#pride fic

Almost the second the door closed behind her, Katie's shoulders sagged in relief. The apartment in Avengers Tower was her sanctuary, the one place that stress and worry couldn't penetrate. In the time they'd been together, she and Sam had made it home, from the bright paintings hanging on the wall that tickled her ADHD to the engineering and mechanics texts that lined the bookshelves. Even the bedroom was a testament to their personalities: on her side, an end table scattered with jewellery, paper, a knife, one bullet for some reason she'd long forgotten, and an open drawer filled with clutter; on Sam's side, cleanliness, closed drawers, clean surfaces, and a clock set to the right time.

Katie smiled half-heartedly.

Sometimes she wondered how Sam put up with her chaos.

Kicking off her shoes, she padded her way to the kitchen and pulled out all the ingredients she'd need to make a quick and easy pesto pasta, then turned on the stove. As she poured the pasta into the pot and started stirring, more of the stress from the day melted away.

Ross had stopped by the tower and gone apeshit over their latest mission in the Alps. Especially over Katie's little side quest to the Nexus.

Reckless.

Stupid.

All kinds of blah blah blah had spewed from Ross's mouth.

It wasn't the tirade itself that necessarily bothered her. At least not on the surface. It was more the straw that broke the camel's back.

Katie'd never understood that expression. Was it supposed to be why some camels had two humps? Did camels carry straw often? Why would one tiny piece of straw break its back?

The water boiling over brought her back to the present.

"Shit!"

She pulled the pot away from the heat, cleaned what she could, and started over on a new burner at a much lower heat.

Ross always acted like a self-righteous annoying shithead, lording shit over everyone on the team in one way or another. For all Katie cared, he could spend the whole damn day belittling her and she wouldn't bat an eyelash.

On top of that, she'd gone out earlier with Nat and it had been Pride flags everywhere to celebrate Pride Month. While people were busy picking through the merch, joyously pulling flags from across the rainbow and displaying them proudly, not a single place had carried the heteroflexible flag. It was invalidating and heavy in a way she couldn't even begin to describe, just a nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her her feelings weren't just or right. People she'd never met somehow judging her without ever holding a conversation.

It built throughout the day. Little things mostly - a dropped straw, fumbling with her keys, forgetting her cellphone. Each one pushing her temperature higher, just edging the danger zone.

Then Ross had jumped down her throat.

And she snapped.

The arrogant prick had no idea what she'd needed at the Nexus, he just liked to complain. Especially when it came to her, every little ADHD quirk she had seemed to piss him off.

And to make things worse, Sam was off in New Orleans visiting his sister and nephews. If Sam had been there, she was sure he would've caught it before she went off and calmed her down in some subtle way. Maybe. There was a slim chance he would've been just as pissed at Ross.

Katie pushed out an angry breath, willing herself not to get worked up again as she stared at the dancing pasta noodles in her pot. Little bubbles pushed them up to the surface, and they'd float back down, only to be picked up again. The movement was almost soothing and Katie tried her breathing exercises as she watched the pot.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she realised that normal people counted sheep to relax, and there she was counting tiny pieces of rigatoni.

When the noodles were nearly done, she put the colander in the sink.

Another minute passed, and when she was satisfied with the state of the noodles - al dente was not her thing, she preferred a much softer noodle - she brought the pot to the sink and tipped it over the colander. Without thinking she reached up to help a stuck noodle and burnt her finger on the metal, dropping the pot into the sink with a loud clang. Noodles flew everywhere.

"Son of a fucking bitch!"

Tears pricked her eyes at the sight of the mess, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. Sam had shown her the technique ages ago, part of PTSD relaxation exercises he'd learned, and it seemed like it worked for her emotional dysregulation as well. She held the breath for four seconds, then slowly released. And repeated the exercise until she wasn't on the verge of angry tears.

After a quick clean, she put the surviving noodles in a bowl, mixed in some cheese, pesto, and veg, then made her way to the couch for a night of shitty action movies until Sam's nightly call.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later the number thirty-three bus was speeding down the freeway. The acting was terrible, the plot was loose at best, but you couldn't beat a young Keanu Reeves in 90s grunge clothing trying to save a busload of people from evil Dennis Hopper. As the LAPD pulled up alongside the bus, she heard the apartment door open and fought against rolling her eyes. It had to be Nat, coming to check on her now that Ross had left. Who else would just walk right in like that, with Sam out of town?

"I'm fine, Nat." The woman was a damn ninja, no wonder she knew the apartment door code. Either that or she had JARVIS to blame. "Seriously, just let me eat my carbs in peace."

There was no reply from the entry, nor did the sound of footsteps reach Katie's ears. But that didn't mean Nat had left.

Katie opened her mouth and started to turn around, when a teddy bear appeared in her field of vision. It was a light brown bear, only a few inches tall, and in its hand was a heart with the heteroflexible flag on it. Attached to the bear was a familiar hand, then an arm, finally a smiling Sam.

"Hey, baby."

All her worries melted away into her first genuine smile all day. "You're home early."

"And you are uncharacteristically still," he replied, walking around the couch as she put her pasta down on the coffee table. He dropped down next to her and pulled her sideways into his arms. "Natasha told me what happened."

"Did she also tell you I made a mess in the kitchen?" she sighed, tucking in against his chest. She draped a lazy arm around his waist and closed her eyes, drinking in the smell of Old Spice and coffee; the distinctly 'Sam' scent calmed her further. "I cleaned it. I mean, hopefully I got it all. I just...."

Sam dropped a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "Don't worry about it," he murmured into her hair. "You okay?"

She nodded against his chest. "Better now." From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the bear where Sam had dropped it on the couch cushion, and reached for it. The fur was softer than she'd expected, and for a moment she lost herself in the feeling of her fingers rubbing into it. Of Sam's breath tickling the hairs on the top of her head. Somehow every feeling that she was less than, that she wasn't valid was pushed away by the bear. If she was valid and worthy in Sam's eyes, did it really matter what faceless strangers thought? "Where did you even find this?"

"Trade secret," he chuckled. "You like it?"

Katie bit down on her grin. "I don't know how you do it, Sam, but it's perfect." Angling her head up, she met his gaze. "Thank you."

Sam's fingers caressed her cheek, pulling a sigh that carried all her remaining troubles away. "You know I got you, Katie." With a soft kiss - or two or three - he laid back down on the sofa and pulled her with him.

As she tucked in against his side, she tried to focus on the movie, but with the weight of the day's emotions finally lifted, sleep didn't just call, it screamed. Her eyelids drooped lower and lower, not even the action on the TV could override the way Sam's gentle murmurings lulled her further under.

It’s difficult enough though, to find buyers and patrons for his art. No one in Paris would support him if he were open about his preferences. So, like many, Laurent hides his true heart in clandestine affairs and quick trysts that are as easily acquired as they are forgotten.

On nights like tonight, he flirts easily with women, his mysterious dark eyes and charm drawing them in like bees to a sweet flower.

Laurent’s painting is the the main focus of a small exhibition at the home of an important lord, recently moved to Paris from the countryside. The man’s wife is more interested in Laurent’s cock than his paintings and Laurent supposes he’ll have to sleep with the woman, just to keep up appearances.

“Laurent,” the lady of the house flutters her lashes, “I wonder if you might like a tour of the upstairs rooms. The art we have up there is really best seen in private.”

With a sigh, Laurent breaks out his charming smile. It’s easy enough to do, and he hopes he can make his body hard enough to satisfy her.

On his way up the stairs, Laurent overhears a conversation, two strangers speaking about his work. Maybe it’s vain, but he pauses to listen.

“I only came here tonight to see LeClaire’s work,” a man’s voice, your voice, says.

“His pieces are sought after, yes, but not really to my taste,” another man says.

“Then you have no taste.” Your tone is clipped and almost rude. “LeClaire’s work has heartbreak and beauty in equal measures. These beautiful women he paints, they’re like false idols. They’re perfect, but something in how they stand... they have almost a masculine aura, despite their feminine beauty. It’s in the eyes.”

“Well, I for one, don’t really look at their eyes,” the other man chuckles. “His way with the female body is what I appreciate most. I’ve heard he has enough experience with it.”

To Laurent’s relief, you don’t laugh.

He catches a glimpse of you. You have on a good suit, neat hair and mustache. A handsome man, yes, but more than that. You’ve seen what Laurent tries to desperately to hide. He’d almost given up hoping he’d find a soul like his, someone to love forever.

In the moment he sees you, he knows.

It’s you.

The other man elbows you and leans in. “I hear you made off with that beauty from last night. Snuck off before the rest of us even had a chance.”

You grin, debonair and chagrined. “Yes, I couldn’t help myself. But last night was last night. You know me, always on to the next conquest.”

This time, you do laugh with the other man and Laurent feels bitter disappointment in his stomach.

It’s just as well, Laurent thinks. He wasn’t really up for the subtle hinting and long game of trying to see if you were interested in men. Better to know right away that he has no chance with you.

He turns around and leaves the party. He can’t be there anymore, pretending to want to impress people he cares nothing for, and pretending to enjoy bedding the woman he’s sure is now waiting naked for him.

Laurent instead goes back to his apartment and studio. Some nights, the poor light is a good inspiration. The struggle to see the details and colors on the canvas feel like a worthy punishment for him, living the lie he does.

He knows just the woman he wants to paint.

She’s not real, but she’s clearer in his head than any woman he’s ever seen. The generous hips and thighs, the slender waist, the elegant and tempting neck, and the waterfall of black hair struggling to be contained in the ribbon holding it together.

The woman Laurent would have to be, for a man like you to love him.

He fantasizes, humming as he paints himself into your life.

Laurent falls asleep on the paint-speckled floor of his studio. It’s not the first time, but unlike the others, this time he tries desperately to stay awake. To keep his eyes open, yearning to be the woman on the canvas. Someone who could tempt you to spend time deep inside of them.

When he wakes, Laurent finds the painting itself was the dream.

The canvas is empty.

Judging by the light it’s mid-morning and Laurent had made plans to have coffee with friends.

Perhaps he can paint the woman for real tonight, he thinks as he gets up from the floor.

But THUD! He gets tangled up and falls back onto his knees.

Why in the world?

He looks down and sees his legs got caught up in his skirts.

His dress.

Her dress.

Laurent scrambles up, grasping for his shaving mirror.

The woman in the painting stares back at him.

*****

You’re buzzing.

Meeting Laurent LeClaire, a man whose worked you’ve admired for months now.

Last night you’d been so close to laying eyes on him and shaking his hand, but even though you’d managed an invitation to the exhibit, the artist himself had left the party early.

You’ve heard he’s as handsome as he is talented.

That’s not why you want to meet him, though.

It isn’t.

Kind of.

Okay.

It is.

You’ve never settled down in one place, but you hope to call Paris home now. You hear they’re more accepting of men like you.

Unfortunately, the only rumors you’ve heard of Laurent are of his many female companions. That was a let down.

Still, romantic love being off the table, maybe there’s room for friendship. At least you can appreciate his talent.

“Excuse me,” a female voice says as she taps your shoulder. “Are you waiting for my brother, Laurent?”

You look up into her dark eyes, surprised. She’s a beauty, and if what you’ve heard of Laurent’s handsomeness is true, this woman is clearly his sister.

“Leiana LeClaire,” she introduces herself, delicately laying her gloved hand in yours.

You rise briefly and sit once she has. “This isn’t the type of establishment I usually see ladies in, but are you an artist as well? I hadn’t heard he had a sister.”

You glance around, but don’t see Laurent.

“I live outside of the city,” Leiana says, “and also an artist. I’m sure you’re disappointed not to meet with him today, but I assure you, I’m better company than my brother.”

You try to keep your face from giving you away, but another missed opportunity is difficult to accept. Like fate is trying to keep you from Laurent.

“It would be silly of me to turn away a lovely woman such as yourself, Ms. LeClaire.”

“Call me Lulu, please” she says, her eyes narrowing just a touch. “I can see you really had your heart set on Laurent.”

Indeed, your heart beats faster at her phrasing. Though you’re sure she doesn’t mean it in any particular way.

“Well, I'm a great admirer of his work. Please, order anything you wish. Perhaps afterward we could take a stroll. There’s a corner around here that Laurent painted, but I haven’t been able to find the one. Well,” you laugh at yourself, “I guess I shouldn’t pester you about it.”

“No, not at all,” Lulu says with a warm smile, “I know it. A friend of his, a prostitute. He painted her smoking in a doorway at night.”

“Yes, that’s the one,” you say enthusiastically.

“The light was beautiful that night. Purple and pink, so bright it flooded the street. Very difficult to capture. I spent all night mixing the colors. Trying and failing to recreate it.” Lulu catches herself. “I mean, Laurent, spent all night sketching and testing colors.”

You tilt your head at her.

She stands quickly, as if to distract both of you. “Why don’t we go for that walk?”

She takes your arm as you exit the cafe, walking a bit closer than appropriate.

True to her word, she takes you to the narrow, cobbled street from the painting. It subtly twists and turns, hardly wide enough to walk arm in arm, the uneven ground meaning Lulu has to hang onto you tightly to keep from tripping. Or perhaps she doesn’t have to, but she’s rather forward.

“So, I hear you were at the party for my brother last night, and another before that. Paris is quite as gay as I’ve heard,” Lulu smiles prettily.

“Very. A woman like yourself won’t lack for suitors,” you say politely, if a bit distracted, thinking of Laurent treading this very path. “And I only go to parties for the art. The party before last, I bought a much coveted piece by a young artist. Something to hold pride of place on my mantel until I manage to get ahold of your brother. Oh- of your brother’s paintings, I mean.”

“Right,” Lulu says thoughtfully, “you don’t go to meet women?”

You look at her, surprised. Forward indeed. “Well, there are all types in Paris. Of women,” you pause for a mere second, “and men. ”

Lulu inhales sharply. She must take your meaning instantly and you’re sure she takes great offense because she pulls her arm away.

“You like men?” she asks more loudly than she should.

“Well, I, um,” you fumble for words.

“Oh you dear man,” she rushes to reassure you, taking your hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just, so glad.”

“You are?” you ask, completely at sea as to what’s happening. “That’s not usually the reaction I receive. It’s why I want to meet Laurent. I know I sound insane, but I understanding his paintings. A blend of masculine and feminine that speaks to me, draws me in like nothing else has. Perhaps I’m only seeing what I wish, though. Since arriving in Paris, I’ve not heard rumor of your brother and I having much in common, in that regard. Perhaps I’m as abnormal here as I was everywhere else.”

“You’re perfectly accepted here," she says.

Her words burrow into your heart immediately. They almost draw tears to your eyes.

“I know a good man when I see one. I’ve enough experience with the bad ones.” Her gloved hand cups your cheek. Her dark eyes shine at you almost lovingly, but then her own hand seems to catch her eye and her smile fades. “Oh no.”

She withdraws her touch, looking down at the fine gloves she wears, the skirt of her dress.

“Lulu, do you need to sit down? A glass of water?” you ask.

She shakes her head, her perfectly curled black hair escaping the ribbon and flowing beautifully around her shoulders. “I’m a woman. Of course, I would finally find a man with whom I could be truly myself and I’m a damned woman.”

Her laughter has no humor in it, but it echoes up and down the alley like a delicate bell.

She rests her hands on her hips, frowning down at the cobblestones. Her bottom lip catches tightly between her teeth.

You try to comfort her. “You’re very attractive. If not me, I’m sure some lucky man-“

She cuts you off with a shake of her head. The toss of her hair catches the light. For some reason, it makes your heart stir.

“Save it,” she says. “I have to try to fix this. I hope to see you tomorrow and if not, well, you might be seeing me employed on this street with my friend the prostitute. I’d probably be quite good at that sort of work, actually.”

“Surely it won’t come to that,” you say, startled by her immediate plan to start prostituting herself.

“If you see Laurent,” Lulu says, deep in thought already, “know this: he would be very glad to know you. Intimately. You’re just the kind of man he’s been waiting for.”

Lulu holds her hand out and shakes it firmly (too firmly) before she darts off, leaving you in utter confusion. A strange woman. You hope that she’ll speak well of you to her brother, and that Laurent isn’t as fickle.

*****

Laurent tries to paint himself as his usual, manly figure. But it doesn’t turn out right.

His manner has always been called “artistic.” He’s never minded being called pretty or sensitive. That he prefers men to enter him and not the other way around has nothing to do with gender, just with what feels good.

Still, he likes his sideburns and the strength of his body. He likes the effect his manly presence has when he enters a room.

But no one’s ever understood him when he’s tried to express how he can feel both man and woman at the same time. How he’d prefer to choose not to be one or the other.

No, he doesn’t want to change his body and be a woman. It was folly to wish it, especially considering you would have accepted him just as he was.

He has a rough sketch of you that he’d done after the party. Hoping it sparks something to set things back, he works on the details of the sketch.

How the light hits your jaw, the slope of your neck, the slight shadow of growth on your chin. Your mustache and nose and, oh, everything.

But it’s after dark now and Laurent feels his heavy eyelids drooping. Sleep calls.

Whatever magic transformed him, they surely won’t be happy with his pitiful efforts to capture the face of the man he loves.

*****

You spend the morning wandering the park near your apartment.

Listless, at loose ends. Hands in your pockets, walking up and down the graveled paths.

It’s stupid to be heartbroken. You’ve never even met the man. You’d lost nothing.

Then why do you feel like this?

Perhaps you should do as a friend had advised you. Find a woman you could settle for, and marry her. You have money, and female friends who might be happy to be the wife of a man like you.

To have only friendship in life, though, when you yearn for so much more… it seems like a punishment, when you’ve committed no crime to begin with.

Lulu. You catch a scent of her.

Your heart sinks.

But it isn’t her.

Laurent.

Now, on the day you’re wearing a rumpled suit and haven’t trimmed your mustache. You’ve been scuffing your shoes through the dirt. Damn it, you’d wanted to look your best.

Especially since Laurent looks perfect, from the top of his jaunty cap to the toes of his neatly tied shoes. His sideburns are thick and frame his face. Drops of paint speckle his hands, but you wouldn’t have him any other way.

He has a huge smile on his face and his hand already out.

“Mr. LeClaire,” you say, surprised and trying to keep yourself from looking around, wondering if he’s greeting someone else.

He removes his cap, releasing a dark bundle of delicious, curling hair. “Laurent, please. I’ve been by your apartment, but they said you were out here. It’s a fine morning. My sister sends her regards.”

“Ah,” you feel your face burn in embarrassment.

“No, no, don’t feel ashamed. In fact, I think your honesty with her saved us a lot of tip-toeing around certain topics that we both usually take great pains to hide,” Laurent says.

He still hasn’t let go of your hand. In fact, his other comes up to cup your elbow.

You clear your throat, but don’t pull away. There’s no one else around and you’re a bit hidden behind some trees.

“Your sister,” you say, “is she well? She made some odd comments yesterday.”

Laurent laughs it off. “The city doesn’t agree with her. She left for home this morning.”

“Yes, that’s probably best. I think she meant to prostitute herself.”

“That’s Lulu for you,” Laurent says, as if that explains anything at all. “Anyway, back to us. I’d love to show you some paintings. Are you free now?”

“Now? Right now?” You ask, surprised, but incredibly happy. “For you, of course.”

Laurent scrutinizes the length of the park, and you wonder why. But not for long because he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours.

“I like a man with a mustache,” he mutters as he kisses you.

Finally, you get your hands in those curls of his. You’d admired them since he’d taken his cap off. Your mouths fit perfectly together. All you can think of is how soft his lips are. His hands grip your waist, his thick tongue tempting yours to taste and play with his.

“Not here,” you laugh quietly as his hands start wandering lower.

“But I have to touch you,” he insists.

“We’re close to my apartment.“

“No, my studio. It isn’t far and I really do want you to see my paintings. Though I’d like you to be naked when you do,” Laurent grins.

Laughing at his good mood and open manner, you give him a squeeze and you set off together.

He occupies a two-story room at the top of a stylish building. The neighborhood is colorful, but Laurent says that while he likes the company and food of the upper class, he’s learned that his home is firmly in the more interesting part of town.

Canvases and paints cover every surface. It’s very haphazard, but has a beauty of its own.

Laurent’s hands are all over you as soon as the door shuts. He palms your cock greedily as he kisses you.

On your way to the bed, you catch a glimpse of Laurent’s easel.

The face in the painting is familiar. Laurent’s sister, Lulu, but it’s not at all like his other works.

Instead of the elegant, almost too-serious expression most of the women in his paintings have, Lulu’s face is alight with happiness. Her dark, soulful eyes seem to look straight at you, to see you. And she loves what she sees.

“She smelled like you,” you say, pausing at the canvas.

Laurent’s currently kissing your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin. “Hmm? Oh, her. Well, you’ll find out eventually so I might as well tell you. I don’t have a sister.”

You tear your eyes away from Lulu and back to Laurent.

“But she introduced herself as such. She looked just like you,” you say.

“I’ll explain it all, my love. Upstairs. All of this time talking could be better spent by you fucking me.” Laurent grinds against you.

You want him. You also want answers.

The temptation of his thighs and mouth and everything else is too much, though.

The less clothes you have, the more desperate you feel for each other. By the time Laurent takes out the small flask of oil from under his bed, the fingers you have inside of him are shaking. You’ve never felt such need, not only sexually, but the feeling of closeness.

That this man is supposed to be yours.

And when you sink your cock inside of him, his soft, pliable hips under your hands, you want to come in two seconds, like a virgin. You use all your strength to keep him from fucking back onto you because as soon as he does, you’ll embarrass yourself.

Laurent, saucy as he is, looks back at you with a toss of his hair.

It’s the same gesture his “sister” had made.

You bend down over Laurent’s back, capturing his mouth in a kiss as your hips start to slowly move you in and out of him. He moans against you, the soft, full curve of his ass a perfect fit against you. It’s all perfect. Every part of him, the way you are together.

You should still be strangers, having only just met, but his soul and body, you love already. Even before first sight, you’d known him. As he knows you.

Like Lulu, whoever she was, had said, “perfectly accepted.”

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The bottled up energy from being alone had nowhere to go, crawling up Din’s arms like electric tendrils.

Din nodded at the Armorer. “This is the way.”

“This is the way.” The room echoed.

Din had rarely left the covert since being taken in all those years ago. Life before seemed like a distant dream, the memory distorted as if through thick glass.

With fists clenched, Din walked to gather weapons and supplies for the trip with the rest of the volunteers. It was essential to find their Beroya. Without him, the covert had limited income, leaving everyone on edge.

“The last message was sent from Coruscant.” Rasika advised. “He had finished a job there and had found a lead on the next bounty. We will retrace his steps and go from there.”

Din nodded in understanding, starting towards the ship.

When they arrived in Coruscant, they were each assigned a job. Din was told to go to a local tailor who may have seen their lost Beroya.

Restless, Din nodded, turning to leave.

“Djarin!”

Slowly turning back around, Din met the gaze of Paz Vizla’s helmet.

“Be careful. Don’t get cocky.”

Din scoffed, incredulous before turning and leaving.

Coruscant was nothing like anything Din had ever seen. It was exponentially more populated than what Din remembered of Aq Vetina, Concordia, or any of the planets they had set up coverts on since The Great Purge.

Unaccustomed to navigating the throngs of people, Din focused on finding the tailor’s quickly, finally locating it after only a few turn-arounds.

An older Twi’lek looked up as Din approached the front desk, doing a double take before straightening up.

Snapping his fingers, two more Twi’leks in long dresses appeared by his side.

“Good afternoon!” The first Twi’lek said, courtesy dripping from his tongue. “Please make our guest comfortable.”

As the two other Twi’leks stepped forward, Din held up his hand to stop them.

“I’m here for information.” Din said, hoping the filter of the helmet sounded tough.

The first Twi’lek dismissed the other two immediately, raising his eyebrows.

“I take it you’re here about your friend?”

Din’s hands clenched into fists once again.

“You’ve seen another like me?”

“Of course! Must have been about a month ago now. Just like you actually, wasn’t the chatty type, right down to business.”

“What information did you give my friend?”

“He asked if I’d heard much about a spice runner named Usak.” The tailor continued smoothly, seemingly unbothered by the beskar before him. “I told him I hadn’t as we do not serve spice runners.”

Din turned around, ready to leave in frustration when the tailor added: “But I recommended visiting Lanz Carpo, as I hear it’s a lovely place to relax.”

Din froze before turning slowly back to the tailor.

“I’ve never heard of Lanz Carpo being a place of relaxation.” Din said carefully.

“I think you’d be surprised.” The Twi’lek said with a knowing smirk.

Din nodded slowly before turning towards the door.

“Do take care of yourself.”

The Twi’lek’s words gave Din an uneasy feeling. Had Din’s Buir walked into a trap? Surely if Din felt that this was suspicious, the Beroya would have too and taken precautions.

Walking through the adjacent building on Coruscant was like walking through a completely different world. Din noticed how human men and women seemed to dress vastly differently here, filling different roles. Din had never really thought about gender. It hadn’t been necessary in training as you couldn’t tell with mandalorians unless they told you, but looking around, Din was confused by how everyone seemed to act and treat each other differently based on these arbitrary made up outward differences. Shaking the feeling off, Din continued back to the ship, finding that a few other mandalorians had also returned.

“You find anything, Djarin?” Rasika asked.

“I might have a lead. The tailor seemed to be feeding me information, but I’m not sure I trust it.”

“Go on.”

Din explained what the Twi’lek had said, mentioning how eerie it had all felt.

“We shall wait until the others return to decide a course of action.” Rasika declared.

As they waited, Din couldn’t help thinking again of how strange all of the interactions on this planet had been. It was all unsettling, from the Twi’lek suggesting they all go to the planet run by the Carpo crime syndicate to the division of gender. Din had never connected to the thought of gender in the way that others had described it. Rasika drew Din back to the present with the clang of Beskar on Beskar.

“Djarin’s lead seems like the best information we have received. I propose that we head to Lanz Carpo. As we do not have many contacts there, I suggest we stay in groups.”

The other mandalorians nodded their approval.

The flight to Lanz Carpo was tense and silent, everyone double-checking and cleaning their weapons in preparation.

Din’s eyes squeezed shut, hoping against hope to see his Buir again soon.

When they arrived, Rasika divided them into groups of three.

“Djarin! With me.” She said. Din nodded in understanding.

“Protect each other. Use your comms only when necessary. If you have foundlings in your group, they are the priority. This is the way.”

“This is the way.” They all echoed.

Din fell into step behind Rasika. She was a respected leader within the community. A lethal warrior.

Din’s heart pounded loud enough that they were sure Rasika could hear it as they navigated the alleys of the syndicate-controlled planet.

“Pssst!” A voice sliced through the silence.

Din turned around to see a Tholothian beckoning them through a side door.

“It’s not safe, mandalorians. Come inside quickly.”

Rasika froze for a moment and Din used his helmet’s heat sensors to make sure it wasn’t a trap before they both moved inside.

“Have you seen another like us?” Rasika asked with authority.

“Huh. I hadn’t heard much of female mandalorians.” The Tholothian remarked suddenly, ignoring the question. “I always assumed they stayed back with the children.”

Rasika’s back straightened as Din struggled to understand the man before them.

“Women often fight and men often stay home as needed in our culture.” Rasika said tightly. “This is the way.”

“This is the way.” Din repeated instantly.

“You don’t see many men who would stay home with the children or women leading the fight. It is refreshing.” The man said.

Something within Din clicked into place like the harsh clang of a hatch on an old ship. When people looked at Din, they saw a mandalorian. If Din was without armor, what would they see? It seemed that everyone else made assumptions based on perceived gender.

People were seen to be doing things ‘as a man’ or ‘as a woman’, even when they were fighting against stereotypes or gender norms.

A stinging started in Din’s nose and eyes, a roaring creeping in their ears.

Utterly confused and overwhelmed, Din turned, looking around the room until something shiny caught their eye.

Din moved instantly towards the object, brushing past the man harshly.

“Hey, wait!” He called to Din.

Din nearly fell over when they realized what it was. One of Din’s Buir’s pauldrons sat on the table.

Rage ran through Din as they turned back around, drawing their blaster and pointing it at the Tholothian.

“What have you done to him?” Din asked angrily. “Where. Is. He?”

The man quickly looked back to Rasika, only to find her blaster trained on him as well.

“Wait! Wait!” He said, raising his hands in the air immediately. “It’s not what it looks like. He’s safe.”

“Where?” Din repeated.

“Upstairs. Just- follow me.”

Din looked at Rasika for guidance. She nodded, and indicated that Din should go in front, the man sandwiched between them. Din cautiously led the way up the stairs that the man had indicated.

“He’s recovering. I’ve been taking care of him.” The man said in a pleading voice.

Din spun around to face the man again.

“Recovering from what?” Din snarled.

“Din?” A weak but familiar voice inquired from the door to Din’s right.

Din reacted immediately, charging towards the door and opening it to reveal a dark but comfortable looking bedroom. A figure on the bed drew Din closer. Without thinking, Din flew towards the bed, dropping to their knees when their brain caught up with them. It was their Buir, missing some pieces of his armor, but his helmet still securely in place. A sling was fastened around his bandaged left arm.

Their Buir reached out his unbandaged right arm, pulling Din close to him until the foreheads of their helmets leaned on each other.

“Din’ika.” He breathed.

“What happened? Are you alright?” Din asked quickly, leaning back to try to assess the damage.

It was then that their Buir explained what had happened. How he had followed the lead from the tailor’s shop and had gotten back to his ship only to find his comms were out (which he unfortunately hadn’t noticed until he had already set the course for Lanz Carpo. How he had chased his bounty for a few weeks across the planet until the bounty was able to get the jump on him, wounding him in the arm and right beneath the bottom of his chest plate. How he had been unable to find a way to call for help and was saved by chance when the Tholothian had found him and taken him in.

“The streets have been… unsafe as of late, so I haven’t been able to locate his ship or try and locate Bacta. Without the help of it, his healing has taken longer.” The Tholothian chimed in.

Rasika set to work immediately, contacting the other mandalorians to relay the information and help find his ship. After the initial rush of activity, Rasika looked briefly between Din and their Buir before leading the Tholothian out of the room and closing the door behind them.

Din immediately deflated, no longer having to keep up appearances.

“I’ve been so worried.” They said, their voice breaking slightly.

“I’m alright Din’ika.” Their Buir reassured them, pulling them closer and settling Din’s helmet close to his chest. “I’ve thought of you everyday. You are growing into a fine warrior, perhaps even a Beroya if you were able to help locate me.”

Din let out an amused chuckle at that, unable to picture themselves measuring up to their Buir.

“Don’t you scoff at me!” Their Buir exclaimed. “I’ll have you know I think you’d be a perfect Beroya.”

Din felt tears glide down their cheeks under their helmet, unable to be wiped away.

The trip back to the covert flew by. Before Din knew it they were sitting back in their room with their Buir, who was looking almost back to normal after being given access to Bacta.

“Something has been troubling you since we arrived back.” He stated, his head tilted to the side as he looked at Din.

Din froze for a moment before letting out a sigh, knowing they couldn’t get anything by their Buir.

“I have not been around… non-mandalorians in a long time.” Din began, shifting in their seat. “Their customs and beliefs… confused me sometimes.”

“Confused you in what way?”

“I had a moment of realization that if anyone ever saw me without my helmet-“

“They will not, Din’ika.”

“Or if they decided my voice was manly or feminine, they would assume so much about me without evening blinking.” Din finished. “It- that even if I defied expectations of gender, I would still be put within a box, a box that feels wrong.” Tears sprung to their eyes and they attempted to scrunch their nose to stop the stinging they felt there.

“Din.” Their Buir said softly.

“I have grown accustomed to Mandalorian culture and the gender neutrality of Mando’a.”

“It is true.” Their Buir said more firmly. “Mando’a does not use gender as Basic does. I am your Buir. Not your mother or your father. This is because in our society it is not relevant to our conversations. It does not factor into our decisions or roles within the covert. It is not for anyone to share their gender unless they choose to for their own reasons.”

“Why does it matter so much to others? I don’t understand.” Din pleaded. “The thought of it is- distressing.” Din paused a moment before continuing in a near whisper. “It breaks my heart.”

Din’s Buir’s chest ached at Din’s words.

“I do not know, but it need not be in your life this way.” He said. “When we speak in Mando’a, it will not be a necessity, and when we speak in Basic, there are ways around it.”

“How?” Din asked, confused.

A knock sounded at the door and both of them stood up to answer it.

The Armorer stood before them, and they both lowered their heads briefly in deference.

“I am glad to see you home.” She said with authority. “And I have heard that Din did well on the mission to find you. You must be proud.

“I am. They did well indeed. I am always proud of them.”

The words hung in the air, a warm feeling spreading through Din as they realized what their Buir had said. Their chest felt tight in the best way as they basked in both the praise and the language that their Buir had used.

The Armorer’s head tilted slightly as she regarded Din before she straightened up and spoke.

“Indeed. They hold much promise. They might make a powerful Beroya one day.”

“This is the way.”

“This is the way.”

Din couldn’t stop the smile that spread across their face.

But the crem de le crem of the whole outfit is the pair of tight, pink, booty shorts he’s sporting. They hug every single crease and crevice of his ass cheeks and expose more of his crotch than he’s ever been comfortable with in public. His hairy thighs, which until now he’s never been all that self conscious of, are out on display. Karen assures him that he’ll be one of the least conspicuous people at the event. In fact, he’d stand out more if he dresses more like himself. With all the bears, and otters in the world, he’ll probably be one of the least hairy people there.

Everyone assures him that this will be fine. But it’s his first Pride as one of them; the last time he’d gone, he still firmly believed he was in the straight camp and was just a really strong ally. It was Pride. What guy wasn’t checking out all the skin on display, regardless of body it was attached to? That was a totally natural reaction. So he’d led himself to believe. And then Tommy came along and his world went all sorts of topsy turvy in the best kind of way.

Speaking of the hot pilot, he slinks up behind Buck, putting his hands at his hips as he slides in close, pressing a kiss to the side of Buck’s neck with a smile as he says, “Looking sexy, gorgeous.” He’s got one cheek, the same as Buck’s, painted with the generic Pride rainbow and on his other is the gay pride flag. He’s in a tight mesh top that makes his biceps even more pronounced and Buck has to swallow before he drools. Tommy’s dusky nipples poke out between the netting making him want to lick them, but that’s neither here nor there. Tommy has on a pair of longer biking shorts that outline his own length, though it’s difficult to hide on a normal day so the shorts just make it even more noticeable. Buck can’t help canting his hips back as he sighs, a tingling shiver running down his spine as he feels Tommy pressed against his ass.

“Don’t be cheesy,” Buck chides, tilting his head to the side, inviting more kisses. Tommy doesn’t need words to deliver just that, humming happily as his lips caress Buck’s unshaven jawline. It’s been a long time since he’s gone clean shaven and he doesn’t intend to go back any time soon. He loves the rasp of it any time he - well. Any time he and Tommy are doing things. And he knows Tommy damn well appreciates it, too.

Grabbing Tommy’s hands, Buck forces them around his stomach so that he’s being hugged, and he allows himself to go a little limp, hands still a little clammy with nerves. “Is it always going to be like this? Feeling nervous?” He feels Tommy’s broad frame shrug.

“Maybe. I mean, putting a label on something can be daunting. And you’ve only been out for a little over a year, and I don’t think you’ve ever said you’re bi out loud to anyone besides me and possibly Maddie. I don’t think you’ve even said the words to Eddie. This is the first time that you’ve put a definitive label on your identity and everyone there is going to be able to see it, and identify you.” Buck’s body stiffens at that and his anxiety sky rockets until Tommy kisses his cheek and mumbles, “But you’re going to be in a place that is safe and welcoming. And if you decide that, after today, that bisexual doesn’t fit your identity, it’s not like you’ll be locked into it. You can go back to not having a label. The queer police aren’t going to come and arrest you for not forcing yourself into a socially constructed box.”

“Are you sure?” Buck asks, linking his fingers with his boyfriend’s, enamoured with how they’re almost the same size, but not quite. He still loves women’s fingers, how long and slender they tend to be compared to a man's, but Tommy’s are his favorites.

He sounds so uncertain, and he hates it, but there’s still a little niggle of fear that he’s actually a fraud, and that one day, he’ll wake up, and it will all feel like a mistake. Like he’ll have pretended to be someone he’s not and then everyone will hate him. Tommy, bless his heart, assuages that fear as best he can. “Positive, Evan. The only one who can label you, truthfully, is you. No one else’s opinion matters.” Tommy pulls back and Buck whines, turning around with the intention of pouting at the man, but Tommy grabs him by the hips once again and spins him around before planting a hard, heavy, kiss to his mouth, taking a taste of his lips with a swipe of his tongue before pulling back.

“Now. Let’s go. If I have to keep looking at you like this in private, we’re never going to make it to the parade.” He juts his hips forward just enough for Buck to feel how he’s responding. So, he pushes his own hips back, biting his lip to keep back a whimper. “Mara and Jee will be disappointed if we don’t show up.” Tommy says sagely, reaching down to cup Buck’s ass and pull him even closer. They both sigh at the same time but Buck breaks first, swatting his pilot’s hands away and stepping back. “Good call.” Tommy smirks, eyes crinkling in the corners like Buck loves. “Are you ready?”

Sighing, Buck forces a grin, though trepidation still lingers, and takes Tommy’s hand in his own. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Are you ready?”

You've never been with a man before. Just a few failed, awkward romances with women, a few years back.

But recently you've been realizing that you're not single because you're some sort of loser, or something equally upsetting. You're single because women actually just don't interest you, not as much emotionally, and not really at all sexually.

One time you heard Jake in his room with a partner, groaning and grunting in pleasure, his muffled voice telling his lover how to take him.

That was...eye-opening.

Now you think about him all the time, but you don't know how to tell him, and worse, if you even should tell him. He's way too cute for you...right? Cute doesn't begin to cover it - the man oozes confidence...experience...smolder.

He's really nice too.

He was gone for a few days, out of town "for work" (whatever that is). When he got back, he actually gave you a quick hug. "Missed you, man." You forgot to breathe for so long, it came out like a dramatic sigh once you did.

Jake wondered if you were annoyed, but instead, asked you to play video games. The sides of your arms touched the whole time, and you had to put a pillow over your lap because your obvious…attraction.

Jake senses the tension between you and wonders if you're mad that he finished the peanut butter and didn’t buy more.

You clear your throat awkwardly, your gaze flickering away. “No, I don't think I could ever be mad at you, Jake - especially not over peanut butter.”

He hums out an ambiguous response, dragging a hand over the sexy stubble on his chin. "You must've missed me then." His eyebrows shoot up playfully.

God you want him so bad.

As if your greeting hug and video-game-a-thon weren't enough, work the next day couldn't go worse. Sometimes you feel invisible to colleagues and especially to your boss, who seems to have completely ignored your inquiry about an open management position. After a day of being overlooked and passed over, you’re so done.

You finally make it home, drenched from a sudden shower that seemed to wait until you walked out of work to start, and decided to stop as soon as you made it through your front door. Shedding your wet jacket, you stamp your feet on the mat just inside the door, yanking off your fogged up glasses so you can wipe them clean.

Unfortunately, rain does not look good on you the way it does on Jake. If he comes home wet, he's something out of a noir film, removing his cap, pushing those long fingers through his perfectly damp, thick curls - droplets of water making his long lashes shine as they kiss his cheeks. Rivulets of rain snake down the corded thickness of his throat, disappearing into his deliciously drenched white shirt, which hugs the shape of his body temptingly.

Must be nice.

Maybe you can make it to your room before he sees you looking like a wet rat.

You shower and make yourself presentable enough, moving around your home quietly, afraid your pathetic-ness will somehow repel your roommate - secretly crushed that Jake doesn't interact with you for an hour or so. Maybe he doesn't notice how brutal your day was.

A delicious aroma wafts down the hall from the kitchen a while later and you realize Jake is cooking dinner. Deciding you'd rather be in his presence than mope in your room, you venture out to interact. Dinners with Jake are the highlight of your life after all - that is, when you're not sitting with him, touching him, playing games together.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you steady yourself, remembering to take things one day at a time. He might not even be into guys. Or you specifically.

Jake looks up as you enter the kitchen, dark eyes brightening, but somehow immediately softening at your apparent distress. Your shoulders sag in defeat even as you put on a brave face to greet him.

Usually he leaves you alone when you're quiet, assuming you prefer it that way, but after you sat together all last night, he thought maybe...

Setting down a wooden spoon and reducing the heat underneath a sizzling skillet, he turns to you, and your heart races as you realize he's giving you his full attention. It's not helping that he's wearing an apron - that sight alone might kill you.

"You okay?" Dark eyebrows arch curiously as he boldly inches forward.

Blowing out an exhale through your lips, you quickly nod, realizing that simple inquiry means more to you than anything.

Reaching out to grasp your forearm, he peers up at you earnestly. "Hey...talk to me."

You force a smile as your 'brave face' wavers. "Just a shit day. Nothing really."

He pulls a face of his own - a smirk curling the corner of his kissable lips. He's got to stop doing that or you're going to fall head over heels. (Too late).

"Okay, then," he relents, meandering over a few cabinets to where you keep the booze. Jake pours you a drink to settle your nerves, presenting it to you with a comedic flourish, as if you are his liege lord and he's your servant. Eh, probably just a fantasy of yours...

You chuckle, muttering, "thanks," as he brushes past you, disappearing into the living room to turn on the record player. Jake is a mystery, but his collection of albums might be the most sexy thing about him.

Miles Davis drifts into the kitchen, the smooth tones soothing you instantly, while making you ache for something romantic of your own.

You toss your drink back in a couple of long gulps, hoping to gain some proverbial liquid courage as Jake returns to his task, reaching for the wooden spoon to stir.

"Thanks for the drink," you say, bravely moving closer, bumping arms with him. "Need some help?"

Setting the spoon back down, he turns a smoldering gaze your way. "Dance with me."

You almost choke. "Wh-what?"

"You heard me." He roughly whispers. Tugging at the string of his apron, he pulls it loose and sets it on the countertop, leaving him in a tight, white t-shirt and joggers which rest on the swell of his hips. Offering his hand, he repeats, "Dance with me."

Your body responds, seemingly without permission from your brain as you take his waiting hand - the contact zinging up your arm, electrifying you. "I-I don't dance."

He hums out a knowing chuckle, eyes sparkling at the challenge. "Everybody can dance, here." Boldly gripping your hand, he eases your arm around his waist, giving you an out before going too far. "Stop me if I fuck this up." He pulls you closer than you expected, his breath ghosting your cheek.

"Jake..."

"Am I getting this wrong?" He asks you seriously, sounding a bit nervous - his voice pinched even as he possessively cinches you closer. "I...want you and I feel like you want me too, but...fuck, if I'm wrong, please don't kick me out."

You can't believe this is truly happening. How is this man actually real - how is he touching you, saying these things? And moreover, why are you not responding?

Afraid you might cry or something humiliating, a breathless laugh rushes out of you, cutting the tension. "I'm not gonna kick you out."

Soulful jazz crescendos, soothing the surge of worries threatening to ruin this moment, and before you can overthink - as you do - you pull him closer. "Come here..."

Your heart stops when he lays his head on your chest, almost causing you to forget to dance, but you realize, in that moment, that you trust his lead. You believe his words - at least your body does, and you sway to the music, moving in synchrony with this man you adore.

And as you wonder if the stars have aligned and you might really have a chance with him, he tilts his head up and presses his mouth to yours.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Jake Lockley-Centric stories

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