#green leather round tray

[estimatey]

Loft-Style - Modern Family Room Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[sardothiened]

Loft-Style - Modern Family Room Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[betterthanchocolatemovie]

Loft-Style - Modern Family Room

Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[hannah-turpaud]

Loft-Style - Modern Family Room

Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[bitidragon]

Loft-Style - Modern Family Room

Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[fymikeness]

Loft-Style - Modern Family Room

Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[bakaminori]

Loft-Style - Modern Family Room

Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[rinaedin]

San Francisco Family Room Mid-sized modern loft-style family room idea with white walls, no fireplace, and no television.

[frudoo]

Just an itty bitty teeny tiny thought about biker 141 finding themselves the sweetest little pretty thing.... Most people are terrified of them for good reason, Price as the club president, Ghost as his VP, Gaz and Soap are two of their top guys. It's a sight to see them on or off their motorcycles but then there's you. The sweet little thing who runs across the boys somehow and instead of showing an ounce of fear, you give them a brilliant smile and talk sweetly to them. The boys decide then that you'll be their shared old lady.

Idk something about Biker!141 traveling through the states and meeting a pretty lil southern waitress with a heart of gold <3

Warnings: Reader's coworkers + most townfolk are prejudiced assholes. Mentions of food, and getting way too friendly with strangers (this is fiction, stay safe irl please)

The diner falls silent the second everyone hears the roar of the motorcycles’ engines coming to a halt in the front parking lot. The cooks start cussing, the parents start pulling their children closer, the busboys go to hide in the back. But you, a sweet, naive waitress on your first week, are completely unbothered. You greet the four huge, rugged men clad in leather jackets and dirt-covered jeans as they walk through the door, telling them to sit wherever they’d like.

     Your boss, wide-eyed and baffled, grabs the back of your apron and drags you into the kitchen. You brush her off with an exasperated huff, eyebrows furrowed at the middle-aged woman.

     “Steer clear of those men. I’m gonna tell ‘em to beat it,” she tells you matter-of-factly, wrinkled arms crossed over her chest.

     “Don’t be ridiculous,” you roll your eyes, retying your apron and shoving past her, out of the kitchen.

     You’re surprised to see that most of the patrons have left the diner, wads of cash left on their half-empty tables to cover their bills. All of this just because of some men that look a little different than them? It doesn’t sit right with you. You pull out your little notepad as you approach the table they chose, putting on your kindest smile. They all smile back—even the one with the weird mask has crinkles around his eyes, giving him away.

     “I’m so sorry about that wait. What can I start y’all off with to drink?” 

     “Waters all around, sweetheart,” the one with the mutton chops hums, closing his menu. 

     “Alright… and have y'all decided on food?” You begin scribbling on your little tablet of paper, nodding between each of their orders.

     The meatloaf special for mutton chops, extra potatoes, no green beans. A cheeseburger for the one with the mohawk, onion rings instead of fries. Fried catfish for the last two, with fries (because they have taste, according to the pretty one with the scar on his cheek).

     “I’ll have that right out for y’all,” you smile, giving them all a little wink before returning to the kitchen and putting their ticket on the line. 

     The cooks all give you glares, and your boss even gives you the cold shoulder, but you pay it no mind as you fill up four glasses with water and arrange them on a tray. As you balance the platter on your fingertips and make your way back to your table, one of the busboys sticks his foot out and trips you, sending both you and the waters sliding across the floor. You’re absolutely humiliated, pushing yourself up on your sore knees and dusting off your uniform as tears stream down your face.

     The one with the mask hurries over, offering his hand to help you back onto your feet. Your bottom lip trembles as you look up at him, a pitiful little whimper escaping your throat.

     “I-I’m so sorry about that, I’ll go get you new ones right now,” you sniffle, expecting him to chew you out.

     Instead, he cups your round cheeks in his gloved palms and thumbs away your tears, shushing you softly. Despite not even knowing him, you allow yourself to melt into his touch.

     “No apologizin’, lovie,” he grunts, “No’ your fault. Tha’ fucker always givin’ you trouble?” 

     “Hm? Oh, n-no, not usually,” you explain, carefully pulling away to clean up the mess on the floor. “Thank you- um…”

     “Simon,” he introduces himself, giving you a nod before going to sit back down with his mates.

     You mutter his name under your breath to remember it as you drop the broken glass in the garbage, drying off the tray and placing four new fresh glasses of water onto it. This time, the journey to the table is successful, and you hand each man their drink with a polite smile, still slightly embarrassed. They all make it a point to thank you with more enthusiasm than is needed, and the ones you don’t know introduce themselves as John, Kyle, and Johnny. 

     When the bell dings, signaling that their food is ready, you suck in a deep breath and place their dishes onto your tray, praying that this one won’t get dropped. Thankfully, you make it back with fully-intact plates, thanking the heavens that the cooks had sense enough not to burn the guys’ meals. You’re about to turn and allow them to enjoy their food, but John spreads his legs and taps one wide thigh, signaling for you to take a seat. You’re not entirely sure why you do it, but you comply, and he wraps an arm around your waist as he eats and converses with the group. 

     They’re all good company, constantly telling jokes that get you giggling, or pushing flirty little remarks your way. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the attention, but eventually your boss comes over to snatch you off of John’s lap. You can practically see the steam coming out of her ears as she drags you into the kitchen once again, face red and eyes wild with rage.

     “You’re fired,” she grits her teeth, forcefully undoing your apron and pulling it off of your body.

     “Go to hell,” you retort. "You'll fit right in."

     You don’t let her see, but your eyes are blurry with tears as you grab your purse from your locker and shove your way out the front door. You’d forgotten how chilly it was outside and now you’re shivering as you pull out your phone to order an Uber. When you hear the little bell on the door jingle, you flinch, half-expecting it to be your old boss coming out to hit you with a broom. Instead, a warm leather jacket is placed over your shoulders and a strong arm pulls you against a firm body.

     “Jus’ me, dove,” Kyle grins, rubbing your arm with his hand in an attempt to warm you up quicker. “The lads’re takin’ care o’the bill. Be out any second.”

     You nod and rest your head on his shoulder, protesting only half-heartedly when he takes your phone from your hands and cancels your Uber. 

     After a few moments, the other three men pile out of the diner, adjusting their gloves and wiping sweat off their brow. John sniffs and smiles at you warmly, pointing towards where their bikes are parked. Kyle helps you put his jacket on properly as he walks you over, and all four of them line up next to their respective rides. You shyly sway in place as they look at you expectantly.

     “Well, hen? Take yer pick.”

[monsterfloofs]

(Not sure if these slimes will become the sentient goo being I mentioned in my rambles, but this was a cute short story and it brought me a lot of joy to write xD )

You had to admit, you had a soft spot for slimes. The bobbling rounded dewdrop creatures struck you as cute. As a young adventurer they had been daunting creatures, but as you traveled and became seasoned the less of a threat they became. However you recall even when first starting out, the jelly-like beings didn't make you feel as nervous as other more formidable creatures you knew you were going to come across along the road.

You could never really take them seriously, they wibbled and wobbled, shuffled, rolled and bounced around. Now as their attacks felt merely like burning bee stings, the antics were mostly viewed as endearing.

On the outskirts of a quaint village, right beside a sprinkling of trees that melded into a dense forest. You open up your satchel, flipping it upside down and shaking the bag until a blue jiggling mass falls out and bounces into the grass. You stoop to a crouch next to the small translucent creature, watching it ripple and undulate with the last vibrations from its fall. It's wobbling, slowing down until it rests benignly on the earth. Your hands resting on your knees.

"There you go lil buddy, back to where you belong. I still don't know how you managed to sneak into town to begin with, but I am glad you didn't end up getting trampled."

The little blue creature doesn't make any signs that it acknowledges your words, nor does it move to attack you. Simply laying by your feet, not showing any signs of stirring. You smile, thrusting a hand into your inner coat pocket and pulling out a cloth package. Slowly peeling back the fabric layers to expose a pastry you had been saving to eat later that evening. You pinch the sweet between your thumb and forefinger, careful not to touch the gooey thin film of the slime's surface, you place the treat on the top of its domed body.

"There you go. A snack for your trip."

You watch with curiosity as its skin around the pastry begins to soften, a little sucking popping sound as the treat is pulled into its nucleus and engulfed. You stand at the sound, your eyes lingering on the little creature a moment more before you turn your heels back towards the tiny town with soft yellow lights just beginning to flicker in dark windows.

The tiny slime sits, feeling your presence ebb away. A tiny gush of noise as it slurps at the pastry in its round body. It begins to ripple, then, with a determined bounce, it hops after you. Traveling a safe enough distance behind you that it remains unnoticed.

You find yourself running into this situation more and more. Once they started cropping up, they were everywhere.

"What am I, a slime whisperer?" You mumbled grumpily before raising your voice. "Hey– HEY, that's my boot!" You grapple with a peachy pink blob, pulling at your leather shoe until it dislodges with a mighty blorp! You fall backwards, grabbing a towel and trying to dab at the sticky liquids before it starts to seep into the leather and begin to digest the material.

"Comeon now, really?"

You blink as you feel another one of the blobbular beings snuggle up to you, and you freeze. Looking down at the mint green undulating mass. You hesitantly watch it, looking for signs of it trying to eat your coat before you carefully pat it with your hand. Giving the surface membrane a light smacking that makes the creature wobble like jelly on a tray. A happy sound between a chirp and a schlurp coming from it.

You realized as more started to follow you around and pester you, that the little dew drops had conscious control between how their skin acted between eating and resting. A thin clear membrane, stretching over the body of the creature was malleable enough to let foods in and stop foreign objects from getting inside them, or corroding away in water. Which was a good thing, or else you would have gained more burns than you would have liked from dealing with your new persistent entourage.

"I'm never going to be let into a respectable town again," You let yourself moan, putting on a spare pair of shoes, and then, remembering you recently wrestled a boot away from one of the blobs, you stand up and put them into a high crook of a tree, so they can dry without running the risk of being absorbed.

"Let's see," You turn around, pointing at the little creatures. "One, two. . . oh boy, where did Blue go?" The mint slime nudges at your heels from attention while the pink trundles up to the tree.

"Don't even think about it, you don't even have eyes and I know what you're looking at."

The pink one boggles at you, in response you crease your face into a comical frown and shake your head at them disapprovingly. Yes try as you might, they learned the pink one is a glutton compared to the other two, like a curious teething puppy. Well, if a puppy was a pink loaf made out of acidic goo, that is. The simile still stood strong in any case, if something appeared edible, the pink one had to try consuming it. If you weren't fast enough to catch it in the act, you had to sulkily watch whatever it had scarfed down slowly corrode away into nothingness.

"To think," You muttered in frustration, of all the monsters I could have babysit, it had to be things made out of acid. . . good grief. Yet, despite your grumblings you moved to pick up the mint slime, and it wibbled and sloshed back and forth. Pushing its form up and down like a happy sentient water puddle.

[mystoriesmylives]

When the Bellflower Blooms-Date Night-Maul

Cover done by @eyecandyeoz

Maul tapped his metal foot on Onoras carpet as he waited for her to finish dressing up.

Onora insisted on a date night with just the two of them. While Maul doesn't mind spending time with her, this time she actually wants to go out.

Maul would rather stay in, wrestling in the sheets till sunrise, doing many, many things.

“Maul, I'm done.”

Maul was broken from his thoughts as he look at Onora.

...Kark.

She was wearing a black tube top and black skirt that stopped at her thighs; along with leather gloves that stopped at her elbow. She wore light makeup but the lipstick is a darker shade. But what really caught his attention was her shoes.

She is wearing thigh-high black six inch heels.

“How do i look?” she asked.

“...Fine.” Maul said with a straight face while his thoughts were snarling.

“Fine?! You look so much more then fine! You look karking gorgeous! And those heels. I want to see you in nothing but those heels. I want to fuck you in those heels. I want you to actually step on me in those heels! WHAT THE KARK IS WRONG WITH ME?!”

Perhaps sensing his inner battle, Onora smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Come on, I got the perfect place for us to go to.”

*^^$

Onora led Maul in downtown Daiyu, noticing that some people seem to be staring at her. A glare from him usually made them stop.

They stopped at a stall to get meat-sticks, which Onora ate with enthusiasm. Maul looked at her while he ate his slowly.

Its rare for them to have alone time like this, so every time he with her, he relishes and savours each moment. He lets Onora take his hand as she leads him to a place she said they will have a lot of fun, his arm tingling from her touch.

Onora finally led them to a place he thinks is a shooting range. When he asked, she smiled.

“Close, but they are not for blasters. These are for hatchets.”

She then paid someone for 4 hatchets and he watches as she throws one at the target, hitting it dead center.

....Kark, was she trying to kill him?!

“Gets your gears grinding huh?

He turns and sees a green besalisk with a tray holding empty cups. He smirks as he looks at Onora, making Mauls eyes narrow.

“First time I seen Red bring someone.” he asked, “You close?”

Maul was about to snarl something, but Onora then draped her arm around his shoulders.

“This is my boyfriend.” she said,with a smile “ Is there a problem?”

The besaslisk smiled and shook his head.

“Nah, Red. But I think you just left a trail of broken hearts.”

Maul looked around and noticed some of the other patrons look disappointed. He snaked a possessive arm around her waist as she led him away, his chest puffing out in confidence.

“You come here often?” he asked.

“Just to unwind. Sometimes a girl needs some nachos and hatchets to throw.”

Maul hummed as Onora led him to stall.

“So do you think you can beat me in a game?”

“And what if I win?” Maul asked with a smirk.

“Whatever you want.” she purred.

After 3 rounds, Maul won. It then turned out he got the highest amount of bulls-eyes then anyone, making him win a small trophy. Onora laughed as the zabrak stared at the small plastique trophy in befuddlement.

“Well, you won.” she said with a smile, “What do you want?”

He grinned and pulled her down to his level, whispering in her ear.

“To fuck you with those heels on.”

Onora face turned bright red and slowly smiled. She grabs Mauls hand and nearly sprints to the door, deciding to end this date with a bang.

@eyecandyeoz @justalittletomato @gran-maul-seizure @amorfista @a-dorin @maelove21 @love-like-poetry @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @kotic-kryptid @kimageddon @herbalinz-of-yesteryear @stardustbee @dukeoftheblackstar @eliszelis @nik-barinova

[lovelessdagger]

Starlight - Chapter Thirty-Five: Apocalypse

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC

Rating: Mature

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Smut

WARNINGS: Explicit Language. Graphic Violence. Derealization. Gore.

Words: 7k

Summary: In the middle of it all, a metal surgical table, leather straps attached to the sides. A tray of scalpels to the left, powered down heart rate and oxygen monitors to the right. On top of the table however, the object to make Din’s heart stop.

Lumina.

Masterlist | Starlight Masterlist | AO3 | Prev | Next

An unsatisfactory thump echos on impact to the tile in the closet of a room. A single three strand braid, woven tight and thick lands at the heels of Lumina’s feet. What’s left is choppy and uneven, ending at the middle of her neck. Thick recycled air brushes against exposed skin, fresh cut ends poking. 

On the counter in front, a knife sets down continuing to vibrate until it too falls.

She’s asked, What do you remember? The question comes from behind, practiced posh accent as heavy as Dagobah’s humidity. 

An answer is foregone, the weight of her tongue unbearable.

“She’s in the void,” postulates a second, another female. After a pause, “The voltage should have fried her from the inside. She’s melted.”

“Perhaps,” the first agrees. A hand grips her chin, cold skin on her fever temptation. Again she’s asked: What do you remember?

She can’t answer, in the most physical sense. Her mouth opens to cough, phlegm spitting on the counter right before the mirror. She refuses contact with the vision of herself. She can imagine the sight well enough. She watches outside herself from the rafters of ventilation. She’s cold in her observation deck, wrapped in stiff wool blankets. They scratch until she earns a rash.

Ghost stands directly behind, officer Kane posed against the entryway. Lumina, in the middle of it all. The chair she sits on is old, wooden, creaking whenever weight shifts. They’ve each taken their turn of their snide remarks of her.

“She could have done miracles.”

“Wasted talent.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. Men would never listen to it. Not when she looks like that.”

“She used to be a whore.” 

“Figures.”

Ghost shoves the side of her head. She hates silence, rebellion, disrespect. She assumes a right to Lumina’s memory, whatever she believes to be left of it. Were she to possess the same gift, the discovery would be quite the disappointment.

Everything is there, amplified and muted. Faces turn to masks, bodies blurred shapes, familiar motions. She feels high. Lonely. Claustrophobic.

For the first time, Lumina misses company. A feeling, she assumes, to be unrequited. In vain and a sick need of self deprecation, she attempts to convince herself it is not human interaction, affection, that she longs for. Instead the scenery of green, whomever it comes with an unwilling side affect of association.

The light cruiser is cold and empty, lacking windows to space and oxygen stale. Green paradise filled her with warmth, breathed her anew. There are few places which resemble it. She has traveled more of the galaxy than most men could conceptualize. Nothing has felt so welcoming than the woods. Nothing except for—

Lumina locks eyes with herself, squinting like she were too bright. She sees brown above dark circles, odds and ends of overgrown and chopped layers sticking up from her scalp. She is a kiss away from death.

She might as well be staring at a holophoto of her childhood.

Not all memory is abstract. She remembers the sun warm on her skin, reflections of silver always to her left. She remembers waterfalls, three within close proximity, more further away. Six round creatures, brown and large. Tall grass, centuries old trees, blue lakes and lagoons. A manor as old as time, worn with love, forgotten as all things are. Lace, ivy, dedications to those already dead, a Senator and a Jedi.

She remembers flowers.

A wild field of blossoms in a haze. Decorating everything visible. Garlands, mosaics, art in all ways art can be. A single bouquet, separated from the rest. Large, dusty blue, white almost. Golden at its heart, bursting into five pointed ends.

A quick release of dawn, a flash of what could have been.

Lumina does not look like herself, and breaks contact lest she further her own destruction.

She’s forced to stand and dressed like a doll, bottom up. Looking as if she were poured into cloth.

Kane repeats her earlier sentiment.

Figures.

The corridor sounds crowded, heavy, angry. Sensation shoots up her nerves. Lumina faces Ghost, the second now complete with her mask. The red lit visor is burning. Kane coughs during their contest, chirps from her communicator duetting.

Her muscles relax with sweetness of a nearing end.

---

Bo-Katan, though only knowing Din Djarin for such a short time, is far too aware that something is wrong. Past the usuals of his gruffness and hostility, exacerbated tenfold, his mind is poisoned. The change is a palpable chemical.

Jedi, she thinks scoffing. If that.

Fennec Shand snaps in front of her helm. “Focus.”

Bo raises her left blaster, three shots into three Stormtroopers. She shrugs. The forces are less than she expected, and half seem far too unwilling than usual conscripts. Her energy is better suited elsewhere.

Or so she thinks. Fennec, clearly, has other ideas.

They play off another, her and Shand. It’s a miracle they hadn’t met sooner, all things considered. The galaxy is far too small for her liking. Everyone she knows—those still living—have sequestered themselves in the farthest corners, each lightyears apart. There’s no reason for this invisible golden string of sunlight to tie them all.

Snap.

“I’m focused.”

“Sure.”

“…You have no idea the position I’m in.” Bo speaks with a soft edge, cautious of the wandering ears of Koska and Dune.

“I have some.”

“No. You don’t know them like I did.” 

Do.

…Did.

“I’ve worked with them both. Him at the beginning. Her at the end.”

“Before or after?”

“Mainly before. Once after. Once after the after."

"Were you friends?"

"Friendly… eventually." Fennec stops first, hand raised, she points left. She whispers, "Were you?"

Dune takes care of the offenders. Her automatic blaster is insulting, but it serves its purpose. She’s more than helpful, a surprise given her avid protest on the rescue. She’s made her disdain for the girl—Lumina, abundantly clear. There are questions on everything, her hidden truths, intentions, trust, lack thereof.

Bo-Katan leaves the returns to Shand, she worries if she says anything it will be that she agrees. No one is sure of anything, least of all Din, and though Bo-Katan would never admit it, she takes his word above all else. Fett seems less concerned about whatever the girls sense of morality could be than her just being alive. Clones, blind allegiance seems built into their core. This Bo-Katan knows, it’s the rest who refuse to listen.

Dune has a point, but the thought of abandonment now makes Bo sick. Though Fennec doesn’t look to have any issues of her own. She and Fett are staunchly for this mission. Bo can’t determine yet whether Fennec’s loyalty is a stem from her partnership to Fett or her own will. She’s not sure she wants the answer.

Blindness is far easier than acute awareness of truth.

"I don't find making friends easy," Bo admits, remembering the question. “Or all together necessary." She nods to herself, following a vague memory. "Though she was the best of them."

“I mean were you friendly?" Fennec asks.

"No."

The crowd of them arrive to the corridor before the cell of Pershing’s instruction. "Make it quick," Dune says, flanking left with Koska to their lookout positions. "I'd rather not wait around."

"Becoming Sith soup isn't my idea of fun either," Bo says. “Keep comms open, call if you need backup.”

Crouched together at the end of the hall, her and Shand, stare at the lonely metal door. Two guards stand, one on each side. Fennec refuses to drop conversation, even as they take down the troopers and shoot them in the chest.

“What’s the plan?” she asks.

“If you were listening you would know I went over the plan—”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Bo’s lips purse a thin line. She hadn’t thought that far. Dune’s objections rattle inside. “I don’t know.”

“Fett says you have a location.”

“Not exactly. It’s been years. Could be anywhere, and encrypted comms aren’t my definition of approachable.”

“You don’t think it’s smart.”

“You do?” Bo sighs. “I want what’s best.”

“For whom?”

”Fett doesn’t seem keen on it, why are you?”

Fennec shrugs. “Like I said. We were friendly.”

Bo-Katan takes the code cylinder from a fallen guard, careful to avoid the blood from his chest. They press against each side of the door on her insertion into the lockboard, blasters ready. On Bo-Katan’s word cage doors open, they enter with initiative. Depth is larger than anticipated, and the light from the hall does little. 

“Lumina?” she calls. “It is Bo-Katan and Fennec Shand. Are you here?” Her helmets opticals convert to night vision, a now green lit room empty. The settlement of a grave enters her gut, she doesn’t think and calls her name. 

“Lumina,” Fennec corrects.

Right.

The corner of the room coos. “What the hell?” Bo says, turning. “The kid is here.” The alien waddles to the rooms center, meeting the pair. He waves, and it’s now Bo sees the shattered lightbulb at their feet. Bo kneels, holding her hand out in caution. “Hey little guy. Remember me?”

“I don’t get it,” Fennec says. “If he’s here, where is she?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get to the bridge, there are cameras everywhere. We’ll find her.” She taps on her arm. “Marshal Dune, Koska, we’ve run into a situation. Is the path for entry to the bridge clear?”

The response is static.

“Marshal Dune, Koska. Do you read me?”

“Unfortunately your party seems to be indisposed right now.” The voice and its owner, concealed behind a black mask in the doorway. She removes the code cylinder from the lockboard, twirling it around leather gloved fingers. “Ni gana kil'yc ca'nara.” And before Bo-Katan can exclaim any senes of confusion, much less fear, her hand slams on the lockboard panel. “You’ll just get in my way.” 

The doors lock shut.

She shares a look with Fennec, one only meaning one thing. Marshal Dune was right. 

“Din Djarin,” Bo-Katan rushes into her communicator. “She’s not here. You’re being set up. You are not to engage with her under any circumstance. I repeat do not engage. Abort your mission and go to the bridge. I repeat, abort your mission immediately. Do. Not. Engage.”

---

To call Doctor Pershing’s assessment of the situation off would be an oversimplification. Part of Din Djarin wonders if they were given accurate schematics of Gideon’s light-cruiser at all. While he faced the privilege of no storm trooper confrontation, the same oddly applied in a noticeable lack of dark trooper.

He’d gone just as Pershing instructed. Second floor stern, port side. From there, exactly three hundred paces from the lift shaft to the brig, passing the holding bay on the way. Neither occurrence remained true. 

Three hundred paces becomes five hundred until the nearest door, and the fleet of dark troopers remained MIA. Instead, the corridor echos his presence and vents rumble. MSE droids skid past in the opposite direction with no alarm. 

Din debates turning around, returning to the lambda, or worse— comming Bo-Katan, admitting he is simply not capable of being alone. Alas, pride beats even the strongest of curses, and he continues.

Pershing’s code cylinder does not work on the first door, nor the second or third. In fact, Din inserts the breaker into every lockboard he sees seven times until function begins.

He concludes with the undeniable fact that Doctor Pershing had lied to them all. And if such were true, nothing could ever be predicted. Especially this:

The room which opens is not a brig, nor a standard holding cell by any stretch of the imagination. It is a laboratory. With glass cabinets along the wall and floor, vials of meticulously labeled liquids, tables and counters covered by wires and computer terminals. 

In the middle of it all, a metal surgical table, leather straps attached to the sides. A tray of scalpels to the left, powered down heart rate and oxygen monitors to the right. On top of the table however, the object to make Din’s heart stop. 

Lumina.

Sleeping, or worse but certainly incapacitated. One arm hanging off the edge. Her clothing torn apart. She looks feverish and pale, twitching every now and then. 

Din stills in the doorway longer than feasible to excuse as decision making. He wants it all, to scream and run and vomit and hide and rage and break every glass and not care what cuts. 

Bo-Katan’s voice unwillingly penetrates his thoughts, frantic. Din Djarin. She’s not here, you’re being— He cuts the connection and unwillingly enters. 

Lumina resembles her appearance after Nevarro far too greatly for Din to have any sense of comfort. He can hear the AZI unit whirl around the room, reading useless information of her brainwaves and abnormal vitals. He scans her heart rate, weary of the sensation she claimed it caused. Unconscious or not, angered or not, he cannot bring himself to harm her. The results are too low, dangerously close to snapping into cardiac arrest.

The body seems to have entered a self sufficient regulatory stasis, he hears the AZI say, bringing as much comfort now as it did then. 

That is to say, none at all.

“Lumina,” he whispers. “Wake up…” His protest is unconvincing and her body temperature drops rapidly. “Lumina wake up.” He takes her shoulders, lifting her with a cradled head, she is limp. “I know you can hear me.” He grows frantic, air from his nose hot. His visor fogs. “Lumina. We promised Fett we’d bring you alive, wake up.” He swears. 

“You’re a fucking hypocrite you know that? You make me promise I won’t die or do stupid shit and that’s all you ever do. I can’t keep watching you die. I won’t do it. I can’t do it anymore. I hate you. I hate you, I fucking hate you. You’re the worst thing that ever happened me. I wish I never met you. You’re selfish and entitled and you have to wake the fuck up so I can tell you that I—” He runs out of air, shaking his head. “I swear I’ll kill you if you die. I’ll do it right here. I’ll fucking kill you Lumina. Don’t make me. Please—please, Lu. Lu, Lu wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake—”

She stretches. The movement is slow and hardly recognizable but her muscles move and contract, she groans. She breathes through her mouth, heavy like wampas lay on her lungs. Her eyes blink open, soft gray in harsh light. 

She sits up, painfully assisted by him. Her vision doesn’t focus on any one thing, fluttering around the room, squinting at the bulbs above. 

Something breaks, a small incremental shatter in Din’s brain. He cannot help the itch, and has an unbearable urge to kiss her. “Sarad?”

It wouldn’t matter if Din had left her for a lifetime, there is no instance in which he could ever forget the sinking feeling of knowing something is horribly wrong. She’s dull and uncommitted. She flinches when realizing it is his hands that hold her. 

“Lumina?”

“I wouldn’t bother. She has the mental capacity of an infant in this state.”

Din turns. “Moff Gideon.”

“Hello, Din Djarin.” He enters the laboratory, hands behind his back, gaze unassuming. Crossing, he lands behind her. “We must stop meeting this way, it’s far too crass for my liking.”

“What did you do to her?”

“I assure you she has done it to herself. We presented her many opportunities to make the right choice, and yet she did not. Disobedience is not tolerated as I am sure you are aware.”

Din asks again, each word hit. “What did you do?”

“She was a troubled girl, and I’m afraid Dr. Pershing’s methods proved lackluster. I wouldn’t worry if I were you, while the mind flayer is not gentle, she retains no memory of it. Or, anything.”

“What?”

“Please,” Gideon scoffs. “Don’t pretend you care just to humor me. Have you forgotten what she’s done to you? The Child? She is the reason for so much—��� his left shoulder twitches “—torment.”

“She’s still a person,” Din stutters.

“Is she? I understand how you could be fooled, so was I, but I assure you personhood is the least of her descriptors. Haven’t you wondered how she seems to be so… superhuman? Why she of all people carried such importance? I had Doctor Pershing conduct his own studies to discover this. She is a strandcast. Containing original Fett DNA, of which the Empire continues to hold total and unending proprietorial rights to. This thing isn’t human, it’s a rogue experiment. You see Din Djarin, this is my property, and it won’t be going anywhere.”

“I don’t care what she is,” Din says. “I made a promise. She’s coming with me.”

Gideon walks back, pacing the laboratory in long strides. “I should like you to meet someone.” He smiles with teeth, right hand waved out. “My personal guard.” From the corridor, a masked womanly figure dressed in black and red. Her description is of ill comparison to that of Pershing’s, and Din’s memory is far to hazy to recall the fateful day to perfection. The further he strays the less he knows. But she is shorter than he, thin but curved. He sees no skin. 

“I do not often make requests,” Gideon says. “But I do recommend you leave with haste. She is not one you’d like to cross.”

Perhaps it is instinct or a sickening need, a rotted habit within his psyche, but Din grabs Lumina’s hand. She flinches, he feels bile stir. “I’m not leaving without her, and I don’t fear you. Or her.” He ignores the pounding in his chest.

Gideon’s jaw tightens. “Very well,” he says. “You may take the thing. After all it was created once, she can be again. However, in doing so you forfeit ever seeing the Child again.” 

“What?”

“Fortunately, seeing as she provided all testing trials, he has remained an unnecessary nuisance, yet a necessary backup. If you’d rather correct his fate into hers, be my guest.”

A storm whips to the level of hurricanes inside of Din. 

“I urge you to think on your decision,” Gideon says. “Don’t forget the reason you’ve had to drag Bo-Katan and her crew of savages aboard.” He spares a look. “I hope you’re not surprised. I’d recognize Lady Kryze beyond the grave. I owe her my thanks. Without her, Mandalore and many many more of you Mandalorians may still be alive. Without her…” His right hand falls to his hip. Gideon takes hold of a sleek hilt. The device powers on, the sound angry, the light the darkest he’s seen. “…I would never have this.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Are you so blind to yourself? This is the Darksaber,” Gideon says. Lumina’s head lifts as does the guard’s, staring mesmerized. “An ancient Mandalorian weapon, said to create kings. You see Din Djarin, whomever wields this sword rules Mandalore and all its people. This is why Bo-Katan has chosen to join you. Believe no other excuse she has said. She works for her own benefit.”

“I don’t care about the sword,” Din says. “Keep it. Die with it. I just want the kid… and her.”

“Is that right? Is that truly what you want? Her?” Din has not missed the growing migraines, their current reappearance penetrates with a force. “I’d like you to think, truly think of your desires.”

Fett wants her, he reminds himself. That’s reason enough. 

“She’s a malfunctioning asset created for destruction,” Gideon continues, turning off his saber. “The fact is hardwired into her programming, she can never change. Never provide you with a family, comfort, love. This model at least, is incapable, and in this state she has no idea who you are.”

Incapable. 

Din catches himself in his chest, fist tight. Something dark and buried tells him he’s known all along. It’s the same whispered haunting voice that spoke the truth to him all those days ago. Trapped in Gideon’s cargo hold, held by droids against his will. He’s always known. Nothing has changed, not in the slightest.

And her, her being some… some clone, some piece of bioengineering, what difference does it make? How is it not another excuse for her actions?

He steps away, far away. Far enough that she is no longer within arms reach and his heel hits cabinets. A glass vial topples and cracks. 

The guard watches, Lumina does not. Her gaze is robotic, remaining stagnant on the sword. She turns hypnotized to face the oppressor. 

Gideon isn’t entirely incorrect in his assessment. Mostly, but not complete. Lumina isn’t the same, the sight of her makes that much obvious… but had he known her at all? Had anything been real? She had indeed worked against him the whole of their time but…

His nerves twitch. Damn migraine.

“Tell me, Din Djarin,” Gideon says. “What is it that you want?”

He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t. He will repeat it until he dies, he does not want her. Even now. Especially now. Not as he stares at her for the first time in ten days, of which each feels like a year. Not when there’s this insatiable urge to grab her, hold her, take her somewhere, anywhere else. He wants to take her into the Razor Crest, let her take a stupidly long shower as she always does and sing just loud enough so that he may hear. He wants her to sleep and eat and sleep until she looks anything like herself again.

But the Razor Crest does not exist anymore. Neither does she.

She does not care for him. Not ever, not now. Especially now. Not when she cannot remember anything of their lives. Cannot look at him, recoils at his touch. When all she can give him is an exposed and turned back, chilled from blowing air and perfectly clean.

A perfectly clean unmarked back…

Huh.

“I choose the Child,” Din says. “Keep her, you’re right. She means nothing.” 

“Are you certain?”

He nods. “Yes.” 

“Very well. 318,” Gideon says, her attention snapped. “You are dismissed. Return to your quarters.”

She stumbles, jumping off the surgical table without imprints on the back of her thighs. She nods at Gideon, ignores Din, and brushes past the guard. When doors close it’s as if she never existed at all.

What a thought.

“Where’s the kid?” Din asks. 

Gideon smirks. “That would be nice to know, wouldn’t it?”

In an instant Din is flung against the opposite wall, crashing directly into glass, labeled fluid splashing in every direction. He groans, his helmet denting the wall.

“Did you think it would be that easy?” Gideon asks. He keeps position while his guard advances. Her left arm is stretched, fingers moving on her right. “Did you honestly believe you could get anything from me?” He laughs. “You have been a stain on my plans for too many moons and your interest has faded.”

Din’s body constricts on himself, the guard pushes him further and further into durasteel.

“You should have never come,” Gideon says. “The Child alone I can understand, I’m a father as well. But her?” He scoffs. “Lord Vader created her for one purpose, to squash enemies like bugs. It is all she knows. You should have understood that.”

Dins feet lift off the ground, not far but shadow does form. He tries to fight, he tries to try and he cannot. His body struggles too much, it is too weak, he is too human. 

Gideon instructs, “Kill him.”

His throat tightens, his hands pull at his own neck. Nothing works. The guards left hand balls into a fist, snapping to the side. His vision blurs. Din Djarin watches her right hand gently turn with his neck and falls into a deep unimaginable sleep. 

---

The Mandalorian awakes by a jolt of electricity, a minute two finger punch to the pulse point of his neck.

He hears that he’s dead, however—and although he cannot say he is familiar with the sensation—he does not feel dead. Quite the opposite. Energy renews, and in the strangest way, the aches he carried disappear. Clarity enters.

His eyes take longer to open, boots and knees crouched in front of his visor. He couldn’t have been unconscious for long, behind the figure of the guard is still Moff Gideon. He speaks with gesture, and it is now Din realizes his prior shyness in motion. On his left, his arm ends abrupt, disfigured. 

That’s new.

Gideon is less proud without knowledge of Din’s audience. He keeps a distance, almost afraid. 

The thought, surely she couldn’t have caused his disfigurement, is not a stranger to his mind. The implication however, is. 

She doesn’t move or speak or breathe really. Gideon talks, as he always does. He praises her. Her hand enters Din’s left side pocket—having landed on his right—quickly and leaves all the same. Gideon tells her he’s amazed her conditioning was a success. She stands, Din forced to stare at her heels. 

“Glory to the Empire,” she says eventually. Her vocoder is too strong, she reverbs like a canyon. 

Gideon repeats. 

Glory to the Empire.

With a sinking feeling, Din would much rather be prepared for his grave. Placed six feet below in rich soil, safe from the collision of fate. 

---

“You will kill the Mandalorian… What I see, is the Mandalorian you align yourself with will fear you, and you will kill him in the name of the Empire.”

The words tornado as Lumina’s hands shake at her sides, sweating under leather. She pants outside of Doctor Pershing’s laboratory where a gang of four Stormtroopers await. The mask Ghost had given her found quick removal, laying thrown on the floor. Her forehead presses against the wall, expression pinched.

 “Get a move on,” one says.

She shouldn’t worry. She knows she shouldn’t worry. Her skills surpass worry, they transcend fear. The Mandalorian is not dead. He may be sore and dazed but he is not dead. He’s not. And if he were, if she were somehow careless and unyielding to her power she would have felt it. His pain, his agony, the Force leave his body. She would know, it would kill her just the same.

A darkness whispers in her ear, Anakin killed his wife…

“I said move,” the Trooper repeats.

She grunts, “Give me a minute.”

The silence is too loud, she can’t hear through the walls. She should have stayed, fought Gideon herself, finished what she unknowingly started. It isn’t fair to Din. It’s never been fair. 

What if he hadn’t woken? What if Gideon were in the room at this very moment, boasting his success, torturing the Mandalorians assumed dead body. What if the helmet is removed?

She didn’t think this through. Din is a capable man there is no doubt of it, but Lumina is uncontrollable and dangerous, she knows not her own strength. What is he against her? Ghost forbid her weapons but what does that matter to the Force? 

Her ability to consistently make the worst choices would be impressive under any other circumstance. 

She should find Fennec, create an excuse of direction and return to the cell. Koska and Dune should wake soon, bodies dragged inside of the bridge. She still has time to fix things, course correct.

It’s all Bo-Katan’s fault, an excuse she cannot abandon. What business does she have to be here? She never expected Din to want her rescue, and had surely hoped to be correct. So why should Bo-Katan look for Lumina specifically? They hadn’t been the most amicable in their initial meeting.

Pershing must have had something to do with it. Though explanations were rushed and short lived, he knew what their final meeting would result in. The drugs, the flayer, the oncoming ambush by the Mandalorian and his company. They decided logistics as quick as possible. 

Their finding of him was no coincidence, and his fear permeates regardless of ruse. Should he be privy to a plan—a likely scenario—he was to promote motions. The Mandalorian Din Djarin was to be directed to the station with the Child. Boba Fett would go on to discover Lumina with possible aide by Fennec Shand. Any other parties could be divided as they saw fit. Only then would Lumina through some miracle arrive at the Child’s holding cell, entrap the Mandalorian until all was well and vanish without a trace.

Pain enters her chest. Why wasn’t Boba here? What of his promises?

A baton wacks at the back of her leg, breaking her contemplation. She bites her tongue to not cry. “Move!” the Trooper barks.

They may think her turned infantile and slow, but it does not disregard their innate fear. The thrill of joy given in their power, her hurt.

“I want to see 313,” Lumina says through clenched teeth.

“She is to remain undisturbed. Direct orders.”

The illusion continued longer than any of them expected. Without a voice it stood simpler but to be tangible? As children Ghost would faint from the experience continuing longer than a minute. She’s older now yes, but overconfident, overzealous.

“I am giving you direct orders, take me to her now.”

“We don’t listen to the likes of you anymore,” another says. “We outrank you, clone.”

…Clone?

Lumina whispers, “What?”

Tired of a wait, they grab at her, pushing her away. “No talking,” one says. “You’re going back in the hole.”

For a moment, Lumina listens without argument. Her feet drag and shoves become all the more frequent, but the word pulls over and over.

Clone.

Suddenly breathing becomes her most difficult task.

They shove her again.

She blacks out.

---

Alone, Moff Gideon moves throughout the laboratory with a slow and dignified ease. He paces his observation as if at any moment it could all disappear. He fears entrapment inside some glorious dream, a miracle of the Galactic Empire, and that he will soon wake up. Many many sacrifices have been made—phantom pains on his left arm grow stronger by the hour, and any hope in seeing his daughter again is nulled—but to reach this conclusion. To win.

To not only defeat the pesky rodent of Din Djarin that has plagued his life for the past rotation, the Mandalorian built of pure beskar and unending gall. To say he did it. To prove once and for all that a Mandalorian is no greater than a simple man. No stronger than a well trained body. No smarter than a former agent of the ISB. No more fearsome than the greatest of Jedi and greater of Sith. 

Bo-Katan would come next, already captured in a cell. Waiting, no doubt, with anticipation and slow building anxiety. Her defeat would be even easier this round. Gideon will waste no time and guarantee no Mandalorian would ever interrupt his plans again. 

It will be child’s play. 

And even this, this undoubted success, his unquestionable victory is not where his foul pride blooms. Gideon lifts a forgotten data sheet, unintelligible letters resembling binary and making out the sequencing of life.

This.

Her.

This unattainable thing. This proof of all his struggle, his research, his desire. The evidence of a myth, the last surviving link to greatness. A combination of science and magic. A handcrafted being, the first documented artificial life to carry the power of the Force.

And she belongs, to him. No longer temperamental, or emotional, or unstable and manic. But a calm vessel, willing and wanting to take any direction given. Immune to attachments. Trained and domesticated like a mutt.

And if by chance she were to become… unpredictable? He wouldn’t have to wait another twenty plus years for a replicated specimen to reach maturity, nor the ten years it took for the original Fett beings. With a Kaminoan trained mind like Doctor Pershing and the endless Imperial funding sure to be granted after the display of his new power, Gideon could have adult clones made in one standard rotation. There would of course, be no need for formal education or socialization. Only objects to destroy and to be destroyed.

Who knows, one day he could perhaps convince Doctor Pershing to implement the cloning methods on another being. Someone… more worthy. Someone like himself.

But he is getting ahead of a future that has yet to come. That will surely come. He will celebrate with wine and the envy of others. Then, oh then the day will arrive that his cohorts will quit their useless wait on Grand Admiral Thrawn or the words of Admiral Rae Sloane. They will realize the alien is wholly unnecessary. That he, Moff Gideon—soon to be Grand Moff Gideon, it is inevitable—is all they could ever want. All they could ever need. 

What a day that will be indeed. And this… Grand Inquisitor this child of the harvest, the unfortunate growing muse of his actions. She will too be pleased. They will together build a cloned Sith army, never ending, never dying. 

It will be their Empire.

Though, mainly Gideon’s. 

 How wonderful. 

Until then, the matters of the present do need dealing with. For starters, while the body of Din Djarin is a joyous sight, it will begin to smell. And that is a problem far beneath his station. Someone else will have to collect the body, Gideon will take the beskar. To deter from any undeserving thieves of course.

“What a shame,” he gloats to the Mandalorian, crouching. “This is quite the unceremonious end for one of your kind.” By instinct his left hand—or what had once been his left hand—reaches to the beskar helm. The right replaces in action. “You should have believed her,” Gideon muses aloud, his own private diversion. “If you had… maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself—” Gideons words end choking, the grip of a leather hand around his throat. 

The Mandalorian rises from the dead. In one fluid motion their positions flip, Gideon slammed to the ground. The Mandalorian shouts in his face, “What did you do?”

Gideon sputters, his eyes bulge wide. This should not be possible. Not at all. The Mandalorian lifts his head again, hitting down so that he sees a flash of white. 

“What…” he pants, “…did you do to her?”

And Gideon does the only thing he knows. He blindly reaches for the Darksaber, it’s activation dangerous and spastic. Distracted, Gideon takes the opportunity to knee Din Djarin in the stomach and clamors to his feet. He waves the saber fanatically, like the Mandalorian were a rabid bear to fend off. 

The attempt is useless. Din rises to his feet, broad shoulders somehow broader, body somehow taller. Anger all too tangible. From his back he pulls an unending beskar spear. 

If the Mandalorian is a bear, Gideon is fresh bloody meat begging to be devoured.

---

Cabinet glass is the first victim, second comes the vials, third the terminals. Beskar and plasma collide in never ending ricochets and hollow bangs. Sparks fly with every impact, the smell of burning metal infiltrates the air. 

The aim is two fold, defeating Gideon certainly is the priority but… Din chances every misplaced glance he can spare. The entire room, every inch is evidence of her. Scribbled handwritings of her blood, height, weight. A checklist of future exams, possible theories, prescribed medications. 

He shatters whatever he can; spear swooping wider, stabbing further, misdirecting Gideons ill timed shots for his own destruction.

The Moff is no competition and it is an insult to the Mandalorian’s character to assume so in any aspect. Nothing is calculated or practiced. The sword Din assumes, weighs too heavy in his single hand. The blade tempts to drag and is prevented only the lifting of the beskar. 

At the first point of break, Gideon scurries across the room to create distance and regain breath. He push the surgical table to slam against Din, but with half the available source of velocity the Mandalorian kicks it away.

Gideon is playing games, and Din is bored.

With the arena opened, Din attacks Moff head on. He utilizes his danger and rage with such fervor, he removes his actions from the blocking preconceived. He does not run or use words to distract Gideon. Overhead lighting flickers them in and out of existence. Din flashes closer in each blossom of light. 

Gideon’s right hand lifts wildly, ready to swing. But Din takes hold of his wrist, not bothering to look whether or not he could catch it because he knows he would. Din squeezes the thin frail bone until he hears one snap and one shout of agonized pain.

The hilt falls and skids across the ground.

The game is over.

Din Djarin takes hold of Gideon by the throat and smashes his fists into his face until his gloves turn red and hot. He throws Gideon against the one plain wall of the room. He crashes the Imperial into the paneling over and over and over. Gideon is too weak to fight back, too old, too human. His knees give out first, feet unable to find the bottom of him. 

Din never loses grip. He keeps Gideon upright. Keeps him with laser precision. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to. This… this is where Lumina had always been wrong. Din isn’t better than her, he isn’t holier, good. He’s better at hiding his fury, the fires in his eyes.

He could kill Moff Gideon, and he would without any regret. He can picture it so clearly, the spear piercing through the Moff’s trachea, his warm blood splattering out. Another name to the list of the Mandalorian’s cold blooded murders. The New Republic, he knows, would never see to it that Gideon earn a just punishment for his crimes. He had of course been subjected to execution in the first war tribunal. And Bo-Katan had already faced so many disappointments in life, what would the addition of one more change?

Should anyone deserve a sense of vengeance against the Moff it should be Din Djarin. The man had attacked his family after all. Hunted his child for well over a year. He killed Mandalore. Killed Concordia. Killed the tribes of Nevarro. Killed the Razor Crest. Killed Kuiil. Killed countless of women on Ryndellia. Killed the only chance Din would ever have at being anything close to normal and happy and good. Killed her. 

And he doesn’t care about her, the stabbing pain in the back of his mind ensures that. He would kill her himself if given the chance, and perhaps that is where the anger stems. That she had gone before he could have a proper go. A final fight, final blows, final argument filled with expletives and statements neither of them truly mean. A final storm out of each others lives. A final sunrise and a final night. A final moment to say I’m sorry. Please come back, it won’t happen again.

A final moment to know it absolutely will.

The Mandalorian will never have himself again. And somewhere deep down Din knows the blame can’t all fall to Gideon. Because they are who they are, and man is flawed even when carved by the hands of gods.

But being who he is means an unchanging stubbornness and penetrative anger. He cannot change now when the purpose is removed.

He wants to kill Gideon.

And he will or—he would. 

Divine intervention continues to be a foreign concept despite it’s persistence in his life.

Moff Gideon’s communicator shrills with life. Men on the other line shout in broken desperation. “Sir! Sir, she’s gone wild—won’t—stop!—the whole ship—looking for—thirteen—need to evacuate!”

 And Gideon… Gideon looks as though he has never experienced fear in his life until this moment. He is not, Din comes to realize, afraid of dying. That portion of battle came expected. No, what he is truly afraid of is whatever lays behind that communicator. 

Death seems to be his only escape.

And so Din decides.

He decides to force Gideon to live.

---

The apocalypse of the Sith had at long last come. Or, so it would seem. Outside of the laboratory, doors open to a new world. Pieces of the wall are torn off their holdings and crashed into another. Shafts are shredded, pipes leaking. Overhead lighting is blown out, shattered glass insult to injury.

It is an abomination.

Stormtroopers are in worse shape than Elysium Hortus, were that at all possible. Dismemberment, blood, burnt flesh, and crushed bone. The first thing Din steps on is a lone hand. 

Had he been too lost in his own skirmish to be deaf to the destruction? Surely the battle did not occur without fight. Whoever, whatever is the origin of this sweeping death could not have done so in secrecy. And yet—

The path leads two ways: Down the blackened road to the right, or towards the light and untouched territory. Runi kar’tayl dictates Din Djarin go right, every string of his joints tug in the direction. But he has grown a habit of no longer listening and remains statued.

Gideon pulls at the ropes tied around his arms. For the first time in his life, he is horrified. “Gods,” he swears. 

The Mandalorian shoves him forward, almost tripping the Imperial on a fallen pipe. “Quiet.” 

“You should have killed me.”

“You’d be so lucky.”

“You won’t make it either. None of you will. We’re all dead, she’ll never stop now.” 

This grants the Mandalorian pause. He turns Gideon a sharp degree to face. The old man groans. “Who? Who did this?”

And the old man shakes his head, a sinister smirk growing. One having long accepted the power of death with warm embrace. Like his final twist of fury and demonic faith has at long last come to fruition. “Should you have a god, I recommend you pray. What is it your people say? Haran eyaytyc at droten.”

Hell is upon man.

--------

Translations: Ni gana kil'yc ca'nara - I have no time Runi kar’tayl - Soul awareness Haran eyaytyc at droten- Hell is upon man (lit. Hell escaped to the people)

---

Chapter Thirty-Six: Pandemonium

Taglist: @lexloon​ @jay-bel​ @xsadderdazeforeverx​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny​ @hello-th3r3​

[slimeyliveshere]

Diner

Status: Finished Words: Pronouns: She/her A/N: Drag  Racing AU Sapnap drives an orange Mustang with black racing stripes, his tire rims and interior are also black. Sapnap's 2nd car is a black Ford Mustang with fire decals and gray interior and tire rims. He drives the first one in this one. Dream drives a neon green 1966 Chevelle with stickers from all the companies he has raced for and a black interior. Awesamdude drives a sage green 1932 Ford with a tan leather interior. Karl drives a purple Dodge Hellcat with white racing stripes and an interior. Quackity drives a 1967 navy blue Nova with a duck sticker on the left back window and a white interior. Wilbur drives a dark brown 1965 Ford mustang convertible with a black leather interior.

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The nightly flow of people poured in and out of the dinner like water. Along with the sounds of the wheels of skates and the chatter of customers. Even the once-in-a-while roar of a car engine from the drag strips a couple of roads down from the diner. Currently (Y/N) was standing in front of the counter staring out the large windows right now she was on one of the small breaks she gets on Friday nights. Suddenly the roar of an engine spooked the poor girl. Three cars from the '60s pulled into the dinner parking lot. "(Y/N)!" her boss called from the back. "YEAH?" (Y/N) called still staring at the group of boys stepping out of the cars. "That's the group from the drag strip. Could you take their table?" Your boss, Rose asked as he rolled up to the counter from the back. Yeah, sure," (Y/N) muttered as the group of five boys came in and took a large booth in the corner. Out of the five of them, the tallest was probably the oldest, a brunette with a bright white strip running through his chestnut hair. The second one had a mess of dirty blonde hair and was wearing a completely white mask. The third was a shorter man that had a mop of black hair hidden under his beanie. The next was two teenagers, probably around sixteen one with blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes, and another with a mop of dark brown hair and round brown eyes. "Welcome to Mel's Drive-in! My name is (Y/N), what can I get for ya?" (Y/N) says her boredom finally gone. (If you get it you get it.) “One monster milkshake, three chocolate milkshakes, one strawberry milkshake, and a vanilla milkshake,” the brunette says counting off his fingers until he gets to six. As (Y/N) skates away from the table she hears a very loud voice come from the table. "Wilbur! Give me the keys!" the voice whines. She turns to see the blonde staring at the brunette with white in his hair whose name was Wilbur. "Tommy, I am not going to let you drive my car," he answers the blonde slightly annoyed. "Why? I am seventeen and have a license," Tommy keeps whining at what (Y/N) guesses is his older brother. "Because, that car is my baby," Wilbur tells Tommy. (Y/N) continues to skate to the gap in the counter to give the order to the cooks in the kitchen. The shakes took no time to be made, but in that time you were waiting for the shakes to be made your table became the center of attention at the diner. Telling stories of races and fights on the track. Right now the guy with the mop of black hair (Who's name you found out is Quackity) was talking about how he got in a fight with a six-foot-something teenager at the Drag Strip while standing on the empty table next to his. No one tried to stop him because the crowd was enjoying it. "He was waving his arms around like a monkey!" He continued the story. "HEY, that's not true!" Tommy shouted at Quackity interrupting him. "Ranboo is not a monkey!" he told Quackity glaring at him. You skated over to the table with a tray full of milkshakes in hand. Everyone shuts their mouths except Quackity who kept telling his twisted version of the story. "Six milkshakes for a table of five?'" you ask the table that was staring at you.                           ...And that was how your night ended...                                    [THE NEXT DAY] You had an opening shift the next morning which was 7:00 am-10:30 am. You were standing behind the counter leaning on it when a red motorcycle pulled up in front of the diner. The driver stepped off the bike and removed the helmet from their head releasing messy blonde hair. He started walking toward the door opening it causing the bell to ring, the group of seniors playing bingo in the corner turned their eyes to the door and then back to their game. He walked up to the counter right in front of you. "Nice to see you again (Y/N)!" he said leaning his arms on the counter. You don't respond right away just staring at him. "(Y/N)? You there?" his face morphing into a face of worry. "Yeah! Sorry yeah, everything's fine," you finally answered eyes making contact. "OK! My brother was wondering if you want to go to the races tonight with him?" Tommy asked fiddling with his fingers. "Wilbur? Yeah, sure, I would go with him!" your interest peeked at the mention of his older brother. "Also I didn't know you biked," you told him narrowing your eyes at him." "Yeah, I do," he dropped his head cheeks flushing a rosy color. After Tommy left the diner one of the seniors turned to you. "So (Y/N) you got a date," her dulling blue eyes and neon red hair shone in the vivid light of the diner. "Yeah, I guess I do..."

[peterfields]

The Lucien Satchel Bag by Bleu de Chauffe is a casual shoulder strap bag made of vegetable-tanned leather. Lucien offers enough space for a 15'' laptop and everything you carry around with you. Handmade in France. Today in combination with: - Coverall Jacket in Dark Green and Clampdown Shirt in Off White by @tellason_germany @tellason - Hi Water Trouser in Ospina Cotton by @universal_works - Lucien Satchel Bag in cuba libre by @bleudechauffe - Ceramic - Not Paper Cup, Glasses Tray Round and Screw Clipboard Brass by #puebco - Brass Ballpoint Pen and Spiral Ring Notebook by #travelerscompany - AAA Copper Cree Flashlight REV 6 by #maratac #worldwideshipping 📦 #mensfashion #ootd #outfitinspiration #inspiration #menstyle #menswear #instadaily #accessories #bleudechauffe #tellason https://www.instagram.com/p/CppKcIoosgT/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[reservoircat]

color theory - original fiction

I’ve improved a LOT LOT LOT with writing over the last few years with writing. I placed one of my character focused pieces under the cut, so if you wanna read a one shot horror romance that still needs a tiny touch up but that I’m overall happy w, then please give it a look see

tw for horror elements, religious trauma, minor gore mentions, violence 

In childhood, my father and step-mother dressed my sister and I in white and soft blues, the colors of robin’s eggs and forget-me-not flowers and the portraits of Christ’s mother Mary in church. They were the colors of purity, chastity, and virtue, our father said. Grown women in the congregation were allowed pastels of other hues and pretty jewelry and hats adorned with beads and feathers, but the daughters of the pastor? Only the colors of the Lord and His mother were suitable for us. Couldn’t have anyone thinking we slipped or were too full of ourselves, not even when my own existence was proof of our father’s sins.

That was my mother’s fault though; the congregation and my step-mother had decided that a long time ago. My mother was the temptress, the harlot, the agent of Satan sent to pull down their beloved shepherd. After all, she wore red.

The problem with white was how easily it stained in comparison. But that was always the point, wasn’t it?

Kept us in the pews after the service was over, away from the boys outdoors, playing rough and tumble in the grass. Their mother’s chastisements were of fond annoyance, focused on laundry later rather than the appearance of impropriety. Boys will be boys, their fathers said. They’d say that again many times, for many of them, for far more than tackle football over the years to come. I didn’t know that at the time though.

All I knew was that the crinoline itched, and my hands stung when my step-mother would smack my hands away from picking at the eyelet lace out of boredom. I knew the sound that patent shoe leather made when rubbed together wrong was like a frog, but that if you did it even accidentally, people would stare at you from round the room almost like you just cursed. And I knew that even through the too hot layers of dress and pantyhose, if I dared take a fan from the back of the pew in front of me, I’d get thwacked with a hymnal.

One Sunday, when my hands stung and the ceiling fans weren’t working, the tray of communion cups passed by me. I reached up with sweaty hands to steady it on its way to my step-mother. My brother’s mind was wandering then, and his eyes too, toward Anayah Kingston. His hands slipped. Mine slipped too from the sudden and unexpected weight of the so-called blood of Christ in my clammy hands. Dozens of small plastic cups emptied onto me, soaking through the delicate white cotton of the dress I’d been shoved into that morning. Gasps rose from around the congregation, as the metal tray clattered on the floor.

For once, I wore red.

My father waved it off with a joke.

“Well, we always say we want our children washed in the blood of the lamb early,” he’d laughed, allowing the tension to ease by turning me into the butt of a joke instead of a symbol of anything too deep. I’m not sure, in retrospect, if it was better or worse. I just remember the sting of the wine in my eyes welling up tears that I wouldn’t admit for years were from embarrassment.

I locked myself in the cramped church bathroom. No one came and got me till an hour after service.

I couldn’t get the red stains out, no matter what I did.

——————————————-

When I moved in with my uncle, he threw away the pastel dresses that had been soaked too many times in cold water and peroxide after my father went on one of his drunken religion-fueled rages. He told me I was too pretty to be washed out like that, and he gave me some of my grandmother’s things until he could go buy more appropriate clothes for a teenage girl. My grandmother was a petite woman though, and they fit and….

They were purple. Orange. Green. They had patterns, some floral, some geometric, some brightly African-inspired that she’d bought when visiting her family in New Orleans, where I lived now. Even though I know now that I looked like exactly what I was–a girl in her grandmother’s clothes–I felt incredible. Different. Free.

My uncle liked seeing that enough that he made sure the clothes he bought me were bright too. My father had always said that bright clothes like that brought the wrong sort of attention, but I didn’t care about that. I’d already learned that it didn’t matter what I wore; puberty had taken away any ability or hope I may have had to hide from men.

I’d take joy where I could find it.

The man’s favorite color was purple, he’d slurred that day, as I walked home from my uncle’s shop on Magazine Street. It was far too early for anyone to be that drunk, especially some random white man in a business suit, and my nose stuck up and crinkled in more than just disgust for the smell. He didn’t like that. I didn’t care. Still don’t, but…I probably should have made it less obvious.

The same purple would blossom on the side of my face where he hit me. On my arm, where he tried to drag me down an alley. I remembered the whispered advice of my uncle’s friends, middle aged women and older fem queens who’d all been through the ringer life put them through at one point or another. I grabbed at my keys and jabbed blindly at his face.

Blood and white fluid blossomed from his eye like an amaryllis in full bloom. The hand that had gripped on my arm reflexively released to try to staunch the flow and save his eye. I still don’t know if it helped.

I ran. I ran all the way back to my uncle’s house, falling over myself and twisting my ankles over and over again in a pathetic effort to escape to the bathroom upstairs. My thumb had slipped up the key and rammed into his eye and the blood was caking and clotting under my nail and and the dark spots were fading to dark brown on the dress and–

I couldn’t get the red stains out, no matter what I did.

Story of my life.

——————————————

Dante was a Nice Young Man from a Nice Family, my aunt had promised me, and I could hear the capital letters in her tone. They had a lovely house and well-secured jobs, and a library of first edition books by authors like W.E.B. DuBois, Booker T. Washington, and other great respectable books by great respectable men.

They had money. And security. And he was a gentleman, even I couldn’t deny that. The absolutely perfect gentleman.

And here I was trying to keep up.

His mother complimented me gently for having nice hair and a pretty face, but in her own way gave her nudges this way and that. Purple changed to black. Blue to gray or navy. Orange to camel brown. Even if I didn’t have much promise for college in sight, I certainly looked enough the part of an Ivy-destined co-ed that no one asked too many questions of what my plans were after high school.

But then neither did Dante. And I think we were both fine with that.

He gave me his class ring more out of perfunctory requirement. I tried to give it back. Despite his parents’ having more than enough to replace it, I knew the value of it and didn’t want it hanging over my head, even though I knew he wasn’t the type to call in the debt.

He refused to take it back. I let the ruby and white gold ring hang around my neck on a chain for a few weeks before I received a politely typed letter on Duke University stationery announcing our break up. I quietly held the ring for a little bit before putting it back in a box in the back of a drawer.

Red stains in different ways.

————————————–

If I said it was love at first sight with Aleksander it would be a lie. After a short sharp series of unfortunate attempts to date boys my own age, either just starting their college journeys or wandering shiftless through trades and dead end jobs, I’d given up on finding that mythical spark. But he was attractive, mature, wealthy–

Married, but hey. That didn’t stop my own mother apparently.

But he had a radiating charm about him that I soon fell for, like an idiot girl. He spoke of his wife as if he wanted to leave her and take their children, but never promised that. He hadn’t promised me anything.

Not until later.

I would catch glimpses of his eyes sometimes in private, a sharp steel blue focused on something far off and unreal. His hands would flex and his jaw would tighten. I’d put my hands on his, the contrast between us less apparent in the low lighting.

One night, I noticed red under his fingernails.

I don’t know what motivated me to follow him the night I did. We’d had such a good arrangement, even though I knew the feelings I had caught went well beyond the limits of what either of us had planned. He didn’t owe me anything, and I knew there was a possibility there was another “someone else.” I don’t even think I cared then if there was.

Something just…called to me.

The barn in the woods was worn down, and it took far too long for me to make it there through the underbrush even in tennis shoes and the low light of sundown. I don’t know what I expected from the place. Maybe an isolated tryst or even a drug deal? I know he looked in pain a lot of times, though I assumed someone of his means could more easily bribe a doctor for something to take care of that without a prescription on the books.

The back door was held together poorly. Not really locked. It only took a push.

I smelled the blood before I saw him. The sad pathetic pile of a man was barely clinging to life. He looked up at me, reaching out pathetically as if I was his angel of salvation, as if I could do anything to save him at this point. His intestines were in a pulled out pile around him, loosely coiled and tangled like a copperhead in rigor.

The other door cracked open, and I ran. I ran and stumbled and scratched my way through the woods till I made it back to the car Aleksander had helped me pay for, and from there, I drove my ass right back to my apartment and–

I didn’t make it in before I threw up by the parking lot dumpster.

Instinct took over from that point. I went to the apartment. I took a bath, careful to wash around the scratches and cuts I’d gotten from running through the woods without looking. I washed off my makeup, and considered getting my hair braided again to hide the evidence of any contact with nature.

I tried to ignore a lot of things. I tried to ignore the still burning nausea in my stomach, the sharp pain of a finger tip where an acrylic had ripped off, the still strong smell of iron and filth lodged in my nose.

I tried to ignore the blue-lined white stick I knew was hiding in the trash, mocking me since before I tried to follow Aleksander.

The door unlocked, which I couldn’t ignore. Only he had the key. My hands paused from trying to rebraid my hair into two long pigtails, instead fidgeting on my lap. He slipped in and sat on the edge of the tub, looking up at me as I stared blankly at the vanity.

Neither of us said anything for several very long moments.

He stood behind me after too many, too long beats of silence, towering over me. Part of me wanted to brace for something, some sort of impact, but I couldn’t bring myself too. I was too tired and too young to be so tired. Too smart for this yet too foolish to have steered away.

“Close your eyes.”

And like the fool in love who knew too much, yet had so little, I did.

The necklace slipped over my head and around my hair and laid on my neck like a whispered promise. Six stones red as pomegranate seeds, lying in succession, trickling down my chest like blood droplets.

“A replacement, until I can find a ring,” he said, though what he didn’t say rang through the words just as strongly. ‘I saw you. You know me now. Please don’t leave.’

“It’s beautiful.”

I don’t know why I said that instead of a wealth of other things. Other questions. Screams or demands to leave. The image of the dying man was fading far too quickly from my mind in place of the familiar and now far-more-possible dream of bridal gowns and wedding planning.

My eyes darted to the trash can. The stones glittered under the vanity lights.

I couldn’t get the red stains out, no matter what I did. Not for my whole life.

“I’ll make sure the ring matches. The color suits you.”

I take a deep breath and sigh.

“Red always has.”

[againkari]

Apparently, Doctor Strange considered Zephyr and Fist's training together a success, as they saw each other several more times afterward. The fairy herself didn't feel much progress, but if her Master thought it was better, who was she to argue?

The next time Iron Fist came, Strange was not yet in the Sanctum Sanctorum. Or rather, he wasn't there anymore.

— He said something had happened. Apparently, something really important, if that requires the attention of the Earth's High Sorcerer, — Zephyr emphasised the last words with a joking air quote. — Will you wait inside?

The girl shook her head, opening the door wider and inviting the Iron Fist. He hesitantly froze on the threshold, so Zephyr pushed on:

— Come on, don't be shy, — she teased. Then, girl tried another route. — What would Master say if he knew I'd left you waiting on the doorstep?

Apparently, it was convincing enough because Iron Fist went inside after all. Zephyr, pleased with this small victory, closed the door.

A spacious living room with a high stained glass ceiling. The light falling through the coloured panes of glass above reflected in the shiny parquet flooring, repeating the the pattern of the mosaic. The walls consisted of solid bookcases extending to the upper level, coloured by a balcony of thick iron strands. These short arches were thrown one on top of the other, with round orange stones the size of a man's head.

Against the far wall are more stained glass windows - these ones were gently rounded at the top. There are several armchairs and chairs in the living room, conveniently placed around the perimeter. Two brown leather sofas and a coffee table are at the very center.

— Is green tea okay?

Iron Fist didn't notice not only her return, but also the fact that the girl had left in the first place. He finally took his eyes off the mesmerising stained glass and coloured mosaics and looked at her. Zephyr stood in the doorway of the living room in a simple grey sweater and pants. A wooden tray floated in the air in front of her, laden with various items.

— Would you like some green tea?

— Oh, yes. Thank you.

With a wave of Zephyr's hand, all the dishes moved, flying from tray to table with the quiet clinking of china. Iron Fist took a seat on one of the couches, and Zephyr sat opposite.

The brewing mechanism was an interesting construction - two platforms, one overhanging the other. They looked like rounded lily leaves, curving around the edges like real leaves. The upper one was held up by the weight of the wood coming out of the lowest platform. Pink flowers bloomed across the green.

In the recess of the upper platform stood a clear glass vessel with faceted edges and filled with leaves and tiny flower buds floating in the water. At the bottom came a tube that connected it to a second vessel on the lily below. It was filled with a fragrant green liquid.

Zephyr held great pride in this little thing, and it was certainly showing on her face. She moved tha saucer closer to the guest.

— It's cute, isn't it?

She looked up, watching Fist trying the tea. Oh, good thing his mask was covering only the upper part of his face and not it all. Would he deny her offering in the other situation if that meant that he needed to pull up the mask?Probably not — Zephyr hurried to remind herself that there is a reason he wears that mask in the first place.

— Cute, but pretty useless. Ordinary teapot would probably be more convenient. At least that's that i was said, — she hummed, resting head in the palm of her hand.

— Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them, — hero answered all of sudden. Zephyr looked up at him in surprise, tearing off her eyes from the little flowers in the tea. Girl couldn't see his eyes behind this mask, but the posture, the way he was holding his cup, even his words — there was something enchanting in it.

He is quite pretty, fairy couldn't ignore it. She even entertained herself with the idea of flirting with him, but the second she thought about it, Zephyr didn't want to do it anymore.

The day was so quiet and calm. The tea tasted good. The light falling through the stained glass ceiling seemed warm against her skin.

She was so wonderfully peaceful. Here and now, in the presence of a man whose name she did not know and whose face she had never seen.

Zephyr wanted it to last as long as possible.

— They're beautiful words, — she admitted. And then she added, not sure why. – I brought this set from home. Where I come from, everything is so...alive. Blooming. You don't see that here.

The words, if detached from her tone and facial expression, might have seemed sad. Wistful. But Zephyr said them with pride and a soft smile, and Iron Fist heard and saw it well.

– It must be a good place if it inspires people to do things like this, – said the young man, nodding at the small teapot set.

Zephyr exhaled:

— It is. Linfea is beautiful this time of year: a Chocolate Cosmos is starting to bloom, and we...

The fairy stopped, suddenly self-conscious of this sincerity. Why was she so squirmy in front of what was supposed to be a stranger? He could hardly be really interested: they had seen each other a time or two, and exchanged only brief snippets of phrase, all in the form of training and formal meetings in front of the Master.

– What's a Chocolate Cosmos?

Zephyr raised her head. Iron Fist poured more tea into his cup.