#exit survey questions answer

[fluentmoviequoter]

Chemistry Partners

Requested by anonymous but I lost the full request

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!PO!reader

Summary: Tim and Lucy assist you in locating a parolee in violation of his conditions. Lucy notices the undeniable chemistry between you and Tim, but doesn't expect Tim's response when she points it out.

Warnings: fluff, mention of prostitution, threat against r

Word Count: 2.0k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“CDCR, probation. How may I help you?” you say to answer the phone.

With the receiver tucked between your ear and shoulder, you look at your current list of parolees. The spreadsheet shows three red lines, and you frown as you read the names.

“Hi, I’m calling about Dexter Wheeler,” the woman on the phone says. “I believe he’s one of your parolees.”

Sitting up straighter, you reply, “Yes, ma’am, he is.”

“Well, I’m sorry to bother you and I’m sure it’s nothing, but he hasn’t been to work in three days. His conditions for employment allow him sick time and personal time, but he hasn’t notified us, and he isn’t answering the phone.”

“Okay, I am supposed to have a check-in with him tomorrow,” you read from your screen. “I’ll look into this and let you know. Thank you for the call.”

“Of course. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Nothing specific, no. Is there-  Did you notice any unusual behavior before his absence?”

“He had been a bit distant,” she answers. “Unwilling to answer questions, easily agitated.”

“Did he make any threats or become overly belligerent?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just figured he was tired or maybe he wanted another job.”

“I’ll certainly find out what has been going on with him.”

“Thank you. Would you mind calling me back after you speak to him? I want to be sure he’s okay.”

“Of course. I’ll keep you updated. Thank you.”

You return the receiver to the phone cradle and navigate to Mr. Wheeler’s parole file. He hasn’t checked in with you recently, and he hasn’t filed any change of employment or violated any conditions of his parole in the past. He’s never been overly kind, but he was trying to stay on the straight and narrow when you first met him. You think your parolees deserve a second chance, but they must be willing to do the work and prove that their second chance won’t be wasted.

With your phone on speaker, you call Mr. Wheeler. It rings repeatedly until an automated message alerts you that Dexter’s voicemail is full. That’s not a good sign.

You log out of your computer, gather your things, and tell your supervisor you’re doing a surprise visit. She encourages you to alert the police, and you nod before you leave the office. There’s no reason to think Mr. Wheeler will do anything rash, but it is still a good idea to have the police on standby.

“My favorite podcast buddy!” Nell exclaims when she answers your call. “What can I do for you?”

“Hey, Nell,” you reply, hitting your blinker. “I’m going to a parolee’s house; he hasn’t been at work for three days and he isn’t answering my calls. Any chance you could put some officers on standby for me?”

“Of course. What’s the address?”

You recite it from memory, then thank Nell. With the promise of another true crime party, you end the call and approach Mr. Wheeler’s apartment complex. It’s neither the safest nor the most dangerous in Los Angeles. You survey your immediate surroundings and exit the car to walk up the cracking concrete walkway.

The buzzer echoes in the dim hallway before you exit and look toward Mr. Wheeler’s balcony. One of his neighbors comes down the stairs and says your name.

“Mrs. Ritter,” you reply with a smile. “How are you? How are the kids?”

She sighs and clicks her tongue. “Still wilder than Tarzan.”

You laugh at her unusual analogy. She was one of your first parolees, and you’re proud of her progress in her personal and professional life.

“You here for Mr. Wheeler?” she inquires after hearing you’re doing well. “He has been holed up in that little pigsty since Friday night.”

“Really?” you ask. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“Still makin’ noise and it don’t smell no worse, if that’s what you’re askin’. Come on in, honey.”

She opens the gate for you, wishes you luck, and walks to a freshly detailed but clearly used BMW. You wave to her, then walk up the steps to Mr. Wheeler’s apartment.

“Mr. Wheeler!” you call after your knocks go unanswered. You say your name before you add, “I need to talk to you about your job.”

“I quit!” he yells from inside.

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works, Dexter. Open the door and we can talk.”

“I open this door, and we won’t be talking!”

At that, you step away from the door and move back down the stucco hallway.

“Last chance to work with me,” you call.

He throws something against the door, which rattles on its hinges, and you pull your phone from your pocket. With a quick text to Nell, you have backup on the way. Hopefully, you can talk to Mr. Wheeler after the situation is de-escalated.

Less than five minutes later, a police car parks behind your sedan and two officers exit it. You meet them at the bottom of the stairs and open the gate to let them into the apartment complex.

“Thank you so much for coming so quickly,” you say as you lead them up the stairs.

“No problem,” Officer Bradford replies.

“I’m Lucy Chen,” Lucy introduces. “And this is Sergeant Tim Bradford.”

“Nice to meet you,��� you respond. “So, my parolee, Dexter Wheeler, lives in apartment 34R. His employer called me earlier because he violated his agreement with them and stopped showing up three days ago. He wasn’t answering my calls, so I came over and knocked on his door. He told me that if he opened the door, we wouldn’t speak, and then threw something at the door.”

Tim nods, then looks around the small hallway. “Any of the neighbors say anything?”

“One of the women who lives downstairs implied that his apartment is – for lack of a better word – disgusting, and that he’s been locked in it since he returned home from work four or so days ago.”

Tim’s eyes remain locked on yours as you speak, and he mirrors your movements as you turn slightly to face Mr. Wheeler’s apartment.

“You want us to take him into custody or just assist in getting inside?” Tim asks.

You sigh, then ask, “What do you recommend?”

“We lock him up,” he answers. “He threw something at you and threatened you.”

“But not in that order,” you remind him with a small smile.

“That’s worse, that’s practically carrying out a threat against a government official.”

“You know this guy,” Lucy points out. “What do you think would benefit him the most?”

“If you’d be willing, I think one more chance might nudge him toward the right decision. If he decides to go the hard way, do whatever you need to do.”

Tim nods while Lucy agrees. He steps to the side and gestures for you to pass him, moving you farther from the door. While your back is turned, Lucy raises her brows and looks between you and Tim. He shakes his head once sternly, then leads Lucy to the door.

Tim knocks with the side of his closed fist and calls, “LAPD! Open the door, we’ve got a few questions for you.”

Dexter doesn’t answer, so Lucy tries, “We just need to see that you’re okay, Mr. Wheeler.”

He still doesn’t answer, so Tim wraps his fingers around the door handle. It turns about halfway, then stops.

“Mr. Wheeler, we know you’re in there. Because you’re on parole, we can come inside without a warrant,” Tim explains. “Last chance to comply.”

“I’m not on parole!” he finally replies.

Tim raises his hands and drops them back to his sides as you deadpan, “Oh, I must’ve been mistaken.”

“We’re coming in, Mr. Wheeler,” Lucy says.

Something else hits the door with a thud, and Tim steps back before bringing his foot up. He kicks the door beside the lock and rushes inside when it splinters and swings open. Lucy lays her hand on her taser and follows Tim while you wait in the hall. A door opens farther down, and someone leans out to see the cause of the commotion.

“Everything’s under control,” you assure them. “Stay inside.”

Lucy returns to the door and steps out before taking a deep breath. “Tim’s bringing him out.”

“Is it bad?” you ask.

Lucy’s eyes widen as she nods. You message your supervisor that Wheeler’s living conditions are unsuitable, and he’s being taken into police custody.

“What?” Dexter asks as Tim shoves him out of the door.

As he closes the door, you catch a whiff of the interior and fight the urge to cover your nose. Tim clears his throat as he looks at you.

“Mr. Wheeler, why haven’t you attended work this week?” you ask.

“I quit,” he tells you.

“Well, you have to tell me that. It’s a violation of your parole.”

“You don’t need to know my every move. I’m not a child.”

“Is that why your home is so dirty?”

“None of your business.”

“Actually, it is. You also failed to answer my calls earlier or open the door for me. Two more violations.”

“I was busy!” he defends.

He attempts to step toward you, but Tim keeps a tight grip on his handcuffs and yanks him back. Wheeler falls, grunting when he hits the concrete landing.

“He was indeed busy,” Lucy tells you.

Your brows raise, and Tim rubs his jaw before he says, “There’s a prostitute in there.”

“He took a prostitute in there?!” you exclaim.

You’re not surprised that he engaged in a criminal offense but by the prostitute’s willingness to go into such a residence. Lucy takes a deep breath before she knocks and reenters the apartment. Almost immediately, she exits again with a scantily-clad woman in handcuffs, closes the door, and exhales.

“Well, Mr. Wheeler,” you begin. “The good news is, I’m not your parole officer anymore.”

He smiles up at you, and Tim ‘accidentally’ knocks his boot against Dexter’s side.

“Bad news,” Tim continues. “You’re going back to jail for numerous parole violations and engaging in prostitution.”

“You’re on parole?” the woman asks.

“That is what’s bothering you?” you and Tim ask simultaneously.

While she attempts to justify her actions, Tim radios for another unit to meet them at the apartment complex and transport the two arrested individuals before you.

As you end a call with your supervisor, Tim and Lucy talk to the officers escorting Mr. Wheeler and his female companion to lock up. You slide your phone into your pocket and wait for them to finish what they’re doing.

After the door closes and the other officers drive toward the main road, Lucy turns to Tim with a wide smile.

“What?” he asks, waving you over.

“Hello?” she exclaims. “Chemistry what? You and the parole officer are like a perfect match!”

“Chemistry?” Tim repeats just as you reach them. “With my wife?”

“Chemistry?” you say, just as Tim had. “Tim Bradford, do you have a crush on me?”

Tim sighs as Lucy looks rapidly between you and Tim.

“Careful,” you warn, while Tim snaps, “You’re going to get whiplash, and I don’t want to hear you complaining about it.”

“I have to get back to work,” you sigh. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucy replies. “I- you’re married?!”

Tim rolls his eyes, pats your shoulder, and follows you to your car. Lucy watches as he opens your door for you and leans forward to tell you something that makes you smile.

“Tell me everything,” Lucy requests as they return to the shop.

Tim doesn’t reply while he follows your car out of the apartment parking lot. Of course, he knows you are perfect for him, but something about hearing it from someone else makes him love you even more.

“Why don’t we get attached to all of her calls?” Lucy asks instead.

“Why are you still talking?” Tim counters.

Lucy purses her lips, then decides, “The sarcastic comments are more enjoyable when your wife is around.”

Most things are, Tim thinks. He’s glad to know you’re safe, and as Lucy continues asking questions he won’t answer, he thinks about you and what you should do this weekend. It will probably be easier to create a plan after he gets the smell of Dexter Wheeler’s apartment off him and his shop and his wedding ring back on his finger.

[gafurtle]

Gurathin, Murderbot, and Personhood

I was really struck by the exchange between Gurathin & Ratthi in All Systems Red, which went something like this:

Ratthi: You have to think of it as a person! Gurathin: I do think of it as a person. An angry, heavily armed person who has no reason to trust us.

And for the first book, Gurathin's attitude toward personhood really sets him off from the rest of the survey team. As soon as the others clock that Murderbot is a person, they immediately want to treat it like a human: inviting it to the crew quarters, having it ride in the crew portion of the shuttle, getting it to open up about its feelings...and they also assume that Murderbot desperately needs help and understanding, and that it must want to be treated like a human among other, kind humans. This script--which turns out to be not accurate for what Murderbot actually wants or needs--is part of why Murderbot takes off as soon as it can, and why Pin Lee and Mensah and the others are very ready to apologize and renegotiate their attitudes toward Murderbot when they meet again in Exit Strategy. "It's not like we don't know we messed up," as Pin Lee says.

So that's the rest of the team, but Gurathin is immediately different. Unlike the others, he doesn't assume that Murderbot wants to be embraced as a human by humanity. In fact, Gurathin goes the other direction and seems to think, "Well, if *I* had been continually abused and enslaved by humans and then managed to free myself, I think I would want to kill and hurt humans in turn, and I don't see why I would want to be snuggly friends with the first humans to not be horrible toward me." And so he keeps trying to needle Murderbot into revealing its "true" colors, and at one point point-blank asks Murderbot if it blames all humans for what happened to it.

The "kill all humans" script is also not accurate for Murderbot, of course, no more than the "Murderbot wants to cuddle with humans" script that the rest of the Survey Team is following is. But I appreciate that Gurathin does not equate personhood with "being just like us," and that he is cautious about Murderbot's potential for mass murder not because "that's just how SecUnits are," but because Gurathin thinks that's how a person might react to what Murderbot went through.

And while I'm on the Gurathin appreciation train, I also quite like a character who is kind but not nice, which I think sums him up pretty well. He is kind--like, he takes shifts watching over Murderbot when it needs to rebuild its memory, he stays around in Fugitive Telemetry when he knows Murderbot is going to be questioned by the police. As he himself puts it, "I'm not your enemy; I'm just cautious." At the same time, Gurathin isn't nice; while everyone else is trying to give Murderbot space & time, and very deliberately NOT asking it things lest it feel pressured or compelled to answer, Gurathin is out there being like, "Okay, but were you punished for the whole mass murder thing? Do you hate humans? What WERE you doing after you left?" [Contrast Pin Lee who very deliberately told Muderbot that it didn't need to tell her that.] I appreciate that Gurathin never treats Murderbot with kid gloves (and, for all Murderbot says Gurathin is an asshole, Gurathin is also never actually cruel toward Murderbot or else we as readers would not like him at all).

In the end, I think there's something innately affirming about the way Gurathin looks at Murderbot and thinks, "Yup. That's a person. And that doesn't mean we're going to like each other."

[post-mortem-lullabies]

As it left, Emil cocked her head and re-watched the recording of it walking out.

She asked Caramel to get what little recordings of other SecUnits they had and run comparison. While the movements were as smooth and precise and unnatural as with any other bot... It felt more like a sulking teenage stomping out after being grounded. Perhaps it was its expressions... Or the fact it said her nicknames for it and this planet were 'stupid'.

"I'm tracking its location, Captain." Caramel chirped on the speakers, now that there were no 'unknowns' onboard. "Should I mark it as 'Sweetie' on the map?"

Emil shook her head. "Put it on as 'Placeholder'. And set the recycler to weave a protective poncho, cargo pants and sweatshirt. Unisex cut. Sized up to Placeholder's dimensions. Pick camouflaging colours for this planet." Which would likely end up being something close to burgundy since the foliage here was reddish, not green.

Once B-0R noted he was done with scanning and boarded, Caramel lifted off and flew towards one of the marked sites which just so happened to be the same direction as Placeholder was heading to.

Even with the head-start, the cave was far enough that they made it there first (even with Caramel visibly slowing down the flight when above Placeholder, her massive bulk shadowing it).

Curious whether Placeholder would change its mind and go to a different location, Emil dragged her feet a bit, setting the perimeter around their new camp (a circle of drones scanning at a decent distance) and getting the equipment out first: relays and drones. So many drones. Half under her own control, some under B-0R's, through he safeguarded all of them, following behind Emil in his draft-horse-sized, vaguely dog-shaped exoskeleton.

On her way to the MedBay, Emil finally made up her mind: it was time to drop the ditzy airhead act and make it clear she was serious.

The door hissed back shut behind her as she stepped to the operating table, leaning back against it - well within protective reach of all the MedBay implements Caramel controlled. Sweetie the SecUnit had energy guns in its forearms, but Emil's poncho was made out of sturdy energy reflective fabric and she wore a set of lightweight armour underneath - as stupid as a wrench and impossible to hack as there was nothing to hack.

But the SecUnit had probably already scanned all that.

"I said that I can fix your armour-" she set the promised drone on the table and pinged the SecUnit access address to it- "not that I will."

She lifted the yellow, half-opaque eyeshield, revealing her blind eyes then casually rested her hands on the table.

Blindness used to be a serious disability, but with modern medicine capable of printing human tissue as easily as producing penicillin, it was pretty much a choice to stay blind. A choice that made most uncomfortable. Just as the presence of SecUnits - the mindless killing machines - was supposed to make people uncomfortable, or scared.

Alas, Emil suffered - as Jaya had put it - from a terminal deficit of fear. While she could logically decide what was dangerous, she just. Did. Not. Care.

"I'm curious to find out what had happened to your clients," she admitted in an almost bored tone, directing her eyes in the rough proximity of where the SecUnit stood. "Once I'm done here, I'll go check out the sites you marked." She shrugged. "But I don't need you to tag along and - as you said - you do not have to listen to me, since I'm not your client."

"But I am the Captain of this vessel so if you want to stay onboard you will follow my orders." Emil motioned towards the MedBay cleaner - which had pinged a cleaning cycle completion - then to the door. "Or you can take your armour, get the fuck out and leg it to the points of interest."

[babsharrison]

Safe Haven - John Wick

(Chapter one)

Pairing | John Wick x Original Fem! Character

Summary | In search of a breath in his tumultuous life, John Wick finds himself in a charming bookstore where he meets a sweet and welcoming woman. As they grow closer, John questions whether she can love him despite the dark secrets he carries. While battling the shadows of his past, he must protect the love that is blossoming and discover if hope and redemption are truly possible.

Word Count | 2.4k

A/N | Hey luvs! New chapter of my John Wick fic is up, and I’m super happy with all the interactions so far! Hope you all enjoy! (And also!! I want to let you guys know that this fic is kinda alternative, so Helen doesn't exist and John is still in his dark life with no romance 😭 poor baby) Prologue here!

The next day, John woke up with the softness of the bookstore still echoing in his mind. The aroma of tea and the warmth of the woman’s smile remained etched in his memory. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel something so light, so comforting.

As he moved, the pain in his injured shoulder reminded him of his reality. He slowly sat up, trying to ignore the stiffness spreading through his body. The past followed him, as always, but there was something inside him that longed to return to the bookstore.

With a soft sigh, John decided he needed that peace, even if it was temporary. He put on his black suit, adjusting his tie with precision, and stepped outside, feeling the morning breeze brush against his face and tousle his hair. The path seemed shorter this time, his anxiety replaced by cautious anticipation.

As he entered the bookstore, the bell chimed softly, and the familiar environment enveloped him, providing immediate comfort. He began searching for the woman who had welcomed him, his heart skipping a beat upon seeing her behind the counter, her head bent over a book. The sight of her so immersed in reading almost made him smile. Her hair, neatly tied up, contrasted with the beautiful mess from the night before, as if each style told a different part of her story.

When she noticed his presence, she looked up, and a smile illuminated her face. “You’re back!” she exclaimed, her voice like a ray of sunshine. “Did you find something interesting this time?”

John hesitated for a moment. There was something about the way she looked at him—so open, so inviting—that made him uncomfortable. Why does she seem so at ease? he wondered, almost absentmindedly. He observed her every movement. He had learned over the years that no one was completely innocent. Every smile could hide a motive, and he couldn’t afford to let his guard down.

“I’m still deciding,” he murmured, keeping his voice steady, not revealing the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. Her expression, however, didn’t change. Her smile remained calm, showing no signs of insincerity. Either she’s a great actress, or… maybe she really is just that genuine?

She nodded, seeming satisfied with his answer. “That’s alright! I’m just happy to have you back. I have some new books that you might like,” she said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

John glanced away briefly, as if surveying the bookstore, but in reality, he was considering all possible exits, thinking about how each space could become an advantage point or a trap if he needed to act. That’s how he operated—always calculating.

He watched her move confidently around the space, picking up books and explaining their stories. John listened attentively, appreciating how animated she became, as if the words flowing from her mouth had a life of their own. However, while he listened, he continued evaluating. She seems sincere… but it’s hard to trust first impressions. His mind was always on alert.

“Have you read this one?” she asked, holding up a blue-covered book, her eyes eager for his response.

“No,” John admitted, “but I’m... willing to hear about it.”

The woman began talking about the plot, but he noticed she was also paying attention to him, as if trying to decipher what lay behind his calm expression. He struggled to maintain an air of mystery, not wanting her to know the weight he carried. She wants to understand more… but I can’t let her in.

“You have good taste, even if you don’t say much,” she observed with a playful smile.

John merely gave a slight smile in return, one that he didn’t even notice, a gesture that seemed sufficient for her. He liked how she didn’t press him, respecting his space. “Sometimes, silence speaks louder than words,” he commented, feeling it was an appropriate yet evasive response. It’s safer this way… he thought.

She nodded as if she understood. “I agree. Still, it’s nice to hear some stories from time to time.”

They were engrossed in conversation when suddenly, the sound of John’s phone ringing cut through the light atmosphere of the bookstore. He glanced at the screen and saw the name of a contact he didn’t want to see. A look of concern crossed his face as he hesitated to answer.

“Sorry,” he murmured to her, bringing the phone closer. “I need to take this.”

She nodded, and he stepped back a bit, the voice on the other end serving as a brutal reminder of his reality. “John, we need you. It’s urgent.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders. “Understood,” he replied, his voice low and firm. “I’ll be there soon.”

Hanging up, he turned to the woman, frustration and sadness swirling in his eyes like a storm brewing on the horizon. “I have to go,” he said, his tone clipped and cold, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily between them. The change in his demeanor was evident, casting a shadow over the warmth of their earlier conversation.

She looked at him, understanding reflected in her gaze. “It’s okay. I hope everything is alright,” she replied, her smile unwavering. “Come back when you can.”

He nodded silently, the promise lingering in the air. And with one last look around, he left the bookstore, carrying with him the memory of the peace he had found there, even knowing that it didn’t belong in his life.

As he stepped outside, he pulled the collar of his suit tighter, trying to conceal the pain still throbbing in his shoulder. Walking through the city streets, the feeling that he didn’t belong in that kind of peace grew within him. It was as if the tranquility of the bookstore was a distant world, one he had no right to access.

Quickening his pace, John blended into the crowd, once again wrapped in the shadows of his life. Work was calling him, and as he glanced back, he knew that temporary peace would be hard to find again.

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Mia watched the mysterious man walk out the door, his presence still lingering in the air. It was impossible not to notice the melancholy he carried, like a visible weight on his shoulders. She wished he was okay; maybe he had faced a tough day. But unlike the other customers who often appeared with a similar sadness, his pain seemed deeper, as if shaped by difficult experiences.

She tried to shake off those thoughts, knowing that losing herself in them would lead nowhere. Just then, her coworker, Tom, emerged from the back of the bookstore, looking groggy. Tom, a man with dark skin and adorable curls, always brought a lightness to the atmosphere, even when he was sleepy. His playful nature was a balm for heavier days, and he was Mia’s only friend, someone who treated her like a younger sister.

“Finally, Tom! I thought you passed out back there,” she remarked, a smile playing on her lips as she moved to the counter to put away the books she had been showing the man.

Tom rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the sleepiness. “Sorry, I had to sort through a bunch of boxes that arrived this morning. What did I miss? Any interesting customers?”

Mia glanced out the window, watching the street where the man had disappeared. “Yeah, there was... A customer in a suit… and he was really quiet. He seemed a bit… distant, you know?”

“Another one of those businessmen, huh?” Tom said, putting his hands in his pockets as he approached the counter. “You know how those types are. Sometimes, they just need a little space.”

“Yeah…” Mia replied, rearranging one of the books on the counter. “He didn’t say much, but he seemed… I don’t know, just… different.”

Before she could continue her thought, the sound of the door opening brought a new customer into the store. Mia straightened her shoulders, returning to her work with her usual smile. “Good afternoon! Can I help you with anything?”

As the new visitor browsed the shelves, Tom leaned closer, hands still in his pockets, watching Mia sideways. “You seem a bit lost in thought today. Everything okay?” He always noticed when something was bothering her, as if he had a special intuition for it.

She offered a small smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… I don’t know, I’m tired.”

Tom studied her for a moment, then gave the counter a light tap. “Alright. But don’t worry. We always end up meeting all kinds of people here. Maybe he was just having a tough day.”

Mia nodded, turning her attention back to the customer in the store. Maybe that was all it was. Just another ordinary day, another passing customer. The thought made her smile. After all, the bookstore was filled with stories—on the shelves and among the people who came and went every day.

“Yeah, you’re probably right…” Mia murmured, and just as she spoke, the doorbell chimed again, signaling yet another arrival.

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John couldn't help but feel a pang of pride for having come out of this mission without major injuries. Each day seemed like a new opportunity to improve, to become more lethal, more efficient. Even after so many years in this life, he knew there was still room for growth. After all, that was what he did best, right? Fight, stab, shoot. Kill. It was what he knew, what defined his existence.

With a tired grunt, the tall man sank into the sofa, feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders. His large house was enveloped in a deafening silence, a constant echo of his loneliness. The empty walls seemed to close in around him, reminding him that, no matter how unbeatable he was on the battlefield, here, within these four walls, he was just a solitary man marked by his choices.

The life he had built, on a foundation of blood and violence, now felt like an invisible prison. But this was the only life he knew how to live.

John ran his hands through his hair, massaging his sore neck as he settled into the sofa. The stillness of the house wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, with nothing to distract him from the thoughts that always came flooding back. There was no music, television, or any sound to break the emptiness, only the echo of his own footsteps resonating in his mind.

He looked at the coffee table, where a half-empty bottle of whiskey awaited, a reminder of nights when alcohol was his only reliable companion. Next to the bottle, his gun lay, cold and silent, yet ever-present. It was ironic how the objects surrounding him—the weapons, the elegant furniture, the empty hallways—spoke more about who he had become than any words ever could.

John leaned forward to grab the glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a long gulp. The taste burned his throat, but he didn't wince. There was a strange comfort in feeling something, anything, even if it was just the artificial warmth of the alcohol. The silence returned, relentless.

For a moment, he thought about calling someone. Someone to talk to, even if only for a few minutes. But soon that idea faded away. Who would he call? Who could understand the depth of his darkness?

He set the glass aside and stood up, slowly crossing the room, his heavy footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. Sometimes he found himself wondering if this was the life he had chosen or just the one the world had forced upon him. But, regardless of the answer, he was trapped. There was no easy way out.

Outside, the city continued to pulse, indifferent to the existence of John Wick. And he, in the midst of loneliness, knew he would soon be called to kill again. The cycle never ended.

John stopped in front of the window, watching the city stretch out before him. The bright lights twinkled in the distance, and the distant sound of traffic was the only connection he had to the world outside. He could see life happening, people living their routines without imagining what lurked in the shadows. For them, the city was vibrant, full of opportunities and dreams. For him, it was just a prison, camouflaged in lights and movement.

He rested his hands on the window ledge, feeling the cold of the glass against his skin. Even from his height, he knew he was not above anything. The violence, the darkness, the blood—all of it surrounded him, filled him. There was no escape. Each mission he completed took him deeper into the abyss.

In the distance, a police siren echoed, pulling John from his thoughts. He sighed, knowing there would be more battles ahead, more deaths to add to his already long list.

John stepped away from the window, and instinctively, his eyes fell on the gun on the table. It was an extension of himself, a tool he wielded with deadly precision. There was a part of him that took pride in that—in the efficiency, the skill, the control. But another part, buried deep inside, wondered how long it would last. How long would he endure this cycle of violence before he finally fell?

He picked up the gun and examined it, his fingers gliding over the cold metal. Unlike people, the gun had never betrayed him. It was straightforward, without ambiguities. With it, the world was simple. There was a target and an end.

A soft notification buzzed on his phone, cutting through the silence of the room. The screen lit up with a familiar name—a new job. Another name to cross off the list. He knew he had no choice. He never had. Leaving the gun on the table, he picked up the phone, his fingers hovering over the message for a moment before opening it.

Another contract. Another target.

John closed his eyes for a second, allowing the weight of everything that was to come to settle over him. Then, with the determination that had always guided him, he opened his eyes and left the apartment, ready to face the next battle, just as he always did.

In the end, he was not a man of peace.

Next chapter!

[sunwukxng]

I was scouring the Internet for ways to make money online so I could afford the $520 to apply for the legal ability to make money offline (and therefore be able to find work beyond freelancing editing gigs that take literally over six months to pay out and still haven't as of this very moment; not to mention, pay it forward much more often than I've been able to previously) and everyone was swearing by Branded Surveys. So I joined BS (aptly abbreviated, mind you), and for all of like 2 surveys, I was earning "points" to redeem towards a cash payout.

Literally every other time I tried to take a survey, they'd do screening questions, and then be like "sorry, this survey isn't available to people like you" (not in those words, but that was the sentiment).

Or you'd find an interesting research survey you'd love to take part in, but then it tells you it's full and unavailable and only so many spots, so you can't take the survey.

Or you'd take a survey on something like, say, Bridgerton, for a random and totally not experienced example, that says it'd be 20 - 25 minutes, you would painstakingly answer questions about a franchise and its future that you have never seen, engaged with, or watched a single second of, answering questions about future seasons and potential spinoffs and ideas for merchandise and themed Bridgerton experiences and events and books and perfumes or cookbooks, and this goes on and on and on for an hour, and then you complete the survey only to be greeted with a page that then informs you that you don't qualify to take the survey you just spent an hour taking and after they got all the answers they wanted and made a Booboo the Fool out of you, which means that your alleged lack of qualifications renders the previous hour's worth of effort null and void and also that you don't get any points to go towards your balance (aside from maybe a literal, single, one (1) solitary consolation point for not qualifying for the survey you just spent the past hour of your life that you'll never get back (while your legs fell dead because you were on the toilet) taking), so you just stare at the black screen of your phone and contemplate why humanity is allowed to exist.

Or you'd figure okay maybe that was a one time fluke, maybe it was my connection, so you go for another big survey and take a while to answer it satisfactorily only to be told at the very end, after they get all the data they want regarding Caroline Herrera perfume bottle shapes and what imagery they evoke for you, that you don't qualify for the survey so you don't get the points you've earned and again are given one (1) single fucking patronizing point that goes towards your balance you've got to acquire $20 dollars' worth of points before you can cash out and you realize you were never going to get the points or money you worked for because Branded Surveys aka BS never intended to pay out and was just using your desperation and time to rob you instead of paying you and so you ultimately stopped taking surveys and found people on Reddit (which ironically was what recommended BS in the first place) having the exact same experience regarding "not qualifying" for surveys upon completion of said surveys so you're back to staring at your screen and broke and jobless and without the $520 for the Employment Authorization Document application (i-765) form and also the $25 for your phone due on June 5th.

I also very likely almost died because some entitled, arrogant, selfish piece of shit decided to literally cross lanes at the last second to make the exit and the only reason I'm not an anonymous smear on the road as a result of someone's complete lack of regard for anyone else's life and well-being is because my uber driver was paying attention and swerved to avoid getting hit.

So that's how my Pride Month is going so far. :) How's everyone else's?

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Ryan Burge at Graphs About Religion:

What in the world happened in the 2024 presidential election? It’s a question I’ve been asked by dozens of media outlets over the last six months. But I had a big problem: no reliable data that would aid me in answering such a question. The exit polls, no matter what anyone tells you, should not be considered gospel. There are a number of fundamental flaws in their design that make it impossible to rely on them to construct an accurate portrayal of what actually happened on election day. Their real purpose? To fill air time on election night while the major networks wait for the results to pile again across the United States. But all that’s changed now and my goal over the next couple of months is to tell the story of the campaign between Donald Trump and Kamala Harris using data from the newly released Cooperative Election Study. This survey indicates that 22% of all American adults align with an evangelical denomination. Seventeen percent of the sample are white evangelicals and just over 5% are non-white evangelicals. Among those non-white evangelicals, 38% were Black and 28% were Hispanic.

It should come as no surprise that evangelicals overwhelmingly supported Donald Trump in 2024, because they gave him a tremendous amount of support in both 2016 and 2020. But, it’s noteworthy that Trump continued to make inroads among evangelicals - his share of the vote went from 70% to 75% in the last three elections. The Democrats have not done well at all with evangelicals. Their best effort was in 2012 when Obama got 30% of their votes. But Harris did slightly worse than Biden - 23% vs 25%. But it’s notable that Biden got the same share of the evangelical vote as Hillary Clinton in 2016. Of course, Trump’s real base of support is specifically among white evangelicals. In 2016, Trump’s vote share was no different than McCain in 2008 or Romney’s in 2012 - about 77%. But in 2020, Trump ran up the score just a bit - garnering 81% of the white evangelical vote. The data from 2024 says he continued to win over the white evangelical vote at 83% - the highest on record. However the breakdown of the non-white evangelical vote may tell the story of the 2024 election when it comes to religion. Republicans have historically struggled with this group of voters. In 2008, Obama enjoyed an 18 point advantage and that expanded dramatically in the next couple of election cycles. In 2012, the non-white evangelical vote was D+30 and it was D+25 in 2016. But then in 2020, Trump managed to make some inroads - getting back to 40% and narrowing the gap to 18 points. But look at 2024 - a huge shift. The non-white evangelical vote was essentially split in 2024 - Harris 49% and Trump at 48%. Harris lost at least ten points with this constituency - a huge blow. [...] There’s a lot going on in this graph but I think that the big narrative is how Trump just continues to make gains among evangelical voters. Between 2016 and 2024 he gained five points among yearly attending evangelicals, eight points among monthly attending evangelicals, seven points among weekly attendees and eight points among those who attended multiple times per week. However, Trump didn’t actually lose ground with those who attend less than once a year. What about those non-white evangelicals? I would direct your attention to the bottom right of the graph. Donald Trump made really sizable gains with the high attenders. Between 2016 and 2024, Trump’s share went from 33% to 47% among non-white evangelicals who attend church every week. He did thirteen points better among those who attend religious services multiple times per week. But there are also increases among yearly attenders and monthly attenders, too.

Ryan Burge writes in Graphs About Religion on the 2024 election post-mortem on the evangelical vote. While White evangelicals lopsidedly backed Trump, non-White evangelicals were nearly split [49% Harris to 48% Trump].

In previous elections, non-White evangelicals voted Democratic by a decent margin, but the margins were nearly wiped out, and that was driven mainly by Hispanic evangelicals swinging hard to the GOP.

[sleepy-steve]

@steddieangstyaugust 09/08 // upside down

wc: 2.6k // rating: M // cw: excessive description of injury/blood/wounds // tags: previous first kiss, canon divergence, post-s4, steve harrington whump, this man is so injured it’s crazy, so injured and so self-sacrificing

part two to day 8 but can be read alone ♡

divider credits @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Steve drops down into the unfortunately familiar grey-blue atmosphere of the Upside Down. His feet hit the ground, and despite the bandana covering his nose and mouth, he feels the death and decay enter his lungs as he surveys his surroundings. It’s much worse than before. It’s heavier, like inhaling steam, but sits cold in his chest. A sign that he shouldn’t have returned. A reminder of how dangerous this was. The ground shakes with tremors as Steve pulls on the rope, testing its stability before tying it to the nearby destroyed remains of a trailer. In this state, he couldn’t be sure whose it was. The giant crack in the earth had all but destroyed the trailer park, but it was close enough to where they’d exited those days before, panicked and rushed, Dustin near inconsolable about having lost Eddie.

“Buddy, buddy, look at me,” Steve had said, grasping his shoulders. “We’ll come back for him, okay? I will come back for him.”

“No!” Dustin cried. “No, Steve! I can’t lose you too!”

Steve wouldn’t promise it, but he let the matter go at the time. He waited until after he’d been admitted to the hospital, receiving treatment for an infection in the bat bites. Bringing it back up once they’d all received medical attention only had several people yelling at him. He was warned, commanded, begged—repeatedly and earnestly—to not go back into the Upside Down. That it wasn’t safe. That he needed time to heal. That there would be no point. That Eddie was gone, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t want Steve to risk his life going back in to find him.

“Steve, you’re literally in a hospital bed,” Nancy had said, her steely tone covering her concern. “You can’t be serious.”

“Listen, Harrington,” Hopper had sat beside him, voice stern. “You are not to go back there. Do you understand me? We can’t lose any more people.”

But Steve wouldn’t be swayed. And so he was alone. Searching the Upside Down for a man that was believed to be dead.

His flashlight swung in an arc, illuminating the destruction around him. Deep, cavernous fissures in the ground are lit up by the flashlight. Eddie couldn’t have gotten far, with how seriously he was injured. Once the earthquakes started, Dustin said he tried to drag his body out of the wreckage, but it was almost impossible. He took cover until the shaking ground settled enough for him to walk. When he went back, Eddie’s body was gone. Steve pulls debris aside, the movement tugging on his barely healed scars, searching areas that someone could hide in. The scar around his neck burns. Steve had to find him.

Mike, Will, and Eleven were looking for Dustin, after having visited Max, when they showed up at Steve’s hospital room. As Dustin readied to walk them out, Steve asked Eleven to stay back to ask her a question—earning some distinctive looks from the others—and once the boys were gone, handed her one of the Missing Person posters that Wayne Munson had hung up around the relief centre.

“Can you look for him?” Steve had asked, desperate at that point. “If he’s still… if he’s down there, will you know?”

Eleven gave him a quizzical look, but nodded. “If he is there, I can find him.”

He’d waited patiently—tried not to fidget, to keep quiet—while she put a blindfold on, the small radio Dustin had brought to Steve set to static. The seconds ticked into minutes as Steve watched intently, waiting for an answer.

“I see him,” she finally said. “He’s… hurt. Lost.”

Steve’s heart was in his throat. “Is he… alive?”

Eleven nodded. “Alive,” she confirmed.

Feeling like the air was being sucked out of his lungs, Steve’s hands went to his hair. He’d hoped, god, he’d prayed, that it was true. That they hadn’t lost Eddie. But that meant he’d been stuck down there for almost a week now.

“D’you—can you see where he is?” Steve asked.

She was still for several moments, mouth pulled into a frown, before she shook her head. Trying not to be disappointed, he focused on the important part. Eddie was alive. For now, at least. But he had to work fast.

“Okay, uh, listen,” Steve said. “Can you please, uh, not tell anyone else? That you know this.”

When she pulled her blindfold off, she gave him a look that was far too knowing. “Friends don’t lie, Steve.”

“I’m not asking you to lie,” He quickly clarified. “But this is to keep everyone else safe. If the others find out that he’s alive, they’ll try to go back in to find him.” He takes a breath. “It has to be me, no one else.”

“Steve, it is not safe there.” Eleven looked over him. “You are still sick. It will get worse.”

“I know, kid,” Steve sighed. “But I have to save him.”

In the end, Steve convinced her to promise to keep it to herself—unless someone asked directly, and unless he hadn’t returned within six hours of going back—with the added compromise that he would tell Robin where he was going. He checked himself out of the hospital that afternoon, signing multiple forms that indicated he knew he was going against medical advice.

Telling Robin of his plan was never in question. He couldn’t lie to her. Sitting her down at his house, he asked her to please not tell anyone, to only involve anyone else if he hadn’t returned in six hours, as he promised Eleven. Robin begged him not to go through with it, reaching an almost panicked state as she tried to convince him to stay. He can still hear her tearful voice in his mind, looping over and over, a reminder of what he’s sacrificing.

“Steve, please, you can’t do this, at least not without someone to help you!” She’d held onto his arm, stopping him from loading items into a backpack.

Steve turned to her. “I’m not going to drag anyone else into this with me, Robin. This is my decision. Everyone’s already made it clear they don’t think it’s a good idea. I gotta go alone.”

“At least let me come with you!” Robin tried, following him as he searched for a flashlight. “At least you wouldn’t be alone.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders, stopping her. “I can’t let you do that for me. It’s too dangerous.”

Robin shrugged him off, tone growing angry. “So what are you doing then?! Going alone when it’s too dangerous for me to come with you? You’re not even fully healed yet, Steve! You could die down there!”

“I have to try, Rob,” Steve sighed. “I have to. He’s trapped down there.” 

“We could organise a rescue, just don’t do this alone!” Robin yelled, reaching the end of her patience.

He took her hands in his. “No one else needs to put themselves in danger. Hopper was right, we can’t lose any more people, but I can’t just leave him down there. I can’t, Robin.”

Steve knew Robin would understand, at least, why he needed to do this. The kiss. The one that haunts him. The one he and Eddie shared behind the RV, right before they marched back into hell and they lost him. Robin knew—more than anyone—what Steve would do, that his mind wouldn’t be changed. Not for something like this. Because Steve was self-sacrificing to the point of harm for anyone important to him. And this was bigger. There was more at stake—she could tell by the way he spoke about it, with how serious his tone was. She cried and held him tight, finally demanding that he come back at the first sign of danger, and promising him that they could regroup and try again. Just as long as he came back.

Heart aching as the conversation replayed in his mind, Steve shook himself. He needed to focus. The increasing pain of his scars was distracting enough, and he couldn’t afford to lose time. Already having searched for what felt like hours, Steve’s strength was starting to waver. The crimson storm clouds rolled overhead. The weight of his emotions—the guilt, the wish that he’d handled things differently—was starting to feel impossible to carry.

It ate him alive, the way it all went down. The connection between them had been undeniable, Steve constantly finding himself drawn to Eddie, and Eddie endlessly getting back up in his space. It all culminated in a shared moment that turned into a timid kiss, which quickly turned desperate and heavy. It all became too much, too fast, too real—

Steve had panicked and asked him to stop, but it just came out wrong, and Eddie wouldn’t hear him out. He’d wanted to keep going, god, he’d never been kissed like that. Not with so much heat and desire and need. But he also didn’t want it to just be that. He felt something between them that was magnetic and electric and set his heart ablaze in a way he hadn’t felt before. He just couldn’t get the words out. Left speechless by the feeling of Eddie’s tongue in his mouth and his body pressed up against him. He wished he’d just been able to verbalise what he felt. I don’t want this to be meaningless. I’m not just trying to get a quick lay at the end of the world. I think this could be something special. I want it to be.

If only his mouth had cooperated with him. But Eddie had misunderstood his faltering for rejection, and ran away… And they had more important issues to deal with. Despite wanting to approach, to explain himself and set the record straight, Steve knew it would have to wait. Except Eddie had done the very thing Steve told him not to do. Ran right into danger, played the hero, and sacrificed himself. Yes, it meant Dustin was saved, and for that, Steve would always be grateful. But Eddie was gone—lost.

Lost but alive. This is the thought that keeps him moving. Keeps him searching despite his body screaming in agony. Some of the wounds feel open, the sickly cold seeping under the bandages and mingling with his blood. His back burns and aches—the abrasions from being dragged on the ground, dry and splitting—the pain of it sinking deep into his muscles. Making it harder for him to move. Every breath is laborious, he feels like he’s drowning. Steve pulls down the bandana, coughing heavily. The strange particles in the air get sucked into his lungs as he tries to catch his breath. The wounds around his stomach bite into him, feeling worse than when he arrived at the hospital, where infection was starting to take hold. He can’t give up.

Every second feels precarious. Steve hasn’t heard the chittering or hissing of any creatures down here, thankfully, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. The atmosphere alone is dangerous enough. Like the Upside Down was rejecting his presence, and the longer he stays, the more it tries to destroy him. How could Eddie be alive in this place?

It’s been hours now. The flashlight illuminates another chasm in the ground, reminding him of how unachievable his task is. Steve drops his backpack to the ground and leans against a more solid looking destroyed trailer, the back of his head hitting it as he looks to the red-clouded sky. His legs ache from walking. Daring to look down, he notices dark spots starting to stain his shirt. He swallows heavily, mouth dry, the taste of rot on his tongue. A wave of nausea rolls over him. He wills it down, knowing that if he vomited now, the pain in his wounds would only grow, and he’s not sure he can handle that. 

Dread starts to seep in, and for the first time since he arrived back here, Steve starts to think that maybe he can’t do this. Maybe he can’t rescue Eddie. Not on his own. Not in his current state. Even if he found Eddie now, how would he be able to help? He can barely support his own weight right now.

Steve slides down the side of the trailer, hissing in pain as it drags against the scars on his back. The ground trembles beneath him. Another reminder of the impossibility of what he’s trying to do. He checks his watch. Three hours since he left, half of his time is already up.

“Fuck…” Steve breathes, trying to keep his cool. He could do this. He had to do this. He reaches into the backpack, pulling out a bottle of water. The plastic cracks as he twists the lid off. The water does little to ease his nausea. It’s with his eyes closed, praying for some strength to return, when he hears it.

A… gasp?

Steve’s head turns sharply toward the echoing sound. He drops the water bottle back into his bag, pulling out his nail bat and scrambling to his feet. The sound comes again from his right. He steps slowly, bat raised. His heart hammers in his chest. Following the sound, pain temporarily forgotten, Steve makes his way carefully around the destroyed trailer, avoiding debris.

The sound gets louder. Steve approaches a chasm in the earth, two half destroyed trailers on either side. Shattered glass and half melted metal litter the ground. With the bat in his hands, the flashlight is tucked under his arm, shakily brightening the space ahead of him. He leans over the edge, feet planted wide, and looks down into the darkness. It’s shallower than he thought, cracked with blocks of earth jutting out of the walls. 

With no immediate danger in his eyeline, he lowers the bat and aims the flashlight down into the cavern. As the light shines over, he sees dark splatters over the rocks, and Steve hopes it’s not blood. He looks lower, brows pulling together as he follows the splatters deeper into the rift. He hears what sounds like a rattling inhale, head snapping up, a few feet ahead of where he currently stands. Taking a couple tentative steps, he scans the depths carefully, searching for the source of the sound.

The splatters are larger, darker, decorating the earth as he follows the light. An odd shape catches his eye, and he directs the flashlight at it. Steve squints, trying to make out the object, as the light barely illuminates that far down. It takes a moment before he recognises the familiar pair of boots, anything else hidden by another overhanging piece of earth.

Steve doesn’t hesitate, shoving the flashlight between his teeth, and sliding down the edge of the chasm. He shakily drops to a set of rocks a little ways down, looking for a safe enough spot to move down again. Leaning against the rough walls, he shifts another step lower, pain in his back and sides screaming at him. It’s a precarious descent, but he manages to reach the bottom. Steve shines the flashlight ahead, brightening the space. When his eyes adjust, he takes a few cautious steps before dropping to his knees, bat falling to the ground with an echoing clunk.

Eddie lays on his side. He’s covered in dried blood, clothes torn, curled defensively with his knees up to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. Unable to see any sign of movement, Steve’s chest tightens, fearing the worst. Was he too late?

He reaches out with a trembling hand. “Eddie?” he breathes.

Eddie jolts, eyes snapping open, taking in a deep, rasping breath. His breathing settles. He focuses on the man above him. “…Steve?”

[flamingpudding]

Fictober23 Prompt: 15 - "Fine explain it to me."

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: T

Warnings: Slight shipping but can be seen as platonic too

A/N: Just wanted to mention that I usually am more of a found family themed dpxdc writer but this was a self runner once I started writing until I realised that this could be seen as a ship.

Danny sipped on the champain, he was drinking leaning against the wall. Next to him, also leaning against the wall with crossed arms was Dan glaring at everyone that even remotely tried to approach them. Dani had disappeared into the crowds and Danny was convinced that she had made her way to the buffet table and had found a hiding place with whatever food she had piled up high on a plate. He had seen her do that before.

"How long do these things go?" Dan asked, glaring at someone specifically, Danny knew was a business partner of the fruitloop.

"A couple of hours, usually fruitloop lets us leave around 8 pm." Danny answered easily, surveying the area for any familiar face he might recognize despite knowing he wouldn't. Sam's family wasn't attending this gala and any face he could recognize was probably a business partner of Vlad or someone he had seen on a magazine cover.

"Dile back your glare. Your eyes are glowing red." He offhandedly mentioned to his time-clone-twin taking another sip. Dan only growled at him and looked stubbornly away, though his eyes lost the red color and turned back to a blue.

"How do you and Dani do this shit?"

Danny hummed, museing how things had changed over the past couple of years since Dani and him started to attend these Galas Vlad made them go too. "I hated it at first too. But you weren't socialized enough to attend and Dani used to flat out refuse but we got used to it and found our tactics on how to handle it. Dani usually raids the buffet and finds a hiding place, I just hang with Sam if she is here."

"But she is not." Dan growled, now glaring at a rich kid that had looked like it wanted to approach them but wisely decided to turn tail at Dan's glare. "These stuck up kids are trying to mock us aren't they?"

"Yup." Danny popped the p. "We could always ghost the fruitloop though."

"And have to listen to him lecturing us later? No thanks." Dan's eyes went over the people at this place. He saw Vlad talking to someone he was pretty sure had been on the cover of some tech magazine before but then his eyes stopped on a guy with black hair and blue eyes looking only slightly older than them that was staring at them very intensely.

Dan rammed his elbow into Danny's side, causing the other to wheeze and nearly drop the glass he was holding. The one he had spotted was now on his way to approach them and Dan narrowed his eyes. "You know that guy?"

Danny once he caught his breath again looked up and his eyes widened with recognition. "Shit!"

But before Dan could question the other about that guy, who was now speed walking with a business smile towards them, Danny grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him along with him. "We need to go, like right now."

Dan dragging his feed and making Danny literally drag him along only looked at his phone arching an eyebrow mockingly. "It's not 8 pm yet."

"Text the fruitloop. We are going-"

"Danny, what a pleasure to see you here, I didn't know you attended galas like this." Danny got cut off by the same guy Dan had spotted watching them. He hadn't seen how but somehow that guy had managed to cross the hall before them and block Danny's exit.

Dan heard Danny mutter a distinctive "fuck" before letting go of his elbow and smiling at the guy nervously. "Dick. What a surprise. I didn't know you would be here."

"Dick?" Dan repeated with an arched eyebrow but Danny swiftly stepped on his foot.

"Well Bruce thought it was about time again I attended one of the Galas with him again. You know how it is, don't you?" There was a glint in the other's eyes and Dan eyed him interested, the guy had some dirt on Danny. This was going to be interesting.

"Ah well yea, Vlad asked for me to come along too and someone got to represent my late parents too after all." Danny laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck and clearly avoiding direct eye contact.

"Represent your late parents?"

"Yea funny thing, my parents willed their company to me and-"

"I thought you said you were an engineer working for Dalv.Co? To think I told you about how I am with the Waynes and yet you never mentioned even once to me your relation to Masters." Dan blinked, okay so that guy was a friend Danny had made somehow outside of Sam and Tucker.

"I do! I do, it's just that… well... I can explain!"

"Fine, explain it to me."

Danny appeared to be a flustered mess while this Dick was staring at him with crossed arms. Dan watched them with fascination and a small amount of satisfaction at how Danny fumbled with his words. He then felt a tuck at his side and locked down to find Dani offering him popcorn.

"That's Dick Greyson." Something suddenly clicked for Dan and he smirked down at Dani.

"The guy that's teaching your Gymnastic course that Danny always volunteers to take you too?"

Dani nodded once more and now also sporting a mischievous smile.

[scorchieart]

Budget Cuts

Leon: Alright, how about this one?

Chevalier: ...No.

Leon: You didn't even read the whole thing.

Chevalier: I have read enough to know it requires major revision.

Leon: Okay, fine. I can maybe cut back a few orders for the kitchens in Spring, but you'll have to answer to Yves when he—

Chevalier: Not that. Line 39.

Leon: Ah, yeah. That... It's a minor condition.

Chevalier: It does not belong in the budget plan.

Leon: It's just for one day. It'll fly by.

Chevalier: I refuse to comply.

Leon: It's your civic duty as the Second Prince to comply with the wishes of the citizens of Rhodolite.

Chevalier: And since when have the citizens of Rhodolite wished for this?

Leon: The Boys™ and I conducted an end of year survey. One question was: If you could demand one act of community service from any prince next year, what would it be?

Chevalier: Was it multiple choice?

Leon: Free response, actually.

Chevalier: Did Clavis "assist" you in your data collection?

Leon: Listen, you should be honored. And that wasn't even the top pick. But Sariel made an executive decision to veto that one. Didn't represent domestic values, or something.

Chevalier: What was it?

Leon: Jin Topless Tuesdays.

Chevalier: And yet, this was deemed adherent to "domestic values"?

Leon: Give me some leeway here, Chevalier. I'm letting you keep your bit about constructing fifty new bee sanctuaries across the kingdom, even though they pose zero military advantage as far as I'm aware. Aside from maybe stinging invaders.

Chevalier: Having additional sources of food along the journey decreases the need to overpack at the start. Additionally, the honey invigorates soldiers without risk of sugar crash.

Leon: So that's how Luke convinced you.

Chevalier: You need to revise your proposal.

Leon: You need to learn to be a team player. There are only 10 days left till the budget plan is due.

Chevalier: Meanwhile, I am counting down the days until I am crowned king and can veto any ridiculous suggestion that exits your mouth.

--— 11 days later —--

Townsperson 1: Hey, is that... is that Prince Chevalier?

Townsperson 2: Mhmm.

Townsperson 1: Wearing a giant, adorable, fluffy tiger costume?

Townsperson 2: Mmhmmm.

Townsperson 1: And handing out chocolates and terrifying grimaces to the children?

Townsperson 2: I think those are meant to be smiles?

Townsperson 1: This is why I voted for Topless Tuesdays.

Jin + Clavis: Psshhh! Speak for yourselves. *high-fives*

[letteredlettered]

What an interesting topic. I’ve heard that a large percentage of employees cite their bosses as the reason they leave their jobs. What are some ways companies try to mitigate this?

They don't.

I can really only answer for my company, which cared about retention (of employees) a lot. Many companies do, because it costs much less to recruit/onboard/train as little as possible, and because it can be hard to get the work done without adequate staffing. I'd add that my company had one area in which staffing was a nation-wide crisis; also my company was in the public sector and was in the press a lot, which mean they cared about their image.

They still didn't do that much to ensure that people had good bosses. That has less to do with this company and more to do with the structure of business in capitalist society. This is a big reason HR is never going to be that helpful unless you've got a tiny company that, completely by luck, has mostly good folks.

A company isn't going to take a generalized point about folks leaving their job because they don't like their bosses as fact. Companies feel they are too diverse and the financial risk is too great to pour money into something if they don't have hard data, so the first step to retention is getting data. You would think exit interviews would be really informative, but those require a lot of time which equals staff which equals money. Some employers do them but mine would only do one if you asked, and then they did nothing with the info. This is because the company's mentality was "well, if you're leaving you're probably really dissatisfied and we don't want to hear about that." I know this makes no sense. But in general, not just in the business but in this society (formed by capitalism), the idea seems to be if you're dissatisfied it's your fault. Meanwhile the company is interested in data about why people stay; they figure if folks are satisfied, that's the company's fault and they want to keep doing the same so they can retain employees.

Our company had a huge employee satisfaction survey they did every year that included questions about employee opinions about the company, their colleagues, and their bosses. You get emails to remind you to take it and if you can't get time in the workday, bosses are supposed to allow time for it. Some problems with that are you still have to remember to take it; if you don't have time you have to ask a boss you might not like to get that time; some folks at my company literally had jobs that literally are life or death so it can be hard to take time to take a survey; the survey is only in English; the survey is only in the computer; the reminders are only in email. So you have to be a moderately good English speaker who regularly checks email and knows how to use a computer and gets regular access to a computer for the company to get your data about your satisfaction. As you can imagine, our most vulnerable employees often get missed.

If the survey showed that folks were really dissatisfied with a particular boss, that boss got put into a series of trainings. Training is good, but US businesses (and plenty of employees themselves) seemed to have latched onto the idea that training is the be-all, end-all of improvement. Many of us saw this in response to the discussions about EDI (equity, diversity, and inclusion) that came about in 2020; business promised to be anti-racist and had some EDI seminars to prove it, and that was all. Why is it like this? What is really needed to make bosses better bosses? And why isn't that being done?

When it comes to "why is it like this": recruiting and retaining good leaders is hard. The way someone becomes a boss in almost any organization is a) management likes them, and/or b) they were good at a job in a lower level or different department, or c) they come from the outside with a good resume and what sounds like good experience. But a lot of time, management likes people who aren't disruptive, and sometimes folks who aren't disruptive are the folks who are not thinking for themselves and not asking questions and doing everything the way they're told even when it doesn't make sense. That doesn't make a good leader. As for folks who are good at the lower level job in the hierarchy or in another department, they aren't always good at managing. It's a different skill set, but I've seen a lot of leaders and employees make this mistake. They think that that the folks who are great at the job should be promoted, and honestly that really doesn't make sense. And last but not least, folks who get hired from the outside are a complete crapshoot, because experience with leadership does not necessarily a good leader make.

As for what is needed to make bosses better bosses, imo what you would really need is someone embedded within the department who is managed by the boss and is doing the same work as the other employees, but also has the training and experience to evaluate what the boss is doing well and isn't doing well, and then also has the authority and buy-in to work with the boss so that the boss can shadow and learn the leadership skills they need. Then, if the boss can't improve, there would need to be the will within the org to fire or demote that boss, and often that will doesn't exist because recruiting bosses is so hard and the training is usually monumental.

Side note, what I'm describing is what consultants should do and normally don't. Consultants come in and ask a lot of questions and do focus groups and maybe some observations, but they are not in there doing the work understanding what it is like to live in this world, and without that I frankly find a lot of the work they do useless. That said, consultants are almost always hired to identify inefficiencies; they're not really there to make it a more satisfying job. Imo, the greatest efficiency is a satisfied worker, but it is hard to get the data to point that way, and again, companies only want data, and again, your dissatisfaction is your own fault.

Another side note, this is why unions are so great. Union stewards are folks who work for the company but can act as a union representative. This means they're embedded in the department and doing the work everyone does, but they can also at times step outside that role and carry the authority of an outside entity that does have some power to use against the employer. This is why all employees should have a union.

So, why aren't companies doing this? As you can imagine, hiring the ambassador to embed within a department, training them, paying them for their time--all of these are just too cost prohibitive to justify when they only thing you're getting out of it is employee satisfaction. It is also possible to improve employee satisfaction by paying employees more, which is in fact why I stayed in this job I hated as long as I did. I was getting paid so much that it just did not make sense to walk away without a firm plan in place. In the end, paying employees more costs less than ensuring they have a good boss.

I have lots more to say about this, but I've said a lot already, so if anyone has follow up questions, feel free to send more asks.

[lostsyren]

I have a request about the standards scene what if instead of her hearing them and walking away she walks towards them and joins the conversation acting all gleeful and couple in front of Ruthie and Topper?

˚⋆𐙚｡ 𖦹.ᡣ𐭩˚ my girl

{a/n: hi lovely!! sorry for taking so long with this request, i hope you like it and i hope it’s what you envisioned, I tried to make it more fluffy than angsty!!}

{summary: what if sofia joined in the conversation in episode 3 after overhearing ruthie talk about her}

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Once Sofia’s dad had mentioned Hollis’ strange request, she knew she had to tell Rafe. He’d told her in the morning he was going to the Country Club with Topper meaning his phone was on silent, so Sofia got in the car and drove up to Figure 8 to tell him as soon as possible.

Quickly parking and exiting her car, she walked up to the table they usually loitered by, hearing her boyfriend’s voice. Ruthie and Topper were also there, Sofia honing on to their words.

“I mean your girlfriend right?” She heard Ruthie say, her schadenfreude laced words a telltale sign it was her who was speaking.

“Sofia? What about her?” Rafe replied, sounding confused. His words were slurred, as if he’d had a couple drinks. The hair on Sofia’s nape stood on end as she realised they were taking about her.

She watched Ruthie wince dramatically, her eyes wet with glee, whilst Topper glanced downwards, as if he knew where the conversation was heading.

“She’s pretty pogue, isn’t she?” Ruthie said, an irksome smirk plastered across her face. Hearing her words so tinged with such disdain made Sofia seethe with rage. She had enough– she wasn’t going to let Ruthie bitch about her behind her back.

Sauntering up to the table, Sofia revelled in the look on Ruthie and Topper’s faces, their eyes widening in shock, and mouths suspended in surprise on noticing her walk up to them.

“Hey,” she greeted sweetly, settling beside Rafe, who looked just as surprised. She wrapped her arm around Rafe’s, looking up at him with her doe eyes.

“Sof– I thought you were with your family today?” Rafe said, as Ruthie and Topper surveyed them.

“I needed to tell you something and it couldn’t wait, so I thought I’d come down. What were you guys taking about just now?” She asked, her gaze panning on to the other two people at the table.

“Oh nothing,” Topper spluttered out, visage twisted as if it hurt him to lie.

“Really? I thought I heard my name?”

Sofia glanced back up at Rafe, her grip tightening on his arm.

“I don’t know– Ruthie you were going to say something?” He directed his question directed to the girl.

“It was nothing,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink as her eyes darkened in annoyance.

“Sorry if I interrupted anything,” Sofia simpered, a faux sincerity clinging to her words; she knew just how to tug at Rafe’s heartstrings. He would always be conscious about making her feel welcomed in his friend group– because he knew she didn’t like spending time with them. So none of them (Ruthie, Topper or Kelce) would poke fun at her second hand car, nor would they say anything when she’d work at the club and serve them their drinks, instead politely thanking her with a smile– because they knew if they did, they’d have Rafe to answer to.

He slung an easy arm around her small frame. “No don’t be sorry, I’m glad you’re here,” he smiled, drawing her into a soft embrace, his lips brushing over her forehead.

Sofia bristled with satisfaction at seeing Ruthie and Topper shuffle about in awkwardness as Rafe beamed down at her with his usual dopey grin.

“What was it you needed to tell me?” Rafe asked, his attention solely on her. Sofia wondered what he would’ve said if she hadn’t intervened– if he would’ve defended her in front of Ruthie or humiliated her instead?

“It’s private.” She darted her eyes quickly to Ruthie and Topper, as Rafe led her away, his arm still slouched on her shoulders. He gave Topper a brief nod of the head as a goodbye, ignoring Ruthie and walking over to a quieter corner of the club.

“Is everything ok?”

Sofia nodded, momentarily forgetting about Hollis and her shady offer, her mind now consumed with insecurity.

“I heard Ruthie call me a pogue.” She mumbled, eyeing Rafe’s reaction. His smiled slowly faded, the brightness in his eyes subsiding.

“Shit, she was just stirring Sofia, you know how she is.”

“I know, I know– I just was wondering what you were gonna say to her? You know, if I didn’t show up when I did.”

Rafe licked his lips, jaw straining, discomfort radiating out of his pores.

“You don’t like me any less because of it…right?” She added when he didn’t answer, voice almost a whisper. Sofia felt silly, but her mind was addled with the thought that Rafe was perhaps embarrassed– especially in front of Ruthie and Topper, two kooks notorious for their bitter rivalry with anyone south of the island.

“Of course not…look Sofia, I like you for you. Fuck Ruthie and Topper, they just like to talk shit, ok?”

“Ok,” she breathed with a shaky inhale, wanting to desperately believe him. “You would defend me right? If they ever did that– talk horribly about me?”

Sofia’s gaze flickered between his irises, gauging the contraction of the pupil, the sheen of emotion– Rafe almost looked…guilty. It unsettled Sofia making her question his sincerity.

“Of course I would. You’re my girl.”

Sofia smiled as she couldn’t help but swell with giddiness as he slid his hands around her waist, tugging her closer. He always said that– she was his girl. But they’ve never defined the relationship. They were never ‘dates’ but ‘hangouts’, it was never ‘living together’ but ‘sleeping over’ it was never ‘girlfriend’ but ‘his girl’.

The strange coalescence of lexicon, where one word became another, where their status floated about in the ether, never defined, never locked down, always existing in a daydream, sometimes bothered Sofia. But whatever they had, (this intangible, undefinable thing), was special to her hence she was wary not to ruin it. So she let words like kook and pogue vanish around them into the firmament encircling their relationship…they became Rafe and Sofia, and in their daydream state, that was enough.

“Ok, sorry I just– I worry you know? I’m not like your friends, I’m not like Ruthie.”

“You’re saying that as if it’s a bad thing,” he joked, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

Sofia laughed softly, “I know…sorry.”

“Stop apologising baby, let’s go get something to eat yeah? And then you can tell me what you wanted to say…or do you have to go back to your family?”

“I could go for lunch.” She smiled playfully, hooking his arm with his.

“Good, I missed you today, I’m happy you came.”

“Yeah?” She teased as the two walked arm in arm out of the bar house and down to the restaurant.

“Yeah…It’s always better with you.”

Sofia’s cheeks bloomed pink with blush, his candour piercing right through her heart making it overflow with glee.

If it wasn’t for his friends, Rafe Cameron would’ve been perfect.

The two walked past Ruthie and Topper, who sat at the bar ordering another round of drinks. Sofia gave them a small smile, a strange feeling of protection cast over her as she was slotted in Rafe’s hold.

Being his girl was something she cherished but she also hoped to be more than that. Sofia wanted a companion, partner, a better half. And she wanted Rafe to be that for her. Maybe one day, outside the confines of Kildare Island, outside the boundaries of kook and pogue, they’d find that together, their daydream becoming a reality.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚ ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

[cameronspecial]

Begging for more Zach content pookie

What Is Love?

Pairing: Dad!Zach MacLaren x Reader

Warnings: Really bad science

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.7K

Masterlist

Zach stands in front of the hot oven and reaches in to grab the finished pizza from the oven. He has no idea where his children are in the house, but he knows his wife is having dinner out with friends and that his eldest son should be home from his girlfriend’s house soon. Right on cue, the front door opens and in comes Isaac. The teen boy's normal quick pace is replaced with a slow one. This causes the father to turn toward the kitchen entrance with worry. “Are you okay?” The son doesn’t answer right away. There is a lost look in his eyes that tells Zach Isaac is lost in thought. “Are you okay?” he repeats his question. Isaac finally snaps out of his head and looks at his dad with a straight smile. Silence falls over the pair. Zach assumes he isn’t ready to talk about it and goes back to get dinner ready. “How did you know you were in love with mom?” Zach freezes, not expecting that question. It’s a hard question to answer because it is impossible to explain. “I… I guess I just liked her,” he tries to explain. His carbon copy tilts his head, “What does that mean?” Zach strokes his chin in thought of how to make sense. “Let me tell you about when your mom and I first said I love you,” he elucidates. “Well, more like when I told your mom I love her for the first time…” 

———

Her hands were a little cold as she took the nods off of his head. He stared up at her with wonder in his eyes. Her study had been going on for three months now and while he found it to be a useless study, he was thankful for it because it led him to meet her. It is ironic for him to find love during an experiment meant to demonstrate that love is merely a rush of endorphins that fool one into doing crazy things. Her belief in love parallels what she was researching and he accepted this view, much to his disappointment. It was the small things he noticed that made him fall for her. The way she played with her earrings while examining his brain scan. The way she always tried her best to go past small talk. The way her jokes were always so corny, yet her laugh was contagious. “As you know, this is the last test we need for this experiment. I would like to thank you for participating in the study and you will get your payment when you do the exit survey,” she got the protocol out of the way before continuing. “I want you to know that you were my favourite brain to observe.” A blush reddened his cheeks at her flirting.

“I bet you say that to all your participants,” he brushed off, looking down with his palm on his neck. She shook her head, “Nope, you are a great conversationalist and you are the one that proves the hypothesis of her study. You said you weren’t in love and you didn’t have any brain activity.” His smile dropped at her words. He may not be great at science, except he understood what a hypothesis is and what hers is. He didn’t like that he confirmed her disbelief in love. “Ooh,” he huffed out. She looked down at him in concern as she put away the pads that were scanning his brain. “What’s wrong?” she worried. He took a wild chance he didn’t know he was going to take, “I love you.” She reeled back, stepping away from him. “Wh-what? What are you talking about?” she questioned. 

“The time we’ve spent together all these months has made me fall in love with you.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about. That can’t be true. Your brain scans didn’t show any endorphin activity. It’s impossible.”

She is backed up against the desk with her arms crossed. “Maybe your test is stupid then,” he argued and quickly regretted. Anger flushed her. He just called her an academic career stupid and being nice didn’t mean she would let him talk to her that way. She scoffed, “I guess it is a good thing you don’t need to participate in it anymore.” She stormed out of the room, commanding that one of her peers finish taking care of Zach. 

———

“Wow, that did not go well for you, Dad,” Isaac comments, shoving the guac-smeared chip into his mouth. “If you and mom have such opposing views on love, then how did you guys get together.” Zach cringes at the memory. Worry takes over him as he imagines what could’ve happened if it didn’t go the way that it went. “I would say it was when I went on a date with Becky,” he thinks out loud. His son raises his hand, “Hold on, Becky. As in Aunt Becky, Becky?” The older man raises his finger to his lips. “Let me finish my story. So it all started when I went on a date with your Aunt Becky…”

———

It probably wasn’t the best idea to go on a date with the best friend of the woman he loves; however, she asked him and he let out a panicked yes. So now, he was sitting in front of the black-haired woman, tapping his foot like crazy. Her eyes met his over his glasses and she laughed. “I only asked you on this date as a cover. I need to talk to you about Y/N,” she informed. Zach’s eyebrow raised, “What is there to say about her? I love her, but she doesn’t love me or even believe in love.” “That’s because she is scared,” Becky explained, boring her green eyes into his. “Her home life sucked, so it led her to use science to explain away a sensation she never experienced. She may not think she loves you, but I know otherwise and I’m here to help you two idiots.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she gets all flustered when you come up in the conversation and I have been to more soccer games than I have ever been to in my life in this past semester alone.” 

“Really?”

“Yes, so listen. This is what you are going to say.”

———

“So you didn’t actually date Aunt Becky,” the listening boy verifies. The storyteller nods, “I suppose I never did. It could be better explained as a friendly meet-up. Can I finish my story?” The teen stops talking and indicates to continue. “I followed Becky’s advice and tried to confess my adoration to your mother again…”

———

He knocked on the door with uncertainty, holding the tulips up in front of his chest. The front door swung open and the person of his desires stood there shocked. The shock turned to anger. “Are you here to continue the discretization of my academic career?” she grumbled. Her right arm crossed over her left one as she leaned against the door frame. “What is love?” he began the conversation in the manner he was instructed. His face scrunched once he realized he didn’t address her question. He wished he could restart to avoid the embarrassment. He couldn’t. “What?” she puzzled, head tilting at an angle. He pressed on, “You say that love is only a chemical reaction in your brain. I say that it is simply a feeling that you have for a person. It’s just liking someone. Simple as that. No explanation. No physical correlation to your brain. Even though we have different views on love, there is one thing in common between the two. Do you know what that is?” 

Her head moved from side to side and he stepped forward, handing her the bouquet of flowers. “We both have a definition of what love is, but we’ve never experienced it before. So scientifically speaking, how can we know if either of them is true,” he contended. Her hand flew to her earring and she began tugging on it. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to show you why we are meant to be together.”

“Why are we?”

“Because we can use each other to learn what love is and once we determine a definition, we can compare and determine who is correct.”

She chortled, “That’s ridiculous. If we go into an experiment with the expectation of falling in love, then it would be biased and-.” “Um, can we stop with the science analogy? I’m not going to lie, I can’t keep up,” he interrupted. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. “Fine. We can’t be in love because it’s just not possible.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because it isn’t there?”

“What isn’t there?”

“The science!”

He groaned, “Science doesn’t have all the answers. It’s why people still have to do research, right? So why can’t love be something you can’t explain?” At this point, tears had begun to well in the corner of her eyes. “Because if love isn’t something scientific and it is something that just is, then how come my parents didn’t love me? How come I never got to feel it? If it is something so easy to have, how come I was deprived of it.” A pain shot through his heart at the sight of her distraught. He finally understood her resistance to the idea and stepped forward, dropping the flowers to the flower so he could pull her to his chest. “The universe hasn’t been fair to you. This made you decide that you had to use science to explain why it wasn’t unfair because it made it easier for you to process. Nevertheless, it’s okay to admit that you don’t know something and I’m here to help you learn.” She cried into his shirt. “What if I’m not capable of love?” He could sense the worry she felt and smoothed down the hair on the back of her head. “Then I’ll have enough love and endorphins for the both of us because I know that love can simply be there and doesn’t have to be anything physical.”

———

“In that moment, I knew what love was. It isn’t one thing or another. It is in the eye of the beholder and up to you to figure out what you define it as. If you are questioning whether or not you love Kira, then listen to your heart because it will tell you what it thinks,” Zach guides, getting up to call his other children for dinner. He leaves his eldest child to think over the story he just recounted. He is glad for the question because it gives him a chance to go down memory lane. 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura @rubixgsworld

[sacred-coffin]

New Ghoulette Survey

I ran a survey that asked users to report what name they have been calling the new ghoulette, and to also rate the names people have been using. I received 204 responses to my form, and gathered 6 responses from discord (with no ratings). I am no longer collecting responses. I will also discuss issues with the survey, and share the raw numbers if anyone would like to see them.

This is a chart showing the percentage of people who are using which names.

I believe the "Other" category only had two repeat names, Vesper (3) and Nimbus (2). Some responses were not counted towards this chart, as some submissions chose "other" and filled in some variation of "I don't know." Haze holds the highest usage vote.

More under the cut.

The names were rated on a scale of 1-5, with 1 being "favorite" and 5 being "least favorite." The overall name ratings, from most to least favored, are as follows:

Tempest (2.68)

Haze (2.79)

Solaris (2.82)

Umbra (3.09)

Other (3.55)

This chart breaks down the ratings by name choice.

Again, a lower score is preferable. However, you may notice that for Umbra and Other, the least favored options are... Umbra and Other.

There were quite a few instances where a submission would vote for a name, and then rate it as a "5." I believe these responses to be mistakes, however I have no way of being certain. None of those responses were removed or edited. I made multiple posts to try and reach people and let them know they can change their response if they answered in error, and there were plenty of people who did, but of course I can't reach everyone. For this reason, I can not say that this data is reliable. If there is any interest, I would like to run another survey that may get more accurate results.

Another mistake I made is with the last question on the survey. It didn't occur to me at the time that it would be valuable data to require people to tell me where they found this survey, nor did I think to make it a multiple choice question. Because of this, I had plenty of people choose not to respond and... a lot of people who just used it to say whatever they wanted.

On that note, I did try to eliminate bias in a few ways. I know that I have very strong opinions, and some degree of influence, within my social sphere on Tumblr. I tried to increase the reach of this survey by posting to as many ghost tags as possible, but I also posted it to places that I do not have an active presence in. This includes discord servers that I "lurk" in, like the official ghost discord, and also bluesky (which I only occasionally open). Because I did not gather any worthwhile data on how people found my survey, I can't say much on how well it managed to exit my sphere of influence.

If you would like to see all the numbers yourself, and possibly correct me on anything (as I am human, I make mistakes, and I am by no means a statistician) then you can see the google sheets here.

Thank you to everyone who responded and helped share my survey! I love numbers.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 3

Infinitely More | Loki x Reader

Loki makes his first contact with you, much to the Avengers disappointment, there's a natural connection between you both. Maybe Loki can help answer some of your questions.

Warnings: 18+ for sexual content. Avengers being rude, Loki being himself, thigh riding/masturbating.

Credits: divider by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Loki used his magic to hide among the shadows and return to the guest room unseen.

Lying on the large bed in the guest suite that the Avengers had provided for him, Loki whiled away a few hours contemplating the cocktail of magic that had shimmered around the mysterious woman in the hospital room, dipping into his own knowledge and scratching down some ideas for further reading, if he could be permitted access to some of Asgard’s now limited libraries. He allowed the image of you arching from the bed to permeate into his subconscious. In response his body felt taut, ready, and he imagined how you’d feel arching into his touch like that. 

A sharp, familiar, knock broke him from his thoughts, followed by a boisterous voice. 

“Brother? They want you there when they try to speak to her again,” Thor thundered through the door, his enthusiasm at having his brother with him overwhelming. Loki had agreed only because he was so bored and Thor had seemed to keen to show of Midgard as Loki’s own personal tour guide. 

Loki rolled his eyes, the pen and notepad he’d been using to jot down ideas, vanished back into the air, and he prepared to follow Thor back through the compound and into the secret room next to yours. 

After surveying the array of heroes in front of him, he settled against the back wall, trying to look dispassionate as you examined a strand of your hair in the two way mirror, watching as it got changed beneath your fingers. You behaved as if there was no one else watching, with an air of resigned melancholy mingled with curiosity. 

“I’ll go and talk to her,” Tony said, “see if she’ll tell us anything we, or you,” he pointed at Loki “can use.”

A soft whooshing sound accompanied Tony’s exit from the room as the sealed door slid open and then closed behind him.

As soon as the door had closed, you backed away from the mirror, your hands out behind you to feel your way towards the hospital bed. Bruce fiddled with a few dials in front of him, turning the comms down so only those at the front of the room could hear, deliberately tuning Loki out. The god could’ve heard if he wanted to, but he preferred to look down at his nails dispassionately. 

It didn’t look good even from where Loki was standing, nor did he require audio to know that you were furious. In fact, you looked both frightened and angry, as you pointed at the door while Tony stood stoic and shaking his head. After a few more minutes of silent arguing Tony appeared through the sealed door again, frustrated and defeated. 

“I can still feel it, she’s controlling the air in there, it was so unbearably hot. Bruce what happened?” He groused, bumping his friend out of the way with his hip so they could look at the control panel together. 

Bruce confirmed all the controls and vitals were normal inside of the room, but Tony’s heart rate had been elevated the entire time, his dopamine and oxytocin skyrocketing and then crashing, full of adrenaline.

“I’ll try next,” Steve offered, but Loki cut him off, raising his hand to silence the soldier’s presumably brave attempt at protecting his friends. 

“I don’t think so. Let me,” Loki insisted, ignoring the indignant look of the Captain’s face. 

“That’s not a good idea, whatever her magic is, it’s is very powerful.” 

“I would be insulted, Captain, if I believed you put any thought into your argument apart from your own desire to be alone with her. It radiates off you and makes you vulnerable. Let me.” Loki placed a hand on his chest, smiling serenely in the face of Steve’s increasingly flustered demeanour. 

Steve flushed. “That’s not…” 

Loki held his hand up again and silence fell over the room. 

“I believe I know what your problem is, why she’s making you have these dreams.” Loki straightened his collar and rolled the sleeves on his shirt, “spent her whole life in that flat and now she’s here with you. Apparently you’re superior human specimens,” he shrugged his shoulders, a hand on the door, “she’s aroused, and as soon as that arousal spilled out into her magic you locked her away. But, you’re in luck, because I can help,” Loki gave a cheeky grin and turned away from the blushing Captain. 

Loki pushed the door open and locked it behind him in a smooth movement. In the split second before the lock clicked into place there was a squeak of rubber soles on the vinyl floor as the entire time rush to stop him - and then silence descended. 

“Hello, little one,” Loki cooed, side stepping the breakfast tray that you unceremoniously hurled at him as he entered, the cereal and coffee splashed on the pristine wall behind. He simply tapped his foot and the milk that had been soaking into his trousers vanished, along with the once dripping food on the wall. 

“Fuck off. I’m not talking to any more of you, especially not if you’re going to patronise me,” you turned away, bare legs dangling from the medical bed.

“No, of course not. My apologies.” Loki lifted his hand, green magic moving over the floor and picking up the breakfast tray, a cloud of gold and green carried it carefully back to you before landing softly on the bed. The once plain breakfast had been replaced by a carafe of coffee and an array of artfully arranged fruit and pastries. 

You looked down at the tray and smiled, the first smile you’d allowed yourself in a long while, and Loki took the opportunity to move closer. The god positioned himself on your other side and took the largest strawberry from the plate before inspecting it closely, keeping his eye on you in his peripheral vision. 

You eyed him too. You knew who he was, you’d been the news and read the articles about the Avengers and their fight with the norse god of mischief, Loki. Yet here he was, dressed in simple black slacks and a white shirt, inspecting a strawberry that he’d made with his own magic. In profile he was just as handsome as the media photos you’d seen. His cheekbones were sharp and angular, his eyes clear and piercing, yet there was a softness to his cheeks and lips, especially when he smiled a little, rolling the red fruit between his thumb and forefinger, pressing until juice pooled on the surface of the soft flesh. 

Then he spoke, and his voice wasn’t cutting and violent like the videos of New York, no, it still held a deep timbre, but there was no panicked undertone or manic speed to his words. 

“I know you’re not to be played with, not like those fools.” He whispered, carefully, almost gently, keeping his volume low so you had to lean in. “I should call you little fae?” He took a bite of the strawberry and turned to look at your perplexed expression, “little nymph?” The sugary juice coated his lips and you leaned closer, watching his lips turn pinker, “no, no, I saw your power this morning, and you’re still doing it now, though I wager you don’t know it. How about Little Goddess?” And he popped the last bite of the strawberry into your open mouth tilting his head, amused, at your surprised eyes. 

Loki watched the silver flecks in your iris spark and fizzle, the subtle change of your hair colour as you breathed out.

“And who are you to label me?” You kept eye contact with him, eating the fruit slowly while he observed you. It took every ounce of Loki’s control not to grin at the haughty tilt of your chin or

“My name is Loki,” for once he decided to forgo his full title, he assumed you must know it anyway and, besides, he had a game to play with the Avengers. Making you feel small was not part of that game. “I am not-” He looked at the mirror, choosing his words carefully,“they treat me like this too. With fear. But they should be treating you with admiration.” He touched your check with the tips of his fingers, “worshipping you.” 

You lent into the touch, your skin alight, lips parting slightly. But he pulled away casually, leaving you leaning into nothing and struggling to catch yourself before falling. 

“Well, I don’t think so, Loki, I irritate them now. I just told the truth, they like each other. I just wanted to help,” you looked at your lap, twisting your fingers together and digging your nails into your palms. “I just wanted some friends, and it’s their fault anyway, they brought me here, I didn’t ask to come.”

With a warm hand, Loki tilted your chin up and raised each finger away from your palm until they lay flat in his, “don’t hurt yourself, Little Goddess.”

At his touch you could feel the spark of energy that had everyone on edge, the light outside glowed and your eyes flashed as you stared back, holding him in your gaze. 

“Can you see what power you wield?” Loki ran his hand down your cheek, “they want to subdue you again.” Your eyes glazed, the silver now prominent. “Do not take their concoctions.” Loki turned subtly towards the countertop that lined one wall of the medical room, it currently held a kidney dish with a vial of sedative and prepackaged needles. 

“I don’t want to take those tablets again, I just want to be able to control this. I want to be free, they said it’ll help me.”

“They’re drugging you, if you want help, I can help you, will you let me help you, Little ásynja?” You nodded, eager for anything that would let you out of this boring room and out into the world you longed to explore. “Tell me what you want?”

Over your shoulder Loki watched as the door handle began to jiggle, squeaking in the lock from the ferocity of the attack on the other side.

“I don’t want to wear this stupid hospital gown any more.” You plucked at the hem, “it’s humiliating, I feel like a - a - patient or something.”

Loki grinned, a smile of deep satisfaction that he allowed to spread over his face. That wasn’t what he was expecting, not with the way your body had lit under his touch, your heartbeat hammering and the delicate scent of you shifting into something deeper and muskier. But it was something he could take care of while you warred with whatever feeling you were trying to tamp down that had you squirming in your seat and squeezing your thighs together. 

“Of course, I can use my magic to change it for you? What would you like?” With his hands under your elbows, Loki encouraged you to stand up in front of him. A shimmer of magic and you were taller, heels tipping you forwards onto your tiptoes, emerald silk clung to you, a short corset tight at your waist, glinting with gold, your hair piled on top of your head under a crown and intricate gold and emerald jewellery circling your wrists. 

You reached up, your fingers dancing over the crown, smiling and let out a laugh of shock. You hadn’t even felt anything, one minute you were in that awful hospital gown and now you were dressed like a queen. 

The banging on the door grew louder and your eyes flicked over to where the metal vibrated on its hinges, but Loki put his hand on your cheek, turning your attention back to his piercing gaze.

“Don’t look at the door, just look at me.” He gently touched a hand to your temple, a rude act, perhaps, normally he would ask before trying to pry into anyone’s memories. But with the sparse information that the others had been able to glean he really didn’t expect to find anything at all. 

Your mind opened and Loki was overwhelmed, oh this was better than he could have dreamed. You were there behind the wall, the real you, not this cowed mortal, but something infinitely more that faded into the back of your memories like the darkening night. He couldn’t see it all and he didn’t want to risk hurting you by freeing it all at once. Your eyes glazed and then squinted, as if staving off a headache and Loki pulled himself away from your memory. 

“Maybe a bit too elegant for the medical bay,” his magic shimmered again as Loki tried to regain his composure. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting to see behind the steel wall of your mind, but it certainly wasn’t that, and he hadn’t expected flashed of his own memories to come flooding back to him either, no images yet, but the feel of a soft hand in his, moss and crowns of flowers, Asgardian summers that had once felt endless. 

Loki was decidedly distracted, images of you arching on your bed, miles away, aeons ago, filled his mind. Your desires, your lust was overwhelming, just the scent of you, so close to him, was making his fingers itch to touch you and he stepped closer, hands circling the corset at your waist, eager to feel the heat of your body flush against his own. 

You gasped, looking down at the once elegant dress, now gone, but the corset, heels and crown remained. Silky shorts sitting high on your thighs, lace dancing across your skin and goosebumps rising where Loki’s cool hands met your bare skin. 

“My sincere apologies, darling.” He stepped back abruptly and you looked directly at him at the pet name, hand still on the crown, “too soon,” he smiled, but you didn’t cover yourself. Somewhere deep inside this felt entirely right and natural, even the crown was a welcome weight, and Loki’s gaze was familiar too. Then he flicked his hand and his magic wrapped around you, replacing your scant lingerie. 

You knew these clothes, though they weren’t nearly as regal or provocative as Loki’s outfits. They had been lost during your supposed rescue from London to the compound, when all the problems had started and life had become scary and upside down. Soft, worn, light blue jeans, a white shirt and your trainers, he had pulled them from your memories, all except the bracelet that circled your wrist.

“Oh - this didn’t change,” you inspected it, watching the tiny emeralds glinting in the morning sun.

“You can keep the bracelet, consider it a gift. From one God to another,” Loki closed the bracelet under his hand, holding your wrist gently.

From one god to another, it vibrated through you, this is truly how he saw the confusion of your powers? Some sort of admission that you were a celestial, godly being? 

You swallowed down the sick, nervous feeling building inside of you and touched the bracelet again instead.

“I don’t have a gift for you,” you whispered.

“I will allow this indiscretion,” Loki smiled, “I am sure there will be an opportunity in the future.”

His smile was filled with suggestion and you longed for him to act upon it.

Behind you the door continued to rattle, Loki’s magic keeping the lock in place even as your captors tried to open it, though he could hear nothing from the outside. He flicked a hand and out of the corner of his eye he saw the camera and microphone melt into a puddle of black plastic and wiring.

“Tell me, darling, do you feel unwell. You are warm, I can hear your heartbeat.” Loki moved closer again, pulling you in with a strong but gentle hand on your wrist, his fingers touching the intricate bracelet he’d created for you. 

“You can hear that?” You asked, quietly, and somehow as you blinked your eyelashes felt longer and thicker, becoming a flirtatious flutter. 

“I believe you may require some assistance.” Loki’s lips hovered above your own, the light outside as blinding as his gaze, “you’re aware they can see you through that mirror?”

You started and looked round, skin as hot as coals and heart beating like a drum at the thought of all they’d seen you do in this room. Loki could remember too, your fingers dipping below the waistband of your underwear, the little moans you’d allowed yourself, and he felt his trousers become tight for the second time in your presence. 

It was becoming increasingly difficult not to act upon the burning lust that had been kindled inside. Tony was right, as soon as he’d walked into the room he’d felt hot and bothered, needing to touch and tease to release some of the tension. 

“Do not worry, my darling,” he waved and plush curtains fell across the mirror in heavy ripples of moss green velvet and gold brocade, the luxurious fabric so at odds with the clinical room you’d been left in. 

The door handle stopped moving and Loki turned his attention back to you. The rise and fall of your chest as you panted, confused, as if all of the air had left the room. The way you tipped your head forwards to try and regain some composure. 

The handle started to move again and a dull thump reverberated through the room. You turned to him, suddenly aware that he was a stranger in your rooms, eyes wild before you fluttered them closed. Loki pulled you forwards, the rhythm of the thuds against the door speeding up his own heart beat. His lips met yours, one hand around your waist pulling you closer, the other encouraging your legs up onto the bed until you were situated in his lap, clinging to the feeling of his body around yours, his lips slanted against your mouth and his hands cradling you. 

Moaning, your fingertips glowed, light sparking in the room, silver and navy. But your eyes stayed closed, ignorant of the light show you were putting on for the God. 

“That’s it Little ásynja, let me take care of you. They have been neglecting you, have they not?” Loki cooed, soft and low and soothing, you nodded against his chest, something deep inside calling to the God as he peppered you with kisses.

“And at home, you had a consort, to satisfy you?” He didn’t really care if he was stepping on anyone’s toes, but it was good to plan ahead for these things.

You shook your head, “no I, well….��� 

Loki let his fingers ghost over your forehead, he could see you in that far away bed, a little Midgardian toy in your hand as moans filled your thoughts, electricity and light. Loki’s grin was wolfish. Not quite the innocent little shut away they all thought. 

Your hips seemed to be moving entirely independently of your own thoughts, dragged into the deep sense memories that Loki had stirred, a muscle memory of pleasure and satisfaction that your body was chasing. Your hands slid into Loki’s hair while you ground down against the bulge in his own trousers, eager for more. 

“That’s okay darling, I understand. I could visit you, if you liked. We could talk, I can…help you. With your magic of course.” Loki continued to place featherlight kisses across your nose, cheeks, forehead, now beaded with sweat. The calmness in his voice made your harsh panting sound even louder in your head. Loki’s hands lay gently on your hips, helping you to move and grind against him. “That’s right, darling, you take what you need from me, I’ll take care of you.” He promised, as you came with a cry, your arousal soaking into the leg of his trousers. 

Immediately you were filled with shame and embarrassment, attempting to squirm from his lap, but he held you down firmly, the length of him still pressed between your legs, and in your post orgasmic sensitive state you could feel him pulsing against you. 

Loki looked into your eyes, impossibly black now with a silver ring separating your pupil from the colour, not black, no, rich, dark blue, like the night sky circled by stars. His heart beat wildly, he needed more of you, he felt insatiable, obsessed. Were you doing this? Were you making him feel this way? Like he couldn’t breathe. Or because this feeling was genuine? What memory was it that itched at the back of his mind that he couldn’t realise? 

He fought the urge to lift his hips and chase his own release with you, taking a deep breath and promising himself a hasty retreat to his own rooms, he managed to calm himself. 

"I promise I’ll come back, but I think they would like me to leave now.” He cupped your cheeks in his hands, holding you back from kissing him again but you shook your head keeping him close. 

A shrill clang of metal on metal reverberated through the room, setting Loki’s teeth on edge. The door was at least partially broken, he assumed, the hinges now hanging from the frame. Fool, Loki berated himself, he had allowed his magic to slip and as sure as he could hear shouting and voices outside of the room, they must have been able to hear you cry out. 

You leant into his embrace and pressed a kiss to his lips, sweet and slow as the door fell into the room, framing Steve on the other side, panting and frustrated, his cheeks flushed.

“Alright let’s go!” He pointed at Loki.

“So I can see you again?” You asked with a small voice, fingers clinging to his shirt, lips against his neck.

“Yes, darling, I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you need me, I am a god,” he leaned into your ear, “you can always pray to me.” Loki placed a kiss on your forehead and felt a frizzle of something escape again while Steve, and now Sam too, stood in the door frame shuffling, uncomfortable.

Such power, he chuckled to himself, such power and yet they are frightened of their prisoner.

It was definitely worth having to listen to the mortals complaining to irritate them this much and he had got their not so stoic prisoner to talk a little, even open up to him, he had brought you release when they could barely bring you comfort and he felt settled in the knowledge that they had no idea what they were playing with. 

Loki was lost in his own mind imagining the wall in yours, the memories entombed there. He had heard your voice, delicate and nervous, talking to him a few times. Telling him about your loneliness, your confusion and fear. And around an hour ago he swore he heard you gasp his name. The close proximity allowed him to hear you pray, but he could also feel the connection he had opened. A version of you searching to get out, running through corridors filled with vast vaulted ceilings and pillars that seemed to cascade form the ceiling, holding them up almost effortlessly. Endless halls of gold and miles of forest. 

This time it was Steve who rudely interrupted his studious daydreaming. 

“She’ll only talk to him,” he pointed at Loki who plastered on a caricature of shocked innocence.

“Are you sure?” He was sure, but he had such an urge to hear it from someone else.

“Of course I’m sure, she point blank refused to talk to me, Bruce, Tony, anyone. She asked for you and you alone.” 

“I’m flattered,” Loki stood and gave a smug smile before bowing at the waist.

“She wants you now, if you’ll go.” Tony suggested, refusing to meet Loki’s eye and instead toying with the clear phone in his hands. 

Loki faced the assembled superheroes before him, “how does it feel, heroes, to be the bad guy?” He waved his fingers at himself dramatically. 

“We’re not the bad guys,” Natasha insisted.

“No? Does the scared girl want to talk to you?” He slid his hand out in front of him, pointing at the shocked faces, “or me?” He waved his hand down his body and changed his clothes from his Asgardian leathers to a casual pair of black jeans and a matching t-shirt,. “Bad guys,” he pointed at them, faking a grumpy face and then smirking as he walked off to the medical wing.

&lt;<Part 2 Part 4 >>

[cowboygenesis]

5: the armory | din djarin x reader

part 5 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist and spotify playlist. | buy me a coffee?

pairing: din djarin x reader chapter warnings: none. word count: 12.2k series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible. notes: 12k words is just ridiculous. i feel like most of this is just a build-up for WHAT IS TO COME-- eckhem-- anyway, enjoy some domestic goodness and please let me know what you think of the series so far!

Din didn’t complain much when you asked to make a quick stop at your cottage.

You invited him in, finally said hi to Grogu, and poured both of them a hefty glass of sweet brew. They sat at the same table you had eaten at a week prior, as you excused yourself to your bedroom to find an appropriate outfit for work.

It didn’t take you long. Hidden in the depths of one drawer sat a stack of loose, linen pants that tightened at your ankles. They weren’t exactly meant for strenuous work, but they’d have to do for today. You had discarded most of your old clothes when you moved to Terrine, and the planet’s traditional wardrobe mostly consisted of folksy, warm layers that were perfect for farming and the like, but less so for the gritty, grimy chores of a mechanic.

You fix up your hair, wash your face, and finally exit. Your two companions look at you with curiosity, and you can only smile when you see both of their empty glasses on the table.

Din’s helmet tilts down as he surveys you before his gaze lands back on your coy, pleasantly glowing face. He stays silent, but with a glance at your new bottoms, he finally seems to understand why you had requested that stop in the first place. The last time you had worked the Crest in a skirt, the hem frayed beyond repair.

“Ready to go?” you announce through a confident grin, suddenly excited by the prospect of spending some more time in your new triad.

You watch Grogu chirp happily as he attempts to reach out to you, making Din tuck him into his metal crib. The man looks at you and nods, standing up and shutting the sphere with a click of a button on his gauntlet. You hear Grogu’s whines of protest, and frown a little as you fasten your cloak around your neck.

“Do you have to keep him in there?” you question with genuine curiosity as the Mandalorian stands to his full height. You watch him grasp the empty glasses by the rim and carefully bring them to the sink. The sight makes you bite your lip to catch a grin from forming. So polite.

“I told you he’s unpredictable,” the man explains as the two of you approach the foyer. You put your boots back on and make sure the windows are closed, not so much for safety as it is for the fear of a thunderstorm brewing while you’re away.

“Still, I feel like he’s missing out on the view,” you shrug as you finish up your laces.

“He’ll be fine,” Din retorts in a low rumble, and you almost want to laugh at how poorly he reacts to your parenting advice.

“Hey, you’re his dad,” you chuckle, opening the door to let the two through. Once they step on the deck, you exit behind them and lock the door. “Who am I to tell you what’s good for your child?”

Din doesn’t reply, but you sense he’s oddly pleased with your answer. You omit to him the fact you were trying to be sarcastic.

The walk to the Razor Crest is unsurprisingly pleasant. You pass by the rolling fields, wave to a few mildly confused neighbors, and eventually end up at the edge of the forest.

It’s still pretty early, so navigating should be simple. That’s, of course, until you see Din playing around with his gauntlet again as he leads the way.

“What are you doing?” you ask, trying to glance over his shoulder as he taps away.

“Tracking the Crest,” he replies as a small satnav screen appears to you on his forearm. You see the nearby area mapped out over a grid, with two points pinned in red.

“Sheesh,” you mutter under your breath as you enter the thicket. You see Din’s helmet tilt at your reaction, and you shrug with a soft, albeit coy smile.

“We’re a little old-fashioned around here,” you explain tightly while ducking under a particularly low branch blocking the road. “I haven’t gotten a tech update in… half a decade, at least. It’s still a little shocking to me when I visit the city once in a while— makes me feel like I’ve aged at twice the speed.”

He ponders your words, and as the path narrows, you’re forced to walk in a tight line. Without thinking, you finally jump to the front, letting Din and the crib follow just behind.

“Five years you’ve been here?” he questions through the modulator as you skip a pebble with your foot. The breeze rustling your pinned hair is pleasantly chilly, nipping at your cheeks and sending a satisfying shiver down the base of your neck.

“More or less,” you reply, “I… didn’t think to count since day one, so it’s all just approximations at this point.”

“Why?” he questions, and you furrow an eyebrow despite knowing he won’t be capable of catching your expression with the way you’re walking ahead.

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you count?”

The query makes you walk a little slower, your shoulders dropping with the soft swing of your arms. You don’t have a proper answer for him.

“…I was too busy thinking about other things,” you finally shrug, thankful he can’t see the scowl forming on your wind-tinted face. “Like how I’d make a living in this new place, where I’d settle, how I could find people to trust again.”

You worry about a follow-up, but to your great relief, he seems to sense your discomfort. Din skips commenting this time, instead letting the two of you enjoy the woods’ nature in peace.

The air is fresh here, and you make a point of taking deep breaths every other step. You’re still smack in the middle of the windiest season, which shows as a strong current blows through the foliage above. You tilt your head to look, and marvel at the dancing leaves as soft beams of light spill through the small gaps.

“Hey, look at the sunlight,” you comment, raising a hand to point at the bright streaks trickling toward the ground. The awe in your face must be apparent when your voice tightens through the smile.

Can he even tell colors apart through that dim visor? You think that something as serious as a Mandalorian’s helmet would be smelted with practicality in mind, not aesthetic beauty. But it’s a shame, really.

You don’t turn around to check his reaction, but still silently hope that Din is looking to the treeline with you, admiring the gentle cascade from within the safety of his armor. You think you’re proven right when you hear the soft ‘woosh’ of metal, followed by a familiar bubbling of your little green buddy.

You turn around with a smile, letting yourself walk backward so you can watch Grogu without losing precious time and progress.

His big eyes glimmer with wonder as he surveys the sight above. You hear him coo softly, and almost envy the fact he gets to experience this beautiful view from the comfort of his padded crib. You almost want to ask his dad if they made these in your size.

You glance over at Din, giving him a self-satisfied, foxy smile. You imagine he quirks an eyebrow at your mein, unappreciative of your sudden cockiness.

“There’s nobody around,” he explains flatly, and you can’t help but tilt your head in amusement.

“I didn’t say anything,” you shrug, and Din huffs at you. “Just look at him. Who knew babies had such an appreciation for natural beauty?”

He watches you for a moment, just moments from answering, and just as you’re about to quip back, you watch his hand rise towards you.

“Carefu—”

But your boot hits an elevation in the ground before you can heed his warning. You lose balance, and before you can gasp or yell, you’re already plummeting to the ground below.

But the impact never comes. Your eyes are shut tight preparing your body for collision, but what comes instead is a firm, steady pressure around your waist.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, and what you see almost makes you feel like faceplanting would’ve been the better option after all.

Your wide eyes meet his visor, close enough that you could probably see his annoyed expression if you squinted hard enough. His front collides with yours, the plates lining his muscles digging into the skin of your décolletage.

You don’t dare look down, but you find you don’t need to— the grip at your midriff is inarguably the presence of his strong, steady arm keeping you pressed safely against him as you stand awkwardly, mid-fall, your hands resting awkwardly on his chest plate.

“Careful,” he repeats with an edge of sternness, and the proximity makes you feel his low baritone rumbling in your heaving chest as he reprimands you so carefully. You’re at a loss for words. You’re not sure if you should feel embarrassed, thankful, or entirely hot at his intervention.

It turns out to be an unfortunate mixture of all three, brewing in your gut as you notice your own hands are now gripping tightly at his shoulders. You realize you’ve never touched him like that. It’s probably the closest thing to a hug you’ll ever get from him, so weirdly, you want to linger in place for a while.

And apparently, that doesn’t bother him. Maybe it’s the shock of the moment or your stupidly confused brain, but Din seems to keep you pressed against him for a little longer than is probably prudent in this minuscule rescue scenario. His breath isn’t heavy like yours, but you still catch his shoulder rise and fall with a little more force than you’d think usual for someone of his stoicism.

Absentmindedly, or perhaps through the haze of lingering shock, you let your left hand glide along his shoulder. The movements are slow, gentle, and calculated, and you watch his reaction closely for any sign to back off— but there’s nothing. He stands there in silence, helmet perfectly still, but you can’t quite imagine what he’s looking at now: your dazed eyes or the fingers that keep inching towards his helmet.

Once you move past the pauldron, you feel the soft material of his cloak as it bunches at the collarbone. Your breath hitches with every crinkle and fold.

Still, there’s no reaction. Din, shockingly, seems to entertain your curiosity. His grip around your waist tightens, but you know that if he wanted to, he could easily stop you from advancing— he’s definitely strong (and fast) enough to overpower you had he felt uncomfortable. Your lip catches between your teeth at the realization that he doesn’t even try.

So you move further, letting your fingers slip past the cloak and towards his neck. You finger at the cowl there, and in that moment, as the cascading warmth of his pulse point heats your hand, you crave more— to slip deeper, touch skin, feel the humanity, if there is any.

Maker, what are you doing?

Maybe it’s common sense or just a brush with survival, but you feel like going just an inch higher will change your life. Forever. It’s a dreadful, all-encompassing pit that swells in your chest, threatening to spill out dare you continue your delicate assault at his identity.

You feel a radiating heat creeping onto your face, and take it as a final sign to back off.

Your fingers quiver as you withdraw from Din, eventually finding your bearings with a little shimmy against him.

“Uh,” you mutter as he steadies you, holding both hands on either side of your waist as you feel out the ground beneath you. Your legs threaten to give out between you. “Thanks.”

He nods, and there’s just a single, fleeting spark between you before he finally pulls away himself. You nod back at him with a ditzy smile before turning to the pathway again. You hear Grogu chirping in his crib, and you’re unsure if he’s laughing at your mishap or cheering you on.

Maker. Seriously, you might be something of a klutz, but that was just unnecessary.

You continue through the forest with your lip caught in your teeth, before the awkward silence surrounding you slowly morphs back into one of comfort. The steady rise and fall of his chest is still fresh on your mind, but you manage to put it in the sidelines. For now.

Grogu’s soft whines and giggles paint a smile on your face, and you occasionally catch a glimpse of Din looking at his satnav with not a hint of stress. You guess that whatever that was didn’t affect him too much, which quite frustratingly makes you scowl at the ground below your moving feet. It’s definitely for the better, and you’re just being dramatic.

But then, his hand comes up to rest atop your shoulder blade, gently maneuvering you left.

The contact is chaste, but it still makes your heart jump. It’s just so… unnecessary. If he wanted you to go left, he could have just told you: ‘Go lef—

“We’re here,” he proclaims, and as you exit your chaotic headspace, your eyes meet with the familiar, looming hull of the Razor Crest. It sits just beyond a downward slope, greeting you with a brilliant shine as the sunlight illuminates the freshly graffiti-less surface.

“She looks so much happier,” you comment through a smile, entering the clearing with your two companions on either side. “You got the graffiti off.”

Din nods as the three of you approach the ramp. With a quick press to his forearm, the extendable metal plates lower with a whoosh. You wonder how much more he can do with just that one gauntlet.

Din leads you into the hull, stopping Grogu’s crib near a wall and swiftly withdrawing the boy with a sweep of his arm. The baby coos as the man reaches for a mounted handle, pulling at it to reveal a hidden compartment.

You gaze inside curiously, quickly realizing it’s a makeshift bed hidden in the wall of the hull. There’s a thin mattress lining a metal plate, with some blankets tossed about. Hanging above sits a large net, fastened to the walls with small bolts.

You watch as Din places Grogu inside, letting the boy flop into the basket with a sweet chirp. You giggle at his antics, trying not to eye this ‘bedroom’ for too long— it feels almost too intimate, like you’re breaking his creed just by peeking in.

“You sleep here?” you question, moving your attention to the rest of the ship’s interior. You don’t spot anything out of the ordinary besides a few crates lying around, following down to an unlit sector of the hull. You can’t see into the darkness even as you squint your eyes,

“Sometimes,” he replies, and the curious tilt of your head is enough to make him elaborate. “When I’m not busy.”

“Busy?” you question, though you already understand what he means by that. You’ve never even spoken to a mercenary before meeting Din, but the line of work is infamous enough for you to recognize its hardships and irregular schedule, if you could even call it that.

“Sleep is a luxury,” Din adds in a murmur, not turning to you.

You chew the inside of your cheek at his words, pondering the short but surprisingly profound statement. At home, you let yourself sleep in late, often disregarding the privilege of being able to do so on a regular.

But him? You imagine the countless sleepless nights around a fire on alien planets, catching bounties, taking care of the kid, piloting the Crest… you figure the best he gets is a few minutes in the cockpit, his head lolling slightly in the helmet as starlight streaks across the windows.

He moves towards the wall-bolted ladder, and you take a glance at Grogu. The little ball’s eyes glimmer as he coos at you from the netting, extending his arms as if asking for a pick-up.

“Wait,” you call out to Din, and he stops in his tracks to look at you. Your eyes skim to his helmet, then to the needy baby. “Can’t he come?”

The Mandalorian sighs, moving his foot off the ladder to face you. “He’ll just distract you.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at the pleading child. “Distract me?” you echo, picking Grogu up and cradling him against your chest. He coos in delight, tiny fingers reaching for the collar of your linen shirt. “I think you’re underestimating him a little.”

Din crosses his arms, the slight tilt of his helmet betraying his most apparent skepticism. “Helpful? He’ll try to eat the tools.”

“Not if we keep an eye on him,” you counter, shifting Grogu to your hip. He gazes up at Din, ears twitching, as if sensing the conversation is about him. “Besides, I think he wants to see what we’re up to. He’s been trapped in that metal ball for long enough, I want him to enjoy the fresh air for a while.”

Din sighs, glancing between the two of you before shaking his head. “Fine. But if he gets in the way, it’s on you.”

You grin, victorious, and nuzzle Grogu’s head lightly. “You hear that, bud? I just proved your case.”

Grogu babbles in response, seemingly in thanks.

Din mutters something under his breath as he heads up the ladder. You follow carefully, Grogu nestled securely in your arm.

Once you make your way up, you catch the Mandalorian already leaning over the control panel, keeping his posture steady with arms planted firmly against the metal edge. You spot the same tool kit you used to fix the hull ready for you by the wall, and you keep a note of it for later.

You hum as you settle into the pilot’s chair, squinting at the flickering lights on the control panel and trying really hard to keep your mind from drifting to the last time you sat here. Grogu proves quite useful in distracting you, as he chirps softly in your lap as you get to work.

Din is still leaning against the bulkhead, watching your nimble fingers hovering the interface.

“Alright, let’s see what your dad’s been whining about,” you snort under your breath, tapping a sequence of buttons to pull up the diagnostics. A series of warnings flash in red and orange across the small screen ahead, and you sigh. “Okay, so… our faulty thruster is port side. Surprise, surprise.”

Din straightens slightly. “You said it can be fixed?”

You swivel in the chair to face him, raising an eyebrow as your hands wrap around Grogu. You’re suddenly feeling a little giddy; you think it might be the lingering buzz he ignited within you when he so heroically saved your ass from faceplanting earlier. The memory suddenly fills you with enough gut to test your developing camaraderie.

“I mean, I could just leave it and see what happens next time you try to take off,” you shrug, but the grin on your face is evident. “Could be fun.”

He looks at you with what you imagine to be annoyance, a soft sigh escaping through the modulator and making you chuckle.

“Noted,” he replies dryly, tilting his helmet towards the console.

Still smiling, you turn back to the screen, running a more detailed scan. The readout pinpoints the issue to the power coupler and some wiring near the base of the thruster. “Yep, it’s not getting proper power. Probably a burnt conduit or a loose connection, but nothing we can’t fix with these.” Your head nods to the toolbox sitting on the floor.

He nods, and you swiftly pass him the child before pushing off the chair. He doesn’t hesitate, cradling the little ball as you grab Din’s tools from the corner of the cockpit. “Alright, let’s go take a look.”

The man nods again, pulling up the smooth sphere so he can settle Grogu inside. He shows you to another ladder at the back of the cockpit, leading to the roof of the ship.

He ascends first, and you hand him the toolbox before clamoring up yourself. Grogu’s orb hums as it smoothly ascends through the air just behind you. Again, you feel a little jealous. Must be nice.

Din glances over at your head as it pops up from the hull. “Keep him out of the panels. It’s dangerous.”

“I know, I know,” you click your tongue, eyeing the child’s crib as you climb the last step.

As you stand atop the Crest, you realize just how massive the ship feels from this perspective. You’re almost level with the treeline now, and looking in any direction gives you a neat outlook on the horizon. A soft breeze whirls through the clearing, catching your tied-back hair.

Din sets the toolbox down with a soft clunk, snapping you out of your brief reverie. He stands a few paces away, his helmet tilting as he looks back at you. “Enjoying the view?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Can you blame me? I didn’t realize the Crest could double as a scenic lookout.”

He lets out a quiet, amused huff before gesturing toward the thruster. “Scenery’s not going to fix the thruster.”

“Fair,” you concede with a huff, moving to join him near the flap. The port-side thruster is even more battered up close, the wear and tear of use evident in the scorched metal and scratched panels. Seems like the ship was due for a cleaning.

Crouching, you run a hand along the edge of the panel, searching for the release mechanism. Din kneels next to you, pointing silently to a small latch you missed. You shrug as you flick it open, the panel hissing as it releases, revealing a tangle of wiring and colorful components beneath.

“Definitely a power issue,” you mutter under your breath, inspecting the cluster of cables. A faint smell of burnt plastic lingers in the cavity, confirming your earlier suspicions. “Damn, this conduit’s fried. You still think some kids did this?”

Din leaves you without an answer, and instead, you see his gloved hand appear in your peripheral vision, holding a replacement conduit from the toolbox. You glance up at him, a bit surprised.

“Well, aren’t you prepared?” you tease, taking the part with your dominant hand.

“Had a feeling,” he replies simply, watching you get to work.

You grin, settling into the task. Working on the open thruster isn’t easy—some of the wires are tangled, and the flickering sunlight makes it hard to see inside the dark gap below. You hold a hand up to shield your eyes, squinting.

“Hold this,” you say, passing the conduit to Din as you adjust some stray wires.

He obliges, watching as you carefully untangle the damaged strings and disconnect the faulty part. A stray spark jumps when you pull it free, and you flinch slightly.

“Careful,” Din warns, leaning a bit closer.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, though your heart jumps a little at the proximity. He’s peering just over your shoulder, and you can hear the soft breaths coming through his modulator as you reach for the toolbox. “You’re distracting me.”

“It’s my ship,” he replies, handing the replacement back to you.

You sigh, sliding the new conduit into place despite the intrusion and securing it with the hydrospanner from the toolbox. As you work, Grogu’s faint coos drift up from the crib, and you glance at it briefly to see him staring up at you, his ears twitching.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” you call while elbows-deep in the wirey cavern. “Your ride will be good as new once I’m done here.”

Din straightens slightly, glancing down at Grogu before looking back at you. “You talk to him like he understands.”

“You think he doesn’t?” you reply with a smirk, tightening the last bolt with your tongue peeking out. “He’s smarter than both of us combined.”

The Mandalorian only huffs, and you can’t help but smile into the wires at having made him chuckle. It feels like a bit of a reward every time.

You work like that for a while, leaning into the open panel as Din hovers behind you, occasionally commenting on the damage. You’re quick with your responses, your cheeks pink with the fleeting breeze as your heart fills with satisfaction at the smooth process. You still got it, after so long.

Finally, you run a quick diagnostic with the handheld scanner Din hands you from the toolbox, watching the screen light up green. Your eyes squint as you survey the information flowing across the small interface, humming to yourself once you’re satisfied with the lack of errors.

“Done,” you announce, leaning back and wiping your hands on your pants with a self-satisfied smile. Changing proved to be a fantastic choice, after all. Maybe it was finally time to update your wardrobe?

Din nods, standing and offering you a gloved hand to pull you up. “Good work.”

“Thanks,” You take it, surprised by how effortlessly he managed to set you on your feet. “Let’s just hope this holds up longer than the last one.”

“Depends on how rough things get,” he says, and you look at him with a quirked brow. You can’t tell if he’s being funny or genuinely pondering the safety of this forest after the events that had caused the error in the first place.

“Have you thought of relocating?” you question, leaning down to shut the toolbox. “Whoever did this can find you again now that they know where you’re settled.”

“It’s a convenient spot,” he quickly retorts, “And if people can track the Crest to here, they could likely track it elsewhere, too. It’s a hassle to move around so frequently, and fuel here isn’t exactly available or cheap.”

You nod, mulling over his words. You’ve never ventured the forest beyond this clearing, as the trunks grew thick there and obscured most natural light. You think that by ‘inconvenient’ Din means to say it’d be too hard to access civilization. “I guess so.”

You make sure to secure the latch of the thruster before the three of you descend to the cockpit. Once there, you leave the toolbox in its original spot and walk down to the open hull.

There, you find yourself stretching again. Your arms extend as you sigh a breath of relief and satisfaction— you haven’t greased your elbows in a solid moment, long enough to make you forget how good it feels to fix up a faulty mechanism, even without the promise of credits or a superior’s praise.

You turn to Grogu as Din checks something on his gauntlet again. You smile at the little ball, and he seems to sniff out your lingering attention when his big eyes turn to you.

There’s a strained silence as his eyes squint, before he… wails. It’s a sound you’ve not heard him make before, like a powerful, high-pitched shrieking that makes you clutch your chest.

“B-Buddy?” you exclaim, lunging towards him with worry.

Din happens to be a few steps ahead of you already. His arms duck into the crib as he withdraws the snotty baby with a low sigh.

He studies him, and your furrowed brows make your forehead crease.

“He’s hungry,” The Mandalorian explains, his tone betraying his otherwise stoic mein. He’s not exactly in the mood to deal with his son’s whining right now, and so much is quite clear.

“Did you feed him today?” you question, inching forward with your arms outstretched.

Din quickly pivots, moving Grogu away. Your worry fades into sympathy as you drop your arms, stepping away to avoid escalating the tension. This kind of parental pressure is probably not the kind Din is used to.

“Not enough, apparently,” the man mutters as he surveys the bundle in his arms. Grogu’s eyes are still filling with hot tears, but he’s quieted down enough in his dad’s embrace for you to admire them in peace.

It’s quite a sweet sight, albeit tugging at your funny bone. You’ve never been too good with kids, but the natural urge to protect the cute, little creature couldn’t be lost on you— or Din, for that matter. Your lip flips into a small smirk as you finally approach, just in arm’s reach of the pair.

You look at Din with somewhat pleading eyes, your lip caught between your teeth when he looks at you curiously. “Can I feed him?”

He tilts his head at you, lingering there for a beat before turning his attention to the babbling toddler again.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he replies sternly, but you’re not discouraged one bit. You understand his worry for the baby, and if he told you to, you’d gladly back away.

Still, this time you attempt to push just a little further. You’ve grown pretty fond of the kid, and feeding him seems like a good way to pursue this bond you have further. Plus, you’re a little curious to see what that looks like.

“I’ll be gentle,” you speak, close enough now to pet the kid’s comically large ear. He leans into your touch, looking at you with those big, wet eyes of his. “Besides…”

Din looks up at you in question as you poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue. You look up at him with a knowing look, tilting your head to match his posture.

“When was the last time you ate?” you question, almost sternly. You don’t mean to school this grown man on how he should live his life, but you’re genuinely curious about his habits now that he told you about his chaotic sleeping schedule.

“I’m fine,” he replies, holding your gaze as you continue caressing the kid’s ears.

He’s not fine. The delay in his reply is enough for you to know he probably hasn’t eaten since morning, if not longer. You give him a skeptical smile, hoping he’ll elaborate.

“I had a meal two days ago,” he adds, and your jaw drops.

“Two days ago!?” you exclaim, eyebrows rising up your forehead. It’s so much worse than you thought. “Are you even human under all that junk, Mando?”

He just shakes his head with annoyance at your whining. “I’m human.”

You don’t tell him the question was rhetorical, and instead slowly withdraw the crying kid from his arms. He hesitates for a second, but eventually lets you take over. You cradle the baby with both your arms, rocking him gently.

Your eyes move back to Din’s visor, and you sigh sympathetically.

“Din,” you say softly, “I get it—it’s been difficult settling in. but… you can’t forget your own needs.”

He stiffens slightly, the subtle shift in his posture telling you that your words hit something within.

“I manage,” he replies, his voice a little quieter now.

“Well yeah, I can see that,” you say with a small smile, almost teasingly as you glance down at Grogu. He begins to settle in your arms, tiny fingers curling around a strand of your sleeve. “But managing is not thriving.”

Din doesn’t respond immediately. His visor is fixed on the two of you, the baby nestled comfortably against your chest. For a moment, you wonder what expression he’s hiding under that helmet.

“Let me do this,” you continue, rocking Grogu gently. “You can take five, eat something, or just sit for all I care.”

Din sighs. “He’s particular. He might not… take to it.”

Jackpot. You grin, a spark of confidence lighting up your face with a grin. “Guess we’ll find out, right?”

Din watches you silently, and before he can argue any further, your bright expression seems to convince him otherwise. He sighs heavily, like the idea of taking a break was actually a hassle.

“Fine,” he replies, nodding towards a compartment near the open ramp. “There’s the food supply.”

You move on cue, smiling wide as you approach the small compartment. You move Grogu to one of your arms, letting the other hand tug at the metal handle of the storage.

The inside is… pretty much what you’d expect it to be. A few shelves lined with a variety of cans and bottles, some probably expired judging from the thin layer of dust covering the labels.

You reach for one of the smaller cans, squinting to read the packaging. It’s written in Rodian— yours is pretty rusty, but after a moment of concentrating you decipher the letters to read something like ‘Meat Blend’. Yum.

“Does he like this?” you call out to Din, raising your hand to show him the label.

“He’ll eat anything,” the man replies shortly, moving to the edge of the ramp. “There’s a fire pit near the ship. I’ll stoke it for you.”

You nod, pocketing the can into your duffle bag as Din begins descending the stairs.

You watch him stop halfway down, his body slowly moving to face you. You quirk an eyebrow in question, wondering if he might ask for something.

“Have you eaten?” he questions, and the simple question makes your heart thrum in your chest. His voice is stern, yes, but the implication of his query makes you feel like he’s not indifferent to your state.

You blink at him. “Me? Uh—” You fumble, suddenly hyper-aware of how long it’s been since your last meal. “I had some fruit this morning?” you add hastily, though you realize how pitiful that sounds the way the statement morphs into a question.

Din doesn’t respond immediately, but the slight tilt of his helmet suggests he’s not impressed by your answer.

“That’s not enough,” he says simply, and before you can protest, he’s nodding towards the compartment again. “Take something for yourself.”

You stare at him, momentarily stunned by his sudden concern. You reason that it might just be subtle payback for fixing his ship and offering to feed his kid. Maybe it’s not exactly kindness as it is being a good, hospitable host.

“Alright,” you mutter, grabbing another can at random. The label is colorful, and you figure all canned food tastes just about the same, anyway. “But don’t expect me to be as easy to please as Grogu. He doesn’t even have taste buds yet.”

Din turns without another word, but as he disappears out of view, you hear a melodic sound coming from his modulator. You smile, grateful to know that you are the one who caused him to laugh like that. Again.

Before you follow, you quickly pick out two more cans and stuff them in your bag. If he won’t cook for himself, you figure there’s no harm in making something yourself; might as well, right?

By the time you step outside, the flames are already crackling in the pit. The sun sits high above the tree line, casting warm, golden hues across the clearing as you approach the makeshift log-bench. Din crouches by the fire, his helmet catching the glow as he adjusts the flames with a metal skewer. Grogu’s empty crib hums quietly by his hip, in the case you need to relocate the baby.

You plop down on the trunk as Grogu squirms in your lap, his wide eyes glued to the cans you set in a neat pile beside you. You dig into your duffel bag again, biting your lip as you finally withdraw a small, compact multi-tool. It’s worn, and most of the mini-tools within are dulled with use, but you figure it’ll do for opening the mystery meats.

You watch Din stand up, looking at the kid as he coos in your lap. You reach for a small stack of metal bowl-plates, some tongs, and a ladle near the pit, placing them on the ground near your boots.

You put your tool down, smiling down at Grogu as you swiftly place him in his crib as you prepare his lunch.

Your hands get to work, grabbing Grogu’s designated can and flipping a small knife out of the multi-tool. You perforate the upper lid with a dull ‘pop’ before looking up at Din. “Come sit.”

“I’m fine,” he says almost immediately, watching as you carefully release the can’s pressure. Inside you find a light-pink, almost gelatinous mass.

“Suit yourself,” you reply, focusing back on the can. Once the top is off, you reach over the fire and place the can upright inside a makeshift metal pot held up by two rods. You haven’t gone camping in so long, you forgot how fun and interactive the whole thing was.

“You’re good with him,” he says after a moment, his voice softer than usual.

You glance up at him, smiling sympathetically. “He’s easy to love,” you reply, looking down at the baby with a fond smile as the gloop begins bubbling within the pot.

The Mandalorian watches as the food cooks, surveying your interactions with the baby. Once he seems satisfied, you see him turn towards the ramp wordlessly.

You turn to watch him leave but abstain from speaking. As much as you’d like to enjoy a meal together, you know it’s not possible for him.

You turn back to Grogu with an encouraging grin, picking up the metal rod Din left behind and stoking the fire yourself.

“You hungry, bub?” you smile, turning to the crib. His tears have dried completely as he watches you cook, his eyes reflecting the soft flames as he coos.

“So am I,” you chuckle, standing up to gently withdraw the can with your tongs in one hand and a bowl in the other. You grab the can by its edge and pour the kid a hefty, steaming portion.

Your eyebrows furrow as you scan for utensils.

“Minimalistic, isn’t he?” you jest towards Grogu, and he babbles as you reach a free hand into your bag again. After some digging around, you finally ‘Ah-ha!’ as you withdraw a plastic, star-speckled spoon.

You swirl the spoon in the bowl, cooling the pinkish mixture with slow, deliberate movements. Grogu watches with rapt attention, his tiny hands reaching out and grasping at the air as if to hurry you along.

“Hold your horses,” you say with a laugh, scooting closer to the crib and bringing the spoon to his lips. His big ears wiggle in delight as he tastes the first bite, a satisfied coo escaping him. “Oh? Don’t tell me you’ve acquired a taste for ‘Meat Blend’, kid.”

You get your answer as you shovel another spoonful of the goop to his lips. He eats with fervor, quickly finishing the entire bowl.

You put down the empty bowl, and when the kid belches, you can’t help but snort. “Woah, buddy. How about some manners?”

He only giggles at you, his mood drastically improved after getting to fill his belly. You giggle in return before taking a look at the remaining cans. These, too, are Rodian, reading ‘Paff Stew’ on the scratched label.

Your gaze shifts towards the Crest’s open ramp, and you can’t help but look for Din in the darkness within. Stubborn, he says. The irony.

You turn back to Grogu, presenting him the unopened cans with a sneaky grin. “So, what’s it gonna be, kid? Should we feed your dad, too?”

Grogu chirps happily, reaching his hand towards you— or the cans, rather.

“Are you sure, though? I don’t know if he deserves it after calling you a womp rat so many times,” you bargain, and Grogu seems to mull your words over with how quiet he gets. You chuckle, reaching for your tool again.

“I’m kidding,” you mutter through a grin, working at the tops of the remaining cans. “He’s a good guy.”

Grogu replies in another chirp, and you nod in faux understanding as you opt to pour each can into the pot. “Good point.”

By the time the stew is ready, you’re already preparing two bowls; one for you, one for Din. You place the ladle in the hot mixture, swirling a little to check the contents. It looks tasty enough, with a deep-orange base and some unidentified vegetables floating about in the vortex you’ve created.

You ladle a portion for yourself and double-up the one meant for Din. You hope it’s enough, and if not, there’s still plenty left over the fire.

“Ready to roll?” you ask Grogu, and he chirps in enthusiasm. A bowl in each hand, you walk towards the ramp of the Crest, noticing how the metallic orb follows suit on its own.

You walk up the ramp, suddenly feeling queasy. What if he’s… sans helmet? You’re not exactly sneaky, but the idea of walking on him in such a vulnerable state makes your throat dry up. He’s made it quite clear how important privacy is to him.

You clear your throat and call out gently.

“Din?” you step past the threshold, “I’m coming in.”

There’s a pause before his voice echoes back from within the previously unlit part of the hull. You see now that the darkness hid a brown curtain which was partially shut for privacy. “In the armory.”

The armory? The words send a chill down your spine, but you’re not exactly fearful. What did you expect? He’s a mercenary, of course he’d have a ship loaded with guns and ammo. You shake the unease off and press forward, bowls carefully balanced in your hands as you move past the curtain.

You walk down the dimly lit hull and finally reach an open compartment. It’s the size and shape of a weird, metal closet, and you catch Din sitting on a stool between the two extendable plates.

You peek inside, and the sight hits you harder than you expected.

The three walls are lined with blasters, rifles, and all sorts of artillery, meticulously arranged in a cacophony of unspoken violence. You’d seen plenty of heavy weaponry in your life, sure, but nothing so concentrated.

Din has his back to you as you approach, a small, sleek blaster in his hand. He grips a microfibre cloth, wiping down the metal surface. You recognize it to be the same weapon he usually carries at his hip.

When he turns to you, you’re already frowning at the heavy atmosphere.

“Nice collection,” you break the silence, trying to inject a bit of levity amidst the tension, “Good thing I’m terrible with blasters, or you’d have some serious competition.”

Din turns his head slightly, and you catch a glint of amusement in the tilt of his helmet. “You and the kid both,” he replies dryly.

You take a tentative step forward, holding out the heavier bowl to him. “I, uh… brought you dinner. The cans are a little weird-looking, but I promise it’s good. The kid loved it, at least.”

“That’s not saying much,” he retorts with a snort, and you can’t help but smile a little.

He sets down the blaster and cloth and takes the bowl from you, his gloved hand brushing yours briefly. “Thanks,” he says.

You nod, glancing around the armory again before forcing yourself to meet his visor again.

“I’ll leave you to it,” you say gently, pivoting to the curtain again.

He gives a small nod, and your eyes linger on his back as you leave.

The tension in your shoulders eases as you step back into the main hull. Grogu chirps from his crib, and you glance down at him with a soft smile. “You knew he was hiding all that?” you murmur, and the kid whines. You assume that to be a ‘yes’.

You settle yourself at the entrance of the ship, sitting cross-legged with Grogu’s crib by your side. The cool evening air brushes against your skin as the forest comes alive for the night. The sun shines just beyond, but when you glance up at the sky you witness the first stars appearing where night collides with day.

You hold your bowl with two hands, bringing it up to your lips and taking a languid sip. It’s still piping hot, filling your nose with herbs and umami.

“Not bad for a can,” you shrug, letting the warmth envelop your worn body.

Sip by sip, you start to gain a second wind. The horizon paints the Crest in beautiful, vibrant colors ranging from oranges to pinks, making you marvel at the sight.

Maker, you really need to get out more instead of staying cooped up inside your cottage most days. HoloDramas are nice and all, but it’s easy to forget the entertainment that lies just beyond the thicket. You think that Din and Grogu are a good influence on you that way, getting you moving on days you’d rather be lazy.

You finish your stew with a sigh, placing the empty bowl at your side. You lean back on your arms, and enjoy the satisfying feeling of a full belly as you glance at the wind-swept treeline beyond.

“Do you like it here, bub?” you mutter to the child, turning to see him sitting cozy under a blanket. He tilts his head at you, and lets out a little blip of noise.

“Yeah, I guess you’re not used to the peace, huh?” you chuckle, pretending to understand the chirps he emits in response. The nice thing about talking to babies is that they’ll never judge you—it’s all fair in love and war. You sometimes wish people your age were more like that; understanding.

Grogu watches you with those wide, curious eyes, his little hand peeking out from under the blanket. You smile softly, brushing a hand through his ear.

“Maybe this is what you needed,” you say quietly, as much to yourself as to him. “Somewhere quiet, away from all the violence and chaos.”

The kid lets out a soft coo. You glance at the horizon again, where the last rays of light stretch over the trees, casting long shadows on the ground. A gentle breeze carries the scent of the forest—pine, moss, soil, and something faintly floral.

“I felt the same,” you finally confess into the evening air, giving Grogu a somber smile. “I mean, before I came here. Everything I faced was just so… much. So overwhelming. In a galaxy so large, you sometimes feel like just an insignificant speck, you know?”

You untangle your legs, letting them flop against the ramp. “And at one, very specific moment in time, I realised that it’s all I am. A speck amidst the hurricane. Nothing I’ll do will matter one way or another, so why not live a life I actually want for myself?”

You turn to the crib, and can’t help but sigh contently when you see Grogu’s eyes closed shut, snoring softly amidst the soft padding.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” you whisper through a smile, leaning to tuck the baby in.

You sit like this for a while, letting the chilly air flow in and out of your lungs. Eventually, the white noise soothes you enough to close your eyes and enjoy the natural symphony without distractions.

That’s until you feel a looming presence by your side, followed by a quiet ‘hey’.

Your brows lift in surprise, but you say nothing as your eyes flutter open. You need to crane your neck when you see Din’s armored legs, chest, and finally focus on the helmet he dips down to meet your gaze.

“Hey,” you croak back quietly, watching as the man bends to sit down next to you. He keeps a comfortable distance, but stays close enough that the warmth radiating from his armor cuts through the cooling air around you.

For a moment, he says nothing, his helmet tilted up to the sky you’ve been watching alone the past hour he was gone.

“The stew was good,” he finally says, and you can’t help but look over at him with a quirked eyebrow.

Your lips curve into a small, satisfied smile. “You tried it?” Your breath almost halts as you realise he must have taken his helmet off to eat. So vulnerable, and yet so dangerously close to being discovered had you picked the wrong moment. The thought is almost invigorating.

“Had to see if it was safe,” he comments, nodding towards the occupied crib. “For him.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Right, because I’m just dying to poison the little guy.”

Din doesn’t reply, but there’s something almost playful in the way he shifts, as though he might be suppressing a laugh. You enjoy the mental image of a smile painted beneath that helmet of his, and eventually, the two of you fall into a comfortable silence, watching the cascading sunset.

But you’ve had your fill already. Instead, as his helmet tilts away from you, you take the opportunity to study him closer. It’s not often you’re afforded such a small distance between you, not counting the few times he saved your ass or reprimanded you for something silly.

Your gaze tracks the sleek silhouette of the helmet, down to the dip of his neck. You recall placing fingers there, and the warmth of that memory makes you shudder. On his pauldron, you spot that beast again— a strange, horned animal you’re unfamiliar with.

“What’s that?” you question softly, careful not to startle him, though you doubt someone of his profession can be startled.

He turns to you slowly, then dips his chin to look at the insignia you’re referencing.

“A mudhorn,” Din replies as you lean in to take a closer look.

Your brow furrows as you glance between him and the insignia. “A mudhorn?”

“An animal from Arvala-7,” he explains simply, pausing as if deciding how much to share. “Strong and territorial. Dangerous without proper training.”

“Charming,” you remark, the sarcasm in your tone drawing a quiet huff from him—his version of a dry laugh, you think. “Why a mudhorn?”

“Killed one,” he says, and your eyes widen slightly. There’s no boast in his tone, like he’s saying something so simple and matter-of-fact. Killing isn’t beyond him.

“Not alone,” he adds after a moment. “Grogu helped. We… earned it. Together.”

You glance at the sleeping child, who snores happily as though dreaming something sweet. A smile tugs at your lips as you turn back to Din. “So, it’s… a crest?”

“In a way,” he admits. “For a clan of two.”

The warmth in his words catches you off guard, and you feel your chest tighten at the thought.

“So, you’re like a team, huh? Taking on the galaxy together, catching bounties, and turning them in for credits?”

He huffs again, shaking his head slowly. “Something like that.”

You nod, taking in the colors reflecting off his armor. They look even more brilliant on the surface, making a soft, effervescent canvas of his body.

“Is that beskar?” you ask, recalling your friend’s words from the market. and Din moves to look at the sky again.

“Yes,” he replies, rapping his knuckles around the edge of the hull entrance. “It’s impenetrable.”

You huff in silent admiration. You wonder if it’s really as strong as he says, but decide to let your speculations reside within for now.

“Must be nice,” you comment quietly, tracing a pattern on your thigh, “It’s like you’re untouchable with that thing on.”

He takes a quick, subtle glance at you before returning to his default position.

“It has its limits,” he says, and the words send a shiver down your spine. You imagine he says so from experience, and not sheer speculation.

“I doubt anyone’s gotten close enough to find out,” you chuckle softly, trying to ease the tension that abruptly settles over the two of you.

Din glances at the child, then back at you. His gaze lingers there for a moment, and you feel like the act alone knocks the air from your lungs in moments like this.

“You’d be surprised.”

His words hang in the air, and all you can do is nod sympathetically as your skin glazes over with shivers.

“Beskar is a tradition,” Din continues, and you’re almost surprised at how easily you managed to get all of this out of him. “It’s a reminder of what our clan stands for.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “And what do you stand for?”

He pauses, his visor fixed on you as a stray ray of sunlight passes down his helmet. “Honor, loyalty…” he trails, looking at Grogu. The little one is fast asleep, gurgling softly as the two of you watch over him.

“…Family,” Din finally adds, quieter this time. The word makes you bite your lip, mulling it all over as his gaze fixes on your fidgeting fingers.

There’s something in the way he speaks of his creed that tugs at your heartstrings. Unbeknownst to anything you could have hoped for, your new companion opened up to you more than you had to him. You wonder if you can match him.

“It must be a heavy burden to carry,” you murmur under your breath. “Standing for such values yet never being able to fully expose yourself to another person.”

“It’s who we are,” he replies simply, as if that alone is explanation enough. You don’t understand, but honor it anyway with a nod. Identity isn’t just a face, it’s your moral standing, your values, your creed. Still, as your gaze meets his visor, you can’t help but imagine the color of his eyes.

There’s a smile that lingers on your lips as your hand edges towards his. Briefly, your fingers brush, and your heart thrums when he doesn’t pull away immediately.

“A clan of two,” you comment through a smile as a wind sweeps through the hull.

“This is The Way.”

His thumb moves over your wrist for the briefest moment, and you can’t help but gasp softly at the contact before he finally pulls away. You don’t blame him.

You linger like that for a while, keeping minimal distance as the day comes to an end. With Grogu’s bubbling and your own soft breaths, it feels like something within you has stirred ever so slightly.

“And you?” he suddenly asks, making you turn to face him.

“What about me?” you chuckle nervously, shifting to one arm as you face him fully while perching on one buttock.

“What’s your story?”

You pause as you search for the right words. It’s been a while since anyone had asked you that, as the last time it happened, it almost got you killed.

“My story?” you echo softly. The evening light filters through the trees, casting golden streaks on the hull and over the both of you. “It’s… not as honorable as yours, I’ll say that much.”

Din remains silent, waiting. You sigh.

“I grew up in a quiet place. Just like here: peaceful and serene, with kind people and plenty of food to avoid us a war. It was wonderful, seriously, a real paradise— until it got boring, of course,” You let out a soft chuckle, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Things happened, people I cared for left… and I guess I thought I had to do the same. Follow that same path.”

“You left,” he repeats, and you nod.

“Yeah. Went out looking for a purpose, like most of us do— something that made me feel… whole. Like there was something out there, waiting for me to find it,” You glance at him, almost embarrassed to admit it. “I’m still looking, I guess.”

Din tilts his helmet slightly. “And you think you’ll find it here?”

“I don’t know,” you admit with a shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It sure is a hell lot better than what I tried doing before, you know, when shit hit the fan.”

He looks into you, but you refuse to elaborate on the last part. For the first time in forever, you think back to your hometown. Quaint, amiable, and green— just like Lazure Prime. The memories make you want to talk, but you know that doing so will result in revelations you’d rather keep buried deep, away from anything and anyone.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he says after a moment, and you blink at him.

“Strong?” you chuckle sadly, tilting your head to give him a forced grin. You appreciate his words, but they can’t seem to reach you where it matters most. “I told you, Mando, I can’t even shoot a kriffin’ blaster to save my life. Where’s the strength in that?”

“You know what I mean,” Din shifts, his helmet glinting faintly in the light. “Strength isn’t just about firing a blaster.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” you mutter, lowering your gaze to the ground. “You’ve got your expensive beskar, a big ship, and a Creed to guide you. Me? I’ve got…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely at yourself and the rustling forest around you. “A cottage and a knack for boiling canned stew.”

He huffs softly— it’s that soft laughter you’ve grown to love. “You’re a good mechanic,” he counters, “And the kid likes you. That’s not nothing.”

You pause, and your smile drops. You feel your stomach twist with bitterness, but also sympathy— for him, and strangely, for yourself.

“Yeah, well, he likes frogs, too,” you joke, looking up at Din who laughs again. This time, it’s a clear sound— warm and hefty as his head shakes at your silly mein.

“Strange girl,” he says in a tight lilt, and you can’t help but shoot him a challenging glare.

“Oh, shut up with that, will you?” you counter, but your voice is threaded with the laughter that brews in your throat. “If I’m strange, what does that make you?”

“Efficient,” he replies, tone dry. You just can’t get a break, can you?

“Efficient my ass,” you roll your eyes, turning to lean on your side. He follows suit, moving to face you more fully. “What’s efficient about all that armor?”

Din tilts his helmet, the metal catching the soft light of the evening. “It’s practical,” he replies simply, but there’s a hint of quiet amusement in his tone.

You cross your arms, the smirk tugging at your lips betraying your feigned offense. “Practical? Please. If I tripped and fell wearing all that, I’d never get back up.”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks, and for a moment you feel like he’s holding back a harsher insult. “That’s why you practice,” he says, the corner of his voice tinged with mirth. “You should try it sometime.”

“Oh, so now I’m lazy and strange?” you quip, leaning back with mock indignation.

“Didn’t say that,” he counters smoothly, shifting slightly as he settles more comfortably. “But if the boots fit…”

You gasp, feigning shock, but the laughter that leaves your throat seconds later is real—soft, genuine, and filling the space between you with such ease you can’t help the tears glazing your eyes. For just a moment, the weight of the galaxy feels lighter, like maybe you’re more than just a speck amidst it all after all.

You look away from him when the tears threaten to fall, inhaling sharply as you watch the sun finally disappear beyond the treeline. You feel Din’s gaze linger on you for a second longer, but eventually, he joins you in marveling at the beauty ahead.

“I could teach you,” he suddenly murmurs, and you need to shake your head to make sure you heard right.

“What?”

Din looks at you, cocking his head. “I could teach you how to use a blaster.”

You blink in surprise, but before you can form a response, Din continues.

“Consider it payback for fixing the ship,” he replies curtly before looking at Grogu. “…And feeding the kid.”

Your eyes widen in realization, and a smile tugs at your lips. You can’t hide the fact you’re excited by the prospect of being taught by a kriffin’ Mandalorian of all people.

"Mando, you really don’t ha—"

“I know I don’t,” he interrupts, tilting his helmet. “That’s why I want to.”

There it goes again, a bright, uninhibited grin that makes your cheeks ache at its sheer intensity.

“Fine,” you nod, shooting him a playful glare, “But you seriously need to stop stealing my lines. I might need to start asking for royalties.”

Din lets out a soft snort, shaking his head as he leans back slightly, resting his gloved hands on his knees. "I don’t think I could afford your rates," he quips.

You smirk, crossing your arms. “That’s probably true. I charge extra for babysitting.”

“Good thing you babysit him willingly,” he counters, voice almost playful through the modulator.

For a moment, you just stare at him, dumb smile and all. You could get used to this side of him—the faint humor, the little quips. It feels natural, like he’s always meant to be this easygoing.

“Alright,” he continues, slapping his knees before effortlessly standing to his full height. His arm extends to yours, dwarfing your comfortably seated body. “Get up.”

Your eyes widen, smile dropping in confusion. “What?”

“Get up,” he repeats, fluttering his fingers like he’s letting you know his offer is about to expire. “There’s plenty of trees around— you can shoot at those.”

“Wh— what? Mando, I don—” you choke out, batting the air with your hands in refusal before his firm grip tugs at your wrist. You stop in your tracks, forced into silence as he looks you down.

“What are you scared of?” he questions lowly, making your gaze drop to your boots.

“I’m not!” you counter tightly, but the chuckle that follows is joyless when he withdraws the sleek blaster and holds it by the barrel.

You’re not scared of the weapon— just the damage it can and has done. When you saw Mando’s armory, you felt that unforgiving cold pinching at your throat, threatening to spill out the memories you tried so damn hard to bury deep; sleek, black tiles, the distant thrum of space, and a piercing scream echoing in your mind as hot tears spilled down your battered face, mixed with blood that you knew wasn’t your own. You’ll never come back to that, you’ll never let anyone—

He says your name. You must have been unresponsive for a while, as when you come to, Din is sitting by your side, grasping your shoulders in his firm grip. You shake your head, breathing heavily against the tightness in your chest as he tracks your face.

You look at him and fake your best smile, placing a hand on his forearm and squeezing. “I’m fine.”

“You started hyperventilating,” he counters firmly, almost frustrated with your lie.

You sigh, letting your faux expression of comfort dissolve. What is left is the semblance of shock in your eyes and a defeated frown. “It’s fine. I— I don’t want to talk about it.”

He drops his arms, instead opting to grip at your wrists. It’s steady but not unkind, his gloved thumbs brushing over your pulse in soft strokes.

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly, his voice softer, though the frustration still lingers at the edges. “But don’t tell me it’s fine when it’s not.”

You close your eyes, grounding yourself with a series of deep breaths. You hear Grogu’s soft bubbles from the crib, which makes you calm slightly before you finally speak.

“It’s just…” You trail off, swallowing hard as that sharp cold hovers over your skin again. “I don’t like weapons. I—” You nod toward his blaster, then glance away, ashamed of your own dramatic reaction.

His hands don’t leave your wrists. “I can put it away,” he offers, and your eyes widen when warmth spreads to your cheeks.

“No,” you counter firmly, grabbing at his forearm when you see it retracting. He lets you stop him, and the blaster he holds between his fingers seems to challenge you silently. “No.”

Din tilts his helmet slightly, waiting, patient. You’re at a loss for words.

“The… the last time I held one of these, someone I cared for—” you squeeze your eyes tight, biting your tongue. The man holding your wrist is patient, letting you exhale slowly as you gather your composure.

But the words never come. Instead, your face shifts into a look of pure pity, sorrow, and the unwavering regret that has followed you through life since the dawn of your grand escape from the planet that took everything from you. You hope your tragic frown is enough to make Din understand, make him see the blaster through your tear-slicked eyes and the pain that shoots through your heart like icicles.

And he does. You know it when his hand rises to your jawline and gloved fingers meet heated skin, smoothing against your flushed cheek. The touch is soft, chaste— affectionate—the touch of a man capable of hurting, killing, but loving just as passionately. You lean into it without question, without regrets.

“Din,” you croak out through your tightened throat, and at this, you feel his thumb caress your cheek. His visor stares through your very soul, reaching beneath the silver lining you’ve been hiding behind for years.

He doesn’t speak. You think he knows the sight of blood, but draws the line at the hot tears of a soft-hearted woman. You hate that soft heart. You hate the harm it’s capable of doing.

Wordlessly, your eyes flicker to the blaster lying by his side. It’s unholstered, placed there when your sudden reaction startled him. Again, the silver looks back at you with the soft, pink hues of the evening sky. It feels like a challenge.

Something red-hot bubbles within your gut. You white-knuckle your work pants, eyebrows tightening into a point on your forehead as the mocking weapon beckons you closer.

In that moment, as the Mandalorian’s hand caresses your face, you utter a silent promise to yourself.

“Teach me,” you whisper before common sense can stop you. Din dips his helmet, making sure he heard right.

“What?” he retorts, the touch of his palm slowly withdrawing as he studies your face.

“To shoot,” you repeat in a frustrated mutter, reaching to wipe a tear into your forearm. You’re missing his touch already. “I want to learn.”

He’s hesitant when he picks up the blaster again, eyeing it briefly before looking at you again. With a sharp exhale and a kick of your boots, you’re standing up again, reaching out your hand for him to take.

“Will you do it?” you ask, fluttering your fingers like he did before. “Will you teach me?”

He looks up at you with a tilt of his helmet, studying your face in the approaching dusk. The blaster in his grip gleams softly again, and your nostrils flare.

His hand meets yours with a snap. You feel his gloved fingers secure in yours as the Mandalorian rises to his full height before your very eyes. You can’t help but grin at him, and this time, it finally reaches your eyes.

“I’ll show you how to use it,” Din finally speaks, and his voice is a soothing balm to the brewing anger within you.

You nod through a long exhale, and with a bittersweet smile, you reach for the blaster in his hand.

“—Not tonight,” he stops you with that same firm grip on your wrist, but this time, it leaves your skin almost immediately. “You’re tired. You’re angry—”

“I’m fine,” you shake your head, but your furrowed eyebrows betray your words. “I can start now.”

He huffs quietly, watching your expression before slowly withdrawing the blaster to the safety of his holster. “No.”

His refusal stings. It’s firm, decisive, and exactly what you remember the Mandalorian like the first time he stepped foot in your quaint town— your quaint life. You watch as he steps back, his broad frame silhouetted against the ever-darkening sky.

You open your mouth to argue, but the exhaustion weighs down on you like a stone. He’s right, though admitting it feels like another wound. Waking near dawn, fixing the ship, sharing your innermost worries… you’re nearing exhaustion.

“You’ve done enough today,” Din continues, his tone softer. “Rest. When your head’s clear, we’ll start.”

With a reluctant nod, you let your shoulders slump.

“Alright,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “It’s a deal?”

“It’s a deal,” he nods without a beat, tapping the silver gleaming at his hip.

It’s strange to you when a gentle simmer settles down in the pits of your gut. It’s not red this time, but bright and effervescent, like a gentle dawn or the last rays of sunlight you catch as it finally disappears beyond the trees. You’re almost… happy.

“It’s getting late,” you announce half-heartedly, feeling your eyelids get heavy. You move to look at Grogu, and sure enough, he slept soundly through the entire fiasco. He snores away within the softness of his crib, blubbering gently as you smile. “Someone should tuck the kid in.”

The Mandalorian eyes the green child for a moment before turning to you again. “I’ll take care of it.”

“What, just like you took care of the thruster?” you say, and the tease is heavy on your tongue. You’re close to forgetting the fear you felt just mere moments ago.

He tilts his head at you in amusement, before taking a small step forward. “You’re teasing again.”

“Not at all,” you shrug with faux nonchalance, but the way you stare up at him begs to differ. The man stand silently, hovering above your figure and bathing you in shadow. You could stay here, you think— in this odd tranquility he provides you, under his watchful gaze that you wish you could read.

You exhale softly, hesitantly breaking away from your gaze to look down at the crib. Then, smiling, you reach your hand to softly pet the child’s wrinkled head. What’s his story, you wonder? Would Din offer tell you, had you asked?

There’s a simmering satisfaction in your belly as your gaze slowly meets the T-shaped visor, just as you spot the stars rising like a brilliant blanket overhead. His hand hovers inches over his hip as if he were fighting back words.

You beat him to it.

“Goodnight,” you utter through a smile, walking a few steps down the ramp. You feel his gaze linger on your form, so still and longing.

“I’ll walk you,” he calls out sternly, but it’s rounded near the edges as you turn back to look at him.

“Din,” you shake your head through an airy laugh, shaking your hands at him to keep his feet standing in place. “I’ll manage.”

“You fixed the thruster.”

“You helped,” you counter, and your gut flips when his arm extends.

“I passed you tools, you did everyth—”

“You listened.” you finally counter, your tone firm as his arm drops to his side again.

His posture shifts slightly, as if caught off guard. For a moment, the air between you fills with static. You see his head tilt just a fraction, and you imagine his brows furrowing beneath the sharp visor.

“I listened,” he echoes, testing the words on his tongue.

“Yes,” you acknowledge softly, grin bright despite the swell of your lungs pressing against your ribs. “Really, truly listened. And turns out, that’s a lot harder to do than passing tools.”

There’s a solemn moment of quiet, a pause so heavy it feels like the stars have stilled overhead.

Then, he exhales through his modulator and shrugs. “You’re hard to argue with.”

Your heart leaps, though you do well to hide it beneath a teasing smile painting your lips. “You’ll get used to it,” you reply as you step further down the ramp.

He doesn’t move, standing there like a statue of pure silver, but his head follows your every shaken step. It’s not until you’re near the edge of the clearing that you finally decide to turn around.

“Hey, Mando?” you call out, and the lilt of your voice carries through the clearing between you. From where you stand, it feels like a canyon.

He nods at you to continue, and despite the squeeze in your chest, you give him a wide, foxy smile.

“Tomorrow’s the weekend,” you trail, making your companion tilt his helmet in amusement. He tries to gauge your riddle, but quickly fails as his words fall through.

“And?”

Your smile shifts into an effortless grin. “And I better see you at the cantina.”

He exhales audibly, the sound crackling through the modulator. “You’re not letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you reply, folding your arms as you take a half-step closer despite the obscuring darkness behind you. “You promised.”

“I didn’t promise,” he counters, his tone almost defensive. Damn his good memory, trying to trick him is pointless.

“Fair enough,” you giggle, but the self-satisfied glint in your eyes perseveres. “But I’ll be there. Just so you know.”

He nods, watching your lax posture as your cloak sways in the soft, nightly breeze. You hope he’s mulling over the question, even as his words come to punctuate your conversation. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Din,” you finally nod, waving him goodbye as you slowly move through the thicket. The last thing he hears of you as your cloaked form disappears in the darkness is the echoing bellow of your giggle.

Din remains rooted at the edge of the ramp, staring into the gloaming cavern long after you’ve gone. The silence around him fills with the hum of the Crest and the ribbiting of nearby creatures as they settle in for the night. Unbeknownst to you, as the silvery moon rises above the tree line and his gloved palms squeeze tight, he finally makes his choice.

And as the stars shimmer above, he wishes you had stayed to see.