucky enough to have two clear nights in a row during the August new moon phase.  The second got off to a rough start with a run in with park rangers near bubble pond (don’t ignore the no parking signs, even if its the middle of the night and no busses are running.  It really annoys them.) 

I moved a few miles south to Jordan pond and the South bubble for the rest of the night.

Part 1

Prints available soon on redbubble.

#Night Sky #acadia national park #milkyway #summit views #night hike #photographers on tumblr

[themurphyzone]

Mystery at McDuck Manor Ch 2

Ch 2- Interrogation

To recap for the absentminded, I, the do-gooder Darkwing Duck, have been called out of my territory to investigate the theft of a painting at the McDuck Manor. I am currently holding a green post-it note and a pair of goggles as evidence. It will take wits, skill, and a little help from Starducks’ Triple Chocolate Mocha with three extra shots of espresso to close this case. I pace in front of all the occupants as I contemplate the best course of action....

“Would you get on with it already?” Donald snaps. “The boys are going to keel over any second now!”

Only the green one seems remotely close to falling asleep. The other two appear extra happy at staying up past their bedtime. 

“Fine, fine. People just don’t appreciate a good expository monologue these days,” I grumble. “Now, where did you last see the painting?” 

“It was in the garage,” Scrooge replies, pacing back and forth. At this rate he would wear out the carpet within the next hour. 

“And you are absolutely certain that you didn’t move it elsewhere and forget?” I ask. 

That mere slip of the tongue earns me a jab to the jaw with his cane. “I may be old, but my memory is sharper than a dozen African elephants,” he snaps. 

If he disfigures my rather prominent and dashing bill, I’ll be sure to send him the medical costs. 

“Noted,” I say, backing up. “Now, I shall have to question the children. With their valuable information, I can catch our suspect red handed!”

“I get to help in an investigation? So cool!” The little girl exclaims. 

An elderly woman glares at me. “Questions only. They will not be helping you catch the thief if they’re still skulking around.” 

I nod. As a general rule, I don’t care for tact. But if the woman in question looks like she could squish me into a ball with her thumb, then perhaps a bit of tact is in order. 

Or a lot. 

“I don’t like this. He’s accusing my boys,” Donald mutters. “Nobody accuses my boys.” 

“Get it over with already. Just answer the best you can,” Scrooge sighs. 

I clap my hands. “Great! Do I have any volunteers?” 

No response. Huh. You’d think children would be happy to spend a little time with the daring and dangerously handsome Darkwing Duck. 

I am currently in the kitchen area with the red triplet. He watches me as I sharpen my pencil in preparation for note taking, eagerly awaiting the moment I drop my guard so he can gather reinforcements and overpower my otherwise indomitable will....

“Is Huey Duck your full legal name?” I ask. 

“Well, as far as I know it’s spelled Hubert on my birth certificate,” Huey replies, scratching his head. “I can pull up the document for you if you’d like. The Junior Woodchuck guidebook states that it’s important to at least have two forms of official documentation at all times.”

Oh, he’s a Junior Woodchuck. I assume he knows how to tie knots, set traps, and make friendship bracelets out of paperclips and bubblegum. He could very well be a crafty individual....

I shall proceed with caution. 

“Where were you at the time of the theft?” I ask. 

Huey thinks, scratching his chin as he comes up with his carefully crafted answer designed to cover up his involvement. “Webby was showing us the proper way to slide down the banister of the stairs. Please don’t tell Uncle Donald we were doing something that could’ve resulted in a broken arm if done incorrectly.”

“HUEY! YOU AND YOUR BROTHERS WERE DOING WHAT?” A raspy snarl sounds from behind me. Huey flinches and laughs nervously. 

I tap my foot to get Donald’s attention. “Excuse me, good sir. I was in the middle of a very important matter. Away with you, and I’ll fill you in on the results when my interrogation is complete.”

“Interrogation, my tailfeathers!” For the sensitive eyes of any youngsters viewing this file, I shall not record the resulting tirade of quacks, swearing, and onomatopoeia that occur when two angry ducks duke it out on a stress-filled night. 

(The following is an afterward for my archives at the tower. Let this be a lesson to myself: Make sure prying, short tempered uncles cannot eavesdrop on any future interrogations.)

I humbly apologize to Scrooge McDuck and I have purchased a new pressure cooker that I will send off tomorrow to get his lawyer to stop staking out on the walkway of the Audubon Bay Bridge. How does he even know where my lair is? 

Enclosed in the package is an photograph of me posing heroically in front of a defeated Steelbeak. I even perfected my signature for the occasion! It’s a loopy cursive style, my preferred choice of penmanship, by the way.)

Huey Duck admits to being in the same vicinity as the aviator goggles. This is a most peculiar development. 

I shall now proceed to the blue triplet. 

After I drag myself to the nearest pharmacy for some painkillers....

There is now a screen set up by yours truly that separates the kitchen and parlor to prevent Donald from interrupting my investigation with his irate inanities. 

The blue triplet grabs a handful of cookies for a midnight snack. A rebel I presume. 

“So do you have a secret identity and stuff?” he asks through a beakful of crumbs. “Maybe I should adopt one myself. But until then, I’m just plain ol’ Dewey.”

I keep my distance so the crumbs don’t hit my newly ironed cape. “A secret identity?” I laugh. “Crimefighting is a 24/7 job, kid. I don’t need one as long as there are criminals to bust.” 

“I’ve seen my Uncle Scrooge turn a dragon to stone,” Dewey says, leaning casually on the back of his chair. “I bet you can’t turn a dragon to stone.”

“Hah! I don’t need to!” I growl. Is he challenging my abilities as a vigilante? Well, he had another coming! “I defeated Eggmen with nothing but sunflower oil and a vase! I bested the likes of St. Canard’s thieves, litterbugs, and supervillains time and time again! Can your uncle do that, kid?”

Dewey yawns. “Sure he can.”

I decided to change the subject before my pride as a hero gets dragged through the mud, run over by a dump truck, and thrown into Davy Jones’ Locker. 

“What were you doing the night of the theft?” I ask. 

“Wait, is this an interrogation?” Dewey looks around, flipping the tablecloth as he looks underneath it for something.

How unusual. 

Some might call it suspicious. 

“Where are the lights? Did you bug the room?” Dewey asks. “This can’t be an interrogation if I’m not tied to a chair! Oh, maybe I could do the James Pond thing and escape with a laser ballpoint pen! Do you have one of those?” 

“Answer the question,” I say, waiting for a response. “Your uncle will tar and feather me if I tie you up.”

Dewey blinks. “Fine. We were sliding down the banister.”

So the story checks out then. “Anything else?” I ask. 

“It was pretty funny when Louie went down the banister just as this strangely shaped trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs. He thought it was Uncle Donald in disguise,” Dewey snickers.

A strangely shaped trenchcoat? Now we’re getting somewhere. 

“And did you see who was in the trenchcoat?” I ask, clicking my pen as I jot down all the new information. “Or their height? Distinguishing characteristics?” 

Dewey shakes his head. “Um, it was kinda long. It was a really big trenchcoat, but whoever was inside it was definitely about average size since we never saw their face.” 

“And does this look familiar to you?” I hold out the aviator goggles. 

He nods. “That fell out from underneath the trenchcoat when they fell down the stairs.” 

“I see. Well, that concludes this round of questioning. Your contribution is much appreciated,” I say proudly. 

Dewey huffs. “Uncle Scrooge can burrow through gold like a gopher. Bet you can’t do that.”

I take back what I said about appreciating his contribution. 

There’s something shifty about the green one. It must lie in how his hands remain in his pockets as he slumps against the chair. Or how he yawns every few seconds without expressing any strong emotion. Or the half-lidded gaze he gives me when my cape flutters. 

“And you are?” I ask. 

“Louie. Hey,” he says, as if I was nothing more than his bestie. 

“Louie. Do you know what this is?” I dump a crumpled green post it in front of him. 

“It’s a post it,” he says. 

I must resist the urge to slap my forehead. “I know it’s a post it.”

Louie shrugs. “So why were you asking me then? I mean, I guess you’re old and stuff, not as old as Uncle Scrooge but still a lot older than me.”

He did not just call me a senile senior citizen who slowly walks down the hallway of an assisted care center with a walker and spends the rest of his days playing bingo and gin. 

I mean, my feathers aren’t turning gray or anything! I’m not that old!

“Look, kid. I’ll let bygones be bygones. Now, tell me what the post it note was doing near the painting.”

Louie scoffs, folding his arms. “I just put the post its on cool stuff I want to inherit when I’m older. I put them there a few weeks ago. Nothing to do with the theft.”

A red herring. Or a green herring in this case. Seems plausible enough. 

“One more question before I let you go,” I say. “Did you happen to see who was in the trenchcoat?” 

He shakes his head. “I was kinda more focused on getting back at Dewey for laughing at me when I fell off the banister.”

I sigh. “Fine. Thanks for your help.”

A gas gun falls out of his hoodie. 

“Hehe. I thought it needed a little cleaning. There’s a bit of dust on the barrel,” Louie chuckles. 

A hero’s intuition is never wrong. I was right to suspect he was up to no good!

“Oh my gosh an actual investigation!” the girl shrieks. She stands on the table in an action pose. I have to admit, she doesn’t look half bad. “And I get to help! I’ve never done this thing before! Can I be your sidekick? Temporary sidekick? I’ll organize any files you have! I’m the best when it comes to organizing!” 

“Sorry,” I say. “Darkwing Duck is a loner who bravely champions the moonless nights, weathers through the thunderstorms, and stalks prey with hardly a sound. A tag-along would only slow me down.” 

She nods, only looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, I’m Webby, for future reference. So, anything I can help you with then? I mean, there’s got to be something, right?” 

“What happened after whoever was in the trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs?” I ask. 

“They opened the front door and ran outside,” Webby replies. 

Eureka! Then they stole the painting! 

“Thanks, kid!” I exclaim. “Now, let us reconvene at the parlor to catch ourselves a thief! But first, you want a picture together? I’m trying to reach out to a younger audience here. It’ll help for marketing in the future.”

She grins. 

How Webby hid a selfie stick on her person, I will never figure out. 

“I’m done with my questions!” I say, waiting for the onslaught of questions and shouts from my enraptured audience. 

Ahem. 

“And?” Scrooge taps his foot impatiently. 

Tough crowd. People don’t react like they used to.

“From these questions, I have concluded that the thief came in through the upstairs. They would’ve put the trenchcoat on after they entered the manor, though I don’t know why they took the roundabout way instead of just directly heading for the garage. From there, they tumbled down the stairs and made a beeline for the garage, where they stole the painting.”

Donald huffs. “Perfect. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already. Kids, go back to bed. I don’t want you being all cranky in the morning.” 

They groan and protest, begging for a chance to capture the thief. 

“Please! I’ll donate a kidney if you’d let me!”

“No one steals from us! We can catch them!”

“I know how to set traps! I just need a lot of rope and duct tape!” 

Scrooge taps his cane against the ground, and they instantly quiet down. “We’re dealing with someone who knows their way around the manor. They’ll be back soon enough. Now, I have a plan to catch them....”

As Scrooge announces his plan to reclaim the pilfered painting, I sit back to contemplate the events that transpired during the interrogation. 

And I have come to a single conclusion. 

I am never having kids. Not even if you bound and gagged me on an exploding motorcycle. 

Not now or ever. 

#ducktales 2017 #darkwing duck #huey dewey and louie #webby vanderquack

[lamoille-house]

Things to Do Utah, a True Western Haven

 Utah will leave you speechless with its towering red rocks, hoodoos and salt flats. Utah derives its name from the Ute tribe, a state in the western region of the United States of America. There are lot of things to do in Utah. Vibrant and historic cities and towns are put together to make this city of Utah ideal for tourist attraction. It is surrounded by natural beauty. Many tourists going for a holiday to Utah will be able to explore the outdoors in national parks, river rafting, and skiing. The stone arches, deep canyons waterfalls, rivers, and lakes are spectacular sights. Utah has a great range of tourist activities such as snowboarding, hiking, skiing, and rock climbing. Utah is becoming an increasingly lovable tourist destination. A road trip to Utah is one of the best ways to have a fabulously scenic drive throughout the state.

Things to Do UTAH: 

Bryce Canyon National Park: Spending a night at Bryce Canyon is worth due to its incredible sunrises, sunsets, and stargazing on a moonless night. The bright colored hoodoos dominate the landscape at Bryce Canyon in Utah. These are tall thin spires of a rock that is also sometimes called earth pyramids, fairy chimneys, and dent rocks. Hoodoos are unique rock formations created by uneven erosion giving them different shapes. At night the Park is a perfect location for stargazing under the starry skies. To experience the park, hiking is the best way.

Salt Lake City is Utah’s best ski hills. It is known for its scenic location. It is well-known for skiing and winter activities. It is one of Utah’s best ski hills. This city offers numerous attractions and things to do like visiting zoos, museums, and planetariums. This salty ocean making floating effortlessly.

Monument Valley is one of America’s iconic landmarks. The formation of the sand reaches 1000 ft high. The desert area is known for hiking, horse riding, and jeep rides. Monument valley is atmospheric and unforgettable.

Zion National Park is gorgeous with multi-colored sandstone, rose-colored cliffs, dancing waterfalls, and angels landing. At Zion National Park there are plenty of opportunities to hike, rock-climb, and mountain-bike. One can witness the sunset from the top of the cliffs.

Canyon lands National Park has three sections. The first one is known as the island in the sky, and the other two are the Needles District and the Maze. You will be able to get an aerial view of Grand Canyon. One of the main attractions of the island in the sky is Mesa Arch. This beautiful stone arch forms a window to the canyons, buttes, and torn landscape below during early morning or late afternoon.

Things to do Utah- Outdoor Activities:

Utah is famous for outdoor activities. If you’re seeking a weekend of hiking or backpacking, Utah has countless option.

Hardware Ranch takes you the Rocky Mountain Elk on a horse-drawn sleigh. The rides are the main attraction. Hardware Ranch is well known for its informative visitor’s center and the excellent food served in the Hardware cafe. The ranch also conducts Wildlife and habitat studies.

Park City and nearby ski resorts: Park City is a perfect mountain town and one of Utah’s best ski resorts. The park city mountain resort has lifts operating right from the town. Deer valley resort is one of Utah’s posh ski resorts. Visiting Park City balances luxury and comfort. Park City offers outdoor adventures during summer like hiking, mountain biking, fishing, and The Deer Valley Music Festival, Kimball Arts Festival, and Park Silly Sunday Market are held at Park City, throughout the warmer months.

Experience the snow on earth at these ski resorts of Brighton and Solitude Ski Resorts. The two ski resorts offer an option for ski and snowboard enthusiasts of all levels. Both resorts are a local favorite and less touristy than the park city resort. The best time to visit the ski resort is from January to March.

This is a kid-friendly hike that leads to a great waterfall along the stream through the base of the canyon. Once you reach the falls, you can continue up to the top of the falls or just stay and play in the waterfall and splash in the stream. Only don’t forget to get your swimsuits.

Paddle the Great Salt Lake during your trip to Utah. You will enjoy the calm, vast saline lake as you paddle around.

Canyoning near Zion national park is a unique way to explore the beauty of Southern Utah’s slot canyons closely. You can experience the immensity of these canyons by scaling down and through them. The best time to visit these slot canyons is late March to June and early September through October.

Things to do in Utah Shops: 

Park Silly Sunday Market is an eco-friendly open-air market in Utah. Visitors can buy some antique pieces and unique arts and crafts items if they are interested.

Fun things to do in Utah: 

It is not necessary to enjoy and have fun at the outdoor games only. There are many other unique games where you can have fun.

Blast some friend at laser-blaster tag with laser and foam balls. Blaster tag is a new invention using Nerf Guns and darts. This game is suitable for all ages.

Racing with your friend: Get behind the wheel of a go-kart that can speed away.

Try out the Rope Swings at Biurriston ponds also known as the Mona rope swings. There are 4 different rope swings at various heights with platform and tree branches to swing from. It makes you enjoy along with your family.

Utah’s Entertainment and Nightlife: 

Hot sites for a Utah summer honeymoon: 

Park City is a ski resort town which means you’re lucky if you choose to honeymoon here in the summer. There are many outdoor activities where you and your partner can experience. You can even attend a fun summer festival. You will also find many fine-dining restaurants, shopping centers, and Luxurious spas.

Red Mountain Resort: St George UT is meant for people looking for romantic lodging in Southern Utah. Avoid campsites and move over to Red Mountain Resort in St George where you can unwind after a day of golfing, swimming, and hiking. Spend some quality time with your partner in the middle of the desert during sunset.

Utah is becoming an increasingly lovable tourist destination. And there are lot of things to do in Utah.

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