#'as long as both of them are alive in this galaxy' YOU MEAN FOR THREE MORE DAYS????? YOU MEAN UNTIL HE KILLS ONE OF THEM??????

[thenegoteator]

It will always be like this, as long as both of them are alive in this galaxy. Anakin is the common thread and the joining stitch, intricately pulling them together, even if the weave is loose.

returned to the internet after finals just to see that @giggles-and-freckles had posted like a moth to the flame and lost my absolute mind. some people take artistic license, when abi does it it doubles as license to kill. needless to say you should read it

[trainofcommand]

mclorne please!

What does their home look like? Their room?

Do they have any pets?

Who initiated the relationship? Who kissed who first? When did they realize they were in love?

Thank you for asking these!

For who initiated the relationship, I'm going to go with my answer from here:

Rodney saying to Evan, "Hey do you want to --" and making a kind of awkwardly dirty hand gesture, which totally meant 'hook up', and Evan had had his doubts.

But it had been a long time since Evan had hooked up with anyone, and Rodney - for all his annoying tendencies - did sometimes make Evan laugh a lot, like, genuinely laugh, not in a mean way. So he figured why not, Rodney was also pretty hot, especially when he got worked up and just rolled over people, shutting them down. He's always liked pushy guys, OK? Sure, the pick up was awkward and a bit funny, but whatever. So he'd said, "Real smooth, McKay. But sure, yeah. Yes," and his breath had caught a little as Rodney had moved closer, boxed him in a little.

The first kiss was pretty much both of them going for it at the same time.

Realizing when they were in love?

One morning, as they're about to head off to a lab meeting (Rodney) and a mission briefing (Evan), Rodney says, "Don't die on planet boring botanical survey," and Evan says kind of laughs and says, "Love you too, McKay," and Rodney says absently, "Of course you do," and then heads off. And hours later, when Evan's team is so, so late and John is organizing a team of marines to go after them, Rodney suddenly realizes that he might have missed the chance to tell Evan he'd really meant it, not to die on some shitty botanical survey, because Rodney loves him.

When John and Ronon and the marines come back, dragging Evan and his team behind him, and they're half-paralyzed, but alive, Rodney can't do anything except watch and wait. And later, when he can slip past the infirmary staff, he can whisper the words in Evan's ear; he's not sure if Evan even hears, but he doesn't care, because it's not going to be the last time he says it.

What does their home look like? Their room?

OK, for this one I'm going to go with the idea that post-DADT, maybe closer to retirement, they agree that when they walk away from the SGC, they'll move to Toronto so Rodney can start some fancy lab @ UofT, and Evan will find them one of those 1920s Toronto houses that has a nice porch and is on a sleepy, quiet street with big old trees. It's three bedrooms - one of them, an office for Rodney, a spare bedroom - and a big, bright sunroom out the back that Evan will use for painting, once he's fully retired. Deep baseboards, high ceilings, comfortable furniture, a little cluttered. King-sized bed, lots of handwoven pillows and things from the Pegasus Galaxy, but if anyone ever asks, they can say they're from Evan's different postings over the years.

They'll get a cat.

Maybe even a dog.

They'll figure it out.

[clericofshadows]

"Write about your ship showing each other physical affection." Regis/Zaeed :>

so I decided to write a whole little fic for this :)

prompts ask

reflections

Description: Regis reflects on the losses from the Suicide Mission.

-- --

Garrus Vakarian.

Urdnot Grunt

Legion.

Regis stared at the names on his terminal, the three members of his squad that lost their lives on the Collector Base, whose empty coffins still layed on the cargo deck.  

Vakarian took a shot to the stomach as Regis’s team rushed to give the rest of the squad aid after the long walk through the swarms.  Grunt died while holding the line, ensuring that the Collectors couldn’t chase after Regis and his team.

And in the final battle, Regis took Miranda and Legion with him.  Legion was crushed in the rubble after the fall of the Human Reaper. 

He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the deaths, in all honesty.  They all signed up for this fucking mission.  They all knew the score.  

And yet, Regis couldn’t bring himself to dwell on them, only looking at the names to figure out his next move.  Contacting Vakarian’s father, messaging Wrex, and wondering what the loss of the unique geth means in the end. 

He didn't want to deal with any of that shit right now.  Vakarian wasn't exactly a nobody.  Grunt was a unique krogan who Regis always felt was wasting his potential by being on this mission.  As for Legion… Regis only mourned the knowledge lost, never having any love for the geth. 

Regis was also waiting on a reply from Kaidan, a vague message about a possible mission Hackett wants them to take point on after he let him know that he and Zaeed made it out of the relay alive.  Kaidan kept on checking in on him, sending both Regis and Zaeed his love, but he hasn't brought up Hackett's request since. And Regis wasn't about to push the issue either.

Now's as good of a time as ever for that kind of request. The Collector Base is no longer a problem. 

The Alliance awaits. 

Regis heard the doors to his cabin open, and Zaeed's annoyed voice filled the air. “Goddamn, Regis, are you ever going to get off that damn terminal?” 

“Just because we won doesn't mean all my responsibilities are gone,” Regis said, spinning around in the chair. 

“Your notifications can wait. Take a fucking break.” Zaeed leaned over him to look at the screen.  Regis made no move to hide it. “Still thinking about them?”

“More like wondering why I'm not thinking about them more.”

“You knew this mission would most likely have casualties. We all knew. Don't blame any part of yourself.” Zaeed crossed his arms against his chest. "You didn't seem bothered before."

In the heat of the mission, Regis could barely spare the time to acknowledge the losses before continuing on. Knowing that each death that had sacrificed themselves for the galaxy started to weigh a little heavy on him. Yet, another part of him didn't feel much at all, his own personal opinions on those that died keep getting in the way.

Regis knew he wasn't a good man, only trying to do good when he can. He stayed with Cerberus, allowed himself to be their little poster boy as he siphoned resources and got what inofmraiton out he could.

Times like these seemed to cement that fact even more. Deaths under his command never sat well with him. Torfan always lingering like a bound spectre.

This was different, though. All under his command out of free will, more or less, or paid to do so. He offered every single person an out, a path away from the plague of Cerberus.

Not even Jack took it. So can he really fault himself for the deaths? Knowing that Vakarian was leading his own squad, Grunt defending the rest out of his own will, and Legion being an unavoidable incident?

“It’s the damn N instructor in me.  Always thinking about other outcomes.  How the mission could go differently.  How can I improve?” Regis sighed, turning off the terminal and turning back to face his lover. 

“Come to bed,” Zaeed said instead, tilting his head towards it.  

Regis shook his head, staying put.  “I’m not in the mood for–”

“Did I say that we were going to fuck?  No.  Let’s talk somewhere more comfortable for both of us.”  Regis could hear a hint of hurt in his voice.  

“Sorry, it’s just–”

“Don’t.  I’m not really in the mood for it either, in all honesty.  Not the goddamn time, really.”  He held out a hand.  “Come on, baby.”

Regis took his hand and allowed himself to be led over to the bed.  As Zaeed busied himself with pulling down the covers, he noticed he was wearing Regis’s N7 tank top.  So that’s where it went… unsurprisingly.  

He couldn’t exactly complain.  He stole Zaeed’s hoodie, taking it along with the scent of vanilla and gun oil.  

Crawling under the covers, Regis expected that Zaeed was going to wrap himself around him from behind, but instead, he lied on his side and tucked himself up against Regis, wrapping an arm around him. Regis put one hand on his arm and put the other on his back, pulling him in as tightly as he could. 

Normally, their positions were swapped. Regis loved being the little spoon. Tonight, however, Zaeed must have sensed he needed something else. 

“How do you really feel?” Zaeed asked. “No bullshit, no trying to qualify it.”

Regis closed his eyes, gently stroking Zaeed's arm, feeling skin aged by battle and years passing. Rough scars from badly cared for wounds wrapped around his arm, intersecting with his tattoos. “A whole lot of fucking relief.  The mission is over. We're one step closer to getting out of Cerberus’s clutches.”

“Not too different from what I feel myself.  So what's really bothering you?”

“I hate how well you can read me.”

He snorted. “No, you don't. Stop dodging.”

“I don't feel much at all. I can't bring myself to see them more as just expected casualties of the mission.”

“They signed up for this. You can't blame yourself for that.”

“I don't.” Regis looked down at Zaeed. “That's the thing. I feel like I should be blaming myself.”

“Why?  What could you have done differently?  Every death was out of your goddamn control.”

“I know!” Regis raised his voice. Zaeed didn't even budge. “And as I'm working out how to deal with this mess, I noticed how different I treated this command. Treated them.”

“And?  This ain't Alliance. You managed to get twelve fucking operatives from all different backgrounds to work together in a cohesive unit. By all accounts, you succeeded. It wasn't a suicide mission for fucking nothing.”

In the end, it was a victory.  The base was destroyed, and even Miranda got her last words in with The Illusive Man. 

Regis couldn't see a scenario in which they all would've gotten out alive. Perhaps in time, he could come up with the perfect scenario, but nothing about that mission was predictable. 

“I know,” Regis said again, much softer this time. 

“Blame Cerberus for putting you in this shit position.  Don't blame yourself for something that was clear right from the start. If they didn't know the risk, they were goddamn idiots.”

Regis couldn't help but let out a laugh at that. Zaeed rubbed his shoulder, a gentle, back and forth motion. “Frankly, it's been a long time since I've had people under my command that I wanted out.  Grunt… was wasting his potential by being here. He should've stayed with Wrex to learn more about his people beyond imprints. I never meshed well with Vakarian.  Too diametrically opposed.  Hell, we even passed him up on the hunt for Saren.”

“I remember that conversation you and him had on his recruitment.  He was shocked you didn't remember him at first.”

“Why would I?” Regis shrugged. “One hell of a fucking coincidence either way.” He sighed. “And Legion… I hold no love for the geth, but what a fucking waste.”

“No one said you have to spend your days grieving over them.  You weren’t close, and that’s perfectly fine,” Zaeed said with a pointed look towards him.  

“You sound remarkably like Kaidan right now.”

“Well, he isn’t here, so I have to be the reasonable one by proxy.  He told me so.”

“So, you’re only here cuddling with me because he told you to?”

“No, of course not.  I’m here because you’re a goddamn furnace and the temperature control on this ship has been fucked since we dealt with the base.”

Regis rolled his eyes but kissed the top of his forehead anyway.  “Thanks.”

Zaeed smiled at him with a gleam in his eyes and leaned up to kiss his neck at the middle of his neck tattoo.  “You can do whatever you need to later.  It can wait.”

He supposed it could.  Only a couple days out from the base.  He has plenty of time to figure out the notifications.

“Yeah, I deserve a bit of a rest.” “We all do,” he said quietly.  “And yet, Hackett’s already trying to get you back out there with the Alliance.  Heard anything more yet?”

Regis shook his head.  “Not yet.  Kaidan said they were still working out the details, but it seemed important.  I’m anxious to be back.”

“I know.  And they’ll be goddamn idiots to not let you back in.  Enough talk.  Just take a damn breather, Regis.”

“Swap with me, then.”

Zaeed let out a laugh as they rearranged themselves, Regis now in his arms and lying against his chest, listening to him breathe and his heartbeat. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t make it out alive,” Regis murmured. Zaeed shushed him.  “Don’t go there.  We won.  We succeed.  That’s all that fucking matters.”

“And Kaidan’s waiting for us.  That’s the real reward here.”

“You’re goddamn right he is.  Hey, imagine the reunion we’ll have…”

Regis silenced him with a kiss.  

Eventually, he will have to go back to being Commander Shepard and deal with the repercussions of the mission.  Knowing that Vakarian was distant with his father didn’t help, and that Wrex also took a liking to Grunt meant he had to choose his words carefully for their notifications.

Time will tell what this mission means for the galaxy and for Regis's return to the Alliance, to his home.

[20elements]

Inspired by Ren’s original songs, I align my thoughts on them with the three Triforce components in the above artwork. In the following, I’ll not only describe my drawings, but focus more on how I interpret his songs before discussing what my links are between them and the Triforce.

What I will not do is claim I know his mind and music better than anyone else (let alone the guy himself), nor will I project anything… much…

TL;DR - I entertain all three songs cohering into a story about our former alien warlord seeking new meaning in his life, transitioning from  solitude and hostility to worthwhile connections on Earth, with music playing a major role in this. (Apologies in advance if I use the word ‘connection’ a lot.) 01) Wanderer

Elements Drawn: Fire, Darkness

I want to start with his latest song first, because the MV seems to touch on the earlier stages of his lore before his descent on Earth. In other words, it seems to be chronologically first in this yet-trilogy (apart from that ending scene with the rest of ILUNA). According to his lore video, Ren was weary of his race’s bloodthirsty history and left. In Wanderer, Ren seems to express loneliness, either from the lack of friends or love in his darker home planet, or from other planets’ antagonisms towards him. Lyrics such as “could you be alone with me?” may hint that one of the things he hopes to find on his journey is at least one meaningful connection who can accept and truly understand him, however complex or enigmatic he may be, as opposed to fearing and avoiding him.

Nevertheless, my artwork sees the Wanderer of galaxies with the Triforce of Power befitting both his own strengths and violent history. (Similarly, this Triforce would traditionally be blessed to Legend of Zelda’s dark lord Ganondorf.)

“Even if I had great power, I couldn’t get anything. I keep losing them. Everyone will get up from their seats and leave me. …There is no one to invite me anymore…” —Malleus Draconia, Twisted Wonderland 02) Blue Sugar

Elements Drawn: Water, Sound

This one’s easy; methinks Alien Dabi is addicted to jumbo blueberries :D …Jokes aside, I’ll start with Ren’s own explanation: He underwent a rough time and was stuck in his head, then wrote this song out of both self-criticism and a desire to “feel alive again”. For how therapeutic he finds music to be, I want to say this “sugar high” he pursues is simply music. Not very deep, I know, but it checks off many boxes: It’s his new newfound passion and one of the easier yet healthier “highs” or stimuli to experience. More importantly, it can be a way to communicate feelings and possibly even forge connections with.

To backtrack a bit, Blue Sugar was the first song Ren composed after arriving on Earth and discovering music for the first time. Like as not, his prior challenges would include adapting to life and culture on Earth, to say nothing of a continued solitude. Nevertheless, music can soothe his soul and help him carry though his ordeals. But if he wants a song that can truly “hit the spot” and better yet resonate with others as well, Ren may want to compose a song himself for the first time. Depending on how difficult all of that is, creative frustrations and feeling trapped in his thoughts sound plausible—but hey, long story short, he made it!

The most obvious link to the Triforce of Wisdom here is the color blue (water, Lanayru’s element, go figure). A popular fan theory I embrace is that the “Blue” in “Blue Sugar” alludes to planet Earth where Ren discovers music, with much of the color reflected in our oceans and seas. And while I’m stressing music, (1) water is a good conductor of sound, so I portray Ren in a literal sea of sound in my drawing; (2) in Zelda: Ocarina of Time, Link even learns specific songs from Zelda/Sheik, our “Wisdom” bearer. But more pertinent of Wisdom to Ren himself is that I’m seeing Blue Sugar as a mark of his “learning stages” on Earth in general.

“To me, a life without music is inconceivable. I never turn down the volume, even when I’m working on a case.” —Klavier Gavin, Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney 03) Amplify

Elements Drawn: Flora, Light

After overcoming his personal ordeals and literally finding his own melody, it sounds like Ren has succeeded in getting his voice and presence across the world. The beat and melody of Amplify celebrate his successes, while his lyrics reach out to convey the same optimism and encouragement he has developed. Lines such as “Our connection is by design” not only tells me he has found his aforementioned “meaningful connections” (e.g. ILUNA enrollment), but a tremendous reward to his patience in general. The message I’m hearing is that whatever difficulties or odds we may experience, as long as we perservere and not drown in despair, a perfect timing will be there for us to fulfill our aspirations, just as he found his.

So I scarcely need to explain why Amplified Ren holds the Triforce of Courage; he sounds as encouraged as can be to take on the world and possibly the rest of the galaxy (and this time with less destruction in his wake, maybe).

“Your story may not have such a happy beginning, but that doesn’t make you who you are. It is the rest of your story, who you choose to be.” —Soothsayer, Kung Fu Panda 2

__ Nonetheless, Wanderer was released after Amplify, so I’m lead to believe either (a) Ren wrote his third song as a humble reminder of how or why he started this journey that led him to this meadow of magic, or (b) simply an expression that his earlier pursuits still continue, even with the… very mixed warmth of his genmates’ camaraderie. Speaking of which, that lower middle space between the three Triforce panels alludes to his inclusion in “Let’s Get It Started” with blessings from the Moon and Sky. Last Word

I arrange all of my ideas here with doors open to future songs from Ren Zotto that may either completely contradict what I have here or fit any of these Triforce virtues better. But to anyone who may see this in the future, I’m only working with the songs available at this current time while awaiting more bangers from the Alien Prince.

[nicad13]

Iron and Kyber

Chapter 1: Settling In

Summary: A Mandalorian, a Jedi, and a baby take on the galaxy that would see them all destroyed.

Din and his enemy-sorcerer family settle into a new life on a sanctuary world kept hidden from the rest of the galaxy. Old traumas are hard to shake, and all three of them need some time to heal.

Love is a complicated thing for orphans. Full of contingencies and uncertainty and a history of pain and abandonment. For a family made up entirely of orphans, love is an especially cherished item, precisely because of their prior experiences of uncertainty and pain. Each wants the other to know that their love is unconditional, certain, eternal, and tender.

Mother, father, child. Orphans, each of them.

Notes: After almost three years, I finally pulled the trigger on the sequel to Crossroads! You’ll want to read that before digging into this, if you haven’t yet. I’ve sprinkled enough reminders for those who have, so a re-read shouldn’t be necessary.

Canon-compliant through Season 1. Link to AO3 in Source at the bottom.

Warnings: Developmental delays, PTSD, jealousy, nightmares, flashbacks, self-harm

---

The worst is over now and we can breathe again I want to hold you high, and steal my pain away There's so much left to learn, and no one left to fight I want to hold you high and steal your pain… 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome And I don't feel right when you're gone away

Seether, Broken

---

A Mandalorian in full beskar, heavy-set and powerful, adorned in blue armor like the belly of angry thunderheads about to unleash a hellfire of lightning and hail.

A Mandalorian in full beskar, lean and nimble, clad in red armor like dried blood spilled from an enemy, faces off against the first.

The second Mandalorian, her Mandalorian, pulls the hilt of a lightsaber from his belt. He activates it.

The blade is black, flat-edged, and curved at the tip.

The image blurs and shifts.

She sits upon a mountaintop, her son in her lap, rain pounding down upon them, until an Imperial Star Destroyer eclipses the clouds. They Reach up through the Force, to the crewmembers aboard.

On the slopes below, her Mandalorian lassoes a Stormtrooper around the neck with his whipcord and severs his spine as he yanks the body up into the sky, then proceeds to slaughter the remains of the platoon.

The image blurs and shifts again.

A purple Twi’lek, arms bound to a pole behind her, teeth sharpened to points as she smiles. “He was mine first,” she says, voice dripping poison. “I made him come long before you did.” She closes her eyes and moans the next words. “He made me come long before he ever laid eyes on you.” She opens her eyes. “He always called me mesh’la. Has he ever called you that? Do you even know what it means? He will always think of me before he thinks of you. And when he kills you, remember this.

“He killed me first, too.”

---

Rayne wakes up screaming.

“Hey…” Din is next to her, arm around her shoulders, the shadows and planes of his face clear in the moonlight of their bedroom. “Hey… it’s alright. You’re ok. I’ve got you…”

She forces her breaths to slow, sinking back into him. “Sorry… I’m good…” She tucks her head under his chin as his arms fall around her, one hand moving up and down her back in a slow slide.

“Same as last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He kisses the top of her head in the dim light and breathes her in, the vague, sweet-pineapple scent of bacta still clinging to her, two weeks after getting pulled from the tank. He’s grown used to it, has come to associate it with the facts that she is alive, and his, and they have both been allowed to stay on Genesaria with their son and be a family.

But the nightmares worry him. Their son had used the Force to bring her back from the dead, and may well have caused a disturbance in the Force as a result. An imbalance. Retracting a life that death had rightfully claimed, unknowingly making his mother a prime target for the Dark Side.

Nightmares are the first symptom.

The thing is, nightmares are a part of normal life for Rayne anyway. They have been together for just over two months, so Din only has a vague idea of what her baseline for this kind of thing is to begin with. And it’s not like he’s free from this affliction, himself. Droids gunning him down as a child, giants crushing his skull as an adult, bounties breaking free of carbonite to exact revenge on him in the dead of night on the ass-end of the galaxy. His rate nearly matches hers.

He supposes if they’re trying to separate the effects of Sith influence from the effects of PTSD, he can, at the very least, serve as the PTSD-only comparison.

For now, the best he can do is to take her hand in his and place it against his chest, palm flat, over his heart. His lips form the words “I love you” against the top of her head, less than half of a whisper. Even a week after having first spoken the words, he still has difficulty repeating them.

It’s not that they’re not genuine. It’s not that he’s afraid to say them.

It’s what the words do to him.

They make his heart pound and his mouth run dry and his eyes run wet.

Because they’re so very, painfully, undeniably true.

Din loves Rayne with everything he has, and it nearly guts him every time he thinks about it. The words cannot be said lightly. The only other people he had ever said them to, his parents, lay dead for more than three decades. The words weigh so much that he can barely force them out.

But he makes himself do it at least once a day. Hoping that, like any other weight, the more often he lifts it, the easier it will become to carry. Wanting her to have zero doubts about his loyalty.

Even without the words, she feels all of this, his mind flooding hers with it without meaning to, and it nearly melts her down to her bones every time. That this man can, despite everything he’s been through, despite all the damage done to him, reciprocate her feelings for him, is nothing short of marvelous. She presses her hand into him and his heart hammers away from the other side of his sternum with steady thumps. In return, she takes his hand and presses it to her chest, so he can feel the same. Head still tucked under his chin, her lips form the words over his skin in a quiet whisper. “I love you, too.”

Nor is the weight light for her to carry, either. Words spoken to vanishingly few others. Once to a man who could not reciprocate them. The most common recipient, a man who could, a man who had given her all the love she could have ever needed, until the day he sacrificed his life to save hers and two dozen others. Dead for just over half a decade, somewhere in the cold depths of outer space.

Love is a complicated thing for orphans. Full of contingencies and uncertainty and a history of pain and abandonment. For a family made up entirely of orphans, love is an especially cherished item, precisely because of their prior experiences of uncertainty and pain. Each wants the other to know that their love is unconditional, certain, eternal, and tender.

Mother, father, child. Orphans, each of them.

A bond of loss that links them together eternally.

And yet…

Mesh’la. The Mandalorian word for beautiful.

She knows what it means.

He has never said it to her.

---

Din shaves in the morning. His stubble is getting prickly under the helmet, and Rayne had teased him about the lengthening gray patches at the back of his jaws.

She gets dressed as she hears him tap his razor against the sink. The sound is comforting; the sound of a man going about his normal routine in close quarters, something she associates with companionship and shared living. She remembers how silent her quarters on the Alliance carrier had become after Hayes died, remembers how she missed the sound of him shaving in the morning. One more experience she had been robbed of added to a long list of newly-absent things. Hearing Din shave for the first time at her home at the hangar two months ago had brought it all back, nearly making her burst into tears at the sound of it. The realization that, for the moment, she was no longer alone. The understanding that, at the time, she would likely lose it all over again.

But now… she’s hearing the tap of his razor in their own home for the first time. Their home. A sound that she can look forward to indefinitely. And for the first time, she will actually see the results of Din Djarin’s shaving. She generally prefers the clean-shaven look on men and is eager to see how it sits with him.

Din steps out of the fresher wearing only a towel wrapped around his hips and the ever-present beskar casing at his throat, hanging on a short leather string, matching the one she wears around her own, identical in everything except their contents – each holding a lock of the other’s hair.

Rayne sees him clean-shaven for the first time.

Hrm.

Din sees what he interprets as a look of disappointment on her face. “What?”

“That’s… um… you look a lot… different than what I expected…”

He drops his gaze to the floor, crestfallen.

Whoops.

“No, that’s not…” she stammers, taken by surprise on multiple counts. He truly does look different without the stubble. Something about the odd combination of his round face and square jaw needs the scruff to ease the transition between the two, and without it, he looks… mismatched, somehow. He’s gone from smoldering-hot to peculiar-adorable-baby-face with the swipe of a razor, and there is no diplomatic way of telling a middle-aged battle-hardened Mandalorian warrior that he has a peculiar, adorable, baby-face.

She also isn’t prepared for his apparent sensitivity about it, and she is horrified at the bluntness of her own response. He’s been out of the helmet at home for barely a week, still trying to get used to eating in front of his family, still occasionally waking with a start in the daylight next to her, realizing first that he isn’t wearing it, realizing second that he isn’t wearing it on purpose.

She should’ve been ready. She should’ve been more kind. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…”

He shakes his head, bringing his gaze back up to meet hers, a smile ghosting his face. “I forgot.”

She can only answer with a look of confusion.

“I forgot I still have the chubby cheeks.” Alaria had teased him about it when they were teenagers, asking if he’d grown out of them yet, asking if she was boning a guy who had only grown up from the jaw down, knowing damn well he still had them from touch alone, the creases from his nose to the corners of his mouth evident to anyone with so much as half a nerve-ending in their fingertips. What if you are? he’d asked. What if you are boning a guy with a babyface? Would it make a difference? She’d run a hand along the length of him that had very much grown up, canting her helmet at an angle just so, as if to say, No. It would make no difference at all.

Rayne smiles, head canting at exactly the same angle, fingers lingering on his hip. “Maybe just trim it next time?” She decides she can let go of the sound of a razor tapping against the sink if it means she can trade baby-face-Din to get smoldering-hot-Din back.

Warmth returns to those big, brown eyes. “Sure.” Those creases had remained even when he’d fallen on hard times, at the brink of starvation, at his most gaunt. When he could count his ribs in the dark and see the hollows under his cheekbones in the mirror, the lines between his nose and mouth always betrayed the ghost of his youth.

Is that a dimple on the right side of his face? Gods above, she hasn’t noticed it until now.

Yadier chooses just this moment to waddle into their room. He takes one look at his father, lays his ears back, scrunches his face into the most intricate topography of wrinkles either parent has ever seen, narrows his eyes, lets out a prolonged “Eeeewww,” turns around, and waddles back out.

Din sighs. “I guess I’m outvoted.”

---

The clan of Rollins-Djarin makes their two-week check-in with Dr. Sedlack, the same doctor who had tended to them upon their arrival at Genesaria.

She starts with Din, conducting a more thorough exam on him this time in the same manner she had examined Yadier and Cara the first time around. He has to take the cloak off and unseal the helmet, but she’s able to work her fingers down inside his cowl to access his neck and assess him with the Force from there. She pauses for a few moments, eyes closed, Din sitting with as much calm as he can manage for being touched so intimately by someone who is not a family member. When she finishes, she pulls away and enters a few notes on a datapad. “Your blood pressure is much better, Mando. We can take you off the meds, but keep going with the diet plan. Continue to lay off the salty stuff and I think you’ll be fine.”

He nods his understanding, glad that things are responding to his efforts.

“Anything about your previous injuries bothering you?”

“No.” His answer is neither rushed nor delayed. His back hurts a little in the mornings but it loosens up within an hour, so he chalks it up as an age-appropriate ache. He feels pretty reasonable, all things considered.

Rayne is next up and gets much the same treatment, though with a few more questions thrown in. “How have the nightmares been?”

“About the same.”

“Master Jenkins reports that your Force resistance training is going well. How’s that going for you physically?”

“It wiped me out at first, but not as much, anymore.”

“Any physical pain? Headaches? Heart palpitations?”

“No.”

Sedlack writes another note and moves on to Yadier.

He’s more amenable to the examination this time around, with both parents present, accounted for, and in proper working order. He burbles and purrs as he sits on the table, Sedlack cradling him with one hand to keep him in place and sliding the other around his head and chest, returning the baby’s smiles with her own.

When she’s finished, she pauses to write down a few more notes as Din gathers his son in his arms. The doctor looks up to meet the gazes of the parents. “Yadier is happy and healthy. His calcium, iron, and protein levels are a tad low this time around. I know you’re able to cook more regularly for him now, but go ahead and let him eat bones and raw meat, too. He can still have the vegetables and fruit you’re giving him, and I know this sounds weird, but let him eat all the bugs and critters he can catch.”

“He was eating a lot of live frogs before we got here,” Din says. “That’s actually okay?”

Sedlak smiles. “For his kind, yes. He won’t choke on anything. Anything raw is fine – his gut microbes can handle it, and he needs the uncooked proteins. Hunting insects and small animals provides important stimuli for him. Just don’t let him get into anything rotten.”

Yadier turns to his parents with eyes that say I told you so.

“What about the venomous stuff?” Rayne asks. “He got a bee sting last week but it didn’t seem to faze him too much.”

“He’ll feel stings and bites and they’ll hurt, but he produces natural anti-venom to everything that we know about. He should be able to figure out how to neutralize his prey before it tags him too hard in another year or two.”

Another raspberry from the adorable hunter-sorcerer baby.

“I’ve looked over the records that Master Ona sent from school. He socializes well – he’s making friends and plays well with everyone.”

Din runs a loving finger along his son’s ear, smiling behind the mask. He doesn’t need a doctor’s exam to know his kid is a charmer.

“He’s reasonably well-behaved for a fifty-one-year-old of his kind.”

“Fifty-one?” Din interrupts. He realizes it has been just about a year since he’d taken that fateful bounty. “I don’t… I was never told his birthday…”

Dr. Sedlack flips through the datapad and finds the date. It had been a few months earlier, sometime between their run-in with Ran and returning to Nevarro. Din can’t place the date exactly, can’t remember what they’d been up to that day, and knowing that he’s missed his son’s first birthday while in his care makes his heart break, a little. Rayne’s hand cups his elbow, sensing his dismay. “We’ll catch it next year. It’ll be more fun now that he’ll have friends to celebrate it with.”

True. An observance over thawed-out frogs and ration bars on the Razor Crest would’ve been lame, anyway.

“He does have some developmental delays, though,” Sedlack says. “He’s quite far behind on his language, cognitive, and growth milestones.”

Din’s heart sinks. Too many lean nights when he’d let Yadier eat all he dared to budget and the child was still hungry. Too many exhausted nights when he’d nodded off before getting the chance to read to him. Too many violent nights when he’d held his son with one hand and murdered dozens of people with the other. He had given everything for his son, but hadn’t been enough.

“Mando,” Sedlack starts, feeling the guilt roll off him. “It’s not your fault. Remember that he was missing for four decades. The damage was done long before you found him.”

Rayne takes a breath. “I tried having him remember his past, once. We didn’t get very far. I think he was injured when he was taken from his birth parents.”

Sedlack nods. “I sense the same thing, but I think that played less of a role than the environment he was in thereafter. He was a prisoner for longer than I’ve even been alive.”

Now it’s Rayne’s turn to feel overwhelmed. Forty years of isolation. No one to play with. No one to talk to. No one to hold him or love him. “Can he recover?” she asks. “Can we help him make up for lost time?”

Sedlack almost shrugs. “We’ve not seen any other cases like his, so I can’t say for sure. A ten-year delay doesn’t mean much in the long run for a kind that lives nine centuries, but I can’t guarantee that window won’t widen as he gets older. Either way, he couldn’t ask for better care than what you’re giving him. You know what to let him eat now, he gets plenty of attention, exercise, and sleep. He’s clearly happy. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“What are the delays, specifically?” Rayne asks. “We don’t know what’s age-appropriate for him.”

The doctor nods. “He’s about ten years behind with his verbal communication. He should be speaking simple sentences by now. He still misinterprets others’ emotions, sometimes – he’s a little too quick to think that someone means him harm when they don’t, but that makes sense, given his situation for most of his life. His play is still simplistic – he’ll push toys around, but not do much with their moving pieces. He’s about five years behind in his physical growth.” She sees the dismay on Rayne’s face and the slope of Din’s shoulders. “I want to stress that he is healthy. He’s just behind schedule.”

“What happens if…” Din swallows, his voice catching in his throat. “What happens if he doesn’t catch up? Or if he falls further behind?”

Sedlack raises an eyebrow. “Mando. Your son is one of the most powerful Force users the galaxy has ever seen. What he lacks in language, cognitive, and physical function he makes up for a hundred-fold in Force abilities. He’ll be fine.”

He forces himself to take a breath to calm down, but finds his hands tightened into fists on the table, all the same. “I don’t understand what that means. I don’t understand how that happens.”

“It’s… difficult to explain,” Sedlack says. “The best I can really tell you is that you’ll understand more as you spend more time here and get to know your son better.”

“One more question,” Rayne asks. “Do you know what his midi-chlorian count is?”

“Well, yes and no…” Sedlack flips through her notes to confirm the unusual result. “Here it is. Our instruments are only gauged to detect up to 20,000. Yadier surpasses that, so we’re not exactly sure where he is.”

Rayne’s eyes widen.

“For reference, Master Yoda was around 17,000.”

Rayne blows out a sigh. She knows her son is powerful, but she’s had no idea…

Seeing how overwhelmed her patient is, Sedlack tries to distract her. “We measured yours when you first came in, if you’d like to hear it.”

Rayne shrugs. “Sure.”

“Hm… 10,100. Just about average for a Jedi Knight.”

“Midi-chlorians?” Din asks, his tone laced with trepidation.

“Sentient microscopic life forms,” Sedlack answers. “They form a symbiotic relationship with us and allow us to use the Force.”

Din draws back as if in disgust, just a tiny bit before he can catch himself. “You carry sentient microbes?” His voice betrays the tiniest bit of a tremor.

Rayne does her best to keep from laughing, but can’t help the broad smile on her face. “You have them, too. Every living thing does. Force-sensitives just have more.”

He pulls his shoulders in, squeamish, even if he’s not sure why. He knows, on an intellectual level, that he’s a host to any number of bacteria at any given time, some symbiotic, some not. But they’re not intelligent… they’re not sentient, and he realizes that’s what gets him. The idea that he’s lived four and a half decades with other organisms that have minds of their own under his skin, under his armor, sharing his blood, without having the slightest idea they were there…

He’s unable to suppress a shiver.

“Would you like to know your count?” Sedlack asks. “It’s a simple blood test. The results are immediate.”

Din considers for a moment. Is there any harm in knowing? He’s not Force-sensitive, so there can’t be that many of the bugs floating around in him. Maybe the count will even be low and he’ll feel better about the whole thing. “Sure,” he says.

He removes the vambrace from his left arm and pulls his sleeve up. Sedlack draws the sample, pulls the tube off the syringe, plugs it into a hand-held meter, and shakes it up.

“Huh…”

“What?”

“The average for non-sensitives is about fifteen hundred and the minimum for Jedi training is seven thousand. You’re at five thousand.”

“What?”

Rayne snorts. “You’re almost an enemy sorcerer.”

“I am not,” he growls, yanking his sleeve down and re-fastening the vambrace as Yadier giggles and claps his hands.

Sedlack tilts her head, considering. “Given the Force-opacity of beskar, you simply might not have noticed. People with this level of concentration do tend to have better reflexes and physical stamina. Things like that.”

Din forces himself to calm down. That… does track, actually. He’s not the biggest guy. Not the strongest. But he knows he’s quick. He can take a beating and wear out his opponents. He’s just always attributed it to his Mandalorian training.

He sighs. It’s bad enough that his Creed has crumbled and sifted through his fingers. He’s no longer sure he can rightfully call himself a Mandalorian. The idea of being a watered-down Force-sensitive on top of that is… too much.

His son lifts his arms in his direction, so he gathers him up as the little boy purrs and snuggles into his shoulder. “Can we go now?”

---

Din carries Yadier as he and Rayne walk him to school at the Jedi Temple. They normally allow their son to lead the way at his own pace, a mix of waddling, hopping, and skipping. But the results of the exam seem to have knocked something out from under Din, and he wants to hold his son close, wants to protect him from some unseen cruelty lurking in the back of his head.

It all washes over Rayne’s mind as she walks next to them. He prefers her at his left side, leaving his right hand free to pull his sidearm blaster. Not that he ever expects trouble here, on Genesaria, but warrior habits die hard, and he has no intention of losing his edge. So it is that when she brushes his hip with the back of her hand, she manages to not bump into his sidearm, but she is careful to avoid the thermal detonators he still carries on his belt. “He’ll be fine, Din.”

“… I know.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“… I’m not.”

Yadier snuggles into the cowl at Din’s neck, fully aware of his father’s distress on his behalf, ears flat against his shoulders, a sad mewl buzzing out of him.

Rayne’s thoughts stew in her head, not entirely sure how to give voice to it all in a way that won’t sound defensive. As they walk, she spies one of the many tiny parks scattered throughout the city, this one with a bench in the shade under a tree with huge red flowers in its canopy and small purple flowers scattered throughout the grass. She taps Din’s hip to get his attention. “Can we stop here for a moment?”

He hesitates, not wanting to be late for their Force-resistance session, but figures if it’s important enough for Rayne to want to stop and process something, it’s worth it. “Okay.”

He follows her to the bench, placing Yadier in the grass so he can roll around and smell the flowers. “Watch out for the bees, ad’ika. Don’t get stung again.”

“Batu,” is the only response the baby offers as he plants his nose in a flower, closes his eyes, and inhales.

Rayne’s gaze is downcast as Din sits back. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He rests his left arm along the top of the bench behind her shoulders, knees bent, feet apart. He takes up a lot of space, an unconscious habit in the defense of territory, exacerbated by the acquisition of a family. But for as much space as Din takes up, he does not encroach into Rayne’s. Rather, he angles around her, a protective curve of beskar, a shield at the ready. He gazes out over the park, watching their son enjoy the flowers, watching the city stroll by, trying to tamp his anxiety down.

“You don’t want him to be at a disadvantage,” Rayne says after a few moments.

“No parent wants their kid at a disadvantage.”

“Especially a Mandalorian parent.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone takes a hard edge.

“I imagine the Fighting Corps was an unforgiving environment to grow up in.”

“The galaxy is an unforgiving place.”

“I was a late bloomer, too.” She turns her head away from him, looking at nothing in particular.

He sighs, understanding her meaning. She had told him how, despite the early manifestation of her abilities as an infant, she’d stalled out as a kid, getting held back in her Force-related classes even as she had excelled in science and math. But in the end, when Order 66 came down, she was the only youngling, maybe even the only Jedi at all, to make it out of the temple on Coruscant alive.

The rest is history.

He curls his hand around her shoulder. “I get it.” His tone is soft, now. Relaxed without being resigned.

They continue on their way.

---

Master Jenkins concentrates on the family before her.

Three orphans. A Mandalorian. Two Jedi. A baby. Two parents.

One who understands the dangers of possessive attachment. Two who do not.

Master Jenkins has asked the three of them to meditate, to concentrate on what it means to be a family. What it means to love. Din and Yadier’s experiences are more similar to each other than to Rayne’s.

Din’s mind is awash in the memory of his parents, helpless to defend themselves, able only to hide their beloved son and hope to draw the battledroids’ attention away from the bunker as they flee. He reaches up for them, wanting them to come down and hide with him, his cry frozen in his throat, silenced in terror. The deafening explosion that had his ears ringing for days after bounces the blast doors on their hinges.  He is pulled to the surface, and the crater next to the bunker is full of nothing but smoke and ash. He knows there is nothing left of them, nothing left of his life on Aq Vetina.

He remembers living with six different families in the mines of Concordia. A few weeks each. His inability to speak to any of them, limited to nodding his head, shaking his head, and shrugging his shoulders until they’d each given up in turn. They’d finally deposited him in the Fighting Corps, where the only responses expected of him were to learn the finer points of warfare and self-defense.

He remembers Alaria’s parents, their pride in her successes, their warmth through her occasional failures, their acceptance of him as her Sol’yc, as someone who made her happy and satisfied her needs. He remembers wishing he had the same for himself, knowing why he didn’t, knowing his own shortcomings had led to his failure at adoption.

He remembers being unsuitable for a family.

He remembers the five women who asked of his seed to regenerate the Mandalorian ranks, to merge his blood with theirs, never to be seen or heard from again. He remembers the one woman who, if Gideon was to be believed, took without asking.

He remembers finding the tiny green alien who would become his baby.

He remembers selling his baby.

He remembers stealing his baby back.

He remembers the long, tortured process of coming to accept the baby as his son, acknowledging his willingness to tear the galaxy down for him, to murder whoever he must to protect him. His failed attempt to leave him with a loving family, with Omera and Winta. His failed attempts to recruit long-term help, first with Kuiil, then with Cara, their instincts to be their own people forestalling anything greater than mission-specific aid.

He remembers his baby saving his life. Twice. From the mudhorn. From the fire.

He remembers stumbling upon a mechanic, a hard woman with a soft spot for his son, a woman who he soon discovered connected with his son in ways no one else could, a woman who shared his son’s powers. A woman who could keep them both safe. A woman who proved herself again and again, saved them again and again, who healed his wounds, who helped his son grow strong, who gave up a life of tranquility to defeat their enemy and get them to safety. A woman who he had, despite his best efforts, fallen in love with. A woman who his son had chosen for his mother, who had spoken the gai bal manda, the Mandalorian adoption vow, to his son, binding them together as a family.

He remembers his struggle to define what she was to him. His lover? His son’s mother? He remembers settling on his Jedi.

He remembers how they had nearly lost her, when she had given her life for them. He remembers the hole that had torn open in the remains of his soul, spilling out all the experiences he had shared with her, leaving him empty and abandoned. He remembers his relief when she had recovered, when he had gotten her back, only to fall once more to anguish at the promise she had forced him to make – to end her life if she fell to the Dark Side.

He remembers the day he shed his helmet before his son and his Jedi, the day he had chosen them over his broken Creed. The day he had confessed his love to his Jedi, and his relief when she had confessed her love to him. He remembers the following day, being granted Genesarian citizenship, and with it, the permission to stay with his family.

His family.

His.

His to keep.

His son. His Jedi. Soon to be his wife. He can’t bring himself to think of what would happen if he ever lost either of them. They make his life complete. They make his life worthwhile. Before them, he was little more than a machine, an animated sack of meat with armor for skin, capturing and killing other sacks of meat to earn coin to support the terrorists who had murdered his parents and stolen him away, fueling the very monsters who had made his life a living hell. Now, he lives for his enemy sorcerers. He lives to watch his son grow and thrive on a world that is safe and kind to him. He lives to watch his Jedi heal on a world that lets her be herself. He lives to watch the bond between his Jedi and son grow strong as they regain what they had lost, as they learn to become Jedi once again, as they learn how to share and magnify their powers together. He lives to build a world where their kind can coexist with his, where Jedi and Mandalorians can combine the best of each other and defend the galaxy against an Empire that refuses to die, to defeat an enemy that brings nothing but sorrow and destruction to anyone who won’t bow before it to serve its purposes.

With them, he is everything.

Without them, he is nothing.

They mean more to him than anyone else will ever know.

Yadier’s thoughts are of a similar theme, even if the details are wildly different. His immersion varies, sometimes looking back through the past, sometimes re-living it as if it is happening now. His memories of his birth parents are vague, buried under four decades of trauma and deliberate repression. The memories he does have are fond. He remembers being held, being warm, being cuddled. He remembers tasty food, his belly always round and full. He remembers bathing in the waters of the Force, his parents’ meditations buoying him up, showing him the inner workings of the very galaxy itself, the life it supported, the love that flowed through it. How, someday, he could connect to it and draw forth from it to do great things. He remembers their love and hopes for him.

Until the day it had all gone to hell.

He doesn’t really remember that day. Does his best not to. Fire and heat and smoke. Terrible, unbearable pain in his head. The deep cold and utter darkness of when his parents’ lives were extinguished. The gap that ripped through the Force when they left the realm of the living.

And then, darkness.

He cut himself off from the Force, overwhelmed by the evil and greed surrounding him. Shoved in a pod and moved from place to place. Rarely spoken to. Never played with. Never held. Fed just enough to keep him alive. Bathed just enough to not offend his captors with the stench of squalor.

Four decades.

He’d become little more than a captive lizard. A life of nothing more than misery and eating and shitting. Weak with confinement.

And then one day, a Shiny Being killed his captors and stole him. The Shiny Being, after fits and starts, became his father. Together, they chanced upon the woman who became his mother.

He won’t go back. He will not go back.

He cannot stand the thought of losing a parent again.

His father… his new father, has never died before, even if not for lack of trying. He’s come close, precariously so, but Yadier was always able to intervene before things got too far. Maybe he hadn’t done a perfect job, but he’d pulled his father through just far enough until someone else could step in and finish his work. He’d done what he could. He is, after all, just a baby, and he knows it.

But his mother… his new mother…

She had died. She had died protecting him. She had died trying to channel far too much Force, the blowback of a detonating Imperial cruiser and the hundred souls aboard flickering out all at once, amplified by a canyon of kyber ore, the midi-chlorians in her blood cutting her off from her son like a blown fuse, blasting itself apart, dropping the bridge so the overwhelming power couldn’t cross the gap and kill him too.

But it had been his fault.

He’d mis-judged. His mother had warned him about the kyber that surrounded him, warned him that it was going to amplify their power. He had gathered the Force and she had channeled it, but she’d reached her limits before they could complete their work. He’d needed just a little more from her. Just a little more capacity. Had asked his mother if she loved his father. Knowing that in love, in the recognition of that love, she could handle more.

And she had. For a few moments.

And then it had all blown to hell.

Darkness swallowed them both. His mother stepped in and absorbed the brunt of it. Shielded him. Protected him. She faded into the same abyss that had swallowed his first parents before the darkness closed on him, as well. His father brought him back, the pain and heat and life jolted into him from his father’s vambraces. His father tried the same with his mother, but she was too far gone, had been pulled too far under for his father’s machinations to reach.

And so Yadier had summoned all the power he possessed in that moment, closed his eyes and Reached, gathered everything he had, and, having taken note of how his mother had, in some latent instinctive way, used the kyber around them to focus the Force, did the same himself, lengthened his grasp, and dug deep.

Deep deep deep through death itself. He’d found his mother just as she was joining the Force, unresponsive. She’d been at peace, but he had not. He would not let her go. He had Reached and he had Grabbed and he had Yanked her away to bring her back, and in his haste, some part of her had torn open. The part of her that had already joined the Force was ripped away and left behind as he carried his mother away on his back, and she’d bled a trail that followed them all the way out.

Yadier shows all of this to Master Jenkins. Defiant. As if to dare her to tell him he was wrong to do it. As if to warn her that he’ll do it again if he must.

She sighs. “I understand, little one. It hurts to lose the ones we love. It hurts to lose the ones who have protected us.”

Does she? Does she really? Does she really understand watching his parents die and getting locked in a pod for forty years? Only to watch it happen all over again?

Master Jenkins hears the anger and grief he directs at her. “You are not alone, Yadier. You understand how much others have suffered. You understand how much your own parents have suffered, yes?”

He does. They’ve done their best to shield him from their memories, but he’s shared their nightmares all the same. The steel doors closing over his father before the missile destroys his parents. The fallen Jedi as he slaughters the Younglings before his mother’s eyes. He knows very well the horrors and loss his parents have suffered. He knows how hopeless they’d been. How powerless they’d been to do anything about it.

The difference is that he is not hopeless. He is not powerless. Why shouldn’t he make a difference if he is able to do so?

“You know why,” Master Jenkins says.

The wound his mother sustained when he tore her away from joining the Force. The wound that grows larger every day. Just a little. Nothing she or most anyone else around her can notice. But he sees it just as clearly as Master Jenkins does. He’ll learn how to fix it. He’ll learn how and then he’ll heal his mother. Make her good as new.

“That kind of power comes from a dark place, Yadier.”

Why is that, he wonders? Why should the power to rectify a death that shouldn’t have happened come only from the Dark Side? How can it possibly be a bad thing if it comes from a place of love? How can it possibly be evil if it comes from a place of justice? His mother had not deserved to die. He’d known how much more life she’d had in her. All the things she has done since only proves it. All the joy she has brought him, all the solace she has brought his father, none of it would’ve happened had he not intervened.

“And you, in your toddlerhood, are an unbiased arbiter of justice?”

He could do no worse than the cruel fates of the galaxy. He’s seen enough of it to know that.

He senses the threats that lie beyond, even as his parents try to shield him from those thoughts. Even as the broken pieces of his father heal, the cracks in his mother deepen. He doesn’t think anyone else other than Master Jenkins really notices, and it doesn't happen fast, but it does happen, and Yadier can tell the difference from week to week. She’s in no real danger yet, but someday, she will be, and he must be ready for it. Because he knows those cracks are his fault, from when he’d dragged her back from death, in his haste. He doesn’t blame himself, he knows he isn’t much more than a baby, but he must still take responsibility for it. He must master his abilities and use them to fix the damage he has caused. He remembers his father’s raging despair when his mother had died, and he does not want to see that again. His mother deserves to live a full life, his father deserves to have her at his side, and he deserves to have them both. For as long as is natural for their kind, which he knows will not be long for him, so he must appreciate what he has when he has them as much as possible.

Rayne’s thoughts, on the other hand, run along a much different theme.

She doesn’t remember her parents. Has no memory of their faces or their names. Instead, her earliest memories are of the Jedi crèche on Coruscant. Surrounded by other younglings, other Force users, so that she’d had no idea that her talents and theirs were vanishingly rare. Her memories of the crèche are dim, however, even if they are fond. A warm, soft bed at night, surrounded by other children, steeped in the flow of the Force as it surrounded them all. Lessons with the Masters during the day. Science and math and history and literature. Along with the ways of the Force. Learning how to connect with it through meditation, concentrating on how it gave her strength, how it connected her to all living things.

She’d had friends, in the way that young children do. She can’t remember their names, long buried beneath time and ash and death. She’d had instructors and caregivers, all who had radiated kindness and warmth. The one she remembers best is Master Yoda. He was both the oldest and the youngest at the same time, ancient in years and knowledge, youthful in mischief and fun. He had guided her and the other Younglings through their first steps along the path of the Force, how to Navigate, how to See, how to Listen.

She’d had Eagle. The man in white armor who’d watched over her and her friends on field trips, visored gaze turned outward, rifle in his hands, at the ready. Eagle had many brothers, all of whom looked and sounded just like him, but she could tell him apart. They were clones, identical in blood, but they were still unique in the Force, and every Jedi could tell every Clone apart. Eagle had a certain curiosity about the universe, always wondering what the purposes of things were, always wondering about his own purpose. He was not a violent person, despite his breeding. Despite his training. He didn’t particularly like the fact that he was born and bred for war. He’d thought about that more than the others did. But he liked his assignment with the Jedi kids. Getting them comfortable with a Clone. Helping to keep them safe in their field training. He’d thought they were cute. Over-powered little gremlins learning how to get themselves under control.

And so, when she had questions, she would seek him out. Find him in the dining hall. Interrogate him over meals of macaroni and cheese. He would answer to the best of his ability between forkfuls of food, dark eyes unfocused as he cast about for responses. Even if he didn’t have the answer, he was able to ease her fears. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough,” he’d say. “You’re a smart kid.”

In the end, he’d still tried to kill her, when the time had come.

Everyone she had ever known, snuffed out during the night from hell. Toddlers slaughtered before her eyes by her childhood hero. Her whole life turned upside down at the age of ten.

The next nine years are a haze of survival, starvation, and misery.

And then, a rescue of sorts. A weapons dealer, a woman who knew the harsh realities of the galaxy, had found her, recognized what she was. Offered her freedom and a path forward. The woman had fostered her to the best of her abilities, understanding the feral nature of the teenager she had taken in, giving her the space and safety she needed to become human once again.

It wasn’t love, exactly, but it was caring and concern. Genuine and heartfelt.

The woman had a son Rayne’s age. The woman’s love was reserved for him. They were the first family Rayne had ever seen up close. A mother and son. A father lost to the war, as so many were. The woman hugged her son and ruffled his hair and he hugged her back, even if he’d been a little embarrassed about it. The woman wanted him to Be Prepared for Life Out There, to be the best version of himself he could be, to do everything he could to make the galaxy a better place, and Rayne heard the echoes of her Masters’ lessons in the woman’s words and deeds.

The woman’s son had done everything he could to make his mother proud.

Rayne fell in love with the woman’s son.

With Zavin.

He was good and friendly and cute and still talked to her after she threatened him with a knife when she thought he’d stolen her lunch. She learned about Honest Mistakes and Forgiveness. After a few months, she learned about pleasure and satisfying physical desires. Zavin had been remarkably knowledgeable about such things for his age, had known Rayne had experienced little in the way of happiness for close to a decade, and had made it a personal mission to help her make up for lost time. She learned everything she could, how to make herself feel good, how to make a man feel good, how to give and take.

One catch.

She’d mistaken passion for love.

He had cared for her. He had been concerned for her. Genuine and heartfelt.

But he couldn’t love her. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, at the time.

Heartbroken, she’d withdrawn. They’d joined the Rebellion together by then, serving on the same ship. She managed to disappear from him. Avoided him at every turn. She’d let go in the worst possible way, believing that she was unworthy of any love if she was unworthy of his.

The timing could not have been worse. Her third sortie as a fighter pilot ended almost as soon as it had begun, a bout of mind-blowing claustrophobia driving her from an X-wing cockpit, shaking, sending her staggering to her berth where she curled up with a bottle of booze and drank herself into a stupor to escape the demons of failure.

Zavin felt responsible. Guilty. Hurting her was the last thing he’d wanted.

He had a friend. Some goofball of a guy who was both fearless and awkward, whose family had worked with the Jedi. Who could be trusted. The friend had listened as Zavin told him about her, nodding with understanding through all the scary bits. He was no stranger to tragedy. He was willing to meet her. Willing to give her a shot, see if she had any interest in him.

Hayes. His name had been Hayes.

He’d found her in the hangar one night, staring out into empty space. He hadn’t been much of a conversationalist, so he’d just stood there next to her, enjoying the view. Enjoying the stars. Letting his mind open up, letting her sus him out. It hadn’t taken her long to put the pieces together. Without turning to face him, she spoke her first words to him. “I’m not an easy person to be with.”

“I heard.” He continued to look out as the planet turned below them.

“Do you not have anything better to do?”

He shrugged. “I like a good challenge.”

It had turned out not to be a challenge at all. His easy acceptance of her had turned to adoration in short order. He was warm. He was brilliant. He was funny in a silly kind of way that was so rare in the galaxy. He was a little clumsy in bed to start, but had been eager to learn, eager to reciprocate the pleasures she bestowed upon him, and got up to speed soon enough. Spending time with him was easy. He delighted in the ways she was so different from most others. He brightened an existence that would otherwise be little more than drudgery and war. He offered his love. She accepted it. She reciprocated it. Five years in, he asked her to marry him. She accepted that, too. She let herself get lost in him, let herself center her world around him, let him in all the way. For ten more years, they lived together. Worked together. Loved together. Fought against the evils of the galaxy together.

And then one day he saved her life, shoving her through an airlock as the hangar vented atmosphere, and blew out into space, taking half her soul with him.

It’s amazing how much alcohol a Jedi can manage to drink without killing themselves. Even if maybe that’s exactly what they’re trying to do.

She’d never really gotten over it. But she had eventually come to a realization. Her late husband’s dying act had been to save her life. He had sacrificed himself for her. The Force had taken him and left her for a reason, and she was meant to stay alive and figure out what that reason was. She’d let go of the grief as much as she could. Moved on as well as she could.

Five years later, a Mandalorian showed up on her doorstep with a Force-sensitive baby tucked into the crook of his arm. The ghost of her childhood Master writ small in green skin and enormous ears.

This baby. This baby was the reason she had been spared while her husband had not. She had to get this baby to safety. Lucky for the Mandalorian, he had the same idea. The moment she saw this baby, she knew that her primary responsibility was to find out where he belonged and get him there.

She and the baby had figured out what they each were in short order, and they each delighted in it. For the first time in so long, they were no longer alone in the galaxy. She had never wanted to be a mother, but for this child, she would reach for motherhood as much as possible. She would teach him everything she could. She would provide all the care she could give. She would protect him with her life.

It didn’t matter that the Mandalorian belonged to a terrorist sect and had no idea. He was kind. He was lonely. She was lonely, too.

She made an offer of intimacy. He accepted. He turned out to know what he was doing. The hook was set. The next day, he asked her to come along. She accepted.

Had she manipulated him? Maybe a little. Nothing Force-wise. She hadn’t needed to. Men are prone to following where their dicks point, and the Mandalorian was no different. They were both using each other as means to an end, and they both knew it. They had the same end, a common goal – save this child. No harm, no foul. If they found a little happiness in each other along the way, so much the better.

And then…

And then the child called in the chip on her motherhood. Called her his mother in the Mandalorian’s language.

She protested. She wasn’t qualified. She had failed to protect children before, so long ago. But the Mandalorian insisted – the child knew what he wanted, and the Mandalorian trusted his judgement.

And so, she adopted the Force-sensitive child of the same kind as Master Yoda with Mandalorian vows. Together, they became parents to a being they did not fully understand but had sworn to protect with their lives. She entered parenthood shared with a man she’d only known for a few weeks, whose face she had never seen. The man then gave her a gift of himself, a lock of his own hair encased in beskar, meant to make up for the face he was unable to share with her.

A Jedi wearing beskar to commemorate parenthood of a Force-sensitive alien baby with a Mandalorian who was forbidden by the terrorist sect he was raised by to remove his helmet before others.

It was all very confusing.

Life came at them fast. The Pirate Queen poked and prodded at the vulnerable bonds between them, forcing them to acknowledge their conflicting understandings of what it meant to be a family composed in-part of Jedi. Gideon stole the Jedi of their family, and the Mandalorian rescued them. Together, they faced the remnant again, and brought it down.

She had paid for it with her life. Without reservation. Without hesitation. She had saved her son. She had saved his father.

Her only miscalculation was what her loss would do to them.

She’d woken up in a bacta tank to a Mandalorian at his wit’s end and a Jedi baby who had possibly used Dark powers to bring her back to life.

But their son was safe. Whatever had happened was worth it. The child, her son, her little green baby, was where he belonged. Whatever else she managed to keep would be bonus.

She’d been allowed to stay. The Mandalorian had been allowed to stay. The Mandalorian proposed to her, in his own roundabout way.

She had… not quite accepted. She’d needed to catch her breath. They had not known each other long, and she’d just needed to… settle in. Get used to the idea again. Get used to the idea that this was no longer about means and ends. Make peace with the idea that she was no longer just protecting her child with this man. That she would raise her child with this man. That she would let this man all the way into her life. Her soul. That she could fulfill the vows he desired. To be one when together. To be one when apart. To share everything. To raise their son as a warrior.

She’d just needed… some time.

The Mandalorian gave it to her.

And when time is up, she will likely accept.

She will wed a second husband.

She will allow him all the way in. Next to the place where Hayes had been. Not replacing him, but filling in the gaps left by his absence.

Her son. Her Mandalorian. Soon to be husband. She’s given everything she has to save them once already. She would not hesitate to do it again. She understands the distinct possibility that she could lose her husband once again. She understands the violent galaxy they live in. She understands the violent life he lives. She is not at peace with it, not exactly, but she’s been through it once already. She’d rather not go through it again, but she knows she can survive it. The idea of losing her son… she does not allow the thought much space in her mind. Avoids it whenever possible. She knows the proper Jedi way of handling it would be to mourn for however long would be necessary, and then let go and move on. Continue with the bidding of the Force. She knows the way she would actually handle it would be more self-destructive. Then maybe more other-destructive of whatever it had been that had taken her son’s life. She knows the careful line she would need to walk there, that murder in her son’s name would be a sure harbinger of the Dark Side. Maybe she’d manage to stop short of full-on murder. Maybe she’d manage to keep it within justice in her son’s name. The same holds for what may eventually take her husband from her. She figures the odds are even on which one of them will go first. If it is to be him, she will hold it together the best she can. Continue on the best she can. Bring justice to his death the best she can.

Master Jenkins sees all of this before her.

She still has much work to do with the family of orphans in her care.

---

By the time they make it home, Yadier is getting cranky, whining about the walk, low grumbles grating from his tiny throat, a sure sign that he is ready for his pre-dinner nap. Coming through the door to their flat, Rayne casts a glance in Din’s direction, a silent question about what he’s up for. Depending on the day, they either head to the balcony to relax or head to their bedroom for other ways to unwind. Today, he lifts his chin in the direction of the balcony. “I’ll meet you out there in a moment.”

“Okay.”

Rayne steps outside, into the shaded breeze of the balcony, thirty-one floors up. The hustle and bustle from the street is muted up here, just enough background noise to know interesting things are going on, but not loud enough to be intrusive. The space is large enough for a round table and four chairs, with more room for Yadier to run around. The four-foot high iron lattice-work rails offer a mix of privacy and sufficient holes for the toddler to peek through and see the world below. The view of the city over the rails is ample, encompassing other high-rises and surrounding low-rises, with a sliver of a river a mile off in the distance.

She lays Yadier in the crate they keep out here for his naps. He enjoys being outside as much as his parents, awake or asleep. A large wind chime in the corner rings with low, quiet tones in the breeze that lull the child under in short order. She turns a couple of chairs to face each other and, settling her weight into one, she props her bare feet up on the other, leaning back and closing her eyes. Din comes out a few minutes later, shed of the armor and helmet, wearing only a black T-shirt and black shorts, two bottles of beer in one hand. He places one on the table next to Rayne and eases his weight into the other chair next to her feet, leaning back and hanging his right foot on the rung of her chair, spreading his left under the table. She cracks an eye open, lifts the offered bottle, clinks it against his in an unspoken toast, and takes a swallow as he does the same.

He heaves a sigh and closes his eyes.

Sitting out here without the helmet has become a kind of practice for him. The balcony is deep enough so that some part of it is always shaded, so any view of it from the buildings on the other side of the street is obscured and distanced. Those across the way may get a vague glimpse, and he’s getting himself into the mindset of not caring. To what end, he’s not entirely sure yet, but it feels important, somehow, so he does it.

Rayne is pleased to see a five-o-clock shadow already coming in on his jaw and upper lip. She knows it comes in fast by touch already, but seeing it happen for the first time holds its own wonder. She takes the moment to study his face, still not over the novelty of seeing him, still unable to take the shape of his features for granted.

He looks exhausted.

She feels exhausted.

She takes another swallow of her beer. “Remember back when one of us had to shed blood or shed someone else’s for us to call it a rough day?”

“Hmm.” A hint of a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth and he drops a hand to her leg, just above her ankle. “Today was a different kind of rough.”

“Fair point.”

A calm quiet settles over them for a while. They relax into each other, listening to the wind chime ringing over the street activity below, feeling the warm breeze against their skin. They enjoy the companionable silence together, something that has come naturally to them from the start. Their son burbles in his sleep and Din draws a long sigh, almost as if in response. Rayne cracks an eye open once more, and sees that he has his head turned, looking in their son’s direction.

Once again, she is captivated by his profile. The hard angles of his eyebrow. The sharp line of his nose. The jut of his chin. The square of his jaw. All of it offset by the soft way his hair curls over his forehead, his ears, and the back of his neck. The soft set of his lips and the kindness in his eye.

She hasn’t noticed him looking at her the way she looks at him. To be fair, looking at him is still a new thing. Had he ever looked at her this way? When they first met and his face was shrouded in beskar and mystery?

She will never know.

Her eye slides shut just as he turns back to face her. She hopes he didn’t catch her in the act. Instead, he leans forward and takes one of her hands in his, and she opens her eyes in response. He first meets her gaze with his own, then brings her hand to the scars just above his right knee. The six evenly-spaced lines carved into the skin that she had first noticed on Methuselah and he had refused to explain. Their newer twins, six lines below the knee, were carved more recently on Coruscant, in the drunken rage he’d fallen into after learning the true circumstances of his childhood kidnapping by the Mandalorians.

She pulls her feet off his chair and leans forward so she can trace the old scars now that he has granted his tacit permission. She looks up to meet his gaze, asking the tacit question.

He breaks her gaze, looking back down at her hand, and takes it once more in his own. “I failed my first set of trials when I was fifteen.” He pauses for a while, not sure what else to say. The rest seems obvious.

“You didn’t take it well,” she says.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“I went up again a month later and passed.”

“How often did that happen with the others?”

“About half the time.”

“So, failure the first time around was common.”

“Yes,” he admits.

“Did you know that at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you so hard on yourself?”

He’s quiet for a long time, remembering the shame, remembering how much it hurt, remembering locking himself in his room, turning his helmet’s modulator off, and screaming into it until his throat had gone raw. He’d wanted to lock himself in there forever, the thought of facing Alaria as a failure gutting him and driving him to his knees. He remembers thinking she deserved better than him, deserved better than the disappointment he had become. The pain in his soul had simply been too much. Too overwhelming. He’d only been taught to handle anger in ways that didn’t involve hurting others, ways that were physically distracting, sublimating it into going for a run or target practice or beating the stuffing out of a punching bag. But he hadn’t dared to leave his room. Physical pain was easier to handle. He’d been taught how to shift his focus away from that. To breathe through it.

So he’d shed everything but his helmet and shorts, pulled his knife, and drew the blade through his own skin. Six lines. One for every act of the Resol'nare. One for each family that had failed to adopt him.

He remembers it all while holding her hand, their agreed-upon signal inviting her to examine whatever came out of his head as closely as she wanted. Even so, he responds to her question with actual words. “It’s just how I was.”

She slides her other hand further down his leg to the newer scars. “It’s how you still are.”

He shrugs a shoulder and sighs.

She takes both of his hands in both of hers now, and holds them tight. “You being you is one thing. You setting an example for our son is another. I don’t want him carving himself up ten years from now if things don’t go according to schedule and he thinks this is the appropriate response because this is how Dad does it.”

Din returns the strength of her grip and nods his head. The thought of their son harming himself in the same way that Din had breaks his heart. He knows he has to do better, if not for himself, then for Yadier.

And then, he talks.

“His lifespan is so long. It’s bad enough that the best-case scenario is that we’ll die when he’s still young. A week ago I wondered if I was ever going to have a conversation with him about growing up. What he wants to be. What kind of mark he wants to leave on the galaxy. Dating.” He shakes his head. “All the conversations I never got to have with my parents.” He pauses, swallowing. “Now I don’t know if I’ll ever have any kind of conversation with him. Even if it’s about toys or frogs or…” he pauses again, voice cracking. “Or other kids at the playground. I don’t have the same kind of link you have with him. I can’t tell if he understands what I say. Sometimes it seems like he gets it. Other times he just looks at me and belches.”

For a man who has spoken so little to anyone over the course of his life, his sudden preoccupation with what he will or will not be able to speak about with his son is overwhelming.

Rayne drags her chair closer so their knees now touch and she brings her forehead to his, relieved as he sinks into the contact. “He understands most of what you say. When he doesn’t quite get the words, he gets the meaning.” She presses a hand to his heart, and he understands. “Aaaannnd sometimes he’s just gassy and you’re not supposed to take it personally.”

Din huffs through his not-quite-laugh.

She pulls away so she can look him in the eye. “If you want to know what’s going on in his head, you can do that, but you’ll have to open up and let him in a little.” She drops her hand back down to his knee. “Without showing him this stuff.”

Din nods his understanding.

“Is that something you can do?”

He thinks about it for a moment, meeting her gaze. Those blue eyes. The same blue as polished beskar. A hint of the resolve of the woman he will soon marry. The woman who will soon be his riduur. She’s so much stronger than he is and most of the time it seems like she doesn’t even realize it, and that does things to him. This casual power she walks around with. Proposing that he crack open the shell that used to house his soul and let his sorcerer son sing into it. Sure, what could go wrong with that? Letting your magical baby into your head couldn’t possibly have repercussions, right? Gods, it drives him nuts. It makes him want to scream at her and kiss her at the same time. What are you thinking? Are you out of your mind? Will you please help me do something about this boner you just gave me?

In the end, he settles for another sigh. “I’ll think about it.”

She kisses him, lips soft against his, warm and pliant. She slides her hands from his knees up his thighs, and he can’t hold back the quiet moan when she reaches the object of his silent complaint. “Still want me to do something about this?” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

---

Din stands at the end of the Razor Crest’s rear ramp, Yadier tucked into the crook of his left arm, right hand held in Rayne’s grasp.

“Be careful out there.”

“We will. It’s just a milk run.”

There are, quite literally, several thousand gallons of milk loaded into the gunship’s cargo hold. All packed up in several refrigeration units buzzing away as they keep it at just a few degrees above freezing. Of all the ironies, Rayne had to take the time to develop a custom heat-sink for the compressors, lest the pilot and passenger get cooked alive while sealed up with the refrigeration units. Din wonders at the ridiculousness of the whole thing – green milk from the Lata goat is apparently a luxury good in the Core worlds, and it turns out this breed of goat thrives on Genesaria under the care of Force-sensitive farmers on the rolling grasslands far to the southeast of the city.

The farming family had been less than happy when they’d arrived this morning to learn that a different hauler would take the fruits of their hard labor to Jedha, where, like one-tenth of the trade goods from Genesaria, it would be offloaded, re-labeled as Jedha-origin goods, and exported to Coruscant. The other nine-tenths undergo similar treatment on nine other worlds. Each port has a friendly face in a Genesarian ex-patriot, ensuring the secrecy of their homeworld by facilitating what is, in reality, galactic smuggling. The handoffs are typically smooth, aided by the fact that haulers and dock handlers know each other, so a new face, to say nothing of a new face hidden by a helmet, rattled the farmers. For that reason, one of the Genesarian Trade Magistrate’s general managers had been there to introduce them to Din and assure them that the handler on Jedha knew that a new guy in an old ship would be running the haul. Still, they had protested, returning on-and-off throughout the day to complain to whatever manager had the shift at the time, hoping for a different ruling, failing each time. It wasn’t until Rayne had arrived with Yadier that evening that they realized they were dealing with the Lost Son and his family, at which point they apologized profusely and accepted the terms. When they expressed their wonder at Din’s apparent new occupation, he’d breathed his trademark sigh. “Gotta feed that kid somehow.”

Provide for your clan. One of the six tenets of the Resol’nare.

And so he stands at the back end of his ship, a few million credits worth of milk cooling in the hold. He is of the understanding that he’ll come back with a few million credits worth of high-end foods that are not easily produced on Genesaria. He is a little chagrined at the fact that his ship is now registered as a perishable goods cargo hauler, a goddamned grocery getter, but he knows that if this run goes well, and the next several after it, he’ll be vetted for progressively more… sensitive… cargo as befitting a Mandalorian warrior. As it stands, this run will net him a few thousand credits after fuel, docking fees, and maintenance supplies. Not bad for what should be a few days of easy work.

“I’ll miss you,” Rayne says, running her hand over the fuzz on top of Yadier’s head.

This will be their first separation since Din arrived at her hangar. Since the beginning of the whole thing.

“We’ll be back in a couple days,” he responds. A day and a half, actually, but with the loading, unloading, and flight time, it all adds up to three full days of work. Three days a week for hauling cargo with two days off. Alternating with three days for military and assorted sorcery training, two days off. Rinse and repeat.

It almost sounds like a normal life.

Yadier takes one of Rayne’s fingers in his hand before she’s out of range, his huge eyes taking her in for as long as he can before they leave. Din adjusts him in the crook of his elbow. “You and me, buddy. Just like old times.”

The baby grunts.

Rayne runs her thumb over a stubby claw. “Without all the getting chased by bad guys and with plenty of food in the galley.” She’d re-activated their fob-scramblers, one in Din’s helmet, the other in Yadier’s mythosaur pendant, and the Razor Crest’s unit the night before. “I’ll be right here when you get back. Then next time you get to stay here with me when Buir goes. And we’ll both be here when he gets back.”

The baby grunts again. He’s not entirely pleased with the situation, but he senses the beginning of a new routine. These separations will be short and temporary, concluding with happy reunions. He senses his father’s need to be on the move, his need to provide for his family. He senses how his father is used to long trips away from a home that never really welcomed him back, how much easier this will be in comparison. A shorter, safer trip, an actual dwelling to return to, an actual family to reunite with. He gives his mother’s finger one last squeeze before releasing her, blinking, and tucking his head against the armor over his father’s chest.

Din presses his forehead to Rayne’s for one last moment, and the helmet is cool against her skin. “Time to go,” he whispers, pressing his free hand into her sternum.

She returns the gesture, hand flat over the kar’ta beskar diamond carved into his armor. “Good luck.”

He pulls away and steps back, and Yadi returns her wave goodbye before Din turns to walk up the ramp. She walks around to the front of the ship to avoid the thruster wash as Din fires the engines. The exhaust ripples in the warm evening air, and the orange blaze of sunset glints off the fuselage as Din lifts the ship from the ground, spins a quarter turn, and eases forward out over the hangar and up into the spaceport departure flight pattern. She watches the sublight engines burn, two points of fire growing smaller in the distance over the plains as they gain altitude before they shrink into a single point of light and then wink out altogether.

Rayne closes her eyes. She feels the empty gap left by the absence of her son and the man she is soon to wed. Nonetheless, all is calm within the Force. This will be fine.

She takes the light rail home. Alone for the first time in several months. Her heart aches a little, but she knows it won’t be for long. Next time, she’ll have Yadier with her and Din will be on his own; they’ll trade him back and forth as his school schedule allows. She’s never been alone with her son before and she’s curious about how it will go, but they had decided that it was best for him to go with Din for this first separation. A situation he is familiar with.

She returns home and is struck by the silence that greets her when she steps through the doorway. No burbling child. No slap of tiny bare feet as the burbling child scampers along the floor. No low grunting of a middle-aged man lurching along after the burbling child.

Nothing but the low whisper of air running through the circulators.

She is alone again.

The smallness of her previous life closes in on her with deafening silence, the empty spaces left by her family sucking away the sense of purpose she had gained in their wake. For a moment, she is back at her hangar again, filling her days with fixing ships and designing parts, filling her nights with alcohol, lonely and bored, adrift in the habit of maintaining anonymity under the Empire’s boot. Then, the walls close in without her family to hold them up, closing around her throat like claustrophobia crushing a little girl trapped in a ventilation shaft…

She walks to Yadier’s room and sinks to his bed, scooping up a bantha stuffie and clutching it to her chest, proof that her son is real, that he is not an ephemeral dream, that he is real and he will be back in a couple days. She presses the stuffie against the beskar casing at the base of her throat, a reminder of the reality of her son’s father. She still has these pieces of them, this beloved toy and this symbol of shared parenthood, reminders that they will come back for her.

She pads back out to the kitchen and opens one of the cabinets to pull a can of soup off the shelf. The cabinets are loaded to capacity with non-perishables; soups and grains and beans and dried fruits and dried meats and dried pasta and cooking staples and spices, all lined up in orderly fashion, new items added to the back of the shelves as older ones are consumed off the front. Perishables are kept at a supply consistent with what a family of three can consume them at, bread and eggs and dairy and meat kept on a careful tally. Only fresh fruits and vegetables are left to chance, purchased on an almost daily basis. Neither Rayne nor Din are particularly good at cooking, but the cabinets are always well-stocked. A casual observer would assume they just like to be prepared.

Anyone familiar with starvation would know otherwise.

Both parents and their son remember what it was like. Both parents have vowed that their son will never know it again, in their own silent ways. Neither of them realizes what they’re doing on a conscious level when they load up the grocery sack on their way through the markets, picking up whatever catches their eye now that credits are no longer an issue. All they really know is that when they open a door to see shelves loaded with food, the stone of anxiety that lives in their bellies dissolves away for a little while. One worry to put to rest. One more layer of security, safe and hunkered-down in their home.

Rayne empties the soup into a bowl, pulls a beer from the fridge as the soup heats, then eats her dinner alone at the kitchen counter. She tries not to think about how quiet it is. When she’s done with dinner, she settles down at the desk situated in the corner of the main family room, and brings up the comm from her niece, her late husband’s oldest sister’s oldest daughter. Tasha has gotten settled in at Rayne’s old hangar, followed up with Rayne’s comms to her regular clients about the transition in operators, and has completed her first rounds of service repairs. Things are going well so far, though Tasha has noticed a common fault with fuel regulators coming out of the Kuat Drive Yards for the last few years, and asked Rayne if there are any off-brand replacements that are any better.

Problem is, there aren’t.

So Rayne brings up a blank design template from her tablet, and closes her eyes for a few moments, clearing her mind.

Bringing forth the ideas that have been brewing there for days.

She opens her eyes and begins her work.

---

Hyperspace slips by him for the first time since coming to Genesaria. When he had fled from Ilum with Rayne comatose in the hold, Yadier miserable with worry, and Cara doing the best she could to keep them all chugging along.

This is fine, Din reminds himself. The baby is burbling in his pod, anchored to the starboard jump seat, gazing ahead at the blue-white ripples with his huge eyes full of wonder. Just like old times.

The comm beeps, reminding him of the message that had spooled through when he’d booted up the Razor Crest’s auxiliaries that morning. He’d wanted to focus on work, and, having a hunch about where the message was from, had decided to postpone looking at it until they were underway. He activates the comm now, keeping a steady hold on his thoughts.

He’d been right about his hunch. The message is from Sorgan. The message itself, however, is much shorter than he’d expected.

Message received.

That’s all.

He sits back, breathing through a sigh, the sound of it harsh through the modulator. Well, what had he expected, really? He’s not sure. He supposes this is the best possible outcome – Omera has received his message and knows they’re safe. If she was able to get to town and receive his message that he’d found Yadier’s people, that he was staying with the baby, and that they had added to their family along the way, then she must be reasonably safe as well. Beyond that, no news is good news, as far as it goes.

This is fine.

Yadier burbles again, and Din allows the diversion of his attention. He swivels around, lifts the baby from the pod, and settles him in the crook of his elbow. “Dinner time?”

The baby claps and giggles.

They eat together at the small table in the hold, truly sharing a meal for the first time, eye-to-eye, on the ship. Din picks through his bowl of stew as Yadier eyes a plate of three warmed-over frogs. He’s a little put off by the fact that they’re already dead, but they smell fresh enough, so he puts his claws around the first one, gives it a perfunctory sniff, then shoves it in his mouth. Din keeps his eyes lowered to the table as the baby goes through his peristaltic writhing and gulping to get the whole thing down, finishing with a tiny belch, and the spectacle is over soon enough. “You got spoiled with all the live ones in the park, buddy.” The baby grins in agreement. “Back to frozen ones for a few days.” Yadier sighs, gives what looks to Din like a little shrug, then swallows the next two in quick succession. Din works his way through his stew, taking Yadier’s newfound discriminating tastes as a good sign that his son is no longer a starving, voracious monster. At long last, his son’s dietary needs are being met.

Bedtime rolls around soon enough, and Din tucks Yadier into his pod after story time on the flight deck, just like old times. The only new twist is that now he takes his helmet off to bring his forehead to his son’s, relishing the scrape of stubby claws along his chin. The baby drops off to sleep in short order, and Din heads down to the fresher for a quick shower. He nearly runs into the closed door of the starboard-side storage bay before he remembers he’d relocated his sleeping area up and behind the galley in the final weeks of their nomadic life aboard the Crest, a concession to the needs of sharing close quarters with the new addition to their family. An acknowledgement of shared lives and a mutual comfort he had never before allowed himself.

Now, he creeps back up the ladder, through the galley, and into the makeshift bedroom. The air is cool and he shivers despite the long-sleeved t-shirt and long pants he wears as he snuggles down into the blankets by himself. He can’t tell if it’s just that he’s unused to sleeping in such a large space on his own or if the heat-sink Rayne built is working a little too well, but he feels off-kilter in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time. He closes his eyes against the eternal blue twilight of hyperspace. The sheets are soft against his skin and the blanket is cozy over his body. The mattress is thinner than he remembers… maybe he’s gotten spoiled over the last few weeks as well, but he’s physically comfortable enough. He just…

He reaches out for Rayne’s pillow and pulls it to his chest. He regrets washing the pillowcase. No lingering scent of pineapple. Just detergent. The pillow is uniformly squishy, lacking the firm definition of his Jedi, but it’s better than nothing as it warms against his body and he lets out an unsatisfied sigh.

Just a couple nights. This is fine.

He drifts in and out of sleep, unable to really settle, so he has no idea how long it’s been when he feels the tell-tale dip of the mattress as Yadier crawls in with him. The baby grunts and purrs his way up, and Din releases the pillow so his son can take his place against his chest, tucking his wrinkled fuzzy head under Din’s chin.

The Mandalorian breathes easier, son secure against his chest, and they both slip into a peaceful sleep.

[audiofictionuk]

New Fiction Podcasts - 27th October

All Our Faults New Audio RPG! In the city of Chester's Chasm, four teenagers grapple with lives divided between the mundane and the supernatural: Burt working for Death to save a friend, Crispin yearning to escape a zealous cult, Michael indulging his vampiric nature, and Saline pursued by creatures from the Fae. All Our Faults is a Monsterhearts 2 actual play podcast produced by the Tabletop Talespinners Network. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231018-01 RSS: https://feeds.transistor.fm/all-our-faults

101.7 OUROBOROS New Audio Drama! Welcome to the town of Ouroboros, Michigan! In this quaint town next to an infinite lake and surrounded by an infinite forest, stop by the shopping center, sit by the fountain in the town square, DON’T go in the water reservoirs, and try your best to stay away from the lake towards the end of the month. Kayla “Kay” Gray, local news reporter, photographer, and wannabe circus runaway is here to report on all the goings-on in this town… and hopefully not get too caught up in them. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20230611-03 RSS: https://anchor.fm/s/e37b76e8/podcast/rss

Metastories New Audio Book! Metastories is a drama audio series made up of stories which includes Greek mythology, history, Shakespearean tragedies, and a bit of philosophy. You will witness how the characters will blame each other for being responsible for the downfall of mankind. The strong could become the weak, the right could become the wrong, and the innocent could turn into the greatest villain… Nevertheless, in a way, this show will still be about our disappointments, our tragedies, and some of the darkest consequences of our greatest achievements. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20230917-03 RSS: https://feed.podbean.com/metastories/feed.xml

FORBIDDEN CASSETTES: CONSUMMATION New Audio Drama! Join Dov Kandel, host of the hit late-night talk radio program, KANDEL AGAINST THE DARK, as he interviews author Orson Libretti about his latest book, CONSUMMATION — an apocalyptic tale that seems too terrifying to believe. But here’s the thing: Orson swears it’s all true. And he’s brought the tapes to prove it. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231018-02 RSS: https://feed.podbean.com/forbiddenpod/feed.xml

Court of the Grandchildren New Audio Drama! Three years after the Great Ice Sheet Collapse, an ailing politician must defend his climate legacy before his long-lost niece will grant him his final request. Now they both must fight against an AI-dominated world to find redemption. A ‘found-audio’ drama in four episodes. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231016-08 RSS: https://feed.podbean.com/courtofthegrandchildren/feed.xml

Starlight Outerworlds New Audio RPG! Welcome to Starlight Outerworlds, a collaborative storytelling experience using the sci-fi role playing system Starlight. Join Elta the Ace, Landon the Hunter and C@-nrd the Construct aboard the starship Meadowlark as they traverse the margins of civilized space in search of freedom, answers, and what it means to be alive at the margins of civilized space. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231019-01 RSS: https://feed.podbean.com/starlightouterworlds/feed.xml

The Nightmare Collective New Audio Book! Dive into the abyss of the human psyche and beyond with "The Nightmare Collective," a podcast that weaves tales of horror, science fiction, and fantasy into a tapestry of dark wonder. Are you ready to venture into uncharted realms where the eerie and the extraordinary collide? Our tales will transport you to places where reality blurs, nightmares are born, and the impossible becomes all too real. From haunted houses to distant galaxies, from ancient curses to futuristic dystopias, "The Nightmare Collective" explores the darkest corners of human existence and the boundless possibilities of the unknown. But beware, dear listener, for once you enter, there's no turning back. Welcome to your new nightmares. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231017-08 RSS: https://audioboom.com/channels/5116352.rss

Second Story Work The Novel New Audio Book! Josh Cybulski’s debut novel explores a generation who were told they could do anything. Some did, and without a doubt still are, and some became disillusioned at the first signs of adversity. Meet Sarge, Messy, Hecky and R-Luv, four media school grads who head towards the booming film industry in Vancouver. Art is a distant memory as they pursue North Hollywood lights and their spoils of sex, drugs, and, let’s face it, more drugs. But, good luck turns bad in Second Story Work as these young men scramble to sustain whetted appetites that they could never satisfy. Cybulski’s gritty tale is one of crime, betrayal, and moral apathy, where the difference between friend and foe is blurred line after line. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231018-03 RSS: https://feeds.transistor.fm/second-story-work-the-novel

OFF AIR New Audio Book! Step into the clandestine world of 'Off Air' and let your imagination roam free. In this enigmatic audio series, secrets lurk in the shadows, and tales of defiance echo through the airwaves. Uncover the mysteries of a neon-lit dystopia where the boundaries between reality and rebellion blur, as we guide you through a realm of intrigue and unfiltered truth. Are you ready to embark on a journey that will leave you questioning the very fabric of this cyberpunk world?" https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231018-04 RSS: https://media.rss.com/off-air/feed.xml

God Knows Podcast: Live from Valhalla New Audio Drama! Thor, the legendary god of old, is a little vexed with ”Head Office’s” rehousing scheme. His tier-four divinity lodgings - a dilapidated terrace in the North of England - now hosts the once mighty Valhalla within an attic conversion. He’s also been lumbered with a motley crew of divine D listers: Dionysus, the alcoholic god of wine and party time; Cupid, the snack-addicted god of love and poor bodily hygiene; Amon, an oily demon with a passion for musical theatre. They’re not 100% sure of what a podcast is, but the guys live in hope that it’ll raise their profiles and help reclaim some of their former glory. And with heavenly guests popping in each episode, god knows, they might yet do it! https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231018-05 RSS: https://feed.podbean.com/godknowspodcast/feed.xml

Carcosa Radio New Audio Drama! A audio series focused of the mysterious happenings and horrors of Etapas, Join along as you hear from a enigmatic radio host sharing the stories of this city, dragging you further and further into Understanding and Fright. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231012-05 RSS: https://media.rss.com/carcosa-radio/feed.xml

Before We Die New Audio RPG! Before We Die is an actual play podcast that focuses on variety. Every campaign will use a different tabletop RPG system with varying genres, and may even rotate cast members. Join Emily (Lemon), Iggy, Pleu, Aaron, and Matt every other week as we hunt monsters, explore the vast expanse of space, or bake delicious pastries. New stories, new friends, and lots of ways to play. What do you want to do before you die? https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231013-08 RSS: https://feeds.simplecast.com/a_K9nPIM

SCURIU - audiodrama de s'arrori in sardu New Audio Book! Attività realizzata col contributo della Regione Sardegna - IMPRENTAS 2022-2023. LR 22/2018, art. 22. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231012-06 RSS: https://www.spreaker.com/show/5971835/episodes/feed

The Shadowbrook Files New Audio Drama! Three girls at a boarding school try to contact the ghost of their dead best friend. As the seance continues, the remaining three grapple with their unresolved grief and unearth secrets that will forever shatter how they view the world. This show has major dark academia vibes and is perfect for fans of Dorian Gray, Buzzfeed Unsolved/Ghost Files, Dead Poet's Society, The Secret History, Edgar Allan Poe, and a whole array of classic literature. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231010-06 RSS: https://media.rss.com/shadowbrookfiles/feed.xml

The Jack of Hearts Podcast New Audio Book! When Stillwater, Minnesota's brightest and best, Jack Anderson, disappeared on August 31, 1991, the entire town went into shock. Over thirty years later, the woman closest to him has opened up to tell the story of Jack's life, his love, his friends...and his enemies. Get a first-hand look at the brilliant young man whose eight-year disappearance stumped a town determined to find him -- and left a woman heartbroken. A fiction podcast series, told by April Sauntry-James. https://audiofiction.co.uk/show.php?id=20231002-08 RSS: https://anchor.fm/s/e84c3298/podcast/rss

[leuchtstabrebell]

Whumptober Day 4 / Prompt: Shock

It did not rain often in Mos Espa. Some years it did not rain at all.

But Anakin remembers how he could feel a coming storm in his bones, remembers the sweet metallic taste in the air before a thunderstorm. When the storms came, they rained down on Tatooine with a mighty, violent force that seemed to shake the world itself. His mother used to say that it was a cause for celebration because the storm made them all equal. Even the masters could not rule over lightning and thunder.

The smell of ozone used to mean reckoning.

It doesn’t anymore.

Palpatine does not use force lightning often to punish Vader – after all, the machinery keeping him alive is vulnerable to that sort of thing, and it is so bothersome to have to keep replacing fried circuits and broken parts. However, he has no such concerns about torturing Luke or Leia with it. So of course, when Anakin tells them about the mighty storms, about the sacred rains, about the sublime sight of lightning striking the earth, they look at him with disbelief and even some sort of envy. He can’t bare it. Instead, he tells his children other stories from his childhood, about silent defiance, about chain-breakers and cruel masters, and of course they understand those much better. He never tells them that on Tatooine, children born to a free mother are also free. It feels too much like mockery.

Anakin doesn’t know what it was this time – a failed mission, suboptimal performance in training or simply perceived disobedience but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. If Sidious wants to hurt them, he will find a reason, and there is little that could prevent him from doing so. When the twins were small, Anakin used to be able to redirect some of his master’s ire. He hasn’t done that in a long time, hasn’t even seen them much in the past three years. They’ve become adults while Palpatine sent Vader through the Galaxy to do his bidding. They’re fifteen already. Stars, they’re only fifteen. Vader had begged and pleaded to see his children for a few days and Palpatine had finally relented, which means that this time, he is there to witness the aftermath of Palpatine’s increased cruelty. Fifteen is old enough to bear the pain with dignity, after all.

When Luke comes stumbling in, Leia draped over his shoulder and struggling to support them both, he rushes to their side instantly. At first, he thinks it must have only been her this time. She is whimpering in pain, and her muscles keep spasming and she can’t really walk. Then he sees the fine tremors still running through his son, the sweat on his brow, and he feels a deep and horrible ache and anger dwell. He pushes it down. It is neither the time nor the place.

“Sit down Luke,” he rumbles, taking Leia from her brother and placing her carefully on the floor, her back leaning against the wall. Her muscles are still contracting but she is conscious. There are no burns, there never are if Palpatine doesn’t want them to be there, and with Leia and Luke being semi-public figures he cannot afford too many obvious injuries.

“Is your shoulder dislocated again?” Luke asks, sitting down carefully beside her. His breath is still labored, and he seems to occasionally suppress sounds of pain but other than that, he seems, well, not fine, but at least not badly injured. Vader is so focused on watching them that the words only register a few moments later. He didn’t even know that she had been electrocuted that badly the last time. They must have dealt with it themselves. It makes sense – there is no use in whining, and you should never let your Master hear you complain. Lessons he taught them well.

Leia has closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the white wall, while her body continues to move painfully in small spasms. Still, she looks almost nonchalant.

“Father, could you get me that book I left laying on the table this morning?” Luke asks, with pained boredom in his voice. Anakin recognizes that tone far too well, and for a moment he looks at his children, shaking on the floor and he cannot move. The moment passes. He leaves to bring Luke that book.

[mariii-the-shapeshifter]

This is part two of the Venture!Galaxy Family/Starborn post. Here's part one of you missed it.

It's been about three hundred years since Arkion was created at this point, and Alex and Steve feel that both the Arkisen and Starborns have everything covered (mostly because they don't know what Void is up to), so they feel comfortable enough to leave for a while to hibernate. They can't keep the realm alive without a good amount of energy, so a few Elders created hibernation as a way for them to gain tons of it. Unfortunately, it isn't perfect, as it's easy to lose your memories during the process, but the Origins find a way to get around this. They ask Renti to hold their memories for them, and they keep them in two stones marked with their names. With Steve and Alex being away, all of Arkion is pretty sad, but they still move on, and everything seems to be going fine without them.

But then Void does evil stuff.

Now that the Origins are gone, Void feels that he can finally deal with the other worlds in whatever way he sees fit, which means it's back to murder time. Renti still insists they go for a holistic approach, but Void isn't taking any of that. He still takes Renti on missions, but instead of the old routine, he has Renti erase the people's minds entirely before he comes in and destroys that entire world. This is typically the case for worlds that aren't, for a lack of a better term, "functioning properly", but it also goes for worlds that plan on invading Arkion. Along with the occasional genocide, Void also has a vendetta against Galaxy for either not doing as much as the other Starborns, or doing too much, like trying to save realms that Void thinks are beyond repair.

Renti's just as upset with Galaxy's side of the family, but for different reasons than Void is. He's mostly upset that they spend so much time together, and that Galaxy actually treats Chrona and Terren like they're his children, instead of treating them like sidekicks or servants like Void does to him. Jealousy turns into anger, and Renti goes off to erase Chrona and Terren's memories of Galaxy, and Galaxy's memories of them. Of course, she ends up erasing more than that, and Galaxy is left with almost no memory of his life or anyone he knew. Renti goes back to Void after that, but still plans on how she'll get back at him, too.

The final bit of Starborn relevancy before Sabre shows up is Void's plan to keep himself from getting in trouble for a little longer. Void knows that when Alex and Steve's hibernation ends, they'll see what he's done, and will probably strip away his powers as a consequence, so he has the idea to extend their hibernation. Since the Origins are only meant to sleep for fifty years before the Elders wake them up, Void tells Renti to wipe the Elders' minds so they forget about Steve and Alex, making sure that they don't wake up (at least not for a long time).

Chrona and Terren are now effectively fatherless and are kinda suffering because of it. Chrona chooses to stay optimistic, hoping that their father, whoever he is, is out there, and that he's looking for them. Their cheerful attitude doesn't convince Terren, though, as he's not a big fan of not having the answer to every question. As we know from canon, Ter's anger gets the best of him, and he starts his plan to recreate Arkion so that he lives in a world where he knows who his family is, and Chrona tries their best to stop him from doing so.

That's it for the Starborns. Next, I'll either be talking about the Arkisen themselves, or just move right on to the Nightmare family. Whichever one it is will be linked here when it's posted.

[wayward-starway]

So what’s the deal with souls anyway? (Long explanatory post)

In the StarWay, souls are divided into three parts- The Core, Soul Energy, & Soul Remnant

The Core - The Core is the conscious being of the soul. It’s essentially a copy of the brain translated into a type of soul matter. It’s the core of a being, it’s who you are.

Soul Energy - If the Core is the brain of the soul then Soul Energy is the heart & blood. Soul Energy, or SE is the property that allows the soul to function & exist. Without Soul Energy, there is no soul.

Different souls have different amounts of SE, & souls with higher amounts of SE are considered “stronger” while those with lower amounts “weaker”. The amount of SE isn’t based on any physical, psychological, or moral factor, meaning that if you’re a strong, moral, true-to-yourself soul that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll have high amounts of SE & if you’re a weak, fragile, evil soul that doesn’t mean you’ll have low amounts of SE. The amount an organism has really just depends on how the soul formed, the organism has no way to influence that.

So if having a “stronger” soul isn’t indicative of moral or physical characteristics, then what does it mean to have a stronger soul? Well, to the mortal soul itself- pretty much nothing. An organism can go its entire existence without knowing the amount of SE it has, it has generally no effect on them as a person. The amount of SE only really matters to StarTreaders. StarTreaders are a very specific type of soul that is made out of a fractured Core & Soul Remnant- they don’t have any SE within their soul. Since SE is needed for the soul to function, StarTreaders are a parasitic species that need to consume SE from mortals, & thus mortals with higher amounts of it are more beneficial to StarTreaders. StarTreaders are able to claim SE from mortals by claiming their soul, this is usually done by the god injecting their blood into the mortal’s physical (alive) form- which causes a process called Corruption. Corruption is a very painful process where the mortal’s original blood drains out of their body so the StarTreader’s blood can completely overtake the vessel, giving the StarTreader complete access to the soul. Usually Corrupted individuals die during the process, but in the Afterlife their soul will belong to the StarTreadee who corrupted them. On the rare occasions where a mortal does survive, they pass down this blood gene. Their descendants’ souls will also belong to the StarTreader, but they will be born this way rather than also having to be corrupted.

One more final important thing to note is that having high amounts of SE isn’t just beneficial for survival, but it can also lead to a StarTreader developing god like powers. Hence the market for SE amount StarTreaders is very competitive.

Soul Remnant - Soul Remnant consists of miscellaneous soul properties that help bind the spilt together- the glue of the soul. Hypothetically speaking, Soul Remnant is the only part of the soul that a mortal doesn’t need to survive, but it makes the soul much more stable & existence much easier.

The most important thing to note about Soul Remnant is that it’s the only part of the soul that continues to exist wholly after the soul’s destruction. Soul Energy completely dissipates, while the Core is at best fractured beyond repair & at worst completely destroyed. The Soul Remnant scatters across the galaxy after the soul’s destruction & on rare occasions it combines with a fractured core - creating a StarTreader. StarTreader souls are very weak compared to mortal souls.

In regards to the StarWay- Sveltyy & Temno are both StarTreaders. They decided to rule over the StarWay together & split the amount of Soul Energy among the planet evenly between themselves to prevent either one growing more powerful than the other. Sveltyy’s souls were referred to as Mid-Days, Temno’s souls were referred to as Mid-Nights. When Sveltyy grew power hungry, this means that he attempted to cause mass Corruption on the Mid-Nights into Mid-Days. When Temno & the Mid-Nighys were unfairly banished from the planet, Sveltyy created propaganda painting the surviving Mid-Nights as a “force of darkness” to make his mass wiping / conquering of the people seem justified.

Prophets are StarWaiians granted powers from Sveltyy & Temno themselves, but StarWaiians can only become Prophets if they have high amounts of Soul Energy. Granting these powers also causes the StarTreader to use often detrimental amounts of claimed Soul Energy themselves, hence why Prophets are rare despite the benefits of having them. In Temno’s last ditch effort to get back onto the StarWay mentioned in my last post, that involved Temno dumping all of his remaining Soul Energy into a single mortal to give them the Prophetic ability to actually be able to leave the Wasteland. (Note that since StarTreaders souls are so weak Temno was unable to do this himself & had to put it onto a mortal, otherwise he would’ve left the Wasteland a looong time ago.) Temno gives the mortal a mission to corrupt a Mid-Day with high amounts of SE so he could regain power & recuse everyone from the Wasteland. This was successful, & thus begins Temno’s slow quest of corrupting more & more Mid-Days this way until he finally had enough power to launch a full invasion of the StarWay. On the other hand, Sveltyy grants Nightfall the Prophetic ability to avoid corruption, which causes Sveltyy to spend a decent amount of SE. This starts off the huge war between Sveltyy & Temno present within the main series, as Temno grows in power & Sveltyy decreases in power.

I know that’s a lot of needlessly complicated confusing fantasy stuff so if you have absolutely no clue what you just read feel free to ask!! 😭 My ask box is always open I’m always open to answering questions & elaborating on things :)

[phoenixyfriend]

In Which Palpatine Leaves the Door Open

So, @purronronner suggested this on discord:

au where anakin finds out about palpatine during clone wars era like, coming in for a visit and overhears a conversation with Dooku about war planning he’s been pulled between palpatine and the Jedi/obi-wan/various things but I want to see him pulled between palpatine and his men could go either way on the sith part of the reveal even

palpatine is not aware! unless anakin’s course of action is to go “hey palpatine I must have misunderstood something right? :(“

(This was a group effort but there's a thing I wrote that requires this context so please bear with me.)

I'm just imagining Anakin backing out, closing the door, and turning to the Corrie Guard by the door to say a thing... and not finding words.

Eventually "Did you guys know he was evil?" "He's a politician, sir." "But like the evil ranting..." "He's a politician. Sir."

He's willing to use his men to save R2, but that's because R2 was part of the team and helping, not arranging battles to make things worse.

Anakin: Normally, I'd go to Palpatine to talk about my problems, but right now he is the problem... Obi-Wan and Yoda are off-planet.... Anakin, phoning up Padme: Help?

Per @atagotiak we also have some Intense Thoughts

Oh hey. The deception arc. And the subsequent argument that we don't see and stuff. Like there's all the ways you could justify it especially from an opsec standpoint (If Anakin acts like that around Padme why would anyone assume he can keep a secret about anything?) And it was a pretty tactically important thing for the war as far as anyone knew. But just. I've heard some people say that perhaps also Obi-Wan reasoned that hurting Anakin is an ok price to pay to make sure someone Anakin cares for doesn't die for real which seems plausible enough.

Anyways. My point is. Anakin gets a front row seat to sheevception when he actually sorta knows whats going on. Gets sidetracked halfway through yelling and stuff to think about how convoluted this whole mess is.

For more clone-centric things all the times Palpatine's like "I wish I could do more, it's truly regrettable, but..." Would just seem awfully fake now.

Anakin, belatedly: Wait, does this mean that, behind all the layers of bullshit, Palpatine was the one trying to kill Padme at the start of the war???

WHICH IS WHAT LEADS TO A WHOLE LOT OF FUN and yes this is the part I'm sort of proud of.

Okay so: Anakin's a shit liar, yes?

After he meanders over to Padme and has a breakdown, he then goes off to tell the Council about all this. I imagine she goes with him as moral support, and also because she wants to protect him from them calling him out on his legitimately terrible decisions. They're trying to come up with a plan to take Palpatine down without tipping their hands too early, because they need to investigate; for the sake of this plot point, we'll say that Palpatine mentioned a contingency plan while talking to Dooku, even if he didn't directly name the chips.

Someone mentions that Palpatine is going to ask to see Anakin, because he does regularly. And, as experience has shown, there is very little that will stop Palpatine from insisting that Anakin come see him. They can stall for a bit, maybe, but not for long.

"You could send me to the other side of the galaxy," Anakin suggests. "Short notice, so sorry, won't be around for a bit."

They point out that won't work forever.

"So... arrest me, or put me on a mental health hold?" Anakin tries. "Say I got violent at civilians or the clones for no reason and you need to make sure I won't hurt him, and then even if he visits me in the cell, I don't have to act normal 'cause he'll EXPECT me to be upset."

Palpatine presumably has spies all over, so he'd know that hadn't actually happened. Also, Anakin's too important to the war effort for anything short of a cold-blooded murder of an innocent, and they can't just take him off the field without an absolutely massive violation of the Code or his orders.

"Tell him I Fell," Anakin offers.

A Sith Lord would be able to feel that from across the galaxy, if it had happened, especially with the amount of time that he's put into grooming Anakin.

"Oh," Anakin says, and his stomach drops out as he realizes that he can either keep his secrets, or keep people alive.

He thinks about how Palpatine had targeted Padme already, and how if Palpatine thinks Anakin's betrayed him, then he'll probably do that again.

He thinks about 'a Sith Lord would know' and realizes... well.

Anakin values his freedom, but he also values his men, his padawan, his master, his wife... the wife that's in danger if Palpatine knows that Anakin caught him out.

The Order has to keep Anakin away from Palpatine. They need an excuse to arrest him. They need an excuse to hide him away, one that Palpatine won't question too hard.

A Sith Lord would know if Anakin fell. Even if he came back afterwards.

"So... so tell him you found out about the Tusken Massacre."

The what.

"...tell him you found out about the time I actually did Fall," Anakin says, squeezing Padme's hand. She knows. She's the only one who knows, on Coruscant, other than the Sith they're hunting. "On... on Tatooine. You can claim it was an anonymous tip. He already knows about that one. He's one of the only two people outside Tatooine that do. He might not question it."

(He won't question it.)

What did you do, Skywalker.

"I killed... a lot of people. A Tusken tribe. Including the children. Right before the war hit."

----

It's a hell of a way to fall on his figurative sword.

(Mace is... both impressed that Anakin would take the hit to make sure they can handle the Palpatine problem, and horrified about the Massacre, because... who wouldn't be.)

(Mace is unfortunately Anakin's main handler on this project.)

Anakin puts in so much effort, all the time, into not Falling, so it’s surprisingly (terrifyingly!) easy for him to fake a 'near miss' with the Dark just by thinking really hard about things that make him angry. Nobody wants him actually Falling for the ploy if they can help it, but they need to sell the bit, and Anakin's... well. He's Anakin. It's easy to think about his own emotional volatility until any control goes out the window.

He's sacrificing a lot for this mission! It's fine! He's fine!

(Padme, the council is judging you so hard right now.)

Palpatine comes to visit Anakin in prison, and it is very easy for Anakin to disguise his anger as... a different anger. I have a very intense mental image of Anakin working himself up into a frenzy when Palpatine comes to visit, and then at some point in the following conversation he just snaps something about how "you said they were animals who deserved to die."

The Council can even eke it out a bit, make it so they don't want to admit why Anakin's in prison or under a psychiatric hold or whatever they claim it is, so their "I'm hiding something vibes" look like "I'm hiding the fact that one of our most recognizable war heroes just came clean as a mass murderer and we have no idea how to handle it" instead of "I'm hiding that we know you're a Sith Lord and are working to take you down."

Obi-Wan comes back from an off-world mission to find out that Mace arrested his former padawan and Ahsoka hasn't stopped crying for three days because nobody will tell her what's going on.

(The Council decided this couldn't be risked on even an encrypted comm.)

(They maybe tell him soon enough? But also they might treat it like the Hardeen thing and use his reaction as fuel to keep Palpatine convinced.)

SKYGUY GOT ARRESTED AND NOBODY'S EXPLAINING WHY.

Rex is overwhelmed because it's been his job to keep her calm.

Anyway, padawanship has been temporarily transferred to the grandmaster. You were half-training her anyway.

Insert a subplot about Obi-Wan being horrified and betrayed and aiming the feeling at Padme because she knew about the Tuskens and never told.

[annakie]

Mass Effect Trailer Thoughts

*EDIT* -- there are now TWO UPDATES to this post with additional screenshots, thoughts and theories, please check that one out! :) 

I wrote an unhinged disorganized post before... now I’ll attempt breaking things down in a much more logical way. :D

1) It’s basically confirmed that this is both the Milky Way and Andromeda in the same shot.

2) The audio is some actual and I think some fictional mix of communications -- 

“We know now that in the early years of the 20th century, this world was being watched” is from War of the Worlds

“Eagle Houston, you are go for landing, over” is from the moon landing.

“Arcturus Station, uknown vessel approaching, we need first contact protocols” would probably be new dialog from the First Contact War.

“Humanity now stands as partners in the galaxy” is likely new dialog from after the end of the FC war when humanity was accepted as a Citadel species.

“Ark Six is away, godspeed” is new dialog, likely a reference to the Andromeda Initiative.  There were six arks in the initiative.

3) This system isn’t in any of the first three games as far as I can tell -- and I logged into ME3 with the EGM mod wherein literally every system in all three games is used as extra content and looked at them all.  Anyone recognize it?

4) This is anyone’s guess but... possibly... what’s through the Omega relay?  the rings seem... very densely packed.

5)Two moons and a gas giant looking planet.  I don’t even want to hazard a guess.  The planet itself could look like Jupiter, but Jupiter has a lot more moons.

6) Then of course, we have the destroyed mass relay.

This comes with the dialog about taking down a dreadnaught, and (sensors?) are going crazy, and abandoning the ship, and then the REAPER SOUND.

Then “Is anyone receiving this?  We’ve lost contact.”

So all of this felt like traveling through time, and here we finish Mass Effect 3.

7) Then comes this image... which again, does not really look like any system recognizable in any of the games.

An indistinguishable female voice says something about Humanity (something like “Humanity is all the problems its faced”?  Maybe?) and a male voice... which sounds a little like Clancy Brown (Alec Ryder) to me, but... maybe I need to play through the Andromeda prologue again. 

The slight break in the action there may be accounting for the 600 years passing before Andromeda.

The break in the action could also mean it’s something in the future of what we’ve seen, something new.

8) Now, we come to this planet.

There are THREE MOONS...  and Alchera has three moons.  Maybe this is a coincidence.  Or maybe this is Alchera.  It seems oddly specific for them to show the three moons in sequence if there wasn’t a reason for it.

9) It’s confirmed that Liara is walking up a reaper here.  There ALSO appears to be a SECOND reaper in the background (look just above the sun, you can see reaper-like wires and follow that outline to see the other reaper’s legs.)

10) There appears to be more stuff, maybe N7 striped stuff, than just the fragment Liara picks up buried in the snow here.

11) This may be a part of an N7 helmet, but it can’t be Shepard’s N7 helmet.

You get the helmet as a reward for finishing the Alchera DLC in ME2 (so basically, Shepard brings it along after planting the monument), and although the part is similar on the side here, it’s definitely not the same.  This is Shepard’s helmet on the SR-2 in ME2, loaded it up and took the pics with flycam just to confirm.

14) That’s definitely a Salarian on the left and probably a Krogan on the right. Guesses for the center person... Human?  Turian?  Angaran? (Comedy answer: Javik?  Though we don’t know how long Protheans lifespans are so... hey!  Anything’s possible!)

13) Liara has crow’s feet and laugh lines -- she’s most likely much older in this trailer than we saw her last in ME3.  Perhaps... 600 - 700 years older?  Grunt would likely be the only other ME/2/3 companion still alive. (Wrex was alive to fight in the end of the Krogan Rebellion in 700 CE, if this is post-Andromeda that would place him at over 2000 years old, I don’t think Krogan lifespans are that long.  Drack is considered an old man at 1400.  But it could be possible.)

So my best theory right now aligns with what I’ve seen other people guess -- this game will take place sometime after Andromeda and serve to bridge the two galaxies, but how that happens and why Liara is retrieving a piece of broken N7 armor is anyone’s guess.  I have a few wildly unhinged theories myself. :D

[yostresswritinggirl]

Seers' Miscellany

Prologue: Origins of the first bloom

A circular fic for the Dainsleif mini-series I'll be working on. This will be the introduction; of the evanescent bough keeper of the new world. "Observers of the North do not usually wind up in personal business, but when they do, in their wake comes great shifting of the plates of the timelines." Logs of the stag and the delicate flower.

Pairings -> Dainsleif x Reader; Reader is NOT Traveler

Word Count -> 1579

Themes -> Pretty sad, but also fluffy

Chapters -> 1

Warnings -> Story progression takes a while, oh dear why am I doing this now, I'm so busy

"500 mora; and three answered questions."

He's not really sure what lead him to indulge the requests of a simple adventurer when he made his rounds around the city of freedom. Was it the simple need for currency? It couldn't be, he was better off with other commissions that Katheryne could offer.

Was it the desperation in your voice and eyes? You looked at him like a prophet, your only salvation, and perhaps in this context that may be true. You were but a lone adventurer and the way your weight leans heavier on one foot shows your struggle to those who have keen eyes like him, no other person wished to indulge your needs and you were getting desperate.

Or was it the three questions? Dainsleif have yet to hear such contractual obligations before, but it felt as tho it was the most important part of the agreement he took the moment you pleaded with that soft voice. Humble yet resolved, not letting him walk away without at least considering it once.

And so he found himself traversing the land of the wolves through a dangerous path, where you skip ahead with a gait of happiness, bubbly and energetic enough to surpass even his long legs. You hummed without consideration at the glee of finally having a companion, and he did not mind it at the slightest despite the attention it may bring upon your little party.

"First question," Dainsleif fleeted his gaze away from the horizon to turn to you whom slowed your pace to match his, head looking over your shoulder with a wide grin. "How are you?" So innocent.

He huffs in amusement, the most emotion you've seen of him. "You don't need to waste a contract question for such a simple question, you know," he stands behind you as you crouch down on a shrubbery filled with Wolfhooks. Your main objective for visiting Wolvendom in the first place.

You assured him that you meant your question in every way possible as your hands carefully pick at the herbs, wary of the thorns and the intrusive prickly leaves. Despite your attention turned away from him he knows you await his answer. Dainsleif hums to himself and stops—

How is he? What does he truly feel in this moment of his time?

A simple question yet risked for one of the three inquiries agreed upon definitely holds a deeper meaning. His train of spiraling thoughts halts upon the sound of otherwordly grunts and chants as he turns away from your still busy form (you seem very focused on your foraging) to find three Hilichurls approaching with ill intent.

Dainsleif squints at the impending threat before shooting a final glance to make sure you weren't looking. His arm glows blue as he raises it, power in the form of blue swirling mist surges around him - how are you? The feeling brings him back to vague memories of his past, of the energy rising through him at his expeditions with an old companion, of the thrill spent upon encountering the unexpected. Such thoughts are not vivid but the familiarity of what he is experiencing right now was enough for him.

Though he was sure that there were no camps before they went through this route.

"You asked me how I am," he spoke when you finally turned from the bush with an armful of Wolfhooks on your arsenal, confusion on your face at the sight of downed Hilichurls and the side profile of the bough keeper.

His cerulean eyes were fixated at his left hand that he repeatedly closes and opens for a few seconds, before he fully turns to you (your eyes did not miss the blue glow from underneath his cape, where his right arm should be) with a wisp of a smile, "I feel alive right now."

You reciprocated the gesture with a wide grin, "I'm glad to hear that!"

A majority of the wolfhooks gathered where given to the little Botanist Chloris, the seller of flowers, who looked relieved and ecstatic upon your arrival. Something Dainsleif took great notice of. Carefully handing over the berries and some which you had to pluck singularly from your companion's flowy cape, the little girl gave you her Valberries in exchange.

It was sweet and familiar, something Dainsleif took note as he accepted your offer of the fruit despite his none need for sustenance.

Your little chewing sounded through as you two settled on the humble camp you managed to setup with your supply for a single individual. There was a little hole in the middle for a campfire Dainsleif had made the effort to prepare knowing the coldness the night will bring soon enough, and your fragile form is not something he wishes to bargain now. Is that really the reason? Perhaps in the back of his mind, he was really just working on forgotten routines.

"Second question," his footstep at the edge of the camp halts as he turns once again, where you sat on the mat as tonight's bedding, hands flicking to remove the stray juices of the berries. He stood still in wait before he goes back to his mini mission of getting fire wood.

"Go on," he urged when you stood a minute longer in silence.

"Do you like traveling, Dain?" Easy enough, he simply said yes and left when you ended the conversation with a nod.

When he came back with the wood and tinder bundle for easy spreading, out of the corner of his eye he watched your hands work on the mortal and pestle as you grinded the remaining wolfhooks on your person. The fire started the moment he was done setting up the kindling and your face filled with admiration at the sudden and immediate spark, praising him for his quick work.

Dainsleif is both talkative and not, and at times he finds himself rambling to the wind. The moments of the night passed without much details until he found himself talking about his past adventures with his old companion, of the world they've seen together and the now estranged relationship between them.

His responses were sometimes cryptic unintentionally, and he apologizes when there are things about it that he couldn't answer simply because he could not remember. When silence struck after he finished his tales and meal, the beautiful spike in his eyes found yours gleaming despite the drowsiness pulling at your whole feature.

"I'm glad you're very fond of traveling. If not, I wouldn't have met you," and he wouldn't have taken the commission. Dainsleif's eyes flashed in recognition, finally understanding the meaning behind your second question. Somehow this little commission deal turned into a silent back and forth quip of him understanding past your simple inquiries.

Like a little game he muses on with his curious mind.

That night you rested with the extra comfort of his eccentric cape, something you needed more than him as he gazes over the clear night sky. His eyes silently traced the galaxy of stars while the sound of your whispered breathing accompanies his sleepless night.

The last question and that last of your very quick expedition came the next day at the cliffside overlooking the lair sealed by winds.

Your fingers were dusted by the violet paste of grinded wolfhooks long consumed the night prior, stained fingers gripping the thin and fragile stem of the yellow dandelion in its grasp. It was his great observation that let him realize the disaster that happened now but even his foresight could not prepare him for what has to come.

"Third question," his head snapped down to watch your ethereal face don a calm smile, the sun's setting light kissing your cheeks in the right angle that matched that of the clean clouds above. Your eyes silently questioned his unfocused gaze but he only shook his head.

Don't worry about it. "I know this last question would end the commission with you," your voice trembled in both fear and fatigue but Dainsleif didn't force you to preserve your strength like he should. "But I wanted to ask, maybe tomorrow again,

do you want to be my traveling companion?"

The hand that clutched the Dandelion found it way to the side of his mask, the petals brushing against his eyelids as he looks down at you with an eye. A ghost of a smile lingers on his lips as he leans on your hand.

"It would be my pleasure."

Life momentarily flashed over your orbs before you let out a sharp exhale and a breathless, joyous laughter. Relief overtook the tension that laid on your shoulders, and your hand would have dropped to the ground immediately if he had not gripped it on the last second.

"That sounds good. I've always wanted to travel the world," he pulls the cape closer around your form as your eyelids droop to a close. And he witness another breathe, "It was supposed to be today, but I feel really tired today, I'll rest early too if that's okay."

He rose from the ground with you in his arms, "I'll be here."

"Mmm thank you... good... night."

"Good night, little dandelion."

And perhaps that distant memory from faraway had urged him to invite and indulge, when he saw the same spark of intrigue and desperation, of the warmth of carefree days in front of him.

"But I will require advance payment,

500 Mora, and three answered questions."

Dainsleif SUPREMACY MWAHAHAHAHAH

@genshin-idiot : here's your Dainsleif content

@moaa @dandelion-dreams @witchsungie @lehra @zelos-simp @legionqueensav @snackgod @rxsalinee @cala-ran @wind-wheel @lilydewi22 @yellowflowre @traveler-lumine @nonniechan

[hobiiwan]

mirror • cpt. rex

pairing: captain rex x gn!reader

warnings: post-order 66 angst, hurt-comfort but i thrive in the hurt

w/c: 1.6k

notes: i'm back with lots and lots of feelings bc i've been ghosted and it's 5 am so i should probably sleep but i hope you enjoy :D

lovely gif credit to @pieklalat!

Framed by distant moons and even further stars, the night sky never seemed more vast. If you closed your eyes, it didn’t take much to picture a Republic Star Destroyer slicing through the atmosphere of the moon whose gravity became inescapable, with you in it.

Glancing over your shoulder at where Rex had made camp for the evening, you could tell he was thinking it too. Though his eyes were closed, it was clear as watching a holofilm; reliving the searing heat of plasma bolts, shot from the blasters of his brothers, the ones he had served beside for years—the same ones he had buried just hours prior.

It felt as though there was a vice wrapped in a deadlock around your heart, constricting your chest until it threatened to collapse in on itself. You exhale sharply, willing yourself to push past the hollow ache of the now-dulled Force connection, the flashing faces of the clones and Jedi who had perished under the Order—the fear they had felt in their final moments. It was now your fear that you would never escape it.

The price of surviving the command settles atop your shoulders, making a home. A bitter, weighted reminder that you are here, alive, when you shouldn’t be—when you aren’t supposed to be.

You collapse onto the ground next to Rex, which pulls him back to the present. His eyelids flutter as he blinks slowly, once at you, then back up to the stretching expanse of the inky black overhead. He lets out a sigh, leaning up on his shoulders to cast a weary glance at his surroundings. “How long was I out?” He questions.

You reply with a thoughtful hum, “Not long. You need the rest, anyway.” It’s true. The day’s events have undoubtedly taken its toll on the both of you. But how does one go about resting after being hunted to the death?

“I’ll take first watch. Get some sleep, cyare.” He says, now sitting upright and then you know there’s no point in fighting it. You both need rest, but with the way Rex’s frame is pulled tense as a bow, his hand twitching ever-so-slightly towards his blaster, you know there’s no way he’d rest easy.

So, you offer him a victory, albeit a minute one. You pull his unarmed hand into yours and close your eyes, feeling the way he lets out a shaky breath, releasing some tension along with it. A victory—you’re still here with him.

Neither of you can be certain how long you stay that way. The low croon emitting from the transceiver is the only sign that time actually passes. Neither of you complain about the noise, either. It didn’t need to be said that the silence—this silence, was much too loud.

You do try to sleep, Rex gives you credit for that. Though, after turning for the fifth time (he counts) you give up and sit up beside him. He’s got his knees pressed to his chest, one hand curled tight around his blaster. In his other, his thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand. The answer to whether it soothes you or himself doesn’t matter.

Wordlessly, your head lowers to his shoulder, propped gently against the curve of muscle.

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a singer?” You murmur, glancing at the transceiver. You don’t recognise the singer on broadcast, though you do take note of the melody, slow and mellow.

Rex watches as you even try to hum along, as offbeat as you are.

“No,” he huffs something short of a chuckle, “you didn’t.”

He knows what you’re trying to do, sees it clear as day. Yet, as he watches your feet tap to the tempo of the ballad, he can’t stop himself from humouring your attempt to comfort him.

You nod eagerly, eyes widening as if to express your candor. “I was about to be one, too! Then the Jedi came and…”

Rex waits as you trail off, then clocks the far-off look in your eyes. He picks up where you left off. “Would you sing for me now?”

You return in a split second, your lips pulling into a bashful smile as you avoid his eyes. “I’m definitely rusty by now, I don’t want you losing your hearing because of me.”

The Captain nudges you teasingly, grinning when you break into soft laughter. “It would be an honour, though,” he quips.

He wonders how much of you has been hidden behind the mantle of a Jedi’s title. Who would you have been had you not been brought into the Order, raised from young to be one thing, and one thing only? Who would he be?

Once again, Rex is dragged out of his thoughts. This time, you’re tugging him to his feet. It takes an effort and a half, which you currently lack in your fatigued state.

As he looks up at you questioningly, you motion to the transceiver, dropping his hand to raise the volume. It’s enough to provide a comfortable backdrop instead of a desperate attempt to quell silence.

“Dance with me,” you propose softly, “please?”

“I don’t know how to, mesh’la.”

As if pointedly ignoring his feeble protest, your hand remains outstretched, beckoning his participation.

Maker, he’s only ever seen couples dancing on holofilms and is even more certain he has two left feet. But gazing up at your expectant self is like looking at a promise of escaping the sorrow he now knows as reality.

Really, it’s all up to him.

Rex swears he feels three times lighter from the way you beam in delight when he fits his palm into your smaller ones and helps you lift him to full height.

He stands awkwardly, clueless as to where his hands should go, how he should move. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

Below him, you soften at the uncertainty tainting his features. Taking mercy on the poor man, you lift a hand to cup his cheek, garnering his attention.

“Put your hands on my waist,” you murmur, eyes twinkling when Rex’s hands fly up to root himself to you. Your own arms loop behind his neck and he takes it as a sign to pull you into his chest, no stranger to the position.

“and now we sway.”

Such a simple command, yet Rex feels like a fish out of water. His limbs are stiff, like the serenity of the movement is a stranger. To an extent, it is.

When you take over, moving him to the beat instead, he gratefully surrenders, allowing himself a moment of tranquility.

The only sounds that reach him become the silky notes of the singer and your soft, steady breaths. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend to be in a distant galaxy, where he is not a clone and you are not a Jedi, where the war is nothing more than a brash concept and his brothers are alive and well.

Rex doesn’t realise he’s crying until your thumb smooths away a tear rolling down his face. His eyes stay closed as he wills himself to keep pretending, but he can’t.

He is still a clone but you are no longer a Jedi. His brothers are gone.

You hold him when he finally breaks, cradling his head close when his shoulders tremble with the force of his sobs. His tears soak into the collar of your singed robes, but you truly can’t find the will to care—not when the man you love is falling apart, barely held together by the threads of your embrace.

“It wasn’t them,” he chokes, shaking his head, a wretched attempt to convince himself, “—it couldn’t be.”

At that, you’re positive your heart shatters. Stars, he doesn’t deserve this. You wish with all your might to take the pain away, to rewind every clock in the galaxy and then the next, but all you can do is watch.

“It wasn’t,” you nod, lowering your forehead to press against his, “not the real them. You know they loved you.” And by the Maker, you know.

Rex’s hands clutch tightly at your robes, as if letting go of that would mean letting go of you. The last tether to what is now his past, his only constant.

What if you hadn’t made it off the ship? What if Ahsoka hadn’t gotten the chip out of him in time? What if he had hurt you?

He briefly registers your voice calling his name, cutting through the despondent scenarios that could have, by any deciding factor, become his present.

“Rex, my love,” you plead, “please look at me.”

When he raises his eyes, he finds that yours are a mirror of his own. The anguish that parallels his agony. He feels you, your presence. He’s never understood much about the Force, but he thinks this is pretty damn close.

“I’m here,” you whisper. The promise of those two words anchor you both. “‘M not going anywhere.”

You mean it. If you believed it before, there was no chance in any star in the galaxy that anyone would be able to tear you away from him now.

For the current moment, you weren’t sure if there was a place to go, even if you wanted. Less than twenty four hours ago, you had been anticipating the end of the Clone Wars. Now, it feels like you’ve been thrown onto the losing side.

“What do we do now?” Rex asks, but you both know there isn’t an answer. There’s no precedent to go off of.

Two of the finest leaders in the GAR and the Jedi Order are lost, with no one left to follow them.

There’s nothing to do but move on.

“We keep living,” you say with a heavy sigh, burying your face into the crook of Rex’s neck, “we live for them. We’ll find a way.”

You always do.

[tomcats-fandom-blog]

“So let’s circle back to my old favourite punching bag: Age Of Ultron. Specifically the bit where Quicksilver dies. See, Age Of Ultron spends basically the whole movie trying to convince us that Hawkeye's going to die. He gets injured early on, sarcastically announces that he's going to live forever, and we learn he's got a secret family with a loving pregnant wife and two adorable kids and he stares at a picture of them before heading into the final battle. Then, when he runs into danger to rescue a kid and gets attacked by a gunship, Quicksilver zips in behind a car, gets riddled with bullets, says "you didn't see that coming,” and dies.

Couple of problems, and by a couple I mean... WOW.

So, category one, "the twist makes no sense." The movie shows us that Quicksilver is fast as Hell. I have NO trouble believing he could get Hawkeye to safety. But I do have trouble believing he couldn't ALSO get himself to safety. Like, did he... Carry Hawkeye most of the way to the car and then push him while he was still in the open? That seems kind of unsafe at those speeds. It makes more sense that he carried him behind the car, but then why was Quicksilver still out in the open to get shot? The movie doesn't convince me that Quicksilver had to die, and in fact gives me reason to believe he's absolutely fast enough to NOT die in this specific situation. We've seen what bullets look like to him! And it's pretty embarrassing for him to go out like a punk when barely a year earlier Days Of Future Past showcased exactly what a speedster like Quicksilver was capable of. Not a great look.

Category two, "the twist isn't as clever as it thinks it is." When your plot twist looks directly into the camera and cheekily says "you didn't say that coming,” please just... Stop. And maybe fire your writers. More importantly, I did see it coming and so did a lot of people. See, when you give us a lot of really obvious death flags on an important character but then introduce a bunch of disposable new characters, it's not hard to assume that you're faking us out. Vision and Wanda are famous for their relationship in the comics so they were both out of the death running, which just leaves us with Quicksilver, who's arcs are mostly centred in things like Magneto and the X-Men, AKA stuff Marvel doesn't have the rights to. Yeah, it wasn't hard to see that one coming.

Category three, "the twist is less interesting than not having the twist." I want you to picture for a moment, a world where Quicksilver existed for the events of Civil War, Infinity War and Endgame. He'd already started outgrowing his angry, jaded personality and had begun recognising the Avengers as heroes, seeing them do their absolute damndest to save Sokovia from a problem he indirectly helped cause. He started off hating Tony but changed his mind to side with him instead, recognising that all Tony wanted to do was fix the problems he caused. So, if Quicksilver survives Age Of Ultron he becomes an Avenger, most likely as fiercely loyal to them as he was to Ultron, just in time for them to tear themselves apart in Civil War. Say he sides with Tony, seeing the accords as just another step in Tony's journey away from being a weapons dealer he hated. It puts him in opposition with his sister, the first time they've really fought, and would be cool to see them fight! Even if it... Probably wouldn't last very long.

Say he survives the snap in Infinity War, the first time he's separated from his sister. The way they played out Endgame, during those five years there were almost no active supers on the planet. Thor was getting drunk and Hulk was getting therapy, but I don't see Quicksilver taking armageddon lying down. He could be doing his damnedest to keep the peace Flash-style, maybe even clashing with Hawkeye's one man vigilante crusade, a narrative foil situation, each of them responding to the loss of their family in very different ways. Maybe he's doing for Earth what Captain Marvel is doing for the rest of the galaxy, desperately running around keeping things working while the rest of the team searches for a real solution because he's the only one with the powers to do it. Then Wanda comes back after the snap and suddenly there's a five year age difference between these twins. Wanda's still mourning Vision, Pietro's just happy she's alive, and- My God! The emotional baggage they could unpack there. There is SO much potential here, but Age Of Ultron wanted a death and Pietro was available so... Sucks to be him. Bad twist.

Category four, "the twist has no meaningful impact." You guys notice nobody liked Quicksilver? Literally nobody but Wanda. And his death just made her kill Ultron-bots slightly faster than she already was. Quicksilver dies, Hawkeye lives, the cast expands by two instead of three, nobody mourns, nobody gets a funeral, nobody cares. Hawkeye grimaces sadly for a couple of minutes and then everyone puts on their Dark Serious Pants for Civil War. (And I'm pretty sure they don't even mention him in Civil War.)”

-Red from Overly Sarcastic Productions on “Why The Quicksilver Twist In AOU Is Poorly Written.” (Trope Talk: Plot Twists)

[javier-pena]

alone

Chapter 1 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Rating: Mature (for now but that will - spoilers! - change eventually)

Summary: When your best friend and companion is abducted by a group of outlaws, you hire a Mandalorian to help track down the men and get your revenge. What seems like a simple enough task stretches into a month-long trek through inhospitable terrain while both you and the Mandalorian are trying to come to terms with events in your past you cannot change. Set after Season 2.

Warnings: mentions (and short descriptions) of death, murder, and torture | a lot of hurt and no comfort | mentions of loss | mild to moderate language | a lot - and I mean A LOT - of talk about Din’s hands lmao

Notes: This is my first attempt at a Mandalorian fic and the first time in months I’ve written anything. It’s vaguely inspired by my favorite western movies, True Grit (1969/2010), The Quick and the Dead (1995), and The World to Come (2020). So yes, this is going to be very much like a western. I also want to - again - thank Dani @javierpcna​ who was like “are you writing Mandalorian stuff?” about a month ago and has, since then, read through this chapter more often than me and encouraged me to continue to write it and offered so much valuable insight whenever I came to her with an idea ... seriously, Dani, this fic wouldn’t exist without you and I hope I can find a way to repay you! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this first chapter (I’m already working on the second one) ...

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The day the Mandalorian arrives on Alvorine is the day you lose your best friend. You’re still busy putting out the fire, running your soot-blackened hand across your face, where the dirt mingles with the tears you’re too tired to stop from streaming down your face, when you hear the thrusters of a spacecraft roaring above you. You barely glance up; you can’t be bothered to. It could be the remnants of the Empire looking for recruits, it could be the New Republic looking for the remnants of the Empire, or it could be the bandits coming back for more. But what do you care? They already took away the one person you care most about in the galaxy. You just grip the shovel tighter and drive it into the soil so you can choke the fire underneath moist stones and dirt.

While you exhaust your body with physical labor, you occupy your mind with thoughts of revenge. Revenge as dark and quenching as the soil beneath you. With every load of dirt you heave onto the searing flames, your plan gains another sharp edge until all you can think of is driving the cutting edge down onto the throat of the man who gripped Brea’s arm and pulled her onto the speeder bike. Maybe his head would come off right away, maybe your tool would just obstruct his windpipe as you watch the life drain slowly out of his eyes. And even that would be too good an end for that monster.

It’s not just in your mind – those thoughts aren’t simply there to ground you while you continue your work in the ruins of what was once your home. It’s not pure fantasy, something to give you back a feeling of control. You are determined to follow through on it; you are going to hunt down these men who burned down your farm and stole Brea from you. You will not rest until they are all dead by your hand. And if you should die in the process … then you won’t go out without a fight, without taking as many of those bastards with you as you can. They have sealed their own fate by coming here today.

You know Brea isn’t dead; they won’t kill her unless she tries to kill one of them first. And she wouldn’t do that, she is too gentle for that, too docile. She would rather turn the other cheek. They should have taken you instead; she doesn’t deserve the fate that awaits her. You would’ve at least put up a fight, make them pay for what they did. And Brea? She would just die.

For now, she’s alive. But whatever you set out to do once you’re done here won’t be a rescue mission. You aren’t under the illusion you can save her. You know that even if you were to leave right now, even if you had your own speeder bike, you would never find her in time. No, this possibility hasn’t even crossed your mind. All you want to do is cause these men more pain than they caused you. You know it is impossible because you cannot imagine anything worse, but you sure as hell will do your best.

You straighten your back, drive the shovel into the ground, and use it as support while you try to catch your breath. The air burns in your lungs, and not just from the cold. There is also the steadily rising black smoke that makes breathing hard; your throat stings, so do your sides, and there is a bitter taste in your mouth. But you’re almost finished here, you’re almost done putting out the fire, so it won’t endanger the surrounding forest. And with every flame you bury, you also bury a piece of your soul until you feel like there is nothing left that makes you human, until all the pain and despair you’re feeling since listening to Brea’s screams grow quieter and quieter until they were swallowed up by silence has turned into a cold, brazen cry for revenge. But you’re glad this has made you less forgiving, less kind, less … human. Those things would only get in the way of the task ahead of you.

As the last flames go out with a wet hiss, one of Alvorine’s three blue white suns vanishes behind the treetops. You know the other two will be quick to follow. And you don’t have anywhere to spend the night. You wouldn’t mind sleeping with your back propped against a tree. You’ve done it often enough. But it’s winter, and the air is already cold and will be even colder once the other two suns set too. And you just lost every blanket, every single piece of fabric that could keep you warm in a small inferno. You know this is just an excuse, a comforting lie you tell yourself. The truth is you cannot spend a minute longer on this clearing, even if that means you have to walk the four miles to the next settlement. You’re so exhausted you cannot feel your legs, but you don’t care. Anything is better than spending the night here, even collapsing in the middle of the dark forest.

You leave the shovel where you stand and walk to the edge of the clearing, swallowing around the lump in your throat, trying to hold down more tears that are threatening to spill over and down your cheeks. Once you reach the edge of the forest, where the air is a bit clearer, you take a deep breath and turn around to look at the ruins of your home, now nothing more than a black pile of rubble. You have nothing, nothing but the clothes you’re wearing, not even a small trinket to remind you of Brea and the many happy hours you spent here tending to your fields, sweeping the front porch or sitting around the fireplace sharing supper. Even remembering how you worked on menial chores now feels like the most precious memory, one you will hold onto until your last breath. Because even though they have taken everything from you, they can’t take away the memory of Brea’s laugh.

***

They stare at you as you enter the inn. They stare and then look away. They can’t bear your presence because it reminds them of their own guilt. Not one of them came to your aid this morning, not one of them came afterwards to offer help. And you ignore them too because there is nothing left to say. All you want is some food and a dry place to sleep before you turn your back on them forever.

You sit down at a small table in a dark corner. The patrons around you either turn their backs to you or stand up to move their meals and conversations someplace else. It’s as if you’ve been marked. If you had any strength left in you, you would call them out on their behavior. Shit, you would wreak havoc, and only stop when the last one of them is on their knees begging for forgiveness. But you’re glad you’re too exhausted because your sudden hatred for everyone and everything scares you. The villagers don’t deserve to fall victim to your rage. There is nothing they could’ve done. They are just as defenseless and helpless as you. Would you have come to their aid if your positions were reversed? You would like to think so, but just because it gives you a false sense of moral superiority. Deep down you know the truth. Deep down you know you would hide too, praying that you would be spared.

As you dig into your bowl of soup, you realize how hungry you are. Even though everything tastes like ash in your mouth, your stomach is glad to have something to clench around when your thoughts stray to this morning’s events again. And you know there’s no need to punish yourself by refusing your body the nourishment it needs. The opposite, in fact – you know you’ll need all the strength you can get if you’re really going after them.

As you swallow one ashy bite after the other, you let your eyes wander around the room, looking for something that will distract you from your thoughts and your feelings of guilt. Everyone avoids your gaze; everyone acts as if your corner is empty. Everyone … except one stranger.

He sits in a booth close to the bar, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze on you. Or at least you think he’s looking at you – he’s wearing a helmet that covers his entire head, the kind you’ve seen twice before in this corner of the galaxy. He’s a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter, and his presence here doesn’t really surprise you. Even though actually seeing one is a rare occurrence, stories about them are countless.

Alvorine is a planet without laws, a planet that lives by its own rules, so many criminals decide to hide out here while they wait for their crimes to be forgotten. There is no military presence on the planet, no judicial system, no one to catch and punish the wrongdoers. The planet follows the rules of whoever is in charge, which changes frequently, but none of the powerful people have enough resources to enforce those rules anyway. Disputes are often just settled by the parties involved in whatever way they see fit. Only the Mandalorians, who are hired by people on other worlds, by people who have never experienced what it is like to live on Alovrine, are brave enough to get involved in those disputes. You have to admit you do feel a tiny bit curious as to why that particular Mandalorian is here ... who hired him? And who is he hunting?

You tentatively let your gaze wander over his stoic body, over the beskar covering his arms and chest, over the bandolier wrapped around his upper body, over the visor hiding his eyes. If you had one like him on your side, you wouldn’t need to worry about getting your revenge. He would catch those men in the blink of an eye. And if you paid him enough, he would do to them whatever you wanted.

He would cut off their limbs but keep them alive long enough to feel it.

He would make them run for it, give them the illusion of hope, only to crush it like their bones.

He would let you watch, let you choose whatever punishment you saw fit.

You shift in your seat because you can almost smell the blood, you can hear a faint echo of their screams, and it makes you feel light-headed and nauseous, but also elevates you, lifts a weight off your shoulders, even if just for a brief moment.

But he’s not here to do your bidding. And when you lift your head again, he’s gone.

You finish your bowl of soup and then decide to rent a room upstairs for the night. You don’t have a place to stay anymore and it’s too dangerous to start your pursuit while it’s dark. The forest belongs to dangerous creatures during the night, more dangerous than any man out there. And you’re planning on staying alive for just a little while longer.

You stretch and yawn and move to get up when your path is suddenly blocked. It happens so fast you don’t register anything at first apart from the cold, hard beskar chest plate that is level with your face. Its unexpected appearance makes you lose your balance and you fall back down onto the bench you’ve been sitting on. The Mandalorian extends his hand, his fingers closing around thin air. It’s a half-hearted attempt to stop your fall, and it comes too late – your backside has already painfully collided with the hard wood.

“May I join you?” His voice sounds distorted through the modulator in his helmet. He sounds like a machine, not like a being with a heartbeat.

You want to tell him no, want to tell him to fuck off, but for tonight you have no fight left in you. So you nod.

He sits down and you expect to hear the clink of his armor, expect to feel a tremor when his heavy body comes to rest on a stool opposite you. But there is no sound, no movement, and the lack makes you sit up straighter. This isn’t just another cowardly villager you can get rid of by glaring at him … this is an apex predator.

You swallow with some difficulty. “Can I help you?” you ask, your voice level, your eyes resting on his glove-clad hands lying on the table. You figure you’re safe as long as you can see them.

At first, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. Or at least you think he’s looking at you. You cannot see his eyes behind the tinted visor. No matter how uncomfortable the situation makes you feel, you try not to move … you try not to show any sign of weakness, to give him any excuse to lunge across the table and strangle you.

Finally, he answers. “I’m looking for work.”

Now you cannot help but move. You exhale sharply, and with that release of breath comes a release of tension as you slump backwards, your back hitting the wall behind you. You cross your arms over your chest. “I can’t help you,” you say. You don’t have any work to offer him, no work worthy of the skills of a Mandalorian who usually hunts down important people, kings, merchants, people who influence the course of the galaxy’s history. Following a few lowly bandits is not the work he’s used to. You don’t even want to tell him about it because you know he’d take it as an insult. And even if - by some miracle - your quest for revenge would be deemed a worthy cause in the eyes of the Mandalorian, you couldn’t afford his services.

The slightest movement of his helmet is the only reaction your answer gets out of him. Whether he shifts because he’s surprised or because he’s angry, or whether his scalp itches under the metal you cannot tell.

Still, you feel the need to explain yourself. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money.”

Shit, that’s the wrong thing to say. It implies you have work for him, but that you’re too poor to pay him. For all you know, this could be a grave insult in Mandalorian society.

His fingers on the table clench around thin air again. “What can you offer?” he asks.

He doesn’t want to know about the job, the quarry as you know they call it. No, he just wants to know how much he can earn.

“240 credits,” you answer. It’s all you have. You won’t need it anymore.

He tilts his head and you expect him to refuse, but then he says, “That’s enough.”

You’re taken aback, surprised. He’s caught you off-guard. You were fully prepared to see him walk away at hearing the ridiculously low amount of money you just offered. “You don’t even know what the job is,” you protest. The last thing you need is a Mandalorian hunting you down because you’re not paying him enough.

“They told me,” he says with a nod behind him.

You follow the movement with your eyes and see heads whip to the side, gazes wandering downwards, you notice conversations being picked up again. White hot fury fills you, more powerful than the flames that destroyed your house.

“They had no right,” you press out through clenched teeth.

The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything. He sits still like a statue, unwavering, as you fight a small battle with yourself. You should leave without looking back. Messing with a Mandalorian is even more dangerous than the task ahead of you. But he’s offering you something invaluable, something no amount of credits can get you: a chance. If you go alone, you’ll be dead in about a week. There’s no use pretending you’ll get out of it alive. But if you accept the Mandalorian’s help – his services, you have to remind yourself – you might make it through two. You might get to see your dreams of revenge become reality.

You sigh deeply as a heavy weariness settles over you. You’re exhausted, and now that all the adrenaline has left your body, you can feel all the small cuts and bruises today’s labors have left behind. And you feel empty … cold and empty, and utterly alone.

The Mandalorian still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t defend the villagers, he doesn’t tell you what he knows about you or the job, he doesn’t try to persuade you to take him up on his offer, nor does he walk away from it. He just sits there and waits for you to make up your mind, as if it’s all the same to him. And it probably is. Either he goes with you and earns some money, or he doesn’t and looks for work elsewhere. He is completely detached from the whole affair. There is no emotional investment, just a job that needs to be done.

He doesn’t care if you live or die, he just cares if you pay him or not.

This realization is what finally helps you make up your mind. “I want to hire you,” you say, your tongue heavy in your mouth. All you really want is to sleep.

There is no reaction for the longest time but then the Mandalorian nods. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to say something, give him details or explain the specifics of the job to him. But before you can decide what to say next, he stands abruptly.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says before turning around.

Your brain needs a moment to catch up but when it does, you’re already on your feet. “Wait,” you say, and to your surprise the broad, steel-clad man listens to you.

He doesn’t face you, but he stops.

You briefly consider asking him if you can accompany him, but you don’t. You don’t have to ask, you get to decide.

“I’m coming with you,” you tell him.

You tell a stranger, a dangerous one at that, one who makes his money by making other people’s lives a living hell, that you will travel with him through dark, deserted forests where no one will stop him from taking what he wants from you instead of earning it, where no one will come to your aid should he not honor the deal you apparently just made with him. And you don’t care. Because no matter what he will do to you, it can’t be worse than what has already been done.

But all your worries and fears focus in on just one tiny aspect of this whole, fucked-up situation when he says, “I work alone.”

You don’t want to negotiate. This shouldn’t even be up for debate. You’re his employer now, you get to decide how things are done. But if you insist on this, he could just walk away from you. And you cannot let that happen now that you’ve had an idea of what it would be like to have a Mandalorian on your side.

“We’re not a team,” you say. “Think of me as an interested party. As someone who is fascinated by your work.”

You’re not sure if that is the right thing to say. His shoulders move, but he still doesn’t turn around. When he speaks again, you know it was the wrong thing to say.

“I work alone or not at all.”

You don’t want to accept that. You want to be there when those men are punished for what they did. You don’t want to wait around for the Mandalorian to come back, not when you don’t have anywhere to wait around in. You’ve lost everything. Had he talked to the villagers as he claims, he would know this. Or maybe he does. Maybe he knows you lost your home today but doesn’t care. He doesn’t even know the definition of the word home. It means nothing to him.

You take a deep breath. “Then I won’t be needing your services.”

This finally makes him turn around. Everything in you screams for you to take a few steps back, to put yourself out of his reach. You can feel the atmosphere between you shift – he draws back his shoulders, makes himself even taller than he already is. And you know, you just know, that refusing his offer, that backtracking on your agreement is the worst mistake you made tonight.

You’re pretty sure that not honoring a deal is the worst insult to a Mandalorian.

“Going alone will be your death,” he says when you cannot bear the tension a second longer.

“What’s it to you?”

The words are out. They are a challenge, one you didn’t mean to make, one you shouldn’t have made, but it’s done now. Your hand begins to tremble, and your feet grow cold with fear as you prepare yourself for his reaction. You don’t know if he will hit you, tie you up, torture you, or just kill you on the spot. He could do all of these things without having to fear any repercussions. You curse yourself for not having been more careful, for making this fatal mistake, because now Brea will go unavenged. Just because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut, just because you’re stubborn and hot-headed and oh so stupid.

But to your surprise, the Mandalorian shrugs. He lifts his broad shoulders, then lowers them again as your eyes follow the movement. But he’s not giving you anything more: He doesn’t insist on going alone, he doesn’t turn around and leave, he just keeps standing opposite you, motionless, emotionless, until you’re convinced you imagined the shrug.

So you decide to make the next move by removing yourself from this situation before he changes his mind and drags you back to his ship to do whatever he wants to you. You take a deep breath and start to step around him, a movement that is almost impossible to complete in this small space you’re both in. But you attempt it, nevertheless. When you’re level with him, doing your best not to brush up against him so you won’t enrage him, you hear his voice. It’s just one sentence, four words, but for some reason it sounds so much more human than it did when he was opposite you. Maybe it has something to do with the distance between his helmet and your ear, maybe it’s the angle from which the sounds hit your eardrums or maybe it’s because you feel light-headed, dizzy with the realization he hasn’t killed you yet and probably won’t.

He says, “Have it your way.”

You stop right next to him, staring ahead at a group of three men who do their best not to look at you. But you don’t see them anyway. In fact, you don’t see anything at all because the rushing sound in your ears drowns out everything else, even other senses.

“You can come with me,” he says, and it’s the first time he has spoken two sentences in a row. “But you do as I say.” Three. “If I tell you to run, you run.” Four. “If I tell you to get out of the way, you do so.” Five. “And if I tell you to kill, you kill.” Six.

Then nothing, just the faint sound of his deep breaths through the modulator.

Your thoughts are racing, tripping over their own feet like children running down a hill, and they’re unbearably loud. Everything is loud suddenly, from the sound of the barkeep filling a glass to the way that woman over there is chewing her food. The only thing that’s quiet is the last one you would have suspected to be so: the Mandalorian. Now he is waiting for you to say something and as he does, he balls his hand into a fist and then releases the tension again, over and over like a nervous tic, like he needs an outlet for the tension in his body, the tension you have no idea he is feeling until you see his arm flex beneath the fabric covering it.

But, once more, you’re at war with yourself. You don’t know what to tell him. There is still that shimmer of hope on the horizon, the light that makes you believe you stand a chance if you bring him along. But his terms … you’re not sure if you can accept them. He doesn’t know Alvorine or the men you would be hunting half as well as you do. And you’ve never been one for following orders. So if you feel that his assessment of a situation is wrong, you’re not sure you’ll be able to run just because he tells you to.

You have a feeling that defying his orders would be the most dangerous thing you could ever do, even more dangerous than hunting down a group of ruthless bandits who like to torture and kill for fun.

“All right,” you say finally.

His fist unclenches one last time and he exhales slowly.

“But when we find them,” you swallow hard, once, but your mouth is completely dry, “I get to decide what happens to them.”

The Mandalorian turns toward you so abruptly that you almost lose your balance. You lean back and hit your elbow on the wall behind you. The pain makes you curse under your breath.

“Agreed,” he whispers. He sounds like a machine again, as if everything that makes him human is shut away beneath that cold, hard, invaluable beskar steel. You too feel cold suddenly, cold and afraid. “But until then you do as I say. Understood?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. He is too close to you, and drowns out everything else, even the sounds that you considered to be too loud mere seconds ago. If he wouldn’t be wearing a helmet, you would be able to feel his breath on your cheek. He takes up your field of vision almost entirely. You’ve never felt more on display, and yet more hidden. And you know that if you say the wrong thing now, it will have terrible consequences.

So you just nod again.

“We leave in the morning,” he tells you, then turns around suddenly and leaves, his cape trailing behind him.

All sounds come rushing back at once, as if you’ve just emerged out of a pool of water. You release your breath quickly, only now realizing you’ve been holding it. Then you slump back against the wall, a shaking, quivering mess.

***

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[malebellyworld]

So This Is What They Call Love

(Chubby!Thor x Male! Reader)

It was over. War was over. Thanos was over. But the pain wasn’t going to end anytime soon.

As everyone stood there and watched the arc reactor glide across the lake amongst a plethora of delicate flowers, you tried your hardest not to attract too much attention as you held Thor’s large hand in yours. The air was dense with silence and grief, and the only way you found comfort was to lean in closer to the tall god - who carefully wrapped his arm around your waist. Small tears flowed down your face before you could swipe them off with the sleeve of your jacket, Thor seemed to notice this, and planted a kiss on your (h/c) hair.

It was like this until the reactor flowed out of sight, a few walking in different directions, a few stayed put staring at the lake as tears threatened to slip off their eyes. Thor and you stayed put for a few moments, just holding onto each other in a moment of loss and pain, the steady rise and fall of his chest helped maintain composure between the both of you.

“I lost too much…” He said in a deep yet gentle tone. “I lost everything.” His voice hitched a bit as he continued to look out on the lake, tears were welling at the edge of his lower eyelids. You saw this, and took the opportunity to weld your body into his thick frame, feeling the weight of his stomach pushing up against your own. Thor then wrapped his large arms around you when a small sob came out, burying his face in your hair.

“You didn’t lose me,” You said carefully, afraid to further trigger the man into doing something he’ll later regret. “You’ve taken great care of me throughout all that we’ve been through, and here we are, still alive to remember all the times we had with him… and with Natasha.” You glanced up at his red watery eyes, a warm smile donned your face as a means of comfort.

Thor smiled weakly. “At least it was not in vain.” He said, wiping a stray tear with the back of his hand.

“We all are hurt, but at least now we have time to fix things like they were before,” You said, rubbing small circles on his lower back. “We can learn to move on, together.” You rested your head against his broad shoulder, taking in the scent of his bourbon and oak beard shampoo.

You two mainly stayed near the food, since Thor was still in his stress-eating phase, and you didn’t have a problem with it at all, you allowed him to eat the three servings of May Parker’s funeral macaroni and cheese, those ten cheeseburgers, those two handfuls of cookies, and downed it all with punch or beer. You, on the other hand, just stayed there close to him leaning your head against his shoulder. Apart from allowing him to mourn through eating, you’ve grown accustomed to his soft stature; using his belly as a pillow late at night, his hips growing a bit wider, as well as his ass giving a bit of a jiggle with every step he took. These were the only things that made you happy lately, and Thor didn’t seem to care too much at all.

By the time the sun came down, a few were beginning to leave, solemnly saying their goodbyes, others just giving long hugs in silence. After you said your goodbyes, you noticed Thor, as well as the rest of the Guardians talking, but after walking over to them they all made their way back to the Milano parked just a few feet on the side of the lake. Thor turned around and smirked. “I just had a word with the StarLord, I asked if we may join him and his crew.”

Your chest ached at the news. “Woah… okay,” You said, rocking on your heels, trying to grasp on what’s happening. Thor seemed to sense your discomfort, and pulled you in close, encasing you in him to bring yourself back.

“I know it seems too soon, that you just got back to your home planet, but I know that I belong somewhere in the galaxy, not here where I get noticed every time I’m out.” Thor said, struggling on trying to form the correct sentence.

You only nodded. “You’re right. But I’m still going with you, and don’t you dare think that after what happened: my parents dying, you taking me to Asgärd and nearly escaping death so many times that I would want to leave you… you’re practically all that I have left, Thor.” Tears were now falling down your face as you looked him in the eyes.

Thor simply nodded and kissed your forehead. “I wouldn’t dream of it, you belong to me now,” He said, wrapping a thick arm around your waist before guiding you to where the rest of the Guardians were walking. “And I do have a confession to make… I love you.”

Those three words were something you never thought you’d hear from him, the man who still had his heart set on a woman he met years ago and never saw again, the man who wanted to spare himself for her until they meet again, it almost made you feel like you were in a dream. “I love you too.” You said, wrapping your arm around his soft waist, your hand gently rubbing the lower part of his distended belly.

• • •

Hours had passed, but being in space never helped in telling time. You and Thor got well adjusted in your small cabin, a twin bed you both lay on, Thor had you pressed up against his bare body, your hand rubbing circles on the tanned tight belly. He had just finished eating some sandwiches he snuck from the funeral, as well as some Asgärdian ale, a thunderous burp escaped his mouth after you pressed down a little harder on the dome of his belly. “Thank you, I had trouble getting that out.” He said shortly before yawing.

It had been a long day, and the two of you were exhausted ever since you left earth, but after getting some used to being on the Milano, and dealing with Thor and Peter’s childish bantering, you were beyond the point of exhaustion. You gave Thor a kiss, his hand on the back of your head. “So this is what they call love?.” The god asked, his eyebrow raised in curiosity.

You let out a short chuckle before nodding. Thor smiled, relaxing back into the one pillow that was there while his hand gently guided your head down to his warm belly. You snuggled up to him as he drew the blanket over you both, the faint rise and fall of his belly as he breathed was soothing, and soon enough you both were asleep in each other’s embrace as you flew amongst the stars.