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staringdownabarrel · 9 months ago

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Okay, so here's my overall thoughts on the Riftwar saga as a whole. Upon rereading this, I've suddenly realised that this is extremely long even by the standards of the posts I write, so click the read more and play the Star Wars main theme at your own peril.

My first big thought is that in some ways, it's amazing how similar these books are to Dragon Ball Z in plot structure. This is probably going to be a contentious take, but here me out on this one. In DBZ, the general plot structure is that there's some big new threat introduced, the main characters fuck around bit training and trying to work out how to defeat the new big bad, and then they have a big fight and work it all out. Eventually, a newer, stronger big bad rolls up and the cycle starts anew.

This is more or less how it works in the Riftwar saga as well. Yes, there is the one final big bad to end all big bads that Pug has to face at the end, but most of the time the focus is on the current low or mid level threat with Pug working in the background. So first it was the Tsurani, then the Pantathian serpent priests, then the demons from the fifth circle, and then finally the Dread.

The other part of the Dragon Ball Z structure is that while Goku was always the strongest character because he's the main one, early on the threats were small enough that the other characters could have a thing to do. Like, Piccolo and Krillin and whoever else weren't strong enough to go up against Vegeta, but they could more or less handle the Saibamen. The B cast might not be able to go up against Freiza, but they could handle the low level henchmen and hold out against the Ginyu Force. You get the drill.

After a while though, it gets to a point where it doesn't even really matter that the B cast is there. Goku is the only one who really matters. Anyone else in the series isn't going to be able to hold out against the main big bad except for Goku and maybe Vegeta or Gohan, depending on how Akira Toriyama was feeling that week.

This also happens in the Riftwar saga. Early on, there was still stuff the Kingdom and its armies could do to help Pug and his immediate companions. They could go to war with the Tsurani, rough up the moredhel, and mount a defend deep style strategy against the Pantathians' army. Later on, this becomes less the case. After a while, if you weren't Pug, Nakor, or somehow related to Pug, you weren't going to have that much of an impact on what happened with the current big bad.

Even in the edge cases of this, like the Conclave of Shadows trilogy where Talon gets to be the main character, Pug is still working in the background. Talon might get to nominally be the main character in that trilogy, but Pug is the chess master, and in that sense he has less personal agency than Nicholas did in The King's Buccaneer.

I think this explains a lot of the fan response to this series overall. A lot of the time when people get frustrated with these books for either being repetitive or because it feels like Feist is running on autopilot after a while--both of which are valid responses--it's because they're not getting that this is basically just Dragon Ball Z in novel format. The alternative is that they absolutely realise this is the case and that's why they're frustrated: they didn't like Dragon Ball, so they don't like that this essentially has the same formula.

The other way this informs reader responses is that it seems like there's a lot of people who got to a certain point in the series and then just stopped. Certainly, there's a lot of people who've read every single book in this series, but there's also been a lot of people who seem to have stopped after a certain point. This is true of people who I've known in person who've read Feist at some point, and it seems to be true online as well. I haven't exactly done an extensive search of this, but it definitely feels like there's a lot of people on Goodreads who were avidly reviewing the earlier books in the series, but then just stopped after a while.

The Dragon Ball equivalent of this is that they either gave up on the franchise after Z wrapped up, or they saw GT or Evolution and basically vowed never again. There's loads of people who were fans of Dragon Ball Z twenty years ago who've never seen any of the new Dragon Ball stuff that's been released in the last decade or so, the same way there's a lot of Feist fans who are fans of what he wrote up until the Serpentwar saga.

This kid of parallel goes right up until the ending, by the way. At the end of the Cell saga in Dragon Ball Z, Goku passes the torch to Gohan and says, "This shit's all my son's problem now, but it's going to be fine because he has more innate power than I do." At the end of Magician's End, when given the choice between passing on or staying alive, Pug's response is, "This can all be my son's problem now, but it'll be fine because he has more innate power than I do."

While this isn't the absolute end of Dragon Ball Z--the Buu saga comes along and undoes Goku's decision--there is a large chunk of the old guard DBZ fandom that thinks that's where it should have ended. So maybe if you're a fan of both Dragon Ball Z and the Riftwar saga and you hold that opinion, keep with it because they do the good ending in these books.

Of course, there is one final parallel in the ending. At the very end of Dragon Ball Z, Buu gets reincarnated as Uub. At the end of Magician's End, Pug ends up being reincarnated as well.

I seriously doubt this is a specific thing that Feist intended for the Riftwar saga to do. For one, Magician came out two years before the Dragon Ball manga started up in Japan. For two, I don't meet many people around Feist's age who are Dragon Ball fans, so I genuinely would be shocked if he saw it and was immediately like, "You know what? Lemme write this down real quick; this guy's really onto something here."

Still, there's a lot of things about the Riftwar saga that I'm immensely more forgiving of now that I realise this is basically the novel version of Dragon Ball Z. When I was reading the earlier books, there's a lot of things I took issue with: how the women were written and treated, what the politics were like, that there were large chunks of certain books that were ultimately just filler.

These are things I still take issue with, and I have a lot more to say about this in later posts. I just feel like these are less of an issue now that it's finally clicked that this is basically just DBZ for a slightly older audience.

My other takeaway from these books is that while the books themselves haven't changed, my perspective on them has. While for the most part, the books in this series that I considered to be the best of the bunch at sixteen are still the ones I think are the best of the bunch at thirty, the reasons for that have changed. Like, I can appreciate how Talon of the Silver Hawk touches on certain things the previous books don't a lot more than I did when I was in high school; I can appreciate how A Darkness at Sethanon builds up the tension a lot more now.

The flipside to this is that I can also articulate my issues with my least favourites a lot better now. Rise of a Merchant Prince is a wasted book that should have had its focus elsewhere for example, and the Demonwar duology is often just a bad rehash of the Darkwar trilogy.

I think also, I'm a lot more forgiving of certain books now than I was as a teenager. At sixteen, I essentially thought that Silverthorn was just 430 or so pages of filler. At thirty, I can appreciate how much it adds to the storyline.

The most dramatic examples of this are the Empire trilogy and Faerie Tale. I think the problem I had with the Empire trilogy as a teenager was that it kinda felt a bit like filler because it didn't develop the main plot in any way. Nowadays, I can appreciate the politics of it, and I wish the other books were as consistently political as these ones were.

I appreciate the irony of saying this straight after I've said that Rise of a Merchant Prince was a waste of a book. One of the reasons I think that now is because while I do feel like the economics of the Kingdom needed to be fleshed out more, I'm not really convinced this was the way to do it. "By the way, high finance is a thing here and this guy who's fresh out of his national service can master it in a couple of years by pulling himself up by the bootstraps enough" isn't a substitute for actually fleshing out which regions are mostly agricultural, which ones are mining towns, which ones are mostly military outposts, and so on.

Faerie Tale, while not a Riftwar book, is a very dramatic example of what I'm talking about with this. I only ever read this book the once as a teenager, and I wasn't really impressed with it at the time. I didn't really like that it wasn't really in the same vein as Feist's other books, and I think maybe I was too young to fully appreciate its plot and themes when I was fifteen.

Nowadays, this is one of my favourite Feist books. Some of this is due to some very specific genre preferences--for the most part, I prefer urban fantasy to epic fantasy. However, I think I'm also in a position now where I can have a deeper appreciation for its more adult themes than I was back then.

The big thing Faerie Tale does well compared to other Feist books is in how it treats women. The women characters in it have a lot more agency than they do in his other books outside of the Empire trilogy. It's never going to become a feminist cult classic by any stretch of the imagination, but I doubt it'd draw the same strong ire that his other books would draw if they were more popular, either.

I'm still bothered by how haphazard the world building was. The bare bones are there, but there isn't a lot of follow through. For example, in Magician, it's said that the relationship between the Kingdom and the Free Cities are often strained. Some of this is due to the duchy known as the Far Coast having once been a part of the same Keshian province as the Free Cities, so there's bad blood there due to the war the Kingdom waged to conquer a large chunk of this territory.

This isn't really followed up on, though. Once the first few books are over, relations between the Kingdom and the Free Cities are treated as if they're effectively neutral, bordering on soft alliance. To an extent, this does make sense because they effectively were aligned against the Tsurani in Magician, but they could have gone back to business as usual straight after.

The other part of this is just the cultural diversity issue. Outside of the hill people of Yabon and some of the ethnic groups towards the border with Kesh, the Kingdom doesn't have a lot of it. This is in spite of how large the Kingdom is supposed to be. It's never entirely clear just how wide it is from one side to another, but based on the kind of travel times and distances mentioned, it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that the distance from Crydee to Ran is something like 5,000 or 6,000 kilometres (~3,000-3,750 miles).

With countries that large, you'd expect insane amounts of cultural diversity. To an extent, Feist does try to walk this back a bit later on by mentioning stuff like how certain cities will have their own dialects and so on, but for the most part the Kingdom is treated as if it mostly has a monoculture once you get passed the East-West divide.

I don't think this treatment is a huge contradiction because the rule on how much diversity the Kingdom has is however much benefits the plot the most. For the most part, I think it can just be written up to different characters having different perspectives as well. However, it is a little bit of a blunder, and it can come close to a contradiction at times. This is another parallel with Dragon Ball Z, by the way: its plot could be contradictory at times as well, and the core rule was always whichever way benefited the plot more was how it'd play out.

The worldbuilding thing that I actually think is an honest-to-god contradiction and not just a matter of certain characters having different perspectives is the shift in which side of the Kingdom is reputed to have the best army. Early on, the Western army has the reputation of being the Kingdom's finest, both because the conquest of Yabon and the Far Coast was still relatively recent historically speaking, but also because the forts along the Teeth of the World were all considered part of the Western Realm. The disputed border with Kesh was also part of the West.

So basically, pretty much every garrison that saw any real combat was part of the Western realm. This would have been a part of that part of the army's institutional knowledge. This is something that's reflected in how Western characters conceptualise the Eastern garrisons. In Magician, they're basically just seen as parade ground troops who are basically just honour guards for territory that's been pacified for decades, if not centuries.

While Guy du Bas-Tyra is seen as a crack general despite being from the East, this is also clearly an aberration rather than a broad pattern. Outside of his first war with Kesh, where he forced the Keshians back from Deep Taunton, it's also not clear if he ever commanded a mostly Eastern army on the field. Certainly during the war with Kesh in Magician it's implied that a lot of his men in the field had followed him there from the East, but it's also probable he left a lot of them behind in Krondor and was mostly commanding a Western army by the time he got to the southern marches.

Later on though, this is switched. The Eastern forces are considered to be the crack forces. I'm not even really sure how Feist could square this with some of the distances mentioned in the books. In the Conclave of Shadows trilogy, the Eastern Kingdoms are mentioned to be hundreds of miles away from the nearest Kingdom city of any real size.

If commanding forces against the Eastern Kingdoms was also seen as a prestige job, then I don't get why there wasn't also a series of forts along the eastern border the same way there was along the Teeth of the World. Instead, there's just this huge gap where there aren't a lot of Kingdom settlements at all between Ran and the northern forts.

The other part of this is that when it came to expansion, it was stated at one point that the Kingdom's eyes were always to the West. They weren't necessarily interested in eating up any Eastern Kingdoms, and as they are in the Conclave of Shadows trilogy, there's nothing to suggest that anyone there has their shit together well enough to really capture Kingdom territory.

So this is one of those things where I think Feist did contradict himself. There's a lot of other things about the worldbuilding I'm generally unhappy about, but this has been all the main points, and this is already an incredibly long post.

So I guess the ultimate question I really need to answer now is whether or not I think they're as good as I remember. Ultimately, my answer is kinda-sorta? There's definitely parts of this that are as good as I remember, though often for very different reasons. But there's also a lot of stuff that I now have issues with that I couldn't really conceptualise properly in my teens.

Certainly, this does still inspire a certain degree of brain rot in me, just as it did when I was sixteen. It's for different reasons, but it's there and it's real. So even though I'm done reading these books, I'm not actually done talking about them. There will be more posts coming.

#riftwar #raymond e. feist #books #rant

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jadecrusades · 2 years ago

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Illustration by Jeff Carlisle. “Star Wars: Essential Reader's Companion.” October, 2012.

For the “Star Wars: Essential Reader’s Companion,” Jeff Carlisle depicted one of author Timothy Zahn’s favorite Mara Jade moments from “Survivor’s Quest,” as indicated in this excerpt from an interview with Roqoo Depot:

RD: What are some of your favorite Mara moments?

TZ: That’s a hard one — there are so many. If I have to pick three (okay, six): killing C’baoth and saving the day (The Last Command), chiding Luke for his overuse of the Force (Vision of the Future), helping Luke take out a droideka (Survivor’s Quest), letting the Hand of Judgment go (Allegiance), traversing the railing under enemy fire (Choices of One), and her unwelcome but genuine feelings of loss at the end of that book.

The “Star Wars: Essential Reader” notes that “Survivor’s Quest” was the first official Star Wars work to use the 501st Legion by name, in 2004.

#Mara Jade #Mara Jade Skywalker #Luke Skywalker #Master Skywalker #Star Wars #Star Wars EU #Star Wars Expanded Universe #Star Wars Legends #Jeff Carlisle #Mara x Luke #Luke x Mara #Survivor's Quest #droideka #Timothy Zahn #Outbound Flight

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haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted · 2 years ago

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Star Wars: Essential Reader's Companion - Duel at the Valley of the Jedi by Wraithdt

#Star Wars #Star Wars: Legends #Star Wars: Essential Reader's Companion #Duel at the Valley of the Jedi #Kyle Katarn #Jerec #Jedi #Dark Jedi #Dark Forces #Dark Forces II: Jedi Knight #Lightsaber #Force Lightning #SCi-Fi #Darren Tan #wraithdt

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reilliane · 3 years ago

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Stellar ★ Venti

— ★ Scry: Ecliptic Umbra + Auriga + Corvus with Venti + Astrolabe AU + Reader's Prompt (Happy Ending) — ★ Genre: Romance + Fluff & Angst + "You regret what?" + The kind becomes prey — ★ Concept: It's once in a lifetime, but there are times when fate is kind. — ★ Words: 5.5k A/N: OMG when I say I flipped with this combination of prompts, I FLIPPED AAHHH this was a wonderful scry. "This format indicates a dialogue in flashback."

Promises… they’re as ephemeral as they can be—yet for a being who is just as ephemeral, it’s better to cling unto such promises, to hope, and to believe.

For in the end, it’s the closest one can get to disillusioning themselves into thinking that nothing is amiss.

You’re no different.

Centuries—no, millenniums. For millenniums, you’ve held onto nothing but the transience of companionship and the bittersweet solace brought by it.

There are times when you wish to slink away from hopes, to turn down all promises to remember you.

They aren’t by any means empty. No, they’re genuine. Real.

But what are measly words against the thorns of fate?

Nothing but a speck of dust.

Still, you find yourself believing in them—as long as one fights… it’s a war, right?—no matter how much you struggle in preordained throes, you believe. Because it’s comfort.

It’s solace.

The only thing that keeps you going other than the satisfaction brought by helping your companions achieve a goal or reach an epiphany.

You are fighting a war against fate by hoping for the impossible.

On the battlefield, you’ve gone and went with many.

Previously partnered with the most turbulent of gales, to the heat of a blazing heart, to unmerciful lightning… and now, with an otherworldly sun.

Together, one by one, they joined hands with you in the antiquated arena, opposing kismet with beliefs of serendipity.

Yet… in the end, the outcome is always the same.

“… Thank you,” the blond does not turn to your voice as he continues to embrace his sibling, his journey reaching its end. “Aether..”

In the finale, you’re always the only one left standing. The kind and the hopeful will always fall. In the deserted battleground against fate, facing zemblanities and grief… alone.

As it has always been. Then and for eternity.

You watch as he entwines his hand with Lumine, the relieved smiles on their faces, appeased after a long time of hardship, appeasing your heart.

When they both take flight to the sky, you can’t help but reach out skyward, feeling like they’ve taken a piece of you with them in their journey. Back home.

The twinkle of the stars indicates another promise lost to the universe’s scheme and for once, you accept the feeling of defeat.

The misery that results after yet another failed vow does nothing but pierce an already hollowed chest.

One would think that—after going through encores of the same anguish, you’d be used to it. But you’re not, you haven’t, and you don’t think you’ll ever will.

And as you cup your own cheeks, trying to remember the warmth of Aether’s hands when he assures you time and time again that he won’t forget, you hoped you were apathetic. Emotionless.

For at least then, you won’t be this affected by something that you know is bound to happen.

Still, you feel. Because even when you try to forget them, you can’t, for they are all that made your present life worthwhile. They made you happy and sad.

So, you smile, you laugh—you cry, and you despair.

Under the heavens, who are once again, witnesses to the unfolding of a waning star’s recurring tragedies.

The stars have lost their meaning—or to be specific, you have lost your meaning.

Your journey with Aether has enlightened you of how humans, ambitious and driven as ever, are more than capable enough to light their own constellations.

The Traveler himself has done so without your aid, and so have many others, lighting star by star with each realized worth and element.

You can easily recall that moment of cognizance, the truth, and the reality of no longer being essential.

You aren't needed anymore.

Being a companion?

Hah, with or without you, as long as fate writes success at the end of a journey, they are bound for greatness. Nothing more but a stubborn thorn is what you are to their side.

Humans are growing, why else would they stop believing in the grace of the stars? You mull one mundane night at Starsnatch Cliff.

The empty feeling inside persists to linger, and you don’t mind it.

There’s simply acceptance; you are dying fading.

Even if the lack of belief in the sky—you—is caused by none other than mortals, enmity doesn’t bloom. Why would it? When from the very beginning, you love the human race?

In their ups and downs, you are with them.

And they were with you.

I wonder where I will be… even I don’t know if I have a place there if I pass on.

In the end, it’s still up to fate to decide, isn’t it? How cruel..

Won’t you show me mercy now?

“Oh~ I didn’t expect to see a familiar face! And at such a place!” the voice enters your hearing just as you questioned the universe.

Your breath hitches at it.

Barbatos. Now, out of all times.

Was it a mistake to return to Mondstadt after all? No, no, it isn’t.

There’s no harm in coming back to a place where you’ve been taught many things in your years long journey with the bard.

There’s no harm in trying to reminisce all the good memories that’s fugacious at best.

Before you fade.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” the newcomer greets, taking the spot at your side. His usage of terms makes you laugh inwardly.

Longer than you can probably imagine.

The Windborne Bard swings his dangling legs, turning his eyes towards the starry sky with a little smile on his angelic face.

“Where have you been these days, o legendary companion of the Traveler? Hehe!”

You forgot how much his laughter can ease your worries—but you’re afraid that even his lighthearted mirth now is not enough to appease you.

Not with the present circumstances.

Finding no reason to lie, you respond, “I traveled the whole of Teyvat with Aether—seeing that he’s no longer here, though.. I’ve simply come back to the nations I’m fond of. And have stayed at for a lengthy time.”

“Mondstadt, I see. A wise choice, really, a nation of love and freedom! No one remains in the blues of their days here.”

Oh, if only such things can extend to beings such as you.

At the end of the eventide, you will still be wallowed by your blues and woes—such is a fitting end for someone personifying agony.

Love… freedom… happiness… they’re all luxurious things you can’t afford even with tears and sacrifices.

No one speaks for a while, letting the silence reign supreme.

You’ve taken to studying the slow-changing color of the firmament, knowing that when it starts to be painted with hues of the incoming sun, it’ll be the time to leave.

Once and for all.

The bard lets out some whine of some sort—you remember how he’s not one to sit still and be silent—before turning to you with a curious glint in his eyes.

“So, why come to Starsnatch Cliff? Do you plan to wish upon a star?”

“Wishing… upon a star,” your laugh is monotone as you shake your head, “What an old tradition. Barely anyone does it now.”

Of course, you’ve known what it’s like to wish on a star—only, you are the receiver of such wishes. The way humans depended on you back then, and you provide with the help you can muster… ah.

All of those are gone now.

“Hey, that’s why I’m asking,” drawls the ex-Archon, making you acquiesce with a bland, rather hopeless response.

“Even if I do so—what are the odds that such a wish will be granted, anyway? The stars… even they have no power over serendipitous miracles.”

You know—because even when you, a deity of the stars, belong in the heavens… those things aren’t for you to decide.

The power you had was to guide the lost, light the constellations, and shelter spirits in the sky.

But even that power has reduced until eventually, you’re but a scrap of the primordial being you once were.

“Wishing gives you hope though, doesn’t it? There always is a chance no matter how slim it is.” says the aquamarine-eyed male, “So come on, now!”

He’s insistent, alright. You can’t help but work up an exhausted smile at it, at the memories that resurface. It’s pleasant… and bitter.

Turning away, you breathe out a long sigh.

Regrets… there are too many, but since he’s here…

“… Then, I wish I hadn’t been so kind.”

You might as well spill the taboo, no? You’re bound to vanish, anyway—at least before then, you found the courage to oppose against written fate.

“Perhaps if I had been more selfish, more desperate—to act than be idle in hoping, maybe I wouldn’t have so many regrets before I pass on.”

Almost immediately, there is a burn on your tongue, like something is forbidding you from continuing what’s meant to be untold.

For a moment, you stop speaking, and the burn stops, as well.

On the other hand, Venti tips his head with a blink.

There are so many things to register at once—and he feels like he has very little time to acquire answers to all of them. Something inside doesn’t sit well…

“That simply won’t do,” he beams with a smile, welcoming and friendly, “State your woes, let’s finish those with a merry end! I’ll help you.”

He surely will! A friend of the Traveler is a friend of his anytime!

He ignores the peculiar sensation within that feels like it’s trying to claw its way through the surface, and opts to sway on his position, humming one of his songs.

“You’ll help me?” a whisper of a response.

He nods, repeating his assurance. He’ll help in any way he can!

Albeit it is true that he doesn’t know the [c]-haired lady for long, it’s not enough of a reason to shy away from extending his help.

Besides, perhaps if he keeps this up—they can be good friends!

“Then,”

He lets her take the time she needs. No rush, no rush! After all, trust and relationships aren’t something that should be—

“It’s meeting you.”

—Rushed..

Huh? He pauses, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as he slowly turns to the lady, only to find out that she’s already looking at him. Did I… hear that right?

Meeting him? But—they’ve only known each other for a short amount of time… !

They barely had enough conversations to begin with-

“I regret having fallen for you. Maybe I wouldn't be hurting this bad if I hadn't.”

His breath hitches and, for some reason, something inside throbs. The pain is dull, hollow, yet persistent.

With wide eyes, he whispers.

“You regret—what?”

.. Fallen? But—how.. ?

The more he’s filled with questions, he notices the more he becomes desperate. ‘Why’ proceeds to be unknown.

His confusion breaks the smiling composure of the [c]nette, evident disappointment in her visage. It makes him difficult to breathe seeing this—but why? Why so? He doesn’t know.

This desperation—it’s unexplainable.

“It’s as I said,” hums the girl, “You can’t help me with it, can you, Barbatos?”

This isn’t any normal occurrence. He knows it immediately. Something is amiss.

The drop of his shoulders, the weight in his chest, the clench of his jaw… they’re all by sheer reflex. A reaction by the subconscious from hearing his Archon name fly past a stranger.

Stunned to silence, he does nothing but gape, trying to make sense of the situation to no avail.

The fog in his head is too thick to navigate through like it's purposely there to keep him out of waters he shouldn’t tread to.

His lack of response must’ve snapped the girl out of her hopeful reverie, the light in her eyes dimming as she stands, giving him a resigned smile.

“It’s no use. I’ll leave now, thank you for gracing me with your time. I have other places to be.”

Venti is even more stunned. What? Is that… is that it?

He thinks he can feel something inside snapping when the [c]nette moves to walk away, and before he knows it, he’s scrambling to his feet.

“Wait!” his heart is pounding in his ears, hand halfway there from reaching out, “You can’t just spring that out of nowhere and—and leave… !”

“What else is there to say?” the dull tone makes his fingers tremble.

Again, he doesn’t know why.

It’s almost infuriating, to feel all sorts of distress and woe yet to receive no such answers as to why he’s feeling them in the first place.

This very moment, it feels like someone else is in control of his emotions.

Like his mind and heart are split apart.

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

“What do you mean having fallen? How do you know that I’m—when I don’t even-!”

Know you.

He tries to think, tries to recall anything of importance—but all his head paints as a memory is the time he saw her in the serenitea pot.

Nothing more.

“This is exactly why I’m saying there’s no need for explanations,” chuckles the girl—what’s her name again?—with a sigh, “You can’t force someone to remember what fate has written to be forgotten.”

Force to remember? Fate? To be forgotten?

Venti tugs at his hair, not knowing what to make of the ache in his chest.

Those words, something churns within upon hearing it. Has he… heard them in a similar context before? Ah—he doesn’t know!

“You don’t even know my name.”

He stills, swallowing once more. “That’s…”

Her name, her name, what’s her name? Again he tries to recall, this time that specific memory when the Traveler introduced her to his guests in his realm.

He was there.

“Oh, Venti, this is—”

He was there!

So why—.. something is terribly wrong.

Something is so, definitely, terribly wrong.

I can’t remember her name. The dawning horror of a realization rips a trembling gasp past his lips. Why can’t I?

It isn’t unusual for people to forget names. It’s not. But this predicament is unusual through and through—no, such a term isn’t enough to describe this, even.

Why is it that when he tries so hard, so hard to claw out a fragment of a memory involving her, the mist in his mind thickens?

He hears another sigh, one more despondent than the previous ones.

“I humored you enough, haven’t I?”

Venti purses his lips at this, lightly peeved at the crestfallen expression on the lady’s face. He doesn’t understand this at all…

“If you know it’s impossible to begin with then why did you say it… ? When you’ll only be this hurt?”

Why had she been willing to go to these lengths when she was aware of the result? What is there to hope for a circumstance that apparently can’t be changed?

Why is she trying so hard? Only to willfully reap nothing but pain?

“That’s..” she definitely hadn’t been expecting that response, but neither did the bard expect the answer. “I don’t want to be alone anymore,”

He stumbles at this, a dizzy spell enveloping him whole, accompanied by a flood of loss.

I don’t get it, he holds a hand over his heart, sensing its twist. Why am I like this?

“Is it so wrong to try?”

It’s not. With you, trying is never wrong.

Something—something feels like it’s merging with him. There is a voice in the back of his head screaming, albeit muffled.

At least, not until sunrise.

“I’ve faced this battle alone for thousands of years, is it so wrong to want for something you can’t take back?”

Stop, he wants to say when his heart churns even more. It hurts. Why does it hurt? Stop it..

Stop it! Yet there is no end.

“Is it so wrong to reminisce of a love that can’t return?”

Don’t let her walk away.

A sense of urgency bursts forth inside, alerting his senses and prompting him to exit his headspace.

He’s running before he can even register what he’s doing, grasping her hand before he can call out. Don’t let her leave again.

“Stay with me.”

The words roll off his tongue before he can even think. It seems right, to say such a thing—and it feels right when he denotes the tentative look on her features.

He doesn’t seem to be in control of most of his actions, yet he’s able to utter, “Isn’t this… the least thing I can do?”

As an apology.

A deliberate error in the system of fate is clear and obvious, still, he does not know the specifics. What he does know, however, is that it had something to do with this girl.

It has something to do with them.

He’s almost given up on trying to get a snip of what has been hidden away, but an unknown stimulus urges him to try more. To try harder.

The bard watches with keen—almost hopeful—eyes as the [c]nette smiles bitterly, accepting his invitation.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a problem—is what he wishes to respond, but his tongue is tied.

It’s as if something is holding him back from uttering such words because deep down, something says that it is a problem.

And it’s an unsolvable one.

Troubled and upset—all peculiar to him, still—he guides to sit them back at the edge of the cliff. They are both silent, for reasons already obvious.

Neither even tried to claim back the sense of tranquility.

Yet, despite its absence, Venti cannot help but feel at strange ease.

He’s comfortable sitting beside this stranger alone, even when he had been enveloped with so many acute sentiments just minutes ago.

Up until now the subtle pain in his heart lingers. He wonders if it’ll last him a lifetime.

He doesn’t know—and he doesn’t ask, fearing the answer that he may receive and the expression that he may see. And so, he sits there with her for hours on end.

And she stays there with him.

Venti’s penchant for stargazing does not emerge at that moment, instead, he resumes his path down a path where the mist in his head leads him away.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been trying to get a grasp of something, anything that may aid him in understanding this quandary.

The closer he is to touching that silver lining, however, the more it flies past his reach.

Yet, even so, he gets a grasp of someone trying to help him.

Within his psyche, there is a voice suppressed by the same mist, weeping—shouting, even—in desperation.

It’s been years! He holds his head, trying to make sense of that anguished exclamation. You’re finally here, but you’re still leaving.

That voice… is that hi—

“It’s time.”

Taken out of his thoughts, the bard flitters his wide stare towards the [c]nette, who has stood up, reaching her hand out towards the sky.

He follows her line of sight, his breath failing when he notices the lady’s translucent fingers.

“You’re—.. vanishing?”

It has a beautiful white outline, with tiny sparkles fragmenting away as if the girl is made out of stardust. His heartbeat accelerates yet again when he’s faced with a smile.

It’s no longer sad nor bitter—simply acceptance.

“It’s been predicted, after all. A deity, despite how they’re deemed immortal, can meet their own ends, too. Tonight is simply my time.”

A deity.. ? Her?

With his voice rendered useless, he can only stare on as the [c]-eyed deity bends, brushing her warm—and fading—fingers over his cheeks.

He shivers, not at the touch, but at the sensation of something cold escaping his eyes.

He didn’t even realize it…

“Don’t shed tears for a stranger.”

She’s leaving—she’s dying. The voice is there again.

“Can I say something, Barbatos?”

Unable to utter anything, he simply nods—and to this, she smiles. That smile, one of pure fondness, trembles.

He doesn’t know how it’s even possible, but he knows—he knows that it’s nothing but a façade of strength.

“I love you,” the murmur touches his heart in ways he couldn’t imagine, burning with a mix of perplexed ardor and unexplainable sorrow. “And I’m sorry.”

Venti manages to find his voice in the middle of it all.

“Sorry… for what?”

To this, the deity drops her stare to the grass, watching herself disappear bit by bit from the ground up, as well.

She clasps her vanishing fingers before throwing her head back, blinking like she’s holding back tears.

When she’s able to answer, her voice has gotten even shakier.

“For saying I regretted meeting you. For fighting a war that I couldn’t win. In the end, this is how I will pass, unremembered. But that is alright,”

She glances at him—managing to reconstruct the smile.

“I got to see you, at least.”

His throat forms the familiar aching lump, complexing his breathing as he attempts to attain clarity.

It doesn’t come, to his chagrin—but then again, how in the earth will he be able to get a sense of things when this… this strange desperation is making him panic?

When this urge to cling onto her gets stronger with each passing minute and the only reason he’s holding back is because he doesn’t know who she is?

His breath becomes irregular, heart leaping out of his chest upon noting the sky’s gradual change of hue.

A fraction of the sun is starting to break through the horizon and it causes an influx of dread.

There is something about daybreak that sends him to the edge.

“The night is waning…” he hears her say. The time is now.

Something about the sun, in general, is making him restless.

Do something! Do something—anything! Don’t let her go.

Venti lurches forward with a gasp, head in hands when the voice he’s been hearing pierces through the obscurity like an arrow shooting through the wind.

You won’t see her again so please- don’t let her go, please, don’t let her go.

Who—? He grunts and closes his eyes, unsettled by the subtle ache the voice gives.

The pain cannot be described in words—it’s not abysmal, but it’s there, pulsing in an otherworldly manner to the point that it feels like it’s some form of divine punishment.

The intervention of fate, for endeavoring to even go against it.

Still, the voice continues, and the mist in his psyche struggles to clear.

Don’t go anywhere.

Colors start to burn in the blackness of his sight, muddled like strewn watercolor on an empty canvas.

It paints a blurred scene of green, orange, and yellow—and- and someone’s speaking from afar.

It’s—her?

“You may not know me by tomorrow and by the following years, but I will leave this to you,”

Don’t leave me again.

The colors begin to swirl into specific segments, beginning the process of painting a memory long forgotten, as scribed by fate.

He sees a hand extending to give an accessory, one awfully like the one he’s clipped to his faux Vision.

“I hope you do not mind carrying another keepsake, Barbatos?”

Don’t—

The greens start with curls and sharp strokes, eventually creating the tree at Windrise, and then the oranges and yellows begin to mix as a gradient of sunset. Gradually, everything becomes clearer.

He makes out his own voice in the memory. The blur of [c] turning out to be none other than the same girl he’s been talking to the whole time.

“Can I show you how much you’re worth, then?”

And the stifled voice that cried in desperation in his mind is none other than the fragment of his subconscious who has always lied dormant, the one who has always remembered.

Who has always silently reminisced—held back by kismet—about the starlit deity.

—Please… !

And the love that's forgotten by the mind.

Epiphany dawns like the rising sun as the bard reopens his eyes, frantically clinging onto the vanishing arm of the lady with a gasp.

“[Name]!”

That’s you, isn’t it!? He purses his lips.

The deity watches him with an open mouth, various kinds of emotions swiftly coursing through her face, unable to decide on which should trounce the rest.

She stands idly, clipped stutters leaving in the wake of her surprise.

It was no imagination—he said her name.

“Don’t go,” it’s like someone else has completely taken over him in that second, taking the reign of control. “You can’t go.”

Say it. Say it!

Venti discovers rapture in his subconscious' demands. It almost feels like a split of himself, one deliberately divided by the universe to avoid going against its set rules.

“I love you.”

The lady’s breath stops for a moment. Did she hear that right?

Venti bends over, trembling at the weight of the words that flew past his lips. He hadn’t even the time to process it!

He feels troubled—to say such a thing to a stranger—yet still, for some reason, stating it feels right.

Still, his tongue continues to roll and his voice proceeds to convey the words over and over like his life depended on it.

“I love you, I love you—I love you, I love you, I’ll say it over and over just please—"

“It doesn’t work that way, Barbatos.”

Cold washes over like a wave of the sea, filled with harsh truths.

He does not understand the sudden tremor that rakes him over when the arm he’s latching onto fades completely.

“Why are you even weeping? When you do not know me?”

“But I do know you,” the part in him says in desperation as he gazes into pools of [c], yet no matter how convincing he sounds like, his eyes mirror uncertainty, “I do know you. Why else would I be- be crying.. !?”

[Name]’s smile grows sweet.

“Your heart is simply reminiscing, but your mind has long since forgotten me.”

His tears are spilling without end, raining like a storm, and oh, how his chest sears with an agony he didn’t know is possible.

Venti heaves a breath, face down, hand over his heart as he attempts to make sense of the pain.

“It hurts so much, [Name]- why does it hurt? Who are you to me?”

Nothing but raw anguish and confusion leaks into his voice.

He’s a living picture of sheer misery and the deity can’t help but regret a bit over even entertaining her selfish whims to try and get him to remember.

“Fate has always been unfair.” She kneels in front of him, translucent figure nearly showing the rising sun.

“But maybe, someday, under different circumstances.. maybe I can love you freely.”

The bard is awestruck. “Wait, then—”

You were my… !?

[Name] presses her forehead against his own, the last sparkles of her [c] dimming into nonexistence along with her gentle voice.

“And you’ll love me back again.”

Venti lifts his shaking hand, eyes still wide and teary as he brushes his palm against his lady’s cheek.

Her presence is barely there, and his hand is phasing through.

The desperation within kicks up tenfold.

“You can’t leave me like this…” he shakes his head, raising his other hand so he can cup the deity’s face—but the latter vanishes upon the first ray of the sun.

It’s so unfair. It’s so unfair! Take me with you—please!

And he’s falling forward near the edge of the cliff, by the billowing cecilias.

“No—no, you can’t… !”

Alone, with no one at his side.

He watches the last scintilla disappear like a speck of dust, without anything to remember it by. And the moment it does—

The clarity he’s been yearning for cascades like an array of shooting stars, attaching onto him piece by piece.

The stifled voice hidden away by the mist becomes comprehensible—and all that he has forgotten centuries ago resurfaces.

With what has been lost finally coming back to existence, the bard can only stare helplessly at the now brightening sky.

Why is it that just now—he remembers?

“[Name], [Name]..” he repeats.

The answer is simple; it is because she is gone now—and fate no longer has the reason to obstruct others from recalling an already forgotten goddess.

Venti whimpers before releasing a cry, one suffused with nothing but agony over his loss, and indignation over the unmerciful universe.

“My pretty star..”

The years unfold like the pages of a book, each turn accompanied by a series of events building up to the summit of a plot.

To the Windborne Bard, it’s like reliving the tales of Mondstadt’s journey.

In their ups and downs, there he still remains.

There are times when he enters his slumbers, of course, in a method to delay a faraway erosion.

He wishes to dream of a breezy place with the same goddess he’s known all his life, made to be forgotten only by the laws of this world—but even such a dream was not granted.

It’s depressing, yes, but he’s learned not to be too keen on hope… not when it’s an apathetic system listening.

But something feels different this time.

Venti notes it after his awakening, as he ambles back into the streets of Mondstadt, watching descendants of ancestors’ he’s met traipse through the city.

It’s sundown, yet, the whole place seems to be light with stardust.

The sentiment brought by the atmosphere is nothing short of nostalgic.

A young girl with dark purple hair is handing out what appears to be an accessory, stylized into a four-pointed star in gold casing. When she arrives at his side, she’s all but pushing the item into his hands.

“Hi, traveling bard! Please accept this, whisper a prayer and let it reach the stars! It’s the merry time of reminiscing divine luminescence!”

“Divine.. luminescence?”

He hasn’t heard of such a term until now—a new festival of sorts? And something about this girl is familiar.

“Yes! Astrologist Mona Megistus has uncovered the forgotten goddess’ feats a long time ago. This day is when the whole of Mondstadt decided to commemorate it,” she beams with an excited grin.

“The goddess [Name] has linked so much to Mondstadt, you know! The festival serves to show our thanks and reverence.” Giving him a pat on the arm, she waves before skipping away, “Do enjoy your stay, bard!”

Venti glances at the object in his hand. She said [Name]..

Ah, no wonder that child was familiar… she’s a descendant of the astrologist…

To think that Mona has dedicated her time into unraveling the mysteries of a divinity lost in time… oh, how he wished to thank her.

Oh but wait—festival, whisper his prayers?

The Windborne Bard shifts his gaze towards the sky, now deepening its blue. The stars are yet to appear, but that is enough.

With a nod, he leaves the gates of Mondstadt with only a single destination in mind.

He doesn’t rush, allowing the time to pass until the firmament has gotten dark and is bedecked with thousands of scintillas and constellations.

It is cloudless, presenting a breathtaking view of the heavens.

Even more so when he reaches Starsnatch Cliff, noticing how even more cecilias have bloomed like a field.

[Name]… he thinks, clutching the given item in his hands.

Before, the reminder of the goddess’ name only brings an ache to his heart, but now—bitter fondness is all that there is.

Looking back down on the star, he brushes his fingers over its iridescent figure. That girl said I should whisper my prayers, right?

He brings it close to him, shutting his eyes before mumbling all that he’s hoped for.

Before he knows it, the item takes on a splendid white glow—like he has a real star in his hold—before floating and taking to the skies.

It disperses into beautiful stardust and he realizes that more of these follows, all originating from Mondstadt.

It brings relief to his expression, watching it all erupt similarly like fireworks.

The weight in his chest is lifted, a sense of contentment washing over the more he stares at the stellar collection of white in the evening sky.

“You’re remembered, [Name].”

Venti utters with a smile before turning away, planning to learn more about this commemorative festival and engage in it in all ways possible.

If it’s honoring his muse, he’ll know no bounds and limits.

They're rebuilding their belief. They're bringing her back.

But then a flash of light behind makes him pause. He does not move for a second, wondering if it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him.

After all, didn’t the star item emit the same glow… ?

He questions this, yet all his doubts cease the instant when—

“It’s been a while,”

He stiffens. That voice…

No, no—it can’t be.. he’s not dreaming, is he?

“I hope I didn’t make you wait long, Barbatos.”

Venti turns around—and a tear slides down his cheek.

a/n: shucking happy ending for our tragic protagonist (sobsobsobsob) venti's side! takes up most of the angst as per requested~

Aether's Ending

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @aryllechan @limelightsuperhero

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭'𝐬 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬

#m-event #venti x reader #venti fluff #venti angst #genshin fluff #genshin angst #reader insert #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #female reader #ficlet #OMG HAPPY ENDING WEEEEEE

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thsle · 2 years ago

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The Many Deaths of Asajj Ventress

While not as memetic as Shaak Ti's many deaths, Asajj Ventress meets her end a surprising number of ways.

Star Wars: Clone Wars "Chapter 19"

Having been defeated atop the ancient Massassi temples of Yavin 4 by Anakin Skywalker, Asajj Ventress fell into a seemingly bottomless gorge. While falls are notoriously survivable for the force uses of the galaxy far far away this could have been the assassins ignominious end.

Star Wars: Republic 71

Asajj Ventress stumbles upon Anakin Skywalker as he receives a message from his wife, goading him into a Duel in the Coruscant Underlevels. After inflicting his eye scar Asajj Ventress is crushed and electrocuted by Anakin Skywalker before falling into the depths of Coruscant.

Star Wars: Obsession 5

Having failed Dooku for the last time Asajj Ventress is shot and wounded by a MagnaGuard. She then attempts to stab Obi-Wan Kenobi with a piece of shrapnel when he attempts to save her and is stopped by a slash of Anakin’s Lightsaber. Asajj Ventress finally dies in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s arms...

... for all of 1 page. Some sort of executive meddling probably was responsible for this epilogue, the final appearance of Asajj Ventress in the Legends continuity.

Labyrinth of Evil

In The Essential Reader's Companion we get this tantalising hint of what could have been.

Star Wars: The Clone Wars Dark Disciple

Part of the The Clone Wars Legacy project Dark Disciple is a novel based on a series of scripts from unfinished episodes of The Clone Wars wherein according to Wookiepedia:

Quinlan Vos (her lover) planned to rescue Dooku only to be led to Darth Sidious and kill both Sith, but that plan failed when Vos, Dooku, and Ventress crashed on Christophsis. Pursued by the Jedi, Dooku learned of Vos' plan and tried to kill him with Force lightning, but Ventress stood in the way and saved Quinlan's life, at the cost of her own. After Dooku escaped, Ventress' sacrifice helped Vos break the dark side's grip on him completely.

Ventress, now once again on the light side of the Force, died in Vos' arms.

Star Wars Resistance

According to Star Wars Resistance executive producer/head writer Brandon Auman, the Disney animated series very nearly featured a battle between the villainous Kylo Ren and fan-favorite Star Wars: The Clone Wars character Asajj Ventress.

Considering the Sequel Trilogy’s habit of killing of Original Trilogy protagonists to build up Kylo Ren, and his obsession with killing beings his grandfather could not it seems likely he would murder the then ~84 year old Asajj Ventress.

#star wars #asajj ventress #star wars clone wars #star wars comics #dark disciple #wtf did tumblr do to my formatting

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oh-no-eu-didnt · 3 years ago

Photo

Bail Organa was a human Senator representing Alderaan, where he sat as Viceroy. Organa believed in the strength of democracy and the Republic, and, following its fall, helped organize the Rebel Alliance. Organa was instrumental in the preservation of the Jedi Order during this period, and was a capable, kind-hearted man dedicated to others.

Source: The Essential Reader’s Companion (Art: Chris Trevas; 2012)

First Appearance: Star Wars: From the Adventures of Luke Skywalker (1976)

Read more on Wookieepedia.

#bail organa #alderaan #galactic republic #galactic senate #rebel alliance #chris trevas #expanded universe #star wars canon #star wars legends

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spvce-cowboy · 4 years ago

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gentle things

ch. 2 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

previous- ch.1: “a strange beauty”

next- ch.3: “reunion”

rating: mature

8.5k words

warnings: mutual pining, masturbation (f), alcohol, descriptions of gore

summary: after a few months on the Crest, you find yourself growing closer to your new companions.

a/n: the gay agenda is finding a way to slip a dolly parton song into a star wars fanfic, i rest my case.

Most mornings you wake to the child’s soft cooing. Occasionally, the sound is met with a low, modulated voice, that murmurs incoherent phrases in response. It somehow puts your heart to rest before you even remember where you are.

It’s strange, you’ve been a resident of the Crest for a handful of months now and it sometimes still takes you a few moments each morning to reorient yourself. You blame it on the strange limbo of hyperspace—it always throws you off for at least a day or two, and you swear your dreams are more vivid after. Sometimes you wake up panting for no reason at all.

You’re adjusting pretty well. A bit strange having a roommate/boss who doesn’t acknowledge your presence beyond the occasional but respectful nod. But it’s way better than you could have possibly imagined when you first started turning the idea over in your head. Granted, that was when you were about elbow-deep in his chest cavity, trying to fish out pieces of the shoddily constructed weapon that broke off inside him. You needed the first way out that presented itself to you, something you and Am’ile both agreed with, and well, when opportunity strikes or whatever.

Your first evening on the Crest, you asked the Mandalorian where you should sleep and he just shrugged, handing you a single, scratchy blanket with a “this is all I have.” Later, when you pass his bunk as he’s taking a nap, he’s curled in on himself on a bare cot and you realize that threadbare piece of fabric was literally all he had. You don’t bring it up, but something in your chest softens towards him after that. There’s a new quilt folded neatly on his bunk by the time he returns from his first mission.

Your second day onboard, you found a metal table in a junk heap and pushed it against one of the walls in the engineering bay. You spent the better part of an afternoon figuring out how to weld it to the floor. The medical supplies went on top, then you pushed your pillow and your rolled-up mattress underneath. Sure, there was technically a second cot in the Crew’s quarters, but you wanted to give the Mandalorian his privacy whenever possible. Besides, as long as there wasn’t too much turbulence, your set-up was pretty great.

After a few missions, you’ve visited enough markets to buy an ample supply of blankets, sweaters, and pillows to keep you comfortable on the floor of the ship. It’s freezing most nights, especially in hyperspace, and cocooning yourself in as many warm things as you could manage helps stave off both the chill as well as the occasional home sickness. The collection you’ve amassed thus far is in a various mis-match of pale jewel tones that remind you of Am’ile’s house. You didn’t realize that until you’d piled them all together on your bed and you couldn’t help but laugh at yourself a bit.

The child loves your soft things, happily snuggling up with you for naps while waiting for the Mandalorian’s return—though you suspect he’s just grateful for the new company. A consistent presence while dad’s away. You’re happy to give that to him.

The new routine is comfortable, the company is nice, the work is relatively easy. And, stars, the things you get to see. It’s honestly more than you could have ever asked for.

When your eyes blink open it’s already around eight in the morning. You’ve landed on Nevarro where the Mandalorian has already been gone for a day, attending some kind of “extended business meeting,” as he put it. Yawning, you eventually roll out of bed and stumble into the fresher, blearily rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with the spray’s cold water. Stepping out, you wrap your towel around yourself. In the tiny metal mirror suspended over the sink you pat on some lotion onto your face, eyes still heavy.

Reaching for your toothbrush, your knuckle grazes one of the Mandalorian’s facial razors. You wince, flicking your hand before examining it. A tiny nick. Sucking on it for a second to stop the blood flow, you glance at the Mandalorian’s side of the cabinet.

It’s strange to see the most banal traces evidence of what he is, who he is, behind the all that beskar. Like the facial razors—to think he’s in here, maskless, shaving his face, while you’re playing with his kid or whatever just a few steps away. To think he takes a shower every day—er, well, you’re not sure about that one, but at least when he’s on the Crest—stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist in order goes about his little tasks.

You swallow, removing your hand from your mouth and grabbing your toothbrush before your mind can wander anywhere else. You brush your teeth particularly well that morning.

The day is pretty typical from there. After feeding both yourself and the child breakfast, you settle on the floor of the hull with the small metal ball he’s obsessed with. You place him a few feet in front of you, he sways slightly on both feet before plopping down to mirror you, hands stretched forward in an demand to be put in your lap.

“Let’s do some of the exercises, yeah?” You know you’re essentially just talking to yourself as you hold the ball in the air, but you might as well make the effort anyway. Am’ile was no stranger to kids like him, or at least that’s how she put it—something about her people and some other group, the specifics completely slipped your mind. She didn’t really elaborate and you knew not to press.

Even though you don’t know much, you do try to mimic Am’ile’s drills-disguised-as-play at least a few times a day. He only seemed to do what you asked during those sessions when you weren’t looking, distracted by cleaning or studying whatever book you’d picked up hours later. You would always find the little ball in strange places, definitely not where you’d last placed it, and certainly out of the child’s reach.

At least it was good to know he was partially pretending to not listen to you. You could work with partially.

The kid has been fussy since waking, refusing to focus on any of the things you were trying to prompt him to do. Yesterday, you spent a bit too much time at the markets with him—growing sick of protein bars, you initially set out trying to find something closer to tasting like home. Really, you just liked getting out of the Crest so you could see all those people.

You’ve amassed a collection of language dictionaries, trying to do some fast learning and even faster practicing to get your way around. Sometimes the vendors are kind and help you stutter your way through disjointed sentences in their native tongue, others just huff and immediately switch to Basic as soon as you start talking. You don’t mind either way.

The marketplace as a whole is new and exciting, the clatter and clamor of movement, laughing and snarling, voices raised in argument and lowered in the smallest exchange of intimacy. So far removed from the quiet slopes of Am’ile’s home and—

You don’t let the rest of that thought happen, quickly scooping the kid up and wrapping him to your chest with a long swath of fabric.

“I’m goin’ a little crazy in here too, little guy,” you mumble, pulling your satchel over your shoulder. “Your dad should be back in a while—let’s try to find a contact for supplies until then, yeah? Shouldn’t be too hard.” A total lie, it was way more difficult to find what you are looking for than you initially thought. You were particularly looking for a cauterizing instrument that was a bit more sturdy than the glorified cigar lighter the Mandalorian was currently using. Besides basic med-kit stock, it was nearly impossible to find anything more advance under the radar.

Yesterday was half-heartedly spent searching the markets in search of someone who might be tapped into Republic supply runs, which rendered you, predictably, empty-handed. Now you were on to your second best option, asking around the closest cantina where you could find the instruments you were looking for for without raising too much attention.

Okay, so maybe the Mandalorian specifically told you to keep out of the bars when you’re traveling without him. But you managed just fine on your own yesterday in an arguably more crowded environment. You’ve also dealt with… far worse than that hunk of metal could ever possibly imagine. You’re more than capable on your own. Still, you make sure to strap a dagger and a blaster to your belt before heading out.

You make quick work hurrying to the cantina, making sure to cover your head with the hood of your tunic and conceal the little one as much as possible. Basic survival instincts usually warrant drawing as little attention to yourself as possible, being a young human woman traveling alongside a small green wizard creature is pretty much the opposite of that.

He, predictably, doesn’t take very well to the concealed swaddle you’ve confined him to, and the two of you are in a constant back-and-forth of you attempting to wrap him up and him making quick work of wriggling out of any cover tactic you try. If it weren’t for those damn ears your life would be so much easier.

The bar has the quiet hum of activity, occasionally interspersed with a loud chatter of conversations rising to some kind of boiling point. You maneuver yourself to the counter and try to get the attention of the bartender, holding the kid to your chest until he squirms his way upwards and settles with his chin on your shoulder, one of his ears slipping out of the head covering you’d fashioned and thwapping you in the neck. You’ll deal with that in a second.

You’ve only just caught the bartender’s attention when the doors slam open. The clamor of the cantina quiets momentarily, and you see everyone shift slightly to eye whoever just entered. The two new patrons seem to be in the middle of an argument, voices low in secrecy but tense with frustration.

“I’d know that green mug anywhere.” With that you finally turn, heart dropping with anxiety. It’s the Mandalorian and a companion, a human man. The man’s voice, a deep bellow, is warm and inviting in a way that shouldn’t make you freeze completely as he addresses the kid. He then looks you up and down, pausing as the Mandalorian continues stomping forwards. You freeze anyway. “Ah—this is that girl you mentioned? Your caretaker?”

“She’s a medic,” the Mandalorian sharply corrects the man without moving to look at you. He quickly returns back to whatever conversation was initially at hand as the man continues his brisk stride towards a table at the back. There are three people already seated there, but by the time the Mandalorian arrives they have all left in a scuffling hurry. Neither of the men acknowledge it, just immediately slide into opposing sides of the booth. “Karga, this is ridiculous--I’m not a Republic spy, why would there be this many hoops on a bounty you’re just handing out?”

“I’m not just ‘handing it out,’ Mando, I’m giving it to you because I know you’re the most capable,” the man, Karga, addresses the Mandalorian then directs his attention towards you. “Come here, girl. Let me get a good look at you, I’m curious.” Turning to the bartender, he barks out an order for spotchka. You walk towards the table. There’s too much attention on the three of you to resist, you wouldn’t want to make things more complicated for the Mandalorian anyway. The bounty hunter’s voice almost immediately overrides his, low but gritty with anger as you slide into the booth beside him.

“I can’t—Karga you know I’ve never done something like this. This high-profile. Going deep-cover for a job isn’t something I can do.”

You feel Karga’s eyes on you, it’s brief but piercing. You busy yourself by looking up at the woman who serves you a small glass of the bright blue liquid, quietly thanking her.

“It’s all the fobs or nothing. The signal will be broadcast in a few hours’ time—they won’t expect something like this to be conducted semi-publicly. Keep monitoring the broadcast, but save that fob for last,” Karga places three fobs in the center of the table, then slides a forth a few inches removed from the rest. He can tell the Mandalorian isn’t convinced—stars, even you can tell he isn’t convinced. Karga heaves a sigh and makes a stab at reassurance. “You can figure it out. You’re the only one I can trust to get this done. The most capable.”

The Mandalorian’s hand slams down on the table, you jump, quickly looking between the intense but even staring contest going on between Karga and the infuriated bounty hunter. Slowly, and with more than a bit of melodrama, the Mandalorian drags the fobs under his hand towards him, slipping it into his pocket without breaking eyes from Karga’s.

He turns heel so quickly his cape whips behind him. You scurry after him as fast as you can manage.

You can still feel the frustration steaming off of the Mandalorian the whole walk back to the Crest. You keep quiet, trailing behind him by a few steps—you desperately want to ask what was wrong. Your mouth stays firmly shut.

Boarding the Crest, the Mandalorian immediately scales the ladder into the cockpit. After a few minutes you feel the Crest shutter into the air, quickly shooting into the empty sky and then hyperspace. You sigh and grab a book, turning the kettle on to make some caf and settling in your bed to an eye on the kid as he toddles around the expanse of the hull.

Hours later, when the child has exhausted all possible forms of entertainment, usually consisting of live wires and exposed paneling that you tug him away from, he begins to get fussy in a way that means he’s tired but refuses to sleep. It starts with the occasional whimper that quickly crescendos into a full-blown fit. You know all the warning signs at this point.

The little terror had a bit of a habit of doing this—once the Mandalorian and you are in the ship he refuses to fall asleep unless you two are in the same room. A part of you knows this is a symptom of separation anxiety—which you in no way can blame him for, given the circumstances of their bond—but the cockpit is just about the last place you want to be.

It’s not that you’re scared of the Mandalorian, or anything. It would just be… incredibly awkward with the mood he’s in right now to attempt to lull his kid to sleep in his presence.

“Listen, buddy, your dad is super grumpy right now so—" The child just starts crying even louder, little fists balled up to pound futilely against your chest, trying to push you away. “Okay okay okay! I get it. I get it.” You sigh, biting your lip and looking down at the kid, then up at the ladder. The kid starts screaming. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.” You begin the climb up.

“Hey, sorry he’s being a little sensitive again,” you say as your head pops up onto the pilot’s deck, miraculously managing to pull yourself into the room with one arm holding the squirming kid against you. The floor seals shut behind you once you haul yourself over the edge.

The Mandalorian just grunts in response and continues flipping through radio channels, seemingly growing more frustrated with himself the longer it takes for him to find the frequency Karga directed him to. He’s in the pilot’s chair, back turned to you, shoulders hunched in concentration.

You settle into the copilot’s seat, resting the kid on his back on top of your legs. He settles almost instantly, big eyes no longer filled with tears.

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you tickle him lightly until he starts giggling, then scoop him back up into your arms, allowing yourself to slide back in the chair a bit. You stare out into the bright darkness of space, blinking back at the stars as the child coos gently in your lap.

“A coded civilian station, is he fucking crazy?” The Mandalorian mumbles to himself in his continued litany of abuses he’s slung Karga and the greater universe’s way since returning to the Crest.

The longer you’ve been here the more he’s started to do things like that, just talking into the air without the expectation of a response. You begin to think that that’s just the way he acts when it was just him and the kid. Though you’ve noticed that he has been cursing way more than he did when you first met. That might be a little bit your fault. Oops.

You look down at the child and rub one of his ears, leaning down to press a kiss at the crown of his head. His little three-fingered hand catches your hair and pulls. Wincing, you resist the urge to jerk your head back. Instead, you extend the pad of your index finger and lightly wiggle it against his button nose. He sneezes and lets go almost immediately.

You let out a triumphant “ha!” then shake your head slightly and twist your face in a playful scowl. The kid resumes his giggling, batting at your hands when you try to tickle his tummy.

Glancing over at the angry hunk of beskar seated beside you, you notice he’s paused with his hand hovering over the radio’s controls, his head turned slightly towards his right shoulder to silently regard you and the child.

You quickly divert your gaze back down to the kid, resuming rubbing his ears as his eyes slowly, devastatingly slowly, ease shut. Only to snap open again with a playful babble, hands reaching up again for the free entertainment of the hair still attached to your head. Shit. You sigh. The Mandalorian goes back to flipping through the channels.

More static and garbled languages you’ve never encountered before. You try to ignore the pounding of your heart—that was probably the longest you’d ever seen him grant you any kind of attention—and keep trying to lull the child to sleep. As quietly as possible you try to stand, scooting around the copilot’s seat to gently bounce the kid in the limited space to the back of the cockpit. He’s quieted significantly, just enough that you could probably get him to sleep on your own, as long as you don’t jostle him too much on the descent back into the hull. You’re about to head down the ladder when—

The Mandalorian pauses momentarily on a channel that’s playing music. The opening swell of the first verse is unmistakable. Your chest fills with a certain warm feeling, pounding with memories you had long since tucked away.

“Wait,” you say it without thinking. Without even processing that the words left your mouth. “Wait, could you go back? That… that song…”

Wordlessly, he clicks back to the previous station. The cabin is filled with the music, a warm and bright voiced female vocalist smoothly intertwined with her male partner. The melody is plucky, something you could dance to—and have, more than once—and it’s overly saccharine in its pure, absolute joy in itself. But you suppose the cheesiness is part of the charm. You relish in it regardless.

You do something to me that I can’t explain. There is a memory that surfaces just as quickly as it disappears. You couldn’t have been more than four. Your father, spinning you around by your pudgy forearm. It’s his laugh you remember most of all, something boisterous and full-bodied. You are dancing around the kitchen of a home you can’t remember, the floor dappled with light from the pieces of stained glass your mother had dangling from the windows. Hold me closer and I feel no pain. You smile to yourself, bowing your head down at the little one, quietly murmuring what lyrics you remember, rocking your hips in a gentle little dance. It works, the kid is fast asleep by the last chord.

The song ends, the disc jockey begins speaking in yet another language you don’t recognize. The Mandalorian quickly turns the volume down, lest it wake the child. He has reflexes fast enough to startle you, luckily your jolt does nothing to bother the baby in your arms. You gently place him in the pram, hovering beside the pilot’s seat. You slide the shield doors shut to keep out the noise and step back.

“Thank you, Mandalorian,” you say it softly, but you can see his helm bob slightly in a nod of acknowledgement. You take a deep breath and begin to head towards the ladder as he resumes flicking through the stations.

“Hey,” the Mandalorian says your name. You pause for a moment, then turn. He clears his throat—the sound comes out as a rough crackle over the modulator. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he sounds a bit nervous. “You can uh… you can just call me Mando, you know. The full thing is a bit of a mouthful.”

You blink once, then nod. Turning heel you, mercifully, scale back down the ladder with as much grace as could be mustered, despite your shaking hands.

That night, when you touch yourself, you shove the blanket he gave you against your nose and mouth. To keep quiet, you tell yourself. It smells like his soap.

Days after the radio incident, you can’t help but occasionally find that you’re singing the song to yourself as you go about your chores. It just seems to pop in your head as soon as you open your eyes, and it’s just stuck there, but you’re not very mad about that.

Mando has landed on some bitterly cold planet that was made up of little more than ash and a thick red fog. He had left late last night/early this morning to start his hunt, telling you in a little scribbled note to expect him back in two days’ time. He has really bad handwriting, it’s strangely amusing.

You decide to deep clean the hull: washing the floors, doing laundry, organizing what meager new supplies you were able to gather from Nevarro. As you did, you sang to yourself. Out loud. Just for the pleasure of it.

Your mother taught you kulning, as was tradition for the young girls on your home planet. Your father taught you the low-bellied croon of the casino singers. When things were still good, you would sing for your parents friends at the parties they would throw and your father would play the piano. You wish you had more memories like that. It’s hard to recall anything through the foggy barriers of the past fifteen years, it makes something in your chest ache to even try.

Am’ile’s radio was for emergencies only, not wanting to draw unwanted attention with the signal. It has been ages since you’ve had access to one, ages since you’ve heard music that didn’t come from your own mouth. That was why you’d started the nightly calls at Am’ile’s because before that grassy little planet… well, speaking was barely an option. You’d seen too many girls hurt for things far less than murmuring a tune.

To sing in the way your mother taught you, with the whole of your body. To make yourself so boldly known. It was all you had ever wanted.

You start putting together dinner for you and the kid as the day winds down. Mando had a barely functioning hotplate that you were able to make the best of, having bought some fresh produce at the far more hospitable planet the three of you were stationed at the previous day.

The stew cooks while you finish up the rest of your work, slicing bread and setting up a little dining area for your and the kid because, frankly, why not go all-out? It’s good to treat yourself to the small, gentle things. Even when on an unforgiving rock hurtling through space. Especially then.

You hop in the fresher while you wait for the meat to get to the proper temperature, twisting your body to keep your hair out of the water’s blast. In the enclosed space, you feel a less self-conscious and allow yourself sing a little louder than the under-the-breath, partial-hum you’d managed throughout the rest of the day.

You don’t hear the hull opening between that and the fresher’s spray.

When you turn the water off, you recognize the sound of the last few mechanisms of the hull door stealing itself back in place. Anxiety settles in quickly as you dry off. God, please let it just be Mando please. There’s the sound of something heavy being thrown against a wall. You wince.

A low voice. “Pretty little bird you’ve got singing in here, just for me?” Then a wet crack. “Mother fuck—"

Your heart lurches in your chest as you quickly pull your clothes on, cracking open the fresher door to peer out into the hull. Mando is standing over the body of a target, now crumpled to the ground, holding a bleeding headwound with two long, thin hands. He nudges the bounty with the butt of the weapon he had presumably just used against the man’s skull. The man gives a choked moan, completely incapacitated.

“Do you…” your voice sounds far too small. You blink, inhaling and starting over. “Do you need to bring him in alive or do you need my—"

“The carbonite will stop the bleeding,” Mando’s voice is gruff. You nod, even though his back is turned to you, watching from the safety of the doorway as he leans down and lugs the whining body into the chamber. Once the bounty is sealed away, you step back out into the open.

Mando pushes past you almost without recognition, limping heavily.

“Hey—hey!” You trail behind him, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinches. “Could you at least let me do my job?”

He regards you for an extended beat, then readily sits. It’s more of a controlled collapse.

“Is it your leg?” You ask, kneeling beside him and helping him peel off what armor you can. He shakes his head.

“It’s just more of a bruise I—my side, my hip. Onto the top of my leg.”

You nod slowly. “Okay, can you get to the fresher yourself or do you think you’ll need help? You have to rinse off before I treat you.” There’s an almost clay-like layer of red dust on his clothes and armor. It would be impossible to treat him properly without getting most of it off.

He wordlessly extends a gloved hand for you to help him up, you oblige—albeit struggling a bit with his weight. Once standing, you hover beside him on his limping walk to the fresher until he gives you a short: “I’ve got it.” You back off, returning to tend to your dinner while you wait.

When he emerges again he’s only wearing a sleep shirt, his mask, and a towel, the fabric held at the hip by his clenched fist to expose an already bruising thigh. He sits on a crate with an audible wince, easing himself back to lean against the wall slightly.

Your throat constricts as you move to his exposed side, but you try to breathe evenly enough to maintain an air of professionalism. Which gets increasingly difficult when he, with another sound of sharp pain, pulls up his shirt to reveal a series of small, shallow punctures traveling up his flank and over his hip that slightly weep with a mixture of blood and the cold water on his skin. He holds the shirt, just below his pectorals with his opposing hand, allowing the towel to drape over his lap while still revealing the side you need to work on. You can see the faint cut of his abdominal muscles, tracing south alongside a thin trail of dark hair leading--

“Shotgun pellets,” his voice stops your thoughts before they can get any worse. You’re partially thankful. Glancing up, you furrow your brow in confusion. He clarifies, “they’re a uh… a projectile type weapon. He was fighting dirty and desperate.” You nod, looking back down. The worst of the spray was able to score the skin right above his hip, but most of it had just bounced off his quad, leaving a series of raised, purpling welts. It was superficial at worst, but still not the best to look at. He seemed to read your mind. “Beskar was able to deflect them for the most part. I’ll be fine, just cauterize the worst of it.”

“The more you use the cauterizer the more of a chance you have of the scar tissue getting infected, you know. That’s some business you want no part of,” you say, digging through your kit for a pain ointment and the bacta you were able to refill on Nevarro. The more you looked at it, the more foolish of a blow for him to have taken it becomes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re doing this on purpose,” you’re muttering it to yourself before you can fulling think through the implications. When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him. “That was a joke.”

“You need to work on your material, then.”

You laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you get to work. It’s easier to feel more confident around him the longer you’ve acclimated on the Crest. You have a bad habit of using snark as a defense mechanism. The more you work with Mando, the less you’re able to keep that up. It feels nice, you can relax slightly when you’re given the reassurance of him reciprocating the conversation.

You finish pressing the last of the bandages against his side. “The pain stuff I used should start sinking in soon, it might burn for a bit beforehand but it’ll get better after a few minutes.” He nods, pulling the towel tightly around his waist before standing and limping back into his quarters. He returns, fully dressed, putting a little more pressure on his leg than he did before he left. You quickly, desperately, find a way to conceal your staring.

“Hey—I have a surprise for you,” you turn to the kitchenette, busying yourself by testing the stock with a messy sip. It’s not… the best thing you’ve ever made in your whole life, but it’s the closest thing to the meals you made with Am’ile that you’ve had since you left your old home. It smells lovely, enough to have filled the hull with the smell of the herbs you used. “I thought it was just gonna be me and the womp rat so I made dinner, if you wanna eat with us that is.” You pull out the bottle of wine you bought from one of the storage drawers, a slight heat rising to your cheeks. You hold it up triumphantly anyway. “I really just needed an excuse to buy this for myself. But I totally understand if you’d rather eat upstairs by yourself.”

“Thank you,” he says hesitantly. “I’ll… I’ll stay while you eat. I can take mine to the cockpit once you’ve finished.”

“Would you want to have a glass with me, at least?” You hold the wine bottle by the neck at your side. He’s grumpy. Part of you wants to find some way to fix that, knowing it would be hard for you to let yourself enjoy the rest of the night with him fuming over something just upstairs. “I’ll cover my eyes. It’ll be like when I brought you your meals, while you were fixing the ship. No peaking. I promise.”

He takes a moment, before nodding slowly, for some reason you’re kind of surprised he agrees. Maybe that’s why your smile is so big. Maybe it was the fact you’d already cracked the bottle open for a few sips before taking your shower, the warmth of it at the bottom of your stomach making it much easier to playfully prod at the bounty hunter. Probably a mix of both.

You kneel beside your bed to gather another pillow, placing it across the makeshift table you’ve fashioned out of two crate and one of your blankets. You turn to bring the rest of the food to the table, three wooden bowls and a plate for the kid. You’re in the middle of separating the meat from the broth for him when you glance up at Mando, who is still standing exactly where you last saw him. He points to the tuft of fabric you had placed on the floor for him.

“What’s that for?”

You’re not sure if he’s serious or not. “Um, comfort?”

He doesn’t say anything, just cocks his helmet slightly to the left.

“Alright, old man,” you roll your eyes, refilling your cup . “Suit yourself.”

Mando pauses for a second longer before easing himself onto the pillow. He says your name softly, almost to himself. “This looks… really great. Thank you.”

“Well I wouldn’t take it to heart too much, chrome bucket. I was planning on hoarding all this for me and the kid. You just came back at quite the opportune moment,” you grin cheekily up at him before tearing your piece of bread and dipping it into the broth.

He reaches across the makeshift table and picks up his cup. You’ve repurposed the tops of two of his thermoses to make them. He examines it in his hand for a moment before speaking.

“Were you singing that song that was on the radio, yesterday? When I came in?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you reach over the table and grab the cup in his hand to fill it with the wine. “I haven’t heard it in ages, you know? Any music at all, honestly, but especially that song. It was one of my dad’s favorites,” you detract before either of you could linger on that last statement. “It’s been in my head all day. I was meaning to ask you, when it comes to the radio—it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me to listen while you’re on the job, yeah? Tracing signals and all that?”

Mando mulls it over for a second, accepting his cup from you and staring down at it. “I’m not sure. Better safe than sorry, but I could ask around about getting a uh… one of those new portable ones.” You don’t want to tell him that those newfangled portable radios have been a thing since you were in the cradle—something about his technological obliviousness was oddly endearing. “I’ll ask around and see if there’s some kind of blocking signal we could install. If you’d like one, that is. I’d like to take a sip, now, if that’s okay?”

You nod, immediately putting your hands over your face. You know you could just squeeze your eyes shut like oh, maybe a normal person might? But to be honest, it was a little funny to do. To act this silly in front of one of the most effective killing machines in the galaxy, who you have somehow convinced to attend a quaint family dinner. Might as well mess around a bit with it, yeah?

You hear the hiss of the mask resealing but you don’t remove your hands from your eyes. “It’s good wine,” he remarks. “You can look now.”

Removing your palms from your face, you blink your vision back to clarity, reaching for your cup again. Your mouth is already growing warm in the way that let you know that when Mando meant good he also meant strong. You have to agree.

“The people on Am’ile’s planet would make this crazy strong liquor out of these peaches that only grew in the valley where we lived. The village that was closest to us got super wealthy off of the stuff--honestly I can’t stomach anything too sweet anymore after it, spent an equal amount of time coming up as it did going down, if you get what I’m saying.” You screw up your face at even the thought of the syrup-like drink. “The orchards were super beautiful, though. The tallest foliage in the valley and they were maybe only a few heads taller than you. All types of critters living in the roots—that little one loved it.” You gesture to the child, who was grabbing as much of the dish’s meat as he could in his stubby three-fingered hands. The rest of his plate remained untouched. “Am’ile and I used to take walks through it all the time, especially when I first got there. It was too dangerous to go into the forests by yourself so I would spend ages in the orchards if she wasn’t putting me to work, just for a change of scenery.” Your mouth kind of just keeps running. It just feels so… nice, to talk to someone without having to try and stutter your way through a new language. That and the liquid courage in your cup made you unapologetically chatty. “She had so many little trinkets and things from her travels as a Republic medic, but only like ten books tops, all on medicine. I literally have the things memorized at this point, they were the only things to read.”

“You could go back at some point, if you want. When there’s a lull in jobs I could probably drop you and the kid off, spend a few weeks with her while I keep hunting,” Mando casually picks up his glass again, and you automatically cover your eyes with your hands. You’re still smiling, just with a little weight behind it.

“No, no that’s okay. Am’ile would get in too much trouble with the locals, for good reason. It isn’t safe for them and—to be honest, Mando, I don’t think the kid could take being separated from you for that long,” you pause for a moment. “But that’s incredibly kind of you to offer, thank you. I mean that.”

His mask hisses back in place. You ease the index and middle finger of your right hand to peer at him playfully before lowering your hands again. It’s a gentle spar between the two of you, an easy rhythm to settle into.

“Your med-station,” he nods towards your table/bed set up, looking particularly messy in comparison to the hull you’d spent the day cleaning. “It’s…”

Your heart drops, ready for the scolding. “Ah—uh, I’m sorry.” You look down at your plate—even if he couldn’t see the heat rising to your face, you try to hide your embarrassment by stabbing at another bite of food. You glance up at him sheepishly. “It’s the only place on the Crest that’s tucked away enough, I didn’t want to get underfoot.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. You swallow. “I like it. A good idea. It’s like a reminder whenever I leave, not to do anything too stupid.”

“Oh, well,” you’re not sure why that catches you off guard so much. You honestly had no idea he even processed your presence since you’d first moved in besides the occasional medical assistance you provided. “I’ll make sure to put the more intimidating syringes front-and-center the next time I organize it.”

And he laughs.

Well—so, okay. It’s not a full laugh, more like a few low releases of air, but there’s a clear smile behind it that you can definitely hear. It’s enough to have you slightly grinning to yourself the rest of the meal.

By the time you’re finished, you’re a bit hazy off the wine and incredibly sleepy. You lean back slightly and yawn, looking at where Mando has settled the kid on his lap. “Sometimes I wish I could just snap my fingers and he’d just go to sleep. There’s too much energy in that little guy.”

“I can take him for the night,” Mando is currently engaged in a gentle dance of keeping the little one’s hands away from the food you’ve portioned for the bounty hunter. It’s more amusing than it should be. “If you could just help me take this upstairs I’d be more than happy to.”

You nod, clamoring to your feet and grabbing his bowl as he climbs up into the cockpit with the kid. You follow and place his dinner on a clear spot on the console.

“Where are we going next?” You ask, glancing over the control panel as if you had any idea what all those flashing lights and strange looking scanners meant. You should really pick up a flight manual at some point, just for the basics.

“The last fob,” Mando sighs. “Canto Bight. This—this is going to take a while, just warning you now. I still have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.”

You nod, yawning. You’re still a bit tipsy. “Okay, well, I think I’m gonna go to bed. Good luck brainstorming.” The food sits warm and heavy in your stomach. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this full. It’s nice.

He gives a small nod acknowledging what you said, then goes back to grumbling down at the control panel, pushing buttons and examining scanners. You lean down to kiss the kid goodnight from where he’s babbling in the co-pilot’s seat, then climb down the ladder and change into your night clothes, setting the lights in the hull to night-mode as the Crest rumbles into the sky. Climbing into bed, you wrap your biggest blanket around yourself, the chill of hyperspace already settling in the air.

You have a dream. A bad one. One you’ve never had before and don’t know if you’d survive again if you did. It starts with you already crying. It’s one of those full-body, hiccuping sobs that usually rouses you from your sleep before things gets too bad.

Mando is gone, so far gone not even the comlink your finger is hovering over would be an option. You know this because the dream starts with him calling you. When you answer, there is only the sound of a hard, driving rain.

You’re holding the child against your chest and he’s screaming into your ear but you know if you actually lift him away to look at him he’ll disappear into the rain, too, so you drop the communicator and turn and there’s blood all over the floor and you have to clean it, you do. You have to so maybe he’ll come back and so you’re here, mopping up the blood on the hull’s floor as the child wails the loudest you’ve ever heard him cry and you try to choke out reassurances through your own crying because.

Because the gore is on your hands and your elbows and on you and on the floor once its gone it’ll be okay it’s so dark but it’ll be okay and streaking across the front of you and your face where you’ve tried to wipe it away please go away because it looks just like when.

Looks just like when.

You wake up in the middle of screaming, gasping for breath, one hand pressed against the top of the table above you and the other curled into the mattress. It’s the first time that’s happened, waking up like that at least. The dreams are different each time and occur at different frequencies, but they always crescendo at the same point. Usually you just wake up, eyes slowly sliding open and fixing to whatever is directly in front of you as your vision slightly blurs. How banal it usually is, how banal it feels, adds to the cruelty. You’re mostly still able to go to sleep after, at least there was that.

Not this, though. This is that hand-scratching-at-your-own-throat kind of terror, the kind you’ve usually only seen in the holo-dramas. You haven’t had a nightmare like that for so long, so maybe the surprise of it is what made it so much worse—that it wasn’t just you. Maker, you can still hear the child’s squalling in your ears. That sound of raw, primal terror that—

You feel your stomach lurch. You scramble to the fresher, emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Half anxiety, half afraid to close your own eyes, the dull thrum of raw energy does little to calm itself once you manage to shove the door of the fresher close. You let the metal rim of the toilet cool your face as you sniff, scooting back to lean your back against the wall, pulling the sleeve of the sleepshirt you’re wearing up your palm to wipe your eyes.

A low voice says your name urgently. You look up, dazed for a moment, before the door is cracked open by four broad-knuckled fingers. Your hand flies out, catching the handle before Mando is able to pull it the rest of the way open. He barely has time to get his hand out of the way before you slam it shut again.

“I--sorry,” you croak. “Please um… please don’t come in here.”

“Are you okay?” His voice is rough with sleep. You cup your hands over your knees and lean your forehead down to rest against them. When you don’t answer, he speaks again. “Was it, was it about before? Before Am’ile?”

“I—I haven’t, for so—I haven’t… Before… It was…”

“I know. She told me, it’s alright, I wouldn’t have asked I just… I thought it was something you didn’t want to talk about but I--”

“I’m not a charity case,” it sounds snappier than you intended it to and has absolutely nothing to do with anything he’d just said. At this point you’re just talking to yourself, it seems like he knows that. “That’s not why Am’ile pawned me off on you. I’m okay, I didn’t need her supervision anymore. I’m, I’m okay. It’s taken a long time but I am now so I don’t know why--”

“No,” and he says your name forcefully, cutting you off before you can continue. He repeats himself, this time softly, before: “It’s alright.” Does his voice sound… warmer? Even through a layer of reinforced steel? “I want you to feel safe, here. Comfortable. I don’t care, it’s okay. I just thought you were hurt.” He clears his throat. “I have them too, the dreams. So you, you don’t have to worry about hiding it. Them.” You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all. Closing your eyes, you lean the side of your face into the door separating the two of you. It’s so silent on the other side you think he’s left, so when he speaks again it’s all the more surprising. “And she didn’t pawn you off. I need you. Here.”

Something in your chest does a complete backflip. Your stomach is fluttering so ferociously you have to clear your throat before continuing. “Okay. Yeah, um. Thank you,” you wince. “I’m gonna freshen up and then get the little one out of your hair—er, beskar.” Idiot idiot idiot.

“It’s alright, you didn’t wake him. If you want I can… I can sit with you, until you fall asleep.”

“Okay.” You say it softly. “That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”

You quickly brush your teeth, then open the door the door slowly. Stepping into the hull and closing it behind you, you pad back to your mattress. He follows a few feet behind you quietly—it’s moments like these you’re grateful for his reserved nature. You don’t have the energy to try and brush things off by filling the silence with mindless chatter.

Kneeling beside your mattress, you wordlessly offering him an armful of your pillows. In the low light of the Crest’s night mode, the beskar helmet looks nearly featureless, save for the gleam of light that arcs up its surface as he looks down at what you’ve offered him.

“Could you—” your voice breaks. Heat rises to your face as you clear your throat again. “Is it okay if the kid um… slept with me? It was… some of it was about—”

“Yeah, of course,” Mando takes one of the pillows from the top of what you’ve offered him, tossing it at the ground of the opposing wall and then slipping out of sight as he goes into his bunk. He returns with a the child, standing above you as you crawl into bed, wrapping you blanket around yourself, setting up the pillows as you normally do for the naps you take together, preventing any accidental rolling-over. Mando crouches to place the kid beside you, then stands and settles where he’d dropped the pillow previously. You take a moment to look down at the child, running a thumb over the edge of his ear, before kissing his soft forehead where you normally do. He wrinkles his nose in his sleep, making a soft sound and twitching his ears before wiggling slightly to resettle. You rest your head back on your pillow. The specifics of the dream are already starting to drift away. It’s a small mercy, but it’s enough.

“Hey, Mando?” You lift your head, the low light reducing the man to a dark, featureless outline.

“Hm?”

“Would you mind if… um… would you mind if I just touched your hand? Just so uh… if I wake up I can know you’re there?” As the words spill out of your mouth, an unbearable heat rises to your face.

There’s the sound of him shifting, getting to his feet with a grunt. Then he’s right there, sitting with his back to the wall, just a few inches from the top of your head. Tentatively, you reach out your hand, resting your index and middle fingers against his palm. And it’s his palm, His palm, warm but rough with callouses, resting on the floor beside his extended leg just for you to be able to close your eyes, even for a little bit.

It takes a while but it works. Right as you drift back to sleep you think you feel his hand gently wrap around the fingers you’ve offered him. You really think you do.

a/n: thank you all for the engagement thus far !! it really means so much to me.

that said i am .,..... beyond excited about the next chapter for two reasons of equal importance: fancy parties and Very Jealous Mando. my favorite things 😌

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din and grogu #mando and grogu #grogu #reader insert #i'll be here in the morning #i'll be here in the morning ch.2 #fanfic #star wars fanfiction

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scifiseries · 3 years ago

Photo

Mara Jade by Darren Tan, "Star Wars: The Essential Reader’s Companion." (2012)

#scifiseries #scifi #star wars #sci-fi #movie

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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 4 years ago

Text

I Don’t Want to Be Alone Anymore

Fandom: Star Wars

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader (Gender Neutral - No pronouns or identifiers used to my knowledge, if i’ve missed something let me know)

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst, feelings of low self-worth, loneliness, but there’s some fluff to it too.

Requested by anon: Hi!! Could I please request Poe Dameron x reader with the prompts “Have you ever kissed anyone before?” + “I want you to be proud of yourself. I want you to believe that you’re good enough because you are. You’re so amazing.” + “I just want to be swept off my feet…is that so bad? I’m fed up of being alone.” 😘 Please and thank you!!!

Summary: You’ve been feeling incredibly lonely as of late, missing something in your life that seems unattainable, out of your reach. When you can’t sleep Poe finds you sitting atop the Millennium Falcon and a heart to heart is had.

Notes: This was supposed to be a prompt, but honestly got quite large so I made it into more of a one-shot.

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You had been rather melancholic as of late. That was the best way to describe you. Melancholic, sad, down in the dumps, just not your usual bubbly happy self. You knew that the other’s had taken notice of it, everyone was constantly trying to make you laugh, tiptoeing around subjects that could make you sadder. Your patients noticed the change in your bedside manner as well trying to cheer you up even when they were the ones in pain. In truth you just...you were lonely.

You had so many friends and you could be on a resistance base full of people and still you felt lonely. Your whole life thus far had been overtaken by the resistance, by war, by fighting the good fight, so much so that you’d had no time for romance, for love and companionship. You were beginning to feel that yearning, that ache deep in your soul for something more. But, you doubted you were good enough for it, that you deserved it. Surely, if you’d been worthy someone would have come in and swept you off your feet by now? But, no one had and you were once again alone, alone and doubting your achievements, doubting your skills as a doctor, as a medic, as a key member of the resistance. You often wanted to kick yourself, it was all so trivial in comparison to the fight that was going on, compared to the First Order.

You’d been unable to sleep, the muggy air on Ajan Kloss, the sounds of skittering wildlife and the ache in your chest, that lonely sadness, all combined to force you out of your cot and into the night air. Tossing and turning had proved fruitless and so instead you found yourself a little perch atop the Millenium Falcon, knees pulled up to your chest, chin resting atop them.

Ajan Kloss was beautiful as planets go, with a vibrant jungle and active wildlife, it felt like the centre of the universe sometimes. Like the place where life originated. Lately, there had been talk about what everyone would do once the war with the First Order was over, what people were fighting for. Your answers always felt lacking. You had no lover you were fighting for, no future marriage or children that you were fighting to obtain...because you were alone. It never used to be a problem, you had started out in the resistance because you believed it was the right thing to do, you still do, but you wanted more from your life than that of a lonely rebel.

“Now what would you be doing out here on your lonesome, sweetheart? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” You look down to see Poe standing, wide stance, knuckles on his hips, beneath you. His hair is a mess of curls, clearly the result of lying in bed for any length of time and he’s stripped down to the bare essentials. A white undershirt, a pair of comfortable trousers, the chain with his mother’s ring that he always wears around his neck. He looks beautiful in the moonlight, always does, but especially in the moonlight.

“Couldn’t sleep, General…” Your normal teasing tone at his rank is missing and it makes Poe frown. You sound sad, you look sad. Your shoulders hunched in, your brows pulled together, lips turned down. You’ve been like this a lot lately, he’s missed your smile, the one that puts little creases around your mouth and crinkles your eyes. He’s missed your happiness.

“Mind if I join?” Your nod is all he needs to start climbing up the Falcon to sit beside you. He sits close enough that your arms are touching, hips pressed against one another as if he can give you some semblance of happiness from his own body. It is both a relief to your touch starved soul and a torture, a reminder that you don’t actually have this, not with him, not with anyone.

Poe isn’t your partner, your lover, your future husband. He is simply your General, your friend. No matter how handsome he is, how much you desire him, he doesn’t desire you and it stings. To your lonely mind it doesn’t matter that you’ve never said a word to him about your feelings, all that matters is that you’re alone, even with him sitting beside you. It’s hard to understand that he is there because he cares.

“So, what’s wrong? You’ve not been yourself lately…”

“I...Poe...I don’t…” You turn your head away from him, gazing off into the jungle, not wanting him to see the tears that have started to collect in your eyes. You don’t want this conversation because it’s embarrassing, embarrassing that you’re lonely, embarrassing that after all this time you’re still on your own.

“I would say we don’t have to talk about this, but sweetheart, we have to talk about this. You’re sad all the time, I just want to help.” A gentle hand at your cheek turns your face back towards his, fingers sliding down to cup the side of your neck, thumb grazing against the curve of your jaw. Poe tightens his grip at the tears collecting in your eyes, you look utterly hopeless in that moment and it tears at his heart.

“What’s wrong?”

“I...I’m so lonely, Poe…everyone has all these plans. How they’re going to go back home, get married, raise some kids. I just...I want that, but I know i’m not good enough. I’m so alone and it feels like that’s never going to change. I just want to be swept off my feet…is that so bad? I’m fed up of being alone. I’ve been alone my entire life and I...I just...I feel like i’m not good enough, like i’m going to be alone forever.” You had spent all your life alone, between being orphaned from a young age, working constantly to get your qualifications as a doctor and the resistance, there had never been anyone. You wanted someone, a companion, a kindred spirit, a soulmate. Someone you could curl up next to after a long day, someone you could make a family with, someone you could kiss and cuddle and love.

It seemed out of reach. Like something not meant for you, not made for you. Why would anyone choose you when there were so many better options out there, so many other people who could provide them with more.

There’s a silence that falls over the two of you, Poe’s thumb still stroking at your jaw as his heart breaks for you. He loves you, he’s known it since his capture by the First Order, but he’s never said a word, terrified of losing you from his life altogether. The thought that you believe you’re not good enough, that you’re not deserving of, worthy of being swept off of your feet, of love, hurts him. It cuts deep, a vibroblade straight to his heart. His lips part with a sad sigh, furrowing his brows as he frowns down at you.

“Sweetheart, you are so worthy of love. God, I want you to be proud of yourself. I want you to believe that you’re good enough because you are. You’re amazing. You’re everything.” He’s pulling you closer, your legs thrown over his so that he can drill into you just how wonderful you are. You’re so beautiful, so kind, so good. You’ve healed his many wounds, made him laugh when he wants to cry, taken such good care of everyone around you that the thought that you’re not worthy of love is laughable. You deserve every good thing in the world.

“Then why does no one want me? Why am I still alone?” There’s a tremble to your bottom lip, to your voice, a wetness that comes only from tears and it has Poe pressing his forehead to yours with closed eyes and deep sigh. That you think no one wants you...that you think he doesn’t want you hurts but it’s his fault, he knows he’s hidden his feelings well, kept them behind a guise of friendship and harmless flirtation.

“Because I’m the biggest coward in the galaxy.”

“What?” You’re confused, pulling away to search his face for some sort of meaning, hand gripping his wrist, unsure, confused. He’s never been so scared in his life, it seems crazy, to be scared of telling you something as simple as how much he loves you, when he’s literally been tortured, faced life or death. But, this is scarier, this is his whole world hinged on your rejection or acceptance, but he can’t live with you not knowing, thinking that no one loves you, wants you when he absolutely does.

“I’ve loved you since I escaped the First Order, hell, maybe I loved you before that. But, I’ve been...I was so scared of losing you as a friend that I never said anything. But, I love you, dank farrik, I love you and you’re wanted and you’re needed and that’s never been in question, sweetheart.” He wants to grab you and kiss you, show you how much feeling you inspire in him, but he knows this is a lot, he knows the chances of you never having even been kissed before are high and the thought of panicking you, pushing you, stops him.

“You...you love me? Poe…?”

“I love you and if...if you don’t feel the same that’s fine, but I can’t have you thinking that you’re not wanted because you absolutely are.” It feels like your chest might actually burst open, like your heart wants to jump from your body and into his.

He loves you. Poe Dameron, Resistance General, flyboy, extraordinary pilot, friend, loves you. He wants you, the one man you’d never hoped would, loves you. There are still tears collecting in your eyes, but they’re a different sort, the sort that comes from overwhelming happiness.

“I love you too” It’s sobbed out, you can’t really control the watering of your eyes or the way your voice shakes as you press your forehead back to his and cup his jaw in your hands. He’s patient though, just whispers how happy he is, how much he loves you too while you let the tears flow.

When the tears stop coming and you’re just smiling at him, nose brushing against his own, that’s when he asks. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?” He knows the answers, deep in his soul, but it’s your information to give, your piece of yourself to share and he makes sure to dip his eyes down to your lips and bit his own just to bring that flustered expression to your face, the one that makes you look just the tiniest bit startled and excited. You are wanted. He’s never going to let you think otherwise.

“No…” Your eyes drop down to follow the line his tongue paints across his plump bottom lip, swallow hard at the prospect that this man, this man who loves you, might want to kiss you. It is exciting and terrifying at the same time, the thought that you might be absolutely terrible at it, that you have no clue what you’re doing, but that you want to try anyway, with him.

“Well, that’s a damn crime, sweetheart.” One corner of his mouth quirks up forcing that dimple of his back into view and while his voice is confident and almost brash, Poe’s eyes are soft, crinkling at the corners. “Will you let me kiss you?”

“Please.” Your voice is needy and high, soft as a whisper as if you’re worried speaking too loud will make him disappear. He’s not sure he could move even if the First Order came raining down on Ajan Kloss. You’ve captured him without bindings, he doesn't want to move from your orbit.

With one hand he cups the back of your neck to pull you closer, the other encasing your cheek, brushing sweet little circles across the breadth of it. He’s slow as he moves you closer, gives you time to back out, in case you need to, in case this is too much too soon, but you don’t.

His lips are soft and careful at first, pressing against yours, closed mouthed and undemanding. His nose gently pressing against your cheek as he eases you into the sensation of another person’s lips against your own. The press of his body to yours has you gasping quietly, mouth parting and Poe takes this as an invitation, gently pressing his tongue into your mouth. It is strange at first, the sensations, but each ministration, each touch has you relaxing into him more, until your hands are tangled in the curls of his hair and you’re pressing as close to him as you can.

Poe lets out a deep groan when you tug at the strands and he pulls away from you to take a breath of air, not going far, only so far as to put his forehead back against your own. He’s pretty sure he could kiss you until he suffocated, he’s pretty sure that would be a good way to go out.

“Can I be your boyfriend?” His fingers are gentle at the back of your neck, massaging into tender spots as he stares into your eyes. It’s all so intense and yet so comfortable at the same time, it feels like you were always meant to kiss Poe, always meant to be with him, this entire time.

You let a little laugh at his question. The idea of you saying no after everything, after a confession of love from the both of you and the best first kiss you could have asked for, is laughable. But, still you give him an answer, cementing it as a fact.

“Yeah...yeah, I’d like that, Poe.”

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#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #poe dameron / reader #poe dameron/reader #poe dameronxreader #star wars #star wars reader insert #reader insert #readerinsert #gender neutral reader

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