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lenreli · 18 days ago

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try a little more (then try a little harder) [Part 2]

[AO3]

E, 3.3k. More of "corporate warprize" because I couldn't stop thinking about them.

[First part] on @cuubism's post!

It’s dark, the only light coming from past Hob, and Dream shuts his eyes, resting his head against Hob’s knee, can feel his shins aching with how long he’s been sitting down on them. And above him, the tap-tap-tap of Hob’s fingers on the desk, on hold and―

Dream bites his tongue, burrowing his face into Hob’s trousers, vibrator inside him ratcheting higher, Dream swallowing down a noise. It presses against his prostate relentlessly as he grabs hold onto Hob’s thigh to stop himself from making a sound, dick pressing against his trouser zipper.

Hob doesn’t react at all to him, shoes still planted on the floor and Dream shakes his head, pushing away thoughts of grinding himself on the other’s legs, or the pointed shoes, can only take a quiet, deep breath as the vibrator goes back to its lowest setting, Hob’s tapping stopped and the light clunk of the remote control now in the other’s hand.

Mind frazzled, Dream tries his best to pay attention, Hob wanting him to, even like this. And he tries not to press against Hob’s leg, rutting it against as Hob speaks, ripping into the person on the other end of the line ― with a brutal, businesslike fashion.

One of the oddest things, Dream finds, is that Hob’s grown something resembling a conscience. He told Matthew of what Hob was like in school, and he couldn’t find fault with the description of would sell his mum to the devil for a corn chip that Matthew had replied with. Even though he conducts business like he did, currently Hob’s ripping into one of their suppliers for their business practices before ending their contract, to go with another supplier instead.

Taking a deep breath, he inhales Hob’s spicy cologne, and he swallows another sound as the vibrator gets turned up a level, Hob’s voice becoming colder as he talks, discussing contractual loopholes. And Dream aches, wanting Hob to touch him ― a hand in his hair, on his throat, or even pressing his face into the bulge he can see in the other’s trousers. Never considered it before, hands around his throat, digging in, but it’s Hob, and he wants it, can feel his cock leaking as he tries to follow Hob’s words, knowing Hob’s going to quiz him after, wants him to learn.

That if he’s retained enough, understands it, Hob will let him come.

The conversation continues, Hob’s tone becoming even more tight with restrained anger, and Dream can tell that it’s not going the way he wants it to, especially with the call ending ― and the phone being slammed down. Hob huffs and gets up, and Dream misses the warmth immediately, misses the way Hob’s words coil under his skin.

“Out,” Hob orders, Dream pulling himself out by the chair, and he squints at the light. Blinking, he watches as Hob writes on a piece of paper, other hand on his hip as he does. Dream stares at Hob’s face, beard as perfect as ever ― and Dream’s only been able to touch it a few times. Hob scowls, dark eyes freezing him in place. “Apparently the PA is not good enough,” Hob says sardonically. “So you’re going to sort this out. Even gave you what to say,” Hob sighs and starts to walk out the office, door shutting as he opens his phone and Dream blinks.

Gingerly sitting down on the chair, Dream groans and takes a few more deep breaths, reading over Hob’s writing as he calls back.

“And the contract?” Hob asks, a leg crossed over as he watches from the sofa and controller in his hand, currently on it’s highest setting―making Dream whimper, and he pulls his scattered thoughts together as he keeps himself from coming.

“Gone,” he breathes, gripping his arms tightly. “Hob,” he pleads, “touch me.”

Hob blinks, expression unchanging, “no troubles?”

Dream keens, the vibe inside going even higher as he shakes his head, “you,” he wheezes, voice cracking, can feel himself going near the edge, the conversation going painlessly with Hob’s words to follow on the call, “nothing.”

The vibrations click off and Dream shudders, looking up desperately as Hob stares at him. “Over here,” Hob says quietly, and Dream gets out of the chair, and Dream lets out a sound as Hob unzips his trousers, tugging them and underwear down to reveal a red cock. “Pants off.”

There’s a scramble of taking off his shoes and trousers, watching with wide eyes as Hob uses a tiny bottle of lube to stroke himself, getting some condoms from his pocket, and Dream tries not to come at the sight. Dream aches, the way that Hob pulls him down onto his lap, and Dream whines at the only feel of skin is Hob’s thighs, hairy and―

Hob’s fingers reach in to take the vibrator out, making him shudder, clutching at Hob’s black blazer, mind shorting out as Hob’s condom-covered cock enters him easily, “please,” he breathes nosing at the grey of Hob’s temple, down to his beard, and lets out a whine as Hob touches him, condom going over his twitching cock.

“You did well,” Hob says, a hand mercifully going into his hair, pulling him up and down on Hob’s cock, and it only takes a passes, cock pressing against his prostate, can only gasp and keen as he comes, filling up the condom.

Dream’s mind is a haze of sensation, shivering of the over-stimulation as Hob continues to fuck him, and Dream moans as Hob bites into his neck, licking up to his jaw as Hob comes.

Hob’s arms wrap around his waist, and Dream puts his own around the other’s shoulders, relaxing into the post-orgasmic haze , mind clear as Hob noses at his jaw, lightly biting it.

Some things about Hob he gets. The punishment, when he gets things wrong ― or for his hostile takeover. The praise and sex. The way going into it, Hob wanted him to have a safeword, though he can’t imagine using it, the spotlight put on him until he reveals things he won't like in sex, in this.

The way Hob is so affable and friendly, contrasted with the cruel way Hob handles him, gleeful to drive him to madness, to where his only reason to breathe is to follow what Hob says. To hear Hob praise him after, softly stroking his hair and skin once he’s boneless and melting, back to kindness on a twirl of a dime, a mess of contradictions that Dream yearns for.

But as Dream stares at the easel and canvas, at the plethora of paints, the go wild :) on paper, stuck on the canvas in Hob’s writing. Some things he’s just confused by. Like the aforementioned canvas, Hob texting him to make use of it, all but ordering him to.

Why? He simply texts Hob, not expecting an answer quickly ― making him start as his phone vibrates.

You still doodle. On work files. Hob says, punctuation oddly put in, a contrast to Hob’s more casual texts, and Dream freezes as a picture comes through, showing―the back of a file, filled with sketches of his sisters.

Dream’s face feels hot, embarrassed as he puts down the phone and looks at the canvas, mortification working him into opening up some of the pencils and paints.

“Do you like it?” Hob asks, staring at the canvas, and Dream blinks, resisting the urge to tear it up, or for some way for Hob to stop looking at it, at the skyline, orange and black buildings, the darker blue to orange gradient of a sunset, one he’s seen often at his office.

“I think so,” he answers, pursing his lips as Hob glances at him. Dream feels he messed up the shading, the paint, can see big cross-hatches of it, of the top right corner where he spilled some green onto it accidentally. Even with all that, he does like it, does feel pride.

“You really should’ve gone to art school,” Hob says. Dream grimaces, thinking briefly of a reality where he did go to the art course, somehow meeting Hob anyway. However…

“I wanted to. My parents had other ideas,” he replies, and Hob frowns, looking back at the canvas. “Begged my parents―but it wouldn’t be as lucrative and setting me up to take over,” he says, bitter.

“We’re going to hang it up in your office,” Hob declares with a nod, and Dream gapes, baffled. “Top floors are all soulless anyway,” Hob mutters. “Now, we have business to talk about,” Dream blinks, still catching up with the previous statement, “bedroom,” Hob orders and Dream’s body follows automatically.

Dream knows what he’s saying―has recited it enough, been spurred on to recite it by memory the night before, and he tries not to think of how Hob whined and writhed on a black dildo which Dream got to use on him, in him―

He really should stop thinking about it, not wanting to get hard, even with the glass walls of the boardroom floor puts Hob in sight in the hallway, phone to his ear as he talks, and Dream would rather be listening to whoever he’s probably tearing into, than the people of the board. Especially with what he’s saying.

An uproar happens and Dream purses his lips, still watching Hob pace and up down the hallway as the board fill the room up with noise. The racket makes him grit his teeth, waiting it out as threats and screaming eventually quiets down, and he continues on with his speech, uncaring of the board’s reaction, half of him wanting to be in the hallway with Hob.

The meeting ends, and Dream can feel the dirty looks, the phones and earbuds being taken out to discuss things with―his parents, probably. To maybe try and strong-arm his latest announcement into nothing, but Dream could care less as Hob walks in after they’ve left.

Hob finishes his call with a smile, standing close to him and Dream relaxes, leaning on the desk. “How did they take it?” He asks, grinning. Hob seems to get a particular glee with this.

“Badly,” he sighs, scratching an eyebrow. “Weren’t you watching?”

Hob shrugs, stepping in so their legs are brushing as he also leans on the desk, “I saw some very spirited gesturing, which I’m sure means they’re not going to be ghouls about this at all,” Hob says, still smiling. Dream glances at him warily.

“About everyone in management and above being paid less so that lower-tier workers get paid more? How are they meant to get that fifth yacht without that quarterly bonus, Hob?” He asks sarcastically. Hob’s plan was crazy to him at first, but considering the absurd amount in his bank account, with him only making the barest, most miniscule dent with things like pottery classes and art supplies, it won’t affect him at all, at least compared to those on the board.

“I’m sure they can pull themselves up by their bootstraps and figure something out,” Hob says solemnly, nodding as he does. A hand circles his wrist, and Dream’s pulse jumps under the pad of the other’s finger, “in the meantime,” Hob says quietly, leaning into him, and Dream’s heart races at the stubble grazing his jaw, “you’re due a reward.”

Dream sighs, resting his head on his arms as he looks at Hob, sitting on the chair across from him. His artwork hangs up above the sofa, a black smudge of his signature in the corner of it, added with Hob’s suggestion―which is always a start, though he’s getting used to seeing it hang so proudly. “What happened?” Hob asks, putting his phone screen-down onto the desk.

“My father rang me,” he groans, “trying to convince me not to go through with the pay cuts,” Hob raises an eyebrow. “And then my mother rang me half a day later, also trying to convince me. They kept at it separately until I hung up on both of them.” Sitting straight up, he frowns, even with Hob giving him a sympathetic look at least giving him some energy, “and then Desire called, mainly to congratulate me on driving our parents into early graves, or so they said.”

“Hopefully you’re not thinking of doing something like conceding to them,” Hob says softly, leaning onto the desk with a smile.

“Of course not,” he scowls, affronted at the implication. Hob gives him a pleased look, “I have to ask,” he says, words falling out of his mouth from tiredness, combined with Hob so close. “Why do this? Why not just take over?”

Hob’s face goes blank, and Dream’s stomach swoops in response as Hob stares at him intensely. “Honestly, I was happy with my company, small as it was, and all this,” Hob looks around, then leans in closer, hands clasped on the desk, “well, we’re happy where we are, aren’t we?”

Hob’s voice drops octave and Dream swallows as he nods, Hob’s presence filling the space between differently. Dream’s blood rushes, skin prickling as Hob’s dark eyes continue to stare at him.

“Make no mistake, though,” Hob says, voice dripping down his spine, and Dream’s mouth dries, only blinking as his eyes itch, too focused on the way Hob stands up, walking around to him, “it’d be so easy to stage a coup if you do something I’m not happy with,” Hob purrs, smiling. Fingers hook under his tie and Dream whimpers, feeling light-headed with how fast his blood rushes to his cock as Hob sits on the edge of the desk.

“You―that’s,” he attempts, can only hold onto the arms of the chair as Hob rolls it closer to him ― stopped by a pointed shoe between his legs.

“There are so many here who’d happily assist with ousting you, a visible remainder of the nepotism they work under,” Hob whispers with relish, eyes sparkling and Dream can only gasp as his tie tugs him closer, whining as his cock presses into the sole of Hob’s shoe, and Dream grasps at the other’s knees as the tie is loosened, not as choking, even though he feels like that anyway, mind spinning. “People chomping at the bit to see you humiliated, it’d be nothing to nudge them into joining me.”

Dream lets out a needy noise, insides burning as his hands grasp at Hob’s leg as he tries to hide his face ― and is stopped by a tug on his tie, forcing him to look up and feel the other’s breath on his face, insides molten at Hob’s words, can see it happening behind his eyes so clearly, and Dream should be―terrified, or even offended, but all he can manage is insanely aroused, that Hob would use his considerable skill to ruin him in such a way.

The small space between their lips feels like a chasm, and Dream aches, caught on tenterhooks. On the fingers in his tie, the shoe he wants to grind into. “And after that, I suppose you’d be my fucktoy full time,” Dream keens, face feeling absurdly hot at Hob’s words, and Dream shudders as the shoe presses into his cock. “Though, I doubt there’s much difference with that.”

“Hob,” he pleads, can only whine as the shoe grinds against his cock, stars exploding behind his eyes as his brain careens towards an orgasm.

“But it’s more fun this way, I think,” Hob says, lips brushing against his, “to have this supposedly powerful CEO in the palm of my hand, knowing he’d be willing to do anything for me, just for the merest touch.” Hob’s shoe crushes against his crotch and Dream comes with a shiver, listing onto Hob’s jaw, stubble scraping across his temple.

He tries to speak, but only makes a jumble of noise, can feel the come coating the insides of trousers, insides still hot and rushing even as Hob stands up. Dream pants, needwant not sated at all as Dream falls to the floor, grabbing onto the other’s legs.

A hand goes into his hair and there’s a tingle of pleasure-pain as Hob tugs his head up, “some of us do have actual work to get to,” Hob chides softly, stepping away and Dream whimpers, curling up on the floor as Hob leaves, door shutting.

Dream pants, still feeling aroused even though he’s already come, mind frazzled―

And the door opens, a familiar sigh, the door closing as Hob’s shoes appear under where he’s kneeling. “Dream,” Hob says softly, and Dream looks up as Hob sits on the sofa. “I suppose I can allow for a bit more time.”

Dream's not sure how he got across, crawled or walked, flew, but can only feel Hob's hands on his neck, in his hair as they kiss, filthy and deep. And Dream needs more, needs Hob inside―but there’s no plug in him, too impatient for it, even with how clever Hob’s fingers are. Dream breaks the kiss, nibbling down Hob’s jaw, who allows him to, feel Hob’s pulse on his tongue as he sucks a mark into his throat.

Hob is warm under him, hands sliding down to his shoulders as Dream scrambles, fingers shaking as they undo Hob’s shirt, and can feel the other’s erection against his taint. There’s a spike of arousal, but his cock only twitches, still too early as he licks Hob’s nipples, nails scratching into the hair on Hob’s chest. Hob whines, arching into him as he Dream continues his way down.

Down to Hob’s stomach, he nibbles at the happy trail, moaning happily as he undoes Hob’s belt, then trousers, pulling them, which Hob huffs at, hands going into his hair to stroke it. His mouth waters at Hob’s cock, bulging under tight blue boxers, which he licks a stripe, Hob shivering and tugging his hair. Nosing at the fabric, he tugs it down, revealing Hob’s cock and hairy thighs.

Wasting no time, Dream swallows him in one, making Hob moan as his cock slides down his throat. Keeping a hand on a thigh, he puts his other one on Hob’s balls, massaging them and making Hob gasp and keen as his tongue licks the underside of Hob’s dick, can feel salty pre-come sliding down his throat as he presses his nose into Hob’s crotch, overwhelmed by the musk.

Hob cries out as he takes his time, bobbing up and down leisurely, laving attention on every part of the other’s cock as Hob whines, lightly tugging his hair. “Dream,” Hob breathes, groaning as Dream keeps a steady pace, can slowly feel his arousal heightening once more, prick filling into the mess in his pants.

The arousal burns through his veins, but he ignores it, arching his lower back as he focuses on wringing more beautiful sounds out of Hob, until he’s moaning continuously, cockhead twitching in his mouth as Hob gets closer. Hob’s thighs surround him, heels digging into his back, keeping him in place.

“Dream,” Hob repeats in a hiss, a particularly rough pull of his hair as he orgasms, come sliding down his tongue and throat, coating his inside of his mouth as he moans happily, licking the other’s softening cock as he’s filled. The grip on his face lessens, Hob relaxing under him with a groan―

And a hand in his hair, tugging him off Hob’s cock, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to the other’s prick as he’s pulled up, spit dissipating as Hob kisses him, wet and open-mouthed.

“You are taking the rest of the day off,” Hob says, biting his lips, a hand coming up to grip his jaw―and Dream lets out a squeak as the other grips his crotch, cooled come jostling against his hard prick, “and you aren’t going to touch this. Got it?”

Dream swallows, can feel how wrecked his voice is going to be, the lingering taste of Hob making him shiver―and there’s only one answer to this, can’t fathom anything else, “yes.”

[Fin]

#dc #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fanfic #dream x hob #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #dream of the endless #lord morpheus #hob gadling #writing #not sfw #2024 dreamling bingo #idk my brain wanted more so

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mxstellatayte · 4 months ago

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metal, nuts, bolts, and a hell of a lot of blaster residue (chapter 1.)

din djarin x female mechanic reader.

chapter 1 word count: 5.4k

warnings/tags: graphic depictions of violence, reader is a mechanic, found family, din djarin speaks mando'a, din and reader are both very touch starved, i don't know how fictional money works, din djarin is a bottom, smut written and proofread by an asexual, din and reader have ptsd, canon is dead and i killed it, no use of y/n

It was on the third time to Nevarro that he’d finally needed repairs. Greef Karga would always greet him and the kid with a smile on his face, referring to him as “Mando.” Friends, you’d realized after a short time. Tall, imposing, and covered from head to toe in gleaming plates of Beskar armor, the Mandalorian strode confidently through the airfield on the outskirts of town where you worked on Navarro. Of course, you’d only seen him around and heard the whispers passed from lips to ears, getting slightly more molded and misshapen every time, rinse and repeat, throughout cantinas, dining halls, and bars whenever his looming presence would enter, no one besides Magistrate Karga ever mustering up the courage to speak to him for any reasons other than what would soon occur: business.

Apparently the group of Mandalorian radicals, as you’d heard them called, were a group of religious zealots, vowing to never remove their helmets (how they ate, drank, bathed, and slept, you could only guess,) work amongst themselves and interact in limited amounts with anyone not of their creed. Your knowledge about… anything, really, of the outside world before and immediately following your defection was limited, the weeks being a blur of being offered a job at a small bar just down the street from where you lived now and not far from your airfield, a family-owned establishment on the outskirts of the city, getting used to your new home and city, and attempting to pick up miscellaneous mechanic jobs here and there to build your reputation. You knew little about the time on Nevarro before your defection from the Empire, little news about anything reaching your mechanic job in the lowest levels of every landing port on any ship. You, quite literally, lived under a rock, several thick sheets of stone separating the repair bays from the higher-up landing pads in more Imperial cruisers than not.

“What can I do for you?” you smile to the visor as you wipe off grease from your hands with a rag frequently slung over your shoulder. Some it remains, the dark amber liquid packed under your fingernails, sticking in the creases of your hands and in your cuticles mixing with the dirt and dust in the air and creating a persistent, unremovable black coating on your hands and wrists, coming to an end roughly a third of the way up your forearms. You've undone the top zipper of your mechanic's coveralls and now have the sleeves tied around your waist, a black shirt underneath neatly tucked into the pants of the coveralls. Your boots (a pair due for replacement at this point, but your supplier had been slacking recently and upping his prices for no reason, so they'd gone neglected for a while,) your second pair since defection, are well-worn and comfortable, the coveralls wrapped around them so as to protect your legs while welding. Your hair, previously hastily thrown into a twist and tucked under a cap to avoid any catching in gears while working on ships, now had strands falling down and tickling the back of your neck over your headphones. Quite frankly, you look like an unprofessional mess, and in an effort to minimize such an appearance, you pull your cap off and pull your hair down, then pull it back together into a ponytail and securing it with one of the few remaining hair elastics you’d kept from the Empire, then slide your cap back on and pull the ponytail through the adjustable loop on the back.

“The Crest needs some repairs and a refuel. And no droids.” You nod and look down when you hear quiet cooing, seeing the small child you’ve heard so much about sitting in his egg-shaped pod and wide, black-as-night eyes staring up at you. From the gossip you've overheard in cantinas and whispered in alleyways, during one of the days you were doing an emergency out-of-town repair for your friend, this small child had caused something ranging from a small skirmish to a battle not unlike those occurring between the Empire and the Rebellion, depending on who you asked.

“I can absolutely do that. And I never work with droids. Don’t trust ‘em. Never have,” you grin, looking back up at your customer. “Not to do the work, anyway- I’ve got a rewired mouse droid that holds my supplies and a downsized Gonk droid for light, if that’s alright with you.” You spare a glance at the Mandalorian, and all you receive for an answer is a silent nod.

“The ship is over here,” the Mandalorian points, and the two of you turn, observing the ship. It’s old- you’re surprised she hasn’t been destroyed or impounded yet. Or kicked the bucket. A ship this old must be falling apart- it’s no doubt she needs repairs.

“Let me guess. A Razor Crest. Pre-Empire.” Another silent nod, and you celebrate internally. The constant drilling you faced as a mechanic under the Empire paid off, being able to guess what ships landed in your airfield by a quick glance at them, some ships even so familiar you could recognize them by their engines’ sounds. “I’ve worked on one or two of these in the past, but don’t remember much. Care to educate me on what she needs?”

The two of you walk around the ship as he tells you, piece by piece, what needs repairs. It’s, putting it mildly, a lot, a mishmash of small and large repairs alike. You can only wonder what the Mandalorian was going for his ship to be in such a condition. Some small, non-essential wires are on the fritz, the hull needs a small patch near the starboard engine, the shield system needs a whole reboot, and the comm system is “out.” The Mandalorian didn’t elaborate on what kind of “out” it might be, but you fear that, in a ship as old as this, the repairs that may entail could be atrociously difficult. That's just the shorter, less time-consuming repairs; a wire connection that normally wouldn't take you longer than ten minutes to fix is in an annoyingly inconvenient and narrow opening- if you can find the right tools, it should only take you about ten minutes, but finding the tools is going to be a pain in your ass. Using a mechanic droid would make the job fifteen times easier, instances like these being the few times you actually trust droids to do the work, but your customer has requested no droids. Might as well give it a shot, you think. I’ve done smaller jobs before. Much smaller. Not without a droid, though. One of the engines’ connections to the light fuel was damaged, and needs to be reconnected, a job you're not excited for. Dealing with light fuel is incredibly tedious, a soldering iron a degree too hot, left in contact with the metal a second too long, or a stray spark flown a little too close to the fuel tank and “oh shit” would be your famous last words. The Maker only knows how long that would take you. The final repair necessary is in the radio- the comms systems are so old in the Crest that you suspect they've just crapped out at this point, requiring full replacement. You chew your inner cheek, eyebrows furrowing in thought. “So can you do it?”

“I don’t know. The light fuel track is the only thing I’m not sure about. I’ll need a better look at it before I agree to it, but everything else I definitely can do. Come on, let’s just look at it now.” You lead the Mandalorian to the back of his ship, then press a button on your tablet that wheels your crane over to you. The bar raises, permitting you and your customer onto the platform, then lowers as the two of you ascend, settling close to the engine. You undo some of the bolts holding the panel to the framework of the ship and pull it away, propping it up on another panel of the engine. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see it- a compartmentalized light fuel track rather than the more dangerous (albeit more efficient) fuel systems more common in newer ships. The words pre-Empire ring in your head and you internally curse yourself for not remembering- chambered light fuel systems were the only system in existence before the Empire came along and created the faster systems.

You don’t realize you’re wearing your so-called thinking face, your eyebrows scrunched and tongue poking out between your lips as you fiddle with the bolts in your hand and you shake your head to clear the remaining brain fog. “I can do it. Do you need it done by any time specifically?”

“How fast can you have it done?”

“Depends. How much are you paying me?” you fire back, stifling a grin. Being your own boss and the best mechanic in town meant you could haggle prices as much as you needed to- within reason, of course. You weren’t heartless. And you needed customers. “And can I babysit the kid?”

The Mandalorian states at you in silence for what feels like an eternity, his arms crossed over his broad, beskar-covered chest. You can’t lie, it’s a pretty sight, but that might just be your raging daddy issues talking. “I pay you seven hundred fifty credits and provide parts and you have it done in two sunsets. The kid stays with me.”

Shit, seven hundred fifty credits? you think, the number striking an instinct inside of you that you first associate with a tough job and lots of money second. “Seven fifty, the parts and my electric fine. The Empire gets bitchy if I'm welding after curfew, which I'll be doing if it's going to be done in two sunsets, especially with the radio. I'm pretty sure it's crapped out and I'll need to find another one.” You notice out of the corner of your eye that the sun is already lowering in the sky, the sky slowly tinting brilliant reds and oranges thanks to the volcanic ash lingering in the air. You jut your thumb towards the horizon and bright colors in the sky, curious. “And do those two sunsets include this one? Because I’ll need two sunsets after this one to complete it all with the quality I intend to deliver.” The Mandalorian stares you down, the T-shaped visor an empty void of silent judgment, and you catch a slight glimpse of your reflection in the shiny black surface. Several strands of hair stick to your face with sweat and there's a smear of grease on your chin. Absolutely gorgeous. The Mandalorian’s arms are crossed over his broad chest, rising and falling with every breath he takes, time stretching longer and longer as he contemplates your offer.

“Deal. Two sunsets, not including today’s. No later.” You grin, shaking his hand. “The parts are inside, if you get started I'll bring the parts out. And about the radio- if you check it out soon and see it needs replacing, I can try to find one while you're working. The faster I can get to Tatooine, the better.”

“Sounds good!” You look at your watch, calculating how much time you'll need to spend on each specific repair for each day; the patch in the hull won't take you longer than an hour, the shield can reboot while you're working on that, and the glitchy wiring will likely only take you forty five minutes, including testing time. If you can find the right tools, the narrow wiring should be relatively easy. It's the light fuel that concerns you, tenacity and all.

Once you get a good look at the fuel pump, though, you're not worried about it. Sometimes your anxiety jumps when someone mentions a light fuel track and this was one of those instances, but you forgot that the Crest is ancient- it uses pre-Empire fuel pumps, and the issue is in a small, isolated chamber as opposed to the large, risky, one piece systems. The isolated systems are slightly more unreliable, but much easier to fix. “Thank the Maker,” you whisper, pulling a small planning tablet out of your back pocket.

“Where do you want the parts?” the Mandalorian calls, a small cart loaded with the parts you’ll need next to him. Your eyes light, an exciting feeling stirring in your stomach at the thought of the challenge of fixing this ship finally settling in.

“Right there is fine,” you respond, pressing a button on your elevating crane to take you back down to the ground from your level, roughly fifty feet in the air. When it’s close enough to the floor, you jump off, your feet hitting the metallic ground with an echoing clang. You inspect each of the pieces, thankful that an extra coil of welding wire is among them. Who knows how many yards of coil you'll go through fixing the fuel pump alone. “Thanks for the welding coil,” you say, continuing to poke through the pile. “These pieces will probably be enough to fix most everything, but the radio is still to be reckoned with. Here,” you say, pulling a pager out of your back pocket that you use for customers, checking the number briefly and connecting it to this job specifically on your tablet. “When this goes off, come back. I either need to talk to you about the radio or the job’s done. It beeps, but I can switch it to a silent alarm if that would work better for you.”

“Silent. I don't want it interrupting a meeting or a job.”

“Understandable.” You press a button on your tablet and the pager vibrates in your hand, the connection between it and your tablet secure. You hand it over to the Mandalorian and he takes it and hands it to the kid.

“Hold onto that for me, okay?” The kid babbles something sounding like a “guh” in response, which you can only assume means yes. “I'll pay you half now and half when the job is done.”

“Great. That's normally what I do for all customers, so I'm glad you're cool with it, too.” He pulls out a sack of credits, counts out 375 credits’ worth of the heavy metal currency, and hands them to you. You hastily stuff them in your zippered pocket, planning to shove them in your safe in your office later. “See you in two sunsets?”

“See you then.” The Mandalorian turns and walks away, and you look giddily at the ship towering above you.

“What to tackle first?” You ask yourself. Talking to yourself has been a habit of yours since you first started your mechanic’s training with the Empire. A verbal processor, they had called you. You had no idea what it meant at the time but rolled with it. You pull your headphones on, making sure that they're connected to your tablet before pressing play, enjoying some of the music that reminded you of home and was also just fun to work to. The Empire never canceled your security cards or logins to any of their software, so you may or may not have pirated some music from their streaming software, a program that had music from every corner of the galaxy. Including music from your home planet. Terra, the Empire called it. But you just knew it as Earth. Your music plays through your headphones and you make a to-do list:

Hole in the hull

Glitchy wiring

Shield system reboot

Bitchy wiring in that tiny little vent

Radio (I’m going to have to replace the whole thing AA)

Aaaaaaaaaaa light fuel track aaaaaaaaaa

Sure, the list may not necessarily be what you'd see at any other mechanic in your system, but it wasn't killing anyone and it was funny. You smile as one of your favorite songs comes on- Telephone. The familiar beat of the piano makes you do a little dance as you walk towards your workbench, flipping the switch on your mouse droid (aptly named Squeaks,) and tapping the light on your wristband a few times, grinning when it boops affirmatively. “Get Gonk going, will ya?” Two more beeps, and it drives off, surprisingly fast, to press the pressure plate that activates your modified power droid. As you gather your tools into your large bag, setting some in certain pouches and some just in the open space of the bag, Squeaks bonks into your ankle to notify you of your droids’ readiness.

You check that you have all your tools necessary, eyebrows furrowing in slight confusion when you realize you’re missing a specific wrench that you’ll need to loosen certain bolts in the light fuel track. You check in Squeaks’ compartments, in the drawers of your workbench, and even in your speeder’s saddlebags- nothing. You shove one ear of your headphones back with your wrist, careful to not soil them with the grease constantly stuck in the crevices of your hands and under your fingernails. “Squeaks, where’s my ⅜ wrench?” It runs into your ankle again, and you can feel a little bit of irritation slip into your voice, lips pursing in annoyance. “Squeaks, my ⅜ wrench. Where is it.” Another headbutt to your ankle. And another. You look down at the mouse droid, about to threaten a rewire, before you see it- your ⅜ wrench, slipped into the gear loop at your hip. “Thanks,” you smile, shaking your head at your idiocy and pulling your headphones back over your ears. A lock of hair falls out in the process, and your attempt to blow it out of the way, but after three failed attempts, you grab the incessant piece of hair and shove it behind your ear. Oh well. I need to shower when I get home, anyway. Right as you pull your headphones on, the chorus of Telephone begins, and you dance along as you jog back to your crane.

I know we only just met,

So why do I feel invested?

Do you feel it too?

I could be your best yet

Future favorite regret!

Do you feel it too?

Your eyes are closed, there’s a bright smile on your face, and you’re jumping, spinning, and having the time of your life, as you always do when you start a new repair job, one you know for sure will be a challenge. You’re thrown from your mini party, however, when you see the Mandalorian staring at you from the bottom of the ramp to the Crest, yelping in shock and pulling your headphones off. “Did you notice anything else needed repairs?”

The Mandalorian hesitates before speaking, one foot on the ramp, the kid’s pod still at his hip. “No, just forgot something on the ship. I’ll be gone in two minutes.” He turns to climb the ramp, disappearing into the ship, and you stand in the dirt, just a few feet from where the metal starts to protect the rest of your shipyard from fuel residue and any sparks from your assorted welding projects that fall. Squeaks and Gonk are behind you on the small rickety metal path you’d added shortly after buying Squeaks- Gonk was somewhat reliable on dirt, but Squeaks, with being all of less than one foot tall with tiny wheels, couldn’t make it one foot without dirt jamming up its gears and exploding in a flurry of panicked beeps, lights, and boops. That was a task and half, but thankfully you didn’t have to spend any credits on metal sheeting, welding some of the scrap from previous projects together.

You slide your headphones back on, the music continuing all throughout the encounter, standing there in shock for a few moments before steeling yourself and walking back to your lift, lowering the ramp for Squeaks and Gonk. You can feel yourself slipping into your little happy place, the combination of your music, the dry, arid, nearly-unbearable volcanic heat of Nevarro’s summer you know all too well and the metallic tang in the air making you feel a sense of familiarity, your daily routine coming back to you as you begin to run on autopilot. After removing the bolts from the engine so that you can inspect the broken fuel track in more depth, you quickly discover that you were correct in your initial assumptions of the isolated track- the pre-Imperial age of this ship’s fuel track is going to make these repairs a lot easier and much, much safer than they would’ve been if it had been one of the newer tracks. You silently thank the Maker as the last few notes of Telephone finish playing in your headphones and laugh at the stark contrast in between that song and the one following it- deep piano notes and an even deeper voice flood your ears, lyrics you know by heart from your heart coming to you like any welding project. “My lover’s got humor. She’s a giggle at a funeral. Knows everybody’s disapproval- should’ve worshiped her sooner…”

Little did you know, however, that your audience wasn’t just your two work droids. As you continued to pick through the engine, lost in your own little world of metal, nuts, bolts, and a hell of a lot of fuel residue, the Mandalorian had exited his ship and, having heard you… singing? No, that couldn’t be. The voice seemed too deep, too perfectly pitched to be your chipper and bright tone that he’d heard earlier. Maybe there was something wrong with the audio processors in his helmet? A short diagnostic proved this hypothesis false, so that left only one conclusion. He rounded the corner, catching sight of you on your crane with Squeaks and Gonk behind you, and your lips moving just in the way he expected them to: right with the song you were singing. He stands there in awe as your voice floats around the airfield, reverberating off of the metal walls containing the space and creating a church choir-like effect. Din is taken aback- your voice is beautiful, filled with passion unlike any he’s heard in his years traveling the galaxy. It can only be compared to the voices he would hear during ceremonies and rituals he would bear witness to on Aq Vetina before it was all destroyed by droids under Separatist command. No. he isn’t going to think about that. He isn’t going to think about Aq Vetina or you, despite how much his heart aches to remember the small things he’d noticed about you, even in the short time he’d interacted with you, heard your voice, seen your small mannerisms only visible if you’d grown to look for them in everyone you’d interacted with, knowing that looking for that could mean the difference between life and death as a bounty hunter.

He wasn’t going to think about that, that is, until the chorus hits, and you set down your tools and belt the song with everything in your soul. If he wasn’t stunned to his soul before, he is now. The fact that such a sound, so pure, clear and whole, could come out of your body, something he hadn’t expected capable of this, much less repairing his ship (that was until he got on your crane and you knew the difference between the pre-Empire compartmentalized fuel track that occupied his own ship and an Imperial fuel track, present in the more modernized and recent ships with just one glance at the exhaust vent. Then, he knew you could repair his beloved Crest.) His jaw drops below the helmet, watching you sing and hearing your voice bounce off the walls of the airfield, a sound only enhanced by the massive metal chamber. Your eyes are closed, your hands held in front of your chest, and you’re sitting on your stool and almost curling in on yourself, the music playing through your headphones capturing your soul, and, in Din’s case, your singing capturing his own, even if for just a moment.

And then the chorus ends, and you’re smiling and picking up your tools again, cranking at the bolts in the engine to carefully pull it apart and pull it back together. Din’s pushed back into reality, the combination of the memories of Aq Vetina, your singing, and the incredibly annoying amount of emotions he was suddenly feeling taking him by surprise. No. Don’t think about her that way. She’s a mechanic on Nevarro. Nothing else, he chastises himself, hating the possibility that he could be developing feelings for someone whose name he doesn’t even know. No. The Creed would rather he remove his helmet and renounce his role as Mandalorian than admit he had developed an emotional attachment to someone not of the Creed. Still, he can’t help but feel the tightness in his chest when he walks away from you silently, his boots falling on the dirt of your chamber, remembering the brightness of your voice and the undeniable spark in your eyes when you laid eyes on the Crest for the first time. Oh, and the way your lips lifted into the brightest smile he’d seen since Aq Vetina when you saw Grogu- No! You don’t even know her name, for Maker’s sake, much less her personality. Keep it together, for fuck’s sake.

You catch sight of your customer exiting your business, the doors hissing open and the wind from Nevarro’s bustling streets making his tattered, muted brown cape flutter ever so slightly. Finally, your hangar is empty and you can focus. Sure, you can focus with other people in your hangar, but not in the way you can when you’re the only person in the vast chamber. You can sing as loud as you want, weld as bright as you want, throw scrap metal and pieces of junk around to your heart’s content, and act in ways that would likely be socially unacceptable outside of your little safe haven of sheet metal, welding fumes and an incessant layer of grease coating your hands.

Once you’ve run a diagnostic of the fuel track, both manually and with your tablet to scan any potentially dangerous fractures in tubing, you start undoing the bolts and carefully pulling it apart, falling into your autopilot-the-repair mode. It’s a certain feeling you get, where you let a combination of your months-long training under the Empire and your following years of mechanical experience take control of your brain, your limbs, and your movements. You tend to not remember what occurs when you fall into that mode, only snapping out of it when you encounter a challenge, an occurrence happening fairly rarely in comparison to how many jobs you’ve worked. Your fingers nimbly fiddle with piping, file through crates full of extra pipes, tap rhythms against each other just to occupy themselves, and your mind works in tandem, processing the music just as your hands do with the rhythms, ticking off the steps for a certain repair, and reminding you- two sunsets. That’s the deadline for your job.

You’re so deep in thought and focus, in fact, that before you know it, the sun has long dipped below the volcanic horizon, Squeaks having hit the light switch on your crane long ago as you had lugged your unnecessarily heavy work light up and angled it towards the intestines of the engine, the metal caging around the light bulb protecting it from any potential damage it could face. You’ve worked so late, in fact, that the Mandalorian returns to you hunched over the engine, your light switched off and sparks from your welding gun fly in every direction. Your heavy welding helmet covers your face, the dark screen the only non-metal material besides the headband, and your hair has been tied into a bun rather than its original ponytail and shoved back into your cap. Your arms are covered again, the coveralls zipped up to your neck both to protect you from the miniscule fires and from the chilly air- a cold breeze is sweeping off of the volcanic flats, slipping through the cracks in his flight suit.

He looks up at you for a moment, simply watching you work, captured by some mysterious force. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring, captivated by your figure, but abruptly makes towards the ramp into the Crest when you lean back, setting your welding gun into the hook to your left and straightening your back on your stool, reaching back and pressing your palms into the small of your back, one on each side of your spine, groaning at the stiffness. Goosebumps rise on the back of his arms and up the back of his neck, cursing the way your sight makes him feel. He’s known you for less than a day, and it’s like he’s a horny teenager again, flustered without you even looking at him and flashing that smile that could outshine both of Tatooine’s suns on the brightest day of the cycle, much less speaking to you.

What the Mandalorian didn’t know, however, was that you had caught the flash of gleaming Beskar out of the corner of your eye under your welding mask when he first entered the hangar, smiling to yourself at the arrival of your customer. You were aware of him standing there, aware of how much time he had spent watching you work (approximately five minutes and thirty-seven seconds, but who was counting?) Aware of how, once he realized what he was doing, he snapped to attention and shuffled his way back into the ship, closing the ramp behind him.

You finish the welding, replace the panel on the engine, fasten the bolts back in place, and lower your crane, the exhaustion from the long night finally hitting you like a ton of bricks. You smile victoriously as you delete the last note on your to-do list for the Crest’s repairs: the light fuel track. Relieved to have finished the most daunting task at hand, you set your tablet down on your workbench and pull your headphones off. Flyaway hairs disperse from where they were stuck to your cheeks with a mixture of sweat and grease, and you pull your cap off, letting a few stray hairs fall out of the twist but keeping as much possible still up. They tickle the back of your neck and you pull your blaster holster out of the locked safe in the bottom drawer of your workbench, slipping it through the belt loops on your coveralls, then stuffing the small pistol you keep for personal safety into it. Home time. Despite your exhaustion, you’re on high alert as you lock up, sealing drawers, covering scraps and other assorted projects in loose clothes and tarps, and locking the few drawers that hold your valuable tools. Squeaks and Gonk return to their docks, the small green lights indicating their refueling batteries. Once everything is set, you head out to your front entrance, locking the doors for the night and immediately whirling around. Sure, the recent governing from Magistrate Karga had improved Nevarro by light years from the shithole it had been before, but there were still shady pirates that visited the remaining bars and cantinas just looking for someone to pester.

Your ears prick at every small sound, every cheer a tiny bit too loud, as you walk towards your house. Finally, after five minutes of walking, a walk you spend on edge every night despite your impeccable aim with your blaster, hyper-vigilance and quick reflexes, all skills learned due to shitty parents and only enhanced by the Empire’s control over you, you reach the door of your house, located on a street of identical homes squished into what was once the shadiest part of town. (Granted, it still is the shadiest part of town, but now you don’t have to worry that the sound of your steps falling on the cobbled road isn’t hiding the steps of someone behind you, whirling around every twenty paces to make sure you were alone.) After your fingers fumbling for your keycard and entering your pin, the pocket door slides open and you sigh, stepping over the threshold and into safety. You unlace and kick off your boots, pull your coveralls off (which took way too much effort, by the way,) and shimmy out of your sweat-soaked tank top, opting for a plain blue cotton tee, a remnant from the Empire, and flop into your bed, passing out less than one minute later.

#mxstellatayte #stella writez #star wars #the mandalorian #the mandalorian/reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars smut #baby yoda #grogu #din grogu

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mayakern · 1 year ago

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Hello 👋 just wondering if theres the differences between the old and new manufacturers listed anywhere? I thought i read in an ask a while back that they were cooler? So if it talks about the fabric or saturation etc and compares the two id love to see it

i talked about this pretty extensively a couple months ago and i do not have the spoons to go hunt for it/retype the whole thing, so i’ll give you the cliffs notes (which are already plenty long)

the printed skirts use a lighter weight fabric that is nice and cool in summer

higher quality/more consistent fabric that won’t have the same pilling issue the old fabric sometimes had

new manu does their own wash tests before sending us anything, meaning the above problem is even less of an issue because they’re already checking for it

new manu does much more extensive quality checking on their end, enabling us to streamline things on our end

printed fabric is now a poly/elastic blend, old fabric was a poly/spandex blend

printed fabric is less staticky/clingy than previous

printed fabric is shinier than the previous midi fabric, which some people like and some don’t

solid color fabric is ecovero viscose, which is made with ethically sourced tree pulp and is biodegradable and compostable in your home compost. it’s also really nice and soft

higher quality and more consistent sewing (this means tighter seams, less loose threads, etc.)

printed skirts are now printed using sublimation, which prints at 300dpi instead of 100dpi, meaning the printing is now much crisper. i don’t have hard data on the differences in the color gamuts, but i find the new manu’s color range much better, especially in the blues and purples which can be very difficult to print satisfactorily.

new factory is certified up the entire supply chain by the Supplier Ethical Data Exchange (certifies ethical labor practices) and OEKO-TEX Standard 100 (certifies responsible textile production, i.e. ensuring there are no harmful substances present). for those of you who know anything about supply chains you know this is a Big Deal because getting that information on things like buttons and zippers, which are often made in labor camps, is incredibly difficult

because of everything above and because our new factory is in turkey, which doesn’t have the same generous import situation as china, our cost per unit has increased dramatically and we’ve eaten as much of that as we feasibly can, but unfortunately that means we make less money per skirt sale than we used to. but between wanting to keep costs down for y’all and all the other benefits that come with making this change, i think it’s worth it.

#ask #store #faq #manufacturing #factory info

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zipper-and-ribbon-printing · 3 months ago

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ohnothisisathing · 3 months ago

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Deadlines

FitPac fanfic, fashion au. Fit has a project he needs done and he has just the place to get it done. He’s keeping it very professional with the floor manager.

Character: Fit, Pac, Mike, minor Bagi, mentions Missa, Madagio, and Lullah

I originally wrote this for Hideduo week, but got busy. It’s based off aspects of my job because I thought I could write something quick enough if I knew the subject well and I was wrong. Wasn’t going to post it, but I re-read it today and liked it.

Fit takes a moment to himself in the elevator to just breathe for these precious few seconds because as soon as he is on the correct floor it is back on the grind.

He’d just spent the last two hours sourcing zippers because one of the ones they’d ordered custom broke when it was being sewn in the day before but the jacket needed to be shipped today in order for it to be in London in time for the red carpet. His usual place only had one zipper with black, plastic teeth in stock so he had to go shop-to-shop in the fashion district until he found something good. Thank fuck Pac can cut the zipper and chage out the pull for him. Speaking of.

Fit walks out of the elevator and walks into Atelier Jorge. Pac is on his sewing machine still working on the dress, which would hopefully be done today. Fit would have to fly it there himself if it wasn’t and he’d prefer not to spend half a day on a flight just to handover the garment to the stylist team.

“Oi Pac!” Fit says rushing into the factory. Pac looks up from his work and smiles at him and Fit feels a bit more eager to be there.

“Oi Fit!” He says, lifting a hand from where he’s skillfully sewing a line of stitches to wave at him.

“Brought you a gift,” Fit says, holding the zippers up and then placing them in Pac’s hand, their fingers brushing slightly.

“Oh Fit, you shouldn’t have. This is too precious you know?” Pac say with fake seriousness, dramatically putting a hand on his chest. Fit snickers at his joke and Pac laughs with him.

“What can I say? I live to serve,” Fit jokes but turns to the task at hand, “I was able to find 15.5 cm so we won’t need you to shorten them like we thought.“

“Oh thank God,” Pac responds more sincerely.

“Yeah, so we save some time there, but we still need to put our custom pull on the zippers, but you can do that, right?”

“Yes! Absolutely! It will take, eh, maybe 10 minutes.”

“That’s incredible Pac!” Fit says genuinely, feeling relief at having one less step to worry about.

“It’s not that incredible,” Pac says in that doubtful way of his that Fit has never understood. He sews the highest quality and manages all the other sewers and fixes all the machines. He’s so blindingly talented that there is no way anyone doesn’t see it.

“Really Pac, you are saving us so much time and money. Most places don’t offer this. I’d have to get it done at a zipper supplier. Really, you’re too good to me.” Fit smiles down at him.

“Thank you Fit,” Pac says with a shy smile. Fit feels warmed by him accepting his praise and putting any weight behind Fit’s opinion.

“Stop flirting and get back to work!” A familiar voice says behind them, “we have a deadline, you know?”

Bagi smiles at Fit as Pac bristles.

“We are not flirting! We are talking like professionals”

“Yeah, we’re just having a professional conversation,” Fit assures her because they were only talking as colleagues.

“Uh huh,” Bagi says with amusement though Fit doesn't know why, “Well. Can you talk professionally and work? We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yes, Bagi. Of course, sorry,” Pac says, going back to sewing.

“I’ll get out of your hair. Sorry to distract your floor manager and best sewer Bagi.”

“It was only a moment so it was okay. I just did not want him to be distracted too long. You two can do that after the deadline,” the owner of Atelier Jorge says and Fit feels his face turning red, which is extra embarrassing for a bald man

“Do you want to see the dress so far? It’s nearly done.”

Fit did not, but his boss would want photos, even if it’s best practice to not take pictures until it’s fully done. It should be fine since they already fit the muslin sample weeks ago and Madagio was happy with it then.

“Yes please,” Fit says taking out his phone to text his boss that he was taking pictures.

Pac stops sewing and snips the thread before handing the dress to Bagi. Pac then gets up and moves to the small work bench area with the zippers. Fit is tempted to stay and watch him work, but his job comes first.

He follows Bagi to a door and after she finishes knocking they walk into a small office with a large window and a large drafting table.

Mike is hunched over the table, measuring a circle with a ruler, turning it in a precise measurement. No doubt working on their next job. Mike is a brilliant patternmaker so it could be anything from a maxi dress to a tailored coat.

“Oi Mike, Fit is back and wants to see the dress.”

Mike looks up from his work, frowning and sneering at being interrupted but that quickly changes when he sees the dress.

“Oh, yes! Fit, it's amazing. You’re gonna love it,” Mike says, taking the dress from Bagi and putting it on the form. They didn’t have a child’s form so it didn’t fit at the waist correctly and did not zip close at the shoulders, but the overall look was easy to see. They’d already made the dress to the measurements of their client and when Lullah came in for her muslin fitting she was completely delighted from the experience and the dress.

It did look amazing. The skirt was completely purple organza ruffles with sleeveless embroidered tulle on the bodice. It was elegant and fun and his niece was going to love it, but he had to make sure his boss, who was paying for it, also loved it.

“It looks really good,” Fit says while taking pictures of the front and back and sending them to Madagio, “I want to take a picture of it with the jacket on.”

Bagi, smiling, leaves the room to go get it. When she leaves Madagio texts him back.

Wow!

Let me see it with the jacket

“The boss likes it,” Fit tells Mike with a relieved grin, not conveying the second part because it’s already handled.

“Good. He did not give us a lot to work with, you know?” Mike says with understandable irritation considering that Madagio didn’t have almost any experience in this and Mike ended up practically designing everything because of that, but that’s why he hired Fit as a production manager since he did everything else.

“We usually do T-shirts and sweatpants and hoodies, not all this.”

Pac walks in instead of Bagi, but he’s holding the jacket so he figures that Bagi must have gotten busy with something else. Besides, he's always happy to see Pac.

“Bagi asked me to bring the jacket,” he says to the room and Fit walks up to take it.

“I’ll take that. Thank you Pac.” He pauses to smile at him and Pac smiles back and it’s always such a nice smile to look at that everything else falls away for a moment. Fit realizes that he’s staring and clears his throat and awkwardly says, “uh, yeah thanks”

He misses Pac’s embarrassed look when he forces his eyes away but he does not miss Mike’s snigger.

Fit puts the child size jacket on the form and takes a picture, front and back, of the jacket. It was the most important piece since it tied the two looks together and has the most visible branding for this pet project Madagio gave Fit. It’s a leather jacket embroidered with flowers with their new high luxury brand “Stranger in Paradise” embroidered on the back collar. It looks incredible. Fit immediately gets a text from his boss.

Beautiful!

This will definitely sell

Good job Fit

Tell the team thank you

Send me pics of suit when ready

Fit smiles at the response. When he got this job at Vacuus, a hearing aid brand, he’d basically been hired to make merch. They made colorful, art printed cases and designs for hearing aids that were popular with children and the fashionable set so they updated their merch along with updates in their hearing aid designs. The job had its own problems but it was consistent and Fit was good at it. The opportunity with the current project came up when his ex-brother-in-law, Missa, needed a red carpet look for himself and his date, his daughter Lullah. He’d told Missa about this atelier that could make him whatever he wanted, but when Fit mentioned it to Madagio his boss saw it as an opportunity to expand their clothing line with a few luxury pieces and said he’d like Vacuus to be involved. Lullah already wore Vacuus hearing aids and Missa was relieved to work with Fit so they’d said yes. Luxury was not at all like everything else he was doing before for Vacuus, but he still had his connections and experience from working for Wasteland and nothing can be worse than working for his previous company.

“So Fit, what do you think? It’s pretty, yeah?”

Fit looks up from his phone to Pac.

“Yeah the boss likes it a lot!”

Pac’s smile falters and Fit scrambles to think about what he said that caused that until Mike speaks up.

“He wants to know what you think of it Fit, not your dumb boss. He wants you to say ‘ah Pac you’re so talented! I want to stick my-“ but Mike gets cut off by Pac covering his mouth with his hand. If looks could kill a tragedy would have happened. Fit just smiles at their antics. Those two are just like this.

“I think it’s beautiful. I can’t thank you enough. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without either of you. This project will change everything for me. For the better!” Fit adds, meaning every word, “I’m lucky to have such talented friends. Thank you Mike. Thank you Pac.”

They both seem stunned silent for a moment, Pac’s hand still over Mike’s mouth, but only a moment.

“Mmmmm hmmm hee,” Mike says under Pac’s hand but slaps it away with a chuckle, “you’re welcome Fit. You’re very easy to work with. It would be good to get more jobs from you.”

“If all goes well, you will be seeing a lot more of me.” Fit smiles. If they get sales after the red carpet Fit’s whole job will change and he’ll need all the help he can get.

“Ooh Fit, that would be amazing. We would like to see you here a lot more,” Pac says with an admiring look that makes Fit’s heart beat faster. He has to remind his stupid heart to stay professional. Pac is a friend but also a colleague.

“I would like to see more of you,” he settles on what he hopes sounds more neutral to them than it does to Fit. Not just that he likes spending more time with Pac. Just in case it comes off weird he adds, “If this luxury line does well I’m getting a promotion! More money for Ramón’s college fund!”

“Oh Fit! Speaking of Ramón, I’m making a present for him, if that’s okay. I’ve been too busy with the dress and jacket and the suit, but you know very well what I’m working on, right? You don’t need me to tell you what we’re making for you. But anyways I made one for Richas and-“

“One for Richas? Only if counting has changed. He spoils him, Fit,” Mike says with a conspiratorial stage whisper.

“Me?” Pac immediately turns to Mike, “You let him have a chocolate fountain in his room! I don’t want to hear about spoiling our son from you!”

Fit just watches amused. These two are like a comedy act together. Their son Richas is a lot like them. Fit has met five of Richas parents, but he knows there’s at least one more, and he’s sure that between all of them he’s plenty spoiled. He doesn’t say that though.

“So you made something for Ramón?” Fit interjects between their domestic spat.

“Oh, yes! Yes, it’s not ready and I want to keep it a surprise if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, I’m sure if it’s fine for Richas then it’s okay for my boy. I trust you Pac.”

Pac seems pleased with his words and that makes Fit feel like a giant. Making Pac happy feels like a high and he’s only too happy to continue doing it. In the confines of professionalism of course.

“Thank you Fit,” Pac says a little in awe, “I should be finished in a couple days. When is he coming here with you again?”

Ramón has been staying with his twin, Dapper, adopted separately but Fit and Dapper’s dad found each other and have made sure to set up time for them to be together.

“He’s away for another week. I have him staying with family while I’m busy with this job.”

“Perfect! I miss seeing him. He always likes to show me all the little things he makes. He’s so cute”

Fit just smiles to that, enjoying the praise to his beautiful baby boy.

“I’m sure he’ll love it. He thinks you’re great.”

“He does?”

“Mmmhmm,” he hums in the affirmative. He doesn’t mention his cheeky little son asking if Pac will be his new dad. It has been a little lonely with him away and after today he won’t have this deadline to take up his time and a full week without his son at home.

“Would you, uh, would either of you want to do something next week? Outside of work? We haven’t hung out in a long time and Ramón isn’t back for a week.”

“I’ve got Richas next week, but we’re going to the zoo on Wednesday if you want to come along,” Mike offers and Fit nods.

“That would be fun. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a zoo. Is Richas as crazy about birds as you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mike lies to his face.

“I mean the 10 birds you were fostering for half a year. How many do you even have now?”

“Oh you hate saving the lives of birds. You’re jealous that they have feathers and you’re bald. I see how it is,” Mike says, suspiciously not answering him, “Can you believe him Pac?”

“How could you Fit?”

“I just prefer them grilled,” Fit jokes, enjoying the banter, “but I’m in for going to the zoo. What about you, Pac.”

“Oh, yes!”

“You know since I’m watching Richas, Pac’s schedule is empty. He will be sitting at his apartment alone all week.”

“Oh, uh Pac, would you like to do something? Besides the zoo that is. Not that we can’t do the zoo again or something if you really wanted to.” Fit rambles, to his own embarrassment.

”Oh, yeah, we could hang out or something. We can even go to the zoo again if you want! Yeah, just the two of us hanging out. Just two bros. Haha!”

”Yeah, we can go to the zoo again. Or maybe we can go to that Bakery Etoiles is so crazy about, “The Dungeon” but in French.”

”Isn’t it “Le Dungeon”? Actually I don’t know what it is in French either,” Pac laughs nervously, “Ignore me. But I would love to go with you to the dungeon bakery sometime next week Fit.”

”Cool, it’s a date,” Fit says and only processes a second too late what he said, “I didn’t mean it like that! It’s an expression, an expression.”

”It had better be a date. It’s the only reason I haven’t told you all to get back to work,” Bagi’s voice suddenly interrupts them. Pac and Mike both actually jump at her voice. Fit is grateful for the distraction from him wanting to fall into a hole from embarrassment.

”Right, sorry Bagi. I’ll get to work finishing the dress. I already gave Batista working on the jacket to put the new zippers in.”

”Good, good. Now go stop getting distracted by your boyfriend.”

”Bagi!”

”Go Pac.”

Pac Grabs the dress and heads back out to the sewing area of the floor. Mike has already moved back to his drafting table without a word, pretending that Bagi’s intervention hadn’t been needed. Bagi smirks in amusement at them before turning her gaze to Fit.

”I’m surprised it’s you of all people who is distracting them.”

”Why? I’ve known to be distracting by many people.”

”Because if these clothes don’t ship on time you are the one who will have to answer to your boss and your family. Two kinds of people you never want to let down.”

“Fair enough,” Fit grimaces, because he really can’t afford to lose this job and he’d hate to disappoint Missa but especially, Lullah. Then Phil would never forgive him. There’s a chance that if this doesn’t ship then Fit loses his job, gets deported, disappoints his family, and loses one of his most reliable friends, “ you make a good point.”

Bagi smiles amusingly at him and makes her exit, presumably to get back to her job doing what it takes to run this place.

It’ll all work out. He has faith in these people to get everything done in time. Bagi is good at her job and Pac is exceptionally good at running his floor, speaking nothing of his own skill as a sewer.

Fit smiles to himself.

And he has a not-date with Pac to look forward to once this is all done. Not bad at all.

#FitPac #QSMP fanfic #my temp fanfic tag

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