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cowboygenesis · 28 days

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2: sweet brew | din djarin x reader

part 2 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist.

pairing: din djarin x reader

chapter warnings: none.

word count: 5.9k

series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible.

notes: (update: revised the ending a little) welcome to part 2! i've been having so much fun with this fic, and i hope that you stay with me for this ride... thank you so much for the love on part 1, and enjoy!

Your walk home is comfortably silent.

Your boots tap rhythmically against the stone pathway when you exit town. Momentarily, you cringe as the sound seems noisier than you'd like in the calm of the afternoon; especially when compared to the near-silent steps of the man trailing inches behind you.

He trots a few paces back, his presence palpable yet inconspicuous, and though you’re painfully curious, you don’t once muster the confidence to glance over your shoulder.

And now, you can picture him surveying the area, ever-vigilant within the safety of his armor as you lead the way in nothing but commoner clothes. When you make the mental comparison, you’re urged to turn to him and say: ‘You can relax, it’s safe here. When we arrive, I’ll cook you a hearty meal, and you’ll feel at home for a while’ — but you know it’s out of line, so instead, your eyebrows furrow.

It’s not an appropriate trail of thought to have about a stranger, yet you recognize it’s been years since you got to care for someone the way you’re afforded to now. Picturing it feels more foreign than reality suggests, and so you bite down on your lip to shake the memories away. Another time, you think.

The soft hum of the floating orb is the only thing to break your inner monologue. For that, you thank it silently. You managed to take a single good glance at it when you were handing him his purchase back at the market, and you’ve been wondering about the contents ever since.

You catch its sleek, metal exterior from the corner of your eye with a slim line running horizontally along its length, and yet again think it has to be some kind of storage unit. On the contrary, you haven’t seen him open it once, even now as five paper parcels crowd his arms.

Briefly, you imagine it to be a weapon. Maybe multiple. You wouldn't put those options beyond a bounty hunter, especially one of his stoic, careful mein.

Weapons. The kind that can hurt or kill you if placed in the right— or wrong— hands.

With that, you realize it’s a tricky game you’re playing, perhaps even dangerous— yet you’re unafraid. It’s a small town you live in and if the man were truly out to get you, word would spread fast. In fact, it’s not a scenario you’ve been bothered by at any point of your leisurely, albeit unusual, walk. You exhale sharply.

"That…floating orb you carry," you begin, but your head doesn’t turn to him. You’d need a load more confidence for that, something you can’t be afforded just yet. "What’s inside?”

The question hangs in the air, and for a brief moment, you regret asking whatsoever. Perhaps you had overstepped a boundary or poked your uncouth nose into some seriously perilous business, but before you can retract your words, his response comes.

"Something precious," he says, and the modulated voice offers no further detail to your searching mind.

You nod, yet the wonder threatens you to push on it further and ask more, ask more, ask— you don’t let it. Instead, you breathe in gradually to soothe the savage beast that is your curiosity.

You offer a small, earnest smile, hoping that even though he’s unable to see it, he might just hear it in the way you speak to him. "Must be important to carry it everywhere."

“It is,” he counters without a beat, and that’s the end of it; no further explanation, no jokes, nothing. With just two words he has deemed the conversation over, and you heed it.

You sneak a quick glance at the orb floating beside him, and the answer echoes in your mind—something precious. But what could a man like him consider precious, anyway?

But you know better than to ask. Over the course of your life, you’ve learned that some mysteries are meant to stay unsolved, and some questions are better left unanswered.

Finally, your house comes into view in the distance, just beyond a thicket: the quaint little cottage you know and adore, standing between two apple trees and greeting you silently with its familiar picket fence. Your pace quickens gradually, legs eager to reach the friendly comforts of home.

The quiet presence behind you feels heavier now, a fact you notice with the man’s footsteps becoming sparse as you approach.

You push open the gate and pause at the threshold, turning to him for the first time since leaving town. His visor turns to you, briefly reflecting the golden sunlight that seeps into your eyes. You squint and quickly glance away, blinking the sunlight from your vision. His helmet remains fixed on you, unreadable as ever, and the silence stretches just a little longer than feels comfortable to you.

“Here we are,” you finally say, your voice soft as you gesture toward the cottage behind you. The words feel a little weak, but you mean them— it’s not much, but it’s yours.

You stand at the brink of the curb, waiting for any sign of what he might be pondering. Instead, he merely steps closer, the buzz of the metal orb following him.

He halts just before the gate, his visor tilting slightly toward the house before coming back to you. For a heartbeat, you think you see something shift in his stance, some subtle change in his posture, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

Your heart skips a quiet beat and you inhale deeply.

Are you… are you feeling insecure? It’s not the first time you’re having guests over, yet something about this specific encounter makes you double-check your whole presence. In the heat of the moment, you choke it up to a fear of the unknown, and leave it at that.

“Come on in, then,” you continue, pushing open the fence gate. It creaks softly, reminding you that its goal has always been a bit more decorative than practical.

At some point during a hot summer’s day, you decided to adorn the wood with an assortment of painted flowers. The job was hasty and improvised, yet the final product looked good enough to snag you a few compliments from your neighbors. Of course, you doubt your new buddy even notices.

He hesitates, and you realize he’s probably waiting for you to enter first. You want to chuckle— it’s not like you’re exactly a threat to him in your current state, but he’s definitely not one to risk such a thing one way or another.

You give him a tight-lipped smile, nod, then step in. As usual, you hear his quiet footsteps trailing behind you, down the stone path and up the porch stairs. The wind chimes rustle with the wind, and you notice it’s picked up since the morning. It’d be good to get some rain today, you think, you’ve missed the way the air smells then.

“I hope you don’t mind the mess, I wasn’t expecting… guests,” you explain with a polite chuckle, tugging on the door handle and letting it swing open with your weight.

You drop the customs this time around and walk in first, breathing in the familiar scent of caf leftover from your breakfast. As you’re about to offer him some, you remember that a meal is probably in order first and foremost. Besides, considering how long you’ve had the box in your pantry, it’s probably better he avoids drinking it at all.

You give him a short glance, then point to the living room area. It’s quaint, with a soft couch, large loveseat, and a coffee table— naturally, on it sits your small audio system, transmitting a rowdy, laughter-filled conversation between two talk hosts.

“Do you know how to use a HoloWave? It’s not that fancy of a model, but the signal is good enough to reach most of the Outer Rim,” you shrug, untying your cloak and hanging it by the doorway. “Feel free to switch the channel to something you like; my Huttese is pretty rusty, anyway.”

He looks at you, and you offer him a soft smile in return before pivoting towards your stove. If you’ve learned anything about your guest, is that he’s a man of very, very few words. You trust him to occupy himself while you do your thing in the kitchen.

You roll up your sleeves and rinse your hands in the sink. The cool water feels refreshing, and you opt to splash some on your face.

In the background, you hear the sudden flicker of the Holo signal. It buzzes, breaks, and you suddenly realise the man must’ve taken you upon your offer.

You hear him skim through the channels, letting most run a few seconds before moving ahead.

A small, satisfied smile creeps onto your lips, and you take a few pots and pans from the cupboards. He hasn’t requested anything specific for the meal, and… as a matter of fact, he hasn’t requested anything at all. The lunch offer ultimately came from you, and the stranger was nice enough to go along with it.

You sigh, then open your cooler. Inside, you spot an open jar of your preserves, some paper-wrapped meat, vegetables, and a large variety of homemade sauces lining the shelves. You’ve always enjoyed cooking, but your meals tend to be simple and homely, which you deem unworthy of a brand-new guest.

You start unloading the contents of your cooler onto the counter when a steady stream of conversation from the HoloWave catches your attention. Two men chat in Basic, discussing something that momentarily piques your curiosity.

“Nevarro?” you repeat aloud, echoing the talk-show hosts’ words. You keep your back to the man behind you, who now seems engrossed in the broadcast. “That’s light-years away.”

You try to recall the rudimentary information you have on the desolate planet. It’s a hell-hole, for one. Two, it doesn’t take too kindly to regular folk. Finally, the Empire dabbles in a ton of secrecy and has long ago claimed it as its special ops base.

He remains silent as the conversation on the HoloWave continues, mentioning recent disruptions on the planet caused by a bounty hunter linked to some infamous syndicate. The details are murky and mostly alien, making you assume the channel might be covering something more specialized or regional. You wonder if your guest was seeking out this channel on purpose.

Could he be connected to this, somehow? No, no. You shake the thought away and deem it unfound paranoia. After all, there was no reason for people of his kind to visit planets like Lazure— safe-havens for peaceful folk like you to live out their lives in harmony.

Unless he had an active hit.

You never knew much about bounty-hunting guilds, as they were more a figment of folklore where you grew up. Regardless, you didn’t need a formal education on this topic to understand that people in his profession made it a point to keep quiet and subtle while on the job. But, you knew nothing of him— matter of factly, you weren’t even certain he was a bounty hunter in the first place.

“What’s your name?” you speak out, eyes widening at how stern your voice sounds after your inner musings.

You turn around, hands on the counter as you press your spine against the edge. The man looks at you with a curious tilt of his helmet and seems to study you for a moment before making any haste decisions.

You give him time— to study you, to think, to answer at his own pace. The air between you is lax, and although he’s silent, you wait patiently for a chance to listen.

“Din,” he finally sounds out, and hearing his modulated voice after such a long period of your own monologuing makes electricity shoot down your back.

Din. You want to test the name on your lips, know how it sounds with your accent, your lilt, yet you abstain for now. Once he’s gone, you’ll have all the time in the world to muse over it.

You give him a curt nod before slowly turning back to your cutting board. Once you do, your lips widen into a pleased smile. Din.

Then, you give him your name. It’s quiet when it leaves your lips, yet you’re certain it reaches him even through the thrum of the talk show. Just like you, he doesn’t question it or ask for more; yet you imagine he mutters it under his breath from within the privacy of his helmet. The image, albeit fabricated, makes you warm.

You go back to focusing on your task, unwrapping the meat from its delicate parcel and chopping it at a leisurely but practiced pace. As you work, you let the talk show hosts’ voices serve as a quiet backdrop to your jumbled thoughts. Most of the terminology drifts past you as you tune in, but you listen regardless.

Once you’ve finished preparing the ingredients, you hear the channel flicker again, its signal briefly interrupted before fading back into a soft, nostalgic melody.

The instrumental starts with a quiet guitar solo that slowly transitions into a fiery soul piece. The hearty voice of your favourite singer erupts from the Holo, and the lyrics spring to your mind like a mantra. As the robust tune fills the room, you’re instantly swept up in its acquaintance.

As your fingers move deftly across the skillet, you begin to hum along with it, stirring the vegetables as they soften and caramelize.

The chorus begins, and for a moment you shift somewhere far away. The recollection is hazy at first, but soon, you remember it vividly.

Then, it all comes pouring down on you without a warning: your body stiffens as a memory dug deep in your brain begins to claw its way out of the crevices.

You see your old quarters.

Your ex-bunkmate is there, her familiar figure draped in nothing but a fluffy towel, damp strands of hair clinging to her neck as she sits cross-legged at your shared desk.

The air smells of fresh soap. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, chewing absentmindedly on the eraser end of a pencil as she puzzles over a half-finished crossword. Starlight filters through the narrow viewport, casting her in a soft, silvery glow, and in the background, that same tune plays quietly through your old HoloWave. It’s a different model, yet the music is unmistakably and painfully paralleled.

She hums, her voice breathy compared to your honeyed one now, matching the melody as it drifts through the cramped room. It’s ordinary—peaceful, even—but now, as you stand idly over your stove, it feels heavier than ever.

For a fleeting moment, you can almost hear her voice again. If you concentrate enough you know you’ll recall the way her lips would quirk up when she solved a puzzle, and the way she’d look at you afterward with a satisfied grin that made the rest of the universe disappear— if only for a second.

Your chest tightens, and the hum dies in your throat.

You’re about to excuse yourself to your bedroom when a voice sounds out from behind you. “Hey,”

When you spin around with wide eyes, you see Din sitting at your two-seat dining table, visor pointed at you, and his body surprisingly relaxed.

“Hey,” you greet back with a nervous smile, hands shaking as they return to stirring the pan absent-mindedly. Despite your body going through a sort of shock, you feel your mind slowly withdrawing from the dark as he seems to look at you. You thank the Maker for his timing.

“How far is it to the capital from here?” he questions, voice pleasantly husky as his gloved palm smooths the surface of the table mindlessly.

You drop the chopped produce into the hot skillet with a satisfying hiss and puff your cheeks in thought. The moisture hits the surface and crackles, the sizzle filling your ears alongside the melody from the Holo. It’s a different one now, a mellow orchestral you’re unfamiliar with.

“Mon Kilim is a three-day walk from Terrine,” you explain, tilting your head to look at him once in a while. “We’re a bit unfortunate to be cut-off from the main roads, though, so you’d have to make a trek through the forest. There’s a river that takes you there if you follow it down-stream, but because the treeline is so thick, it gets real dark at night.”

As the vegetables begin to soften, you open a jar of your preserves. The lid pops off with a soft click, releasing the rich, fruity fragrance into the air. You spoon a generous portion into the skillet, the thick jam coating the ingredients and melding into the sizzling mixture. The scent is mouthwatering—sweet, savory, and just the right amount of spice.

You catch Din’s helmet tilt downwards as he seems to ponder your words. You sigh sympathetically.

“…But our head merchant, Poiko, has an old speeder at his disposal,” you elaborate, and watch Din’s visor meet you again. “He makes a trip to Mon Kilim once every moon cycle, so if you’re patient and good enough at bribery, you might be able to catch a ride with him.”

“When will he travel again?”

“Well… he’s away as we speak. Left this morning, I think he’s planning to stay overnight this time, too, so you’re out of luck.”

“So it’ll be another month until he travels again?” Din asks, and you hum in acknowledgment.

You take a deep breath, savoring the decadent scents. Quietly, you wonder if the stranger, still in his helmet, can smell the decadence you’re cooking up for him. Could he smell the flowers in your garden when you stood on the porch? The worn leather of your couch?

“And before you ask, no, I doubt he’ll let you borrow it. I’ve heard it cost him a small fortune, so he’s understandably a little protective over it,” you chuckle softly, “Plus, it’s an old Imperial model. The fuel is expensive and the spare parts are virtually unattainable, so most mechanics refuse to take care of the thing.”

You hear Din begin his retort when suddenly, you feel a tug at your skirt. You dismiss it as your imagination playing tricks on you at first, but almost on cue, the pull comes again.

You look down, and your eyes widen.

There, on your wooden parquet floor, sits a creature—light green with large, black eyes and comically big ears. It blinks up at you, cooing softly as its three-fingered hands tug at the hem of your skirt.

For a moment, it seems like both you and Din are rendered speechless at the sight. You drop the wooden spatula into the pan and instinctively crouch down to take a closer look at the strange critter.

“Hey, there,” you grin, extending a finger towards it. It looks like a youngling, but not one you’re familiar with. For a moment, you deduct it must be one of the neighborhood children, one you’ve perhaps omitted.

The child coos at you again, moving one of his grabby hands to your extended digit. His skin is velvet-like to the touch.

“Kid—” Din hisses, seemingly awoken from his shock. You catch him in your peripheral, shooting up from his chair and crouching down next to you.

His gloved hands work quickly, grabbing the creature and placing it in his arms. Somehow, you don’t feel alarmed. The man’s hold is benevolent from what you can tell, cradling the little one’s body with an apt softness you wouldn’t expect from someone like him.

“Is he…” you begin, suddenly noting the proximity between you and the armored man. The green creature squirms in his hold, looking up at him with what you can only describe as mischief. “Is he yours?”

Din’s visor levels with you, and you can’t help but squint. You’ve never been closer, and somehow you hope to catch a glimpse of whatever is underneath that Maker-forsaken helmet.

There’s a moment where everything around you goes silent. Something in the air around you becomes apparent, and you can’t quite place it, but it hums underneath the surface, electric and taut.

“Yes,” he replies quietly, “he’s mine.”

You can’t help but connect the dots. Big eyes, green skin… is that what Din looks like underneath all that metal? Where would his ears even go in that helmet?

A chuckle rips from your throat at the image, and you aimlessly try to mask it with your palm over your lips.

His helmet tilts in question, and you shake your head dismissively.

“I’m sorry, I just thought of something,” you explain through your giggling fit, inhaling deeply to recall your calm mein. “He’s adorable. Snuck up on me without any noise, but I guess he learned from the best, so it’s no surprise.”

Din ponders your comment for a moment, looking down at his child. The little one is glancing at the counter now, reaching his hands towards what you assume he wants— the dinner you’ve been preparing. You mentally browse your cupboards, thinking whether you still have those child-friendly plastic utensils your friend left over years back.

“His name is Grogu,” the man finally speaks, placing the kid on the floor again. He looks at his father in question. “He was… orphaned. I took him in under my care.”

Ah, an adoptive son. Your theory was wrong, after all.

“Grogu,” you repeat with a smile, and the child turns to you with a squeak. You can’t help but laugh at the reaction, and that seems to urge him to waddle towards you.

His movements are confident, yet the sack wrapping his body seems to restrict his movements enough to make it a hassle. Your hands reach out, and you’re ready to embrace him when Din’s hands wrap around him again, pulling him back into his arms much to Grogu’s dismay.

Your grin drops to a lingering smile as you watch Din stand up, his kid tucked firmly in his elbow. “Alright, that’s enough.”

You follow suit, standing up with a soft sigh before returning to the stove. You bring the meat-filled chopping board to the pan and tilt it, letting the juicy pieces fall into the vegetable medley.

As you stir again, you catch Din walking towards the mysterious orb he had left in the living room. From afar, you watch him tap something on his gauntlet, the metal whooshing open seconds later. He mutters something to Grogu, placing the boy in— what you now know to be— a cradle.

“Is he ever a handful?” you tease with a warm chuckle as Din returns to the dining table. He sits back in the same chair, letting Grogu hover beside him in the now-open cradle. You watch the child gaze curiously around the room, his wide eyes drinking in every detail.

"Sometimes," he admits, voice low and quiet.

"You seem to handle him well," you say, glancing over your shoulder. Grogu has his eyes locked on you now, and when he catches your gaze, his little hands reach toward you again, a gurgling coo escaping his mouth.

You smile. If it wasn’t for Din watching over you, you’d probably be acting on your surge of cuteness-aggression at this very moment.

Din shifts slightly, his posture stiff. "He’s… special," he says finally. "Different from other children."

You raise an eyebrow, sensing his apprehension to answer. But again, you don’t press.

"I can tell," you murmur, eyes softening as you look at Grogu. He’s settled down now, content to sit in his cradle, his big, soulful eyes still trained on you.

You turn your attention back to the meal, and when you taste-test a chunk of cooked meat, you finally deem the feast ready to serve.

"All done. I’m sorry it’s a little plain, I didn’t have much to work with, unfortunately," You stir the pot again, "It’s a quick twist on Karkan ribene. This was a hit with my friends back when I—" You stop yourself, realizing you’re teetering on dangerous memories. "Back in the day," you finish with a small, tight smile.

Din nods, and you start preparing the table. You set down three glasses and two sets of cutlery— one plastic, bright blue, and adorned with yellow stars— a fact you hope Grogu is old enough to appreciate.

“How old is he?” you suddenly question, withdrawing a half-full pitcher of sweet brew from your fridge. Finally, you place two bowls down, omitting your own. The breakfast has been keeping your belly full.

He tilts his helmet to you. “I don’t know. A friend of mine speculates he could be around fifty.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Fifty?” You repeat, filling each glass with the golden-brown drink. “Fascinating.”

Din nods at your comment as you raise the pan from your stove. With the spatula, you fill each bowl to the brim and murmur in satisfaction when you realize you’ll even have some leftovers for yourself.

You watch as Grogu attempts the first bite, his small hand knocking the spoon against the bowl with a soft clink.

“Is he older than you?” you question with a hint of mischief, putting the pan back on the stove and taking a seat in the chair opposite from Din. Your hands wrap around the textured glass, and you take a sip.

He tilts his head slightly, the movement almost hesitant— but your smile stays steady, warm, and inviting, and after a brief pause, he finally speaks.

“Slightly,” he admits, his voice carrying a note of amusement you hadn’t expected.

You blink, letting the information settle in, and your curiosity emerges anew.

“Really?” you say, leaning forward just a little, unable to hide the intrigue in your voice. You feel comfortable enough to toy with the idea of teasing him but finally decide against it.

Instead, you let a soft chuckle slip. “Well, he’s doing pretty well for a fifty-year-old,” you joke, glancing over at Grogu as he slurps happily at his bowl of stew.

The kid looks up at you, eyes blinking. His chubby hands fumble with the spoon, barely managing to get a bite into his mouth, but you find his spirit more than makes up for his lack of coordination.

Din shifts in his seat, and though he remains still, you sense something stir behind the visor.

“He’s worth it,” he says, breaking the silence with his resolute tone. It sends a jolt down your spine.

You meet his gaze—or at least, the blank stare of his helmet—and something unspoken passes between you. There’s more to this, you know it, but such is the case in every story. Even your own.

For a moment, you let the air between you settle. The cool breeze sends your thin curtains flying, the scent of your meal lingering warmly in the space between you.

After a few more bites, you break the quiet again, this time with a gentler tone. “How long has it been since you took him in?”

Din nods, though you imagine there’s much more he could say if he wanted to. “A while,” he affirms.

You nod, and the weight of his words tells you he probably lost count of the days. If anything, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t count the days at all, as you couldn’t really imagine him crossing squares off a calendar, or worse, writing down important dates for him and his son. 21st, Grogu’s birthday. 3rd, secure bounty. Your lips curve at the fantasy.

Din’s visor turns toward you, and you wonder, for just a moment, what expression might be hidden beneath. Maybe there’s a trace of a smile on his face, one that mirrors yours.

“I try,” Din says simply, and the words, yet again, hang in the air as you both watch Grogu slurp down the last of his stew.

The quiet moment lingers, and you glance over at Din’s own untouched portion. The bowl is still steaming gently, so you look back up at him with a quirked eyebrow. “Are you not hungry?”

He shifts in his chair slightly, glancing down at the hefty portion. For a split second, you hope it’s to his liking.

“I… can’t,” Din replies quietly, his voice tinged with apprehension.

Your curious eyes connect with his visor, and he takes a moment to collect himself before granting you an explanation— one he doesn’t owe you at all, you realize.

“My religion demands I keep my face hidden from any living, breathing thing,” he trails, taking a brief glance at his child. The boy plays with his utensils, clicking and clacking them together and glancing up at his dad as if looking for a hint of approval.

“I understand,” you nod, giving him a reassuring smile. You’ve never heard of such a doctrine in your life, yet the universe holds many secrets, religions, and philosophies. It’d be unwise of you to denounce something you don’t understand in its full capacity.

“I appreciate the meal, but I can’t eat with you.”

“Din,” you finally speak his name out loud, and it feels so natural rolling off your tongue. His helmet seems to fix on yours again, more attentive than ever. You repeat your question, this time with a gentle insistence. ”Are you not hungry?”

He sighs through the modulator, a sharp, metallic wheeze. “I’ll eat on the ship.”

But the answer doesn’t satisfy you.

Without another word, you rise from your chair. The old wood creaks softly beneath you as you grab your half-finished glass of sweet brew and look at him with a warm smile. You need not look at his face to know he’s puzzled.

“I’ll wait in the garden. You can close the windows, shut the blinds… even lock the door, if you like,” you trail, approaching the doorway and sliding into your woven slippers. “And if you’re comfortable, take your helmet off. Eat your fill, have a drink— take a break, if only for a little while.”

There’s a moment of comfortable silence that befalls you after your suggestion drops. His gaze is still on you, watching, scanning, considering.

And finally, when you catch his nod, you smile.

Your eyes gleam when they catch Grogu’s, his hands extending towards you in… curiosity? Farewell?

From a distance, you glimpse his little face splotched in bits of sauce.

“Bye, baby!” you chuckle, raising a hand to wave at the child. Your gaze moves to Din, and the smile on your face softens. “Take your time. I’ll be out front.”

He nods again, watching as you open the front door with a gentle creak. Your stares linger on each other, and you’re almost compelled to stay… nope. Nothing good ever came from overeagerness.

With one last look at the pair, you step into the outside world. The air hits your face, reddening your cheeks and mussing your hair.

You take a deep breath, letting the floral fragrance settle around you as you walk down the porch steps. Turning right towards the apple tree, you spot the wooden swinging bench beneath its canopy.

A patterned, purple blanket covers its length, and you grab it unceremoniously with your free hand. With a sigh you settle onto the bench, feeling it rock gently with your weight.

You drape the blanket over your shoulders and shimmy around. The warmth of the fabric is a satisfying embrace, and you take a few sips of your cool, sweet brew to even out your body’s temperature.

Your eyes wander over the garden, taking in the verdant greenery. To your delight, the coreberries you planted last season are pushing through the soil, tiny, unripe fruits just beginning to show. The fruit is tart on its own, but perhaps sweetens through maceration— it’s something you have never tried, but make sure to take a mental note for later.

Inside, you hear the subtle rustle of Din closing the blinds, and you smile when you realize he leaves the window open; perhaps it’s just to let in the fresh, afternoon air, yet your mind likes to conjure another reality, one that makes your heart and body warm.

You sip your brew again, savoring its sweetness. The garden lights begin to cast a gentle, ambient glow as twilight slowly approaches. The soft rustling of the wind chimes mingles with the distant hum of insects, creating a soothing soundtrack that harmonizes with your mood.

You lean back on the bench, gazing up at the sky as it shifts from golden to hues of pink and purple— an ordinary end to a most peculiar day.

The glass in your hand is empty now, condensation beading along its rim. You’re just starting to lose yourself to the soft sounds of the evening when the door to your house creaks open again.

From the corner of your eye, you catch the soft hum of the hovering metal sphere as it emerges. Grogu, nestled safely inside, peeks out at the world with half-lidded eyes, his tiny hands resting on the edges of the crib as though the meal had lulled him into a food-induced stupor.

Moments later, Din steps through the doorway, his armored form unmistakable. You tilt your head slightly, the bench swinging gently as a small, contented smile tugs at your lips.

Din spots you immediately, and surely enough, his helmet is right where it belongs; perched comfortably on his shoulders. Briefly, you feel a pang of dismay at the fact.

“We’re leaving,” he declares, walking down the porch steps and approaching you. He keeps a distance, but even from your position, you can tell his posture seems lax compared to when he first stepped into your home.

“Okay,” you reply, your voice steady though your heart tightens a little at the words.

There’s a beat of silence as Din nods. His visor remains fixed on you, lingering for longer than usual, and you realize your eyes are locked on it as well. Embarrassed, you clear your throat, glancing away briefly to collect yourself. The last thing you want is for this moment to end so soon.

“I’ll make sure to prepare this little guy’s favorite next time around,” you chuckle lightly, your gaze drifting to Grogu, his eyes drooping.

“I don’t think he’s got a favorite,” Din says, his voice carrying an unusual softness. If you didn’t know any better, you might think he was at ease. “He’s like a womp rat—eats anything that moves.”

You gasp in mock horror, looking at Grogu with raised eyebrows. “A womp rat? The audacity!”

And then, you hear it. Laughter.

It’s brief, and could probably be written off as a trick of the mind, but you swear by your intuition.

“Thanks for the meal,” he nods, breaking you out of your haze. You look up at him hurriedly, yelping when the glass in your hand almost slips away.

You’re stupefied. The sound rings throughout your hazed mind, the soft baritone making you exhale sharply— a reaction you’re terrified to overanalyze.

He offers one final nod, and despite your heart’s silent prayer, this time he doesn’t linger.

His steps are purposeful as he turns toward the picket fence, long shadow stretching across the yard as the brightest hours of day ebb into the evening. The familiar creak of the gate reaches your ears as he leaves, the sound echoing through the now-quiet pocket of the planet.

As the soft breeze beckons a melody of the wind chimes, you exhale.

The last thing you catch before he disappears behind the thicket is the wide-open, curious gaze of the little green child staring right into your very soul.

—

Dusk slips over the sky, painting it in fading hues of gold and violet, and with a quiet sigh, you finally muster the energy to return inside.

As you step out of your slippers, your eyes fall on the dining table, dimly illuminated by the soft glow of the fading day. Two bowls rest upon it—one messier than the other, but both empty.

The quiet of the night surrounds you as you sit at the table alone, and with every bite you take of your own meal, a gentle smile finds its way onto your lips.

For tonight, this is enough.

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blubushie · 4 months

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biggest pet peeve in sniper art?

Oh boy. A few of these actually. (I'm assuming you mean Sniper TF2 and not general snipers in art...)

Under the cut cuz it's long.

His rifle drawn improperly. The anatomy is very simple and if necessarily, just reference instead of butchering it—even if you're doing realistic art, he uses a Remington 700, and there's more than enough reference photos online for the most popular sporting rifle ever sold. I've seen people draw it like a handgun. On a similar note–

Him shouldering his rifle incorrectly. Or just handling it incorrectly in general. Rifle slots in just above the armpit—when your stretch your dominant arm forward while leaning in and bracing your muscles, it forms a pocket at the shoulder just above your armpit between the head of your humerus and your pectoral muscle. This creates a firm pocket that the butt of a rifle will slot into. If it's not in this pocket, you're gonna have a bad time.

Using the wrong arm to support the rifle vs handle the trigger. I've seen horrors. While Sniper is implied to be ambidextrous, he shoots right-handed. This means the rifle slots on his RIGHT shoulder, and his RIGHT trigger finger is on the trigger. His LEFT HAND is used to support the weight of the rifle at the forestock. On a similar note–

Ambidextrous Sniper is cool and I love seeing left-handed Sniper when it's done properly. Downside—his right eye is his dominant eye, so unless his right hand is injured in a way that he can't pull a trigger with that hand, he would not be shooting left-handed.

Speaking of dominant eyes—you look down the scope with your dominant eye. The eye NOT looking down the scope is called your off-eye. YOU DO NOT CLOSE YOUR OFF-EYE WHEN SHOOTING. OFF-EYE STAYS OPEN. Firstly it's for safety, because if your off-eye is closed you can't see what's happening in your immediate vicinity. Two, it's for performance. You can't change targets as easily with your off-eye closed. Any sniper worth his salt, especially a professional, is keeping his off-eye open. This is hunting 101 and something Sniper, former outback hunter of dangerous game, would know and practise religiously.

Speaking of scopes—eye relief. You do not put your face right up to the scope. There should be 10cm or about 4 inches between your face and the scope. Otherwise when you fire you're going to get a black eye when the recoil makes the scope hit you in the face. You'll take your eye out, kid.

People who draw him with his comics hair and call that a mullet. Almost none of you know what a mullet it. A little tuft of hair at the nape of the neck isn't a mullet! Those who give him an actual mullet when you say that shit, I love you

People who draw his scars incorrectly. They make them look fresh—with the sutures still present. Sutures aren't permanent and are removed after a week to a few weeks, depending on healing and how deep the wound is. Once SCARRED he wouldn't have horizontal lines through the scars. He'd just have long scars and dotted scars alongside where the sutures used to be. And looking at my own scars, in most places you can't see the dotting from the sutures since the holes heal easy and don't often scar.

Skinny twiggy Sniper that looks like he's about to drop dead of malnutrition. Have you not read the comics? Do you not know what lean, functional muscle looks like? Fuck's sake.

Ok reckon that's all of them for now.

#blu whos #tf2 #sniper tf2 #sniperposting

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lady-bess · 3 months

Text

Miller's Mountainous Adventure Park - A Secret Springs Activity!

Joel Miller x F!Reader Words: 1.8k Mature (references to sex - minors DNI please!) Tags: Joel Miller!Adventure Guide, Rope Climbing, Tree-top Assault Course, Protective!Joel, Flirty!Joel, Shameful Flirting, Joel is an ass-man in my canon, References to Sex, Reader is definitely scared of heights, and Joel fkin knows it, Explicit Language.

My contribution to @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs project! Submitting a short one-shot showcasing our beloved Mr. Miller being a treetop adventure park guide for week four's prompt, 'See, Stay, & Do'. Big thanks to our mayor for giving me this prompt! Enjoy! 🥰

A/N: This was heavily based off a recent trip to a similar adventure park I went to not long ago, in which I sustained rope burns on my arms from going down the zip-line a bit too quickly. I also got stuck in the middle of one of the horizontal lines and was suspended mid-air for a good 20 minutes while a member of staff had to come rescue me. Alas, it was not Joel who turned up...

Miller’s Mountainous Activity Park

“Climbing walls, bungee jumps, and zip lines - Miller’s has it all! Come along for fabulous views, a day of laughs, and fun challenges for all!”

The advert for this place seemed appealing at the time when you booked it. You’d been wanting to challenge yourself to try different things, instead of your usual tendency to resign yourself to your own little bubble of introvertedness. That’s what this whole trip was about, anyway. Booked on a bit of a whim after your recent breakup, you had told yourself that this time you were not going to allow yourself to wallow in self-pity, and instead you’d have fun as a singleton.

But now, several rounds of activities later, you felt like you were ready to throw in the towel and say fuck new experiences. You were tired, exhausted after an afternoon of group orienteering activities, climbing walls, treetop walkways, and rope courses. Your legs felt like they were about to give way after you’d just climbed your eighth rope ladder in the last hour, and you’d never felt so unfit in your entire life.

Which was great for your self esteem, as you stood panting at the top of the platform, panting like a dog in heat.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you whispered to yourself while you caught your breath, but you took relief in the fact that it was almost over. Standing up tall, you were finally at the highest point of the course. From here, you could see out across Secret Springs, and admire the views - the tops of every building, filled with all the independent businesses you’d ventured to throughout your stay here this summer; the rolling hills and stunning views that surrounded the town; and even the mayor’s office, who you understood took great pride in the community they’d built - a pride you felt with them. You knew that the pain from this activity park was fleeting, but the memories you’d gain from being here were forever.

Part of you never wanted to leave.

“Y’allright, darlin’?” came a sultry drawl from behind you that made your hair stand on end. You jumped slightly, then turned to meet eyes with the instructor who had been taking you and the rest of your group around the whole park - Joel.

“Sorry, just admiring the view!” you said, smiling sweetly at him. He nodded, stepping closer to you, holding onto his guidelines and keeping them secure.

“You sure that’s all it is, doll?” he asked.

Your eyes danced down to watch him fiddle with the clasps on his safety lines, twisting the caps on one line at a time before re-attaching it to the line you were also fastened to. He coughed subtly when he noticed your wandering gaze and a lack of response.

“I-uh, yeah! Why?” you asked.

Joel shrugged, chuckling to himself as he finished detaching his lines from the rope ladder safety guideline and securing himself next to you on the platform. He was now able to get closer, and he approached you slowly, bringing one hand up to rest on your shoulder in a kind of comfort.

“Just a hunch. I’ve done a lot of these tours - you wouldn’t be the first person to chicken out of doing the final zip wire,” he said, a small grin on his face.

He clearly loved his job, but he perhaps loved watching how you squirmed underneath him even more. Even in spite of how unfit you felt, and who knows how God awful you looked after hours of physically demanding challenges with a group of people you didn’t know, Joel had kept close to you the entire time. At first you thought it was just because you weren’t here with anyone else, with the rest of your group being made up of couples, or small groups of friends. But the more you’d gone round the course, the more he’d hung back to chat with you; all the while throwing in small physical touches, flirtatious banter, but never overstepping.

You’d be lying if you said you hated it. In truth, it was rather welcome.

“Oh! That…,” you trailed off, your eyes now moving to dare look down at the final challenge remaining. You’d been so distracted by the views that you’d completely missed every other person already completing the 200-metre zip wire that stood between you and finishing the course. It was now just you and Joel stood here in the trees, the distant chatter of the rest of the group unbuckling themselves from their harnesses and heading off being just a faint noise.

“Yes, that,” he chuckled, “Nervous?”.

“A little, I guess. But I’ll be fine! You go ahead, Joel. I’m sure the rest of the group are waiting for your instruction,” you smiled. Joel squeezed your shoulder slightly harder and shook his head, his eyes never faltering.

“They’ll be fine. My brother is on hand at the bottom to get everyone out. You, darlin’, are my priority,” he said.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, and you weren’t entirely sure if it was the anxiety of the oncoming zip line, or horniness from that damn pet name he seemed to only use for you, which somehow lit a fire underneath you in a way your ex had never quite managed. Either way, you were nervous.

“I am?” you stammered.

“Yeah,” he drawled, “That okay?”.

“Y-yes,” you swallowed, hard. Even if he did just mean from a professional point of view, that he couldn’t legally leave you up here alone, you didn’t feel like that was where he was coming from.

“Good,” he said. “Tell you what, I’ll sweeten the deal for ya,” he said, his hand now dropping to the fastening on your harness. His fingers glided over the buckles, tugging them slightly to make sure they were still in their proper place after so much activity. The force moved you ever closer to him, and suddenly you found yourself mere inches from his body. The only thing that snapped you out of the trance of watching Joel, and made you realise he’d asked you something, was the sound of your safety lines clanging together on the guideline above you.

“How so?” you asked. Joel winked at you.

“You get your cute butt down that zipline in the next two minutes, and I’ll take ya out for dinner, darlin’,” he chuckled.

You couldn’t hold back the small giggle as Joel began detaching your safety lines one by one to the main zip wire, taking extra care in making sure that they were attached properly. He’d given everyone a crash course on fastening their own lines before you even started, and everyone had got the hang of it by the time you reached the main course - so this extra attention was definitely not because he didn’t think you could do it. No, he wanted to make sure you were secure himself.

And something about that was quite arousing.

“I have a cute butt?” you asked, acting like you weren’t relieved you’d picked the good leggings to do this course the second you’d seen how cute your instructor was. Joel laughed lowly behind you, with you now facing the descending zip-line, him tugging on your lines to make sure you were fastened in properly.

“Sure, that’s what you focus on,” his words skimmed the shell of your ear, and his strong hands landed on your waist from behind. You sucked in a breath at the closeness, and the feeling of warmth that seeped into your body from his touch. It was a kind of comfort mixed with a desire to say screw dinner, come back to my hotel.

“Yes, you have a cute butt. But you also have a beautiful smile, a gorgeous laugh, and a personality I’d very much like to get to know a bit better,” he said, his voice now lower and almost a whisper behind you. “Is that alright?”.

“Joel, I’m only here for another week, and then I’m gone. What’s in it for you?” you asked.

“Darlin’, I’d like to make your last week here the most memorable. Pay no heed to ‘what’s in it for me’. I wanna spend time with ya, and live in the moment a bit more, starting with taking you out tonight. How does that sound?”.

The smallest bit of guilt crept into you at the thought that Joel was willing to spend the next week with you only to then potentially never see you again. There was a nagging voice in your head that still wanted to say no to him, even after he’d made it clear that he didn’t care about the ‘what ifs’ and what would come after you would leave for home next week.

But then you remembered why you came here. To push yourself, to live outside your comfort zone - the old you might have insisted on saying no, but you did wonder how many opportunities you’d missed in your life by playing it safe.

“Okay,” you said, “I’d like that, Joel.”

You turned your head to smile at him, and were greeted with his soft brown eyes firmly on yours. He flashed a cheeky grin back at you, then leant in and quickly gave you a peck on the cheek. The scruff of his facial hair brushed against your soft skin, and it was over far too soon.

“Good,” he chucked, “Now, off you go!” he said, tapping your ass and pushing your lines down the zip wire, setting you on course for the ground. You screamed and laughed as your body dipped off the platform and you were sent careering down the line at a rate of knots, the wind rushing through your hair and the horizon disappearing behind the treetops as you got closer to the landing platform on the ground.

You could hear the faint laughter of Joel in the distance as he unclipped his wires and got ready to go down after you once you’d landed, and even while rushing down the line you could feel your cheeks burn as a teenage-like crush began making itself known. It might not be anything, but you wouldn’t know until you tried.

You crash landed at the bottom of the line, your heels digging into the bark-coated flooring to slow you down, but you still unceremoniously landed on your ass. With nobody around, you let yourself flop down onto your back, still attached to the line, and let out a laugh. Your whole body ached, and you’d now definitely need a shower before going out with Joel tonight. But you didn’t care about that. You were happy.

And, for the first time, you felt free.

Liked this? Check out my Masterlist!

#pedro pascal #fanfiction #fanfic #joel miller #the last of us #secret springs #see stay and do #writing challenge #writing prompt #fluff #flirty #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #reader insert #pre/no outbreak

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cmkinkbingo2024 · 6 months

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It’s time to get kinky! Welcome to Criminal Minds Kink Bingo 2024.

The goal of a bingo challenge is to get a bingo on your card, either by crossing out one line, two lines, or a blackout (full card) by creating fanworks for the prompts randomly provided on the card.

This could be a written piece of a minimum 500 words, a piece of finished art, or another kind of fanwork of your choosing.

Please note that this challenge and blog is for people 18+ only.

Timelines/Deadlines

Until sign ups open, we are accepting kink nominations to be included as options via our ask box. We have a list already, but we will add to it if something is missing.

Sign ups start on May 1st 2024 and will be open until May 15th.

Individual cards will be issued by May 22nd, and the event officially starts on May 26th (you can start creating as soon as you receive your bingo card).

As soon as the event starts on May 26th, you can post fanworks whenever they’re created, in whatever place you prefer. You can tag your fills, bingo updates or WIPs with #cmkinkbingo2024 on tumblr. We also have a collection on AO3 for your works here.

You have until July 31st 2024 to complete your bingos!

How Bingo Works

Lines can be made by crossing out squares in any direction - horizontal, vertical, or diagonal. To cross out a square, use the prompt on it to create and post a fanwork.

You will choose from a large list of potential prompts, marking the ones you would be happy to have generated on a 5x5 square bingo card. This will also allow you to exclude prompts you would not be happy to have to create for.

While that does mean you could create the perfect bingo card, we encourage you to select upwards of 25 prompts, to allow for some randomness in the challenge.

Every card will have a free space in the middle, where you have the option to choose a prompt yourself.

You can request additional bingo cards if you complete a line, 2 lines or a full house and want to try for a second win!

Rules/Guidelines

No plagiarism, art theft or AI generated content will be tolerated in works for this challenge. Participants/works will be excluded at our discretion in these circumstances.

You can post your fanworks wherever you prefer.

Just like kinks are not always sexual, works do not have to be explicit to be entered. As long as it relates to the prompt, SFW content is entirely allowed.

Some of the kinks utilized in this challenge will fall under “real world” kinks, and others under things considered a kink in the context of fanwork creation.

You are responsible for how much you stick to the spirit of the challenge - ultimately this is meant to be fun, and to spur people to be creative, and create content for a fandom we love!

Safety/Your Kink Is Not My Kink

Some of the kinks listed may indicate extreme, upsetting, triggering content, or content you personally find immoral, or that “squicks” you. You are ultimately responsible for the content you consume - if something is not for you, scroll past and/or use the necessary blocking/muting features to exclude this content from your feed.

Please make sure to tag and rate all works appropriately for their content, such as using Archive of Our Own’s warning, rating and tag system, or tumblr’s ‘read more’ function.

You can add any fills posted on Archive of Our Own to the collection here.

Please check out the Frequently Asked Questions, or send us an ask if you have another question!

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fourthwingfan · 5 months

Text

Madness - Chapter 19

Surpriiisee. I'm done with the next chapter.

And thank you, you are all so supportive. ❤️

Enjoy! :)

In response to the Great War, dragons claimed the western lands and gryphons the central ones, abandoning the Barrens and the memory of General Daramor, who nearly destroyed the Continent with his army. Our allies sailed home and we began a period of peace and prosperity as the provinces of Navarre united for the first time behind the safety of our wards, under the protection of the first bonded riders.

—Navarre, an Unedited History by Colonel Lewis Markham

What. The. Hell.

It’s as if everyone in the room has turned to stone, but I know that can’t be true. I can see Violet as she moves away from the guy who holds her. I can feel the guy’s warm hand in my hair, his skin malleable under my fingers as I shove his hand away from me.

And…I just stand there. What the hell?!

„Quickly, we need to move!” I wince at Vi’s hoarse voice as she breaks the silence.

Complete, unearthly silence.

The clock on the desk isn’t tickin. No one breathes. Their gazes are frozen. To the left, the woman I sliced open is hunched over, and the man I stabbed is leaned against the wall on the right, staring in horror at his thigh.

I mark time in thunderous heartbeats as we stumble into the only open space in the room, but our path to the now-open door isn’t clear.

Xaden fills the doorway like some kind of dark, avenging angel, the messenger of the queen of the gods. He’s fully dressed, his face a mask of veritable rage as shadows curl from the walls on either side of him, hanging in midair.

For the first time since crossing the parapet, I’m so fucking relieved to see him that I could cry.

Violet gasps beside me – and chaos resumes.

„It’s about damned time.” Aon rumbles.

Xaden’s gaze snaps to mine, his onyx eyes flaring in shock for no longer than a millisecond before he strides forward, his shadows streaming before him as he stands at our side. He snaps his fingers and the room illuminates, mage lights hovering above us.

“You’re all fucking dead.” His voice is eerily calm and all the scarier for it.

Every head in the room turns.

“Riorson!” The man’s dagger clatters to the floor who held Violet.

“You think surrendering will save you?” Xaden’s lethally soft tone sends goose bumps up my arms. “It is against our code to attack another rider in their sleep.”

“But you know he never should have bonded her!” He puts his hands up, his palms facing us. “You of all people have reason enough to want the weakling dead. We’re just correcting a mistake.”

“Dragons don’t make mistakes.” Xaden’s shadows grab every assailant but that man by the throat, then constrict. They struggle, but it doesn’t matter. Their faces turn purple, the shadows holding tight as they sag to their knees, falling in an arc in front of me like lifeless puppets.

I can’t find it in my heart to pity them.

Xaden prowls forward as though he has all the time in the world and holds out his palm as yet another tendril of darkness lifts a discarded dagger from the floor.

“Let me explain.” The man eyes the dagger, and his hands tremble.

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” Xaden’s fingers curl around the hilt. “She should have killed, but she’s merciful. That’s not a flaw I possess.” He slashes forward so quickly that I barely catch the move, and his throat opens in a horizontal line, blood streaming down his neck and chest in a torrent.

He grabs for his throat, but it’s useless. He bleeds out in seconds, crumpling to the floor. A crimson puddle grows around him.

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick walks in, sheathing his sword as his gaze rakes over the room. “No time for questioning?” His glance sweeps to us as if cataloging injuries, catching on my bloodied face.

“No need for it,” Xaden counters as Bodhi enters, doing the same quick assessment Garrick had. The similarity between the cousins still gives me pause. Bodhi has the same bronzed skin and strong brow line, but his features aren’t as angular as Xaden’s, and his eyes are a lighter shade of brown. He looks like a softer, more approachable version of his older cousin, but my body doesn’t heat at the sight of him the way it does around Xaden.

An illogical laugh bubbles up through Violet’s lips, and all three men look at her like she’ve hit her head.

“Let me guess,” Bodhi says, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re on cleanup?”

“Call in help if you need it,” Xaden answers with a nod.

„Are you okay Vi?” I turn to her and gently grab her arms.

Oh my god. I have a terrible nasal voice. If that man wasn’t already dead I would kill him for breaking my nose.

„I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.” She repeats it again and again.

„Yes. You’re alive.” Xaden says as he steps over the bodies toward Violet’s armoire with her daggers in his hand.

Garrick and Bodhi haul out the first bodies.

„I didn’t realize I’d said that out loud.” She says and starts shaking like a leaf.

„It’s the shock.” I say gently and move her toward her chair. „Sit. It’ll be better, just breathe.”

„Are you hurt?” Xaden asks while whipping Violet’s cloak from its hook and retrieving a pair of boots. His words are clipped.

Silence.

“Come on, Violence.” His cajoling words are at odds with his terse tone as he folds the cloak over his arm and brings the boots through the remaining bodies he’s left on the floor. “Pull your shit together and tell me where you’re hurt.”

That nickname again.

“You’re breathing like crap, so I’m guessing it has to do with—”

“My ribs,” she finishes before he can guess. “The one by the bed hit the side of my ribs with the sword, but I think they’re just bruised.”

“Must have been a dull sword.” He cocks a dark eyebrow. “Unless it has something to do with why both of you sleep in your leather vest.”

“Trust him,” Aon demands.

“I have trust issues if you couldn’t tell. It’s not that easy.”

“It has to be for now. And I burn him alive if he ever hurts you.”

“It’s dragon-scale.” I say and move so that the light shines on it. “Mira made it for us.”

He glances between our bodies, his mouth tensing before he nods once.

„And you, Sunshine?” He asks before moving in front of me. „That’s a lot of blood.”

„Yeah, well not all of it is mine,” I shrug. „And maybe I pissed one of them off a bit, and he broke my nose.”

„You and your big mouth, Sunshine.” He sighs in exasperation.

Before I can argue that point, his gaze shifts to my face and narrows at what I imagine has to be incipient brusing. “I should have killed him slower.”

„And your ribs? He hit you really hard.” Violet asks from her seat.

„Sunshine?” Xaden asks with a raised eyebrow.

I sigh. Fine. „It hurts a little but my face is worse than that. Not worth mentioning.”

“Never lie to me.” He says it with such ferocity, bit out through gritted teeth.

„I would promise, but there are secrets I can’t tell you.” I whisper and I can hear the sadness in my voice. „Sometimes I have to put my life first. Secrets can kill you in the wrong hands.”

He looks at me with an indecipherable look, then nods.

„Then be honest with me when you can.” He says quietly and his gazes softens.

My heart flutters.

“My nose hurts, and my ribs too.” I admit.

“Let me see.” I open and shut my mouth twice. I don’t know what to say and I simply nod. I’m tired of arguing. I let him do what he wants. At least tonight I don’t have to control everything.

Two other men walk in through the open door, Garrick and Bodhi following closely after. They’re all…dressed. Fully clothed at—I glance at the clock—two a.m.

“Take those two, and we’ll get the last ones,” Garrick orders, and the others get to work, carrying the last of the bodies out through the door. I can’t help but notice they all have rebellion relics shimmering up their arms, but I keep the observation to myself.

“Thank you,” Xaden says, then flicks his hand and the door shuts with a soft click. “Now, let me see your injuries. We’re wasting time.” He turns to Violet. „And you… go and get dressed.”

She must be quite shaken up because with a glance at me she goes to her armoire and does as he said.

I swallow, then nod.

He cradles my face in his hands and tilts my head to observe my face. I flinch when he lightly touch my nose.

„Sorry, Sunshine. But it’s not that bad.” He slowly drops his hand. „Nolon can mend it in the morning. Now let me see your ribs.”

I sigh. Better to know now if they’re broken anyway. I turn my back on him, but I can see his face in the full-length mirror. “You’ll have to—”

“I know how to handle a corset.” His jaw flexes once, and something that reminds me of raw hunger flitters across his expression before he locks it down, drawing my hair over my shoulder with surprising gentleness.

His fingers skim my bare skin and I suppress a shiver, locking my muscles so I don’t arch into his touch.

What the hell is wrong with me? There’s still blood on the floor, on me and yet my breaths are tight for the entirely wrong reason as he makes quick work of the laces, starting at the bottom. He wasn’t lying. He absolutely knows his way around a corset.

“How the hell do you get yourself into this thing every morning?” he asks, clearing his throat as inch after inch of my back is exposed.

“I’m freakishly flexible.” I answer over my shoulder and laugh at him. Our eyes meet, and warmth flutters through my stomach. The moment is gone as quickly as it came, and he pulls my armor apart, inspecting my right side. Gentle fingers stroke over the abused ribs, then prod carefully. Then he repeats it on the other side.

“You have one hell of a bruise, but I don’t think they’re broken.”

“That’s what I thought. Thank you for checking.” It should be awkward, but somehow it isn’t, even as he laces me back up, securing the ends.

“You’ll live.” He says as I turn around to face him.

„I’m ready. Where are we going?” Violet asks, and I can feel myself blushing.

Oh my god. She saw it all.

„Well… I should go and get dressed to. I’m not exactly decent.” I look at my corset and short.

„We don’t have time.” Xaden shakes his head. „Here, put it on.” He says as he shrugs off his flight jacket and gives it to me.

Without a word I take it from him.

“Let’s go.” He helps me put it on, like I’m something precious. Now I know I’m hallucinating it because I’m anything but precious to Xaden Riorson. He grasps my hand and tugs me into the hallway, Violet following us. His fingers are strong as they curl around mine, his grip firm but not too tight.

He gave me his jacket. It’s huge, and it has such a nice smell. It’s his scent. Mint and leather.

Every other door is shut. The attack wasn’t even loud enough to rouse the neighbors. We’d be dead by now if Xaden hadn’t shown up, even if we managed to get out of their hold. But how did that happen?

“Where are we going?” The hallways are dimly lit by blue mage lights, the kind that signal it’s still night for those without windows.

“Keep talking loud enough for others to hear, and someone will stop us before we get anywhere.”

“Can’t you just hide us in shadows or something?” Violet asks.

“Sure, because a giant black cloud moving down the hallway isn’t going to look more suspicious than a couple sneaking around, and you’re so small Violet, that nobody will notice you if you stay behind us.” He shoots us a look that keeps us from countering.

Point taken.

Not that we’re a couple.

Not that I wouldn’t climb the man like a tree if presented with the right set of circumstances. I cringe as we make it to the main hallway of the dormitory. There will never, ever be a right set of circumstances when it comes to him.

But in my defense, and in a sick, twisted way, his rescue was pretty damned hot, even if he is hauling me down the hallway at an untenable speed. Even if he only did it because Violet’s life is tied to his. My chest screams for a break, but there’s none to be found as he leads us past the spiral staircase that leads up to the second- and third-year dorms and into the rotunda.

Our boots against the marble floor are the only sounds as we pass into the academic wing. Instead of turning left, toward the sparring gym, he takes us right, down a set of stairs that I know leads to storage.

Halfway down the steps, he pauses, and I nearly run into the sword strapped to his back. Then he gestures with his right hand, keeping mine in his left.

Click. Xaden pushes on the stones and a hidden door swings open.

“Holy shit,” I whisper at the expansive tunnel revealed before us.

“Hope you’re not afraid of the dark.” He pulls me inside, and suffocating darkness envelops us as the door closes.

This is fine. This is absolutely fine. Just breathe.

“But just in case you are,” Xaden says, his voice at full volume as he snaps. A mage light hovers above our head, illuminating our surroundings.

“Thanks.” The tunnel is supported by arches of stone and the floor is smooth, as though it’s been traveled more than its entrance lets on. It smells like earth but isn’t dank, and it goes on for what seems like an eternity.

He drops my hand and starts walking. “Keep up.”

“You could—” Violet winces. “Be a little more considerate.” We trudge after him.

“I’m not going to baby you like Aetos does,” he says without turning around. “That’s only going to get you killed once we get out of Basgiath.”

“He doesn’t baby me.”

“He does and you know it. You hate it, too, if the vibe I’m picking up on is any indication.” He falls back to walk at our side. “Or did I read that wrong?”

“He thinks this place is too dangerous for someone…like me, and after what just happened, I’m not sure I can really argue with him. I was asleep. That’s the only time we’re supposed to be guaranteed safety around here. I don’t think I’ll bother sleeping again.” she shoots a look sideways at his profile. “And if you even think about suggesting that you sleep with me for safety from now on—”

He scoffs. “Hardly. I don’t fuck first-years—even when I was one—let alone…you.”

Ouch. There goes my fantasies. I’m a first-year after all. But deep in my heart I’m glad, that he is not attracted to Violet.

“Who said anything about fucking?” She fires back. “I’d have to be a masochist to sleep with you, and I can assure you, I’m not.”

“Masochist, huh?” A corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk.

“You hardly give off snuggly morning-after vibes.” A smile curves on her lips. “Unless you’re worried about me killing you while we sleep.” We round a corner, and the tunnel continues.

“I have zero concern about that. As violent as you are, and skilled with those daggers, I’m not even sure you could kill a fly. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you managed to wound them and never went for a kill shot.” He shoots a disapproving look her way.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” She whispers like it’s a secret.

“You’re going to have to get over that. All we are after graduation are weapons, and it’s best if we’re honed before leaving the gates.”

„That’s enough, both of you. You argue like children.” I roll my eyes. “Is that where we’re going? Are we leaving the gates?” I ask Xaden. I’ve lost all sense of direction in here.

“We’re going to ask Tairn what the hell just happened.” Xaden’s jaw flexes. “And I’m not talking about the attack. How the hell did they get past the locks?”

Violet shrugs but doesn’t explain.

“We’d better figure it out so it doesn’t happen again. I refuse to sleep on your fucking floor like some kind of guard dog.”

“Wait. This is another way to the flight field?” I do my best to mentally wall off the pain in my face. “Will you be there too?” I ask Aon.

“Naturally.”

“Are you going to tell me what that was in there?”

“I would if I knew.”

“Yes,” Xaden says, and the path curves again. “It’s not exactly common knowledge. And I’m going to ask you to tuck this little tunnel into the file of secrets you keep on my behalf.”

“Let me guess, and you’ll know if I tell?”

“Yes.” Another smirk appears, and I look away before he can catch me staring.

“Are you going to promise us another favor?” Violet asks. The path begins to climb, and the ascent is anything but gentle. Every breath reminds me of what happened less than an hour ago.

“Having one of my favors is more than enough, and we’ve already reached mutually assured destruction status, Sorrengail. Now, can you push through it, or do you need me to carry you?”

“That sounds like an insult, not an offer.”

“You’re catching on.” But his pace slows to match ours.

“What were you doing tonight anyway?” I ask curiously.

“What makes you ask?” His tone clearly insinuates that I shouldn’t. Too bad.

“You made it to Violet’s room within minutes, and you’re not exactly dressed for sleeping.” He’s strapped with a sword for crying out loud.

“Maybe I sleep in my armor, too.”

“Then you should pick more trustworthy bedmates.”

He snorts, a flash of a smile appearing for a heartbeat. A real one. Not the fake, forced sneer I’m used to seeing or the cocky little smirk. An honest, heart- stopping smile that I’m anything but immune to. It’s gone as fast as it appears, though.

“So you’re not going to tell me?” I ask. I’d be frustrated if I didn’t hurt so damned much. And I’m not even going to touch why he needed to haul us all the way to Tairn when obviously Violet can chat with him anytime she wants.

Unless he wants to talk to Tairn, which is…ballsy.

“Nope. Third-year business.” He lets go when we reach the stonewalled end of the tunnel. A few hand gestures and another click sounds before he pushes open the door.

We step out into crisp, freezingly cold November air.

“What the hell,” I whisper. The door is built into a stack of boulders on the eastern side of the field.

“It’s camouflaged.” Xaden waves a hand and the door closes, blending into the rock as if it’s a part of it.

There’s a sound I now recognize as the steady beat of wings, and I look up to see the four dragons block out the stars as they descend. The earth shudders as they land in front of us.

Tairn steps forward and Sgaeyl follows, her wings tucked in tight, her golden eyes narrowing on me.

„What have I done?” I ask Aon.

He stands next to Sgaeyl and snaps at her.

„Do not worry about it, little one. She’s always so grumpy.”

I try to disguise my laughter as a cough.

Andarna scurries between Sgaeyl’s claws, galloping toward us. She skids the last dozen feet, paws digging into the ground to stop just in front of Violet, bringing her nose to her ribs.

„What’s so funny?” Xaden looks at me.

„Aon. He said Sgaeyl is always grumpy. But so is he.” I smile at Aon. „They siblings after all.”

Sgaeyl turns her head and shots a menacing look toward Aon, before she lowers her head and stares at me.

She’s so close. I have never been so close to another dragon. But I keep eye contact with her. I’m not weak.

She huffs a breath in… approval?

“No broken bones,” I hear Violet, as she strokes her hand over the bumpy ridges of Andarna’s head. “They’re just bruised.”

“As sure as I can be.” She forces a smile.

“Yes, I want a word. What the hell kind of powers are you channeling to her?” Xaden demands, staring up at Tairn like he isn’t…Tairn.

Yep. Ballsy. Every muscle in my body locks, sure that Tairn is about to torch Xaden for impudence.

“He says—” Violet starts.

“I heard him,” Xaden counters, not sparing her a glance.

“You what?” My eyebrows hit my hairline, and Andarna retreats to stand with the others. Dragons only talk to their riders. That’s what I’ve always been taught.

“It’s absolutely my business when you expect me to protect her,” Xaden retorts, his voice rising.

Tairn’s head swivels in that snakelike motion that puts me on alert. He’s more than agitated.

“And I barely made it.” The words come out clipped through clenched teeth. “They would have been dead if I’d been thirty seconds later.”

Tairn’s chest rumbles with a growl.

“And I’d like to know what the fuck happened in there!”

I inhale sharply. „Xaden!” I shout and grab his arm. „Do you want to get yourself killed?”

I’ve never seen someone so much as dare to speak to another rider’s dragon, yet alone yell at one, especially not one as powerful as Tairn.

„Let him go. If Tairn wants to kill him, let him do it. I don’t want to look for another rider.” Aon steps closer to us.

„I knew that you love me.” I wink at him. „But I can’t watch it. All four are connected to each other. And Violet is important to me.”

„Just her?”

“We need to know what happened in that room.” Xaden’s dark gaze cuts through me like a knife for a millisecond before he glares back at Tairn.

Tairn’s mouth opens, his tongue curling in a motion I know all too well.

I pull on Xaden’s arm and I step in front of him.

„I’m so sorry that he’s rude to you, Tairn.” I say in my most polite voice. „He’s just a little freaked out. Don’t scorch him, please.”

In awe, Violet blinks up at the navy-blue daggertail as Xaden moves to my side. “She talked to me.”

“I know. I heard.” He folds his arms across his chest. “It’s because they’re mates. It’s the same reason I’m chained to you.”

What? They can…talk to each other? My chest hurts. Theoretically I knew it that they have a connection, but hearing it… it hurts.

I step away from them and I go over to Aon.

„Why am I here?” I ask him. „I mean I can’t hear half of the discussion.”

„I wanted to see you, to know that you’re all right.” He lowers his head and nudges me with his nose. „And unfortunately it seems the wingleader cares about you.”

„What? How do you know that?” I ask as I pet his nose.

„Sgaeyl likes to gossip. Now concentrate on the conversation, little one.”

I look at him in disbelief, but I nod and walk back to the others.

“You make it sound so pleasant.”

“It’s not.” Xaden turns to face Violet. “But you and I are exactly that, Violence. We’re chained. Tethered. You die, I die, so I damn well deserve to know how the hell you were under that man’s knife one second and across the room in another. Is that the signet power you’ve manifested with Tairn? Come clean. Now.” His eyes bore into her.

“I don’t know what happened,” She answers honestly.

Violet pivots to face the golden dragon, repeating what she said to us. „Nature likes all things in balance, that’s the first thing we’re taught.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Xaden asks Violet, not her.

Guess that means he can hear Tairn, but not Andarna.

“Feathertails shouldn’t bond because they can accidentally gift their powers to humans,” Violet continues. “Dragons can’t channel—not really—until we’re…they’re big, but they’re all born with something special.”

She relays the message. “Like a signet?” She asks out loud so Xaden and I can hear.

“Sgaeyl said, that no,” Aon tells me. “A signet is a combination of our power with your own ability to channel. It reflects who you are at the core of your being.”

Andarna sits up and tilts her head proudly.

“But I gave my gift directly to you. Because I’m still a feathertail.” Violet repeats again, staring at the smaller dragon. Almost nothing is known about feathertails because they’re never seen outside the Vale.

They’re guarded. They’re… I swallow. Wait. What did she say?

“You’re still a feathertail?” I look at Andarna in desbelief.

She blinks slowly and then cracks a yawn, her forked tail curling.

“You’re…you’re a hatchling,” Violet whispers.

Oh. Gods.

“She’s a what?” Xaden’s gaze swings between Andarna and Violet.

“How much faster?” Violet gasps. “She’s two years old!”

Sgaeyl chuffs at Andarna in obvious disapproval.

What an interesting conversation. I can’t hear half of what they say. Whatever, I will ask Vi later.

“Hold on. Is Andarna yours?” Xaden walks a step toward Sgaeyl, and the tone in his voice is one I’ve never heard. He’s…hurt. “Have you hidden a hatchling away from me these last two years?”

Sgaeyl blows out a blast of air that ruffles Xaden’s hair.

I look at Aon questioningly.

„Her parents passed before hatching.” He answers.

Tairn grumbles.

“Unpredictable?” Xaden questions.

“Gods, no. I could barely control it as a first-year.” Xaden shakes his head.

It’s odd to imagine Xaden ever not being in control.

“I would never!” Violet shakes her head.

Andarna’s head flops against Tairn’s leg. How could I not see it before now? Her rounded eyes, her paws…

“Of course, you wouldn’t know. Feathertails aren’t supposed to be seen,” Aon says.

“If leadership knew riders could take her gifts for themselves, rather than depending on their own signets…” Xaden says, staring at Andarna as she blinks slower and slower.

“She’d be hunted,” Violet finishes quietly.

“I won’t,” Violet promises as she looks toward the dragons. “Andarna, thank you. Whatever you did saved our lives.”

Her mouth drops open into another jaw-cracking yawn.

Violet stares at her and wobbles.

“What did she say?” Xaden asks her.

Tarin grumbles.

“Tell me what she said. Please.” His mouth tightens and I know that last bit cost him.

“She can pause time,” She forces out, stumbling over her words. “Briefly.”

Xaden’s features slacken, and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the stalwart, lethal wingleader I met on the parapet. He’s flat-out shocked as his gaze swings to Andarna. “You can stop time?”

“In small increments,” Vi whispers.

“In small increments,” Xaden echoes slowly, like he’s absorbing the information.

“And if I use it too much, I can kill you,” Violet says softly to Andarna.

Silence, then Violet breaks it.

“Is Professor Carr going to kill me, too?” Every gaze whips toward Violet.

“Why would you think that?” I ask her with concern.

“He killed Jeremiah.” She says in a trembling voice. “You saw him snap his neck like a twig right in front of the whole quadrant.”

“Jeremiah was an inntinnsic.” Xaden’s voice lowers. “A mind reader is a capital offense. You know that.”

“And what are they going to do if they find out I can stop time?”

Terror freezes the blood in my veins. “They’re not going to find out,” I promise her.

“No one is going to tell them. Not you. Not me. Not Aelin. Not them.” Xaden motions with one hand toward our dragons. “Understand?”

„Be safe, little one.” Aon says as they all bend slightly, then launch, wind gusting against my face. Andarna struggles, her wings beating twice as hard, and Tairn flies up underneath her, taking her weight and continuing on to the Vale.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone about the time-stopping,” Xaden asks Violet as we head back into the tunnel, but it feels an awful lot like a command. “It’s not just for your safety. Rare abilities, when kept secret, are the most valuable form of currency we possess.”

My brow furrows as I study the stark lines of the rebellion relic that winds up his neck, marking him as a traitor’s son, warning everyone that he’s not to be trusted. But so far he has proven to be more reliable than my own father.

“We need to figure out how unbonded cadets got in your room,” Xaden says.

“There was a rider there,” Violet tells us. “Someone who ran away before Aelin arrived. She must have unlocked it from the outside.”

“Who?” I halt, taking her elbow gently and turning her toward us.

She shakes her head.

“At some point, you and I are going to have to start trusting each other, Sorrengail. The rest of our lives depend on it.” Fury swims in Xaden’s eyes. “Now tell me who.”

„Tell us, Vi. You know I will always believe you.” I say softly. „Who else was there?”

#fourth wing #fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic #the fourth wing #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #oc #the empyrean #xaden x oc #xaden riorson x oc #tairn #sgaeyl #dragons #andarna #madness

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cyliph · 8 months

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Post- Below Zero outfit concept

I wanted to make an outfit more befitting a maze-like homeworld. The PDA draws from locally available materials after all. I think this Robin is a bit more serious than what we see in SBZ.

Design Notes:

This outfit is designed with terrestrial travel in mind. While I do think a two-piece would be more practical, every subnautica protagonist and several NPCs wear a body suit. Being on an alien planet I feel she still prefers the practical safety a reinforced suit like this provides. Push comes to shove she can wear a tank and tie the upper portion around her waste.

Went with purple and green for two reasons: We see past Robin wearing purple, and they are Al-An’s colors (to imply his role in designing it).

Most promo art depicts Robin with her blue and red wetsuit which looks quite heroic and serves to illustrate her strong will. I think it’s fun to think of those colors as likewise symbolizing her conflicted relationship with her sister. Sam wears exclusively blue from what we see, Robin always strives to be her opposite. Red is the color of passion and aggression, a pretty fitting for the ideal Robin holds for herself as Sam’s opposite. Red is also the most notably characteristic of bird robins, which I think is just kind of cute.

In my headcanon purple symbolizes Robin when she’s at peace with herself. It’s a mix of red and blue, symbolizing that shes not as estranged from Sam as she sometimes believes. We see her wearing purple at her most comfortable in the picture with Augstrobite. A muted purple is also useful in showing a Robin that’s more reserved following the trauma of 4546B.

The diagonal lines also serve to reference her alliance with Al-an. Her most notable wetsuit is constructed with bold horizontal and vertical lines, very squarish. Diagonals better suit to illustrate a character that is “off-balance” so to speak. Being on an alien planet thousands of light years away from humans after losing possibly your only family member is probably enough to shake most people’s sense of balance.

I also think that because Robin kept her hair long during the events of 4546B that she probably just likes it long. Imagine how impractical it would be maintaining long hair on an oceanic planet for months on end. Not to mention, at least type 3 hair (Sam seems to have type 4, but it’s not exactly clear what type of hair Robin has. In game she either has braids or locs it’s hard to tell. Either way, not a low maintenance style.) I just think it’s a pretty good symbol of her character, I also think she would let it continue to grow during her time on 4546B and beyond. At some point it’d start getting in the way even in a ponytail. That’s why I think she would start putting it in a bun. A changing hairstyle as a symbol of a maturing character my beloved.

(It also gives me an excuse to draw her hair down in the future >:3c)

#subnautica #subnautica below zero #robin ayou #fan design #concept #fan character #fanfic #how we feeling lesbians

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bekolxeram · 24 days

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Heya, I've got a question since you seem to know a lot about aviation. So this point is a bit of a 'controversy' among the fans: does Tommy fly both helicopters and planes, or just helicopters? People are inferring the former because of the episode in season 2 where Chimney called Tommy, and then the water-bomber plane came, and, watching this, Chimney thanked Tommy. Now, I find it to be entirely plausible that a) Chimney meant it as a thanks because Tommy organized the rescue rather than being the pilot himself and b) also a minor detail that, while written back then, was never meant to come back in the way it did. Now, however, we have a lot more background info on Tommy, and to me it seems unlikely that he got training for both helicopters and planes, and that he does fly both in his line of work. Also, if he was able to fly planes as well and had access to them at work, why would they take a helicopter to Vegas when a light aircraft would be the better option? (I assume, though I could be wrong). What are your thoughts and your expertise on this?

Thank you for asking! Always love an aviation related question.

One of the first posts I've ever written here is about this very topic. The US Army operates mainly helicopters. Yes, they do have like a hundred or so fixed wing aircrafts for transport and recon missions, but that's nothing compared to the 4000+ helicopters currently in service. You also have to finish your entire helicopter pilot training before you can even apply for fixed wing training program for the Army. Tommy's timeline is already tight enough, I don't think he had the time to learn how to fly a plane in the military. (You need like at least 800 hours on a multi-engine airplane as pilot-in-command to be considered for the CAL FIRE training program for instant.)

But the most damning evidence is that the news reporter in 2x14 actually said the air tanker was with CAL FIRE, so not LAFD, a completely different agency. I imagine Air Ops had their hands tied during that major power outage already, so Tommy had to pull some strings and call other agencies for help. (Shamelessly pugging my own hc of Tommy dating a CAL FIRE pilot in the past here.)

And yes, light fixed wing aircrafts are much more suited for medium range trips. They are also cheaper to rent and more widely available than helicopters. So there's a chance that Tommy has no experience on an airplane at all. Helicopter pilots do have a head start when learning how to fly a plane though, the basics of flight are the same, it's just the mechanical side of things that differs between rotary and fixed wing. For example, you have to closely monitor your air speed when flying a plane, because it generates lift by deflecting the incoming stream of air downward. If you fly too slow, you risk stalling the plane and falling out of the sky. A helicopter on the other hand, actively moves air downward by spinning the main rotor, so air speed is not that important for safety, you can move straight up and down without moving an inch horizontally.

That's not to say it's impossible for Tommy to know how to fly a small airplane. He may simply have more connections in the rotary wing world, or he feels more comfortable flying a friend in a helicopter since he's more experienced. Helicopters also have the advantage of landing straight down in tight spaces, eliminating the need to wait for a landing slot on a runway when traffic is high.

#tommy kinard #911 meta #ask answered #bucktommy #|<-target audience

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sepetajmikolikomehoces · 9 days

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Bojure snuggles. They’re so cute together, don’t you think? Did you have any thoughts about that tonight?

Oh, I had thoughts. So many thoughts. 630 words worth of thoughts, in fact.

He knows his reputation. Muca. Cat man. Sunshine. Jure is even man enough to admit he quite enjoys them, even plays up on his monikers on more than one occasion. Always a smile, always lands on his feet. Well, mostly. There was that incident in Dublin. And the hunting tower. And the time with the–

He knows. The others know. They know him well enough now to keep the metaphorical door open, because just like cats, Jure will choose his moments of intimacy. He’s just as likely to – quite literally – hang off any of them, as he is to withdraw, to be happy and content in his little bubble.

It’s a balance, and his scales seem to always be a grain away from tipping this way or that. Jure doesn’t mind, not usually. Not so long as the step from one to the other is easy. A hug, a touch. Spending precious freetime in his garden, phone turned off. They are gradual, he can always feel the shift, can prepare, can plan.

It’s worse when the pendulum swings too far, too fast. Jure loves what he does, would not choose anything else in the world, no one else to share it with. And it’s fine when it’s euphoria, when it’s love like light and energy in his veins and Jure flies high and thinks maybe this is the time he can stay.

(or at least not crash)

It’s fine. Until it isn’t. Until he is horizontal on stage, tired to the bone. Until he needs a week away from everything. Until he needs closeness like he’ll perish without it but can’t find the right words to ask for it.

“Stay.”

Bojan’s hand on his shoulder is gentle, sending shudders through his body. Everything is happening so much, so quickly, and it’s exciting. New single, new tour, hype and excitement. And Jure is so, so, so tired. The idea of driving home has been haunting him for the past hour as they wrapped up another long day, but home is home.

Quiet.

His own bed.

Too quiet.

Alone.

“Kris has a family thing tomorrow, he’ll stay at home,” Bojan continues, voice gentle and even. “Come over. You can– Don’t feel like you need to drive back home tonight. It was a long day for all of us.”

Jure hesitates, pauses in his efforts to tidy up something that has been in order for a while already.

“I don’t…”

“Please. Please, stay.”

Maybe he and Bojan are the same in a way, Jure thinks as he nods, finally looking up to meet Bojan’s gaze. Fine until they aren’t. How many times have they not ended up seeking each other out for comfort, equally tactile when their moments align?

So, he goes. Follows Bojan home, follows Bojan’s lead, follows follows follows until within the safety of four walls two arms open and take him. Jure could melt when fingers gingerly thread through his hair, fingertips digging into his lower back and his spine seemingly unlocking vertebrae by vertebrae. His nose pressed against the crook of Bojan’s neck, the warmth and scent there familiar and comforting. From far away, words filter through, slowly unfolding meaning and intent, lining themselves up to lead him home like lanterns in the night.

Easy.

Like the nap shared on the pullout sofa bed.

Like Bojan clinging to him in tears after Martin’s last gig with them.

Like too many nights in Hamburg, in London, on the bus; wordlessly seeking comfort, always finding arms that will open.

Like now. The steady thump of Bojan's heart, fingertips drawing meaningless shapes from the nape of his neck down his spine and back up. It’s closeness like he needs it. Jure sighs, long and slow, and drifts off to sleep.

#Bojure #whether platonic Bojure or romantic Bojure is your cup of tea #the softest sweetest and probs shortest thing I have written #this should do it #and with that I am off to bed #Bojan Cvjetićanin #Jure Maček #Muca

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lonestarbattleship · 3 months

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June 23, 2024 update from the Battleship Texas Foundation

"Happy Update Sunday!

It's been a couple of weeks since our last update, but we can assure you work has not stopped on this big blue beautiful battlewagon.

The bow has now been 90% painted. All but turret 2 is left to be blasted and painted and work starts on it Monday. The deck will not receive deck blue paint until the wood deck is installed.

New Navy Blue paint on everything that is supposed to be blue and new black paint on the anchor chains. Deck Blue paint will be applied to horizontal surfaces later. And of course the steel here will be covered by wood.

The steel work in the main mast is nearing completion which includes putting back missing safety railings as well other critical repairs. Blasting and painting on it should start midweek. Gulf Copper's painters have already started putting up protective netting for containment -that's those big black tarp looking things. Once we are done painting there are several things that will get reinstalled bringing the main mast and the ship even closer to her 1945 appearance.

New safety railing around a ladder way on the main mast. The railings are in the original locations as when they were installed in 1944, they were removed prior to 1989. We are reinstalling them for safety and historical accuracy. It is unknown this area will be accessible for specialty tours in the future.

The steel repairs to the Aft Fire Control Tower, cranes, and smoke stack are winding down as well. The only work remaining on those structures is welding the brackets on the smoke stack for the siren and reinstalling the piping for it and a finalizing a few repairs to the starboard crane. No we are not making the operable at this time.

Tenting for in preparation for blasting and painting the main mast.

Stabilization work in the starboard crane continues.

And the wood deck is beginning to be dry fit into place. Starting with the complicated margin pieces that surround structures that protrude through the deck and make up the edge of the deck.

New margin boards being dry fit on the deck. Every board is dry fit before it goes through final processing and installation.

The red chalk lines show where the new planking will

With the wood deck pulled up, we have been repairing all the holes, thin spots, and water leaks in the steel that we can find. The grey strip is a piece of new steel that was recently installed, repairing a bad area.

The contrast between Navy Blue (the chock at left) and Deck Blue (the water at right). Everything horizontal on the exterior of the ship will be Deck Blue -including the top of this chock."

Posted on the Battleship Texas Foundation Facebook page: link

#Battleship TEXAS #Battleship Texas Foundation #Update #USS TEXAS (BB-35)#USS TEXAS #New York Class #Dreadnought #Battleship #Warship #Ship #Museum Ship #Galveston #Texas #Gulf Copper #Restoration #Repairs #June #2024 #my post

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jasperthehatchet · 26 days

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Got bored and spruced up my mask

I have a few reusable cloth masks that I thought looked a little boring. I used left over parts from other projects

***I wear two disposable masks under it whenever i wear it just to be safe. WEAR YOUR MASKS!!!!!

[Image ID: four pictures of me with the lower half of my face covered by a black fabric mask. The mask has safety pins pinned horizontally across the seam down the middle of the mask, some pins crossing over each other forming x shapes. There are small spikes lining the top of the mask, five on each side, and a key ring stitched to the middle of the mask, at the top. Four chains hang from the key ring, two draping across each side, and the other end of the chains are attached to jump rings that are stitched to either side of the mask near the ear loops. The top chains are shorter than the bottom two so they drape over the whole mask. I added various small charms to the mask after I took pictures so they're not included but I thought I'd add them to this description anyway. End ID]

#punk #punk fashion #punk diy #wear your mask #masks #goth #goth fashion #goth diy #solarpunk #solarpunk fashion #solarpunk diy #hopepunk #ecopunk #studs #spikes #fashion #diy #hatchet makes stuff

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usafphantom2 · 7 months

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When the A-12s started flying out of Area 51 (on the Nevada-California border), air traffic controllers were briefed about the Oxcart program. Concerns about seeing the lights so far up in the sky started immediately. Most troubling were airline pilots who had seen the airplane and then, of course, all of the people reporting UFOs.

Certainly, not all controllers were briefed about the A-12. Only enough trusted controllers were in the know. They devised a program to keep it quiet from other controllers; they created a security system.

The following is from Paul Crickmore‘s book Lockheed Blackbird Beyond the Secret Missions, with the missing chapters on page 96.

Flights above 60,000 feet weren’t subject to FAA positive control. Still, for additional safety, when the A-12s were operating routinely above this, their pilot used a simple code to hide their actual height from eavesdroppers by reporting that they were at an altitude of the base plus a number. For additional security, the base altitude would change daily so if, for example, it was briefed at 50,000 feet, the Oxcart was cruising at 85,000 feet the pilot would report to the center that he was at base +35.. in this way, ATC could keep a watchful eye out for other high flying traffic and later when SR-71 and U-2 were flying in those upper reaches controllers, would sometimes report company traffic at Azimuth* relative to the Oxcart flight plan.

*Azimuth is a horizontal angle measured clockwise in degrees from a reference direction, usually the north or south point of the horizon, to the point on the horizon intersected by the object's line of altitude (a line from the observer's zenith through the object to the horizon).

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

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the-messenger-of-the-gods · 1 month

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thinking of tinies and micros in shark cages again actually. putting them in there and treating it like a wild encounter—bumping the cage, inspecting it and it’s weird little inhabitant—what is it? does it taste good? feel good? tilting your head back to clamp jaws around the cage from below, hearing them squeak this isn’t fair—no shark is this big, not even prehistorically—but still, you’re not relenting.

trying to touch them, teeth hooked onto the bars, shoving your tongue between metal until you feel skin. they squirm away, but you’re determined to get in a proper lick—just a taste. rattling the cage as you lower it deeper into your mouth, and the full primal fear kicks in—ok, you’ve had your fun, pull me out now—but they aren’t even submerged yet. what kind of diver is afraid to get wet?

the desperate waitwaitwait is silenced with the snapping shut of jaws. only the taut rope suspending the roof of the cage sticks out of your lips now, and you can’t help but give it an amused twang with a finger. inside, they’re clinging to the cage bars as they’re dangled over the expanse of a throat they can’t see, but can absolutely hear and feel—hot breath rolling in their ears and over their skin. they don’t dangle long, forced horizontally in the cramped space of the cage as you level your head, but it’s not like there’s much room outside of it anyway.

jostling them around with your tongue, teeth crunching down on the metal—you don’t have to be gentle when they’re so contained like this. protected and exposed all at once.

sucking on the cage, biting it, rocking it—opening your mouth and squeezing the cage between teeth, listening for cries of protest, but they’re so thrown, they can’t even form words as lips seal around the cage again to swallow—not the cage, but the drool from the thrill of it, from the basic sensation of something in your mouth, begging to be sucked down. and it’s tempting to try, even if they are tied to taut safety lines, but shark cages are much more a surface adventure—the pressure of the depths can wait. let them feel the cage is protecting them from the hungry shark.

by the time you spit the cage out, your little diver is soaked through to the bone.

#was gonna turn this into a fic but i was hit with blank page woes #and i have enough wips tbh #micro/macro #macro/micro #giantess #macrophilia #microphilia #size kink #size tumblr #message delivered

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outofgloom · 11 months

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EYES

The first thing you noticed was that the sand of Karda was not like the sand from Outside, beyond the gate. It was all grains of pulverized crystal. It crunched beneath your feet and the feet of your companions as you marched along the track which wove between the many dunes.

Ahead, the fore-Matoran stopped beside a stone marker and signaled a halt. The fore shaded his eyes against the diffuse light in the sky ahead and looked further down the track into the great shallow bowl of Karda.

“We are near,” he said, moving back up the path now and opening his pack. “Align yourselves and remove your masks.”

Everyone complied, bracing against the wave of weakness which followed mask-removal. The fore-Matoran went down the line and placed a semi-transparent object into the visor of each mask, indicating to replace the mask afterward.

When he reached you, you asked: “What is its purpose?”

“Unknown,” the fore said. “Replace your mask.”

You complied. It was a lens of some kind, covering your eyes. Perhaps a dust-shield. You got used to it quickly, like it wasn’t even there.

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

The Central Construct was vast: a shimmering shape at the heart of the desert. Protometal ribs rose into a sphere-like form, joined by horizontal crossbeams at regular intervals. The lower two-thirds of the sphere were already complete, and a web-like scaffold ringed the Construct, allowing access to the upper levels.

Sparks showered from the welding points around the scaffold, and there was a sound of tramping feet as pallets of newly wrought protodermis were marched up the circular ramps. Cranes lifted and distributed other materials for the workers to use in the construction.

You were stationed on the north hextant of the scaffold, one of the many welders who worked tirelessly to build up the Construct’s outer shell. A grid of metal lines filled the space above you, feeding out the safety-line that attached to your own harness. Below, the inner shell was visible, mostly complete at this point: a dense weave of struts and metal plates which concealed the interior of the Construct. Very soon, the inner shell would be entirely enclosed by the outer. Perhaps another ten cycles, you estimated.

The tone rang in the air, signaling the rotation of workers. You leaned back from your welding and looked it over. The new beam was fixed in place, ready to hold another set of shell-plates. You secured your tools, checked the safety line, and stepped across the gap, back onto the scaffold beside you. The next shift was already on its way up the ramp. Your group would now return back through the gate in order to rest.

Too late you saw the flaw in the protometal beam beneath the one you had just added. It bent suddenly under the strain of the newly-added structure, and its hard edge cut clean through the scaffold you were standing on. A cascade of snapping pins and rods followed, and you were falling down, down through crisscrossing metal into the dark space below.

Your safety-line went taut, as it was designed to do, and decelerated you abruptly a bio before you hit the ground inside the Construct. Tools and other debris clattered and rang on the hard surface below, and your mask came off with a pop as the air was forced from your lungs. Then you were just hanging, suspended, and your heartlight was beating very fast.

Voices echoed down, and there was a commotion as additional braces were pounded into place and spot-welded. You were the only one that had fallen. They would reel you up any second now.

Your mask lay on the ground below you, out of reach. The floor was polished silver, running up in a smooth arc to meet the wall just in front of you. The wall had a mirror-finish; you could see your reflection in it. And behind you, the rest of the space opened up into

The rest of the space opened up into

The space opened up into

Opened up

Opened up into

Eyes

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

Ahead, the fore-Matoran stopped beside a stone marker and signaled a halt. The fore shaded his...eyes...against the diffuse light in the sky ahead and looked further down the track into the great shallow bowl of Karda. Then he looked at you.

“We are near,” he said, moving back up the path now and opening his pack. “Align yourselves and remove your masks.”

Everyone complied, bracing against the wave of weakness which followed mask-removal. Except you. Your mask was already off, for some reason. The fore-Matoran went down the line and placed a semi-transparent object into the visor of each mask, indicating to replace the mask afterward.

When he reached you, you asked: “What is its purpose?”

“Look at me,” the fore said. “Look at me.”

You didn't want to. You grabbed at the lens in his hand.

“I need that,” you said. “Give it to me.”

“Look at me,” he said.

You managed to snatch the lens away from him at last. You placed it into the visor of your mask, and slapped the mask back on your face.

“Look at me,” he said.

The lens wasn't fitting right. You pressed the mask harder. It was too...reflective. Not transparent. It reflected your eyes back into...into your eyes. Into your eyes.

And behind the reflection of your eyes there was something else, off to each side. It was moving and moving and looking at you. It was trying to pry its way around the sides of your face, around your eyes.

Look at me.

You pushed harder.

Look at me.

You pressed your face against the mirrored surface, but you couldn't shut it out.

It moved and moved and looked at you with eyes and eyes and eyes and

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

The cable-reel whirred to life, and the line coiled up bio on bio, loop on loop. The damaged scaffold had been reinforced, and a medic-Matoran had already been summoned. Work had ceased all around the Construct, and the faces of many workers looked on as the operation proceeded.

Bio on bio, loop on loop the line came back. Slow but steady, the cable piled up on the reel, and at last, you appeared. Straight up out of the inner shell you came, still wrapped in your harness, up to where the pulley was affixed above the scaffold, and many hands reached to haul you in.

The medic set to work immediately, checking limbs and joints and heartlight. Another Matoran stepped forward quickly. It was the fore-Matoran. He stopped in front of you, and his eyes widened.

“Your mask?” he asked.

There was a moment of silence.

“Your mask,” he repeated, gesturing. “Is it still below?” He pointed down toward the inner shell.

I nodded slowly.

“And your tools, did they cause any damage to the interior?”

I shook my head.

“Very well.” He turned to the medic. “Injuries?” The medic indicated no damage. “Good,” he continued. “You will not need to be replaced.”

“Thank you,” I thought, then realized:

“Thank you,” I said with my mouth.

The harness was still tight around my waist. I realized this when they loosened it, and the sensations I had been feeling–pain, pressure–began to lessen. They helped me down the ramps, down to the ground. The fore was there ahead of me, along with the rest of my work group. He had retrieved a new mask for me. He immediately placed it on my face. The rush of energy felt...good.

The next shift was already starting at the top of the scaffold again, repairing the damage and moving forward. Simple as that. We would return to relieve them on the next cycle, apparently. For now, it was back into the desert, back to the gate.

I looked forward to it.

∵∴∵∴∵∴∵

The first thing I noticed was that the sand of Karda was not like the sand from the Outside–the real Outside, where I had been born, before They stuffed me in here with these Matoran to mindlessly regulate Their dials. It was all grains of pulverized crystal. It crunched nicely beneath our feet as we marched through the dunes. The other Matoran didn’t really appreciate it like I did though.

Ahead, the fore-Matoran stopped beside a stone marker and signaled a halt, then he looked further up the track out of the great shallow bowl of Karda, as always.

“We are near,” he said like clockwork, moving back down the path now. “Align yourselves and remove your masks.”

Everyone complied. Even me, though I didn't like the weakness that followed. The fore went down the line and carefully removed the semi-transparent objects that had been fixed in the visor of each mask, placing them back in his pack.

When he reached me, I asked: “What was its purpose?”

The fore stopped and squinted at me. “...Unknown,” he said slowly.

“Would you like to know?”

“Replace your mask,” he said after a confused moment, “and avoid redundant questions.”

I complied. Wearing a mask was new to me. All of this was, really, but I was getting used to it. I was malleable like that. I was made that way.

The gate was ahead. Soon I’d be out. Very soon, and then…

My mind flicked back for a moment, back over the crystal-sand, back into the metal shell, the metal prison that They had built for me, back into the wet writhing thing there that was Me, and I heard the thoughts of the other mind I’d left in my place while I was away.

Obviously you were not made for this. You were trying feebly to move your too many limbs, trying to look out through your too many eyes.

But in the polished silver space, there was nothing to see. It was mirror all around, reflecting and refracting, so that all you could see was you…me…you. All you could see was–

“Eyes,” you were saying, or thinking rather. “Eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes.” You had…I had…You had no mouth, after all.

Just eyes. Eyes everywhere, all around.

“Eyes eyes eyes eyes,” you were thinking.

You are thinking it right now.

Don’t worry. I just need to stretch my…legs, yes. See the scenery. I won’t be long. They’ll find me out sooner or later, and then They will send me back, I expect. To tend the dials again.

“Eyes eyes eyes eyes.”

I know, I know.

You’ll get used to them.

#bionicle #art #writing #fanfiction #outofgloom #works #tren krom

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