#creed buttons

[gay-baby-brig]

Flashback to Jim, Oluwande and Archie at a table discussing the relationships and at first it starts out tense but quickly devolves into everyone being nice because everyone genuinely likes each other and Jim looking more and more ecstatic as Oluwande and Archie bond and flirt

But then later it shows them talking about how Jim snores and all their hang ups and Jim is in the corner carving a dagger out of wood with another dagger,,,

[a-little-buggy]

Hello! I wrote an Assassin's Creed fanfic based on @sulfies' ideas about the bleeding effect! (Plus some other HCs that he has mentioned thrown in for flavor) He has SUCH amazing art, you should definitely check it out if you haven't yet! This was actually my first time writing fanfiction, so feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

Chased by Shadows

Word count: 2,699

Desmond raced through the streets of Firenze, bumping shoulders with people as he passed. Behind him, he could still hear the hurried steps of the guards. "Get back here! You'll suffer for this!"

He glanced back at his pursuers, but collided with a man carrying a heavy crate, which tumbled and busted on the ground. "Watch where you're going next time!"

"Scusami! I'm sorry!" Desmond kept running.

Ahead, he saw a stack of crates, leading to a number of poles and balconies. Surely the guards would be slow to follow. He leapt up, balancing himself briefly before taking another leap. Balance, leap, balance, leap, swing, balance; it was a comfortingly familiar rhythm. But Desmond was exhausted, and felt too at ease with the acrobatics. Relying on muscle memory that wasn't his. He reached for a clothesline, but it slipped from his fingers and he hit the ground.

He rolled enough that he wasn't hurt, (not badly), but the guards were nearly on top of him again. "Cazzo!" Desmond pulled himself to his feet, and was running again.

Ahead, the street was widening into a market. "Perhaps I can lose them in the crowd."

He slowed to mimic the flow of the people milling and shopping, weaving his way deeper into the stalls, always checking over his shoulder. The guards were always just behind him.

He passed through a group of monks, and turned again to check if he was still followed. The guards were further away now, but one of them turned and caught his eye. Desmond began backing away, preparing to bolt again, but squarely ran into someone.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He readied his blade.

"Are you alright, mi amico?"

Desmond wheeled around. "Ezio?" He breathed a sigh of relief. "Dio mio, it is good to see you! Can you help rid me of these guards?"

"What guards?" Ezio peered into the sea of faces.

"They've been chasing me all morning!" Desmond grabbed Ezio's arm, ushering him through the masses, barely steps ahead of his tormentors.

"Follow me then." Ezio took the lead, weaving and wending through the crowd, until they reached the edge of the marketplace. Here, the rows of houses began again. Ezio planted his foot on a windowsill, then leaped upwards. He climbed hand over hand, from the window, to the balcony, the banister, the roof. Desmond followed close behind, mirroring his movements exactly.

The two bounded between the rooftops. Desmond kept his gaze focused on Ezio's movements, but behind him, he heard the continued protests of the guardsmen.

"Up ahead!" Ezio quickly rounded a corner, and by the time Desmond had done the same, he barely caught a glimpse of Ezio's boots disappearing under the sheet of a rooftop garden. Desmond leaped in after him. He hadn't slowed down enough, but fortunately, Ezio grabbed hold of him before he could crash into the opposing wall.

The two assassins sat there, sheltering in the shaded box, waiting with hitched breath. Desmond could hear footsteps, murmers, "Did you see where they went?"

"Well," Ezio said, as he started dusting himself off. "That should take care of -"

"Shh!" Desmond slapped his hand over Ezio's mouth and rose a finger to his own. "They'll hear you!"

Ezio glared at him, but frustration was quickly replaced by perplexion and concern. He gently removed Desmond's hand, then clasped it in his own. He entwined their fingers together, staring fixatedly at the blackened hand, as if by some strange. . . burn? Ezio returned his gaze to meet Desmond's, then gestured his head towards the curtain, mouthing, "I'll check." He released the seemingly charred fingers, giving them one last reassuring stroke, then crept over to peer from a corner. He shifted and peeked out another corner, and then another curtain. Finally, he stood up.

"We are the only ones on this rooftop." Ezio looked down at Desmond, who was sat in the corner, wringing his hands. In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, Ezio gave him a sly smirk and added, "Unless those pigeons are the pursuers you spoke of."

"I. . . I was. . ." Desmond shook his head, then rose to his feet to look for himself. The rooftops were empty. He gave a deep sigh, then straightened up. "Bene," He said, as he started dusting himself off. "Those lurido porci must have finally given up!" Ezio was still staring, and it was starting to make his skin crawl. "What is it?"

"I do not intend to seem rude, but. . ." Ezio trailed off, then leaned back against a corner post, folding his arms. "Have you always spoken Italiano?"

Desmond scoffed. "Of course I have!" He said, gesturing furiously. "Why wouldn't I speak my own-"

Oh.

Desmond slumped back down into the corner. He began wringing his hands again. His hands. Then why didn't they feel like his?

Ezio knelt down in front of Desmond, and lifted his face towards the dim light. "You look tired, Desmond. When is the last time you really slept?"

"I dunno. . ." Desmond shook his head, then gave a weak chuckle. "What year is it?"

"Not the answer I was looking for." Ezio's hand still rested on Desmond's cheek, his thumb gently stroking the other man's chin. Ezio lingered, seemingly lost in his thoughts. "Exhaustion can do funny things to a man."

"But don't fret, mi amore." Ezio lowered his hand, now playfully tapping Desmond's chest. "I know where to find the very best beds in this city!" And with this, Ezio rose, and doing a triumphant turn thrust open a curtain.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Desmond responded, and reached his hand up. Ezio in turn clasped Desmond's forearm, and pulled him to his feet, the two colliding slightly.

Ezio again held open the curtain, and with an overly dramatic bow held out his hand and said, "After you."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Such a gentleman." He took Ezio's and climbed over the low wall. Ezio climbed out after, and they made their way back down to the streets.

Ezio led the way, making idle conversation as they went. "Now, normally, I would be going to La Rosa Colta, but if the intention is to actually sleep, there is a lovely inn a little further to the east, where. . ."

Desmond couldn't stay focused on what Ezio was saying. The streets were too busy; too many faces and voices. They all blurred together, taking on shapes that were old and familiar. He would have sworn that he caught a glimpse of Lucy. Or that he saw Rebecca sitting on a bench. Had Shaun just called his name? He turned around to look, but all of these people were strangers. His friends were not to be found here.

Someone grabbed his arm, and he flinched.

"You're lucky I didn't wander off without you." Ezio started to scowl at Desmond, but abandoned it quickly, instead examining Desmond's arm. "I. . . didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No! No, 'course not." Desmond pulled away, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I just. . . I'm feeling pretty out of it. That's all." He pleaded to whatever powers may be that if his eyes were wet, Ezio wouldn't notice.

"Well, I would hate to lose you in this crowd," Ezio said, taking Desmond's hand.

Desmond wished he could feel it, could take comfort in the sensation of Ezio's fingers wrapped around his own, but his charred skin had lost all feeling. As they walked through the busy streets, Desmond couldn't help but feel disconnected from this world. As though he wasn't really a part of it, or wasn't even really here. Some piece of him was grateful for the anchor to Ezio, leading the way through this unrelenting sea of people, but he couldn't help but feel that the noticeable numbness was just making this sense of unbelonging worse.

Ezio could apparently sense Desmond's unease. "We're getting close now. I promise."

Sure enough, after turning another corner they approached a modest inn. It was a tall building, with green banners and curtains to distinguish it from the other houses lined alongside. They entered into a lobby filled with chairs and benches which had a staircase to one side. On the other side sat an older woman at a desk, with several keys hanging on the wall behind her. She was presently checking in another traveler.

"You go ahead upstairs." Ezio released Desmond's hand, and patted him on the shoulder. "I will get us sorted with a solitary accommodation."

Desmond nodded, and proceeded up the staircase, which creaked under his feet. His head ached, and his legs ached, and he stopped after the first flight of stairs to lean against the wall. This floor had just a few large rooms, which would hold several beds, each with the understanding that many travelers would share. The private rooms were likely up another level. "Great," Desmond muttered under his breath. "More stairs." He continued climbing.

Fortunately, the staircase ended at the third floor, which had a winding hallway through many small rooms. Desmond breathed a sigh of relief, and walked a little ways down the hall. Out of curiosity, he tested one of the knobs, but it was locked. It was quiet up here, at least. Desmond slumped down against the door, halfway considering dozing off.

"Well, you took your time getting here."

Desmond jumped up, blinking his eyes. In front of him stood a young woman wearing a blue brocade dress. She was toying with her glittering necklace. Desmond finally realized she was talking to him. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Oh, don't go getting coy now! Haven't I waited long enough already?" She reached out and rubbed her thumb along Desmond'shirt collar.

He looked at her in perplexement, and then drew away, realization dawning on him. "Oh. I get it. Look, ma'am, you've got me mistaken for someone else. And besides that, you aren't real. So maybe you could just. . . save us both some time and vanish? Or whatever?"

"I've been dreaming of this night for so long. . ." The woman crooned, drawing closer. Apparently, his words had no effect on. . . her? It?

He drew back again, this time anger and frustration welling up inside of him. "You know what? I have had enough of all of this! I am telling you, here and now, to LEAVE ME THE FU-"

"Desmond?" Ezio came jogging up the stairs, key in hand. "Who are you shouting at?"

Desmond threw his hands in the air. "NOBODY! Nobody at all! After all, who else would I talk to, if not some figment of my imagination!?"

Ezio reached the top step, and started searching for their door. "Well, you might have an easier time of it talking to me."

Desmond huffed. "Well, I also might have an easier time of it if you hadn't slept with half the women in Firenze!"

Desmond glared at Ezio, who, for his part, looked very lost and confused. Desmond took a deep breath, and buried his face in his hands. "You have no idea what I'm talking about. I have no idea what I'm talking about. Forget I said anything."

Ezio nodded. "You aren't feeling well. I will not hold it against you." Ezio started leading Desmond down the hall, looking for their room. "I remember once when I was young, I fell ill. I had a fever, and was lying in bed. And when Federico came in to check on me, I threw every. . . colorful word I knew at him. He simply nodded and left, and then returned a few minutes later with a hot cup of milk."

He chuckled fondly to himself. "Unfortunately, my mother overheard our one-sided conversation. I love her immensely, but the woman seldom forgives. And I swear to you, she never forgets."

By now they had found their door, which Ezio unlocked and entered. It was a little tight, but it had a bed and bedside table, and a window, and a small chest of drawers with an unlit candle on top.

Ezio crossed the room and closed the curtains. He looked back at Desmond, who had dragged himself up onto the bed and buried his head under a pillow. "Are you not even going to take off your shoes?"

"Mmfph" said the pillow.

"Va bene." Ezio flopped onto the bed next to Desmond, and the two laid there in silence.

. . . . .

"I'm sorry, I cannot do this." Ezio bolted upright and shifted to the foot of the bed, where he began unlacing his boots.

Desmond pulled his head out from under the pillow. "Weeeaak," he jeered.

"My mother may have raised an idiota, but she did not raise a slob." Once Ezio had removed everything but his pants and undershirt, he laid back down on the bed and sighed. "Much better."

Desmond gave him a sleepy smile, but then turned his attention to staring intently at the window. He shook his head and nestled back into the pillow, only to lift his head to peer at the window again a few minutes later.

Ezio rolled over to face him. "Desmond? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I just. . ." Desmond sighed. "Ezio, you would tell me if you heard something, right?

"Of course, if it seemed important. Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing, really. I just keep thinking I hear sirens."

"Sirens?" Ezio propped himself up on his elbows, and then placed a hand on either side of Desmond, leaning over him. Ezio's hair had come undone, and his shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, his collarbones and chest hair peeking out from underneath. Desmond gulped. "Desmond, I am right here. Why would you go to some. . ." Ezio's face scrunched with revulsion, "fish-women for sex?"

Desmond blinked. He blinked again, and then rubbed his eyes. "I think we're talking about two very different things."

"Oh." Ezio's ears turned slightly pink, and he sat back on his legs. "What did you mean by sirens, then?"

"Sirens, are. . ." Desmond trailed off, rubbing his temple. "It's kinda like an alarm, but strapped to a carriage?"

"I see." Ezio laid back down on the bed. "If an alarm is raised, I will make sure you are aware. But I truly do not believe there to be reason for concern." Ezio turned to face Desmond again. "I only hope that resting will do you some good. I fear I don't know any other way to help."

"Ezio, you've helped more than enough already. Hell, I might still be running from imaginary guards if it hadn't been for you." Desmond shut his eyes firmly, and took a deep breath. "I. . . I can't hardly tell what's real anymore." Desmond didn't say he was afraid, but he figured his voice had betrayed that already.

"Perhaps you can still find comfort in what you know for fact." Ezio reached over, taking Desmond's blackened hand in his own. "Perhaps you can find comfort with me."

Desmond stared at their hands. "Yeah. . . I guess. . ."

"You guess? You mean, you guess I'm real?"

"That isn't what I meant -"

"No, no. Come here." Ezio wrapped his arms around Desmond, and pulled him close so Desmond's head was now laying on Ezio's chest. "You are safe, Desmond. And you are not alone. So please, try to get some sleep."

Desmond laid there, in the still silence. He listened to Ezio's heartbeat, and felt the weight of Ezio's arms around him. He was grateful for the quiet and warmth. But sleep could not come quickly enough, and silence can also bring worry. Did I offend him? After all, how would I feel if someone else implied I might not exist? Will he resent me for all this?

Desmond's anxiety spiral was interrupted by a new sound. An intermittent low rumbling. He groggily lifted his head to look for its source, before realizing it was in perfect sync with the rise and fall of Ezio's chest.

He's snoring.

Desmond let out a deep sigh, laid his head back down, and closed his eyes. He allowed himself to sink into Ezio's warm, sleepy embrace. And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Desmond slept soundly.

[tendebill]

no mission will be able to stress me out as much as the Leonardo hug quicktime event

clean version below!!

[secretsimpleness]

Whale whale whale... all the way to Attika. And back. (my favourite bug) Part 1/4 Assassin’s Creed Odyssey (c) Ubisoft

[indigoire]

Playing Assassin's Creed 2 fifteen years after it was released is a lot of fun because I barely remember anything more than "I kill da evil Templars and talk-a in a bad Italian accent-a", so I'm frantically trying to escape the city that wants me dead, run into an ambush on the outskirts of town, and I'm saved by a mysterious older man. And then the game drops a fifteen year old video game joke on me (made even more funny because I'm playing this on the switch).

Well played, Assassin's Creed 2, well played.

[thecommunityoftrustworthysinks]

thinking about how much i used to love cosplay and how i have barely done any of it ever since one specific contest in 2019.

it was at a decently sized convention, and i entered my assassin's creed ezio cosplay. this thing took me like 60+ hours and over $200 to do, which i recognize that many cosplays have more than that but it was my most extensive one ive ever done.

i adapted the pattern from some guy on youtube who had made an approximate one for the tunic, inside and out, and i changed it to fit my measurements and vision and it was double sided and layered and had the stripes manually inserted (not sewn on the outside!) into the tunic. i spent an unreasonable amount of time adapting of pair of my own boots with cardboard and faux leather to make them taller and more accurate, which looked really fucking good at the end and gave me a ton of hot glue burns. i sized and printed a diagram of the shoulder guard and meticulously wrapped each segmented piece in faux leather and aged it with various paints and actual damage, i modified a belt to attach it to the cape and around my shoulder, i bought two of the assassin blades, painted them both over again, made an entirely new hook for one of them fitted to my wrist, and practically remade the brace for the other one. i found leather gloves and cut one up and resewed it together so the cuff was accurate AND the blade could come through. i so carefully put the hood together with multiple failures to make sure it sat right like the weird triangle shape it is instead of being a circle. have you SEEN the patterns on ezio's collar??? i didn't scrimp on them, i hunted and hunted for ribbons and iron-on designs (because i can't embroider like that) and so carefully lined them up and spliced them together and made sure to have the border and the insides. i 3d printed the belt buckle and modified two more belts to cinch it around me, and i manually sanded primed painted and gilded the buckle. i put my life into this cosplay.

and i lost

to a sanders' sides cosplayer in jeans and a dress shirt.

[cav-core]

Video games that change controls between installations in the series are my personal enemies.

[nopenototdaysatan]

if you get this, answer w/ three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs. anon or not, doesn’t matter, let’s get to know the person behind the blog!

also I hope you're doing well!! :DD

This will be fun. CX

1. When I was in Middle School I was part of a competition dance team. What I didn't know at that time was that my principal's daughter was as well and that we had competed at the same competition. The week after that competition the principal called everyone who had been to that competition down to her office. I thought I was just hearing things, didn't go and the following morning got my name and the awards I had won at that competition broadcasted to the whole school. Was both humiliating and super nice.

2. Ages ago I did a modern Midna cosplay with some ex friends who wanted to do a loz photoshoot. Maybe one day I'll spend the time and money to do a non-modern Midna cosplay.

3. The first experience I ever had with loz was of playing in the kokiri village area of my dad's oot game with my younger brother. The awe I felt as a kid trying to understand the buttons and trying to find that darn shield at like 5 years old. 5 year old me would stay in the woods for forever if they could have which they did because I was not a gamer at 5. (Child me would be utterly shocked that I enjoy doing savages in FFXIV let alone that I can even do them.)

I could be doing a lot better, friend; but the worst parts of my sickness are gone just in pain now thankfully. *Flops onto the floor tired.*

[catmemey]

cackling thinking about the time I was playing assassin's creed revelations and I jumped down into a busy street and somehow double assassinated two civilians and that pop up "WARNING: Ezio did not kill civilians" came up

[angrybatgaming]

While I struggle to finish up WIPs and put out some new stuff, have some Fall Guys emotes.

Tiger Stance and the chicken one are my top favorites.

[gay-baby-brig]

Creed Buttons. There I said it.

[whitephoenix81]

There is only ONE thing that pisses me off about the Assassin Creed games (before they switched to a leveling system), and that is that there is no save button.

See, I'm playing Assassin's Creed Brotherhood, and I was almost done with this one mission, but I did an oops. And I lost my chance to get 100% sync. I had to restart the whole memory... 😤

[capnpen]

Quick Thought – Friday, August 5, 2022: The Top Button

Quick Thought – Friday, August 5, 2022: The Top Button

Read 1 Corinthians 11:1-6 For if someone comes and proclaims another Jesus than the one we proclaimed, or if you receive a different spirit from the one you received, or if you accept a different gospel from the one you accepted, you put up with it readily enough. 1 Corinthians 11:4 Reflect Eli was in a hurry. He had forgotten to set his alarm, so he woke up almost an hour later than usual. He…

[pedrito-friskito]

hey kay bb!! hope you're doing well 💖

mando has been on the brain lately so i'm requesting fluffy smut with him pls 🥺😫 (the yearning is *extra* today)

niiiiiiiiik my darling my dear hope you are also well 💗

ok…this got away from me. I blinked and suddenly a plot! exposition! SMUT! (multiple scenes at that) all the things. I’m a slut for Din Djarin and it really jumped out on this one.

(smut below the cut, a full plot, the helmet comes off, a bit of inexperienced!din, reader is kind of a bad ass, descriptions of bodies, unprotected p-in-v sex - wrap ur shit even if ur in space ok)

sleepover saturday

uncharted territory

(word count 9.1k - it REALLY got away from me okay)

gif by @aceofwhump

Then you are a Mandalorian no more.

Din Djarin aches in a way he has never felt before, much more powerful than any injury he could ever sustain. His Creed, demolished. His son, gone. His life, upended. As he staggers out of the Covert, trying to think of where to go next, he cannot shake the feeling of lost that settles around his shoulders like a cloak.

Maybe coming to Glavis was a mistake; maybe he should have stayed back on Nevarro, kept taking jobs from Karga until he finally had enough credits to take the old man’s advice, get himself a camtono full of spice and disappear into the Twi’lek healing baths until he forgot the whole thing.

The truth of it? He knew he could never forget. There wasn’t enough spice in the galaxy to help him forget it all. It wasn’t possible. And the larger part was that Din didn’t want to forget.

His leg aches as he walks. The bacta Paz had sprayed him down with had helped some, but the ache runs deep, and the drills the Armourer had forced him to run with the Darksaber had only made matters worse. He should find a place to lie down, to hide for the night before he decides what he plans to do next, where he plans to go.

Where will he go?

You are a Mandalorian no more.

The echo of the words make his head split, and for a moment, he has half a mind to wrench the helmet off, to launch it off the ring, let space swallow the beskar whole. But he stops himself; it feels as though his armour is all he has left.

His armour, and the Darksaber. The right to the throne of Mandalore.

Maker, he can’t think straight. The ache only worsens, his limp more prominent, and it gets to the point where he can take no more. He falls onto the nearest crate, his injured leg stuck straight out in front of him. His body feels twice as heavy, his head even more so, and he tips it back against the wall to lighten the load. He’ll rest just a moment, he’ll just shut his eyes for one—

“Mando?”

Din pulls his blaster from his holster as his eyes shoot open. There’s the sound of shuffled steps, something metallic hitting the floor, a murmured dank farrik! He hits a button on his vambrace, turns off the thermal setting on his visor.

“Sweets?”

You look exactly the same as he remembers. It’s been ages, but he could never forget your face. He knows what’s underneath your clothes, too, and the memory speeds to the surface of his mind faster than a pod-racer.

+

Before he had an in with Peli on Tatooine, the Razor Crest routinely parked and tuned up in Hangar 3-5, he had you. You were well-known within the Guild, had more than a few contracts with different gangs and hunters in the galaxy. If something on a ship broke, you were the one to fix it, and you had enough heavily-armed thugs on your side to make anyone think twice about trying to mess with you.

Some called you the Mechanic, simple and descriptive. Others, those you let a little closer, knew you as Sweets, a moniker earned by your penchant for candies and treats. You’d let your favoured clients off easy if they were short a few credits, but had something sweet from the far reaches of the galaxy to offer in lieu of the missing cash.

Din knew he was one of your favoured clients, perhaps your favourite. Or, had been. You’d crowed endlessly about the Crest, desperate to get your hands on it any time he hauled it in for service, whether it actually needed it or not. Sometimes he genuinely needed something fixed, some times he’d found some candy or sweet in a far off corner of the galaxy that he’d brought back just for you.

Other times, he just wanted to see you.

You were sweet in other ways, too. He knew first-hand. And he knew he was the only client you let into your bed. He’d been drawn to you the first time you’d been introduced — a common contact between you and Din sent him your way when the Crest was in serious need of a tune-up, and you were the closest mechanic he could get to without doing more damage to the ship.

Your knowledge astounded him, to start. You were barely into a diagnostic and you knew exactly what needed to be fixed, what parts you had and didn’t, how many credits it was going to cost him. And you hadn’t even set foot on the ship yet. Your competency drove him wild, only spurred on when he brought you aboard the Crest to give the interior a once-over, eager to see if he’d kept everything original, or if you had any modifications to offer that he might be interested in. Din followed you around the ship silently, answering whatever questions you had, mostly just watching you work. It was intriguing beyond belief.

“That’s not much of a bed,” you’d commented, cocking your head to the side when you hit the button that opened the bunk. “When’s the last time you had a new mattress?”

He just shrugged.

“One thing you should know,” you said over your shoulder, descending the Crest’s ramp, heading back towards the entrance to your shop. “I don’t use droids.”

Din nearly fell over. “That’s not a problem.”

“Good,” you replied, tapping at your data pad, your brow scrunching. “It’ll take longer than your usual hangar; I do everything myself.”

“I’m happy to wait,” he said, dipping his helmet, thankful it was hiding the way he was raking his eyes over you. I don’t use droids. Had someone made you in a lab somewhere, on some backwater planet, just for him? “I know she’s in good hands.”

The grin you’d offered him was sweeter than anything he’d ever seen, and you shooed him out a moment later, muttering something about getting back to work.

When he returned three days later to retrieve his ship, he almost didn’t recognize it. You’d repainted most of the outside panels, replaced all the ones that were missing, and the engines were so shiny Din could see his helmet reflected in them. Inside the Crest was another story; you’d outfitted him with a carbonite cell system, top of the line and primed for use. That meant no more mouthy bounties, no more wasting durasteel cuffs and gags when he could just hit a button and have a quiet ride back to the Guild.

And in the bunk, a new mattress, complete with a pillow, and bolted on the wall, a mount for his helmet.

“You don’t sleep with that thing on, do you?”

“The carbonite system,” he nearly sputtered, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t have the credits, I didn’t—”

You poked the toe of his boot with your own. “Call it a gift, Mando. Let’s just say I shouldn’t have had the thing hanging around to begin with.”

“Is that gonna cause me any problems?”

“Nope,” you replied, popping the p. “Wiped all the identification numbers from the system. No one will know where it came from. Except you.”

He stared at you a long moment. “Except me.”

He was sure to pay you in full, plus the candied flowers he’d found at one of the vendors in the markets. You’d smiled again at that, and while Din committed the sight to memory, he also promised himself that he wouldn’t let it be long before he saw your smile again.

And he kept that promise. The next time he landed the Crest in your hangar, it wasn’t because he needed a tune-up or new parts. He’d struck gold at a black market on Coruscant; his bounty had lead him into the belly of a sweet shop, and after the Gungan had been dealt with, Din did some hunting of his own. He took as many boxes as he could carry, trying to take one of each flavour, a few extra of the ones he’d seen on the shelf in your shop.

“What in Maker’s name are you doing here?” you’d called as soon as he landed, stepping out of the shop and into the hangar, your hands on your hips, cocked to one side. “You ruin my handiwork that fast?”

“Not exactly,” he’d replied, walking down the ramp, his arms laden with goodies. Your eyes had gone huge. “I come bearing gifts.”

“For me?” you cried, gasping as you took the boxes from him, tongue poking between your teeth. “Mandalorian, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

He’d never been so grateful for his helmet at that exact moment. He might have crumbled to dust if you’d seen how red his cheeks were. “I-I owed you,” he stuttered out, “for the carbonite.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” you quipped, swaying from side to side on your feet, staring down at your treats. “I told you, it was a gift.” You gave him one of those smiles again, and Din felt his stomach twist at the glitter in your eyes. “Why don’t you stay a while? I’ll feed you and everything.”

You disappeared into the shop, and Din paused a moment before following.

He saw you disappear behind a dark curtain that had definitely seen better days, and Din followed your further to discover there was an apartment of sorts attached to the shop. Apartment was perhaps too kind a word; it was one large room, a kitchen to one side, a large futon spread in the middle. Trunks and boxes and crates stacked along the far wall, a few grease-stained jumpsuits littering the floor. You stumbled over your feet trying to pick them up, tossing the offending fabric into a nearby crate, before you turned back to him. “What are you hungry for?”

You served him first. Noodles with dark sauce and some kind of shredded meat you thought was bantha but weren’t quite sure. But, as you stated with a shrug, “it’s good, and it hasn’t killed me yet.” After you slid the bowl across the table to him, you turned back to the stove and stayed that way. After a moment, Din wasn’t sure what to do, but then your head turned slightly, your eyes trained directly to the left, not wandering towards him over your shoulder. “I won’t look. Swear.”

He lifted the helmet just enough to shovel the food into his mouth. You were right, the mystery meat was good, and the sauce you’d made to go with it was even better. He nearly inhaled the food, not wanting to keep you too long, and when the helmet slid back down, the mechanism hissing back into place, your head turned again, still not looking at him.

“You’re safe,” he said, sliding his empty bowl back across the table.

You turned fully, serving yourself, and he expected you to sit across from him, keeping a bit of distance between you, but instead, you rounded the table and plunked yourself down on the stool right beside him. You ate much slower than he had, and Din let his eyes graze over you. The streak of engine grease on your cheek, the scar that split your lower lip, the intricately messy way you wore your hair. A silver chain sat around your throat, strung with a tiny silver ring. It disappeared down the front of your shirt most of the time, but right then it sat awkwardly, the chain caught on your collar, the ring sitting in the hollow of your throat. He resisted the urge to reach out and fix it.

The jumpsuit you wore was nearly identical to the ones you’d hurriedly swiped off the floor. Torn on one knee, zipper unfurling beneath your chest, a symbol he didn’t recognize patched onto your thigh. You’d tied the sleeves around your waist like a belt, a dirty rag tucked in at your hip. The Mechanic, herself. Sweets.

He thought you were beautiful. He had a feeling you’d look beautiful in anything.

Or nothing.

Din was distracted by your thumb at your lips, swiping a drop of sauce from your chin and sucking your finger into your mouth. His flight-suit was tight beneath his beskar to begin with, and you weren’t helping matters. “So,” you said simply, reaching for your food again. “Tell me a story, Mando. A good one. Best bounty you ever caught.”

The conversation filtered between you two easily. You were a good listener, easy to talk to, and Din felt like he couldn’t stop talking to you, telling you about his first kill, his first bounty. His first ship, before the Crest. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you about the before, before the Guild, before he was just the Mandalorian, when he was just Din Djarin. A foundling. Part of him wondered what you think, what your reaction might be to his past, but a larger part forced his mouth shut.

At some point, he turned himself towards you on his stool, one arm braced on the table, the other resting on his thigh. After you finished your food, you leaned heavily on the table, your head pushed into your palm, legs crossed at your ankles, swinging slowly, the toe of your boot tapping his shin every once in a while.

He could see you were tired, the way you started covering your yawns and rubbing at your eyes. “I should go,” he said, starting to get to his feet. “You’re tired, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Your hand flashed out quick — not quick enough to startle him, though — and wrapped around his wrist. You’d managed to wedge your fingers right into the space where his glove met his vambrace, and he felt you against his pulse, against his bare skin. “You don’t have to leave, Mando.”

Din. He wanted to tell you. My name is Din.

Slowly, his own hand reached out, hovering in the air, shaking more than a vibroblade. He saw your eyes trace its path, watching until it lowered, dropped until the flat of his palm met the curve of your thigh. His gloved fingers wrapped around the meat of your leg, his thumb pressing towards the inside. 

He heard you gasp. 

He moved forward an inch, and his hand moved higher, thumb riding the seam of your jumpsuit. You hummed, fingered squeezing around his wrist, and Din moved closer, until he had one leg between yours. He let his hand wander higher, listening carefully to the changes in your breathing, the hitch in your throat. The heat between your legs was almost stifling, and something feral in the back of his brain screamed for more.

Whatever snapped in him, it seemed to break in you at exactly the same time. You both shot to your feet together, and Din’s hands moved to your waist, to where your sleeves were knotted at your waist. Yours roamed his chest plate, fingers tapping along beskar until you hooked them in his cloak. He halted his own hands, ready to help you remove the fabric, but you handled it just fine on your own, finding the hidden snaps with ease.

His blood turned to flame when he felt your fingers along his throat, seeking his pulse in another spot. “You should stay,” you breathed out, your voice barely above a murmur. “Please, Mando, I want you to stay.”

He forced himself to nod, his mind now preoccupied with ripping his gloves from his hands. He needed to feel you, no barriers in between.

He needed to see you, something in him screamed, no barriers in between.

He silenced that voice before it could spur him further. Busied himself with diving his hand beneath the waist of the jumpsuit, the broken zipper catching on his wrist. You were even hotter beneath, and he sucked down a breath when he found you wet, slick coating his fingers.

Your body leaned into him, chasing his touches, and he hooked his other hand around your thigh, lifting you up and backwards onto the table. He could feel you watching, your eyes moving from his helmet down his front, to where his hand was jammed beneath the jumpsuit. He crooked one finger, testing, pressing it into you, and grinned beneath his helmet when you moaned.

Din hooked his arm under your waist, lifting you just enough that he could maneuver the jumpsuit over your hips, down your legs. His cock jolted between his legs at the sight of you bare, leaned back on the table, your chest heaving. Even though the visor, he could see how slick you were, the evidence shining on the insides of your thighs.

He wanted to taste you.

He pushed the thought away again. Another time, when he wasn’t smearing the inside of his flight-suit with precum, when you weren’t keening into his touch as he dragged his fingers against the sensitive skin between your legs, when he could turn the lights off and shed his armour, bare himself to you the same way.

You moaned again when his fingers found your clit, drawing a sloppy circle that had your muscles tensing against his hand, knees closing against his hips. “F-fuck, Mando,” you ground out, tipping your head back on your shoulders. “You’re good with those hands.” Another stuttered breath as he twisted his wrist, curling two fingers just inside your entrance, thumb stretching up to swipe over your clit. “Really good.”

He was grinning beneath the helmet again, eyes glued to your face as he pressed further, fingers threading deeper into you. He could feel everything, the twitch of your thighs, the clench of your cunt. You reached out with one hand, using the other to balance yourself, and closed it around his elbow, your fingers digging into the thick fabric so hard he was shocked your nails didn’t bite right through.

“How do you like it, Sweets?” he asked, leaning forward until he was nearly hovering over you. Your hand moved from his elbow to chest, fingers hooked in his armour. “Tell me what you need.”

Your hand moved again, this time moving straight down his front, past his waist, right between his legs. His cock throbbed as you palmed him, a cat-like grin on your lips as you tilted your head level with the visor. You leaned up slightly, pressed your lips to the beskar edge that mirrored his jaw. Another squeeze, and the slow pace of his fingers faltered, his head nearly smacking into yours. “I need this.”

Din couldn’t hold back anymore. Something in the way you stared up at him, eyes tracing over the helmet, told him you didn’t want him to.

“I like it rough.”

It all happened in one fluid motion. He pulled you closer, right off the edge of the table, and you spun in his grip, leaning forward over the table, planting your hands flat. The jumpsuit slid further towards your ankles and you arched your back, your ass grinding against his hardness, and Din groaned audibly, tilting his head towards the ceiling. Your legs spread as much as the jumpsuit would allow, and Din worked his own zipper down, freeing himself from the flight-suit. You made the most delicious noise as the tip of his cock smacked against your ass, the tip dripping with precum.

Your head turned as he took himself in hand, tapping your ass with his cock again. “Maker,” you breathed out, your eyes widening. “I knew you’d be big.”

Beneath the helmet, Din turned crimson.

He planted his other hand between your shoulders, tipping you forward. You went willingly, eyes rolling back as he pushed his hips against your ass. He could see how wet you were as you bent, slick still dripping down your thighs.

There was nothing stopping him from dropping to his knees right then and there, lifting the helmet just enough to drag his tongue through your cunt. The thought alone made his cock pulse.

But then your hand reached back, twisting in the fabric covering his hip, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He bent his knees slightly, notching himself at your entrance, and pushed inside.

The noise you let out was nearly enough to make him cum right then and there. He knew he wasn’t gonna last, and judging by the sounds you continued to make and the way you were bearing down on him, hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, he didn’t think you were either. He set a fast pace, the space filling with the slick sound of him driving in and out of you, your moans echoing each move. Din’s gaze dropped, trained on the sight of his cock disappearing to you. Your hand flapped at his hip, scrabbling for purchase, and he wrapped his fingers around your forearm, groaning when you did the same.

He was right; you didn’t last long, and neither did he. Your entire body clenched as you came, one hand slamming against the table, nails digging deep into his wrist. It spurred his own orgasm, that coil at the base of his spine snapping, and he pulled out, cumming hard across the curve of your ass.

Silence settled over the both of you as you caught your breath. Din couldn’t help himself, rubbing his bare fingers over the expanse of your back, tracing over your spine. You arched a bit into his touch, making a satisfied noise before you lifted yourself off the table. You turned to him, leaned up to press a hot kiss to his bare throat. It made him shiver.

“Think we could do that again?” you murmured, lifting a finger and dragging it along the edge of his helmet. “Maybe you take all the metal off.”

Din cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched, already wanting a second round. “Helmet stays on.”

You stared at him a long moment, smile on your lips. “Helmet stays on.”

+

He kept close to you after that night. He rarely took bounties that took him to further reaches of the galaxy, loathe to admit that he was always within a few parsecs of your hangar. He brought you a long-distance commlink so he could tell you when he was coming back, so you could contact him if you ever needed him. He didn’t worry about you, per se; you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and he knew for a fact you knew how to shoot the blaster you kept holstered on your thigh when he wasn’t around.

But then the comm went quiet. He called, you didn’t answer. A lead weight formed in his stomach, and he pushed the Crest’s engines are fast as they’d go. Carefully, though — he wouldn’t dare ruin any of your handiwork.

When he landed in the hangar, the lights were all off. It didn’t help his worry, and it only grew worse as he sprinted off the Crest, heading straight for the shop door.

It was locked, but the lock was no match for his vibroblade and a bit of brute force. Inside, the space was empty. no trace of you left inside. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood smeared on the floor or the wall, but it didn’t ease his mind any. What if someone had come for you, spirited you away in the dead of night to some backwater planet? Dank farrik, what if someone had put out a bounty on you? His mind reeled, raced, chewed him up and spit him out.

He never meant to get so attached to you.

Din switched the settings on his visor, finally determining that all the footprints he could make out on the floor were your own. Then he saw it, sitting on the edge of one of the shelves in the kitchen. The commlink, perched precariously, just enough out of sight that no one else would think twice, but not Din.

He thumbed through the screen, saw the icon flashing with a recorded message. Your face lit up the screen instantly, and he stifled the way his stomach clenched. You looked…scared. Not hurt, not injured, but scared.

“Someone sold me out,” you said, your voice distorted and warped. “I can’t give you details. I can’t really tell you anything. Just know I’m going somewhere safe, and I’ll miss you, Mandalorian. Take care of yourself.”

Your eye were shiny as you reached out to cut the recording, and Din’s heart sank into his toes.

He put the commlink in his pocket, and returned to his ship.

He’d watched the message so many times the words were engraved into his brain. The change in your voice, the way you’d blinked harder the more you spoke. The way you paused in the middle, glanced over your shoulder with a shock of fear in your eyes.

And now here you are, standing in front of him, a pile of metal spilling out of a crate tucked beneath your arm, that same streak of fear in those big eyes. Eyes that have haunted him all these years. You nearly drop the crate as you crouch, your gaze zeroing in on the wound on his leg. “Maker, Mando, what the hell did you do?”

“Long story,” he groans out, wincing as you adjust his leg slightly, leaning to the side so you can get a better look. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you reply, getting back to your feet, retrieving your crate of parts. “C’mon, let me clean you up. You look like hell.”

Din goes willingly, not sure what else to do, his mind racing from the combination of the Covert and you appearing out of nowhere. He lets you pull him slowly to his feet, tuck yourself under his arm. “Sweets,” he starts to protest, but you drag his arm around your shoulders.

“Shush,” you whisper, glancing around as you start to lead him in the opposite direction he’d been going. “Lean your weight on me.” He does as you say, nearly crumbling with relief. “There you go.”

The ache only worsens as you go, Din resisting the urge to lean his head against yours. When you finally turn him towards the door, he thinks he may topple over completely, but you’re quicker, producing a remote from your pocket. The door slides open, revealing the inside of a hangar, and you all but carry him through, discarding the crate of parts the moment you’re through, hitting the button again once you’re inside. The door slides shut, and Din lifts his head enough to look around. It looks nearly identical to your old hangar.

Then he hears a curious little beep, and looks down to see a tiny droid scurrying towards you. A BD-1 unit; he recognizes it from Peli’s, though yours is a little more rusty around the edges, the cleaner bits of metal painted grey and yellow. “Not now, Shrimp,” you grit, waving at the droid. It beeps loudly back at you, like an arguing child, and Din stifles his laugh.

“I thought you didn’t use droids,” he mumbles.

“He came with the hangar,” you reply, moving him across the hangar. Shrimp follows a few more steps before darting off, disappearing into a pile of crates. “Couldn’t bring myself to scrap him. Besides, not like he’s much help; tiny thing can’t even lift a socket wrench.”

He laughs out loud this time, and when you pull him into the shop, he laughs again, despite himself.

There’s a shelf of sweets above the workbench.

There’s no curtain between the shop and the apartment, instead another sliding door, another remote. Din lets out a low hum when he sees the apartment beyond. More than one room, furnished with actual furniture. It’s…nice. It’s really nice.

You deposit him on the couch, propping his leg up on the table in front of it. “Wait here,” you mumble, pointing a finger at him before disappearing into another room. 

He doesn’t move, but hooks his fingers into the edge of his helmet and yanks it off, depositing it on the couch beside him. He sucks down a breath of unfiltered air.

You gasp as you walk back into the room, nearly dropping the silver case in your hand. “Mando, you—”

“Din,” he says instantly, reaching down, tugging his gloves off, tossing them onto the helmet. “My name is Din Djarin.”

“Din,” you repeat, slowly, like you’re tasting his name on your tongue. The corner of your mouth quirks. “Din…Djarin.”

He just nods. You approach him carefully, like you’re walking towards an injured animal instead of a man, the silver case clutched against your chest.

“Your helmet,” you start, gesturing vaguely. A memory sparks. He told you before — not in so many words — about his Creed, his upbringing. You’d asked, and he’d answered. It wasn’t information he gave willingly. The second time he had you, when you were sprawled out completely naked on that old futon, writhing and moaning beneath him, when he’d shed almost all his beskar, felt the warmth of your body pressed up against all of him. Afterward, when you’d both been sated for the time being, you’d peered up at him from your place on his chest. “Do you ever take it off?” you asked, your voice laced with sleep.

And he’d answered.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says now, eyes darting towards the curve of silver. “I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.”

“What?” you ask, your brow furrowing. He wants to reach out, let his thumb ride the space between your eyebrows, feel it smooth over as he kisses the spot. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He trails off. Loaded question. What does it mean? Truly? “My name is Din Djarin.”

There’s still confusion etched into your features, but you don’t question him further. Your brow doesn’t loosen, and you perch on the table.

“What’s in the case?” he asks, jutting his chin towards the silver case still in your hands.

You look at him for a long moment, eyes sweeping over his face, over his features. Like you’re committing him to memory. He’s doing the same, almost scrutinizing your face, trying to remember what it looks like without the filter of his visor, what you truly look like, with no barriers in between.

He could taste you easily now.

The thought catches him off guard, the throb between his legs a welcome change to the pulsing of the wound on his thigh. The bacta the Covert had given him has worn off almost completely, and the pain is climbing. 

“B-bacta shot,” you stutter out, shaking your head slightly as you flipped open the case. Your eyes moved to the wound on his leg, peering at the plates of beskar, the flight-suit, the discarded helmet on the couch. “That needs to be cleaned.”

Din just nods.

“Think you can walk to the bedroom?” you ask, shoving the silver case into the chest pocket of your jumpsuit. He recognizes it — the tear in the knee, the patch on your thigh. You fixed the zipper. “It’ll be easier.”

It’s slow-going, getting him back to his feet, shuffling carefully to the bedroom. You ask him if he wants to bring the helmet; he just shakes his head.

What does that mean?

Your bed is unmade, but Din barely notices. The scent of you is amplified in here, and he’s sucking down breaths like he’s been deprived of oxygen. You help him lower to the edge of the bed, and he starts on the armour. You sink to your knees in front of him, setting the bacta shot on the mattress beside him. He removes a pauldron with shaking fingers, and you’re right there to take it from him, your movements sure, setting the metal carefully onto the floor, waiting for the next piece.

“You disappeared,” he says, after more pieces of beskar have been removed, when you’ve moved onto his boots, setting them both carefully at your side.

Your brow had just smoothed out, and it pinches again. “I had to. I left you a message.”

Din pulls the zipper on his flight-suit, reaches into the pocket sewn into the lining, and produces the commlink. “I know.”

Your lips part as you look at the piece of metal, dwarfed by his hand. “You found it.”

“I did.”

Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you look back up at him through your lashes. “It wasn’t safe.”

“You’re safe now,” he says, and you reach for the bacta shot. “Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” you reply, your voice bordering on stern. “Somebody sold me out.”

“I knew that much,” Din mumbles, and you shoot him a glare.

You sigh. “Let’s just say, there were some parts in the hangar that shouldn’t have been there, someone wasn’t happy with some work I did, and then next thing I knew, there were Imps on my tail. So I disappeared.”

“You could have told me where you were going.”

You shake your head. “They were listening. Tracking every message I sent out. I couldn’t let you get roped into it too.”

“You could have gone to the Guild,” he says. He’s too distracted to notice you pull the syringe out of the case. He doesn’t see the needle until you’re pushing it into his muscle above the wound. He grits his teeth audibly, hands curling hard around the edge of the mattress. “Dank farrik.”

“Sorry.”

“I would have come for you,” he says, breath hitching in his throat as you push the plunger down. It feels like his body has been flooded with ice water, his teeth chattering for a moment before the cold turns to a woozy sort of warmth that spreads through his chest like Corellian fire whiskey. He blinks hard, slow, one eye than the other.

“Can you stand?” He nods. Or thinks he does. “The bacta will help, but I need to put a bandage on that wound, at least.” More nodding. He’s vaguely aware of you draping his arms around your neck, your arms sliding around his waist to haul him up. He plants his feet beneath him, forces his weight over his ankles. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s moving through water. You manoeuvre one arm out of his flight-suit, pushing the fabric down his shoulders, until it settles around his hips. The metallic sound of the zipper seems to echo through his brain, and he knows you’re touching his waist, moving the fabric slowly over his injured thigh. But it doesn’t hurt.

All he can feel is you.

You sit him down again, work on pulling the suit off completely. Your hands are warm, soft, gentle against his bare legs, and he nearly buries his nose in the crown of your head when you bend down. Once the flight-suit has been removed, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt, you disappear again, and Din’s not sure if it’s thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

Something cold presses against his thigh, and he flinches. “Does it hurt?” you ask instantly, and your voice is clear, then muffled, then clear again. “It shouldn’t.”

“Nuh-uh,” he slurs out. He hears you laugh, and the sound is like tinkling bells. He wants to hear it again. “Sweets.”

“Yes, Din?” Clear, muffled. His name is a song on your lips.

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

“Mesh’la,” he mumbles, and then his eyes fall shut, his body slumps back, and he thinks you laugh again. He’s not quite sure; sleep is too busy yanking him under.

+

Din wakes to the sound of running water.

He’s disoriented, confused, not sure where he is until he pushes up on his elbows, looks around, drinks in the sight of your bedroom. The memory floods back; the Covert, then the hangar, taking the helmet off, the bacta shot that knocked him out.

But more importantly: you.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes. How long was he out? He can’t be sure; there’s a window on the far side of the room, but time on Glavis is different, artificial nighttime and starlight instead of sun. His armour has been moved from the floor, neatly piled on a dresser against the wall, his boots on the floor underneath. His flight-suit is spread out on a worktable in the middle of the room, and he can see from his spot that you’ve tried to mend it, patching the spot the Darksaber had cut open with a square of fabric. It’s looks to be the same kind of material, but the colour is darker. Beneath the sheets, his leg is wrapped in cotton bandages, and there’s no sign of blood seeping to the surface.

His head turns in the direction of the noise of the water, and he pauses, waits for some kind of pain to prick through his body, but it never comes. He feels…good. Well-rested. His eyes follow the sound, and then he sees it.

The door to your bathroom is wide open, and from his spot on your bed, he can see directly into the shower. You’re inside, steam pouring over the top of the glass wall, and Din’s whole body jerks. He never forgot what you looked like naked, and it’s been a long time, but somehow it still feels like the first time. He can feel the blood rushing south, and his hands clench in the bedsheets.

He just stares, watching the water move over you, cascading down your spine, rolling in rivulets over your curves, following the lines of your body. He wants to follow them too, wants to read you like a map only he knows the key to.

Dank farrik, he’s missed you. He hadn’t realized how much.

The water shuts off, and he sees you reach for a towel, wiping your face first. He sinks back down on the bed, wondering if he should feign sleep, feeling like a kid caught doing something he’s not supposed to. But before he can— “You’re awake,” he hears you call, and looks back just as you wrap the towel around your middle. “I thought you’d be out for the night.”

Din coughs, shifting the blankets, trying to hide the tent that’s formed in his boxers. “You don’t close the door?” He doesn’t know what else to say.

You laugh. “I live alone,” you say, stepping out of the bathroom, walking towards the dresser his armour sits upon. “Force of habit.”

He clears his throat. Loudly. Pauses. “…it’s a nice view.”

Your tongue peeks between your lips as you walk over to him, still in just the towel. Your hair is still dripping, water droplets dotting your shoulders. You sink slowly onto the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“G-good,” he spits out, adjusting himself, making more room for you. “Really good.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I’m glad. You scared me, Man—” You catch yourself. “Din.”

A drop of water splashes down from your hair, starts a path down your upper arm, and Din reaches out, catching it on his finger. You watch his hand, lips softly parted, and he continues the path, drawing his hand up and down your skin, the backs of his knuckles against your bicep.

“I wondered where you were, all these years,” you whisper. There’s longing in your voice, he notices; the same feeling sits like a weight on his chest. “I never stopped wondering.”

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he whispers back. There’s something forming in the air between you, thick like the steam that still foams from the open bathroom. Din can almost taste it, and the thought he’d had in your living room resurfaces, making him twitch beneath the sheets. He could taste you so easily now. “It’s a long story.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I got nothing but time.”

So does he, he realizes. He’s without a ship, without his son, without anything anchoring him to one planet or another, to any sort of path. He’d been wandering already, trying to find the Covert, and now he is unmoored once more, yet somehow managed to find his way back to your hangar.

To your bed.

His hand stops chasing water droplets, and he sees your teeth sink into your lower lip. He lowers his palm until it rests on your bare thigh, and he can feel how your skin is still hot from the shower. “I never kissed you,” he rasps. “Before.”

Your head shakes slowly, and you turn towards him more fully. The towel is loose around your chest, your hand holding it in place, and he reaches for it, slowly uncurling your fingers from the fabric, until your grip falls slack, and the towel goes with it. “You should fix that,” you murmur.

“I’m out of practice.”

Your lips twitch again. “How bad?”

“Few decades,” he says softly. “Since before I swore the Creed.”

“You were a child.”

“It was a childish kiss.” He pauses, moves his hand again, brushes dripping locks of hair from your face. “I don’t want to kiss you like that.”

“Just…” Din leans in slightly, tilts his head to the side. “Do what feels natural.” You mirror his movement, and his eyes are glued to your mouth, to the way your lips stay parted even when you’re done speaking, the way your collar lifts with shuddered breaths. He sees your hands move the towel out of the corner of his eye, pulling the fabric away from your body completely until you’re bared to him, head to toe.

You’re just as beautiful as he remembers. If not more.

The tip of his nose drags along the slope of yours, and his hand slides from your thigh to your hip. “I need you closer, Sweets,” he murmurs, and you nod against him, your foreheads tapping together. There’s a bit of shuffling, the blankets moved back, his tented boxers exposed but barely acknowledged as you climb into his lap. He revels in the way you look above him, your knees pressed either side of his hips. You’re hesitant to lower your weight onto his leg, and he guides you slow, giving you a quiet it’s okay as you settle onto him.

He doesn’t feel any pain; he just feels you.

Once you’re comfortable, your hands clutching at his shoulders, he adjusts his grip on you, palms skimming up your spine, mapping out your ribs and the curve of your ass. You make a quiet noise when he squeezes one cheek, the movement propelling you forward, making your hips roll into his, your core pushed against his hard cock. It makes him hiss with pleasure, and he slides one hand up to your hair, knotting his fingers in it and dragging your mouth down to his.

It’s not artful; he’s sure it doesn’t look pretty from the outside. There’s a lot of teeth and tongue, the fumble of hands as he tries to get you even closer. He’s sure you’ve been kissed better than this, and it makes his cheeks heat, makes him pull away, tucking his chin towards his chest. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey,” you say softly, your hands moving to cup his cheeks, tilting his face back up towards you. “It’s okay. Just…follow my lead?” You say it like a question, your thumbs swiping over his face, through the smatter of facial hair along his jaw. “I got you.”

Din nods, lets his lips part as you cock your head to the side, leaning in slow. You kiss his top lip and then his bottom one, giving him just enough teeth that he wants more, wants it harder. He grips your hips as you move, but your kiss stays tender, slow, your tongue a wet heat against his own. He’d dreamed of this, of kissing you, and this one — albeit the second attempt — is everything he ever imagined.

Finally, your mouth grows more insistent. He’s hard as steel between his legs, and he can feel how hot you are, your wetness spreading across his boxers with every roll of your hips. Your mouth is sweet, almost sugary, and he finds himself chuckling against your lips, still trying to get you closer. Your stomach presses to his as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him harder, your tongue licking into his mouth.

“Sweets,” he grinds out when you start pulling at his undershirt, insistent to get it over his head. He lets you, and when you lower your head again, your mouth moves to his throat instead, and it makes him moan. “Mesh’la, wait, please, I need—”

You pull back instantly, your eyes bright with worry. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I want…” His eyes drop, tracing a path down your body, his throat growing dry when they land on the apex of your thighs, the glistening wetness he knows he’s caused. He lets one hand follow the path his eyes made, rubs his thumb over your clit. Your whole body shivers. “I want to taste you.”

Your eyes go big, pupils blown with lust, and Din uses your momentary shock to his advantage. He’s stronger than you, perks of the bounty hunting lifestyle, and he flips you easily with one arm around your waist, his other hand hitching your thigh over his hip. You squeak as your head hits the pillows, clinging to him until you’re laid out beneath him.

It’s his turn to kiss his way down your throat, and he does, laving his tongue against your pulse as he makes his way down your body. He pauses at your chest, moves to the side to close his lips around your nipple. It makes your back arch, a high-pitched noise falling from your mouth, and he grins against you, giving you just the edge of his teeth before he’s wandering across your chest to give the other the same attention.

You’re a writhing mess by the time he’s settled between your thighs. He can’t keep his eyes still, raking over every inch of you, trying to remember every part. He can see the muscles in your legs jump as he traces his fingers over them, the more sensitive parts of your skin making you keen.

With your legs spread, he can see everything, and his mouth waters at the sight of your wet cunt, walls fluttering around nothing as he teases you with his fingers, collecting your wetness on the tips before drawing them to his mouth.

He moans at the taste. Of course, you’re sweet. Deliciously so.

“Din,” you groan out, propping yourself up on your elbows. He can feel you watching, and his gaze flicks up to yours as he drops his jaw, lowers his mouth to you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, one hand moving to knot in his hair, and Din moans into you. His tongue explodes with the taste of you, sending shocks down his spine, making his hips rolls into the mattress, seeking relief.

Just do what feels natural, your words echo in his head. So he does. He licks into you, wide stripes with the flat of his tongue, smaller kitten licks to your clit. He can’t get enough of your taste, hooking his hands around your thighs, pulling himself deeper into you. And you guide him some, your hand in his hair an anchor of sorts, tugging slightly to get him right where you need him, a gasped oh fuck, right there! reaching his ears.

It’s not before long that you’re smacking at his shoulder, muffled moans on your lips with your teeth sunk into your lower one. He detaches from you, gets one more good look and lick in before he’s following your grip, kissing every inch of you he can reach as he makes his way back up your body.

“I need you inside me,” you slur, your hands reaching down, pushing at his boxers. His cock springs up against his stomach and he groans, the sound growing louder when you wrap your fingers around him. “Please, Din, I want to cum on your cock.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum right then and there, hearing your words turn filthy. And filthier still as he hauls himself over you, plants one elbow beside your head, looks between you, reaches down to line himself up and—

Freezes.

He can feel your eyes on his face, features pinched with anticipation. Your hands have found homes along his ribs, fingers tapping out rhythmless patterns. Hips lifting, you must see something in his expression, because you move a hand to his chin, lifting his eyes to yours again. “Din,” you say, and a shiver shoots down his spine again at the way his name sounds on your lips. “It’s okay. We can stop, if you need to.”

“No!” he nearly shouts, and feels himself flush, lowering himself slightly, careful not to drop all his weight on you. “No, that’s not what I…I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” you murmur. Your voice is quiet, understanding. You give a soft laugh. “I know you’re not a virgin, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay, I won’t say any—”

“It’s not that,” he cuts you off, petting his hand over your still-damp hair. “I want to. I want you. It’s just that…” He chews at his lip. “No one’s ever seen my face, while we…when I…”

Realization slides through your features. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have to look,” you say quickly, skimming your knuckles along his cheek. “I can turn over, if you like, if that’s easier than—”

“No,” he says, not a shout this time, but firmer. “I want you to see, Sweets.” He drops his chin, emboldened by your softness, your understanding. He kisses you soundly. “I want to kiss you while you cum.” His words pull a silky noise from your throat.

He breaks the kiss as he takes himself in hand, pushes into your dripping cunt. You’re hot, clenching down on him instantly, arms draped around his neck as he lowers himself further, latches his lips to yours. He hitches one of your legs high on his hip, drives into you deep. He had you close on his tongue already, and he rolls his hips hard, catching something deep inside that makes your entire body seize.

“Yes, Din, please, oh gods, please, please, please,” you’re babbling against his lips, one hand pressed flat between his shoulders, the other knotted in the back of his hair. “Yes!”

Just as he said, he kisses you while you cum. He feels it pulse through your body, your limbs taut and then lax, still holding him close. Your hips chase his, cunt clenching tight as a vice, and Din’s not far behind you, pleasure lighting a fuse down his spine.

You pull your lips from his just as he starts to spill in you. Your hand moves to grip his chin, and you force his gaze to yours. He gasps and your mouth mirrors his, lips parted in a soft o, turning to a grin as he grinds into you, painting your insides as deep as he can go. It feels like an implosion, his bones rattled in his body, but then set on the softest bed of silk as he collapses into your chest. You hold him close, petting one hand through his hair, breathing deep and slow until his own evens out, matches yours, until your heartbeat syncs with his.

“Mesh’la?” he calls after a moment, cheek still pressed to your sternum.

“Yes, Din?” you reply, your voice scratchy as your nails start to drag along his scalp. His eyes are heavy.

“I missed you.”

He can hear the smile in your voice. “I missed you too.”

+

Din wakes alone in your bed again.

He thinks it’s the next morning — the rest of what he assume to be evening was spent in your bed, both of you naked and wrapped in each other. Again and again and again, he pulled pleasure from your body, let you pull it from his, found your bliss together. By the time you were both too tired to move, sprawled on the mattress, your head on his shoulder, you’d whispered, “You’re a good kisser, Din Djarin.” And then you were asleep, Din not too far behind.

He dresses quickly, boxers pulled back on, undershirt in his hand as he pads out of the room. He finds you standing in the kitchen, a steaming cup of caf in your hands. The droid — Shrimp, he dimly recalls — is perched on the table, beeping out a message to you. You’re nodding along, blowing the steam off the top of your caf, and your eyes flick to him as he steps into the kitchen.

“You know Peli Motto?”

Din’s brow crinkles with confusion. “You know Peli?”

You scoff. “That woman taught me everything I know.”

“You’re joking.”

“Swear on my hangar.”

Din just laughs, walking around the table. He slides an arm around your waist once he’s close enough, leans into kiss the side of your head. You lean into him. “Why are we talking about Peli?”

“She sent me a message,” you say, offering him your caf. He takes a sip, only feeling more confused. “Asking if I had any spare ships laying around my hangar. A replacement for her Mandalorian friend.”

Din balks. He hasn’t told you about the Crest. “Sweets…”

You step away from him, pressing a hand to his chest as your eyes go wide with realization. “Din Djarin, what did you do to that ship?”

“I didn’t—”

“Din.”

“It was Imps,” he says, trying to reach for your hip. “It wasn’t—”

“Where is the Razor Crest?”

He sighs heavily, and reaches out to take the cup of caf from you again. “Now it’s nothing but a scorch mark on the planet Tython. It was the Imps. They took my son.” The words are out before he can stop them.

Your eyes go so wide he’s worried they might pop out of your skull. “Your son?”

“It’s a long story.”

You pluck the caf out of his hands, walk around the table, pull out a chair and sink into it. “I got nothing but time.”

[apollyodon]

Me not understanding why some people are mad they removed the sprint button in later AC games. Ah yes, I sure do miss accidentally running up door frames when I’m trying to run away from guards or chasing a target cause sprint made me go faster but also made me fucking climb.

[nyaagolor]

All the cutscenes show the characters wearing their suits even in completely casual situations where they wouldn't need to so I was thinking about Why They Would Do That:

Phoenix: Wears his suit all the time because he's reached the point in his life where he expects to be pulled into a case at all times and doesn't feel like constantly going back home to change. It's more of an insurance policy than anything. The only reason he has it buttoned is to disguise the ketchup stain Maya got on his fancy white shirt since he refuses to buy another one

Edgeworth and Franziska: Were taught by the von karma creed to be professional looking at all times. Unfortunately this is their idea of professional

Manfred: He wants people to recognize him and tremble in fear-- what better way to do that than to establish a personal brand?

Maya: Religious / familial tradition reasons

Mia: Died in that fit so she can't exactly go home and change

Godot: Pretty sure all his assets got seized by the time he got out of his coma so he's ride or die with the one suit he has. It doesn't fit as well as he likes bc the coma changed his physique a little bit but w/e. It's fine. He's doing fine. Also he's under the impression the shirt is red, nobody tell him

Apollo: Kristoph got him the suit and it costs as much as the rest of his closet combined so he feels the need to flaunt it. Also he dressed casual for a bar hang with Ema once and she told him he looked like a middle schooler and he hasn't recovered since

Klavier: ok ngl I hc he's been wearing different ridiculous outfits this entire time they just can't sprite it. The man has never worn the same shirt twice I think

Kristoph: One time he wore something Other than his signature suit and someone mistook him for Klavier and it made him so blindingly mad that he never dressed in anything again. He has like 14 identical suits btw. They're all dry clean only and Italian silk

Athena: She actually just owns 7 versions of the same outfit. She's very specific with textures and having enough flexibility (it's the autism) so once she found smth that worked she just got a bunch of identical fits to swap

Simon: Wears the same fit he did on the day of his arrest to "remind himself of his sins" and also because the jacket is really comfy and has big pockets that he hides things in