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badbatch-badfics · 6 months

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Padawan (TBB x Male Reader) Part 2

Part 1

Characters: The Bad Batch - Cross hair + Cid.

Relationship: All platonic

POV: Only 2nd (you/yours)

Pronouns: he/him

Species: Unspecified

Content: Smidge of angst and worry, but mainly found family growing into fluff

Warnings: General TBB stuff, a little bit about Order 66. Cringe lol.

Word Count: 2,796

Notes: If anyone has any requests/ideas for this 'series,' please let me know! I'd love to learn more about what ya'll like and incorporate it. (and i'll obviously credit you in the notes for whichever part it goes in)

The Bad Batch was sound asleep, exempt from their designated pilot. Tech was comfortably cruising through hyper-space, multitasking on a new upgrade for Echo’s arm-scomp and watching the scanners. A light beep alerted him, signaling that they were approaching Ord Mantell. He lightly pushed his goggles upwards, before pressing a series of buttons. The Marauder shook as it dropped from hyperspace, the tremors waking Hunter up from his nap in the co-pilot's seat. He would usually sleep in his bunk until Tech needed a break, but his bunk was… preoccupied, so to speak.

“We close to Ord Mantell, Tech?” Hunter asked groggily, cracking his neck. “Approximately 11 minutes and 36 seconds until we enter the atmosphere, and then another 23 minutes until we reach the landing pad. I would begin waking everyone else up.” With a sign, Hunter stood up, arms reaching far above his head, ever-so-slightly leaning backwards. He turned around and started heading towards the bunks, wondering how he should go about waking you up. He didn’t know how much you would remember, and he certainly didn’t want to find out the hard way.

Of course, there was always the option of letting your body wake up on its own time, and just having someone stick with the ship until then, but there was the risk of general clatter and ruckus occurring and startling you awake anyway, which would be a harsh wake-up call, to say the least. After a second more of contemplation, he finally settled on leaving you be, and simply shushing Wrecker the moment his eyes opened. He walked up to his brother, shaking his arm. Wrecker awoke with a large grunt, like an ancient monster waking from a coma in an echoing mountain, before Hunter aggressively shushed him. He sharply pointed across the walking strip to your body, an absolute tangled mess of limbs and droll.

Wrecker got the hint, making an ‘oohhh’ sound before slowly sitting up, careful to minimize the amount of creaking. Hunter walked on, heading towards Echo and Omega, shaking them both awake- Omega more gently. She yawned and stretched, smiling and greeting Hunter, before quickly grabbing her day-clothes before heading off to the fresher to change. Hunter went back to the cockpit, where his brothers were already making quiet discussions of what to do with you, the ‘teenager-that-had-essentially-magic-powers-and-was-being-hunted.’ Primarily how they would handle Cid. She tolerated them because they did jobs for her, and they didn’t really matter to the Empire- except for Omega, it was appearing. But a Padawan? That would be a lot of credits, and it would put someone on the Empire’s good side- at least for a little bit. Cid wasn’t above ratting them out for that kind of profit. Or, at least, she wasn’t above ratting out the Padawan while keeping them away from the Empire’s eyes for the sake of missions. “Perhaps we can convince Cid that his use in missions, among other things, would outweigh the reward from the Empire. Even without using the Force in a physical push-and-pull manner, it can still be used for mind tricks, sensing danger, and much more, depending on his skill set. We could increase our efficiency and time duration of missions greatly, which would hold a great profit for Cid,” Tech explained, preparing for the Marauder to enter Ord Mantell’s atmosphere.

“That's true, but there’s no way to know what Cid will say- if she agrees, great, but if she doesn’t…” Hunter responded, eyes glancing back at your sleeping form as he trailed off. If they told her about you, and she decided to tell the Empire, then no one would be safe.

“There’s no way for Cid to be kept in the dark long enough to find a better solution, and we can’t exactly just hide a whole person in the Marauder,” Echo added on, waving his scomp-link around the cockpit for emphasis.

“Of course, this is all assuming that (Y/N) will want to remain with us. He may know someone, or someplace, that is safe. Additionally, he may even know Cid. Echo said that she would occasionally report to the Jedi,” Tech countered, briefly glancing back towards his brothers, away from the planet and control panel. Echo nodded in confirmation. “Do we…” Hunter trailed off, sighing, and pinched the bridge of his nose, “do we have any place to go if Cid decides to tell the Empire? Echo, do you know anyone else who would help?”

“Rex, obviously- but he’s more involved with defeating the Empire than we are, so it’d be an extra risk to the kid. Maybe Cut and Suu, if we can get a hold of them. But I don’t think either of us want to put that kind of risk on them- not with Jek and Shaeeah.” Wrecker made a comment of agreement, briefly looking up from his game of Chopsticks with Omega. A heavy silence fell over the group, uncertainty thick in the air.

“Entering the atmosphere,” Tech reported, breaking the awkward silence. The Marauder shook as gravity’s presence took its toll. It settled back down to a smooth ride within a minute, the greens and browns- mainly browns- of Ord Mantell’s natural landscape coming closer. “I think Cid will understand, plus, like Tech said, (Y/N) can help us out!” Omega added, not looking up from her hands.

Hunter looked down, contemplating. Would the reward of Cid accepting the kid outweigh the risk of her turning him in to the Empire? Tech did have a point, your presence would make things go smoother- but if Cid didn’t care about that point? What then? Would they be able to escape the Empire, find a new place to settle down- there was bound to be some planet that was safe- but would they find it before the Empire found them?

They could keep you holed up in the ship for a while, but sooner or later, Cid would find out. And once she found out, that could damage their… relationship, so to speak. Assuming she wouldn’t tell the Empire immediately, anyway. So that wouldn’t work either. There was no good solution, and everyone knew it. Finally, Hunter spoke up- “Wrecker, Omega, you two stay with (Y/N) and help him with anything- food, water, applying new bandages. You get the idea. Echo, you're with me- we’ll get anything we’d need for a long-term stay on the ship; med kits, food, supplies, whatever. Tech, make sure the ship has enough fuel, and make any necessary fixes. Don’t let anyone else know. After you're done, I’ll tell Cid about… the kid. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

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

The Marauder drifted down, landing neatly in the center of the dock. Tech quickly pulled out his data-pad, scanning for any previously unnoticed internal damage. Luckily, the report came back negative- as he had guessed, there was no new damage. Satisfied, he checked the Marauder’s current fuel level, so he’d know when to stop filling. Tech, Echo, and Hunter exited the Marauder, swiftly closing and securely locking the ramp behind them.

The innards of the Marauder were quiet, Omega and Wrecker not really knowing what to do. They both sat on the bunk opposite you, staring, just in case you’d wake up and need something. Wrecker had rations and a water canteen to his left, while Omega had fresh bandages and bacta-spray to her right. “Uhhh…” Wrecker broke the silence, glancing down at Omega, “do we just… wait for him to wake up? It feels weird, just staring.”

“I don’t know… on Kamino, we would usually wait, but this is nothing like injured clones on Kamino.” She sighed, wringing her hands together. “I just…feel so bad. I mean, our home was destroyed, but at least we have each other. (Y/N) doesn’t have anyone, and he’s been alone on that ship since the Empire took over. I can’t imagine what it must have been like…”

“Well, at least we found him before the Empire did, and any situation we’re in will probably be better than Bracca. Plus, he’s probably dead to the Empire, so they won’t be after him!” Wrecker responded, finding the silver lining. He and Omega looked at eachother, smiling. It felt good to help people.

On cue, the blankets opposite the pair began shuffling, a long groan sounding out through the metal walls of the Marauder. You turned over, eyes droopy and your Padawan braid/beads hanging by the corner of your mouth, covered in drool. Slowly, you put your weight onto a hand and pushed yourself up, leaning against the back wall of the bunk. Your head lolled back, another sigh escaping. Everything hurts. “Good morning! Er, afternoon! You slept forever, little Jedi!” Wrecker enthusiastically shouted, causing you to immediately sit up straight, hand shooting down to your waist for the familiar feeling of your lightsaber, only to be met with nothing. Kriff.

Wrecker immediately sensed your panic, and put his hands up in an attempt of looking unhostile. “Don’t worry, you're safe! We’ve had our heads cut into, so we won’t be doing any of that Order 66 stuff!” All you could do was stare, a comically surprised expression etched across your face. He had an interesting way of wording things.

Wrecker stood up and handed you the canteen and ration bad. “Here, rations and water! They’re not the best, and we can pick up some better food soon, but I bet you're starved!” And you were. True, the mantell mix Omega had gifted you was delicious, but after so long of never having a proper meal, you certainly wouldn’t refuse any more food or water.

“Thank you…” You glanced down after taking the food, quietly chewing on the ration bar, occasionally taking sips from the canteen. You were never good socially at the Temple, and you certainly weren't any better at the moment. Omega asked you some more questions; if there was any pain, did you bleed through any bandages, and such. You responded in short answers, so quiet she was struggling to pick up what was said. Eventually, she deemed you healthy- or, at least, as healthy as you could be, given the circumstances. She stayed with you, telling stories about Kamino and the few trips she’s had away from it. Mainly, though, she talked about her brothers.

After Maker knows how long, the Marauder’s ramp opened, Tech, Echo, and Hunter coming in, one by one. Tech was lugging fuel, and the other two held general equipment, food, med-kits, and more. While Tech didn’t pay as much mind to your waking, Echo and Hunter sure did- Echo more so.

After setting down the cargo, he practically spritened to the bunk you were on, crouching down on one knee and using his scomp-link to lift up your jaw, and do other inspections. “You need a shower- desperately. And new clothes, these are completely ruined! Our old room is nothing compared to this! Even Fives smelled better! And you need some proper nourishment- I know how I felt after being in that stasis chamber for so long. And mantell mix is not nourishment, no matter what Wrecker and Omega tell you, got that?” He finished his spiel, pointing his scomp-link at you. “Iba’ oskik’la…”

* (“what a mess” in mando’a)

“Yeah, I think he’s got it, Echo,” Hunter chimed in, smiling. “C’mon, kid. I need you to meet someone. She used to work with the Jedi, so I don’t think she’d do anything. But, just in case, we have everything ready to go. And if all goes well, ” You swallowed, a large lump forming in your throat. You really hoped she wouldn’t do anything bad- you were already enough of a burden. You and Hunter walked down the ramp, Omega gleefully waving goodbye.

He could hear your heartbeat, your anxiety- but he didn’t know much on how to help, given the circumstances. Kriff, you didn't know about the chips until they found you, and he couldn’t imagine what that must have felt like. When Wrecker had been affected and tried to kill everyone, at least they all knew it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t betrayed them, and that he would never try to do that when he was in control. But you had no clue about any of that. You thought all the clones who were your friends, or even just ones you were polite with for the sake of being a good person, had all wanted to kill you, and all the other Jedi. You had thought that for months. Cursing yourself, wondering why, and if there was anything you could have done differently to prevent it. And now, irony at its best, you had been rescued by clones, coming to remove their chips.

“We’re on Ord Mantell, by the way… don’t know if anyone told you. Ever been?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. You shook your head, eyes darting from sign to sign, stall to stall. “Most planets I’ve been on, except for Coruscant, were just… military occupations, occasionally the natural landscape of Separatists planets. Never got to travel outside of that,” you said, still taking in all the colorful decor and people of the city. “I mean, you know what that’s like, obviously- being a clone and all, you went to the same type of planets I did. I think, at least.”

Hunter nodded his head in confirmation, not really sure where to go from there. What you said was pretty accurate, but he felt like he shouldn’t talk about the war much. And in any case, they were approaching Cid’s.

You and Hunter trotted down the steps, the automatic door sliding open. Cid’s bar was empty, spare for an Ithorian and Weequay who were bickering over who knows what, and obviously, Cid herself. You placed yourself behind Hunter, something you would do with your Master during the war to avoid any interaction with… anyone. Slicing droids was easy, making conversation with soldiers was not.

You slowly glanced around the parlor, taking in anything that could be a trap, or could help you escape if this ‘Cid’ decided she didn’t want a padawan on her doorstop. Hunter called out for Cid, and the distant sound of claws tapping against the cold, hard floor echoed out. Emerging from the back rooms was a rather short female trandoshan, a cane gripped in her three claws.

Her eyes went back and forth between your semi-hidden figure and Hunter. “Where’s the rest of ya? And who’s that kid in the terrible robes? They stink.” There was an obvious scowl on her face, her left brown rose in an annoyed and questioning manner.

Hunter took a deep breath, and then- “He’s… a Padawan.” Cid’s brows rose, and then lowered into a vicious scowl. “Before you say anything- hear me out. He was trapped at Bracca, and the scavengers didn’t know- Tech checked the Empire’s wanted, and he’s dead to them. The Empire won’t come here, and it’s not like anyone on the street will know- he’s just a padawan. Not a full-on Jedi, not a general. But, he can still help. Even without using the Force to push and pull, he can still sense danger and… stuff.” Hunter wasn’t really sure how the Force worked. But he knew it was useful. Before Cid could rebuttal, he continued. “And imagine how helpful a padawan would be in making sure your deals go right! Being able to sense a bad deal, or if someone unwelcome is coming. And some of them can do mind tricks. He’ll be very useful to you- just let him stay with us.”

Cid looking down, in thought, a scowl etched on her face. Finally, she sighed. “Fine! But if the Empire comes knocking, I’m not keeping his hide a secret. Too much heat.” She walked away, already planning what to do with you.

Hunter looked back, smiling. You tried your best to smile, but you knew full well it looked incredibly awkward and forced. Not that you weren’t happy, by any means. You just weren’t prepared, and he knew that. Hunter placed a hand on your shoulder, attempting to provide comfort. And it worked. For the first time in months, despite the constant dread of what was to come, everything seemed to be going right. You could stay with them, and they could stay with Cid.

“Let’s go get you some proper fitting, and smelling clothes, yeah? Echo wasn’t wrong when he said it was worse than our old barracks.” Your smile shifted to a natural one, not forced or awkward. You certainly didn’t think you’d ever see a clone again; and it certainly wouldn’t be a happy experience, but it seemed like this batch was going to be the best thing to happen in a while.

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onyxsboxes · 2 months

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If your character had to get a tattoo what would it be? And What does your character smell like? For Buck and Bucky ❤️

Hi dear, thank you for your ask 🥰🤗,

If your character had to get a tattoo what would it be? (I've been thinking about it all day)

For Buck, I don't think he'd get a tattoo. As someone who always wants everything to be perfect, I think he'd have trouble finding a design that suited him, because he'd be afraid of what might happen later, if it wasn't what he wanted, and if he didn't like it anymore…

But if he had to, he'd opt for a subtle design, both small and not very explicit in its meaning. I was thinking of maybe a constellation tattoo, not the kind with the lines but just the stars in their usual position, like little dots on his skin. Small enough not to be seen at first glance and dismissed as spots or beauty marks for people who don't know.

Maybe monoceros, the unicorn constellation (because it's Bucky's favorite extinct animal) on his inner wrist to keep a little bit of john on his skin. That way, when he's anxious or missing Bucky, he can swipe his fingers over the tattoo to ground himself in reality.

Bucky is more inclined to get tattoos, not necessarily many but a couple. He loves the process of getting a tattoo, finding a design, the pain, the excitement …

And he's quickly learned that it helps him on his bad days. Just looking at his tattooed arm is enough to help him remember that he's not back in the camp, that he's free and alive, far from Europe, safe.

For the design, perhaps a quote 'fly like an angel' to remember Curt, 'this new you will be worse knowing', two little B17s flying side by side and a small moon (because Buck is the moon to his sun) on the inside of his wrist.

Their matching tattoos on their inner wrist, the monoceros and the moon, are their own secret wedding vows to each other 🥹

What does your character smell like?

Apart from the usual fuel smell that surrounds them, they both have very different fragrances.

Bucky's scent is warm, strong and comfortable, like a nice evening with friends, enhanced by a spicier note and a hint of tobacco.

Buck's scent is fresher, cooler, like the large green expanses, with additional notes of citrus and mint (and a hint of coffee).

From this character ask game

#i certainly hadn't expected this when i reblogged the character ask game post 🤣#thank you for the ask!#i found myself in a rabbit hole for the buckies tattoos and it was a lot of fun #clegan #mota #gale cleven #bucky egan

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ak-vintage · 4 months

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Quarry - Chapter 18

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, canon-typical violence, descriptions of injuries, heavy angst, Din is coping poorly and is acting like an asshole in this one, y'all

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

When you were a child on Chardaan, your parents had acquired an extensive library of starship reference manuals. Hull configurations, engine builds, weapons arrays, life support systems, and just about every flavor of modification you could imagine for nearly every model of ship ever designed – all organized by manufacturer, design purpose, and years of production. It had been your father’s favorite pastime – collecting, sorting, studying ship design, one that he passed on to you at a young age. You could recall sitting on the floor of his office, small enough to fit in the snug little nook under his desk, with a portable holoprojector, swiping through model after model, watching them spin in the palm of your hand. Even then, they had inspired your imagination, and the fire that imagination had lit in you led you to acquire far more than your fair share of ship design expertise long before Orron Halcard ever called you up for service in the shipyards.

And yet, even with such expertise, you found that Boba Fett’s ship was unlike any you had ever encountered.

Under different circumstances, you would have been falling over yourself for an opportunity to review the schematics, to examine the power generators, to get your hands on the hyperdrive reactors or the clearly heavily modified weaponry. As it was, when Din deposited you unceremoniously in one of the chairs that lined the edges of the ship’s navigation room, all you had the energy to do was watch, dumbstruck, as the ship’s walls began to rotate 90 degrees around the stationary platform under your feet. The cockpit, which had once been parallel with the navigation room, now sat above you, and had you not already been sitting, you thought you might have lost your balance at the vertigo-inducing visual of the two-story viewport suddenly dropping from the ceiling to the forward wall. Instead, you simply allowed your head to drop into your hands, elbows resting on your knees, refusing to look.

Fennec offered you a sympathetic smile and assured you that you would get used to the ship’s…unique design. She also directed you to a yellow-painted ladder that led to the lower decks, which filled the long, narrow body of the ship now that it was “vertical.”

“It’s not much,” she said wryly, “But if you take it all the way to the bottom, there’s a ‘fresher you can use. Why don’t you go get cleaned up? You’ll want to get that dirt out of your burns before we try to treat them.”

You glanced over at Din, reluctant to go off on your own and leave him alone when he clearly was not himself. However, rather than the nod of approval or the request to stay that you had been expecting, you found him standing with his back to you at the edge of the room, arms folded across his chest, visor fixed on the approaching blackness of space.

He was somewhere else entirely, and he was entirely unaware of you.

Swallowing against the lump that had formed in your throat, you sent a half-hearted smile in Fennec’s direction before rising slowly to your feet and descending the ladder.

As you would expect given the size and function of the vessel, the lower decks of the Firespray proved to be rather cramped and utilitarian, but you were, nonetheless, impressed by the variety of functions Boba Fett had managed to account for in such a restricted space. Directly below the navigation room, you found what appeared to be a multipurpose common area not dissimilar from the Razor Crest’s cargo hold. You spotted what looked like a kitchen counter complete with a double-burner hot plate that had been bolted to its surface, a wall lined from floor to ceiling with anonymous-looking cargo bins that had been lashed into place with tactical netting, and a little rusted table with two well-worn chairs mounted to the deck plating. The next level down featured nothing but a closed door behind which you assumed was Boba’s personal bunk, while the following level included six low-ceiling bounty cells arranged into two columns of three. The first one on the left had clearly already been claimed, as the cell door had been left open, and you spotted a small arsenal of blaster rifles and an open bag full of jet-black clothes stacked in the corner. The others remained closed, their insides visible only through the gaps between the bars that crossed the narrow doorways.

At the sight of them, you felt a rush of belated gratitude for the Razor Crest’s mobile carbonite freezer. You couldn’t imagine toting around multiple, conscious bounties at a time as this ship was designed to do, like some kind of deep space prison warden.

The ‘fresher Fennec had referred to was at the very bottom of the ladder, the last stop on the long way down. It was, somehow, even smaller than the one you had built on the Razor Crest, as this one featured only a durasteel privy and a single-person sonic shower stall, but in the state you were in, you were in no position to thumb your nose at it.

Your whole body ached as you stripped down to your skin, sore from the hurried climb down and then back up the side of the mountain, sore from the impact of the Razor Crest’s explosion, sore from your abrupt collision with the hard ground as the blast knocked you off your feet and into the air. The vibration of the sonic waves was soothing on your muscles, allowing them to finally unclench, though by the time the cycle ended, the angry, red flesh on your face, neck, and hands had become even more so. Though now clean and suitably sanitized, your skin felt more inflamed than ever, and it throbbed with the incessant stimulation of the sonics. You opted for leaving your boilersuit undone as you redressed, tying the sleeves around your hips so you didn’t have to drag the coarse fabric back over the protesting skin.

As you ascended the ladder to rejoin the group, you found yourself taken aback at the sight that greeted you in the common space. Stiff and rigid in his chair sat the broad, beskar silhouette of Din Djarin. On the little table before him sat an unlabeled, sealed jar about the size of his fist and a reflective silver packet you recognized as medical-grade disinfectant wipes. He glanced up at you as you came into view, saying nothing, but you dismounted from the ladder just the same.

“Din,” you acknowledged, surprise and something like relief coloring your tone. You hadn’t expected him to seek you out, not after how you had left things on Tython.

However, there was no warmth in his gaze, no softness in the way he turned to face you. The set of his shoulders remained tense, and his raspy voice held none of its characteristic fondness as he said without preamble, “Fett gave me some ointment for your burns. He says it’s not bacta, so the effects won’t be instantaneous, but it will get the job done.”

You blinked at him. “Oh. Right. Thank you.” You found yourself approaching him cautiously, as though he was a wild animal you were wary of spooking. It had been months since you had felt this kind of unease in his presence. It was wrong, on a fundamental level, and it left you feeling unmoored, adrift and painfully alone even though he sat only a handful of feet from you. “Din… Din, I’m so sorry – ”

But he did not allow you to finish offering your condolences. He broke your gaze instantly, angling his visor away from you and interjecting, “No. Don’t apologize.” Gesturing toward the other rickety chair at the table beside him, he added, in a tone that brooked no further argument, “Sit. I’ll help you put it on.”

You drew your lower lip between your teeth, chastened, and did so without protest, watching as he removed a couple of those disinfectant wipes from their package and used them to wipe down his leather gloves. The wipes came away dusty and stained and left the faint scent of antiseptic behind, burning your nostrils. Unscrewing the lid from the jar of ointment, Din dipped his first two fingers into the oily salve, streaking the dark orange leather with its residue.

You frowned at that, taken aback. “You sure you want to get that all over your gloves? You could just take them off.”

The Mandalorian shook his head sharply, the dim light reflecting off his helmet. “Not here.”

Ah. You should have known. Even just that small scrap of skin was too much exposure, too much vulnerability on this unfamiliar ship with its unfamiliar crew. Internally, you mourned any potential glimpse of his body you might have hoped to see on this journey. You doubted he would even be removing any of his armor pieces for any longer than it would take to use the sonic shower until you arrived on Nevarro.

He gestured for you to lean forward in your seat, and you obliged, allowing him to begin swiping the thick salve across the burns on your face. He did so silently, not even his breathing audible through his vocoder, and though his touch was gentle, he felt to you like he was a million miles away, as inaccessible as the other side of the galaxy.

“We’re going to find him, Din,” you murmured, eyebrows drawn inward in sympathy.

His reply was quick, cold. “Don’t. Please.”

You swallowed, feeling the stretch of the scorched skin of your neck and wincing slightly. “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, we don’t.”

Stifling a sigh, you continued, “Can you at least…tell me how you’re feeling right now? If there’s anything I can do to help?”

Din’s fingers paused at the hollow of your throat, having moved on from your face, and he hit you with a stare so impenetrable, so stern and yet so detached that you felt your heartrate spike with anxiety under his touch. The man looking back at you through his visor was as much a stranger to you as he had been all those months ago when he had first clapped you in binder cuffs, and you swore a part of your heart withered in your chest.

“Okay. Understood.”

He finished applying your ointment in utter silence, moving on from your neck to your chest, then from your chest to your hands. The familiar touch of his gloves on your skin felt alien to you now, and although the warmth of him was pleasant, and he was never rough with you, somehow this almost clinical approach was more disquieting than comforting. By the time he completed his task and began wiping down his gloves and resealing the ointment jar, your stomach had tied itself in knots so tight you felt nauseous, and you found it difficult to breathe.

Sliding the jar across the table to you, he said, “You’ll need to reapply twice a day until we get to Nevarro. Should be all healed up by then.”

You nodded your understanding and accepted the container, feeling more than a little lost.

After a beat too long of tense silence, Din rose to his feet. “You should get some sleep.”

“Do you…want to join me?” A spark of hope made its way into your voice, but you knew the moment the words left your mouth that they were foolish.

“I’m fine,” he replied curtly.

He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t. Neither of you were, not after everything that had just happened, not after all of the ways in which the last few hours had gone so horribly, disastrously wrong. Beloved ship gone, beloved child gone, hurt and exhausted and broken. He wasn’t fine.

“You’re not,” you snapped, feeling anger begin to broil in your gut at his determined detachment, his forced distance.

“I’m not bleeding, am I?”

You clenched your teeth against a growl of frustration. “You’re going to need your rest.”

“I have the whole flight to rest.”

“Din.”

“Cyare.” He held your gaze steadily, not rising to meet your level of ire, not moving an inch. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Gods damn him.

“…Fine.” With a defeated sigh, you rose to your feet, suppressing a groan at the stretch of your weakened muscles. You found yourself suddenly hesitant to allow him to see your pain, and you knew you wouldn’t be seeking out his assistance with your burn ointment for the remainder of the trip. Crossing the narrow room to the ladder once more, you offered him one final brush of your hand against his pauldron, fingertips catching on the outline of his Mudhorn signet. “I love you, Din.”

The Mandalorian sighed deeply at that, his chin falling to his chest as his tense shoulders dropped. “Good night, cyare.”

You chose the bounty cell across from Fennec’s, crawling into the narrow bunk as exhaustion suddenly weighed heavily on your aching body. And if you permitted yourself a few tears as you curled up alone under a threadbare blanket, dampening the pillow beneath your cheek, it hardly mattered. No one was there to witness them anyway.

---

When you woke several hours later, you found that while your muscles felt somehow worse than they had the day before, the burns on your skin had already begun to heal. Making your way down to the ‘fresher was a chore, your limbs feeling weak and gelatinous, but as you applied a thin layer of ointment to your face and neck in the mirror, you swore you could see the dry, scaly skin soaking up the greasy substance, calming the redness and easing the inflammation. You were even able to pull your rumpled boilersuit all the way up today, the abrasive fabric nowhere near as irritating against your neck and hands as it had been the day before.

It took you longer than you would like to admit to climb back up the ladder. Your arms and legs trembled by the time you reached the deck with the makeshift mess hall, and you determined that you would pause there and catch your breath before making your way up to the navigation room. However, as you stumbled off of the ladder to lean against the nearest bulkhead, the metallic sound of a closing cabinet door caught your attention. Whirling around, you found Fennec Shand, already dressed for the day in her sleek black and orange tactical gear, standing at the counter. She had a worn-looking steel mug in one hand and a tall, unlabeled cannister in the other, and she looked as though you had caught her in the middle of something.

She inclined her head at you in acknowledgement, offering you a small smile. “Good morning. You’re looking better.”

You dragged yourself away from the bulkhead, standing on unsteady legs. “Thanks. That ointment Boba gave me is powerful stuff.”

“Well, if anyone would know about burn treatment, it’s him,” she replied wryly. “I was just about to make myself a cup of caf. Can I get you one?”

What had that meant, Boba knowing about burn treatments? You would be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed the uneven texture of his skin, the slight discoloration that stretched from his forehead to the top of his bald head. Burn scars, perhaps? They looked old, long since healed, so you hadn’t given them any thought when you had noticed them the day before, but now you wondered whether the ointment he had lent you was something he had concocted himself, rather than just choosing to stock such a thing in his first aid supplies.

Before you could think to ask further, you realized that Fennec was waiting on a response from you, and you startled back to yourself. “Oh, you don’t have to,” you said.

“Please, I insist.” Reaching into one of the cabinets below the counter, she pulled out a second mug and got to work assembling two cups of the dark, bitter beverage. “Have a seat.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Gingerly, conscious of your weakened muscles, you lowered yourself into one of the two chairs at the little table, and a companionable silence settled over the room. The other woman’s movements were even and methodical as she scooped generous helpings of the powder concentrate from the cannister into the two waiting mugs. A kettle of water steamed on the surface of the two-burner cooktop you had noticed the night before, and once she was satisfied with the temperature, she removed it from the heat, pouring a measure into each mug.

Although you had hardly known her for more than a day, you didn’t find the quiet uncomfortable or awkward in any way. Rather, it was nice to be in the company of another person and feel no pressure whatsoever to strike up a conversation. She seemed perfectly content in the silence, and there was an air about her that you found soothing. She felt…steady. Competent. Safe. After the events of the last day, it was a welcome reprieve.

As she handed you one of the steel mugs, now full to the brim with steaming brown liquid, you found yourself saying, “You know, I wanted to…thank you. For helping me yesterday. And for agreeing to help us go after Grogu.”

Fennec slid into the other seat across from you and propped her elbows up on the table, bringing her own mug to her lips. “We keep to our word. We agreed to protect him in exchange for Boba’s armor, but we failed to do that on Tython.” Something that looked suspiciously like regret shined in her dark eyes. “Until we can live up to our end of the bargain, we’re at your disposal.”

You nodded, opting to study the furls of steam pouring from your cup rather than meet that empathetic expression. That was what you had gathered from the conversation yesterday – that the familiar green armor you had seen the older man wearing had, indeed, come from the armaments storage on the Razor Crest, that it had, indeed, belonged to Boba Fett. You couldn’t help but respect the commitment the two of them were showing to this bargain they had made with Din. If you had been in their position and you had witnessed the person you were charged with protecting being kidnapped by an Imperial light cruiser, you weren’t certain you would have been as conscientious.

After all, what could two Mandalorians, a sharpshooter, and an engineer hope to accomplish against such a warship?

“You know, I saw the way you put yourself between him and those troopers, up on that henge,” Fennec recalled, pulling you out of your own musings. “You’re very brave.”

You felt your eyebrows raise to meet your hairline, scoffing. “Mando is brave. I was terrified.”

“I know. I could tell.” The other woman smirked and took a sip of her caf. “But you did it anyway. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the definition of bravery.”

You waved the compliment away, feeling your cheeks burn and your tender skin prickle. “Well, luckily, no one ever made it up there until after I was gone. Doubt I would have lasted long if any of those troopers made it past you guys.”

“I take it you’re not exactly experienced in combat?”

Returning her smirk, you shook your head. “Not at all. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve even held a blaster.”

“And hand-to-hand?” Something like concern tightened the corners of her eyes, and you struggled to maintain eye contact with her suddenly sharp gaze.

“Never. I’m an engineer.” You shrugged, trying not to let on just how inadequate this conversation was making you feel. “I’m a fixer, not a fighter.”

Fennec’s reply was quick, almost as though it had been rehearsed, like it was something she had said often. “You don’t have to be a fighter to learn how to defend yourself.”

She wasn’t wrong, you supposed, but that feeling of inadequacy deepened in your chest all the same. This situation with the Storm Troopers, with Grogu – it reminded you of why Din had been so insistent when you accepted the position on the Razor Crest that you shore up your combat skills, why he had demanded to train you with a blaster. He led a dangerous life; both Fennec and Boba clearly did, too. You, on the other hand, had never even left the star system in which you were born until you were well into your adulthood, until you had taken it upon yourself to sneak your way out. You were no stranger to a little risk taking, but what these people did, the lives they had found themselves living – it was on a completely different level. You had never felt so woefully unprepared.

Before you could come up with a suitable response, the sound of heavy boots on metal rungs echoed through the room, and a pair of long, armored legs appeared on the ladder, climbing down from the navigation room above. Silver, you noticed quickly, not green. Din. Your eyes went to his face instinctually, drawn to him in a way you couldn’t have prevented even if you had tried, and as though he could feel your gaze on him, he turned slightly, pausing his descent a handful of rungs above the mess hall floor.

You caught a glimpse of your own reflection in his ink-black visor, your eyes wide, your injuries still more visible than you would like, marring your forehead, your nose, your cheeks. Tension stretched between you, thick and palpable, and somehow you knew then that he hadn’t been coming down to look for you. In fact, he probably hadn’t intended to run into you at all, though in a ship this size, you wondered how he thought he was going to accomplish that.

You forced your expression into some semblance of a smile, but the words to invite him to join you died on your tongue as he gave you and Fennec both a stiff, silent nod then continued down the ladder. Your heart sank at the clear dismissal, all of the anxiety and the uncertainty and the hurt from the night before surging back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallowed against a sudden lump in your throat.

“Something on your mind?” Fennec asked after a beat.

Sighing, you raised your mug and took a deep drink, willing the caf to seep into your bloodstream, to fortify you against the abrupt wave of emotional exhaustion Din’s arrival and immediate departure had triggered.

“He never went to bed last night, did he?”

The other woman shook her head, a sympathetic downturn quirking the corners of her mouth. “No, I don’t think so. I know that after you went to sleep, he spent some time talking with Boba in the cockpit, but by the time I went to turn in, he was in the navigation room, staring out the viewport. When I came up this morning, he hadn’t moved an inch.”

“Dank farrik.” You scrubbed your hands over your face, immediately wincing as you disturbed the still-healing wounds on your skin. “I hate seeing him like this.”

“Mando is a man of action. Sitting on his hands, stuck in hyperspace? Doesn’t really seem like his style.” Fennec leaned back in her chair and downed the remainder of her cup in one swallow. “Though I’m sure you know that better that me.”

“Yeah. It’s something he and I have in common, actually,” you confessed. “Neither of us do well without something to keep us busy. Even in the best of circumstances.”

“Well, you’ve got almost a week before we get to Nevarro.” Rising to her feet, the older woman offered you a dry smile. “I’m sure you’ll find something to keep yourself occupied in the meantime.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose at that. “If you see me starting to climb the walls, you’ll know what happened.” Raising your mug in her direction, you added, “Thank you again. For the caf.”

“Anytime.” With an easy grace, she swung one of her long legs up onto the closest ladder rung, hooking the shallow heel of her knee-high boot around the metal rod. “Try to take it easy today. You got the kark beat out of you less than 12 hours ago. You’re allowed to take a break.”

An unexpected wave of emotion swelled in your chest, chief among them being an immediate fondness that warmed you from the inside out. You were going to be fast friends with Fennec, you could already tell.

“I will,” you promised.

---

By day three of your journey, you were dangerously close to making good on your threat of climbing the walls.

Your body was slowly recovering from the impact of the explosion, your muscles and joints feeling less like you had run headlong into a duracrete wall every day and your burns steadily receding with every application of Boba’s ointment. As relieved as you were for the improvements and the promise that you would soon be back to normal, you found that the better you felt, the more difficult it became to tolerate the extended period of inactivity. The more the trauma of your body healed, the more the trauma in your mind made itself known.

The image of that red laser burst streaking through the atmosphere was burned into the backs of your eyelids. The ruthless way it tore through the Razor Crest, the way the blast had momentarily deafened you as it flung you off your feet, the helplessness and the disorientation that followed. The smoking crater it left behind, the way you were certain your heart bore a matching scar as you watched the only real home you had known in your adult life go up in flames.

And Grogu.

Stars, Grogu.

You had been preparing yourself for the eventuality of saying good-bye to him ever since Din had revealed the boy’s Jedi origins. But you hadn’t been prepared for this – to know that the people who had taken him intended to do him harm, to be powerless to stop them. And now to not know where he was, to not know if he was hurting, if he was afraid, if he was even still alive. You couldn’t allow yourself to think on it for too long. If you did, you would surely fall apart.

You thought it might have been easier to cope if you did not feel as though you were doing so on your own. As it was, even days later, Din had hardly spoken more than a few words to you. He hadn’t been outright hostile, nor had he given any indication that he was angry with you for any reason. However, he had refused every attempt you had made to connect with him; every well-meaning question after his wellbeing or offer of dinner or even a shared cup of caf had been turned down, and although he had been sleeping in the same bunk as you, he had taken to do so in alternating shifts so that by the time you were ready to turn in for the night, he was only just waking.

You were certain that you would have felt less lonely had you actually been alone, and you would have given anything for someone to put a hydrospanner or a fusion cutter in your hands and give you something else to occupy your thoughts.

But this wasn’t your ship. It wasn’t even Din’s ship. So there you were, worry eating away at the lining of your stomach, mind racing and yet somehow numb, sitting on your ass in the navigation room with nothing to do. Again.

“You’re sighing.”

Fennec’s dry voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you glanced over at where she sat studying some star chart or another at the console to your right. She faced away from you, the streaking blue and white lights of hyperspace illuminating the complex twists of her long, black braid, but you could tell from the tense set of her shoulders that she was growing annoyed.

“Sorry,” you replied meekly, feeling yourself flush. You needed to get ahold of yourself. Sitting on your own for so long in silence was only making the situation inside your mind worse. Fennec had been more than kind to you since you had departed Tython; she didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of your melancholy.

However, after quiet once again descended on the Firespray, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from slipping back into the same state. Grogu, Din. Grogu, Din. Over and over, in a never-ending spiral with no way out, no way to break the surface, to breathe. You felt helpless. Useless. Alone.

A sigh slipped from your lips before you could smother it, and then Fennec was closing down her program and spinning around in her seat.

“All right, stand up.”

You startled, cursing yourself at the dark flash of aggravation in the older woman’s eyes. “Oh, kriff, I’m sorry. I’ll shut up – I promise.”

But she wasn’t having any of your empty promises today. “Stand. Up,” she repeated, her sharp tone brooking no room for argument. You were on your feet in an instant, aware for perhaps the first time that this woman was lethal – a master assassin and a deadly sniper, someone who commanded respect with both her actions and her demeanor. She had been kind to you, yes, but you didn’t savor the idea of testing her patience any more than you already had.

“What are we doing?” you asked, tentative.

Closing the distance between you in a handful of long strides, Fennec beckoned to you with both hands, gesturing at her own chest. “Try and punch me,” she said.

Your eyebrows shot up, and your jaw dropped open dumbly. You were sure you had misunderstood. “What?”

“You heard me. Try and punch me.”

“Fennec – ”

She advanced another step toward you, her gaze hard, and you stumbled back despite yourself, feeling a rush of intimidation flood your system. “You told me you’re woman of action. That you’re an engineer, a fixer. But there’s nothing we can do for the kid until we get to Nevarro, and Mando won’t let you put him back together right now. I’ve watched you try for days, and it’s going nowhere. So instead of focusing on them, you’re going to focus on you.”

“By punching you?” You could feel a wave of defensiveness rising at her words, but you couldn’t deny that she was right. There was nothing for you to fix here, and it was not-so-subtly driving you mad. But punching her? You would never. You wouldn’t stand a chance!

“Yes. You’re feeling restless? Helpless? Afraid? Then do something about it.” She took yet another step toward you, driving you across the deck until the backs of your knees hit the next chair over. “You need someplace to put all that energy? Put it right here.” She patted her chest, the sound muffled by her leather gloves and padded jacket. “Let me teach you how to fight.”

Her words had you taken aback, but you couldn’t deny the wisdom of them. Perhaps at one point, Din had planned to teach you himself, but clearly, he was too preoccupied at the moment to do so. You had nothing else to occupy your time for the remainder of the journey; your daily routine of babying your injuries and moping around the ship wasn’t doing anyone any favors, least of all you. And no one could deny that in an expedition to track down a child that had been kidnapped by a fully-armored Imperial light cruiser, you were far and away the weakest link of your band of misfits. If you were being given the opportunity to shore up those skills, even in the smallest of ways, you would be foolish to turn it down.

Steeling your nerves, you nodded once to Fennec. “Okay. Where do we start?”

The older woman smirked, pleased, and brought her fists up in a ready stance. “Put your hands up, girl. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You took a brief moment to take in the angle of her body, the way she had spread her feet apart, one in front of the other, the position of her fists up near her face. You tried to emulate her as best as you could, and then, after a deep, steadying breath, you swung.

---

Your muscles were sporting a new kind of soreness as you emerged from the ‘fresher later that evening, hair long and loose around your shoulders, boilersuit hanging onto your hips with the sleeves framing your legs. Your eyes were heavy, exhaustion weighing on your joints, but it was a good kind of tired – the kind that felt particularly satisfying after a long day of physical activity. You were almost looking forward to finally collapsing on the thin mattress of your bunk; you knew you would pass out the moment your head hit the pillow. However, just as you wrapped your palms around the ladder to climb up and do just that, a familiar pair of brown boots appeared above you, and Din dropped the last few rungs onto the deck below.

“Din,” you acknowledged, surprise coloring your tone. “Hi.”

He turned to you then, extending his leather-clad hands to you without preamble. “Let me see your hands.”

You frowned in confusion. “What?”

But the bounty hunter did not repeat himself, nor did he wait for further reply. Instead, he simply snatched each of your hands from down at your sides and brought them up to his eye-level. You winced at the rough handling, your hands more than a little tender after Fennec’s lessons, but if he noticed your discomfort, he didn’t let on. He simply studied your fingers in the dim light, running the pads of his thumbs across the ridge of your knuckles.

“No split skin. Nothing looks broken,” he murmured, voice low and raspy, almost as though speaking to himself rather than to you. “A bit of bruising and swelling, but no more than I’d expect for a novice.” He dropped your hands and took a step back out of your space. “Looks like Fennec is a good teacher.”

“She is,” you replied. You cradled your fists close to your body, feeling suddenly, inexplicably self-conscious at his cool appraisal. That was the most he had spoken to you in days, the first time he had touched you since he had helped you with your burn ointment that first night, and the lack of warmth was almost more disquieting than the avoidance.

“I did say I wanted to work on your combat skills,” he said, matter-of-fact. “If you wanted to learn how to fight, cyare, all you had to do was ask.”

You drew back sharply at that, feeling something acidic and bitter begin to roil in the pit of your stomach. “Really?” you hissed acerbically. “How would that have gone, exactly? You’ve been avoiding me for days, Din. You haven’t hardly said two words to me since we jumped to hyperspace.”

The Mandalorian cocked his helmet at you, taking a step back in your direction, then another, driving you back toward the ‘fresher door. Had your hackles not already been up, you might have found the way he crowded into your space intimidating, but as it was, you were completely undaunted. You kept your eyes on his, jutting your chin our defiantly as he rumbled, “Forgive me if I haven’t exactly been in the mood to chat. I’ve been a bit preoccupied, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed. You’ve been sulking so loudly, I couldn’t not notice.”

“Sulking?” His modulated voice had taken on a dangerous edge, and something deep inside you, something animal, suddenly registered Din as a threat. It was a side of him you had rarely seen, something usually reserved for quarries, and it made a primal part of your psyche crack open an eye, watching your exchange with lazy interest.

“Yes. Sulking.”

For a moment, the bounty hunter appeared at a loss for words. You could hear his breathing through his helmet, so close and yet refusing to touch you, hands balled into fists down by his hips, also very carefully not touching you. But then, just as you were sure he was about to snap back with a quip of his own, he released a weighty sigh, spun around, and headed back in the direction of the ladder.

“Din, wait – ” Your hand flew out to snag on the sleeve of his flight suit, wrapping your fingers him somewhere between his pauldron and his vambrace. “I’m sorry. I know I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now.” The words poured from your mouth before you could stem them, everything you had been wanting to say to him for days all bubbling to the surface at once. There was no holding them back any more. “Losing the Crest, losing Grogu, not knowing where he is, not knowing if he’s safe – ”

“Don’t.” Din pulled his arm from your grip, but still, he didn’t retreat any further, and in spite of his warning, you took it as a sign to keep going.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Din. I want to help you. Please. Please just let me help you.” Thick, hot emotion rose in your throat, flushing your face, pricking the backs of your eyes with the burn of unwanted tears. “You don’t have to bear this on your own. We’re in this together, okay? Please don’t shut me out anymore. I…” You hiccupped, a single tear breaking free of your wet eyelashes, spilling down your cheek. “I love you.”

For a long, tense moment, he said nothing. He continued to face away from you, though now rather than looking ahead toward the ladder, he stared at the deck, chin pressed to his chest, broad, proud shoulders hunched inward on himself as though to shield himself from your fraught confession. Almost too softly for his helmet vocoder to pick up, he whispered, “I know, ner kar’ta. I love you, too.”

Another tear slipped down your face at the endearment, the gentle, lilting syllables of Mando’a settling over your shoulders like a warm blanket.

Ner kar’ta.

My heart, you recalled, and you swore the sound of the words made your soul ache.

And then you watched as all of the softness and vulnerability seemed to wash away, the Mandalorian drawing himself back up to full height, straightening his shoulders and his gaze right before your eyes.

“Get some ice on your hands before your next sparring session,” he said, once again cool and detached. “It will help with the swelling.”

In two long strides, he was back at the foot of the ladder, and that ache in your soul became a physical pain, one that had you clutching your hands over your chest, pressing on your breastbone, willing it not to split apart under your palms.

In two short minutes, he was gone, and you lost the battle with the remainder of your tears.

---

Note:

As you may have noticed, I have taken some creative liberties with the internal layout of Boba's ship, the Slave I. You will find that in every depiction of the ship, there are variations as to the exact floorplan, and there is a great deal of debate as to whether the cockpit or any other levels rotate because of the way that the ship flies "vertically" but lands "on its back." For my adaptation, I have combined a few different internal schematics I found online with the rotating navigation room mechanism described by Jon Favreau and team in the Disney Gallery - Star Wars: The Mandalorian episode "Making of Season 2." Since that is the one that is depicted in the show, I felt like it was important to align with that source material first and foremost. (Please don't ask me how many hours I spent scouring forums and fan sites looking at Slave I blueprints and cutaways lol)

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfiction

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petermorwood · 9 months

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Crisps / Chips again

Associated with this post, here's an artefact, two anecdotes and an opinion.

The artefact is a slightly dented but still remarkably airtight "Charles Chips" tin.

It was bought, full, many years ago from the Vermont Country Store, from whom we subsequently bought reflll packs - given their size, "sacks" would be more accurate - which were shipped to Ireland in sturdy cardboard boxes.

VCS no longer carry Charles Chips in either tin or refill. I know. I checked. BUT...

The Charles Chips company, which per Wikipedia was doing just fine in 1990 then got sold and went bankrupt twice in less than three years (gosh!) is Back In Business, and note has been taken, with considerable interest - oh, you bet - that they do international shipping...

*****

Anecdote No. 1 is from when @dduane lived in Bala Cynwyd near Philadelphia, in what was known as "The House of Dangerously Single Women" (ahem). She tells me that the household used to get Charles Chips delivered to the door about twice a week, by the company's own vans.

Speaking as a long-time crisp fan, I found that both very neat and a source of mild envy. :->

Anecdote No. 2 is from 30-ish years ago, when we were in New York for something or other and, being rather jetlagged with our internal food clocks out of whack, did our usual thing and went out for a walk.

Curiously enough, this involved visiting several food stores and supermarkets where we bought a lot of Interesting Foreign or Much Missed (i.e. American, in both instances) junk food for grazing on back in our hotel room.

In one of them DD was about to lay claim to a huge bag of Wise potato chips (its bag would have been the design in the middle)...

...while nattering to one of the shop staff how much she missed them. He told her that a new delivery was expected in about 20 minutes and if she wanted to wait, she'd get much fresher chips.

And So It Came To Pass.

Well done, that guy!

*****

Finally, while Saratoga Springs may have been where potato crisps / chips were popularised, standardised, commercialised or whatever, it's definitely not where they were invented.

Even the oft-repeated "creation myth" frequently has its hard-to-please celebrity demanding to have his potatoes sliced and fried really thin "The Way I Had Them In France" - which kinda sorta suggests they were, um, being made there just like that well before the Saratoga thing happened.

Myths are okay, even marketing myths - so long as they're recognised as myths and not shilled as true by places with reputations like the Smithsonian.

*****

It's a bit like the still-current nonsense about spices being used in medieval kitchens to disguise bad meat. As far as I've been able to find out, this originated with a historian called J. C. Drummond in the late 1930s - yup, just before World War Two - simply because he didn't know his period terminology.

"Green" meant fresh - even nowadays, an inexperienced or immature person is "green" - so green cheese was newly made, and green meat was newly slaughtered, unaged and consequently tough and flavourless.

Just ask any steak fan the difference between a fresh steak and a 30-day dry aged one.

Drummond, in his overspecialised-scholarship wisdom, assumed that "green venison" meant meat which had gone off, and that a recipe to improve it with spices was to cover the bad smell and taste.

In fact it was somewhere between a marinade and a rub, meant to improve the tenderness and flavour of fresh meat as if it had aged for a while, thus shortening the waiting time between killing a beast and getting it to the table of a hungry court.

As I've said before, it's always easier for no-proofs-given pop history to dismiss medieval people as (insert derogatory observation here) than take the time needed to explain why and how they in their time were not that different to us in ours.

*****

PS: when looking for that previously posted stuff about green meat I found a post where, with even less evidence than Saratoga Springs inventing crisps, a Brit poster claimed Brits invented curry.

Snrk.

Among other more or less pertinent observations, I mentioned that what Brits invented was BRITISH curry, and anyone who has read "Nanny Ogg's Cookbook" will know what I meant by that... :->

#food and drink #snack foods #nostalgia #anecdotage #Charles Chips #Wise Potato Chips #Nanny Ogg's Cookbook #GNU Terry Pratchett

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kaigarax · 5 months

Text

Evanescent

Mikage Reo x Reader

Quote: "Fall in love with someone you can't have."

My Dearest,

I used to think that I fell in and out of love easily - that the fluttering in my chest meant the most beautiful four letter word had once again fallen into my lap. I used to think that I fell in and out of love easily - and then I saw you and my heart stopped.

Yours Truly

---

“Hey.”

Mikage Reo, who’d been staring off the ledge of the balcony, turns his head abruptly, the world spinning around him as his eyes bolt around his surroundings before finally landing on you.

The first thing that Reo thinks is that you’re pretty.

With a glass of wine in one hand and a handkerchief held out to him in the other. With your pretty clothes loosely hanging off of your shoulders and your nicely powdered hair falling out of its elaborate design specifically made for a party such as this. The most eye-catching thing though has to be your smile. Reo finds it surprisingly pure and naive despite the fact that you’ve likely had one too many drinks if you’ve found yourself out on the balcony with him.

He thinks that he should know who you are.

Has a slight inkling that there’s something important about you.

But those thoughts seem to elude him at the moment.

Actually, most cohesive thoughts seem to elude him at the moment. Parity because of the alcohol being served and the other part because of you. Looking up at him with a pretty smile that sends his heart into a tizzy of flutters.

“Hi.” Reo says stupidly, “what’re you doing here?”

You tilt your head to the side cutely, staring at him for a moment before smiling, “the same reason as you, I suspect.”

Hesitantly, Reo asks, “and what reason is that?”

“To get away from the chaos of the wedding.” You smile softly, taking in a deep breath as if trying to capture the moment in your mind, “the air’s so much fresher out here and it’s so much quieter.”

“Not a fan of weddings either?” Reo asks as he turns away from you and back towards the ledge of the balcony.

“Mm,” you sigh softly, falling into place beside him, “something like that.”

“Bride or groom?” Reo asks.

“Bride,” you take a sip of the glass of wine in your hand, “and I suspect you’re here for the groom?”

“I, uh, think so.”

“You think?”

“Yeah,” Reo scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, “I only came here because my parents forced me to come.”

You laugh, “so you came to celebrate the gathering of two people you don’t know?”

“Basically.”

“Sounds like a hassle.”

Reo laughs along with you, “yeah. It definitely is.” He’s not usually this candid with people, especially strangers, but he feels comfortable with you. Perhaps it has something to do with the alcohol he’s been drinking.

“So,” you finish the glass of wine in your hand before placing the glass on the ground beside you, “you enjoying yourself?”

“No.”

“Really?” You ask leaning in towards him, “you bored or something?”

He leans away slightly in a polite manner, “was it that obvious?”

“Mm,” you bring a hand to your chin as if pondering deeply on the topic at hand, “you do a good job at hiding it.”

“You’re just really good at reading people, huh?” Reo teases.

You roll your eyes but smile warmly, “I try.”

Reo finds that he quite likes how your face looks when you make an expression like that. Wonders what it would take to get you to make an expression like that again.

“So, what do you think about weddings?” You ask.

Reo shrugs, “not really my thing.”

“A bachelor's life for you then?”

“I’m sure my parents will arrange something for me eventually.”

“Lame~”

Reo’s head snaps over to you so quickly that he almost falls to the ground. Basically gives himself whiplash as he meets your playful grin. He’s not sure if he’s more surprised at how carefree you look or at the words you said.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” you chuckle, “that was rude of me.”

“Isn’t this wedding an arranged one?” Reo asks.

You shrug, “my statement still stands.”

“Don’t let the bride or groom hear you say that.”

“I’ll take my chances~”

“Ah…” Reo trails off, not sure of what to say next. What can he say next?

“Sorry. The alcohol has made my tongue looser than it usually is. Though I suppose that might be a blessing in disguise.” You smile playfully, turning to look at him as he listens to you ramble on, “I’ve been told that I have a sharp tongue and that alcohol softens the edge but also loosens the words I allow to slip through. What about you?”

“What?” Reo stutters, “what about me?”

“I suppose it loosens the mind more than the mouth for you, huh?”

Reo pouts, feeling an insult there but can’t exactly place it.

He finally manages to turn his gaze away from you.

You remind him of a summer breeze. So soft and gentle as your gaze sweeps over him and everything else. Reo imagines you fluttering from place to place as you please, enchanting people with your presence and with that stupidly pretty smile you wear. Something people so desperately yearn for when you’re not there and then suddenly gone as quickly as you’ve appeared after people no longer have any need for you.

You’re exactly the kind of girl that would have entranced him when he was younger.

And yet, you’re also seemingly everything that he hates in a person.

Reo can’t decide if you are willfully negligent towards the feelings of others or if you’re simply manipulative. Pushing and pulling him in any which direction simply because you want to see how he might fall. He leans more towards the former of the two options but one can never really know when it comes to pretty girls like you.

Gosh!

Where has Reo seen you before?

It bothers him more and more as he stares off the ledge of the balcony; not really bothering to focus on the environment around him and instead simply staring off for the sake of looking anywhere but you.

“Do you know who I am?” Reo asks suddenly.

You hum softly in what Reo assumes is an amused manner, “isn’t it more exciting to think I don’t?”

Reo scratches the back of his neck, struggling to grapple with your words, “so you do?”

“Do you know who I am?” You ask in response.

“No.”

You laugh again, “I figured as much.”

“Should I know who you are?”

“Mm, I doubt it’ll matter much in the long run. I’m not someone very special. I imagine I’ll go on to lead a rather ordinary life after this.”

The words ‘after this’ linger in Reo’s mind for a moment but not as long as they should have. Instead he mind chooses to focus on the earlier half of your words. Reo gives you a distant sort of smile in response, “I could never live an ordinary life.”

“No?”

“I’d rather die than live an ordinary life.”

You laugh softly in response.

Reo rolls his eyes but smiles, giving you a playful shove, “what?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

Reo feigns offence, bringing a hand to his chest as if wounded, “why, I think you’re the first person to ever say something so horrible.”

“Oh, I doubt I’m the only one.”

“The only one brazen enough to say it to my face.”

“Well,” you say as if it’s a matter of fact, “there’s nothing wrong with being dramatic. In fact, I’ve always had a soft spot for dramatic people. Sure, there’s all the stereotypes and a bad reputation but at the end of the day I always preferred someone that wears their heart on their sleeves over someone quiet.”

“Do I?” Reo asks softly.

“Hm?”

“Do I wear my heart on my sleeve?”

You lean in close to him as if trying to scan his face deeply.

Truthfully, it feels kinda weird to ask a stranger about something so intimate. Sure, this stranger happens to be someone he feels an instant connection to, but they’re a stranger nonetheless. There’s only so much that a stranger can conclude no matter how well they know people. It’s simply the way that things are.

Reo leans in close to you in response.

“Well?” He asks softly.

“Hm,” you smile, “I think you’re more expressive than you think but not as expressive as you would lead others to believe.”

“That’s…” Reo’s eyes wash over you. Watching how your lips purse slightly and the space between your eyebrows creases slightly as you attempt to get a better look at him. He wonders if the alcohol you had earlier has impaired your vision slightly or if you’re just not wearing glasses that you usually would. He thinks you look awfully pretty from this angle though in retrospect Reo just thinks that you’re pretty in general.

“That’s… good?” You ask.

Reo shrugs, “that’s cliche.”

“What? Cliche? How?” You seem to pause briefly between each word as if needing a moment to process what it was you just said after saying it.

Reo smiles warmly, “you’re just saying that because you wanna sound all smart n’ wise. Really, it just just makes you come off as a tryhard.”

“Wow,” your jaw drops but Reo can spot the amusement in your eyes, “a tryhard, huh? I think that’s the first time I’ve ever gotten that insult.”

“Don’t worry,” Reo teases, “there’s nothing wrong with being a tryhard. In fact, I like tryhards.”

You pout cutely, clearly noticing the fact that Reo’s recalling your own words from earlier, “you’re a tryhard.”

“Guilty as charged, pretty girl.”

“Pretty girl?”

Reo blushes brightly, “w-well yeah. You… that’s- you are…” the words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. One moment he was laughing and the next he was stumbling over himself trying to figure out the right thing to say to you.

“I’m only teasing,” you hum, “and thank you.”

“Y-yeah.”

“You’re pretty too.”

Reo clears his throat, “well, it’s not the most manly thing to be called pretty but I suppose I can accept the compliment.”

“You can, can you?”

Pushing aside the embarrassment and suddenly filled with a burst of confidence Reo finally turns his body to face you. He thinks a little bit of it comes from the alcohol finally finding a place in your stomach while the other has to do with the way your eyes sparkle as you look at him. He places an arm on either side of you, caging you between himself and the railing of the balcony. He leans down close, chuckling slowly, “I’m very sure, pretty girl.”

He wonders if he should lean down and kiss you.

Sure the two of you are strangers but it wouldn’t be the first time that Reo’s kissed a stranger. And it most certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’s done before with a stranger but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t lean forward and press his lips to yours despite seeing how easy it would be.

In retrospect, Reo isn’t sure if he should have taken that kiss or not.

A part of him is glad that he didn’t kiss you knowing what he does now. But there is another part of him -a less thoughtful and selfish part- that wonders what your lips might’ve felt like against his own.

After a brief moment (which felt like an eternity to Reo) you pull away. Well, you push him away. Place your hand on his chest and gently push him away from you and Reo doesn’t resist. He takes a few steps back just as he feels you want him to.

Did he read the situation wrong?

Was this too much?

Gosh, now he’s going to look like a total loser.

This is why he doesn’t drink.

“Sorry.” Reo manages.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault too.” You scratch the back of your neck sheepishly, “I did have a bit too much to drink. I guess that’s what happens when you go around having a glass with everyone else in the party.”

“Hm? Why would you do something like that?”

“Well, when it’s your wedding it’s usually your job to make sure all the guests are enjoying themselves.”

“So you’re…”

“Guess the mystery’s gone, huh?”

Fall in love with someone you can’t have.

---

Her: Forever and always.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #mikage reo x reader #100 ways to fall in love

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ariadnes-red-thread · 4 months

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The Last Word: Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE: LOOKING TOO CLOSELY

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter [coming soon]

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Fives/OFC

Chapter Summary: Mal settles into the 501st, but running into a familiar face in a clone army is the last thing she expects

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing (mostly in mand'o), Mentions of Umbara/past trauma and past sexual situations

Chapter Word Count: 3.9k

Recommended Listening: Looking Too Closely by Fink

A/N: Whoops, so maybe by "Coming Soon", I meant 14 months later. Sorry, I was crippled by self-hatred, perfection paralysis, and fears of my own incompetence. I'll try to be more cool writer girl next time. Thanks to everyone who connected with Mal and with my writing, and reached out to remind me that this might be a story worth telling. I love and adore you forever.

Ao3

Taglist

“Welcome to the 501st.”

Rex extended his hand out to Mal. For the briefest moment, she stared at his gauntlet, decorated in blue and white. The gap between them felt lightyears apart, and she was almost surprised at how quickly her hand closed the space. Taking his hand, she turned her eyes up to meet his and smiled, trying to reflect the Captain’s own warmth back at him. Mal gripped his hand firmly as she tried to shut out the hundreds of soldiers marching around the 501st’s hangar. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her discomfort. This was an opportunity, and she was grateful for it. It just felt odd, like putting on someone else’s clothes. The size was right, but the fit was all wrong.

Calling it the 501st’s hangar wasn’t entirely true. In a day or so, this battalion - her battalion, Mal quickly reminded herself - would ship out, off to a different star system, and another troop would take over this space for their leave. But for now, it swarmed with blue and white troopers. This system was designed for convenience and space-saving, but it gave Mal, and all transfers, an advantage. She already knew where everything was, from the medical supplies to the fresher. Still, after a briefing on protocols (all of which she learned a long time ago), Rex insisted on giving her a tour.

As he led her through the stacks and pointed out where the medical supplies were being kept, Mal had a feeling he was trying to distract her and that her feeble efforts to mask her unease hadn’t gone far with the blonde clone. She wasn't surprised.

Mal spent most of her life taking care of other people. It had taken a long time for her to get used to the way the Wolfpack watched over her. But she smiled, realizing that all the ways they had helped her made her softer now, more ready to let someone else in. So she tried to relax as she followed Rex, letting him point out where the extra gauze was stored, which fresher to use, and where to find the ration bars if she needed a meal.

Despite herself, Mal soon found herself feeling almost at home. Wolffe was right. Rex was the best. She watched as he would stop occasionally to check in with a passing soldier. He would slide an arm over their shoulder or rest a hand on the pauldron. Sometimes the check-in would be wordless, just a nod between the two men. Sometimes, Rex would mumble a bit of mando’a, and his brother would smile. Just as quickly, his attention would be back on her. There were a couple of moments when she thought she might have seen a shadow pass over his face as his eyes lingered on a soldier for a moment longer or as he scanned the crowd, looking for someone he couldn’t find. She might have imagined them, though, because, in the next breath, he would turn back to her with a charming grin and point out where someone named Jesse had hidden more snacks.

As Mal peered over his shoulder while he rifled through a med-pack and showed her the simple, familiar contents, the tension started to leave her shoulders, and a wave of ease settled onto her brow. There was comfort in the sameness. And comfort made Mal curious.

“So, who am I working with?” She turned her attention from the med-packs back to the throngs of troopers scattered across the platform.

Rex followed her gaze. With battlefield precision, he scanned the crowd, searching out his medic. The Captain spied his target in split seconds.

“Oi, Kix!” Rex’s voice boomed over the thunder of boots on durasteel.

At least two dozen men jumped to attention as their commanding officer’s call echoed off the soaring walls of the vast space. There was a clattering of dedlanite as a trooper dropped a container of DC15Ss. Across the bay, a clone with a medical sigil on his shoulder peeled off from a group of soldiers. A collective sigh went up through the troopers as they each realized it wasn’t them who was being summoned by their CO.

The medic, Kix, jogged across the hangar to where Mal and Rex were standing with only the lightest sense of urgency. Mal eyed the medic as he got closer. Crux was clinical and quiet, a man of science born from science. Their only heated battles (recently anyways) came when he felt like she was acting on her gut rather than evidence. Kix didn’t appear to be cut from the same cloth. His helmet was tucked under his arm, and she could see how brightly he smiled as he threw greetings and quips over his shoulder at brothers who whistled and cat-called as he ran by. His appearance was as bold as his crossing, with hair closely shaved into intricate lighting bolt patterns and an Aurebeseh tattoo on the left side of his scalp. When he got close enough, Mal could finally make out the writing, ‘The only good droid is a dead droid’. Mal couldn’t help the smile on her face. It was a sentiment she could get behind. The 501st medic came to a halt next to Rex.

“This is Kix.” Rex clapped the medic on the shoulder. “You’ll report to him. There’s the CMO Coric somewhere too but you’ll meet him later. Kix here is the head medic for Torrent Company and the most dedicated medic I’ve ever met. We’re lucky to have him.”

“Aw shucks, Captain.” Kix laughed at Rex. He shifted slightly under Rex’s grasp, just a little further from the Captain. “Nice to meet you…”

He held out a gauntleted hand as he waited for a name.

“Mal.”

“Nice to meet you, Mal.”

Rex watched for a moment before he began to shift from foot to foot. He wasn’t a man who sat still for long, Mal noticed. She wondered if he’d always been like that or if this came from being burdened with so many responsibilities. Wolffe was the same way, his attention jumping from task to task, somehow always simultaneously present and attentive, but still somewhere else.

“I’ve got a meeting with the generals.” Rex finally said as he clapped his gloved palms together. “Kix, you mind helpin’ her get settled?”

“On it, sir.” The medic replied, brightly.

“Thank you, Captain.” Mal turned to Rex. "I feel very settled in."

"Wolffe wouldn't have let me live it down otherwise." He said, waving away her gratitude.

“Come on, I’m starving. Let’s go to the mess.” Kix motioned for Mal to follow him, already spinning on his heel. “You can meet some of the men.”

“Good luck.” Rex cheekily yelled after them.

“I can handle the 501st,” Mal called back over her shoulder, “I put up with the 104th for years.”

Rex laughed and nodded as though she won a hand of sabacc. With a small salute, he turned in the opposite direction and disappeared into the gears of the GAR.

“He’s just being dramatic.” Kix rolled his eyes as Mal caught up to him. “The boys are all good fun.”

She fell into step beside the clone as Kix started to make his way down the long durasteel hallway to the mess. Mal lost track of time while Rex was showing her around, but it must have been getting close to dinner because most of the other clones were starting to head in the same direction.

“You get the full tour?” Kix raised an eyebrow as he flashed a knowing eyebrow.

“Captain Rex was very thorough,” Mal smiled back, instantly at ease with the small gift of an inside joke.

Mal watched the medic out of the corner of her eye as they walked. He nodded to every soldier that passed, but the ones with decorated armor got a verbal greeting or a pat on the shoulder.

“How long have you been with the 501st?” Mal asked, curious about her new CO.

It had taken a long time for her and Crux to warm up to each other. They started at the same time, joining the decimated 104th as it was rebuilding. Crux wasn’t thrilled to be serving with a civilian, and Mal had her own grudge, which was no fault of Crux’s. She knew it was irrational to dislike him for not being Tye, but she couldn’t help it. Still, once they stopped yelling at each other, they found that they worked well together. Crux’s strength was in his analysis and his textbook memory. Mal’s came from her quick thinking, calm under pressure, and her well-trained gut instincts. They came at problems from different routes, but almost always ended up at the same answer. Another ache passed through her as she realized their last mission working together would be just that. For now anyways, she tried to reassure herself.

“Just after Teth. Got assigned to Rex after that disaster, and he’s been grumpy about it ever since.” Kix flashed a cheeky smile at Captain Rex’s expense. “I’ll be honest, this is the first time we’ve had a civilian medic.”

Mal shrugged. It wasn’t surprising. There weren’t many civilians in the GAR, and even fewer were medics. The government official that helped her at the recruitment office had tried to talk her out of signing up in at least fifteen different ways as she was filling out the dataforms.

“How about you?” Kix asked, “How long have you been with the 104th?”

“I joined after Abregato,” Mal answered. It wasn’t a lie.

“Hmm, I remember that one.” Kix frowned as he rubbed the back of his neck with a gloved palm. “I helped take care of Wolffe and the other two when they got back. Commander Tano still talks about it sometimes. Rough stuff. Glad that was before your time.”

Mal had heard a lot about Commander Tano, and even seen her from a distance on the Venator a few times. The Togruta Jedi padawan was hard to miss and liked to visit General Plo when she could. Boost, Sinker, and Wolffe spoke about her in hushed, grateful tones. Mal supposed that she did too. It wasn’t surprising, given that the whole of the 104th would have been wiped out if not for Commander Tano. Mal knew exactly to whom she owed her friends’ lives.

“You must have started with Crux, then.”

Mal looked back at the clone to find him watching her with a glance that was trying to appear more casual than it was. He must have seen something in her face change at the mention of Abregado. The clones in the 501st were good at distraction, Mal was starting to notice, but she was grateful for the change in subject.

“You know Crux?” Mal tried to match the Kix’s bright tone.

“Yeah, we went through medic training together,” Kix said. “Crux and I shipped out after Geonosis. Both the 501st and the 104th had hard times of it. Trained with Tye, the first CMO for the 104th, too, but he would have been before your time.”

Mal’s spine stiffened at his name.

A flash of a smile.

“You deserve to be happy.”

“Yeah,” Mal agreed, even as her heart clenched. “Before my time.”

“Heya, Kix.”

A clone with a large Republic cog in the middle of his helmet fell into step beside Kix. He elbowed his friend as his helmet tilted towards Mal. She could feel his eyes as they looked her up and down before he spied the medical sigil on the shoulder of her jumpsuit.

“Rex finally get someone to replace you?” The clone elbowed Kix again.

“You’d be dead without me,” Kix replied without missing a beat. “Mal, meet Jesse.”

“Hi!” Even through the modulator, the man’s greeting was warm.

The clone named Jesse stripped his helmet from his head. He tucked it under his arm as he flashed Mal a sideways smile. The cog that had decorated his helmet matched a tattoo that covered most of the upper half of his face, spanning from just under his left eye to the top of his clean-shaven head. His smile stretched across his face, bringing a glint to his eyes and wrinkling the edge of the cog.

“Nice to meet you.” Mal couldn’t help but smile back. “Nice tattoo.”

“You like it? I lost a game of sabacc to Hardcase, but I’ve grown attached.” Jesse ran a hand over his clean scalp as he grinned a little wider. “Spotchka may have been involved.”

“It suits you.”

It did. The clone had an animated face, his expression written all over it, and the tattoo emphasized every look. Mal imagined he wasn’t very good at sabacc.

“I like her.” Jesse turned to Kix with an air of grievance. “You never compliment me.”

“She doesn’t know you yet.” Kix chuckled.

“You’re just mad you’re not the prettiest medic in the 501st anymore.” Jesse snapped back.

Mal winced at the comment. She had a feeling Jesse was just kidding and that the joke was more at Kix’s expense than hers, but it was irritating all the same. Mal had never met a clone who thought less of her expertise because she was a woman. Still, there were plenty of civilian mechanics and medics who did. Any other day, the comment would probably have rolled off her. Instead, Mal thought of the clone from the night before. Would he think less of her if she ever had to treat him? Would he trust her? She quickly pushed that thought aside. No point in considering it. In an army of a billion clones, that wasn’t something she would ever have to worry about.

“Hard to compete with Kix.” Mal quickly spoke.

Just like that, the worry was gone, and Jesse was reaching around Kix to slap her on the back.

“I like you,” He let out a belly laugh as he repeated his approval.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t make me regret introducing you two already.” Kix rolled his eyes before they suddenly flashed.

Mal followed his look down the hallway. Just ahead, two troopers walked with their helmets pressed close together like they were strategizing. One was dressed in clone trooper armor, and the other wore the unmistakable kit of an ARC trooper. His kama swayed around his hips as he walked, arm over the shoulder of the other trooper. They seemed to catch Kix’s attention.

“Now, these two, you definitely need to know. Gotta watch them closely.” Kix spoke, his voice raised and playful. “They spend more time in the medbay than the rest of the battalion combined.”

They stopped and turned at Kix’s words, the sound of mocking modulated laughter coming from their helmets. Kix and Jesse paused with them, forming a small crowd in the busy hallway, like rocks in a river.

“This is Mal, our new medic from the 104th.” Kix gestured.

The clone troopers pulled their buckets from their heads. The first man smiled sweetly, a contrast to the single teardrop that decorated the lower lid of his left eye. Mal barely registered him, though. She was too busy gaping at his friend. The second man flashed a knowing, familiar grin. Even without the temple tattoo, Mal would have recognized him anywhere.

Fives.

The first thing Fives saw as he rounded the corner into the mess hall was Jesse’s face. His vod immediately looked annoyed and that put an extra spring in Fives’ step. Nothing like the sheer pleasure of irritating Jesse without even having to put in the effort.

“Ah osik, I bet Tup 5 credits you’d miss roll call.” The lieutenant frowned at Fives over two steaming paper cups of caf.

“Come on, Jess.” Fives grinned at his older brother. “You know me better than that.”

Fives picked up the two cups before he turned, seamlessly slipping the drinks out from under his vod's nose. Jesse leapt up and yelped but, short of leaping over the table, there was no stopping Fives.

He kept moving down the hall, practically gliding, as Jesse’s swears faded behind him. He hummed, sipping on the black caf that Jesse had poured for himself, and savoring each jolt to his taste buds. Fives meandered his way through the maze of the base, nodding to brothers that greeted him. Faces, armor, and haircuts were all distinct. He recognized them all but most of the names escaped him. It was becoming harder and harder to keep track. There were so many, and they came and went all too quickly. It made him feel old in a way that an eleven year old probably shouldn’t. Was it eleven? Or was it twelve now?, he wondered. Who could keep track of decanting days anymore? That was Echo’s job and, without his twin, he wasn’t ever in the celebrating mood. Finally, Fives slipped into one of the main supply rooms, where he paused before a large supply shelf. It was pressed up against the durasteel and tucked in the back of the dark storage space.

“Hey, Tup. You there?” Fives called.

“Roger, roger.” Tup called back.

The long-haired clone popped his head over the edge of the fourth shelf, about eight feet off of the floor. He perched there for a moment, chin resting on his hand as he smiled down at Fives. Fives grinned back up at his vod. Tup found the empty shelf the first day after the Umbara deployment, and he dragged a mattress up there to turn it into a getaway. Fives didn’t ask why he wanted one and Tup didn’t volunteer the information. Instead, Fives just helped him redirect several blankets and a mattress from shipping to an “ARC training mission” and, in a comical heist that involved General Skywalker nearly catching them, assisted Tup in smuggling the large bedding into the supply room.

“So, how was the night, vod?” Tup winked.

“A gentleman never tells,” Fives smirked up at his brother.

“Well, luckily, you’ve never been a gentleman.” Tup laughed as he swung down from the shelf, landing gracefully beside Fives.

“Hey! I brought you caf and everything.” Fives held out the second cup to Tup, who took it without hesitation.

“Ah yes, three creams. Just how Kix takes it.” Tup chortled as he sipped on the warm liquid.

Fives smiled back at the younger clone. Losing Echo left a hole in his heart that he knew would never be filled, and it had been a long time since he had felt a connection with one of his brothers like that. Tup was different though. He reminded him of Echo in some ways. He was quietly smart. A little nerdy. But he could still merk a Seppie in seconds and without hesitation. He was clever, more clever than most people realized. Fives was still impressed with the plan Tup came up with to capture General Krell. While he knew he could never replace his twin and he wasn’t looking to try, he felt a little more whole lately when Tup was around.

“Now, come on vod.” Tup threw his other arm around Fives, “Tell me about the night.”

He filled Tup in on a few of the details while they made the walk to roll-call. He skipped the feeling that she had given him when he made her laugh or the way he wished someone would bottle up her scent. Instead, he talked about the other stuff, like how great her tits were and how hot the sex had been. Tup dutifully listened to all of it with a small smile on his face.

They made it to roll-call right on time. Jesse glared at Fives over a fresh cup of caf. Fives gave his fuming vod a wave just as Rex called them to attention. The Captain marched down the line, inspecting his soldiers. He paused in front of Fives.

“Nice to see you made it back,” Rex muttered, cocking an eyebrow at the ARC.

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about, Sir,” Fives smirked at his old friend.

Rex let out a familiar sigh of exasperation as he shook his head and continued back down the line.

It was Fives' least favorite kind of day. Drills, strategy meetings, and more drills. The drills drove him crazy. It was all pretend. There was no room to be creative or stakes to make the shineys take it seriously. It seemed like they were getting sloppier and sloppier, and nothing he said would get through to them until the blaster fire was real. The strategy meetings weren’t bad, but it was all a lot of talk and pretend. He knew it was important. Fives got that. But there was never a day that he didn’t want to be out there, in the fight, instead of planetside doing drills.

“We’re gonna have to reconsider how we’re using our resources holding Felucia,” Tup was still thinking about their last meeting as the day wound down and they made their way to the mess. Fives was only half-listening, having had his fill of strategy talk for the day, but Tup kept going, his enthusiasm obvious though his modulator. “Focusing on hyperspace lanes instead of the planet itself could help us protect the whole system. We keep fighting these high-cost, low reward battles on the planet’s surface.”

“S’not a bad idea.” Fives heard enough that he looked his vod up and down.

“It’s a great idea.” Tup looked back at him and Fives knew, even through the helmet, exactly the teasing look his vod was giving him. “Don’t you run to Rex and steal it.”

Fives snorted and wrapped an arm around Tup’s shoulders.

“I would never dream-” Fives started to protest before a voice rose up behind them.

“… these two, you definitely need to know. They spend more time in the med bay than the rest of the battalion combined.”

Fives barked out a laugh. Tup joined him as he tilted his helmet at Fives. He rolled his eyes at Tup and knew, in the same way that Tup knew what expression he was making; Tup was rolling his eyes too. They paused their walk and turned towards Kix's voice.

He was glad he had his helmet on. Standing there, walking with his vode, was the woman from this morning. Her form was now hidden behind a civilian medic jumpsuit, and her long red curls were pulled back away from her face, tied back into a low bun, but he knew her in moments.

He knew the light in her eyes as she laughed at Kix’s words. He recognized the smile that danced on those soft lips. He knew the smattering of freckles he could map out on her nose and her cheeks. He knew the way her skin would feel if he were to dig his fingers into those hips, barely hidden by the bulky jumpsuit. Maker, he knew the way she smelled still and could taste it in the air. Or maybe that was just him and the way she lingered on his skin.

Pull it together, Fives. He warned himself. His heart wouldn’t slow, though. He couldn’t believe his luck as he took in the blue markings on her jumpsuit. She was here, and she was theirs.

“This is Mal, our new civilian medic transfer from the 104th.”

Fives barely heard Kix as he stripped the bucket from his head. He waited for Mal to squeal, to laugh, for the joy to spark in her eyes like it had last night.

“This is Tup.” His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as Kix droned on, “And this is Fives, our resident ARC.”

“And resident pain in the ass,” Jesse added loudly.

Fives ignored Jesse as he pressed his lips together in a knowing smile. She knows, you di’kut, he wanted to shout, but Mal spoke first.

“Nice to meet you.”

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werechicken · 9 months

Text

Siffren Trauma Stuff (Warning Spoilers)

-Siffren sometimes wakes up screaming in the night that he’s still in the loops and any happy memories and things he’s doing now are reset. Isabeau finds the best way to help Siffren sleep better is to squeeze his hand while sleeping.

-when living with Isabeau Sriffen had a bad spell of it and begged Isabeau to hide all the sharp objects. Isabeau felt worried when Sriffen had accidentally broke a drinking glass and stared at the shards for a full ten minutes before cleaning them up without incident.

-due to all the Timeceafting Siffrens body smells faintly of sugar, which gets more intense when he sweats or gets anxious. It’s theorized his body is permeated with the Time craft stuff and will always be part of his bodies makeup

-as a result the smell of his own body can sometimes bring back a panic attack, making him think that something will reset time and undo everything.

-Isabeau gradually has to get Siffren used to the idea the smell means nothing and it’s a boon to smell so sweet

-for a long while after tho, Siffren got horrible rashes due to having bad panic attacks over smelling like sugar and attempting to scrub his skin raw to get the smell away.

-Siffren gets better and much to his and others delight, he acts as a mobile air-fresher that can make a room smell sweet like a bakery, especially prevalent in winter evenings with a roaring fireplace going.

-Siffren is a cuddle slut and people can tell when he and Isabeau cuddled or spent any amount of time together because Isabeau would smell heavily of cane sugar.

-a new thing Siffren finds to ground himself is to carry a pocket watch and watch the hands move.

-Isabeau has made Siffren a new eyepatch with a starry eye stitched pattern on it. Ever since this happens Siffren has made at least a weeks worth of groan worthy eye related puns. Bonnie is absolutely delighted.

-Siffren still bumps into stuff out of his field of vision and one time bumped into a store counter so hard he just slumped to the floor and sat there for an hour, remembering the dreaded counter from the time-stricken House of Change. The store felt so bad they gave Siffren a permanent 50% discount. He pays double out of politeness, unless they are selling Malanga Fritters.

-someday, Siffren teaches Bonnie the importance of peppers in Malanga Fritters. They’re the best thing they ever tasted.

In the end, Bonnie moves back home and becomes a Rock craft instructor. They send Siffren and Isabeau a large box of Malanga Fritters to this day.

-Mirabelle becomes a teacher of the House of Change and one day becomes Headmistress. She has a very strict policy on the forbidding of Wishcraft and Timeceaft, except in the grounds of how to identify its use and counter it should it be misused. She one day encounters the God of Change and let’s then know she is very cross with how they treated Siffren. She doesn’t remember the details of the aftermath of that, but she dimly recalls a contest, the terms of which if she wins the Change God has to apologize to Siffren for enjoying watching his Suffering during the loops. She wakes up with an apology letter that is addressed to Siffren which consists of the words “ims sowwy” and a box of Malanga Fritters that never seems to empty for a year.

-Isabeau designs clothes and with Siffren as a model manages to perfect the advanced craftwork that made Siffrens cloaks so comfortable in all temperatures, and even alter itself to grow and change with the wearer. The clothes become a hit across the nation of Vauguaarde and other continents. While Siffrens home nation may be gone for good, some measure of its crafting marvels live on in the clothes Isabeau makes that were reverse engineered from Siffrens own.

-Odile eventually returns home and founds a school to study Time Craft, particularly to study what exactly happened to Siffrens homeland. While it left more questions than answers, the entire populace is now aware of the survivors struggling without memory of growing up, without a past. In Conjunction with Mirabelle, Odile also founds a series of charity orgs that focus on finding the displaced survivors of the disappeared Nation to the North, offering counseling and a means of reconnecting to others. Siffren encounters the Croissant Vendor once again, and through hard work starts to enjoy Croissants once again.

Loop sometimes pops up. They still feel tremendously guilty of attempting to kill Siffren. They managed to work with Odile sometimes, and eventually reconnect with people. They work full time with the Vanished Kingdom Outreach, and find a fulfillment they had missed for so long. Loop tries to give Siffren his coin back, but he has Loop keep it. Loop immediately uses it to buy a croissant from the new vendor in town, who finds him familiar…

-While each of them drift over time, once a year the King Butt Kicker Gang reunite in a cabin and catch up over the years events. They also each attempt to hold Siffrens hands, but by now the Trauma of the Loops and the past are nearly a distant memory.

-The King is still frozen in time, and a resting place is built around them as memorial and reminder that we should all tend to the hurt and the lonely amongst us. While they can’t perceive anything but the name of their country, somehow he is aware that Sriffens clothes have become something everyone wears and holds dear. His heart leaps with joy during these locked moments, as he realizes all along these fragmented artifacts are more than enough to have the world remember the Nation that Was, in some way or another. He will never become unfrozen, but this is his personal choice. He would rather be frozen with the name of his Country fresh in his memory, than die without it.

———-

Stiffen grows old with Isabeau and his friends, and they even make new ones that are in awe of their tale of heroism, tragedy, and comraderie.

And while Sriffen still can’t stand the taste of bananas, they all lived happily ever after.

#isat #in stars and time #Siffren #in stars and time spoilers #spoilers #trauma warning

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designfresher97 · 2 years

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HOW TO BUILD A CAREER IN INDUSTRIAL DESIGN?

A place for design and architecture talent to plan their careers, advance, connect, and find employment is called Design Fresher . We are a one-stop resource for knowledge sharing, information searching, learning new skills, and connecting with businesses to advance your career in design .

#design fresher #Best design fresher #Find design fresher #fresher designer #design career

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9kmovies-biz · 2 years

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Design Engineer Jobs

Job Description Hi,Hope doing well…Greetings from Nyutech Test & Automation Pvt Ltd.!!!We are looking best candidates for below mentioned positions.1. Design Engineer- Solid works experience in SPM field.(2-3 Yrs) Kindly check if anyone is really need.Thanks & RegardsDinesh Kumar C D #Design #Engineer #Jobs

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#Design Engineer Jobs #Design Engineer Jobs Jobs Near Me #Find A Job #Fresher’s Jobs #Immediate Design Engineer Jobs Jobs #Inspire Global Solutions

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finsterkiibo · 1 year

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this is an au I made a bit ago based on the hypothetical if the gopher project were real, and successful!

this au sits in my brain constantly and I am IN LOVE w the concept, SO MUCH. but I just cannot write for shit so I am at a standstill for it (FOR NOW.)

but basically! its like what if instead of going the “everything was fake” route, DRV3 took place IN the gopher project (if it ended up being successful and everyone all agreed to go through w it)

this could be an AU were they all just peacefully live their lives in space OR this could be like a DR2 situation where the gopher project was meant to be good but someone got into its system or function and started a killing game… IN THE SPACESHIP (mugi)

obviously DRV3 takes place father into the future (have you seen kiibo. HIS ULTIMATE LAB? THE SHIT MIU BUILDS?) so technology is far far advanced enough to make proper living places in space that they can survive on for generations, same with more convenient space suits! Like the greenhouse is where most of the fresher food comes from and oxygen, etc. each character has their own unique bodysuit as well!! having altering designs to fit their personalities and likes!!!

The ship itself is run by an AI to manage its fly path and supplies and stuff, it’s not like kiibo though, as it’s just a voice in the speakers on the ship. It only intervenes with the others when it must!

the end goal is to find a habitable planet years in the future for them to live on! but if the killing game version of this au were to take place….. only few would ever make it…

#danganronpa v3 #danganronpa #drv3 #k1 b0 #keebo #kiibo #shuichi saihara #kaede akamatsu #kaito momota #kokichi ouma #miu iruma #gonta gokuhara #ryoma hoshi #tenko chabashira #himiko yumeno #angie yonaga #danganronpa au

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twostepstyless · 2 years

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“What in the name of god, are you wearing?” Y/N stops dead as she enters the gym seeing Harry jump a foot in the air and drop his phone against the floor in the process as Y/N caught him taking a quick little mirror selfie.

“Jesus fucking Christ! You scared me,” Harry gasped, bending down to pick up his phone and slide it into the pocket of his shorts.

“Feeling yourself, were you?” She smirked, keeping her eyes on him through the reflection of the mirror as she sat their water bottles down that she had just been to refill for some post workout hydration. While she was gone, Harry had stripped out of the vest that had clung to his sweaty, clammy skin, towelled himself down and changed his t-shirt to feel a little fresher until they got home to shower.

“Maybe just a little bit,” he smiled sheepishly, eyes glancing up to catch her amused gaze in the mirror.

“Turn round and let me see what you’re wearing, I haven’t seen this one before I don’t think,” Y/N couldn’t make out the whole design, she assumed it was a new vintage t-shirt, the design was a little cracked but the colours still vibrant. Harry spun on his foot and pinched the hem of the shirt pulling it taught to show off the print with a shit-eating grin gracing his features. “Oh my god,” Y/N slapped a hand over her face as a fit of giggles came from her, “that’s the best thing I’ve ever seen, where did you get that? Or is there a secret stash I’ve yet to find out about?” She asked as gazed at the nearly 11 year old t-shirt that graced her boyfriends body, the cracked print of his much younger self in varying shades of blue right at the top.

“My mate found it in a charity shop and sent me a photo, and I couldn’t not have it,” Harry shrugged as he smoothed the top down against his still warm skin.

“Hope you got a good photo of you in it then because I will definitely be steali– oop sorry, I meant borrowing that top now,” Y/N laughed as she approached him, her finger trailing over the picture of him.

“Why am I not even surprised?” Harry rolled his eyes playfully.

“Oh my god, you were so bloody cute,” Y/N giggles finally tearing her eyes away from the picture of 17 year old Harry and into the eyes of 29 year old Harry.

“What do you mean were cute?!” Harry gasped in faux offence as he picked up their water bottles and pulled her towards the exit of the gym.

#harry styles concept #harry styles writing #is this a #njfc concept #not sure could be #something stupid and fun anyway #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fluff #harry styles x y/n

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writingstuffs12345 · 8 months

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Sally Face Gang finds out you struggle(d) with SH

TW: Mentions of self-harm

Sal:

Actually really understanding about your struggles

Helps you when you're having urges

"I kissed the scars on their skin" /ref

Larry:

Paints over your HEALED scars if you let him

He'll run his fingers over your scars (more so when he's high)

Just like Sal: "I kissed the scars on their skin" /ref

Does his best to help you keep fresher scars clean

When he paints you and if you're okay with it, he'll add your SH scars

Ashley:

Offered to find a tattoo artist who would be comfortable tattooing over your healed scars

Draws designs on your HEALED scars

If you're comfortable, she'll kiss your scars

Got you into art as a way to cope with self-harm

Todd:

Became your therapist /hj

Kinda struggles to help you with it because he doesn't understand why someone would do that

Went to Sal for advice on how to help you

Keeps a first aid kit on him if you relapse

#sally face #sally face headcanons #sal fisher #larry johnson #larry johnson headcanons #ashley campbell headcanons #headcanons #todd morrison #todd morrison headcanons #sal fisher headcanons

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ak-vintage · 5 months

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Quarry - Chapter 15

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, mild angst, Mandalorian culture lore dump, Din speaks Mando'a, SMUT, vaginal fingering, penis in vagina sex, sensory deprivation (blindfolds), dirty talk, Din DOES remove the helmet, SoftDom!Din, touch-starved Din, emotional sex, Din has tattoos

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

You woke swallowed in darkness.

The surface on which your cheek rested, broad and solid, rose and fell with a gentle, even rhythm, and something heavy and limp pressed down along the length of your back, wrapping itself around your bare waist. You could feel the press of fingers there, the weight of a broad, calloused palm. A smile bloomed on your lips, unseen and unbidden, when you noticed that you had hitched one of your legs up over a thick, muscular thigh in your sleep. Ducking your chin to hide that smile, you slowly, carefully ran the sole of your foot along the inside of your companion’s leg, feeling the firm muscle and coarse hair there.

Tucked up close like this, you were shrouded in that scent, the one you had been so fond of for so long, the one you wore on your own body like a brand. Spiced, masculine, tinged with a subtle something – something salty and warm, like skin – that made you think of sleep. It was a well-loved mattress, a dense pillow, a shallow ceiling and close walls, cool to the touch, pressing in from all sides.

You squirmed a bit, adjusting your weight, and your bare ass pressed briefly against one of those durasteel walls, less than a handful of inches away. You immediately jerked back, arching into the heat of the body next to you, the cold, unexpected contact a shock to your system, but that shift of your hips brought your attention to the state of your own body. Remnant slickness smeared between your legs, and your muscles ached, stretched and used in a way that they hadn’t been in longer than you cared to admit.

Your smile broadened, and you felt a flush spread across your face, down your neck, along your chest. You relished that ache, held it, cradled it deep inside your body like a trophy. It was irrefutable evidence that you had finally done the thing that you had been fantasizing about for weeks. In the impenetrable blackness, under the rush of hot water, crowded and pressed and molded back against the walls of a ‘fresher you had designed and built yourself, you had made the Mandalorian yours.

Din Djarin.

The name suited him. Simple, strong, but with a touch of mystery that caught the ear, that made you want to listen.

That’s part of my appeal, isn’t it? The mystery?

It was, you knew. Part of his appeal. But now, with his arm slung around your waist and his chest pillowed beneath your cheek, with the memory of the way he had groaned and gasped in your ear and the way he had moved inside your body, relentless, inescapable, you couldn’t help but long for a little less mystery and a little more…knowing.

You had meant what you said to him in the ‘fresher, with your hands trembling as you grasped his helmet. You didn’t need to see his face. But you were only human, and the feeling of his lips on your skin, his hair under your hands, his stubble scraping over your jaw…all of it made you want to know him.

As you lay there in the dark, your scarf still secure and snug against your eyes, you wondered. Was it truly seeing his face that was forbidden? What about…touching? Learning his features with your fingers? Was that also forbidden? You had gathered some information the night before when he kissed you, when he buried his face against you and mouthed at your neck, but it hadn’t been much, and you had been…admittedly distracted.

Beneath your cheek, Din’s chest rose and fell peacefully, and you could feel his warm, deep breaths fanning over your forehead, ruffling your hair.

Perhaps now…perhaps while he still slept…

Gently and with great care, you ghosted your fingertips across the wide planes of his chest, barely skimming the surface, testing.

He remained still under your touch, his breathing even, unmoved.

Smothering a smile, you dragged your fingers along his collarbones next, then up to the tops of his shoulders, then his neck, feeling the muscles there, the tendons you had only caught a teasing glimpse of peaking out of the bottom of his cowl. Even at rest, he felt strong. There was might under your hands, and you felt the ache at the apex of your thighs throb in recognition of it.

This powerful man had gotten down on his knees for you, buried his tongue in your slick for you. The thought made your mouth water.

Your fingers had a mind of their own then. They traced up to the strong, square line of his jaw, feeling the edge of it, the rasp of a generous line of stubble under your sensitive fingertips. Coarse, patchy, too short to really be considered a beard but long enough to leave a friction burn behind wherever it touched. Further up, and the soft shell of an ear took shape under your touch, framed by thick, fluffy curls with wild, flipped-up tips. You grinned at the sensation of them dancing through your fingers, light and soft. Did Mandalorians get bedhead, you wondered? You thought perhaps he might have bedhead.

Sweeping the pad of your thumb across his forehead, you could feel the faintest traces of grooves there – a few horizontal, shallow and thin, then two vertical, deeper and between thick, prominent brows. Frown lines. He had an expressive face behind his helmet then. Was he older than you? You had guessed as much, if only because of his mannerisms and the world-weary way he sometimes carried himself when he thought no one could see. Now, as you traced along the hollows under his eyes, the delicate crinkles at the corners, you wondered just how much older.

Not that it mattered anyway. It had been well over a decade since such a thing might have raised eyebrows. You were plenty old enough to be trusted to choose who you brought into your bed.

If anything, the revelation only made his physical prowess more impressive, both in combat and in a more…pleasurable sense.

It wasn’t until your fingers began to slip down over the dramatic curve of his nose that you noticed his breathing shift.

You paused for a moment, your touch just barely skimming the highest point of the hooked bridge. “Din?” you whispered, cocking your head up toward his face, praying you hadn’t woken him.

“I’m awake, cyar’ika.” That voice, thick with sleep, rumbled through his chest. He sounded sleepy, though perhaps not as sleepy as you would expect. Had you missed him waking up earlier? Had he simply been lying beneath you, watching you study him, letting you run your fingers over his face?

You couldn’t see him through your blindfold, but you were certain he could see you. The bunk didn’t stay dark enough to keep him from following your every move with his eyes.

You felt your cheeks darken, and you ducked your head on instinct, willing him not to catch your embarrassment. Drawing your hand away from his face, you asked, “Do you want me to stop?”

You sensed movement above you, and you realized quickly that he was shaking his head at you. “No. It feels…nice,” the bounty hunter confessed, sounding a bit surprised even as the words left his mouth.

Something warm and soft settled itself in your chest at his admission, and you immediately returned your fingers to his skin, finding that furrow between his brows with your touch, dragging it down his nose with gentle precision. He let out a deep sigh, his muscles relaxing against your body, his hand at your waist starting to stroke the skin there. In the cramped quarters of the bunk that most definitely had not been designed for more than one person, there was nowhere for either of you to go except deeper into the other’s embrace. It was desperately intimate, being pressed together like this, touching like this.

You leaned into that intimacy, that discomfort, and unhurriedly continued your perusal of his features.

“How long has it been?” Your voice was soft and low as you traced to the tip of his nose, down to the mustache adorning his upper lip. Denser than his beard, you realized. Thicker. “Since someone else touched you like this?”

His cupid’s bow was shallow and wide, his mouth slightly downturned, but his lower lip was full and plush. You felt his lips part, felt the warmth of his breath as he released a thoughtful sound, contemplating your question.

After a beat, Din replied, “No one has ever touched me like this.”

You paused at that, your fingers stilling in the center of his chin. “Never?”

He shook his head minutely, a gesture you were certain you would have missed if you hadn’t been touching his face. “Never. Not my face, anyway.” His jaw worked around a thick swallow as he paused to gather his thoughts, and you said nothing, simply waiting for him to continue.

“I took the Creed when I was a boy,” he began, halting and vulnerable. “When I was an apprentice, I…explored. On occasion. But my…partners, they all had taken the same oaths as me. My helmet stayed on, as did theirs.” You offered him a small, upward turn of your lips, encouraging him to go on. “As an adult, I considered doing something like this with other partners, trying to find a way to be together like this without the risk of them seeing my face, but by then, I was so accustomed to the helmet that the idea of risking taking if off in front of anyone was too much. Too…exposed.”

Your eyebrows quirked up in the middle, pressing against your blindfold as you took a moment to let his revelation sink in. It hardly seemed possible, and yet, with what little you knew of the Creed (and how seriously he committed to it), you supposed he was telling the truth. No one had touched his face since he was a child.

“This takes a lot of trust for you, doesn’t it?” you murmured, cupping his warm, stubbly cheek in your palm. You ran your thumb across his cheekbone and felt him lean into your touch like a Loth-cat.

“It does.” His voice rasped in your ear, heavy with emotion, and the sound made you feel as though someone had reached through your ribcage, taken ahold of your heart, and squeezed.

Din was lonely. He missed connection, missed touch. Suddenly, all of those gentle caresses in your moments of need, the way he clung to you when he was exhausted or hurt, the way his first instinct when trying to teach you something new or to keep you safe involved his hands on your body – all of it made so much sense. He treated Grogu the same way, though perhaps to a lesser extent. Always choosing to carry him when he could instead of making the boy walk beside him, preferring to keep his little body tucked into the crook of his arm or cradled against his chest.

He wanted you close.

Tears stung the backs of your closed eyelids, and you turned your face into his chest, pressing a tender kiss to his skin. “Thank you. For trusting me. It’s a privilege.”

The two of you lay in silence for a few moments then, simply enjoying the feel of each other’s skin, learning the dips and curves and planes of each other’s bodies. In your mind, you built a model of his face, trying to picture each of the elements you had now explored through touch, to map them into something visual for your mind’s eye to focus on when you thought of him. You knew your time with him like this was limited, that eventually the blindfold would be removed, and you would meet his gaze through the impenetrable visor of his helmet once more. You were determined to savor this.

“Will you tell me about the Creed?” you asked.

You felt the bounty hunter frown, questioning. “I assumed you knew.”

“Only what I’ve figured out after living with you for so long,” you replied, shaking your head. “My father, he used to tell me stories about Mandalorians when I was a child, but I have no idea what of that was truth and what was just…stories.”

“Hmm.” Din paused, seeming to mull over his answer. “The Creed is a belief system. It’s meant to be a guide – to define what it means to be Mandalorian.”

You smiled fondly at the obvious pride in his voice, the seriousness with which he considered your question. “And what does it mean, to be Mandalorian?”

Beneath your touch, his body seemed to straighten, to harden, less drowsy warmth and more seriousness. “To be Mandalorian means valuing loyalty and solidarity,” he explained. “It means keeping true to your word. Having honor and strength of character. Caring for and providing for children, particularly foundlings. Understanding your heritage and living its values. And respecting the keepers of the culture.”

You nodded along to each revelation, affection swelling in you as he unknowingly put to words every core tenet of his own personality. He might as well have been describing his own personal code of ethics for how closely he stuck to those beliefs. He had clearly taken them to heart, integrated them into the core of his being to such a degree that it would be nearly impossible to separate the Creed from the man.

But there was one thing you noticed that he very clearly had not mentioned.

“And the helmet?” you prompted, bringing your palm to rest against the hollow of his breastbone.

Din hesitated for a breath, shifting against you. “The helmet is…complicated.”

You said nothing, simply nodded to show you were listening.

“The Mandalorians that raised me… The helmet is our most sacred belief. When we are old enough to take the Creed and swear to walk the Way of the Mandalore, we are given a helmet. It’s a symbol of that oath, and while it helps keep our identities concealed, it also keeps our identities as Mandalorians the most…salient part of who we are. In the Tribe, it doesn’t matter where you come from, whether you were born Mandalorian or not. It doesn’t matter what your House name is. It doesn’t even matter what species you are. All that matters is that you are Mandalorian. You are Mandalorian, and you…belong.”

Immediately, you thought of Grogu, fast asleep on the second floor, curled up in one of the copilot’s chairs in the cockpit. You thought of all the times you had caught Din speaking soft, lilting Mando’a to him, how he had explained to you that as a Mandalorian foundling, the language was part of his inheritance, his birthright.

“That’s beautiful, Din,” you said earnestly. You had never had that, you realized. That innate, unshakable sense of belonging that the Mandalorians had gifted to him, that he was now gifting to the little boy in his care.

“I’ve always thought so, too,” the bounty hunter replied. But there was something about his response that sounded unfinished to your ears, the end of his sentence hanging in the close air between you as though he wanted to say more.

“So…what makes it complicated?”

Again, Din shifted beneath you in a gesture you were starting to interpret as apprehension, like he wasn’t certain how much he should say, how candid he should be. “Not all Mandalorians believe what I believe,” he admitted reluctantly. “There are Mandalorians – many of them – who remove their helmets. They show their faces to…everyone.” He paused, seemingly conflicted. “I didn’t know such Mandalorians existed until recently. Not long before I met you.”

Oh.

Your thoughts swam with the implications of that discovery, immediately full of empathy for how confusing that experience must have been for him. To go your whole life with a single belief system, to make that belief system absolutely integral to your identity, and then to find others who claimed to share that identity while seemingly ignoring the single most sacrificial facet of it. It had to have felt like a betrayal, like they were reaping benefits without paying the price.

You floundered for an appropriate response until the silence became heavy. Eventually, you settled for something you hoped was validating without ascribing meaning that he hadn’t yet claimed. “That must have been jarring.”

You felt him nod. “It was. I didn’t trust them, at first. But the more time I spent with them, the more I started to think…perhaps we have more in common than we have differences.”

The other Mandalorians, the ones who showed their faces, had shown Din that it was possible to choose differently. His words made you think he still respected them, still found camaraderie with them, even after they had made him question himself and his beliefs.

The question was out of your mouth before you could reign it in.

“Have you ever…considered it? Doing things their way? Showing your face?”

The bounty hunter stiffened beneath you, pulling his body away from yours as far as he could manage in the cramped space. He hissed involuntarily as his back came into contact with the cold bunk wall opposite you, and you wished you could reel the words back in, suck them up, tuck them behind your teeth where they ought to have stayed. The scant inches between your bodies hurt, and you fought the urge to chase him across the mattress.

“I’m sorry, cyare, I can’t – ”

You knew that. You knew that. Maker, what a kriffing stupid thing to say.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you promised, extending your hands toward him, palms up, supplicant. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, please don’t apologize. I told you – I don’t need to see your face.”

“I…” Din hesitated, and then you felt the warmth of his fingers wrapping around yours, cradling your hands in the space between you, soothing your panic. “I don’t want you to grow to…resent it. That I can’t give you all of me.”

Giving in to the urge, you scooted yourself across that handful of inches, pressing your front along his, resting your hands on his chest. “Din, this is all of you. What I want doesn’t have anything to do with what you look like. I want…I want this.” Your palm found his heart. It raced under your touch, belying his nerves at the direction the conversation had taken. “This is what I fell in love with. Not your face.”

…

Shit.

You hadn’t meant to say it – not now, not like this.

But as you felt his breath stutter beneath your hands, felt him reach with shaking fingers to cup your face, you thought perhaps it was precisely what he needed to hear. One moment, your confession broke to silence, and then the next, Din was dragging your lips to his, crashing against you in the dark.

“Ner cyare,” he groaned between fervent kisses, licking across the seam of your mouth, pressing against the hinge of your jaw with his thumbs, prying you open beneath him. “Gar kandosii’la dala. You mean it?”

“Yes, Din.” Your words came out high-pitched and helpless, instantly weak under his onslaught, and he surged up against you at the sound. He rolled you onto your back, shifting so that he hovered over you, pressing into you, bearing you back into the mattress as he sealed his mouth over yours. His kiss was still clumsy and unpracticed, but it hardly mattered. He was ravenous for you, and you whimpered against his tongue, lost in the sheer abandon of it.

Before you could really gain your footing, he was moving, tracing a long, wet line across your sternum, burying his face between your breasts, smothering himself against your raging heartbeat.

“Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum.”

Of course, you hadn’t the faintest idea what he was saying, the rolling, lilting syllables of Mando’a continuing to elude you as he pressed them to the underside of one of your breasts. All you knew was that it sounded like devotion, like benediction.

Dragging his teeth across your skin, you were certain that he was leaving behind a trail of beard burns, and you relished the idea, arching into his touch, silently begging for more of the gentle hurt. The sensation had your chest heaving, your nipples pebbling, tightening, straining for his touch in the cool air. You hoped you would find streaks of redness there the next time you looked in a mirror. You wanted to see the evidence of his presence on your skin.

“Ner kar’ta. Too good for me.” His voice was breathless, ruined. Stars, you wished you could see him like that. The way he came unraveled for you was quickly becoming addicting. Had anyone ever felt so powerful pinned on their back? You thought not.

You shook your head, your hands coming up to cradle the back of his skull, threading through his hair. “Hush. Don’t be r-ridiculous – ”

But your protests were cut short, your words ending on the back of a gasp as Din wrapped his hot, wet mouth around one of your nipples.

You couldn’t stop the whimpers and moans that poured from your throat at that, your fingers in his hair twisting and gripping to steady yourself against the intensity. Your nails scraped along his scalp, and the bounty hunter growled in response, nipping at you as he moved on to the other breast. Kriffing hells, the wetness, the suction, the hunger – it was addictive, the sensations soaking into your skin and rushing through your bloodstream like a drug.

And the insistent press of the blindfold tied tightly around your eyes only served to enhance that feeling. There in the dark, there was nothing but him – nothing but his hands sweeping down your body, cupping your waist, nothing but his tongue on your nipples, his breath drawing goosebumps on your skin. You felt weightless, buoyant beneath his touch, like you were sinking beneath great swells of pleasure with no strength or desire to fight your way back to the surface. Your only anchor point was your Mandalorian’s hair under your hands, so new and yet somehow still familiar, somehow still safe.

“Say it again, mesh’la,” he grunted, somewhere between a command and a plea.

He didn’t need either. You would have done anything he asked of you in that moment, anything to keep his lips on your body, his pleasure spilling from him in waves, choking the close air around you.

“I love you, Din,” you whined. “I love you. Please – ”

You felt his broad palms grip your thighs as he settled above you in the narrow space, coaxing them open, tugging them up to wrap around his slim hips. You could feel the length of him there, thick and hot and hardening by the minute, and your hips moved of their own accord, bucking up against him, dragging the underside of his cock through your folds. A chorus of groans echoed off the durasteel walls at the friction, both yours and his, but he didn’t allow you to play like that for long. Before you could really begin to work yourself up, Din’s hands had slipped down to your hips and gripped them tightly, holding them still.

“Please what?” he taunted, low and strained. His voice sounded farther away, no longer rumbling against your skin, like he had drawn himself up on his haunches. You tightened the grip of your thighs against him, trying to get a feel for where he had gone, and you thought he might have knelt upright between your legs, staring down at you in the low light. The distance made you uneasy, and you shifted beneath him, squirming against his grasp.

“Din.” An embarrassed flush bloomed across your chest, and you fought the urge to hide. You could feel him watching you – bare, writhing, and desperate as you reached for him, scrabbling against his soft belly with your fingertips, trying and failing to drag him back on top of you. “Don’t make me beg.”

A short, rasping chuckle filled the air as the bounty hunter released his grip on your hips and instead brought his fingers between your thighs. Cupping your mound, he pressed the meat of his palm into you, massaging in broad, firm circles. “But you sound so sweet when you beg for me, ner kar’ta.”

You keened at that, grinding back against him. That had no right feeling as good as it did. It was nothing but pressure, too indirect to get you where you needed to be, too rough to feel like he was doing anything other than manhandling you, and yet you couldn’t seem to stop your hips from chasing after that crude touch. You could feel your wetness beginning to collect under his hand, leaking from your folds as you thrust against his palm.

You whimpered pitifully, your grip on his waist weak and ineffectual as you tried to pull him down over you. You were getting desperate now; you felt shaky and fragile, like you were about to fly apart at any moment, bone-deep yearning clawing at your belly as he effortlessly drove you higher. It was so much and yet not nearly enough.

After another few moments of this that seemed to last an eternity, the Mandalorian finally capitulated.

“Okay, fine. No begging this time,” he agreed, slowly, gently pulling his hand away from your center. He wiped his palm across your upper thigh, and you blushed at the streak of wetness it left behind, hot and sticky on your skin. “You just lie back, and I’ll give you exactly what you need. That’s what ner cyare wants, isn’t it? Just want someone to treat you like you deserve. Don’t want to have to ask, hm?”

His touch returned then, the slick press of two thick fingers teasing your entrance, petting gently, maddeningly at your fluttering hole, and you felt your jaw drop open as they sank inside you to the hilt in one smooth thrust.

“That’s it, isn’t it, sweet girl? That feels good?”

“Yes, shit, Din, that’s so good.” Maker, his hands were divine – big and strong and capable, filling you perfectly, seeking that soft, spongy spot inside you that made your eyes roll back behind your blindfold, made sparks fly in the darkness. You choked on a groan as his thumb began to circle your clit. Delicate, slippery, just enough pressure to have you melting into the mattress.

A soft, self-satisfied hum reached your ears. “You’re so beautiful like this. Look at you – pussy’s so pretty, taking my fingers so well, cyar’ika. And those perfect fucking tits…” A deep, wrecked sound wrenched itself from Din’s chest as he trailed off, distracted, and you swore you could feel his gaze tracing blazing patterns across your skin. “You just tell me when you’ve had enough, and I’ll give you my cock.”

The mere mention of it was enough to have saliva pooling in your mouth. You had barely managed to get a look at his cock the night before. One moment, you had been tugging down his flight suit pants, and the next, you had been knocking out the lights, plunging the both of you into impenetrable blackness. Now, you cursed the presence of the blindfold still tucked securely around your eyes. You needed to see him – the blunt, spongy tip, flushed and dripping, the bobbing length, the thick vein that carved its way along the underside that you had felt with your tongue…

A soft, involuntary noise bubbled up in your throat, and your hips stuttered against the Mandalorian’s hand, your walls pulsing around his fingers at the memory of his taste. Maker, the way he had leaked down the back of your throat, slick musk and man. It had made your cunt ache, and just the thought of it had a fresh wave of wetness slipping down his fingers and into his calloused palm.

“Din,” you panted, your lungs burning in your chest, your thighs flexing, squeezing his hips, hitching up against the sides of his waist. “Please, I can’t – I need – ”

His fingers slipped from the snug grip of your body almost immediately, and you keened in protest. But then he was running both of his hands over your lower stomach and around the flare of your hips, soothing you, easing the growing tension from your muscles.

“Shhh, I know. S’okay.” His voice was gruff, like his throat had gone dry, and it washed over you like steel rasping on stone, raising goosebumps across your skin. Sweeping his palms under your body, he sank his fingers into the plushness of your ass and tilted your pelvis up, canting your hips toward him. “Put your hands on my shoulders. Want to feel you dig your nails into me while I fill you up.”

Your breath hitched you felt the side of his wrist brush against your wetness, coming around to grip the base of his cock, pressing down against it to notch the head at your entrance. Your hands flew to his bare, broad shoulders, fingers digging in with something close to desperation.

“‘M gonna watch you this time, mesh’la,” Din growled, pressing into you, making way inside your body for his own with one long, smooth, slow thrust. You sighed at the stretch, a dull, throbbing burn that you welcomed like a friend, pulsing like a heartbeat, vital and alive.

“‘M gonna watch you, and ‘m gonna learn. What makes you moan, what makes you sweat, what makes you drip for me.” You heard his voice get closer, felt his body curve over yours, one hand gripping your hip, the other coming up to cradle the back of your skull, holding you in place beneath him. Dragging soft, wet kisses across your collarbone, he rasped, “Don’t hold back. I do something you like, I want to hear it. Ner cyare deserves to feel so good.”

You nodded rapidly, urgently, ducking your chin, seeking his mouth with your own. You poured all of yourself into that kiss – all of the respect and admiration you had grown to feel for him, all of the moments your heart had softened and melted when you watched him with the kid, all of the longing glances and furtive stares when you hoped he wasn’t looking, all of the nights you had gone to sleep with your face buried in his pillow, soaking in his scent, trying to ignore the burning hunger between your legs. Stars, you loved him.

Tearing your lips away with a moan, you felt tears pricking the backs of your closed eyelids. “Din. Just fuck me. Please, you’re killing me!”

Something low and primal rumbled in the bounty hunter’s chest at that. “Shab. See, I told you. So fucking sweet when you beg.”

And then he was fucking you – slow, hard, and purposeful, drawing his hips so far back that he almost withdrew from you completely before slamming home again, pounding you into the threadbare mattress, making the durasteel metal frame creek and whine under the force of it. Your mouth dropped open on a cry, head falling back on your neck, fingers scrabbling across his shoulders for purchase. You could feel every inch of him like this, long and thick and slightly curved, the dense, dark curls at his base scraping against your swollen clit with every inescapable thrust. The friction made your thighs tremble, and you brought your hips up to meet his as best as you could in the confined space, seeking more of that sensation.

“Mmm… She’s so perfect, cyar’ika. Perfect little cunt. Wet and t-tight and hot.” Din mouthed at your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin just below you ear, making you whine. “Shab! Can you feel her, sucking me in like this? Pulling me deeper? It’s fucking…unreal.”

You made a high-pitched, incoherent sound that could be construed as a “yes.” You could feel it – the way your body welcomed him so thoroughly, so completely, the way it nearly begged him to stay inside, tried to keep him. You had never felt anything like it, so beyond anything you had ever experienced on your own or even with another partner. You were so lost in him; you could hardly think.

“‘M gonna feel her come all over me this time, sweet girl. Not gonna stop, not gonna come until you do it.”

You nodded frantically, feeling your head move against his hold, which you suddenly realized was the only thing keeping you from sliding up the mattress and ramming into the forward wall of the bunk with the force of his thrusts.

“Thought about you like this. So. Many. Times.” Each word punctuated by the pounding of his hips, relentless and steady.

“When?” you gasped, laving the straining tendons of his neck with your tongue, tasting the salt of the sweat that had begun to pool there.

Din shuddered under your touch. “Dank farrik, all the time. Every time you tie that kriffing jumpsuit around your waist when you walk around in your welding gear with your tits out. In your little bath towel, dripping all over the deck. With my blaster in your hand, so frustrated but so e-eager to please.” His hips broke rhythm for the first time, overwhelmed, and you couldn’t hold back your breathless smirk.

“Yeah? That do something for you?” You squeezed down around him, taunting, and the bounty hunter swore colorfully.

“I’m a fucking Mandalorian. My weapons are s-sacred to me. What do you think?” Both hands gripping your hips now, he reared back up onto his haunches, and you yelped as he pulled your lower body almost into his lap, your ass resting between his spread knees, your legs up draped up and over his hips. “Now, if you can think enough to be a little mir’sheb, then I must not be doing my job. No more thinking, gotabor’ika. No more talking. Just feel.”

Din’s hips surged forward, and you cried out in equal parts shock and pleasure. The sudden incline of your body had the tip of his cock dragging devastatingly along your g-spot, and the arch of your back left you with no leverage – no way to meet his thrusts, no way to give as good as you got. You were suspended, helpless, as he proceeded to take you apart.

And Maker, it was so good. He was right; there was no room for thinking when he fucked you like this. It couldn’t possibly be allowed – stretching and dripping and melting and pounding and panting and whining and fucking, fucking, fucking. Eyes fluttering mindlessly behind your blindfold, your hands found their way to your own body, one dropping down to draw urgent circles around your clit, the other gripping one of your breasts, toying with your tight, pebbled nipple. Slick, squelching, obscene noises echoed in the narrow bunk as your bounty hunter filled you again and again, his fingers digging bruises into your hips and thighs, his gritted teeth biting back resonant, animalistic groans.

You were climbing too quickly to stop it, too quickly to pause and try to savor the build-up. He was shoving you up that mountain with single-minded focus, reveling in your defenselessness, your utter submission to his will and the power of his body, leaving you no time to catch your breath. You could feel sweat gathering under your breasts, in the small of your back, under the heavy weight of your damp, braided hair. Whimpers and moans and curses spilled from your lips unchecked, and distantly, you thought you heard him let out a breathless chuckle at the sound.

“It’s okay, cyar’ika,” he ground out, never relenting, continuing to grind the thick, plush tip of his cock against that spot that made you see stars. “Just let it happen. Let go for me. Let me feel you come on this cock.”

Of course, you did.

Wrenching a wet, desperate sound from your throat, you fell head-long over the edge of that mountain. Your walls clenched down around him in quivering, trembling pulses, wetness gushing, slicking his curls, dripping down his balls, down the crease of your ass. From far away, you heard Din curse, but he managed to fuck you through it, prolonging your torment, extending your ecstasy.

You felt feeble in the aftermath, frayed at the edges, as though all of your thoughts and all of your strength had leaked out of your well-loved cunt along with your cum, pounded out of you in the dark.

You only barely came back to yourself in time enough to hear his gasping, stammering question.

“Where – sweetheart, where should I – ?”

Your pussy throbbed sympathetically at the desperation in voice as you replied, your voice hoarse, “Inside. Come inside me, honey.”

Hands shaking where they held you, sweat dripping from his face and chest onto your thighs, Din Djarin loosed a weak, overwhelmed sound and buried his cock as deep as it would go. You felt the length of him stutter and spasm, and you moaned faintly as you felt heat spill into the clutch of your cunt.

Kriffing hells.

Between your trembling, boneless legs, you felt him sag forward, curling over your arched body, the weight of his hands coming to press into the mattress on either side of you. He was breathing heavily; you could hear it reverberating off the close walls, could feel it dancing over your damp skin, and you reached up, seeking his face with your touch. He met you in midair, cupping the back of one of your hands in his much larger one and bringing it to his cheek. His skin was slick under your palm, his stubble sharp, and you smiled fondly into the darkness.

“I love you, Din Djarin.”

Turning his face into your touch, Din dropped a soft, wet kiss to the heel of your hand. Warm, lilting, and intimate, he pressed his words into your skin like a prayer. “Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum.”

“What’s that one mean?” Your fingers found his hair, limp with sweat and curling wildly across his forehead, and you pushed it out of his face.

Your question was met with silence, the only sound his labored breathing as he slowly, painstakingly came back down from his high. Instead of answering, he gently slipped his softening cock from your body and shifted back, allowing your legs to relax down onto the mattress. The next thing you knew, a cool burst of air washed over your body as the bunk door slid open.

“Don’t move, ner kar’ta. I’ll be right back.”

You felt the bunk shift beneath you as Din scooted out the door, heard the gentle padding of his bare feet against the durasteel deck plating as he crossed the small distance to the ‘fresher, and then startled at the sound of running water. A moment later, he was back, clambering back up into the recessed bunk, slipping in beside your body in the uncomfortably tight quarters.

He tucked himself around you, nestled against your side, tenderly urged you to spread your tired legs. A warm, wet washcloth appeared between your thighs, his gentle touch wiping away the slick, sticky evidence of your coupling, and you sighed at the sensation. Your pussy felt well-used and swollen, unused to such attention, and the heat of the rag felt like a balm.

Once he seemed satisfied that he had cleaned you up as best as he could, he banished the washcloth to the cargo hold floor just outside the bunk doors and cradled you to his chest, wrapping his strong arms around your body with loving possession.

��Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum,” he repeated, his voice impossibly close, warm against your neck. “It means, ‘I will know you forever.’ It means, ‘I love you.’ Ner kar’ta. ‘My heart.’”

Sleep tugged at the corners of your consciousness as you nuzzled into him, reveling in his closeness. “Mmm… I like the sound of that.” Your palm came to rest against his breastbone, feeling the strength and the breadth of his body, the intimacy of the moment like a warm blanket, comforting and safe. “You’ll have to teach me someday…ner kar’ta.”

You could feel yourself slipping away, all of your muscles softening against him, your breathing evening out, but before sleep claimed you once more, you felt Din exhale heavily into your hair. His fingers digging into your skin where he held you, he replied, “Someday.”

___

Mando'a Translations:

Ner cyare - my beloved Gar kandosii’la dala. - You amazing woman. Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum. - I love you, literally "I will know you forever." Ner kar’ta - my heart mir’sheb - smartass

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