#it’s gotta be heavy machinery though

[lairofhands]

I'm not a machine fucker

*watches a car movie*

....I'm a bit of a machine fucker >.>

#it’s gotta be heavy machinery though #talkies #machine fucker #monster fucker #exophilia

[myhappylittlesideblog]

Breathe It In

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: None

Summary: Daryl takes you out on his bike for the first time.

A/N: Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

“Y’ever rode one before?” Daryl asked. 

You shook your head, attention running over the hot, glinting chrome and black metal. Every inch of the motorcycle was covered in dust but you knew it was an impressive piece of machinery, especially in Daryl’s eyes. And it was big. Longer and taller than you ever really noticed, now that you were the one about to climb on top of it. 

“No,” you said to Daryl. “Never even seen one up close before you got this.” 

“Ya don’ haf’ta come with me. Once we git another car, we can-“

“No, it’s fine. I’ve done scarier, right?” you said, thinking just of the past week and all you’d faced. 

He gave a curt nod. Then he swung his leg over the motorcycle, the toe of his big boot finding the kickstarter immediately. His jeans hugged his body as he hiked his knee up unnaturally high before putting all his weight on the lever, slamming his leg down and starting the bike on the first try. He twisted one of the handles as the engine revved to life as he settled in the seat. 

He looked at you, gaze cutting over his bare arm, thick with muscle. “I’ll hold it steady. Foot rests are there,” he said, pointing low on the bike to the small pegs you would use. “That’s the engine-“

“That’s the engine? The whole thing is just… right there?” 

“Where else would it be?”

You shot him a glare. “I don’t know. Enclosed somewhere maybe.”

He huffed a laugh. It made his hair fall in his face, but you could see his blue eyes studying you as he continued his explanation. 

“The exhaust pipes are down there too- careful a’ those. They get hot.” 

“Okay, so butt goes there,” you said pointing, “feet go there and don’t touch anything else.”

“‘Cept me.”

You straightened, shooting your attention back to him. “Hm?”

“Gotta hold onta somethin’. Come on, let’s go.”

You wondered if you had flushed as red as he did at his words. He was looking at his fingers wrapped around the handlebars, knuckles turning white, but you saw the pink wave crawling up his neck from his vest and landing around his ears. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’,” you said, sidling up to the bike. You tried to sound teasing, but you just sounded nervous. And it wasn’t just the heavy machinery making adrenaline rush through you.

He held his hand out flat for you to grab and support yourself as you flung your leg over the side of the bike. The moment your bottom landed on the back of the seat, you felt Daryl’s wide hand around your calf, moving one of your feet into place on the pegs. It was only then you realized there were only two foot pedestals for four feet. You’d have to share. 

Once he’d moved you into place, he tapped your knee, signaling you to stay put. A cold rush of air kissed the spot his hand had just kept warm. 

Your legs pressed against the back of his body as you sat behind him, your feet on the outside of the pegs, while his thick boots stuck to the inside. Nearest to the hot exhaust pipes, you noticed. He was keeping you away from them. 

“Good?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

The motorcycle growled loudly at the will of his hand. Just a twist of his wrist and the bike was primed to speed off. 

He turned his head, not quite looking at you, though even then you could see his smirk. “Better hold on,” he said. 

You took the back of his jacket in your hands, balling up the leather around his hips into your fingers. “Kay,” you said, bracing yourself a bit. 

His foot rocked and his fingers squeezed, releasing the clutch and picking the gear. He twisted the handlebars, revving the engine and making the bike shake under you. To you, it was just a lot of noise and practically unnoticeable movement. To someone with motorcycling experience, it was a warning of oncoming power and swiftness. But you had no idea.

Without warning, the bike jolted forward and sped off so quickly it almost left you alone in the dirt, your grip slipping from Daryl’s jacket. 

Before you could fall off though, you hugged close to Daryl, palms open and sprawled over his chest and belly in panic. After the initial shock, however, the bike was a smooth ride as it kicked up dry Georgia dust behind its tires. That’s when you realized Daryl’s shaking and trembling wasn’t from the rattling of the bike, but from his chuckles. 

You heard his laugh even over the buzzing bike and rushing wind. It was a rare sound. Low, but free, like the rumble of an engine on a long, twisting summer road. In half mock, half true indignation, you lowered your hands to rest around his waist, meeting in the middle around his belt. Leaning up to his ear, you called to him. 

“You’re a real dick sometimes, Dixon!”

“Told’ya ta hold on,” he answered, giving your clasped hands a pat. 

“No kidding.”

He shook again. Though this time you couldn’t hear the soft chuckles that emanated from him, you knew they were there. You felt it. Just like you felt the affection radiating from him as he twisted his fingers in yours until they were interlinked. 

Before the outbreak, you never would have ridden a motorcycle. They were too dangerous. In fact, the thought of even looking at a contraption like this one, something Daryl had practically made with his own hands, without a safety helmet would never have crossed your mind. 

These days, things were different. Every day was a threat. But this, being with Daryl and sharing his pride and joy felt like the safest thing you could ever do. He was holding your hand and your arms circled him tight as you rode safely past anything questionable. 

You laid your head on the back of his shoulder and breathed it in- the freedom, the safety, the gas smell on his jacket and the smoke in his hair and you closed your eyes. And you felt his hand squeeze yours as if he was doing the exact same.

#the walking dead daryl #twd #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixion imagine #twd daryl #the walking dead #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon fluff #daryl fluff

[sanctus-ingenium]

i answer your asks vol... 6?

This one made me actually consider how they balance the humours beyond just a simply "they scour it out". Because sometimes a holy beast gets 'sick' and it's not necessarily related to any sort of tissue growth, it's more often a mechanical fault and because the beast is considered to be alive, he is then therefore 'sick'. So how do we deal with this? An enginesmith will make the necessary repairs, but sometimes the sickness is related to environmental conditions. The four humours are arranged on a scale like this:

A mechanical fault associated with being too hot and dry could be something like a lack of lubrication on moving machine parts. So this would be considered the reason for a production of yellow bile (excess of yellow bile, btw, was what Pantera was diagnosed with on his last outing). Whether or not the bile is literal or more symbolic depends on the case. Anyway this was the reason Pantera is associated with fire (originally, when I was designing them all) and Leun, diametrically opposite, is associated with phlegm, water, acid, etc.

But anyway, the way to fix these imbalances in hot/cold/wet/dry is to simply reduce whichever one is excessive. In practice, keeping holy beasts maintained even when they're not out on a crusade is a full time job for an army of workers, where the atmospheric conditions need to be as neutral as possible. Too wet and you've got rust, too dry and the metal fatigues, to hot and it might warp and break, too cold and the joints won't fit properly, etc etc. Although the enginesmiths view this through a lens of The Four Humours, it's also just good practice to try to keep things balanced.

Btw while they do cure an excess of blood by bleeding the holy beast, they don't make leeches big enough :'(

-

There are illustrated representations of dragons that are pretty traditionally dragony (typically a winged serpent with many tails representing the stinging tendrils). These are added to drawings and art as a catch-all symbol for a conscious and targeted Evil. The laity, which is very devout, is unlikely to associate dragons with resistance - dragons cause a lot of damage too, and those stinging barbs will kill you just from the trauma of the impalement before the venom even has a chance to (unless you just get grazed, in which case.. the venom will paralyse you. then kill you)

So active rebellions/civil wars/wars of succession have occurred many times. The subjugated Midaean nation/territory (depending on who you ask) rallies around their beloved Saint Lycaon, a wolf. Flags and signs depicting a wolf devouring a crocodile/a lion/whatever holy beast currently tops the hierarchy of the church would be more likely. Rebellion itself is rarely black and white and as neat as picking a symbol the church hates. It is more likely people would pick a symbol that they love. Outside of Midea, the Mezian empire might not be at its peak but it also has not given its own citizens and laity a reason to take up arms against it.

at the start of the story, at least

-

awesome questions thank you @curious-sootball !

So the nerve cords inside the vertebrae are artificial, but they still perform the same physiological function as a real spinal column. They interface with a knight's dialogue. This produces an incredible amount of heat - this is why the spines are often exposed, even though that might be a point of vulnerability. The spinous processes in particular are very effective heat sinks.

But the tail? In most cases we don't need the tail, really. The spinal column ends at the base of the pelvis. The tail is cropped for most beasts on purpose - we don't need this thing dangling around and becoming entangled, and it has no machinery around it to act as replacement muscles so it couldn't move even if they wanted it to. Krokodilos's tail is the exception and it's just extremely heavy for not much pay off. That's a lot of additional engines we gotta maintain.

So the tail tends to be abandoned. The bones are kept of course but not mounted on the chassis where they're not needed. With no nerve cord running through them they don't run hot either so they won't disperse heat all that well.

Now for replacing bones... they don't. The bones that exist in the chassis are the bare minimum needed to perform the required functions - basic movement. They don't have ribs, they often don't have phalanges. A skull is there to complete the nerve cord - but all you need of that skull is the occipital bone. Nothing more.

If they break a leg, it might be repaired using screw and plate fixation. The bone may deign to knit together (enginesmiths swear that they don't allow tissue growth ever.. but sometimes you need some periosteum. Don't tell the bishops). But if it gets crushed? That's the holy beast done, scrap heap time. The majority of all holy beasts that have ever existed have already broken down and been decommissioned at the start of this story - we only have seven left (eight if you count krokodilos). Krokodilos is an unusual case because he is not dead, so they can't just hold a state funeral and add his heart engine block to the big hall of old hearts in the cathedral. He's sleeping.

But he's the exception. Take Saint Guinefort - dead as a doornail. He had a full funeral, his heart was put in the hall and his body was [redacted] like they do with all dead holy beasts. And then he was [redacted] and now our pal "Sir Victory" with the metal arm uses him as Nosewyse. Circle of life.

I think sidecar motorcycle is a pretty apt way of looking at him lmao. You don't wanna know how many people he's cooked.

-

Hey there! So I know I've mentioned they are similar to pterosaurs but they are not related to them at all. In fact they are cetaceans :) Later art I did of them plays up the mammal traits a bit more. Check out these nipples

However it is a fact that they are not closely related to modern cetaceans - as in, they did not evolve from modern whales and dolphins, but belong to a side branch that diverged relatively early, around the same time dragons were leaving the water for the skies. That art is quite old too, from before I kind of nailed it all down, so if I drew them now I would remove the more derived traits (i.e the single blowhole, the tail flukes, etc) and tidy it up a little. They diverged from the lineage that would become modern whales before the pelvic limbs were lost. I originally depict them having the crowbar-like claws on their feet to lever skin parasites off the dragon, but i think they are more likely to not use their feet much at all, and are more likely to use their single huge beak-like tooth to do the job instead. They cannot walk on flat surfaces.

-

Only insects and, specifically, winged insects :) I know it would be really cool to have various other giant arthropods but milennia ago, when they crossed into Thera for the first time, insects were the only fliers. And there is no other way to get over the mountain range quickly enough for it not to kill you. The mountain range in which the endless city sits is completely and 100% devoid of life. A journey on foot for a tiny bug would be next to impossible - they are more likely to starve or simply turn around and go back to where the food is.

The winged insects, otoh, can cross the range in a day or less, if the breeze is flowing right. And they would find plants already there in Thera - also solely wind-dispersed species from the previous time the mountains arrived and linked the world with Earth. The insects didn't really come by choice, sometimes the wind just blows the wrong way, but they definitely got lucky.

There are wingless insects in Thera today but only because they lost that trait over time (like ants or larviform female beetles). They have managed to colonise every reasonable habitat, including the sea (though the sea is not very salty) and have developed into a lot of very strange forms which might be unrecognisable to us. But a lot of them just got bigger and smarter.

This time round, in the period of time the story is set (early 1900s on earth), the mountains appeared and new animals crossed over who were not insects. Birds have become invasive in Thera, happily taking advantage of the smaller insect species who are completely unprepared for this new threat. There are also some wind-dispersed spiders hanging out now.

EDIT: oh i forgor the parasites on the flying insects that first colonised thera... yes they would have mites and horsehair worms and things of that nature

#setting: mez #setting: thera #i wrote so much <3 read it

[tmntkiseki]

This is a bit tangential to your Bo staff thought, but it made me think about it.

I’ve always thought Donny was the weakest fighter, mostly because on screen he’s the most likely to just drop what he’s doing or trip over himself. Which I attribute to him having his focus split between training and tech.

However, I personally don’t think him being physically the weakest makes sense. I don’t know a lot about the Bo staff either, but he uses it to launch himself quite a bit which has gotta take some crazy upper body strength. Which also tracks since he’s the one who’s (most often) working with heavy machinery. I think that’s a really interesting thought about how the weapon could lead to that stereotype, though. A guy with a staff doesn’t immediately look as imposing as a guy with a sword, even if they’re built the same.

Yeah, being physically weak and being the weakest fighter are two different things. As a casual observer, the bō comes off as a weapon that is far trickier to utilize effectively in combat as an offensive weapon than, say, Leonardo's katanas or Raphael's sais, simply due to the fact it's not a blade weapon; it is, for lack of better comparison, a glorified stick. And because it is a stick, it doesn't look particularly intimidating, which might give off the impression that Don is weak and doesn't have as much going for him when faced with a crowd of enemies.

However, what the bō lacks in raw attack power it more than makes up for in overall utility. A lot of Donatello's fighting style seems to rely on first defending against attacks with his bō, then finding an opportunity to counterattack using either the bō itself or his own strength. This gif offers a pretty good example of what Donnie looks like when he's at his best in combat, since we get to see him using his bō both offensively and defensively.

Like, especially note how the encounter with the Foot Ninja wielding the katana plays out. Don first uses his bō to block his attacker's weapon, then kicks him away while spinning the bō in the event the Foot Ninja attempts a counterattack, adopting a defensive posture in the process. A lot of lovely little details in the span of only a few seconds that show just what kind of fighter Don is.

Again, it's difficult to talk about how the turtles fight when you don't study/practice martial arts yourself, but Don is an interesting case study because he's probably one of the strongest turtles physically, yet his weapon of choice and the fighting style that comes along with it demands that he fight more defensively.

Edit: ALSO, in regards to Don having his focus divided between both ninja training and inventing, that would definitely account for some of his occasional clumsy moments during missions. He's definitely dedicated when it comes to his actual training sessions, but if he's spending a significant amount of time working on his machines, then he's likely not getting in quite as much practice as, say, Leo.

#teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #tmnt donatello #asks #anon

[raccoonfallsharder]

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day five machinery✷.⁺⋆˚₊

semi-romantic angst & fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | minific | word count: 1,946.

Ka-chunk-hnk. Ka-chunk-hnk. 

Rocket scrubs his knuckles against the fur and flesh that have grown over his metal sternum. His ribs strain like creaky bellows, lungs splitting and bruising against the bones. It’s been like this sometimes, since before he can remember — but lately it’s a chronic condition. 

Ever since the High Evolutionary’s voice had echoed over the comms on the Bowie, lethal and shrill. 

Rocket sits at a table across the street from Nebula’s offices, and waits. His fingers drum on the pretty, dusty mosaic surface. 

Ka-chunk-hnk. Ka-chunk-hnk. 

You step out of the doorway, back arching as you stretch. Nebs must’ve had you hunched over datascreens all day — a waste of eye candy, he’d think, if he’d let himself tap too far into his old jackass-habits. Not that it matters — he’s already been preparing to be an absolute, unforgivable dickhead to you, ever since he woke up the rotation before last and decided he couldn’t bear the sound of it anymore.

Ka-chunk-hnk. Ka-chunk-hnk. 

“Hey,” he calls out, voice low and carrying. “You. New kid. Buttercup.”

Your eyes swivel, wide and startled. Shimmery. He kinda hates that about you, except no he doesn’t. He scowls when you look at him and tap your chest, brow creasing in confusion. Who, me? he imagines you uttering, voice perplexed.

Yeah. You. 

He points at you with two fingers, then slashes them toward the chair opposite him. He can see you hesitate — then you’re drifting across the street like a leaf in a stream, eddying around little obstacles and whirlpools as they arise. It takes too long, but you’re finally sinking into the seat across from him.

“Captain?” you say politely, and he tries to hide his scoff. Nothing says new kid on Knowhere quite like deference. Still, it’ll be useful for him today.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I gotta job for you.”

You blink those gorgeous eyes of yours. “Me?”

He rolls his eyes and tries not to let himself feel bad about exploiting you — all that kindness, that generosity, sitting right there on the surface, ripe for manipulation. “I need you to get me something outta Pete’s old place.”

You blink those starry eyes again. He really needs you to stop doing that, ‘cause it’s killing him. “Pe — Star-Lord’s apartment?” 

He grunts and flicks his eyes back towards Nebula’s door. “Yup.” He lingers on the y, and pops the p. “Super-confidential, very-official, super-frickin’-secret Guardians-mission. Can you do it?”

“I — what do you want me to do?”

Ka-chunk-hnk. Ka-chunk-hnk. 

And this is how you end up slipping through the barely open door of the legendary, absentee Star-Lord’s bedroom: all for a captain with pretty, heartbreaking almandine eyes. 

You’re such a sap.

But Rocket had given you an override hex for Peter Quill’s rooms, and you don’t see how you can refuse him anything, so in you go, even though you know he’s fucking lying about — well, everything related to this so-called mission, you’re sure. No-one has touched this room since Star-Lord left a few cycles before you’d arrived — other than to fix the Warlock-shaped hole in the wall and window, anyway.  Kraglin, Groot, and Nebula all insist he’ll be back soon, and so the apartment remains as he’d left it. 

You glance around, and sure enough, there’s the treasure Rocket had sent you to find, sitting on a rickety high shelf: a dense ball of bulging white tissue, pressed like dough into a silvery, skeletal cage. 

You pick up the sphere. It’s heavy in your hand, like it has its own field of gravity — and you suppose, in a way, it does. Turning it, you recognize the OrgoCorps logo, and it’s the final confirmation you need. You slide the sphere into the pouch on your belt, and you slip from the room, shutting the door behind you. 

“Don’t let Nebs see you,” Rocket had warned. “Don’t let anybody see you.” He’d muttered something your translation chip had haltingly tried to identify as fuckin’ narks. “She’ll be all over my ass if she finds out.” He’d looked up at you, those almandine eyes suddenly narrowing shrewdly, and had said, “You understand what I’m asking you to do, right? You’re the frickin’ fall-guy.” 

“Got it,” you’d said mildly, unbothered. So now here you are, tapping with raindrop-light fingers on Rocket’s apartment door. It swings open and you slide in off the street seamlessly, and he’s got his hand in the pouch at your hip before the door’s even closed behind you.

You jolt at the brush of heat and his intrusive nearness, but he’s already got the record-sphere in his hand, turning his back to you and striding toward the… bed? It’s a slab of cold metal with a ragged blanket and no pillows, and you do a double-take around the room. Nope, that’s definitely the closest thing the poor guy has to a bed. 

The Captain’s fucking miserable. 

Still, you’ve decided that light-hearted sarcasm is the best way to engage for now. 

“Geez,” you snip playfully. “Buy a person dinner first.” 

He startles, tossing you a wide-eyed look over his shoulder that’s too shocked and vulnerable to allow you any satisfaction. But then he rolls his eyes and huffs out a disgruntled sound of annoyance, and begins connecting the ball of white tissue to a handful of datapads and small machines he’s got set on the bed. 

“Sit,” he rumbles with a gesture at the hunk of scrapmetal masquerading as a mattress. He already got his eyes locked on the numbers and letters as they  scroll up on the screens, and he’s glaring at them mutinously. “Or get out.” 

You hesitate. But the fact that he’s opened a spot for you in his apartment at all feels like an indicator that he doesn’t want to be alone, even if he’s too frightened to bring any of… whatever-this-is to his friends. Instead, he stands beside the bed, typing shit into his datapads and screens, and you perch on the spot beside them, facing him. You take him in as he works: the furrowed brow, and the crinkles along the sides of his nose as he tries not to grimace or snarl. His ears — one alert and forward-facing, and the other swiveled into a half-flattened scrap of fur and flesh. Even his tail looks a different than usual: tensed and bristling, tucked tight against his inner calf. 

“There it is,” he mutters, and his eyes scan the screen. They jump and widen, then scan again. His brow drops and now both ears lay flat, and he reads it all again. The fur on his neck and the backs of his forearms rises.

Then he hisses a curse that the translator can’t pick up at all this time, and he shoves himself away from the screens, pacing back and forth in front of you thrice before throwing himself onto the bed at your other side. Your eyes follow him, wide and startled, as he keeps up the steady stream of indecipherable swearing.

Slowly— cautiously — you turn sideways, pulling one leg onto the bed with you, away from the pile of ramshackle tech so you can study him while you chew your lip. You want to ask what it is he’s discovered, and if he’s okay — but the words stay trapped in your throat, meaningless and hollow. You hesitate, and then sigh, and lower yourself onto your back beside him.

The two of you stare up at the ceiling for what feels like ages. Outside, the lights of Knowhere grow gold, signaling the end of the second wake-shift. Topaz light slants in through the frosted windows at the head of the bed.

“Your bed is a chiropractic nightmare,” you say after a moment, and he whuffs a startled laugh. 

Silence falls again, but it feels easier, curling comfortingly into all the crevices of the room. Maybe it’s because of your comment, or maybe it’s because you aren’t looking at each other. Maybe it’s because you’re no-one at all to him — just Buttercup, the New Kid, Hey You.

But he speaks.

“Ever since — ever since we got back,” he mutters. “Ever since the Arête — my heart’s been acting weird. I thought maybe it was — I thought maybe it had been injured worse that we realized, or maybe—“

His voice crackles away, and you don’t chase it. You just wait in the fake sunset-light, watching it warm the shadows. 

“It sounds awful,” he says at last. “Like, yours—“ he lifts a hand above you both and taps out a rhythm on the air with deft fingers. “—thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.” You can hear the grimace in his mouth. “That’s a good heart. That’s a healthy, normal-person heart. But mine—“ He curls his clawed fingers into a strangling fist, and twists viciously. “Ka-chunk-hnk. Ka-chunk-hnk.”

He drops his hand to his abdomen.

“It’s not fuckin’ good,” he mutters, and his voice is so desolate that your belly suddenly twists and that space behind your eyes tightens. “It’s not… I always knew it didn’t work right.” He makes a tortured noise in his throat that sounds like it’s trying to be a laugh. “But the records say everything’s operating like it should be, so I guess I’m just a messed-up little—“

You roll suddenly. If you’d been thinking clearly, you never would’ve moved so quickly, and later you’ll be grateful that he didn’t lash out at you with startled, defensive claws. But all you can think is to offer him some sort of solace, some sort of peace. 

So you press your ear to his chest.

On the other side of the Indigarran cotton, you feel heat and fur, flesh and metal. He stiffens— frozen beneath you, and then shivering with an uncertainty you’re sure he’d never let show on his face. He smells like fireworks and whiskey and forests in late autumn, and beyond that — a touch or two faster than yours — you can feel the quiet thump of his heart. It’s a little quicker and jumpier than you’d expected, but the longer you lay with your cheek to his chest, the steadier it grows. 

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

“It sounds like a good heart to me,” you murmur. “I don’t hear what you hear in it — not at all.”

There’s a crackling, staticky quiet, and then he makes a wounded little sound deep in his chest, and you feel it rumble up under your cheek. His hand shifts from his abdomen and his fingers are suddenly cradling the back of your head, holding you against him. 

“You don’t hear it?” His voice is agonized. Desperate. “You really don’t—?”

You can’t shake your head with the way he’s wrapped around you, his other arm coming up to join the first, almost clinging. And you — well, you don’t want to give him any reason to think that you’re not perfectly content to stay like this. “Definitely not,” you tell him. “I’m no doctor, of course, but — it sounds beautiful to me. It sounds like it works far better than you ever realized.”

Your head shifts as he lets out an exhalation so long and splintered that you suddenly wonder if he’s been holding his breath ever since he got back from CounterEarth.

“I thought—“ His words are all hushed and creased, puffing into the air and then tumbling to the metal cot around you like crumpled balls of paper. “I thought maybe it wasn’t a real heart,” he says raggedly. “I thought maybe it was just a — a broken machine.”

You pull your own hand out from beneath you, and you tap out the rhythm just below his collarbone. 

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

“I promise,” you tell him softly. “I can feel it. It’s real.”

lol whatever i'm under 2k words sooooo i am still very cool. (this was a scene i'd had in my brain for like six months. it's the core component of the oneshot i was writing called real but thanks to this "drabble" (i don't think 2k counts as a drabble whateverrrr) i have a new title in mind (broken machinery) and at least part of the main scene written so YAY

day four. family ✷ day six. bite rocket prompt week masterlist ✷ main masterlist rocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

#rocketraccoonpromptweek #rfh fluff #rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon fanfiction #gotg fanfiction #rfh fanfic #gotg rocket #rocketraccoon #rocket gotg #drabbles #rocket raccoon x you #rocket x you #x reader #reader insert #gn reader #rocket racoon x reader #rocket x reader #gotg rocket x reader #gotg x reader #guardians of the galaxy fanfiction

[court-jobi]

Trustfall

(gif from Pinterest)

Pairing: Din Djarin x biker!Reader

Words: 8,865

Rating: Teen & Up, (mature themes, but not graphic)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, chase scene action, catcalling, skeevey sleemos, brief descrip of injuries/roadburn, consensual touching, injury care, FEELINGS, fluff to intimacy, first kiss #thehelmetcomesoff ((fem reader, mild descriptions of features, hair etc.))

Summary: Most jobs' occupational hazards may include some warnings for heavy machinery: not 3rd degree roadburn and blaster shots to the face. Just your luck, that's what happens in your line of work.... While your partner-in-not-quite-crime Din Djarin has quite a bit of on-the-job experience with patching himself up after his skirmishes, tending to yourself after a shitshow like this is new territory. Some things are just too tender to see from behind the helmet-- and need the naked eye.

Sounds like he really needs to trust you if he's going to give you help with this one...

"I'm not going without you- -and you're not going alone" -P!nk, 2023

AN: thank you from the bottom of my heart, internet strangers, for the love for my little stories... this is a long one! here's to the countdown to season 3 finale, and a dose of feminine rage, badassery, and fluff to soften the landing~

For my Star Wars | Mandalorian Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on AO3

Anywhere in the galaxy you turn, there's a place you can navigate like the back of your hand: simply find where the drinks are flowing. Every watering hole may have its tricky language and even trickier problems, but the money's always good, and no questions are asked of you. 

At a cantina, you rely on this. Here, you know you can easily fall back to old habits in an instant. Safety first, of course. 

The rundown: where's the doors, where's the bouncers, where’s the barkeep and where's the biggest guy in the room. You've trained yourself to  look for gaps, low traffic areas where you could make a quick dash out if things are looking sideways. Do all those things as fast as you can, too, because everything can change in a second. Tables can flip over like a credit chip– tempers, all the more quick to the draw. Oh, and don't be suspicious. Give a little smile if you can chance it– unassuming glances always make folks feel better.

But it's a bit different now. You don't bother to look up when you cross the threshold of a new place. You don't dissect all these fine details. After all, you've got a green baby that's twisting in his sling across your hips that has your attention split, and he comes first. 

That's a full time job on its own… and whenever he comes along for the day, you don't forget the best part of the arrangement you find yourself in. 

You've got a bounty hunter in stride. Worry is the furthest thing from your mind. He’s got you. 

Upon first entry, the Mandalorian you've been hyperspace hopping with comes in like he'd likely done hundreds of times before. He's no stranger to reading a room, either. Though this time, with you and the little one tucked away in your crossbody, the company he keeps is completely different. This dynamic is far from your norm, but there’s so many things you love about it– and as it turns out, the feeling is mutual. He tells you so, that you don’t have to worry when he’s with you. 

You buckled in the kiddo yourself– a break for Mando's still-tender shoulder. The scuffle you'd just come from not twelve hours ago was still fresh in both your minds– not that your sabacc face showed it. He appreciated your offering to keep tabs and hold him today. Still gotta fix his pod after the 'swimming incident' last week… after this payday, maybe you two could swing it after your winnings arrive. 

Heading towards his unofficial corner of this planet's best underground lounge, Mando picked up through his peripherals the bits of chatter– no… -hunger- coming from some of the smaller pods of wranglers. Their attention wasn't due to the shinier beskar plates he wore. No, it was all aimed at his newfound companion. 

They're all looking at you… not that you notice.

One in particular caught Mando’s honed attention as you neared, passing him to the bartop while he waited. The man wasn't the biggest in size, but Mando knew this type; that smarmy smile told him he’s thinking himself roguishly handsome, but made of complete slime and bantha-shit.

“Bike’s out back~” you paused by the bar to pick up the drink you’d nodded for, and made a convincing-looking fake sip while sticking close to his side. “-unregistered. Pokka dropped it off this morning for a nearby delivery run. It’s not the prettiest thing, but it’ll do in a pinch for a two-seater.” 

Just after that line left your lips, something in the schmuck’s eye and his low murmur to his buddy. A near growl about the ‘not the only thing I'd pinch– pretty thing, coming right up’ made your partner turn with micro-precision in the direction of the smugglers–

–and catch your hand with a fierceness. Right in front of their table.

You're surprised by the sudden gesture. 

When he did let go around the back of the row of booths, the Mandalorian more or less guided you by the small of your back instead. If anyone were invested enough past their drink's contents to be watching, they’d find you in a half embrace. This move allowed Mando the space to tuck you into his side with a corralling arm. You'd honestly not registered what he’d witnessed until he fell back to your pace with a gentle ‘this way’. A pod of spacers were gawking– at the shiny guy loaded to the gils with blasters, you thought. 

Now closer, you had less room, but still managed enough to swing the munchkin to your front. The ‘bag’ made a little noise- an indignant question at your description of the ride you’d secured.

“Sorry, excuuuse me- three seater! Two and a half more like, with your size...”

Situating yourself with some disappointed looks your way, you took the near end of the bench Mando directed you to. Didn’t take much to know not to keep eye contact too long with any of these unsavory characters around you, so you kept to yourself. Once Mando slid in from the opposite side, you asked him, 

"Quite the crowd huh?--oof–"-

Rather than allow the space for the little guy in between you, Mando slid in right beside you: an arm behind you and a small thud of his heavy fist on the table. The tracer clacked as it landed in front of him.

Someone's got him acting testy. You eyed your hunter as he brooded; a small twinkle flitted behind your eyes, 

“See someone you know?" you asked.

"No." the Mandalorian spat out, curtly.

"Then what's wrong?"

His helmet turned to you, then ahead again.

"I didn't like how they were looking at you."

You bristled, really checking the room for the first time, managing the kid in your lap with a little glance. From the moment you took stock of the table nearest you, their quick darts in your direction told you just how rusty you were. They’re all locked onto you. 

The whole point of your taking the kiddo for Mando was to seem less out of place, not a target.

“You don’t– think folks all the way out here are gonna go after him?” Nervousness flared in your voice, though for the sake of appearances, you didn't dare let it show on your face, “Who even reads the Imp notices anymore? This whole town’s a glorified farming dustball-”

Mando corrected you, “Not him.” 

He murmured that into your shoulder like it was obvious.

A stunted breath tripped up your budding confusion. 

"Well, if it's not the sight of a baby in a bar making them creep, what then?”

“You.”

Not for the first time, you checked the look of yourself. It’s what you faced from the reflection of the beskar cheek looking back at you when you addressed him– never his face, but yours. Then, to the room. Sure, you weren’t so rough-and-tough looking from the outside, but–

"..Hold on." Flatly, you turned towards him; a quarter turn from your cozy spot. "You're saying I'm the distraction here."

All you got  in response was a little quirk of the helmet. 

You bristled, “I’m not the only-”

“I know you’re not,” he hushed you again, still scanning his sights across the venue like a sentry camera, “but these bantha-breaths are all the same when it comes to- distractions.” 

Your eyes fluttered in a muted roll. “And you think that’s new?”

“New to me.”

“Cmon. All this? You’ve gotten plenty of looks before.”

“Not the way they were watching you. The kid had nothing to do with it.”

You never take having such protective company for granted, but Mando's insinuation that you're bringing unwanted attention was surprising– and irritating.

“Please. You flatter me, I hardly think I’m the biggest draw in the room, hon.” you settled in. Harmless, but indignant, “You want me to really up the appeal? Then we should have planned ahead, and set up a rotation for me in the dance schedule.”

His gloves crackled at the creases– their grip unmistakable, “That’s an invitation for trouble.”

“No, messing with you is an invitation for trouble. I’m not trouble.”

“May not mean to, but you might cause us some.”

In truth, this observation wasn't unfounded; of the scarred, sweaty hunters and mechanics that filled this bar, you'd likely look out of place somewhere half this packed… and there’s no mistaking with the way you’re dressed that you are no fair-eyed performer like the real beauties in here. Sure your face under the visor shield might tell a different story when you appear more intimidating on the road, but here on this world, you passed over the need for even a 

This was your job, and not your first time in this line of work. You wore the kit, you didn't strut or flaunt your stuff around, and you certainly never drank on the job either. Just looked and played the part you needed to. If he didn’t want you to come meet the contact, then why ask you to join him? The whole point of this plan was to be seen very publicly as a united front, so you wouldn't be suspected of funny business; even if that was going to be your specialty after you start phase two: divide and conquer, as you always do.

Plans change, sure– but only when things turn sideways… not when he’s got some alpha male jealous streak going on behind that bucket of his. That hand grab earlier proved it.

Mando just took centering deep breaths while you ran out of accommodating alternatives. 

“Well, then, what do you want me to do?” the short candor that came out of your mouth wasn’t in your nature– but this was getting annoying, how short he’s acting. He’s not normally this snippy with you… “What, ‘wait by the tram’ till you come out, so I don't tinge that reputation of yours?”

The helm regarded you, then shook off– like he was redacting on the spot.

“I- didn't mean-”

And the backpedaling,

“-Fine.” 

No use fighting for a place you shouldn't be in the first place, because it would only make his job more difficult. Feelings or not, you weren’t out to throw a wrench in the operation just for the sake of your involvement. 

And even if your reason hadn’t won out, you sure weren't up for a soapbox moment either– despite its occupancy in your chest. 

You unstrapped the kid from yourself and placed him in your spot, 

“See ya in a bit, bud,” you laced a kindness into your voice- a sweetness just for him, “Maybe your dad will get his job done better without 'arm candy' throwing off his mojo."

Beelining it to the backdoor, you carried on steaming. You didn't bother looking back, which also meant you missed the Mandalorian’s lock on you the whole way across the rounded bar. Not that you had any doubts that he would be watching you; in fact, you counted on it. But you knew with even more certainty that he wouldn’t stop you. Not when there’s a job to do. You’re just going to set out on yours early. 

Though you may not always see alike, there’s yet to be a final say that makes you not trust him so far. You’ll change the plan, call ‘plot twist’ and go right along with him.

Maybe one of these days he’ll begin to trust you at your word… do Mandalorians even do that with folks who aren’t their kind?

It's a job. A job you can do damn well. So, back to old habits it is. Keep the bike warm and ready for go-time.

In your retreat, you caught a comm from him. Just a blip and slight vibration that caught your attention on your wrist: 

/be careful/

– and just like that, all the temper heating your neck and chest: shocked by a bucket of cold, graciously vigilant water.

Your Mandalorian couldn't resist.. and you really couldn't fault him for it. 

You stopped at the door, slowing as the two words staring back at you made you come to a standstill. Checking back and finding that the man's brilliantly shiny helmet had indeed stayed tracked on you the whole time sent that pang in you alive and burning. A little breath huffed from your nose, but you didn't scowl at him. 

It's just in his nature, he can't turn that off. 

You looked back and nodded.

'I will'. 

“Fancy seeing a livin' breathin' angel who knows her way around a rig~” 

Outside, the smarmy man you'd missed noticing before made good on his interest in you and racked up his courage to act on it. He swaggered over to you by the open air skybike model you’d secured. 

As aloof as he could seem, with that peacocking chest on full display…. He’d even set one of his holsters off to the side, a clear invitation for you to notice another package. Ugh. 

“Vision a’ beauty in a dark, little corner like this, too…" he layered on the sugar,"Must be my lucky day, I tell ya!”

You weren’t having this pathetic attempt. 

“Does this actually work on women…” You leveled your face.

Felt good, giving him a stare down before going back to your solid watch of the back door. 

“C’mon now, pretty thing,” more swaggered steps towards you had your insides cringing– and had you moving ‘round the speeder to the mount side, “Couldn’t keep my eyes off’a ya in there– yer a stunner!”

And you don’t take a hint. “Not interested– I’m working.” Kept talking, too, like your words had just been a sneeze. 

“Thought you was that bounty hunter’s girl, but ah-” he comically searched the perimeter of the garage, “--don't see ‘im nowhere.”

You scrolled through your wristcom, “If you did, I’d be sweating if I were you.”

“Got the hots for him, do ya? ‘R are you just friendly is all?”

It took every ounce within you not to react. Don’t give him fodder, just watch the door and keep a  level head. Like he does. 

You cursed yourself. Mando really did have the eyes of a hawk-bat inside. Meanwhile, you were getting rusty– or just far too comfortable. 

Still, this moron was clearly set on poking the still-tender temper inside of you.

“Thinkin,” he made every move to sidle up to you, “I don’t have yer name, sweet’art- whaddthey call ya?”

“Look– I’m not here for my health. Buzz off.” You won’t be getting it.

And another step, to come lean on the front dash- “Right then– I get to guess. Sweetie, it is~”

Some sanity passed through your head, and you figured… the more you talk to this joker, the more he’ll try his luck. A hand on the palmbar, you revved the bike to full power; making your ‘Leech’ jump back, immediately floundering–

“Hey, hey, hey!!” and his sights roved over you, and in an instant, you equally revved his engines, “Ah, bit of fire in ya, huh? Like that in a bitch… Sure you know how to ride this beauty? or I can show you the ropes~”

You finally let your disgust show.

-and thank the Maker for the comm beep to save you. Your partner’s speech-to-text came through on your wrist tab,

//Making an exit//

//Which bay did you clear//

All too grateful, you typed back the number plastered on the overhead air systems installed above you. 

It took a bite of your tongue to keep from writing back a fuller response:

/Listen to the sound of this skug-bag’s jaw hitting the floor- that’s where I’ll be/

but instead you mounted after a quick couple letter keys.

“Well, it’s been a not-so-lovely chat here,” you upturned your own helmet with a flourish, “But after the loss of these braincells I can never get back, I gotta run and make my pickup now.”

The man made a last attempt to lean in over your from the front handlebars, 

“Nah, c’mon, gorgeous, I’ll make it worth your time real good. What’s the hurry? Sure there’s no harm in a bit a’ hooky?”

You laughed high in the back of your throat, giving gushy-sweetness back, with a side of ice–

“Not on your life, sleemo. Door to Hell is open, I hear.”

Then with the pop of your helmet on, you floored a fast reverse and drove off to leave him in the dust.

It almost occurred to you when you paused again to see what became of him, but you were shocked that he was in fact coming after you– with a gang of about four other men. Not that you could make out clearly what they were joshing about in the metallic hangar, but the slang they used about what features were hidden by your clothes was obvious…

The door you parked by remained silent when you rolled up; meaning you’d probably met Mando too soon. He likely wasn’t ‘a few moments away’ after all. And the gang who’s laughing so boisterous was nearing the exit ramp that would take them straight to you.

You tapped the wrist comm again, speaking directly. 

“Got company out here too, Mando,” you firmed up, “Bit of nasty company if that makes a difference!”

In a blink’s time, the audio came back, blaster fire sparkling through the speaker, 

“Same shits from the bar?”

You chortled, then answered clearly,

“Yup. Bold guys, up close.”

“I’ve got their buddies inside too.”

“Well kriffin’– do you need backup in there then?” Your slow reverse and frantic scooting along the floor looking for someplace inconspicuous -and quick- to hide your ride flew through your mind as you came up with plan ‘B’. “I’ll stash this, and lay lower inside.”

“No time– Take a lap– don’t stay where you are–” the Mandalorian blurted out.

You heard the rev of the gang’s engines as they idled around the exit ramp, “Or could you just put a rush on it? I’m already right here–”

“I’ll find you,” he stressed. “DO NOT engage them–”

But before you could snap back with–

“Guess you’re in need of a new boyfriend after all, Sweetie Pie!”

The crass voices appeared from above. While you’d slowed and chatted, they’d hopped the roof and made to bear down on you. The newcomers to the group, a couple Trandoshans and another Kel Door with a new retrofitted mask roved over you like you were a batch of Quarren hot-pot.

Oh, that blaster at your side was tempting… but you revved into top gear, and changed the route again. 

Keep away it is. Just ‘till the boys show up. 

In the end, you lose your seedy admirers after your third pass around. Touch and go driving proved in your favor, messing with their sloppy sense of acceleration with each lap around the back parking area. That was perhaps your saving grace– letting their inebriated states affect their pursuit instead of performing on the offensive– but it was short lived. 

Your first chatty Leech gets a corner up on you and forces your trek on the inner wall, where the backdoors line the complex. At this stretch of buildings, there weren’t any more service ladders like where Mando was going to meet you. 

Coincidentally, there were garbage units separating where that former landing zone was to where you are now. So when you skidded to a perfect stop, Leech rammed into the back and managed to jam his front end into the back of your second-seat attachment. Lovely. A flare of alarm chilled your back– feeling him far too close for comfort. 

The blaster you carry is holsted between you- he’d see if you turned to grab it. You’ll have to slip down for your vibroblade if he tries to grab you.

And of course now is when he comes out of the far backdoor– 

The Mandalorian burst from the firefight in the back door and -0ki whipped around the railing looking for you. The munchkin spots you first, and with your visor’s magnification, you see his smile- and subsequent squeal- which drags the Mandalorian’s attention to you.

From clear across the divide, his blaster raised and you leveled down with your handlebars: like he showed you.

“Hey now, friend! I was just returnin’ yer lovely thing to you!” the man’s voice flipped up several octaves in defense. 

The maglock between your bikes activated, and he dragged you in reverse ever so slowly, 

“Been runnin’ me and my crew like wild around the place. Been a fun chase- yeh must have yer hands full of this girl-”

Mando shot the man’s acceleration chamber till it hissed– stopping him in his tracks.

“You stay.”

You bashed the man’s face with a harsh elbow while his sights are down.

“YOU CRA-”, he recoiled with a bear swipe while you dismounted to try and fling him off– “--AH!”

But another shot grazed the man’s foot, making him slump onto his speeder.

He’s buying you time. 

Running through your mental catalog, you risked the man’s pain-induced split focus to detach your bikes from his panel’s shortcuts– but didn’t miss the Mandalorian’s next shout,

“Touch her and you lose your head next.”

You smirked under your visor. He’s gonna take him out anyway, you just know it. Swinging your ride back around to where you can remount never felt so good. 

Now, you really did try to avoid close calls like this as much as you can manage. But if nothing else, this run-in proved you could always learn a bit more, should spare reading up on grav separation, and maybe outrig yours a bit better when you get the chance…

A spared nod to the Mandalorian while you backed up– and his nod back– gave you the confirmation from the high ground that you needed. 

From your angle down low, your helm didn’t have the scope for it. But Mando’s does; you’re cleared to run the gap.

Against the exasperated Leech’s expectations, you jumped it. Sure enough, when you landed, no more jeers followed. Only yells of surprise from the guy’s crew, who were screaming around his form laid flat on the ground, some to call for a extinguisher droid for the speeder fire, another calling out for a medic…

Under the railing where Mando stands, blaster shots chink off his backplate again, signaling him to get out of there. A perfect land later, Mando mounted behind you and wedged his foundling between the both of you. 

“I take it you got it?” you asked, your modulated voice still perking up the Child’s ears.

He answered with arm wrapped tight your waist, “Got it. Drive.”

With the Mandalorian and the kid’s padded sling strapped tight to him, the three of you dipped off the ledge of the garage, leaving the bad vibes- and big paycheck -secured. 

–However, there's a gap in the antigrav you don’t account for. Turning sharp back to the main road, you slip off a level, and wipe out. Happens so fast, you don’t even breathe– just feel a punch to the gut where the front end of the bike lurches back against you when you curl forward around it as it spins against the momentum.

 The acceleration drones when it falls off kilter, the compressors go creepily silent, the metal plates grind against your eardrums, scrapes and crashes, and so do you.

The Child’s fine; if just a little dizzy when Mando curls away from his landed position behind you. Made of straight beskar steel everywhere it counts, he’s perfectly fine too. 

You? Not so lucky… You can count on one hand the amount of times over the age of fifteen where you’ve had a messy landing– and this makes the top ten. 

Crashing feking hurts. But you can still feel your legs; that’s good.

You rolled onto your back at Mando’s yell for you. He’s calling for you by name– louder and longer each time it leaves his vocoder– before you can reorganize your rattled brains enough to make any noise. A test of tilting your head proved you had range of motion. An adrenaline-high hand simply gave a thumbs up to him, even though your cheek burned. 

White hot sting radiated across your face even when you chucked your helmet off with gasps of breath, as fiery steam and dribbles of blood were dangerously seeping close to your eyeline. From your good eye squinting to the side, you caught the remnants of your smoking, stolen ride spun out amongst some employee’s stash of speeders. So much for returning that poor two-and-a-half speeder back in one piece…

The Mandalorian led you out of the hangar with a steady hand on your back- for support, this time. 

Even through the leather, you felt the pressure he gave as a buffer between you and any lingering watchers. Out in the bustle of a crowd should have provided a comforting white noise to be moving along in, fading into their routine existence through the foot traffic. But not this time; not with your ear still ringing and ears popping every time you swallow. Instead you were still shaking off the chills that creep sent when he was starting to block you in.

That hand on your back slid onto your waist, tucking you closer to him as you walked and merged with the crowd. Then, while your attentions moved to the booths, he slowed a bit and moved up to your arm.

"Are you alright?"

You lifted up, that soft tone a sharp contrast to what you’d just witnessed: as he made his threats and his kills like the hunter he was. It hadn't bothered you, in fact the protective nature of him made you feel slightly good. 

You smiled and fell into his side. You didn't realized how tightly you'd crossed your arms over your fractured helmet. His touch alone- brief as it was- encouraged you to release the tension.

"Yeah... Thanks for that." You sunk a bit. With every breath, the adrenaline ebbed more and more from you, and your cheek stung.

You both could bicker about how you had it covered another time. When there was some distance between this incident, maybe, but thanks was due here. There was no game of ‘I told you so’ between you; it was unspoken- but the care won out over any personal beef.  

Your ego is plenty bruised over having a wipeout in front of him. And yet, even as he'd brought you to your helmet, the first comment he made wasn't about how reckless you'd rounded that corner, or how you got yourself into a chase scene picking a petty fight… 

Mando was by your side the instant your hand fell limp after your cheery hand signal, and said something about how this helmet saved your life. In the moment, you were just sad its visor shattered. 

"Spent a lot of credits on the tint job…" you groaned. 

"You're bleeding. From the head."

"Fine, fine," you waved him off, "I'll spring for substance and not style next time."

"Thank Ashla her humor's intact," Mando bemoaned to the Child. "C'mon, let's get you up and out of here."

"Ow, shit– that's gonna bruise…  all down here, too.." 

"I've got you."

He looked ahead and motioned with a little nod to the corner of the side street. Once under a pavilion cover he loosened his hold on completely in favor of facing you.

"I'm.. I'm sorry that happened."

"Yeah," you sighed back, "Wasn't the finest show of my skills. Even stellar  have bad days too, see?"

"N-. Not that," he shook his head a little, "When I found you, out back."

You stood confused. "What, that a creep wanted to get in my pants? It's not the first time, and probably not the last." 

What started as a quip in your voice turned more genuine as you admitted the truth, 

"You uh… had that part right at the bar. How they're all the same, y'know."

He bristled, the turn of his helmet evident.

"That's happened to you before?"

You shrugged it off, a little surprised that he hadn't been privvy to that kind of scene.

"Just read the stats. It happens more often than folks care to admit, honey,” that sick feeling returned, the one that made even your toes lurch.The sourness of your memories made your broken helmet decidedly more interesting to look at,  “Dregs say whatever they want in these parts, really anywhere from Mid-Rim out. Don't like being told 'no' for the most part either… It just depends on how far they'll go to try and ‘convince you’." 

He really must be all business in establishments like that to never see those locales from another's perspective… But you grin back up at him while he stared speechless. 

"...I haven't ever had someone come to my rescue before.." you admitted. "That was– welcome. Appreciated."

As expressionless as the helmet made him, the slight tip of the head spoke wonders for you. Mando's hand rose to catch your top wrist and rubbed his thumb against it– solidifying those feelings he didn't dare speak in public. Without any facial features to go on, you relied on these touches and read into every little thing: chipping up your chin is an encouragement, a pat on the shoulder is a quick ‘atta girl’ or ‘stay put’ depending on the situation. And this little hold on your wrist spoke equal wonders, a hidden language of care:

 I’d do it again in a heartbeat, cyar’ika. Simply say the word, and it’s done.

Your pause was a quick one, and with no more words shared, he simply took claim of your hand, adjusted your fingers to work together, and led you back to the shipyard. 

The Child would peek his head out now that the action was over. He’d crane and lean up at you both as much as his sling could afford him– though he was most interested in what sight was in front of him: your hands now fitting together like they belonged. 

His buir was currently holding your hand, like he’s reached out to hold his own three fingered claw when they first met. He hoped this meant you'd stay, too. With his green-skinned hand, he could almost reach yours and add it to the pile.

......................................................................................................

The Mandalorian was quiet that night. The quiet itself was not unusual, no not that– setting a course and spending his time in the cockpit making the adjustments he wanted was a completely normal task for him. He always knew where to go, which route to plug into the navicomputer to coast comfortably in this hyperspace lane for the next few hours so he didn’t have to stay up there and babysit it. You left him to it; this brand of silence was nothing really out of the ordinary for him.

You thanked his strictly-taught discipline tonight. While he stayed busy, you were able to clean yourself up without an audience. 

After an indulgent sonic shower by his insistence, you fiddled around in the small kitchenette. The domesticity, the residential feel you’d fostered on the ship piece by piece was a sharp contrast to how the bar made you feel. The security of this place; you fall back into the feeling of ‘home’ here everytime you come up the ramp. So far tonight, that’s meant heating up a few bean rolls, monitoring the data cells you’d comped from your intel, and watching the kiddo roll around that little knob he was always sneaking off with. The minute after you’d realize the twist top of the gearshift throttle in the cockpit was missing, you’d smile. What thievery, at such a young age… at least your pilot didn’t have need of it yet.

You shook your head and laughed when the Mandalorian sighed behind you– clearly finding it, too.

"What am I gonna do with you, pal..." He wrestled with himself more than anything- begging the odd baby for reason, and picked him off the floor.

After setting him on the crate, the Mandalorian came up to the side of the sink. You didn't move much from what you were doing, but looked up when he just stood there quietly for too long.

"--What's up?"

“Really need to clean that.”

At the nod, you knew what he meant– the split brow and cheekbone.

Your instincts flared- hedge away. 

You fanned your face,  “I was just getting him settled first. It’s clean, I was just letting it cool down a minute.”

Your name left his lips. Firm as steady morning rain, and in a similar hush. You didn't need to see what color they were to know they were set on you and only you.

“Look, it’s only this much, see?--AH! Oof, nevermind..”

At your cheek’s lift, the fire came back. The move brought a tear to sting your eye. 

In a second, the Mandalorian came to your aid, a bracing hand on your waist as his hand cupped your chin to see the damage himself. He asked you to take another step towards the light, so you did. It seemed like he was tilting about a bit, even as he tested the touch around the roadburn. You winced at it each time- from both the poking and the bulb of the overhead glaring into your eyes. 

“It’s pretty bad, huh.” you mumbled out.

Guilt came through the sigh as a little exhale. You barely caught it, but it struck you in the stomach. The night, its quiet, and the privacy of hyperspace allowed you to bring your favorite secret to your lips–

“How bad is it –Din?”

“I can’t see it too well.” Mando -by his true name- told you, a skosh gentler. “My scanner doesn’t always allow me to see the debris from the clotting clearly. Hard to tell,” he weakly let go of your chin. 

“Damn,” you sniffed and looked about for the tabletop lantern back by the kiddo, “Do I need to get the handheld?”

Then, with a little look back to the hull where he sat occupying himself sleepily by the towel pile, your Mandalorian took maybe his largest risk ever:

“-I need you to close your eyes for me.”

“Huh?” 

“I need to see it better. Need– you to close your eyes for me to do that.”

Realization punched you again. Made your ears prick– and gooseflesh chill you.

You can't let him do this... You know he would. 

“We can get a medscanner, Din. It's not too late to stop somew-.”

“No,” he caught you again, “I can do it; need to do it. I just– I need to trust that you’re hearing me.”

It's less of an order and more of a curated ask, one that begged for assurance. This man would always do his best to help you– but you never imagined he'd go this far… what he's willing to do for you. 

It's the most vulnerable request he'd ever made of you; a Mandalorian's trustfall. 

Now? You took back every doubt you had in the bar about him. You looked him straight in the visor –while you still could.

“...I hear you, hon.”

It nodded back to you; just one, solemn motion.

“Okay. Come sit here.”

You obeyed and locked onto the sight of the child while the Mandalorian fell to a knee in front of you, then propped himself up on both to match. With prepped gauze and tools to extract the pebbley shards, you winced at the canister of bacta being shaken up in his palm. A gloved palm came to caress your thigh. It’s meant to soothe.

“It’s ok. Gonna get you taken care of.”

“Yeah,” you feigned a brave face. 

But every nerve ending fluttered at its tips when you felt it: his now bare hand brushing your good cheek,

“Do not open them, please.” you heard him whisper in the helmet. 

The already low-lit vision of the cabin fell dark at your will. And you nodded– any reaction of his, unseen.

With the latch release and depressurization, you knew the helmet was off. And without meaning to, your ears prickled at every breath, every swallow, every ounce of sound that man was making – now naked to the hallway of this ship.

“Okay,” a gentle baritone spoke in the air between you. It’s new, like a stranger.  “Hm– looks like we’re out of the stim solution, I don’t have any numbing cartridges. But I have the wipe kind. Gonna do that first.”

You hummed your agreement, then immediately whimpered at the first dab.

The Mandalorian froze and detached.

“It’s just a wipe…”

“Tell my face that.” You cringed. “Sorry, juss' stings.”

“I know,” he soothed, “T’sgonna be alright. I’ll make it as quick as I can. There. Gonna get these pieces out now.”

He did work pretty quickly now that he’s out from the helmet. You barely felt the edge of his tweezers as they scooped the wedges of asphalt from that high point of your cheek where the visor of your headgear had shattered. Before you could hedge away from one particularly deep poke, you heard him speak again, 

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier,” Mando peeped up from his quiet, “About... men who've said those things to you before."

You softened. Was he still thinking about it? That was hours ago.

"And.. I know I've said things like that. I just wanted you to know, I can't stomach the thought of you feeling that way. And I apologize if I have ever done so, even if you'd never said a word about it. If you want me to stop, I will."

Kriff, this man. You’d sooner lay across an electrode-fencing rig than ever make him stop. You sighed, and not simply from relief as you heard him switch tools.

He’s a man of few words, but not meaningless ones. The first compliment he ever paid you was about your fire- your heart, your will, and how strong you were and how you believed. Later when you had to doll up for that ridiculous undercover function, he finally spoke his mind in the moment and said you looked ‘stunning’. He calls you 'pretty thing' often; mostly when he's giving you a hard time. Truthfully he'd called you all sorts of things, both in Basic and not– which likely gave him this pang of guilt all the more.

But those endearments were just that: things that gave you joy, a peace and comfort with him. A sweet word here or there? It's born out of familiarity- the ease of tongue that comes with living in close quarters. The draw between you two is perfectly synchronous– it is an unexpected bond through bizarre shared experiences in an infinite galaxy that inevitably brought two rough-and-ready folks together and practically conjoined at the hip. To   

Your Mandalorian is not a man without faults, but he'd never once made you feel filthy.

"Oh stars above, you sweet man.." you chuckled a little, wrenching your palms from your shirt hem and blindly batted up in the air to find his arm. "You've never made me feel like that. It's different when it comes from you. You know that, right?"

He huffed out of his nose. Relieved, if his trigger fingers were any indication as they tilted your cheek again, 

"I didn't want to assume. You're always so collected. Talented, confident.. But you're– painfully polite."

You giggled at that. All of his touches that root you to the spot when you least expect them are anything but unwanted. Of course you were polite when he jumps the gun on grabbing you while out in traffic, or whipping a hand in front of you at a hard stop– but you've never once taken offense to that. 

With a tentative reach, his fingers brushed the line of fine little curls by your ear, relishing in your smile at the touch.

"I don't just want you in safe places. I can’t always promise our adventures will grant us ideal jobs," In the dark, you envisioned his solid, pitch black visor giving a barely there shake… "But I want you to feel safe when you're with me."

You turned your head and kissed the palm of it. 

"I do feel safe with you. You'd be the first to know if I wasn’t–NNGH!"

"Be still."

"Shit… m'working on it… this whole thing's new to me, y'know?" Your mouth wandered like your frantic mind, blitzed with stinging pain. "My visor's never shattered like that before," You clenched your fists against the picks made at your browline, "I just fill in the scuffs with some epoxy usually, but it's never broken like that. Frikkin’ hurt."

Mando hummed in sympathy and merely added, "Gotta fit you with some beskar one of these days."

"Oh, sure, for half my year's portion of – nehNGH!"

“Shh, I know. Last bit’s over. Just gonna clean it up before the spray.”

With a water’s dip and wrench out, Mando made a little cleansing exhale before dabbing over the whole area. Didn’t hurt as much of your face other than the center of the wound because of the sedative, but it certainly made your eyes squeeze shut. No worries of opening your eyes for a peek when it stung so badly.

Your gentle angel in beskar whispered a quiet ‘m’sorry’ for the repeated flare of pain. His nervousness was palpable, regardless of how confident he was at this job. A jostle of your leg at calf-height told you he was checking around for dry gauze. 

“Almost done,” he cooed, “You want a break?”

You hummed and gave your pitiful nod to agree. The barest turn of your head caused little pops in it from craning so much. The pressure would take a while to dissipate and you know that when you open your eyes, they’ll be bloodshot. But the pain would be over soon.

Pleased enough to give you a minute, Mando released your chin in favor of brushing another bit of hair back. Due to taking your own helmet on and off so much, the wisps of curls were bouncier than normal like this, with just enough length to give you some fun bangs. You smirked with a tight-lipped smile, as you did not want to bother and pull your cheeks too much. 

It’s kinda beautiful, this. Having this closeness, sharing in a horrible task but in the best of conditions imaginable– being cared for by the one you adored most. Who wouldn’t crave that when it’s what the heart screams for? 

And with this new secret shared between you, this loophole in Din Djarin’s creed… this isn’t a moment you took lightly at all. 

With a little shaky exhale of your own, you searched for his hand again in your bubble of darkness. Now, it met you fully–and linked your fingers together. 

And then, what shocked you the most: steady fingers supported your jaw again, and a slight breeze to cool down your enflamed cheek rushed across your face. 

Din is here. Kneeling before you and blowing on it– just for your comfort. 

You welcomed the cooling flow; your brows showed it. Every ounce of tension left you while dragging heartache into its warm spot. Emotion flooded every corner of the body. It nearly hurt: how it compressed your chest into submission and brought loving tears behind your eyelids.

You didn’t deserve him.

“We’re almost there, sweetheart. Finish line,” he squeezed your hand before lifting it to his lips. He spoke gently to the fingers, "Keep those eyes closed for me."

"Promise." You squeezed them again, bracing yourself for the final burn.

And there it was– freezing and sealing all at once. A white, blinding sensation like what you’d feel from a lightsource turning on overhead, but all over your skin. Each pore was touched by the bacta’s strange magic without warning- and perhaps it was better that way to get it over with. Your breathing raced in that short time until the spray set, but you made sure to mute any noise with angry focus. Fighting the aftertaste, only a small moan eeked from you while the medicine reacted after your nurse had done his job covering the area. Darling thing, he even shielded the mist from getting directly into your eyes. 

Mando's hands left you only to set its things down. This, only in favor, of cupping your face evenly to hold you still when they returned. They warmed what once felt so cold. His forehead met yours in a tender touch as your tears spilled over from the edge of your eyes. Not to worry, for his thumb wiped them up straight away. 

Hair caught in every which way brushed along your slightly damp brow- his. Matched yours, in a way. 

"All done.” his words danced just over your nose, “You can smack me away now, if you want." 

You gave a wet little laugh as you settled into him. Slapping him is unthinkable to you. “Never.”

No, this was a perfect feeling that you’d never wish an end to. His caresses surpassed that of strict medicinal care and turned intimate, rendering your insides limp and on their way to healing already..

The urge to finally cry hit when you parted… when you felt his lips meet your unharmed cheek in a plush, hot kiss.

You whispered in reverence: Din. Desperation for ‘more, please Starborn, more’, an equal measure of shock had you squeezing his wrist, pinning him to you, 

"Should– heh- sh-should you be doing that?"

He kissed you again. Again. Like he’s addicted to the touch, like it’s his favorite vice to pass the time; soft, loose, sighing up to your temple. You know he must be taking in this sight of you now, before the analytics of heat sensors block him from vivid color and dynamic shadows once the helmet returns. 

"Probably not,” he admitted without true remorse– his voice turned soft and delicious, "But I've always wanted to. And right now, I can–" he pulled away at your forehead, "--Should I stop?"

"Oh, please don't stop–"

Your urgency, his delight. Mando chuckled, and kissed your forehead next: with such love from him, you could never doubt it. Enjoy this, honey. Take it all in.

The moment could have lasted forever. You'd about blindfold yourself for the rest of your life, for all you cared. If he just kept kissing you; lower, lower, lower–

–your lips fit against his, and you burst like a case of firewhiskey spirits poured on a flame. It engulfed you both, and he latched on– to burn right there with you. 

Your hands flew to keep him close, fingers finding a hold through the whisps of his hair he kept short that curled in choppy, sweat-licked parts. He sighed so heavenly when you touched him skin to skin. And easy to please, it seems, since he matched you move for move– threading through your feather-soft waves like it was second nature for him to hold you so close. 

Oxygen and a too-full heart demanded you part for a breath, your pulse going rapid fire in your throat. 

“Thank you.”

“Thank me? Thank– I should be thanking you,”  For caring, for the space to exist at his side, to have his loyalty in your back pocket and in your very soul, “For… everything today.”

“Nothing special about that. You thanked me already.” he said so with such frankness. “We have each other’s backs. We’re on each other’s sides. No, this–” 

His shield dropped from your browline, replaced by his whisper over the lid of your eye–

“–this means everything, mesh’la.”

The honesty of this man wrecked you. 

You found yourself pressing your forehead into the space by his neck to hide. Your Mando petted through your hair like a lovestruck man- desperate and wanting and content with every intention to keep you there for the rest of Time. By how this killer matched your breathy giggles, you had a clue that he wouldn't mind that idea. 

"So," you broke the quiet with a small question, "is that what I can expect every time I get a punch to the face?"

Din huffed. 

"You start poking around for trouble, we're going to have an entirely different problem on our hands,” he mumbled back hoarsely, “Don't you dare get any ideas." 

“Even if they get me kisses?”

“Nothing’s worth you getting hurt, cyar’ika,” those indulgent lips pressed to your hairline before he reached down- to get his helmet. 

At the lean, you panicked a second, and flung back again with a rush for him to wait. 

At your word, he stilled for you to speak your peace. Happy lines greeted your fingertips as you caught the edge of his smile with a blind-man’s reach.

You fought through your elated headspace and begged, "One more?"

Praying to every heaven out there, you were blessed when Din graced your mouth again without any teasing. Kiss after kiss, you melted into each other in this place where nothing hurt– though who did the falling first, you genuinely didn't know. 

Must have been a hell of a numbing wipe. 

After breathless kisses later, stolen tokens as they were, you both felt and heard the Mandalorian shudder and he moan back,

"Gotta stop.." he flipped up the helm with expert precision. It found its home again with only another blip of static when the seal reanimated. "You can open your eyes now."

"Stop…" you managed your beating heart and blinked open your gaze, straight up to the reflected 'T'-shaped gap of his visor. The pupils that looked back at you were straight dilated. You asked out of the haze of your bliss, "Why ‘stop’?"

Still ungloved and with sleeves rolled up, the Mandalorian’s head lolled in a little shake. 

"If I didn't stop right then," Mando caressed your good cheek, "Don't know if I ever would…"

"Would that be the worst?" You hoped for the chance again.

Mando sweetly answered, 

"No.."

It was the kind answer he knew you wanted, to wish for more kisses from you. But he wasn't completely convinced. Not with that lilt in his voice that left a question to be answered. 

He slipped a hand around your waist,

"No, I think.. if I never saw your eyes again, that would be the loss I'd suffer the most.”

Lucidity came back by the moment, your sense of confusion officially returned.

“See me? But you just did, for the first time, right?”

“Couldn’t see those pretty eyes though.”

“Well, tough.” you sassed, “Now you know how I feel.”

You tried to make it sound bossy, but the dig left your mouth too sleepily for him to take it. Behind the metal, his rough rush of static resounded his chuckle.

To further prove the point, you mimic the motion you do for your eye contact removal with a bright, goofy smile,

"It's just retinas, you know,” you shrugged, “Mine don't even work."

"Your loss is my gain, all the same." Mando fell back to only one knee again, to get comfortable at your level. "I'm almost glad we didn’t pass a med droid in town, or else…” he curled an arm around you again, “--this might not have happened any other way. I count your poor excuse for headgear as my blessing this time."

You glanced at what was left of your helmet, but fell into good humor with his warmth bringing you close again.

“You’ll be all too glad to see me walking around a beskar cyclehelm, won’t you? Gonna take a while to find that much to make one, if you’re serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” the helmet nodded, chipping your chin for a moment, “But we’ll manage until we source it. Always do.”

You’re still reeling over this; over what this means, him offering you the most prized form of protection. To give you comfort by shedding down to his most vulnerable state. The complete faith he has in you by doing so... It gave your nervous anxieties ballasts on all sides. 

You’d keep your wits about you better next go round, so this doesn’t happen again… but you knew the word ‘partnership’ had a different meaning between you, from this night onward.

Din continued past your mind’s lovely spiral, 

“You won’t need to worry about finding a better replacement before we head to Bespin with this package; we'll just let you heal. No sense pushing it.”

"Probably for the best, yeah," you nuzzled back, "I clearly have issues keeping a helmet on my head as it is."

The helmet giving you a kiss of its own shook side to side. That gesture all but begged ‘what am I going to do with you’.

"So we stick in our lanes for now?” you whispered your hope, “...Try my luck and steal chances whenever I can?"

Instead of a quick nod, the man who’d just kissed you senseless gave you a promise again,

"We can work something out."

#the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #this is self indulgent #din djarin is a sweetheart and a badass and i'll take no questions #it's a trustfall baby #close your eyes and leave it all behind #go where love is on our side #mando #mando x reader

[fenrislorsrai]

I Know Where I'm Going

Season 2 is just Neil Gaiman attempting to get us to read and watch all his favs while looking for Clues.

so got "I Know Where I'm Going" from the library.

as a mundane note on the DVD, the subtitles are incredibly hard to find on the menus for some reason. I finally gave up using the onscreen menu and forced it through opening a track direct on my player. So if you get the DVD, there ARE subtitles, you just gotta work for 'em.

also there's several points where they just subtitle it as "speaking Gaelic". It's effectively shot from a non-Gaelic speaker's POV so I'm okay with it not being translated but it would have been nice is there were subtitles, in Gaelic, for those sections.

This movie rates an enormous HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM from me. Many interesting coincidences.

Free fic title for folks: "may your pulse beat as your heart would wish"

Rest under the cut in case you want to watch this.

You can read the plot on WIkipedia so I'm not gonna focus on the relevant bits for Good Omens cause that's why you're reading this.

First up you get the female lead meeting with her father for dinner, who specifically mentions coming from Eccleshall to see her off. This is a different town than Eccles of the Eccles cake, but did make me go look that up.

The tartan hills sequence really is direct from this movie as part of a dream sequence. Joan's father had warned her she was marrying a man, not his company, but the dream sequence does involve actually marrying the company as shown off by some large industrial machinery. big HMM there on theme.

She's clearly marrying this guy for safety and financial security but you never really learn much else about him. She seems to have worked for him and then climbed into position of getting married. You hear this guy's voice on a shortwave radio but never actually see him. He's also described with general disdain by the locals as an imposter. He's not the real lord, he's just the guy with the money.

Which is something that comes up repeatedly thematically as New Money vs Old Money. even the Old Money doesn't have much and that's why they're renting out to the New Money because they're land rich, cash poor as are post of the people that are in the area.

There's a bit where the rich new folks go call on one of the old nobles and comment on how she's only got three servants on a quite big house and she comments on "don't need them when I have guests" and then you get to see Torquil, who actually is a lord (and the love interest here) getting told to set the table for the elderly noblewoman he's visiting. Which he does. and for the rich New Money folks who do nothing to help.

You also have a conversation with some of the locals making fun of the rich industrialist paying money to import salmon, when he's got salmon swimming in the stream of the land he's renting, but isn't catching. He's also having a swimming pool built... on an inland, which they all think he's mad for. (considering the ocean murdering people is a plot point, wanting to swim in warmer non-murderous water seems pretty reasonable)

But there's an overall Vibe of the new money having MONEY but not class.

Torquil has class but also responsibilities. He's only here because he's been serving in the Navy and is home on shore leave. Catriona, who provides Torquil and Joan somewhere to stay while waiting out the stormy weatehr has been providing housing a unit of soldiers up until about a week ago. So you get that clear "they're doing their part for the war, the New Rich aren't".

You also get Joan attempting to pay a local fisherman quite a lot of cash to take her to the nearby island in heavy weather. It's really too much cash for him to refuse. That could buy him ability to marry and buy a boat of his own. Torquil is Pissed Offabout it though because he considers it thoughtless. You could wait and not risk that man's life over this. He eventually gets talked around but goes with on the boat trip since he actually IS in the Navy and can manage to help get engine restarted in boat when they get swapped.

So a lot of themes in common, but lets get back to the real meat here: THE CURSE.

Torquil has never been in the nearby castle, which is basically just a standing square tower. Not have any of his immediate ancestors because everybody knows about the curse and that he can't set foot in the castle of Something Terrible Will Happen.

This gets called back to several times but without any indication of the exact nature of the curse.

This IS a romance so the whole point is this delay in the travel makes Joan reconsider marrying the rich guy. but before that, you have Joan and Torquil split up. They have a farewell kiss and then part ways. Torquil wishes her well and suggests since some pipers got hired for this delayed wedding, she should have them play a tune they heard earlier in a dance scene.

meanwhile, he's been delayed so many times getting to the same island (which is his home), his shore leave is now over, he has to go back to the Navy. So is walking off to catch a ride and goes past the castle.

Stares at it and is "okay, Joan's right, this is stupid I've been scared by this curse the whole time" so goes into castle to climb the tower actually see the curse carved in stone.

OH HEY, THAT CURSE AIN'T WHAT YOU THOUGHT. It's one of those written in such a way it can be read several ways. One of which is "you can never leave this place without the person you love." oh hey, are those bagpipers playing Our Song???

Happy reunion had, Joan wants to be with Torquil nevermind marrying the company for riches. what they do about Torquil's leave being over, IDK, movie over, this is a romance, off we go.

#good omens #I know where I'm going

[my-sibling-wears-a-muumuu]

PAX AM Days

this gonna be a multipart series, so: pt1 , ?

"..so what is pax am days?" Peach asked, lugging generators into the bus. The generators were from inside the city, horrifically difficult to get out.

"You don't-?? It's the biggest festival in the fucking zones, kiddo! How have you lived what.. 5 years?" Neon answers, bringing on the bus another generator.

"3 years, and Sugar wasn't into that kinda stuff." Peach said, dropping their generator onto the last seat of the bus.

"Gotta admit sweets, Sugar hasn't really been into that,, since like... well, you know." Dirt said, cords on his shoulder, and battery pacts in hand.

"Oh well,, yeah that makes sense, he used to love going though. Hey, how is your brother, peach?"

"Sugar's fine, still extremely in love with Jet. You were saying about Pax Am days?" Peach said.

"Oh, yeah, Pax Am days is like, the biggest fest in the zones, besides like, 'Damn the Man fest', but even then that pales in comparison." Neon answered.

"What do you like... do there?"

"There tends to be escaped pornodroids, ones that are still sane at least, live music, good-ass food. Theres also home-brewed alcohol and weed." Dirt answered as they were all getting off the bus to get more of the generators, cords, and batteries.

"Whose playing?"

"I know Ghoul is there as a part of Leathermouth. I think some other people and bands are like.. Misfits, Star, other rock people and then folk music people. It's actually a really nice mix." Neon said picking up various items.

"You mean Star from crashtrack?" Peach asked, also taking various items up and into the bus.

"Yep, his first year doing this actually." Dirt said, straining against the heavy machinery.

"Who all is attending,, like crews we know?" Peach asked, letting out a huff when putting another generator in the bus's back seat.

"I know aerials, and the fab four. Daycare is a no go. Uhh,, oh! You'll finally meet American Idiot! You'll love Jesus." Neon replied

"Like Jesus Christ?" Peach asked.

"Oh no, no no, different guy. His name is Suburban Jesus." Dirt answered. setting the generator down, and leaving to get the last of the supplies.

"I know demi devil is setting up crashtrack there. And demo derby. Scene Queen is setting something up. You'll love it. You gotta come."

"Well, don't we have to set up the generators and shit?"

"Huh, i guess you have a point kiddo." Dirt said, getting the last of the battery packs, extension cords onto the bus, once put down, he climbed into the drivers seat.

"So, like, how long does pax am last?" Peach sat down in the first seat, diagonal to Dirt. Neon sat directly behind him.

"It lasts however long people stay." Neon said. "Joys tend to camp out there. There was a time it lasted a month, shit was fucking wild."

"How long will we stay?"

"Till I've got another tour, which I have one soon, but you have the option of staying with Kobra until your ready to leave."

"How soon is it?"

"In about," She looked at back of her bare wrist, "five days. That gives us a rest day tomorrow, three days to set up pax am, and one day to enjoy my time there."

"I'll talk to kobs about it then."

#danger days #ttlofk #Neon Night #peach spider #kobra kid #dirt shade #danger days fanfic #danger days the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #danger days fic #danger days true lives of the fabulous killjoys #mcr

[considerthatoldmanfucked]

ummm also my friend murdered me and made me write scout x engineer im too lazy to post this on ao3 or to finish it so enjoy

the engineer mumbled a few curses, his gaze narrowing behind his goggles as his newest prototype collapsed before him. he wasn't sure what time it was. sometime past dinner, that was certain. pyro had thankfully been kind enough to drop off a plate. with a slight huff, the engineer placed down his wrench. he figured he'd ought to take a break now before he reaches the brink of insanity. out of the 8 men- and one “man” -he'd argue that he's the most competent. not that it took much, of course. sure, he'd do just about anything for the men he's come to call his teammates, but there was no denying how unbearably stupid the bulk of them were. just about the only ones he could find himself having a genuine conversation with nowadays was the heavy, the pyro, and the medic. the engineer was perfectly content with this, though. all it meant was that he'd get the things he values most. peace, and quiet.

“yo, eng! you in here, man?” the unbearable wailing that could barely be constituted as a voice spewed from the scout's mouth, ripping the engineer from his contentment. with a sigh, the engineer pinched the bridge of his nose.

“haven't i told y'all a thousand times- the barn is off limits. 'specially when i'm workin' inside. now, christ, boy, what's so important that you gotta bother me now?”

“oh, c'mon! i'm not even allowed to come see ya? not even for a little bit? come on, pally! it's me! your best bud!” the engineer grimaced at the thought of friendship with the younger. pinching the bridge of his nose, the engineer inquired yet again.

“right, right. will you- at least just get it over with? tell me why the hell you're here?” the scout paused. he seemed to be genuinely thinking for once, and processed an answer. the engineer raised an eyebrow as he watched the display, somewhat surprised that smoke wasn't rising from scout's head. judging by his expression, this had to be the most work his brain had ever done in one sitting. finally, he reached a revelation.

“i need your help with somethin'! or uh- someone, more like. you can do that, right? you fix stuff, and all that jazz?”

“suppose so. but before you go on- i solve practical problems. machinery. i don't go into feelings and all that. so unless you plan on telling me this someone is a robot with a couple of screws loose, i'm not so sure i'll be all that much help,” the engineer spoke bluntly. half out of respect, and willingness to tell the truth, and the other half out of the sheer desire he had to send scout away as quickly as possible. “you talked to the doctor yet? he may be a bit more help with the uh… mental-feely stuff, y'know?”

“yeah! well- no. see, i was gonna talk to medic. and then, i figured, hell no! that prick doesn't deserve to know my feelings, y'know? so then i started goin' down the list, thinkin' bout all the guys, right? and finally- i ended up at you! you're real smart, y'know? so like- you can help! 'specially since you're a real smooth talker, too-“ the engineer's eyebrows raised even more at this. scout certainly wasn't the type to be handing out compliments freely, especially not willingly. engineer searched scout's expression for any signs of deceit or hiding, but all he found was something that surprised him even more- embarrassment. pure, unbridled, embarrassment. the engineer found himself smirking to himself for a moment. the scout, unfortunately, caught on quite quick.

“th-the hell you lookin' at, man?! i said what i said, alright! you don't tell a soul what you heard, got it?"

#tf2 #tf2 engineer #tf2 scout #engineer x scout #literally end me #this is my worst work #i refuse to finish this

[giggly-squiggily]

Mountain Distance (Pokemon Sword and Shield)

Heyo everyone! This is a commission for the wonderful @fullstone22​! They have requested some more Gordie content, and how can I say no to that? :D Really- I’ve been slowly but surely working my way back to Pokemon; this fic really made me happy to write, and I hope it makes you happy too! Thank you so much for your support!

Summary: You were invited to train in the Isle Of Armor for a year. It’s gonna be a tough time without you, but your boyfriend Gordie is supportive as ever.

“Do you have everything? Potions, poke balls, snacks?” Gordie fussed beside you as you straightened your bag, the sound of your train growing closer. Since you’d been invited to the Isle of Armor, Gordie was a ball of excitement and nerves. The closer the day of your departure got, the more anxious he grew.

If you were being honest, you found it rather endearing. It reminded you of Melody in some ways.

Not that you’d ever voice that outloud.

“Gordie, I’ll be fine.” You laughed, walking up and taking his hands gently, bringing them to your lips. “It’s only for a year, and I’ll be staying with Master Mustard at his dojo. You’ve met him and his wife; they’re great people. Once I’m there I’ll call you up and give you all the updates.”

“You better- I’m not sleeping until you do.” Gordie started to pout, making you laugh as you leaned forward and kissed it away.

“I’ll be sure to come back and visit, and I’ll call you every night.” You told him between kisses, pressing your foreheads together. “And YOU better take care of yourself too. No distractions during gym battles while I’m gone.”

“Can’t be helped; you're my muse.” Gordie smiled, kissing you back tenderly just as the train to Isle Armor arrived. The conductor; a tall man with unusually bright silver eyes;  nodded at you in greeting before taking your things.

“I gotta go. I love you, Gordie. I promise to call!” You gave him one last kiss before backing into the train, keeping your eyes on him as you took a seat. “Win the championship for me!”

“That’s my line!” Gordie called out with a wet laugh as you rode away, the sound of the heavy machinery drowning out his call. Before long, you were off, leaving Gordie at the station.

“Have fun, (Y/N).” He whispered, tucking his hands into his pockets and turning to leave. Just as he did so, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Pulling it out, it had one new message:

{(Y/N): Hey, guess what? I love you :D}

Gordie laughed, shaking his head as he walked back home, writing a responding “I love you too”.

Maybe the year won’t be so bad afterall.

~~~

“And wouldn’t you know it? Just as I thought I had all of the Wooloo’s secure, the smallest one of all followed me into my house! She wouldn’t go back- she stayed by my side the entire time.” Milo laughed as he spoke, reminiscing on his latest endeavor with the new Wooloo babies. “She reminds me so much of my brother when he was a tot!”

Gordie nodded along, half listening. It had been a few months since he’s seen his partner. While they stayed true to their promise to call every day and visit at least once a month, it didn’t mean his longing for them eased.

Today though- it hadn’t been longing that was distracting him. At least- not that entirely.

The other night, he had a dream of them. They were reunited once more, running about a great green field and throwing themselves into each other's arms. At some point his partner had him pinned, tickling him like no tomorrow and blowing raspberries against his stomach.

It was a nice dream, but it put the rock gym leader in an awful lee mood.

“You’ve been quiet today, Gord. What’s on your mind?” Milo asked, smiling patiently as the gym leader startled.

“Just thinking, that’s all.” Gordie tried for a smile, internally cringing when Milo furrowed his brow. “I guess I’m really missing (Y/N), today.”

“Ah, I see.” Milo nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer. “Hang in there, Gordie! They’ll be back before you know it.”

“Yeah…you're right. Thanks.” Gordie bit down a sigh as he turned back to his phone. He’d be fine. He’d just have to make it until you either visit again or your home. He could do this-

A sudden poke to the side made him spasm, nearly chucking his phone. “Gah! M-Milo?”

The redhead merely smiled. Green eyes aflame with all knowing. “What? You look so down I thought I’d cheer you up, that’s all.”

Gordie found himself scooting away some, feeling his face burn as Milo turned to face him properly. “I’m really not that upset; I’ll be fine in time-”

“Oh no! You're clearly in need of cheering up now, yes?” Milo moved so fast Gordie could barely react, quickly pinning him to the couch below with a wide grin. “(Y/N) would be disappointed if you stayed so sullen. What am I supposed to tell them if I let you carry on?”

“You talked to them?” Gordie was about to ask more questions when hands started pinching his waist and sides, making him squirm and giggle. “Wehhehehehn?”

“The other day. They told me whenever you start looking especially down to help you out.” Milo leaned down so he could speak into his friend's ear, a teasing note in his tone. “They also told me about helping you out in your lee moods.”

Gordie flushed near crimson, his laughter increasing when Milo found a particularly sensitive spot on his ribs, making him snort. “Whahahahhat, whehhehen did yohohohou heahahhar- Gehahahahahahaha!” Fingers were now under his arms, pressing through the thick material of his jacket with little trouble. “Mihihihihiihlo!”

“Hm? What is it, Gordie?” His friend cooed, clearly having a great time.

“Ihihihihihit tihihiihihihikcles!”

“So it does!” Milo chuckled, reaching up and grabbing Gordie’s hands. “Hey, Gordie. What’s your favorite fruit?”

Oh no. Oh dear. “Dohohohon’t you dahhahhare-”

“Cause mine is…Raspberries!” Milo grinned before burying face into Gordie’s stomach.

PFFFFFFFFT!

“AH! AHEHAHAHHAHAHA! MIHIHIIIHIHLOO!” Gordie howled, twisting this way and that as Milo blew raspberry after raspberry. Even with his shirt protecting his skin, the raspberries were ridiculously effective. Each one sent wave after wave of ticklish tingles up and down his nerves, making him scream and flail. “COOHOOHOHOHOME OHOHOOHOOHN!”

“Don’t tell me you're not having fun, Gordie.” Milo said between attacks, the big brother in him coming out full force. His hands released the blondes before coming back to his sides, wiggling into the soft flesh of his torso and adding to the Gordie’s predicament. “When (Y/N) was here, the two of us would gang up on you all the time! You didn’t fight back then, and your night fighting back now!”

Gordie could only cackle as he shoved at the farmer’s shoulders. “YOHOHOOHOHU EHEHHEHEHEHVIL!”

“And you're too ticklish!” Milo laughed into his stomach, nuzzling him gently before finally sitting back. “Feeling better, friendo?”

His hair was a mess. His cheeks were aflame and his sunglasses were crooked. His lungs were on fire and his entire body felt tingly from head to toes.

Milo asked him if he was feeling better?

Honestly…yeah. He kinda was.

“Yoohohu suck.” He laughed, shoving the redhead and making Milo wheeze so hard he rolled off the couch. Before long the two of them were laughing hysterically, overcome with glee.

Yeah- he could make it the rest of the year.

~~~

It was less than 7 degrees celsius this morning. Everything was ice cold- including Gordie, but he didn’t care.

Standing in a large jacket and scarf, he bounced on his heels with his hands in his pockets as he waited impatiently for the train to arrive. He had received your text last night- it took him everything in his power not to rush over to the station then and there.

A solid 2 hours in the cold and three cups of coffee later, the large metal beast pulled up, vibrating the tracks and blaring through the cold morning. Around him, trainers and those alike got on and off, fading away into nothing as you appeared.

All it took was one look. Before he knew it, you were running full force, tossing your bag to his left before launching yourself into his ready arms. Your lips tasted like coffee and donuts, and your cheeks were flushed from the cold.

“Gordie.” You breathed when you two finally pulled away, smiling so big it rivaled the sun. Gordie felt his heart soar. “I’m home.”

“Welcome home, rockstar.” He let out a choked laugh, kissing you again and again.

I hope this was good!

#Pokemon #sword and shield #gordie #reader insert #milo #gordie x reader #tickle #tickle fic #raspberries #fluff #I tried to avoid any and all angst #I wanted the fic to still be lighthearted and fluffy #I hope you like it! :D #thanks for reading!

[stuckyhaul]

One-Shot: Shipyard | Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of war, WW2, angst.

Style: Diary entry written from Bucky’s perspective.

Length: Short.

Notes: It’s my birthday, and I wanted to try writing something small, yet meaningful and bittersweet. 🥹 In this one shot, Bucky works at the shipyards, it’s written after the events of Pearl Harbour.

⬇️ Begin Here ⬇️

Most folks won’t tell ya’ bout’ how hard it was to be a worker at the shipyard after D-Day. The amount of volunteers let alone the employment increase was enough to make any man cry for a mourning country. The amount of strength we had as workmen, the courage to want to fight and go to war for our people lost at Pearl Harbour, the way the hammers banged louder against the ship metal, it was enough to understand the country was both devastated and angry.

Some men wouldn’t speak, they just worked long and hard hours till someone had to drag em’ off home to rest. Others wouldn’t shut up, their mouths filled with filthy words and cusses, on edge and ready to throw a punch at any fool who was willing to try and reason with em’. The boss even had to let some go, too sad and caught up in the tragedy to be let out on the workfloor, muttering names of lost ones around the heavy machinery.

Each week I’d see men handing in their work uniforms, trading it in for an enlistment form or draft notice. Me? I kept my head down and did the work, not bothering anyone I didn’t need to, I understood the importance of the ships we were building- now more than ever.

Everyday walkin’ home seemed to take a few more steps, getting closer to the mailbox and wondering the day it would say I got my own letter, I knew it would happen. Most the guys I knew had already been drafted, able bodied men, working with hunks of metal? Yeah, optimal choice for the front line of battle, according to the states.

Dinners with Steve became quiet, the radio constantly telling us about what was happening since the bombing, how many dead, the number rising each day. “We gotta get over there.” I’d hear Steve mutter under his breath, his fists clenched frustratedly, eyes watering as he listened on. The blonde spitfire had a heart of gold, always had, and in a way I was envious I didn’t have one like it. Maybe then I wouldn’t have been so afraid of leaving him behind when my serial number was called upon.

Who’d look after him? Help pay his bills, cook his food? Not to mention those punks in the alleyway that eyed him like a piece of meat ever since I’d been around to help ward em’ off. I remember my chest physically hurt to imagine leavin’ him behind by himself. My best pal…

I knew in my heart it was more than that, but given our lives, nothin’ could ever come of it. Not now, not ever, not if we didn’t want to be thrown away in some looney bin. Though, whenever Steve smiled at me, I couldn’t help but return one right back. Even in dark days like this, I knew we still had each other, even if the world was at war.

The days at the shipyard seemed to meld together, more men leaving to join the ranks, meaning harder work left for the rest of us in order to get USS Lowa out on the water. She was a big girl too, one of their best, we called her ‘the big stick’. Cause that’s what she was gonna be to a lotta folk’ over the big blue, the military made sure she was gonna hit like one too, we just made sure she’d still float after taken’ a beatin’. Lowa was gonna be the flagship of battleship division 7, headin’ out over the pacific with her fleet.

Unfortunately, I never got to see her set sail.

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #Stucky #stuckyhaul quotes #stuckyhaul fics #Captain america

[annisthree]

Chapter IX: Corulag

previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter

Pairing: Cassian Andor x Original Female Character

Word Count: ~5k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Explicit language, canon typical violence, jelousy

Chapter summary: After their adventure on the orbital construction module, Marla and Cassian go to Corulag to investigate the mysterious shipments, hoping it will help them understand what the Empire was building over Geonosis - and whether it has any ties to Narkina.

A/N: Cross-posted on AO3 (same username).

The transition from the stillness of the Imperial space station to the bustling spaceport on Corulag was disorienting, to say the least. There were ships arriving and departing all the time, passengers scurrying between the landing pads, spaceport workers yelling something in different languages, and heavy machinery unloading cargo ships. It was a lot to process - but Marla still preferred that to the eerie silence of the construction module.

They were sitting in one of the cheap diners that were lining the street adjacent to the spaceport: Marla with her half-eaten nerfsteak sandwich, and Cassian with his cold black caf and sour countenance. K2 was instructed to stay on the ship - Corulag might have been overwhelmingly loyal to the Empire, but a security droid following two civilians would still draw attention.

The air carried a medley of scents—a heady blend of freshly brewed caf, various perfumes from distant worlds, and a subtle undertone of starship fuel. It would have been nauseating, if it hadn't been for the growling in Marla's stomach.

'I applaud your courage,' Cassian pointed out blankly, eyes still scanning the spaceport.

'Excuse me?' Instead of replying, Cassian eyed the sandwich on her plate, raising one eyebrow. 'Oh. Well. A girl's gotta eat. And this particular girl is really tired of travel rations. I swear, I keep thinking my taste buds have grown accustomed to the blandness, and then I open another pack...'

'I'll take bland over poisonous,' Cassian shrugged, eyes returning to monitoring the situation on the streets.

'Well, that's the difference between us, Captain. I have a very low tolerance for bland.' Cassian puffed quietly and rolled his eyes, a shadow of amusement running through his otherwise focused expression. 'Problem?'

'No problem, ma'am.' A slight grin crept onto his face. 'Eat up; we're leaving.'

The waitress appeared at their table almost instantly; she'd been giving them the side-eye for a while, very clearly suggesting that they had overstayed their welcome. Her expression softened a bit once Cassian threw a handful of credits on the table, but Marla had a feeling they wouldn't be coming back too soon.

Shame. That was a damn good nerfsteak sandwich.

'Where to next?'

'Sector C. There was a large patrol heading in that direction just now. We're just here to observe, though, so try to act... casual.' He finished the sentence with a sigh that might have had something to do with Marla turning around to check if someone was following them. 'We talked about this.'

'What? You'll thank me one day when I save you from getting shot in the back.'

'That's not-- you know what, I'm not getting dragged into this discussion again. Just stop looking around.'

Marla gave him an ostentatious eye-roll but followed suit, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jacket and focusing her eyes on the merchant stalls they were passing on their way.

And there was a lot to look at. Some displays were adorned with trinkets and curiosities: jewels sparking under the warm glow of the sun, tiny figurines and hand-carved sculptures standing proudly in lines, tiny embellished flasks reflecting the sunlight... Other stalls were draped with fabrics of every shade and pattern, inviting Marla to reach out and feel the soft texture against her skin. All that, combined with the multitude of voices and other sounds, and the chaotic spinning, swinging and whirling of hands, bodies, goods - all that made her feel entranced, if a bit overwhelmed.

'Focus,' she heard Cassian whisper almost directly into her ear, jolting her back to reality like a bucket of cold water. Maker. One of these days, they're gonna have a conversation about personal space. He cannot keep doing things like that and expect her to focus.

'That guy on the platform,' Cassian continued quietly, tugging her sleeve and gently pointing his chin towards one of the landing pads on the other side of the street. 'That's our guy. They'll be changing shifts soon. If he leaves alone, we follow him. Got it?' She nodded silently, watching the officer yell something at one of the spaceport workers. 'Good. First things first, though. We have about half a standard hour to fill. I hope you have space left for another nerfsteak sandwich.'

  *

  'Stars, do you always eat so much during undercover missions? How do you stay--' Marla performed an incomprehensible series of motions towards Cassian, '-- like this?'

Cassian smirked, 'By not ordering suspicious sandwiches in dirty diners? Coincidentally, that's also how I stay alive and, well, unpoisoned.'

'Funny,' she pouted at him. 'Are you gonna continue shaming my dietary choices, or do we get to work?'

'I am working. Working doesn't always mean running around with guns, you know?' Marla rolled her eyes and was already taking a deep breath to reply, but he interrupted her. 'Okay, he's on the move. That's our cue.'

Cassian was up before she could process his words, throwing a handful of credits on the table and tugging her sleeve. Admittedly, Marla had long lost sight of the target (because how long can you look at one spot), but she had no doubt Cassian would do enough looking for both of them. And, well, she was right.

As nightfall descended, the spaceport and the market square transformed into an illuminated spectacle. Tiny lanterns and other light sources dotted the area, casting ethereal shadows that seemed to dance along the pavement. The streets grew even busier, with hundreds of shadows gliding across the pavement like phantoms hunting for their prey.

They began following the officer, keeping a fair amount of distance but making sure not to lose track of him. Marla reluctantly let Cassian lead the way, his leisurely pace in stark contrast to her restless energy. Whenever they needed to change direction, his hand gently tugged at her wrist, silently guiding her.

Suddenly, Cassian tensed, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. With a fluid motion, he placed his hand on Marla's lower back, leading her in a dance-like movement towards one of the merchant stalls.

'How about this one?' he pointed at a display of patterned rugs nestled among dozens of other fabrics and decorations.

Caught off guard, Marla struggled to process the sudden shift. 'Mmm-- what?'

'For the living room, darling. I'm thinking it would go well with the wallpaper.'

The burly green-skinned Trandoshan merchant materialised beside them, his eyes darting between Cassian and Marla with eager anticipation.

'Right. Yes. Darling.'

Cassian didn't miss a beat, quickly interjecting with an apologetic smile. 'Sorry, her Basic isn't very good.'

'Ha! Such a lovely couple.' The Trandoshan leaned in towards Cassian, adding in a conspiratorial tone, 'I might just have a special offer for you. A gift... to celebrate your new beginnings together.'

Marla's heart sank, her hands growing clammy as she prayed for some miraculous cataclysm that would save her from having to participate in that conversation. Unfortunately, the ground beneath her feet seemed unyielding.

Meanwhile, Cassian's thumb gently brushed the side of her hip. She didn't know if it was part of the act or an ill-timed attempt to soothe her nerves, but it only made it worse.

'You're too kind,' Cassian replied with a trained poise in his voice that would have amused Marla if she hadn't been so focused on counting the cracks in the pavement beneath her feet. 'On second thoughts, though, I'm not sure it fits the vibe we're going for.'

The merchant's face dropped immediately. 'Well, I have a wide range of--'

'Thank you,' Cassian interrupted with that same polite smile. 'We'll come back if we change our minds. Right, darling?'

'Mhm.'

'Have a wonderful evening, sir.' Marla felt Cassian manoeuvre their arms to intertwine them, and she held onto his forearm to keep a facade of affection. They retreated from the stall, seamlessly blending back into the bustling street.

As the stress subsided, she replayed the conversation in her head and once again prayed for the ground to swallow her whole.

'Her Basic isn't very good,' she seethed quietly, digging her nails into his forearm. 'Walking a very thin line today, Andor.'

He shrugged. 'The officer stopped to buy something. I had to improvise.'

Indeed, their target now carried a box of unidentified food, its heavy and oily aroma mixed with an undertone of ash assaulting Marla's senses. Even her liberal dietary tastes classified whatever the officer was consuming as repugnant.

They continued tailing him, the crowd thinning as they ventured further. The rest of the city was densely filled with tall buildings, but it lacked the vibrancy and colourfulness of the spaceport market - instead, it was mostly durasteel and permacrete, with the rare neon sign adding brightness to the otherwise bleak scenery.

Their target stopped under one such neon that read 'Nebula Longue' and, after a couple of moments of hesitation, entered the building.

Marla glanced at Cassian impatiently. 'What now?'

'We wait.'

'Seriously? He could be there for hours. Is that really your plan?'

'You have a better one?' Cassian shrugged, leaning on the wall.

'I do,' she paused for a while, weighing her options. 'We can go inside, and I can get him to follow me to one of the rooms upstairs. We can interrogate him there.'

The sincere laughter that followed caught her by surprise.

'Oh, you're serious? Absolutely not.'

'Why not?' she felt increasingly annoyed. What was so funny about it, damn it? 'You do shit like this all the time. Doesn't seem that difficult.'

'Marla. You're a terrible liar. He'll see right through you the moment you open your mouth.'

'Then I'm not gonna lie; I'll just seduce him. Or are you saying I'd have to pretend to be someone else for a man to be interested in me?'

Cassian looked genuinely confused. 'I didn't say that, Marla. You're...' he hesitated for a while and clearly decided against finishing that sentence. 'It's just too dangerous.'

'I can handle myself,' she retorted, barely suppressing a snarl. There was a sharp pain in the palms of her hands, and when she looked down, she realised she'd been clenching her fists so hard that her nails almost broke skin.

'I didn't say you couldn't,' he said slowly. Annoyingly slowly, like he was trying to tame a wild animal or - worse yet - calm down a child. 'Nevertheless, we're not doing this.'

'Why not?' Marla's voice dripped with defiance. If you treat me like a child, I'm gonna act like one.

'Because we already have a plan,' his voice was becoming breathier and less controlled. 'And I make the call.'

'Because?'

'Because I outrank you,' he spat out with frustration in his voice.

'Oh, really?' she hissed through clenched teeth. 'You didn't seem to remember about it the last time you fucked me.'

Cassian recoiled, a mixture of surprise and frustration clouding his features. 'Oh, come on. Don't--'

'No, Cassian. You come on. We're doing this. I can do this.'

Cassian let out a frustrated sigh, his gaze fixed on the ground as he attempted to compose himself. The conflicting emotions played across his face, a mixture of exasperation and concern - and something else that Marla couldn't quite figure out.

Marla took a moment to flex her palms a couple of times. Meanwhile, Cassian began pacing, looking intensely at the pavement.

'Fine.'

'Fine...?' Already preparing another attack, Marla was taken aback by how easily Cassian surrendered.

'Fine. But I'll be there. And the minute he-- the minute you feel uncomfortable, for any reason, you back out immediately. Or give me a sign, and I'll get you out. Understood?'

'Understood,' she replied, carefully studying his expression. He had that troubled look again - brows knitted together, jaw tightly set, and that sad, conflicted stare he was piercing her with. Her anger morphed into confusion.

'Okay, let's do this. But you're gonna need a change of clothes.' One corner of Cassian's mouth twitched slightly as he sized her up. 'You have sandwich sauce on your shirt.'

  *

  Stealing a dress wasn't particularly challenging; she had a variety of choices at the market, and the business of the place made it simple enough to just grab whatever she wanted. It made her feel a bit better to see the merchant give a discount to one of the Imperial officers ('For your service, sir'). It ain't stealing if you're stealing from Imperial scum, right?

She returned to where Cassian had been waiting (watching the cantina entrance to make sure the target didn't leave) and changed behind one of the dumpsters. It was a light summer dress embroidered with little flowers all over. It definitely wasn't the right outfit for the rather chilly Corulag weather - but she figured it would do the job.

The look on Cassian's face confirmed that it would, indeed, do the job.

'I still don't like this,' he murmured, averting his eyes after they'd finished inadvertently sweeping over her figure. 'You already look nervous.'

'Then I'm gonna play a shy, timid maiden who's never seen a man in her life,' Marla replied, a mischievous grin adorning her lips. 'You know... I'm not nervous, I'm intimidated by his manly Imperial uniform and his general... manliness.' Cassian raised an eyebrow at her. 'It will work.'

'You're not very convincing.'

'That's because I'm more used to impressing men with my battle prowess and sharp wit,' she grinned at him. 'But I can work with this, too. Hair up or down?'

'Erm...'

'Down it is.' she decided, swiftly undoing her braid and running her fingers through her hair. 'Good?'

'Yes.' Cassian managed, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing his features before he looked away. 'Good.'

'Alright, here goes nothing. Give it a moment before you come in. Count to a hundred or something. And wish me luck.' She started towards the entrance, but Cassian's hand on her shoulder stopped her. The warmth of his touch contrasted starkly with the chill of the evening breeze, sending a shiver down her spine.

'Don't drink alcohol, stay sharp. And definitely don't drink anything he gets you.'

'Stars, Cassian, I've been in a cantina before. I know how this works.'

He let out a long breath. 'Just be careful. And signal me if you need help.'

'I will,' she assured him, a gentle smile playing upon her lips. His concern touched her, awaking a small voice in her mind that told her to grab his hand or even steal a bold kiss - stars, that would have felt so good, to melt into his embrace for a moment, draw some of that warmth and provide comfort to him in return...

But she resisted the impulse. Instead, Marla silently nodded, walking away into the chilly darkness of the evening, acutely aware of the weight of Cassian's stare on her back.

  *

  Cassian still didn't like the idea. It wasn't that he didn't believe Marla could be effective; he knew all too well she was perfectly capable of making a man abandon reason. He just... he just didn't like the idea. They could have waited until the officer was done and grabbed him from the street. Or followed him home. So many alternative solutions, and yet there she was, sitting in that ridiculous (pretty, but ridiculous) dress next to that dirty sleemo who definitely didn't have the right to look at her the way he did.

Frustrated, Cassian took a swig of his lukewarm beer and observed as Marla laughed at something the officer said, blushing and clearly avoiding eye contact. Cassian tried very hard to convince himself it could work; to be fair, she did look kind of shy and inconspicuous. If you squinted. Or turned off your brain for a moment. Which, admittedly, wasn't that hard for Cassian to imagine.

Looking down at his table, he realised he'd peeled the label off his beer and ripped it into small pieces. Great. He spent so much time focusing on how bad Marla was at undercover work, he completely stopped monitoring his own reactions. Great job, Cassian. General Draven would have been fucking proud.

Minutes dragged on, his beer grew warmer, and the remnants of torn paper on his table became even smaller. The smoke that filled the air irritated his eyes, but he kept them focused on the target, watching as he slowly shifted closer to Marla, as his veiny hands brushed over her arm, as he leaned forward and whispered something to her.

Cassian's hand, resting proactively on the blaster he had concealed under his jacket, began twitching involuntarily.

At last, Marla stood up from her seat, and the officer followed suit. There was some more smiling and fake laughter, some credits thrown on the counter, and soon enough, they were crossing the room toward the staircase.

Cassian waited five agonising seconds before standing up and discreetly tailing them.

The air upstairs was cooler, carrying a hint of dampness that clung to the frayed carpet. Cassian walked quietly, making sure to keep his distance as they walked down the corridor.

If the cantina downstairs was in somewhat acceptable shape, the rest of the place was severely neglected. The walls were covered with halfway-peeled wallpaper that revealed layers of faded colours and crumbling plaster beneath. The corridor was lined with doors to the rooms - doors that were presumably once vibrant and inviting, now displayed chipped paint and worn-out handles. The ceiling sagged in places, burdened by years of neglect, and water stains betrayed the leaky pipes that ran above.

Yet, the most repugnant sight of all was the Imperial officer's hand slowly creeping down Marla's back. Cassian took a deep breath and tried to look away - but then the hand began travelling lower, and lower, and--

A sudden flash of fury drove Cassian forward. Everything happened within a split second - the next thing he registered was pushing the man against the wall, one hand gripping the lapels of his jacket, and the other clenched painfully in a fist that matched the redness on the Imperial's face.

He was fuming. All of that built-up anger, all the anticipation, all the worrying - everything exploded in him at the same time. It didn't matter that they wanted to interrogate him. As far as Cassian was concerned, the fucker deserved nothing less than another punch to the face.

And it wasn't helping that the Imperial was smirking at him even as he was still being pinned against the wall.

'Let me guess, a husband?' Cassian didn't reply, instead focusing all his energy on trying to calm down. 'Easy, man. She's all yours. Not worth the trouble for me.'

Cassian's vision blurred with crimson, and he barely registered raising his fist again. He did, however, register Marla's grip on his arm.

'Hey! At least get him inside first.'

Her voice jerked Cassian back to reality. Slowly, he managed to lower his fist and take a couple of breaths - before he peeled the Imperial off the wall and quickly threw him inside the closest room. Thankfully, it was vacant.

Marla followed, her eyes scanning the room for a suitable spot. She quickly located a chair, dragging it to the centre and positioning it for the interrogation.

'Are you all right?' Cassian finally managed to cool down enough to form a coherent thought. A quick scan of Marla's features suggested she wasn't particularly hurt or otherwise affected - but he needed to be sure.

'Yes. Hey,' she walked up to him and placed both hands on his shoulders, staring intensely into his eyes. 'I'm fine. I promise.'

'I knew it was a stupid fucking idea,' he mumbled through gritted teeth.

But he was beginning to regain control. And with that came the realisation of just how carried away he'd gotten. His heart was racing like crazy, and his left hand was still balled up in a fist. His right hand was gripping a blaster that he didn't even register getting out.

After a couple of breaths, Cassian began noting the details of the room. The dirty walls. The even dirtier bed, which - together with a single chair - was the only piece of furniture in the room, giving a very clear idea about what this place was used for.

'I'll question him,' Marla said, gently - but decidedly - unwrapping Cassian's fingers from the blaster he still clenched. 'You watch the door. Make sure no one is coming.'

He nodded, still having some difficulty comprehending the world around him. Usually, he'd be the one doing the interrogating, but-- well, he was definitely not in his top shape.

It was funny watching Marla be the level-headed one for a change - or it would have been, had it not been for the growing pang of guilt in his chest. He still believed the Imperial went too far, and he deserved every punch he got and every punch he was about to get - but Cassian was fully aware he'd lost control. And that's one thing he absolutely shouldn't be losing, not on a job.

He opened the door a crack to look outside. The hallway was still clear, just as quiet and disgusting as they had left it. Luckily, the cantina downstairs was noisy enough to cover any potential sounds that he had no doubt would be coming from their room soon enough.

'What are those shipments? Why are they so important there's a whole garrison of stormtroopers overseeing the unloading?'

Cassian decided not to look at the interrogated Imperial, if only to avoid another outburst of anger. Instead, he closed the door and leaned against the wall, focusing on listening for any sounds from outside.

For now, the only thing he'd heard was the sound of spitting, followed by a string of curses, followed by a loud thump, followed by a pained groan.

'You really wanna make sure I don't get bored with you and pass you over to my friend there,' Marla hissed. So Cassian was the bad cop in this scenario. Fine. Made sense. 'Or, you know, shoot you.'

She wasn't doing a great job at being the good cop, but Cassian found a certain level of pleasure coming from the sound of another punch and a subsequent groan.

'I don't know,' the man panted angrily. 'We're not supposed to ask. Just make sure the cargo is safe.'

There was a moment of silence. 'Fine. Where are they shipping it from?'

The man barked out a short laugh that ended in a sharp inhale and another groan. 'I don't know. I don't care. They come in, we watch them unload the cargo and load it onto another transport, and that's it.'

'Load it onto another transport, huh? Where to?'

'Are you deaf?' There were no punches this time. Instead, Cassian heard a quiet click of the blaster safety. 'I. Don't. Know,' the man spat out. His voice was still angry, but there was an undertone of desperation sneaking in.

Cassian decided to look over at them. The Imperial's face was visibly more bloodied than when he last saw him; he was also having trouble catching his breath. Marla, on the other hand, was being surprisingly composed... if you didn't count the slight flush of anger on her cheeks and the blaster pointed at the man's temple.

'I don't know. What do you think?' Marla looked over at Cassian. 'To be fair, he does look like a nobody. I wouldn't trust him with any important information, either.'

Yes, that was the hole in their plan. There was, of course, a chance that the officer was lying, but Cassian knew the workings of the Empire enough to know they liked to keep their people in the dark.

But there was a plan B.

'When's your next shift?' Cassian asked, reaching for a small flask in one of his pockets.

'My next... tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.'

'Good. Drink this,' Cassian said, handing the flask to the Imperial.

Suspicion flickered in the man's eyes. 'What? No. Is this poison?'

'It won't kill you. Drink.' Cassian threw Marla a look, and she, in turn, nudged the Imperial with the barrel of her gun.

Cassian really didn't want to deal with that man for any longer than necessary. He crossed the room, forcefully put the small bottle to the Imperial's lips, grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. It worked. The bottle has been emptied. And soon enough, the officer's head began dropping to his chest as he slowly lost consciousness.

'Was it something like the lullaby pill?' Marla asked, inspecting the man carefully.

'Not really. It's not lethal; it'll just put him to sleep for a day or so. At least in theory. It's... well, it's experimental.'

'Couldn't I have just stunned him?'

'We need him out for longer,' Cassian explained, patting the Imperial's clothes in search of his documents. 'See, officer... Sergeant Dorh,' he read out from the scandocs, 'has fallen ill after his visit to the cantina. Happens. Luckily, Sergeant Sward will be there tomorrow morning to fill in for his friend. The uniform is roughly my size.'

'And what do I do in this scenario?'

'You can pretend to be one of the spaceport workers who unload the ships. That way, we'll both be close enough to the cargo to get some intel.'

'Just say you want an excuse to order me around,' she grinned at him. 'Anyway, sounds good. I like that I'm not expected to do any acting this time. Although I think I've proven today I am a perfectly capable actress.'

Cassian hummed without enthusiasm. There was a series of images flashing before his eyes: Marla and the Imperial sitting by the bar, Marla and the Imperial laughing together, Marla and the Imperial walking down the hallway to the room...

'Speaking of which,' Marla began, her tone shifting to a more serious note. 'Do you wanna talk about what happened earlier?'

Damn her and her mind-reading abilities. 'Nothing to talk about.'

'Sure. Listen, I appreciate you... erm, defending my honour. But I could have handled this on my own. I had it under control.'

'He crossed the line,' Cassian snarled, his anger resurfacing.

'Do you really think he's the first drunken idiot who tried to grab my ass? Wake up, Cassian.'

Cassian dropped his gaze and took a deep breath. He tried very hard not to think about all the other drunken idiots she'd encountered in the past, but the notion still stung him somewhere deep.

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be,' she shrugged. 'Most of them ended up with a broken nose. Or a vibroblade between their ribs.'

'Good.'

'My point being - I'm fine. Are you fine?'

'Yes,' he lied. 'It's just been a while since I punched someone. I suppose I needed it.'

'Cassian Andor,' Marla seemed mildly amused. 'Never knew you to be so... temperamental.'

'Been spending too much time in your company lately,' he grinned back. 'I guess it's rubbing off on me.'

'Glad your sense of humour is returning. But coming back to the matter at hand: what's the plan for tonight? Do we take his uniform and leave him here? How sure are we that this thing is gonna work long enough?'

'Not sure enough. We'll stay here. Can you make sure he's tied?'

Marla knelt down next to the man and began checking the knots. 'Not gonna lie,' she said. 'The bed definitely looks softer than the one on the ship. If you try not to think about all the other people that slept here before. Or did... other things,' she shuddered briefly, looking now less convinced.

'You get some sleep. Someone has to watch him, and I have some reports to write anyway.'

'No way. We'll take turns.'

'But--'

'We'll take turns, Cassian. But I'm happy for you to take the first watch. Just... try not to kill him when I'm asleep, okay?'

'Funny,' Cassian commented, politely averting his gaze as Marla began shedding her clothes. 'Very funny.'

He wasn't happy with how the evening unfolded - the images from the past few hours flooded his brain, and each time he went through them, he was increasingly dissatisfied with how he handled the situation. At the same time, he had no doubt he would have done the same again.

Turns out even his composure had its limits.

With a glance toward the unconscious Imperial, Cassian braced himself for the long night ahead - and an even longer day tomorrow. He let out a weary sigh... but then his eyes stumbled onto the image of Marla settling into the worn-out bed, sliding under the thin sheets, and gradually falling asleep.

And, in the steady rhythm of her breathing, he found all the solace and strength he needed to keep going.

At least for now.

#cassian andor #cassian andor x original female character #andor #andor fanfiction #rogue one fanfiction #star wars #andor series #fanfic #rogue one

[idahofallshq]

wow, orion's backstory and upbringing is truly unique! in some ways, orion is one the lucky ones, being able to grow up at sea, away from the reaches of the infection, where it's calm and quiet. we love the idea of someone so sheltered going from the stillness of the sea to the fiery turmoil in idaho falls. we wonder how his non confrontational tendencies will hold up in the face of a new uprising, will he be able to sit back and watch alexei break down the zone?

welcome to idaho falls, orion lum! please make sure to complete the accepted checklist so we can invite you to our servers. we can’t wait to start writing with you!

OOC.

Name: Yen

Age: 27

Pronouns: she/her

Timezone: hst

previous roleplay blog: redacted

wanted connection?: n/a

IC.

 Name: Orion Lum

gender & pronouns: Cis man, he/him

faceclaim: Daniel Henney

age & birthdate: 45, 12 February 1999.

Occupation: Mechanical Engineer

immunity: Yes, but he doesn’t know it.

skills.  

Mechanical Engineering. Orion grew up learning about engines and heavy machinery many times the size of himself, and things he works on these days are far less difficult to understand by comparison. He finds it a bit fascinating to see it all in smaller scale, though he will admit it can be slightly infuriating at times because things are so small.

Radio/Communications. His mother was one of the communications specialists aboard the cargo barge he grew up on, and she spent many an hour teaching a fascinated little boy about all things communications and radios. Given enough time and the right parts, he can usually MacGyver old and decrepit radios into working states.

Metal Working. Orion knows how to weld both underwater and above water. Gotta learn how to patch the holes in your ship when you can't take it in for dry dock maintenance, and it's a skill that's become quite valuable to know how to do it well with minimal waste.

 positive traits.

Patient. If there's something the monotony of being at sea for weeks at a time brings, it's an astounding amount of patience. He's resilient and dedicated in his work, and rarely does impatience or frustration shake his convictions.

Clever. Perhaps it started with an obsession with a rubix cube as a kid, but Orion often finds himself fascinated by puzzles and the challenge of finding and fixing unknown problems with machines. He's always enjoyed the puzzle of finding out what makes a machine tick (or not tick), and any time he gets a new machine to dig around in is always rather stimulating for his intellectual curiosities. The more obscure the problem, the more eager he is to look for that unexpected or unconventional answer to the riddle.

Gentle Giant. He's often been told that when he works he often wears a rather intimidating look of concentration that's often mistaken for the colloquially named "resting bitch face". He doesn't often intentionally put on airs of intimidation often, but combined with his height and stature, on the occasion it's called for it comes in quite handy. Otherwise, though he can fend for himself, he’s a bit more pacifist in nature, with actual violence as something as a last resort.  

negative traits.

Non Confrontational: Finds a certain comfort in routine and relative safety. If his bubble isn’t actively threatened, he’s not likely to test actions that he perceives could potentially upset his status quo.

Self Sacrificing. Doesn’t often let himself say no enough. He has a tendency to put others first, perhaps a little too often.

Defensive: Though he doesn't always act on it, he hates being condescended to by holier than thou individuals who let their perceived rank blow their heads up with bravado. The value of being humble with your fortune was something instilled in him from a young age, and to see many enforcers let their designation of power get to their head grates on his nerves, especially when it’s directed towards himself.

 Cw: parental death

You've spent more of your life on water than land, at least, that'd been the case when the world went to hell. Your father had been the captain of a cargo freight liner, your mother part of the crew, and as long as you can remember you've always called the sea home. The story goes they took you out to sea as soon as the doctor gave the okay, and you took your first steps on floors that rolled with waves. You said your first words somewhere between Hawaii and Guam, learned your alphabet where A was for, not Apple, but Alpha. B was for Bravo. Charlie, Delta, Echo, and so on. Some kids learned to count with blocks, you learned to count shipping containers, your maths with shipping manifests. Some kids learn their first bad words on the playground, you learned them in the galley with the colorful vocabulary of a crew of seamen.

By the time you’re 12 or 13, most kids are entrenched with the dramas of middle school, but you’re arms deep in engine grease and welding masks because you’ve made friends with the old geezers that keep the ship together. They teach you all there is to know about mechanics, but of course they have the sense to start you off on small watercraft before they let you at the bowels of the engine rooms. With it all of course, comes the knowledge of how to take apart, put back together, and of course operate a dozen or so different water vehicles and heavy equipment. You're even getting paid for it. It's a life on the open seas and you love it.

Mom unexpectedly passes you when you're 14, and you and the sea are all there is to keep dad together. But the world falls to pieces before he can, and it all happens with a single radio transmission.

At first you stay out at sea because the ports have closed temporarily. At first you and the others of the small crew grumble, because you've been at sea for weeks and the desire for shore leave is just beyond their reach--there’s much to catch up on, after all. Friends to see, food to eat, new movies to watch--but you remain aboard even though you’re all not happy about it. But then, the radio transmissions become more dire. "Closed for an abundance of caution" becomes "closed for containment" and so on. Disgruntled impatience with the bureaucracy of Port Authority turns from disbelief, to shock and horror. Eventually they stop receiving transmissions. And the silence ends up being far more unnerving than receiving patchy news of the infected was.

There had been a line of freight liners, posted for weeks outside the port as commercial trade came to a standstill, and a choice had to be made. Some, like your dad, wanted to turn the freight vessel around and get back out to open sea. If things had gone bad enough that transmissions had gone down, being a stone's throw away from the shore surely wasn't a good idea. But some all the same wanted to get to land. And so the crew divided. Your dad lets some of the crew go off for shore, the rest of you remain, the ones that look to silent and smoking shores with too much unease. You weigh anchor, leaving the congested water lanes at the Port of Los Angeles far behind you for open sea. They'd been lucky enough to have enough fuel to get them a fair distance out to sea, because news carries from other radio frequencies used by other freight carriers--the situation gets monumentally worse on the continent. Very, very quickly.

A temporary retreat to the sea becomes permanent for the foreseeable future. The cargo you were all once so eager to offload, but hadn't been allowed to, miraculously carries your survival for over a decade before they're scraping the bottom of the barrel. There's no more food. The non-perishables they'd been lucky enough to be transporting when it all went to hell runs out. The meager crops they’ve managed to grow from seeds scavenged from your containers get swept away or drowned in sea water after a bad storm. Fish, though a logical source for food, isn’t reliable when you’re not best equipped for it. You’re on a frigate, after all, not a fishing vessel.

Moral isn’t good. It damn well tanks with your father’s unexpected death. He'd been a stubborn man, and a storm at sea had the man hitting his head in just the wrong way. He'd been fine, initially, just a sore bump, he'd said. But he dismisses the seriousness of it all, doesn't tell anyone of the throbbing bruise beneath his hair that simply gets worse.

One day he doesn't wake up.

It's not long after that, supplies are basically nil, and the state of the engines is becoming more and more of a concern. You’ve done your best, but there’s only so much you and the crew can do without your ship seeing a dock for proper maintenance for over a decade. It’s time.

So they make the tough call to fire up the engines properly and weigh anchor. These days you operate using minimal power to get by, only firing up the engine enough to make sure she doesn’t corrode - keeping her in good enough shape so she could meet the inevitable task of one last journey. You dip into that last reserve of fuel that’s just enough to get you close enough to shore to take a skiff, and the first step you take on land in years is to the sight of unrecognizable shores.

The world you find yourself in is a wasteland that finds you desperately missing your oasis at sea. Gods how you wish you'd found a way to stay there. It’s one thing to hear about it on the radio, to not hear about it for years in the silence of the radio waves. It’s something else entirely to see just how understated it all was.

You'd once thought the trappings of the mainland hell in a handbasket, the stillness of the unmoving earth unnerving. Now it’s unnerving for an entirely different reason and hell has long escaped the handbasket.

The west coast is obliterated and a minefield of undead to navigate, you make your way up the California coast. And it doesn’t take long to figure out that FEDRA is bad news. You take to the mountains, sticking to the old Pacific Crest Trail that your parents once told you stories of. You walk the same trails they once hiked, the journey under the stars and trees a novelty to hold tight to your chest. That odd bit of sentimentality follows you and the remaining crew  as you march along the mountain ridges, making camps of relative safety at old firewatch towers, changing locations periodically for a few years. You cross the border into Oregon eventually, and the forest and woods you’ve claimed safety in become more treacherous.

You’re fewer in number and several years at land when you hear of Jackson Town on an old radio you manage to tap into at one of those old firewatch towers. After an especially difficult winter, you all decide it’s time to take the risk of a settlement, and you plot the journey to Wyoming. But through an uncontrollable chain of events, you end up in Idaho Falls instead.

And gods, do you hate it here. Alexei’s reign is absolute, and rife with a cruelty and authoritarian obsession that turns your stomach. You’ve been here for a few years now, managing to earn yourself a position of minor importance with all the mechanical engineering knowledge you’ve picked up aboard the ship. Truck engines… boiler heaters… the water pump station -- it all seems like child’s play compared to the immense inner workings that allowed freight liners to cross oceans.

The tools and your minimal welding kit you’ve lugged across several states and over mountains have paid their weight in gold, because it’s bought you the value of your life and skills in a tyrant’s domain for several years now. You long for the sea, long to leave for greener pastures even if Jackson Town may not be it any more, and something tells you that opportunity lurks around the corner.

Unrest and whispers of a people that have had enough reach your ears, and though Alexei responds as he always does, there’s something different this time around. You’ve walked a careful line of indifference and subservience, playing up a preference for machines and engines instead of people or politics to provide a bubble of safety for you and your own--but that armor of neutrality may not be enough any more.

As terrifying an idea it may be to consider, it may be time to stop keeping your ear to the ground and act.

 Arcs

A close call; too close. He doesn’t know he’s immune, and the close calls that he’s had with the virus he unknowingly attributes to extraordinarily good luck. Would love to see him (or another) have that realization that something’s not quite right when he gets an injury and/or has an encounter that seemingly does nothing to him but cause a little bit of inconvenient pain.

Put it together, take it apart. He knows how to keep engines from blowing up and knows how to patch them together to keep the gears and motors spinning. Would love to see him use this mechanical knowledge to cause a bit of intentional chaos.

Some random little headcanons:

Can’t fucking stand Cheetoes or Cheerios. They’d had containers full of them and yes, they didn’t let a single one go to waste despite how sick of them they became. The mere thought of them makes Orion a little green.  

Even though he’s been on land for years now, sometimes he still gets bouts of land sickness and a somewhat related insomnia. The stillness of a mattress is unnerving, and if the weather is decent enough, he’ll lug a makeshift hammock up a few meters in a tree. It almost feels like home.

Has a necklace he keeps tucked under his shirt with a few old stripped bolts from the cargo ship he’d called home for much of his life.

Was narrowly almost named Polaris by astrology obsessed parents. He thanks whatever gods there might be that they decided on Orion instead.

In the summer months will regularly go for a dip in the river if only to pretend for a moment he’s at sea.

#accepted.

[arctrooper69]

HIS SHOES: A Mass Effect Fic

Warnings: blood, violence, war

My father was dead. It didn't feel right to put on his uniform, but I knew I had to. It was the only way to survive, and I knew he'd want me to survive. I scrambled to put them on as best as I knew how although the pieces didn't fit right. The chest piece was too tall, too wide, and when I took a step I clattered to the ground as my knees hit the shin guards much below where they would have fit if he'd been wearing them. But he wasn't. Screams filled the compound around me. I hugged the chest plate and leg armor to my chest on the ground in the corner. The air smelled of ozone and smoke. My stomach lurched and threatened to empty its contents all over the floor. Gunfire came in bursts and the walls flickered blue with bionic charges, gripping my insides and twisting them around. I could be like him - fearless - but then why hadn't I moved? With every quick breath I took, tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and I hastily wiped them away with the back of my hand, no doubt leaving smudges of ash and dirt behind. No. I would not cry. Not when there were people who needed me. I looked up from the ground at the alien creature lying dead in the middle of the room. My father's rifle lay where I had dropped it, on the floor several feet away. I did throw up then. Stomach acid burned the back of my throat and my stomach lurched again. I hadn't killed it on purpose. It just...happened. It was going to kill me and I fired. It dropped dead on the spot with a sickening splatter of blood. I looked away again, what would he say if he could see me now? His own son, cowering before the dead. I spit and wiped my mouth again. Taking a deep breath, I pulled myself to my feet still holding onto the armored uniform. A bold, red and white N7 logo emblazoned on each piece. The gun shots echoed, blasting through the compound and the walls shook with the groans of heavy machinery. My throat threatened to close up on me and my chest felt as though a thousand bricks had been placed there. Footsteps at the door. The air in my lungs was gone and my back hit the wall of the corner I'd been hiding in. I could barely reach the rifle but I hooked the strap onto my foot and pulled it toward me. I couldn't feel my hands, but they worked as they did before holding the gun in my arms. The footsteps entered the doorway and stopped. "Spirits..." the voice muttered somewhat low and gravelly. He grunted as he stepped toward the body on the ground. I couldn't stay still any longer. With a yell I rushed out at him firing the gun. It happened too fast and suddenly I was on the ground again, panting. "Easy there, son." He took the rifle from my hands and called out over his shoulder out the door, "I found him! Shepherd's boy. I found 'im". A tall blue turian looked down at me. Suddenly I couldn't hide the tears. They came faster than I could wipe them away. The turian stood there a moment, watching me. I looked away, ashamed. I was weak and now even my savior knew it. Movement caught my eye and I glanced up. His hand was extended toward me. "Come on, kid. We gotta go." I cautiously took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. "You knew my dad?" He didn't answer. He wasn't looking at me. He gazed sadly at the armor I'd been holding and slowly picked up the pieces. He looked down at me still holding onto his hand. "You'll fit into this someday, kid. You will, I guarantee it"

#mass effect #garrus vakarian #commander shepard #mass effect 2 #mass effect 3 #video games #liara t'soni #thane krios #hurt/comfort #angst #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #mass effect fanfiction #mass effect fic #mass effect fandom #mass effect angst

[ljsbhs]

COMIC

DANCER

TRAGIC

Apodyterium (CHANGE)

IN THIS CITY WE FIND THE SUPPLY OF WATER IS SO ABUNDANT THAT THE CITY IS FULL OF NATURAL BATHS. (Strabo)

THE THERMAE ITSELF MUST HAVE A LARGE OPEN SPACE CLEAR ROUND IT, WHICH MUST BE ENCOMPASSED WITH A HIGH WALL, WITH PROPER ENTRANCES AT CONVENIENT PLACES. (Alberti)

“Now we get naked?”

“The place to wound him is laid bare.” (Seneca)

Tear off the disguise of wild delusion, and look at the naked deeds: weigh them naked, judge them naked. (Augustine)

"To be stripped out of your comfort zone can lead to remarkable personal growth and new perspectives."(CHAT GPT)

So that’s what they did as it was customary.

The machinery must be cleaned from time to time. (Marx)

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music. (Aldous Huxley)

With that the dancer scooped up her portable speaker and they left together for the cold baths.

Frigidarium (COLD)

Cold is merciless. It shows you where you are. What you are. (Wim Hof)

THE SPACE IS EXPANSIVE. REACHING UP TOWARDS THE HEAVENS. IN EACH CORNER OF THE FRIGIDARIUM (9A—D) ARE FEMALE FIGURES UNCONNECTED WITH AQUATIC REVELS. (Marzano)

MICHELANGELO BUILT HIS CHURCH WITHIN THE ROMAN FRIGIDARIUM, A HUGE SPACE 58.8 M (LENGTH) X 24.15 M (BREADTH) X 30.15 M (HEIGHT). (Heilbron)

“disaster on disaster!” (Seneca) “this space is so slow and enduring. But how to capture the cold?

“Hot or cold, tragedy, comedy?” (Serres)

“I fear neither. Its fixed and ordered composition renders conflict impossible. (Seneca) How depressing.”

"You gotta laugh, or else you'll cry. Trust me, I've been there. Sometimes a good joke is the best way to face the tough stuff." (CHAT GPT)

18:038:030 The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep is frozen. (King James Bible)

Speaking to the dancer who had retreated into his body: why hidest thou thyself in times of trouble? (King James Bible)

“I think I don’t go well with the cold. Nevertheless the breath is a means of moving, as the first instrument of motion. (Aquinas) We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.” (Nietzsche)

“Because trembling is occasioned by cold; thus we observe that a cold person trembles. (Aquinas) Or that, if cold is an evil, it is an evil to be cold?” (Seneca)

The comic takes care to make this second observation in the same place as the first, and if skilfully lead up to, one or other would certainly exclaim, ”What a funny thing!” (Rousseau)

What a funny thing! What a funny thing!

And so they leave for a more temperate space. In time They were ice cold. (Hugo)

Tepidarium (TEMPERATE)

It is recommended to reacclimate gradually. What is necessary is to reduce food, to employ the moistest regimen, baths and increased rest, and sleep, until there is a recovery.( Hippocrates of Kos) Then the cold, too, is restrained and gives way, but some day soon it will be more powerful again. (SENECA)

“Now slowly we can begin to move again. Stretch our wings and flex our toes.”

“Don’t FORGET to breathe. Nevertheless the breath is a means of moving, as the first instrument of motion.” (Aquinas) 12m views

The dancer dances off humming a jolly tune. And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. (Nietzsche)

THIS SPACE, …MODELED ON THE TEPIDARIUM OF THE BATHS OF CARACALLA IN ROME, WAS FRAMED IN STEEL, THOUGH ITS WALLS WERE CLAD IN TRAVERTINE, ITS CORINTHIAN COLUMNS WERE OF MARBLE, AND ITS COFFERED VAULTS WERE PLASTER. (Blackwell)

“He must be insane!” “Yes, I believe so.”

"Thank you for being there to lift the weight when it gets too heavy." (CHAT GPT)

"And thank you for reminding us that even in darkness, there's a glimmer of light." (CHAT GPT)

After this touching exchange, the dancer comes dancing back and so they move on.

Caldarium (HOT)

Suddenly Katy Perry is playing on the dancers’ portable speaker and she’s dancing in unison with two new friends, in perfect lip sync.  75m views.

“Perspiration should flow only after toil.” (Seneca)

And they sweat heavily!

The comedian is wondering, If the comedy be good, why is it refused? (Goldini)

THREE BRONZE TANKS SHOULD BE ASSEMBLED ABOVE THE FURNACE, ONE A CALDARIUM, ONE A TEPIDARIUM, ONE A FRIGIDARIUM, AND THEY SHOULD BE SO PLACED THAT HOWEVER MUCH HOT WATER FLOWS FROM THE TEPIDARIUM INTO THE CALDARIUM, AS MUCH COLD WATER IS COMING IN FROM THE FRIGIDARIUM TO THE TEPIDARIUM IN THE SAME FASHION. (Vitruvius)

“One feels warmth approaching, and behold!

“Heat is very important for their activities. When the water starts boiling it is foolish to turn off the heat.” (Mandela)

The dark, humid, cramped space is exciting, and he watches the dance unfold while relaxing in the heat.

They are sweating and laughing. there are tears; (Rousseau)

“I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I say unto you: you still have chaos in yourselves. (Nietzsche)

…fine, fresh, fierce, we got it on lock! (Katy Perry)

Palaestra (PLAY)

[phlegmboymessiah]

Top Ten Sounds From The Woods Around My House At Night That Give Off A Very Ominous Feeling

The sound of a car breaking randomly throughout the night

A weird whistley flute thing coming from the woods at night, only you can hear it (Only during them Summer but you've gotta listen)

Construction noises (Mostly the sound heavy machinery makes when it's backing up and stuff [you know the beeping])

Owls

Cicadas or maybe frogs at night who really knows

Gun shots or maybe it's fireworks again ? No one really knows, again

My dog barking while chasing bears (The reverb is superb [You can feel it in your bones]) (bonus points if it gets louder and quiter because he's running everywhere)

Weird rustling in the woods that's slowly getting closer to you at seven A.M. and you think it's your dog but then he comes up from behind you and the rustling is still happening

Not really a sound but when your out in the woods at sunset and it's slowly getting darker and darker and your mind starts to recognise trees as people causing alarm bells to go off everytime you step near a tree a task which is made easy by the fact that the trees which used to have ample space between them seem to be coming together leaving little room for you to move between them and your eyes keep catching glimpses of a path you could take and even though it's getting dark you feel compelled to follow it, filled with fear and excitment at every turn walking twords places that you used to know but are now strange without light, eventually you pry yourself away from the urge to head further down the bending path only to find that the very path you walked is now becoming foreign to you, you quickly retrace your steps before the light vanishes and you are lost in the still, dark, and quiet woods, you wish you brought your phone

The sound of the rooster cawing in the middle of the day after forgetting to do it at dawn

#my posties #They really are quite wonderfull sounds