#rust blaster

[beneaththemasks]

HEROES ALWAYS GET REMEMBERED

BUT YOU KNOW LEGENDS NEVER DIE

[gothicappreciationsblog]

[scarlet-streak-rambles]

From reading Rust Blaster, Black Butler, and Twisted Wonderland, I have determined that Toboso Yana desperately wants to create a plot heavy fantasy BL and I for one think we should let her for the good of Black Butler. Be free, Toboso, follow your dreams.

[warmmilk-n-honey]

Yoooo Yana's old lil avatar guy from before she started Kuro, sorry it's really low quality-you can probably find a better version on the wiki

"I love tuna.

I love eating it, but I also love the living fish itself.

Tuna never stops swimming, even for a moment, until the day they die.

I hope that I to, can be like tuna in that respect.

So what if I'm stupid?

On another note, when I was in pre-school, the first time I drew a picture of a tuna, I drew it as a red, rectangular fish.

I was stupid back then too."

(this is a fan translation so idk how accurate it is)

[cielsama14]

The Snake/Doll situation and the latest chapter in particular has huge parallels with Yana’s previous work Rust Blaster. These parallels could help hint at how the Snake/Doll situation will go. I’ll go into it below with side-by-side comparisons and there will be major spoilers for Rust Blaster.

Here’s the full picture breakdown for the Al/Doll parallel:

Try to push friend away from them moment so they won’t see dark condition of body (though for a protective reason in Al’s case)

Hide the truth from friend(s) after bodies break down (Al wiping the blood off his face and keeping Kain’s explanation and his concerns to himself vs Doll hiding from Snake after body breakdown)

Friend(s) find out and are horrified

Then guilty over condition and friend(s) are concerned on top of the horror from earlier

Continuing from the parallel and based on what we know of Snake, he’d most likely be concerned about Doll and want to help her. However, the ability to do something about the condition is the point at which things break off from RB.

In RB, it was a temporary condition coming out as sporadic bursts of bloodlust that increased the more Al drank from Kei. Kei was able to snap Al out of it at the end and Al left to protect his friends from it.

However, the craving for the future over all else appears to be the very basis for the bizarre dolls as the replacement of a soul. In contrast to Al, I think Doll is permanently forced to stay a monster and pursue vengeance because of that programming. How will Snake handle this condition?

In RB, Kodachi said they would fight it no matter how many times it happened (though Al left anyway since the situation was too dire), but will Snake have to fight to end it for good?

[every-black-butler-food]

[artsy-hobbitses]

Raffle prize for @transformers4palestine’s fourth week as won by @bigtittymegatron who wanted Jazz introducing Ratchet to some music! Thank you for your donation eueb

I haven’t drawn bots in over a DECADE so this was a very fun de-rusting in which I had a chance to have Jazz introduce the good doctor to some cool shit, but listen, Jazz (and Blaster) would 100% find the human concept of ‘musical pranks’ hysterical and then proceed to blast Decepticon comms with Levan Polkka until Soundwave cries.

[mavlabajuri]

What is Beskar? - A Breakdown

Beskar, also called Mandalorian iron, is a rare metal found only on Mandalore and its moon, Concordia. For Mandalorians, it's not just valued for its strength. Beskar is considered sacred, a holy material bound to identity, ancestry, and creed. The act of forging it is not merely a craft but a rite, performed by Mandalorian Armorers to bond warriors to their people through armor. Beskar is more than a metal: it represents resilience, heritage, culture, and soul.

Physical & Chemical Traits

Heat Resistance

What we know: Beskar can take direct hits from blasters and withstand lightsaber strikes without melting or deforming.

What that implies: It likely has an extraordinarily high melting point, higher even than tungsten (~3400°C). This places beskar among exotic, refractory metals or even unique energy-stabilized alloys. Canon also shows beskar resisting thermal shock (e.g., explosions) without shattering or fragmenting.

Durability & Toughness

“It’s beskar. It doesn’t dent.” - Medrit Vasur

What we know: It’s practically indestructible. Armor made of beskar resists slashes, blasterfire, lightsabers, crushing blows, and kinetic impacts. Even micronized forms can shatter bone.

What that implies: Beskar has immense toughness and impact dispersion. It doesn’t deflect energy like a shield; it spreads the impact across its surface. Think of it as a hybrid between metallic glass, Kevlar, and high-energy damping alloys. It doesn’t break, but the force still transfers to the wearer.

Malleability

“Mandalorians jealously guard their beskar-working skills and refuse to sell the formulas for any price.” - Imperial commentary on Mandalorian forging

What we know: Mandalorian smiths shape beskar into armor plates, wire, mesh, transparent film, foam, and even micronized particles.

What that implies: Beskar is incredibly workable when properly forged. Canon describes repeated folding (like Damascus steel), suggesting that its structural strength is enhanced through expert lamination and layering, a craft only mastered by Mandalorians.

Density & Weight

“Jaina examined her beskad; a blade forty-five centimeters long, maybe five or six centimeters wide, with a single cutting edge curving to a point—and much heavier than it looked, perhaps more than two kilos.” — Legacy of the Force: Invincible

What we know: “Full-density beskar” is heavier; alloyed forms with carbon or other materials are lighter but less durable.

What that implies: Pure beskar is likely denser than steel, possibly approaching the density of uranium or osmium. Alloying reduces weight and slightly lowers protective capacity. Export variants (like downgraded starships) use lighter, less refined beskar composites.

Corrosion Resistance

What we know: Beskar doesn’t tarnish, rust, or degrade over time, there’s no mention of upkeep for oxidation or weathering, even after centuries of use.

What that implies: It’s likely extremely corrosion-resistant, maybe through a naturally passivating surface layer (like titanium or stainless steel). That’s important for armor that’s expected to last generations, even in combat, salt air, or deep space.

Sound Signature

“Beskar had a sound like no other metal, all heavy dull solidity, no high tinny frequencies like durasteel when hit.” - Republic Commando: True Colors

What we know: When struck, beskar gives off a heavy, dull sound, different from the “tinny” sound of durasteel.

What that implies: This suggests high mass and excellent vibration damping. Materials that sound dull when struck often have lower resonance and greater ability to absorb kinetic energy, another point in favor of beskar spreading out impact forces instead of rebounding them.

Alloying Elements

“Anyway, this is top-grade beskar—full density, two percent ciridium, no fancy lamination or carbon-alloy.” - Kal Skirata

Known additives:

Ciridium (2%): A canon example from Skirata’s armor; Possibly a heat stabilizer or strengthener, unique to the gffa.

Carbon: Might lighten the material, increase flexibility, or improve strength (like real-word carbon steel).

The Shapes of Beskar

Plates - Ship hulls, traditional Mandalorian armor (beskar’gam)

Laminates - Layered armor, combining flexibility and protection

Wire/Mesh - Lightweight undersuits or integrated systems

Beskar-impregnated fabric - Beskar armorweave

Foam - Padding that still retains durability

Micronized particles - Used in crushgaunts

Transparent film - Rare; possibly used for HUDs or specialized optics

What’s in a Color?

"Armor colors and markings can indicate many things, from the clan or family to more ephemeral concepts such as state of mind or a particular mission." - Karen Traviss

Mandalorians don't just wear armor, they live in it. Beskar’gam is handed down, reforged, or remade, and each new generation adds their own mark. Painting one's armor is a declaration of individuality, experience, and lineage.

Cultural Significance

Declaration of identity: Some Mandalorian clans use distinct colors and markings to signify allegiance or heritage, including clan symbols or cultural symbols.

History and Feats: In some traditions, marks of honor, like jaig eyes, were painted on helmets to signify acts of bravery​.

Expression and accomplishments: Sabine Wren, regularly painted and repainted her 500-year-old armor as both personal expression and symbolic evolution through her life’s stages and affiliations​.

For Mandalorians, armor isn’t just armor, it’s a second skin. It's a visible oath to one of the six tenets of the Resol’nare: wearing beskar'gam. Choosing to paint one’s armor (or not to) says something.

Practical purposes: protection, camouflage, and preservation

While beskar is incredibly durable, painting it serves practical roles too, especially for older, heirloom and alloyed armor:

Corrosion control

Durasteel components, often used in place of beskar or to supplement it, can be vulnerable to environmental wear. Paint protects these surfaces from oxidation and corrosion, especially on long campaigns or in hostile conditions.

Camouflage & visibility

Mandalorians often operate in diverse terrain, paint lets them both blend in or intentionally stand out.

For stealth missions or ambushes, darker or terrain-matching colors can make a life-or-death difference.

Battle damage

A warrior's beskar'gam can take a hit, but it remembers every blow. Paint can mask surface damage, hide vulnerabilities, or maybe even accentuate past battlescars.

“The battles, the history, the blood all live within it. And the same goes for every Mandalorian.” - Sabine Wren

Painting Mandalorian armor isn’t merely cosmetic, it’s an ambulatory cultural mural, a testimony of paint and pigment. Every color, symbol, and stroke tells a story, and in true Mando fashion, it’s often one they’re not afraid to let you see coming.

K'oyacyi! // Mavla

If you have any comments, feedback, corrections or speculations, they are as always warmly welcomed!

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Bit of an odd request but I have autism and I’m extremely sensitive to certain senses like sounds and smells (like I know there’s an outside smell or that small high pitched sound that no one else seems to hear) and I would love a Hunter x reader where they get along because they just get eachother when it comes to the weird sensitive senses even if his brothers find it odd or crazy. Thank you! Xx

“Tuned In”

Hunter x Reader

There’s something in the air again. You smell it before anyone else does. Not in a poetic way, not in a metaphorical “a storm is coming” kind of sense. You literally smell it.

Something metallic. Almost like ozone. It’s faint, but it snags in your nose like a fishhook. You wrinkle your nose, arms folding as you lean against the edge of the Marauder’s ramp.

Hunter glances over.

“You smell it too,” he says, not a question.

You nod, relieved. “Yeah. Like static and rust had a baby.”

He grunts in agreement, the corner of his mouth twitching like it wants to smile. The others haven’t even noticed—Tech’s muttering to himself about recalibrating his datapad, Wrecker’s humming off-key while snacking on ration bars, and Echo is deep in repairs. No one else flinches at the subtle, high-pitched wheeeeee from a nearby power converter.

But Hunter? Hunter looks toward it with a frown. “It’s about to blow. We should move.”

⸻

Hunter gets it. Somehow, without explaining.

When you mention that certain fabrics feel like sandpaper or that someone’s breathing sounds too wet and you can’t focus, he doesn’t dismiss it. He just tilts his head and says, “Too much?” and then either removes the problem or removes you from it.

He doesn’t need a long explanation.

You didn’t expect anyone in this chaotic, blaster-filled, war-torn galaxy to understand what it’s like to live with senses tuned like a hypersensitive comms dish. But Hunter lives it.

You catch him sometimes, standing completely still in a crowded spaceport, his face twisted in quiet discomfort. You recognize it instantly—it’s not pain. It’s overload.

“What is it?” you ask him once.

He taps behind his ear. “Echoing footsteps. Six people, heavy boots. Off-rhythm.”

You blink. “That’s what’s bothering you?”

He gives a sheepish shrug. “Can’t not hear it.”

And for the first time in years, you feel seen.

⸻

The others don’t always get it. They don’t mean to be insensitive, not at all.

Wrecker tries to be careful, but he’s just loud by default—his hugs, his voice, even his laughter. It rattles in your bones sometimes.

Echo’s understanding, but logical. “Can’t you just tune it out?”

“No,” both you and Hunter answer in perfect unison.

Tech… Tech tries. He studies you like an interesting datapoint and sometimes blurts things like, “Fascinating. Is this a cognitive processing trait or a neural receptor variant?”

Hunter shoots him a look. “Not helping.”

Later, you find Hunter sitting beside you in the ship’s darkened medbay—quiet, low-lit, safe. You didn’t say anything, but he just knows.

“You want quiet,” he murmurs. “Low light. Soft fabric.”

You nod, curled into a soft blanket you scavenged months ago. “And someone who doesn’t think I’m weird.”

His voice is low and sure when he replies, “I’ve never thought you were weird. I think you’re wired differently… like me.”

You turn to look at him.

He’s close, but not too close. You always notice that—how he knows when you want space, and when you don’t. And right now, you don’t.

“You can hear heartbeats,” you whisper. “That doesn’t weird me out.”

He huffs a soft laugh, barely there. “I can hear yours. Calms me down.”

Your breath catches.

“Even when mine’s fast?”

“Especially then,” he says quietly. “Because then I know how to help.”

Your eyes sting, and you look away, blinking quickly.

“I didn’t think anyone in the galaxy would… just get it.”

He leans in slightly, voice like velvet. “You don’t have to explain yourself with me. Ever.”

⸻

Later, after a mission gone sideways, you’re both crouched under cover, breathing hard. Blasterfire zings past. But it’s not the noise that breaks you—it’s the smell of burning plastoid. Acrid, oily, cloying. You cover your mouth and gag.

Hunter throws a smoke capsule, buying you cover, then grabs your hand without a word and leads you out the back.

When you’re safely behind a hill, he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He just presses a cloth soaked in clean water against your nose and sits beside you silently, matching your breathing.

And when the panic finally ebbs, he says, “You told me once you don’t like being touched unless you ask first.”

You nod, chest still tight.

“Is this okay?” he asks, reaching one hand toward yours.

You look down at his hand. It’s warm, steady, grounding. You lace your fingers through his and grip tight.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’re okay.”

⸻

That night, back on the Marauder, you find a new blanket on your bunk. The soft kind you mentioned once. You pick it up and inhale—he washed it in that hypoallergenic soap you use.

There’s a folded note on top:

“I know it’s not perfect out there. But I want to be the one place that feels right to you. —H.”

You press it to your chest and smile.

You’ve never felt so understood.

[starwuvs]

cassian andor x gn!reader

“too close for comfort.”

When a mission goes sideways, you're forced to fight your way out with Cassian Andor at your side—the man who's always been more than just a fellow rebel operative. In heat of danger, the line between loyalty and something deeper starts to blur.

You should have known the intel was bad. Cassian had known it too. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he scanned the alley for escape routes before the contact even arrived. But orders were orders and when the Rebellion asked, you both delivered.

Now, pinned behind the hull of a rusted speeder, you weren’t sure who was more pissed—Cassian or you.

“Two more on the roof,” he said, ducking beside you, breath ragged. “Snipers.”

“I counted,” you said, wincing as a blaster bolt scorched too close above your head. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a good plan?”

He glanced at you, and despite the danger, his eyes softened just a little.

“Not good,” he said. “Just reckless.”

You cocked your brow. “So the usual.”

Another blast forced you both lower. Cassian cursed under his breath. He was injured—a fall from earlier getting worse—and was keeping pressure on it with his left while gripping his blaster in his right. You reached to help, but he shook his head.

“You’re getting out of here,” he said. “I’ll draw them.”

“You’re not serious.”

He gave you that look, the one so steady, infuriatingly so. “They want the data you’re carrying. You get it back to base.”

You stared at him. “And leave you to die? That’s your idea of a good plan?”

Cassian didn’t answer right away. He looked away instead, toward the horizon where smoke from the ambush still rose. “If it means you live, yes.”

He’d always done this, put the mission above himself, put you above himself. From the first time you were paired together, he’d been always willing to burn so others didn’t have to.

“Cassian,” you hissed, voice low. “We go together, or not at all.”

His jaw clenched and he whispered your name.

“No,” you snapped. “You don’t get to throw yourself away. We’ve gotten out of worse.”

“That’s not—”

“I won’t lose you.” You paused. “Not like this.”

The silence between you was tense. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered just a second too long. Then he moved.

His hand reached for yours, squeezing tight, grounding. “Okay,” he said. Just one word, but it held much more.

You both moved fast after that, covering, communicating without speaking. Cassian surged ahead after tossing a smoke charge, and you followed, blasting a path to the extraction alley.

You heard the thrum of your waiting cargo transport and barely made the leap into it, Cassian half-hauling your weight up as you stumbled into the hold together.

Heart pounding, blood still rushing in your ears, you turned to him. He was breathing hard, injured, dust-covered, but alive.

He banged twice on the durasteel wall, the signal for the pilot to get out of there, and soon the ship was in motion, speeding away into the stars.

“You okay?” you asked, voice trembling now.

He nodded. “You?”

“I am now.”

You both looked at each other then, the space between you barely a breath.

He raised a hand slowly, brushing a smear of soot from your cheek. His fingers lingered.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “If it came down to it…”

“I know,” you said. “But I’m not letting you die for me.”

He exhaled, something a mix of relief or regret. “Then I guess we protect each other.”

You nodded.

For one long moment, under the flickering lights of the transport, the combat seemed far away. He leaned in, just slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, the pull of something between you.

But he stopped just short.

Instead, he let his forehead rest lightly against yours. “We make it back,” he whispered, “we talk.”

“Promise?”

His voice was soft but sure. “I do.”

[ thanks for enjoying my work!! leaving a like, reblog, or follow means a lot to me. be sure to leave a comment or send an ask as well! my requests are open. - love, diego ]

[zoeykallus]

In His Crosshairs

Crosshair x Fem!Reader (Enemies To Lovers)

Warnings: Cat and mouse tension/A bit of violence/Strong language

Masterlist

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Prologue

This is a Crosshair x Female Reader story, slow burn, sharp edges, and a storm of tension that doesn't let go. Enemies to lovers? Eventually. But not before distrust, fire, and silence have carved their place.

You’re a pilot, independent, stubborn, always walking the line between law and survival. You don’t pick sides. Not until the Empire’s deadliest marksmen sets his sights on you.

It starts with a warning shot. And it doesn’t stop there. ______________________________________________________________

AC:

Been gone for a long time, but I'm back for now. With a lot of help from my friend Lena, I started to write again. She's not on tumblr, but I still want to mention her here, because she did translate my stuff into English, plus a few inspirations and some dialogue parts came from her. So she had/ and probably will have, quite some influence on this project and future projects. She also wrote the Prologue, because I suck at Prologues 🙂 BY THE WAY I LOST MY TAG-LISTS! So if you want to get tagged here or on any other projects, let me know in the comments or asks!

______________________________________________________________

Chapter 1. Through the Scope

The cold bit through your jacket like teeth, relentless and sharp, even inside the rusted-out cockpit. One of those damn planets where it either rained or snowed, and of course, you’d landed on a day when it did both. You cursed under your breath while slapping the console, trying to coax power back into the battered system.

Something felt off. The job had been too vague, the contact too late. Cargo was supposed to be waiting, “harmless replacement parts,” they’d said. You didn’t care what was in the crates. You just needed credits. But now the signal had gone dead, the drop site was empty, and your gut was twisting in that way it did right before everything went to hell. And your gut was right, 99% of times.

Suddenly, you felt it. Not heard. Not seen. Just felt... a shift in the air, a weight on your spine. Something was off.

The first shot hit half a meter from your head.

Not a miss. Rather a warning.

You’d run. Blaster in hand, boots slipping over wet metal and cracked stone, breathing hard as you bolted through ruined buildings and abandoned outposts. But he, whoever he was, was always behind you. Not close. Just there. Like a ghost made of precision and patience. His shots almost forcing you into a dance.

And now, you’re tucked between two rusted-out cargo containers, breath fogging in the cold, fingers wrapped too tightly around a blaster you barely know how to use. You've never been much of a combat girl. You don't know if you’re sweating or freezing. Maybe both.

“You’re holding the trigger too tight.”

The voice comes from behind you. Smooth. Controlled. Deliberate.

You spin, heart leaping, gun raised. And there he is.

Shadowed, quiet. The long sniper rifle in one hand. Helmet under the other arm. Dark armor, almost lost in the dim light of the ruined compound. But his eyes are something else. Gold. Sharp. Measuring. He looks at you, and it feels like he's looking right through you. That tattoo around his right eye.

Crosshair.

You’ve heard his name. Whispered. Warned. The sniper who doesn’t miss. That imperial sharpshooter.

“You…” Your voice cracks before you can stop it, but you bite down, force your chin up. “You’re not a very good shot, missed me a couple of times"

There’s a flicker in his eyes. Barely. The edge of a smirk that doesn’t quite make it to his mouth. He steps forward, deliberate and quiet.

“I don’t miss,” he says. “I just wanted to see how fast you run.” Dryly and bolder than you feel, you say, "Well, fuck you, Sir"

You don’t know whether to laugh or scream. Maybe both. Your fingers ache around your blaster grip.

“What do you want? I’m not worth anything. I’ve got no intel, no connections. I'm nobody.”

He watches you. For too long. Like he's reading something behind your eyes.

“Not entirely true. Someone wants you. And I was sent to collect.”

“Are you going to?” you ask, sharper than you intend. Fear always comes out as sarcasm when you’re tired.

Another pause. Finally, he lowers the rifle, slow, deliberate. He wants you to see how he does it.

Not a gesture of safety, not a real compromise. A message: You’re still not safe.

“Not yet.”

He turns. Walks away. No rush. No explanation. Just the heavy weight of his presence fading from your line of sight, leaving you alone, your heart hammering, your lungs burning. "What the fuck...", you whisper to yourself.

And for the first time, you realize: You're being hunted.

You made it back to your ship by sheer luck and bruised knees. The hangar was quiet, far too quiet for a place that used to hum with generators and merchant shouts. Now, only the dull sound of your own heartbeat echoed between steel walls.

You'd thrown yourself into the pilot seat, hands flying over switches and controls. No power. Of course not. You muttered a curse under your breath. “Come on, you stubborn piece of sh... ”

A warning chirp lit up the console. Motion sensor: external perimeter breached.

You froze. "Give me a break!" Your breath hitched. Then, instinct took over. You dropped from the seat, grabbed your blaster, and pressed yourself against the side panel near the entry ramp.

Silence.

You heard something, footsteps. Slow. Measured. Unhurried. Like someone entering a party, making a dramatic entrance, by being casual.

The ramp hissed open. Fog rolled in around tall black boots. Armor, scuffed but maintained. A long-barreled rifle, cradled loosely like an extension of his body. And that face, sharp lines, distant, unreadable.

Your gaze caught on it again, the tattoo. A black crosshair, inked clean over his right eye, the center aligning exactly with his iris. It didn’t feel like body art, it felt more like a threat. A mark of identity and purpose.

That eye found you instantly.

“You're not good at hiding.”

You forced your voice to hold. “Kiss my ass. You’re not good at knocking.”

He stepped inside slowly, gaze never leaving yours. “Didn’t think you'd answer.”

You leveled your blaster at him. He didn’t even blink, nothing.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice low. “Shoot. See how far you get.”

You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Because you could see it in his stance, the way how still he stood, how his hand rested casually near the rifle, but not on it. He didn’t need it. He could take you down without blinking.

“What do you want?” you snapped. “I told you, I don’t have anything worth your time.”

Crosshair’s gaze flicked toward your cargo hold. Something about his gaze told you, he knew something you didn't.

“You’re transporting unauthorized supplies. Sealed crates with no tags, no serials. You know what that means.”

“Well... actually I don't” You faltered. Because you didn’t know. You hadn’t asked. And now that he’d said it, you realized… you hadn’t seen the usual logs. No standard freight clearances. No pickup codes.

“What did I bring?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head, just slightly. “Explosives. Medical stims. Weapons. Rebel caches.”

Your stomach dropped. You felt it, not guilt, not really. Just dread. That creeping, cold sensation that everything you’d touched had just gone radioactive from one moment to the other.

“I'm just the pilot,” you said nervous, “I... didn’t know.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his voice tightened.

“That's what they all say.”

You bristled. “I don’t work for them, or the others... or whoever. I didn’t sign up for anyone’s war.”

“No.” He took a step closer. “You just flew straight into it.”

You backed up instinctively until your spine hit the edge of the console. He was close now. Too close. You could see the wear on his armor, the faint scar just beneath the tattoo. The way his mouth stayed a hard, straight line.

“You gonna turn me in?” you asked, voice low.

He looked at you for a long moment. That gaze, sharp, cutting, intense, felt like it went straight through you once more.

Then, finally: “Not yet.”

You paused, a little confused. What was going on?

You swallowed. “Still not? Why?”

He leaned in just enough for you to hear his words like a whisper.

“Still deciding.” A shiver running down your spine, almost making you shudder. Your body was making many weird things right now under its surface. Things you didn't really understand right now.

And with that, he turned again. Like he hadn’t just peeled you open with a glance. Like he hadn’t just cracked something in your chest you didn’t even know was there.

He walked toward the exit, paused, and spoke over his shoulder.

“Ship’s grounded. Power’s dead. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

You blinked. “Hey, wait a minute...”

“There’s a shelter in the old comm tower nearby.” A pause. His gaze holding you in place for one more second, “I’m staying there. You can freeze out here. Or not." "Um... did you just invite me to your place or something like that?"

He didn’t wait and didn't answer. He was already gone. Leaving you behind again. A soft, resigned sigh out of your lungs. You hesitated, just a second.

"Damn it!"

Finally, you followed him. Because the hangar suddenly felt a hell of a lot colder.

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Din Djarin X Reader: Guilty Pleasure

Warnings: not proof read, smut, penetration (p in v), fingering, hand job, cream pie, pet names, touch starved, cursing, kissing, no use of yn

Word count: 2K

He’s trying not to look. He really is but you're not making it easy. 

Maker, it isn’t your fault he finds you irresistible. 

Here you are innocently helping him fix his ship and all he can think about is how it would feel to fuck you from behind. It’s been going on for weeks now. Every time you bend down, your ass coming into his view, Mandos mind seems to venture to sinful thoughts. He didn’t know why it’d started, you'd been with him for months now and even though he’d realized he had a thing for you days ago he’d only recently started to see you in this new light. A light that made him feel like his pants were too tight and made his breath become uneven.

“Kriffing metal piece of-shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a part that needs replacing.”

“You can’t fix it?”

“No, it's completely rusted. Not a surprise though. When was the last time you put some oil on this thing?”

In all honesty Mando had no idea the compartment you were currently tinkering with existed much less that he needed to oil it. You took his silence as an answer, shaking your head.

“Well, lucky for us there is a shop in town that deals in ship parts. They should have what we need.”

The two of you walked through the crowded town. Dins hand rested on his blaster, eyes looking around for any signs of trouble. You held the new part you purchased in your hand. The owner of the shop had asked for a fair price and to your surprise the piece was in rather good condition. You glanced to the side, eyes catching on a small shop. You didn’t notice the person walking towards you until their shoulder bumped into yours. You stumbled your hand releasing the part you held. It fell to the ground with a dull thud. You bent down to get it.

Mando had been too focused on a sketchy looking man to notice you’d stopped walking. His body collided into yours, his hands instinctively moved to hold onto your frame. Mandos' eyes widened beneath his helmet as he realized the position he now found himself in. His hands rested on your hips keeping you steady. You were bent forward, your ass pushed against his groin. By some force of nature Din had found himself in the exact position he’d been thinking about for the past few days. 

In the middle of a crowded street. 

In front of a bunch of strangers. 

Mando didn’t touch you often. He usually avoided coming in contact with your body when possible. So when you felt his grip on your hips you froze. Your head turned to the side, eyes moving up Mandos body until they reached his helmet. Mando started at your shocked expression. He should have let you go already but he couldn’t move. You turned your attention back to the part grabbing it in your hand. Once it was securely in your palm you slowly started to rise. Mandos' hands remained glued to you as you moved. You finally managed to get upright and you immediately regretted it.

You could feel his body pressed against yours. A small sigh left your lips at the feeling. Maker it had been so long since you’d been this close to someone.  Beneath his helmet Mando shut his eyes taking a deep breath in. You felt so soft against him. Your body was a warm contrast against the chilled metal that constantly surrounded him. His fingers flexed against your skin digging into the meat of your hips. You let out a sharp intake of breath. The noise made Mando open his eyes. He watched you rest your head against his shoulder blade, your eyes closed and lips slightly parted. You’d exposed your neck to him and the only thing he could think about was sinking his teeth into you. Mando called out your name causing you to furrow your brows before opening your eyes slowly. You tilted your head slightly so that you could stare at the T shape of his visor. You should have been embarrassed, maybe even a little ashamed, of how you were behaving but you weren't. You’d longed for Din’s touch for a long time and now that you had it, you weren’t going to waste your time worrying about it. You were going to savor this moment. No matter how little it lasted. 

“We have to get out of here.”

Mandos' modulated voice sounded strange. He sounded like he’d just ran a mile. It was then that you realized you had the same effect on him that he had on you.

Mando struggled to center himself as he dragged you towards the crowd. You stumbled after him, your hand grasping him tightly as you tried to keep up with his speed. You’d passed two motels on the way and it had taken everything inside Mando to not rent a room and get you naked as fast as possible. But he didn’t want to seem that desperate so he shook the thoughts out of his head.

You were getting close to the ship now, just a little bit longer and you’d get to feel him again.

Din smashed his hand against the hull's panel, a growl escaping his lips as he waited for the door to open all the way. Once it did, he dragged you inside the ship. You placed the part on top of a counter quickly turning to face Mando once more. You watched him slam his fist into the inside panel, making the door close again before he spun to look at you. You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you wait for him to do something. Mandos' hands moved to his armor tugging at the metal desperately. 

“Help me cyar'ika.”

You rushed over to him, your own hand tugging at the beskar that covered him. For the first time you were looking at him without his armor and even with his flight suit still on you could see everything. Mando moved forward, stepping away from the pile of metal and making his way to you. His arms wrapped around your frame tugging you into his body. You gasped at the feeling of him. Unlike his armor he was incredibly warm and soft. You sighed into him, your head moving to rest against his neck. Mando groped you ass making you squeal. 

“Ah Din!”

He loved the way his name sounded coming out of your lips. You felt his hands move towards your front. You moaned as he stroked your clothed cunt with his fingers. Your hands moved to his head trying to grasp onto his hair only to remember he was still using his helmet. Din seemed to sense the disappointment in your body, his fingers stopping his teasing. His other hand made its way to your face, tugging your chin up so that you were looking at his visor. Your pupils were blown wide and your face was slightly flushed. Din smiled under his helmet. Maker if this is how you reacted to his fingers he wondered how you would look after he’d bent you over and fucked you stupid. 

“Tell me what you want.”

“What?”

“Saw you pouting about something. What is it?”

You bit into your lip. The truth is you wanted to see his face but you couldn’t ask him for that. You respected his allegiance to the Mandalore and his beliefs far too much to be that selfish but you really wanted to be able to feel him properly. You wanted to kiss and and hear his unfiltered grunts as he fucked you.

‘Mesha’la. Tell me what you want.”

“You can't give me what I want.”

“How can you know that if you didn’t even ask me for it?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Mandos' body stiffens at your words, his hand resting on your cheek as he tries to think about what you’d just said. You move against him taking a step back. 

“It’s okay i know you can’t it was stupid to-”

“Close your eyes.”

You stopped walking backwards, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of something to say. Mando tilts his head to the side and despite not saying anything you know what he’s asking. You do as he asked, eyes closing. You hear the hiss of his helmet being released and you almost stop breathing. Mando makes his way over to you, his hand finding your cheek once more.

“Promise to keep them closed.”

His voice sounds majestic without the modulator.

“I promise.”

“Good girl.”

Before you can even respond his lips are on yours. You groan into his mouth, your tongue darting out to ask him for entrance. He understands your request, his lips opening to let you in. Your tongues move together. The kiss isn't pretty, it's visceral. Your hands grab onto any part of Din you can and he does the same to you. You're so lost in the taste of him you barely register the fact that he's pulled your pants down to your ankles. It's only when you feel his fingers against your pussy that you realize your bareness. Din bites into your shoulder as he pistols his fingers into you. You melt into his hands latching onto his curls as you moan. His name leaves your lips like a prayer and he swears he’ll never forget the sound. 

“Din pleasee.”

“What is it mesha’la? What do you want?”

“I need you inside Din-ugh ah- wanna feel you.”

“Fuck cyar'ika.”

He spins you around so fast that you almost fall to the ground. You brace yourself against the cold wall, brows furring as you listen to Mando unzip his flight suit. 

“Give me your hand.”

You lift your hand to Dins face. He licks a strip down your palm before maneuvering your arm to twist downwards. A gasp leaves your lips as you feel his dick against your hand. You begin stroking him and he moans.

“Yeah just like that fuck.”

He lets you stroke him a bit before pulling your hand away. You whine at the lack of contact.

“I thought you wanted me inside.”

“I do.”

“Can’t be inside you if i’m fucking your hand mesha’la.”

It sounds strange to hear such dirty words coming out of Din's mouth. You like it though. You wonder what noises he’ll make when he’s balls deep in you. The thought makes you nudge your ass against him. Mando gets the massage. His toys with you a bit, sliding his dick against your folds for a moment before plugging in. The sound that leaves your lips isn’t natural. Din groans into your neck as your walls flutter around him.

“Move please Din move.”

He started rocking into you slowly. Your hands move against the cold wall, trying to find something to grab onto but coming on empty. You throw your hand behind your head searching for Dins curls. Once you find them you latch your fingers onto his scalp tugging at him as he pistols into you. You can hear your knees bainging against the wall as Din fucks you, you’re sure to wake up with bruises tomorrow but you don’t care. You focus on the grunt Din lets out as his dick spears into you. He’s a lot more vocal than you’d imagined. 

“Din i’m close…”

“Me to just a little more-ugh fuck me-a little more.”

Dins hands trail against your hips moving to your front. His fingers search for your clit moving expertly against the bud. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you cum. Din feels you milking his cock the feeling of your walls sucking him in making his hips sputter. His pace fastens and pretty soon he's filling you with his seed. You slump against the wall body sagging as your energy drains out of you. Din rests his head against the metal hull, his breathing coming unsteady. The two of you stay like that for a moment each one trying to come back to reality. 

“I’m never oiling any part of this ship again.”

You laugh at Dins words, head turning to give him a kiss. 

“Maybe i’ll have to start dropping stuff in front of you more often.”

“Don’t tempt me mesha’la. I’ll fuck you on every surfess of this ship if you let me.”

“Oh yeah? That a threat or a promise?”

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

[sleepisapriviligethatidonthave]

Fir the MegOp request: TFA Megatron reaction that TFA Optimus is a space bridge repair worker

Finally I found your ask! I spent a century combing through my notifications XD

Aaaaanyways, here it is! Hope you like it ^^

Megatron swung his swords at the Prime, missing by a wire’s breath when the Autobot ducked and returned the attack in kind. It was a familiar song and dance for the warlord by now, though usually their fights were not so… private.

As luck would have it, both of them had answered an energy anomaly in the forest near Detroit. It had been a rather pleasant surprise to find the young Prime all by his lonesome right after locating the Allspark fragment in the middle of a small clearing in said woods.

“Not too shabby, Autobot. A few more millennia and you might stand a chance at defeating me!” he mocked as he kicked his opponent to the ground. It was almost too easy sometimes, but the Prime always pulled through one way or another.

“I have a name!” snapped Optimus as he rolled just out of reach of Megatron’s pede which left a small crater right where he had been a moment ago, “I am Optimus Prime, and you ought to remember that!” he growled and slashed with his axe at the pede, only grazing the thick warframe armour. Megatron couldn’t help but laugh at the feeble attempt to injure him.

It was always fun to see his enemies infuriated at the fact that he didn’t know their names. He did, but one thing he had learned early on in his gladiatorial career was that an unconcentrated opponent was a weak one. That practice of his had helped him all throughout the war and even after that. It wasn’t often that he met an opponent that kept their cool so well in the face of such disrespect.

“Ah, yes, the rank of Prime. The standards for it have fall quite a bit, haven’t they?” he chuckled with a smirk and parried the angry swing aimed at his helm, throwing the Autobot into the air. Megatron watched with a hint of surprise as his foe flipped in the air and landed square on his pedes, ready to resume their fight. “Or maybe not.” he muttered to himself and went in for another attack.

Few survived an encounter with him and lived long enough to tell the tale. Even fewer willingly went against him again, which made fighting the young mech such a delight.

The little Prime never ceased to surprise. He was always so resourceful and selfless – two qualities he had long believed to be extinct when it came to Autobots. He fought rather rigidly, yes, but he knew when to change tactics in order to secure an advantage. That, he could respect, he could use. If only the Prime wasn’t so foolishly loyal to his rusted cause.

Optimus dodged blaster fire with ease as he shot a grappling hook at one of Megatron’s swords, attempting to seize it.

Megatron grabbed the chord and pulled, sending Prime once again flying through the open sky, but this time luck was not on his side. He smashed against a tree, with a loud crack before falling to the ground, heaving.

“You Autobots never learn, do you? You can not defeat me, even the best of you.” he knew that praising him was a contradictive move, but he had earned it.

It came as a surprise to hear the Prime snort and try to stifle a chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Autobot?” the reaction puzzled him. He was about to be offlined and yet here he was, laughing like Megatron had told him the funniest joke in the galaxy.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. It’s just that, if you really think that an academy washout, space bridge technician is ‘one of the best’, then it’s not the Autobots’ standard that has fallen.” snickered Optimus as he looked up at Megatron with a slag eating grin.

The warlord froze in place, his CPU attempting and failing to process the new information.

“What?”

Optimus laughed even harder, wincing when his vents, damaged by the hit he took, expelled a wheezing sound.

Megatron pressed the tip of one of his swords right against the Autobot’s main fuel line, effectively silencing him. “Explain yourself, now.” he growled menacingly.

“What exactly is there to explain? I already told you the truth. I’m not a fully fledged Prime. Officially I’m not even considered a warrior, no one on my team is. We’re space bridge technicians. Our job was to travel around the corners of the galaxy and repair the Autobot space bridge network.”

Megatron looked at the Prime in disbelief, every interaction they had ever had, replaying itself in the warlord’s mind as small, incongruous details about the team of Autobots slotted themselves into place to finally reveal the horrific truth.

They were no warriors, they were civilians who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. That was why the Elite Guard had done next to nothing to help them. To the great Autobot machine they were fodder, disposable.

Disgust and hatred flashed through Megatron’s field, making Optimus flinch minutely when his own tense one came into contact with his.

This changed everything and nothing at the same time which only infuriated Megatron even more. It was dishonourable to fight against someone who could not face you properly in battle, who was not a warrior. It was Descepticon code, something he himself had put into place to prevent unnecessary carnage in the name of keeping Cybertron populated. Overtime, even the worst of the Descepticons had accepted it as law, even he himself had begun to view it as something on which his honour depended.

And here he was tarnishing it in the worst way imaginable.

“You know, if you ask me, I would much rather fight Cons for the rest of my life than go back to the most boring job in the universe.”

Immediately, Megatron’s helm snapped to the location of the voice only to see the bright yellow Autobot speedster sitting on a tree stump, looking at the bots before him while twirling the forgotten Allspark fragment in his servos.

“Personally, I’d rather be a space bridge technician. Bossbot is right, we aren’t warriors, and I’ll be more than happy to go back to doing what I signed up for.” came the voice of the big green Autobot from the other side of the clearing.

“Quit yer whining, will ya? We still need to save Optimus from Buckethead!” barked the team’s medic as he primed his magnets.

“I do not believe Optimus needs our saving.” chimed in the ninja bot who appeared from behind a tree.

Megatron took in all of the newly gathered Autobots, ignoring the last comment. Before, all he saw was a bunch of low-class warriors with lacking training, but now, he saw them for what they really were. It was so obvious in hindsight, he wanted to kick himself for missing it.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Prowl, I really appreciate it.” Megatron snapped his attention back to his original foe, having thought him incapacitated. Clearly, he had miscalculated again, as a spray of foam hit his faceplates, completely blinding him. He tried moving back, only for his pedes to be restrained in Prime’s grappling hook.

Megatron fell backwards with a grunt. As he tried to regain his sight, he could hear the commotion around him.

“Let’s go before he gets back up and hunts us down!” yelled Optimus. His command was met with no complaints and soon enough Megatron found himself alone on the clearing.

He growled and muttered curses as he cut the chord around his pedes. The mission had been a disaster. Of course, he could give chase to the Autobots and try to retrieve the Allspark fragment, but ultimately decided against it.

Once he finally deemed himself presentable, he gave one last glance to the direction in which the Autobot team retreated, sighed, and began the journey back to the Descepticon hideout. He was in no mood to rush back just to deal with his subordinates, so he opted to walk. That way he had some time to mull over the new information he had obtained and formulate a plan…

And think of a way to break the news to his Descepticons without causing a riot.

[warmmilk-n-honey]

Also I'm high key angry cause there was basically no weird shit in Rust Blaster other than that foot shot and the queer baiting, so she can control herself is what I'm understanding!

so wtf is wrong with kuro!! RB seems like the place to have some etchie shit since it's like a teen high school manga, not fucking kuro!!

Yana why are you like this!!! I need to understand your mind!!!

[cielsama14]

I’m just curious, who all has read Rust Blaster? I bought the volume back in June and have been insane about it ever since. I’ve also been working on an in-depth Rust Blaster/Kuroshitsuji comparison post and if anyone’s interested, I can share some of my notes so far.

[netflixbingger]

Beneath Rebel Skies - Chapter 3

Characters: Cassian x Reader Summary: You and Cassian Andor were childhood friends on Ferrix—until your parents suddenly tore you away without warning. Years later, you reunite during a mission for the Rebellion. Old memories clash with new tension as you’re forced to work together, navigating the lines between friendship, loyalty, and something more. Word Count: 2969 words Warnings: Violence, Loss, Mild Language, Mentions of Sex, Drinking Masterlist Previous Chapter

The next few weeks were less tense, but not exactly easy. You and Cassian had fallen into something like a rhythm—half-functional, half-awkward. Briefings weren’t stiff anymore. You even caught him making a dry joke once, which startled a laugh out of you loud enough for Kiira to elbow you under the table.

Sure it wasn’t like before, on Ferrix. But it wasnt cold.

There were small things. Shared glances when someone said something idiotic. A corner-of-the-mouth smile from him when you rolled your eyes too hard. The kind of micro-moments that made you feel like you might actually become friends again. Not just teammates.

But then came the missions.

You’d been assigned to Cassian’s unit more often lately—your fieldwork had apparently impressed someone high up. “You two work well under pressure,” they said.

Surely, they had to be joking.

Yes, you got the job done. Always did. In, out, intel secured.

But the in-between? It was far from smooth. Tension threaded through every mission. Sharp and sarcastic comments. Bickering followed by painful silence on the flight back. You didn’t yell, not exactly. But there were sparks.

Which brought you to now.

The blaster fire was relentless.

You ducked behind a stack of rusted crates, heart thudding in your ears as sparks sprayed overhead. The heat from a bolt skimmed past your cheek, too close, and you bit down a curse, swinging your arm around to return fire.

Across the comms, Cassian’s voice cut through the static. “Flank left. Now.”

“I know,” you snapped, already moving. “This isn’t my first op, Captain.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. You heard it. Of course you did.

You dropped into cover beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you slid behind the same broken wall. He gave you a quick once-over, his brow pinched tight. “You good?”

“Peachy,” you muttered, dragging a sleeve across your face. “You?”

He didn’t answer. Just peeked over the edge, gun ready. “Kay, we need the exit route clear. Prep the ship.”

You exhaled hard through your nose. You’d argued about leaving Kay behind on this one—Cassian said he would cause too much trouble, you said you needed backup. And right now, you were wishing you’d pushed harder.

More shots echoed in the clearing. You both ducked again. Another pause, another shared glance.

“Three at twelve,” he murmured. “Fast.”

You steadied yourself. One breath. Then another. Your blaster rose.

Three shots. Three guards down.

Clean.

You turned slightly, a glance over your shoulder.

Cassian hadn’t moved much. He was still crouched against the edge of the wall, half-shadowed, the fading light catching on the grime smeared across his cheekbone. His jaw was tight. Eyes fixed on the ridge, unmoving.

But not unreadable.

Not entirely.

Then, he was looking at you.

And he didn’t look away.

You couldn’t name what passed between you in that moment, but it pressed in close.

You frowned. “What?”

He blinked, as if just remembering where he was. Like you’d interrupted a thought he hadn’t meant to have.

“Nothing,” he said, voice low.

Then he stood, all movement and purpose again. “Let’s move. We’ve got a window.”

You didn’t argue. Just fell in behind him, boots crunching through the scorched dirt.

You reached the edge of the landing site just as the sun dipped low behind the rocks. The ship was right where you left it, its ramp lowered and lights glowing faintly in the dusk.

K-2SO stood waiting at the ramp, arms crossed in exaggerated disapproval.

“Took you long enough,” the droid called. “I calculated a twenty-seven percent chance one of you would trip over your own ego and die.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nice to see you too, Kay.”

Cassian barely glanced at him. “We were fine.”

“‘Fine’ is a generous assessment,” K-2 said, already turning toward the interior. “I reviewed the comms. She snapped at you within the first minute.”

“She always snaps at me,” Cassian muttered as he climbed the ramp.

“Because you talk like I don’t know what I’m doing,” you shot back.

He tossed a look over his shoulder. “Maybe if you didn’t charge into things like you’re invincible, I wouldn’t have to.”

You raised a brow and K-2SO let out a long, dramatic sigh. “This is going to be a very long debrief.”

You ignored him, dropping into the co-pilot’s seat with a huff. “We got the intel, didn’t we?”

Cassian glanced at the data drive on the console. “Yeah. We did.”

You leaned back, arms crossed. “Then maybe next time, don’t bark orders like you’re leading a boot camp.”

“Maybe next time, don’t act like you’re trying to prove something.”

That one hit. A little too close.

You looked out the viewport, jaw tight. “I’m not.”

Cassian didn’t respond, but you felt the weight of his silence. You hated when he didn’t argue—it meant he was thinking.

K-2SO stepped between you both, breaking the moment. “Would either of you like to tell me who burned through seventy-three percent of our ammo reserves?”

“Cassian,” you said flatly.

“Her,” he said at the same time.

K-2’s head swiveled from one to the other. “Unsurprising.”

You sank deeper into the seat, letting the hum of the ship distract you. Your hands were still twitchy from the fight.

Cassian adjusted the controls. “We’ll be back on Yavin by morning.”

You nodded, eyes forward. “Good.”

“Debrief at 08:00.”

“I know,” you muttered.

The cockpit dimmed into its overnight cycle. K-2SO took the helm. You and Cassian changed, then disappeared to opposite ends of the ship without a word.

You ended up stretched across the back lounge bench, jacket thrown over your legs like a blanket, datapad resting on your stomach. Lit. Unread. Your mind keep replaying your argument with Cassian from earlier.

You didn’t even look up at first when footsteps approached.

Cassian entered, carrying two steaming cups. He said nothing—just set one gently beside you and sank into the bench across from yours.

You glanced at the cup, then at him. “What’s this?”

“Didn’t think you’d sleep,” he said. “Thought caf might help. Or piss you off. Either way it's a distraction.”

You gave a dry, tired smile and picked it up. “Didn’t know you made peace offerings.”

“I don’t,” he said, sipping his own. “Kay said if I didn’t, he’d start sending you hourly updates on my bowel movements.”

You snorted. A real laugh, short and surprised, and caught the flicker of a grin tugging at his mouth.

The quiet that followed didn’t press on you like it used to. It settled instead—like gravity. No tension. No need to fill it. That's what was nice about you and Cass. No matter how heated the arguments got on a mission, once you were back on base things were always somewhat civil.

You took a sip and winced. “This tastes like engine oil.”

Cassian didn’t blink. “Didn’t say it was good.”

A few minutes passed. He leaned his head back against the bulkhead, eyes half-lidded.

You sipped your caf, staring down into it like it might offer something useful. It didn’t. Your muscles had finally stopped buzzing from the mission, but your brain refused to follow.

Cassian hadn’t moved. Still half-sunk into the bench across from you, head tipped back, mug balanced loosely in his hand. He looked relaxed. Or at least, as close to it as he ever got. The sharpness in him dulled by exhaustion and low lighting.

It was weird—this moment. Quiet, neutral. Not laced with tension or old memories. Just stillness.

And for some reason, it made you want to ruin it.

So you said the first thing that came to mind.

“You snore.”

His eyes cracked open. One brow arched. “I do not.”

You shrugged, feigning casual. “You do. Arliss Four. Loud enough to scare off wildlife.”

“You’re being dramatic,” he said, deadpan.

“I recorded it,” you replied, a smile pulling at your mouth before you could stop it.

Cassian muttered something under his breath, probably an insult, but his mouth twitched at the corners. Not quite a smile. But close.

You smiled at his reaction, and continued to sip on your drink in silence. Eventually, Cassian stood, gathering your empty mug without comment.

“I should prep for the morning.”

You watched him start to go. And before your better judgment could stop you—

“Cassian.”

He turned just enough to meet your eyes.

You hesitated. Then, softly: “Thanks.”

His gaze held for a beat. Just long enough for something unspoken to pass between you.

“Anytime,” he said.

Then he disappeared into the corridor, leaving you with nothing but the warmth of the caf, the faint scent of metal and dust.

You didn’t sleep much that night—not really. A few hours, maybe. Light and restless. The kind of sleep that didn’t reach your bones. When morning broke, it was with a groan and a sore shoulder from the bench.

You sat through the debrief with half-listening nods. Cassian, as always, stuck to the facts. No dramatics. No glance your way—until the very end, when his eyes flicked toward you. Brief. But not nothing.

By midday, it all felt like a blur.

You ran diagnostics. Checked in with Kiira. Ate something vaguely bread-like. Routine. Normal.

Late afternoon, the sun bleeding through the clouds, you saw him.

Cassian. Alone near the southeast railing.

You slowed. Stopped.

He glanced over. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly too aware of how warm your face felt. “We’re grabbing drinks tonight. Me, Kiira, Cade.” You tried to sound casual. “You should come.”

Cassian blinked, like he wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s not formal,” you added, a little too quickly. “Just a few drinks. Some bad food. Probably Kiira trying to start a bar fight with someone twice her size.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like he was turning something over in his head.

You crossed your arms. “You can say no.”

“I wasn’t going to say no.”

“Oh.” You shifted your weight. “Cool.”

A silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... new.

“I’ll stop by,” he said finally.

You nodded. “Alright. See you there.”

The bar was wedged in the far corner of the outpost—half cantina, half storage closet. The lights overhead flickered like they were trying not to draw attention, the drinks were questionably warm, and the music sounded like it was playing through a Bacta tank.

Still, it was the only place where people could relax and have fun. And that made it charming enough.

By the time Cassian walked in, you were already two drinks in and mid-laugh at something Kiira said- something about a supply run, a goat, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding.

Your laugh came a beat too late, a little too loud. The glass in your hand wobbled before you caught it.

Not drunk. Just warm. Loose. A few seconds behind everything.

You spotted him standing in the doorway before he moved. He was scanning the room like he wasn’t sure it was worth walking into, until his eyes found you.

You lifted your glass in greeting, eyes heavy-lidded from the buzz.

Cassian hesitated for a second. Then made his way over.

Kiira noticed him instantly. She shifted to make room, grinning. “Captain,” she said with mock-formality. “Didn’t think this place was your vibe.”

He slid into the booth across from you. “It’s worse than I expected,” he said dryly, but there was no bite in it.

The three of you slipped into an easy rhythm. Or maybe Kiira just carried it for everyone: talking with her hands, retelling old missions like punchlines, filling every corner of the table with her voice. Cassian mostly listened. You sipped your third drink and let it soften the edges of your thoughts.

Every so often, your knee brushed Cassian’s under the table. Neither of you moved.

Cade showed up about halfway through Kiira’s story about an informant with more toes than teeth. He slid into the booth beside you like he always did - but arm thrown casually around your shoulder, fingers ghosting over your arm.

“Miss me?” he murmured into your ear, breath warm against your temple.

You smiled, and playfully shoved him aside. “You were gone ten minutes.”

“Felt like an hour,” he said, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. A little too long. A little too much force… A little too much in general. Sure you and him would occasionally hook up, but he was never this public about it. It was supposed to be something casual, no feelings, nothing outside the bed.

Cassian’s drink froze halfway to his mouth. Then continued. No comment. Kiira caught it, because of course she did, and arched one brow over her glass before pivoting.

“So,” she said, grinning at Cassian. “Worst mission you’ve ever had. And don’t pull the ‘classified’ card.”

Cassian opened his mouth, maybe about to do just that, but Cade jumped in before he could speak.

“Oh, easy,” Cade said, already leaning forward, voice loud and obnoxiously confident. “Wasn’t even an official op. Just tagging along for recon. We land on this swamp moon—smells like engine grease and wet socks and twenty minutes in, the lead guy sinks waist-deep in mud. Arms flailing, screaming.”

You blinked, sipping slowly as he launched into his story unprompted.

“Then,” he continued, grinning wide, “our evac gets swarmed by these giant lizards who had teeth like vibroblades. I’m out there fencing for my life with a stun baton, yelling at the pilot not to take off without us.”

He thumped a fist against his chest. “Dragged the whole payload back solo while everyone else nursed their bruises. Three bites. Still got the scars.”

He held up his fingers like proof.

“No one asked,” Kiira muttered into her glass.

Cade didn’t hear... Or at least, didn’t care.

You glanced across the table. Cassian hadn’t said a word. Just sat with his fingers wrapped around his glass, unmoving, gaze fixed somewhere beyond Cade’s head. Waiting the story out.

Eventually, Kiira downed the rest of her drink and stood. “Okay, I’ve hit my tolerance for chaotic storytelling. Early shift tomorrow. Try not to do anything dumb.”

You gave her a mock salute. “No promises.”

As she passed, she leaned close, voice low. “Ten credits says Cade gets worse before the night’s over.”

You grinned. “I’m not taking that bet.”

And then she was gone.

Cade shifted almost immediately, his arm slid behind you again, further down your back, more settled now. You felt the shift - it was subtle, but deliberate. It made the entire energy changed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you for a second, then tilted his head, and gave your butt a tap. “You wanna head back to mine?”

You gave a soft laugh, not answering right away. You reached for your drink, forgetting it was empty. Your fingers curled and gripped around the glass anyway. You swore your face was red from anger and embarrassment.

“I think I’ll hang back for a bit,” you said. “Not quite done.”

Cade looked at you, then at Cassian, who was staring somewhere past your head like he hadn’t heard a word.

A flicker of something passed across Cade’s face, but he didn’t press. You can tell he was debating on if he should go or not, so you gently nudged him out of his seat, “Go, I’ll stop by later”. You lied.

He leaned in to kiss your cheek and then stood. “Alright. Don’t keep me waiting forever.”

And with that, he was gone.

The silence that followed felt too loud.

You stared at the rim of your glass. Cassian still hadn’t looked at you.

“That was weird,” you muttered, trying to fill the air, trying to laugh it off. “He’s not typically like .. that. Sorry.”

“You don't need to explain anything to me,” Cassian replied, taking a sip of his drink.

That should’ve been the end of it. A clean line. No judgment.

But it wasn’t.

There was something in the way he said it...measured. Distant. Like he was trying not to react at all.

You didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

You nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the empty glass in your hand. “I know,” you said. But the words felt hollow.

The music buzzed faintly through the walls, tinny and half-muted. Somewhere behind the bar, someone dropped a glass. Laughter followed. Distant, like it belonged to a different room. A different night.

You swallowed. Edges of your vision a little blurrier than usual, and suddenly all you wanted was sleep. You slid out of the booth, swaying slightly on your feet. You steadied yourself with a hand on the table.

Cassian stood without a word and caught your elbow.

“I’m walking you back.”

“I’m good,” you said automatically.

“Sure you are.” he said, already guiding you toward the door.

You didn’t argue.

The night air was cooler than you remembered, biting at your cheeks, sobering you up a bit. Cassian walked beside you, hands in his pockets, silent. His stride matched yours like it was instinct.

You could tell he was on edge. Ready to catch you if your drunk ass tripped.

After a few minutes of walking, you stopped outside your door.

So did he.

You turned to face him, hand on the latch.

“I know I shouldn’t talk when I’ve been drinking,” you said quietly. Your voice sounded smaller than you meant it to.

He waited.

“I just...” You looked down. Then back up. “I wish we were friends.”

Cassian blinked. Not surprised. Just... careful.

“We are,” he said.

“Not really,” you replied. “I mean real friends. I wanna hang out, talk for real. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just... nostalgia. But being around you feels like—like home. Like Ferrix. I don’t get that with a lot of people.”

Cassian didn’t flinch.

“We’ll get there,” he said simply.

You blinked. Chest tight, but not in a bad way.

You nodded, barely , and turned the latch.

Cassian stepped back as the door slid open. He didn’t follow. Just stood there.

Watching.

“Goodnight,” you said softly.

“Night,” he replied, just as quiet.

Then the door closed behind you.

And you leaned against it for a beat longer than you needed to.

NEXT CHAPTER