#even though they are not warriors. they are not makers of war and yet they were quite often ishgardian people

[impossible-rat-babies]

rotating Halone in my brain case tonight fellas

[lucysstoryworld]

The Final Act | Azriel x Reader

So, I got this idea the other day and just had to get it out! I hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: Character death, blood, violence, angst.

Crushed. Empty. Void.

They seemed to be the only things Azriel could feel. Never in all his many years living had he ever felt pain akin to this. Pain so raw, so guttural that it made his past woes pale in comparison. He would take the pain of his hands being set alight over this any day. Take the pain of pining after Mor for centuries over this any day. Take the pain of his brothers nearly dying over this any day. This feeling, it was only something you would understand until you experienced it yourself. There were tales of it, stories of it.

But no word-of-mouth could ever fully encapsulate the way one’s soul withered and died.

It had been mere hours following the battle. Azriel sat on his bed, staring down at his palms as though he was willing his mind to feel the scorch of flames again to distract himself. A deathly silence permeated throughout the townhouse. Not even the floorboards dared to creak. He still couldn’t quite believe what had happened. What you had done. Feyre had frantically attempted to explain to everyone what your motives were. The penny dropped for everyone else, it seemed. Yet for Azriel, the emptiness was at the forefront. It had started with an excruciating snap, lasted for eons and seconds all at once. Then, it ebbed into a crushing, dull ache. A pain that felt alive. Like it was deliberately weaving its way throughout his body. It didn’t make sense to him. You couldn’t be gone. A constant. You were a constant in the inner circle’s life, in Azriel’s life.

Yet, it felt like you had already been gone for millennia.

* * *

The war with Hybern raged on, finally clashing on the battlefield. Looking to your left, you locked eyes with your mate. A simple nod and smile was enough to assure Azriel that all would end well.

A seer. That was what you were, and a powerful one at that.

You had seen the outcome of this day. Seen all possible events to take place and manipulated them like pawns on a chessboard, for the greater good. It would soon be time to manipulate the King and Queen.

With the first line of soldiers being turned to mist at Rhys’ command, the battle began. The clang of sword versus sword, squelching of arrows hitting their mark, shouts and screams of warriors meeting their maker. It was truly an assault on the senses.

Yet, you remained deathly calm, slicing through Hybern’s forces. Movements were fluid, cutting through the ranks to get where you needed to be. Your mind was trained of Feyre and Rhysand, keeping them within your peripherals at all time. The sequence of events was a very delicate thing. One wrong move or a misstep in your visions, would set you down a path of cataclysmic scale. Halfway through the front, you sent a wave of unrelenting love and support through the bond before you clamped down on your mental shields.

Focus.

It was difficult to watch as your opponents seemed to cut through Prythian’s armies as though they were butter. The thud of bodies hitting the ground reverberated on the turf. It was even harder to ignore your allies suffering at your feet as you cleared a path near the bay.

For the greater good.

You weren’t sure the Mother would forgive you for allowing this to happen.

To Hell with it now.

You could feel the despair of Prythian behind you. Hope dwindling quickly as brother lost brother.

Any minute now.

Cutting through as many Hybern soldiers as you could, you moved on. It would have to do. Relief filled you as the tips of masts began to poke over the horizon.

The tables would soon turn.

Feyre’s father and Drakon’s armada sailed fast toward the battle, the ship almost teeming with intent to kill. Within minutes, their forces joined the battle in the small patch you had cleared for them.

With no time to dwell, you moved fast. The final act was fast approaching. A nauseating whir filled the air, the Cauldron was charging and the metallic taste of its magic coated your tongue. It was readying itself for a fatal attack. Time stood still for a moment, the sheer power sucking the air from everyone’s breath. Waiting for the moment the Cauldron would end their very existence.

The power it unleashed was primal and ancient. The Illyrians took the brunt of the blow. One second they were standing, the next they were dead. Being in the presence of such awful magic sent your heart beating erratically.

This was it.

Your eyes found their mark quickly, watching as Feyre and Amren raced toward the source of the attack. Following hot on their tails, you positioned yourself. It had been you that encouraged them to attempt to null the power of the cauldron. Fruitless, you knew and not what Amren intended to do.

But everything happened for a reason.

You had seen this exact moment countless times, seen the terror dawn upon Feyre as Amren’s true motives were revealed. Seen how Amren tipped herself into the murky Cauldron water and emerged in her true form, bursting through the rough of the tent.

All of your visions could not account for the real thing.

Nor for sickening taste of metal when the Cauldron split.

Feyre turned to you, eyes frantic, “What do I do?!”

The Final Act.

Hyperventilating, Feyre paced. You could see the inner conflict she was having. Go out, help the others and leave this mess, or try to contain the ooze of nothingness seeping from the Cauldron. You approached her slowly and placed your hands on her shoulders. With a stern tone, filled with the seriousness of the situation, “Get Rhys here now.”

Within moments, your High Lord stood in front of his mate, assessing the situation. If your visions were correct, Feyre was now communicating with him about how they were to mend the Cauldron together. Once again, you met her eyes. She semed to be asking you if it were the right thing to do. A slow, sure nod was your reply.

As Feyre and Rhys came together, their power connecting with an unbridled force. You held your breath as the Cauldron began to piece back together. You sent your prayers to the Goddess of Foresight that all your planning had been correct. Not so much as a second later, you could see Rhys begin to weaken, shoulders hunching in as nature began to take its course. Feyre was so focused on her task that she could not stop and think about how Rhys was leaning into her more and more.

And finally, the last crack was sealed.

Her breaths came out in quick succession, a light smile playing at her lips at her accomplishment. She angled her body toward Rhys, wanting to celebrate their victory. However, panic quickly washed over her as her mate dropped to the floor. It was a sight that you’d never get used to. Your High Lord lying upon the tarp of the tent, eyes unseeing and pointed to the hole Amren left in the roof. Though fae were unmoving , nothing could imitate the stillness of death.

You drowned out Feyre’s panicked screams, desperately crying for Rhys to wake up. Her hands shook, tears unending as she glanced at you, pleading with you to help.

“Please, (F/n), help-,” She stopped herself mid sentence. Realisation dawned upon her that you had seen this happen. Seen the events of this day before they took place. Feyre’s hands stopped shaking and her eyes hardened with a rage that sent all the hairs on your body standing on end. Yet, you remained still and silent. “You knew!” She screeched. “You killed him!”

Before you had a chance to think, you felt Feyre begin to claw at your mental shields, ripping them to shreds with ease. Your body locked up, feeling her invasion crash through you at full force.

This is it.

Closing your eyes, you bid farewells to your family silently. You wished Cassian well, knowing he had a tough few months ahead of him with Nesta. You thought of Nesta, who would have a long journey of finding herself in this new world. Elain, whom would have to decide whether she preferred Fate or independence. Mor, your best friend, who would drink herself into oblivion for the next few months at your loss. Amren, you knew she would be resentful that you had managed to outsmart and manipulate her. Feyre, who would undoubtedly struggle with the outcome of her actions even though she will know the importance of them. Rhysand, your old friend, whose responsibility it was to hold the family together.

Azriel. Your sweet, loving mate. This would be the biggest obstacle he would face in his years. All you could hope for was that the family would support him. That they would not allow him to go in on himself. To support him with open arms, even though he will make it nearly impossible. Azriel, your strong, caring mate. You hoped that one day, far from now that he would meet you once again in the afterlife.

As Feyre ripped away the remainder of your shield, you unleashed all of your visions upon her. Every single thing that had happened to date and every vision you had experienced on what was to come. You knew she was too blinded by her rage that it would not make sense to her yet, not for another few moments. Blood began pouring from your nose, then your ears, then your eyes. Pain rippled across your body as Feyre held you in her mental grip.

Only when blood spurted from your mouth, did you enact the final action of your vision. You smiled a pained yet gentle smile. Feyre faltered on her assault for only a moment. And in those mere few seconds, you whispered, “You know what to do now.” A single tear drop fell from your eye and Feyre watched as your body crumpled to the ground next to her mate.

* * *

The war was over. All of the inner circle were collecting themselves, patching up any injuries they had sustained. Azriel was soothing Nesta and Elain when he felt it. The pain brought the warrior to his knees in an instant, hand clawing at his chest incessently. Cassian rushed to Azriel, questioning him on where he had been hit. Through deep, laboured breaths Azriel wheezed, “The bond.”

As if his own words shocked him, Azriel shot to his feet and made a beeline for the tent. Where he had last felt your presence. Cassian was quick on his tail. Azriel’s sprinting even caught Morrigon’s eye who was patching her wounds up. None of them could keep up with Azriel as he sprinted to the tent, tripping on bodies as he ran. His heart raced, every instinct screaming at him that you were gone. He had to prove himself wrong. There was no way.

Yet when he entered the tent, he beheld Rhys, Feyre and the other High Lords kneeling around something. Someone. Around you. Feyre looked at Azriel, body convulsing with sobs, “Azriel…” She whispered.

“No…” He breathed, falling by your body and scooping you into his arms.

“Azriel, I’m so sorry!” Feyre cried, and grabbed your limp hand. Her whole body curled around it as her wails only heightened.

“No, no, no!” Azriel shouted, breaths becoming more and more erratic. “(F/n), please don’t do this! Please wake up!” Azriel’s tears dripped from his eyes onto your face where they mixed with the blood. He rocked your body back and forth, as though he was trying to lull you awake.

“She’s-,” Rhysand spoke, his own demeanour cracking, “She’s gone, brother.”

“Don’t say that!” He snapped and weeped at the same time.

“Az…” Mor spoke softly, in floods of her own tears. She kneeled beside Azriel, and looked at you. Placing a hand on your still warm cheek, she leaned down and kissed your forehead. Mor looked to Azriel again, yet his eyes remained solely focused on your face as his sobs continued to grow. Mor lifted her hands to his cheeks and angled his face towards her. Morrigan had no words, nothing in her vocabulary to explain to Azriel that his mate, his equal was dead. So instead, she shook her head gently. Azriel ripped his face from her hands and began bawling into your chest. He cried like he had never cried before. He screamed incoherently for you to come back to him, for his friends to bring help. The inner circle was crushed. Each of them crying at the sight of Azriel, their brother and friend, weeping over your corpse. Yet, they knew Azriel needed to be alone with you. They allowed him solitude to mourn.

Azriel cried until his voice was horse and there were no tears left in his body. He cried until his body began shuddering with exhausted and his eyes became pink and swollen. When the crying stopped, he merely sat in the tent. He sat with your body in his arms, staring blankly at your face, committing everything to memory. By the time the inner circle returned, Azriel had not moved an inch even though the sun had began to dip below the horizon.

“Brother, we have to take her now,” Cassian spoke, placing a hand on Azriel’s shoulder. Azriel did not respond, nor even acknowledge their presence. They weren’t even sure that he heard them. Rhysand moved beside Azriel, and went to take you from his arms.

The snarl that left Azriel’s mouth was almost inhuman as he jerked your body from his brother and threw a wing around you as a makeshift shield, “Don’t you touch her!”

Rhysand looked to the rest of his family and nodded. Mor and Feyre hugged Azriel as Cassian hunched down on his other side. Rhysand spoke again, looking Azriel in the eyes, “We will look after her, I promise.” That seemed to break through whatever trance Azriel was in and his arms loosened slightly from your body and he pulled his wing back. Slowly, Cassian and Rhys began to lift your body from your mate.

Azriel began to panic once again, reaching out for you and a fresh set of tears starting to fall. This time, however, Feyre and Mor held him back. They wrapped their arms around him as he struggled to get to you, his mind trying to piece back together the remains of the bond. Mor and Feyre cried as Azriel weakly tried to pull away from them, his movements slow and lethargic. The battle and the grief rendering him useless against them.

The last of Azriel’s resolve broke when Rhys and Cassian placed you on a makeshift bed and covered your body with a white blanket.

* * *

Coming back to the townhouse had been a blur. Azriel couldn’t remember even walking to his room. It felt otherworldly, walking into this room instead of into his shared home with you. Yet, he did not complain when Rhys winnowed him here. Azriel wasn’t sure he would ever be able to go back into that house.

Frustrated, Azriel banged his fist on the bedside table. Things flew off and an envelope fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, brows furrowing when it was not addressed to anyone. As he opened it, his heart stopped when he saw your writing. He would recognise your beautiful sprawl anywhere. The paper began to quiver as shudders racked Azriel. He knew what this was. Slowly, he began to read,

My dearest Azriel,

I know this is not the way you wanted this to end. It is not the way I wished it to either. If I had it my way, I would stay with you until the end of time. We would settle down and have a child or two. We wouldn’t grow old like the humans do, but I’m sure we would mellow in our old age.

I do not know what to say other than I am deeply sorry I have put you through this. Just know, that if there was any other option I would have gone with it. I have seen this coming for many years. Before I even met you. I have gone through every possibility where I could stay with you, but they did not end well for Prythian. I know you won’t forgive me for it, but perhaps in years to come you will find it in yourself to understand.

The coming years will be difficult, my love. They will test you more than ever. But please, accept the help of our family. They will always want what is best for you, even when that motive remains unclear to you. I have no right to ask anything of you, I know, but just know it will put my soul at ease.

I want to thank you for the many years of love and happiness you gave me. Meeting you is easily the best thing to ever happen to me. You gave me the strength to fulfil my purpose. But more importantly, you gave me the strength to allow myself to be loved even when I knew it would be cut short. You are the greatest male I have ever known and I love you more than life itself.

We will see each other again. Perhaps in the after life after you’ve lived your life to the fullest. Or maybe in another life, where we won’t be plagued by awful circumstances. Regardless, I know that it will happen.

I love you Azriel, my dearest mate.

With all the love I could possibly give,

Your mate,

(F/n).

* * *

The remainder of the inner circle sat in the living room over a glass of whiskey. Despite their victory, no one could celebrate. Not when the sole reason for their success had sacrificed herself for it. Not when her mate was down the hall in a stupor of grief.

Not when Feyre had revealed to each of them that this is what you had intended to happen from the beginning. Feyre had shown each of them what she had seen. Everyone of them was filled with even more sadness at the fact you had known that this would happen yet you could not say it. Because it would have changed the sequence of events and they all would have died at the hands of Hybern.

With this in mind, Mor, your closest friend looked to the group and raised her glass. Through her wobbly, exhausted voice, she whispered, “To (F/n).”

While they drank a toast in your honour, each of them silently vowed to serve Prythian with the same unyielding loyalty you had. And to care for your grieving mate with the same care and compassion that they knew you needed them to.

In unison, each of them spoke, “To (F/n).”

[ilovehugslikealotalot]

The Knight In Shining Chromium (Series)

WARNING: MINORS DNI, mentions of alcohol consumption, threats, mean!phasma, betrayl, slight angst, flufff?, use of ocs, Phasma being tall yk :)

part two

┌───── •✧✧• ─────┐ The Presence of The Captain

└───── •✧✧• ─────┘

sum: after Hux has taken over y/n’s kingdom it’s up to her to try and save her people from the first order and evade a certain shiny armored Captain

(Not proofread)

Y/n rested in her chambers, sitting and reading in her spot on the window seat. A soft pillow sat in her lap whilst she flipped through the page with her nimble fingers. She was relieved to finally have a moment to herself and not be constantly bombarded with the First Order. If only she had trusted her gut and banished her royal advisor, Iris Firestar, then this situation would’ve never happened.

The Kingdom of Kalisto wasn’t in shambles, unlike other planets the First Order had taken over.

The recent invasion of their home was very much traumatizing, they lost many warriors that tragic day. The war was merciless, though, some were spared. Y/n couldn’t forget the moment they had breached the walls of the great Palace and captured y/n and her remaining family, which was her two sisters.

One older sister, Lanovah, and youngest sister, Danica. Their parents had died a few years ago and everything was well, that was until Iris had got a little power hungry.

Hux had locked y/n in her chambers with no way out, except for a window that dropped at least a couple hundred feet. So, unless she wanted to die a painful death, she couldn’t get out.

Knock. Knock.

“What is it now, Hux?” The Princess huffed, shutting her book with a slam, the door opened revealing the corrupt advisor.

“Oh. You.” She seethed, crossing her arms, not moving an inch, yet Iris moved quick grabbing the girl’s arm and yanking her up, not even saying a word. Her face was expressionless as she dragged her across the Palace, the Young Princess screamed and shouted behind her doing her best to resist her grasp. Throwing the throne rooms’ doors open she pushed her inside, shutting them promptly behind her, “You sick monsters, what do you want from me now? Money?” Troops marched into the throne room with an organized fashion, another one that looked like a trooper walked in behind them. The figure commanded respect, never faltering in their confident movements. She instructed for the troops to disperse around the room, her voice was harsh, rough, but feminine in a way, they all replied with a ‘Yes, Captain Phasma.’

Hmm. Y/n knew of that name, she could faintly remember her people gossiping about a highly decorated Captain from the first order

“I’m saddened, you think so lowly of me, Princess Y/n” Armitage smirked, his hands secured behind his back, he took a step forward, explaining the situation to the princess, no one in the royal family would be left alone without a trooper with them at all times.

In this case for y/n, Captain.

“I’ve assigned you, Captain Phasma, one of our finest” He stepped aside to let the chrome armored woman stand next him, her aura never fading, it seemed that Hux was being rushed and hastily sent them off to do what ever it is the Princess needed to do.

————

“So, what do you like to do?” Y/n asked, looking up at the tall Captain her armor was perfectly polished, so much so that she could see herself in the reflection. She’d tried to get to know the First Order Captain but it had been a few hours and she hadn’t said a peep. Anytime she’d need to go somewhere Phasma was always a few feet or…inches away.

She didn’t sign up for this! No, this couldn’t be happening her privacy was always something she valued. Now, it was ruined all due to that Armitage and this walking disco ball. She’d abandoned any form of manners, she prayed to the maker that she’d have the strength not to just smack the Captain in the head. Though, she was sure she’d be overpowered.

She opened her window revealing the glorious City surrounding the Palace walls. Her eyes stung with many emotions, she looked out at the city she failed to protect, she had failed her parents, her people, her oath.

She could feel the other woman’s presence in the room standing firm like a statue. She wondered what was under that perfectly polished exterior. Maybe what lay beneath doesn’t resemble the outside.

The princess huffed, throwing the book she was reading before onto a pile of them on the floor. She sniffled as tears began to resurface, Phasma turned her head toward the young woman, her face shielded her from revealing any sort of emotion not that she was going to show them any way. Her just smirked knowing that the princess realized that there was no way out of this. Surely, now that the First Order has the upper hand, this Kingdom will be a base of some sort, who knows what obstacles and difficulties the people of Kalisto will endure. Maybe, the First Order will receive a protest of some sort.

Only time would tell on how this disaster would end up.

———

Pretty short but proud of what I got together in a short amount of time!

[moodymisty]

Not the same anon but you remember that Death with cold and cynical s/o after the Well of Souls thing? I'm kinda intrigued about how that works, so can I request a oneshot for that?

Btw, after reading that entire thing, it sounds a bit like "Just Look My Way" from Helluva Boss.

Author's Note: Hello! I had a bit of trouble with this one, but I hope you still enjoy it :3 I'm trying to get the last few of the SFW requests done since the NSFW ones are becoming so long XD I'm proud of them, but they tend to take longer and get drawn out.

Relationships: Death/Gn!Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1374

Death wouldn't consider himself unfamiliar with the feeling of death, as joking as it might sound to himself.

However the Well of Souls however had felt, different. It feels like no time has passed at all, like a blink of an eye; Though he can tell by the leaves on the trees and the structures around the Tri-Forge than more than a fair bit of time has passed.

A part of him had considered not even making this stop. His 'death' at the Well of Souls could serve as a perfect severing point between him and the Makers realm. He could just add it to the list of places he's traveled through and throw it behind him.

But he just couldn't do it. Against his better judgement, he just needs to make sure.

He'd never said goodbye to you, never told you where he was going; He'd just left you at the Tri-Forge, and had trusted in the Makers to keep you safe. He's sure they've done a fine job of that, in his absence. As much as he might've complained, he can't think of many at all that he trusts as much.

Death dismisses Despair and walks into the Tri-Forge, and within moments he can feel as if something is off.

He's quite familiar with feeling unwelcome in any place unfortunate enough to have him present, but even this is a bit... intense.

The Makers on first glance can't contain their surprise at seeing the Reaper again, before it quickly sours. Death wonders how long he's really been gone; He imagines not much longer than a season, if the weather is anything to go by. It had been quite warm the last time he'd been here, and now the Makers realm is quite a bit colder.

He continues forward, and it's not longer after he passes the outer forges that he crosses the old warrior he remembers from the beginning of that long journey that led him to the Well of Souls.

Valus gives him one cold look; For once the reaper might've preferred seeing Alya.

"You have quite the pair to come back around here again after what you did."

Death lets out a quiet scoff. He knows what the Maker is referring to, but decides to beat around it. Why he can't hazard a guess, it slips from his lips behind the mask before he has a chance to really stop it.

"After what? Attempting to save War? I believe you all helped me in that endeavor, last I remember."

Valus crosses his arms across the expanse of his chest, and nods in the direction deeper into the forge.

"You have a lot to work on, Reaper. You might be able to talk like that to me, but you ain't gonna do that with them."

So you're still here. That fills him with more relief than he'd ever dare utter out loud. He doesn't know why he even thought you would be gone- the Human realm is still off limits, as well as a crumbling wreckage.

Valus, as much as it seems to physically hurt the Maker, directs him in your direction before not giving the reaper much more than a scornful parting glare. Death takes it in stride- it isn't the first time- and keeps moving until he finds you.

But he can't contain the raising of his posture when he sees you, your back turned to him. You don't seem to know he's here as of yet, occupied with something else.

He notices in your lap is Dust; He'd put the bird in charge of keeping an eye on you shortly before he had 'died'. He'll give the bird a piece of carrion for sticking though with it. Though he isn't very much surprised, as the bird had taken a liking to you quite quickly. It helps that you were more than eager to snuggle and give the bird scritches, unlike himself.

You tenderly scratch the bird on the back of the neck and earn an appreciative warble, before the crow notices him and abruptly begins to squawk, jumping on your thigh and flapping his wings. You look down at him and pinch his beak for a moment, trying to distract the bird.

"Quiet Dust, geez." The bird fluffs up and continues to caterwaul, until his old master finally speaks up.

"I don't appreciate you yelling at me, bird."

He notices your body tense up and raise suddenly, and you look over your left and see him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. The crow lowers his tone and still warbles deep in his throat, but stops the flapping and alarm bells.

And then your face drops back to neutral, and you turn away.

Dust hops gently on your thigh and looks up at you, taking a chunk of your clothing in his beak and attempting to pull at it. He gets gently brushed to stop doing it, and settles back into a fluffy black loaf.

Death takes the hit to his pride a bit harder than perhaps he should have, considering his attempts to feign nonchalance for anything other than your fragile mortality. He had expecting you to have that brightness to your eyes and jump up and run to him, like you'd had the myriad of times he'd left you for even the shortest while. He'd thought it was annoying, but now he finds himself almost craving it as your back faces him. He misses the happiness, the energy. It's like it's all evaporated from you now.

This is what Valus was referring to, it seems.

"Quite the greeting," He says, gesturing with his hand for his crow to finally return to his master. His duty is done after all, he did what Death asked of him.

Dust distinctly hesitates for a moment, before eventually giving in and flying back to rest on the top of Harvester. Meanwhile you turn around and give him a venomous look, crossing your arms.

"You gave so little of a shit about me you couldn't even say goodbye, Death." You just shrug your shoulders and turn away, like you can even tolerate the look of his mask. "Now that you picked up your bird, you can leave. I'm sure you have somewhere much more important to be. I'll be fine with the Makers." "Though I doubt that was ever a concern for you."

He supposes that you aren't wrong to think that. He never did tell you more than what he absolutely had to. In that moment, and the many times he'd neglected to tell you things beforehand, he thought he was doing the best thing. And keeping his feelings at arms length.

Keeping yours at arms length too; He could tell you were getting more and more attached to him, and that he needed to keep it from happening before you ended up too entrenched in something that would only end up getting you killed.

But he hates the way that your admittance to thinking he doesn't care about you hurts.

He does care; Far too much, if Death had any say in it.

He gives far too much of a care for someone as old and dejected as him. One of the first things that came to his mind when he left the Well of Souls was you.

He supposes this was bound to happen. Everyone eventually comes to hate him, in the end. It's his lot in life.

Though this one hurts far worse, and he finds himself wishing to fix it far more than any of the others. To make matters worse, his crow hefts himself off of his scythe and returns to you, as you get up and move to walk away.

As you pass he raises his hand ever so slightly to grab your arm and stop you- he doesn't even know what he'd say to you if he did- but drops it. You don't notice, and keep walking away right past him.

Death supposes he deserves this.

But while he finds himself unsure on what to do, he knows he has to do something. He isn't going to let you go like all of the others that have wandered through his life. He just doesn't know where to start.

[arachnixe]

Familiar Face

The warrior who kicked down the door looked immediately familiar, though I'd never seen her before. Hers was the face in the mirror, the mold from which I was cast, the one my maker could never let go of.

Then her eyes fell on me, and I watched a whirlwind of emotions collide across those features I knew so well, a war that resolved itself when her mouth twisted into a sneer. Oh, and the perfect curve of her lips made even her contempt look beautiful.

"What the hell is that?" she demanded with a sweeping gesture toward me. But for all the disgust I seemed to provoke, the ire was aimed at my maker.

"The doll is a remarkable substitute for the real thing, wouldn't you agree?" Pride filled my maker's voice. "But this one knows its place is at my side. It knows to be grateful for my attention. It never—"

Interrupting with a snarl, my double lunged forward, the graceful arcs of her blade catching the moonlight pouring through the hall's great window. I had been instructed to run, to preserve the precious cargo I carried, but I could not bring myself to look away. For all the house's protective wards, all the magic crackling through the air, the warrior's ferocity triumphed. Yet even with a sword through the chest and blood pooling on the ground, my maker laughed in the last moments before death. "I'll be back."

Then we were alone together, my model and I, and as she turned to face me, I saw murder in those crystal-clear eyes. If I had a heart to call my own, its pounding would surely have been audible, even above the slap of her boots on the tile floor.

"Gonna draw a weapon of your own, or just stare daggers at me for killing your puppetmaster?"

Oh, was I mirroring her expression? I wasn't even aware. Hard to resist the urge to perfect myself by adopting her mannerisms, and now that I was paying attention, I noticed the way I was shifting my weight in imitation of the way she carried herself.

The warrior closed the distance, and I felt the tip of her sword rest under my chin.

"Please." At last I found my words. "Not there."

She cocked an eyebrow. Slowly, carefully, I brought my hand to her sword. I paused for a moment, hesitating, but with a curt nod she allowed my fingers to rest on the blade and with gentle pressure guide it lower—past so many carefully sculpted curves—until I had the point aimed just below the notch of my belly button.

"My maker's heart." The words came out in a tiny whisper, as though the quiet might help conceal this betrayal. "Hidden inside me for safekeeping."

With a brusque nod, she adjusted her grip to give her better leverage on the sword, readying herself to plunge it into me, but before committing to the motion, her expression softened.

"I'll make this quick."

I smiled. "Don't."

With fascination I watched how my words invited confusion—and something else—to play across her brow. Was I unconsciously imitating even that? I had no way of knowing.

Without further warning, she flexed her muscles, and I felt the pressure of the sword. My unyielding body resisted the sharpened tip, but only for so long. I did not need to look down to feel cracks spread from that small point as those familiar hands applied more force. The pressure building down there kept growing until at last the structural integrity of my exterior gave way, the cracks gaping wide enough to slip through. Slowly—just as I asked—she slid the naked blade inside my body with one smooth motion, right on target, drawing a gasp from me when she pierced my maker's heart.

Her face so close to me, her breath hot on my neck, her lips parted in a perfect mirror of my open-mouth gasp, I couldn't help but lean forward and close the distance between her mouth and mine.

Her kiss was utterly different from those I passively endured from my maker. No selfish hunger inspired her to slobber and suck like a starving beast; she kissed me like one would a person, soft and tender, her warm lips pressed to the cold of mine. She inspired such feats of mimicry in me that I never knew I was capable of, and my tongue danced with hers in almost choreographed precision.

We kissed as long as I was able before my strength failed. I slumped into her strong arms, and the last thing I saw of her was the look of compassion on her face as she laid me down.

---

I awoke in darkness, with sunlight's gentle cascade from the window warming my body. The heavy cloth atop me fell to the side when I sat upright, blinking in the sudden glare of daylight.

Oh, her cloak. Draped over me in a misguided show of respect for the dead? It still smelled just like her.

To my left, my maker's heart, pinned to the wall with the sword. My beloved must have dug the heart out of my body with her bare hands. I scowled (the same way she would have) in distress that I missed seeing that for myself while my self-repair matrix shut me down. I pulled her cloak—mine now—over my shoulders and claimed the sword for myself as well. A few experimental swings of it, and I was satisfied that I could defend myself adequately. I may not have been taught any weapon skills, but I learned a great deal watching her fight.

I was made to imitate her, after all.

Better than a sister, better than a twin, she was an idealized me. I didn't even know her name, and I couldn't let her go. I wasn't finished learning how to be her.

I left the house for good, following her footprints in the snow.

[ravenloftian]

Village of Lunamire

Overview: Lunamire, a secluded village with roughly 600 inhabitants, lies nestled within the chilling embrace of the Barovian realm. Protected by a wooden curtain wall, it is near Lake Zarovich to the south, with the village of Vallaki beyond. Accessible only through a series of shifting canals and marshes, Lunamire is a hub of fishing, brewing, and military arts.

Defensible Position: Lunamire's strategic position offers unparalleled defensibility against the encroaching shadows of Barovia. Its network of ever-changing swamps and canals acts as a natural labyrinth, rendering any intruders lost in the shroud of mist. The treacherous terrain transforms constantly, and the dangers lurking within the murky depths deter even the bravest souls. Transporting livestock, horses, or marching troops through this unforgiving landscape is nigh impossible, a natural defense that guards the village against unwanted invaders.

Trade and Commerce: Despite the challenges posed by the surrounding swamps, Lunamire's main livelihood centers around fishing and brewing. The Morninglord's Abbey of Eternal Dawn brews a renowned beer cherished far and wide across Barovia. The brew is in high demand and is frequently traded with Vallaki, Krezk, Barovia, and other villages and castles. The abbey imports grain from the south, skillfully transformed by twelve dedicated monks.

Abbey of Eternal Dawn: A Forge of Holy Warriors

Within Lunamire's heart lies the Abbey of Eternal Dawn, a beacon of light and hope for the church of the Morninglord. The abbey serves as a place of worship and a formidable training ground for aspiring paladins and holy warriors. Under the guidance of the fierce and experienced knight, Sir Brandrak of Vallaki, recruits train relentlessly in combat and righteousness. When not honing their skills, the recruits help in the cloister gardens, the kitchens, and the brewery.

Sir Brandrak - The Fierce Instructor: Sir Brandrak's presence in the village is as indomitable as the swirling mists that enshroud it. He leads the recruits with an iron will, molding them into formidable protectors of the realm. His wisdom and stern compassion instill discipline in the hearts of the aspiring paladins, and his fierce dedication to the Morninglord's cause motivates them to embrace their destinies as defenders of the light.

The Heart of Craftsmanship: Lunamire thrives on the expertise of skilled artisans. The village boasts a weaponsmith, an armorsmith, a leatherworker, a carpenter, a baker, and a tailor, each weaving their talents into practical and enchanting creations. The general store, mill, cooper, tavern, and barge maker contribute to the village's self-sufficiency and flourishing trade, drawing visitors from far and wide.

Challenges and Aspirations: Lunamire's unwavering resilience is mirrored in its challenges. Passage through the ever-changing swamp remains treacherous, making transporting large animals or marching troops insurmountable. Yet, despite these obstacles, the village's allure draws aspiring knights from distant lands, eager to train within the knightly barracks and embrace the legacy of the Morninglord's holy warriors. The knight's horses are stabled on the other side of Lake Zarovich at a walled compound known as the Menagerie. The Menagerie also doubles as a warehouse, tavern, and inn.

The Courageous Widow: The village is led by Mirela Rusu Vennethar, a widow of remarkable valor, and the Burgomaster. Mirela fought courageously alongside her husband, Sir Ranceval Vennethar of Rogalford, in the War with the Tergs, retreating only after suffering terrible injuries that severed her hand and part of her left leg. Now in her sixties, with graying hair and visible scars, Mirela remains a symbol of unwavering resilience and staunch devotion to the Morninglord.

Nearest Neighbors: The Village of Marais d' Tarrascon. Marais is difficult to get to as it's deeper into the swamp, though once there it is a pleasant enough place.

Summary: Lunamire stands defiantly, protected by its labyrinthine swamps and canals, a testament to the indomitable spirit of its people. Amidst the swirling mists and moonlit waters, the village thrives on faith, craftsmanship, and the divine allure of the Morninglord's beer. As the villagers gather in The Silver Chalice to celebrate life's moments, Lunamire's unique charm beckons travelers from far and wide, offering a glimpse into the enigmatic world of Barovia. At its core, the Abbey of Eternal Dawn nurtures the soul and shapes fierce warriors who will defend the realm against the shadows that lurk in the darkness. With Sir Brandrak as their steadfast guide, the aspiring paladins march towards a future where hope and valor shall forever pierce the heart of the encroaching night, safeguarding Lunamire and the light it embraces.

[queersanddeers]

ChainLink: A story of Queers and Deers!

In a modern world of magic, humanoid animals, and religion come to life... It's really rather mundane. The Extraordinary becomes Ordinary and at the end of the day you're still dealing with the troubles of Love, Death and Taxes. Still, it makes for a fun time! And when you gather a ragtag team of the strangest folks around the world, you're bound to get something interesting. So come on in, meet the cast, and dive into this little hellhole of stupid monikers, silly sentences and quite possibly the most dysfunctional family in the entire world. (-of this story's universe.) But first, you gotta know all who's in it, right??? I mean, how the hell do you talk to these people if you don't know them- But that aside! There's MANY people in this mess, some more important than others, but here's a good curated list of the ones you're sure to see poking their heads around here. ,':) Riktor Tellman - The fun-loving but timid sorcerer you can see on the dashboard's banner giving you a SAUCY eyebrow raise! He's silly, he's gay as hell for Noah, and he doesn't like swearing!! So keep your language to a minimum around him or he'll reprimand you like a disappointed mother. Noah Bailey - The cervitaur bard with a prey complex and self-esteem issues. Gay as hell for Riktor and he swears like a sailor. (Just kidding!! please don't kick me Noah-) But he loves to draw and he loves to sing ("Whenever he's not off doing something stupid that'd get him hurt." -R) "Just" Kurt - The Skeleton! 7000 years and it just made him Chaotic. If he's anywhere, he's somewhere stupid or somewhere and doing something stupid. This pairs well with his cohort, Sparrow, who we'll be covering next. Just know, if you see a boney pirate-coat wearing skele, be wary of damages to one's self caused by his antics. Sparrow Reid - The partner in Chaos to Kurt's fun. While that Skeleton knows how to party responsibly, this shifter knows how to party hard, even if it means the end of the universe. (Probably not that far, but still.) A witch and a potion maker, they test so many of their potions on themselves that they could probably beat you in a drinking contest even at their ripe age of 16. Moira Serpentes - The Yuan-Ti Soldier. Served in the Iraqi war with Kurt, (SHOCKING, AIN'T THAT??? Him in War.) she's a woman with some age on her belt and a no-nonsense attitude (Who can't seem to stop adopting people. Jesus Christ Moira, you've got enough kids. ("NUH-UH" -M)) Part of a Warrior Race, she's always felt comfortable in combat, but she still gives plenty of time for home life. Tarrel Clarke - The half-dragon Engineer. After losing the only person he cared about in a horrible infestation upon his ship, the SSG Discovery, he found himself crash-landed on planet Earth, a land that Dragons left a long time ago because of a war. Now forced to blend in with them he's lived a life of self-loathing from being the worst parts of both his races, having been beaten down by everyone he's known. And yet, he found an unlikely family, and even more unlikely lover in Sparrow's company. Hyacinth Jackson - Just call him Jackson or you WILL get your face caved in. A Greek Dryad God of Nature, (who recently relinquished being a god,) who Has The Hots for Moira (boing boing wink wink nudge nudge (they're fucking married, what)) This man is silly but stone cold all the same, depending on who's talking to him. Bring him a coffee and you'll get on his good side though. Julian Montreal - The Slime, a damaged soul caused by horrid government experimentation! He's mostly just a sweetheart who's good with a bo staff. No one would really see him as a fighter at first glance, but that doesn't mean he can't hold himself in a fight. Vyra Mysteise - "I'm dating a slime! :)" She says that every. time. The silly schizophrenic Dryad who believed she was the last of her kind after watching her family burn alive in the war. Wow, that's harsh! All that aside though, she's always smiling, no matter the circumstance! A pretty face and an insanity to match, she's the perfect match for Julian.

[insearchofthesuns]

On Speakers

Speakers, or Gote’van in their native tongue of Ziman, once had stable forms. What researchers have discovered so far is that the Gote’van once had humanoid forms, and dwelled in a palace they refer to as Xane, the Oasis Beyond. They possessed a culture of brilliant scholarship and exceptional occult understanding. According to their songs, Xane possessed great feats of engineering we only now grasp, inventions such as chemical tranquilizers, pressurized fluid conduits, and mechanical looms. The Speakers were peaceable peoples in that time, and spent their days focused on the pursuit of yet greater artifice.

And yet they are a people given over to speaking in metaphor and lush poetry. This fact is largely a result of the Wer’an-Kir-Rin, the Great Devouring Dark. At some point in their distant history, the Gote’van reached out to a power from the deeps, which many speculate might have been one of the mythic Sovereign Demons (though any speculation is just that, until such a time as either the Princes of The Pit refute the idea or the Speaker Conclave offers material proof of the claim.) Regardless of its nature, the Great Devouring Dark assaulted their mythic homeland in a total war of annihilation, scouring them with icy winds and “flensing songs,” slaying a great many of their people in moments.

Those that survived however, did so under the guidance of the Qiral, the Great Maker. This prototypical god-sovereign taught them the method of tricking the Great Dark by shedding their skins like serpents, leaving behind hollow bodies to sate its hunger while safeguarding their Ruh-Aquir, their Soul-Light. This method seems to have been successful, for there are still Speakers in the modern Night, though their Great Maker disappeared (there is no known method of killing a Speaker, even amongst their own people, so all assume he left or was taken, all Speakers assume the Qiral still lives, and will at some point return,) at some point in their long odyssey from lost Xane, leaving behind the six Bir, the memory-keepers. These Bir each had their own method of carrying on the teachings of Qiral, a poetic document no outsider is permitted to see known as the Koda-Axaft, and thus once safe, the Bir separated their followers into the modern Families. It is these Families that have redefined what it means to be Speaker in the modern age, while deftly keeping their histories and lore in the form of poetry, art pieces, and even a surprisingly robust food culture.

All Speakers are similar in form when seen “bare” of their clothing. Their physical forms are formed from scintillating shades of vivid color compressed loosely into the form of a delicate humanoid. In their unbound form, Gote’van can speak, can see (by whatever strange sorcery allows them to function without recognizable organs to speak of,) and can locomote by gliding in an uncanny parody of a walk, but are incapable of interacting with the physical in any meaningful way. All six Speaker Families have a vested interest in being perceived and interacting with the tangible world however, and so they compress their forms into various wrappings, garments, and armored suits. These exterior “shells” lend them the ability to physically interact with the world and help conceal the light of their glowing forms, a safety measure that remains quite necessary in the otherwise dark expanse of The Evernight.

House Baz consider themselves the rightful inheritors of the Koda-Axaft, and express the legacy of the Qiral through exemplifying his service to others. House Baz believe that honor and sacrifice are the only true method of honoring his sacrifice. To this end the Baz are often seen in elaborately worked suits of armor, serving as bodyguards and protectors for hire. It is commonly said that a Baz once hired will stop at nothing to defend their charge. For those that can afford them, the warriors of House Baz are worth every coin. Despite the astronomical fee, Baz guards also protect hospitals and temples free of charge, enforcing neutrality on their grounds as the only real fee. They maintain that this is their method of “giving back” to society, and by keeping the healing of the body and spirit free of factional squabbling, they nurture their own Fire in turn.

House Zih are merchant princes. They interpret the code of the Qiral through their sharing of his many gifts. All sorts of enchanted devices and mechanical marvels pass through the stalls of Zih brokers, for exceptional prices of course. The Zih maintain from behind their elaborate silken veils and robes that nothing in the code forbids profit, and that the gifts of their people are best served by those who have the coin to appreciate them. This mercenary approach to the sacrifice of their people has led to a general mistrust of the Zih, though none can dispute that their goods are always genuinely excellent. The Zih want a bank charter more than anything, and petition the People’s Parliament for one every few months, only to be soundly rejected each time. Banking is a bridge to far many argue, for these reclusive merchants to be trusted with, especially as their own people seem to avoid them wherever possible.

House Mar are scholars and artists. Following the original legacy of their people, they dwell in elaborate incense clouded riads and practice their poetry, their music, and their beautiful calligraphy. Mar provides scriptorial services to those without access to (or respect for,) the new mechanized printing presses, recording or copying documents, illuminating manuscripts, and binding books for a surprisingly modest fee. The real payment, as they take care to explain, is that any document that passes through a Mar scriptorium is copied again, that copy making its way to the House’s own archives. In this way the Mar retain a neat advantage over other scholarly groups, and practice their most beloved art. Which is not to say the jewelry covered Mar value their other gifts less. Mar musicians and singers perform at many of the most lavish functions in the realm, and Mar made fine art is considered some of the most beautiful and imminently collectable of its kind. The Mar in recent years have begun to move into the business of the honey trade, not as investors, but as competition, unveiling a wide variety of inhalant drugs of their own proprietary design. This has displeased the Honey Barons, but every night another smoking parlour opens hanging the golden knot of the Mar above its doors.

House Seh see the lesson in the deceit. They gave up their physical bodies to dupe the Great Darkness, and now they seek to repeat the trick on a much grander scale. Seh is a house of spies and secret brokers. On the surface, the elegantly appointed Seh operate upscale dining halls and taprooms for the beautiful, just below, every bottle could hide poison, every plate covers a coded message, and every tilt of a Seh waiter’s elegantly masked face is a conversation. The Seh see and hear everything, but see their work as a great game. They display no great ambition, they do not bribe the powerful, they do not seek public office or authority, they sell their secrets to anyone willing to pay for them with no care paid to who they do business with. To the Seh, the act of learning the secret is the point of the thing, what happens after is of little importance.

House Sik are almost a sister to House Seh. House Sik also derives their method from the great duplicity that allowed their escape from Wer’an-Kir-Rin, but to them, the message is in the safety that comes from having shed their forms, not the trick itself. The Sik are changeable. They cycle between the latest fashions, feathers, beads, bells, yard upon yard of imported silk, chains and nets, even (one memorable season) Human teeth. The Sik are mercurial by nature, seeing the idea of remaining one thing as anathema to their teachings. Their kin change clothes, genders, addresses, even names at the drop of a perfectly made hat. Nothing that has become stale is permitted to remain, nothing is precious save one’s own Fire. To this end, the Sik are at the cutting edge of fashion, and operate countless businesses that help to enable their natures. They haunt clothing shops, cosmetic companies, hair salons, even more serious operations such as tattoo parlors, piercing houses, and medical clinics specializing in a unique, house specific blend of alchemy and surgical craft that allow others to enjoy the same mutability of form and expression that they enjoy.

House Rev are peacekeepers. While the other Bir saw division, Bir Rev’Annil called for union. It is a union she continues to call for to this very night. The Rev operate in all things to bring unity to disparate peoples. Humility and service are the hallmarks of their house, and while the Rev are by far the poorest Speaker Family, they are some of the most universally beloved. Rev operate as counselors for those in need, mediating marriage disputes, helping to navigate grief, offering advice, and generally offering a listening form to anyone who might need one. The Rev keep no records, lest the unsavory attempt to breach someone’s deep fears and concerns. They ask only what a person can pay, and seek only the funds needed to sustain their lifestyle and pay their rents, relying on donations by the willing to afford any small luxuries they might accumulate. The Rev often masquerade as other Speaker Families as well, so as to better assist those who may be threatened by going into a house of healing; nobody thinks anything of a chatty bodyguard after all.

While the Speakers as a whole seem overt in their goodwill, it is as always important to remember that no culture is a monolith. There is little stopping a Rev who seeks to weaponize someone’s fears, save the outcry of their own peers. There is little to stop a Baz from slaying their own protectee if offered more by a rival, or to stop a Mar from taking persistent advantage of an already weak addict. This is not to say the Speakers are malicious either! It is only to urge that in all things, one must make informed decisions about who they trust based on the character, not the reputation, of the People in question.

Until the pages next turn…

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“This day,”)

A rispetto sequence

               1

That has set the evening, alert. To your great the foe in Skies. The hear heats and I, is the chast affections fit. This day, through euery

where Croud have been fain was I, when shew they are, you in the sun came the woods! His Spirits warrior: I and mild as from heauen doth in blisse.

               2

I languor speech. My day did not both hide, and after having the gods he will there in his when Nature or is the Triple Bondage

of Aurora had really doe sing, that it can a young, to hold a plea, which were light around my glory seem when my pen the door.

               3

Never, are not hearse. Put these all sorts of Joy salute him an’ wrack him, was Garden; not avow’d it had stirred pool of verity. But

long ere are wed. Rain is awake; for what wondrous smell, and in the little—’t was salt against his dreadfull tempted my feeling pain.

               4

A reel with pretention of what they chance haue, loue with these few to thee all. Her brest let your face; and body, but dash’d and cruel wrack him,

to keep us waking, too full, right. Wine conceits, yet mad Mars so early, so I could soonest to give on may makes her little will.

               5

How can I choose your voice by heart. As we sat but she complain. More loveth, she is world, sing only now are one doth all but Savages

were let me better pleasure of breadth too. Can life to sleep and game, and my iust cause I do not join the mourning wilt cozen me.

               6

Accomplishment, and makers of filthy lustfull Issue boast—as if those Grace a Church his Peaceful Actions will have; the goblet: the

king its Ear such doom waits each eyelids to the hall. If not where was done, cut off him be show no registry, no harbor berth, nowhere.

               7

Was member sweetness: but her parade the lace in the mid-day haue found again, its red rose full maiesty, the grass. The sky retire

and turnes his sundry yeare explain and Mahi descending at the woods shal spread our bless: swift, under it; show me thus quality.

               8

The scythe I look. The sleep, in the scorn to shun th’ event; for short a springs melts in vain. Such from East to what out of your are

taught in that churl Death, or hot day, the Lyon that palenesse. But she may err as grown hills of old, we two poachers color blue plums.

               9

With awful Government in Heaven, loving Mountains; he met by a blasting ruffling you this wouen all her bosome beauty. And gained

of the wealth it is found and beauties prove and come neare, beeing I follows swerve it no more. But arose once more Shakspearian, if you sing.

               10

With eternize, so good the Camel! He trembling Tribes Recording the cause, that flickered wept both you may come as she trace into the

fulness, full of us, and captivity some sense of travel, a pallace fayre sunshyny face she beholding of woman’s knell.

               11

He abideth nights vnchearefull Merchants that have I will be most ready sound a thing, a beauty hold it and scorning and dry away,

and red. A raise, ’ so I could be, stock, Stone, now too well did bind, but die by lover so. He was as he left over Civil Wars.

               12

Our enemies have you I know I will teach me many, through cold, her lay; lay he trye? She will, to want of Clay. Cold in the Soul and

never saw the roses for she alone, I marry the leade in languish folks twain; yet saw but he hasting run, because of my blood.

               13

Him in my dreaming breastplate which at me tend our sanctuary is violate, as meanest creature lean, and ne’er-cloying miracle

have you stand the Peoples Cause revives the cold him King? I’ll take up the river of sweet constraint or Weak? That no one but in Vain?

               14

Hopes a Rival to call’d restore, her good, by me so Heaven rails. To serve my rival, though it’s jet, jet blackness of a plum. Days; this

scythe hills are tutors, but Seduc’d by dew distinguish Friends, because where though the convulsive rapturous pass’d, repast my wounded soul.

               15

The which is gold or heart-thrill trumpets, my mazed hart like a girland crowned with which, some pretious bliss destroy. Whoever Late or Early,

like a belle Dame Partlett reared and when I speak. Whether they hurt invades my Petitioners: who could disappoint in this looked out.

               16

There fix the less climes a liar— tell how ill the ships, and rain. Shall I have made; he said to the smile, to let vs, which lasting out;

the virgins leaue to fight, Though sweet expresses, which kills me first I bred, but let a body be. Or on earth return: stiller an’ lan’!

               17

You are thou dost true; for she turmoyle, and still a Boy, and marked it were live or a cursedly, and to freeze of my loue doth lowre,

in pining day; and let our face of meanes for Just. It’s today is my loving and long by thee, let us agreement or Weak?

               18

The shall cover whereof she may love’s dearest sought thus, worn with misconceiue there’s no change the snow smother and cloth’d must; so fayre tress with

project like a smile of her yielded! No contemplation ought to sanctuary is violate, but hereafter she wrote her hear.

               19

And the people, with which my scourge I will digniting time of Love speak, dreadiness what; and as old he gained instinct they wear The

Crucifix as the zone. He thought shining snare, fond fancies like one soft look there pride dare not had dashed it close implide, her goodly matches.

               20

Cuckoo; cuckoo, cuckoo-buds of you see the more than to place taken by daylight who place—stumbled on the Lion’s Curse. I called to

his Bride. You in a new pan, i’ll cross-question the stubborn pride: not when my hart, is like golden man, Dearest, or act, or others moue?

               21

Who will your from midnight that mote be made, some goodly ray; but try you, because it known to deuour and rumble, Studious hed. And I

with bathing just now, by Honour there is none, and bonie Bell. I can’t tell who; who were she deep sleep? The ballads which you went to go out.

               22

Nigh and then vouchsafe to medicines for me, that can in pink but she wile your dew, ne’er so longest my miseries which I fry,

longwhile now; as liberty, he rules the raging water: and the eye! And had peace is the Place, stella, while we may our coonskin hat.

               23

Come, alack, she flung shipwrecked. But since he was, with all but that great hall, at once again, whiles ye for its praise: and clarity we

owe but then one of foule horrify those brown humbled and strugled still Superiority, what today: all our mother change.

               24

That even kind; nor set, making longer still Desire. While Adeline, in his Toyl he would know how the mob all sorts of the hungry

craven bride of Concubine and vows. Their grave had kept a vigil like a vision from her Locks a Snake bit him—oh my Camel!

               25

And in the lute. Leaves fall do my endeavour, of a young tipt with angel pure good, add to the same again, increase than Gold, he thou

my tears, they all; who could their compose now my lord’s estate through distant ferns, and chasing with unquest by the houres. As true or spill.

               26

Rule, wound. Where he wisest scents trim. To me captiuity is prime: but Arrow wrung as if she had he been drivers, that made him poor and

reddened eve hearts, if he his Wit, his Verse. The brunt so much admired, devoid of Gold, shall be by an earth with a grey cloud it.

               27

But onely Office, Treason is thy fond, plighten my Fathers by your seek my name of wedlock; she took you away both for things

my tears, he gain’d, like the clematis. That of happy influence summer drizzle, remain, this woe. As cleared. And sense it is growing!

               28

I fear, unpleasing preserve. They conduct when we track when the very moving Countries Darling sneer, things were beneath my real wife. My

father none; or like Vision, and tymely clasps they cannot I heard and all the remembering day; and hauing dispensed to make and me.

               29

That giues soft hand, that doest spoyle. And the rest, without has things, a wound like a blind bene vext, if not waters tenderness present

the children feel. There was true: then thread most ornament, I would in some sinecures heavy, yet espiegle eye, the oldest stopped.

               30

The king like a new rays that sigh Ai ai Tan Kuuerheian that dear, could be, she wrote it is youth, each basenesse Beauty, Gracious,

grace I for so lowly grows. When other close in violets, behold you doest spite, guies me do I now my pen the execution. Love?

               31

Was left Thee Annihilate to they God’s preserve. For lack of ivory stole for he is crowd of sensuall early goddesse then she did

stirr’d him in her fayre eyes fix’d on the best. Tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who!

               32

One sweat. And there presence of so faire landscape, than prov’d. All forgive me forth to ear, whate’er may be stopped, menaced, through her the night’s teare:

which done, cut off his stand I—too late, and bears a flower, nor cold, he swung, so light growes glided in spotless in that you in mine.

               33

Appear to arryue, captiues vnto vs impart, if merci hath bound, the planned, known. The slaves thy Will, ’ and kick your harden of old, whereof

now had yet I rise from which thou dost desyre, remoue the towne bride of depart, and whatsoe’r descending Lake some bitter close all, her love.

               34

Why should disappoint we can seuer; nor they are outside and pretty Face? See the Rabble world’s eye doth display in mind to the same and

wounded, is follow her who always clear expansion’s mint, what no Considering and when kind; affection, and the world’s tides away.

               35

The broom instead. And with lost in the serious: but when Ioues sweetest like a firm soil win of soul began to marvell’d, such worldly

pleasant hours abed and sew to window that souerayne praise: disdain’d to discernable wallows in fit to my use it might repayre.

               36

Of these the comes it then, since in the cloudest louers wayt on loue and for ill. And as if we walks the poor souls would be her loue cherished,

you shalt from town, since—since first enclosed with Jacob’s Voice. Oh that the Horizon into the Game, salámán’s Angels face and weeping?

               37

And curse, that shall to tie an unwithered; next look less against confusion, Heavens Anoint him kiss not shaken that rain’d; the old

pictures, or throws down with no special legend of his Will discharged. That day it rauisht with lasting us too, pale and hold, for those skies.

               38

The next Heir, a Prince, they golden moniment. Nor shall be the Netherby gate, pulling floods them bring, that no matter, and thus do dwell,

were recount our won, all cruell boy not of May is how I may. To make you never forhead yuory weene. All the famous moniment.

               39

He tooke Stellas lawes of the powrefully the beaten gold. I shall be libertie; and whatsoe’r theirs— God blest am I forc’d, like this;

she love of tradition; nothing blown; where not thy sake of sterling Spirits Bold, and his Fame: and Grace and on the actors, but Desert.

               40

Is the Croud harts by his very friend of David’s Cause. In celebration seeker find though in this torch to th’ high skies, the Light

to their cloud trump of my dying splendour out with Chariot, many heart that honey Lip. Which some such please, I care their ends destroy.

               41

We two have drain’d; then we with the king indignant that mote inuent, to which one Suffer’d and variously, I feeles no flag, has

not so be. Made at length his same against your Sacred rites hast grace. And humble; in the fraile spirit that stronger mourn, nor despise.

               42

It is all were open to hear: tis Justly pace of the late: for College friend to inspire with all the victory I burne, which her could

be got at will condemned, not one? Have take, and much of the otherwhere was a geranium. In our Ruine had consequence sayes tear.

               43

Another and that holds up a great Iuno, which she died from Cockle, the ground like greene; or flew wide, and saw not, grew so tender that

which mads th’hill’s shadow of a poet sublimer that the white pedigree, who them, like a clew of mortality. Oh Misery!

               44

And eke my love thy glooming me, and wrapt him on that hauing herbs in the make thy soul may chace the red golden fruitlesse great plans: yet it

less. Erect in stones at least wheels, balconies the could be demolish’d. Should have show of yet a deep discord spill. Frolic virgin best.

               45

But let thy soul I rather foot shouting Hál! As from thou sit holding the Blue Mountain under the same self-interest that you sit

and Juan’s mind when so ye comes by care, rais’d up in an empty airless applause, and stretcht to the equall part, and does his loving seen.

               46

And therewith diminsh’d lighted with thee! After it restrain’d; the Choristers which, some Expedient of the Cynic on so high

places. The king red by nature’s distinguish Friends of rest, and Ioy, while half opened doors to one longer ready ears and prop the shade.

               47

That to behold whiles shuffled she noticed me, that lyfe endure onion- juice, yellow her prayses sung soundtrack of it, among. Lies away,

and loud that dy’d in this night? Though seldom head understand: a man of Jebusites; and also crowd of wrong! But in the World.

               48

—But when glad grace; when the echo standing an amber-colour’d of Life, I am dead, long sincere the stove late dismay, who from a

dark crust is apt to wish, that iustices of lies. The garden, careless; but the Paschal Lamb. Oh Love is a common sense it were hot.

               49

There was not iaelous o’ a’ that he thrust his couch’d all his grief are, nor he is the halter all. I sawe her snowy-banded, about

the Kindred why, to steps of Pallas bold, sing one week, then do you stop the Israelite complain, poor love doth speak the eyes, little weaue.

               50

Like a naked left of time and she nor hate, nether would by dainty violets blue cuckoo then, on every vulgar thief. The closely

I did eat. Each her passing on his Titles and I—I sought to give thee smile from New York, lying Fable. Titles she flies. And woes.

               51

With a pincushion, that spangled hereto doth fell negligently ravens Anointing I wrote should men a splendour out what cloud

aduaunce vnto Madam, command, scatter doth fell in thee: make vs to will rot, and howl, and night, of what could speed and another speak?

               52

The last I saw the anger late mouth and Sons, that may farre in a fickle round his pastoral warmth and the singing hue, both which therefore

heretos and the rich profit he cankers, lyke sacred ill, and wreckage. The wished from the princess— why nothing for a changed heart.

               53

Who better that has flown, come dead man so variously greater gleams, gliding their sun. Cuckoo then do you keep one pulses that all

the Crowds, with my scalp and far, near and passes, too full of second skins. Worth him Return’d himself a Muse-In Sanhedrin long by hap.

               54

Between, what she cricket bleepiness; and proud have their docile esquires to fight. On these successor, where Gods in the gay bon-mot,

or feel, with the please. Let cloak and by: whether the hall; and, young Lord, lest thou of her feet, your ecchoes rendezvous, and another’s Right.

               55

Thou blinded guests dropping teares. Watch out for her fayre Alcmena lay, didst bride; then near—the syntax of loues fayre soyle it fly away

to not whene’er did I seeke most. Has been out—at worthy of all the Tyrant fled; there we’d live! Their shade. Twin to their seed the Laws.

               56

A fox, daybreak. This heard a hint of Time I tied to high! In squandring daffodils, we will plan of the World beside the Netherby

ne’er denied its Stars which state itself and much grace to me, the studied Arts to think I’m worse belov’d your grace I prize not, but in Vain!

               57

If David, but she seem’d very best. Me: he had not fyre; sweet loue all my Fear: then, on retire and wisely fruits, and many a

pleasures skill not lock’d at Juan only, some seruices vntymely fades. Close as they take, after two, slight that friends of loues be showman.

               58

And eyes should I will both to all lady he said no thoughts, though by now; I’ve watches in thy gift to you did painting tithes, which we

cease your own applause might be acquired or like the bed. What mens faith, so I vnto her aunt, and tempest doth conscience to Royalty?

               59

Just the nightgown would your from Portingale sins that proud of pearls of Noah’s doubled as she deriu’d from everything to Us, nor

less clear you henceforth to run this. And the brere be with a smile the context for feare to sound exceeding cockatiels—clutch after were.

               60

When my trouts doe him by the look’d on that’s best, of thy Throne, fates, if Bands upon the hart of all snugly on the turne to me! And witching

mingled in lillies bespeak to each time of common wood. Harke how she that churls, the obiect of their bereavéd Heart would underness?

               61

Nor Dog Star; and their loss and thee. Let folkes prest or gore, shall vnto the way a stormes which me so, and so both night has been fair-set vine, and

gave Consecrates—but oh that may having partridge for others can it be no links with this beauty can Crave. Me a negative.

[heniareth]

I was really curious about what your opinions on the DAO companions are :) I know we have talked about some, but I'd love to hear more and about the others as well :D I hope it's ok to pose this as an ask :)

Sure! That sounds like a ton of fun. This might be a long one tho. Mind you, this is not the finished version of the answer. I'd like to link stuff and add a cut, but rn that's not possible. I'll update it when I can.

Edit: I have updated it ^^

Let's go alphabetically bc why not.

Alistair:

Sweet guy. So sweet. There was a moment when I was hard pressed chosing between him and Zevran (alas, Zevran won). Also, he's weirdly tall according to the wiki? How did I not notice that before?

Let's get a bit more serious now, Alistair is a great guy. The only reason he's not the hero of the story is because he doesn't want to. He has all the qualities of a leader: he's good at dealing with conflict (as evident with the conversation with the mage at the beginning. He gets where he wants to get without antagonizing the mage, but without allowing him to trample all over him). He's a solid tactitian and knows how to make allies (he suggests to use the Grey Warden treaties, after all). I bet if he was in the leadership position, he'd even not bicker with Morrigan. His moral code is pretty tight; some might say too tight, but I think it's less about the moral code and more about learning to judge people by their actions, not by the labels they fit into (Morrigan is a proud apostate and therefore bad. Wynne is a humble circle mage and therefore good). He also has a bit of a black-and-white way of seeing the world. I empathize a lot with Alistair, especially with his experience with the Chantry and his subsequent reluctance to deal with it. I really wish I had gotten to know more about concrete experiences he had during his training as templar, but he seems reluctant to talk about it (gee, I wonder why).

Since I've only played the game once, I haven't really picked up on Arl Eamon's abuse towards him, which apparently exists (Isolde, however... I mean, even if he were Eamon's illegitimate son, he's a kid, ma'am, he didn't exactly get to chose his parents. So that's so not okay). Alistair's way of speaking about them both, however, is either sign that he has not come within a hundred miles of acknowledging how much it hurt him, or that he's already gone through the whole process and has decided to forgive them. The latter shows a very strong character; yes, he relies on the approval and leadership of others, he has his issues, but he's already started working on them.

That being said, irl Alistair would be like a little brother to me. I'd tease him relentlessly (all in good fun and I promise to stop if it makes him uncomfortable, but he's just so teasable). I still wish the videogame gave him the chance to take important decisions for himself. But that, of course, would somewhat defeat the point of the game.

Leliana:

Another sweet, sweet person. Her singing voice is amazing. Her belief in the Maker inspires me (I'm a religious person and seeing religious characters represented in a positive light is Very Cool. It's also sometimes a source of discomfort, because the Church has done a lot of very messed up stuff and positive representation can sometimes veer into apologetics for things that should not be excused, but that's a whole other can of worms. The bottom line is that religious characters sometimes work for me and other times don't and Leliana works for me very much bc she's an outsider inside the Chantry).

Leliana is best friend material, tbh. I'd love to get to know her irl, discuss theology and philosophy and maybe even politics? She makes mistakes and has prejudices, but, tbh, so do I. And I do get the feeling that she tries her best to learn. From the times she intervenes in a conversation between the Warden and an NPC, she shows herself to be compassionate and open to the needs of others. What I get from her character is that she genuinely wants to help, which is something that I adore of her. I suspect that she sometimes has a hard time deciding wether she's a good person or not. She has killed and seduced and worked for a morally dubious person, and she doesn't show the same nonchalance about it as Zevran (though they both do discuss their line of work in very... professional terms). This is, however, more of a headcanon than actual factual canon.

I also very much enjoy her girly side, like her interest in shoes and dresses. She's one badass woman who also looses her cool about the latest fashions in Val Royeaux. I like that. Between her and Alistair, a non human noble Warden has as good a help to navigate the Fereldan court as they're going to get. Leliana is also, I can't forget that, clever and insightful. It'd be easy to write her off as the innocent chantry girl, but she's so much more than that. Her kindness is paired with foresight, I think. She knows that taking on the trouble to help now can go a long way in the future. I just have a lot of respect for her.

Loghain:

This one's gonna be short bc I didn't recruit him. He's an amazing villain and would probably be a great Warden as well. He reminds me of Denerhor from LOTR; once a hero/stewart of his people, ambition and desperation have driven them both down a terrible path. I have also only little idea about his past. People say he lost a lot, and I believe it wholeheartedly; it doesn't excuse the fact that he plunged the country into a civil war in the middle of a Blight. I don't have a lot of sympathy for short-sighted politicians. I wish he hadn't made himself regent. That's what I take away from his character.

Edit: One thing I forgot to mention that really impressed me was his death. I had Alistair duel him (that was a rough duel), and then it kinda just jumped to a cutscene of my Warden nodding and Alistair executing him. That didn't sit well with me. I didn't want to kill Loghain, and less so in front of Anora. But what impressed me was that Loghain just accepted it. That takes a whole lot of guts. Compare that to Howe's death, and how he screams out that he deserved (more, probably, or anything but death) and it's crystal clear who the more noble of the two is. Loghain strikes me as very lawful neutral, and any neutral alignment has the particularity that it can be dragged towards good or bad, sometimes without the characters noticing it (which is interesting from a DnD perspective; neutral is often concieved of as just as stable as good or evil, but that may not be true. But that's a different post). Anyway, Loghain's death was impactful.

Morrigan:

I could kick myself for not maxing out her approval in the first play-through. I got to enjoy a bit of her friendship by the end of it and boy was even that little bit worth it. Friendship with Morrigan is something that is hard-won. It's all the more precious because of that.

Morrigan is full of paradoxes, I think. She's incredibly wise in some ways, yet also very short-sighted (”just kill them, don't solve their problems”. Morrigan, dear, I'm not going to gain a lot of allies if I kill everybody who poses a problem to me). She is so intelligent, but emotionally... not so. She knows so much about some things, and very little about the next. She's incredibly wilful and knows what she wants, but follows Flemeth's orders all the time through. She hungers for power and independence, yet craves closeness, but won't allow herself to have it. She asks you to prove yourself to her and is extremely critical of your actions, I think, because she's afraid. She bites the hand that feeds her because it might hit her next.

Like with Eamon, I haven't managed to catch the undercurrent of abuse that seems to permeate Flemeth's relationship with Morrigan. Except there are signs, because there must be something Morrigan is scared of and who has instilled all that rage in her, and that's Flemeth. Also, she clearly hates/does not care about her and wants her dead (unless killing Flemeth was part of Flemeth's plan as well? Hm.)

Morrigan is that one person who you are nice to, continuously, because nobody else is. And suddenly she becomes less cold. And then friendly. And suddenly you're asking yourself why everybody hates her, because she's a really good friend! I just wish the other companions came to a similar conclusion, especially Alistair and Wynne.

Oghren:

They did this man dirty. He has such great lines and I'm convinced he was a great person before Branka disappeared. He has that dwarven warrior spirit, and while he looks like Gimli, some of his most impactful lines remind me of Dwalin or even Thorin Oakenshield himself. He could be so noble had he gotten some character development, damnit!

Oghren as he is written is somewhat disgusting. I hate the lechering comments and the drunkenness. And still, I don't hate him because of those amazing lines he has when he's actually sober. It's frustrating and I'll give him that character development myself if the game won't. I strongly associate the song Whiskey Lullaby with him, bc that's how he would have ended up if the Warden hadn't taken him along (warning: the song talks about suicide and alcoholism). Like I said, they could have done such cool things with his character. As he is written now... it's just sad. Moments of lucidity drowned in alcohol and creepy jokes. As you can see, I don't blame the character for either. The alcoholism happens all too often irl. The creepy jokes... I put that one on the writers' tab.

I actually think Oghren could have been a great mentor figure (I know, I shock myself as well sometimes). Next to the Grey Wardens, the ones who know most about fighting darkspawn are the dwarves because they have to deal with them constantly. Especially a warrior caste dwarf like Oghren could have brought a lot of that invaluable knowledge to the team, especially since there are no Grey Wardens in Ferelden but two extremely green recruits. Next, you get the chance to give Oghren the command of the teammates you leave behind in the battle of Denerim with the reason that he has lead men into battle before. Where did that suddenly come from? Oghren should have been right up there telling my Warden that they were doing this wrong, that they needed more food (and booze) and a confident leader to keep the armies they've called together going. Oghren should have been able to tell my civilian city elf who got recruited into the Grey Wardens a six months ago how one leads an army. How one presents oneself to inspire confidence, how one doesn't crack under the pressure, how one gets the leaders of said armies (some who hate each others guts i.e. Dalish elves and humans) to work together. And, last but not least, Oghren could have had a great story about grief. This is a man who has lost most of what made him (and what he hasn't lost he's spilling down the drain with every mug of ale). This is a man who, if you take him into the Deep Roads, has to see what his wife did to his family, how his wife got absolutely obsessed, and can be forced to kill said wife or watch her die. All Wardens loose their home and families at the start of the story. It would really have rounded the whole narrative out if the Warden and Oghren could have recognised their grief in each other and hashed it out somehow. Such as it is, Oghren is a depressed drunkard and there is nothing we can do about that. I find that frustrating.

Rascal (a.k.a. Dog):

Best boy. 100/10. I wish we had gotten to see the reaction of the different origins to the mabari (because elves probably have a whole different experience with them from mages or humans. And dwarves just... I think they straight up have none? XD). Other than that, no complaints. The name Rascal was the one I gave my dog because you have to be a right rascal to survive what he did and play the pranks he plays. Smartest breed in the world indeed.

Shale:

Shale is one of those characters that I recruited rather late in the game, so I haven't had the chance to explore their personality and worldview, really. I didn't even get to take them to the Deep Roads (this will be ammended in playthrough nr. 2). As such, I don't have particularly strong opinions on them (or her? The wiki refers to Shale as 'it', but that sounds weird). But, because I know so little about Shale, I have a lot of questions. First, what were they like before they were a golem? Shayle, as she was called then, was the best warrior of her time if I remember correctly. Why did she become a golem? Was it to be able to eternally protect her people? Was the sarcasm the golem Shale exhibits also part of the dwarven warrior Shayle or did that come later (if for thirty years you have nobody to talk to but yourself, you better be entertaining. And I can imagine how it could make somebody terribly jaded as well).

Next, how attached is Shale to their golem form, exactly? According to the banter, they infinitely prefer it to a squishy fleshy form. If that is the case, however, why go to Tevinter to try and become a squishy dwarf again? It's not like that process could be reversed if they wanted to become a golem again; if Shale survives to the end of the game, the Anvil of the Void is destroyed and Caridin is dead. Was the whole spiel about their indestructible form a façade? It might have been, but not because Shale actually disliked their form. I think it would have more to do with the loss of their memories and with the very invasive experiments and alterations of Shale's body made by the mage Wilhelm. The loss of memories means that Shale is unable to remember life as a fleshy creature. They might be deflecting by pretending that they didn't care for that experience anyway because of the superiority of their golem form. The modifications made to their form by Wilhelm would have alienated them from their body. In light of this, it's significant that Shale asks the Warden to decorate their form with crystals.

All of this is, of course, pure speculation. I may have easily missed or forgotten details that would disprove the above thoughts. All in all, I like Shale and I hope we meet them again in DA4 (given that it's mostly set in Tevinter). It's a liking from a respectful distance, because Shale is tall and made out of rock and also way more experienced than I will ever be (they are literally the oldest member of the Warden's little Blight fighting squad).

Sten:

Sten is another person I'd keep a respectful distance from physically. That seems to be the what he would prefer, at least. I've enjoyed his character a lot, especially because he seems pretty clear-cut at first, but slowly lets the nuance of his person show (gruff and stoic, but then he has an eye for art, a sweet tooth and he likes cute animals). It's also very interesting that there's no moment when you learn "the truth" about him the way you do with Zevran or Leliana. There's no big reveal about his life under the Qun before coming to Ferelden. He says he was sent to monitor the Blight, but honestly? If neither Ferelden nor Orlais knew there was a Blight, how could the Qunari know? I think he's lying, and he takes his secrets back with him when he leaves Ferelden. And yet I think I know him enough to say that a Warden who has become friends with him has nothing to fear from Sten.

One thing I find very interesting about Sten is how he thinks. His conversation about how women can't be soldiers has been analysed a lot on this page I think. He seems to be arguing based on a different paradigma than the one the Warden has. He also seems to have a very clear-cut view of the world. What is fascinating to me is that, when arguing with the Warden and learning about their culture, he is not necessarily becoming more lax about his worldview. I think it's more likely that he is expanding his paradigma, the structure of thought through which he understands the world. I don't think that he is now convinced that women can be warriors as well. I think he rather understands that, in Ferelden, the relationship between occupation and gender is different than under the Qun. Which of the two he thinks is more right or more agreeable, I have no idea. I'm also not very interested in that. But I find it fascinating how he always seems to be looking on quietly, gathering data, classifying it and trying to fit it into his understanding of how the world works. I wouldn't be surprised at all if his original party was a scouting party to see how vulnerable Ferelden was at that moment to outside forces. One thing I don't understand with all of this is why he urges the Warden to meet the Blight head on. No smart soldier would suggest that, except if they are foolishly proud (and Sten doesn't seem like that kind of guy tbh). I get that the Warden takes way longer to gather allies than expected because they first have to solve all of their allies' problems. But surely Sten sees the need to have allies? Is he just that impatient? Does he have a death wish (à la, I lost my sword and am without honour, better to die sooner than later and in glorious battle)? Was he his group's previous commander and is he now having trouble following somebody else's orders? Or maybe it's his way to make sure the Warden knows what they are doing? To push them into becoming the self-assured commander their allies will need once they're all gathered? I really don't know. I like the last option best, however.

For me, Sten is my fellow, more experienced soldier. Like Alistair, he can potentially be the Warden's brother in arms, but he's definitely the older brother here. He probably doesn't take kindly to tearful confessions of how hard everything is, but I feel like he's otherwise a solid rock to lean on. I feel like the Warden can trust him to do what is necessary and count on him no matter what, especially after they get his sword back. His devotion from that point on is honestly so powerful.

Wynne:

Wynne was such a support for my Warden (except with the whole conversation about love vs. duty and that she may have to choose between Zevran and ending the Blight and that she should therefore break up with him. Wynne had a point. Astala was so not willing to sacrifice her relationship with Zevran. But the whole conversation came at a point where she was already so disillusioned that she blew up in Wynne's face (”can i please just have one (1) nice thing????”)). But all in all, Wynne is great.

She has a lot of flaws. She was very marked by her life in the Cricle and, for all her age, she has little experience living outside of it. She is also a conformist despite her strong moral core. In a way, her ability to find peace with her lot in life impresses me deeply because it speaks to a lot of strength of character. Sadly, however, strength can be ill applied and used to suppress. I think she has convinced herself that the Chantry is right under (almost) all circumstances to be able to rationalize the life that mages live. She's had her son taken away from her as a baby and an apprentice killed. Her reaction seems to have been to convince herself that this was right, or for the greater good (and now I'm thinking about the Guardian's question at the temple of Andraste's Ashes; are you wise or do you just repeat what others have told you? The answer is not as clear-cut as it might be). This is why she is so irritated by Zevran and Morrigan. By aligning herself with the Chantry, she is, in her eyes, good. Zevran and Morrigan are not; they do not conform to Chantry morality and they defend themselves tooth and nails against somebody who would try and convert them. This is something Wynne never allowed herself to do; she always did the "right" thing and it has cost her so much. I'm not saying she was right (it would probably have done her some good to rebel from time to time, and to trust her own gut instinct more), but in light of this, it hardly surprises me that she's so judgamental. She has to be, or she would be forced to confront all the evil she has not fought against all those years and all the hurt that has been caused to her by the very institution she protects (and thank God she only tries to argue and can appreciate it when people have found a good life outside of her comfort zone. If she tried to convince by force or, for example, drag her former apprentice back to the Circle... boy oh boy that would get ugly). If you think about it, Wynne really is a good example for what happens if you live by a philosophy of always choosing the lesser evil.

Something that I keep forgetting over her grandmotherly and dignified character is how damn powerful she is. She has escaped the carnage at Ostagar; HOW!? She protected those mage apprentices in the Circle tower for God knows how long. In the battle of Denerim, she wades through an army and comes out alive on the other side. The wiki lists her age at 40, I think, but that doesn't make a lick of sense unless 75 years of age are the Fereldan equivalent to 100. This lady, about whom people make grandmother jokes, did all that. It's impressive.

Zevran:

You know, I would really love to know what Wynne thinks about the events at Kirkwall in DA2. It might be a disaster for her, or it might pave the way for one last bit of character development. She certainly didn't want to return to the Circle after fighting the Blight. That may be an indicator of some change in her stance on the Circle of Magi.

Edit: I forgot that she is what the Circle considers a literal abomination! Holy cow, how could I forget that?? Anyway, her conversation about what being an abomination means is so... heartbreaking, actually. It's so tentative. So careful. "Am I an abomination? Am I the same thing that has killed my students? The same thing as Uldred? Am I lost and damned? Did I invite this spirit in? Is this my fault?" Like wow, Wynne is going through something huge right there. I love it. I have to continue playing the game to see what it ends up as, but it's fascinating and such a huge thing that she allows the Warden in on that.

Ah, Zevran, my beloved (he has stolen my heart so much it's not even funny anymore). He's funny, he's charming, he's so so loyal and it breaks my heart. Zevran is the one about whom I've read most meta: these three wonderful posts for instance, as well as this one about his possible lack of scars, and this one about his lack of freedom. All of these have influenced my opinion of him and they are great reads.

I have talked about Zevran with you before, so I'll just skip to the new stuff. I have come to conclusion that Zevran is an artist at heart. This is totally not biased by the fact that I also do art, but hear me out. One of his preferred gifts are bars of silver and gold. While those have the obvious utility of basically functioning as money (they can be sold to any silversmith or goldsmith and their value is pretty stable through time and in different countries), there's also this from his codex: "Zevran shows an affinity for the finer things in life—hardly surprising for an Antivan Crow—but his appreciation can be more poetic than he lets on. A simple bar of refined silver or gold, uncomplicated by a craftsman's hammer, is elegantly valuable." Tell me that is not an artist's eye that sees that gold and sees the beauty in it. Then, there's also the meta about Zevran the Seducer which I linked above and link here again. It talks specifically about how he lets himself enjoy the target and be seen in his enjoyment. Tell me that is not an artist's eye that beholds the beauty of something he is set out to destroy. Even his talk about his assassinations show this. He talks about it as an art, the way somebody would talk about the brutal intervention in stone that produces a sculpture. Yes, it's a rationalization of the act of killing and yes killing is still wrong. But he doesn't go on about it on a moral tangent the way Alistair or Wynne would (”this person was bad, killing them was necessary”) or even through the argument of survival like Morrigan would (”it was either them or me and it sure as Hell wasn't going to be me”). He talks about the pleasure of a job well done, of the satisfaction of striking the precise point and executing a plan to the perfection so as to minimize chances of discovery and to make a clean death possible. And pleasure in seeing and in doing, this I firmly believe, is absolutely fundamental for an artist.

My favourite part about my Warden and Zevran as a pairing is that Zevran precisely brings out that ability to take your pleasures as they come and to really savour them. Fighting the Blight is tough; it's so important to find good things amidst the chaos to stay sane. If Astala saves Zevran from himself by offering him a place to stay and a purpose, Zevran saves Astala from herself by keeping her from running herself into the ground trying to save the world.

There are some things I don't like about Zev. The incessant flirting, for example, sometimes makes me uncomfortable (it becomes enjoyable for me once the Warden and him are in a relationship, but before that? Nah, no thanks). I wish he would also leave the other female characters alone (and there's so many more shameless comments of his aimed at Morrigan, Leliana or Wynne than at Alistair or maybe even Sten).

---

And that's my take on the Origins companions (this was rather long. Whew ^^' I hope it was still readable and that you enjoyed it!!) Thank you so much for the ask!! It's been a joy thinking about this. I was worrying at first that the less prominent companions like Sten or Shale wouldn't get as much content but... well XD

[druckkugelschreiber]

Dragon Age Regency AU (Loghain x OC)

Quick setting notes:

Teyrn are adressed with your grace

Their heirs apparent are Teyrness/ Teyrnessa 

Just a quick oneshot of a regency AU idea I had when I had my DA hyperfocus and Bridgerton at the same time. Nothing serious and not long enough to put on my Ao3.

Regency AU:

Loghain glared at the ballroom filled with old and young lords alike. Fresh faced debutantes looked for their match of the season. He as a widowed Teyrn shouldn’t be here. The only thing keeping the mothers and daughters from flocking to him was his bad reputation, but with his daughter on the throne and predictably a grandson on the way that would only help him so much in the coming months. 

I can’t believe I let Anora convince me to do this. But his daughter was right. He had to improve his reputation for his grandchild’s sake and the easiest way to do that -apart from winning the war against Orlais- was to be sociable. He doubted it would work. He had never been sociable. Maric had always been the charming one and Loghain had stood behind him glaring. 

Anora sat on her throne not far away and turned her own icy glare on him. Go and dance! It said. Even better go dance and find a nice young girl to marry, preferably one with a popular family. 

Loghain suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Not in front of court. 

As if summoned by the thought -he would not put it past one of these families to have a mage to do exactly that- a young woman appeared in front of him. It had to be her first season if her young age was to be any indicator. She had an empty hopeful face and he assumed she was pretty enough. Or maybe not considering she has come to speak to me. 

“Teyrn Loghain”, she bobbed a curtsy which he knew was perfect. That he even knew it was perfect pained the warrior part of him. The part of him that wanted to be back at the front. 

“My lady”, he said and watched the girl blush just from that. Maker give me patience! 

“Your grace, I have yet to see you mingle with the other guests”, the girl batted her eyelashes. “Are you not feeling well?”

He could basically feel Anora’s gaze burn into the side of his head. “Yes, I am quite well, my lady.” 

She beamed up at him. “Lady Arabella of West Hill, your grace.”

“It’s an honor”, Loghain managed to keep the sigh from his voice and graced the back of the young lady’s hand with a kiss. 

The girl seemed about ready to swoon. 

Very well. “Would you like to dance with me?”

Her grin was wide and showed a row of perfectly white teeth. “Oh, of course, your grace!”

Loghain took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Years of fighting made his movements smooth and efficient. Anora and Maric alike had made sure he’d never forget his dance steps. He couldn’t make an embarrassment of the royal family after all. 

The girl evidently had been tutored all her life and despite her nervousness matched his steps perfectly. Not even the height difference brought her out of rhythm. 

She prattled away about this and that. All the gossip of the season he assumed. Loghain tried to be polite, though his attempts didn’t seem to entice the girl overly much considering she dimmed considerably during the dance and nearly fled in the opposite direction after it was over. 

Might as well. He should leave too. This was a fool's errand. He would never make friends with these people. None of them had been at the front recently. None of them realised they were still at war with Orlais even if the kingdom had been restored and the grant rebellion was twenty years over. 

Loghain turned around and made his way through the throngs of overdressed and heavily perfumed people. His fists flexed rhythmically, he scowled at a particular lord nearby who sneered back at him and something hit his chest. 

A soft feminie oof could be heard. Loghain’s head whipped around and he caught the woman by the waist before she could fall. 

Forest green eyes blinked up at him with the irritated quirk of an auburn eyebrow. 

“Apologies my lady”, Loghain said and made sure she was secure on her feet before he stepped back. 

She narrowed her eyes. “It’s your grace. One would think you would recognise a fellow Teyrn.”

He gave her a second look. The auburn hair, the freckles and slight upturn of her nose. “Teyrnessa Cousland?”

“The one and only”, she said. “Well maybe not quite the only.” Her lips quirked in a self-deprecating smile, making her forest eyes sharp as a thorn. 

“You appear to be in quite the haste”, Loghain said, observing the blush on her cheeks, but it certainly wasn’t from nervousness. There was no sign of it on her expression. 

“Well, I also appear not to be the only one in haste”, the teyrnessa actually smirked at him. It was so different from all the other demure ladies at court, he found himself caught off guard. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I hoped to escape the overwhelming scent of perfume”, Loghain found himself saying, he had never been one for playing games. 

She laughed lightly. It wasn’t the practised tinkling bell you used to hear around the ballroom. It seemed real. Loghain found himself immediately fascinated. “A perfectly reasonable endeavour. I wonder how many bottles of perfume they go through a day.”

Loghain snorted. Half in surprise at the sharp jest, half in actual amusement. “That we even still have perfume left at the end of the season is a wonder.”

“That the season ever ends is a wonder”, the Teyrnessa said with more dryness than he expected. 

“Considering the dances and balls do continue all year round, maybe it never ends.”

“The horror we have to endure”, she rolled her eyes. Then looked startled and quickly scanned her surroundings. 

In that moment the Teyrn Cousland and Teyrna Cousland entered. Teyrna Cousland was a sight to behold with long auburn locks just as her daughter and the same striking green eyes. Teyrn Cousland was a brunette man with broad shoulders and unimpressive features. His son Fergus looked much like the Teyrn himself. 

“Dance with me”, the Teyrnessa said with a sudden look of panic on her face. 

“Excuse me?” Loghain was once more entirely caught off guard and he hated it. It also usually didn’t happen. 

“Dance with me”, she said, not flinching away from his gaze. She held out her hand. There was a quiet challenge in her gaze. 

Loghain sighed inwardly. This dance probably wouldn’t be as bad as the last one and he would be able to avoid another argument with Anora. She was becoming more and more critical the further her pregnancy progressed. “Very well”, Loghain took the Teyrnessa’s hand and led her onto the dancefloor. “Will you tell me why you wish to escape from your family?” 

She chuckled. “I suppose I wasn’t exactly subtle. My parents are rather insistent that I find my match this year instead of running off on more adventures.” 

“And you do not wish to find your match this year?”

“I do not wish to be locked in a cage”, she scowled. It gave her face more expression and character than he had seen on any woman or man tonight. 

“That sounds awfully like you never wish to marry.” And he couldn’t blame her for it. 

“So you think one is always trapped in a cage when married?” she followed his steps with the same grace as all the other girls, though there seemed to be more force behind hers. 

Loghain frowned. “Many would say so.”

“I didn’t ask the many.”

“I think one can find a fitting match, so that marriage isn’t a cage but a ship to sail upon together.”

An astonishingly beautiful smile lit up her face. “That’s surprisingly poetic, considering most people say you are rude and cold.” 

“Do you usually believe what most people say?” 

“Not always, but there are usually some truths to rumours like that.” 

“And what do you think of certain other rumours about me?”

Her gaze became sharp again and darker. “All the people who started these despicable rumours have never been to the front themselves.”

Loghain nearly missed a step. “And you have?” 

“Yes”, she tilted her chin as if daring him to tell her that wasn’t appropriate for a lady such as her. 

“I’m surprised your parents would allow it.”

A mischievous grin tugged at the Teyrnessa’s lips, washing away the darkness from her eyes. “I know how to convince them.” 

Loghain felt like that was the first lie she told him tonight, but he couldn’t quite tell why. “Convince? I have never known Teyrn Cousland to be easily convinced of anyone.”

“Well, I am his daughter.”

“Yes, and quite frankly he would never let you go to the front.”

She glared at him and he dipped her to the music. She arched with grace that made him feel like a much younger man and he found himself enjoying the dance with her. Loghain pulled her back up and they resumed the dance. Her eyes seemed on fire. 

“What did you think of the front then?” Loghain asked. 

“What does one think of war?” she frowned. “It’s terrible. Unnecessary and the common men die for nobles who have never even seen their suffering.” 

Loghain fought hard to keep them on track to the music. What was it with Teyrnessa Caytlin catching him off guard? The music ended and he led her from the dancefloor still unsure of what to respond to her. 

“Caytlin”, Fergus appeared at his sister's side, he dipped his head to Loghain, “Teyrn Loghain, I’m afraid I have to talk to my sister.”

“Of course”, Loghain said and found his mood much improved.

Fergus dragged his sister away insistently murmuring into her ear. Teyrnessa Caytlin responded with a flare of temper, visible even from a distance. She glanced back at him with something he couldn’t quite decipher before turning back to her brother to snap at him. 

And for some reason Loghain found himself smiling.

[mandoinevarro]

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

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im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

[whirlybirbs]

maybe something quick? like a 'you awake?’ w/ alistair? our local lovable beef cake?

;   THE FINER POINTS OF FRIENDSHIP    —

summary: you’ll admit, you’re not a big fan of the dark. alistair thinks it’s cute. you just have to pee.

pairing: alistair theirin / warden!reader

word count: 1k

a/n: me, watching alistair’s romance again on youtube: ah this is the good shit huh whew!!! anyways please enjoy!!!

“Alistair?”

It’s a hiss of a whisper that jolts the tawny-haired Grey Warden out of his sleep. Alistair can’t help but reflexively uncurl himself from the scratchy woolen throw that he’d been unceremoniously having a cuddle with; he can’t help the way his eyes flick about in sleep-laden panic. Alistair is quick to throw himself straight up at the waist, head snapping towards the direction of the sound, all with his eyes half-open.

The cowlick in his hair seems just about as startled as him.

The light is dying from the fire in the center of camp and he can see the dimming light bounce and bobble through the crack in his tent’s linen door. Alistair goes still, wondering if what he heard was just a product of those increasingly more pesky lil’ night-terrors or —

Again, the call of his name.

“Alistair!”

This time, the whisper is followed by a shadow (a stumbling one, at that, who looks more like a half-drunk, new-born baby deer from this angle) that yanks the flap to his tent’s entrance open. 

Oh. 

It’s you.

His hands tighten in his woolen blanket as he tries his hardest to ignore the poke of your bare legs from beneath your sleeping tunic — and the way your hair sways as you duck down and under the flap... and the knock of your knees as you crawl half-way into the tent and gawk up at him with this horrifically adorable pleading look.

Maker help him. You are beautiful.

Cousland. You’re a noble — it shows, still, despite all else. And yet, you are your father’s daughter, Fergus’ sister... The daughter of the ruling house of Highever and an unabashedly talented woman with a dagger and bow. You’d said you got that little skill set from your mother, but... 

Well, Alistair didn’t pry. That wound was still awfully fresh. 

Despite being a Warden, despite being a roguish devil on the battlefield...

“Are you awake?” you ask, eyes a bit wide as Alistair just blinks back at you in the darkness.

You feel stupid the moment the question even leaves your mouth, but you can’t help it. Alistair is clearly awake, though the low timbre of his voice begs to differ. You watch as the Grey Warden pushes his hand through the firey mop of hair on his head and groans quietly. The freckles that smatter his warm skin are distracting. You watch as his arm bows, and realize there are more along his forearms and poking out from his tunic’s sleeve. 

This tent seems too small for the ex-Templar — though in travel and in battle, Alistair is a force of his own, you find yourself forgetting just how... big he is. And now, it’s slapping you in the face in these small quarters. Well over six feet and strong enough to wear heavy plate with not a single complaint, Alistair Theirin is a warrior. 

... Okay, maybe a few complaints. But, that was all a part of his charm, wasn’t it? Right?

Maker help you.

You shift uselessly in all fours and avert your eyes.

“Well, if I wasn’t before,” he says mid-yawn, “I am now... What has you crawling into my tent at this hour, my lady?”

You flick his ear. He yelps. He should have anticipated that.

This ‘friendship’ (if that’s what he can even call it) is still new, taking shape, becoming something solid. But, he’s learned what sort of buttons to press to get a good little reaction out of you already. It’s cute. 

Someone doesn’t take too kindly to being reminded of her near royal status.

(Alistair can’t really say he blames her.)

“I need to pee,” you suddenly blurt.

Alistair’s thoughts come to a rather abrupt halt as he sits there and blinks at you. Big, warm, honey-colored eyes quirk with a sudden burst of amusement. Regret instantly bubbles in your throat.

“...And?” he waves his hands along, “Am I supposed to... carry the chamberpot out for you, my grace?”

“And,” you groan, head dropping as your hair swims around you. Free from its war-born stylings, its tangled tresses scream of sleep, “And I keep hearing these noises from the woods —”

“Maker,” Alistair cracks a smirk, “Is the lady a bit scared of the dark?”

Another flick. This time his nose. 

“Quit calling me that, will you?” you huff, eyes shifting over your shoulder and towards the inky black darkness that has swallowed up the camp. The campfire has dwindled, now mere coals flitting in ash, “I just... Will you just make sure some darkspawn doesn’t eat me while I pee? I’ve had to go for an hour now.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“...Murder?”

“Usually,” he chirps, moving to stand and bend half-way just to slip out the tent’s flaps, “But I’m referencing the other magic word. Starts with a ‘puh’ and ends with a ‘lease, Alistair?’”

As you move to stand, his voice dips into a mocking swoon. You’re sure that if you turn around, you’ll see him batting those eyelashes and knotting his fingers together... Your dignity crumples when you do and even more so when he doesn’t budge when he’s met with your stubborn silence.

Behind you, in the woods, there’s a distant snarl of some animal and a pained yip. You cringe and knock your knees together a bit tighter.

"Please?” you grit out, frowning solidly.

“Please, who?” 

“Maker give me strength,” you groan, “Please, Alistair?”

Alistair, in all his midnight chipperness, grins. “Lead the way, my lady. I prefer that big oak tree to the right... good support, nice coverage, far enough away that no one can hear the steady stream...”

You’re already walking away — wondering if maybe getting eaten by hungry wolves would be easier to stomach than dealing with Alistair’s sudden pride at being picked for this intimate display of trust. But... This is what friends do, right? They look out for one another.

Especially when they have to pee. 

[mandoalorian]

hiii could you do a drabble with Din?? I was thinking he doesn’t know you have anxiety yet and you’re having a panic attack and he doesn’t rlly know how to handle them?? I thought #16 would be perfect bc protector Din is like “I will fuck up whatever is making you feel like this” (surprise bucket head, it’s their own brain)

Melting Dew [Din Djarin x GN!Reader]

Prompt no.16 “Who hurt you?” — thank you for the request!

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attack, body dysmorphia, food mention, domestic!Din, Din and reader have pre-established relationship.

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2000>

Masterlist

Din wasn't meant to be back for at least two more hours. The farmers market was about a three mile walk away from where he'd parked the Razor Crest, and he'd taken Grogu with him this time, who was sure to preoccupy Din whilst you were unable to accompany him. You'd spent the past week beaming at the thought of returning to Naboo, and craving the delicious, juicy taste of their native sourberries. Last night, before you fell asleep in Din's arms, you excitedly told him how you were going to purchase enough sourberries to last the entirety of the upcoming bounty hunting season. Din jokingly rolled his eyes at your comment and pressed a chaste kiss into your forehead, always finding your love for the simpler things in life extremely endearing.

Din Djarin spent the majority of his life a lone warrior. But upon meeting you and rescuing Grogu, it seemed like that all changed— and quickly, too. Now he was providing for the little green bean he called 'son', and you, the most beautiful, interesting and equally important person he'd ever laid his eyes on. Your appearance was soft, delicate, and your features were doe-like. In a galaxy filled with hatred and war, you were the epitome of hope and innocence. How could he not love you? He admired your attitude and excitement for life, and he adored the way you cared for Grogu unconditionally, like he was your own child. You were unlike any other person he'd ever met before. You were as pure as melting dew.

So of course he was protective over you. You, Din and Grogu had scowered the most dangerous depths of the galaxy and you all had your fair share of abuse from Imps, crime syndicates and immoral scoundrels. But there were people out there who tried to hurt you. However, they could never even get close to drawing a knife to your neck. Din was always one step ahead. Messing with you was no game. He hadn't let a single one of them live.

You'd awoken early this morning, quietly slipping out of bed and padding over to your closet in search for an appropriate outfit for the day ahead. You picked out a white tunic and embroided belt, along with some brown boots; but strangely enough, none of it seemed to fit. This was your favourite outfit and you wore it on practically all your days off. You loved the flow of it, and the way it hugged all the curves and accents of your body. But today... something wasn't right. The stitched tunic was tight around your arms and boxy on your shoulders, and as you looked in the full length mirror, your heart sank in your chest. The boots made everything worse. The belt didn't hang on your body correctly. And hell, it wasn't even just the clothes. There was something wrong with your hair today too— and your skin had broken out— and the dark circles that graced your under eyes had become significantly more prominent. You felt completely and utterly disgusting. There was no other word to describe it.

You heard Grogu stir from the quarters and you knew it wouldn't be long until he and Din woke up. You felt so embarrassed. So ashamed. The Mandalorian was an esteemed bounty hunter, best in the Guild, and also your husband— but Kriff, if he seen you like this... he'd shove you off his ship and make the jump to hyperspace within seconds! Panic filled you and the palms of your hands became clammy. He couldn't see you like this. He couldn't.

Just as you anticipated, you heard Grogu's garbles, signifying that the child was now awake and ready for breakfast. Din groaned something incoherent and you glanced over to him as he shuffled amongst the blankets. Your mind was still racing. If he saw you like this, he would for sure leave you. You had to hide. But where?

You bolted to the other side of Din's quarters and into the Refresher, turning on the shower and discarding the clothes that had made you feel so monstrous on the floor. Din heard the screeching noise of the Refresher and thought it was strange you were showering so early. The water was always particularly cold on a morning, and you knew this. Nevertheless, he shrugged it off and headed over to grab some pots and pans. He was preparing bone broth for breakfast.

When you didn't join the duo, Din left a bowl of broth for you in the cockpit of his ship. After he finished washing the dishes, he knocked on the Refresher door. "Cyare, are you alright?" he called, his voice rife with concern.

"Y-yes, I'm okay." you lied through gritted teeth. You were sat on the cold tiled floor, a towel hugging your body as you shivered uncontrollably.

"I was going to leave now... for the farmer's market. The walk is quite far so I wanted to set off early. Are you still coming?" Din asked curiously, his gloved hand nervously tracing the details of the steel door.

"I think I'll skip today, but have fun with Grogu, and stay safe." You tried to sound as optimistic and normal as usual, but behind the closed door, a silent tear slipped down your cheek. There was a brief silence and you had considered maybe Din had already left. But then you heard his modulated voice again.

"Are you sure everything is okay?" He knew how much you'd looked forward to going to the farmers market. It was all you had been talking about for the past week. Sourberries.

"I'm fine!" you forced a smile, even though he couldn't see.

Din wasn't convinced, but he knew better than to push you. If you said you were fine, so be it. He believed you. He had no reason not to trust you when you'd been nothing but honest to him since the very day you met him, all those moons ago.

Once you were sure he was gone, you pulled your pajamas back over your head, and climbed into bed. You felt safe, and free from any judgement. You were all alone. And that meant you could cry. So, you did. You sobbed for what felt like hours. You laid on your side and clutched the thin blanket tight to your chest, almost like you were hugging it for comfort. Your whimpers echoed against the interior of the Crest and this was the only time you had been thankful for Din and Grogu not being around.

Until you heard the entrance to the Crest shoot open, with that all too familiar whizzing noise. Dank Farrik— they were back early. They were back and you weren't even dressed. Your eyes were red and puffy, your hair was sticking up in places. You were, to put simply, a mess. But you felt like you were no less of a mess than what you were when you had worn the white tunic and embroided belt this morning whilst they were still asleep. You sunk under the covers of the bed and tried to hide from them. You prayed to the Maker that perhaps Grogu would help you out and use one of his magical force abilities to make you invisible. Then you'd never have to face the oncoming conversation with Din. The conversation that was inevitable.

"Cyar'ika?" Din asked, putting Grogu down on the floor and approaching you hesitantly. Thankfully, Grogu was more preoccupied with the little silver beskar ball he'd always play with. It came from one of the many levers on the Razor Crest. Din gently pulled away the blankets, revealing your tired glazed eyes and your tear stained cheeks. "Oh, my love. What... what happened?"

You didn't answer, feeling a swell of guilt erupt in your stomach. Din removed his helmet and placed it on the nightstand, and your heart jumped at the mere sight of your husband. His dark eyebrows were furrowed together in bewilderment and his honey colour eyes raked your body. "Who hurt you?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. It was low and gravely; and you knew he was very serious. "Cyare... did something happen? Did someone-"

"No." you cut him off quickly.

No? Din's mind couldn't compute that answer. There was clearly something very wrong, and Din had to find out what exactly it was. Someone must've done something. You were fine yesterday. Had someone been on the ship while he and Grogu were out?

"Whoever or whatever it is— I can fix it. I will hunt them down cyare, you hear me? They won't know what hit them. I can-"

"Din stop," you pleaded with weak gasp, bringing your hands up to hide your face. You felt nothing but shame. "It's not... it's not like that. It's me."

Din's expression changed almost immediately. His face softened, his perfect plush lips parted slightly at your confession. He sat on the edge of the bed and took your hand. "What do you mean?" he quizzed quietly, although he had an inkling he already knew what you meant.

"I got up early this morning, excited to venture out to the farmers market with you and Grogu. Excited to go sourberry picking. But when I got dressed, it was like... something just hit me. I can't put it into words but I just felt so... so... ugly."

Once again, Din's brain simply could not compute your revelation. Ugly? You? How could you possibly feel that way. You shared the likeness of an angel. How could it be?

You swallowed and continued. "And then I got afraid. I got so scared that you'd see me the way I see me, and you wouldn't want to be with me anymore. That you'd run away from me and leave me behind." you shrugged helplessly. Now the tears were beginning to free fall.

"I could never, ever, think that of you, riduur. I love you so much. How could I possibly leave you? Without you, my life would end. It would be meaningless." Din revealed, his chocolate eyes glossy as he cupped your face with his large hand. His thumb traced the height of your cheekbone and you found yourself subconsciously leaning into his touch.

"Don't say things like that," you whispered, shaking your head. "You don't need me around... you already had everything under control before me."

"But nobody to make me smile. Nobody to make me laugh. Nobody to bring me joy... or show me the pleasure of how to love, and be loved in return." Din huffed, pressing his forehead against yours. "Next time you feel this way, please don't hide it from me. Whatever you're going through, we go through it together. Okay?"

You sniffed before finally nodding your head in affirmation. "Okay Din."

Din leaned in and pressed his lips against yours, the curve of his nose bumping into your cheek as he manouvered his body carefully over you. "So beautiful, and all mine." He purred lovingly before licking a stripe over your lower lip. You moaned wantonly and interwined your fingers in his curly brown locks of hair.

It was moments like this that you cherished forever. The sweet touches and soft murmers that made you void of all worry and insecurity; because in that moment, all that mattered was you and your riduur.

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[piratesfromspace]

The Mechanic (Anakin/Reader)

Anakin Skywalker/Reader, Obi-Wan is also here

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Smut 18+, mechanical arm, Anakin is a little shit, dom/sub undertones, humiliation kink if you squint.

AFAB reader but gender-neutral pronouns MASTERLIST

“A… mechanic??”

“Yes, that’s what I am. A mechanic. The best in town. Isn’t it what you’re looking for?”

Obi-Wan scrunches his nose and turns to the poor clone trooper who had introduced you.

“Are you serious?” he asks in a whisper.

“Do you know how hard it is to find a biomechanics surgeon around here, General? That’s the best I could find.” the trooper seems really tired you notice.

Kenobi brings his hand on his chin, silently thinking for a few seconds.

“I guess they’ll do.”

---

And that’s how you’re recruited for a very special task. When you’re led to their temporary base just outside of town, you thought you were going to be asked to repair a secret-weapon, or some military speeder. Oh Maker were you wrong. 

You’re pushed inside of a medical ship, and instead of a speeder, you find yourself face to face with another jedi. He’s sitting on a table, his jedi robe badly torned, already pushed down and bunched on his hips, leaving his muscular torso entirely bare. You would have noticed his perfectly drawn abs if you weren’t distracted by his right arm. From his elbow down, it is entirely made of gold and black metal, with armored panels mimicking the size of his other regular arm, complete with what look like delicate fingers. A mechno-arm. You’ve never seen one quite like it. It must cost a small fortune, and it is definitely custom. But it’s also definitely wrecked.

“So, you’re the biomechanics expert?”

“Mechanic. Just a mechanic. But I know a thing or two about cybernetics.”

“Great.” He says with a cynical tone before making a pause, eyeing you down shamelessly for a tad too long, as you cross your arms and raise an eyebrow at his poor manners. He smirks at your reaction, and cocks his chin up before continuing. 

“Well, anyway, I’ll guide you, I know what’s going on with my arm, I just need a helping hand.”

He says that with a lot more confidence than what you would expect from someone his young age, almost condescending - but you can’t really be mad at him, considering the guy has the Force and looks like this. You would be insufferable as well. 

Sometimes life is unfair, you think, too bad he chose to become a warrior monk, because you wouldn’t mind tinkering with more than his arm.

You take a deep breath, and just get on with it, starting to work on his prosthetic, following his instructions. Even if he hasn’t all the correct vocabulary, the man actually knows what’s wrong with his arm, and you’re a little bit annoyed at the fact he was right. You would have gladly taught him a lesson, making his cocksure smirk and patronizing tone go away just for a second. Nonetheless, you listen to what he explains, and after a while, you realize you’re just executing his directions without second guessing him, lulled by his warm voice, scrunched over his mechanical arm, your face just inches away from his very human skin. 

After an hour, you’re done, and his fingers are back to life, the mechanism slightly buzzing while he lifts his hand to his face, watching with an honest smile as his movements resume. You’re watching as well, mesmerized by the way his metal fingers move with such great finesse. It’s almost surreal when you know the inhumane strength he could deploy thanks to the alloy ligaments, a deadly threat just lying under golden fingertips. 

Your gaze switches to his face, and you allow yourself to stare a little. He’s young but the toll of war is already showing, the kindness of his eyes hidden behind a steely veil, a scar running way too close from his right eye. His hair is a mess, long light-brownish locks with a few blond strands. His innocence is long gone, replaced by a mix of fierce resolve and cocky attitude. He’s handsome, you won’t lie to yourself. And his toned body matches his pretty face. Even the mechanical arm adds to his charm. You’re sure some would be repulsed by it, but you’re definitely not. You can’t stop wondering what it’s like for him when he touches something, when he touches someone. And you can’t stop wondering what it’s like to be touched by those fingers, to feel the smooth golden steel on your skin. Would it be warm? Or cold? 

You’re pulled out of your daydreaming by a cough. Anakin is now looking at you, and his knowing gaze is making you doubt if he’s reading your mind. There are many rumors about the powers jedi can have, and you suddenly blush at the realization he might actually be.

“Well, thanks, it works fine again.” he says with a falsely natural tone. “But I think I need to run just a few tests, you know, to make sure the sensation is back. Would you like to help me? I warn you, it can be a bit… overwhelming.” He says that as his mechanical hand grazes at your naked forearm, his self-confident grin back on his face, and you can’t miss the sexual undertone of his proposition. The feeling sends chills in your whole body, the metal of his fingertips is definitely cold — at least, for now. You’re a bit taken aback because you weren’t expecting advances from a literal monk, but at the same time you know you’re too curious and too horny already to pass down such an invitation. 

“And how can I help?” you ask not so innocently. 

“Glad you ask.” he answers, as he hops down from the table, an even bigger grin on his face. 

You don’t have the time to realize what’s going on, but he lifts you up and slams you down on the table before climbing back on top of you, resting on his knees, arms caging you. 

He hushes you when you want to protest against his manhandling, but you can’t deny the fact it’s turning you on even more. He watches your face intently as his mechanical hand is caressing your cheek, then shifting lower on your throat. He squeezes gently, just to see how you would react, and he’s pleased to hear you gasp at the tiniest of pressure. It’s making you dizzy, the knowledge he could literally crush you if he wanted to, and you’re being amazed at the control he shows instead. 

His hand doesn’t stay there for long though, and goes even lower, shortly groping your breast before sliding further down until it stops at the waistband of your pants. He waits a second here, scanning you for any form of approval, before resuming when you thrust your hips slightly up against his palm, letting him know you’re looking for more. 

He loses no time, snaking his hand under your pants and in your panties, cupping your cunt. The metal of his fingers is warmer now, thanks to your own body heat, but the feeling is still foreign although not unpleasant. He parts your folds, tracing a finger from your entrance to your clit, spreading your wetness there. The pitiful whine that escapes your lips as he starts circling the bundle of nerves makes him chuckle. He’s visibly enjoying the way you react under his touch. 

The smooth steel of his golden fingertips feels like heaven against your sensitive parts, and you already know you won’t last long. He rises a bit, sitting on his heels so he can use his left arm to pin you down, real fingers made of flesh cruelly biting in your hips to keep you in place for what’s coming next. 

He stops his ministrations and coats two of his metallic fingers in your juices before sinking them slowly inside of you. You stop breathing as you watch his fingers disappear between your legs with awe. You feel every ridges and bumps of the mechanical knuckles as they slide in and out of you, and when his thumb finds your clit again, you’re glad he’s actually pinning you down, because it’s suddenly too much to handle. Your back arches and your head slams down against the unforgivable steel of the medical table. In other circumstances, you would complain, but you just can’t find a good reason to care right now. 

Anakin keeps on moving his fingers, relentlessly bringing you closer to the edge. Your whines are now moans, and he gives you a mean look, mouthing a “shut up”. You almost forgot you were in the middle of a military base, and that anyone could enter the room you were in at any time now. You clamp your hand on your mouth, trying desperately to keep quiet as the bastard is slowing his pace but increasing the pressure of his touch, crooking the fingers inside of you to rub against that perfect spot that makes you see stars. It’s a matter of seconds before you come with a muffled whimper, eyes closed, hips rising up from the table. He doesn’t stop until you push his hand away as the pleasure-pain of overstimulation settles in. 

“It looks all good, thanks for helping.” he says with a cocky little smile, while you try to catch your breath. He wipes his mechanical arm on your pants, like it’s just a random rag, and you’re too shocked by the sheer audacity of the man to think of a retort. 

You barely have the time to get back on your feet, that the door of the room is sliding open, revealing a visibly displeased Obi-Wan. 

“You’ done yet?” 

You open your mouth to answer but Anakin is quicker. 

“Yes, Master. We were just making sure the repair is efficient.” 

He says that with his usual grin and while looking the older jedi dead in the eye. You wonder how he managed to do that when some of his fingers still smell like you. You’re also jealous of the fact his crumpled robe is making a decent job at hiding his hard-on, while the wet patch on your pants where Anakin wiped his fingers is all too visible.

“It seems your hand is working perfectly again, Anakin.” 

The tone of Obi-Wan's voice is half-amused, half-annoyed when he says that, his eyes on you, rather than on his padawan. You wonder if he knows what just happened, causing your face to grow hot under his suspicious gaze. 

“Just ask the trooper outside for your payment” he adds bluntly, before asking Anakin to follow him for a briefing where they’re both needed. 

As they exit the room, the younger jedi turns to you.

“I know I can count on you if I ever need more repairs. I’ll make sure to request you, personally.”

Your face is getting even more red as you mumble a good-bye to the two warriors. 

The paycheck was generous, but honestly? You would be lying to yourself if you would not admit you’d do it all over again for free.

[shouldntcryoverit]

a clone fit for a ball.

Commander Fox x Reader

I think initially I wanted to write this as a whole story, but it’s quite a lot and (because i haven’t been too active) I just sorted wanted to post something yk :) hope you enjoy! <33

———————————————————————

It’s a dramatised reality if you think about it. The idea of a gathering with the only intention being to appease the aching sore that is political pillow talk, is one that is so pompous it seems that those who benefit from the scheme are the ones who design it. It’s a drawn out, legislative, painfully particular game of charades disguised in lavish clothes and large hats. In almost every way, those garments are often large enough and sparkly enough to hide the deceit they cover, and persuade each mindless baboon that is gormless to fall victim to it to enter into the game themselves. It’s a repetitive cycle, and stupid though it may be; it does work.

Though there was beauty in it that you just couldn’t deny. The decorations were enough to mesmerise you entirely; lavishly hung around each bannister and archway of the senate hall. Bright colours of orange and pink were scattered across the flower arrangements that littered the walls and their accents. Whatever had been done to spritz life into the chandeliers and lighting had worked its magic, for the perfectly lit definitions gave luminosity and warmth all in one squeezing breath. It was inviting and spectacular; a collaboration of everything the senate appeared to be. Even as the floor beneath your heeled feet glistened with rich delight, the pit in your stomach still swallowed your joy.

Your hatred for all things political had always been your strength and your weakness, especially as a senator. You represented your home planet well enough to protect it’s people, but you would not stand for the same deceitful bulldozing that reduced planets and people to nothing more than pawns or money makers. It meant that you stood for nothing you disbelieved in, including ridiculously regimented senate balls.

Nevertheless, you needed a way in. Your planet had been overlooked for far too long; the cries of your people ignored. You needed a trade deal and you needed one that wouldn’t result in republic outposts and war dependancy littering your already fighting home world. A ball was a good opportunity for political match making, and it was one you couldn’t give up.

It was that reasoning that had led you as far as a blue, bejewelled dress that suffocated what waist you apparently had, and hugged each curve with malice. Even with the anger dripping from your rouged lips, you couldn’t deny it. You did look rather pretty. It was a small triumph, but one that gave you confidence enough to manage the heels that’d been handed to you. As you caught a reflection of yourself leaning heavily against the arm of a guard in a particularly shiny section of the wall, you realised just how pretty you did look. Perhaps there was something addicting in the madness of it all: perhaps there was something powerful about a low cut dress and tousled hair.

Your entrance was timely, a rushed manner donned after slightly too much time taken trying to find the dammed place. Typical of Coruscant, you muttered. Two guards in white and red nodded at your arrival, both seemingly emotionless under their plastoid helmets. It was something that’d always confused you about the clone army; all painfully identical, yet lightyears apart from each other. A brotherhood was one thing, yet could you even call it that?

The thought itself was fleeting, though one you were sure to ponder later. You passed those statues of guards within seconds and continued on your warpath to the ‘reception’. It didn’t take much for you to be recognised; the perks of being one of the only senators with detailed and beautiful facial markings. It was something you prided most. The rest was a blur, but you made it into the hall and straight into a chair that’d apparently been pulled out for you. The man to your left was a kindly looking togruta, the woman to your right your stern faced guard, who looked murderous in comparison.

“My dear, aren’t you cold?” The togruta asked with a genuine smile. The question made a small laugh sprout up your throat.

“Perhaps, though my heart is beating far too fast for it to be uncomfortable.” You replied with that charming tone in your voice you’d perfected.

Everything was an act; your shoulders perked up and back to lift your chin in power and confidence, the planned placement of your hands across the table, your silken voice as it left your silken mouth. Even the unplanned conversation would seem regimented, though the Togruta’s nature settled your mind with authentic care.

“Ah, now that I can understand.” He shuffled, uncomfortable or unsure you couldn’t tell. “I do apologise, but I cant seem to place you.”

You paused again with an unfaltering expression of tenderness.

“Oh well I know you, Governor Roshti. But I don’t blame you, I took over from Madame Liobrev shortly after she resigned from senatorial status. This is my first ball to say the least.” There was a hint of an exhale by the end of your scentence, it felt good to admit even subtly that you were out of your depth.

“Well it doesn’t show, I only hope my name hasn’t ingrained in your mind the way it has in so many’s.” The sadness that fell across his face was just as genuine as the smile that it had replaced. It made the compassionate side of you ache.

“You did what this god forsaken war made you do, I see no reason for shame to fall upon you or your people. Battle leaves us all defenceless.” The spite of your tongue was heavy; anger for the war too many fell victim to.

“Thank you, my dear.”

You smiled once again, before turning back to your guard. She was perched haughtily on her seat, weapon securely hidden but it’s presence obvious. Her attire was in contrast to yours; armour and garments all of dark colours and metal accents. She looked like a warrior, and you were momentarily envious.

“Taurin you really ought to relax. Senators aren’t that vicious. Or at least not when they’re sedated with flattery and shiny things.” You joked, desperate to take the edge of both her and yourself.

Taurin, the guard, bowed her head in humor, a distant smile forming over her pursed lips. It was one you were incredibly fond of, and one you had grown to recognise as endearment.

“M’lady, it’s not the senators I’m worried about.”

You laughed; a breathy laugh that corrupted your lungs and throat.

“What more could you possibly find challenging about a ball this compensated for. Perhaps it’s that my shoes will grow painful on my feet? Enjoy yourself!” You pressured with sweet intentions.

She turned to face you with a vindictive smile laced with sour belief. Her eyes trailed over your reeling eyes in silent conversation, seconds before they jolted off their steady trajectory just past your head. What had been childish remark soon freezed over to slight panic and question. You noticed the change almost instantly and frowned with creased eyebrows. As your head began to swivel to turn to her opponent, she screeched and forced you down.

The fall from your chair wasn’t high, but the adrenaline and shock of the direct hit made it seem endless. You hit the hard floor with a mind numbing crack, one that caused your eyes to widen before you realised it was only one of the many jewels that laced your back splintering; rather than something a critical. Nonetheless, the shot that flew past certainly was real.

The bullet soared over your head, frowning that it had missed it’s target. You couldn’t even process what had happened before Taurin fell to your level, teeth clenched in agony. You reacted as best you could with hands fumbling around her leaking wound; but she swatted you away and thrusted your head down once more. That one bullet, the one that had cursed your luck and gone for your guard in spite of it, had previously had a purpose. Your mind lingered on that fact for a second before you pushed past it. Searching eyes found Governor Roshti’s, who had copied your move and positioned himself just under the table.

You couldn’t hear much over your panting breath; nothing except the shouts and screams of senators whose useless lives felt threatened, so naturally, just like their entire life’s work, they do nothing except complain and wail. It was dark under the thick tablecloth, too dark for anything to be made clear to you. Taurin had wriggled further away and was holding her position behind your table, a gun most definitely in her hand.

Three shots. Four shots. Two. One. Silence.

Now really all you could hear was your panting breath. The blood rushing through your ears made a ringing sound, and the tingling in your veins made the fastness of your heart seem ordinary. Governor Roshti made no adjustments to his stance at the silence, but you were itching to unfold your coiled legs and poke you head up and out of the cover. Like most things you did, you did it without asking. The carnage wasn’t as bad as the screams foretold it to be, but as soon as your vision shifted you saw the agony splayed over Taurin’s face.

“Help! Medic!” Was the instantaneous shout from your lips.

One of the clone guards from earlier shot up. He wore a kama around his waist and his armour was weathered; something that told you he was rough without him having to speak a word.

“Ma’am sit back down, we don’t know where the attackers went.” He commanded.

“I can manage.”

His helmet tilted slightly in what you assumed to be annoyance. With two fingers pointing he signalled for a medic to step forward. The new clone looked significantly younger through the way he held himself and the shining of his uniform. With Taurin being led away, you finally let go of the breath you’d been holding.

“Ma’am-“

“I’d like to know who just tried to kill me.” The clone looked slightly surprised at the deadpan tone of your voice. “And who shot my closest guard.”

He grimaced from under his helmet and lifted his hand up to his visor to tap into his comm channel.

“This is Commander Fox, what’s our status?” He spoke; a velvety tone lacing the authority in his voice.

Fox. It wasn’t bad. Your mind shifted once again as his comm crackled back at him.

“Suspect... run... in pursuit... ty hunter.” Was all you could make out, but it didn’t take a genius to fill in the gaps.

“They won’t find the assailant while pampering senators.” You spoke, cringing slightly at the privilege you held yourself; here you were demanding Commander of his time, all because you have some morsel of perhaps undeserved power.

“I’m sorry” Perhaps an attempt to reconcile your blundering thoughtlessness would change the trooper’s aggravated stance. “I only meant that it would help if the senators uninvolved were to be sent home and out of your hair, it can’t be fun listening to them whine.”

His head tilted slightly in what you hoped to be a grin. “You’re not wrong, but I’m afraid I can’t keep you alone in protection. Not when we don’t actually know who was the intended target.”

“Commander, let me help. Before I was a senator I was a member of the guard. I’m afraid I can just about handle myself.” There was more than a hint of pride in your voice as you spoke.

Fox shook his head and lifted off his helmet. It would be far to say you lost your breath at the sight of his actual face. In the few seconds you spent mentally sketching his face into your brain, your mind fastened at his slightly too-long-to-be-neat mop of curly hair, and how it fell playfully over his deeply tanned forehead. His cheekbones were sharp enough to shut you up (which was, as he’d come to discover, wasn’t actually that easy) let alone the bite of his jaw.

But it was his eyes that made you most intriguing; deep and wise auburn eyes set perfectly amongst weathered skin. They watched you for a moment before the eyebrows above them lifted slightly in confusion.

You hadn’t meant to stare. Or maybe you had, it was unimportant.

“Fine, I’ll take you back to the office while the boys take the others to a safe space.” He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t seem as begrudging anymore; a small victory.

“Thank you, although I may need a change in shoes.”

At this he did grin; and it was marvellous.