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gojodefender · 1 year

Note

Hi!! I love your works sm and can you do some enemies/rivals to lovers with Stephen? So the reader is also a sorcerer in training when Stephen first went into Kamar Taj and Y/N dislikes him for being such a stuck up asshat, and they often fought with each other.

Maybe at one point he approached her or vice versa when she broke down in front of him and then fluff ensues or smth like that, therefore they started dating each other from now on

Selfish

Pairing: Doctor Strange x Fem!Sorceress!Reader

Warnings: Explicit language, angst, feelings of failure, a suggestion of a past abusive relationship… then straight to fluff and two idiots in love trying their best.

Word Count: 4,988

Reading time: ≈ 18 mins.

A/N: I feel like this felt rushed at the end and I’m sorry, but I don’t know? I kinda’ liked the quick resolution?

He made you irate. He made you angrier than anyone you’d ever known. It was like his only goal was to haunt you, remind you that you should be doing more, doing better, doing your best. He knew how to push your buttons and what was worse was you knew he wasn’t trying. That coupled with how aggravatingly charming and handsome he was simply made you crazy.

“He’s just such a dick.” You huff under your breath to Wong, “Where does he get off? Why does he need to make everyone else’s life literal hell around here?”

“He took a few books. I’ve spoken to the ancient one, I’m sure it won’t happen again.” Wong tries to soothe

“Jesus— why do you always have to defend him? He took books out of his skill range and consistently leaves things in the wrong spot, he sits in that chair by the window and glowers for hours when others could be using it for their studies—“

“You’re only mad because that was your favorite chair.” Wong rolls his eyes

“It was mine first!” You exclaim, slamming a stack of books on the front desk, “It was mine and he saw I liked it, so he took it. Just like he did with my spot under the veranda, just like he did with my preferred meditation spot in the garden, and—“

“You sound like a child.” Wong grunts out, “Go put the books back and take a moment to recollect.”

You served Wong a sneer and grabbed the books, stomping off toward the first aisle of books. You may have sounded like a child, but you meant it. And it wasn’t just occupying all of your favorite spots. He took food that wasn’t his, whined when he didn’t get a spell right on the first try, and used sparring as if it were an actual life-or-death situation. He was irrational and dangerous and didn’t care about anyone but himself. Selfish, entitled, infuriating.

Those were the three words you would use to describe Stephen Strange.

Doctor Stephen Strange as he so often reminded everyone.

You finished your time assisting Wong in the library and decided it was a good time to go meditate. You usually did so midday, but now the sun was setting and you thought perhaps your spot in the garden would be free. Strange usually went to the library around this time and began his process of grunting at his reading material for the next several hours.

You went to your room and shed your robes. It was preferred by the masters that they were kept on when training or attending classes, but in your free time you could wear whatever you wanted. Since the sun was still out you put on a pair of spandex shorts, a tank top, and threw on a light jacket for when the sun dipped below the horizon and a chill swept over Kamar-Taj. You grabbed your blanket used for meditation and sun tanning and set out on your journey to the garden. You were stopped briefly to talk to a newcomer who had managed to open a portal for the first time today and celebrated her victory. Small achievements like that never felt small at Kamar-Taj. Everyone was supportive and kind. Well…

Almost everyone.

You gave a small huff when you rounded the corner to the open garden area where several students liked to lounge in their free time. You had no problem with other people being there, it wasn’t your space, you knew that. What irritated you to no end was the fact that there were a hundred other places to sit in the garden and Strange had taken to sitting right against the wall behind the jasmine bushes that were beautifully fragrant this time of year.

Stephen was deep in his own meditation it appeared, but you were tired of playing games. So with your heart set, you strolled over and went about setting up the space. You were only a few yards from Stephen and the jasmine mingled with the scent of man flooded your senses making your head spin. He wore his cologne. Your exes. It drove you crazy whenever he was near. It brought back awful memories and on occasion had brought a tear to your eye.

There was a lot about them that was similar. Their attitude, their build, their unwavering need to ruin your peace. The thought made your blood boil as you spread out your blanket and plopped down with a huff. You were tired of being reminded of him. You’d had three or so months of peace until Strange had shown up and bulldozed over it completely. The first time you’d seen him your heart fluttered, and upon realizing why you were attracted to him, you vowed to squash the immediate attraction by whatever means necessary. Men like him didn’t deserve your time or attention, much less any praise to fuel their egos.

It didn’t matter if he was pretty, it didn’t matter if his biceps flexed in a heart-throbbing way, or if it made your stomach twist to watch him run a hand through that thick head of hair. It didn’t matter because that didn’t make up for his shit personality and insistence to make you feel as unseen as possible. You’d tried to be friendly at first, hoping it would desensitize you to men of his air, but he’d consistently been cold, cruel, and angry with you for no reason. He refused your help in beginner courses, taunted you as he’d steadily improved at a rate much quicker than your own, and frequently reminded you he had the Ancient One’s favor in a way very few people did.

You were tired of being reminded how unimportant you were in the grand scheme of things. And you were tired of being reminded by him.

He’d sensed your presence as soon as you stepped into the garden. It was something he was begrudgingly attuned to. The space always got just a fraction warmer, her presence seemed to demand his attention. He’d gotten used to her avoiding him, and he knew he only had himself to blame. He had been awful to her when he first got here but he couldn’t help it. She seemed so confident, so understanding, so intent to believe the best in him.

You reminded him of Christine.

Only this was so much worse. Because she was just as beautiful, just as stubborn, now just as angry, and he had nowhere else to run to. He was stuck here in a relatively small space having to face the consequences of his actions. And he tried on accession to right his wrongs. He wanted to show you he was taking his studies seriously, he had made rapid progress, offered his own help to you, and showed an interest in higher-level materials… just to try and impress you.

He tried to ignore when he heard the rustle of the bushes beside him, felt a soft breeze— lightly fluffing out that bright yellow blanket you were always laying on— and the soft scent of something besides the flowers in front of him that invaded his nostrils. It was softer than that… not quite floral, but not all sweet. He’d never been able to identify what your scent was, but it drove him insane. Most things about you did, though not always in a positive connotation.

Your icy demeanor had really put him off recently, your control freak tendencies in the library while you worked with Wong, your careful observation as though you were just waiting for him to fuck up. He was over it. It didn’t matter how pretty, or smart, or kind you were… because you weren’t that to him.

Then again, maybe that was his own doing. Maybe he needed to try harder?

“Good afternoon, Y/N.” Stephen murmurs softly. He heard you pause your shuffling and cracked open one eye to take a look at you, “How was your day?”

“Fine, you?” You return casually

“Good.” He says simply

He closes his eyes once more and lets you continue setting yourself up. He missed those first few weeks in which you would attempt to get more out of him. Though he didn’t understand why you had chosen to sit so close by when you had made it clear time and time again you had no interest in entertaining him anymore.

“Why did you sit so close?” Stephen asks, his tone a bit colder than he’d meant it to be

“Because before you showed up I sat back here every day. It’s my favorite spot, it makes me feel comfortable.” You reply cooly, “And I’m tired of avoiding my favorite places in Kamar-Taj just because you barged in and decided they were yours.”

“I didn’t decide they were mine, I just choose the spots I like.”

“And you never took the time of day to realize they were all the same spots I like?”

Well… yes. He had. It was part of the reason he’d chosen them, hoping you would get just a bit closer like you were now. But not with such a catty attitude.

“It’s just somewhere to sit. You don’t own it.” He replied

“No, of course not.” You huff, “Just like you don’t own every book in the library. How many times have Wong and I asked you to stay away from the upper level books—“

“I need the upper-level books, that’s where I am now.” Stephen argues, “I learn quickly, I need to learn more.”

“You need to master what you know.”

“I have mastery of all lower-level skills, I’ve told you that before. I’ve offered to help you obtain—“

“I don’t need your help, Strange.” You snap

Stephen was now getting rather heated due to your tone and replied, “Clearly you do. If you’d stop being so stubborn—“

“Oh, I’m the stubborn one?”

“and just accept the help that I’m offering, you might improve faster!” Stephen presses forward, “I don’t understand what the hell your issue is with me, but I’m getting tired of dealing with your attitude all the time.”

Your nostrils flare, eyes snapping open to glare at him, “My issue with you, Stephen Strange, is you are the most selfish, self-entitled, ungrounded man I have ever met. You act like everyone owes you something, you act like the world owes you something when we don’t owe you shit. I bet you had everything you ever wanted served on a silver fucking platter and now that you’re here, you can’t fathom that you have to actually work for something yourself.”

Stephen’s jaw sets hard as he launches to his feet, beginning to storm away before he whips around and in a display of passion you’ve never seen from him before explains, “For your information, I never saw a single silver platter until I was twenty-eight and started gaining recognition as a surgeon. Before then, my childhood was filled with trauma and abuse, both of my siblings dying in front of me, my mother despondent, and my father scum on the bottom of my boot.”

Stephen watches as your face falls, but presses on, “I worked my ass off to get into Columbia Medical and I worked my ass off there to be top of my class. I graduated with my M.D. and P.h.D. at the same time which is largely considered impossible. And after I become successful, I sure as hell had an easier time than most financially, but you know what? After eighteen years of poverty, I damn well earned it! I fought for my place in the world to have it ripped away, so excuse me if I don’t want to sit here and listen to you bitch about how I don’t belong here either. Because if I don’t belong here, I have nowhere else to go.”

“Have a fantastic night, Miss Y/L/N.” Stephen finishes, knotting his belt tight and stomping away

You sat there absolutely mortified. Not by his actions, but your own. You had never misjudged someone so thoroughly if everything he just said was true, and you didn’t see what reason he had to lie to you. Strange wasn’t the sort of man to look for pity, but what he had just told you was downright pitiful. You had most definitely just established yourself as the asshole.

Over the next two months, there was virtually no contact between you and Strange. Neither of you could stand to look at the other. You out of shame and he out of embarrassment for his outburst. He’d never made such an emotional declaration… aside from the last argument he and Christine had gotten into in which he had also made a fool of himself. You had never been such a belligerent bitch. And it didn’t change the way you felt about his attitude, but you understood it better at the very least.

All the time you spent worrying about Strange and your own place at Kamar-Taj manifested itself into a fearsome drive for improvement. You were reading, training, and studying constantly. And it still wasn’t enough. Your channeling of the mystic energy around you was getting no stronger— if anything, it was faltering more often. You would lose your train of thought while reading, and studying became so mind-numbing you were on the verge of tears every time you sat down to review spells in your spell book. What the hell were you doing wrong? It was the same thing you saw Stephen doing constantly, but it simply didn’t work for you.

Maybe Strange was right? Maybe he simply had a place here while you did not.

You let out a groan and flopped back onto your blanket, inhaling deeply. The smell of Jasmine was starting to slowly fade as the season mellowed, the garden growing less colorful by the day, but ever your favorite place to be. And Strange hadn’t been there once since your run in. Not the garden, not your favorite chair in the library, never in the kitchen at the same time as you, and suddenly removed from all the classes you were in.

You came to the terrible realization you missed him. You missed a man who you’d shouted abuse at and had no right to miss at all. You missed a man who reminded you very much of someone you shouldn’t miss in the first place. You were infuriated— not with him this time— but with yourself. Why had you treated him so poorly that day? Why were you so miserable with your virtually perfect life? No job, no rent, virtually no responsibilities. Anyone else would kill to be in your position, and instead you were sulking about not being able to form magic glowing rings out of thin air.

“That book is too low level for you.” A deep voice resounds through the space

You give a sigh and pull your hands back off your face, startled to realize you’re crying, the dampness on your cheeks apparent as a cool breeze blows across your face. Stephen was startled by the discovery too, but he wasn’t going to turn around and leave now that he’d seen you. Instead , he crouched down next to you and started flipping through the pages of the book with intention, attempting to fish out exactly what information in this particular book was important and what was null.

You looked over at him and offered nothing in return. There was no use in trying to explain your return to the basics, he’d think you incompetent. Judging by the blue robes he now wore, the other Masters had decided he was far from incompetent himself. Their shining star no doubt.

“Congratulations on your promotion.” You murmur, twirling a particularly long blade of grass around your finger, “When did that happen?”

“Only the end of last week.” He says, “And thank you. It shouldn’t be long before you have one yourself.”

You drop your head to your knees and beg, “Don’t tease me, Stephen, please.”

Stephen looks to you with his brows knit together, and regardless of the fact you can’t see his face, frowns as he insists, “I’m not teasing. You will. Once you have the basics, I’m confident you’ll improve with astounding speed.”

“Great. Just need to get about a hundred basics down and then I’m home free.”

Stephen hesitates before asking, “May I offer an observation?”

“Sure.” You say defeatedly

“You try too hard. You want to control it so bad, but it’s not about controlling the energy at the start. It’s about the energy controlling you. You have to let it work through you.”

“I don’t understand… I mean, I understand what you’re saying in theory, but I have no idea how to put that into practice.”

“Study heavily into meditation.” He suggests, “Get yourself to a state of peace— real peace— not the fake meditation you practice where your fingers are wiggling and breathing is unstructured. Believe me, it’s poor form and it won’t help. I did it too at first.”

“Right…” You mutter, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He says, standing back up, “I can ask Wong to pull my favorite resources on meditation and have him give them to you? I’m headed to the library anyway.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I don’t mind.” He says, “Promise.”

“Well, then… yeah, that’d be nice.” He nods and turns on his heel to walk away but something in you forces your tongue to call, “Stephen!” He stops and turns, raising a brow in question and it all comes tumbling out, “I should have never spoken to you the way I did that night here. It was cruel and presumptuous and I was a total bitch. I wasn’t even really mad at you, I was mad at myself and I took it out on you. I believe some of the things I said were true, but they should have never been said to you that way. I behaved like a child and I- I feel awful about it. I’m sorry.”

Stephen stands there looking dumbfounded for a few long, awkward minutes before clearing his throat and returning, “I realized after some self-reflection I was still acting rather pompous and arrogant… you were right about that. And my offers to help you were genuine then as they are now, but I understand why they may have appeared ingenuine at the time. I apologize for that and my response to your anger. That wasn’t something I should have dumped on you.”

“That didn’t bother me.” You rush to reassure, “I mean… it bothers me that you went through it and it bothers me that I made snap judgements on you after meeting you during a really rough time in your life. That wasn’t fair to you.”

He gives a small shrug and offers and awkward smile, “I was cold and skeptical. I can’t imagine someone as devoted to the mystic arts as you could take kindly to that.”

“It’s hard.” You admit but then gesture to his garb, “But clearly you’ve proven yourself. It’s… nice.”

“I’m trying.” He murmurs, “I um… I’ll ask Wong about those books? I can actually give them to you tonight if you work? I’ll be there until dawn, I have so much to look into on the power of healing through natural mediums.”

“I’ll be there at eight.” You agree, “I guess… I’ll see you then?”

He offers a much more natural smile. Soft but tight, almost like he’s attempting to hold his cards to his chest. He nods, his freshly cut fringe falling over his forehead, his brand-new goatee looking fine on him. He was a handsome bastard. And more forgiving than you’d anticipated, You smiled to yourself and rolled over on your stomach, pulling your book close and smiling as you saw parts of it had been magically highlighted all of a sudden,

Maybe he wasn’t so selfish after all?

During your shift at the library that night, you looked through the stack of books Stephen had left behind. You were certain he was lurking around somewhere, but it wasn’t in your favorite chair. It was a long, boring night. There were very few students roaming around on a Friday night… just because you were users of the Mystic Arts didn’t mean most of the younger students didn’t abide by the real-world understanding of the weekend.

You jumped when a deep voice resounded behind you, “Why were you crying earlier?” You spun around in your chair to find Stephen standing there in a pair of jeans and a ratty old sweatshirt, “I assumed it was frustration at first, but I don’t think it was just about your studies the more I think about it.”

Your cheeks heat up and you turn back around to hide your face, “Why do you care anyways, Stephen?”

“I don’t like seeing people cry.” He says moving slowly around the front of the desk, “Do you know the genuine purpose for tears?”

“Something about protection for your eyes.” You mutter

“Right. Washes out something that entered the eye your body thinks shouldn’t be there.” He agrees, “But that doesn’t explain why we cry when we’re emotional. So, we believe that when we cry out of emotion, it’s our body begging for a social response. You’re hurting so bad, your body is begging someone to notice, begging for someone to be empathetic.” Stephen gives a shrug, “So what hurt you?”

“I—“ You shake your head, “I don’t want empathy.”

“I know you don’t want it. But maybe you need it.”

“I’m…” You take in a shaky breath and admit, “I hate looking at you.”

Stephen gives a little snort and damn him, a smile blooms on his face, “Can’t say someone’s ever found me ugly enough to cry over it.”

You give a little laugh and shake your head, “No, you asshole. You’re not ugly, you know you’re handsome. It’s not how you look, it’s who you look like. My ex.”

Stephen shifts in his seat, his brows raising in surprise, “Your ex?” You nod and he presses, “Ended poorly?”

“Ended like it should have, I guess. I’m lucky it ended at all.” You bite into your bottom lip and continue, “He was controlling and selfish and… I think he hated the idea of me succeeding at anything. He was so— I was so under his thumb. He was furious whenever I had the audacity to experience joy without him. And you just… you look like him, and your offers to help me always sounded so condescending in my mind, it was just like him. Like he knew I couldn’t possibly do anything without him.”

“That was never my intention.” Stephen says, “I didn’t realize it came off that way.”

“I doubt it actually did.” You shrug, “It’s just… when you hear one thing in a certain way for so long it becomes the only way you can hear it. I’m awful at accepting help because of it.”

Stephen is quiet for a moment before murmuring, “I was never good at accepting help either. Got worse after the accident, but…”

You ask carefully, “Can I… can I see your hands? Only if you’re comfortable with it. I’ve just never…” You trail off as Stephen places his hand on the table in front of you

“It was a wreck, if you don’t know already. I was lucky I survived. Severe nerve damage in both hands. More or less useless now. I’ getting better with large motor skills, a lot better. But I’m starting to doubt the ability to regain fine motor skills.” You look over the fine red lines running down his fingers and he adds, “It’s not pretty, but it’s better than he could have been.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad.” You argue, “Everyone’s got lines on their hands.”

He gives something like a grunt, “Not bright red and not visibly shaking.”

“No, I guess not.” You agree, “Still nice hands though.” You trace a lineup his pinky finger and give a little giggle, “Men never understand that, but there are nice hands and not nice hands. Your hands are nice.”

Stephen quirks a little smile, “No, my… I guess we can call her an ex. She said the same thing.”

“What was she like?”

“She was like you.” Stephen replies immediately, “Stubborn being the strongest similarity. But she was smart, and I mean really smart. She could make a decent conversation out of anything. She wasn’t afraid to tell me like it was, which I never appreciated at the time…” Stephen gives a sigh and drops his gaze to your touch on his hand, “That didn’t end well either. I was a dick. As you’ve said, I’m selfish. And I was.”

“You just ignore what other people say, Stephen. Which is… everyone does sometimes, but there are rules here that are used to attempt to keep you safe. You ignore Wong, you question the Ancient One…”

“I know, but I was right.” He says, “I was ready. I was ready to learn and continue to grow. When people underestimate you, you have to take things into your own hands.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.” You huff, finally taking your hand from his own, “But I do still apologize for the way I spoke to you. It wasn’t directed at you.”

“That’s all right.” Stephen murmurs, “We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.”

“Call it even?” You suggest

“Yeah, I think so.” He offers a small smile, “Now, how much longer do you have in here? We can look over some stuff if you wanted to?”

You take a deep breath and agree, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Stephen was filled with nerves as he strut through the halls of the New York sanctum. He had returned safely after the issue with Dormammu, but there was one thing he wanted to do more than anything. There were several people standing around the doorways to Kamar-Taj attempting to reconstruct it and he let out a huff as he tried to open a portal and failed more than a few times. He was frantic. He needed to get to Kamar-Taj, get to—

“Stephen!” He heard you yell

He whipped around and entered a full-on sprint toward you down the hall. You threw your arms around his shoulders and nearly broke down on the spot. You pulled away and grabbed his face in your hands, checking him over. There was a cut on his cheek and blood smeared across his brow, but he was alive and standing.

“What the hell was that!” You yell, “You scared the shit out of me, I came as soon as I—“

“I love you.” Stephen cuts you off, “I love you and I love the friendship we’ve formed, but I want more than that from you. I want a relationship, I want to hold you like this, I want to know you’re mine. And I know that it’s probably terrifying for you to imagine being in a relationship again, but I swear to you, I’m not in the business of holding you back or holding you down.” Stephen searches your face and continues, “I want to help you thrive and prosper and become a Master if that’s still what you want. I want to see you happy and smiling and—“

“I love you too.” You murmur, “I love you.”

“All I could think about as I flew away was how I would explain myself to you when I got back. And all I knew was if I didn’t get back it would have been worth it because you would still be alive and learning and doing whatever the hell you wanted.” He rests his forehead against your own and sighs, “I want every good thing for you that you want, whatever that may be. And if it’s not me…”

You give a soft laugh, “I already said I love you, dumbass.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I expect you to want a relationship.”

“I do.” You say, “But I want to do it right.”

“Me too.”

“Where do we… where do we start?”

“I think the first thing we should do is—“

“Strange!” You hear Wong call down the hall, “Come with me, we must return the eye to its place!”

You pull back and look down to find Stephen is in fact wearing the Eye of Agamotto around his neck, “Oh my God.” You groan

“Listen, I can explain.” Stephen starts

“Oh my God!” You yell, “You took the Eye—“

“Strange!” Wong calls again

“I cannot believe you.” You huff

Stephen smiles sheepishly, “I have a reason and it’s a damn good one. I will explain it all on our first official date.” He grins down at you, “If that’s something you’d like?”

You shake your head at him but smile, “Yes. And it better be a long one. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I know.” He nods before leaning down and brushing a kiss against your forehead, “Now I have to go, Wong and I have a lot to discuss. I’ll come find you as soon as possible, okay? We’ll get something planned out.”

“Okay.” You agree with a soft smile, “Now go.”

Stephen gave your hand a squeeze before dashing away and you watched him go, the Cloak of Levitation flowing behind him. Your heart sang at the sight. He was battered and bruised, but he was safe and successful. He was back and he wanted to be yours. He’d left with the intention and returned with the plan and acted on it. Stephen had gone to face a time god with the intention of saving the world, making the ultimate sacrifice of his own life. For you and everyone else.

No. Not so selfish after all.

tag list:@yuu-chan-is-still-a-student12 @fireworksinthesky @cemak @pinkthick @cumbrbatchbenedict @newavenger @evelyn-kingsley @aphroditesdilemma @ironstrange1991 @strangeobsessed @iamsherlocked1479 @vickie-mcmuffin @rmoonstoner

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gojodefender · 1 year

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Neil Ellice in “Soap’s Battle Royale Checklist“ x ENDING

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gojodefender · 1 year

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MOUSE YAOI REAL

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gojodefender · 1 year

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gojodefender · 1 year

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hate that english makes you say things like "that that" and "do do"

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gojodefender · 1 year

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So the reader and Din are married right, and reader thinks his armour is so boring and plain, so they draw something on that part that goes on his forearm. He protects it at all costs.

Din Djarin x gn!reader

summary: The reader does something special for Din.

~1.6k

a/n: this is apart of the significant-verse! but it can be read on its own, reader and Din are married.

"You're staring, riduur," Din says, not turning away from the control panel he's fiddling with.

He's removed his gloves but otherwise remains fully armored. You tuck your legs beneath you on the co-pilot's chair and hum under your breath, not answering him.

Din has pretty hands. His fingers are long, his palms broad. Scars zigzag across a portion of his golden skin, but otherwise it remains unblemished and soft. The gloves have protected his skin from calluses, and you're still surprised sometimes by the softness the pads of his fingers held when pressed against yours.

You shift your gaze from his hands, fiddling with the delicate circuitry, to his armor.

Din wore his plain, the metal smooth and well kept, unblemished and meticulously taken care of. It's a nice look, and, somehow, more intimidating than that of other Mandalorians.

You'd been surprised to find the majority of his covert with painted beskar.

"I'm staring," you start, enjoying the way Din's head cocks in your direction even if he doesn't turn to face you. You always have his attention, even when you think you don't. "Because you're very nice to look at."

Din grunts but otherwise remains silent. You smile to yourself, tugging his cloak closer around your shoulders where he'd earlier draped it, and wonder if he's blushing beneath the helmet.

"I was just wondering," you continue. "Why you don't paint your armor?"

That gets his full attention.

Din sets down the panel in his hands and swivels in the pilot's seat to stare at you. "Why?"

The question is oddly tight, his voice low.

You shrug. "I'm just curious."

"Does...Do I not please you?"

"What?" You say, giggling. "Of course you please me, Din. Didn't I just call you pretty? You know you do."

He doesn't answer you, a piece of the puzzle missing for you in his words. The question means more than you can understand.

"I really was just wondering. I like how shiny you are," you tease. "And you keep better care of yours."

His shoulders tilt back with your words, and you know you've pleased him somehow. "I just prefer it unadorned," he answers. "It's easier to maintain. It doesn't blemish the metal."

You hum and nod. "That makes sense." He nods and starts to turn away when you continue. "How do the others choose the colors?"

He pauses, half turned away from you. "Usually they are colors associated with their house, their clan."

"Are their colors associated with our clan?"

He turns fully back to the panel he was working on. "No. We are the first of our clan."

That strikes you.

It's easy for you to forget sometimes, that Din wasn't born to the Mandalorians, that he was an orphan without a family history among them. He seems somehow more Mandalorian to you than any other you've ever met.

Din and Grogu, and now you, were the first of Clan Djarin. If history ever looked back at you, they'd see your names as the first.

It's an odd thought, and one that makes you roll your eyes.

Glory and honor, who would have thought you'd have such qualities instilled in you through the will of your Mandalorian.

The thought of your clan being without distinction weighs on you, just a little. It seems unfair, for how hard Din strove to uphold his creed.

Mudhorn aside, it weighs on you.

You glance down at the tattoo on your wrist, the mudhorn, your mark of belonging.

"Din," you nudge your knee into the back of his where he stands at the weapons locker, meticulously reorganizing weapons though you can't see what was out of place in the first place.

He turns to you, lowering his head automatically to press the crown of the helm against your forehead. "Yes," he answers.

"I know you prefer your beskar without any paint," you say, "so you can tell me no and I'll never mention it again. But I was wondering if you'd let me paint it?"

He stiffens, his body freezing as he regards you. "Not all of it," you say quickly. "Just one of the pauldrons."

"Why?"

The ramp of the ship is lowered, a warm breeze rustling the leaves of the trees just outside.

"It bothers me that our clan has no colors," you say. "I bought paint at the last market we stopped at and something to seal the color with, so it won't be hurt in a fight."

He doesn't say anything, still incredibly still. "Riduur?" You ask, the word seeming to snap him out of whatever trace he'd fallen into. "You can say no, Din. You won't hurt my feelings."

"Are you sure you aren't displeased?"

You blink at him and then at the child, whose waddled over to attach himself to your ankle. "Yes. What would I be upset about?"

Instead of answering, he reaches up and detaches the pauldron with the mudhorn emblazoned on it and hands it over to you. "Paint it all, if you'd like."

You reach down for the baby and then carry both back up to the cockpit, not sure what to make of his reaction.

You decide to go ahead with it, settling Grogu in your lap as you open the little tubes of paint. You would show it to him before you sealed it so it could easily be removed if he wanted it to be.

By no means are you an artist. The little splotch of color you carefully tap into the corner of the pauldron above the mudhorn is less a design and more of a reminder of family through color.

You paint a miniature sky into the tiny space you allot yourself, a deep blue for the galaxy Din has traveled through for years, a tracery of green through the cobalt, a faint color like the waves you see in the sky on some worlds, to remind him of what guides him. You trace tiny silver stars into the navy blue.

"There," you say as you show Grogu your work. "Poor art really, but it makes a nice little flag, doesn't it? See the green? That's for you. To remind your dad of you."

The child coos and reaches for it. "Ah, no, we have to show dad. And when he hates it we'll come back up here and wipe it all away and feel so stupid." Your heart gives a little twinge. He clearly hadn't wanted you to paint it, and you aren't sure why you tried anymore.

You trace your thumb over the mudhorn, deep in thought.

"I don't hate it."

You jump and turn to find Din standing silently behind you. He reaches up and removes his helmet before rounding your seat to kneel in front of you. "Do you like it, at the very least?"

"I don't think there's a word for what I feel, riduur," he admits.

His eyes hold a deep emotion that seems to elude you. You don't know how to read the look in his eyes, expressive as always and somehow unknowable to you. "Good or bad?" You ask weakly. "Really, Din, you don't always have to indulge me. You can tell me to wipe it off."

"No," he answers quickly, pulling his pauldron out of your hand, examining it with a strange intensity. "How long until it dries?"

"A few hours, and then I can seal it."

He gives a curt nod. "Good. I have repairs to attend to today." He stands, gently handing the cold metal back to you.

Din cups a hand over Grogu's head when he leans in to kiss you, nudging his forehead against yours again before he disappears back down into the hull, replacing the helmet as he goes.

You can't help but smile, grinning into the top of the child's head.

It's a tiny spot of color really, and you suspect that even if Din thought it was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen, he still would not wipe it away. It was another mark of clan and home and belonging, separate from his place among the tribe, and gifted to him by you.

He wears it proudly after that, and, you think you catch him admiring it when he thinks you aren't looking.

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gojodefender · 1 year

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amazon position breathe if you agree

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gojodefender · 1 year

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happy april foold everyone did you know about………………… bofa

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gojodefender · 1 year

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Reblog if you think asexuality is a legitimate sexuality.

I’m trying to prove something.

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gojodefender · 1 year

Photo

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gojodefender · 1 year

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Marlene found and separated two bonded, feral cats and what? Expected peace?

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gojodefender · 1 year

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i’m watching black widow and i remember something along the lines of “i’m a weapon” but imagine Din’s response

“weapons are a part of my religion, so let me get on my knees and worship you properly.”

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gojodefender · 1 year

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since the old version of this post was flagged for 'adult content'...

reblog this post if your account is a trans safe space or owned by a trans person!

along with that, reblog if your account is a trans non-binary spectrum safe space or owned by someone on the trans enby spectrum!

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gojodefender · 1 year

Note

I asked about Arthur or Ghost but then completely forgot to request something, it’s not really a specific request. Just something fluffy with either of them. Your choice!

@djarinsbf

All good!

You were asleep on the couch when Ghost walked in. He chuckled softly seeing your sleeping figure. He sat down on the couch next to you and gently ran his hands through your hair. He took off the lower part of his mask and set it down on the table. He gently scooped you up in his arms and laid back on the couch.

He laid you on top of him and wrapped his arms around you. You stirred and opened your eyes, "Hey baby."

"Hey, sunshine." Ghost smiled seeing your beautiful eyes. He cupped your chin and kissed your lips gently.

"I missed you." You kissed him back.

"I missed you too, dove." Ghost moved to take off the top part of his mask and set it down as well. You smiled widely seeing the face of your beloved. You moved your hands on his chest and kissed him deeply. Ghost let out a moan of pleasure and kissed you back.

He loved coming home to you, it's the only reason he keeps going.

Tagging:@deepbatched, @vikingqueen28, @leonkennedyslefthand, @stewardofningishzida, @icytrickster17, @onlinecemetery, @marki-moo0, @absolute-not-original, @creamecafe, @scrubb, @nightingal3-tales, @alliethedaydreamer, @strangesthirdeye, @alexa-33, @zombiedixon89, @sunnsettee, @deliciousfestsalad, @kiaradaniell, @freyafriggafrey, @criticalroleobssedperson, @avengersfan25, @lunamoonbby, @androgynouspersonapricotfan, @foxcantswim, @namorkawaiiwife, @starkiller-queen, @kyuupidwrites, @luciamajer, @renatas10, @ayamenimthiriel, @gaiagurl05, @dipsylou, @pinkthick, @hansai, @andywinter16, @iambored24601, @3-cheese-tortellini, @cumbrbatchbenedict, @ironstrange1991, @aribas-stuff, @rianumochi, @vibaracal, @lostpirateinwonderland

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gojodefender · 1 year

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The Scars Between Us

Relationship: Din Djarin x reader

Warnings: angst, hurt, mentions of nightmares, slow to comfort, soft scared Din

Summary: Din is terrified when he almost loses you on a mission, one where you protected him, the scar you bear reminding him of his failure. He can hardly look at you, let alone touch you or think about doing so. What happens when you confront him on the matter?

All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound(Do NOT copy, repost, claim, or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: Duh nuh, I have returned with a slice of Din angst. This man desperately needs to be held and loved despite his protests. I hope you all enjoy! As always, comments and reblogs are most appreciated! Graphic by @firefly-graphics

Every time he closes his eyes, the same image surfaces. The blood, the raining of blaster fire, the wails of the child, screaming villagers. There you were in the thick of it with him fighting off the troopers who’d decided to infiltrate the seedy bar you convinced him to retrieve information.

Keep reading

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gojodefender · 1 year

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Trust Fall | Ch 25a

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | (Next Chapter)

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Emory leaves for her mission (complete with a wheelchair and fake oxygen tank), and Tony helps Darsy not scream when Tumblr fucks with this chapter four times before it gets properly posted. look. LOOK.

Length: 2,901

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne @thorfics @chibijusstuff

Note: The word 'caustic' has a second, lesser-known meaning best described as 'the patterns light makes when refracted through a reflective surface like water or glass.' Think swimming pools or water glasses hit by sunlight!

I used 'caustic echo' (chapter title) as a reflection of something or someone familiar seen in a different light, a new way of seeing Obediah, Sharon (aka. Agent Harris), Rory, or even the scientist Emory's mission is about contacting...

Excerpt:

It’s still dark when they take the stairs down to the parking garage to find Natasha’s car in a darkened corner. Nat gets out and hands over a phone that’s the same make and model as the one left behind in the apartment.

“This has a full contact list including messages. You’ll want to go over them, especially the ones between you and Agent Harris.”

It hadn’t occurred to Emory that not having a phone might be suspicious. “I will, thank you,” she tells Natasha, holding her phone up for Clint, who is piling his gear into the trunk. “You could have warned me, ‘William Never-Tells!’”

“It’s official. That is the worst archery joke I’ve ever heard. Stark’s gonna dump you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: Caustic Echoes

Emory’s shaken awake to a dark room.

“Hey, Em. Really hoping you’re not hung over,” Clint says.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t blow you out the window,” she groans, pulling the pillow over onto her head. He chuckles.

“You’d never do it, we’re friends now,” he teases. “I got the call. Time to move out.”

“Can I play my ‘get out of mission free’ card?”

“Nope. Get dressed, okay? Should be out the door in ten.”

With that, Clint pulls the door shut behind him but leaves the overhead light on, the bastard. Emory pushes the pillow off of her head onto the floor and winces at the brightness.

“Fuck,” she says. Forcing herself to her feet, she gets dressed in the simple black suit and blue blouse that Nat had given her. The jacket has a lot of hidden pockets, and when Natasha first handed it over, Emory had joked about whether the pockets numbered more than Agent Harris’s secrets. Black Widow’s enigmatic smile and shrug hadn’t been very comforting then, and the memory isn’t very comforting now.

“You almost ready?” Barton calls out from the hallway. Emory grabs her phone, slips on her sturdy black boots, and rushes out to follow him. “Oh. Stick that back on to charge,” Clint says, nodding to her phone. “Communications dark.”

“Even if I promise to leave it off?” Tony had given her the phone, it’s somewhat of a mental lifeline.

“Yeah. Even if that wasn’t part of the plan, I’d feel better if you did. Who knows what Stark installed on that thing?” As if that was the end of the argument, he goes over to the basket on the counter and grabs an apple. “Want one?”

“That better not be a Stark vs. Apple joke,” she warns. “Be right back.”

His laughter chases her down the hall. Right before she plugs her phone in, Emory pops the device out of its protective case and tucks that into one of the hidden pockets of her jacket. Tony had given her that, too, and it’s better than nothing.

“This has a full contact list including messages. You’ll want to go over them, especially the ones between you and Agent Harris.”

“It’s official. That is the worst archery joke I’ve ever heard. Stark’s gonna dump you.”

“If you want good jokes, don’t wake me up before 7 AM!” she snipes back. In response, Clint adjusts the arrows in his quiver to look like a held-up middle finger before hopping into the front passenger seat. “Why can’t he be the mission leader?” she groans, leaning her head onto Natasha’s upper arm.

“You’ll do great. Remember, every insecurity just makes you more credible. We’ll build you back up when it’s all over, ok?” Nat says, petting her head before stepping back.

These two agents feel like her friends, not her coworkers. Emory’s touched, but she also remembers what Tony had said about something being ‘off’ at SHIELD. Impulsively, she steps close to Natasha and lowers her voice to a whisper, even though it’s 5:20 in the morning in a deathly quiet residential parking garage.

“Tony told me the mission data for SHIELD is strange, like something’s not right,” she says. It sounds childish when spoken aloud, but Emory presses on. “Whatever it is, he’s doing more investigating, but it sounded serious. The kind of thing that a long-time employee can recognize, even if you brush it off as unrealistic unless it’s not just you that’s noticing.”

“But he didn’t try to stop you from doing this mission?”

That's a valid question, but Emory has a counter to it: “I need the serum, and maybe SHIELD’s a safer bet than some of the bad guys that are out there?”

Natasha’s face twists into a self-deprecating smile. “That’s the damned truth.” Her watch chimes some kind of an alarm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Emory says. She watches the two agents drive away with mixed feelings, but smiles at Clint’s wink. “Chaotic dad energy,” she whispers to herself.

Without them, Emory feels terribly exposed. She looks down at the phone in her hand-- and realizes that it would probably fit in the case she’s got hidden in her jacket.

She’s barely finished messing with it when a cherry red SUV pulls into the parking garage and drives right over to the darkened area where Emory is lurking. Before it’s fully stopped, the passenger door on her side slides open and a red haired woman wearing Emory’s exact same outfit steps out. She’s a little taller, but everything else is spot on.

“Thanks, Amanda,” Agent Harris says as she gets out on the driver’s side, handing over a shopping bag and a set of car keys.

“Good luck,” the woman says. “It’ll be nice having my own hair back, anyway.” From the bag, she pulls out a baseball cap. A minute later, she’s got most of the hair twisted up underneath it, and she’s swapped her black blazer with a jean jacket from the bag. Her appearance has gone from ‘finance professional’ to ‘exhausted grad student’ in ninety seconds.

“Lay low for a few days. Stick the wig in your hope chest for Roleplay Night,” Harris says with a crooked grin. She seems like a completely different person than the cool, standoffish agent Emory knows her as.

“Sure.” Amanda rolls her eyes. “The day Richard proposes is the day I stop going undercover, so, probably never? See ya. Stay safe.”

“We’ll try.”

Emory watches the other woman walk confidently off into the depths of the parking garage before turning to look at Agent Harris. “I didn’t realize we needed a decoy,” she whispers. Behind them, a car door closes, followed by the sound of an engine starting up.

“Your boyfriend's the one who almost tossed a million-dollar wrench into my op!” Harris says. “Amanda helped us get the necessary optics in case you were otherwise occupied. Get in, we need to get moving. I have some fast talking to do with the charter company about that tank.”

Emory does as she’s told, but she wonders what happened in the last day or so to change so much of the plan-- unless this was always going to happen, and she's just out of the loop. As soon as she’s settled in, Harris shifts into drive, literally and figuratively.

“The tank has two valves. One controls the oxygen that leads to your mask. The other will release an aerosol agent that had been shown to incapacitate anyone with the DNA changes prompted by the serum we’re after,” she says, expertly navigating the city streets on the way to the airport. She looks back at Emory in the rear view and adds, “That’s why you were still unconscious when you arrived at the Triskelion.”

All Emory can do is stare at her. She wants to ask if Tony was around when they puffed experimental incapacitation dust in her face to see what it would do-- but she’s consumed by something more pressing.

“None of this was in the briefing. You left out everything important! Is this how SHIELD treats everyone, or just me?” The accusation is over the line, but if she can’t challenge this bullshit after Harris has admitted to testing untried chemicals on her, then she’ll never get the chance.

The initial silence from the driver’s seat bolsters her courage, which is good, because they’ve arrived at the airport. Every cell in her body longs to get the heck out of there, but while Emory doesn’t need the wheelchair yet, her joints hurt like hell. It’s only a matter of time.

“Thinking over the sequence of events, I’ll admit it’s not--” Agent Harris’s voice falters a little.

Emory wonders if this sudden display of conscience is studied, intended to elide responsibility. It’s a cynical view, but she feels used. At least the conversation is dampening her power generation.

“I knew I’d end up having to fight some of the clients I was assigned,” Harris starts again. Emory can see that her grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. “Maybe I spent a little too much energy pulling back from them, and you got caught up in that. I’m sorry.”

Emory had steeled herself for cold indifference, and this vulnerability throws her. The reflex to say ‘it’s okay’ is strong, but she pushes that aside with great effort and asks the other question that has her anxious. “Speaking of fights, how are we going to get on an airplane with a weaponized oxygen cylinder?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got that covered.” Harris says, facing forward again. She slows the car to a stop and reaches over to pull something out of her purse to hold up for the security guard. “Flight plan’s already in place,” she says to him, her tone far more friendly than the one she’d just used with Emory.

“All right,” the guard says, stepping back into the booth and hitting a button. “Safe travels.”

“Travel will be the safest part,” Harris mutters once they’re moving again.

Their ride to Sokovia is a chartered jet. The story Harris tells the crew is the one they’d prepped for, that Emory is suffering from a rare condition and needs to see a specialist based in Novi Grad. Preflight and takeoff are completely uneventful, and as she looks out the window at the clouds below them, Emory realizes that if SHIELD hadn’t used experimental gas to knock her out for the flight from Afghanistan, they would have used drugs. They had followed standard operating procedure for the agency: compartmentalize the ‘Need to Know’ and isolate team members from key information on the off chance it could ruin the mission.

She drifts off to sleep in her airplane seat wondering how often not knowing key information caused the strange results that Tony noticed.

Flying back to NYC in the late evening makes it a bit too late to talk to Emory, so Tony sleeps on the plane, dreaming of various innovations he could use on her armor. Both Happy and Pepper had chosen to stay back in California. They’ll fly back with Stane in a few days. Tony’s happy to see that Pepper had called ahead for a hired car to take him home. There’s even a cup of coffee waiting for him in the cupholder, which wakes him up enough to carry his luggage into the basement lab.

Since the stairs are too much effort at 4 AM, Tony sits down at the computer and starts to sketch out what he’d seen in those dreams.

Without anyone around to hound him to take better care of himself, Tony throws himself into the design work, subsisting on smoothies and freeze-dried fruit pouches. Ten hours later he’s too caught up to worry about trivial things like a change of clothes as he drives back over to Stark Industries to use the fabricator. He sneaks in via a side door and tells the scientist working in the room he needs that he’ll fund the man’s side project for a full year if he keeps Tony’s presence in the building a secret.

As he works, Tony picks up his phone to text Emory multiple times, but she’d asked him to wait for her to send a message first on weekdays. There was always a chance that she’d be practicing power control, and as she'd put it, thinking about him is a ‘delightful distraction.’ It’s a compliment, but he misses her, damnit. He’s dozing at the desk waiting for the Bridgeport to finish up, his phone held loosely in his hand just in case, when he’s woken by someone clearing their throat behind him.

A quick glance at his watch confirms what Tony’s stomach is already telling him: it’s just past and/or almost Burger O’Clock, aka 3 PM. Tony summons his best ‘what the actual fuck are you doing’ face for reputation’s sake and swivels his chair around.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man says, undaunted. “I wanted to tell you we do have some palladium in storage.”

Tony doesn’t remember mentioning palladium, but he recognizes the guy, and most of the day is fuzzy in retrospect. “All right, let’s take a look.”

The scientist seems surprised at this response, but he recovers and takes Tony to the secure storage area. It’s enough for an insert. Tony decides to take it, signing the material out before setting up a pickup time for the piece he’s machining. He heads home to eat something and make the tab, so he can swap his current one out. The SI development lab uses a higher purity level than they bother with for weaponry, and JARVIS has warned there could be some issues with long-term palladium exposure, depending on refinement. That’s why he’d been in such a hurry to redesign the arc.

If it works out, that’ll just confirm that he needs a new supplier. Tony wants the best he can get if he’s going to have to cross an ocean to support Emory’s mission. He’ll stick the partially depleted tab into one of his armored suit’s storage caches, as a backup.

Even though they’d taken off in the early morning, the plane lands in Novi Grad after midnight. With how tired she is, Emory is grateful for the wheelchair, but her face aches from wearing the oxygen mask for so long. It’s hard not to be frustrated with Agent Harris for not warning her so she could be more used to the experience. It’s particularly galling to think that for all she knows, this discomfort and mistrust is part of the plan-- a way to keep Emory off balance and her powers at bay until they’re needed.

At the front desk of their hotel, Harris gives her name for their reservation, then pulls out a wad of cash and asks if there’s a chance they can upgrade. The clerk’s eyes gleam in excitement, and soon they’re ushered to a suite. The sweep Harris does for bugs yields nothing; if the previous room had been prepped for them, that’s just too bad. Both Emory and Harris change for bed in their respective rooms without any chit-chat. Their meeting is scheduled for the next morning, eight hours away. There’s no time to miss Tony, no time to worry about how things will work out, because every second of sleep counts.

It feels like as soon as Emory rests her head on her pillow and closes her eyes, she’s woken up by a knock at the door.

“It’s seven-thirty,” Harris tells her through the closed door. “I have some last-minute details to go over.”

“You can come in while I get dressed,” Emory offers, stretching. Harris comes in and walks over to face the window to give her some privacy.

“Do you remember the keywords?”

“I mention the cave or Afghanistan to confirm I’m feeling safe, and I speak about D.C. or ‘home’ if I’m not,” Emory confirms, gathering up the suit jacket and pants she’ll put back on for today.

“Right. Any mention of Rory Fall by either one of us is a signal to be ready to fight. Try to avoid using her name if it comes up for some reason.”

“I can’t imagine that being a problem.”

She doesn’t tell Harris that her former friend and boss would have long-since collapsed into hysterics or given away the entire game by now, probably on national television. For the first time in her life, Emory takes this as a compliment on her own behalf instead of an indication that she'd failed her friend. The words Nick Fury had thrown in her face all those weeks ago have served their purpose, though she couldn’t have known that at the time. Emory has responded to a medical and moral imperative, but as much as possible, she’s done so on her own terms.

If that looks like obedience to SHIELD, well. That’s their own fault, is it not?

In her rush, Emory drops her small travel bag when she pulls out the blue blouse she’ll wear today. She sees the other agent turn to see if she’s okay, and hurriedly pulls the shirt on.

“Red bra, huh? Wouldn’t have expected that,” Harris remarks.

“Tony likes it,” Emory says, lifting her chin even as she feels her face flush as red as the bra. She likes the color too, but after a few months in the strange culture that is the apprenticeship program at SHIELD, she’d picked up a few things. Who you know is important, more so than who you are, and Tony Stark is rich, smart, and unpredictable.

She settles into the wheelchair after putting her shoes on, dons the mask, and pops a thumbs up for Harris. Whatever’s about to happen, she’s as ready for it as she’ll ever be.

Next chapter, Tony figures out why he can't get in touch with Emory, and Emory finally meets the scientist whose serum has given and taken away so much from her.

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