#Cubicle curtains fabrics

[rachanasharma1028]

Decorate and protect your homes and offices with high-quality curtains and blinds. Contact us for pricing and installation. For more info visit at: https://dubaiblindsncurtains.com/cubicle-curtains/cubicle-curtains-tracks/

[johnypage95]

Each item contributes to the overall harmony of your spaces. With the wonderful stylish interior collection, you can add style, individuality, and refinement to your house without having to pay designer costs. Our exquisite selection of curtains, blinds, and shutters provides the greatest solutions since it offers a huge selection of materials and hues to meet the demands of various interiors. To know more information visit: https://www.dubaishades.ae/cubicle-curtains/cubicle-curtains-tracks/

[deepspacenova]

UNDER PRESSURE

1700 words | banter. tension. jealousy. possessive Sylus.

Prompt: running into your main lads man (boyfriend) while you're out with your second favorite lads man (as a friend) and how they would react.

Note: Written for this round robin/challenge by the lovely @jinwoosbabyboo -- it's open for anyone, by the way, so consider yourself tagged if you're interested! (:

The smell of antiseptic mingled with the earthy scent of Vagrant's Land while the pop-up clinic buzzed with organized chaos. Patients with various illnesses and injuries stood around waiting for the moment they'd be called back and have their ailments treated or cured.

The welcome tent’s fabric flapped in the soft breeze as you let the nurse manning the check-ins know why you were there. When you were shown inside, you noticed the open space had been outfitted with portable medical equipment to create a busy hive of treatment cubicles and testing areas.

You glanced around the crowded space until you found him. Taller than most of the room, intent on his work, and confidently in his element, Dr. Zayne scribbled onto the clipboard a nurse was holding toward him. Finishing his last marking, he looked up, cool hazel eyes thawing ever-so-slightly and dented with a happy crinkle as he straightened and dismissed your escort.

"Right on time," he murmured, grabbing two latex gloves, a yellow file folder, and his medical bag.

"Miracles can happen when you least expect them," you teased with a grin.

Zayne started to usher you toward a makeshift examination corner since all the cubicle curtains were closed. "Medical miracles, maybe," he quipped. "But you being on time? That’s a phenomenon even science can’t explain."

You laughed softly, sitting down as he gestured to a folding chair and rested his medical bag on the wobbly table next to him. "Careful, Dr. Zayne, your bedside manner is slipping."

With an amused shake of his head, he reassured, "This shouldn't take long. Just a quick exam, same as always."

You nodded, rolling up your sleeve as he pressed his cool fingers to the inside of your wrist and got started. His touch was warm but impersonal, his attention fixed on his readings. He moved methodically, pressing the tips of his fingers over your heart and chest.

Though the process was clinical, you couldn't help but study Zayne with fondness — the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his nostrils flared when a loud noise interrupted him, the way his breath became a tickle on your cheek when he leaned in to adjust his stethoscope.

That was the moment you heard his voice.

“Don't tell me you're afraid now,” Sylus demanded from the clinic's entrance, making nurses and bystanders alike stand to attention, as if they couldn't help but wait for his next directive. “I could put you two into far worse situations.”

Two hooded boys in medical masks shuffled in behind him, the defiant puff of their chests doing little to hide their apprehension. At Sylus' words Luke scowled but didn’t argue while Kieran kept glancing toward the exit like a cornered animal. Giving them a pointed look toward the nurse they were supposed to follow, he took a few steps forward before his eyes landed on you.

The vision of the leader of Onychinus halting in place with a satisfied smirk spreading across his face was unnerving enough to straighten every spine in the vicinity. But he barely noticed as he waved off the boys and made his way toward you.

Then his eyes flicked to the person next to you. To the stern yet striking man whose face was so close to yours he was practically stealing your fucking air from you.

Jaw tightening — the only outward sign of his discomfiture—Sylus strode toward you with deliberate, measured steps, his posture casual but predatory.

A fluttering of wings had taken flight in your stomach as soon as you'd heard Sylus' gravelly voice, but for the sake of Zayne's time and not raising any eyebrows in the semi-public setting, you'd resolved to find Sylus after your check-up. Unfortunately for you, Sylus never much cared about the concept of discretion when it came to you.

Stopping behind you, he placed the edge of his palm on your shoulders, spreading his fingers across your chest in a rather over-the-top display of possessiveness.

Doctor Zayne hadn't even looked up at the interruption and had moved on to digging for a tool in his medical bag when the hand-shaped barrier blocked his access to your heart.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?" Though the words were casual, his tone was wrapped in barbed wire.

"Sylus!" You said, hoping the breathlessness in your voice wasn't too noticeable. Looking up at his sharp features, which managed to be frustratingly beautiful even upside down, you smiled and moved his hands from your chest to your biceps, patting the tops of them twice. "I didn't know this is what you meant when you said you were taking care of some business with Luke and Kieran. Shouldn't you be with them?"

A low chuckle emerged from his throat, laced with both amusement and menace. "I was, sweetie. That is, until someone else piqued my... curiosity." His hands slid slowly down to the crooks of your elbows and then disappeared. Suddenly, the chair next to you was occupied with your boyfriend's imposing form, eyes boring into Zayne's unflappable figure. "I didn't realize doctors from Linkon City made special appointments when they visited Vagrant's Land."

“I volunteer here once a month,” Zayne said matter-of-factly. He didn’t look up as he re-focused on his examination of you, ignoring Sylus' eyes — one, a muted scarlet, the other an angry vermillion — trained on every movement. “It’s a good way to reach those who can’t make it to a hospital.”

Sylus’s gaze darkened, his lips curving into a tight smile. “How noble of you. I see you're very—” His eyes lingered on Zayne’s hand, still resting against your chest. “—thorough with your patients.”

"Sylus," you cut in quickly. "Have you met my childhood friend, Zayne? We recently reconnected when he became my doctor."

But Sylus' attention didn't move from Zayne.

“Any good doctor is thorough,” Zayne replied, turning to jot down notes into your file. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if Sylus’s presence barely registered. “If something's off, it's important to work on her as soon as possible."

“I’ll bet it is,” Sylus muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his seat.

Recognizing the simmering menace in his tone, you jam your elbow into Sylus' narrowing your eyes in a silent warning. Your string of bad luck continued however, when, after he placed a dramatic hand over his elbow, Sylus went back to watching your childhood friend with the kind of intensity that made most people fear for their lives.

Zayne, of course, was not most people.

“Do you mind?” Zayne asked, flicking a quick glance at Sylus through his lashes. “I’m trying to work.”

“Not at all,” Sylus replied smoothly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Another tense few minutes pass, and the balloon of pressure in your chest expanded second by second as the tension between Sylus and Zayne crackled like static.

You were caught between irritation with Sylus for his uncharacteristically territorial behavior or shock with Zayne, who was acting more aloof than usual, almost like he was... purposefully fueling Sylus' ire.

“So, Sylus,” you said brightly, trying again to diffuse the situation. “Why'd you bring Luke and Kieran here?”

“Do they seem like the guys who'd show up to update their vaccines if I didn't drag them myself?” he shot back with a smirk, jerking his head toward the cubicle Luke and Kieran were in.

“That’s admirable,” Zayne remarked, his tone neutral. “More people should take an interest in the well-being of others.”

“That's me, a real caretaker," Sylus drawled, eyes narrowed. And just like that, any hope for the peace you'd been building toward popped like a bubble. "Though I can't say I'm as hands-on as you, doctor. At least... not in public."

"A shame." Zayne raised an eyebrow, his expression faintly amused. “Hands-on can be very effective when done correctly.”

The implication hung in the air, subtle but deliberate. You groaned internally, feeling like a rope in an increasingly taut tug-of-war.

“Alright, enough,” you snapped, looking down at them with your hands on your hips. “Sylus, this is just a check-up. Zayne, stop provoking.”

Both men fell silent, though the charged atmosphere lingered.

Sylus had the nerve to look almost... chagrined for the first time in his life, which alone worked wonders on your frustration — though from the way he stood and rested his hand on the back of your neck, it might've been more placating than chagrined.

Zayne, who also stood up, simply adjusted his glasses, his composure as unshaken as ever.

“I’m done here,” Zayne said, handing you a slip of paper. “I've updated the schedule according to your upcoming work trips. Other than that, you're fine.”

“Thank you, Zayne,” you smile warmly, stuffing the paper into your bag.

Zayne nodded, then turned to Sylus and held out his hand in a begrudging truce. “She’s in good health. You can relax.”

For a moment, you stared at Sylus' stoic expression and worried all hell would break loose in Vagrant's Land. Then, he linked his hand with Zayne's and gave it a firm, business-like shake, turned you around, and led you back to the entrance to wait for Luke and Kieran.

You couldn’t help but glance back at Zayne as you walked. He'd already moved onto his next patient, but caught your eye when you look around. And you could've sworn that Zayne, Doctor Zayne, your childhood friend, winked at you.

Once you were far enough to feel the afternoon breeze sweep over you, Sylus' gaze softened as he searched your face. “You feeling alright?” he asked, looking at the place where her aether core rested. His voice was quieter now, the edges of his tone no longer sounding so ruffled.

“I don't know. How should I feel after I've been pissed on by my boyfriend at my doctor's appointment?” Though you try to sound angry, it comes out as nothing but pure amusement.

At your smile, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and the corner of his lips curved. "Pissed on? I'd never do something so crass, kitten." He leaned down, his breath gliding over the crook of your neck like a feather, and rasped, "You know I'm more of a biter."

[katyawriteswhump]

bride of frankenstein

for @steddie-spooktober day 25 'Frankenstein Friday'" & day 24 'pumpkin' @stevieweek 'I don't know about this one...' and @steddiemicrofic October prompt, 'dress'

Rating T | 350 words | transfem!Steve, steddie, fluff, attempt at humour | no content warnings.

In the costume-hire store, Eddie and Robin were arguing over Eddie’s Frankenstein’s monster costume and make-up.

Stevie was browsing the racks. She’d already chosen a pumpkin outfit, from which her head poked like an orange turtle, capturing her vibe of late. Since switching gender in small-town Hawkins, she’d favoured baggy, neutral clothes.

Usually.

She pulled out a slinky, silky white dress labelled, “Bride of Frankenstein,” and scooted into the changing cubicle.

She ditched the ugly beehive wig, then shimmied into the mid-thigh-kissing halter-neck gown—damn, she’d need her padded bra. She twirled in front of the mirror: “Okay, I don’t know about this one. You can see my whole panty-line in it.”

While her ass looked great, the clingy fabric also rode up her crack. Not ideal to take kids trick-or-treating.

“Can we come in?” sang Robin. “Your boyfriend has finally accepted Mary Shelley’s monster was pus-yellow with no neck-bolt.”

Eddie slipped through the curtains and gaped, genuinely in need of his monster jaw-bandage: “Tell me you’re wearing that tonight?”

“In your dreams,” said Stevie.

In my dreams.

Later, after chaperoning, they hit the party trail. At the final stop, Eddie opened his van’s rear-door for Stevie. Her pumpkin suit didn’t fit in the front.

“You finished changing, Babe..? Wow!” 

Stevie, wearing the white dress and lace-spiderweb stockings, took his hand and gracefully alighted. Their lingering kiss was inevitable, removing most of her lipstick and the remnants of his yellow face-paint. Eddie broke it and sighed: “It’s Chrissy’s no-costume chillout party, Babe. You can’t go in like—”

“I’m Stevie Harrington wearing a dress that’d terrify her mom. No costume.”

“Agree,” interjected Robin. “Bride of Frankenstein, my tits!”

She disappeared inside. Steve lifted her curling hair from her neck, whispering, “Don’t tell Robin or Chrissy, but I’m keeping the choker with the neck-bolt on.”

“Christ, you’re sexy.” Eddie nuzzled her throat, hands sliding to caress her butt. “No panty-line?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She smirked and leaned in, lips ghosting against Eddie’s ear: “You better get me out of this dress before midnight, or I might turn back into a pumpkin."

Tags: @wheneverfeasible ❤️❤️❤️❤️

My fic on AO3

[octuscle]

Shiny fabric

As much as Mack enjoyed living in the countryside in Scotland, he also enjoyed the occasional trip to London. He loved the metropolis, which was yet another category entirely different from Glasgow. And Mack loved the East End. Here he found honest lads, real fellas, with whom one could have all kinds of fun. Fun of all kinds. Actually, it was usually enough for Mack if there were a few beers and if there was fucking afterwards. That was all he needed on a good night out in London. But tonight he was excited. He'd passed a store last night on the way to his hotel room that had Adidas Chile tracksuits in his size in the window. In XXL. Black with gold stripes. He had been looking for it for years. Just wasn't available in that size anymore. He had never understood why Adidas no longer produced it. He knew a whole bunch of fellas who got off on the shiny fabric. He wouldn't necessarily wear something like that in public. But at home. Jerking off in the fabric. He had gotten a boner right away at the thought.

The store was called CHAVTF and it opened at 11:00 on Saturday. At 10:50, Mack was at the door. He didn't want to take any chances, he had to have the tracksuit. At 11:15, a young man came and opened the door. Slim, he wore a tracksuit himself and an alpha jacket over it. Hair noticeably shorter than Mack's. Cool bastard, Mack thought to himself… The cool bastard asked Mack into the store, turned on the lights and asked how he could help. As cool as he could be, Mack asked for the suit from the store window. In XXL. The store clerk laughed. Mate, the only thing XXL about you is your dick. There are changing rooms in the back, get undressed, I'll bring you the tracksuit. Without thinking, Mack went into the locker room and stripped naked. Between his legs dangled his impressive cock, dripping precum. He looked at himself in the mirror with satisfaction. The young man came into the cubicle, the curtain of which was not drawn at all. He placed the suit on a stool, hugged Mack from behind, and grasped the massive cock with both hands. "To try on the suit, though, please wrap that beauty up," he laughed. Mack picked up the jockstrap from the floor and pulled it over his wiry, hairy legs. The jockstrap still reeked of last night's piss, cum and beer. He took the shiny size S pants and pulled them up. Fit like a glove. The store clerk cleared out a new shipment of goods and stopped briefly at the changing room. Looks extremely awesome, mate. Your customers are going to love it."

Mack reached through the fabric of his pants for his cock. "Hell, yeah," he said enthusiastically. "Here, try this T-shirt with it," the store clerk said, tossing him a compression shirt with Batman printed on it. Mack slipped it on and nodded his approval. Looked cool, accentuated his lean body. "Say, how much do you actually take for a date?" Mack said that depended on the customer, a quick blowjob here in the locker room would be free. But otherwise, he would be a luxury product. Only for an escort service he took 200 pounds an hour. Everything else cost extra. "Bloody hell," the clerk replied. 'I work two days for that. When things are going well. But don't your customers expect someone freshly showered? You smell like you haven't showered in two days." "Three, actually. I'm about to have a pervert jerk off while he gets to smell my armpits. Gives you some extra cash." "I really have the wrong job. Is the Arab accent a trick? Or are you really from there." Maleek explained in the finest Cockney accent that his parents were from Morocco, but he was born here. Of course, the Arab accent is a trick. But his clients would dig it.

Maleek paid for the three tracksuits that were still available in his size. He knew how dates with his next client went. If his tracksuit survived, his client would ask him to piss in it and then pay him easily five times what he had to pay now for three suits. So two suits on reserve was a wise investment. And just because he was a whore, he didn't have to be a bad businessman. But now let's go to the agreed meeting place and play the street hustler. That was part of the game with his client.

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Four.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count:   2.1K 

summary: Din cannot stop laughing, Marathel ends up in a tree, and eggs are thrown with extreme prejudice 

warnings: Mando'a and English cursing, violence to unborn ovoids 

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Din was still somewhere between dreaming and waking. He could only see soft, fading images in his mind: a gentle curve of a jawline, a slope of a pale-skinned shoulder. He heard a soft voice, quietly saying, “No . . . we can’t . . .” This denial made him furrow his brow even as he dozed, still gently supported in the herbal-scented clouds of sleep. Whyever not? He thought in his sleep. “No . . . don’t . . .” the soft voice pleaded again. No, don’t say ‘no’, he dreamed, but his dream was cut off like hitting a brick wall when he heard Marathel say, “Grogu! No, don’t!”, and Din felt the pounce of the little green goblin on his lower abdomen, not quite his area but close enough to make him grunt loudly with an “URGH,” and struggle to a sitting position with a babbling Grogu in his lap. 

Marathel, outside the dark curtained cubicle, stammered, “I’m so sorry, Bounty Hunter! I told him not to wake you . . .” 

“’s all right,” Din muttered as he pushed himself to a standing position, Grogu in the crook of his arm. “Time I was up. What the shab is so important, huh, buddy?” He stepped through his curtains and looked up to see Marathel standing primly in the center of the room, her hands clasped over her stomach. His first thought was that she was doing her best to look anywhere but at his face – well, helmet -- and his second thought was that she looked quite pretty today. Instead of her usual tunics and pants of dull tans, greens, and greys, she was wearing a gown of sunset yellow that fell into a swirl of fabric just above her ankles. Over this she wore a smock of deep charcoal grey, embroidered with yellow flowers around the neckline. Her silver hair was pulled back in a matching yellow scarf that was twisted around her shock of hair and tied off at the end.  

Marathel looked dismayed that Din was awakened in such a startling manner. “I told Grogu that I needed his help this morning, but we couldn’t leave until you had awakened. I did not want you to find him missing. But . . . he is impatient.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To collect eggs.” 

“Eggs? Already?” 

She looked at his helmet for the first time, confused. “What? Oh . . . no. Not Dahl eggs. It is not quite time for those. Chook eggs.” Din tilted his helmet at her in his quiet way that she already knew meant that he needed more information. “Chooks are, uh . . . fluttery, rather stupid ground birds. They lay lots of eggs that are good for eating. I thought it may be fun for him.” She gestured to the table, where a covered plate waited. “I made you some breakfast. Grogu has already eaten. We will just be past the vegetable garden, if it is acceptable to you?”  

She had returned to her nervous formality of a couple days previous, Din noticed, as she dropped her head, and her hands began to go up her sleeves. Din stepped over and placed Grogu in her arms before her hands disappeared. “That is fine with me. That is within shouting distance, I think." 

Marathel turned a light shade of a very becoming pink having Din so close to her. She nodded, and said, “We will not be long. You will have privacy, and I will shout as we get near.” She turned towards this kitchen, cooing to Grogu, “Yes, we can finally go now, little one.” The two stepped off the platform and disappeared around the rock ridge. Din waited a few more moments, and sure he was alone, removed his helmet and gloves. He lifted the cover off the plate: toasted slabs of bread with soft cheese and fruit, with some pan-fried meat. A fresh mug of her herbal tea. He had been eating better these past few days than he had the past few months – not that he was complaining – but food was not a high priority for him. He could get too used to this kind of treatment. And the bread. Osik, she made good bread. He shoved a slab into his mouth before he even sat down.  What a good wife she would make, he thought idly, before he quashed that idea. He was not in the market for such an arrangement. He had all he could do to keep the child safe from the Imps, as well as keeping his Creed without entangling with a woman or any partner on a long-term basis. He had told Omera essentially that, and he hoped that she had found the person she needed. 

And what – or whom – did Marathel need? He scoffed, and muttered, “She got what she needed last night,” under his breath with a smirk, and then silently chided himself for such an unkind thought. He finished eating, and then took the opportunity of being alone to clean himself up, washing his hair, cleaning the bite wound again with a fresh layer of salve – this brought a small grin to his face -- and changing out his thermals and flight suit for a fresh set he had brought with him from the ship. He was in the process of reattaching his cuisses when he heard a distant shriek. Certain that it came from the direction of where Marathel and Grogu had gone, Din leapt into action and was already running that way, strapping on his jetpack and two of his most favorite blasters as he went. He heard Marathel scream, “Bounty Hunter! Bounty Hunter!” making him panic. He was already thinking the worst: Grogu was hurt in some way, a chook had pecked him in the eye, a rabid Dahl was making off with the both of them – as Din tore past the vegetable garden and leapt over the fencing that enclosed the chooks, noticing that the chooks she spoke of were indeed some sort of chicken. Skidding to a halt in the middle of the enclosure, sending chooks fluttering and clucking in all directions, Din saw that Grogu was fine. Grogu, in fact, looked perfectly pleased with himself, sitting on the ground, the basket beside him, as he held an egg in each hand. He looked quizzically up at Din and then ate one of the eggs whole. But Marathel was nowhere to be seen. Din spun around, shouting, “Marathel? Marathel! Where are you?” 

“I am . . . oof . . . up here!” 

He followed the sound of her voice, looking about 10 meters up the large tree that shadowed the chook pen. There was a distinct rustle of branches and some leaves fell, as he finally saw her perched up in the tree, balanced on her belly on a branch, reaching down to the next branch with her swinging feet. “What . . . what are you doing up there?” 

Marathel struggled a bit with a grunt, but finally made it down to the next branch. “He put me up here!” she yelled, pointing at Grogu. 

Din was finding it impossible to hide his amusement. “Why?” 

“Because you have taught him no manners!” She began to try to climb down to the next branch and was not succeeding at all. “Oof . . . I told him to stop eating all the eggs . . . I scolded him . . .” Marathel scraped her bare foot on sharp piece of bark. “Ow, ow, damnych! I scolded him, and the next thing I knew, I was up this tree!” 

Din gaped at her, then looked down at Grogu, who grinned cheekily at him, and then back up at Marathel, who was glaring back at him in fury. The laughter burbled up from deep in his gut, from a place that had not been so tickled in such a long time, and he could not help it, he burst into peals of laughter that made his sides hurt. He held his sides, bent over, trying to get control of himself, but he looked back up at Marathel standing so haughtily in that tree, and then she stamped her foot, shouting, “It is NOT funny!” The sight of her stamping her foot set him off again, and tears were rolling down his face at how ridiculous she looked. She clumsily scrambled down to the next branch, and then yelled down to him, “Are you going to help me down or not?” 

Din could barely catch his breath. “You . . . look like you’re doing just fine on your own!” 

Marathel struggled down from branch to branch, cursing at Din in her old language and muttering. “Just as bad as Grogu, you are . . . just like a child! You aren’t doing that boy any favors . . . putting me up a tree . . .” and then her gown caught on a twig and tore a large rip in the back of the skirt, effectively shutting Din up instantly. Marathel gasped in horror, twisting to see the back of her dress, crying out “Oh, damnych and double damnych!” She was close to the bottom of the tree now, so she set herself hanging from the lowest branch she could by her hands. Din went to her, putting up his hands to catch her as she came down. Unfortunately, his hands were on her smock over her waist, and the smock slid up against her dress as she slid down, and his hands ended up bracketing her breasts and holding them high against her chest, accidentally -- mostly. Marathel gasped in outrage and shoved Din as hard as she could. “Why, you . . .” She stomped away from him, spitting over her shoulder, “Y mallawer perlys, on chydich mown dynion!” 

Din chuckled quietly. “What does that mean?” 

Marathel grabbed the basket. “It means, ‘there is much virtue in herbs, but little in men!’” You’re not wrong there, thought Din. She swept a chook out of the way with her foot, sending it fluttering away, Grogu giving chase. She grabbed two eggs out of a nest with too much force, smashing the shells. Disgusted, she threw the broken eggs on the ground, snapping, “Now look what you made me do!” 

Din tilted his helmet. “Why are you so mad?” 

“I am NOT mad!” This, of course, was a lie, and Marathel grabbed another egg, this time throwing it into her basket with enough force to annihilate both it and two more eggs in the basket. She grunted in rage and picked up some more eggs.  

Din shifted his weight to one hip, crossing his arms over his cuirass. “You know, for someone who’s not mad, you’re sure making one hell of a mess out of those eggshells.”  

Marathel glared at him, and chucked an egg right at his head, where it exploded on his visor. Din fell about laughing again, wiping the egg mess off his helmet. “Whoo! Look out, Empire, we have a Stormtrooper who can actually hit something!” 

“Oh, shut up!”  Marathel stomped off through the gate of the pen, slammed it shut behind her, and began marching down the lane back to her hut. 

“Seriously, they could use someone like you!” Din shouted at her back. She whirled around, throwing another egg, which he tried to catch against his hip in his hands as it smashed into mush. “That’s what I’m talking about, lady!” he said, laughing even harder. 

“RHAFF CODIEH!” Marathel screeched over her shoulder. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“It means PISS UP A ROPE!”  

Marathel continued to march away so fast she was kicking up clouds of dirt at her ankles, her torn skirt swaying with each step, arms pumping at her sides. Din continued to laugh until he was certain she was out of earshot. He stood there, hands on hips, chuckling. “Ahhhh . . . Haar’chak.” He looked down at Grogu, who was covered in feathers and holding another egg, completely nonplussed by all the activity around him.  Grogu looked back at Din, grinning. Then he ate the egg. With a sigh, Din picked up the little green morsel, brushing the feathers from his tiny robes. “I think we’re in trouble, kiddo.” 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

[bigasswritingmagnet]

Whatever it is People Go Away For Ch 7

Rating: M Fandom: What We Do in the Shadows Summary:

Did you ever see the 2006 romcom smash hit The Holiday, with Jack Black and Kate Winslet? This is that, but with vampires. Except they're human. Laszlo is a musician who can't remember how to make things for himself. Guillermo has a cheating ex-boyfriend he can't let go of. They both need a break from their lives, and swapping houses with a stranger sounds like just the ticket.

AO3 link

“Now,” Nadja said, hiking up her skirts to get her underwear on, “we must do something about your clothes.” 

Laszlo looked down at himself, in his usual dark jeans and collared shirt. 

“You only popped a few buttons.” 

Nadja frowned.  

“Laszlo, I can tell you are very smart so stop thinking like an idiot. Look at you, and look at me. I look like a sexy mistress of the night born in ancient Greece several hundred years ago. You look like you are late to give a presentation on how many paperclips it takes to build a cubicle. Which of us belongs in this night club?” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes, oh. Finish putting your dick away and follow me. We will find you an appropriate outfit.” 

Nadja took him to a clothing shop. It was small, looking squeezed between the two much larger buildings on either side. And yet, somehow, you couldn’t fail to notice it. The sign over the door said The Barony in curly red letters, underlined by a twirling measuring tape tailing a golden pair of scissors. 

There was a musical jangling of a bell overhead when Nadja pushed open the door, and Laszlo stepped back in time by at least two hundred years. The walls were lined with bolts of fabric and lace and brocade dangling across the shelves, soaking up the sound. Mannequins were dressed in decadent, gorgeous outfits that he’d only ever seen in history books and museums. 

A curtain twitched and a man emerged. Tall, thin, with long-white blonde hair, dressed in a sumptuous red coat with the most intricate embroidery Laszlo had ever seen. When he saw Nadja, his face lit up, his mouth twisting into an almost avuncular smile. He stretched out his arms, impossibly long fingers unfurling like the fanning of a peacock’s tail.  

“Nadja,” he crooned, and Laszlo immediately scratched the ‘avuncular’ descriptor. There was nothing even tangentially familial about that hug. 

“Afanas, this is Laszlo. He will be performing at my club tonight, and he needs to be properly attired.” 

“Yes, I can see that,” Afanas said, dryly. He circled Laszlo, humming critically. Then, with no words but a twitch of his elegant fingers, he glided back behind the curtain. Here there was a changing room in one corner, next to an angled mirror, and everywhere neat stacks and hanging racks of clothing. Afanas plucked a few items from their homes and dropped them unceremoniously in Laszlo’s arms. 

“Go forth,” he said, mildly, gesturing in a wide sweep for Laszlo to enter the changing room. With only a brief uncertain look at Nadja, Laszlo went forth. 

The door was not very thick, and anyway didn’t entirely reach the floor or ceiling, so Laszlo could very easily hear when Afanas whispered. “He does not seem your usual type.” 

“I promise, he is not as boring as he looks. Very good at following instructions.” 

“Really? Intriguing. How is he on his knees?” 

Laszlo immediately focused on getting dressed, doing his best to tune out the conversation discussing him as if he was breeding stock at the county fair, lest it cause interference with the fit of the trousers. 

The cravat was giving him a bit of trouble, so he turned to check in the mirror. And saw–and he was–the clothes were–

He felt…harpsichord, with violin accompaniment, woodwind section alto only. Four-four time–no, three-quarters, a waltz, but a quick one, the kind where you couldn’t think, only move. No crescendo, but a soaring finish that ended sharply rather than fading to quiet. 

A song you could listen to every day, every damn day, over and over and never be sick of it. 

But he didn’t like the cut of the jacket. It was too trim at the waist, he wanted something straighter. And he didn’t want the coat buttons to be so bright; he wanted the coat to be the accessory, not the statement piece, he wanted to wear it with different waistcoats that had patterns and colors and when had he ever thought the phrase “statement piece” in his fucking life? 

When had he ever thought about what he was wearing beyond “it fits and it won’t embarrass me in public”? When had he ever cared enough to have an opinion? 

When had he ever cared at all? 

“Laszlo, are you alive in there?” Nadja called, cutting through the maelstrom. Laszlo tied the cravat with shaking fingers, breathing hard, blinking away the heat in his eyes. 

“Just a moment.” He stepped out from the changing room. “Little trouble with the cravat,” he said. 

“Aha!” Afanas said, eyes lighting up. “ Now I see it.” 

Nadja nodded approvingly. 

“Much better. What do you think?” 

“I look like me,” Laszlo said, and was as horrified to hear the words as he was the wobble in his voice. He tried to flee back into the changing room–what he thought he was going to go when he got in there, he wasn’t sure, but away and out of sight was all that mattered. 

Nadja caught his wrist in a grip like a vice, but her voice was casual when she spoke. 

“Afanas, perhaps another outfit to try?” 

“Of course,” he said, as if nothing had happened or was happening.

Laszlo muttered something about the buttons, but wasn’t sure if anyone heard him. Only when Afanas had glided from the room did he feel a fingertip under his chin, tilting his head up. He kept his eyes averted, not wanting to see her expression. 

“Tell me, ó fílate ,” she said. “And do not say ‘nothing’,” she added sternly. 

His throat was too tight, he could barely breathe let alone say anything. 

“Laszlo,” she said. “I will not find it funny. I will not think less of you. Speak.” 

“Have you ever recognized yourself in the mirror?” Laszlo asked. “Looked at yourself and actually seen you, not…not someone else? Yes, that’s me, that’s what I look like. That’s who I am.” 

“Yes,” Nadja said. 

“I haven’t,” Laszlo said, barely more than a whisper, and forced himself to raise his eyes. There was no pity, no laughter, no derision, not even exasperation. 

“Agapité,” was all she said, when she wrapped her arms around him.  

Three hours later, Laszlo stepped out of the store in a canary yellow waistcoat, a long dark overcoat, fitted trousers, button shoes, and holding a top hat in his hand. 

“I think I just spent more money on clothing than I have the entirety of my life put together.” 

“How would you know? You signed the receipt with your eyes closed.” Nadja adjusted his cravat and smoothed her hands over the waistcoat. “Worth it, I think.” 

“Very much so. What time do we need to be at the club?” 

“I need to be there at 6, you go on at 8.” 

Laszlo checked his watch–maybe he should buy a pocket watch–and nodded. Then he twirled the top hat and set it on his head.

“Well then, my darling, we had best be off.” He offered Nadja his arm. She took it, giggling, and led the way back towards the club. 

For the first time in years, Laszlo couldn’t wait for the performance to begin. 

[whump-ghoul]

Mushy May #8 - Sickfic: 'Steam'

I know, I’m really late to the party on this one, but I wanted to share a snippet from a sickfic I’ve been working on.

I have a 20-something Bishop OC called Marlowe and I’ve been plugging away at a large fic titled ‘Richard Divine’ that introduces him to the ghouls after his transfer to their abbey

This is set a year after the events of the fic.

Tw: references to fire/scars

Snippet Summary: Marlowe is sick and miserable. Dewdrop uses his fire essence for good.

Tags: Sickfic, mild angst, dewdropxOC

Marlowe pathetically curled into the corner of the shower, defeated by the act of standing and content to let the stream wash his sickness away. The only light source from the vanity mirror supplied a warm glow that added to the atmosphere, yet he still couldn’t catch his breath since his past battle with pneumonia had him gasping on the best of days. The Bishop found himself tiptoeing the fine-line between rest and deterioration, but the ghouls needed him, so sacking off a full day of duties was non-negotiable to him. He was just thankful he didn't faint on several occasions.

From the darkness of the ensuite, there was a cough, like someone clearing their throat, and Marlowe had to think long and hard if he had actually heard it. Nevertheless, he peeled his crusted eyes open, and lightly startled when he caught a glimpse of a ghoulish silhouette peaking around the shower curtain. He shivered at the cool air that filtered past the figure, and he retreated further under the spray of the shower as goosebumps rose and his aching body jostled with shivers. Anyone else may have been unsettled by the glowing eyes, but the Bishop was too tired to care, and too accustomed to the company of the ghouls. Part of him was thankful one had sought him out, but the majority of him remained embarrassed. He coughed, wheezing as the warm water did little to ease his aches, and settled back into the tiled corner. There was no hiding his illness anymore, it seemed.

The rustle of fabric prompted him to open his eyes again, and his fever addled mind sluggishly contemplated the now empty spot where he swore the glowing eyes were.

The silhouetted shape was gone. Vanished. As though it were never there… Marlowe shivered at the thought that his fever was so high, he’d begun to hallucinate, and the embarrassing memories of crying to hospital nurses as they treated his burns seared his mind. Despite the racing thoughts, exhaustion pulled on his eyelids, and he leant forward so his arms were crossed over his knees to pillow his heavy head, and waited to feel better.

There was a rustle, and then some more accompanied by a muffled curse. If Marlowe wasn’t trapped in his own misery, he may have bothered to investigate the shuffling of the shower curtain, instead he allowed the presence to complete whatever they were there to do… whatever they were doing in his bathroom.

The curtain opened, then slid shut slowly as the grating of plastic rings on a metal bar interrupted the static of water, and Marlowe became acutely aware of the presence in the shower cubicle with him. On instinct, he pressed his back further into the tile, granting them more room and himself more space not to be touched. The sick Bishop willed the water on hard tiles to soothe his pounding head, yet it presented a cacophony of noise of which he was now hyper aware of. Without addressing the ghoul, Marlowe racked his brain for a name in order to aide in his rationalisation of his situation. Mountain, Aether and Cirrus were likely too big to fit comfortably in the small cubicle with him, and Rain was perhaps too cautious in knowing Marlowe preferred to be given space when he felt like this. Cumulus would have been mother-henning over him whereas Swiss or Sunshine likely would’ve announced their presences long before entering.

And he missed them. He truly did, and his heart ached at the guilt and frustration of not knowing what he wanted. He wanted- he wanted…

Breathe. Just focus on breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

In, out.

In... out...

A comforting warmth started to envelope him, and his rattling breaths faded into faint rasps. It was blissful. His shoulders practically melted as he basked in the warmth, yet the water remained the same temperature as it had been. The slow drizzle, set by the tap only turned halfway, became a welcome, lukewarm shower compared to the heat summoning an almost blinding steam that settled his sinuses and relieved pressure in his skull as he continued to breathe.

Dewdrop.

Owlishly, Marlowe blinked, his exhausted eyes landing on the fire ghoul sat at the other side of the tiny shower cubicle, staring. In the dim light, Dewdrops charred fingers could be seen playing with the stream of water trickling towards the drain. While his movements appeared sombre; his intentions were that of comfort. Marlowe knew he looked pathetic - was pathetic - all pale skin, pink cheeks and bloodshot eyes that even had the ghoul wincing in the low lighting.

“Hey boss, how’re you feeling?” Dew asked in a tenor reserved for hushed moments.

Marlowe went to speak, but instead found himself hacking up more phlegm that he spat unceremoniously toward the drain. He sniffed, unintentionally pouting as he did, and the fire ghoul smirked though his eyes were full mixture of fondness and fear. The Bishop was more annoyed he’d been found out rather than at the intrusion itself.

“That bad?” The fire ghoul pressed.

Marlowe mumbled incoherently, his breaths still a wheeze where he was curled in on himself, and coughed into his knees.

“No music, huh? You must been feeling really rough.” Dew hummed, letting his hands skim the puddles on the tiled floor. More steam arose at the action, and be revelled in how Marlowe's shoulders dropped in further relief. He may not have had Aether's medical knowledge, or Mountains cooking skills, but he was determined to show Marlowe that heat had its virtues.

The pressure in Marlowe's head had all noise an uncomfortable affair, therefore his usual form of sensory regulation was painfully just out of reach. Instead, after a day of forcing himself to work, he’d hoped the shower would come in clutch. It did, just about, but he was too exhausted to appreciate it.

The fire ghoul held a hand out, waiting. Marlowe peeled one scarred hand away from an equally scarred leg, and squeezed the ghouls hand.

“Come here?” Dewdrop offered. “You’ll breathe easier if you lay back.”

Sold.

Sluggishly and uncoordinated in the small space, the Bishop shuffled over, so his spiny back was pressed against Dews bony chest; slotted perfectly between long, spindly legs. Marlowe let his head drop back to Dews shoulder. He could’ve cried at the relief the added steam had on his congested chest as the new position opened his airways.

As though Marlowe was going to break, the fire ghoul wrapped his arms around him and held him close, knocking his head against the Bishops as he let his claws trace his ribs and surgery scars.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were sick, Bishop?” Dewdrop eventually asked, when the man’s breathing sounded more regulated and strong. He reached for the scandalous two-in-one bottle that Marlowe insisted was fine for his bleached hair, and began to massage the suds into the damp, greasy strands. The Bishop all-but purred at the light scratch of claws on his scalp.

“I don’t have time to be sick.” Marlowe hummed. “Can’t get you sick either…”

He’d since seen what a simple cold could do to a being, and he wasn’t about to put the whole pack out of commission from his own neglect. Continuing his duties was one thing, but intimacy was a whole other ballgame.

Dewdrops chest vibrated with a light chuckle. Ghouls couldn’t pick up human illnesses.

Once he was satisfied (and finished making shapes with Marlowe's overgrown hair) he prompted the Bishop to lean forward to be back under the spray, and stilled when Marlowe groaned at the strain on his ribs and muscles. He allowed the Bishop to rake his fingers through the strands as he pleased, and placed a supportive hand on the hot skin of his tense back before helping him recline again; head back and mouth open to fully bask in the cloud of steam choking the shower cubicle. The fire ghoul went back to tracing light patterns in the soft skin of his stomach.

“I appreciate that, boss, but you need to look after yourself. You know the pack will drop everything to look after you." Just a you do for us.

“‘M’not your boss.” Marlowe hummed sleepily.

"Maybe not." Contemplated Dew.

"But you are part of the pack."

[windowtechs14]

Window Techs offers the best Hospital Window Curtains. Our Hospital-style cubicle curtains, or privacy curtains, are fabricated with or without mesh heading. We are committed to producing and delivering the very best products and privacy solutions every day. Explore more - https://windowtechs.co.in/hospital-curtain Contact us - 9958803531 Email us - info@windowtechs.in

[cubecare01]

Cubicle Curtains

Cubicle Curtains are essential for creating private and functional spaces in various settings. Learn how to select the best Cubicle Curtains to enhance privacy, improve aesthetics, and ensure durability. Discover the different materials and designs available, from traditional fabrics to modern antimicrobial options, and how they can impact the comfort and efficiency of any environment. Properly chosen Cubicle Curtains can make a significant difference in both healthcare facilities and office spaces, providing necessary separation and contributing to a better overall experience.

[summer-fun-swim]

The sun hung high in the azure sky, pouring warmth across the sprawling campus of Riverwood Academy. Classes were over, and the campus was alive with the laughter and chatter of students enjoying their holiday break. Among them was Rickey, a young man of eighteen, still buzzing with the exhilaration of his first year in college. He ambled toward the athletic complex, filled with nervous excitement as he prepared to visit the locker room for the first time.

Rickey had always been an adventurous spirit, and today he was hoping to embrace that side of him even more. He had heard whispers about a new trend among his friends—showering in your clothes. It had seemed strange at first, but once he saw a video online, he was drawn into the idea. After all, he had nothing to lose and was eager to step out of his comfort zone.

As he pushed open the door to the locker room, a rush of cool air hit him, contrasting with the heat outside. The room was a hive of activity, the sound of laughter echoing against the tiled walls. A few familiar faces waved at him as he stepped in, and he felt a sense of reassurance wash over him. With a deep breath in, he swaggered over to an empty locker, his heart racing in anticipation.

Rickey quickly stripped down to his boxers, his lean frame catching the admiration of a few onlookers. He paused for a moment, taking in the vibrant atmosphere, the smell of damp towels hanging nearby, and the collective energy of youthful exuberance. Without overthinking, he picked up a clean outfit—a fitted, navy-blue t-shirt that clung to his torso, and a pair of lightweight athletic shorts that were a shade or two darker. They felt fresh against his skin, and he couldn't help but grin.

“Are you serious about this, Rickey?” his friend Erick called out, half-mocking, half-supportive. “You’re gonna shower like that?”

“Why not? It’ll just be like swimming! Plus, it’s the perfect way to cool off,” Rickey replied with a chuckle, his confidence rising as he continued to prepare for the unusual experience.

He stepped into the curtain-clad shower area, a world of cascading water and tiled floors illuminated by the soft glow of fluorescent lights. As he turned on the taps, a shiver of anticipation ran down his spine. The cool initial spray sent shivers across his skin, but soon enough, he adjusted to the sensation. With a quick flick of his wrist, he squeezed some body wash into his palm and began to lather it over his clothes.

“What’s the verdict?!” Erick yelled from outside the shower cubicle, his voice dripping with mischief.

Rickey shouted back, “It feels… amazing!” He could hardly believe how refreshing it was. The fabric of his t-shirt absorbed the sudsy water, clinging to his body and creating a second layer of skin. The dampness emphasized every curve of his lean muscles, transforming the garment into a second skin and making him acutely aware of how the water poured down, heavily saturating the fabric.

With each movement, the wet clothes clung to him tighter; they swirled around him like a magnetized force. The t-shirt, once a simple piece of clothing, now transformed into a smooth, water-drenched layer. It felt like being wrapped in a warm hug while simultaneously letting the coolness of the water envelop him. There was something ethereal about it, an invigorating freedom that coursed through him as he embraced the strange ritual.

Rickey leaned back against the wall as he allowed the water to cascade off him like rain. It dripped down, collecting in rivulets, one forming between his pectorals and another snaking down his abdomen. The water soaked into his shorts, hugging his thighs and accentuating his toned legs. It was a sensation he had never experienced before and one that he couldn’t quite put into words: a mix of exhilaration and liberation that seeped deep into his bones.

From outside the cubicle, laughter erupted. “Hey! Looks like you’re having the time of your life! Just try not to drown in there!” Erick teased, followed by a chorus of chuckles from their friends.

“Not drowning! Just living my best life!” Rickey called back, raising his arms triumphantly, as if he were on stage, relishing the moment.

It was in that instant, with the water streaming down and his sense of self dissolving into the atmosphere of camaraderie around him, that he felt a tremor of realization. This was more than just a shower; it was a celebration of youthful spontaneity, a bonding experience that differed from the typical college events. Cleanliness was secondary to the joy pulsating through the air, and he relished every drop that spilled over him.

After he finished rinsing, Rickey stepped out, still draped in his wet clothes. A different kind of confidence surged through him as the fabric clung tightly against his skin, emphasizing the contours of his body. He was glowing with a mixture of glee and liberation, a vitality he hadn’t anticipated.

The laughter continued as he rejoined his friends at the sinks, who had gathered to witness the aftermath. Erick raised an eyebrow in mock-seriousness, “You’ve started a new trend, my friend! The ‘Drenched Look’ is in!”

Rickey laughed heartily, shaking his head, droplets of water flying from his hair. He hadn’t just taken a shower; he had shared a moment with friends that wouldn’t soon be forgotten. The lightness of the air felt electric, humming with excitement and camaraderie, tinged with the echoes of youthful laughter.

As the group prepared to leave, Rickey caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—the way the wet clothes hugged his frame, highlighting the exuberant spirit of the moment. He smiled back at the reflection, grateful for his first experience in the locker room.

This wasn’t just a holiday with classes; it was one of self-discovery, a chance to break out of expectations and revel in the joy of spontaneity. It was a holiday worth remembering, one where the warmth of friendship mixed with the refreshing coolness of daring to be boldly oneself. As they left the locker room, the sun was still shining bright, but for Rickey, the world felt just a little bit brighter.

[rachanasharma1028]

Decorate and protect your homes and offices with high-quality curtains and blinds. Contact us for pricing and installation. For more info visit at: https://dubaiblindsncurtains.com/cubicle-curtains/cubicle-curtains-tracks/

[dmiok]

How To Determine Hospital Curtain Fabric Quality

Hospital cubicle curtains are more than simply a piece of cloth; they are a need for institutions that deal with healthcare. The best hospital curtains shield patients from infectious illnesses and other dangerous situations while ensuring a private stay within hospital cubicles. Choosing premium fabric for your hospital cubicle curtain is essential, but how can you be sure the medical curtains you're purchasing are the appropriate ones?

We'll explain how to assess the hospital curtain's fabric quality in this post.

https://dmiok.com/blog/hospital-curtain-fabric-quality/

[ashishvlogsblog]

Office Curtains in Dubai: Elevate your workplace ambiance with office curtains in Dubai, tailored to suit your business needs and aesthetic preferences. Whether you're aiming for a sleek and modern look or a more traditional vibe, office curtains offer versatility and functionality. Choose from a wide range of fabrics, colors, and styles to create a professional and inviting atmosphere. From conference rooms to cubicles, enhance privacy and decor with curtains designed specifically for office spaces in Dubai.

[localizee]

Our state-of-the-art plastic and fabric materials are used to create dependable andantimicrobial cubicle curtains with patient-lift support systems, along with support bars andantimicrobial curtains for the patient’s shower.

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Two.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 3K 

summary: Girls didn’t learn things, but the boys did. 

warnings: Mando'a and English cursing

You Were Marked: Masterlist

&lt;-You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

When Din began to wake the next morning, he hadn’t the faintest clue where he was.  He felt he was floating in a cloud of fragrant herbs and dried flowers.  He could discern light, but it was softly diffused, and it rippled gently.  He took a deep breath through his nostrils, and in the background, he could detect the aroma of frying meat.  He groggily felt beside him and felt only soft fabric and the crackle of dried rushes.  His mind, somewhere in the ether between sleeping and waking asked, Where’s Grogu? He was certain that Grogu should be right beside him, that was where the child was when he laid down, but the slight imprint in the sleeping tick was empty.  Grogu’s missing, said the still-sleepy part of his consciousness, and then his eyes snapped open, and he lurched to his feet, shouting, “Grogu?  Grogu!” 

“He’s right here, Bounty Hunter!  Frith save us!”  Din blinked a couple of times, still trying to acclimate his mind to his surroundings, still groggy.  He turned to the voice to see Marathel standing at the fire, holding a frying pan in one hand and a wooden spatula in the other.  Grogu was on her chest, cozily ensconced in a large wrap that Marathel had tied around herself, eating what appeared to be a cracker.  "I woke up to find this one curled up against me, the cheeky little devil.  And now he’s dropping crumbs down my bodice, thank you very much. Oh, may he eat fruit?” 

Din rattled the helmet on his head, still not quite awake. “What?” 

Marathel tilted her head with a smirk.  “Bounty Hunters are not morning people?”  Din grunted in response as he tried to shake off the dark curtain that had wrapped itself around his leg. Marathel turned back to her counter.  “Now there’s . . . wait . . . I thought I had more bread than that.”  Din fell still.  Late last night, when all was quiet, he simply could not help himself and had absconded with another hunk of bread that he ate furtively over the dry sink.  He came over to the table, feigning casualness.  “You need not cook for me.” 

“It is already done,” replied Marathel, holding a plate in his direction.  Fried meat, some sort of cereal cake, dried fruit.  “I can give Grogu his while you eat.”  Grogu, for his part, did indeed look cheeky as he snuggled against Marathel’s bosom.  And there were tell-tale crumbs on the fabric of her green and grey layered tunic, as well as the scoop of pale skin that was above her neckline.  Grogu turned his head to look up at her, and Din watched Grogu’s large, petal-shaped ear drag softly across her skin.   She smiled down absently at Grogu, and then looked back at Din, brandishing the plate.  “Take it.  Go.  Eat.”  Din snapped out of his reverie, took the plate, and returned to the curtained cubicle without a word.  Marathel shrugged and sat down, her back to Din to give him privacy.  For a while, all Din heard was the clink of utensils and Marathel speaking softly to Grogu as he enjoyed his breakfast.  Din felt distinctly uncomfortable as he quietly and quickly ate.  She had given him privacy – in fact, she was pointedly ignoring him – but she still felt too close.  He replaced his helmet as quickly as possible and stood to return the plate – but for a moment he watched her from behind his curtains as she stood and lifted Grogu out of the wrap that had held him against her.  Grogu cooed and smiled at her, and then belched mightily into her face.  Marathel squinched her face up tight and gave a little cough, saying “Goodness.”  She then looked into Grogu’s eyes, took a breath, and belched right back, adding an ending soft blow of breath that ruffled Grogu’s hair.  Grogu squealed with laughter.  Din almost laughed himself.  He stepped out and placed his plate in the dry sink.  “Sorry about that,” he said. 

Marathel chuckled.  “No worries.  All the children growing up together, we all learned silly things.” 

“I’m not good at teaching manners.” 

She plunked Grogu back in Din’s arms.  “Oh, I suspect you do just fine.”  She began filling the sink with water to wash dishes. 

Din wiped Grogu’s chin.  “If we are to stay here for the next few days, I should go back to the ship for supplies.” 

“So, you did come here by boat.” 

Din looked at her back.  “No.  I came by ship.” 

She shrugged.  “Boat, ship.” 

Okay, now we’re back to this shab, thought Din.  “Where did you think I came from?” 

“Somewhere far away.  I’ve never seen anyone like you.” 

“Far away, yes.  I came from Nevarro.” 

“And where is that?” 

“A planet about five days from here by hyperspace.” 

Her head snapped around at this, her hands dripping with water and holding a cup.  “What are these words?  Planet? Hyper . . . Hyper . . . “ 

She has to be taking the piss, Din thought.  “Hyperspace.  I flew here.”  

Her face broke out into laughter.  “Flew here?  I’ve never heard of such a thing.”  Din simply stared at her.  Finally, her smile fell, and her cheeks colored.  Turning back to the sink, she stammered, “I  . . .  I’m sorry.  I didn’t learn anything like that at the Hold.  You must think that I’m . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she went back to her dishwashing with vigor. 

Din decided that she was neither taking the piss, nor was she mentally deficient.  She simply didn’t know.  Her frame of reference was so limited.  What was it that she said?  Girls didn’t learn things, but the boys did.  That seemed like a sad state of affairs to Din, who had a limited education himself, but at least he grew up equal to all the other children in the covert.  Without thinking further, he asked, “Would you like to see it?” 

“See what?” 

“My flying ship.” 

Her hands fell still.  “Where is it?” 

“Near the Hold.  In a flat field beyond the trees near the gate.” 

She nodded.  “I know where you mean.  I do have things I need to trade at the Hold.  Give me a few moments, I will go with you.”  Marathel finished up the dishes and disappeared into her curtains, emerging a moment later with a fresh over tunic and a wrap.  Din dragged his basket of weapons down to the steps and began to replace them on his person, feeling much less naked with every piece.  Marathel gave him a withering glance, and then climbed on the table, reached up and collected bunches of dried herbs and flowers that were hanging there.  These she put in her gathering bag, which she wore across her body.  Hopping down from the table, she came to the steps.  She gestured to Din, who was clipping on his jet pack.  “Really?” 

“Always be prepared.” 

“What are you expecting?” 

Din simply shrugged to that, and then placed Grogu in his own bag.  He looked down at her bare feet.  “Don’t you need shoes?” 

“No, I do not.”  With that, Marathel stepped down and began walking briskly away to the rocky field and the path Din had followed the day before.  Din followed and caught up with her as she paused to pick up a number of rocks from the ground.  She put the rocks in her pocket.  He thought about teasing her about her choice of weapon and then decided that she was prickly enough.  They walked in silence for a long while, listening to the crunch of his boots on the gravel.  Her feet made no noise at all, and if the gravel was hurting her feet, she gave no sign.  Soon, they were crossing the grassy field before the switchbacks that led up, when Marathel paused and gazed out into the distance.  Din stopped as well and looked out in the same direction.  “What is it?” 

“The Dahls.” 

“I don’t see anything.” 

“Wait.”  After a few moments, Din heard yip-yip-yeh noises in the distance, and then a Dahl reared up some distance away from them.  The Dahl kicked out with his back feet, launching a second Dahl into the air.  Another Dahl joined the fray, and two of the creatures fended each other off while standing on their hind legs, barking their high-pitched yips.  Marathel’s lips curved into a small smile. Grogu watched with fascination at the large creatures. 

“What are they doing?” asked Din. 

“Showing off.” She turned and continued on the path. 

“How many were out there?” 

She stopped and gazed out over the field. “Twelve or fourteen, I think. I’m not sure. There are only two out there that I’ve bonded with.” 

“How many have you actually bonded?” 

“Originally, six.” Marathel began walking again. 

“And how did that come about?” 

She took a breath and stole a glance at him. Her hands went into her sleeves. “I was younger then. I was changing but I was still in the kitchen. A basket of eggs had been brought in the day before. Diwhyn Olba -- she raised me, and she was a Whyn then – kept me there even though I was changing. The next night, I kept hearing crying. It wasn’t like a baby crying, or even an animal I knew, but the crying was keeping me awake, so I went to where the fires were. The eggs were kept in a clay pot near the fire to keep them warm, and that was where the crying was coming from. So, I spilled out the whole pot of eggs. Six of them hatched right in front of me, and they stopped crying immediately and tried to climb into my gown. I put all the rest of the eggs back and ran to the cooler room to feed the hatchlings – they're hungry when they hatch, you know – but Diwhyn Olba found me.  She was so furious with me! I thought for sure she would strip my hands, but I told her I had to, because they were crying. It was that same night that she . . . she took me out of the Hold and took me to the old herder’s hut, where I live now.” She fell silent.  

They continued to walk. By now they were at the switchbacks, and they had to walk single file. Marathel took the lead, her head down, her hands in her sleeves. Din watched her walk, her hips swaying back and forth in that way that only women walk. Finally, he asked, “How old were you? When you left the Hold?” 

“How old? I don’t understand those words.” 

“Your age, how many years?” 

“You say many things I don’t know. I was changing at the time, so I was not a child, but I wasn’t a Whyn yet. Does that make sense?" 

“How long have you been living at the hut?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Many seasons, many cycles of the Luad Dycwingen.” Din considered these words. She kept saying changing, so he assumed that meant she was an adolescent when she bonded with the Dahls and was brought to the hut. How long ago that was, he couldn’t tell, as he didn’t know what the moon cycle was. Her hair might be silver, but he’d been around long enough to know that hair color didn’t dictate age. How long had she been alone?  

By this time, they’d come to the top of the switchbacks between the two large boulders. Marathel stopped short, as if reluctant to go further. Finally, she said, “The Hold is just ahead. Go before me and go directly into the trees. I will follow.” She stepped against the boulder to let him pass, and he followed her directions, waiting in the trees. He watched as she slowly stepped up to the level ground. Then she rushed forward, dropped her bag, knocked on the door in a complicated pattern, and then rushed into the trees to hide. They waited. Marathel watched from behind her tree, a nervous hand tapping on the smooth bark. After a couple of minutes, the gate opened just enough for a woman wearing a faded red gown and a full-face veil to come out. The woman exchanged the bag Marathel had left for another one. The woman looked out into the trees, and she must have seen Marathel, as she raised a hand in a small wave. Marathel returned the wave, and the woman disappeared back behind the gate, closing the door. Marathel waited for a few moments, ran to collect the bag, and hurried back into the trees. For a few moments, she leaned her back against a tree, breathing hard – not from exertion, but panic – with her eyes closed. Din waited silently. Marathel made an effort to slow her breathing, and she opened her eyes to see Din watching her. Looking away, she dashed the tears off her cheeks and walked past him. They walked again in silence, until they were interrupted by the chatter of the same kind of furry creature that had startled Din when he had first arrived. They both stopped walking. Marathel spotted the critter in a tree. She kept her eye on the furry thing and reached into her pocket. Din whispered, “What is that?” 

“A dycwingen,” she whispered back. 

“That’s . . . not a rabbit.” 

She chucked a stone right at the critter, beaning it between the eyes. It fell to the forest floor. “Whatever it is, now, it’s dinner,” she said, collecting the carcass. Grogu chattered in approval, and she stroked his furry little head, accidentally brushing her fingertips against Din’s hip. She pulled her hand back quickly, and Din pretended to not notice. 

A short while later, they finally reached the clearing where the Razor Crest was parked. Marathel came up short, just staring at the ship. Din watched as she crept closer, tilting her head this way and that. She finally got close enough to reach out a tentative hand. “Don’t touch that,” he said, more sharply than he had intended. Her hands went immediately into her sleeves. More gently, he said, “This way.” He led her to the side of the ship, and he opened the ramp, which slowly opened with a loud grinding noise and a blast of steam. Marathel jumped back about 3 meters at the sound. Once the ramp was opened, Din walked halfway up, turned, and reached out a hand to her. “Come on. It’s okay.” Grogu also called out to her with his babble. Eyes wide, Marathel approached, and lifted her bare foot to tentatively set it on the ramp. Feeling the metal under her foot, she looked at Din. “The ramp might be slippery for you. Take my hand.” Slowly, she reached out, and he took her bare hand in his gloved one. She swallowed and bit her lip but allowed him to assist her up the ramp. She let go of his hand as quickly as she could, and then stared at the ship’s interior. Her eyes could not possibly get any larger as she turned around and around, looking at every surface. Finally, she asked, “This thing flies?” 

“Yes.” 

“How?” 

Din couldn’t help it; he was smiling. Her bewilderment was charming, somehow. “There are these propulsion engines, and they . . . “ Marathel continued to gape. “It . . . just does.” He gestured to the ladder that led to the cockpit. “Come on up.” He climbed the ladder. She climbed up after him, and he again gave her his hand to assist her. Once she was off the ladder, he dropped her hand immediately and lifted Grogu out of the bag and into the captain’s chair. “Watch this,” he said, flipping the switches that brough all the controls to life. The ship responded with a loud hum. Marathel felt the vibrations through her feet and into the center of her, and she grabbed the co-pilot's seat with a small shriek. The controls all came to light, which seemed to startle her even more. She gripped the chair until her knuckles turned white, and she cried out, “Stop it! Stop it, please!”  

Din immediately killed the engines, holding out a hand towards her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

She still looked panicked. “I’m all right, I’m sorry . . . Just . . . let me out.” 

By this time, Grogu had climbed into his pram, which floated out of the cockpit and into the main part of the ship. This startled Marathel all over again, and Din had to talk her down the ladder. She ended up sitting on the floor in the cockpit to get on the ladder, reaching out with an impossibly long leg just inches from Din’s face. When her feet were finally on the floor, she rushed down the ramp, her feet sliding on the last few feet, launching herself about 2 meters away. The pram floated down towards her, which she stared at with confusion as Din said, “Just wait there. I’ll be right out.” He spent a few minutes collecting some supplies for himself and Grogu. By the time he had battened down the ship and come down the ramp, Marathel seemed much calmer — probably because of Grogu’s presence in the pram — and was on her hands and knees on the ground, waving her hand under the floating pram. Sitting back on her heels, she said, “Well, I’ll be.” 

“it’s useful.” 

“It’s clever, is what it is.” She stood back up, brushing off her knees. 

“All you all right?” 

She nodded. Her head went down, her hands into her sleeves. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. If it’s something you’re not accustomed to . . . it can be frightening.” 

She looked up at the ship again. “It’s . . . so cold.” 

“I do have climate control on the ship.” 

“No, it’s . . . just . . . cold.” She was obviously struggling for the words but decided not to continue. “Let’s go back this way. I don’t want to go by the Hold again.” She turned away and began walking. Din followed, with the pram in tow. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->