#star wars reader inset

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(The Bad Batch) Crosshair x Reader: Comfort Zone

   (Author’s Note:  It was requested I do a hurt/comfort fic with Crosshair, and I happened to have a shelved project very similar, so this request was my motivation to get it done!  Thank you, @leia-saveourskins!

Enjoy!)

   Crosshair wasn’t quite sure what to do when he heard your cries on the other side of the door.  He had only been walking past to head to his quarters when the unfamiliar sound caught his attention, realizing only after a short pause what it was.  His first instinct was to avoid, to pretend he hadn’t heard it in the first place.  Crosshair didn’t consider himself an expert on dealing with that sort of thing anyway.  He didn’t know how to comfort someone other than with a subtle nod or resting his hand on their shoulder.  That’s how he managed to get by when it came to the rest of the squad.  With you, it wasn’t the same.

   Hunter was better with that sort of thing, Crosshair thought.  Or Wrecker.  Even Tech would be a more recommended person to comfort you.  The only issue was the three of them had left the ship a while ago for supplies in a nearby village.  There was a chance that they wouldn’t be back yet for some time.  Plus, part of him didn’t want it to be any of them in the end.  He wanted to be the one even if he had no idea how.

    Crosshair groaned, rolling his eyes to no one in particular.  Before he knew it, he was knocking swiftly on your door.  The crying ceased on the other side.  Silence fell over the space until he cleared his throat.

   “_________?” he grunted through the door, pausing to listen.  “Are you in there?”

   Of course he knew you were in there.  He figured he’d give you the opportunity to stay quiet if you chose and endure whatever it was on your own.  For a moment, he thought you were going to take advantage of the opportunity, and he’d be on his way.  However, that changed when your voice croaked on the other side.

   “Cross?  Do you need something?”

   His shoulders sank as he exhaled.  Part of him melted a little at the thought of you offering your help even though you clearly weren’t okay.  That was just the sort of person you were.  Not to mention you used his nickname.  

   “No,” he replied.  Several seconds passed in silence as he waited for you to say something else, but it occurred to him that there was no reason for you to.  After all, he had been the one to knock on your door.  Before he could find the words, the door slid open.  You stood there and looked at him with signs of your hurt written on your face.  Your lips were turned up in a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, which were glistening with tears that you kept at bay.  A shiny wet streak stretched across your cheek where you had wiped a few that had fallen already.

   “Don’t mind me,” you told him quickly, swiping the back of your hand across your face again.  “I’m just having a bad day.”  You didn’t attempt to hide your state.  In your mind, there was no need to around Crosshair.  You knew he wouldn’t pay it any mind.  You merely wanted to help him with whatever it was that had him knocking at your door- especially since it didn’t happen very often.  “Are you sure there isn’t something you need?”

   “Are you...okay?”  The question was spoken slowly, as if he were speaking a foreign language.  You weren’t sure what you had been expecting, but that certainly wasn’t it.  His stare hadn’t relented.  “You were crying.”

   It took you a minute or so before you knew how to respond.  His concern, if that’s what it was, was unforeseen.  You considered playing the situation down and just giving him an “I’m fine” so he could be on his way.  But if there was anything you learned about working with the Bad Batch, it was a family of perceptive individuals.  Sometimes you’d put on a smile for the others, and they’d play along, even though you knew that they knew.  But in that moment, with Crosshair standing in front of you with those sharp eyes of his, it didn’t feel like the time to do that.

   “Well if I’m being honest,” you said finally, flashing another half-hearted smile.  “I’m not okay.”

   Crosshair exhaled quietly.  He knew you were in distress, and there you were standing in front of him admitting it, but that was only half the battle.  How could he make you feel better?  What in the universe could he do that would make the tears stop falling?  Or even put a smile on your face?  Again, it seemed like Wrecker territory.  Crosshair thought back to the last time your expression had fallen in front of the others.  Wrecker had wrapped his arms around you and lifted you off the ground in a big embrace, causing laughter to spill from your lips.  He remembered the pang in his chest even though he got to see you smile.  He wished it had been him to make it happen.  Maybe it was time to take a page from his brother’s book.

   You had begun to feel uneasy about admitting your hurt to the most stoic of the Bad Batch when, out of nowhere, he opened his arms toward you, and for a split second, you stared at them in confusion.  Your eyes travelled back up to meet his expectant look.

   “What…?”  Before you could finish your question, he took a few steps forward and began to close his arms around your form.  Eyes wide with surprise, your cheek was pressed into his shoulder as he tightened the embrace in a firm, but comforting way.  You finally responded, wrapping your arms around his lean torso.  

   He was so warm.  It was the kind of warmth that affected you inside and out.  Crosshair could be a difficult man to read on the surface.  He was more comfortable with showing irritation or anger.  Displays of the more tender emotions he held for his squad were subtle, so subtle that you might not notice them at first.  For him to step out of his comfort zone in that moment spoke volumes to you.

   “It’s...going to be alright,” he drawled.  “I’m here.”  The tears had started again at his gesture.  You found yourself just sinking into the hug and taking deep breaths.  Crosshair kept holding you with patience as the hurt passed.

   “Thank you,” you spoke into the shoulder of his blacks.  “I needed this.”

    He pulled away only slightly to look at you.  Your head was swimming with many feelings as both of you locked eyes.  Suddenly, you felt his arms hold you tighter as you were lifted off the ground.  Your laughter filled the hall as he held you suspended for a moment before bringing you back down.  Crosshair’s lips were turned up in a smile, but he hadn’t released you.

   He watched your reaction, your eyes bright and mouth forming a wide smile.  That was what he wanted.  That was what he was hoping for.  Your smile was like cool water on a desert planet to him.  Crosshair held your gaze for a few more moments until you broke eye contact to lean into his shoulder once more, a breathy chuckle escaping your lips.

   “Really, thank you.”

   He ran a hand from between your shoulder blades to the middle of your back in another soothing gesture.  “I know I’m not the best at this.  Wrecker probably has me beat.”

   “He’s great,” you said.  “But in my opinion, this is the best.”

   His chest swelled a bit after hearing that.  Both of you pulled away from the embrace, fighting the desire to linger.  Crosshair’s expression remained soft, his features smoothed by the tender exchange.

   “Want some caf?” you asked, breaking the silence that had settled between you two.  “I think Tech said there was some left, even if it isn’t a whole lot.  It’ll be restocked when the others get back.”

   He hummed in agreement.  “Sure.”

[heartsofbeskar]

pulsing star

one — decay

physicist!reader x din djarin

warnings: possible language

words: 3.3K

series masterlist | writing masterlist

a/n: so sorry this took me so damn long to finally publish! it has been burning an absolute hole in my mind for well over a month now, and im so happy i finally had the inspo to finish the first part! so many thanks to jess @pedros-mustache for inspiring me and letting me bounce questions off her❤️

The taste of metal and some foreign plastic filled your mouth as you chewed gently on the end of your pen.

Girl, you’ll give yourself metal poisoning that way.

You could hear your former mentor’s voice in your ear, despite the nearly empty cantina you sat in. The bar droid slowly worked its way through cleaning glassware from the night before, the rhythm of the light tinkling providing a steady background to your work.

Papers were spread out around you, notebooks thrown open haphazardly, some with half finished theorems or calculations, before you’d be interrupted by yet another thought you had to instantly write down, lest you forget it.

You hadn’t been on Nevarro long, and you swiped at the back of your neck, where sweat had gathered. Maker, you found yourself having to shower every day you were here, the combination of sweat and dust creating an uncomfortable film that settled on you by the end of each day.

It was better than the standard month you’d spent on Hoth, you supposed. And there was no denying the geophysical characteristics of Nevarro were fascinating, with active lava flows and geothermal anomalies. It made your stomach do flips thinking about monitoring the temperature gradients and flow patterns. You’d not seen anything comparable in the Mid or Inner Rims.

And, maybe, the truth was that you preferred the Outer Rim for more reasons than untapped research avenues. Maybe you enjoyed the way you could travel for miles and miles and not see another sentient being. Maybe you enjoyed the isolated towns that seemed to exist within their own version of a universe, separate from the one you knew and studied. Maybe it was how settled some of the people in the Outer Rim appeared to be, how at home this part of the galaxy was for them; a peace they exuded that you could never quite grasp.

You didn’t look up as there was a loud scrape of the stool against the concrete floor of the establishment immediately to your right. The thought occurred to you a moment later that your papers were probably strewn over the bartop there, however, so with a slight twinge of annoyance — the cantina was practically empty for Maker’s sake, why did someone sit right next to you? — you reached forward to gather your materials that had spilled over to that area.

With a start, you saw who had sitten down there. You recognized the armour instantly, the distinct lines of the chestplate, the mechanical structure mounted on the forearm, the characteristic visor inset into a chrome helmet. A Mandalorian. Your hands stilled where they were reaching over the multitude of papers, mouth falling open slightly.

Thoughts ran through your head like fathiers on a racetrack, pulling up a dozen paragraphs from galactic historical texts and war documents you had spent nights pouring over.

Culturally a clan-based society, composed of members from various species, some of whom are brought into clan groups as children. Clans are bound to a common culture through a ‘Creed’ they typically swear at the entrance to adulthood.

Many Mandalorians met a gruesome fate at the hands of the Galactic Empire during what is deemed as ‘The Great Purge.’ Many beskar reserves were stolen, as well.

It seemed surreal that a Mandalorian was sitting beside you, now, in this dusty Nevarro cantina. And you … were staring at him.

“Can I help you with something?” A voice emerged from behind the helmet, low and rough and modulated through an obvious vocoder. You weren’t sure what you had expected, but the sound sent a jolt through you, energy shooting from the top of your scalp to the very tips of your fingers, down your legs, to the soles of your feet.

The Mandalorian was waiting for a response.

“Oh, um … sorry!” You shook your head, continuing to move to gather your papers. “It’s just I’ve never seen a Mandalorian before. Not in person, I mean, of course I’ve seen lots of holo-images, the armour patterns between clans specifically is such an interesting study, and the history of course is just so rich. That’s real beskar, right?”

You were pointing towards the shoulder pauldron nearest you, which shone like the rest of the pieces of armour he wore, and was adorned with the side profile of a mudhorn. The familiar pleasant tingles of curiosity were firing inside your brain as you took him in, and you suppressed the urge to reach out and touch the material.

The Mandalorian tilted his head forward in a nod rather than speaking. You could feel how wide your eyes were as you took in all the details of him, but you really couldn’t help yourself.

“Do you know the melting point?” You shuffled the papers with little care onto whatever you’d just been working on, leaning in closer to the man beside you unconsciously. “I have read some super interesting studies put out by the Coruscant Engineering Society on the potential durability of it as a superconductor in ship cores; how it could really improve the lifetime of engines in general. Really cool stuff, though all theoretical work so far.”

“It’s beskar,” he said simply. “It doesn’t melt. Not that I’ve seen.”

“Right,” you nodded. You searched for a blank paper in the chaos, pulling the first one you found towards you. “Do you have even an estimate of the maximum temperature exposure you’ve seen it hold up under?”

He leaned back into the stool, arm relaxing somewhat as he seemed to consider it. “Probably … a few hundred standard degrees?”

Eyebrows raised, you scribbled some notes down, folding over the paper and tucking it into one of the notebooks piled in front of you. The Mandalorian’s helmet moved marginally, visor tilted towards your spread of work.

“I’ve got a couple of friends on Coruscant, and even just a lower limit of heat resistance should be super helpful for them,” you chatted excitedly. But the next second you froze, hands stilling again as you looked at the man with a concerned expression now. “Unless that’s … not okay? I can get rid of that if it’s—”

He cut off your rambling with a wave of his gloved hand, a huff from behind the helmet. “No, it’s … it’s fine. What … are you working on? It looks like a lot.”

You beamed at him, smiling wide and almost bouncing in your seat as you unearthed the latest pages you’d been working. “Well, Nevarro has a ton of interesting volcanic formations, there’s nothing like it in the galaxy, really. I’d love to do some mapping of the underground flows surrounding the city — I just need to get a speeder bike so I can get out there, which has been more difficult than I expected, frankly. And then there’s already been some studies of the radioactive formations around—”

Again, he cut you off. “You’re telling me you plan to go out into the lava flows on a speeder bike? Alone?”

—

That was how you ended up on the back of a speeder bike, arms tentatively wrapped around an armoured Mandalorian.

He was a strange macrocosm of contradiction; hard and unyielding beskar atop soft and warm flesh, and you tried to stop your hands from wandering along the edges of where metal met man, to study the contours of him as he fit together with his shell.

It was hot.

You were ultimately grateful he had extended such a generous offer to drive you out to the flats. The sun beat down in a harsh high noon glare, and the horizon watered ahead of you in the tumultuous air currents that liked to play tricks on the human eye. You were quite sure it would have been exceedingly easy for you to get lost on your own out here.

A bead of sweat blazed a steady trail down your back, journeying from the nape of your neck, bursting from the small gathering of hair that had escaped your ponytail, immersing itself into the thin fabric of your tunic to settle between your shoulder blades. It was joined there by others, and you fought the urge to reach a hand to pull the material away from your skin, but you knew if you let go of the man driving you surely would risk flying off the speeder all together, embarrassing yourself in front of him even further.

His hands — clad in leather gloves, their colours long ago faded — flexed on the handles.

Riding a speeder behind a Mandalorian was somehow not even the strangest part of your day. No, that particular distinction had to go to the fact that the Mandalorian … had a son.

He’d gestured for you to wait not long after you’d left the cantina, your supplies haphazardly stuffed into your burlap duffel bag. The man made a beeline for a group of children playing in the nearby school yard, and as surprised as you were to see none of them cower to his imposing presence, so much larger than any of them, you’d been even more surprised when he’d crouched down, far down, and picked up one of said children. He was so small you hadn’t even seen him at first, miniature green arms outstretched to the Mandalorian, who he was clearly familiar with and fond of. He nodded at some of the children, even patting one gently if not a little awkwardly on the head. You smiled, watching. As a clan culture, you knew Mandalorians were family oriented, children placed in the highest regard … but you also knew from reading that they were isolated now, Mandalorians scattered across the galaxy like dust to the wind.

It was nice to see at least one who had managed to compose a semblance of family again.

You were, as usual, bursting with questions. You tried your best to let them out at somewhat appropriate intervals as you made your way to the edge of town with him and the small being he held tenderly.

“Are you the same species?”

“Does he have heightened hearing sensitivity, or is the size of his ears mainly cosmetic?”

“Can he see outside the visible spectrum?”

“Or wait— is it the opposite? Does the size of his eyes necessitate a restricted spectrum, so as not to overstimulate his optic nerves?”

Finally, “He’s my foundling.” So, not the same species, you presumed. Not that you would hold it against him to be green under all the armour. That’d be more interesting than other humans you came across, at least.

It was clear that was all you were getting, so you bit your tongue, and vowed to yourself to try and be unintrusive. Try.

You peeked back at the small being. He was secured tightly into the rear basket of the speeder, long ears flapping comically in the increased wind. It didn’t seem to bother him, though, a smile exposing a row of tiny teeth inside his mouth. You had to giggle at the sight. As you turned your head forward again, you thought you saw the helmet of the man in front of you turn slightly to the side at the sound. But, maybe you just imagined it.

The wind slowed around you as he brought the speeder to crawl and then a stop at the coordinates you had given him. He didn’t speak as you, somewhat awkwardly, clambered off of the back of the vehicle, carefully avoiding the now babbling child attached to the side.

A large outcrop of rock rose from the ground, a sharp interruption to the barren landscape, and you squinted into the sun as you circled the formation, looking for the best access to the top.

You clambered up an uneven incline. Rocks and sand displaced under your hands and feet, but you maintained a balance as you climbed.

Until a particularly large rock, which had looked immovable, broke loose, sending your leg reeling down with it, and your entire body sailing backwards through the warm air, hands untethered as you’d searched for a hold. You tensed, eyes closing, bracing yourself for a collision with the sharp, hot rocks that made up the planet’s surface.

It never came.

Instead your back met suddenly with a solid, flat expanse, and it didn’t take even a moment for you to know it was the Mandalorian’s chest. Broad and unyielding, you heard a low chuckle from the modulated helm.

“You should be more careful, you know.”

A nervous laugh escaped your lips, and the space between his breastplate and the rock seemed to be rapidly closing in. Your hands were slippery as you tried to find purchase again, and you struggled to find your grip a second time.

He shifted behind you, an arm coming up to frame yours. The leather glove covered your sweaty skin, guiding your hand to a stable gap between rocks. Your fingers wiggled easily into the space, allowing you to pull yourself forward from the man supporting your weight.

“Thanks,” you breathed out. Your own voice sounded lightyears away, floating past your ears from some distant galaxy with things unknown.

He didn’t answer you, unsurprisingly. As you pulled yourself further up the incline, re-established now in your footing, his hand slid smoothly to your waist, lightly holding there until you’d ascended past his position. You repressed a shiver. His son cooed distinctly.

The top offered an expansive and brilliant view of the surrounding area, jarred rocky edges and smooth fresh cooled magma contrasting one another for miles around. You could see the speeder down below, looking miniature now. You took a moment to collect fresh air into your lungs. It was dry, crackling on the journey down your windpipe.

With a grunt, your Mandalorian companion smoothly joined you. You half expected to see a sheen of sweat cling to his armour as if it were his own skin, but neither sweat nor heavy breath gave away his recent physical efforts. You looked away.

His eyes seemed to bore holes into your skin as you set up your equipment; an unsophisticated semblance of boxes and wires you balanced haphazardly on the uneven surfaces. How you could feel his gaze, a secret he held, meant to be hidden behind a visor of pitch black glass, you weren’t sure. It didn’t make much sense. You supposed it was a psychological effect, your own senses so unused to having any company.

But you could still feel it.

His son toddled over, short legs resulting in equally short strides and combined with his burlap tunic that met the ground, he seemed to positively glide towards you. You smiled at him, and he returned the expression. His head tilted adorable to the side as he surveyed your area, and you watched him idly from your peripheral vision as you continued, only giving a start when he reached for the small capsule you’d just unwrapped.

“No, no, no!” you chastised, lunging forward. His eyes grew, startled at your sudden moves, and he didn’t resist when you plucked the calibration source from his small claws, where it had hovered perilously close to his mouth. “That’s radioactive, we don’t want that in your mouth, okay?”

He just stared back at you, eyes wide, unblinking and clearly not registering any understanding. You glanced at his father, but he stood tall and impassive to his son’s action, helm scanning the landscape idly. Maybe… mischievousness was a characteristic of the green species.

With the Mandalorian clearly more at ease — did he ever get relaxed, really? Maybe you could ask — you dared to lift the small being from the dusty ground, and his face remained quizzical as you tucked him against your arm. Still, your companion didn’t stir in discontent. The baby giggled happily.

You spoke to him in a low tone as you finished your set up, describing in detail your sensor and dark tent as you maneuvered it to sit as evenly as possible.

“The magma flows below the surface contain heavy concentrations of an element called iridium, have you heard of that?” Another blank head tilt. “It decays into carbon and nitrogen products with a gamma ray of this signature energy, so by looking for events that peak with that energy exactly … I can try to trace the flows even when they’re all the way down in the ground!”

He cooed in delight, though you knew it was likely only in response to the excitement in your tone.

The afternoon swept by, as you adjusted and readjusted and adjusted again, slowly and methodically making your way across the surface of the rocks. The ground was warm under your hands, borderline hot, but it was only a trickle in the faucet of your mind as you worked.

The Mandalorian’s son had grown tired where he’d been nestled in the crook of your arm, ears drooping and eyelids shutting in a way that made your heart seize in your chest, electrical impulses of the organ abruptly stopping. You set him down in a nest of soft items, and you saw from the corner of your eye the Mandalorian lean down and adjust it a few times.

Sun dipping lower and lower in the sky, eventually you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder, fingers squeezing firmly but not tightly.

“We should head back,” he said, not unkindly. Your eyes skimmed the horizon, startled to see the sunset you had thought to be so many hours off. A drop of guilt formed in your stomach as you glanced back at his sleeping son.

“I’m so sorry!” you blurted, trying to keep your voice low as you could. The baby didn’t stir. “You should have told me sooner, I just— I get so focused on these things, you know?”

He nodded, but you weren’t sure he did know. You scrambled to once more pack away all of your equipment, and he leaned down to help you. His hands hovered, unsure, over the various components, and when he picked them up it was with a gentle touch uncharacteristic to his appearance, obviously afraid to break what he touched.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him. You held up a semi transparent block that had spent most of the time hidden under the completely opaque black cloth you began to wrap it in. “This is the only delicate piece; it's a manufactured single crystal scintillator, it’s what responds to the radiation from the metals in the magma.”

His head tilted almost imperceptibly to the side. It was a curious mirror of his own, you thought to yourself.

“Why do you … do all this?” he asked. His voice was rough, rougher than it had been only moments ago, and your brows drew together as your mind reeled to understand the change.

“I just… I don’t know,” you said with a sigh. It was the honest answer. “I want to know, I suppose.”

And that want to know had spurred you on for as long as you could remember, from when your tiny infant feet first hit the hard ground. You were always searching, looking, longing …. for something. You weren’t sure if it was something you would ever find, and sometimes — when you were alone in the dark of a hotel or a borrowed bedroom — you worried you would never find it in all your life.

“Are there scientists on Mandalore?” you asked, voice quiet. You didn’t want to overstep.

His fingers flexed over the cord he was wrapping into a loop. You worried you’d made him angry but when he spoke, his tone was soft. “I don’t know. I’ve never been.”

He didn’t speak again as he helped you load the speeder for the return to town.

🪐🪐🪐

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[tobitofunction]

Master List:

Captain Rex: Love Maze - Captain Rex x OC

Captain Rex never thought he could find love until a very specific mission. Poster originally on Wattpad, making few changes to the story

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Clones x Reader

The Clones Beloved Jedi

The Clones Beloved Jedi Part 2

The Clones Beloved Jedi part 3 final

The clones beloved jedi: Christmas edition

A song for you Fives x Reader

Jesse the babysitter Rex x Reader

Jolly Sailor Bold Part 1 Sinker x Reader

Jolly Sailor Bold Part 2 Sinker x Reader

Family Time Captain Rex x Reader

Wedding Bells  and Blaster fires Commander Cody x Reader

White Lace Captain Rex x Reader

Scaredy-cat Fives Fives x Reader

Heartbreaker Commander Wolffe x Jedi!reader

Still Youthful to me rebels rex x reader

War of Hearts Part 1 Rex x Senator!reader

War of Hearts Part 2 Rex x Pregnant Senator! reader

The Princess and the Soldier Rex x Reader

Other Star Wars character x reader

Baby Star Kylo Ren x Reader

Baby Star part 2 Kylo Ren x Reader

Baby Star part 3 Kylo Ren X reader

Baby Star part 4 Kylo Ren/Ben Solo x reader final

Training time Kylo Ren x reader

Just Relax Rose Tico x Reader

The Protector Cobb Vanth x Reader

Training Finn x Reader x Poe 

Slave 1 Fun Boba Fett x Reader x Fennec

Din Djaren( The Mandalorian) x Reader

Looking for a Jedi

comfort 

Non-reader inset stories

The Calm after the storm

Happy Ever After Finn x Poe

Into the New World Part 1

DC comics:

Happy Belated Birthday Jason x Reader

Reunion Jason x reader

Flowers of Love Part 0:Beautiful Life Morpheus x reader

Flowers of Love Morpheus of the Endless x reader

Flowers of Love Part 2 Morpheus x reader

Dream Kids Morpheus x reader

Romance Tropes Lucienne x reader

Dance if Jealousy Morpheus x reader

Dragon of Dreams Morpheus x reader

Dragon of Dreams  part 2 Morpheus x reader, Aemond x reader

Dragon of Dreams part 3 Morpheus x read, Aemond x reader

Marvel Comics:

Golden One Yelena Belova x fem!reader

Everything I ever want Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Cooking With Yelena Yelena Belova x fem!reader

Together Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Mine Yelena Belova x fem!reader

Through the Multiverse Wanda x fem!reader

Other Fandoms:

Resident Evil Village:

Mommy - Lady Dimisctruce daughter reader

Legend of Zelda:

Breath of the wild: Losing Game Link x female!reader

Corruption Link x reader

Sweet Child of Mine Link x reader

Sweet Child of Mine

Silver of the Past Link x reader

House of the Dragon

the pact of fire and ice part 1

the pact of fire and ice part 2

the pact of fire and ice part 3

the pact of fire and ice part 4

the pact of fire and ice part 5

the pact of fire and ice part 6

the pact of fire and ice part 7

Avatar the Last Airbender

🐉 Part 1 Zuko x reader

🐉part 2 Zuko x reader

🐉 part 3 Zuko x reader

🐉part 4 zuko x reader

🐉 part 5 zuko x reader

🐉 part 6 zuko x reader

🐉 part 7 zuko x reader

🐉 part 8 zuko x reader

🐉 part 9 zuko x reader

zuko x reader

Anime:

Oh Baby Daichi Sawamura x reader

Oh Baby Part 2 Daichi Sawamura x reader

Oh baby part 3 DAICHI SAWAMURA x reader

Oh Baby Part 4 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 5 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 6 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 7 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby part 8 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 9 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 10 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 11 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 12 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 13 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part14 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 15 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 16 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby part17 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 18 daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 19 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 20 Daichi x reader

Oh Baby Part 22 Daichi x reader

The Maniac and The Witch  Part 1 Eren Jaeger x Scarlet Witch!Reader 

The Maniac and The Witch Part 2 Eren Jaeger x Scarlet Witch!Reader

The Maniac and The Witch Part 3

The Maniac and The Witch Part4

The Maniac and The Witch Part 5

Delinquent Princess Kuroo x female!reader, Baji x female!reader

[imagineyourworld]

Get to know the writer

I thought it would be fun to open my new blog with a little “Get to know me”. 

Please feel free to reblog and answer the prompts or add more if you’re interested <3

Name + pronouns  My name is Charlotte (she/her), but feel free to call me Charlie

Age I’m 20 years old

Where I’m from/Where I live I’m from Germany and I still live in Germany

Languages I speak I’m only fluent in German and English, though I know a tiny bit of French and I learned Latin in school

My first fandom Either Marvel, Percy Jackson or Shadowhunters, I’m not sure with the timing, but I think Marvel was first

The most recent fandom I joined Star Wars! A friend introduced me to the movies and now I’m obsessed. 

The first fandom I wrote for Probably Marvel

The first fandom I published my work for On Tumblr I think it was Supernatural (on an old blog I no longer use and no reader inset though).  My first reader insert fanfiction was for Riverdale.  But the first fanfiction I ever published was probably Marvel when I was around 11 or 12, though it wasn’t on Tumblr

Fandoms I used to be a part of but am no longer Definitely Riverdale, I’m not sure I even finished the first season.  And Supernatural! After a friendship breakup I simply couldn’t enjoy it without her. Kinda Harry Potter as well... I still like it, but after everything JK Rowling has said and done I simply cannot enjoy it as much as I used to

Favourite fanfic tropes I love anything with friends to lovers and mutual pining (especially friends with benefits to lovers or anything involving truth or dare) or the classic “There’s only one bed” trope

Least favourite fanfic tropes Any type of teacher/professor x student relationship. Even if they’re both of age, it just makes me uncomfortable to read or write

How many fanfics are currently in my drafts Right now it’s 7, though I recently deleted a few

[itsworn]

Behind the Scenes in 1956: Hot Rods Are TV Stars on “The Life of Riley,” Corvettes Win First Championship, and Ernie McAfee’s Death Ends Pebble Beach Road Race

One face kept coming into view while researching 1956’s magazines, movies, television programs, and digitized black-and-white negatives in the Petersen Publishing Co. photo archive. Like a reverse Clark Kent who ducks into a phone booth and comes out wearing business attire, Wally Parks made it his mission to stand up for truth, justice, and the American way of recycling cast-off frames, bodies, and engines into loud, low, menacing contraptions that scared the crap out of decent citizens. “Early hot rodders were perceived as the gang bangers of their time,” he’d explain in later decades.

Mere months after Hollywood introduces John and Jane Q. Public to knife-wielding, suicidal hot rodders driving off cliffs, the real-life Jim Stark is really dead. What little is left of James Dean’s tin-foil Porsche-factory race car is being repurposed for the show circuit, accompanied by scary signage inaccurately blaming excessive speed (instead of Donald Turnupseed’s lane-crossing ’50 Ford mild custom). Hot on the heels of Rebel Without a Cause, Hollywood hurries teen-exploitation films such as Hot Rod Girl (“Teenage Terrorists Tearing up the Streets!”). Politicians worldwide are seizing on the previous September’s mass decapitation of France’s sports-car fans and a rash of U.S. stock-car deaths as a no-lose campaign issue, demonizing auto racing as an unnecessary evil threatening constituents’ safety. The International Association of Police Chiefs is lobbying local law enforcement and governments to shut down dragstrips, preaching that organized competition only encourages and increases racing in the streets. Californians’ outcry in the wake of Ernie McAfee’s fatal crash ends the Pebble Beach road race.

As if such intense opposition wasn’t challenge enough for anyone charged with running the National Hot Rod Association or HOT ROD magazine, Wally was both of those guys. There he is on network television, congratulating Chester A. Riley for helping clean-cut hot rodders get their own dragstrip (to be NHRA-sanctioned, naturally). Here’s another of his HRM editorials ripping shameless politicians, shortsighted cops, or unethical promoters for reinforcing unfair misconceptions. The Mobil Oil–financed Safety Safari is another brainstorm to be managed: Wally’s carload of Johnny Appleseeds, crisscrossing the country all summer on a shoestring budget. There’s also his National Drag Championships in Kansas City, now living up to its name by drawing entrants all the way from Hawaii Territory. One night later, the event’s founder and director is back inside of that conservative suit, on stage, amidst the classiest trophy presentation ever associated with America’s youngest form of auto racing.

Perhaps never before or since the mid-’50s has our hobby faced truly existential threats on so many fronts. Between crises, there was also a little publication called HOT ROD to put together each month. Parks must’ve been relieved to see this season end, but he’d soon be tested as never before by two political decisions: an industrywide agreement to end corporate racing sponsorship, and Wally’s own ban of fuels other than pump gasoline. The next round of archive images will bring us behind the scenes to places and people photographed in 1957, but seldom or never seen in print.

Contrary to the episode title “Juvenile Delinquent,” hot rods and young hot rodders were positively presented in a 1955 episode of The Life of Riley, the popular sitcom starring William Bendix and Wesley Morgan as father and son. To our knowledge, this image has previously appeared only as a postage-stamp-sized, closely cropped inset within HRM’s feature on Jim Griepsma’s cool coupe. Sixty-two years after loaning the car to the cause, Jim still owns the ’34. (See Dec. ’56 HRM.)

None of our L.A. sources was able to name this guy, but the search unexpectedly produced history worth mentioning about North Hollywood’s C-T Automotive (behind photographer), the crankshaft company’s sprint car, even the roller rink beyond. American Hot Rod Foundation curator Jim Miller enlisted the memory of Dave Sweeney, who joined C-T a few months after Al Paloczy stopped by in January to cover an Ardun buildup. (See July ’57 HRM.) Sweeney assured us that the mystery man is not driver Art Bisch, who went on to dominate the tough California Racing Association this season in Number 22 (10 wins in 27 meets—including six straight—and the ’56 CRA championship). Dave also described a private test track that C-T partners Clem TeBow and Don Clark carved out of the adjoining Department of Water and Power easement, utilizing two huge towers as inside turn markers. Longtime resident Kay Akers recognized the huge Quonset hut on the other side as a repurposed WWII warehouse built to store aircraft parts. Her brother in law skated there in the early ’50s. A remodel application dated April 1954 states that the rink accommodated 1387 folks. Unlike just about every other war-era structure in SoCal, this one still stands. Alas, we’re left to wonder who this young man was, and why Paloczy posed him for just this one frame. The race car got us wondering whether Tony Nancy, who lived in the area and almost surely patronized C-T, numbered his roadsters and dragsters “22 Jr.” in tribute.

It’s easy to see why Lee Woods, a Trend Inc.-Petersen Publishing Co. switchboard operator, often doubled as a model for photographic director Bob D’Olivo. She’d be in her mid-to-late eighties today.

National Roadster Show founder Al Slonaker’s spirited signs immediately identify the Oakland Exposition Building. Though the Petersen monthlies rarely devoted much space to the event itself, countless car features were shot before and after in the parking lot. HRM’s Eric Rickman took the annual opportunity for a working vacation in his hometown. This favorite view came through an office window. It was during the second Oakland show, six years earlier, that Tom Medley “discovered” the local freelance photographer and camera-store employee peddling circle-track prints in a booth. At Stroker’s urging, Bob Petersen offered a job setting up an in-house photo lab at then-Trend, Inc. Rick stuck around for 42 years, retiring in 1992.

Besides being HRM’s editor and NHRA’s president, the multitalented, tireless Wally Parks wasn’t above gettin’ down ’n’ dirty for a cool composition. At Daytona, he and the lens might’ve both needed baths after the unidentified roadster continued fishtailing this way during NASCAR’s straight-line acceleration trials. (See July ’56 HRM; May ’56 Motor Life.)

Before NASCAR’S speed trials officially opened, promoter Bill France Sr. made a pass in one of Zora Arkus-Duntov’s factory race cars. The Corvette fleet went head to head with T-birds in Production racing for the first time in the flying mile (after which the fastest of both breeds were disqualified in teardown for overboring). Chevy pilots John Fitch and Betty Skelton clocked two-way averages of 145 and 137 mph, respectively. Zora himself led the charge in a streamlined, 150-mph unlimited entry.

Alternative powerplants of the future grabbed readers from the beginnings of both Motor Trend (established 1949) and Motor Life (previously Hop Up and Motor Life, since 1952). Turbines seemed to have the edge in futuristic propulsion in the mid-’50s. Chrysler got a car running in 1954, followed the next year by both GM and Ford. Production prospects brightened after this ’56 Chrysler crossed the country in four days (including five hours spent R&Ring the engine at a Winslow, Arizona, dealership after an air-intake casting cracked). An engineer in the back seat monitored 45 different parts of the engine. Unleaded gasoline, which returned 13-14 mpg at a steady 50 mph, might’ve made its magazine debut here as fuel for a new car. (See June ’56 MT & ML.)

Go-karts were invented for full-sized people, as demonstrated by beefy contributor Ray Brock. The frame was found on a Rickman roll labeled “Pre-Indy,” suggesting that two of hot rodding’s most-famous photojournalists crossed paths during Rick’s annual springtime tour of Indy-car shops. Brock was not yet a PPC staffer, but his byline began appearing regularly in the magazines this year.

Corvette’s most-impressive outing to date was overshadowed by Ernie McAfee’s fatal crash on the same day near Monterey, California. This single frame among the three rolls that Paul Sorber exposed is the only frame we found of the tragedy that shut down the Pebble Beach Road Races after this final April 22, 1956, event (won by Carroll Shelby in a Ferrari). Skid marks reported to be as long as 125 feet suggested that McAfee, a Ferrari distributor and skilled driver, missed a downshift entering a turn at 100-plus mph, locked up his brakes, and slammed into one of many trees lining scenic 17 Mile Drive. The 4.4 Ferrari was owned by Union Oil Co. heir Bill Doheny, who always requested entry numbers containing “76” (e.g., 276 here). Incredibly, the wreck was rebuilt, raced, and reportedly survives in a private collection. Meanwhile, a factory Corvette’s finest outing on a road course saw Dr. Dick Thompson win C-Production and lead the favored Mercedes 300SLs and Jaguar XKs for several laps in the overall feature before fading along with the car’s drum brakes.

Refreshed with new blood, two new cars (which Wally Parks undoubtedly charmed out of Plymouth Division), and a trailer relettered “Safety” where it previously read “Drag,” NHRA’s third national tour got off to its smoothest start yet. Newcomers Don Doeckel, John Rucker, and Dick Scritchfield joined returning team leader Bud Coons for what proved to be the final Safari (details to come in our 1957 series installment). Ray Brock photographed the launch in the vast parking lot that served the world’s largest occupied indoor structure, L.A.’s Pan Pacific Auditorium (previously pictured in Part Two of this series, May ’18).

HRM and NHRA secretary Barbara Livingston, one of Bob Petersen’s earliest employees, came aboard to assist Wally Parks and never stopped. The future Barbara Parks often described typing up the first NHRA membership cards (possibly on the typewriter pictured).

Contrasting “rail” styles illustrate why the super-light slingshot of Louie Aubrey (later known as Bill Crossley) was consistently among California’s quickest and fastest dragsters. Wayne King, a fellow Smokers of Bakersfield member, identified the far-lane car at Madera (California) and also in the famous club’s logo. None of our expert sources could ID the brave soul atop the Swiss-cheesy rails. (Enjoy Smokers and March Meet history at smokersdragracing.wordpress.com. Annual membership, with full club benefits, is now open to anyone sending $60 to the Smokers, P.O. Box 22288, Bakersfield, CA 93390-2288.)

Bob D’Olivo, PPC’s longtime photographic director, is a regular and invaluable source of company history. He can’t identify the buttocks, but instantly recognized the other guy: “Colin Creitz was one of my staff photographers, using the copy stand that I built [for shooting “copy negs” of a print or artwork —Ed.]. They’re also using my own Kodak view camera. Pete’s photo lab had next to nothing to use when I went to work there [in 1952].”

In their off hours, PPC photographer Bob D’Olivo and HRM tech editor Racer Brown (pictured) teamed up to campaign what is probably the winningest project car in company history, and maybe the most significant. Bill Pollack went nearly undefeated in California Sports Car Club meets, but SCCA driver Dick Thompson made history by giving Corvette its first national championship this season. Thompson needed two ’56 Corvettes to accumulate the necessary C-Production points, alternating between this factory-prepped car in western events and a Detroit-based fraternal twin back east. After Pollack subsequently crashed out of a Cal Club meet, smashing up one fender, a grateful Chevrolet Engineering offered D’Olivo the Corvette and all spares—for $1,400! However, a wounded race car was the last thing needed by a young family man with his first child and mortgage. Instead, Chevy transported the operation to an independent racer who would crash and burn the roadster in 1957. Body-shop-owner Chuck Porter later told D’Olivo that he’d scrapped everything but its rollbar. (See Oct. ’56, Jan. ’11, July ’16 HRM.)

Backstage access doesn’t get much better than the playing field during an NFL game, presumably at halftime. Staff shooter Al Paloczy returned from the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum with action shots of various Rams and Washington Redskins, plus three frames of these overdressed ticket pullers. Sorry, we can identify neither the gent nor a young woman whom uncouth football fans of that unenlightened era might’ve referred to as a “blonde bombshell.” Company archivist Thomas Voehringer wild-guesses that she may be Diana Dors, “the British Marilyn Monroe.” (If you know the story and e-mail editor Hardin promptly, maybe Mr. Ed. will publish one of her other angles, along with your letter.)

Rather than challenge the severely chopped, super-swoopy Studebakers in a brutal Competition Coupe class, Lou Bingham temporarily and nicely restored the stock profile required of a legal Class-C Coupe/Sedan at Bonneville. A flathead Merc pulled him to 111.24 mph, fifth in class.

Streamlining is where you find it. Some druggist between Lee Christian’s hometown of Lubbock, Texas, and Kansas City couldn’t have imagined that his missing poster (promoting mucus-melting Super Anahist with Thonzidel) was traveling 108.56 mph at the second NHRA National Championship Drags. After cleaning up the nose, Christian’s Olds-powered Deuce trophied in B/Altered. Constructed just in time for the previous year’s Drag Safari stop, the host track might’ve been the first purpose-built, commercial, paved operation east of California. (See Nov. ’56 HRM, R&C; Jan. ’18 HRD.)

Since NHRA’s 1951 beginnings as a car-club organization, cofounder-president Wally Parks consistently exceeded public and corporate expectations. This September, he reserved Kansas City’s classy Municipal Auditorium Music Hall for the post-Nationals trophy presentation, hired an orchestra, and booked well-known entertainer-TV host Walter O’Keefe (center, with cards in jacket pocket) as emcee. Another area in which NHRA outshone all rivals was servicing sponsors, as evidenced by Safari supporter Socony Mobil’s prominent backdrop signage. The oil giant dispatched an executive to assist “starlet Barbara Huffman” with presenting the Top Eliminator and National Champion awards to Mr. and Mrs. Melvin Heath (behind engine). The Oklahoma rail’s mid-10-second consistency prevailed in the last Nationals allowing fuels other than gasoline until 1964.

His boss’s decision to launch a periodical titled Water World meant that Petersen’s lead photographer would be getting wet. Bob D’Olivo remembers this day well: “That’s the beak and tail of the 88- pound sailfish I caught in La Paz with 20-pound line, using spin tackle—a world record, but I didn’t know it! A record could only be verified with the entire catch, and the rest was long gone when I found out. I saved the remains to be mounted.”

Wally Parks had a face—and a speech—for every occasion. Photographer D’Olivo, a PPC colleague from 1952 until Wally quit to run NHRA fulltime in 1963, never ceased to be amazed at the man’s ability to deliver convincing, entertaining speeches with little-to-no notice. The suit and tie were standard equipment for the man most responsible for polishing public perceptions of hot rodders and straight-line racers.

Hmmm, wonder why such a super-light, well-ventilated racing seat never caught on—or appeared in magazine coverage? All we found was a handwritten November 6th entry into the PPC photo lab’s film log attributing the roll to Dean Batchelor and the Palm Springs road race.

Freelancer and lakes-racer Dean Batchelor (right) was among the very few well-known writers never affiliated with PPC. Here, Dean traded exposures with D’Olivo during an after-hours shindig at Petersen’s Hollywood Blvd. headquarters. (“He got the raised eyebrow when he flipped the So-Cal streamliner at El Mirage in 1950,” advised historian Greg Sharp.) That expansive forehead on the left is instantly identifiable as Ray Brock’s, but none of our surviving sources recognized the guy in the tie.

The same, 12-shot roll that contained D’Olivo’s party pictures gave us this handy accessory, complete with burning L&M cigarette. A magnet evidently secured it to the Tri-Five dash.

Early tracks were often situated on active municipal airports. To keep the peace with well-connected local pilots, strip officials stopped the show for landings and take-offs. NHRA’s rules committee chose this late-season meet at Morrow Field in Colton, California, to introduce a class for Detroit’s new “super stock” (HRM’s quotes) cars. None showed up here, ironically, but the revised A/Stock (14.99 or fewer pounds per advertised horsepower) would be adopted nationally in 1957, then further evolve into the first Super Stock class in 1958 (at 12.59 lbs./hp). (See Feb. ’57 HRM.)

Few feature vehicles in history have commanded more than one PPC feature session. Jim Griepsma’s coupe is probably the only one photographed thrice in the same year, counting HRM’s coverage during The Life of Riley filming. Still owned by Griepsma, the chopped, channeled coupe rides on a ’34 sedan frame dropped 9 inches in front and 7 in back. While the assembled customs suggest some outdoor show, the absence of spectators and a November 26th log entry reading “Car Features-Car Craft” might indicate an exclusive gathering arranged for the magazine.

This TV version of Norm Grabowski’s revolutionary T-bucket sold countless scale-model kits for Revell (“Kookie’s Hot Rod”) and fullsize kits by Speedway Motors (“Kookie Kar”). The roadster pickup’s movie appearances date to 1955, when Norm and brother Donald were building Hollywood sets. By 1957, it had graced the covers of both HRM and Car Craft, and appeared in a famous Life magazine photo from Bob’s Big Boy. In the 1958-1959 television seasons, Warner Brothers’ 77 Sunset Strip series and teen-idol Edd “Kookie” Byrnes made this final version the world’s most-famous hot rod. (See Oct. ’55 HRM; Apr. ’57 CC.)

Yes, you old-timers have seen the shot before, albeit cropped to drop out scenery that looks like El Mirage dry lake. HRM tech editor Racer Brown was at the wheel. His subsequent cover story stated that this stock, McCulloch-supercharged Golden Hawk “outperforms almost all production cars … without resorting to a long list of sometimes-unobtainable powerplant options.” During a series of Lions Drag Strip passes, the 275hp, 3,700-pounder averaged 16.72 seconds and 82.3 mph. (See Mar. ’57 HRM)

In what’s believed to be the first formal photo shoot for the Rod & Custom Dream Truck, owner-editor Spence Murray’s chopped, channeled, sectioned ’54 Chevy was still in primer and lacking horizontal rear wings this December. Freelancer James E. Potter (aka James Richards) was behind the camera; model Nancy Palmer, in front. Four images from this December session showed up first in Motor Trend, followed by others in a Petersen “one-shot”—but none in R&C, for some reason. (See Mar. ’57 MT; Custom Cars 1958 Annual; Fawcett’s Best Hot Rods No. 3.)

None of these still-camera setups actually made The Life of Riley episode except the last scene depicted, in which a stiff, expressionless Wally Parks has a four-word speaking part (“How do you do?”). Jim Griepsma’s ’34 Ford made just one, fleeting appearance onscreen—peeling out of a driveway, to the certain dismay of NHRA’s image-conscious president—but scored the HOT ROD cover, plus an inside feature dated by the coupe’s previous powerplant, a flathead Ford. The pictured Deuce of Don Hudson, destined to evolve into the famous Tom McMullen roadster, is one of four hot rods shown on TV. (See Dec. ’56 HRM; watch youtube.com/watch?v=xq8n0x3-RMs.)

The post Behind the Scenes in 1956: Hot Rods Are TV Stars on “The Life of Riley,” Corvettes Win First Championship, and Ernie McAfee’s Death Ends Pebble Beach Road Race appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network http://www.hotrod.com/articles/behind-scenes-1956-hot-rods-tv-stars-life-riley-corvettes-win-first-championship-ernie-mcafees-death-ends-pebble-beach-road-race/ via IFTTT

[thisisnotgoingtogothewayyouthink]

The Force: A naturalistic approach (Part 4)

Part 4 of my naturalist approach to the Force. While you don't *have* to read them all or in order, I recommend it as each concept builds on the one before it to reach a final conclusion.

This is part of a series of posts to make them easily readable: Part 1: Good & Evil Part 2: The Force as balance Part 3: The greater Force >Part 4: Tying it all together (Rey on Ahch-To) Part 5: Emotion and the human condition (a tangent) Final Thoughts

Tying it all together: Rey on Ahch-To

I want to make a note that of the 8 out of 9 Star Wars feature films only VII and VIII have taken the time to really dig into meat and potatoes of the Force. We got its presence in all living things form the OT but because there were few people left who understood it, it remained very much a mystery. We learned about midi-chlorians from the PT, but the focus in that trilogy was more about the Jedi Order and their structure and teaching. We didn't learn overmuch about the Force itself and it largely remained about the good and evil dynamic.

Most of the really juicy things we learned about the Force happened in the Expanded Universe. Most of that is now Legacies and no longer on the table despite how much of my opinion is informed by it. I tried to stay within the confines of current canon. Nothing has done more for the visibility of the true nature of the force than the current trilogy.

In the ST we have a great deal more time with the Force. With its users who are coming to know and understand it. We see a warped version of it through Rey from Jakku and Kylo Ren. The protagonist who's quick to anger and quick to act. The antagonist who seems less evil than we expect. We're also faced with the idea that perhaps we don't know the Force as well as we think we do because we've always seen it through the lens of the Jedi… and maybe they got it wrong.

Consider Rey's communion with the Force while on Ahch-To.

Her first impression was life-life all around her. She could sense herself, and the Caretakers pottering about near the huts, but there was so much more than that. She felt the presence of flowers and grasses and shrubs. Birds and insets and fish, and creatures too tiny for the eye to see. Her awareness of all of it seemed to crowd her sense, plunging her into something so deep and intense that for a moment she thought she might drown in it, only to realize that was impossible, because she was part of that life. -From Star Wars: The Last Jedi (novelization)

The first thing that Rey senses is life. Life in all its forms and facets. Life in the here and now. Life perceived by the living. It is the first thing she senses because she is alive. That would be most natural to her to feel. She also senses what exists in this moment. The here and now, again because it is closest to her.

But there was death, too-and decay. Dead flesh and vegetable matter, sinking into soil that hid bones and dry sticks from bygone season of the island. She shrank from this new awareness, but sensed almost immediately that there was nothing to fear. From the death and decay sprang new life, nourished by what had come before. -From Star Wars: The Last Jedi (novelization)

Here we get a sense of the conflict. Notice too that her first perceptions aren't of dark and light or good and evil. The first things she senses if life and its counterpoint is death. She sees the truth immediately.

When she senses death and decay she shrinks away from it. Instinctually she's afraid. It's not hard to imagine that many Force users had this initial knee jerk reaction. No one wants to die. Yet she senses there's nothing to be afraid of. She sees the cycle. Death from which springs new life. She begins to see the past, but again in the context of the living. They are tied together.

She could feel the warmth of the suns-not just on her face but on the rocks and the surface of the ceaseless tumble of water. And cold, too, which surrounded the dark places where the roots of the island and the seafloor were revealed as one and the same. There was peace-mother progs with their eggs, sheltered and safe in warm hollows-but also violence that left behind broken nests and shattered shells. -From Star Wars: The Last Jedi (novelization)

We see more parallels here. Warmth to cold. Peace to violence. Again, there is no good or evil here. She sense only what exists in nature without making assumptions or looking for intention. I want to take a moment to dig deeper into the violence. Broken nests. Shattered shells. Take a look at the image below from the film. The nest a moment before the wave comes to wash over it.

I wish I had a gif of this, alas, I do not.

What's important about this description of violence, and so perfect about the visual portrayal, is what remains unsaid. The shells are broken. Why? Perhaps the waves destroyed them before they hatched. Perhaps a predator came and ate the young chicks. Perhaps the eggs hatched naturally. All of these are violent acts. What's important here is that none of them are evil. There is no malicious intention in the natural violence because there is no malice in nature. This is the violence that is shown in canon when Rey first truly opens herself to the Force.

And all that her senses showed her had been but a moment. That moment was but one of trillions, part of a never-ending cycle that had begun eons before she was born and would go on for eons after she was dead. And it was itself part of something vastly larger, so enormous that her mind couldn't grasp it, an immensity even the stars were but the tiniest portion of. -From Star Wars: The Last Jedi (novelization)

Here is the Force existing just beyond the immediacy of the moment. Connected but bigger than. Stretching into the past and the future. Encompassing the living and non-living. First she sense life. Next she senses everything.

From the very first time I saw The Last Jedi, this sequence moved me in a way that nothing else in Star Wars had. Here was everything I'd ever believed about the Force. Not good and evil. Not even really light and dark. The balance of the Force. It's greater truths explained through nature not doctrine.

Reading it in the novel was even better. It dug just a hint deeper and the reader was treated to a tidbit that couldn't be communicated visually. What she sensed beyond the island. The sense of the cycle being wider, something that even the stars were part of. Could she, all raw power and no training, have so quickly sensed the Cosmic Force' if it were really that different from the moment? Or was it just the rigid dogma of the Jedi that made it so alien from the living Force?

When Luke asks Rey what she senses her first words are "a balance." Because that's what the Force really is. The balance in nature. The mechanism by which it keeps the cosmic forces of life and death cycling through. Everything she felt may seem polar at first glance but when you plug it into the big picture it keeps rolling on and on, never stagnating, always moving forward. It's only after she identifies it as balance that she calls it an "energy" or a "force."

I also cried tears of joy when Luke said:

"And this is the lesson-that Force does not belong to the Jedi. To say that if the Jedi die the light dies is vanity. Can you feel that?" - Luke to Rey, about the Force and the Jedi. From, Star Wars: The Last Jedi (film).

Now that we've banished good and evil from the Force, you're probably wondering where they fit into all of this. I promise they do. You can read more in Part 5.