#Content marketing manufacturing

[sean-parnell]

How Manufacturers Can Leverage Content Marketing to Grow

Cold calls, print advertising, tradeshow participation, and knocking on doors once worked well manufacturers can no longer rely on them to generate leads that fuel sustainable, double-digit growth despite having an effective sales team that may still have some skills in these areas.

Inbound lead generation in commercial and industrial markets requires compelling brand storytelling and thought leadership that educates prospects along the buyer’s journey, who don’t want to talk with salespeople before they’re good and ready as they fear being “sold to” by people that don’t have their best interest in mind.

Problems Solved vs. Products & Services, Features & Benefits

Powerfully resonating with prospects requires brand storytelling that converts website visitors into prospects then into customers.

Your brand story begins with having a deep understanding of the problems faced by your prospects, what they need to overcome them, and the value to them in doing so before promoting all of your products and services and their features and benefits. Prospects are searching for who can solve their problems and may have a limited understanding of what will solve their problems, so claiming your solutions are “the best” and that you’re an “industry leader” may mean nothing until they have an understanding of how your products will help them.

The hero of your prospects’ story is themselves, so you need to educate them on how you can solve their problems, and how your people, process, products, and services – not just products – do so. This is what will resonate powerfully with them. In this way, you serve as a guide for achieving success and avoiding failure. Your products and services with their features and benefits are how you solve these problems..

Thus, your “brand story” needs to be told throughout all of your marketing: on your home and about pages, blogs, guides, case studies, marketing collateral, presentations, proposals, press releases, third-party website profiles, direct mail, email campaigns, your tagline, and anywhere else you promote your company.

A brand story for each product and service you sell can also be developed as each of them solves different problems in different ways for different markets. This “sub-brand storytelling” is also effective for different vertical and geographic markets as each has different requirements.

Extracting & Promoting Thought Leadership

When they have a problem that they want to solve – because the pain of not changing exceeds the pain of the change – prospects self-educate themselves by researching the internet before speaking with any vendors, so it’s important to provide educational content that will help them understand how you can solve their problems:

TOFU: Top of Funnel: this content builds awareness by providing an overview of the problems you solve and how your products solve them

MOFU: Middle Funnel: this content goes one level deeper and helps them consider between different options that can solve their problem

BOFU: Bottom Funnel: this content gets very specific and helps prospects make their final decisions

OOFU: Out of Funnel: this content is created in a misguided attempt to maximize keyword rankings and website traffic as part of a flawed search engine optimization strategy (SEO) but fails to generate leads though can be quite costly

Tip: it’s important to have a good balance of all types of content (except OOFU).

It’s especially important for manufacturers to understand that, in addition to learning about how you solve their problems with your products and services, your prospects want to know how your solutions and business practices compare with both direct and indirect competitors. They also want to understand how their investment can be cost-justified so they can sell the idea of buying from you to internal decision makers that may not be in communication with you. Product comparisons are very useful because this is what prospects try to compile themselves, especially if they include areas where your competitors have an advantage over yours. Case studies that include return on investment (ROI) estimates are also highly useful for prospects.

Lead-Generating Content Begins with Keyword Research

Understanding and prioritizing what your prospects are searching for is a critical first step for lead generation, which begins with conducting keyword research on all the different terms your prospects may use.

Onsite SEO then fully leverages the content you’ve already developed when you work the highest priority keyword phrases into your page titles, meta descriptions, H1 headers, and throughout the content of each page – just remember it has to read well and should only be performed by someone that thoroughly understands your business and what prospects value.

Brainstorming content ideas that incorporate these keyword phrases and educates prospects along the buyer’s journey is the next step, following by prioritizing these content ideas into an editorial calendar. The best content comes from getting a professional copywriter to interview your company’s thought leaders and then writing up what is learned in the form of foundational website content, blogs and guides.

Best Practice: Google Search Console reports the keywords people searched for to find you.

Creating Lead Magnets

When your prospects discover that you are providing education and thought leadership for how you can solve their problems, many will be willing to provide their contact information to download this gated content – especially long-form, MOFU and BOFU content including guides, whitepapers, ebooks, and webinars. It’s also important that your contact forms ask prospects where they found out about you so you can attribute each download to the marketing or other activities that generated them. It’s not recommend to gate promotional material that prospects expect to be freely available, including blogs, brochures, data sheets, infographics, case studies, and similar materials.

Promoting MOFU and BOFU also generate even more website traffic and leads, including in Google Ads, LinkedIn Campaigns, Microsoft Ads and other pay-per-click (PPC) campaigns, your social media profiles (especially LinkedIn and Twitter), on third-party article publishing sites (e.g. Medium), and throughout your public relations activities.

The Manufacturing Content Creation & Lead Generation Process

Here are the steps for creating content that has been proven to generate leads and product sales from many commercial and industrial manufacturers:

Conduct keyword research and optimize all of your current content for search

Develop brand storytelling and implement it throughout your home and about pages, marketing collateral, presentations, and all other marketing materials

Write blogs and publish them on a consistent schedule, educating prospects on a wide variety of topics that help them understand how your products and services will solve their problems

Syndicate unique versions of this content on high ranking, third-party websites

Launch Google ads and email campaigns to bring more prospects in

Create microsites to promote how you solve specific problems in your top vertical markets

Launch ecommerce to supplement sales through your channel partners for people that want to speak with and buy directly from you – just don’t undercut them, so selling only at list price is recommended

Evaluate new market opportunities where your current competitors are irrelevant with Blue Ocean Strategy

This approach routinely generates sustainable, double-digit sales growth with an ROI of over 300% within 12-18 months when executed by an experienced industrial marketing agency – and your company will no longer be a well-kept secret in your markets.

The Case for a Marketing Audit

While it may be appealing to hire a full-time content marketer, SEO specialist, or to outsource to a manufacturing marketing agency that may wow you with shiny objects, conducting deep dive marketing due diligence with an experience marketing consulting resource understands your industry is typically a better way to start.

An effective marketing audit will identify what it will take for you to generate sustainable, double-digit growth by leveraging brand storytelling, content marketing, SEO, content syndication, email campaigns, marketing automation, social media, advertising, PR, and more.

Most marketing audits focus only on promotional marketing communications, so you may want to find an industrial marketing agency that can auditing the other three Ps of your marketing: products and services, pricing and placement (selling through channels and go-to-market strategy).

[simulanissolutions]

Virtual reality companies in India offer a wide range of services, including:

VR Development: Creating custom virtual reality applications for various platforms, such as Oculus, HTC Vive, and mobile devices.

360-Degree Video Production: Producing immersive 360-degree videos for various industries, including entertainment, tourism, and education.

[achieve25moreclientsdaily]

Website Designing Company Lima

Personalization: Tailor your marketing efforts to individual preferences.

#AIforManufacturingMarketing #ManufacturingMarketing #ManufacturingSEO #ManufacturingContentMarketing #AImanufacturingmarketing

[ai-marketing-company-pickmyurl]

Website Designing Company Baghdad

Dealing with algorithm changes: Stay informed about platform updates.

#AIforManufacturingMarketing #ManufacturingMarketing #ManufacturingSEO #ManufacturingContentMarketing #AImanufacturingmarketing

[om-international]

Top Cumin Seeds Exporter and Supplier in India – Om International 

Cumin seeds, known for their distinct flavor and wide range of health benefits, hold a significant place in Indian cuisine and traditional medicine. As one of the most sought-after spices worldwide, the demand for high-quality cumin seeds continues to grow. At the forefront of this supply chain is Om International, a leading exporter and supplier of premium cumin seeds from India. 

The Importance of Cumin Seeds 

Cumin seeds (Cuminum cyminum) are a staple in many cuisines, particularly in Indian, Middle Eastern, and Mediterranean dishes. They are known for their warm, earthy flavor and are used both whole and ground. Beyond their culinary uses, cumin seeds have been valued for their medicinal properties. Rich in iron, magnesium, and antioxidants, cumin seeds aid digestion, improve immunity, and support overall health. 

Why India? 

India is the largest producer and exporter of cumin seeds in the world, accounting for a significant portion of global production. The favorable climate, fertile soil, and traditional farming techniques in regions like Gujarat and Rajasthan contribute to the superior quality of Indian cumin seeds. These regions produce cumin with high essential oil content, enhancing both flavor and aroma. 

Om International: A Trusted Name in Cumin Seed Export 

Om International has established itself as a top exporter and supplier of cumin seeds from India. With a deep understanding of global market demands and a commitment to quality, the company has built a strong reputation in the spice industry. 

Quality Assurance: Om International is dedicated to providing cumin seeds of the highest quality. The seeds are sourced from trusted farmers who use organic and sustainable farming practices. Each batch undergoes stringent quality checks to ensure it meets international standards in terms of purity, flavor, and aroma. 

State-of-the-Art Processing: To maintain the integrity and quality of the cumin seeds, Om International utilizes advanced processing techniques. The seeds are cleaned, sorted, and packaged in hygienic conditions to preserve their freshness and nutritional value. The company also offers customized packaging solutions to meet the specific requirements of clients. 

Global Reach: Om International has a wide distribution network that spans across continents. The company exports cumin seeds to countries in North America, Europe, the Middle East, and Asia, catering to a diverse range of customers including wholesalers, retailers, and food manufacturers. 

Commitment to Sustainability: Sustainability is at the core of Om International’s operations. The company supports eco-friendly farming practices and ensures fair trade by working closely with local farmers. This commitment not only helps in producing high-quality cumin seeds but also contributes to the well-being of the farming communities. 

Applications of Cumin Seeds 

Cumin seeds are incredibly versatile and are used in a variety of applications: 

Culinary Uses: Cumin seeds are a key ingredient in many spice blends, such as garam masala, curry powder, and chili powder. They are also used in pickles, sauces, and soups, adding depth and warmth to dishes. 

Medicinal Uses: In traditional medicine, cumin seeds are used to treat digestive disorders, respiratory issues, and skin conditions. The seeds are also known to boost immunity and promote weight loss. 

Aromatherapy: The essential oil extracted from cumin seeds is used in aromatherapy to relieve stress and improve mental clarity. 

Conclusion 

As the top cumin seeds exporter and supplier in India, Om International continues to set benchmarks in quality, service, and sustainability. Whether you are a global wholesaler, a food manufacturer, or a retailer, partnering with Om International ensures you receive the finest cumin seeds that meet your exact needs. With a strong commitment to excellence and a focus on building long-term relationships, Om International is your trusted partner in the world of spices. 

[eibaqin]

umumnya fastener dapat diklasifikasikan menjadi dua tipe yang berdasarkan pada cara pengencangan dan bentuk kepalanya yaitu baut ( bolt ) dan sekrup ( screw ).

Di era ini kebutuhan konsumen akan banyaknya produktivitas fastener semakin melonjak, bahkan hampir seluruh bidang industri manufaktur,

[transarsonist]

law idea: products that are not currently and will not be purchasable from the parent company for the foreseeable future are not counted as "copywritten" in regard to the sharing, reproduction, and other "piracy" claims in court of law.

if you aren't selling them your customer doesn't have to buy

this is in regards to all copyright, if someone starts a factory producing clones of iPhone and iMac chips for the purpose of repairing devices, that's not copyright infringement, because apple does not sell those chips :)

if they want to keep their copyright they can put their repair chips on the public market, continue matinance of old products, etc

Nintendo will hate this law the most I'm sure.

widows is surprisingly robust to this law as you can actually buy every copy of windows ever produced right now on windows website, albeit you might have a hard time finding it because they'd PERfer you didn't.

streaming companies dropping original content from their service for tax purposes can expect to find it on YouTube the next day for free no ads

I think you all will be able to see how this will have a hotting effect on the market, where as now copyright holders have the power to delete content from the legal sphere, under this law they cannot do that. they can sell it themselves or they can give it away for free.

no more manufactured scarcity for the sake of inflating already inflated prices

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Blue states should play “constitutional hardball”

NEXT WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

Nothing's more frustrating that watching the GOP smash norms and decency to advance policies that harm millions of Americas, unless it's that, plus Democratic officials stamping their feet and saying, "C'mon guys, play fair."

The GOP's game is called "constitutional hardball." Think: Mitch McConnell refusing to hold confirmation hearings on Obama's federal judiciary appointments, not never for Merrick Garland's Supreme Court seat – then filling the Federal judiciary with the least-qualified, most FedSoc-addled lunatics in US history, all for lifetime appointments.

As bad as this is at the federal level, it's even worse at in the states, especially the Republican "trifecta" states where the GOP holds the governorship and the state house and senate, where shameless gerrymandering and legislative attacks on hard-won ballot measures are the order of the day. GOP-held state governments engage in rampant interstate aggression, targeting out-of-state abortion providers, publishers, and journalists.

This is a one-sided Cold Civil War, because state Dems, for the most part, are unwilling to play hardball in return (the closest they come is when, say, California sets strict emissions controls and manufacturers adopt them nationwide, rather than making special cars for the giant California market). Republicans engage in constitutional hardball and Dems refuse to fight back, a phenomenon called "asymmetrical constitutional hardball":

https://columbialawreview.org/content/asymmetric-constitutional-hardball/

Writing for The American Prospect, Arkadi Gerney and Sarah Knight make the case for symmetrical constitutional hardball:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-10-18-playing-hardball/

The pair argue first, that the best way to get Republican state houses to play fair is to credibly threaten them with retaliatory action. They cite the recent attempt at a last-minute change the way that Nebraska's Electoral College votes are apportioned, which would have given all of five the state's EC votes to Trump. Maine threatened to effect the same change to its Electoral College system, which would have given all four of its EC votes to Harris. Nebraska surrendered.

But there's also a second advantage to playing Constitutional Hardball: it makes blue states better. For example, Minnesota gives free college tuition to exceptional low/middle-income students. Neighboring North Dakota got tired of losing all its smartest kids Minnesota schools and created its own subsidy. As Gerney and Knight point out, Minnesota (and other blue states) still has a huge advantage when it comes to attracting top talent, because attending university in a state with legal abortion is vastly preferable (and safer) than doing a degree in a forced-birth state.

Red states are bent on making life horrible for some really great people. The hardworking, talented Haitian migrants caught in the Springfield pogroms that Trump incited would be a fine addition to any blue state town – anyone who's got the gumption to haul ass out of a failed state and make their all the way to Springfield is gonna be a fantastic neighbor, citizen and worker, just like my refugee grandparents and father, who endured a million times more hardship than their neighbors ever did, getting to Toronto, finding jobs, and starting their family.

Influxes of young, hardworking immigrants are especially good for rural towns with dwindling populations. No wonder rural towns with above-average net migration swung for Biden in 2020.

All over America, families are despairing of their lives in red states. Whether you're worried that you or someone you love might need to terminate a pregnancy, or you're worried about gender-affirming care for you or a loved one, you can put your worries to rest in a blue state. Same goes for nurses and doctors who are worried they can't do medicine unless it accords with the imaginary dictates of Bronze Age prophets as claimed by pencil-neck Hitler wannabe Bible-thumper with a private jet and a face from Walmart. Fill the blue states with great schools, libraries and hospitals, and invite everyone who wants to do their job in a free country to come and work at 'em. Line every state border with abortion and mifepristone clinics, and set up billboards advertising the quality of life, the jobs, and the freedom in blue state America.

Every blue state public pension fund should ban investments in fossil fuels, and invest like crazy in renewables, especially in Texas, to hasten the bankrupting of the petro-kleptocracy that controls the state. Blue states should tack surcharges on goods imported from "right to work" states where unions are effectively banned, to compensate for the additional product testing needed to ensure that scab products are safe to use (ahem, Boeing).

Create joint occupational licensure rules across blue states: if you're certified as a teacher, nurse, hairdresser or auto-mechanic in New York, you should be able to carry that certification with you to Minnesota, California, or Maine. Create multi-state funding pools to build public housing. Offer med-school scholarships to the smartest red state kids, at universities where they'll learn evidence-based obstetrics rather than the Lysenokist nonsense taught at the Roy Moore College of Pediatrics and Obstetrics.

Dems have to get over their fear of "states' rights" and start playing state-level hardball. This doesn't mean escalating cruelty. Quite the contrary: every cruel measure enacted as red state red meat is a chance for blue states to extend a kindness, and capture even more of the best, brightest and kindest of the nation, creating a race to the top that Republicans can only win by abandoning their performative cruelty and corruption.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/18/states-rights/#cold-civil-war

[vexwerewolf]

If I could ask you for some advice, what do you think helps the flavour text of a mech or piece of equipment sell a player on the fantasy of using it?

I'm finding it frustratingly difficult to do so with my own homebrew content: I can come up with lore and backstory easily enough, but re-reading it feels dry, and I can't help but contrast it with how the descrptions in official content and other supplements is more evocative, at least for mechs.

Let's observe some corebook Lancer flavour text and examine the various varieties it comes in.

Purely Functional

While it's usually not the most fun type of flavour text, this just tells us what the weapon is, and - if it has any particular tags or on-hit effects - why it's like that. The Hand Cannon is a good example: here's what it is (modified pistol), here's why it does more damage, and here's why it has Loading.

The main advantage of Purely Functional flavour text is that it provides space for other types of flavour text to breathe. Flavour text is a great place for jokes, but it's not good for every piece of flavour text to be a joke - the pauses between notes in music are just as important as the notes.

Obfuscating Vendorspeak

The Bristlecrown Flechette Launcher this is a great example of dark humour that Lancer uses quite often: marketing fast-talk to cover up something really unpleasant. The joke here is based on us understanding precisely what the equipment does mechanically, and then seeing how the manufacturer tries to sell it. There's a bunch of dense technobabble here meant to obfuscate the fact that this weapon fires knives in every direction specifically designed to kill infantry.

Deadpan Weirdness

The joke here relies on describing something extremely weird like it's the most natural thing in the world. Wait, you're telling me that in a world where I can just print new parts if the old ones break, they put DRM on my fucking knife and I have to apologise to the fucking knife maker to get a new one? What the fuck, dude? Why are you acting like this makes any sense?!

My sword uploads fucking what to the Space Internet?!

Third-Act Twist

This type of flavour text disguises itself as something else - most often Purely Functional - and then hits you with Third Act Twist. It makes you go "wait, what?!" It's very classic setup-punchline stuff. You're telling me my mech can rot?!

As a side note, Lancer loves to use this for its NHPs.

WHY DID YOU PUT THAT IN SCARE QUOTES, LUCIFER

Worldbuilding

This is similar to the Purely Functional, but instead of just describing technical specifications of the weapons, it puts the weapon in the broader context of the setting's history. Okay, so we know what this weapon is and what it does - why was it built? What was the original use case, and why? Most importantly, what can the existence of this weapon tell us about the world that build it?

Whimsical Aside

This is the insertion of a light-hearted, humanising little insertion regarding how this piece of equipment gets used in the field. This serves to remind us that soldiers aren't cold, unfeeling killing machines: they can be as emotional, irreverent and silly as the rest of us, and they do things like name their mobile bombs...

... or call resupply drones "mech snacks."

The Ominous Out-Of-Context Quote That Explains Nothing And Only Raises More Questions

As I've said in multiple textmash memes, this is basically Tom and Miguel's shorthand for "this technology is Intensely Fucked Up in a way that it is more fun and scary not to explain." This is essentially Lancer's version of SCP's [REDACTED].

You might think this is the domain of HORUS, and you'd be right, but every single manufacturer indulges in these - although IPS-N had to wait until NRFaW to get theirs:

What the fuck do you mean by that, Lancer?

[athena5898]

🔻NEW OFFICIAL BOYCOTT TARGET🔻

Palestinian BDS National Committee:

Coca-Cola: Quenching “Israel’s” genocidal soldiers’ thirst

1) Why?

Because Coca-Cola is implicated in “Israeli” war crimes.

According to research by WhoProfits (https://www.whoprofits.org/companies/company/4081?the-central-bottling-company-cbc-coca-cola-israel), (https://www.whoprofits.org/companies/company/4081?the-central-bottling-company-cbc-coca-cola-israel) the Central Beverage Company, known as Coca-Cola “Israel”, which is the exclusive franchisee of the Coca-Cola Company in “Israel”, “operates a regional distribution center and cooling houses in the [Israeli] Atarot Settlement Industrial Zone.” Furthermore, its subsidiary, Tabor Winery, “produces wines from grapes sourced from vineyards located on occupied land in settlements in the West Bank and Syrian Golan.” 

The International Court of Justice affirmed in July 2024 that “Israel’s” entire occupation of Gaza and the West Bank, including East Jerusalem, is illegal, as are all “Israeli” settlements built on occupied land. As “Israeli” settlements – on occupied Palestinian and Syrian land – are considered war crimes under international law, Coke is complicit in a war crime. 

Corporations that are implicated in the commission of international crimes connected to “Israel’s” unlawful occupation, racial segregation and apartheid regime—within or beyond the Palestinian territories occupied in 1967–are all complicit and must be held accountable. Direct complicity includes military, logistical, intelligence, financial and infrastructure support. The corporations, as well as their boards of directors and executives, may face criminal liability (https://www.somo.nl/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/Obligations-of-Third-States-and-Corporations-to-Prevent-and-Punish-Genocide-in-Gaza-3.pdf) for this complicity.

Local alternatives are popping up worldwide to substitute Coca-Cola, an unnecessary and replaceable beverage.

Local alternatives to Coca-Cola have been gaining market share across the world, including in Palestine, China, Bangladesh, Sweden, Egypt, India, South Africa, Turkey, Lebanon and elsewhere.

2) Why NOW?

The BDS movement has always considered Coca-Cola boycottable but has not prioritized it as a target based on its careful and strategic target-selection criteria (https://www.instagram.com/bdsnationalcommittee/p/C7RY0Y4C-xu/), (https://www.instagram.com/bdsnationalcommittee/p/C7RY0Y4C-xu/) so why endorse the Coke boycott now? 

Human rights and health activists, among many others, have been campaigning against Coca-Cola and similarly complicit corporations for decades, including grassroots drives targeting the company for its complicity in “Israel’s” gross violations of Palestinian human rights. 

During “Israel’s” ongoing, livestreamed genocide, “Israeli” soldiers have often been pictured with Coke cans, donated (https://www.timesofisrael.com/over-100000-soldiers-to-receive-bamba-and-coke-thursday/) to them by various genocide-enabling groups. This has provoked even more anger against the company, particularly given that “Israel” is starving 2.3 million Palestinians in the occupied and besieged Gaza Strip, severely limiting their access to clean water and, as a result, inducing the mass spread of contagious diseases. 

Given this context, Palestinian activists in Gaza (https://x.com/QudsNen/status/1827696428795482136) and many BDS activists in the Arab world, in many Muslim-majority countries, and in some European countries as well, have called on the BDS movement to add Coke to its priority targets.

The BDS movement had previously targeted General Mills for its manufacturing of Pillsbury products in the illegal Atarot Settlement Industrial Zone - the same Zone where the Coke facility operates. Thanks to effective BDS campaigning, we won the demand (https://bdsmovement.net/news/victory-general-mills-divest-from-apartheid-israel) for General Mills to end its business in Atarot. We know a campaign against Coke is winnable too. 

Based on all the above, and given Coke’s large contribution (through business-as-usual and taxes) to “Israel’s” war chest during the genocide, the Palestinian BDS National Committee (BNC), the largest Palestinian coalition leading the global BDS movement, has endorsed the grassroots, organic #BoycottCoke campaigns to pressure the company to end its complicity in “Israel’s” illegal occupation, apartheid and genocide. 

BoycottCoke

[simulanissolutions]

In the rapidly evolving landscape of technology, virtual reality (VR) has emerged as a transformative force across multiple industries. India, with its dynamic startup ecosystem and a wealth of tech talent, is increasingly becoming a hub for VR innovation. At the forefront of this movement is Simulanis Solutions, a company dedicated to leveraging VR to enhance training, education, and operational efficiencies in various sectors.

[purseowner4thequalityanimation]

SMT Boardgame Kickstarter Smells Like Suspicious Fish

There's an SMT boardgame. Curb your enthusiasm, you shouldn't back it. And if you did, lower your pledge to like a buck until they clear things up, because as it stands it seems like an incredibly suspect product.

Checking through the Kickstarter comments and Japanese Tweets about the boardgame makes the entire thing seem poorly planned at best. I'll summarize as best I can;

The designer is incredibly infamous in the boardgame community

Naoki Matsunaga, a self-described "board game sommelier", is the designer. You'll find tweets lamenting that "the board game sommelier is involved". Why is he so hated? This thread goes into detail: co_boze on twitter. Part of it is they bashed Werewolf over one game they saw of it, another is they took on a kind of public-face role for boardgames appearing on late night TV shows to talk about them in ways that annoyed boardgamers. They seem to have designed a boardgame based on "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People" which ripped off Sid Sackson's 'I'm the Boss". But it's what co_boze talks about next that's really bizarre. The game was apparently banned from most board game cafes and playing spaces. Seminars where people could play the game were hosted, but the venues that hosted these seminars all closed down.

If you keep looking through comments, you start finding claims that his company does multi-level marketing (ie pyramid schemes). To be honest, I don't know if this is true. But even if it isn't, it is really not hard to find people who know of this guy and would really really really REALLY prefer he was not involved.

"Oh fuck, it's THIS guy" is not a reaction that inspires confidence

2. Questionable development and presentation issues.

A regular collaborator with Atlus recently tweeted "The use of AI in Atlus works or derivative works is stictly prohibited." He responded to a reply asking if this was about a board game.

The staff running the SMT BG Kickstarter later clarified the actual -game- wouldn't use AI graphics... but from the looks of it, the promotional materials do.

Dig that... generic metal pipe aesthetic. Nothing screams MegaTen like black plumbing to nowhere.

In totally unrelated news, a board game manufacturer recently tweeted that a Kickstarter used their name without permission, and they're not sure why.

Quote tweets on the post would suggest it was the SMT board game. The comment they are loosely referring to is this:

In a follow-up post, they do specify "The product figures will be made of PVC." and "We will be manufacturing the games in partnership with a factory in China that has a proven track record... " "Figure director Kimura Yuzuru has over 10 years of experience..." and other boring development stuff that I have no issue with. What I do have issue with is how they can say things like they're "considering" which manufacturer to use and namedropping other companies that they're unrelated with. (While I was typing this post, they posted an update that clarified the CMON issue and literally nothing else: here.)

The boardgame is being presented with machine translated English printed on the same cards as the Japanese. But the actual game will have a translator check everything.

they hire translators to localize all game content

Additionally, there was a week long radio silence on the Kickstarter. For reference, Kickstarters are normally very active with the project planners dropping updates, responding to feedback and clearing up any concerns.

Some of the concerns were "How does the game actually play?", a question that would be best answered by dropping a rulebook for people to look at, or better yet showing them an entire run of the game. The SMT BG Kickstarter has boldly chosen neither. Devs have commented the game is on Version 11 and plays well, which makes it strange that they can't share any of it with anyone else.

Actually, when you compare this to how most Kickstarters are run, it becomes very clear the SMT BG Kickstarter is, uh, kinda failing in all possible regards. The first Backer Goal is "Jack Frost Dice" at 2000 backers (not funds raised, BACKERS). Despite getting 300%(!!!) of the initial pledge needed, there are no bonuses or unlocks.

Mind, this lack of information comes after they already delayed the start to supposedly improve Backer Goals and other aspects.

There aren't a shortage of issues - it's ICREA's first boardgame (but not their first tango with SMT; they made the SMT30th Logo, for instance.) The timeline seems totally wack. The staff have been incredibly slow to respond. Cards with tiny font and two languages printed on them. Etc, etc. Maybe individually these issues wouldn't be too concerning. But all of them combined make the product seem incompetently run at best, and at worst an actual scam.

I'm hardly a big influencer in the SMT scene (my biggest contribution is when that fucking succubus gif gets 36k likes on Twitter every 5 months) but I haven't seen any English speaking sources discuss this in detail, when there really should be at least some noise about all of this. Still. if just one of you end up saving 600 bucks on what ends up being a trashfire carcrash project because of this post, then that'll have made the past 30 minutes of typing this shit worth it.

[artsekey]

I really hate how ads have taken over the internet. On one hand, I know that hosting a website costs money, right? And ad revenue is one of the simplest ways for free-to-use websites to cover their operating costs.

My question is-- and I would genuinely love an answer-- is this ever going to stop? Tumblr ran for a long time without ads. So did Youtube. I know that the cost of hosting so much media has gone up, but there are a lot of users on these websites that make the content that drives people to use the service that don't see any of the money generated by this revenue. On Youtube, there's at least a way for creators to make some money from what they do. For most, it isn't much, but the opportunity is there. On Tumblr, well... the ability to convert the visibility of my blog into any financial gain practically nonexistent, though they did at one point promise that users would be able to make money from ads run on their blogs (whatever happened to that, Staff?).

"You can pay to avoid seeing ads!" Tumblr says, as if the views on my main blog alone over the past few years have not generated more than enough ad revenue to cover the price they're asking me to pay, the person who is actively making content that brings eyes to their ads.

I'm not mad at Tumblr for hosting ads. I get that it has to happen because it's the easiest way to keep the site free, and honestly, I imagine Tumblr's staunch opposition to monetization has been a real obstacle for the team building Tumblr. But at the same time, it feels like yet another small concession in the usability of the site. I'm tired of ads that auto-play with blaring audio while I'm scrolling. I'm tired of adds that, if I touch them while trying to scroll past them, take me to an external site. Outside of tumblr, I'm tired of looking for information online only to get a webpage that's 95% ads and otherwise illegible. Hell, I recently got an ad on Discord. Was it unobtrusive? Maybe. But it was there, for the first time, and I know that won't be the end.

I know the first reply I'm going to get on this is "use adblock", and yes, that's a solution, but think about how much the landscape for media has changed in just ten years.

Popular forums are basically gone outside of reddit.

Youtube, without Red, is ad hell. You can't watch more than 3-4 minutes of video without getting sent to marketing hell.

Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter-- it's terrible. I firmly believe they've manufactured a worse experience through the implementation of ads to convince you to buy into their premium services.

Just Check out this video of Penguinz0 trying to watch a video on a third-party site.

There's discussion of putting ads into video games.

Remember when games didn't include micro-transactions? Blizzard is charging $70 for one mythic skin. You could almost buy Overwatch 1 twice-over at that price-point.

Influencers make a living by making their lives into advertisements.

Youtube has retaliated against users using ad-block on non-chrome browsers by artificially inflating the load times of it's videos.

What can we do about this? I imagine companies see it as an infinite money hack; users can't stop companies from hosting ads, and the action they could take to voice their displeasure-- leaving the site, using other competitive services-- has been all but obliterated thanks to the homogeneity of popular social media outlets. If someone is truly so incensed about ads, well-- it isn't like they have to engage with them, right? They can enroll in a cheap, auto-renewing service to get rid of ads entirely. Well, wait, the price of premium might just have to go up. Don't worry, it's auto-renewing! You won't even notice it. Oh, no, it's got to go up again, you won't even notice it.

There's no incentive for them to cap this behavior, and no way for us as users to pressure them to do so. We create these spaces; we fill them with color, art, activism, community, and the companies that ride on the tailcoat of the spaces we create tell us to give them more. What comes next?

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: spirit-raiser (mini-series)

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and you are the witch he has chosen to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, witchcraft, possession, mediums, if you squint theres some plot, smoking, mention of death/violence/torture, mention of police brutality, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8k

A/N: hey. don't ask. this idea came to me a few days ago and i wrote it all out in like two sessions at 2am. i want to write more for this, i have so many ideas for some more one-shot style interactions. this just got so long so quickly so i had to cut some stuff. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked. 

The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents. 

The Warrens, or Sootstone Port, as it was formally known, was not a pleasant place. Home to the working class and the rotted underbelly of the city of Blackstone. The high society chatters liked to forget such a place existed, as it was simply not a charming place to think about. Most worked the ports, ferrying in the sea trade. Others worked in the Smokestack district, manufacturing metal in factories that pumped ash and soot into the air. There were also the select few who turned to other trades, such as pubs, hotels, brothels, or even those who were forced into a life of joblessness on the streets. 

The Warrens weren’t so imaginatively named. It was a clever joke among high-society gossipers that the poor fucked like rabbits and lived in their elaborate winding burrows, from which they rarely emerged for air. The people of Sootstone had accepted the insult, finding the whole metaphor rather hilarious. That was because the Warreners could take a joke, unlike the condescending crowd of high society. It could also be argued that the residents of The Warrens could not come up with a better metaphor, as most were not educated in any sense. 

Perhaps the mixture of smog and that lack of an education had finally made it to your head. You were left standing, perplexed, as your front door swung open without so much of a nudge. The lock was normally a sticky one, leaving you to jiggle the knob and slam your shoulder against the frame until it came unstuck. Never in your two years of living in the tiny flat had you ever witnessed such a sight. 

You would’ve thought it a miracle if it weren’t for the implications. 

It was true that The Warrens were notorious for crimes. Theft, assault, and murder. Even if coppers paraded the streets, they weren’t truly there to stop criminals. No, they were more interested in beating any poor innocents that got in their way. It was better to find protection from vigilante gangs who roamed Sootstone’s streets, scrapping like stray dogs over territories. As much as those uninvolved in such business were afraid of them, they also respected them. Their deeds weren’t always motivated by blood and destruction; the gangs stood to protect their communities as no one else would. 

Even if you and your surrounding neighbours were under the protection of Barnes’ Smog Boys, it was definitely still alarming to see a group of them gathered in your small kitchen. 

“Lookie who's home.” One of the men cooed at the sight of you. He stood closest to the door, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket while the other fiddled with a toothpick that hung from his lips. His blond hair was slicked back, tucked under a flatcap. Steve Rogers. The Smog Boys right hand man. Next to him was Sam Wilson, his stocky form leaning against your rickety cupboards. His gaze was fixed on a silver pocket watch he had tightly secured in his left palm, a short chain draping across his vest. He glanced up at Steve’s words, a wicked smirk crossing his lips at the sight of you. 

“Sunday market?” Sam queried, and you drew your woven basket closer. There was an unsettling sneer in his voice. 

The Smog Boys were one of seven gangs that roamed the underbelly of Blackstone. Their territories lay in the fog of Sootstone Port and the smokey streets of the Smokestack district and The Warrens. You could commonly see them stalking the streets, dressed in all black with their flatcaps and slicked back hair. They moved through the smog like ghosts, navigating the twisting streets with an unnatural ease. Some called them ghouls; others called them saviours from the fog. 

The final man, the worst of them all, was Bucky Barnes. He sat across from you, half obscured by your small dining table. He had laid a box of cigarettes and matches on the marked wood. One was smoking between his lips, his head angled down and cocked to one side, as he assessed you with a look of boredom. There was a terrifying edge of calculation in his gaze as he evaluated you. He was just as large as the other two men, with muscles poorly hidden beneath his black, tailored suit. His hair, similarly to Steve's, was slicked back, and the sides buzzed. A 5’oclock shadow ghosted his jawline, but overall, his appearance was unsettlingly neat. 

Not a speck of ash or soot. As if he had just appeared within your flat, blinking into existence rather than having walked The Warrens like any other mere mortal. 

You had never seen the man in person. No. If the Smog Boys were ghosts, Bucky certainly lived up to the name. He was an enigma, a haunting story whispered between children. He had clawed his way up to a position of power from the gutters of The Warrens, bloodshed and all. He was a notorious skirt-chaser, his handsome appearance and strong build drawing in women from all classes. Looking at him now, despite the terror congealing in your blood, you could understand the appeal. 

“Why’re you here?” You ask hesitantly. Unlike the gangsters before you, you were not pristine by any means. Falling ash had coated your shoulders, staining the tartan fabric of the mantle draped over your shoulders. Your hair was swept up under a head scarf, which was also covered in a layer of soot and dust from the smokestacks. Even your worn leather boots were not safe; mud and filth caked onto the heels and sides. The streets of The Warren had never known any type of cleanliness. 

“Come to introduce ourselves. Don’t think we’ve ever met before, ‘least I think I would’ave remembered a pretty face like yours.” Steve speaks up, a gleam in his eye. His tone is playful yet somehow cruel. The chuckle he and Sam share rattles you. The two of them were also said to try their luck with the women who crowded around, searching for the thrill of a gangster lover.

“You might’ave mistaken me for someone else… I’ve lived here two years now.” You speak with a continued caution. With precise movements, as to not brush either of the hulking men crowding the kitchen entrance, you place your basket on a nearby surface. Even the cloth that you have thrown over the items is coated in a layer of ash. 

“We know.” Sam says, twisting his body. He lifts up the cloth, inspecting the food beneath. You know it is nothing exciting—some bread, fish, and vegetables. As well as a handful of sweets you gave to the children of your neighbour. You keep your mouth shut as Sam dips into the white and red striped paper bag and pops one of the sweets into his mouth with a satisfied hum. 

Steve pushes himself off the wall, his jacket brushing against you. He was far taller than you, tall enough that he had to crane his neck down in order to whisper in your ear. “A lil’ birdy told us you’re a spirit-raiser.” 

“I—No.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting between the three men. Bucky is still silent, still like a cat hunting a mouse. The gaze he assessed you with was one of a predator, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t crack a smile as the two men beside you laugh between themselves. 

To fend off some anxious energy, you make quick work of unknotting your headscarf. Ash and dust flutter to the ground as you shake out the fabric, a frown etched across your features. You could not help but let your mind wonder to the stories you had heard growing up. You were a lifelong resident of The Warrens, only moving to live on your own after sickness claimed your mother. You father had passed long before that, lost to drink. 

“What do you call yourself then? Hm?” Steve asks, breath hot against your cheek. You flinch as he pulls a fleck of ash from your hair. In the stories, they would speak of men with their tongues cut out. Bodies that were filled with bricks, then stitched back up and sunk to the bottom of the Sootstone Port. Men were found hanged from street lights, severely beaten, with sections of skin along their thighs and chest peeled off with a blade. And those were only the bodies coppers found. 

“I prefer witch.” You correct, brows furrowing. Your head turns to look at the gangster, wary of how close his fingers lingered. Teeth bared in a grin, he blows a soft breath across your hair, the last of the ash unsettled as it floats away. You can smell tobacco on his breath—a familiar scent to you.

“I need a favour.” Bucky finally speaks up, his voice low. Your gaze snaps to meet his. 

You blink. “A favour?”

You jump as Bucky finally moves, his foot jerking as he kicks the seat opposite him. The chair scrapes across the hardwood floors, stopping centimetres before your boots. 

“Sit.” He commands. 

Sam’s hand finds the back of your neck, a soft push guiding you in the direction of the free space. You obey, your knee bouncing as you take a seat. You sit near the edge of the chair, leaving some distance between yourself and the table. As if sensing your desire to bolt, Steve sweeps up behind you, pushing the chair in until you are fully tucked in. Then, with mocking laughter, Sam and Steve take a seat on either side of you. 

“No one told me there was any issue about magic—” You begin. Steve snickers beside you, returning to fiddling with the toothpick still poking from his mouth. 

“A favour.” Bucky repeats, exhaling smoke from his nose. Sam leans back in his seat, legs spread so widely that his knee touches yours. You shrink back as far as possible. “I’m no copper. I don’t care what you practitioners get up to.”

You find yourself blinking in surprise once more. Magic was a subject that divided many, mostly due to it’s misunderstood nature. High society treated magic as another lavish hobby or skill, with some even going to private schools to turn their gifts into professions with the right licences. Of course, the people of the lower-class were banned from performing such tricks unless they were in possession of the right permits. Due to the nature of the slums being, well, impoverished, unlicensed magic ran rampant through the streets. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that an entire blackmarket of forbidden arts ran in the backalleys and warehouses of The Warren. Places where those needing particular services could find them for a much more convenient price than in the higherclass areas of Blackstone. 

You had kept your services rather secretive, never using your real identity with clients. It was a precaution to not have coppers knocking down your door in the middle of the night. It seemed, despite your best efforts, that nothing flew past Bucky Barnes. But then again, nothing seemed to fly past the gangster. He knew of every black market and every whisper of illegal activity in the slums. It would be foolish to believe he was unaware of you; however, why did he specifically sort you out? Now that was a mystery. 

“I don’t understand—” You choke out, head whipping back and forth as you look between the men. 

Bucky sighs loudly in annoyance, loud enough that you flinch back. He puts out the remains of his cigarette on your dining table, the smouldering dip leaving a black, circular mark on the wood. He digs into one of the pockets of his vest, revealing a large pendant necklace. The chain is silver, with an oval shaped jewel hanging from the centre. The silver that encrusts it in place is swirled, ensuring there are no gaps for it to escape. Sam and Steve fall quiet, any feeling of twisted amusement dropping from the room. Bucky slides the necklace across the table.

You recoil. This time not out of fear, but rather from the aura the necklace exudes. 

Goosebumps rise across your skin, and bile rises in your throat. There was a wickedness in the air, as if all the light and sweetness in the world were sucked into an empty, yawning void. The world feels still, as if even the ash outside has failed to fall. The room is cast into a sickening silence, a silence so strong that even the surrounding world refuses to push through. You can no longer hear the people walking through the winding streets of The Warren, not the clang of metal from the smokestacks or the cry of the dockworkers. 

Rot. 

It is the only word that comes to your mind. It is as if the jewel itself is rotten, potent, and putrid. An invisible smell so strong you nearly gag. Your skin crawls the longer you stare, as if you rot along with it—bugs squirming beneath your flesh, the taste of dirt in your mouth.  

“What’s this?” You asked, your voice strained. You know the blood has drained from your face. Bucky looks at you with curiosity. 

“You tell me.”

You look down at the necklace. Dread rises once more, and the chill of soil settles across your shoulders. You twist your head and your neck, feeling uncomfortable and strained the longer you gaze upon the necklace. 

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it. 

“There’s a… a sickness… a rot—a curse.” You stumble over your words, your entire body squirming against your will. The feeling of dread swims through you; the sensation that you need to get as far away as possible reverberates down your spine. 

“Becca was right.” Steve sings somewhere besides you, but you barely register his words. 

“Where’d you find this?” You ask. The room is tighter than usual, with the rickety, peeling cabinets closing in around you. The oven screeches on its iron legs, the yellowed wallpaper crushing closer and closer. Your head falls into your hands, elbows propped onto the table. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to rid yourself of the sickly feeling. You rub your fingers up your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, then massaging your forehead

“It was given to me. As a gift.” As he speaks, you reluctantly open your eyes once more. The room has returned to as you remember, your vision less dizzying as you take in a deep gulp of air, your heart thundering in your ears. You must make a face, because it prompts him to speak once more. 

“My sister has a sensitivity. She is convinced—”

“There’s a spirit attached to that jewel.” You interrupt before thinking. Your knees bounce beneath the table, your feet shaking. Your entire being screams that you need to get away from the object. You do not care for politeness or fear of these men, as the horror in your heart you felt gazing upon the necklace greatly outweighed any potential anxieties of the future.

“Yes.” His voice matches his composure—cool and collected. Wholly unaffected by the horrific aura cast by the necklace. Bucky and his men were not magically inclined. They were completely oblivious to the calamity that sat before them. 

“The spirits're attached to you, too.” You pause, the feeling of bile rising in your throat once more. “You need to get it lifted.”

“That’s where the favour comes in, doll.”

“I don’t…?” You nearly doubled over. “Please get rid of it. I can’t—”

Barnes leans forward, slowly dragging the necklace over the wood. He slowly deposits it into his breast pocket, watching with curiosity as you sag in relief. You would need to burn this table after they left. You could still sense the rot engrained in the pores of the wood. 

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

Your forearms lay flat on the table, and you rest your head against them as you try to remember how to breathe. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you. Was this how they tortured their victims? Wore them down into pathetic, panting messes? Were you about to become another body at the bottom of the Sootstone port? You mumble into the fabric. “I can’t raise a spirit without a name.”

“I know her name.”

You pause, lifting your head slowly. “You want to ask her how to break it? You may know her, but spirits’re tricksters they won’t always give ya the correct information—”

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

“She’s a scorned lover.” Sam whispers beside you. You jump, having forgotten the two other men sitting besides you. Bucky scowls at his words—the most emotion he has shown in the entire time. 

“Everyone knows you don’t ‘ave a witch for a moll unless you’re gonna marry her.” Steve butts in, and the two men share a chuckle. 

“Shut your mugs. The both of ya.” Bucky snarls, and they both fall silent, although you can’t help but notice their bemused smiles. After a brief, tense silence, the gangster settles back into his seat, tipping his chin upward in a nod. “Morwenna Blackthorn.”

You hesitate, glancing between the three men. They watch you expectantly, relaxing back into their respective seats. Given their status and reputation, you had to presume they were familiar with the workings of underground magic. Licenced practitioners would have clients sign lengthy documents for protection in the event of a spell or session backfiring. The Warrens did not have such luxuries—if you made a mistake, no one could protect you or them from the consequences. 

You inhale sharply, placing your hands palms down on the table. The wood hums beneath your touch, the invisible vapours of the curse tickling your flesh. With a roll of your shoulders, you exhale slowly, allowing your body to relax. 

Ink drips across your vision, swirling darkness millimetres before your eyes. You stare hard into the invisible void, searching blindly through the tendrils of smoke. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your mind hums. Through the dark fog, you can make out figures—flickers of candle flames casting large, distorted shadows. Morwenna Blackthorn. Bones crunch beneath your feet, yet at the same time, you float. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your hands burn into the table, the rotting sensation tangling through your digits, pulling you deeper. 

Morwenna Blackthorn

You can see a thin line of thread hanging through the void. 

Morwenna Blackthorn.

It is red; a series of knots tugged tightly intermittently. 

Morwenna Blackthorn.

Your fingers grasp the fibres gently, your nail hooking around one of the tiny knots. 

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

A violent, ragged gasp leaves you. It claws up your throat, ripping at the flesh. Your entire body tenses, your spine straightening as your head snaps back. For a moment, you are suspended. You can feel her with you, her ghostly fingers stroking tenderly across your skin. She smooths over the back of your hands, slowly and gradually winding her way up your arms. She clutches your shoulders, her bones digging into your flesh.

Then, with violence strong enough that you fear she has folded your spine in half, she pushes down. 

Your body instantly relaxes, head lulling downward. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and despite the appearance being a milky white, you can see perfectly clearly. Morwenna has settled herself deep within your bones, controlling your movements like a puppeteer. You are conscious enough to understand what is happening, but you are not in control of your actions or speech.

Your mouth spread into a wide, sly smile. “Bucky, my love.”

“Mor.” The gangster greets, although he does not seem entirely pleased. You pout, leaning your elbows onto the table. 

“Not happy to see me?” You coo. Somewhere beside you, Steve shifts in his seat uncomfortably. It is the most off put you’ve ever seen the man so far. He winces as your head swings around, a wicked grin gracing your lips. “Oh, Stevie and Sam. Didn’t see you two here.”

“Mor.” The two men grumble in unison, scowling. 

“Awh. Why so glum, boys?” You whine, your chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your movements are fluid and graceful, entirely not your own. Your hands stroke across the back of the chair, then swooshes up to meet your chest. 

You lean forward, tutting as you inspect your reflection in the glass of a nearby cupboard. “Trust you to find a pretty one in The Warrens.” 

Your hands move to unpin your mantle, a cloud of ash lingering in the air as you drop it to the floor. You sigh in relief, your fingers unbuttoning the top of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. Your hands smooth down your waist to your hips; your full figure is now displayed. 

“You missed me that much, my love? That you had to find a pretty vessel for me so you could get your cock wet, hm?” You hum, sashying towards the table once more. 

“That’s not why you’re here.” Bucky replies. He seems frozen in place. The horror of familiarity. Recognising the mannerisms of someone he once knew in a complete stranger. 

You ignore his words, unpinning your hair. Thick locks unroll, cascading down your shoulders and back. You let out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh, rolling your neck. The strands frame your face, and the rich colour brings colour to your cheeks. 

“Morwenna.” Bucky snaps. Your brows furrow as you look over to him, pouting once more. “You put a curse. On the necklace.”

Your mind momentarily blanks, as if Morwenna were trying to recall what he said. Spirits often grew confused trying to recall memories, especially ones that brought them anguish. A cog seems to turn as you flash the gangster another beaming smile. 

“The necklace… oh. Did you like it? My parting gift to you? Before you fucked me over you piece of—” Your voice, once sweet and soft, deepens to a guttural growl. Your body shakes, and words cut off as you cough and hack. Your hand raises to your mouth, warm fluid leaking from your lips. You let in a shuddering breath, rubbing your fingers and palms down your chin. Blood smears across your skin. 

“You shot me, my love.” You gasp, your brows furrowing as your head tilts. “You shot me.”

“You betrayed us, remember? You were a rat—” Steve jumps in, but is quickly cut off. 

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

Your hands find your stomach, doubling over as you sob. There is no wound, no blood. Still, your hands dig at the fabric while ragged, pathetic cries leave your blood stained lips. 

“How do I break the curse?”

You shuddering sobs stop, a dreadful silence falling over the tiny kitchen. A guttural laugh erupts from you, saliva mixed with blood dripping from your lips to the floor. “The curse. The curse? I should have known… I should have known…”

Your body jerks upward, movements stiff, and jerks like a marionette doll. Sam’s face contorts into one of fear, while Steve looks horrified. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over the chair as you plunge towards the table. Your stomach smacks hard against the wood, a winded wheeze escaping your lungs as you drag yourself forward by your nails. 

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” You cry, your head beginning to twist, the angle so unnatural that it strains your neck. 

“How do I break it?” Bucky repeats, voice firm. He hasn’t so much as flinched, a wall of steel as you crawl towards him. 

“It was born in chaos, so it must be undone in chaos. I will find you. I will tear you limb from limb. I will make you rot from the inside out; maggots will grow within you; and mould will bloom in your soul. Everything will crumble to dust beneath your touch. I will ruin you until you b–b—be—”

Your body slides back, and for the first time in the entire session, you grab the reins. You search blindly for the knotted thread, tugging hard. Your body steps back from the table, muscles spasming and tense as your body locks in place. 

You tug harder, and darkness swims across your vision. Candles flicker and dance in the distance, the sun rising and falling as your body twists up and down. The smell of rot slowly subsides, threads slipping from your fingers. The scent of copper and ash is on your tongue, and your head is pounding. 

A dramatic sigh leaves you as your body slumps. You find yourself standing before the table, three sets of eyes burning into you as your own eyes roll back into place. Sam and Steve look equally disturbed as they are horrified, the blond’s mouth agape in shock. 

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

“I ain’t never seen a spirit session like that before, Buck—” Steve begins.

“Shut it.” Bucky barks, rising to his feet. 

There is a sickly feeling in your chest, a radiating pain across your ribcage. You barely register the gangster walking up to you, gripping your chin between his index and thumb. 

“You pulled yourself out early.” Bucky sneers. “Why?”

“Buck—” Steve calls again. With a growl, Bucky releases you, twisting around to snarl at Steve. 

“I thought you told me she was the best in the Warrens?”

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

“Chaos magic.” You finally speak up, your voice raspy. The gangsters pause, slowly turning to face you. “She told you. It’s chaos magic. What’s born in chaos must be undone in chaos.”

Your hand raises to your face, your fingertips touching your upperlip as warm blood flows from your nose. You raise your hand into the light, inspecting the crimson liquid. Your eyes cut over to Bucky's, and he frowns. 

“Chaos magic?” He questions. 

“Sex magic.” You state, fighting the heat growing across your cheeks. Without much of a care or a flinch, you navigate your way past the group. Your shirt brushes against Bucky’s jacket, the rotting feeling momentarily settling in your stomach as the fabric brushes his breastpocket. You pause in front of your sink, knuckles white as you grip the lip. Blood continues to stream steadily from your nose, dripping into the basin. 

“You focus your thoughts on one thing; you get pulled into a trance. Take the energy, the chaos, and you focus it. At the peak, picture what you’re manifestin’. The chaos that you’ve built through the act is released at the moment of orgasm.” You explain, your gaze solidly locked onto the blood that swirls down your drain. 

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

Steve spoke up from beside him with a snicker. “How poetic.”

—

You hated how your hands shook. If Bucky had noticed, he hadn’t brought it up. He was coolly inspecting your tiny bedroom, hands tucked into his pockets. The room had an eclectic taste, with walls covered in shelving. You collected books, objects, trinkets, or other things that helped your work. Drying herbs hung from your curtain railings, your desk cluttered with papers you had hastily scribbled notes upon. 

You ground your palm harder into the pestle, gritting your teeth as you worked the herbs inside into a fine paste. Your bed, stripped bare, had been pushed to the side of the room. It usually sat near the centre, atop a fraying rug. The rug had also been removed, rolled up, and placed somewhere in your stairway. The old wood beneath had been painted by your hand, with intricate runes, symbols, and swirls making up the general shape of a circle. You had already lined it with black salt, candles burning at each cardinal direction. At the centre of the circle, you had laid your bedding and pillows for comfort. 

Bucky had sent Steve and Sam away, the two men snickering like a pair of school boys. You all knew what was about to unfold; it was just a question of why you had allowed yourself to become tangled up in such a situation. You had done similar rituals for clients before, yes, but none of those clients had been the boss of the Smog Boys. None of them had been Bucky Barnes. 

You eyed him as he paused in front of the carved circle, mindlessly playing with the jewelled necklace that hung from his grip. The awful, dreadful, rotting sensation was dulled; you’d nearly begged the gangster to let you cleanse the object. It was a temporary relief that would wear down in a few hours, but at least you could complete your work without gagging at the feeling of it. You hurriedly poured the thick paste from the herbs into a pot, which boiled in your fireplace. It only took a couple of stirs for the potion to settle. You could feel Bucky’s eyes assessing your every movement as you poured the steaming liquid into two cups, briefly swirling each to ensure the consistency was correct. 

“Remind me what this is.” The gangster asked, closing the distance between you. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent. 

“A potion to help with the ritual. Some find it…hard to perform.” You say, wincing as you realise what you implied. Bucky raises a brow as you fumble over your words. “It heightens arousal and pleasure.”

“I won’t find it hard to perform.” He replies curtly. 

“I know. I wasn’t saying that—I just… from experience…” You stumble again. If only you could punch yourself in the face for this idiocy. 

“Relax, doll.” He hums, his hand finding your shoulder. You exhale sharply, lips pressed together, as your shoulders drop in response. “I can find someone else if you don’t want this.”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting it, you did want this. Maybe it was a sick curiosity, wondering if this dangerous yet handsome man could perform as well as you imagined, as well as it was rumoured. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. “No. I want this.”

“Good.” His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, and his head dips to look at you better. “Honestly, I could fuck you with or without the potion, doll.”

There is a knowing smirk spreading across his face as your mind blanks. Fucking rake. You consider if the fumes from the potion have already leaked their effects onto you both. You can feel a warmth growing between your legs. 

“It’s my job.” You mutter, stepping away. Although you’re unsure if the reassurance is for yourself or for him. His chuckle follows you as you sweep across the room, returning to your small desk. “Do you want me to explain the ritual in detail or just give you the gist of it?”

“Spare the details; just run me through what I need to do.” He responds. He has closed the distance between the both of you again, peering over your shoulder as you fumble through your things. 

“Well, it’s pretty simple.” You sigh, turning around. Your chests are nearly pressed together as you spin. You back up as far as possible, your hands moving behind your back as you grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "We’ll have to draw some blood with a blade and put it on the necklace to link it to our energies. It’s sigil magic, nothing you’ll have to worry about. We take the potions…”

You fade off with a shrug. Bucky smirks once more, his chin lifting in amusement, but his gaze remains solidly locked onto you. His hands go to his pockets, and his wide chest blocks your movements. You clear your throat. “The ending is more what you’ll need to focus on. When you reach… climax… you must focus all your energy on the necklace and nothing else. I will be there to guide and remind you, but you can’t let your thoughts stray.”

“What about you? What will you have to think of?” He questions, his voice low. His adams apple bobs as he swallows slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip in thought. Intriguing question. No one had asked you that before. 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one who needs to orgasm.”

“Why?”

“The curse is linked to you. Only you can break it, with my assistance, of course. I am just here to help guide you and lend you my energy. I am just a conduit for the magic, to focus it.” You explain. Thinking it was best to get it over and done with, you finally pluck up the courage to push past him. 

Your athame was already in place; the candles were lit, salt laid, and sigil memorised. There was only one thing left to do—the act. You crouch down by the fireplace, retrieving the two cups. Bucky gives you an incredulous look. 

“It tastes better than it smells.” You reassure him, handing him the saucer. He inspects the liquid once more, wincing, then shrugging in surprise as he finally downs the lot. You watch with a scrutinising gaze as he places the cup down, rolling his shoulders. 

The potion would take all of five seconds to take affect. It didn’t alter the brain or take away authority; rather, it heightened already present feelings of arousal or pleasure. The user would experience a rather euphoric sensation. Dodgy brothels often microdosed their clients with such herbs to heighten the experience. Also to hook in a new, loyal customer. Used sparingly, the herbs were fine, but they were highly addictive. 

And illegal. Most of your work fell into that category.

Within moments, you could see Bucky’s pupils dilate, his jaw and shoulders relaxing, and his nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly. His voice was strained as he spoke up, his tone gravelly and low as he cleared his throat in surprise. “Fuck. That does feel good, doesn’t it?”

You smile shyly into your own cup and swallow down the liquid. You were familiar with the taste and it’s effects. It was surprisingly sweet, with a vanilla, nutty aftertaste. As soon as it hit your stomach, you could already feel the warmth growing in your core—a delightful tingling sensation spreading up your spine and skull. 

You were quick to place your cup down and cross the room to retrieve the athame. You had to pin point your actions very directly so as not to get distracted by the hulking man looming in your room. The potion was definitely potent, because any fear or anxiety had left you. Your body begged for him to come closer, to touch you, to kiss you. Not yet. Soon. 

“Come here.” You murmur, drawing the blade from it’s sheath. Bucky obeys, wordlessly stalking towards you and presenting you with his palm. You look up at him through your lashes, gently taking his hand into yours. Your skin sings at the content, a rush of goosebumps raising across your skin. “We don’t need much blood.”

The gangster is still as you drag the blade in a short cut along the heel of his palm. You push into the mound, coaxing out droplets of blood to blister to the surface. “The necklace.”

He lets out a low, agreeable grunt as he hands it to you. The potion has helped you ignore any bad energy attached to the object. Your skin simmers as you brush your finger tips along the cut, gathering Bucky’s blood. You take the jewel, smearing the blood across the slippery surface into one half of a symbol. Bucky watches expectantly as you hastily repeat the process with your own hand, smearing your blood to complete the symbol. 

“You need to wear it.” You hum and guide the chain over his head. You know you should find a bandage or some kind of healing salve for your hands, but your attention is pulled away as Bucky grasps your hand. An involuntary whimper leaves your throat as he raises your palm to his lips, his tongue peaking out as he runs it across the open wound. The potion had definitely taken effect. Holy fuck, your back arches as pleasure shoots down your arm, blooming at the base of your skull. 

His lips kiss along the cut, sucking and licking. Your mind swims from the sensation—ideas of where else he could be putting his mouth to use. You pull your palm away, dragging it across his cheek as you cup his face. A crimson streak is smeared along his skin, and his lips are glossy from saliva and stained with your blood. The two of you clash in desperation, a rumbling groan being pulled from the gangster as his lips engulf yours. 

You can taste copper on his tongue, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his body. The two of you move in a frantic rhythm, scarcely making room to breathe. You guide him clumsily to the painted circle, the two of you falling to your knees in unison. Blindly, you find his clothing, helping him tug off the jacket and then unbutton his vest. 

His hands slip under your blouse, caressing the skin beneath. His fingers roam to your brassiere, your nipples hardening as he brushes them through the sleek fabric. You mewl into his mouth, squirming under his touch as the pulse between your legs quickens. His large palm comes to rest below your breasts, his thumb sitting on your sternum as he yanks you backwards onto his lap. 

Your lips break, and you gasp for air as the gangster continues his assault down your neck to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His stubble tickles across your neck, and he gathers your skirts, fingers gliding past your stockings to your exposed inner thigh. 

Your head tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, and loud, satisfied sighs leave you. The sensation is near blinding, your body alight with pleasure. Had you accidentally made a stronger dose in your nervousness? You had never yearned in such a way before—

“What’re you doing?” You query with a gasp as his fingers slip beneath your loose tap pants. 

Your question is answered as he strokes a fingertip through your wet folds. 

“You’re so wet.” He hums against your skin, voice strained. You can already feel his erection pressing into you. His grip on you remains firm, your back flush against his chest as he dips two of his fingers into you. Ecstasy fizzles across your skin, nails digging into his skin where you grip his arm. 

“What’re you— I’m supposed to make you—ah!” You whine, your breath coming fast as you lean harder into him. Your hips rock greedily, pushing your pelvis in time with his pumping fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. 

“Shh, doll. Relax.” He whispers, his tongue licking up the shell of your ear. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your body is locked in place by his grip. His pace increases, and the panting in your ear grows as his two digits glide in and out of your tight cunt. 

“Do you like that?” He groans in your ear. Your grinding hips are now giving friction to his cock, which twitches against your backside through his pants. You whimper in response, a short sob bubbling from your mouth as you clench around him. 

Your head lifts, eyes widening as you look down. You can’t see much due to your skirts, but you can feel the knot tightening within your belly. Your hips move more desperately, needy, pathetic moans escaping you as his pace remains steady. 

“Please—” You beg, squirming as the gangster chuckles. 

“You do like this, huh? Even if you acted like a little innocent virgin earlier.” He growls. The vibration is enough to set you over the edge, a loud cry leaving you as you clench hard around his fingers, body spasming. Bucky continues to steadily pump you through your orgasm. “Good girl.”

A continued arousal stirs in your belly at his praise. Your body slumps against him, panting and exhausted. 

“Such a good girl.” He hums again, his digits slipping out of you. You can feel the sloppy mess between your thighs, and as Bucky pulls his hand into the light, you can see the wet drenching his fingers. “I think I like this version of you. The one who makes pretty little noises while I fuck her brains out, hm?”

You’re left speechless as the gangster lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a devilish smirk. 

“Well, time to get this ritual over with then, don’t you think?” He says. You’re too exhausted and drunk on desire to bother replying. You allow him to guide you down, so your head is placed side-ways on one of the pillows. He guides your hips up, your legs slightly spread, and pushes your skirts to your hips. 

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re close, so I can guide you.” You finally muster up the strength to say. The gangster pulls your tap pants down, exposing your cunt fully. 

“Sure thing, doll.” He says in response. You hear the sound of fabric rustling as he pulls out his cock. 

Without much warning, he pushes into you, your arousal making it easy for his member to slide in and out of you. A growl burns in the back of his throat while you wordlessly make a fist around the sheets and blankets beneath you. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Bucky groans, his voice strained. “And to think you’ve been hidin’ out in The Warrens all this time.”

He sinks deeper into you, pulling small whimpers and moans from you as he finds a steady, pleasurable rhythm. His hand slides up your clothed back, pushing you harder into the pillow with a grunt. His other hand finds your hips, his grip bruising as he guides you. 

You bite down into the pillow, your pleasured sobs muffled by the feathers. 

“You squeezed so tightly around my fingers; I can’t wait to see how you’ll feel when you come around my cock.” Bucky grunted as he ploughed into you. His hand fists around your loose hair, fingers tangling through the locks as he tugs. Tears are beginning to prickle in your eyes, and your legs are wobbling from the sensation. 

“Please—” you gasp out. 

“Please, what?” The gangster asks, tugging harder. The hand on your hip is squeezing tighter as he holds you in place. 

“Please—I need to—”

“No.” He growls, tugging you upward. You fall backwards into his lap once more, his cock still inside you but somehow deeper from the angle he holds you. “You need to finish the ritual, remember? I can’t have you guide me if you’re too fucked out to talk.”

Another sob leaves you, but you wordlessly nod. You hold onto the burning sensation in your gut, the waves of satisfaction so immense that your limbs tremble. Bucky continues to fuck up into you, his cock steadily driving into you as his free hand comes to lazily swirl your swollen clit. 

You try to remember words, instructions, anything. You feel too high to even breathe. All you can do is focus on the sensation of the necklace rubbing against your back and the friction burning against your skin. 

“Focus on the necklace. How it feels around your neck.” You squeak out, your eyes squeezed shut, as you try to ground yourself. “Focus on the feeling of the chain, the weight of the jewel. Think of your blood, how a piece of you is painted onto it.”

There is a moment of silence between the two of you, only the slapping of skin and the rasping of breath. 

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

“Yes.” The gangster cuts back. His strokes were beginning to grow sloppy. 

“Focus.” You whisper, though a breathy moan leaves you. “Feel your energy flow; feel your blood seep into the stone. Picture how it will shatter beneath your power.”

His hips jerk beneath you, his finger on your clit swirling faster. Your breath comes in sharp stutters, your back arching as you find no way to escape the rising sensation. His back is rock solid behind you, his hands keeping you in place as you begin to spiral. Your pussy tightens around him as you begin to scream—

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

Something snaps between the both of you, his hips jerking wildly as he spills into you. He moans into your ear at a deafening level, his fingers digging into your thighs. You double over in pleasure, your vision briefly going black as you cry out. Sparks dance across your skin, your body momentarily alight as the power of magic flows through you. You can feel the rush as your energy meets Bucky’s entangling with one another in a fierce battle. For a second, you feel intoxicated, colours bursting across your sight as the rush of magic rests in your chest, and then, just as quickly as it arrived, it cascades out of you.

Behind you, the sound of shattering can be heard above the moans.  

Panting, Bucky releases you. You slump to the floor, off his lap. His cum drips from your pussy, thighs wet as sticky as you close your eyes, desperately trying to catch your breath. You roll onto your back, pressing your thighs together. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at Bucky. He sits kneeling, dishevelled. His hair is ruffled, blood is still smeared along his cheek, and his shirt is untucked and creased. 

At some point, he has tucked his cock away, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. His gaze is not on you; rather, it is solely focused on the necklace in his palm. You go to lift your head, but you find yourself too weak and exhausted to bother. A mixture of being too fucked out to care and the lack of energy from acting as a conduit for the ritual. 

“Did it work?” You ask the gangster, and his eyes finally pull up to look at you. His gaze wanders over your face, examining your swollen lips, the blush across your cheeks, and the areas where exposed skin remains. He cracks a grin, lifting his hand. The necklace dangles from his fingers, the large, blue jewel now gifted with a large crack down the centre. 

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your head fall back as you stared up at the ceiling. Your eyes flicker closed, a sleepy warmth prickling across your scalp. 

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt. 

“It’s all done? The curse is gone?” The gangster questions. You weakly nod in reply.

“Her spirit and whatever curse she held have been released.” You affirm, voice sleepy, relaxing back into the pillows and blankets. “Apologies. This type of spell drains me.”

Bucky chuckles. You were just glad you had enough sense near the end to actually guide him. The gangster appeared to be attempting to prove something with the orgasms he extracted from you. In the state you were in, you had little reason to complain. 

When you opened your eyes again, he was across the room, vest on and jacket slung over his arm.

“I’ll leave your payment downstairs.” He says, only pausing to look down at you, still curled up on the floor. You blink up at him sleepily. “Thanks for your help, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

[eibaqin]

Dibangun di Portsmouth selama hampir enam tahun, pabrik mesin ini memproduksi lebih dari 130.000 blok baru setiap tahun.

[thepascalofus]

Supply Run - Return (part two)

AO3

PART ONE

Supply Run - Exchange (part three)

Pairing: Mando/Din Djarin x afab!Reader

Word Count: 8.0k

Summary: You’ve been Mando’s crew partner for a year now. Throughout that year Mando has warmed up to you and given you signs that your heart throbbing crush on him is reciprocated. There’s one thing making you hesitate. The condoms he bought on the most recent supply run.

Chapter Summary: While Mando takes a trip to the market and gets what he needs, he ponders your relationship and what it means to him.

Content Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only! Switching POVs, post season 2, the Crest lives, strangers to friends to lovers, mentions of Grogu, soft!Mando, insecure!Mando (a smidge), helmet loopholes, pining, idiots in love, jealous!reader, sad!reader for a little, mentions of sex work (sex work is work!), eventual SMUT (making out, grinding, f!receiving fingering, f!receiving oral sex, p in v, PRAISE kink, dirty talk), FLUFF, cuddling, happy ending guaranteed!

A/N: Thank you all so much for the responses on the first part! This is my first fic that I've ever shared and it makes me so happy that other people enjoy my writing! Enjoy!

Mando handed his scope off to you in the worn down store. Wallpaper peeled from the ancient wooden planks of the walls. Cobwebs littered the untouched areas of the store. The work stations in the back, visible from the pick up counter at the front, were in complete disarray. Several projects started, but not finished. Several projects finished, but not retrieved.

You took the scope in your hand and twisted it in your hands until your gaze landed on the name of the manufacturer and the serial number. Your eyebrows shot up once the brand of the scope was revealed, it twisted in your hands once more. Hands raising the metal tube so it was level with your eyes, you looked into the scope. 

“Ah! I know what it is!”

Mando watched in confusion as you ran to a workstation and grabbed a singular tool. How did you know what was wrong so quickly? He sat in the hull of the Crest for hours attempting to fix the scope. The motions of taking the scope apart and putting it back together were etched into his brain from the number of times he did so. 

You returned to the front of the store with the tool in hand. “This manufacturer has been having these issues lately. They built their magnification system like no one else, but they didn’t seem to account for the need to recalibrate the scope every once in a while. Recalibrating too often causes the lenses to misalign.” 

Mando calibrated his every day. He had to. It was part of his job. A miscalibration could be the difference between a two hour hunt and a twelve hour hunt.

Your face twisted in concentration as you inserted the tool into the side of the scope. Jostling the metal, it popped open and allowed access to the inside. “For some reason they put these weird pins in…” You trailed off while you removed a total of three thin metal pins. Once the pins were removed, you clicked the top of the scope back into place and handed it to Mando.

Mando previously took the scope apart countless times. He never noticed any pins.

“Twenty credits, please.” You said with a smile. Your gaze met his–you somehow found it through his black visor–and you maintained eye contact.

The display on the inside of Mando’s helmet only progressed seven minutes after he entered the store. Inside of his helmet his eyebrows shot up. He was impressed. Not only with your efficiency, but with the reasonable price as well.

“I’m impressed.” He stated. Nodding at you, he retrieved a few credits from his utility belt and set them on the paint chipped counter. He turned and walked a few paces and then stopped in front of the door.

He’s been looking for a crew mate for weeks. The potential candidates he’s stumbled across were either annoying, rude, or incompetent. Throughout his time as a bounty hunter he’s been to countless repair shops. The service was always lack-luster, prices were too high, repair time much too long. 

Sure, he just met you eight minutes ago, but you had potential. He turned on his heel and faced you. Armor glinted in the low lighting of the run down shop. 

“Are you in the market for a new job?”

–

Walking to the market, he’d been reflecting on his decision to bring you onto the Crest as a crew partner.

It was the best decision he ever made, besides saving Grogu from the Empire.

You were intelligent. Friendly. Resourceful. Efficient. Brave.

You stared a Mandalorian straight in the eyes–well, visor–and didn’t even flinch. You didn’t even break eye contact, unlike everyone else. People would turn to whoever they’re with to avoid his gaze. They spoke like he wasn’t a meter or two away–and like he couldn’t amplify their voices with his helmet.

His tall, broad stance usually set everyone on edge. The heavy weight of beskar armor, a reminder of his skillset, didn’t aid in calming the nerves of anyone either. He was typically soft spoken around others, as he noticed people’s reactions when he spoke–eyes wide, speech stuttering, shaking hands–scared. 

Everyone was afraid of him.

Except you.

When you first boarded the Razor Crest, Mando was extremely careful in making sure you were comfortable. The majority of his days not hunting were spent in the cockpit or in his bunk. Whenever you crossed paths in the hull you offered him a small smile and quickly looked away. Did your bravery fade away?

He came back from a hunt one day, quarry in tow, and he was relieved to hear, “How was your day?” Fall from your lips once the bounty was in carbonite.

Still cautious–mindful of how the modulator made his voice sound–he kept his answers short and to the point.

“Fine.”

“Busy.”

“Awful.”

Hearing the four words you said after each return from a hunt, and being able to give you a response without you slinking away, made the hunts worth it.

One night always stood out in his mind. It was just like any other return from one of his hunts. Mando dragged the quarry up the Crest’s ramp by a cord tied around their ankles. He lifted the man to stand up, doing so effortlessly with a few grunts to spare. 

Your living space was in the hull, so he always tried to make the ends of his hunts fast. You didn’t have any choice but to watch. Mando didn’t want to make you watch for too long. Maker, he didn’t want you to watch at all.

His fist slammed the button to begin the freezing process. Breathing heavily, he stood and watched the bounty as they froze into the carbonite cell. A blanket of silence covered the hull once the hissing of the freezing mechanisms came to a stop.

“How was your day?”

There it is. His favorite part after the hunt. Knowing you were there, safe within the hull, and that you wanted to be friendly with him–even after witnessing him freeze a person he tracked down for several hours.

“Nothing you want to hear about,” he replied, his voice tinged with tiredness. The helmet’s modulator most likely didn’t register the sleep in his voice. Truly, he didn’t think that you would want to hear about it. The Mandalorian was afraid that hearing about his hunts would put you on edge. You already extended a branch of friendliness to him twice a day. He didn’t want to give that up by talking about the bounties he tracks down.

“Try me.”

Those words.

Those words have only ever been spoken to him by enemies. It always caused annoyance to wash over him, head to toe. He’s a Mandalorian. Confident of his skills in combat. No matter the odds, Mando knew he would like them.

But when those words tumbled from your lips, it was different. When his enemies weren’t scared of him, it was annoying. When you weren’t scared of him, adoration filled his body. And not adoration in a patronizing way, but adoration as a form of respect. 

It made him want you that much more.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Mando realized the crotch of his pants were tight. Nonchalantly, he clasped his hands together and rested them below his belt.

“Quarry tried to escape and they ran. Would have been back four hours ago,” the modulator gritted out. Again, he was conscious of how the modulator warped his voice. “Not too fun,” he added in an attempt to make the conversation more casual.

You were silent. He whispered a curse to himself under his helmet, one that he was certain wouldn’t be picked up by his modulator. Was his answer too much? Mando quickly became nervous and started to shift his weight from one foot to the other. The silence you left in the air made him a bit anxious.

The T shape of his visor peered over to you. You stood still in shock, reminiscent of the people that saw him in public. Before his thoughts could spiral too much, you replied, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Dank farrik. He didn’t want you to feel like you had to comfort him. “You don’t have to be sorry,” his chest brushed against your shoulder as he swiftly hopped onto the first rung of the ladder up to the cockpit. “It’s my job.”

“That doesn’t mean it sucks any less,” you said. He smiled underneath his helmet at your consideration. Your eyes widened and your mouth opened and closed as you realized what you said, “sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that your job sucks.”

You weren’t wrong. Making his way through tough terrain, relying on a blinking red light on a piece of metal to guide him. Finding them was a task in itself, but dragging them back to the Crest was the other half of his job that sucked. Mando looked over his shoulder at you and replied matter-of-factly, “My job does suck.”

A giggle bubbled out from your chest. Every once in a while you would be reading a funny article on your Holopad and your laughs would echo through the hull of the Crest, making their way up into the cockpit. He needed more of them. His silver helmet shook slightly from side to side and he turned back to climb the ladder. But not before he also let out a small chuckle.

If you were comfortable enough to stand up to him, and laugh at his awful attempts at jokes–after he just hauled a bounty onto the ship–Mando realized he was safe.

Not only were you safe with him. He felt safe with you, in more ways than one.

Kriff it. You extended a friendly attitude towards him–a faceless warrior covered in impenetrable armor–then he could extend a friendly attitude towards you as well.

You asked him about this day, both in the mornings and the evenings. He learned about what you like and didn’t like. One item stood out to him. Caf. He always entered into a cloud of caf scent when he sauntered into the hull in the mornings. Mando was usually up before you, so he figured he would start making you a cup every morning. Confident enough in knowing which kinds of caf you preferred, he would stock up on caf every supply run.

The Mandalorian got closer to you, both physically and emotionally. Sometimes he would catch his hands landing on your waist or your lower back when he passed you on the ship. You’d shoot him a small smile in response. The distance he kept from you only decreased. He wanted to see your smile more and more. 

One thing he didn’t see coming was your interest in Mando’a. He would mumble to himself in the ship while completing various tasks.

“What’s that word mean?” You’d occasionally ask. The Mandalorian would explain their meanings, sometimes struggling to translate the word to Basic.

He must have taught you at least two dozen words in Mando’a by now. Each time you asked you would give him your full attention. 

At night, if he amplified the sound with his helmet enough, he could hear you practicing the words and recalling their meanings. It motivated him to share more words with you.

–

All of these experiences have led to this day. He’s been planning it for a month or two now. 

He wants to ask you on a date. Nerves bubbled up from his stomach and throughout his body. They suddenly came to a halt. 

Not now. First, he needs to collect information on a quarry.

Lost in his thoughts, he looked up and the market filled his vision with you in his peripheral. It wasn’t too busy, part of the reason why he was comfortable enough for you to shop on your own. He clarified the meet up point to you and watched as you took off. You had a bounce in your step, probably due to your excitement at shopping alone. 

Once he meandered further into the market he began to collect information. This market was the bounty’s last location. Mando’s guess was that he either simply wanted to be in a small city, gambled their life savings away, or they paid for visit after visit with the workers at the brothel until they ran out of credits.

Only one way to find out. The gambling and brothels didn’t start up until later in the afternoon. To kill the time, and to possibly find the quarry, Mando wandered throughout the different sections of the market. 

He asked a few vendors about the bounty. Mando described the man to many market sellers and only got a slight lead from one woman donned in patterned fabrics. 

“I think he went that way,” the woman gestured with one of her hands towards an intersection, “Take the left path. I don’t know anything else beyond that.”

Mando dropped a few credits into her hand and gave her a polite nod, “Thank you.” He continued on and curved his gait to take the left path. From the signs and general merchandise displayed on each stall, he knew he was entering the clothing section of the market.

The helmet covering his head swiveled from left to right and right to left. No one matched the description of his quarry. Repeating his previous process, he made his way down the stall-lined alley and asked a couple different vendors.

Once the last vendor finished talking, and provided him with another lead, he dug his hand into his pocket and slid the credits on the stall’s counter towards them. Turning his back towards the vendor, his feet carried him two steps back into the market.

Then he saw you.

You stood hunched over a table of colorful bracelets. Tapping his fingers to the temple of his helmet, Mando zoomed in and the helmet displayed your face to him, deep in thought. Looking down, you were hovering your hands over a grid of various green bracelets. 

You stopped on one. Mostly brown, almost too much to be in the green section, Mando thought. Nonetheless, the green and silver streaks peeked in and out of the thick threads of brown that made up the bracelet. Your fingers sorted through the sizes of the bracelet and selected one that looked close to your size. 

Clutching it in one hand, the other hand searched for another of the same bracelet. It was larger than the previous size. You set the smaller bracelet down and tested the strings. The bracelet was adjustable, and you smiled at the discovery.

You transferred the bracelets onto the table of the stall and used one hand to dig into your pockets. Palm held out flat, Mando guessed that about twenty credits sat in your palm. He followed your gaze to the sign listing the prices.

PRICES

1 bracelet = 15 credits

2 = 30 credits

3 = 45 credits

4 = 60 credits

Shoulders falling, you dropped the credits back into your pocket and returned the bracelets to their original spot in the grid of green. Ground crunched beneath your shoes as you turned and continued wandering through the market.

Mando noted it was the third stall to the left of the bright green stall on the left side of the alley.

Not wanting you to realize he saw you, the Mandalorian walked in the opposite direction you took. After twenty minutes he noticed that the stalls became much more strange than the stalls in the clothing section of the market. Peering at the different products for sale, he saw a potions shop offering “super strength elixir” and a vendor selling various pet-like creatures. A few more vendors passed his peripheral vision as he continued his strides. They came to a stop once a building larger than the surrounding stalls came into view.

His helmet tilted upwards to read the sign displayed front and center on the large building: BROTHEL.

Tapping the side of his helmet, the time on the helmet’s display indicated that the brothel and gambling scenes had just begun. Mando tapped the temple of his helmet once again and the warm bodies within the building lit up, like he had x-ray vision. He counted a dozen in total. One body stood in the same spot inside near an entryway–the bouncer, Mando thought.

The bouncer was the individual that allowed access in and out of the building. If their memory was decent, they would be like a living guest book. Mando figured he could bribe them to reveal information, which was his usual plan with most of the beings he spoke with.

He sauntered over to the side of the building the bouncer was standing at. A singular light flickered over the side door, the sun was still out, so Mando was confused why it was on. The beskar helmet observed the side door.

Metal. Double deadbolts. Keypad on the left side. Small slit at eye level–neck level for the Mandalorian.

As soon as he crouched down to look near the slit, it slid open and revealed a thick pair of black eyebrows. Black eyes bore into the brow of Mando’s helmet, as the bouncer couldn’t seem to find his eyes. 

“Do you have an appointment?” The bouncer asked. The voice behind the door was gruff, as if the words had to crawl from the depths of his throat. 

“No,” Mando responded.

Black eyes blinked and then disappeared when the bouncer closed the metal slit. 

Mando was taken aback and furrowed his brow. His fist pounded on the door. He just wanted this hunt to be over with. He wanted to get back to you.

The slit in the door revealed two black eyes once more.

“I have credits and will pay you if you give me information on a client your establishment may have served.” Mando’s modulator gritted out loudly. Straight and to the point. All business. 

Eyes disappeared again, but were then accompanied with the sounds of the deadbolts unlocking. The metal door swung open to reveal a man dressed in all black with a silver name tag. Black hair matched the rest of his ensemble. 

Still holding the door, the bouncer asked, “What’s the bounty look like?”

An eyebrow raised inside Mando’s helmet, but he figured the bouncer knew the drill by now. Even other bounty hunters knew that brothels were what many bounties visited. A gloved hand unbuttoned a pocket on his belt and retrieved a bounty puck. Clicking the side of it, the puck displayed the quarry. 

The man stepped out of the doorway and onto the pavement, pulling the door closed behind him. His black eyes slightly squinted when his gaze trailed up and down the hologram.

“Ah yeah, I’ve seen this guy. He has a type, always goes for the blondes.” 

“Does he have any upcoming appointments?” Mando questioned.

The bouncer sighed in thought and pulled a small notepad from his pocket. Mando mirrored the man’s motion and produced a pen and notepad from his pocket. 

“The guy has an appointment in two days. He just asked to see a blonde. Figures.” The man shrugged and opened his notepad. Mando noticed it was a planner, and the bouncer flipped to the pages for the appointments two days from today.

“Which workers would take him as a client?” Mando’s modulator churned the words. His pen clicked as he readied himself to write.

The man donned in black made a fist with one hand and raised a finger with each name, “Ari. Taima. And Nomi. They would be in rooms one, five, or seven.”

Wow, Mando thought, this guy really knew the drill. He quickly finished up writing down the names and room numbers of each worker. The pen scratched feverishly against the cream colored paper, leaving behind black strokes to form letters and numbers. Notepad folding closed and the pen clicking, signifying the end of his notes, Mando returned the pen and paper to their place in his pocket. His opposing hand reached into a different pocket and produced a sizable amount of credits. Feeling generous, thankful that this hunt was going to be quick, he compensated the bouncer handsomely.

First task done. Second task on the horizon.

Creaking produced from the hinges of the metal door as the bouncer disappeared behind it once more. Flickering light gleamed off the beskar armor that protected the Mandalorian in combat. Although he wasn’t going into combat, because he wouldn’t be nervous if he was. 

Mando trained most of his life with the greatest warriors in the galaxy. Combat flowed through his blood easily. It was a part of him. 

But he was never trained on how to ask people out on dates.

On top of that, he was never trained on how to ask you out on a date.

He didn’t want to misread the situation. You could just be friendly. Who would want to date a man and not know what he looks like? Who would want to constantly live on a ship, without a permanent home? 

Being Mando, he prepared for the worst. If you said no, he figured that you would be uncomfortable living with the man who asked you out on a date. Knowing that he’s attracted to you. He would fly wherever you wanted and give you some credits to get started. Kriff, he’d send credits for however long it takes for you to get on your feet. Then he’d leave you alone. 

Admittedly, the Mandalorian would probably keep an eye on you to make sure you were safe. You just wouldn’t know he’s there.

But if you said yes.

Mando’s chest bloomed with anticipation. Firework-like tingles trailed up and down his limbs at the thought. He bit his lip within the confines of his helmet when he realized his pants had gotten tighter. Thankfully he was a Mandalorian, because heat washed over his face, half due to arousal and the other half in embarrassment.

The brown eyes underneath the helmet widened. If he wanted to do more with you and you agreed, he didn’t have protection.

Turning on his heel, cape whipping behind him, he made a quick pace back to the brothel.

Once he arrived at the gray building, the light at the side of the building having more of a purpose, Mando glided towards the same door as before. Bringing a fist up to the metal, he knocked three times.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Clink. Shhhkt.

“Do you sell condoms?” the modulator quickly blurted.

All business.

—

He arrived at the meet up point before you. Leaning against a nearby tree, Mando checked the time constantly, as if he was devoted to the action more than his Creed. If you were late, he always went looking. 

Thankfully, you trudged up to the food stall on time with a hefty bag full of purchases. Fine, brown gravel grinded against the soles of Mando’s shoes as he made his way over to you. His gloved hand slipped the bag from your grasp and the pair of you began walking back to the Crest.

Both of you carried on with your normal post-supply run routines. You and Mando, but this time just Mando, piled the purchases from the market onto the hull’s floor. From there, the items could be sorted through and put in their respective places around the Crest.

As Mando finished unloading the large bag of purchases, he quickly dug around for the receipts. He knew how much you liked to review the shopping haul each time a supply run was completed. Mando enjoyed seeing the satisfaction wash over your face after you read over the receipts.

But this time was different. You froze once you got to the last receipt.

Mando’s helmet tilted in confusion. He took a few steps closer towards you, “What’s wrong? Did we forget something?”

You remained still while your eyes darted over the lines on the receipt. With your back turned to him, Mando found the opportunity to zoom in on the ink printed on the flimsy paper.

ITEMS PURCHASED (1)

CONDOM - 12 PACK

Oh. Fuck. FUCK.

He hasn’t even asked you on a date yet and now you probably already think he’s a perv. Nerves took over his body as you continued to stand still.

Your hand quickly crushed the receipts and threw them in the trash, “Nope! The last receipt didn’t look familiar but,” you trailed off slightly but recovered, “I remembered what I bought from the place.” A nervous laugh–obviously fake, Mando knew what your real one sounded like–escaped from your lips.

He fucked it up. You knew he was interested in you like that. And you didn’t feel the same. He hasn’t even asked you on the date yet. It’s all screwed up now.

But he also felt like he didn’t have enough evidence. What if you did like him but the idea of…needing to use the condoms…made you nervous.

Mando had to at least try. The least he had to do was ask you.

He cleared his throat and grabbed the bag off of the floor. You stood away from him, biting the inside of your cheek, nervously watching his movements. 

“I’m going to go to the night market,” he informed you, “I have some business with a bounty I need to take care of.” 

The bounty wouldn’t be captured until two days from now. In reality, he was really going to go and purchase snacks, takeout, and a pair of those bracelets you admired. It would have been suspicious if he met you back at the meet up point with bags full of snacks. The beskar man figured it would be best to hold off on buying them until later, and tell you he was getting a bounty, so you wouldn’t catch on.

He should’ve waited for this second trip to buy the condoms, he thought.

–

Mando left to, “Go to the night market,” he said. You saw the condom listed on the market receipts, you knew where he went tonight. What he’s going to do. 

The brothels.

Yeah, sure, he’s paying a worker to give him a service. No feelings attached. But you didn’t want him to be with anyone else. Was Mando necessarily yours? No. Have you ever had sex with him? Also no.

That didn’t stop you from getting jealous.

And it wasn’t just jealousy. It was fear. What if he fell in love with one of them? Or what if he was going on dates? He could have a romantic interest you don’t even know about. Next thing you know, they’re going steady and you’re kicked off the ship. Or worse, you have to watch him love someone that isn’t you.

No more silence with him in the cockpit, watching as the hyperspace lights soar past the windshield. Feet tapping down the ladder as you both began your nighttime routines. He’d wait in the hull near the door of the fresher in just his helmet, undershirt, sleep pants, and socks. As he lifted off the wall from his leaning stance he’d ask you, “Are you done?” Holding his own hands in front of him, trying to seem relaxed, as if he was trying to look less intimidating. “Yeah,” you’d quickly respond, leaving the fresher and brushing past him. Sometimes his hand found your waist as he passed, or the small of your back. “Thank you,” he’d grunt gently as he closed the fresher door. 

No more of Mando letting out a small, “Good night,” before lingering on your closing eyes and watching as your lips smiled, forming your response, “Good night.” 

Falling asleep, you knew you’d wake up to him. He would be up before you on most days, leaving you a fresh cup of caf and your favorite ration pack (when he had them). The short chatter between you two, going over the logistics of the next hunt, telling stories from your past, or just thinking out loud to each other. Gone.

You would be banished from home.

The fear struck your chest. Heat searing through your ribcage and meeting your spine, the visions repeated over and over in your head. Tears fell like waterfalls from your eyes. Most streams connected underneath your chin and trailed down your neck. Your back met the hull’s wall as you sank down onto the floor. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Your head was heavy and numb.

Just breathe. You knew you weren’t going to die. Go through some heartbreak? Maybe, but you knew you’d be alive. It helped. Your breath slowed and the fear dissipated into the air around you. That didn’t stop the flow of tears down your cheeks as your eyes were fixed on the closed ramp.

–

Mando’s footsteps set a steady pace back to the market.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

He displayed a map of the marketplace as an overlay on the display of his helmet. Mando usually reserved this practice for combat to aid in determining exit strategies and the best plan of attack.

But now he was using it to calculate the most efficient route throughout the marketplace in order to see you again sooner. 

Closing the overlay from the helmet’s display, he was met with the sight of the market. Long strings of lights decorated the different stalls. Many vendors took advantage of the dark and used different, bright combinations to reel in customers. Some lights were multicolored. Some flashing. Some huge and some small. He thought of the “ooh”s, and, “ahh”s that you would let out at the brilliant display.

The Mandalorian started in the food section of the market. Carefully examining which vendors carried your favorite snacks, he made purchase after purchase in quick succession. His helmet remained on a swivel, scanning the stalls from right to left and left to right. 

A stall offering your favorite kind of takeout came into view.

Once Mando arrived at the stall he ordered two takeout meals. The vendor looked startled and confused as he ordered. They shakily accepted the credits for the two meals. Gazes drifted away from Mando and quickly returned as he stood waiting for the meals to be prepared. A bell rang and he retrieved two warm containers, placing them in his bag alongside the snacks.

One last stop. The bracelets.

Marching through the food district, he came upon an intersection at which the left path led him to the clothing district. Yet again, his helmet pivoted on his neck from one side to another. 

The third stall to the left of the bright green stall on the left side of the alley.

Mando continued his steady pace until the bright green stall came into view. The brightness of the exterior paint was exaggerated by the warm light emitted by lanterns, which decorated the outside of the shop. He didn’t notice before but the store sold children’s clothes. Onesies. Small shoes. Tiny hats.

A small tunic. Small enough for a human child younger than one year old. The tunic reminded him of Grogu’s. Mando’s bare hands brushed against the material countless times as he cradled The Child in his arms.

The last time he spoke about Grogu was with you. You listened and offered support. He’s never had anyone do that for him.

His visor turned to his left. The soft fairy lights of the stall reflected off of the beskar helmet on his head. As if the beskar reflected a dark sky decorated with bright stars. Various fabrics hung from the side of the vendor’s stall to cover the old wooden planks. Little accessories were placed throughout the shop on different tables and displays. 

Mando wasn’t focused on those items, he was focused on the long table of bracelets organized by color. His feet carried him to the green section. The helmet turned downwards to allow him to observe the selection. 

Shit.

There were so many bracelets similar to the pair you held, just all in different combinations of green, silver, and brown. Was it the bracelet with the large green cord and the small silver and brown threads? Or the one with the large silver cord and green and brown threads? Or thick brown cord with streaks of green and silver? His hands hovered over the options, doing his best to recall the details from earlier in the day.

“It’s this one,” a woman’s voice said.

A bit startled, the Mandalorian looked up and found a woman standing on the other side of the table. She wore long robes with intricate patterns. Jewelry decorated every limb and part of her body, like jewels were dripping down from her skin from a storm of gemstones. Hair cascaded around her shoulders and down her back. Her smile was kind and her gaze met Mando at his eyebrow.

A good try, he thought.

“I’m sorry?” He replies. She couldn’t possibly know which bracelet he was trying to find.

“You were watching them earlier. From across the street,” she let out faint exhales as she let out a short laugh, “Maybe you should hide a little better next time.” 

She reached out and picked two bracelets out of the display grid. “I remember the sizes too,” she said, “The person you watched held onto them for so long, they seemed pretty attached to them. I kept track of which bracelets they were just in case.” The robed woman shot him a friendly wink.

“In case of what?” Mando questioned. He was still in shock that the woman noticed him staring at you from across the street. 

The woman glanced up at him like that was a dumb question, “In case you came back to get them, Mandalorian. This isn’t my first day on the job.”

It saved him the time and stress of trying to remember which one it was, so he shrugged and watched the woman’s jewelry dangle as she typed onto the register. 

Beep. Beep. Beep beep. Ching.

“Okay sir, twenty credits please!” The woman extended her hand out and waited for Mando to place credits into her palm. She was met with the tilting of the black T shape on Mando’s beskar helmet. 

“I thought the price was thirty,” he stated as he began to reach into his pockets to retrieve his credits.

The woman let out another small laugh, “Oh, I suppose I should have made the sign larger,” her decorated fingers pointed to a small sign above the one that displays the bracelet prices.

$10 OFF WHEN YOU BUY TWO OR MORE

Mando’s shoulders dip in realization that you could’ve bought the bracelets in the first place. A sigh escapes his modulator and he hands the credits over to the intricately robed vendor. The credits clink into her palm, and then into the register.

He waits silently for her to package them up in a small bag. 

“They like you, you know,” the woman mentions, “No one like them would be deciding on which bracelets to buy for that long if they didn’t.” She paused as she was about to place the larger of the two into the small bag, “And look at the size of this one! It’s definitely for you.” 

The Mandalorian nods, “I appreciate that,” he pauses before turning away, “let’s hope they do.”

–

Mando sets a faster pace back to the Crest than the one he took from the Crest to the market. He’s impatient, he can’t wait to walk up the ramp and see your body curled up, comfortable and safe, while you sleep soundly in your bed–if you can even call it that, he thought. You usually went to bed early when he went on hunts, otherwise you would be awake talking to him.

Slipping the bag from his shoulder, an ungloved hand rummaged through the contents searching for a small bag. His fingers found the familiar texture and he pulled it out from between the snacks and the takeout. 

Mando slung the bag back over his shoulder, pulled the larger of the two bracelets out of the small bag, and slipped his hand through the ring of brown, silver, and green. Grabbing one of the ends with his fingers and pinning it to his palm, the other hand tightened the bracelet to a comfortable size around his wrist.

Once the small bag was returned to its place inside of the larger one, Mando peered around him to get a good look of his surroundings. 

The sun was about to set, leaving only a sliver of light available to provide dim light to the landscape. Rocks littered the ground. Shadows from each one making them appear larger in the light of the impending dusk. He reached up and tapped a finger to the temple of his helmet. No living thing was around him.

He paused and set the bag on the ground. Doing one last scan of the area, one of his hands gripped the chin of his helmet and lifted the beskar from his head. The hand held the helmet at his side while he marveled at his wrist.

He caught a good patch of remaining light and watched as the green and silver threads gleamed against the thick brown ones. The bracelet was beautiful. Not only because of the design, but because you picked it out. And it was for him.

Becoming paranoid, the Mandalorian quickly slipped his helmet back onto his head. He waited for the seal of the helmet to engage before continuing back towards the Crest. This time, at an even faster pace.

–

You sat there until you heard heavy footsteps approaching from outside, the hydraulics of the ramp coming to life. Thinking fast, you stood up and made your way towards the fresher to start your nighttime routine.

“Why are you still awake?” Mando’s voice was confused. He stood in front at the top of the ramp with his helmet tilted, hands resting on his hips, but his shoulders were slumped, a bag slung around one. He looked…worried.

Mando was right. Usually when he went on hunts you went to bed early. Nowadays the only thing that kept you awake was him. Talking with him was how you spent most evenings on the Crest, your voices echoed and bounced back to each other in the hull.

He’s used to seeing you curled up on the sleeping pad covered in blankets. Soft breaths came from your body and radiated throughout the Crest. Just like a minute ago, his footsteps would come up the ramp with his bounty in tow. Soft grunts could be heard kitty-corner from your spot in the hull. A hiss of mechanisms as they froze the bounty in carbonite. Then a bit of silence. 

The absence of the carbonite freezing stood out in your mind. No bounty, even when he said he was going to go and find one. Your eyes teared up slightly again as the realization truly set in. Mando really did go to the brothel.

You just wanted this night to be like any other night he came back to the Crest with a bounty.

After the bounty was frozen, heavy footsteps made their way across the floor of the hull. But they always stopped a few paces away from your bed, halting for a moment. Mando would complete his nightly routine. Setting the Crest’s coordinates for the next planet and showering in the fresher if he needed to–he usually did.

No matter what the events of his nightly routine were, it always ended with him standing in the doorway of his bunk–the sound of his footsteps always stopped partially inside.

“Good night, cyar'ika.”

You didn’t know what the Mando’a meant, since Mando never used that word around you, but you knew that the, “good night,” was all you needed to finally fall asleep.

You always waited up for him, only until reasonable hours of the night, of course, but he didn’t know it.

The sound of his footsteps in the present snapped you out of your hazy state. Crying really does a number on your brain.

“Just…couldn’t fall asleep,” you offered him a small smile as you pulled some products out of the tiny fresher cabinet. You wet your face and applied a small amount onto your fingertips, tapping them together for both hands to have the product. As you lifted your face and your hands to the mirror to begin washing your face, you were met with swollen lips, puffy eyes, and slight tear trails dried onto your face, despite the water you just splashed onto it. You froze.

There goes any of your chances to get away with how you spent your night. Staying up late staring at the Crest’s ramp. Waiting for Mando to come home. At least what you thought was home.

“What’s wrong?” Mando’s voice got clearer as he approached the fresher door. His strides long, footsteps clunking, as he removed his leather gloves and tucked the pair into his utility belt.

You went to turn away from him but he got there faster than you could. His ungloved hand rested on your shoulder, grip slow yet firm as he turned you to face him. He rubbed tiny circles onto your skin with his thumb once his eyes beneath the helmet noticed yours.

Your reflection on the silver beskar of his helmet stared back at you. Could you even get away with a lie at this point? What else would have made you cry? It’s not exactly like you could have said the truth either.

Oh yeah, I was sitting here having a panic attack as you participated in a perfectly normal service that is offered on this planet. Then I spiraled and thought about how you might not even want me to be here, that you’ll find another partner to be on this ship with you, and toss me away like none of this meant anything to you.

Mando’s hand waved in front of your face and it brought you back into the present moment. “Did someone come onto the ship while I was gone?” His voice gritted out from the helmet’s modulator. 

“Maker, no,” you huffed and tried to look less suspicious, hoping he’ll just drop the topic.

“Then what is it?” He murmured, his modulator barely picking up his syllables. His wide shoulders took up most of the fresher’s door frame. The grip on your shoulder tightened slightly.

“It’s…I don’t think you’ll want to hear it.” You shrugged and repressed the heat of anxiety creeping down the back of your head. Turning to wash and dry your hands, you let out a sigh and started to walk towards the main open space of the hull. Your shoulder gently bumped him as you slid past his large frame in the doorway. 

Suddenly your hips were being snapped backwards and dragged back towards the fresher. His damn finger was in your belt loop again. 

He pulled you close to him, feeling the heat from his knuckle dig into your hip and spread throughout the rest of your body. His helmet leaned down to look you in the eye and tilted once again.

“Try me,” he paused. He brought his hand up to grip onto the valley where your neck meets your shoulder, slowly enough so you could back away if you so desired. His large palm and thick fingers were calloused and warm. The grip he had on you was still gentle, slightly squeezing. “You know you can tell me, right?”

You let a deep inhale permeate through your lungs. The words flowed through your individual cells. Thoughts of lying escaped your body with each breath. The debate inside your head would end. Whether he had those feelings for you or not.

“I got upset because you went to the brothel.” You told him. Lips trembling and eyes squinted open in an attempt to meet his gaze.

“The brothel?” He held both of your shoulders and brought his visor closer to your face. Thumbs rubbed your shoulders yet again. He sighed as your name left his lips and traveled through his helmet, “I didn’t go to a brothel tonight.” A titled T-shaped gaze met yours. You knew he was looking you in the eyes, and yours into his.

Brows furrowed, you sniffled slightly, “I-, I saw that condoms were on the market receipts.” The thumbs on your shoulders stopped, his chest didn’t rise and fall. He froze. You made Mando freeze. 

“Look I know I’m just being dramatic and paying for that kind of thing is completely normal. I just,” you trailed off and thought of a quick replacement for your worry, “I was worried you would get hurt there.”

Mando’s shoulders fell and his helmet cocked to the side. “What?” He questioned. “How would I get hurt? None of the workers there had weapons.”

“How would you know that if you didn’t go?” You whispered to him. Your gaze left his and it dropped to the shape in the center of his chestplate. The crystal shape rose up and down slowly.

“I got information on a bounty there earlier,” he sounded like he was talking to a hurt animal. Gentle. Slow. Calm. “What's the actual reason you’re upset?” 

Kriff it.

“I had a panic attack because I thought you went to the brothel. Maybe you would like the worker there more than you like me, I spiraled and thought about how you might not even want me to be here, that you’ll find another partner to be on this ship with you,” your chest heaved and as you listed off your previous thoughts of worry. Your hands shook as they landed on top of Mando’s, and you took a deep breath, eyes meeting his gaze like before, “and toss me away like none of this meant anything to you.”

Mando is quick. He flipped his hands to grab one of yours and tugged you into the hull. Kneeling, he opened a cloth bag, one from the market, and dug into it to search for something. 

He actually went to the night market. You thought, now you look so clingy. So needy. He was just going to show you what he got to prove he went.

He turned and held his hand out. Sitting on top of the golden skin on his palm was a bracelet.

The bracelet from the market.

“I saw you looking at these, you looked for a long time and then put them down,” He stood up and set his gait to slow steps as he made his way over to you.

You laughed nervously, accompanied by a small sniffle, “Sorry yeah, I know I just should have been getting the stuff we needed. You didn’t have to go back and get it for-.” Mando raised a finger to halt your speech and continued what he was saying previously, “you put them down. You had two bracelets.”

“They had lots of them that I liked…I had two that were a tie and I just decided to get neither-.” Mando cut you off again.

“You were holding one bracelet consistently and then picked another in a bigger size,” you froze at his words. Dank farrik. Now he was going to think you’re super clingy. 

“I wasn't completely sure who you wanted to wear the bracelet, but I took a guess.” He pulled his long sleeve past his elbow and revealed his bare forearm. Strong. Capable. Solid. And a matching bracelet was donned on his wrist.

Your cheeks radiated with heat as he took your wrist and put your bracelet on you. His warm fingertips brushed the soft skin of your wrist, sending chills throughout your body at the meticulous skin-on-skin contact. 

Once the bracelet was secure around your wrist, Mando dipped his head and looked down at the floor. One of his hands gripped the underside of his helmet, and the other held onto your wrist. Your breath caught in your throat at the gesture. He quickly lifted his helmet to release his mouth, and he pressed three kisses on your wrist where the bracelet was. Mando’s lips were soft and timid, his hand caressing the skin on yours. Silver from his beskar helmet blocked your view, but Mando sealed his helmet and brought his eyes underneath the visor to look into yours.

“This means everything to me.”

Supply Run - Exchange (part three)