#and they're splitting it between them in some way even if not perfectly equally

[coquelicoq]

if we assume that each of the three pillars comes exactly three times for a total of nine times, and we know that the 7th time it was the 40-year guardian, and if we assume that was her final visit and the last two visits will be split between the 30-year guardian and the 8-year guardian, we can calculate how long ago the miharu family made that deal: (40x3)+(30x2)+(8x2)=196 years. 196 years ago it was 1828, but i think this is supposed to be set in the 1980s or 90s, so call it the late 1700s. that's the kind of thing matoba as the head of the matoba clan has to concern himself with - deals with youkai made by people 200 years ago from families that don't even exist anymore. it's an interesting contrast to the thing he says to natsume at the end of this arc, about the 9th visit, which is 30 years away, being someone else's problem. he's embroiled in the past but doesn't even think he'll get to have a future.

[sandsorghum]

3 days late for Valentine's but oh well. I don't know if this is really a proper or full fic, take it as an experimental, extended romantic ramble about Higuruma I suppose(?) I'm insanely smitten with this man >_>

Higuruma's perfectly suited as the protagonist of a whirlwind romance; from his looks, demeanour, proclivities - right down to those carefully ill-disguised vices of his.

Waltzes into a room like so much inclement weather unfurling over the horizon, equally unstoppable, a storm cloud's charisma. A presence which shifts barometric pressures, all that brooding mystique, more the signature of a cyclone or lightning trapped in a bottle.

Nature's favourite paradox - Something rhythmically electric about him, phenomena so familiar its commanding effect is a little eclipsed, the same way we don't really wonder at thunder, or notice a typhoon during the monsoon season.

Overcast irises, analytical scudding. The sort of whiplash wit the most seasoned screenwriters would gnash their teeth over, penetrating candour even without the liquor. They don't know how much whiskey he took to first convince himself he could pull off being "debonair" - or some version of it, whatever that means for him. The devil may care, after all, if he's the one insistent on being its advocate.

Dark and handsome, every woman's type (if that woman was at a bar at 3am on a Tuesday night). Disheveled chic, on a decent evening. Or he'll compel them to romanticize the rumpled effect, on a worse one.

And in those rooms where shadows circle each other and silences tango, with his steadfast irises brandishing a brandy-ripened gleam, they find themselves ever so tempted to pull his lips into a matching shape, to feel his teeth cut into their own mouths like flint.

It's those obsidian orbs, darkness crackling, midnight splintering with forked tongues of lightning, aching for those eyes to peel over them in lacerations and a licking down their throat, swallowing fire and scrying crystalline spheres in tumblers glittering topaz with bourbon drops, to entice the future which blurs into merlot smeared collars and burgundy seared skin.

The ozone thickens, they're coaxed to breathe his smoke. Lungs tarred with his incendiary stare, ventricles paved with ash and asphalt. A speed demon's dalliance, careening too quick to care what's coming around the bend, not when this is how the devil worships her curves; one night and his presence clings to mind, body, soul - Stubborn as blood's claim upon bitumen.

And those without the wisdom to make an earlier exodus will have to drag themselves from the wreck.

Once, someone mumbled against his cheek, "You're nothing so trite as an enigma, Higuruma."

It seemed like a compliment. Perhaps he would have remembered it that way, if it wasn't the final thing they told him.

He could interpret it as true, or true enough - if only as an explanation for the icy spots on his sheets some nights.

Years later, "some nights" turned into nights, and the cold grew past its spot, expanded through the floors and walls of his apartment, then shrunk small enough to make a crevice in his chest. A barely perceptible fissure in a window, a split sill leaking warmth, heat, hunger. Desire diluting into inconvenience, unnecessary pursuits he can't be bothered with. Needs waning into mere wants, or idle fancies. Higuruma gives up first on imagination, then on memory. Fractal tendrils spreading, making rhizomatic ribbons of his heart, hewn with scar tissue crisscrossing thickly calloused roads, his pulse buried beneath a network of welts he can't navigate through. North and South look much the same, the compass twiddles between East and West, whirring on mechanically.

He's noticed the crack now, and everything that spills through it but then, it's always been there, hasn't it? Perhaps he was born with it. Innate as his intellect, his drive, his pragmatism. He's meant to live with it.

"So. No more distractions for you then," you say - and it's an observation, not a challenge, nor even an inquiry. You make it sound so factual, it's almost flattering. But that's not your intention. Higuruma knows that much about you, after all these months of sharing cigarettes, and the odd anecdote.

But then, it's the lilt of your lips, not your tone, that rather suddenly makes him question this auditory trick; why would he equate a logical statement from you about him with praise?

It's an accident, Higuruma is quick to figure; you're always this relaxed around him, your mouth is always this soft with him - he means, always at such ease to part him with soft smiles, as a ray of summer straying unencumbered through the trees, unfoiled by foliage, those dimples of yours dappling against your cheek.

As for the softness of your mouth in a textural context, that doesn't occur to him; You don't seek the clarification, but he makes the correction for himself, in private.

There's a few other things Higuruma doesn't quite notice when he's with you, things that simply seem to slip away; lurid colours, noise, after hours in the office. A few other mysterious disappearances, remarkable for how rapidly they vanish around you, include: his allergies to small talk (previously bordering on neurosis), fifth cups of coffee, his migraines.

It's not as if he's making a conscientious effort to forget the clamouring in his skull, or the leaden rankling weight at the base of his spine accumulating throughout his week; Surly defendants, sullen witnesses, wailing wrathful parents, passive-aggressive prosecutors.

They're all there, proliferating hydras and leviathan problems which leech onto his brain and screech for his attention - but it's strange, how they all shrivel up like slugs on a sidewalk on a summer's day, husks burnt under the brunt of the smirk you flash him, whisking past him in the pantry to sneak a sandwich in his pocket, or an espresso in his hand already automatically stretching towards another alibi.

There are always fresh fires for him to put out (or to be put out by) but somehow, in your presence, all of them burn low, every boiling roiling convolution shoved onto the back of a stove, during the two minute smoke breaks he savours with you.

Matchsticks held up to the magnitude of the sun, there is no comparison. Incandescence rendered invisible, amidst the glow of the cosmos and an orbital burning, bright as the colour of air itself.

Perhaps that is why Higuruma doesn't recognise what's happening.

He's confounded when he realises. Too stunned to be mortified that he wasn't aware of it before. As if it were a piece of fundamental knowledge he should have picked up years earlier - like how there aren't penguins in the Arctic, or that there are eight planets in our solar system.

This should have been equally obvious; Higuruma is in love with you.

For him, it's like noticing that there are two moons in the sky, somehow for the first time. Were they always there? Why didn't he know? What's he supposed to do with this new information?

It's monumental.

No - it doesn't matter.

Not in the minutiae of his day to day, in routines augmenting this warped reality. There's an endless mill of hearings, cross-examinations, plea deals to slog through.

So what if he wakes up in a world askew on its axis, Monday spins into Tuesday spins into Wednesday spins into another mundane month of manslaughter suspects, juvenile delinquents, supercilious plaintiffs, crotchety judges.

You stride by him in the corridors of court buildings, your genial smile flickering in a passing greeting.

There are two moons in the sky.

On a late night commute, serendipity leads his steps to the same subway carriage as you. He doesn't make his way over. You do.

There are two moons in the sky.

Everything has changed, but nothing is different.

(The entire ride, he fidgets with his tie.)

You send him a selfie in the new udon shop he mentioned wanting to visit. The bowl of noodles in frame billowing plumes of steam does nothing to obscure the smugness nestled in the crook of your mouth.

There are two moons in the sky.

Distant satellites, far off in space. They don't affect him. Higuruma's eyes drift shut, phone screen clutched across his chest.

You squeeze into a packed elevator with him one morning, close enough for him to see the dew glistening across your temple while you fuss with your fringe to hide it, and close enough for him to hear you muttering something incriminating about your landlady's cat.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he murmurs. "Not within my earshot at least."

"That's disappointing," you huff, "I didn't think I'd have to censor thoughts of my wicked impulses around you of all people, Higuruma."

And just like that, the gravity of those two moons slams into him.

He thought it'd been a benign lull all this time, that it could continue to be, that errant tug at the tide every so often, the salt tickle at his ribs. But now he's drowning in this brackish burning and churning in his lungs, waves towering over him with the immediacy of his idiocy that he's only just now realising with alarming alacrity.

He can't fight this.

A whirlpool surging through his chest, salt flaying sinew, buffeted by the twin satellites and their gravitational force, oceans ragged with waves dragged away from the very seafloor, an entire planet stripped down to polished ivory and bleached corals.

He never stood a chance.

He looks at you check your watch and adjust your cuffs, before smoothing a palm over the lapels of your blazer tapering primly over your bosom, then tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Higuruma's eyes flick to the digital panel indicating the ascent of lift, floor numbers ticking up up up.

Two moons in the sky, they had never been an abstract fact of his universe, simply because he'd been ignorant, or been ignoring them. Considered them insignificant, dismissing the tremors that were aftershocks in truth, ripples that belied the riptide crashing through him with your every gentle glance, the grace of your gaze.

Two moons in the sky, and he'd believed the heavens were irrelevant, deliberate and obstinate with his irreverence. As if sheer will or blind optimism could make a difference to his emotional reality, an epiphany cratering in on Higuruma with a comet's terminal velocity.

Pretending not to notice how he paid attention to every minor detail about you, those mosaics constituting his own mood; like how he found himself seeking refuge in the crinkling corners of your eyes, counterintuitive in his desperation, trying to catch his breath there before you snatched it away again with your laugh, somehow both a zephyr's theft and gift to lift his spirits.

Deceits he can no longer dismiss, conceits which only compounded the consequences, it was both lunacy and reality. A curious blend of bristling scorn at his own folly and humility bubbles up in his chest, and Higuruma barks, a short and sharp burst of sound puncturing the air.

The fellow elevator passengers purse their lips, even as they're shuffling off onto their floors, leaving just the two of you together.

You level a quizzical glance at Higuruma, you didn't think your comment was that clever; An unwarranted reaction, possibly hyperbole, given the standards of repartee you've grown accustomed to around each other.

Higuruma shakes his head, something glimmering in his gaze. It's nothing you haven't seen before, but this time, when the dazzle of the fin darts back beneath the surface, his eyes seem focused, intent.

"Did you like that udon place you beat me to?"

"Oh, yes. The rave reviews got it right for once. Their service is efficient too," you reply, a little caught off-guard by his apparent non-sequitur.

Higuruma nods once, economical with the movement. It's that same singular, deft jut of his jaw which you've observed he's partial to when he's made a key decision, on something he won't ever back away from. Regardless of how it plays out.

"Then I'd like to take you there this Sunday afternoon."

"This Sunday?" you echo, trying to sound like you're not reeling from hearing Higuruma Hiromi has a concept of weekends which goes beyond staying in to huddle over his latest trial transcripts.

"Yes. It's not ideal but I have to meet a client on Saturday."

"Right." There was the version of the workaholic you knew.

"So Sunday's the earliest available date. 1230pm?"

If nothing else, something about Higuruma's unwavering gaze and his forthright manner is familiar enough to you. And it was just a meal. You've had meals with Higuruma before, albeit in front of vending machines, which was stretching the definition a little thin. Here was an opportunity to revise that then.

You respond, "12pm. We should try to avoid the lunch crowd. One of the regulars told me the average time in line is about 20 minutes though."

"It'll be worth it," he states, looking directly into your eyes, and then Higuruma Hiromi smiles at you.

And you can feel it now, with blinding abrupt clarity, that fresh heat blistering your cheeks, heralding the rising radiance of two new suns, splintering your horizon with a permanent glow.

Thanks for reading!

[taemcains]

do you think requiem's update was weak?

in general, now that there only final episode left, what are your thoughts on season 2?

what a mess.

not one thing i would've predicted about s2 months back is now true, nor does it even feel like the same story. everything i loved about hsr and what made it distinct and unique — the snowy landscape, a desolate small town crumbling under its own history and sins, how the setting perfectly reflected lane's insides, the mystery of the lis, not knowing who we could trust, if we could trust lane herself, her trying to understand and come to terms with the humanity ripped from her — all of it sacrificed for... what?

nothing is eerie, and with how the most horrific events happen so casually and are brushed over in seconds — the shredder, kira's death — the shock value is starting to wear off, and what's left underneath does not hold up. what i'm confused about is why and how it feels like she's both rushing through and at the same time it's snail paced.

i think she has a few major plot points in mind, and is filling the gaps between them with whatever (which is what the entirety of season two has been) which is fine but 1. she could've spread the events out over a longer timeline 2. she could've used this time to deepen our understanding of lane's psyche and her relationships with the lis instead of fitting in every apocalypse fantasy she can conceive of.

everything is stagnant. lane, the plot. i can't even call the lis stagnant because when have they ever felt vivid? they have a defining trauma and she ran with it — dmitry and pavel, greg and emma, and since anna doesn't have any we have a 'i'm a girl and i like girls?!' situation at their grown age in an apocalypse. she's following the same format as s1 for s2, but in s1 it worked as the equal parts allure and wariness made sense for two people born/made closed off and suspicious yet yearning for connection. but in s2, a time to deepen and split open the past, motivations, to provide a solid ground for the basis of their affection, they're staying afloat on physical attraction and half-assed omg their trauma 🙁

a main character like lane deserves character arcs to be treated with as much importance as plot progression. the mercy/no mercy stat feels like a convenient way to wash her hands off actually showing how lane gets to that point. it's unnatural, and it leaves me frustrated with lane who is still the same girl we saw in s1e1.

what has changed in two seasons, both plot and character wise? if s1 was utilized to set the framework for the rest of the story, such as by giving us glimpses of her childhood, then s2 should've delved into the emotional aspect of it. while the impact of it on her views and relationships is shown, nothing ever seems to challenge it. events pass by without a reverberation in her soul; all her inner monologues are some vague opinions she believes as fact about humanity and its nature and nothing, not the plot, not the lis, ever seem to make her question it. i'd thought the whole point of writing a character like her in a setting with high-risk, deadly, tense situations is to force her out of the shell she confines herself to, and make her look at her own light as well as darkness. what is the point if she's never forced to confront them?

so of course the romance routes are lacking in truth and depth. cain has the excuse of subtext and parallels and soulmateism, but what about the rest? i don't know too much about dmitry, but greg's route is both painful and baffling. on what basis does he dream of domestic bliss when he knows as much about her as any random member of the squad? at the end of s2 (2/3rd into the book!) their romance is still based off 'you're a fantasy, you're my reality.' while cute, is that all she can think of for them? some vague unexplained attraction and lane liking to be desired? greg has nice shoulders and a sister, then what?

she could've shown them seeing an aspect of themself in her (where i assumed dmitry's route was heading), or sympathise with her, but how are they falling for her without knowing her depths? based off an inexplicable attraction alone. more than halfway through. it's so unbalanced. does she even like them? does she even know them? (yan 😴) does it make sense for a mistrustful character like lane to fall for some rando? with cain, she shows affection in her own way but greg's scenes are just pitiful.

no need to speak of anna. i'd argue someone shouldn't be telling you to not be homophobic, but let's set that aside for now and look at writers who have at the very least heeded the fandom's criticism and concerns and took a step towards providing better representation. i don't care what vision she has (which isn't even counting how anna hasn't been given a consistent personality – why would she pull away in disgust when she made it abundantly clear she's into women in s1?) if the people you're attempting to represent tell you it's problematic and uncomfortable, you listen. it reeks of arrogance on her part.

the -2 female characters in this book get such... strange treatment. anna appears to plot dump about the infection, or be lane's walking wardrobe. kira... not to be the friend that's too woke but every single man in the squad sustaining some kind of injury and bouncing back but kira had to be explicitly sobbing and sniveling to lane for a chance to live, and still die, after that whole 'i'm going to move on' epiphany? nick and noah who were kidnapped and held by the cultists for forever, lestor who got eyeballed by an infected, but it was kira who had to die by falling into a pit?

the only defense i hear anymore is of the plot and it's unique, twisted charm and. well! we haven't made headway in an entire season, and keep getting dragged off into useless side plots. as a friend @cainlane 🤍 aptly put it,

i was talking to a mutual today ab how funny the plot looks when the entirety of s2 follows the formula of squad finds out something and goes there -> cult is (and by what means i have no idea) already there -> they fight -> cult goes away (once again by what means idk)

the foreshadowing is ridiculously vague, all required information is somehow conveniently preserved in documents, and it's getting exhausting to read it all over again every update, when we all know how the scintillating potential of s1 could've carried over into s2.

i tried very hard to think of a positive, something that has improved from s1 and nothing comes to mind. oh well. i'm still going to be (tentatively) seated for the rest of the book but know it's with a heavy heart.

also the diamond choices are ridiculously expensive for nothing ❤️ suck my dick

[bloodmaarked]

the catch // yrsa daley-ward

first published: 2025 [to be released 10 july] read: 03 april 2025 - 07 may 2025 pages: 352 format: e-book [ARC]

genres: fiction; adult; literary fiction; science fiction; family favourite character(s): dempsey least favourite character(s): didn't have one first line(s): "it is hot. too hot for the twenty-fourth of june." *subject to change

rating: 🌕🌕🌕🌕🌑 thoughts: i wasn't sure what to expect going into the catch, but wow - this was an entertaining, super trippy ride. i fell in love with the writing style from the get-go; it was poetic and evocative, infused with a dark, dry humour. the story itself took unexpected twists and turns, and while i wasn't entirely sure what had truly gone down by the final page, i still had an enjoyable time. this isn't a "no plot, just vibes" read, but the vibes were immaculate and kept me engaged.

the plot surrounds two twin sisters, clara and dempsey, whose lives are thrown into upheaval when one day clara spots their long presumed dead mother, serene, in a department store. not only that, but serene appears to be 30 years old - the same age as the twins. the wildness only begins there, because the journey we're taken on is trippy and confusing and science fiction-y, told through the perspectives of two unreliable narrators. there were so many unexpected elements, and by the end, i kept questioning what i had read, what was real and what wasn't. i mean this all in the best way, though. it wasn't a frustrating kind of confusion, or the confusion that arises when an author just doesn't know what story they're trying to tell. it was all very much intentional, and it made for one of the most interesting reading experiences i've had in a while.

the characters were great, particularly clara and dempsey. i loved the characterisation of the twins who, because of being split up in the care system, ended up on two completely different life paths. there is a scene where serene observes the similarities between the twins, and clara mishears her when she says they share the same ears as them sharing the same fears. that honestly sums the sisters up very well because, even though they are different and, for the most part, estranged, they are also equally traumatised by the loss of their mother under the circumstances, the lack of knowledge about their father, and growing up in adoptive families that were abusive in different ways. this was explored while keeping clara and dempsey feeling like two very distinct characters, and i thought that was amazing. serene was a lot more enigmatic, and i still don't know what to make of her, but i thought she played off the two sisters brilliantly, and it was cool how her presence affected them in different ways.

the writing absorbed me in from page one. it was poetic on the page, yet accessible, and i fell in love. the way it was used to explore the darker themes, such as the twins' depressive thoughts, was perfect. i would love to read another book from yrsa daley-ward just to experience more of her writing.

and can i just end by saying the covers are stunning? both for my edition and the alternate cover i've seen, they're both gorgeous and encapsulate the vibe of the book perfectly. and this is such a weird thing to bring up as well, but i loved the typeface in the book 😭 especially the title headings, i was obsessed for some reason. amazing all round.

overall, i'm so glad i got to read the catch. while the dazed and disorienting narrative may not be for everyone, i really hope it gets positive feedback once it comes out this summer. i'll personally be keeping an eye out for more from yrsa daley-ward, and i may even grab myself a physical copy of the catch when i can. massive thanks to Cornerstone, Merky Books and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced digital copy in exchange for an honest review!

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 18/07/2023

The expanse of meme in past was split, A fiendish trap has now been set; Behind a tree the villains sit, Terror of sport, the Robbie's Net.

Season 5 Featured on: The SiIvaGunner Spooktacular Halloween Horror Special: Curse of the Fallen Angel

Ripped by Blookerstein

In deciding what would be todays post, I had to make a REALLY hard choice between this rip and the equally as excellent When the Impnosktor is Void, both by the same ripper made under the same event. They're both absolute titans of Season 5 and rips that never leave my mind, but I have to play toward my We Are Number One bias just this once.

You may recall (or have just seen, thanks to the reposts) that I covered a We Are Number One post very early on into this blog's life, throwing bunches of praise onto Nape Mango's ability to wield it in Chillin' Like a Villain. While I did touch on just how cool its been for the YTPMV community to have the entire WANO stems and source files available for use, what I wish I'd sold home even more is what that has LED to: A bunch of WANO arrangements with moods and theming wholly different from the original's ska silliness. That's of course notable in Chillin' Like a Villain itself having a far happier, more holiday-cheerful vibe to it due to its original song's instrumentation, and on the complete opposite end of that you find...todays rip, that I won't be spelling out the name of for obvious reasons. This time, shit's SINISTER.

Through the mixing of WANO's instrumentals and the source track's organ backing, this insane boss theme manages to retain almost every aspect of its original oppressive mood despite being sung by Robbie Rotten from LazyTown. Its an absolute treat to the ears to try and decipher what parts of the original WANO are being used where in the song, so densely layered together specifically to create that same dark atmosphere. I think my favorite part althesame is the vocals - in a way, the goofiness of Robbie's original performance starts to fade out of focus thanks to this aforementioned atmosphere, leaving nothing but the overacted villain role performing with full sincerity. Near the middle of the song there's some really clever and well thought out spacing and added reverb to the vocals to specifically make them sync up with the hits of the original song, and it just hits so perfectly. Its not a mere mashup or an automated conversion, but filled with tons of these small little tweaks and layers of depth to ensure the song's full potential is realized.

I remember both this rip and its other potential candidate for the day having a sort of reverance upon being uploaded, due specifically to the sparceness of Hollow Knight rips on the channel before them. The SiIva team have a tendancy of responding to fan requests in a very tounge-and-cheek way, which they'd done previously in the season with Hollow Knight as well, but on this day - the Grimm Trouppe's 4th Anniversary, in the midst of the season's Halloween event - everyone was celebrating with genuine quality. Blookerstein is one hell of a guy to committing to this anniversary as hard as he did, and trust me, he WILL show up again in the future.

[potionofinstantdamage]

Hi! First off, love your art style, it's so pretty, and the way you draw characters is so unique that even the ones you draw for fandoms could be seen as your own oc's but also somehow perfectly convey the characters you are drawing at the same time! (I hope that makes sense-)

I've recently discovered your Noir AU and I must admit it's definitely one of the more unique aus I've seen in a long while. I love how you draw the characters, they're designs are delicious (/pos)!

If it's not to much to ask, would you be willing to share more info regarding the AU? Things like (non-revealing of course) backstories for how some of the characters or gangs came to be, any current rivalries ongoing between groups, or if there is any, any ships? This is all (/nf) of course, so only do so if you want to, I hope you have a good day! 8D 🍓

thank you :^D!!

for noir info.... hrmmm. cleo used to work for doc -- he was the one who patched her up after she lost an eye -- but she was always too ambitious (some would say power-hungry) to be content as someone's right-hand-man and she eventually split off from the hive to start her own gang. joe was a civilian who had worked up some unfortunate debts due to equally unfortunate circumstances, and cleo saw his potential and convinced him to join her in her efforts to build a name for herself. noir au is very wobbly in my mind in terms of format but if i ever wrote like, a longfic about it, cleo and joe would probably be the main pov characters.

other than that, i honestly wish that i could say i had more notable character backstories? mumbo and grian are childhood friends, doc and keralis have A History, ren's been building up his own ramshackle logging company for the past several years. keralis was born into money and uses it very irresponsibly and has been married many times bc people keep trying to murder him for his wealth and then leave either because he hypnotizes them out of it or because they find out how batshit insane he is and decide its not worth the effort. stress and doc are cousins, stress used to work for doc as his medic but quit because they butted heads over many things and later joined up with cleo as a kind of petty revenge against him. XB is just a mysterious somewhat-wealthy guy who just kind of... showed up one day. hypno's lived in the city all his life and mostly struggled to break even selling weapons until he and XB started working together and quickly found out that they could run MAD schemes together with their combined methods. cub and scar's backstory is currently a mystery even to me, but they've known each other for many years and will know each other for many more.

as for rivalries between groups, i mean, they're all direct competitors, so none of them like each other, but at the hypothetical start of the story the standings would be like... the main three current biggest gang powers in westport are the hive, the boneyard, and boatem. the hive has been around for years and years and has been deathly effective all that time. the resident empire, etc etc. everyone knows not to fuck with them. the boneyard is far more recent, but has proven to be a shockingly effective power in its own right, which is a threat to the hive's standings, so there's kind of a bitter past-fueled competition going on there. boatem, for its part, was not taken seriously at all until recently, when the previous leader died and left his protege in charge -- mumbo -- and while mumbo isn't a very good leader in his own right, he's really just the puppet front for grian, who, with pearl and impulse backing him up, is raising boatem through the ranks at a frightening pace. so the main conflict of the nonexistent plot might be boatem's rekindled emergence and the consequences of that.

and as for ships, ehhhh, if i ever write some kind of longfic there probably won't be any like, Canon Ships, it'll just be up to reader interpretation. this is mainly because 1. indecisive, 2. not very interested in writing romance most of the time, 3. want to appeal to a wider audience, and 4. what i often jokingly refer to as "queerbaiting my audience" in which i imagine im writing an ambiguously homoerotic published novel and construct entirely subtextual relationships between my characters because it entertains me dearly. for that matter even outside of longfic there aren't really canon ships in noir au persay. idk man. joe and cleo are up to whatever joe and cleo are always up to. ren is a whore for the mafia (doc) there's no getting around that one but the extent of his whoreishness is based on my mood. doc and keralis are 300 pages deep into a novel published in 1950 with the most insane enemies to lovers homoerotic subtext youve read in your life but again the extent of this is based on my mood. xb and hypno's relationship is up to viewer interpretation [looking directly into the camera mouthing "they're gay"]. i think at one point i invented a crackship between pixlriffs and xisuma, who co-run the newspaper that martyn is a reporter for, but i genuinely do not remember why the hell i was doing that. and also pix and xisuma have literally no story relevance anyway. also cub and scar are gay in the way where it's inherently gay to run a speakeasy together.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING DEEPER (a mandalorian story)

CHAPTER 1: There's Always Three Things

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, hints of voyeurism

SUMMARY: HELLLOOOOOOOOOOO AND HAPPY SOMETHING DEEPER SATURDAY MY LOVES!!! this is the first chapter in Something Deeper, the

second installment in the Something More series. in this one, Nova is her established character, they're still trying to save the galaxy, and the spice is racketed up even hotter ;) more notes at the end, as always, and until then, ENJOY!!!

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY!!!! this chapter is quite the whirlwind, i hope you love it! more notes at the end as always <3

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Novalise Djarin is absolutely certain of three things. One, that the strongest thing in this galaxy is the green alien baby she calls her son; two, that her gorgeous, commanding bounty hunter husband is an excellent leader but a fantastically horrible diplomat; and three, that she is by far the most skilled person she knows at getting out of a particularly sticky situation.

Nova is excellent at getting out of things, period��her husband would argue that she’s an expert at getting the both of them out of their clothes and Mandalorian armor, respectively—but she excels at somehow, miraculously, wriggling herself free from between a rock and a hard place. And, right now, the asteroid belt that makes up Polis Massa is the abundance of rock, and the TIE fighters right on the tail of Kicker’s infamously sporadic power is the hard place.

They’re relentless. Nova squints her eyes, making the starry backdrop of the Outer Rim split and fractal into a thousand more glittering balls of light. There’s only three of them, this time, but this is the closest they’ve ever dared to follow her to Mandalore, and there’s something dangerous and electric kicking around somewhere inside of her chest. They keep shooting, jarring bolts of blasts that do their best to try and knock down Kicker’s very stubborn shields.

“Stupid,” Nova whispers, her breath low, the ghost of a smile stretching across her face, even in the crush of space. A year ago, she wouldn’t have recognized herself—this fearless, feisty pilot, the fully-formed reconstruction of the girl she used to be. On the ground, even with the Force on her side, she’s clumsy, an amateur. But up here? This is where Novalise shines. She has the upper hand out in the stars, and, besides, even if she were being chased by an artillery of a hundred more, there’s reinforcements on her old, lovable beater of a starship.

“Surrender,” one of the mechanical, ordered voices comes over the comm, and Nova giggles to herself in the darkness.

“Does that ever work?” she asks, flipping the right switches to make Kicker drop down and over itself, sending one of the fighters careening into the nearest asteroid. It doesn’t deter whoever’s in the cockpit for long, but it’s enough to utilize her infamous barrel roll to twist up and away from the other two fighters close in tow. “You know, asking impolitely for whoever you’re chasing to surrender?”

Silence. Nova smiles again, biting her teeth down against the fullness of her bottom lip. Her stomach grumbles. It was a sleepless night and a long day she spent back on Hoth before making the short trek back home—Mandalore, which isn’t the kindest of planets to call your own but is undoubtably better than some of the other alternatives—and the broth-based soups and dried legumes that frequent the base there are not nearly as filling or delicious as the feasts that being Mandalorian royalty entail. Still nothing from the other fighters, which is perfectly fine, because she’s about to feign dropping into warp and leading through a wormhole that’ll lead nowhere but the barrenness of the Mid Rim, but usually, they’re much more demanding.

“Surrender,” comes the voice again, and Nova sighs, cracking her neck, readjusting the familiar, worn helmet still stamped with the orange Rebel insignia. Kicker beeps angrily, and she lends a soft hand to the worn metal of her beloved ship’s dashboard, coaxing the metal to just go a tiny bit further.

“I’m just saying, you might have a stroke more of luck if you’re a little bit nicer. Less demanding, more asking. Who am I surrendering to?” she asks, and even though the TIE fighters are still volleying an array of blasts at the back end of the starfighter, they’re not quick to identify themselves. Nova squints again, catching a glimpse of one of them as she swoops to avoid a larger chunk of asteroid. It was stupid to come here, she admits internally to herself, even though it makes her heart drop a tiny bit inside of her chest. All she wanted for the hours she spent on Hoth was to get back to Din, to hold Grogu against her heartbeat for as long as she could before she reluctantly had to relinquish him to the one and only Luke Skywalker, but when Wedge called, it seemed urgent. “Hello?” she whispers, only to dare the strange, affected voice on the commlink to rattle back across the stars.

“Andromeda Maluev,” the comm blurts, and the sound of her name—her birth name, still heavy and pearlescent with the weight of losing her parents—makes Nova’s heart drop even further. Everyone left in this galaxy that Nova associates with—Din Djarin, Luke Skywalker, Wedge Antilles, Bo-Katan Kryze, Boba Fett, Cara Dune, Greef Karga, and every person she met along her trip with Din through the galaxy and back—knows that Andromeda Maluev is dead, and that Novalise Djarin rose from her ashes. But every single bounty Nova’s had on her head has slammed that full weight of her first identity back into her bones, like a brand, like something she can’t escape. It makes the force of people after her—the shadowy legion of the obscured First Order, and all of their cronies—feel just a bit more insidious.

“Not my name,” she volleys back, but the brace in Nova’s voice doesn’t sound like anything dangerous, anything sharp enough scare them off. “I’ve ran into enough of you by now for you to get it right.”

“We’ve got you surrounded. Surrender or be killed.”

Nova snorts. There’s three fighters on her tail, and they’re nowhere close to surrounding her. It’s so ludicrous, so unexpected, that the laugh catapults out of her mouth and echoes in the small hull of Kicker. She wishes Din and Grogu were here to equally share in her utter disbelief—she can practically see the helmet cocking and the baby’s giant, intuitive eyes crinkling—but she dodges another set of shots, which are almost completely aimless and hardly land on the tail end of the ship. “Be killed?” she repeats, swerving and ducking through another large chunk of asteroid, seamlessly, barely paying any attention to the terrain around her. She doesn’t need to. Even in a field this littered, space is Nova’s strongest suit. She could do this with her eyes closed. “As far as I can see, you’ve landed what, three shots? I don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere near close enough to even do damage to my ship. You’re three fighters strong, and one of you has a wounded wing. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“The First Order demands your services.”

Nova’s blood runs ice-cold. It’s a familiar request at this point, but still, the name sends a very real shiver all the way down her spine, rocking and rattling her vertebrae. She swallows, blinking furiously, avoiding the tailspin of a smaller asteroid as she lurches out of the chase. That wasn’t the lowly voice of some sorry stormtrooper that got the shitty job of trying to wrangle her out of the skies. It sounds evil. Dark. Mirthless. It wasn’t Moff Gideon’s voice, but it was something close to the memory of the dark timbre of it. Fear forms wet and cold on the back of her neck, curling up through the bottom of her hairline, seeping underneath the warmth of her standard, Rebel-orange jumpsuit. She swallows, but the air feels like it’s evaporating out of her mouth.

“The First Order,” she manages, finally, trying to detach the nervousness from her voice, “will not be getting my services. Not now, not ever.”

It’s only been two weeks since Din’s coronation. Two hectic, packed weeks in which her big, brave bounty hunter boyfriend got forcibly turned into a very reluctant diplomat under the watchful—and perhaps slightly resentful—eye of Bo-Katan Kryze. Din never seemed to really need sleep the way a normal human being did, but Nova watched as the bags under his eyes darkened and grew as he spent long hours in the war rooms, buried somewhere in the giant, stark palace they’d moved into, eyelids pressed into the warm hollow of her neck in the early hours of the morning when he made it to bed at all. In the meantime, Nova was spending every single precious second of her waking hours with Grogu, who she knows is on the verge of needing to go back to Jedi training, trying to absorb as much of his small, green light as she possibly can. When Wedge called the other day, though, he sounded desperate, which didn’t happen often, and she had wrenched herself away from her family on Mandalore to try and stop the impending doom of the First Order on Hoth, but it had been yet another dead end. Polis Massa was a pit stop—an impulsive, foolish one—because Nova ran furiously out of the library archives the last time she was here, and she wanted to pick up books on the history of Mandalore for Din and herself, and a small star of yearning in her chest was to spend a little more time in the shelves like her father used to before the Empire killed him.

And as much as Nova wants to put Andromeda Maluev to rest, longing for the days when she was tiny and growing up on Yavin with her parents alive and happy beside her outweighs the alternative. She swallows through the lump in her throat and closes her eyes to shake the starshine of her past lives away. The time to focus on getting the hell out of here is now, all yearning and ache can blossom fully formed when she’s away from the reaches of the First Order, safely back on Mandalore.

“Surrender,” the voice says again, only this time it is the timbre of some sorry stormtrooper and not the one that still haunts her nightmares, and Nova sighs, flipping all of the switches on Kicker’s dashboard to feint left and fake drop into hyperspace.

“I’ll ask you again. When,” she exhales, straightening up in the pilot’s chair, “has that line ever worked?”

“We are granted permission to obliterate your starfighter under Order Number—”

“Obliterate?” Nova interrupts, stifling another giggle. “Is the Order giving you vocabulary lessons? I’m impressed, trooper—”

“Andromeda Maluev,” the voice comes again, and Nova tries her absolute hardest to ignore the pulsing and aching in her heart that comes with the punch of her previous identity, “you are to surrender to the First Order. Failure to comply will result in termination. This is your final warning.”

Nova sighs, pulling Kicker to a temporary halt. If she stares, the ghostly outline of Mandalore, embedded forever in her memory, will flash in front of her vision, even out here in Polis Massa’s gigantic asteroid belt. She knows that the troopers, whoever they are, whoever they’re working for, will understand that she’s intending to go straight back to the strange palace she’s started calling home, but she also knows that any force in this galaxy, no matter how dark, no matter how strong, is smart enough to know they can’t take on a planet full of Mandalorian warriors without all the strength they’ve got. From the way Kicker is paused in the middle of space, she knows it looks like she’s about to surrender, or at least like she’s weighing her options heavily, and the satisfied, smug silence of the trooper on the other end of the commlink is enough to assure herself that her plan—hasty and rash as it may be—is working.

“Okay,” she whispers, feigning resignation, into the comm. “I understand I’m dealing with forces a lot stronger than I am. I don’t surrender, but I’ll come with you. But first,” she whispers, silencing the clicking that the switches to go into hyperdrive with the muffler of her right hand, “I need to tell you something.”

There’s a pause. “So be it. Reeling you in via tractor beam now.”

The unmistakable whirring of a ship forcibly being dragged onto another’s power starts up, and Nova swallows, pushing the second to last toggle into place, keeping a steady eye on the rocketing meter on her dashboard that indicates the ship is fully charged. Under the noise of Kicker being pulled into the largest TIE fighter’s proximity, the beeping goes unnoticed by the other party. Nova slips her hand off the switch and finds the necklace Din gifted her back before he accepted his role of Mand’alor, pressing hard enough that the symbol embosses itself into her thumbprint. “First of all,” she starts, trying her hardest to keep her voice level and even and not reveal a single ounce of the glee that she’s concealing, “my name hasn’t been Andromeda Maluev in a decade. You want me to answer to you, to answer to the Order? You’ll call me Novalise.”

The sigh from the trooper is short, clipped. “Noted.”

“Second,” Nova continues, leveling her jaw with the center of the dashboard, watching every single thruster lock itself into gear, “I am married to the galaxy’s most ruthless bounty hunter. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than the word surrender to scare me into submission.”

Kicker grinds to a halt in midair. Nova straps herself in tighter, just enough to ensure that she won’t be sent reeling across the perfectly aligned dashboard when she breaks free of the tractor beam and shoots Kicker straight into the stars, back to Mandalore, back to Din, back home, and steels herself.

“Stop,” another voice says, tinny and nervous over the speaker. “She’s—she’s screwing with us, sir—”

“I’m assuming,” the original trooper speaks, trying to intimidate Nova with the ice in his voice, “that there’s a third thing?”

“Oh, there’s always a third thing,” Nova volleys back, eyes catching the light of what’s been powering up the entire time the troopers thought she was weighing her options and deciding the First Order’s clutches sounded warm and delightful, after all. “Not only am I a commander in the New Rogue Squadron, not only am I the wife of the reigning Mand’alor, I contain multitudes.” She grins, her teeth bared and gleeful in the low light of space, knowing this is by far the most badass exit she’s ever attempted. “And do you know what that means?”

The trooper in the largest fighter sounds defeated. This was barely even a scratch compared to the narrow scrapes Nova’s been entangled with before. She bites down on her bottom lip, cracking her neck, taking advantage of Kicker’s stationary position to break free of the tractor beam, and as the angry clamor of the three troopers in the fighters trying to reel the ship in starts to filter across the commlink, Nova does what she does best.

She barrel rolls the entirety of Kicker, flipping downward and over so that she’s facing the three fighters, staring through her Rebel helmet at the floodlights drenching her whole ship in florescence that shouldn’t be possible in space, and shows every single one of her teeth, smile stretched so far across her face that it hurts, “My starfighter is Rebel-made, sure, but it’s gotten a few upgrades in the past few weeks. The only reason you got this far was because I was waiting to unload the artillery loaded up in the guns that are pointed at you right now. And you know what they’re made of?”

“All aim to kill—”

Nova can’t resist. She tries, but this whole royalty thing, the whole leading the New Rogue Squadron thing, this whole being a Jedi thing—well, all of it has been tallied up enough to recognize she can stand to be the tiniest bit cocky to the people trying to kill her or bring her in as a slave. She raises a single middle finger, making sure that the pilot of the largest fighter catches her elongated, elegant bird with the floodlights. “Same thing as my resolve is. Beskar, bitch.” And with that, she punches all the thrusters, Kicker dazzling and evaporating through hyperspace, gone before the first trigger even pulls.

Mandalore is quiet. There’s a strange serenity that lives on the horizon, pulsing and shifting, but never quite tangible from the planet’s surface. It’s hard to look at the place where the greatest warriors in the galaxy are born and bred and not see anything but a whetted, sharp arena, but so much of this planet is soft around the edges. The blue architecture in the capital, for one—something Nova knows is much newer than the ancient history of the land here—and there’s a silence here that teeters on eerie but mostly stays in a strange sense of tranquility.

It doesn’t hold the feeling of abandonment, like so many other planets do these days, but it seems like the rest of the world around the city is disconnected. Inhabitable. Nova parks Kicker in the nearest landing bay, watching the strange haze that hangs over the atmosphere, trying to find other places where lights are lit, where people live, but so much of the planet is quiet. It’s the same sort of stark contrast that Yavin had when her and Din got engaged all those months ago, or Hoth’s anesthetic brutality, but Mandalore’s environment feels different.

And, Nova reasons, as she disembarks off Kicker’s gangplank, running the tips of her fingers over the Rebel insignia hidden under the outermost coat of white and silver detailing, it’s likely because this isn’t home. Not yet, anyway, and it might never have that feeling of belonging that the Crest did, that Kicker does, that her and Din found on Naator and Kashyyyk and Nevarro. Nova climbs the marble steps to the palace, smiling at the stoic Mandalorians stationed outside as she slips up the stairs and through the main entrance, immediately cutting sideways up the hallways to the left, watching as her shadow traipses behind her in the blue dusk, trying to not stake stock of the silence that most of the building holds. In true Mandalorian fashion, their holding cells are built into the palace itself, alongside training arenas and the war room where Din spends most of his time. Nova moves as quietly as she can through the halls, up the other marble staircase, and when she bursts into the chambers twice the size of the starship that she and Din usually call home, a gurgle from Grogu on the floor makes the entire day turn around.

Nova grins, dropping to her knees. Grogu beams up at her, his big bug eyes full of nothing but love, and she scoops him up, pressing his tiny, warm body against her chest. It chases away all the chill of Hoth and the crush of space, and for a second, she just runs her fingers over the top of his fuzzy head, pressing kisses to his green skin, soaking in every second she can.

“I missed you, lovey,” she murmurs, and Grogu’s giant green ears perk up. “What did you do in your day here?”

Grogu pulls away from her chest, pressing a three-fingered hand against Nova’s temple. The visions that used to terrify her, the ones Grogu put into her head, filled with screaming and loss and desperation, fall away as he shows her the bath he took, the feast he got for dinner, sitting on Din’s lap while in the war room. As he drops his touch, Nova grins down at him, all teeth and excitement, all of the panic and isolation of the last few hours melting away.

“He terrorized Bo-Katan,” a familiar voice rings out from behind her, and Nova pushes herself up on the heels of her hands, her heart flipping over with the same butterfly menagerie Din’s always given her. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop.”

“Hi,” Nova whispers, giddy, watching as Din steps forward out of the shadows. It doesn’t matter how many times she’s been lucky enough to gaze over his handsome face, it doesn’t matter that he’s been spending more time helmetless here on Mandalore, every time she sees him, it’s like the first time. In the moonlight, obscured by the permafrost of Mandalore’s blue twilight, Nova’s eyes roam over the valleys and mountains of her husband’s face. His hair is the length it was when he proposed, long enough for the ends to curl up gently. His mouth, even in the near darkness, is pink and gorgeous, his lips slightly parted in the unconscious way they do when Nova’s the only thing in his eyeline. His scruff is there, long enough to scratch her chin—or her thighs—up something terrible, and the ghost of the mustache she used to feel in the dark is strong, dark, manicured. His eyelashes are longer than the length of her thumbnails, and his eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes, soften around the edges the second Nova smiles.

“Hi,” Din echoes, bridging the gap between the two of them with two quick strides, and Nova feels her breath catch in her throat. Din’s hands, gloved in black and twice the size of her own, balance on the curve of her hips, his fingers digging into the loops of her orange jumpsuit, pulling Nova over her own feet, anchoring her body right up against hers. The way he kisses after only being separated overnight is desperate, longing, filled with words he doesn’t always know how to say. Nova leans into his embrace, head fuzzy, waterlogged, like everything else fades away. It does. She loses track of time, how many minutes pass, the stars behind her eyes dazzling, supernovae, regenerated.

When they break apart, Nova’s hand trails over the regalia Din’s wearing. It’s his familiar beskar, the armor he’s worn since they first met, but it’s been cleaned, and underneath, where his typical black undergarments used to cling to his build, he’s wearing Mandalore blue. It’s the color of the skyline at dusk, a faded azure that signals something more than warrior, something a shade closer to royalty. The material is lightweight, practical. It’s the same kind that every single one of her matching outfits are made out of—Mandalorians don’t have much use for aesthetic, it just gets in the way of practicality—but it seems more vibrant on Din. “How was today?” she whispers into the hollow of his mouth, and Din exhales, low and slow, tipping his bare forehead against hers.

“Long without you,” he admits, his voice barely anything. Nova’s eyes search his deep brown ones, trying to figure out where his exhaustion is hiding. “Come with me. I—I want to show you something.”

Nova nods, catching sight of the dirty orange jumpsuit stretched over her tan trousers, the black tank top she’d spent the past year replacing every time Din tore it off of her body. “I should change.”

Din’s eyes flick hungrily over her silhouette, and when he speaks again, his voice is husky. “No,” he says, finally, digging his thumb slightly into the flesh on her hip, “you shouldn’t.”

The trek downstairs is quiet. Both of them move in the shadows, lulled into an easy silence, their hands knitted together in between their two bodies. Nova watches as the low light of the corridor flickers as they cross over another staircase and down a side hallway, entering through the war room by the back entrance instead of the front, even though there’s no one left in here to try to hide from.

Nova’s been in here at least ten times, but the decoration steals the breath straight out of her mouth every time. A glittering holotable, top of the line, at least twenty years more advanced than the one on Hoth, sits in the direct center. The ceiling looks more like a cathedral than it does anything else, which is perfectly fitting for a group of people who treat fighting as their religion. Nova looks up through the sheer domed ceiling, watching as the moody dusk falls into a silent, quiet night. Stars dazzle and shine from above, and even though they’re not nearly as poignant and powerful down here as they are out in space, the direct line to the cosmos is bright enough to make her throat ache. “Wow,” Nova whispers, voice barely anything at all, staring straight upward, mapping constellations under her breath. Eventually, her eyes slide off of the ceiling, traveling over the careful architecture, the shrines in the corners, the murals painstakingly hand-painted across the circular walls, all of beskar and helmets and Mandalorian history. It feels so ancient, even though the palace was recently rebuilt, reconstructed from nothing during both of their lifetimes. She’s been in here a handful of times before, but never as night is on the horizon. There’s something transcendent about this place, this holy center of Mandalorian worship. Something deeper, something divine enough to make a Jedi believe in them, too.

Din’s standing across the other end of the holotable, fidgeting with the controls until a map of the galaxy sparkles to life in front of them. Through the light, Nova watches the peaks of her husband’s face getting caught in the reflections, letting everything except his face blur out to stardust. “Did you get anything from Wedge?” he asks, and Nova blinks her eyes to refocus on the map. “Anything new? Anything…useful?”

Quietly, Nova shakes her head. “He thought—he called me back to Hoth because of a prison break in one of the sectors Cara doesn’t have jurisdiction in, or I’d suspect she’d have already taken care of it. It was small, just a few criminals with nothing more than petty charges breaking out of a hold somewhere, but he thought it might be related to—”

“The First Order?”

“Me,” Nova finishes, quietly. Her eyes narrow just a fraction, refocusing on Din’s silhouette through the glitter of the galaxy between them. “Yeah, the Order. We couldn’t prove anything, but I—”

“You feel something is coming,” Din interrupts gently, stealing the words right out of her mouth, bracing his strong, gloved hands on the side of the holotable, and Nova nods, watching his grip, starting to get a little dizzy, with lust or with the reflections above them or both. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” she echoes, confirming his theory. “I—I took a detour coming back here. I went to Polis Massa, to try and return to the library archives so I could learn more about Mandalore and bring you back something other than a dead end.”

Din stares at her, his face partially hidden in the glow of the rotating image of the holotable. “You brought yourself back here,” he says, finally, and Nova’s knees buckle a little under the husk of his voice. “It’s hard to care about much else.”

Nova bites down on her lip, butterflies swirling up a storm inside her tummy. “Din,” she whispers, leaning forward on the table, cocking her head in the signature way he always does, lifting her chin slightly with the tilt, “we are tasked with the incredible privilege of saving the galaxy, you know—”

“Fuck the galaxy,” Din breathes, and despite the fact that what he’s wanting to shirk is their top priority, and really has been for months, it buzzes inside Nova, wet and hot. “Let someone else handle it for once. I don’t care.”

“You do care,” she protests, weakly, but his tongue slides out from the hollow of his mouth, and everything else seems to evaporate. “I know—fuck, I don’t know, I know you missed me when I left overnight, I know we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together, but it’s for good reason, and when we save, y’know, the whole galaxy and everything, it…it’ll be all the time in the world for the two of us.”

“I’m impatient,” Din counters, roughly, and then he’s around the table in three quick, determined strides. Nova sighs, letting her body crumple a little as Din moves forward, his hands on her hips, anchoring her pelvis against his. “Don’t make me wait any more for you, cyar’ika, I won’t be able to stand it.”

Nova inhales sharply, feeling him harden against her leg, and she lifts her chin a touch more, enough for their lips to only be an inch apart, enough to make eye contact, enough for all of this to let the rest of the world fade right out. “You know,” she whispers, finally, blood pumping furiously, “you’re the leader of this planet. You could order me to do anything, and I’d be helpless to do anything but comply.”

Din lets out a groan, low and desperate, a choked off, guttural one. “And if I told you I wanted you right here on this table?”

Nova grins, her teeth glittering against the quickening darkness, pulling away only to drape herself over the holotable, face down, letting the spots where her body occupies the space filter out of the reflection. The glow of the lights is disrupted by her figure, and she hears Din’s voice catch in the dark behind her as she arches her back, still fully clothed, an invitation for him to come closer, to take what’s rightfully his. “Then you’d have me right here on this table, Mand’alor.”

She feels Din press up against her, hard against the soft, voluptuous curve of her ass. He inhales, heavily, she can hear it whine through the darkness, not hidden under the evenness of the modulator built into his helmet. Nova knows she’s an expert at getting out of things—sticky situations, clothes, everything in between—but right now, she wants to make Din wait beg for it before she complies. Something to prove that even while he’s the one on the throne, her neck is holding up the crown. At least here. Especially here.

“And if I told you I wanted to fuck you on the floor?”

“Then you’d take me on the floor, Mand’alor. I quite like the floor, you know.”

“You—” Din’s breath cuts off again, and Nova lets the timbre of his voice soak into her. It turns her heart over, first, that excitement tangling up with the knowledge that she’ll let him do anything. It’s been over a week since the last time they fucked, because he’s been spending most of his time in this room, trying to prove to the rest of the planet that he’s worthy enough to hold the throne, and she’s been splitting her time between Grogu and saving the galaxy. All of them necessary evils, deserving distractions, but it’s nearly impossible to think about anything other than the feel of Din up against Nova, his mouth on her neck, his hands on her hips, concerned only with burying himself as deep into her as he possibly can. “I brought you down here to show you the stars. You’re distracting me.”

Nova smiles, then braces her palms on top of the holotable, pushing herself up, gliding her body backwards up against her husband’s. “What an honor,” she purrs, quiet, low, the same kind of voice Din always uses when he wants her so badly it hurts to breathe, “that the king of Mandalore thinks I am a suitable distraction.”

“Novalise.”

“Use me as a distraction, then,” Nova continues, taking hold of one of Din’s gloved hands, guiding them against the curve of her chest, making sure he feels how her nipples harden under his touch, a soft, mewling sound with her mouth completely indicative of the flush of warmth rushing between her legs. “Show me anything you want, oh worthy Mand’alor, please—”

Her breath is cut off as Din whirls her around by her throat. It’s sudden, desperate, the kind of electricity he used to greet her with whenever he finally tracked down the bounty he was hunting and could let loose with her on the Crest.

“Get on,” Din starts, voice raggedly, both hands clenching against Nova’s cheeks, puckering her lips, “the fucking throne, cyar’ika.”

“The—throne?” Nova repeats, breathless. “You want—”

“I want to fuck you on my throne,” Din interrupts, and stars above, she can feel the way that his cock is throbbing in his pants, through the regalia, through the beskar, all of it. “You said anything I want. I want to make you scream my name on the planet we rule while I’m seven inches inside of you. That work for you?”

Nothing but a strangled moan comes out.

Din nods. “Good. Get over there.”

Nova reels back as he releases her. It takes more than a few seconds to collect herself enough to move, and when she does, her legs feel like they’re made out of rubber, elastic and wobbly. She can feel his heavy gaze on her as she makes her way around the holotable, and when she takes the few steps that lead to the ironclad, menacing chair that sits atop the highest point in the room, Din’s voice rings out.

“Stop,” he commands, and she does, feeling her heart hammer. “Face me.”

Nova turns, her breath caught in her throat, staring down at Din. The few steps she’s scaled make her just a tad taller than Din is, and she watches as he slowly moves forward, crossing the tile of the floor with quiet, intentional steps.

“Take your clothes off,” Din manages, and Nova’s almost a hundred percent sure that he’s whispering, even though it might just be that she can’t hear anything over how loud her blood is pumping, over how hard her heart is hammering.

“Now?”

He raises a single dark eyebrow, and Nova nods, trying to peel off her shirt and her trousers as fast as she can. She kicks off her shoes, and they land at the bottom of the steps with a very incriminating thud, but Din just kicks them out of the way as he presses the soles of his beskar boots deliberately against the tile. Everything in here is blue and reflective, even after night has fallen on Mandalore, and Nova catches sight of her silhouette in the floor. Her breath stutters in her throat, suddenly very aware that she’s completely naked and Din, save for his forgotten helmet, is fully clothed, but with the way his eyes are roving over her body like he’s starving and she’s the only thing in this galaxy or the next that can satiate it, she forgets how to care.

“You,” he starts, trailing a single gloved finger down the curve of her body, “are so beautiful.”

“Stop,” she whispers, smiling, everything burning and in flames. It’s the opposite of what she means—she never wants Din to stop calling her beautiful, stop revering her, stop treating her like something holy—but when they’re in a public room that just about anyone left on this planet can walk on, and she’s the only one naked, the risk burns hotter than her desire. “Din, I—”

His finger is on her lips before Nova even realizes he’s moved. “Do you believe me?”

Nova blinks, stuttering over the dying words hidden somewhere between her teeth and the back of her throat. The answer is yes, because Din Djarin never utters a single word that he doesn’t mean, because he uses so few of them to begin with, and also because he’s seen every single inch of her body and worshipped it, but in this reflective room, usually full of figures so much more athletic, razor-sharp, warrior-grade, a tiny bead of insecurity spools down the back of her neck. Nervously, Nova’s gaze filters off of Din’s, flicking over to the ornate door on the other side of the room, and when she looks back, he’s staring at her.

“Nova?” he repeats, gently, and something about the way he’s saying it makes tears spring up in her eyes. “Here. Come here. Look at yourself.”

She lets him guide her over to the throne, which is made out of the shiniest, most reflective beskar she’s ever seen, polished so effortlessly it doubles as a mirror, and Din pulls curls of her dark hair away from her collarbone, fingers grazing the new necklace he gifted her, one hand curling around her jaw, the other sliding down the side of her body.

“Look at yourself,” Din repeats, his touch still so light, and when Nova doesn’t immediately obey, his grip tightens. Not hard, just filled with enough desire to snap her back to her senses—that he took her into this room to fuck her senseless, that his eyes don’t meet anyone else’s, that Din Djarin isn’t a pious man in any other capacity than his Creed and all the rules he broke to worship Nova instead. She relaxes under his touch, her eyes glazing as they travel over the valleys of her naked body. Her skin doesn’t glow in the darkness like it does during the daylight, but it’s a rich brown, three or so shades darker than Din’s. Her eyes, a deep sage green that dips into brown in the darkness, glitter as they flash against the beskar. Her eyelashes, dark and tangled up in the corners from where her laughter lines are. Her nose, not as prominent as Din’s hooked, curved one, but big, slightly upturned, and anchored in the center of her face. Her mouth, plump and perma-stained deep pink from where she bites hard on it in concentration. Her hair, so long now that it trails down to where her curved hipbones protrude, woven into a deeper curl than the natural wave of her hair from the braids it’s always tied back in. Din’s hand on her hip clenches gently at his knuckles, and she lets her gaze shift off of her face, down the stocky muscles of her upper arms, slightly sore from twirling Grogu around and from flying out of her skirmish with the TIE fighters. Her hands are long and elegant, princess fingers, her mother used to call them, dainty and slender, nails kept short to flip all the necessary switches on whatever vessel she’s flying, thumbs worn down with callouses from fighting and twirling Luke’s lightsaber around for the last two weeks, trying to conjure the power he radiates on her own. Down the left side of her tummy, which is rounded and collects weight around her bellybutton, is the scar that Jacterr Calican left in an attempt to rip her soul out of her body, and Din’s finger traces over the bump of it, gentle, endearing, protective. Her hips, which are wide, the curves of her upper legs, the muscles that pack on more weight in her calves. Nova looks at herself and sees, just for a glimpse, just for a split second, that sure, she’s not shaped like a Mandalorian, but she’s certainly desired by one. Din pulls her hair back from where it’s settled against her throat, pressing his lips to her skin.

“What do you see?” he murmurs, his voice deep and electric.

“The girl you love,” Nova whispers, grinning at him in their reflections. Din spins her back around, much gentler than he did a minute ago, all the fire gone, his eyes gentle like the oceans on Yavin.

“Damn right,” Din affirms, the timbre of his voice in her ear making goosebumps spark up across Nova’s bare arms. “Now get on the throne.”

She’s giddy. Her heart is, as usual, racing a thousand beats per minute, threatening to hammer right out of her chest. It’s cold—the throne—cool to the touch. As Nova slowly slides down onto the beskar, she watches Din’s brown eyes flash with lust and longing, and his look alone is enough to take away the chill against her bare skin. The beskar warms to her touch, and she crosses one thick thigh over the other, trying to quell the nervousness that’s still whining at the back of her mind.

“Don’t look at the door,” Din orders, his head cocked to the side. It’s been a few months now since Nova’s seen every single contour of his face, but every new expression not hidden behind the helmet makes her stomach lurch up into her throat. Right now, she can see the tenseness of his command in his clenched jaw, but his eyes soften as they roam over her body. “Look at me.”

“Din—”

“Look at me.”

Nervously, she does. The second her eyes meet his, everything else fades away. In the back of her mind, she’s aware that she’s completely naked, her skin up and against something divine, something not meant for her, this throne that she’s about to be desecrated on.

And sweet Maker above, she doesn’t even care. Din slowly canvasses the distance between the two of them, the intensity of his gaze never once wavering off of Nova’s face. The pure look of animalistic desire on his unmasked face makes her whimper under her breath. If she were weaker, she would cower away, avert her eyes, but by this point, she’s earned her brazenness. There are exactly two things in this galaxy that the ruler of Mandalore, the most ruthless bounty hunter, and the man in front of her would do anything for. Grogu and Nova.

He doesn’t make a noise. Everything is an electric wire as he finds his secure, silent footing on the first step, and Nova’s heart catches in her throat. She wants to say something, to make a silly comment, to cut through the tension, but she knows that whatever’s about to follow Din’s ascent will be worth her quiet. Instead, Nova bites down on her trembling lip, watching the rest of the throne room disappear as Din steps closer, still not making a single noise, pulling his body weight up the lip of each step, staring at her.

“What?” she manages, finally, the word all air.

Din moves closer. Nova’s seated against the throne, the beskar suddenly warm against her bare skin. Everything in her is burning. “What do you want?” Din asks, his voice deep, rumbling through her like a honeyed thunderstorm. He doesn’t even have the modulator to filter his words, and even though the deepness of his voice through the helmet runs rivers through her, Nova’s suddenly glad for the bareness of all of this. It makes it easier, dirtier, better.

“I want you,” Nova manages, hollowly, the words surrender out of her parted lips. “Just you.”

“You want me?” Din repeats, and a flash of lust sparks up behind his beautiful brown eyes. There’s something dangerous in his tone, something deeper, something electric. She stares at him, unwilling to break his gaze. If it were anyone else, Nova would think that the timbre of Din’s voice was teasing, but the edge to it suggests towards pleading.

“Yes,” Nova echoes, and Din moves forward, towering over her. She stares up at him as one gloved hand easily notches against her right cheek, eyelashes fluttering as the pad of Din’s fabric-laden thumb traces over the mountain of her cheekbone. “I want you, Mand’alor—”

“I’m not Mand’alor right now, cyar’ika,” Din interrupts, his voice low and ragged, sparking somewhere in his throat. “Look at who’s on the throne.”

Nova gulps. Air is suddenly impossible to come by. Everything in her is electric, alive. Everything else fades out except for Din’s touch. Her doubt, her insecurity—it’s all been chased away and zapped into obliteration by the way Din’s speaking, touching, breathing. “I—”

“Say my name,” Din says, hooking his free hand under Nova’s chin. She swallows, letting the roughness of his gesture manipulate her body in any way that he wants, pliable against Din’s weathered hands. “Say you want me.”

“Din,” Nova squeaks out, and a single one of his dark eyebrows quirks up against the celestial darkness of the throne room, daring her to speak. “Din Djarin,” Nova rectifies, her voice suddenly loud and clear. It booms out, fills the throne room with sound. For once, the buzzing in her head completely drowns out her fear of being discovered. This palace doesn’t exist. Anyone walking the strange, ornate, blue halls doesn’t exist. Stars above, Mandalore itself doesn’t exist at this point. She’s emboldened, as if her will has flooded back, full-force. “Three things. There’s always three things included in how I want you. I want you without armor. I want you without titles. I want you like I had you back on Dagobah.”

“And how,” Din whispers, his voice running through Nova like heat, “is that?”

She gasps as Din’s hand slowly slips down to her throat, bracing itself there. He barely squeezes, and without all of her senses screaming at her that Din’s hand is against her, she thinks his touch would feel like a ghost, like nothing there at all. “Like we belong to each other,” Nova manages, and Din’s grip intensifies. It’s a slip. She can tell, with the way that his eyes roll back, with the way that a moan slips out from the hollow of his open mouth. Stars blur through her vision—some refracted from the open sky up above, and some from the restriction to her airflow, and she leans into the pressure just as Din retracts his grip.

“Cyar’ika—”

“I belong to you,” Nova whispers, the words sounding like a confessional, deeper and darker than she intended. Her hands find Din’s, wordlessly pulling his hand back to rest like a vice against her throat. “Everything in me is yours. Remember?”

Din squeezes again, and the grin that was hiding slowly spreads across Nova’s face. She knows that in the darkness, her teeth glow white, framed by the plump pinkness of her mouth. Din’s standing, still fully clothed, but she can tell by the way his grip tightens against her throat that he’s rock hard under all that beskar.

“Din,” she manages, her voice high and thready through the pressure of his hand, “what do you want?”

“I want you,” he chokes out, guttural and dangerous, his voice coming from somewhere beyond the horizon. Immediately, he pulls Nova to her feet by her throat, eyes flickering carefully over her own gaze to double-check that what he’s doing isn’t too far. She smiles back at him, and when she’s fully standing, smile still plastered across her starstruck face, she drops her grip on Din’s wrist and immediately moves to unhook his armor. She could do it in the dark. She could do it blind. By now, Nova’s memorized every single inch of Din’s body, whether he’s armored in all of his beskar or not. Even the new additions to his regalia since becoming Mand’alor are burned into Nova’s memory, bright and gleaming. She doesn’t break Din’s gaze as she undresses him, pulling the pauldrons off, the chest plates, the silver V of covering that protects his lower stomach and his crotch. It’s over in what feels like seconds, and then the only thing covering Din is the soft fabric of his underclothes. Nova tugs at his trousers first, pulling them down to reveal the silky feeling of his boxers. She positions herself in between Din’s legs, grabbing his right hip to anchor his hardness against her, and he groans out again, the desperate, wet sound filling up the throne room. It's loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that Din never reaches, not unless they’re the only two people on a planet, not unless they’re lost out there in the crush of space. If his cheeks redden at the sound, though, Nova doesn’t catch it, because her touch is too focused, her vision still spinning off starry, impassioned, loud. Slowly, she reaches up through Din’s weakening grip to pull the shirt off of his torso, breath catching in her throat as she takes the King of Mandalore without armor, without clothes, without anything. Nova smiles up at Din, blinking away the small tears of pleasure that gathered in the corners of her eyes, and then she sinks back down on the throne, squaring her shoulders, tossing her loose hair out of her face, eyes full of allure and desire.

“I want you,” she echoes, and then her mouth is on his stomach. Din gasps out, the sound of it ringing out like infernal bells, and Nova hides her teeth as she grins against his stomach, tongue swirling up and down his belly, fingers grazing like butterfly wings across the bones of his hips. She can feel him growing harder and harder as she teases, parting some of the faint hair that trails down his stomach with the wetness of her mouth. Din’s hands find her shoulders, and his fingers clench down, leaving small half-moons imprinted on either side of her neck. “Can I taste you?”

“W—want you,” Din chokes out, his voice demanding and desperate, but the rocking of his hips against her chest betrays him, and before he can make good on his command, Nova’s already slid every inch of him down her throat. She moans in rhythm with him, as Din’s hands leave her shoulders in a frenzy and instead tangle in her hair, wanting. Quietly, Nova swirls her tongue around the base before she pulls off of his cock with a loud, slurping, sucking noise, and she doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed before she’s sinking her mouth all the way down over Din again, the tears that have returned at the corners of her eyes springing back to life. They feel like satisfaction. She can feel him trembling, and when she drops one of her hands between his legs, lightly cupping his balls, Din cries out again. “Nova—”

“Shh,” she interrupts, which is truly a feat, considering her mouth is full of him and her saliva and not much else, “let me finish you here.”

“No,” Din interrupts, and his voice is strangled, muddled. Immediately, Nova does, pulling her mouth off of him regrettably, blinking up at him, lower lip slowly jutted out. “I k—fuck, I know you wanted to finish me like this, but—but I need you to break in my throne.”

A jolt of lightning strikes through Nova’s body, and she shudders as Din’s shaking grip finds the small of her back and pulls her to her trembling feet. For a moment, everything else evaporates, just the two of them breathing and holding each other, Din’s forehead stooped low to press against hers, and then he whirls her around.

Nova’s used to Din’s manhandling, the expert way he spins and lifts her, like she’s made of nothing but air. This is much clumsier than his usual vigor, and when she’s done a complete 180 and is facing her husband, Mand’alor, the big brave bounty hunter, he’s seated on his throne like he owns it, and his hands are on Nova’s hips in the same place where she was sitting a second ago. There’s something deeper and more intense in his gaze right now, something beyond just lust. It’s power, Nova recognizes as Din pulls her hips down, her knees splaying to the sides of the beskar throne. The metal is unyielding against her bones, but still, she doesn’t feel the impact. Din has collapsed her on top of him, the only thing keeping her upward is his grip and her knees trying desperately to cling onto the straddling position that Din’s holding her in.

For a moment, she just stares at him. He looks like divinity, here, something deeper than just another human being in front of him. Nova doesn’t know if it’s the starry sky spinning through the throne room, or because this feels like a holy place of worship, or if it’s just been weeks since they’ve had longer than a handful of minutes at the end of the day before they both fall asleep, too exhausted and dizzied by their work to touch each other relentlessly, but she feels like she’s spinning. Like this has been months in the making, even though it’s only been a handful of days since Din pulled her down over his lap and anchored her hips to his. Her eyes are on his, desperate, searching. When a single hand trails up to brush against her throat, she eagerly leans into his touch, nodding before his outstretched hand makes contact with her neck, skin on skin.

“You want this?” Din breathes, eyes fixed on her open mouth, and Nova nods against his question, his touch, everything.

“More than anything,” she manages, voice throaty and high, stars spinning beyond her eyes. Din nods in assent, and then his hand is gone, a claw rounded around her hipbones, his fingernails sinking into the plushy flesh. The way he holds her as he grinds her down on top of him is enough to make the rest of the world—and every insecurity—trickle out of Nova. When he pushes inside her, slick and warm and so big from this position, she gasps, the sound of it wet and obscene, too loud for the silent room.

“Fuck,” Din hisses, and then Nova starts moving of her accord. She can’t really feel her knees as they dig into the smooth, impenetrable surface of the beskar throne, but it doesn’t even matter. This is worth never feeling either patella ever again. There’s something humming low and urgent in Din’s throat, his scratchy face buried in Nova’s neck, tongue licking and snapping at her most sensitive pulse point. She groans. “You—you’re perfect, cyar’ika.”

“Not perfect,” she murmurs, hands wrapping around Din’s neck and tangling in his dark hair, eyes fluttering open enough to catch a glimpse at it, her fingers long and beautiful as they tug at his hair.

“Listento yourself,” Din pleads, one of his strong, toned arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her down over and over. In any other situation it would be embarrassing, the sucking noise coming ceaselessly between her thighs, but she’s so wet and so close to the edge that she doesn’t try to obscure it, and doesn’t try to fight Din’s insistent, guttural words. “You’re perfect. Everything about you. Your hips, the—the way they move. Your eyes, rolling back into your skull as I fuck you. Shit, Nova, everything about your pussy, I—”

She can feel her cheeks burning. It’s not often that Din is this vocal, this unhinged, especially not in this situation. It’s dirty and forbidden, and as she bounces up and down on his cock, eyes rolled back like he loves, everything wet and slippery between her legs, she forgets all about the fact that they’re naked and desecrating the throne of Mandalore. It’s everything. It’s so much, and when she’s right on the edge of orgasm, Din grinds his hips up into her.

“Din—”

“I want to show you off,” he grits out, and before she can ask him what he means, he’s lifting her off of him like she weighs fucking nothing, pushing himself down to the hilt inside her as she watches the empty throne room, the empty seats around the holotable, watched by the lifeless warriors painted on the wall. She doesn’t try to hide any part of her body. Din’s still whispering every dirty sound he can think of in her ear, one broad arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand tangled up in Nova’s hair.

“To whom?” she asks, the words barely even air. She’s on the edge still, eyes blinking, torso trembling. She wants Din to let her cum so bad, she can barely hear what he’s saying over the pumping rush of blood in her ears.

Din lifts up a lock of hair, the same stubborn wave that always falls in her face, tucking it gently behind her year. For a second, she sees red, legs shaking, completely subject to whatever Din’s doing. “Everyone,” he whispers, and the shock of how guttural and feral his voice sounds sends Nova right over the edge she’d been teetering on. He makes her cum so hard that everything explodes out into the same number of stars shimmering above, divine and dangerous, white-hot, so, so alive. And before she has a chance to gain her senses back, Din’s dragging and rushing as deep into her as he can, every inch of him warm and desirable, and when he lets go to follow Nova over the edge of the cliff they’re both standing on, she gasps as he fills her, hot and thick. It’s so much harder than the last time they fucked, both of them devastated, exhausted, fulfilled.

Nova leans back against Din’s chest, heaving, spinning, trying to catch her breath. They’re both inhaling and exhaling intently, trying to return back to the planet they rule, to the throne they just fucked on. “Well,” she starts, pulling the long waves off her back, looking over her bare shoulder at Din, “wow.”

He laughs, and he’s still inside her, slowly softening as he comes back down from the high of it, pressing his pink lips against her exposed skin. “High praise.”

“It’s the truth,” she whispers, giggling, suddenly remembering where they are. “I—I can’t believe we just did that—”

“We’re newlyweds,” Din interrupts, his voice still rough from the aftermath of sex, and something sparks up low in Nova’s belly as he talks, “plus I’m the ruler of this planet, remember?”

She grins, tipping her shoulder back into his bare chest, trailing her fingers over his tan skin, tracing fault lines she’s never seen but knows are there. “I like power on you.”

“Nova—”

“No, seriously,” she continues. “It’s hot. Do you get a crown, maybe? Do I?”

“I think one of us will have to duel Bo-Katan for that one,” Din groans, and Nova laughs again, sliding off of his lap, slowly pulling together the pieces of armor she discarded earlier, tossing them through the dark air for Din to collect. The mention of Bo-Katan, though, sends a shiver of a reminder down Nova’s very exposed spine. She pulls her own underclothes on, quickly whipping her tank top back over her head, suddenly remembering how cold it is in here when she’s not writhing between the proverbial sheets with her husband. She bites down on her lip, hastily zipping her trousers up, the noise loud and discordant. “Nova,” Din continues, squinting at her, “what’s wrong?”

“Oh,” she says, dazed, tossing the last piece of armor back over to him, “you know, we—we just desecrated a holy part of Mandalore, we don’t know how the hell to fight off the First Order, and Bo-Katan is probably standing right outside that door, ready to kick both of our asses.”

“She,” Din answers, pushing against the heavy beskar doors, “is not here. We’re working on how to stop the Order. And this holy part of Mandalore,” he breathes, walking back towards her, one eyebrow raised, as if he’s questioning the way his face is displaying expression, “is ours to desecrate.”

“When you said,” Nova breathes, staring back at him, everything else fading out, “that you wanted to show me off to everyone—”

Din suddenly looks sheepish, and she giggles. “Nova, I didn’t—I was just into the moment, if you don’t want to—you never have to, I—”

She grins, smile glittering in the dark, sliding past him and into the empty hall, drifting in the general direction of their bedroom. “I didn’t say,” she whispers coyly, holding out one hand for Din’s gloved one, “that I didn’t want to.” She winks, pulling a still-stammering Din behind her. “I just can’t believe you want to share me with anyone.”

They’re up the stairs and back to the entrance to the master bedroom, and Din finally finds his words—or his grip—and grabs her, twirling Nova back into his arms with the force of the bounty hunter that he used to be. “You’re mine,” he whispers. “I won’t let a single person in this galaxy forget it.”

Nova grins, heart doing backflips in her chest. By the time they finally make their way into the suite, it’s dark across the whole wide expanse of sky, and Grogu is asleep in their bed, comically small compared to the king-size that takes up most of the room. “I know,” she whispers, looking back and forth from her husband to their son, a smile etched into her lips. “We should get to bed,” she murmurs, after a second, and Din nods, pulling off the armor and his underclothes in his silent Mandalorian way, Nova weaving her hair back into her usual braid, feeling the bruises from her knees banging forcefully into the beskar throne.

“What’s on your schedule for tomorrow?” Din asks, both of them gently pulling the pillows that line the bed onto the ground, until it’s empty except for their usual spread and the baby’s tiny body. His eyes drift down to Grogu, and so do Nova’s. He knows. She knows. Neither of them want to say it aloud. It’s time for Grogu to go back with Luke and resume his Jedi training, even though none of them want him gone. Nova swallows.

“You know,” she tries, halfheartedly trying to lift her voice into excitement, “Back to business.”

Din rolls over, facing Nova in the darkness. “You don’t have to,” he whispers, and she knows losing Grogu again, even though it’s to Luke Skywalker, even though they’ll be able to fix it, is wreaking havoc on him too. Nova settles down next to him, ears focused only on the miniscule snores of Grogu’s open mouth, her hand finding Din’s, her eyes falling over where Luke’s lightsaber is hanging ceremoniously by the door.

“But I do,” she answers, finally, closing her tired eyes. “We have a galaxy to save. And I,” she breathes, snuggling in closer to the baby, “have a Jedi to see.”

*

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I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!! whether you're a returning reader or a longtime lover, i m so happy you're here with Din, Nova, Grogu, and me. i just simply could not stay away from this story, and i cannot wait to go across the stars and back with the second fic in the series!! leave all your thoughts in the comments here, or find me over at tumblr @ amiedala, or scroll through my tiktok @ padmeamydala

CHAPTER 2 WILL BE UP SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11TH, @ 7:30 PM EST!

xoxo, amelie

[palmett-hoes]

i so agree on the thea/kevin thing. i do think they end up together though - not because i particularly think they're good for each other but because sometimes people end up in relationships they settle for and maybe they change and maybe they don't but sometimes life is just like that. thats kind of why i particularly like how nora makes it clear that allison doesn't end up with a man because she tends to seek out the anger issues + doesn't want to help themselves type of man. it b liek dat smt

hmm okay. i think first i want to address what i mean when i answer asks, especially one like the kevin and thea ask you're mentioning. just because i'm writing it doesn't necessarily mean i'm committing to the idea 100% and it doesn't mean it's what i believe 100% will happen. it's a possibility and more than that it's an idea i'm exploring for the moment

that was an analysis of how i view their dynamic, with some predictions based on that specific interpretation, and the end part was a best-case scenario if everything worked out perfectly. but you're right, a best-case scenario doesn't always happen. people's lives don't always play out perfectly and they don't always find the perfect right person that they're with forever. and sometimes they settle for something that's stable or familiar and that's not even necessarily a bad thing

what's really great about transformative work like fandom is that i don't have to stick to just one idea. i can entertain the idea of a perfect world for kevin and thea where they break up but stay friends and help each other overcome the trauma and conditioning of the nest, and at the same time i can also entertain the world where they fall a little flat of that, and still end up together and sometimes kevin sits up at night and looks at his wife and asks himself "do i love her? am i happy?" and knows that the answer isn't a resounding yes, but that she's still his partner and they have a daughter together who he wouldn't trade for anything. analytically, you can make an argument for either of those pathways, or even one where kevin and thea get marriage counseling and end up the happiest most in-love couple in the world, or a million others

you can create a post-canon where anything happens. one where kevin meets the love of his life, one where kevin never meets anyone, one where kevin suffers a career ending injury at 26 that this time he truly never recovers from. as a creator i can explore each and every one of these options for him and think of them all as equally real and equally possible, even if i'm thinking about two completely different ones at the exact same time

it's a story. it all comes down to what i'm feeling at that moment, what I'm looking to explore. do i need a pick-me-up? do i want catharsis? am i angry? sad? cruel? do i want to deconstruct the notion of the cold war nuclear family? do i just want a good time? you get out what you bring in

whatever i end up typing is a reflection of what i'm thinking and feeling in that moment. i may want to look at it completely differently in another moment

but i do agree that i like to keep a little reality regardless, and i also like that nora did too. she didn't give everyone a perfect happy ending with a marriage and kids and i think that's right for the statement she was making with the series

and sometimes i like that, sometimes i want a world that's a little softer around the edges for a bit. that's for me to decide

but if you want my strictest, most true-to-life, mirror of reality take on what happens in post-canon, okay

---

i still don't think that kevin and thea end up together, because there's at least two more years on kevin's college contract and no guarantee he'll go onto thea's pro team from there, and i don't think either of them will really be trying to stay in touch. long-distance is hard. long-distance when you're not even trying is impossible. i don't even think they explicitly break up it's just they realize they haven't spoken in months and don't even have each others' current addresses so they avoid eye contact if they ever happen to be in the same room and eventually one of them has a 30-second news spot about dating someone new and that puts the final shred of uncertainty between them to rest

kevin never really finds someone. he's too committed to exy, as a pro-player and as whatever he does after, and he's never going to tell anyone that his life is technically owned by the mafia. maybe he has a convenient marriage or two with some other celebrity that ends in divorce. he's not really particularly concerned with it and when he's old he doesn't regret it. maybe he never wanted a partner in the first place

it's aaron and katelyn that i think are the most likely to end up the way you described kevin and thea. they get married and they stay married but really they're married to their jobs as doctors. and as the years go on they sometimes wonder why they're still together but it's too much of a pain to sort through their shared finances and they're not unhappy, so they stay together. maybe one or both has an affair that they hide, but even if the other knew it probably wouldn't change anything. their house is really expensive and in a really nice location, it's not worth the divorce

dan and matt also probably get married, but i don't think it stays. matt seems like the type to want kids, and dan seems like the type to hate the idea. irrevocable difference. eventually they have to split. matt definitely remarries and has his kids. dan may remarry, she may not, her job is her primary concern. they stay amicable, but it's tense for a few years. they really rocks the foxes, because it's the only internal breakup between two of them

andrew and neil are both the most stable and the most happy of the foxes, because they know how to communicate and they know how to fight for each other. but also because neither of them has any grand notions of romance or true love. they didn't build their relationship on passion, they built it on understanding and cooperation. to them, a person to wake up to in the morning or sit by a window with IS a miracle. it shocks a lot of the foxes who all either subconsciously or not thought that their own relationships were better or healthier or more destined to last than andrew and neil's. over the years all the other foxes have come to them at least once, in private, looking for advice. they'd be lying if the irony of so many years of being given unasked for relationship advice coming full circle didn't make them just a but smug

nicky and erik are the other long-term success of the foxes. if nicky can stay with the twins at their worst he can shelter through normal relationship drama. still the hardest part for him is when the relationship ultimately becomes familiar, as they all do. he's always buying relationship books and planning dates and setting up relationship retreats because he's honestly so afraid of being alone if he likes the flame die. sometimes it's honestly the biggest strain on his relationship, all the frantic effort he puts in, but they get through it

renee never marries or really has any significant relationships. she says she's married to jesus and her job but she's still always a little bit haunted by her past in a way that holds her back from truly opening up to a partner. she adopts several kids though, somewhat later in life, because she believes that she can pass on the chances that stephanie gave her, and that's more important than romance

allison has a string of wild marriages and even wilder divorces that are usually the highlight of fox get-togethers. she has a child by accident and she isn't a wonderful mother. dan and renee are both very involved with her kid, for many years more than she is. when the kid is nearly an adult allison finally pulls her head out of her ass to see that she missed so much of the only relationship she can't annul. at that point she quits relationships and focuses on fixing things. it's a slow, painful process, but they manage to be close later in life

---

so, do i necessarily WANT all of these things to happen? no, many of them are quite sad. but all of them are good stories, and all of them are realistic in the sense that they are reflective of what happens in real people's lives

this is one version of how i think post-canon plays out. of course, i may change my mind later, or fiddle with the details, or want to play with an entirely different idea for one or more or all of the characters

[okamikodomo]

Yep there is plenty of info on vaccines. Displaying their efficacy. Displaying their safety. These are not things you can just "draw your own conclusions on". If you "disagree" with the science and efficacy of vaccines, you're just wrong. This isn't something that falls into 'all opinions are equal'. Saying vaccines are harmful, that they don't work, that they're poison, that they cause autism, or my personal favorite, that the government is trying to put a microchip in you so they can track you (newsflash to those particular idiots, if you own and carry a cellphone, you already have a tracking device in your pocket) you are just factually incorrect. THERE IS NO GREY AREA ON THIS.

By refusing vaccines, INCLUDING the covid vax, you are literally, not figuratively, not metaphorically, not hypothetically, *literally* killing people. You could walk past an immunocompromised person on the street and pass them something their bodies can't defend against and THEY WILL DIE.

If there is no medically sound reason for you to refuse vaccinations, you should not be allowed to refuse them. It's like driving drunk or running stoplights. Sure you may not care about your own life. But you still aren't allowed to do those things because you could kill somebody. You will be ticketed or even arrested and potentially even face the penalty of losing your privilege to drive a motor vehicle. Are you going to tell me that "there is enough evidence on drunk driving that people can draw their own conclusions" and say it's perfectly A-Okay for people to drive drunk without discretion or consequences just because they WANT to???? Like? If you are seriously doing this just to play devil's advocate and "add discourse" as you say, just don't. You are wasting my time. If you actually believe what you're saying then... You are, simply put, wrong. And honestly? I believe in fines, tickets, penalties, arrests, and jail time for people who refuse vaccinations, just like I believe in doing so for drunk/reckless driving, (and I say this as a former street racer, who does in fact drive recklessly from time to time and has gotten tickets for it; I deserved those tickets, they were justified, and I shouldn't have done what I did) or assault (and there is a reason that spitting on someone is considered assault in many places). I believe that refusing to vaccinate your children constitutes neglect and endangerment, but I believe in a degree of grey area before actually dumping children into a heartless and unforgiving system. I do believe in no-fly lists for unvaccinated individuals. I do NOT actually believe in tracking devices and alarms, but here's the thing, clearly these societal menaces can't be bothered to even wear simple masks to protect their neighbors, let alone respect other restrictions placed on them (anybody watch the news every time some MINOR holiday comes up, about the crowds of people flocking to parties and gatherings, despite various ordinances). They make and sell FAKE VACCINATION CARDS. They cannot be trusted to do the right thing. They are selfish and juvenile. They are malicious even. Don't even get me started on the vaccinations cause Autism bullshit; as an Autistic person, that is so grossly offense I can't even mount a robust argument to it, because it makes me so mad.

RE: cheetoh hitler comment: dude literally supports nazis, racists/white supremacists, and ACTUAL fascists, but go off, I guess? I never claimed that you personally supported him, nor do I care about you and your drivel enough to find out, because you don't actually matter; given that you defend him in an indirect way, leads me to believe you might, but I don't care. The amount of overlap between Trumptards and antivaxxers/antimaskers is astounding, albeit unsurprising, especially given the IQ range of his supporters being statistically lower than average. Hence why I directed the comments about them at a general "they/them". Split hairs tho, it's charming. I'm glad you're pro vaccine, and have everything ELSE. But by not getting the covid vax, you are STILL putting people at risk. "I'm not pro-murder, but I still think a *little* murder is fine." Yikes.

RE: letting people make their own decisions for their health: that's fine, I'm all for that. You wanna choose to sit at home and suffer with a headcold rather than take some tussin, that's your call. Refuse to take vitamins for a nutritional deficiency? Sure. Eat fast food and lay on the couch all day? Be my guest. You want to get shitfaced at a party and puke your guts up in your friend's kitchen at 2am, you do you booboo, so long as you don't get on the road while still intoxicated. Spread an infectious disease to the immunocompromised woman that has been like a mom to me, because you think whatever vaccine is going to poison you, despite the heaps and mounds of research showing that thimerosal is harmless, or because you think the gubbamint is trying to microchip you, that is not fucking ok. It never will be. At that point, you are not "making decisions about your own health." You are making decisions about the health of me and mine, and countless others who do not have the option to get vaccinated. You do not get to do that. And again, since these people can't be trusted to look out for their fellow man, that choice should be taken from them. Wanna drive drunk? Lose your license.

Also, Re: calling me mini hitler: I'm fucking Jewish you shitstain cuntrag dumpster fire. My maternal great grandmother was a holocaust survivor. Fuck. You. Fuck you, you useless asshat, for ever comparing causing active harm and suffering some consequences for it, to the literal annihilation of millions of people who had no choice or say in the matter. There is no parallel argument for it. People can't choose how they were born, whether that is skin color, ethnicity, disability, gender, sexuality, whatever. People CHOOSE not to get vaccinated for, frankly, spurious reasons. And there need to be fucking consequences for it.

I'm signing off here because you are clearly a waste of oxygen, as well as my time. Feel free to catch covid, you plague rat. Hope your local hospital is too full to provide you care, since you clearly don't believe the safety of other people is important. It's not up to you, tumblr user, to put me and mine at risk because of your ignorance and refusal to believe in actual science. ✌

my most controversial opinion that i will not budge on is that there should be no such thing as a religious exemption from vaccinations