#IMAGINE IF I TRIED AND THE TERRAIN WAS FLAT

[roylustang]

5 weeks ago I was so injured I couldn’t even run 3 miles and now not only am I fully healed I also PR’ed my half marathon time by over 5 minutes and PR’ed every single distance below that this week without even TRYING. What is going ON.

[walkintomymystery]

Fall Into Me

(Set after Sonic 3 - Alternate Ending)

Defeated, world-weary, and impossibly lost, Shadow allows himself to be taken back into G.U.N custody. While his fate is decided, he is housed in a secret facility hidden deep in the heart of one of the country’s National Parks. Still reeling from the heartbreaks that have shaped his life, Shadow never expected to find the closest thing to a home he’d known in over fifty years.

Pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x Original Female Character

Warnings: i’m gonna be putting this hedgehog in some situations so expect existential dread, guilt, self-hatred, depressive tendencies but also a lot of love and friendship

A/N: this story will take place immediately after the end of Sonic 3, the plot of which i had completely guessed at when i started writing this, but now i’ve seen (and loved) the film, this is now officially an AU with a bit of plot divergence! i am also still very much an entry-level fan, i’m kind of rediscovering everything i loved about this world, so bear with me if there are any mistakes!

//

Chapter One

Evening had fallen. That was all Shadow could glimpse of the outside world. That, and the dizzying blur of trees flashing by.

The transport van was cramped and uncomfortable, but that was all Shadow had known for the past fifty years. He’s spent his whole life in captivity, his current circumstances weren’t novel in the slightest. Perhaps he should have relished the opportunity to stretch his legs and breathe in the fresh air while he had the chance. Too late now.

The metal walls that blocked him in rattled and shook as the van trundled down seemingly endless narrow roads. The whole vehicle vibrated at a bone-trembling pitch; Shadow’s body had started to feel numb after just a few minutes into his journey. G.U.N cared little for his comfort.

Time passed with agonising lethargy. When there was nothing but the constant, sluggish drone of the engine and one image out the window to occupy his mind, the minutes dragged by as if through molasses.

More trees rushed past. The small, opaque window in the side of the van was high above his head and granted him a limited view, but Shadow could catch glimpses of their rounded, bulging bases. They were tall, far taller than he would’ve thought possible, and their branches stretched and reached for each other like grasping hands.

A forest, then. It had to be. Shadow closed his eyes and tried to summon a map of the area. His limited knowledge of the surrounding terrain irked him.

He wished he’d taken more time to memorise the roads, the towns, the whole damn continent, but he had some vague idea of where he was. Or he used to. He couldn’t remember seeing a forest on any map. But then, it hadn’t seemed important at the time.

He opened his eyes again and stared out of the tiny window. So many trees. Had he ever seen so many? They were different from how he’d imagined them. The flat, lifeless images in the books he had once studied hardly came close to the towering pines that rushed by.

In all the information he and Maria had devoured about the Earth, in all their wildest dreams, he was sure neither of them could have imagined how these giants would look up close. They were so full of life. So green. He was a long way from the ARK.

Shadow curled his fingers into tight fists, making the thick handcuffs that bound him stretch and creak. One of G.U.N’s soldiers had nervously slapped them round his wrists, possibly thinking he’d fight back. He was right to be nervous, but for some reason, Shadow let him, then allowed himself to be led into the back of this van to head off into the night.

Shadow eyed the van doors. They were heavy and firmly sealed, but surely not strong enough to hold him. Even if he did try to escape, it would be difficult to find his way. They would locate him, capture him, and shove him back in this van with much less civility than they had the first time.

He sank back in his seat, a painfully hard wooden bench attached to the wall with thick chains.

An uncomfortable thought settled onto Shadow’s weary shoulders. Even if he weren’t completely lost, he had nowhere to go. Even if he did get away, even if he could figure out where he was, he had nothing, no mission to urge him onwards, no reason to keep going at all.

If he wanted to, if he really wanted to, he could be free. He could run and run until his body finally failed. But what was the point? What did it matter? Freedom to him was as nebulous and vague as a dream. Even in his youth, when Shadow thought he had the whole world at his feet, autonomy had been an illusion. He had always been owned, bartered over, and controlled.

Silent and hollow, he watched as any hope of breaking out, of finding his own way, slipped like sand through his fingers.

He had nothing. He was nothing. And he’d never known any different. There was nowhere to go. No one to run to. He was aimless, directionless, completely without purpose. Whatever the humans wanted with him, perhaps he should just let them do it.

One of Shadow’s ears flicked. The slightest whir of hydraulics, pads pressing against rotating discs. Grinding metal. Friction. Brakes. Silence finally cut through the roar of combustion and the old engine sank into sleep.

They’d arrived.

His whole body tensed instinctively. This was the moment. This was where he decided if he was going to fight tooth and nail to get away from these awful, violent humans, or stay docile, let them put him back into that godforsaken tank, and allow them to switch him off for another fifty years.

It would be easier. It would be so much easier. Shadow could be alone with his dreams once more, a peaceful place where there was no noise, no tang of copper on his tongue, and no one wanted anything from him.

In his dreams, it was just him and his sister, laying side by side in a meadow of stars. Shadow had nowhere to be, no one to answer to, just the deep navy sky and her gentle voice. He’d never know a heaven, but he was sure that was as close as he would get.

A sudden shout caught his attention.

Through the thick walls of the van, he could interpret very little, even with his excellent hearing, but Shadow’s ears swivelled in the direction of a second voice. The muffled sounds rose suddenly, then fell silent again.

Shadow straightened his back. He waited. Nothing. He held his breath.

A sudden, shrill hiss split the monotony in two. Shadow whipped his head around, eyes wide, to find a thick, grey gas spilling in through the crack between the van’s doors.

He jolted, instincts kicking in, and scrambled to his feet. They’d taken his shoes when he was arrested, but even if they hadn’t, there wasn’t nearly enough room to build up the momentum and speed he’d need to burst out of the van.

The thick, curling gas pooled on the floor around his feet, rising quickly like water until it was up to his neck.

Blind with panic, Shadow swung his bound hands against the driver’s cabin, sending a shockwave through the van’s metal sides.

He stumbled and fell into the wall, the gas obscuring his vision, his thoughts. He tried to shout but his tongue was heavy in his mouth.

“Hey!” Shadow swung his hands against the cabin again, throwing his whole weight behind it. “Hey! Anyone!”

But there was no response.

Shadow stumbled back and fell into the bench. All he could see now was a grey haze. Though he tried to hold his breath, it seeped into his lungs, his racing heart forcing his body to pull in more and more of the toxic oxygen.

His head felt foggy but he had just the wherewithal to climb up onto the bench, trying in vain to get away and find a pocket of clean air, but there was none.

Shadow’s eyes began to grow heavy. He fought against sleep but his body felt clumsy and unresponsive. He swung his hands one final time against the side of the van and barely made a sound.

He felt his head loll against his chest as the world blurred all around him. At the edges of his vision, a darkness crept steadily closer, until it had overwhelmed his acute senses.

Gravity turned on him, and the last thing Shadow knew was the floor rushing up to meet him, before the world went black.

/

He was in the medbay. He knew before he opened his eyes. The reek of disinfectant, the squeak of rubber shoes against the polished tile floor, the constant noise of the machines. He knew it all by heart, a symphony of pain and longing.

Shadow woozily raised his heavy eyelids. His whole body ached. It was a familiar feeling but not one he’d known for some time. The doctor used to send him for evaluation every month or so, then every two weeks as Maria grew weaker-

Maria.

Shadow’s eyes widened as she suddenly appeared before him, floating above his hospital bed like a pale spirit. She was sickly white, practically translucent. Ghostly and faint, her wide blue eyes gazed down at him emptily.

“Shadow…”

Hardly able to catch his breath, he tried to raise his hand up to touch her but his body refused to cooperate. Shadow tried to blink but an age seemed to pass between his eyes closing and opening again.

“Shadow, you’re hurting me…”

Panic tightened his chest. He looked down, following the cannula as it ran down her chest to where it tangled with another.

With agonising sluggishness, Shadow tried to raise his hand to help her, and found the other cannula attached to his own nose.

“Shadow, it hurts, please…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Shadow wrapped his fingers around the plastic tube and tried to rip it from his nose but it was stuck fast. With every sharp tug, the cannulas only seemed to tighten and twist further, until they were impossibly intertwined.

“I’m sorry, Maria, I’m trying. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Hot tears began to fall from her dull eyes, hitting his cheeks, his forehead and his jaw like bullets.

The more he tried to pull at the tubes that connected them, the more Maria cried and the more suffocated he felt, until Shadow was clawing for breath.

He could only watch, paralysed, as a thin river of scarlet blood began to dribble from her nose, staining his white fur, the bed-

The transport van tripped over a dip in the road, forcing Shadow into consciousness with a jolt.

He gasped for breath, pulling in a huge lungful of air to steady his pounding heart.

Four blank walls stared back at him. He was still in the van. Shadow stared at the doors, then lifted his head to the roof. No sign of any gas. He couldn’t smell any trace of it. Just a dream. It was all just a bad dream.

Slowly, his tensed muscles began to relax, and Shadow sank back against the wall behind him.

It wasn’t like him to fall asleep like that. He didn’t need to rest, his power made sure of that. It was only something he indulged in when he needed to pass the time, or when Maria would beg him to snooze beside her in her hospital bed. He could only allow himself to sleep when he was sure that he was completely safe, and he definitely wasn’t now.

Shadow pushed down the anxious uncertainty that rose in his chest and forced himself to focus on the present.

The transport van was freezing. It had crept up on him slowly. Nothing at first, then a gnawing chill. Shadow found he had to keep tensing his muscles to encourage some warmth into them.

Worry nagged at the back of his brain again, an unfamiliar emotion. He couldn’t remember the last time the cold had affected him.

He tried to rub his eyes but found he could hardly lift his hands. He looked down.

The stiff, black cuffs were gone. In their place were a pair of thick, brass rings that covered his own inhibitors. Heavy and clumsy, they seemed to have some kind of mechanism hidden within. He could feel a hum of static reverberating off of them, tapping into his bones and sending a faint current throughout his body.

Shadow frowned. Where had they come from? Had they put them on while he slept? Surely not. On the rare occasion he did rest, he was a light sleeper. He would have felt it. Why couldn’t he remember?

He turned his wrists fractionally, examining the rings and testing their strength. They were broad and heavy, and felt cold against his skin, even through his fur. With a sinking feeling, Shadow wondered if they might be the reason he felt so weak.

As he studied the rings with sharp eyes, he wracked his brain, trying to remember if he’d ever seen anything like them before.

Shadow lifted his right index finger and gingerly hooked it under one of the rings.

Before he could make another move, a voice snarled at him from the corner,

“Keep still.”

A soldier was sat propped up in the very corner of the transport van. Half shrouded in darkness, Shadow couldn’t get a good look at his face, but he could tell that the soldier was tall and broad, and so relaxed that he must think he had nothing to fear.

Had he been there this whole time? Shadow couldn’t remember. He was having a hard time summoning back his short-term memories. His thoughts were in complete disarray, his nightmare still clouding his mind.

The blue hedgehog, his friends, defeat, this van - but the details were fuzzy, and the more he tried to grasp for them, the further they slipped away.

That worry gnawed away at him again.

All of Shadow’s senses felt dull and distant, as if the sights, scents and sounds that often threatened to overwhelm him were now nearby, but just out of reach. He felt as if he was in one room and his soul was in another, disconnected from the world around him. He didn’t feel right, he couldn’t feel anything.

Shadow shifted in his seat, testing the waters. The guard sat in the corner didn’t move but he knew behind his dark sunglasses, a pair of keen eyes were trained on him.

Shadow disregarded him and turned his attention back to the window. More green blurs. They were still in the forest. Where could they possibly be taking him?

He twisted his wrists again and focused on moving his hands. Static coursed through his veins, making him flinch, but he kept going. Though his body still felt heavy and unresponsive, Shadow was able to raise his clenched fists from his lap.

“I said, keep still,” the soldier muttered, and this time, he lowered one hand to rest against an impression in his jacket.

He was armed and probably more than happy to shoot. But they couldn't kill him. If they wanted to, they would have done it already. They wouldn’t bother driving him out to the middle of nowhere just to do away with him. No, he was too useful for that.

And then, it stopped. Unlike in his dream, the van gently rolled to a standstill, then the driver switched off the engine.

Shadow looked back at the doors. The guard assigned to watch him was speaking again but he barely registered his presence.

Where was he? It had taken hours to arrive, but logic dictated he couldn’t be too far from civilisation if they were going to keep him contained.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He was pulled to his feet.

Shadow ignored the twist in his gut and just tried to focus on his next move. They needed him, but for what? It could be anything. They could use his blood for testing, extrapolate his DNA for an all manner of projects, send him out on missions, use him as an attack dog.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now, apart from getting out of here.

Another soldier dressed all in black opened the van from the outside and Shadow was led out into the night.

They’d stopped at the edge of a clearing. Just a few feet away, a huge hill rose up out of the ground, rolling backwards and backwards, growing and forming into a distant mountain. Beneath his bare feet, the earth was cold and damp and unpleasant.

It was so dark, Shadow could only see a few paces in front of him. Another of his usually sharp senses had been dulled.

He tried to remember everything he’d learnt, everything Gerald had taught him. Keep your eyes up and keep your head down. Run and run and run, and never ever look back.

The hand was heavy on his shoulder. The two guards that flanked him chatted amongst themselves, swapping stories about the long drive as they guided him towards a low, squat building that appeared to be dug into the side of the towering hill, which seemed almost as tall as the pines that surrounded it.

A door opened. Burning orange light spilled out, pushing through the black night and illuminating his path. Two figures stood in the doorway, just silhouettes, contrasting shapes that didn’t make sense to him.

The cold air awoke something in Shadow’s brain. A spark ignited, a glint of hope.

He wouldn’t let them take him. He wouldn’t just give in. He was the Ultimate Lifeform, he was the descendant of a great power, he could go wherever he wanted. And he didn’t want to be trapped, he didn’t want to be locked away under layers of earth and metal and rock for another fifty years while the humans decided what to do with him. He wanted to be free.

With a rough cry that began in his belly and tore from his throat, Shadow ducked under the hand that held him down and swung his leg round, knocking one of the guard’s feet out from under him.

The other made a grab for him but Shadow jumped and swung his arm around the man’s neck, knocking his sunglasses off as he dragged him to the ground. Shadow untangled himself from the soldier before he could even think to reach for his gun.

He stumbled to his feet, chest heaving, and sprinted towards the tree line. But he only made it a few steps.

He felt all the breath leave his body as some invisible force clapped down on his back and knocked him off-balance. Shadow grunted as he hit the leafy ground, hard, his heavy hands awkwardly jammed beneath his chest.

Whatever had pushed him down had enough force behind it to knock the wind out of him. One of the guards? Surely not. The blow had felt all-encompassing and formless, as if the sky had fallen down on his head. Shadow groaned as his ribs smarted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt real pain.

He tried to get up but something weighed on his back, pressing him down into the earth, though he couldn’t actually feel anything, as if he were just an ant under the heel of an enormous boot. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Then he felt his body move without his say so, and he was turned over onto his back.

Shadow lay there, staring up at the black sky. There were thousands of stars, almost as many as he’d been able to see on the ARK.

A memory, faint and ephemeral as breath on a cold day, floated through his mind. Maria had countless astronomy books. She would point out the constellations to him, one by one, until they had almost mapped out the whole cosmos. There were still countless systems they’d never got around to learning about.

Shadow closed his tired eyes.

If this was the end, if this was how his lonely, painful life was finally snuffed out, maybe it wasn’t so bad. The ground was hard and cold but he’d never known anything else. His chest ached, but again, that was nothing new. If the stars Maria had given him were the last thing he ever saw, he could make peace with that.

“The Ultimate Lifeform, huh?”

Footsteps crunched through the dry leaves that littered the ground all around him, growing steadily closer and closer, until they finally stopped by his head.

“Says who?”

Despite every instinct telling him not to, Shadow opened his eyes.

A Mobian stood over him. Dark, dark fur, a black jacket that was two sizes too big, and almost comically large ears were all Shadow could make out against the sparkling night sky.

”Hey. I’m Kit.”

Even though she was shrouded in twilight, Shadow could still pick out a self-satisfied smile.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The Mobian flicked her fingers and Shadow felt his body rise off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all.

Once his feet were safely back on terra firma, the Mobian sighed and shook her head.

“Please don’t try to run again. It’s pointless and honestly, I can’t manage more than a fast walk, and even then I’m out of breath. I’d much rather we got to know each other over dinner.”

She nodded towards the rectangle of orange light in the distance, still smiling.

“Shall we go inside?”

//

Next Chapter

Master List

[linkemon]

Spring rolls (Senshi x Reader)

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here. Consider supporting me on Ko-fi. You can also check out my commissions if you’re interested.

Other oneshots can be found here.

ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄɪᴘᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴘʀɪɴɢ ʀᴏʟʟꜱ, ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱᴇɴꜱʜɪ, ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅᴏꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ…

Senshi stroked his chin thoughtfully. He was separated from the team some time ago. He was so eager to pick the wild cucumbers crawling on the ground that he fell into a dark tunnel and slid down in the darkness. He landed near some unknown lake. Luckily it didn't seem too big. Senshi tried to keep his cool. He had spent a lot of time underground alone during his life but now he was filled with anxiety. He had gotten used to the company. Unfortunately, the mysterious hatch closed right behind him, so he had to find a new way back to his friends. He consoled himself that at least he had a supply of cucumbers.  

He crossed the marshy terrain, treading on a relatively dry path. Various branches floated on the surface of the water. Blue and dark green melted into the dirty brown scenery. The strange, twisted trees looked like hands, ready to pull him into deeper waters at any moment. However, he looked at their bark with satisfaction. A few swipes of the handy knife later, he managed to collect a large supply. He figured that since he was here, he could take advantage of the opportunity. Chewing slowly on the soft wood, he took one step at a time.  

In the silence broken only by the buzzing of insects and the splashing of water, a familiar melody reached his ears. The surface of the water carried the gentle sounds of a mandoline. The dwarf stopped for a moment. The water was too shallow for the pernicious mermaids to inhabit. So he was lucky. He followed the sound of the strings. A familiar bard appeared before his eyes. [Reader] looked like she wanted to rub her eyes in disbelief. But instead, she played a cheerful chord as she rose from the rotten tree trunk she was sitting on. Dressed as always in an avant-garde, colourful, velvet outfit.  

— The last person I expected to see here today! The most pleasant of surprises. What brings you here?  

Senshi raised the corners of his mouth. He hadn't seen the woman since he joined Laios and his group. They knew each other from the area around the cemetery, where trade flourished. For him it was quite close to the surface, so he preferred to avoid this place but certain products could not be found underground. Ever since something close to a tavern was built there, bards have been killing themselves to perform there. [Reader] used to sing not only there but also nearby. She rarely went down to the lower floors.  

He had already forgotten how flowery and effusive she was. He couldn't imagine her in any other profession. It fit her perfectly.  

— I lost the friends I'm traveling with — he explained laconically.  

— I'm so glad to see you! — Bard put her arm around the dwarf. — We have company at twelve — she added extremely quietly into his ear.  

Senshi's first instinct was to get flustered, surprised by the sudden closeness. But all that passed when he turned around as gently as he could. Water flowed into the lake directly from a tiny river. They actually had company. What he thought was just a branch turned out to be a turtle shell. Every few moments a piece of wrinkled monkey skin stuck out from under it. There was a kappa living in the water. It swam towards them extremely slowly. From time to time, a flat bowl adorning its head emerged from the surface. The dwarf didn't need Laios to determine what exactly threatened them. In the worst case scenario, they could be disembowelled and have all their organs removed.  

He gave the woman a knowing look. She just nodded slightly.  

Kappa swam to the shore. It tilted its head and blinked its watery eyes. Then it put her teeth into a ghastly smile. White sprouts flashed in the red mouth. Senshi silently hoped that they wouldn't soon become her meal. Especially considering where in the human body such monsters reached first...  

— We welcome you, o mighty kappa! — [Reader] nervously strummed her mandoline.  

— Ahem... yes, welcome! — Senshi joined in, a little less confident.  

— Arghulghul! — replied the creature.  

The dwarf didn't know if it was an invitation to talk but he decided there was no better option. They had little chance against the kappa.  

— We have heard of your well-known virtue and that you host a fest! And also about how wonderfully you welcome... guests! — concluded the woman uncertainly.  

Senshi had no doubt that the hybrid would have a great fest. But he suspected he wouldn't like the main meal at all.  

— Your are immensely swift…— the bard began.  

— As such we brought you a gift! — Senshi reached behind him.  

Kappa turned its head to the other side. Its eyes widened and it pulled out what could only be a flat nose from a distance. The powerful whistling inhalation was probably intended to check what the dwarf was holding in his hands. When kappa realized they were cucumbers, her mouth formed a voracious duck lip. Up until now, it had been walking at a snail's pace and now it accelerated significantly. The water splashed as it swept the water on the shore with its tail.  

— Doesn't have manners now, anyone who doesn't bow! — [Reader] struck the strings once again.  

Senshi obediently bent in half, as did his companion. This required unwavering faith in the plan. However, he knew that this was the kappa's only weakness, next to cucumbers. Only politeness could kill this monster. When he looked up, he saw the turtle-like creature just finishing its bow, emptying the contents of the bowl on its head. Water flowed down the monkey's skin. The monster gurgled angrily and fell dead in the river with a loud splash.  

— I guess that's the end of these rhymes for today, my dear — [Reader] breathed a sigh of relief.  

— Hmm...  

— You want to eat it, right? — She looked resignedly towards the river.  

— I ate kappa once. It has wonderful and tender meat rich in nutrients. It would be a shame to waste it — Senshi replied.  

Bard helped him pull the body out of the water. Immediately afterwards, he told her to start cutting cucumbers and dividing the bark. In the meantime, he skinned the monster. Then he took out his trusty pot and lit a fire. He had a hard time doing it because the wood around him was unbearably wet. Eventually, however, he managed to cook pieces of kappa.  

[Reader] played the mandoline, claiming that her role in cooking ended here. Somehow, her repertoire included songs about chefs.  

Senshi placed slice-thin pieces of soft bark and on them meat and cucumber slices. He rolled everything up carefully. Proud of himself, he decorated the work with grasses growing near the river. He placed rolls on large burdock leaves. The first and only one of its kind: Kappa Spring Rolls.  

— Dinner is served! — he announced eagerly, whittling makeshift chopsticks from pieces of wood.  

— I don't think I'll ever taste it — [Reader] said, eyeing the kappa dish with suspicion.  

This wasn't the first time she had seen Senshi cooking a monster dish. However, she usually refused to taste it, preferring something else. Moreover, they saw each other more often near the tavern in the former cemetery. There she was always able to buy something normal.  

— You'll be hungry. Regular meals are very important — he said, catching a roll between his chopsticks. — One, two, three. Open wide, there's a fairy coming — he announced, stuffing the roll into her mouth.  

— I'm not a child — the woman said, grimacing like a child but she chewed obediently.  

After a short while, she hesitantly reached for another portion. The tender meat melted in your mouth and the bitterness of the soft wood brought out the taste of cucumbers. Everything created harmony. It was as if the swamps around them had turned into a charming spring meadow full of fresh scents and new sensations.  

— You really are a fantastic cook — [Reader] said.  

— It's nothing. — Senshi stroked his beard and looked away.  

She could have sworn she saw him blush slightly but it was hard to see anything under the armor. He was always a modest person.  

— You have a crumb right here. — She looked at him critically. — I'll take it off — she added.  

She moved her hand towards his chin. Dark eyes stared at her expectantly. However, before she could do anything, an explosion occurred. Dirty clods of mud flew around the two of them. In a few seconds, everything around was covered with in them. The landscape was now a brownish-gray mess. The sound of the explosion was pierced by a loud, collective cry:  

— Senshi!  

Four dark, dirty and, judging by their voices, very happy figures were running towards them.  

— These are my friends — he told his mud-covered companion with a smile.  

[loudclan-clangen]

HEY so the last ask reminded me that this is set in Alaska! As someone who used to live there it makes me very happy to see, so just for fun I brainstormed lore ideas/questions for a Clan there n I thought id share :) this is Long lmao i apologize

The terrain for one thing. Growing up I remember all the horror stories of people getting stuck in muskeg and not being able to get out before the tide comes in. so that’s always freaky, but i imagine that if theres any in the area then the cats might try and take advantage of it as safely as they can? for prey and such. on that note whats their water situation like anyways? braided rivers?

any specific ideas for what area of mountains the cats are in? are they in the higher ranges, the ones wrapped up in clouds, the rocky kind like the ones around Denali? the greener ones with all the trees? is their territory frequented by hikers and/or tourists or are they relatively untouched wilderness? I think i remember it being said that LoudClan is somewhere more towards the south, is it intended to be generally vague? :0

Predators!!!! The cats can deal with all sorts of unique stuff in a setting like this, bears n lynxes n wolves… eagles… possibly even wolverines since theyre up in the mountains? i’d be curious to see how a clan would react to a wolf pack passing through the area lol. also ive always just loved the concept of a queen finding an abandoned lynx kitten or smth and unknowingly adopting it and it just keeps… getting bigger… whoops… oh well its the clans weird child now

So many fun lil prey animals too, ground squirrels n ptarmigans n such!! I bet ptarmigans would totally harass cats during breeding season and that could be funny. maybe standard apprentice training is to learn the different ground squirrel alarm calls. maybe they even sometimes encounter dalls or caribou or moose on patrols (perhaps moose have even been known to kill before, so theyre considered dangerous).

Also just….. the day-night cycle??? I’d honestly be pretty interested to see how that ties in, like it’s daylight forever in the summer-early autumn and pretty much perpetually nighttime in the winter-early breakup. do the cats have any thoughts or beliefs towards that? do they like to look up at the northern lights, and listen when theyre so clear that they can hear them?

Okok thats all now sorry. I got way too excited lol i miss AK sm, i left when i was little 💔 if any of this has been discussed already in a lore post then ignore me its been a hot minute and i rattled this off on a whim!!!

Love this! Okay, let me try to hit all of these questions in a way that will hopefully be understandable for everyone so if you're the asker please skip past the definitions/backstory.

A 'muskeg' is like a swamp or a bog. I assume that you're referring to the area outside of Anchorage that we always called the 'Mud-Flats", because that's where I heard stories of people getting stuck. (Specifically there's a very famous urban legend of a soldier stationed in Anchorage who went out with his buddies, got stuck up to his waist, ended up tied to a helicopter, and when they tried to pull him out with the helicopter he uh... separated. And his legs can supposedly still be found in the flats. (I WANT TO CLARIFY THAT THIS IS NOT TRUE. THERE WAS A SOLDIER, HE GOT STUCK, HE DROWNED, THE SEPARATION HAPPENED AFTER HE WAS DEAD AND THEY TRIED TO RETRIEVE THE BODY. THEY DID GET HIS LEGS BACK TO MY KNOWLEDGE.)) It's pretty much a long stretch of quicksand (but it's like more mud and silt than sand? idk how to really describe it i haven't been there much cause ya know, hearing stories like that will kinda cure your curiosity as a kid.)

Anyway, Ghostclan's territory used to be Mud-Flats, but long before the cats moved in twolegs came and installed the Rip Rap (big jagged rocks that are placed on the coastline to keep it from erroding) that make up Freezingclan's territory and that kinda took some of the danger out of it. Since the tide no longer comes up so high, while getting stuck is certainly not a good thing, it's not a death sentence as clanmates have time to gather help and dig you out. Though it does make it hard/near impossible to launch an attack on Ghostclan without an insider to lead you around the wet spots. Larger prey can sometimes be found stuck in the mud, having died from exhaustion, but the wetness causes the meat to rot quickly, and what is left draws the attention of larger predators, while also adding the issue of having to avoid getting stuck as you retrieve it, so it's not really a reliable source of food as much as it is a last resort. Ghostclan also contains the territory's braided river, which the cats call the "Friendly River" because it's three smaller streams that meet up into one large one. (I didn't do the best job rendering this on the map but that is what I was trying to represent. I'm not a landscape person, I'm doing my best.) Because the territory is a narrow valley set right on the coast they don't have a ton of room for the rivers to braid, but the thought was there!

It is intented to be generally vague, because I'm not an expert on geography and I live a couple of hours from this exact area, I didn't want to say "yeah it's here" and then have people correct me with minute little things. Plus if it's entirely made up then I can alter things to my liking. But the territory is inspired by the land along the Seward highway, where on one side it's these big mountains and on the other it's just a short sloping coastline. It looks like this in real life:

(You can even see the railroad and layer of rip rap that I included in the territory map) I imagine it's a place where the road veers inland so that the clans can have more space to roam. While the railroad runs through the mountain the highway is just on the other side of it. The mountains here are nowhere as tall as Denali, but they aren't anything to scoff at either. I imagine them being something like this, (which I believe is Exit Glacier?):

The lower areas are densely forested with tall trees and thick shrubs, but the greenery gets thinner and shorter as the elevation rises until you get to the higher ridges and peak which is pretty much just rock. Loudclan camp would be located at the transition point between grass and rock, so that there is no place above them where their enemies might hide and wait to pounce. As for humans, the territory used to belong to a small mining town. They dug the mine, installed the rip rap, built the buildings, and leveled the area of the mountain that Loudclan camp is set on, but over time resources dried up and people left. Now it's nearly untouched save the railroad, which still runs through the mountain regardless of whether there's a stop there anymore. The fact that you have to either cross railroad tracks or mountains to get to it, and its remote nature mean that hikers don't usually put in the energy to venture that way. (My mom grew up in Sutton, a former coal mining town and railway hub that was long past it's glory days by the time she was born and so this fictional town is kind of an omage to that).

The cats absolutely will interact with unique predators! The game has done me the favor of adding in wolverines already (and let me tell you, they cause PROBLEMS), but the cats might also face off against an aggressive little ermine (which are much fiercer than their appearance would have you believe) or even find themselves stumbling upon a blackbear gorging on blueberries early in the fall. They aren't really in the correct area for a wolf pack (and to my knowledge i don't remember writing about any) but who knows what's to come? Okay, now onto Lynx. Up until about 30 seconds ago I was under the impression that domestic cats and lynx could hybridize. Why did I think that? Well because everyone and their mother up her SWEARS that their female cat got out and mated with a lynx at one point or another. That or their big long hair tom cat is part lynx. So who was I to question whether that could even happen? Well apparently it can't but oops, too late, already headcannoned that several characters are part lynx so fuck it. These cats are special. They've speciated. Juneaucliff's dad was a Lynx. What are you gonna do about it? Huh? Regardless, yes, the cats do interact with Lynx, but they speak the same language, so it's a bit of a different situation. It probably won't be mentioned unless people ask about specific characters, but anyone with ear tufts/unusually large stature/big paws may have been descended from a lynx at some point.

The prey animals I think are more dangerous than the predators honestly. So many of them are specifically adapted to the terrain in ways that the cats aren't. Imagine chasing a snowshoe hare across the mountainside, following directly in their tracks only to suddenly feel the snow fall away beneath you, because while their big feet allow them to skid across the crevasse without disturbing the crust of the snow, you're just a little bit too heavy and you sink a bit to far and now you're falling to your death. You're sitting on the edge of the river during a salmon run, watching an eagle dive down to grab a fish. What are the chances it changes it's mind and grabs you? A cat weighs a lot less than a king salmon. And moose would be a danger. 9/10 they won't even glance twice at you but the one time you get unlucky enough to jump down from a tree and land between a cow and her calf? Maybe with no snow a cat could outrun a moose but those long legs mean that there's no feasible escape in the colder months. Even in the warmer months a cat can be trampled by a herd of caribou if they aren't vigilant while walking along the flat lands of the valley. Ptarmagins are easy food, but they're annoying and they spook off every other kind of prey within their designated "territory" and are just generally a nuisance. Some of them are useful, though, Dall sheep wool is is great for insulating nests and shed antlers from moose and caribou can be used to strengthen camp walls and build dens or can be broken into smaller sections to splint broken bones.

The day/night cycle absolutely plays into it! That's why starclan moved into the Black Water Pool. It's the only place where night always exists. In moon 14 Part 2 Twistedtail explains to Wildfirecry that starclan had to move, saying "We couldn't survive there. Not when the sun silenced the stars for seasons at a time". Many cats believe that their ancestors can't see them while the stars are hidden, that the light of the sun blinds them, and therefore are more likely to do devious things in the summer when the sun never leaves the sky in order to avoid punishment. They don't live far north enough to experience perpetual night but even so, only having 6 hours of daylight in the winter does make patrolling and hunting much more difficult. As of right now, the northern lights mean something different to every cat. They each interpret them/were taught to believe something unique about them. Are they the last words of dead cats frozen in the air? Are they the souls of your ancestors dancing across the sky? Maybe they're a sign from starclan, demanding that the lead healer come speak to them at the black water or a sign of good luck for a little born beneath them. No one really knows, except for that they're something important. (I'm not committing to anything cause they could be used in so many interesting ways that i don't wanna limit myself ya know?)

anyway, thank you for the ask, this was so fun to talk about! My apologies for not answering as many asks as I had hoped to over my break, I was on a trip and then had to buckle down on school work and then got sick (just a cold. im fine) but things are looking good for a beginning of July return time still! (Note because I know what tumblr reading comprehension is like: I'm not returned quite yet. I still have to write a paper for school. But soon! Yay!) If you have asked an ask in the past month: I'm so sorry please be patient. There's so many of you. If you were sending me actual, physical mail I would be completely buried in it. I love it, and hope you keep doing it, but... just know it might be a minute... or two... or ten.

[fluffydice]

KuboSai (+ Pining One-Sided ImuTeru) One-Shot

Wordcount: 1,029

Hm, now that Imu really thought about it — or at least actually paid attention — this dump of a school really didn't have any good options of men. 

Or boys, rather. Most of these guys weren't mature enough to handle being in a relationship, but Imu wasn't exactly looking for something long-term. Just…something to try and stamp out the vestiges of her crush on Kokomi. 

Oof, just the thought of her name was enough to make Imu's heart begin to beat faster. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth and tried to calm down. This fidget, at least, had the added benefit of making her seem shyer and needing guidance, something these second-year boys would eat up. 

Well, most of them. She looked to the side, peeking up at Saiki through her lashes. The upperclassman didn't so much as twitch. Normally, boys fell over themselves at the sight of her looking so cute, but not this one. The most he'd really regarded her was with a cool detachment, his eyes betraying nothing and the hard press of his mouth only implying irritation rather than any flusteredness.

She wasn't sure if she believed the expression, but at the very least, she did believe that Saiki didn't have an interest in her. And why would he? He was going after Teruhashi, after all. 

Something hot and angry stabbed through her chest. Imu looked away before she could snap at the loser. 

He'd gone quiet ever since Yumehara had shown up, which was fine by her. He seemed more of the wallflower type anyway, even if he was kind of slimy. Imu didn't turn to look at the girl, only pinpointing the boys the other pointed out. Imu listened and responded with all the intelligence of a private investigator reporting on a target. 

 Imu was very good at this kind of thing. She didn't tend to be as stupid as other girls when it came to boys. They were always blinded by love and admiration, but that had never distracted her. 

She blinked. Did that say something about her?

No, no, it didn't. Just like her crush on Kokomi was just a phase. She'd find a guy, and all would be put back to rights. 

Yumehara was floundering. Imu glanced across the terrain of potential prey, and her eyes settled on a broad back. She smiled thinly. Was this Yumehara's crush? It made sense; she hadn't mentioned him, and Imu had already picked out what characteristics were meant to be attractive. 

"What about that one?" She asked sweetly, motioning to the guy. What was his name…? 

"Kuboyasu?" Yumehara asked, her eyes going wide. Haha, she was making it too easy. No girl would look so horrified if she weren't imagining a cuter girl snatching up her crush. 

Imu grinned wider. She'd spotted her target. "Well, he's certainly handsome, right?" She was pretty sure. "And he seems to be the protective type. He's the kind that's been in many battles, I can tell…"

Yumehara was waving her hand in front of her throat in a 'cut it out' gesture that just inflamed Imu. Yes, this would do nicely. If someone else wanted the guy, that meant she'd chosen correctly, right? Kuboyasu would probably make her forget all about Kokomi. 

"Maybe I should go talk to him," Imu teased, not quite meaning it. 

The door slid shut with a bang. A pale, slim hand was settled on the wood in front of her eye-line. She turned to look at its owner, her stomach dropping right along with the temperature of the air around her. 

She knew, instinctively, before she even looked, that she was messing with something far beyond her. But it was still making her stomach quiver with fear to meet the eyes of her usually meek and dull upperclassman, now cavernous and freezing with frigid rage. 

Saiki stared at her, unblinking for a reason very different than her schoolmates'. His mouth was still set in that flat line, but Imu could almost imagine those lips hiding a pair of canines, ready to rip out her throat from her stiffening corpse. 

Her mouth felt dry. She knew, somehow, what Saiki was waiting for. "It's not- I'm not actually that interested in him, actually."

"Good. He wouldn't be interested in you, anyway," Saiki responded. The words seemed to resonate in her skull. She couldn't even find it in herself offended and just nodded quickly instead. 

The air around them was beginning to warm once more. Yumehara crept up closer to her, half hiding behind Imu's smaller body like a shield. "Of course not! Why don't you go talk to him?" Yumehara suggested. 

Saiki's gaze flicked back and forth between them. Imu was suddenly rocketed with the foreign but ancient feeling of standing before a predator who was deciding whether it was worth the effort to chase them down. 

Those eyes settled on her. The residue of their earlier frost still clung to his eyes, but they had melted for the most part. "Good grief," he muttered. 

Imu seemed to be recovering, too, because she actually mustered up a flicker of irritation at the words. 

Saiki took the bait. He slid open the door again and strode in with the graceful confidence of a feline, assured that the place and things inside of it were his. Imu watched as he approached Kuboyasu behind and brushed his side. The other boy jumped, spun around, but he relaxed so tellingly that Imu almost wondered how she hadn't seen it before. 

They weren't together; Imu could tell that much. There was an awkwardness around Kuboyasu's movements like he was keeping himself from reaching out and touching. Saiki had that expression of apathy once more, but this time, she couldn't believe it. It almost reminded her of a girl playing hard to get. 

Imu blinked. Yumehara still seemed to be spooked, but somehow, Imu had gotten over her fear relatively quickly. She was just mostly shocked. Yes, at the fact that Saiki was apparently gay(?) but-

Mostly because her first reaction had been glee at the thought that she no longer had a serious rival for Kokomi's heart.

[titanicfreija]

Distractions

Sunny found the empress in the Hall of Heroes, standing tall at the doorway they normally started through. "You wanted to talk?" the Ghost asked sweetly.

Caiatl grunted and turned to lumber down the hallway, posture heavy and steps plodding. "I wanted you to talk. I am weary and would appreciate the company of a friend," she replied.

Sunny whirled around and wheeled. It was a relief that she knew Sunny needed the instructions, she must have been getting used to her habits.

"I have good news, then! We got to dig into Thomas's previous life, and Freija asked him about his history! Rex never told us! I have no idea wh-- actually, I do."

Caiatl's relief showed immediately, shoulders relaxing and weight resting on her heels. Her breath even slowed down.

Sunny figured she would only be half listening, but she was happy to have the audience, and even happier to be a relief to someone that needed it.

~

"So this roommate, of whom you speak quite lowly, was a Warlord?" the empress asked jovially.

"See, that's my favorite part about it-- he said no. He says no, but then every single time he tries to defend his point, he fails. He even gives up and says yes, but then if you say it later, he tries to say no again! I don't understand it. He said he wasn't proud of it, but he even thought about hiding it when they were talking about it!"

"They were not good times for your people. From the sound of it, he did not want to be a Warlord. I personally am on his side of this-- if he does not call himself a Warlord, regardless of his role played, he was not one. I am surprised to hear this. Was his skill always so limited?"

Sunny groaned and swept into a huge circle. "I don't even-- he's not big with his jump, which a lot of Guardians consider to be an important thing. He really is terrible at anything except clearing gaps with a good run-up on flat terrain. But he's fine on the ground. And he can shoot really well, I didn't even know that, and really, he's not bad, it's just that his Ghost is a jerk and he can't be bothered to put up with it enough to shake off the rust and gather some momentum!"

Caiatl grunted. "This Rex. Does he believe Thomas qualified as a Warlord?"

"You know, I don't know," Sunny mused. "Thomas did say he misses those days. Rex didn't say anything himself, he was grouchy that whole trip. He's jealous of me and Freija, they both are, no one is being secretive about knowing. They can't help it, and really, we can't either. The weirdest stuff can bother them, and sometimes I get it but other times I'm just confused."

"Their bond is...?"

"I don't know if you mean bond like the love I mean or like the connection Freija talks about."

"If you will clarify, I will accept any answer."

Sunny wondered briefly if the thing that connected a Ghost and Guardian could be disrupted at all. "The love like I mean, they're... Not in a good place. Rex gets spiteful and apparently won't heal under certain circumstances, and I did know he had problems with his scanner bandwidth range, but I didn't realize how bad, so even the few times he does help, he's not as helpful as, say, I am, just because he can't. Which... If he's been trying to make Thomas make up for things he can't do.... It's rough. They make me feel lucky. They make me feel lucky when we're fighting. But as far as I can tell, they're just as much Ghost and Guardian as Freija and I are. He's actually a great fighter, he really is. It's a shame."

Caiatl "hmphed". Something in it sounded amused. "This is an interesting account. I would not have imagined that a Guardian and their Ghost would be so at odds. It seems counterintuitive."

"People are people," Sunny sighed. "Even an obligatory mutual symbiont. Rex started it, but I think he started it out of something pathetic instead of something mean. Thomas might have been mean back, back then. He's so kind, now. If a little resentful, I can smell that without olfactory sensors."

"How old are they? How long ago was this rift formed between them?"

Sunny wheeled. "I have no idea. Thomas had indicated that it was the library, which means the Tower's formation a couple hundred years ago, but the story he told made it sound earlier than that."

"I would like to witness this discordance," Caiatl chuckled.

"I don't," grumbled Sunny. "They make me feel bad. Sometimes even a little guilty for being friends with Freija in front of them. The look on Thomas's face when I gave Freija her backpack before she asked for it.... I feel bad for Thomas sometimes because I know Rex just can't, but there's lots he can and won't. It's just... Sad."

"And yet he, like any other, kept a band of mortals," she chuckled. "Out of a sense of obligation, as I understand it. Was this Rex supportive?"

"I got a real keen sense that he wasn't." Sunny turned to see Caiatl's tusks bobbing thoughtfully. "I don't know. I literally can't imagine what would make me act like that at Freija. I know he thought he could drive Thomas into being more than he is, but he was mean about it. We've all tried to help, but Rex is too angry about being wrong to correct his mistake. And he gets to see where my incessant cheering on has gotten Freija, someone he considered to be far lesser than Thomas as long as he could get away with it, and that just makes him so angry."

"You seem to simultaneously pity and dislike this Rex. And yet you call him friend?"

"I can love someone I don't like," Sunny said. "I wish I could help them. Freija wants to, too, but neither of us know what to do. Rex is angry and wants to be angry. Thomas is.... Just.... He's so kind, patient, he loves Rex, I think. Feels sorry for him, too. I don't know. They... It's so weird. And sad."

Caiatl chortled and heaved a long sigh. "Somehow, it is a relief to know that even bonds so deep do not guarantee harmony. They do work together?"

"Only in combat. It's one thing Rex can do well, and it's what he wants to do. Thomas is good at it, too, as long as what you need is cover fire. His threadlings will dissolve Vex almost as fast as his needles can unmake them, and once he's linked the needles into his gun, he can send that magic everywhere. But he's not tough. And he's real bad about getting caught out, I think it's him and Rex both being bad at spatial awareness. He has to stay in the back. Rex hates it."

"This Thomas has aligned strongly with the Darkness?" Now the amusement turned to real interest. "Do you suppose there is a link between their weak relationship and his ability to use the Darkness? Does the Ghost facilitate the Darkness the same as the Light?"

Sunny wagged a "no". "Guardians are paracausal-- outside causality, able to break the rules of physics and create matter or manipulate the intangible forces of the universe. So it allows for manipulation of Darkness. I think. I don't know for sure. But anyway-- no, I really don't. Rex likes the Darkness, too, he says. He could just be saying it for effect, but he says Stasis feels minty and strand feels like to swimming in warm water, and he likes both of them. It's been a big relief to them both. We thought it would help them, but they're stuck in their ways. Rex refuses to help Thomas do anything but fight, and Thomas doesn't like fighting. He hates getting shot, he hates dying, and he doesn't like working with anyone at the same time as needing backup." She rolled in the air and wheeled her petals. "That's one thing he is jealous about, Freija is so stupid and headstrong and he would love Thomas to be so combat-ready. Thomas would, too, I think."

Caiatl chewed on that one, too. "Do you think he would be happier with her? Or a Guardian like her?"

Sunny wagged another negative. "I think he'd hate her and anyone else like her. He doesn't know what he wants. If he had Freija, if he tried to tell her to do anything, she'd fight with him first. Anyone like her would do the same. He can't be nice, and Freija doesn't respond well to authority."

Caiatl rumbled another laugh. "She responds to real authority well enough. She knows Rex is not her superior."

Sunny wanted to argue but then she remembered Neomuna. Yeah, fair enough.

"Do you feel a Guardian like Thomas would relieve you of the guilt you suffer for raising a soldier?"

"Eternally bound to the fight," she sighed. She hadn't considered it. "I would ... Probably feel like Rex. Like I wasn't doing enough. I like to think I wouldn't scare my Guardian away from me. I... I don't know what's wrong with Rex."

"You feel he is ungrateful?"

"He had Thomas for five hundred years before I found her and he was disappointed from the first day because he didn't want to get shot. I feel like it's blasphemy to be disappointed in your Guardian like he is. Something about it should feel wrong to him, if you ask me. I think it might and that's what makes him feel like that."

Caiatl chortled. "Is there a grander belief that one can blaspheme?"

Sunny didn't even think about it when she said it. "I mean.... Some of us think we were all created with a purpose and a single Guardian out there to find. Some of us think we happened by accident, tiny fragments of the Traveler trying to save ourselves, and the connections to the Chosen are happenstance, or are something else magical. Some of us think that we were created to fight, or defend humans. It varies by who you ask."

"Your personal belief?"

Sunny paused to consider it. She hadn't rethought it in a while. "Well, I believe that... We were created unintentionally. I also believe that no individual holds the spark for an individual Ghost. We have our Chosens, but to think that we were all created a thousand years ago to look for people that wouldn't be born, let alone die, for centuries..... Bodies decay. To think that anyone could miss their chance just because the body rotted... To think that the Traveler created some Ghosts to die... I don't think it did. Really, I don't think it did just because there's too many of us. I think it broke and we're just dust that came off it. I think the bodies we're drawn to call us, but I don't think it's any single one-- I think more than one holds our spark. But maybe not at a time, or maybe it's spread out until I feed the one that grows, like the one seed of three planted."

Caiatl silently considered this for a time, gazing ahead. She then smirked. "I do not envy your position. I would suffer many doubts, more than you, I think."

"I... Honestly, I don't know. It all comes down to the fact that, if we don't fight, there will be nothing left to fight for. And I have Freija, and she wants to fight, so fight we will. Terrifying as that is."

"Your courage is seen," Caiatl promised.

"Your strength is, too, but remember that you have to rest," Sunny said, seeing the light fade in her eyes. "Do you sleep? You should probably sleep."

Her weight rocked back to her heels and her face plate shifted as her tusks lifted. Her eyelids still drooped. "We sleep. I will. I am glad to see you. I will entertain you, next time." Caiatl put a fist to her chest and bowed, an unusually stuffy gesture.

Sunny nudged the tip of her helmet. She was pretty sure it was the first time she touched the empress, even that little bit. Caiatl chuckled as she drew back to her full height.

"You must be tired, defaulting to formality like that," the Ghost observed. "See if Nimbus will hide you for an hour or so?"

"I will steal the sleep I can," she promised. "How is your Guardian?"

"Standing ground with fire and hammer," Sunny said. "It can be so beautiful, even amongst the horror."

"Her fires are indeed," agreed Caiatl. "I look forward to our next meeting. Farewell.

@wolvereaux. @annieruok94

[rhonddaandallaneuro]

Car finally with a new fuel pump we headed off to Pimba, the gateway to Woomera. Our new fuel pump made the drive a lot better but we still had troubles with the constant stammering as we tried to accelerate. Not willing to return nor stay in Coober Pedy any longer we pushed on.

Now this drive is perhaps the worlds most boring, with terrain no one wants to live in and it is so flat. Did drive past lots of dried up salt lakes but the scenes along the way were easily forgotten as we drove into the Pimba roadside establishment.

This place has the garage at the top of the camp and bare barren dirt below where the free camp is. The place has been improved since our last visit with “pay as you shower” facilities but is still basic as can be. Did the usual walking up to garage bar where the drinks were cold and the room cool. Not bad at all.

Spent the night listening to freight trains and road trains as they moved through the area. An early rise saw us head off to Pt Augusta where we refilled and drove through to Peterborough. Have to say the drive was just as boring leading towards Pt Augusta and slightly improved as we drove through to Peterborough.

From here we elected to drive some more we drove on to Renmark which is on the banks of the Murray River. Now this drive was a pleasure, passing old stone houses with numerous vineyards, ever so green. This place has some real swagger so we booked in the caravan park for two nights.

Could not resists a drive around the town which led us to a lookout just outside where you climb a three level tower to be amazed by the River Murray in it’s grandeur. The river has so many tributaries setting a maze of waterholes and tributaries. One can only imagine what it would be like without so much water drained from it before it reachs here.

The town itself is tidy with clearly local pride displayed in all residences. Did a 10 kilometre walk on Monday morning and would live here in a heartbeat if I could take family and friends. Will be back again.

[tatmanblue]

Flatter than flat by Gérard Cachon Via Flickr: We were in the badlands looking for compositions with great light in the early evening and while we enjoyed it very much, we didn't come up with one. On the drive out of the badlands we left the rugged terrain and arrived in the flattest of landscapes you can find. Imagine standing in one spot and the ground is level from your feet to the horizon as far as you can see. It also happened to be aglow with evening light and the mere sliver of a moon. Funny how what you think you were looking for is nothing like what you end up finding. Given how low the moon was on the horizon and the fact that it was the tiniest of crescents, I am amazed there was any detail of the moon surface to see. I do like how you can just barely make out the rest of the moon, as if someone tried to plug a hole in the wall and nearly matched the color with the rest of the wall, but not exactly right.

[topgun-imagines]

Pain Meds 

Requested: yes 

Summary: After an incident during training you put your husband on bed rest until he feels better. The only problem is that the painkillers hurt his stomach. 

Word count: 1.3k 

Warnings: Mentions of death. Mentions of plane crashes. Wounds. Stitches. Pills. 

Pairings: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x wife!reader

“No,” Bradley’s face was hard and impassive. You sighed. Your husband had been refusing to take his pain medication for over an hour now. A few weeks ago, Bradley had entered a flat spin. You weren’t cleared to know exactly everything that had happened but from what you had been told you knew that something had malfunctioned, causing the engine to stall which resulted in your husband entering a flat spin. The ejection had been hard; the terrain was rough and unrelenting which caused Bradley more than a few injuries. Safe to say, you were horrified. You knew about how his father died and imagining how Bradley must have been feeling in that moment broke your heart. He had been cleared from medical care a few days ago but was still on leave to give himself time to fully recover. You had put him on bed rest the second he walked through the door. Your eyes focused on Bradley again. Every now and then, you could tell when a certain move caused a jolt of pain to run through him. Yet he still refused to take his damn medication. 

You let out a sigh. “Bradley please,” Practically begging him at this point, you held out the pill bottle once more. It was still mostly full after nearly a week of what was supposed to be two pills a day. “I just want you to feel better.” It killed you to see the pain that your husband was in. Knowing that he had an opportunity to help himself, to relieve the pain that he was in but refused to take it bewildered you. He sat in front of you silently, refusing to meet your eyes. With a sigh, you stood up. You set the pill bottle on the coffee table in front of his before moving to walk back into the kitchen 

Bradley let out a dejected sigh. “Wait,” He called softly, halting you in your spot. You turned back to face him. His eyes were cast down onto the floor. “It’s not that I don’t want to take them,” He started softly. You made your way toward him and sat down. Taking his hand in yours, you squeezed it softly. His eyes drifted up to yours. “They make my stomach hurt,” He practically whined. Hearing that come from a grown man made you chuckle slightly. When Bradley heard your soft giggles his head snapped back up to you. “Hey!” Your husband was pouting now.

Your laughter slowly died down as he tried to disguise his amusement in a glare.  “I’m sorry, baby,” Setting your hand on his cheek, you rubbed your thumb over his cheek, brushing over the corner of his mustache. When he continued to pout you rolled your eyes fondly. You could never deny his puppy dog eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” He smiled widely at you. With one final kiss pressed to his forehead, you stood from the couch and headed into the kitchen. You knew Bradley got stomachaches easily and you had picked up on a few things that he appreciated. 

Opening the medicine cabinet you groaned quietly. You were all out of the one kind of medicine that Bradley preferred. It was the only kind that ever seemed to work for him. You checked the fridge quickly to see if there was any Ginger Ale, another thing that was perfect for both you and Bradley. To your surprise, there was none. You could have sworn you bought a case the other day. With a sigh, you plucked your keys off the counter and headed back to the living room. 

“I’m gonna run to the store,” You called, slipping your shoes on. When Bradley didn’t respond you grew curious. He wasn’t ignoring you, was he? “Brad?” You spoke softly. Heading back to where your husband was on the couch, your heart melted at the sight in front of you. Bradley was asleep, arms crossed under the pillow and lips parted as he snored softly. With a small smile, you adjusted the thin blanket wrapped haphazardly around his waist before kissing his temple. 

With Bradley asleep, you decided that you would walk over to the store. It wasn’t that far, plus it gave your husband some extra piece and quiet. You slipped out of the house quietly, beginning the five-minute walk. You and Bradley had decided to buy a house in Miramar for the time being. After the Uranium Mission, the higher up’s decided that the Dagger Squad would remain as a permanent detachment. Maverick had essentially moved in with Penny at this point and many of the other members had purchased homes around the base. Your home was in the perfect location; not too far from the Hard Deck, the base, and everyone else’s home. 

You stepped into the cool air conditioning of the store and immediately headed over to the medication isles. It was a relatively small store, but seeing as it was on a Navy base it was stocked with an abundance of painkillers. After a quick scan of the shelves your eyes landed on the pills you were looking for. Grabbing the box, you picked up a pack of Ginger Ale before heading to the till. You smile at the cashier as you paid, grasping the bag that she handed you before heading back towards your house. 

When you returned home, you found Bradley in the same state that you left him in, mouth hung open as snores poured freely from it. You shook your head fondly before moving past him to the kitchen. You poured one of the cans into a glass before grabbing two of the painkillers. 

Back in the living room, Bradley was beginning to stir. He had always been a light sleeper, his years in the Navy making it very easy to wake him up. “Bradley,” You hummed softly, setting the glass on the table and running your hand through his honey curls. A small grunt was all you got in response. “Brad, baby, I’ve got something for you,” You watched as his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks softly. He groaned as he sat up, wincing due to his stitches. It hurt you to see him in this much pain. “Here babe.” You spoke softly. Bradley brought a hand up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. He took the pills from you gratefully, sipping on the Ginger Ale to help swallow them.  

Once the pills were down, your husband wound his arm around you and pulled you into his chest softly. You tried not to lean into him too much, wary of his healing wounds. The steady beating of his heart under your ear calmed you slightly. He was alive. He would be fine. His hand began rubbing soothing circles on your back as he guided the pair of you to lie down on the couch. Your eyes slowly shut. A scent that was entirely Bradley filled you. Above you, Bradley was messing with the television remote, trying to turn on a random movie to play in the background. Once one was picked, his hands returned to the small of your back. “What would I do without you, pretty girl?” He whispered into your hair. Bradley pressed a light kiss to your temple. 

You grinned and laughed quietly. “You’re lucky you never have to find out,” All you heard in response was Bradley’s soft hum. Slowly, your hands dipped below the seam of the T-shirt he was wearing. You began tracing over the edges of the forming scars softly. Snuggling further into him, you pressed a kiss to the center of his chest. “I love you, Bradley.” 

One of his hands squeezed your hip softly. “I love you, too, baby girl.”

a/n: Thank you for reading! Requests are open. 

[ferahntics]

Giratina rant

So replaying Platinum and I picked up Legends: Arceus again, and I am in the mood to blabble about Giratina for a bit.

Spoiler warning for those who haven’t played Legends: Arceus - highly recommend it if you want more insight into Sinnoh’s lore. (I’d suggest playing DPPt first to get a feel for Gen 4, Arceus is much more enjoyable if you can pick up on the references!) Or just - spoilers for gen 4 all around, the movies, the games, you name it KJSHG

And this got dangerously long, and will most likely not make any sense skjgh get your tinfoil hats on.

So, the biggest thing about it, is that it was banished for its violence, right. So, it outright states it’s got a very destructive nature. I mean, in PLA it flat-out tore a rift in space-time to strike down Arceus, making some form of pact with Volo during the process, and it didn’t hold back in its fight against the player, either. It being violent is not a secret.

But then I think of the events of Platinum - when it interfered with Cyrus, and more specifically Cynthia’s text in Masters - where she believes Giratina to be a kind soul. Not to mention Laventon’s theory after you catch Giratina, where he states it was no match for the player - and chose to defend the world afterwards, rather than continue to destroy it.

And that makes me think - why would a creature that people see it as the definition of darkness and malice - do acts that are the opposite? Quite a few of these are in the Pokemon movies where it appears - when it helped Ash battle Zero, and help him escape the Reverse World. Or earlier in the movie, where it allowed Pikachu to sit on its horns (crown??) and even Shaymin, who was mortally scared of Giratina, grew fond of it. Not to mention it was surrounded by many Pokemon during the movie - this makes me think that, not only did they know how important Giratina’s duty is in the other world, but they feel okay enough to approach the bloody thing. If this legendary creature really was as violent as researchers describe it - or myths - then I doubt those Pokemon would be willing to step close at all.

Now, does this exactly redeem any past violent actions? Honestly I’d argue no, the damage was done - time doesn’t heal everything, and I imagine after the stories of Giratina being passed down for generations, Giratina might as well be a symbol of destruction, and few people might be willing to see its good sides. (Its certainly got the right appearance of a demon alright, the Asmodeus of Pokemon LOL)

I think its more a case of. Its heart is in the right place, but the way Giratina goes about it is where it gets conflicting. So, I imagine, in general its got a dangerously short fuse - that much was established in the dex entries. But I kind of imagine it to have a very black and white way of thinking. So, instead of seeing things that have both good and bad things - it views them as ‘you’re not a threat’ or ‘you are a minimal threat - but still a threat, and I’m not taking any chances with you’ and more often than not resorts to violent actions.

Heck, in the Sky Warrior movie, Giratina was pretty aggressive with Shaymin, even though it meant no harm and just wanted to break Dialga’s timeloop - it certainly went about it the violent way and tried to trigger it through fear.

You could argue Cyrus’ fate was a merciful one. Forever trapped in a universe with no other living being aside from him and its deity. No real sound, no sunlight, no... nothing. Like being trapped in a completely hollow terrain. His life was spared, but then the idea of being stuck in a completely different world that’s so huge, yet to hollow, is haunting to think about.

Would I call Giratina evil - definitely not. Its not a pure creature either, not by a long-shot. Its very heavily flawed and chaos follows it everywhere, it might as well be the embodiment of it. But after the events of PLA, we see it show many generous acts - if we take the movie (Giratina and the Sky Warrior) - it was very violent starting off, but after Shaymin healed it, and Ash fought alongside it - it stuck with it. It doesn’t forget kind actions. And it remembered that in the Arceus and the Jewel of Life movie, where it finally dropped its grudge with Dialga.

I think its a deity with a very rigid line of thinking, either you’re a threat or you’re not. It’s fully capable of forgiving (Dialga and Palkia after the Rise of Darkrai movie) even when it was hell-bent on fighting them, Dialga especially.

This entire post is me really stretching things like this is Mr Fantastic from the fantastic four, but - listen. I like to imagine Giratina to be a very complicated deity to understand. I don’t think it’s the pure manifestation of evil with no redeeming qualities, but I don’t think it’s a flawless, pure being either. It’s in that chaotic center - so really - I think Giratina, after PLA, does have good intentions, and does want to defend the world - but the way it goes about it is morally questionable, because, as we all know, it is violent by nature.

Now, put on a second tinfoil hat on top of the first one.

And that is what most likely earned its banishment - and that’s what might have caused it to become increasingly violent. Anger is an emotion that often comes out to defend you when you feel like you’re faced with injustice and don’t deserve this. Whatever it was, Giratina might’ve thought the destruction it caused at some point was justified or the lesser evil, done for the greater good.

Arceus didn’t see the devastation as justified at all, and thus banished one of the members of the creation trio. And Giratina became furious - because it thought it did good - it went to drastic lengths to do good. And is now being punished for what it thought was an act of sacrifice to protect the world. (what exactly this ‘destruction event’ was, idk, but if it deserves banishment it had to be nasty - you have pokemon that dissolve others with acid and drink their juices or kidnap children and those weren’t banished JKSHGD) 

So this form of ‘injustice’ from Giratina’s POV, might’ve caused it to become vengeful, and increasingly more violent - and this might’ve been what led to its pact with Volo to destroy Arceus, and cause the events of PLA. Giratina, at the time, didn’t think it deserved this punishment. Perhaps only after the player in PLA defeated it, both at the Temple of Sinnoh and in Turnback Cave - it might’ve started considering that perhaps - perhaps - it was a suitable punishment after all.

And perhaps, after... maybe decades - centuries, even - of fury, grief, hatred and isolation, it did in fact, earn the title of ‘renegade’ and it was better off in its own universe - only allowed to interact with the real world under very specific circumstances. (Mostly when some form of ‘glitch’ happens between dimensions, either because of Cyrus, or Volo).

It’s a very chaotic being, both in terms of its actions and in terms of understanding it, and Giratina is aware of it - and I imagine it often struggles to understand itself.

[exitrowiron]

Day 27: Austin, MN to La Crosse, WI

117 miles, 2,585ft ascent, 6:55

I said goodbye to Beth Koetting this morning, thankful for her visit and sad that I won’t see her again until I ride into Portland, ME on Oct 1.

The weather remains refreshingly cool, requiring a light jacket which I discarded at the first refueling stop. Better still, I’m no longer constantly struggling to stay hydrated. A mostly helpful wind from the north and relatively flat terrain helped me chew up the miles quickly, even though I was riding alone and on weather-beaten MN county roads.

I’ve realized that I’ve given short shrift to my description of the landscape since entering the Midwest and I’m sure it’s because this is where I’ve lived most of my life. Today I tried to appreciate the scenery with fresh eyes.

The seemingly endless ocean of corn is truly a modern marvel to behold. It is uniform and unvarying in its mechanized perfection. Row after row of highly bred plants, perfectly spaced and fertilized. Literally an ocean of food as far as the eye can see in the every direction. As many of you know, Beth and I visited Togo 4 years ago to see the school we support. Most of the families of the school are subsistence farmers and we saw the local corn fields, manually planted and tended. I can only imagine the astonished reaction those farmers would have upon seeing what I’ve seen on this trip. It’s hard to imagine how all that corn get used, so I’ve included a chart in this post.

After lunch we transitioned off the road and onto the lovely, shaded Root River trail. This is a well maintained multi-use rails-to-trails that runs 40 miles, almost to the Wisconsin border. Speaking of Wisconsin, our entry into our 7th state was preceded by a very steep 1 mile climb followed by a descent and crossing of the Mississippi before arriving at our hotel. 

Tomorrow is another long day with more climbing, but a rest day is quickly approaching.

[doctenwho]

Man (and TARDIS)’s Best Friend

Hey! Thanks so much for the request, I had a lot of fun with this one! Most of the dogs in this fic are either dogs I had when I was little (and currently) and a few are my friend’s dogs. 

The TARDIS being a troublemaker is my new favorite thing, so hopefully you enjoy!

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3,700

Summary: Check out the prompt above :)

(Gif doesn’t belong to me, credit to the rightful creator!)

In your defense, things had probably gotten out of hand. You really hadn’t meant for it to happen, for one to turn into two, two into three and... well, three into seven.  

It really had started with one.  

Just a few weeks ago. You were on earth, which, for it being your home planet, you didn’t tend to spend much time around anymore. You and the Doctor hadn’t exactly split up, but he’d left you to your own devices while he went off doing whatever it was he was doing on earth. The man had an agenda, and earth was the only place you didn’t mind being by yourself on.  

It was later in the evening, street lights illuminating the darkness around you as you strolled. It was nice to just be back on earth for a while, where you knew the terrain, and the people. Where things weren’t completely surprising, or shocking.

You’d been so caught up in your own head as you wondered around, you’d barely noticed the creature cowering on the sidewalk that you tripped over. The creature whimpered, and winced down, and it instantly broke your heart.  

You’d always been an animal person, sympathizing with those neglected, or abandoned, or abused. You couldn’t imagine ever intentionally hurting, or leaving a pet alone, so this was hard to see.  

The dog, you realized, stared at you fearfully. Cowering down like you were going to hit it. It was an older dog, dirty and scruffy, some kind of shih-tzu mutt if you were to guess. Its fur was matted, clearly left to on his own for a while at this point.  

You didn’t even want to think about what this dog had been through, just from his attitude towards humans, as well as it’s neglected state. He’d obviously been abandoned—maybe grown too old and lost that cute ‘puppy’ image that some people craved. The thought disgusted you.

The poor little guy was skin and bones, shivering where he was tucked in on himself despite his coat of matted fur that was probably too warm for even the late-night chill.  

You knew you couldn’t leave him. Not in good conscious. He obviously needed someone—he needed a person to care for him, and do the right thing for him, which is... well, it’s how you found yourself sneaking into the TARDIS with the poor little dog swaddled in your sweater.  

The Doctor wasn’t much of an animal person. He’d never outright said it, but you’d never really seen him interacting with creatures. Not like how a human would love and care for a stray dog, or cat. He never seemed the type.  

You weren’t sure how he was going to react to the dog.  

You moved swiftly through the TARDIS, your little companion wiggling in your grip as you snuck through the TARDIS halls. You weren’t even sure if the Doctor was in, or out.

“(Y/N)?” His voice called from behind you. The bundle in your arms froze, as did you as you debated your options. You were a ways away from your bedroom—the safety of it where you could clean up the little dog and think of a better plan than to be caught in the hallway with a stowaway in the Doctor’s space and time machine.

The Doctor’s steps were approaching, following behind you. He was so close. You turned to look behind you, afraid he’d catch up and you’d have to explain the dog so soon. You squeezed your eyes shut, thinking about making a break for it as you turned forwards again--

And there before you, was a doorway. Which didn’t make sense, because you’d been in the hallway, at least twenty steps away from your bedroom door, if not more. You knew for a fact there wasn’t any doorways for a while, because this corridor often felt endless. You looked around in confusion, frowning to yourself as you let your hand settle on the doorknob.  

“(Y/N)?” The Doctor called again, confused, and so much closer than before. You barely had a second thought as you pulled the door open, tumbling in as your feet moved before your brain could process the action.  

The door shut behind you, which you had absolutely no part in as you tried to finally catch your footings, arms securing around the bundled dog. It was only when you looked up to see where you ended up that you realized you were in you room.  

It didn’t make a lick of sense, but you were quick to settle the dog into your closet as you heard steps approaching, managing to jump onto the bed and pretend to be reading a book that was on your bedside table just as the door opened.

The Doctor furrowed his brows at you, gaze looking from the book in your hands, up to your face in confusion, “I could’ve sworn I just saw you returning to the TARDIS,” the Doctor commented, voice almost distasteful as he eyed you.

“Nope,” you forced out, hoping you didn’t sound as much like you were hiding something as you did to your own ears, “been here a while, Doctor.”

The man casted his eyes around the room again, looking for anything out of the ordinary, before he settled on you again, clearly coming up short.  

“Uh huh, well, we’ll be leaving shortly if you’re good to go?” he blinked, leaning just the slightest bit against the doorframe, and giving the room another thoughtful onceover.

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered out, cursing your anxious nerves internally before flashing the man a grin to hide you panic.

“Alright, well,” The Doctor frowned as he moved to pull the door shut behind him. He paused before it shut, standing for a second before he spoke again, “I was unaware humans could read upside down.”

The door clicked shut, and it was only then you let out a breath, eyes snapping down to the book you were indeed holding upside down. You groaned to yourself as you righted the book before dropping it back on the bedside table annoyed at that tiny detail that could’ve ruined it all.  

You pushed yourself off the bed, moving swiftly to the closet where you pulled the door open and smiled down at the nervous little dog. He was still mostly wrapped in your sweater, but his head and shoulder were exposed.  

“C’mon,” you offered your arms, “let’s get you clean up, huh?”

The dog only hesitated for a second before moving close enough for you to pick up. You cradled him in your arms, pressing your cheek against his head as you stared up at the ceiling for a second.  

You weren’t entirely sure what had happened just then, but you know one thing. You definitely hadn’t done it alone.  

“Thank you,” you smiled up to the ceiling, knowing exactly who’d helped you protect the little dog.

----

You’d given the little dog the name Teddy. He’d been a nervous wreck when you’d been snipping away at his matted fur with the scissors in your bathroom, but he’d warmed up to you a lot while you bathed him warm water with a sweet-smelling dog shampoo that was, confusingly enough, hidden away in the bathroom cabinet.

The name had only really come to be when bedtime rolled around, and you found yourself with a cuddly, snuggly little dog tucked in your arms. It was like snuggling with a teddy bear, and you couldn’t imagine naming him anything else as you stroked his ears as he slept.  

You really had just meant to leave it at Teddy, and see how long you could get away with hiding him away in your room. You snuck him food from the kitchen, set down a bowl of water in the bathroom, as well as a bowl of kibble that you had absolutely no idea where it had come from. You suspected the TARDIS helping you out where she could, and the thought made you smile.  

It was almost a game at this point, and it was a funny thought that it appeared to be you and the TARDIS against the Doctor. Finally, the odds seemed a bit more well-rounded.

Hunny and Saidy had come into your life unexpectedly.  

You knew the two German Shepherd Rottweiler mixes well. You’d gotten the call from your friend, the one who owned the two, that she could no longer keep them. She was being evicted, and it was quite hard to find a flat that would allow someone to have two medium-big sized dogs.

You knew you really shouldn’t take them—but you knew the girls, and they loved you, and the thought of them being rehomed, or given to the pound or something else just because no one wanted to take them made a weight settle in your stomach. The thought of them being separated tore at your heart.  

You weren’t sure where you were going to keep them, as you walked into the TARDIS holding both a pink and purple lead as you led them into the time and space machine. The girls were quiet, silent besides their paws tapping on the floor, as well as their panting as you led them along.  

You bit your bottom lip as you opened your door, stepping in quickly as you ushered them in, before closing the door and leaning your back against it. When you looked up, your jaw dropped.  

Your room was double the size it had been before. Three food bowls, and three dog beds—one small, and two big enough for Hunny and Saidy to sprawl out on. It warmed your heart to see, the effort the TARDIS was going through to make room for the dogs was honestly adorable.  

There’d been that inkling of worry that you wouldn’t have enough room to house these dogs and that you’d need to start rehoming them.  

You grinned up at the ceiling, “you go, TARDIS,” you laughed out as you kneeled to scratch at both Hunny and Saidy, then, to the dogs, you continued, “welcome home, girls.”

Teddy wagged his tail happily from the bed, hopping down to greet the new dogs, and you were overjoyed to see them all getting along.  

----

Gizmo was not a dog. Well, he wasn’t an earth dog, at least. You and the Doctor had been on a planet in a universe you hadn’t even known existed when the two of you stumbled upon a pack of little creatures.  

They were babies, you could see.  

You’d never seen anything quite like them. They were tiny—like teacup chihuahuas, fluffy like them too. They were a bit bigger than palm sized, and you were sure they didn’t weigh much more than half a pound, if that. They almost... well, they kind of resembled dragons too. It was like an earth dog and a dragon procreated.  

Their colours were vibrant, an orange one with purple markings, a green one with red patches. One tri-coloured one, which was two different shades of blue with patches of white.  

They were rainbow chihuahua-dragon hybrids.

The babies flocked around you and the Doctor, attempting to crawl up your shins. They made little sounds of excitement, not quite a bark, but close enough, and you instantly fell in love with them.  

“Awh!” You swooned, kneeling down so the small creatures could finally make their way up you. You’d learned early on to only be afraid of things if the Doctor appeared to be afraid of it—or if it was threatening you with weaponry, or violence. The Doctor never really seemed afraid of that. “What are they?”

“Tricos,” the Doctor huffed, crouching down so he was lower, but not quite at an angle for the little creatures to crawl on him. “They’re easily domesticated creatures, but are more-so viewed as nuisances by the locals.”

You frowned, looking down at all the little faces. They didn’t act much different than puppies on earth would. “Why do the locals not like them? They’re like little dragon-dogs—look at how cute!” You grabbed the blue and white one under the arms and hoisted him up for the Doctor to see his face.

“Well,” the Doctor clicked his tongue, crinkling his nose at the little Trico, “They’re scavengers. Like earth raccoons and rodents. Besides, they don’t quite have the intelligence for violence, so they’re pretty low on the food chain. Some locals have domesticated them, but lots don’t want to put in the effort.”

“Well,” you stuck your bottom lip out in a pout, “I like them.”

“I know,” the Doctor’s smile was small, his hand reaching out to stoke one of the Trico’s backs, before he was standing up again, “well, c’mon then. We can stay here all day. There’s things to be done.”

You pouted, taking the Trico’s off your lap one by one, petting them before settling them on the ground before you were standing as well, ducting yourself off. You looked back at them, frowning as you waved before you followed after the Doctor.  

It was only when you were tucked away in your room that evening, surrounded by Teddy, Saidy and Hunny that you noticed the sweater you’d shrugged off and tossed onto your bed shift as if something was in it. You froze, watching the sweater move, as the dogs around you growled—Teddy being the only one confident enough to draw closer.  

Your heart stopped for just a second as Teddy sniffed the sweater, only to cry out in surprise as the little blue and white Trico’s head peeked out from under the folds of the sweater, tiny tail wagging against the weight of the sweater.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you laughed away the fear, sliding off the bed to kneel beside the sweater. The Trico’s nose pushed into your cheek, before it gave you a lick like earth dogs did when they liked someone. “Have you been hanging on all day?” You asked, knowing the creature wouldn’t respond now that his attention was locked onto Teddy, who was reversing cautiously towards the girls.  

“It’s alright,” you hushed the dogs, offering your palm to the Trico; the little creature didn’t hesitate for a second before pulling himself up, tail whipping back and forth happily as he did so—and you could see a bit of the lack of intelligent the Doctor had mention, but it just warmed your heart. “It’s okay.”

The dogs took the evening to get used to the little Trico who you named Gizmo. You’s fallen asleep boxed in by German Rotties, with Teddy tucked against your side, and the tiny little Trico snuggled up on your chest.  

That following morning, you found a book on Trico knowledge and care instructions on your bedside table and whispered a hushed thank you to the TARDIS as you propped it open and read about the newest addition to your dog pack.  

----

After the Trico, you weren’t entirely sure how you’d managed to find Chloe, Bella and Cohen. They were a package deal, Chloe, an older Pitbull, who’d trailed behind you, hesitant but trusting all the same as if you gave off some kind of calming pheromone that attracted dogs in need. She walked slow with Bella and Cohen following behind her like ducklings.  

Bella was a French bulldog, and you weren’t entirely sure why someone would abandon such an expensive dog so young, but you’d taken her in easily. Cohen was the smallest of the three, a chihuahua mix that pressed in tight against the Pitbull.  

They were all strays down on earth, and you’d just happened to stumble upon them while the Doctor was chasing some alien criminal around for the safety of earth. You almost felt bad sneaking away to lead the trio of dogs into the TARDIS where she welcomed them with open arms, and three additional dog bowls, and a huge cushion that the three of them could curl up on.

“I knew you were up to something,” You spun quickly, mouth dropped in a hurried attempt to get something out as the Doctor stood with his arms crossed in the doorway, scowl on his face.  

Before you could say anything, your bedroom door slammed shut, much to your own surprise, and the Doctor’s as well, who you could hear jumping back in shock.

“TARDIS,” you gasped, attention shooting up to the ceiling.  

“(Y/N),” The Doctor’s voice travelled through the door, as the knob turned but wouldn’t open. “What in the world?”

You almost would’ve laughed if you weren’t busy ushering all the dogs into your adjoining bathroom and closing them in. You tried to make yourself look natural, standing awkwardly in front of your bathroom door, and it was only then that your bedroom door finally open, the Doctor stumbling in like it had pushed open as he’d been leaning on it.

“What,” he gasped out as he tried to regain his footings, “is going on here?”

“Nothing,” you squeaked out.  

You’d known that at some point you wouldn’t be able to hide the dogs anymore. You knew the Doctor was clever, and you were actually a bit surprised it had taken him this long to figure you out. But that didn’t mean you weren’t afraid that it was happening now—you'd been holding on the idea that it would happen eventually.

The Doctor stepped more into the room so he couldn’t be locked out again, where he eyed everything in your room, his gaze settled on the dog beds and food bowls. His gaze raised from the beds and dishes to your face, where his features were unreadable.  

He was a smart man, so he obviously knew what he was looking at when he asked: “what’s all this?”

You couldn’t seem to come up with a logical explanation besides the truth. But you still stuttered over your words.

“What’s in the bathroom?” the Doctor asked calmly, stepping closer to you, as you stepped back, blocking the bathroom door more urgently.

“W-what bathroom?” You asked dumbly, but to your surprise, the Doctor’s eyebrows shot up as he angled his head to look around you. You turned to look back at the door, stumbling away as you blinked at the now vacant bathroom entry. You gaped, glancing towards the ceiling before focusing back on where the bathroom should be.  

The TARDIS never ceased to amaze you.

The Doctor’s face was pressed into a look of uncertainty as he stared at where the bathroom door should be. It was the most shocked you’d seen the Doctor in all the time you’d known him. His gaze fluttered in your direction, where his eyes narrowed on your shoulder, “that’s a Trico on your shoulder.”

It wasn’t a question. You hand flew up, where it indeed settled on the tiny little creature. You groaned aloud as Gizmo made a similar noise. You should’ve known he was going to cling to your clothes as you tried to get them all into the bathroom—that was how he found himself a home here.  

“I knew I heard barking,” the Doctor’s eyes blinked rapidly like he was trying to understand, “and it certainly wasn’t him—” the Doctor’s gaze settled on the Trico, “what else do you have in here?”

You let out a long sigh, moving towards where the bathroom door should be. “The jig is up,” you called loudly, and almost immediately; the bathroom door was back. You ignored the mystified look on the Doctor’s face as you pulled the door open and the dogs all trotted out, barely batting an eye at the Doctor’s shock.  

“You’ve brought dogs into my TARDIS,” the Doctor had a distant look in his eyes, “my TARDIS helped you hide these dogs from me. How did you turn my TARDIS against me?”

“I didn’t turn her against you,” you huffed, voice bordering on annoyed, “she just has a soft spot for dogs, I guess.”

You instantly felt bad, swallowing before you mended your words, “it really did start with just one, and then... well, how can you say no to them? Look at their little faces. And... I think the TARDIS really likes them too, because she’s been helping me out.”

“You stole a Trico--”

“Hey!” You frowned, “technically, the Trico stole himself. I didn’t know he was clinging to my sweater when we returned, he was just there. Look... I’m sorry.”

The dogs had all mad their way up to the bed, laying and watching the exchange. The little Trico though, refused to move from your shoulder. “They all just needed a place to be, like... like I did too when you found me. Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not,” the Doctor’s voice was low, “frankly, I’m just a bit confused about why the TARDIS is so keen on these pets.”

“She’s a dog person—err, uhm, a dog time and space machine?”

The Doctor let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I suppose she is. She’s always had a soft spot for misfits.”

The Doctor doesn’t look unhappy, or upset. He looks thoughtful as his gaze sweeps over the dogs, lingering on both you and the Trico before he’d looking back to the earth dogs, “quite the collection.”

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, “so, uh, can we... can we keep them?”

“How long have they been here?”

“Teddy- the uh, the little white one- has been here about a month. Since that earth visit.”

“A month,” the Doctor’s face scrunched up, almost in disbelief, “I don’t see why not then. I doubt I have to tell you they’re your responsibility, which I’m sure isn’t a problem considering they already have been for an upwards of a month, right?”

“The TARDIS has been helping too,” you remind, smile slowly crawling onto your face.  

“I’m only allowing this because the TARDIS is so keen,” the Doctor informs, but you can see through his words. He always has a hard time saying no to you, the TARDIS just sealed the deal for him. “You’re lucky I love you,” his gaze casts upwards and his smile appears a little crooked, “the both of you.”  

<><><><>

Trico is the name of the Last Guardian, who wasn’t quite the inspiration behind the hybrid alien dogs, but I was picturing them looking a bit like Trico as I was writing. Body wise, at least, and I’m awful at naming things, and thought Trico would be a cool species name :). I thought an alien dog would be fun, since they travel space lol

As always, if this wasn’t what you were looking for, feel free to prompt again! I hope you enjoyed, because I really enjoyed writing this one :D Thanks for taking the time to prompt, and to read my writing, it means a lot!

[mandoinevarro]

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

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

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

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

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

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

He looks happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d been there before.

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

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

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

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

That is, until he met you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

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

“Listen…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

≈

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you say yes? Reject him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What deal?” Mando asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lightbulb flicks on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can open them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, truth.

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

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

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

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

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

You did this.

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

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

“Find anything yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I came back for you!”

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

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

How could you?

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

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

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

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

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

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

[sock-ness-monster]

Excuse is granted. Please. I beg of you. Infodump away

Thank you so much I love telling people about this guy

So, to preface this, I'll be telling this story exactly how it was told to me by our camp counselor at a Caveing camp I went to, so it's very much an oral history that maybe can't be fact checked but the broad strokes are genuinely 100% true

TRIGGER WARNINGS: DEATH, DARKNESS, CLAUSTROPHOBIA, GRAVE DESECRATION, CRICKETS

Now that that's out of the way (and please mention if there's any other TW's I should add) the story of

Floyd Collins, The Man Who Was Buried Six Times

This story begins in Kentucky in 19very early, a young Floyd was plowing his family's field when he suddenly dropped through the ground and discovered an unknown cave system. Super cool! Now, people back then did not have television, keep in mind, so caves were really big deals and they were a brand new and lucrative tourist escapade. Floyd's family seized the idea and quickly made a little tourist attraction out of it and started raking in the dough. But they weren't the only ones who had a cave you could tour, Kentucky's geology is super unique in that it has tons of limestone and sandstone which is perfect for underground rivers to carve cool caves out of. They are everywhere in Kentucky and the surrounding area, there was a lot of competition for who had the best, the biggest, the longest cave. And Floyd and his brothers were seized by cave fever and were exploring all around looking for new tunnels and chambers. A large part of this business, unfortunately, was not just walking people through the caves but was letting them take home souvenirs. People could carve their names in the wall, take a stalagmite or stalactite or whatever cool rock they found. Destroying the sensitive ecosystem of the caves. Floyd, the cool dude that he was, was one of the only people who was against this at the time. Good for him! Salamanders are important!

Anyway, Floyd and his brothers are always on the lookout for new opportunities, and there were tons in that area. But, not all of them would pan out. Floyd had heard rumblings about a new cave system called Sand Cave that wasn't far from his family's original cave, which by now had been dubbed Crystal Cave. It didn't seem that promising to most, but Floyd was hoping it actually connected to Crystal cave, and they could tack on so many feet to how big their cave was. So he set off to see if he could find a connection.

He had been surveying the cave for a few hours, and decided to call it quits. He was crawling through a tight tunnel upwards toward the opening of the cave when a rock slide pinned his ankle down tight. He was laying flat with his hands reaching upwards, and there was no way for him to reach back behind him to free his ankle.

He had gone on this expedition without telling anyone.

This was the first time he got buried.

Three days pass, and his brother Homer finally finds him. He tries everything he can think of to free floyd, to no effect. Realizing that this may be a bigger endeavor than he can pull off, he crawls back out to go and find help. It is January of 1925, what else is there to do but go to the newspaper? They publish the story of the man trapped in a crawl way, and it's a huge hit!? People are fascinated by Floyds predicament. They want to help, they want to see, they want to know more. It even makes it on the radio! The three biggest news stories of the time were

1) the war (oof)

2)Charles Lindbergh (will come up again later)

And 3) Floyd in the hole

Everyone in America is anxious to find out how they rescue Floyd. "They" being everyone from the local cave experts to the military corps of engineers to the freakin freemasons, they're all trying to figure out how to free Floyd. Who, ya know, is just chillin in the cave, because caves stay at a constant temperature of ~54° , not too bad for January. His brothers and a reporter take turns crawling down to deliver him the three essentials; food, whiskey, and news. The reporter, "Skeets" Miller, would later win a Pulitzer Prize for his correspondence with floyd in the shaft. Now, as mentioned before, it is a cold and snowy January, but people (nearly 10,000 according to some reports) are so fascinated by the goings on at Sand Cave that they travel from far and wide to be there at the triumphant moment when Floyd emerges. Weeks have gone by at this point. Radio stations are reporting every day, Charles Lindbergh is hired to take photographs of the terrain from above. It's like a big party up top.

They camp out around the cave mouth.

They build fires for food and warmth.

The snow melts.

The cold water trickles down into the cave.

Floyd....... starts to cough.

The cave's already sketchy structure is further compromised.

There's another rock slide.

Floyd is now cut off from contact with the up side world, and the engineers panic and go with a last ditch effort they had been debating beforehand. They can't go around they can't go behind, the only path left was straight down. They drill a hole that reaches the 150 feet from daylight to Floyd's prison. They are too late. He was estimated to have died three to four days before they reached him. His leg is still stuck, and half his face has been consumed by cave crickets. And they just.....leave him there. Whatreyagonnado they shrug, he's already gone we can stop now. They fill in the shaft again.

This is the second time Floyd is buried.

Homer, his closest brother, can't accept this as his final resting place. A few weeks later, they un block the hole and carry Floyd to their family's funeral plot and have a small service with just his closest friends and family present.

This is the third time Floyd Collins is buried.

A few years go by, and the Collins family sells their farm and cave. Unfortunately, they did not see the part of the deed that entitled the new owners to everything in and under the property. Floyd's body is now legally theirs. He is exhumed and placed on display in a glass coffin in Crystal Cave (which years and years later would eventually be proven to connect to Sand Cave).

This is the fourth time Floyd is buried.

If you haven't pieced it together yet, caves were a pretty big deal. We now enter a time in Kentucky history known as the Cave Wars, and they are brutal. How brutal, you ask? Well, to answer with one scenario that happens to be related to this story, the owners of nearby cave were jealous of the attention Crystal Cave was getting from their cool exhibit of Floyd's body, against his family's wishes. Why, the only logical thing to do is steal the man's body and throw it off a cliff. Crystal Cave's new owners would recover it, though minus the left leg. And the next logical thing of course is to put him back on display but this time with a bunch more chains.

This is the fifth time Floyd Collins is buried.

Then, the 60s roll around and Crystal Cave and Floyd are purchased by the National Parks Service on the grounds of being connected to the Mammoth Cave System (the longest cave system in the entire world now). Floyds family is still fighting for his body, and in the 80s they finally get their wish. Floyd is removed from the cave in a 15 day trip and buried at a real cemetery again.

This, is the sixth time he is buried.

A pillar is constructed in honor and perhaps in reparations to all he's gone through, but it is struck by a semi truck and demolished less than a week after its unveiling.

Floyd.......went through a lot. All he ever wanted to do was see some cool rocks and support his family. And to this day, cavers do their best to do right by him. When entering Mammoth Cave, they often ask the darkness to look after them. They aren't talking to the darkness, of course, that darkness that can never be described properly. They are talking to Floyd. Asking him to watch over them as they wish he had someone to watch over him. In the caves everyone is above you, but that's not what they mean. And when they hear a whistle through the tunnels, they like to imagine it's Floyd. Floyd, who was right. The cave was so much more than people thought, in so many different ways. To this day, there's a saying in the caveing community.

"Floyd Lives"

It's like the geology version of "Eddie Would Go". As long as we carry on his legacy of exploring bravely, daring to go where noone has gone before, and do our best to preserve the natural beauty and habitat of the caves, floyd will live on. Floyd lives in our memories and hearts and the drips of water that will one day be pillars.

I don't really know how to end this. Here's a picture of the man himself;

(the picture above is not the tunnel he was trapped in, to be clear)

[kingofkingdom-archive]

So Much Like Stars - Part ONE

Pairing: Boba Fett x Fem!Reader

Part ONE (read part two here!)

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You’ve known nothing but snow and cold wind your whole life. When a mysterious hunter arrives at your village, you find yourself drawn to him.

Warnings: Explicit sex, p-in-v sex, vaginal fingering, breathplay, power dynamics/power play, royalty kink (?), dom/sub dynamics, naked female clothed male, come marking, unprotected sex, mentions of death (no character death)

Word count: 8.2k+

A/N: This fic is entirely self-indulgent. No one asked for it, but here it is. Boba Fett fucks and we all know it. Or maybe you disagree, in which case you’re wrong. Anyway, enjoy! As usual, there’s no use of Y/N here and please heed the warnings before reading.

Across the windswept, snowy plain, you watch as the ship approaches its landing. It slows, rotates, and then lands face-up on the flat expanse. It’s maybe a kilometer and a half away from the outlook you’re perched on; your binocs are old, no longer reading distance, so the best you can do is guess. The wind blows the snow towards the east, blurring the landscape into obscurity for anyone without a trained eye.

Your cloak, woven from the heavy fur of the Kintur that roam your planet, keeps the driving wind from seeping into your bones. Every inch of your skin is covered, from your leather boots and thick leggings to your goggles and well-worn face mask. You carry a pack, as you always do, to which are strapped your net-shoes that allow you to traverse over massive snowdrifts. At your hip is an old Republic-issue blaster and at your side is your staff, which often acts more as a tool to clear paths and knock snow from tree boughs than anything else.

This planet is nearly uninhabited save for the village you were born in. Seeing a ship is rare, and it’s even rarer to see one that’s unaffiliated with a galactic government. You take note of its location and strain to see if you can spot the pilot as he emerges, but you have no such luck.

You sigh, the wind whistling in your ears, the drifts of snow shifting and growing around you. Father will want you back soon. The newcomer is undoubtedly going to head towards the village, and you’ll need to be there when he arrives. You stow your binocs away in your pack and unstrap your net-shoes, attaching them quickly to your boots.

The trek back is one you’ve managed countless times before - that doesn’t make it any less dangerous, but the sheer cliff faces and howling, punishing winds are not strangers to you. 

Your village is small by the standards of other planets in the galaxy, from what you’ve heard (the Elders’ stories of Coruscant never fail to amaze you), but in your eyes it’s vibrant and bustling despite the harsh climate. There’s almost always a tavern with its lights on and music flowing out, a friendly face and warm hearth never far.

It’s located in a secluded valley between towering mountains, out of sight of the vast plains from which the mountains seem to erupt without warning. There are no foothills; only flat land interrupted by harsh terrain. It’s very easy to find death in the mountains, but they have sustained your people for generations. Hunting is your main source of food, whether it be the Kintur that also provide their hide or the massive snow-bison whose fat and bones keep your diets regulated. In the warm season water flows endlessly - the streams that run from the mountain peaks are known to have healing properties, and often they seem to glow with a supernatural shimmer. There is a small mine some distance from the village where many men work, and though the job is a dangerous one, the mountains never run out of the ores you need.

Your people’s existence is not especially complex, but they are tougher than most. The landscape requires it.

You arrive back at the stone walls surrounding your village and greet the gatekeeper, a man who recently inherited the job from his father. 

“Hello, Isrwill.” You plant your staff next to you and lean on it, taking your weight off of your feet. “Have you heard anything of the visitor?”

The man nods. He’s about a decade older than you, but underneath the goggles and mask his face is youthful, eyes kind and always merry. “Savakya returned not long ago. She says he will make it here within the hour.”

“Did she say anything of his appearance?”

“Only that he wears armor, and a helmet. She could not make out any features, other than that he’s shaped like a man.” Isrwill leans back against the wall.

“Ah,” you reply. “Well-dressed for the weather, then.”

He shrugs. “Yes, but also well-dressed for battle.”

You can hear the concern in his voice. The question is one you’re sure your whole community is asking: what has brought this foreigner here? 

“Thank you,” you tell him, and he nods while pushing the gate open.

Once inside the walls, you remove your net-shoes as well as your goggles and immediately head toward the building where you know they’ll bring the stranger. Your father will already be there, conversing with the Elders and with the Committee to prepare for whatever news or needs this foreigner might have. There are protocols in place for such an event, but they haven’t been used in your lifetime. As you walk to the meeting-house, you try and recall the words you studied so long ago, when your father taught you your people’s laws and customs.

The meeting-house is constructed of solid, ancient wood, imported from a forest planet and stark against the gray stone that most of the village’s homes are built from. Inside there is a massive hearth cut from a single stone, the fire inside it already raging. In the center of the main room there is a curved table; on one side sit the Elders, on the other, the Committee. At the head sits your father, next to your empty seat.

“You made it safely, my child,” he greets you when you arrive, a swirl of snowflakes following you in. Smiling, you pull down your face mask.

“I always do, father.”

He smiles from his place at the table, giving you a look. “That does not mean I do not worry.”

Rolling your eyes affectionately, you lean over to kiss him on the cheek. The other people at the table chat amongst themselves, though you can feel the undercurrent of unease at the visitor’s imminent arrival.

You walk around to take your place, setting your pack, staff, and outer layers near the hearth to dry. You are left in a long-sleeved, high-neck shirt and tunic over your leggings, your hair done up in its usual braids. Usually you would go home and change into something more suitable for Committee business, but there was no time. 

You turn to your father, who sits next to you with all the grace and poise befitting a benevolent leader.

“Isrwill told me the stranger is arriving soon. Do we know any more?”

He nods, though he doesn’t look entirely pleased. “Yes. From what Savakya described, it seems he’s a Mandalorian.”

The name isn’t familiar to you. “Is that a race?”

“No.” Your father leans back in his chair. His arched brows bely a concern that is rare to see on him. He strokes his white beard, staring off into space. “The Mandalorians are more of a culture, a people. I’ve only ever heard stories of them. They say they are fierce warriors, and that many of them are bounty hunters by trade.”

That’s odd. You frown, confused. “Bounty hunters? Why wo-”

You are interrupted by three sharp knocks on the doors. Beside you, your father calls out “enter! ”, and the doors swing open.

Two village men, two of the strongest of your people, flank a man clad in armor. His helmet has a T-shaped visor with a short antenna, and on his back is a rifle. You take note of the blasters strapped to his hips as well as something that could be a weapon at his knee. 

Isrwill was right. Well-dressed for battle.

You sit up straight and keep your eyes trained on the Mandalorian. Though you are a member of the Committee, you are also well-versed in how to use a blaster, perhaps the best trained of any at the table. You are also a protector of your fellow Committee members, the Elders, and most importantly, your father. 

“What business brings you to our planet, Mandalorian?” Your father’s voice is stern, strong in a way you hope to emulate when you inevitably assume his role.

“I am in search of a bounty, your excellency.”

The hunter’s voice is deep and slightly muffled through the helmet’s vocoder. He sounds weathered and rough, though you imagine that’s life as a man who fights and kills for a living.

“Sir will suit me just fine,” your father tells him, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “As for your bounty, it is highly improbable that any individual has survived outside of our village longer than a day. There is no stranger here but you.”

The Mandalorian sighs, looking down at the floor and then back up again. “I’m afraid I disagree, sir. The tracker isn’t wrong. He must be hiding somewhere in the mountains.”

Your father shakes his head. “Those mountains are impossible to pass without a guide. If he was there, surely he is dead by now.”

Though you can’t see his face, the hunter’s helmet is surprisingly expressive. He looks at your father for a long moment, and then glances around at the other people at the table. His gaze finally lands on you.

You set your jaw and stare back, unintimidated. A man with guns does not scare you, no matter how he tries.

“Alright,” he says, but you suspect he is not satisfied with this information. “Might I at least inquire about some lodging for the night?”

-

Later that evening, you find yourself in your favorite tavern, sitting in your usual booth, watching the townsfolk mingle and chat. Your drink of choice is a fermented ale that is produced in the warm season and aged for consumption outside of those short couple of months. 

No one pays you any mind unless they’re a close friend or they have news. They know to leave you alone, to let you sit with yourself as you prefer to do.

You’re watching a young couple you grew up with dance to the music when the tavern’s door swings open. You glance over at it but do a double take when you realize who stands in the doorway.

The hunter.

Around you, conversation quiets as everyone takes in the stranger. His helmet scans the room, like he’s looking for someone in particular. Internally you scoff. The bounty would never show his face here, he’d stand out too much amongst your people.

The hunter’s visor stops moving, aimed directly at you.

Kriff, you think, taking a swig of your drink. He wants information, and he’s not going to give up quite as easily as he did with your father.

The Mandalorian walks into the room, headed directly towards your booth. People watch, heads turning to track the stranger’s movements across the floor. His steps are heavy, intentional, large frame imposing as he approaches you.

Certainly a man built for survival. For conflict. If he were a different person, you might find it attractive.

He stops when he reaches your booth, looking down at you just as you stare up at him, brow raised. 

“This seat taken?”

You shake your head and gesture to it. “Not at all.”

From the corner of your eye you can tell the rest of the tavern’s patrons are watching, waiting. As the hunter sits, you wave your hand discretely, telling them to return to their conversations, to each other.

The noise picks up again.

“You’ve got some influence here, princess.”

The name both rankles and sends a shiver of something unwanted down your spine. Now that he’s closer, knees almost brushing your own, you really get a sense of how intense this man’s presence is.

A warrior, to be sure. None would debate that. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “We are not the subjects of a king, hunter.”

He scoffs, leaning back and resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Forgive me. What are you to them?”

“I do not see how it concerns you.” The words are harsh but your face remains neutral. Your father taught you how to deal with men like this - how to steel yourself against posturing, against prodding, against teasing.

The Mandalorian chuckles. “I just like to know who I’m talkin’ to. No need for the theatrics.”

You don’t respond. He’s the one who approached you - you have no desire to get in his good graces.

He sighs, glancing over to the wall at your left, his right. “I’d never heard of this planet before the tracker brought me here, much less your people,” he tells you. It’s not a surprise.

“That’s how we like to keep it. We stand no chance against something like the Republic or the Empire. Our only means of survival is staying under the radar.”

His visor is trained directly on you, staring, studying your face. You stare back, wishing you could somehow get a sense of what he looks like underneath the mask.

“How long have your people lived here?”

You know it’s not because he’s genuinely curious. Your mind is buzzing with all the different reasons he’d have for asking - he wants to know how familiar you are with the landscape. He wants to know how well-established your system of governance is here. He wants to know if you know how your people arrived. 

He wants to know how vulnerable you are.

“Generations. Since before the Elders’ grandparents were born. Memory of our arrival here has been lost to time.”

He tilts his head. “Is yours the only settlement on the planet?”

You nod. As far as you know, anyway. Attempts have been made to reach out, to try and see if any other peoples live in the outer reaches of the landscape, but none have returned successful. 

The Mandalorian hums. He glances over into the tavern, at the other patrons and the bartender. You watch as the bartender, a woman a few years younger than your father, uses a rag to clean out a cup, but you can tell she’s watching your table from the corner of her eye. When she notices the hunter’s helmet turn towards her, her eyes flit up to you, then over to him.

The hunter waves, as if to signal that he wants something. The bartender glances back at you and you nod. She sets down the cup and begins walking over.

You look over at him. He’s already staring back, chin tilted down like you’re a riddle he’s trying to solve.

“What can I do for you, sir?” The bartender’s voice does not waver, but it’s tense nonetheless.

He gestures to your drink. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

The bartender nods and leaves. You take a sip of your ale, finding comfort and clarity in the warmth it brings you. 

Across from you, the bounty hunter shifts in his seat, removing his gloves to reveal a pair of  calloused hands. You glance down at them and follow their movement as they reach up, thumbs curling under the bottom of his helmet, and lift. 

The hunter’s weathered face greets you. He’s a man, like any other, like you expected him to be. His brows are arched and dark, but the rest of the hair on his head has been burnt away by something that left scars across the crown of his head and his face. His eyes are cold, haunted, calculating as they look at you.

He sets the helmet on the table with a thud . 

“You’ve seen death,” you observe, holding his gaze with your own. “Been close to it.” His brown eyes narrow and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, princess.”

Ah, you think. He underestimates me.  He thinks you’re the coddled daughter of a village leader, fed by the kindness of your people and adored for your status. You raise an eyebrow and take another swig of your drink, smirking into the amber liquid. 

You set the cup down on the table. “There is more in those mountains than snow and wind, hunter.”

He doesn’t move, save for a slow blink. “Tell me, then.”

You sense movement from the corner of your eye - the bartender has returned with his drink. He nods to her in thanks and she gives a tight smile, glancing at you before hastily returning to her station.

The hunter takes the cup and brings it to his lips. You watch as he takes a sip, swallows, and his eyes widen. A small cough forces its way up and out of his throat.

You smile at him, a hint of a grin that curls the corners of your mouth. 

“A bit strong for you?”

He glares over the rim of the cup and pointedly takes another swig. He sets the cup down, large hand dwarfing it. 

“What is in those mountains?” His voice has gotten lower, rougher, like you’ll be intimidated by a show of verbal force.

“Nothing you’ll concern yourself with,” you reply, refusing to back down. “Unless you want to encounter your own mortality again.”

“I am perfectly fine with a bit of a scare.”

You bark out a laugh. “You wouldn’t survive an hour out there without a guide. And no one here will take the job, not when the options are either a fruitless search for a dead body or a shootout between two criminals.”

He leans forward, face pressing close to yours, warm breath blowing across your cheeks. His nose is inches from your own.

His voice drops to a low murmur. “I didn’t come here for a bounty, little one.”

Your brow furrows and you draw back, pressing your shoulders against the cushioned stone behind you.

“Word has got out of a large deposit of kyber somewhere in this system. The Empire has not yet caught wind, but soon they will.”

You don’t recognize the name of the material he’s referring to, but you do recognize the Empire and know exactly what something like that might mean for a small, defenseless village such as your own.

It’s much different than a simple bounty hiding in the mountains.

“Why didn’t you tell the Committee this?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know if this is where the deposit is. I didn’t want to cause unnecessary concern, especially considering the… size and scale of your village”

You purse your lips and lean your head back, staring up as you consider this development. This man has come in search of something you aren’t sure exists, and if it does, it means certain death for you and your people. 

You look back down at the man across from you. “Then why did you decide to tell me? You’d have been better off going to my father with this information.”

He huffs out a chuckle, then grabs his drink and takes a swig. He sets the cup back down and rests his arm on the table beside it. “Because I need a guide, little one. Someone with knowledge of the terrain, who I won’t have to watch out for. I’m willing to pay handsomely.”

The dots begin to connect in your brain. You raise a brow at him. “I have no need for your credits. They’re next to useless here. Besides, how can we know this - this kyber is there at all?”

“Is there anything unnatural about the mountains? Anything that would point to something powerful within them?”

You frown, thinking on it for a moment. All of the ores found in the mine are naturally occurring, the creatures that live on the peaks are all native, and the --

It hits you. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, and your heart rate increases. A falling feeling in your stomach takes the sensation from your legs for a moment, ice cold and burning all at once.

“The water.”

The Mandalorian tilts his head. You glance around to make sure no one’s heard you. Everyone in the tavern seems oblivious to the two of you, despite their stares earlier.

“We have to leave,” you tell him, fishing a couple of coins out of your pocket and depositing them on the table. “We can’t discuss this here. Come with me.”

Hastily you stand, taking your cloak from its hook on the side of the booth and pulling it on. The hunter follows suit, sliding his helmet back on and looking around the room.

You start towards the door, heavy footsteps following behind you.

-

You bring him to your home, the only place where you know you won’t be interrupted. You live in a small building tucked in a quiet corner of the village, between a storage silo and the village’s north wall.

Inside, the hearth has been going all day, fueled by coal and snow-bison waste chips. There are four rooms; three downstairs and a bedroom upstairs. You bring the Mandalorian to your study, where the fire roars and there’s a few soft chairs and a couch to sit on. He takes a seat on the latter and removes his helmet, watching as you search your bookshelves for something.

“Care to tell me what you meant by ‘the water’?” He slouches, thick thighs spread over the couch cushion.

Your eyes follow the movement of his legs for a split second. It’s supremely distracting, how inviting he looks right now. You glance up at his face and see a small smirk on his lips. A blush colors your cheeks, caught in the act of looking. To hide it, you turn back to the bookshelf, scanning the spines of your books.

“In the warm season there are streams that flow from the mountaintops to the valley. It pools in an area not far from here and forms a small lake, not much more than a pond, that freezes over once the cold sets in again. For centuries we’ve brought our sick and dying there to be healed.”

The hunter hums. “And it works?”

You nod, turning to look over your shoulder at him. “I was brought there as a child. I would have died of the fever had it not been for the water. Our Elders drink if regularly after they reach a certain age, once they haven’t been killed by the elements.”

“Are you saying your people live longer because of it?”

You pause. That has never crossed your mind, since using the water’s magic has always been normal to you, a yearly practice like any other. “I don’t know. How long does man usually tend to live?”

“It depends,” he says. “I’d say a hundred years at most.”

That has you taken aback. You look over at the bookshelf again - this is life-changing, world-shattering information. Dread begins to settle in your chest, like everything you thought was real is a lie.

The hunter leans forward, hands on his knees, concern etched on his scarred face. “How long do your people live, little one? How many years?”

You inhale and look over at him. “Hundreds. A thousand, if we’re lucky.”

“Kriff,” he swears, leaning back with a hand over his mouth and nose. 

Turning back to the bookshelf, you resume your search to calm your racing mind. You find the book you were looking for, a collection of stories gathered by your family over generations.

“Here,” you say, sliding the book out of its place and taking it over to the hunter. He scoots over, but only slightly, so when you sit next to him you’re tucked snugly between him and the arm of the couch. His thigh is warm against your own and you get chills down your neck when he shifts to put his arm behind you, around your shoulders.

You clear your throat and open the book, letting it rest on your legs.

“There are a few accounts that speak of the water,” you tell him, flipping through the pages until you find the one you’re looking for. It’s half a page of writing, the other taken up by a crude map of the mountains.

“The waters are life-giving,” you read, tracing along the words with your index finger. “They shimmer and glow in the sun when it shines upon us. The source is deep within the mountain, covered by ice and snow in the cold season. No one has seen the source of the waters and survived. Many have tried. It lies in the heart of ongrol territory.”

“Ongrol?” The hunter’s voice is deep, low in your ear. You look up at him, absentmindedly biting your lip between your teeth.

“Yes,” you reply. “A vicious species of massive snow lion. It’s rare to see one and live to tell the tale. I’ve only ever seen their prints.”

He hums, eyes flitting across your face as he studies you up close. “How large are they?”

You shake your head. “We can only guess, but certainly bigger than this building.”

The Mandalorian nods, his eye contact with you intense and unwavering. You meet it head-on, the warmth you feel in your bones spreading into your thighs and your ribs and your --

You blink and turn back to the book. The map is shaded to indicate the creatures’ territory, with a dot to indicate the general location of where the source is thought to be.

You point to an area just outside the shaded region. “This is as far as I’ve been. I can get us to the source - it’s the ongrol that are the problem.” You look back up at the hunter. “You’re sure the kyber is what’s causing this?”

He nods. “It’s one of the most powerful materials in the known universe. Little else could heal your people the way it does.”

“How do we hide the signature from others, to keep them from finding it?” The unspoken question there hangs in the air as you speak; how do we protect ourselves from attack?

He furrows his brow, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I’m still trying to work that part out, little one.”

That does not do much ease your anxieties, but you have to accept it for now.

You close the book with a sigh and stand to return it to its place on the shelf. When you turn back, the hunter has placed his other arm on the back of the couch, spread out like a king on a throne.

He looks comfortable - at home, here in yours. It’s unlike you to bring a stranger into your dwelling and not feel uneasy about it. Yet here he is, and it’s like he belongs right there on your couch, armor and all. You cross your arms, observing him.

“Do you know the name Boba Fett, princess?”

You shake your head. “No, I do not.”

He smiles, like your answer pleases him. “It's mine.”

Boba. The name is unusual, but it suits the man before you.

“I’d tell you mine in return, but I’ve grown fond of the names you’ve chosen for me, Boba Fett.”

A deep sound pushes its way out of Boba’s chest through his throat - half a chuckle, half a growl. He gives you a once-over with his dark brown eyes, like he can see right through your thick base layer and loose tunic. You watch as he does so, trying to calm your nervous breathing. His gaze is so penetrating, so intense, that after a moment you have to turn away from him, towards the fireplace.

The orange-blue flames dance in front of you, warming your face even further. A mirror hangs above it, but your eyes are focused on the hearth.

You hear Boba shift behind you, metal on fabric. “Tell me, little one,” he says. You can sense him moving closer. “Do you have any suitors, here in the village?”

The question makes your heart race even faster. “No.” You refuse to look at him, knowing that what you see there will render words impossible. “I’ve not had any interest in them.”

“But have men tried? Asked to court you?” He’s right behind you now, the warmth of him nearly matching that of the flames in front of you. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You can see his shadow from the corner of your eye.

“Yes,” you nod. “They have tried.”

Boba hums. His hands come up to gently, but firmly, rest on your shoulders. He slowly smooths his gloved palms down your arms, taking them from being crossed over one another to resting loose at your sides.

You risk a glance up at the mirror in front of you. He’s already looking at you, eyes locked on yours. You meet his gaze and dip your chin ever so slightly, so you’re staring at him from beneath your lashes.

A ghost of a smirk dances across Boba’s lips. He breaks the eye contact and you watch as he looks down at the nape of your neck, one of few exposed pieces of your skin. His right hand brushes your hair from over your shoulder onto your back, gathering the long tresses together. The women in your village grow their hair out as long as they can, not only to use for braids, but also to keep warm. 

Boba’s fingers brush lightly against you, the rough material of his gloves a contrast to the smooth skin of your neck.

“Why haven’t they been successful, princess?”

You clench your jaw. Boba looks back up at you, his hand resting across your nape, fingers curled ever so slightly. The feeling of it makes your thighs tremble, your core responding to this silent, easy display of authority. It shows on your face, how much you like this, and you know Boba sees it.

“None of them could give me --”

Your words are cut off by Boba’s hand snaking around your neck, firm grip tightening around the column of your throat. You gasp, a soft, breathy noise, and the man behind you chuckles. His thumb and forefinger press into your jaw, forcing your head up, though your eyes are still locked onto his reflection in the mirror.

You choke out the rest of your sentence. “-- Give me what I need.”

“Is that so,” Boba murmurs, the words a deep rumble in his rough voice. He presses just a bit tighter, and your eyes flutter closed in response. “I think I know just what you need, my dear.”

His words burn through you like fire on wood, like a cold wind rushing through an open window. Your legs grow weak and your hands grapple at him, trying to find something to hold onto. Your left hand catches on the gauntlet covering his arm and you draw it around, so his arm covers your hip and his hand rests possessively on your lower stomach.

“What a pretty thing you are,” Boba mutters, sliding his hand lower on your front until his fingertips brush your mound. You let your head drop back against his shoulder at the feeling of him cupping your most private of areas, like it’s his, like it’s always been his. Your legs shift further apart to make room for his wide palm. “A stoic princess who desperately needs someone to take care of her.”

You whine at that, at what he’s offering you. It’s true; of all the eligible men in the village, not one has taken you to bed and been able to let you fully cede control to them. They see you as a leader, as someone not to be messed with, as someone to be respected above all else.

“Oh, yes,” Boba hums, curling the fingers of his left hand into your cunt, hooking them into you through your clothes. “They might follow your orders, little one, but you’ll follow mine.”

It sounds like paradise, letting him have you like this. You nod against the armor on his chest, movement limited and head growing dizzy thanks to the hand around your neck. Boba presses his lips close to your ear, his large body now curled around yours.

“Listen to me, sweetheart.” The pet name makes you melt against him. “I am going to go take a seat, and then you’re gonna take your clothes off for me. Can you do that?”

You open your eyes and there he is, in the corner of your vision, gaze dark and full of heated promises. You study his face for a moment, memorizing his features while he’s close like this, and then you nod.

“Yes, Boba.”

“Good,” he tells you. He then moves his hands away, and though you mourn the loss of his touch, knowing what’s to come keeps you patient.

He turns, walks back over to the sofa, and sits. He spreads his legs as he did before, arms on the back of the couch, watching you.

Boba looks so much like a king in that moment that it makes you want to bow before him, to prostrate yourself like you aren’t the daughter of the Chieftain. To worship him as he demands. 

The thought crosses your mind as your fingers begin to unwrap your tunic, taking the woven material from its intricate adornment on your body. You feel a blush rising on your cheeks at the implications - what would the village think of their leader’s daughter, the one to assume his role in the future, imagining such things about a stranger?

Your mind wanders, racing, thinking of seeing him upon a proper throne, all silent confidence and heated gazes from behind the visor of his helmet. Maybe he’d bring you there, show you off to a court, hold you in his wide palms like a treaty. Set you upon his lap like a rare trophy from your far-off snow planet. You’d wrap your arm around the back of his neck and listen to his dealings while he kept a firm hand on your upper thigh.

Dignitaries and crime lords alike would watch, whispering, unable to look away.

It thrills you, to have these secret desires.

You deposit the tunic on the floor next to you and toy with the hem of your top, pulling it out from where it was tucked in your pants. Boba’s eyes zero in on the strip of skin that is revealed as you raise the shirt higher, higher, and higher, until in one motion you’ve slipped it over your head and off entirely.

He stares at your chest and it makes you smile. Men will be men.

Feeling emboldened by the way Boba is looking at you, you turn around and hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants. You slowly slip them down your hips, over your thighs, and past your knees, bending over as you do so.

Behind you, you hear shuffling. You toss the pants to join the tunic and shirt and turn to see Boba’s codpiece and gloves removed, his hand shoved down the front of his pants.

“I’m enjoying the show, little one,” he says, and waves at you with his other hand, even as you begin to see movement at the crotch of his trousers. “Continue.”

You smirk, a sly thing at seeing the effect your bare form has on him. You tuck your fingers under the band of your bra and pull up. Your arms block your view of Boba’s face as your breasts are revealed to him, but the hungry look in his eye once you can see him gives you a good idea of it.

“Kriff,” Boba swears, jerking himself faster, rougher. The sight of it makes your breathing become heavy, the labor of it causing your chest to heave. His eyes drop from your face to your tits - somehow, you don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed like you might usually. 

You just feel wanted. It’s intoxicating, that he wants you for you , not your title.

There’s only one article of clothing left on your body now. You turn around again, your back to him, and take the front hem of your underwear in your fingers. Slowly, almost teasing, you slip it over your hips, arching your back and pushing your ass out towards Boba. The underwear slips down your thighs until it falls to the floor.

You straighten up again and look over your shoulder at him. He gestures with his free hand, a ‘come here’ motion that you’re all too eager to follow.

“Beautiful kriffing body,” he murmurs as you approach. He reaches out and puts his hand on your hip, fingers curling into your ass cheek. His eyes stare at your mound, at the patch of hair there. “Bet you’re already wet for me, huh?”

He glances up at you. You blush, watching as he removes his hand from his pants and snakes it in between your legs, calloused fingers feeling the evidence of his effect on you. His fingertips catch on your clit, rubbing and feeling and stoking the fire within. You moan wantonly, comfortable in the privacy of your home.

“You are. Kriffing soaked. Just begging for my cock, aren’t you?”

His words make your pussy clench just as he slips one of his thick fingers into you, surely spreading his own fluids across your tight, hot skin. The girth of it forces a whine out of you, brows furrowed, and your hand flies down to hold onto his as he fucks you with his finger. Your other hand comes to rest on his shoulder, gripping his armor.

“Look at you,” he mutters, baring his teeth as he watches you writhe on his hand, using his thumb to rub your clit just so. Your mouth drops open in pleasure, sparks shooting down your legs and up into your belly at the feeling. 

Boba hums, circling his thumb and flicking it over your puffy, sensitive nub. “What would your people think if they saw you moaning like a whore for an old man, hm?”

Your legs turn to jelly at the force of the arousal that hits your cunt. You sway forward, knees buckling, and Boba catches you as you fall. 

He uses the hand on your ass to guide you into a sitting position on his lap, so now you’re straddling him, bare chest pressed to the cool metal of his armor. You tuck your face into his neck and revel in the feeling of a second finger teasing at your opening.

“You like that, little one?” His words cause his throat to vibrate, and the deep tone draws your lips in to kiss at it. Your nose brushes against the underside of his jaw as you move from kissing to licking, getting drunk on the taste of his sweat on your tongue.

Boba groans, sliding the second finger into your cunt with ease. You sigh, blowing cool air across the skin you’ve just wet with your tongue. “You do.” He runs his free hand up your thigh, holding tight to the firm muscle there, toned and strong from a lifetime in the ice and snow. “So desperate for my cock.”

You nod, though your lips hardly leave his neck. “Please, Boba,” you whisper into his skin, pressing yourself as close to him as you can get. 

His fingers still their movements within you and you whine. Boba shushes you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from pouting when he pulls his fingers from your pussy. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and leans back.

“I want you on your hands and knees, princess. Right here on the couch.”

You nod frantically and there’s not a moment of hesitation in your haste to follow his order. You arrange yourself next to him, forearms propped on the arm of the couch and your knees keeping your ass aloft in the air.

Boba turns and positions himself behind you with ease, half standing with one foot on the floor, his other leg bent and kneeling on the cushion.

He may call himself an old man, but he’s got the physicality of someone half his age. It makes the spot between your legs hotter and wetter just to think of it. Your cunt throbs for him.

You look over your shoulder and watch as he reaches into his pants, hand spreading your wetness across his dick, and your eyes widen as he draws it out from the confines of his trousers. Your gaze zeros in on him; he’s thick and long, just as you suspected, and every inch is one you want to feel as deep inside you as possible. Honestly, it makes sense - you’ve always heard that the men with the most to make up for do so in their personalities. 

Men like Boba don’t have to compensate, which makes them all the more attractive.

You glance up to his face. He’s smirking down at you, eyes traveling down to your ass, pushed out and open for him. He runs a hand along the soft swell of your rear, caressing you like you’re precious, like you’re prized.

“I could get used to this,” he tells you, guiding the head of his cock to notch at your opening. “Seeing a future queen all bare and ripe for me.”

Your eyelids flutter as you feel him press in further, deeper. The sight of him kneeling behind you, fully clothed while you’re naked as the day you were born, sends a wave of arousal through you. Your brain doesn’t even register what he’s called you, how wrong he is, because you can’t think of anything beyond his dick.

“C’mon, Boba,” you whine, his slow pace driving you mad. “Fuck me like you mean it, old man.”

The noise that comes out of his mouth is almost non-human with the way it reverberates around the room. His hands dig into your hips and he thrusts , unrelenting and rough, spearing you onto his thick cock until his balls slap your clit. You choke out a moan, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at how perfectly full you feel.

“Ah,” he grunts out as he immediately sets to fucking you roughly, deeply. “The little princess does want to be treated like a whore.” His words are accompanied by the lewd sound of his cock moving in your wet cunt, his hips slapping against your own. You moan, loud and uninhibited, unable to conceive of shame or propriety.

For your whole life you’ve been looked up to, treated as both fragile and untouchable.

Boba Fett fucks you like you’re nothing more to him than a pet.

He snarls his words into the air. “Woulda fucked you there on that table in the cantina, shown the whole village how well you take me.”

You keen, arching your back further to give him a better angle. He runs his left hand up your side, gripping your waist and pulling you back onto his cock in time with his thrusts. He’s deeper inside you than anyone’s ever been - you’re beginning to think men in your village must be small, or maybe Boba’s just unnaturally big, because you think you can feel the head of his cock bruising your cervix. 

The thought of him taking you in the tavern has you clenching down on him even tighter. Maybe you would have gotten on your knees for him, hid beneath the tablecloth and kept his cock warm in your mouth.

“That turn you on, princess?” He slows his thrusts just slightly, drawing out so he can slam back in with even more force. You cry out, nodding, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

“Of course it does,” he grunts, and you can feel the crest of your climax steadily approaching as he speaks, letting yourself get lost in the fantasies he’s bringing to life. His thrusts speed up again, rough and brutal, just as you need.

“You were just waiting for someone to -- ungh -- come along and fuck all the thoughts outta that clever little head, weren’t you?”

You whine, because he’s right - your normally sharp, observant brain has been put out like water over a fire. Boba leans forward, placing his hand on the arm of the couch next to your elbow, and brushes his lips against the back of your neck. It changes his position enough that his cock hits you just that much deeper, pounding against that elusive sweet spot deep within your cunt.

“Kriff, Boba --” You barely get the words out, your voice hoarse and strained and your mind turned to mush. “So -- so big.”

Against your ear, you feel more than hear him chuckle. His teeth catch on your earlobe, hot breath skating down the side of your face.

“Yeah? You like having my big cock in your tight little pussy?”

You keen, high-pitched and desperate. “Please, Boba, I’m gonna --”

His teeth trail down the side of your neck, biting firmly enough to leave a trail of red marks across your skin. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he leans up again so he can grip your hips more firmly.

“Gonna come, little one? Go on --” his words trail off for a moment - or maybe your hearing fades out as the crisis within you rises to its limit. Right as you’re on the edge, your face flush with sensation and your cunt fluttering around him, his rough voice fades back in.

“-- wanna feel you, princess. Come for your king.”

You have no choice but to do as he says.

Boba’s words scratch that small, hidden itch in your brain you’d taken a glance at earlier. Your mind whites out for a split second, as blinding as a snowstorm, before you return to yourself.

He’s still fucking you. Using you. Oversensitive and trembling, your senses absorb the world around you - Boba's hands on your hips, the scrape of his armor against your thighs, the crackle of the fireplace somewhere over your shoulder. 

The rhythm of Boba's cock inside you, chasing the same high you'd found moments earlier.

You moan, pushing back, encouraging him to find his release. A glance over your shoulder gives you the sight of his eyes focused on where he's thrusting into you, lip curled, a drop of sweat trailing down over his jaw.

Boba glances up at you and smirks, though the flash of teeth makes it more of a sneer. "Where do you want me, princess?"

A serene smile crosses your face and you pretend to think on it for a moment, lazy in your post-orgasmic haze.

"On me," you reply. "Wherever you want."

He grunts, looking back down, and thrusts a few more times, deep and bruising. As soon as he pulls out you mourn the loss of him, the fullness inside of you, but you're rewarded with a vision unlike any you've seen before. Boba takes himself in hand, and with a loud groan, cums across your ass, his spend dripping down your thighs and onto your pussy lips. He covers you with himself, marking you up.

Once he's finished, Boba runs a hand through the cum on your skin, pressing firmly and rubbing it in.

"Been wanting to do that since I saw you in the meeting hall, little one."

You hum, eyes fluttering closed at the thought of it. What a scandal - the Chieftain's daughter falling for the stranger, the first foreigner to visit the village in living memory.

Behind you, Boba shifts off of the couch. He stands beside you and then you register that he's moving you, strong hands arranging your limp body so he can pick you up. One arm slips beneath your knees and the other under your back.

"Bedroom's upstairs," you murmur. 

He brings you there, tucking you into bed carefully and then turning to undo his armor. As you watch him methodically remove each piece, you get the feeling that you're privy to something rare. Though you're sleepy, your eyes remain open, intent on keeping this memory clear.

The thought crosses your mind that this man must know so much of the universe. He's probably been to hundreds of planets, has hundreds of stories.

You've only ever known snow and wind. 

"Boba?"

He's just finished with the last of his armor when you speak. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to you and puts his hand on your side.

"Yes, princess?"

You gaze up into his eyes, dark but soft when looking at you.

"What's the most beautiful place you've ever been to?"

He smiles at that, letting out a soft chuckle. "I've been to so many places that it's hard to keep track, little one."

You pout. He moves to settle into bed next to you, under the layers of fur and fleece that keep you warm.

"You must have a favorite," you insist, curling up against him, head resting on his bicep.

He's quiet for a minute, thinking. You wait, though sleep threatens to pull you under. Boba's words lull you out of the beginnings of your slumber.

"I think you'd like Naboo," he tells you. You've read about it, about their system of governance. You can't recall seeing any pictures or illustrations, though. 

"It's very green," he explains. "There's meadows and forests everywhere. Their cities are vast, the buildings beautiful in themselves. I traveled there with my father when I was young."

You want to ask more, to learn about this place so different from anything you know. Your mind is racing with imaginings when you fall asleep, cozy and warm against Boba Fett.

In the night, your dreams glow as bright as the sun.

[passable-talent]

Going with Ani to free his mom because you know it’s such a big moment for him (and obviously being there for the aftermath)

oof. here I go to make myself angsty for the evening

same day request answering. its like its april.

Padme Amidala is a really good person. It pretty much all comes back to that. 

She’s kind. She’s empathetic. She recognizes when someone is in pain, and when someone needs help. She understands when an unwise course of action is one that needs to be taken. 

So, of course, she understood when the Jedi apprentice meant to protect her instead wanted to run away to his birth planet and help his mother. Of course she did. 

Though, level headed as she was, she thought that it might be wise to gather up another Jedi. To watch over her while Anakin was distracted, or possibly to help Anakin face whatever plagued his mother. 

She suggested Anakin call upon Obi-Wan, which he refused. Obi-Wan’s mission was just as important, and if he knew what Anakin planned, Anakin would never be allowed to go.

So, instead, he called for you. 

You were also a Jedi apprentice, at that time training between missions at the temple on Coruscant. Your master, Shaak Ti, trusted you immensely, and granted you permission to leave on your own. You commanded a Starfighter and were on your way- opening a com to Anakin en route. You had never been to Tatooine before, but had heard about it whenever Anakin felt like sharing his childhood. As his closest friend other than his master, you knew how much his mother weighed on his soul, and how much he had wished that Qui-Gon could have saved her, too. You had known that one day, he would try to return. He had promised his Shmi as much. 

Anakin’s reunion with Watto was tense for just about everyone there. You didn’t know the terrain, you barely knew Padme, you certainly didn’t know Watto, but you felt the impatience rolling off of Anakin. It put you on edge, and so as he followed Watto into the shop, you kept pace behind Padme, ensuring her safety. It was the one thing you felt you were capable of doing, the one thing you could control. 

Anakin wasn’t very talkative. Padme tried- but he was a focused man, and felt closer to finding his mother than he had in a decade. You were a silent support, beside the senator, as though you could take some of the weight off of Anakin’s shoulders. Every emotion he experienced seemed to radiate out from him, and it almost made your head pound to get blasted with them all- the guilt, the fear, the anger. You just hoped that he’d find his mother alive, or else, you imagined, this would get so much worse. 

When you left the ship again, you found yourself in the most flat, barren landscape you’d ever seen. Growing up among the skyscrapers of Coruscant, it was almost unfathomable, to look out at the horizon and see nothing between you and it. 

There was, however, one little building, which you could gather was your destination. And a droid. 

Anakin’s mind must have been clouded by his emotion, or maybe he just wasn’t showing it, because you could feel that something was off. From the moment C-3PO requested to go inside, you knew that there was nothing but bad news here. You couldn’t say anything, though- you felt it wasn’t your place. Anakin was among his family, now, even if they’d never met him, and he needed to hear it from them. 

You could tell. Shmi Skywalker was gone. 

“It was just before dawn,” Cliegg Lars explained, “they came out of nowhere. A hunting party of Tusken Raiders.” You had heard of them before- in Anakin’s ramblings of the pod racing he did as a child. You sat at the end of the table opposite Cliegg, though it did feel informal. The head of the table was meant for anyone other than you, surely- but Anakin had his place at Cliegg’s right hand, and Owen at his left. 

“Your mother had gone out early, like she always did, to pick mushrooms off the vaporators.” At the very least, you were silently happy that Shmi had spent her last years as a free woman with a husband that clearly cared about her greatly. 

“From the tracks, she was about halfway home...” Your heart broke with every word for Anakin Skywalker, who had spent years dreaming of returning for his mother, only to arrive too late. “...When they took her.” Anakin’s face was devoid of clear emotion, but you knew him well- you could see that famous temper brewing inside of him. But, this was more than a frustration. This was so much deeper than that. 

“Those tuskens walk like men,” Cliegg continued with a sigh, “but they’re mindless, vicious monsters. Thirty of us went out after her, four of us came back.” You lowered your head in respect, but kept your eyes on your friend, whose brows were tightly knit. He was thinking, mulling it over, considering, processing. You couldn’t blame him, but wished you could make it easier. 

“I’d be out there with them, but...” Cliegg, too, was weighed down by his grief. His loss, you could see, was still just as raw as Anakin’s. “After I lost my leg, I just couldn’t ride anymore, until I heal.” Anakin’s heart seemed to break open wider with every moment that passed him by, and Cliegg continued, trying to reassure his lost stepson that his mother hadn’t died unloved. 

“I don’t want to give up on her, but she’s been gone a month.” Unimaginable it was how much it must’ve hurt Anakin to know that he had missed her by only a month. “There’s little hope she’s lasted this long.”

And there it was- the clear implication to Anakin that his mother was not only gone, but dead. That there was a finality to it, and nothing he could do. You watched him, carefully, as he turned his head, and clearly you could see that he didn’t take such helplessness well. 

He stood, and you made to do the same, but the both of you were interrupted by Owen, asking Anakin’s intensions. 

“To find my mother,” Anakin said, and you let out a short breath. 

“Your mother’s dead, son,” Cliegg said, with the voice of a heartbroken husband, “Accept it.” 

Anakin left without a word. 

You followed, knowing his plan. 

“Anakin, it’s dangerous,” you told him, and he turned, shaking his head. 

“I’m going. I have to.” 

“I know,” you said, and in the gaze you shared with him, he realized that you meant to come with him. 

Padme emerged from the entrance, and her gaze met yours. You nodded, and she gathered that you hadn’t been able to stop him. You hadn’t tried. 

“You’re gonna have to stay here,” you said, a little more hardness in your tone than you had intended. “You’ll be safe until we return.” Anakin stood behind you, grief and anger rolling off of him, and though she could not feel the Force, Padme clearly could see a man in pain. After all, Padme Amidala is a really good person. She walked to him and gave him a brief hug. 

“We won’t be long,” you promised as they parted, and as she retreated inside, you followed him to the speeder. 

The longer he rode, the more anguish he felt. He hardened before you, from a boy who lost his mother, to a man who sought revenge. You could only hope you would serve to curb the damage. 

Just after nightfall you reached the encampment of the raiders, their domes still lit by dying fires. You deferred to Anakin’s lead, assuming that he would know your enemy better than you. It had been a while since the two of you had gone on a mission together- if the atmosphere were less dire, you might have even enjoyed it. 

You don’t know how he chose which dome to enter, but it was the right one. You felt the world change when Anakin laid eyes on the bloodied woman tied to a post, like you were recognizing her yourself. Shmi Skywalker, still alive.

“Go,” you whispered, stationing yourself between the opening of the dome and the opening Anakin had created. His reunion was his own, and you gave him the best security and privacy you could. It was astounding that she had survived, all this time, and for a moment you were filled with hope, joy, that he had disobeyed Cliegg and searched for her anyway. Otherwise, she likely never would have been found. You kept your eyes to the night outside the dome, a lookout, your breathing calm with the joy and love and relief that Anakin had once again allowed into his body. 

And then you felt it change. 

You whirled around, and she was dead, and Anakin’s silence was suddenly all you could hear. The world was turning red around the both of you as he felt the grief of his mother’s death for a second time, and his eyes lifted to yours. 

“Anakin,” you breathed, knowing nothing else to say. His grief hardened into anger, but he gently closed her eyes and held her close. You didn’t know what to do. Panic hit you hard as his anger curdled into rage, and his eyes lifted. 

“Anakin, we need to take her home,” you said, hoping to deflect his focus. He didn’t listen. 

As he lowered her gently to the floor so that he could stand, you tried to move into his way, and successfully you cupped his face, catching his eyes for just a moment. In them, you didn’t see the anger you felt from him. In them, you saw so much sadness. 

And so you let him go. 

It wasn’t the Jedi way, you knew that. And you wished you could will yourself to move, to stop him, because the pain that his actions would cause would haunt him, possibly for the rest of his life. But it felt as though he needed this, as though it was the only thing that would sate his soul. So you breathed mantras, and did your best to combat his anger with peace, thinking that it might invade him. 

And when the Tusken Raiders had all given their last breaths to Anakin Skywalker, you went to him. 

He collapsed to his knees under his own weight, no longer grieving but feeling a consuming emptiness. You had to force yourself to block it out as you ran to him, and pulled him against you. Never before had you felt someone who needed a hug so bad, and only then did he begin to break, knotting his fingers into the robes at your back. He buried his face, but did not cry, and you stayed as long as he needed you to. 

You drove home. He held his mother, behind you, cradling her like she had once held him. You rode through sunrise, back to Cliegg’s home, where quickly you were met by Owen, Padme, Cliegg, Beru. You dismounted quickly and retreated, knowing that this was Anakin’s moment, and his alone. His anger had returned, but it didn’t feel so sharp anymore- it was anger and sadness and frustration, and it just felt to you like pain. Incredible pain. 

You stayed in the room with him, wherever he went, continuing the strategy you’d had back at the camp. You held peace in your chest, and hoped that he could feel it the way you felt his pain. You hoped it would calm him. His pain did not fade, but it did dull, and for a while as he tinkered with the shifter, it felt as though maybe the anger had drained from his body. 

Padme entered with two meals, and she handed one to you before approaching Anakin, her footsteps light, but her presence noticeable. 

“I brought you something,” she said over his shoulder, and when he didn’t respond, she moved around to his front. “Are you hungry?”

“The shifter broke,” he told her, and if it wouldn’t have taken from your concentration you would’ve chuckled. He avoided the question- you knew he hadn’t eaten in at least a day. “Life seems so much simpler when you’re fixing things.” You would give anything to have back the boy you’d trained with on Corellia. So heavy Anakin felt now, with everything that had happened. You wished you could give him back the peace he had once felt. Padme looked to you briefly as she moved to set down the tray near Anakin, and you nodded. You’d get him to eat eventually. 

“I’m good at fixing things,” Anakin continued, “always was.” Padme turned back to him slowly, the both of you noticing the waver in his voice. “But I couldn’t...” he trailed off, putting down his tools. “Why’d she have to die? Why couldn’t I save her?” You sat up, more toward your feet, ready to approach him if you felt the need. He was getting ramped up again, but the jagged edges of his grief this time was less anger and more blame. Blame on the Tuskens, blame on himself. “I know I could have!” He turned from Padme and for the briefest of moments his eyes met yours, but he moved forward, away from both of you.

“Sometimes there are things no one can fix,” Padme said softly, and you kept your breathing steady to combat his erratic emotion. “You’re not all powerful, Ani.” 

“Well, I should be,” he said, giving her words no time to hang in the air. 

“Anakin,” you said, showing disapproval of such a thought, and for the first time wished Obi-Wan was there. 

“Someday I will be,” he insisted. “I will be the most powerful Jedi ever.” He turned to face you and Padme again, tears glistening on his face but his expression angry. You didn’t know what to say, even when he levied his gaze toward you. 

“I promise you. I will even learn to stop people from dying.” 

“Anakin,” it was Padme’s turn to say, and what he said next shook you to your core.

“It’s all Obi-Wan’s fault!” he shouted, “He’s jealous! He’s holding me back!” Anakin launched whatever he’d picked up across the room, and it clattered quietly before coming to rest. 

“You know that’s not true,” you said, quickly rising to your feet. You took a step closer to Anakin as he turned away, but did not get too near. 

“I know,” he conceded under his breath. Padme sensed what was really going on.

“What’s wrong, Ani?’ She asked, and finally you realized what was truly causing his pain, in this moment. He was looking at his hands as he stuttered the beginning of a sentence, the hands that had killed so many. 

The peace in your body faltered- if you had stopped him, he wouldn’t be grieving nearly so much now. It was your fault.

“I killed them,” he explained, “I killed them all. They’re dead- every single one of them.” He turned to Padme with rage at himself and the raiders twitching his lips, tears still falling from his eyes. “And not just the men, but the women and the children, too. They’re like animals, and I slaughtered them like animals!” You lowered your head, trying to push away your own guilt so that you could be there for him. His pain, you knew, was greater than yours. 

“I hate them!” 

Hate leads to suffering. 

As Anakin sank to the floor, you and Padme sat to flank his sides. You were his best friend, closer to him than anyone else in the world, and so you leaned against his side while Padme offered her words. 

“To be angry is to be human.” 

“I’m a Jedi,” Anakin insisted, “I know I’m better than this.”

“Most Jedi never know their parents,” you said softly, “and never form attachments. There is no one in a Jedi’s life who matters as much as your mother does to you. I’m sure you’re taking this with more grace than Master Windu would have.” Anakin didn’t laugh, but he did quiet, almost as though he believed you. Slowly you found the hand he held beside his knee, and gathered it into yours. 

Padme leaned forward and gave him the best hug she could from the side, but then left Anakin alone with you. 

She’s a good person, like that. 

“Anakin, I’ve known you for a long time,” you started quietly, “and all of that time I’ve known you to be a kind man. A compassionate man. Quick to anger, yes, but not to judgement. They earned your rage, and that’s okay. It does not outweigh all of the good you’ve done in your life.” His grip tightened on your hand, still his breathing erratic, but once again the jagged edges of his mind began to soften. You let silence drift into the room for a moment as he slowly evened. 

“She was beautiful,” you said, laying your head down onto his shoulder. He nodded, and slowly, there grew the beginning of a smile on his face. “And she won’t be forgotten.” 

-🦌 Roe